She started to speak, and he stopped her. "Be quiet." His voice was low. Had it been anyone else with her in that bedroom, she would have felt physically threatened. "I have tried very hard to understand what you did, why you felt compelled to make me a laughingstock. And don't you dare refute the facts, Mag. To half of the people back home, I am a traitor. To the other half, a buffoon." "Stop it." Her voice was louder and more shrill than she had intended, furious herself at his anger. "I am sorry if I made your life unbearable. But without my actions, you would have no life."
"At this point, my dear, that is an attractive alternative. For I have no future, no honor . .."
"Honor? Is that what this is about?" She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. "Ashton, this is very difficult for me, but I can no longer stand by quietly as you talk about honor and all of that nobility fluff, because there is one simple fact I must state. Please forgive me, but as a Confederate, you're on the wrong side." "What the—"
"Shut up and listen to me." Her fury startled him, and before he could think of a retort, she continued. "The Confederacy will not win the war. You know it and I know it, and soon the whole world will know it. Your goddamn cause is a lost cause."
Had she been a man, she felt certain Ashton would have struck her by now. As painful as it was for her to utter the cruel words, she knew that he had to hear them, and they were all the more painful because he must be aware that they were true.
"Margaret, I will not have you curse," he responded, his hands clenched at his sides.
"Is that the only problem you have with what I just said?" Her mouth was partially opened in astonishment, for she had expected a passionate defense of the Confederacy.
For a long moment he stared at her, and she could see the tumult of emotions playing in his eyes. At last he looked away, his shoulders slightly slumped, and paced to the window. With a deep sigh he parted the curtains, staring down at the park.
"I have nothing." There was no self-pity in his tone; it was just a statement of fact. She had been able to handle his anger, ready to match his rage with her own. But she was not prepared for the total hopelessness of his voice.
Without thinking, she slipped out of bed, her feet bare and cold on the carpet, and walked over to him. He seemed physically larger than before, but there was something missing, a spark in his soul that had vanished.
"Ash?" she asked, her hand resting on his powerful arm. He did not look at her, and she wasn't sure if he was aware that she was beside him at the window.
"All my life I have tried to live a certain way, tried to behave and think as I had been taught." He swallowed before continuing, his voice hollow. "Honor was vital to me, always honor and duty had gone together. Now it makes no difference, not to me, not to anyone. I can never return home, I cannot remain here. There are very few choices left to me."
He smiled, but it was without a trace of humor. "Ironic, isn't it? I used to lead men, they used to believe in me. And now I realize I simply forced ignorant youths into battle, the same way I used to force them to learn lessons. I convinced them that we could win the damn war. Hell, I even convinced myself. How many hundreds of boys were slaughtered because of me? Because they believed in me, because I believed in a useless cause . . ."
"Stop! I will not hear you speak like this," she cried, her fist clutching convulsively on his sleeve.
"No, Margaret. You are right—it was a lost cause all along, an army of fools and dreamers, and I was one of the leaders."
"This war had to be fought, don't you see?" She leaned on his arm for support, and he instinctively pulled her closer. "I've never realized the inevitability of this conflict before. Everything I read, all of the documents I studied, were slanted toward the North. Of course they were, because the victors controlled the press after the war. But this had to happen, Ashton. Sooner or later this war of ideals would have erupted. The end result will be a stronger Union, the most powerful country on earth." She rested her head on his arm, her knees beginning to tremble. "Perhaps you can help with the healing, write exactly what you feel, try to make sense of it all. And when you've finished, perhaps the country will be stronger, and we'll be stronger, too."
He looked down at her and was about to speak when he realized she was out of bed. "Margaret," he said softly, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her back to bed.
"Think about it, Ash." Her eyes were sparkling, and he nodded, placing her on the soft mattress, pushing a heavy strand of hair off her slender shoulder.
He sat by her on the bed, concentrating, it seemed, on her hair, raking his hand through the silken length. Finally he looked at her, and she held her breath. It had been weeks since he had looked at her with such an expression of openness.
"You poisoned me and stuffed me into a coffin," he said at last.
Cringing, she nodded. "I know," she admitted, "but they were going to shoot you."
He returned his attention to her hair. "They had every right to shoot me."
"Even though you were not a spy? The whole reason they were going to execute you was because of me . . ."
"No, it wasn't," he said.
"Excuse me?"
"They knew that I was already having doubts about our ability to win the war." His hand caught on a knot in her hair, and she winced. "Sorry." He continued. "The material they found on me, the stuff of your dreams, was just the final blow. But eventually they would have been forced to do something about me. A general cannot be plagued by doubts. It shows, and the men turn mutinous and rebel."
She caught his wrist in her hand. "I just wanted you to live." She looked directly into his eyes.
"I know that, Mag." A slight smile lit his face, "But I can never go home again. I have a choice of remaining here, an alive fugitive, or returning home a cowardly traitor."
"No, Ash. I honestly think I fixed all of that." There was something in the smug squaring of her shoulders that made him repress a smile.
"God help me," he muttered.
"I wrote a letter to General Lee," she stated with satisfaction.
"The last time General Lee saw something you wrote, it failed to do me much good."
"I know." Margaret leaned closer, her head tilted slightly so she could see directly into his eyes. "Would you please listen to what I am about to say? I mean really listen to me with an open mind."
"My mind's nothing if not open."
"I was born in 1963," she began, her voice steady and deliberate, "My family was from outside of Boston, which is where I was raised. When I graduated from high school in 1981 my family—my parents and brother and sister and I—went on a trip to Martha's Vineyard, where they all died in a boating accident. Except, of course, me. I survived and went to college and to graduate school at Columbia University in New York City. I hold two doctoral degrees, one in American history—specifically, the Civil War. I wrote my first thesis on Sherman's march, very sympathetic to Sherman, I might add."
"Sherman's march?" Ashton asked. "A song?" With one splayed hand he raked a thatch of her hair through his fingers, admiring the lustrous shine.
Margaret let out an exasperated sigh. "No, but it will be. Anyway, my second doctoral degree was in English literature. Then I went down to Magnolia University to teach, and that's when I met you."
"Ah," he replied absentmindedly. "But they have no women teachers. No female students, in fact."
"They will in 1993," she stated, realizing he was not paying much attention. "What would you say if I told you I used to be six feet tall?"
"I would say you've been shrinking."
"Ashton," she said sharply. "You are not taking me seriously, are you? It's true—I am from the future, and I know things that. . ."
With a start he straightened, the dreamy expression vanished. "Mag, I almost forgot—Joseph Davis died. Exactly the way you said he would—from a balcony. How did you know that would happen?"
"That is what I have been trying to tell you," she said, her voice full of frustr
ation. "Months ago when you came to me at Magnolia, I became a different person. I believe Mag died, and I somehow took over. Haven't you noticed a difference in me?"
"But you were different before that, Mag." His tone was gentle but firm. "I sensed a change in your letters . . ."
"Ah, but I am the one who wrote those letters!"
With infinite patience, Ashton nodded in agreement. "Of course, you did. That very change, the sensitivity you now possess, came shining through. That is what brought me to your side."
Margaret was getting nowhere, so she changed her tack. "Ash, listen to me. My family died—"
"I know, love."
"No you don't! You're thinking of another family, one from this time. I mean my family, people not even born yet."
Her voice trailed off as a thought came to her mind.
"Wait a minute," she mumbled to herself. "They went to Martha's Vineyard solely because of me, their youngest daughter. I am the reason my brother and sister returned for that vacation." A blissful smile lit her face. "This is wonderful! Don't you understand? If I am here in 1864, then my family will not go to the Vineyard in 1981. They will live, with two children instead of three."
Ashton patted her hand. "Margaret, wherever they are, I am sure they are happy,"
Her eyes were filled with tears. "For so long I have felt nothing but guilt for their deaths. It was difficult for me to think of them, for I would always be reminded that they died giving me a silly graduation gift. But now everything's been fixed."
"I know you have always found it difficult to discuss your family, Mag. Remember? I was at their funeral. I held your hand."
Margaret heard his words, but her mind was tumbling with her thoughts. "I think I know what has happened," she said at last, her voice full of wonder.
Without waiting for a response from Ashton, she continued. "I was somehow born out of sequence. This is truly where I belong, not as a six-foot-tall Ph.D. in 1993, but here, in this time, as your wife. My family will live long, full lives. And you, Ashton." She faced him, and he was startled by the translucent light in her eyes, brilliant yet not quite natural. "You, too, will live. Don't you see? You won't die on Lick Skillet Road on July 28th. But if I had not arrived here to shake up your life, you would have been killed. I needed that knowledge from the future, knowledge, I might add, that I seem to be losing rapidly, I could have done nothing to help you. Instead, you'll. . ."
"I've been meaning to ask you about that. Where on earth is Lick Skillet Road? And how do you manage to guess where the war will be fought months from now?"
She waved her hand dismissively, as if he had just mentioned a second-rate play. "Oh, that. Easy—a date straight from my history books. You are supposed to be killed by a sniper, or as you all call them, a sharpshooter. But instead, you'll be here with me. I don't believe even Sherman's men have a rifle that would range over the Atlantic Ocean."
"Of course not." Ashton stood slowly. He shouldn't have asked. "Margaret, I do believe you need to get some rest."
She did not answer him; she simply smiled happily and snuggled into the pillows.
"This is absolutely fabulous." She sighed as she closed her eyes. Ashton shook his head, hoping her joy would last but that her delusions would eventually vanish. He would speak to the doctor about them as soon as possible.
"I'll be right in the next room," he whispered, quietly closing the curtains.
"Mmmnim," she replied, slumber gently falling over her.
He tiptoed to the door, turning back to catch one last glimpse of her before he let her sleep. An exhilaration surged through him, a rush of pure joy unlike anything he had ever experienced. His future was uncertain, his life was in shambles. A few minutes earlier he had, for the first time in his life, experienced genuine despair, nothing but empty black before him. Now he realized there would be Margaret and their child, far more compelling than any single cause. And he knew, with an absolute certainty, that no matter what lay before them, Margaret would remain by his side.
She had given him the gift of hope.
"I love you," he whispered, his own voice startling him by its resplendent emotion.
He had turned to leave, when he heard Margaret stir. Her voice was broken, but her arms slowly reached for him. "Oh, Ash. I love you, too."
They stared at each other for a moment in the dim light, then, from across the room, they both smiled. He did not go to her then. He didn't need to.
"You need to sleep," he said, and she dropped her arms and sighed, again settling into the sweet cocoon of bed. For the first time in weeks, she actually slept.
September 1864
Seven Months Later
Ashton put down his pen, hand cramped from the twenty pages he had already written since breakfast. The windows were thrown open, and a delightful September breeze ruffled his hair.
So far, London had been almost idyllic for both Ashton and Margaret. He had been making a decent living by writing editorials for the London Times on the American Civil War, and his pieces had been picked up by newspapers on the other side of the Atlantic, North and South.
His perspective on the war had changed since being away, and he finally understood Margaret's odd phrase "group psychology." In fact, it had been almost impossible for him to comprehend exactly what he had been fighting for. There was a loose notion of rights, a vague idea of each state's presumed freedom to leave the Union. Other than a secessionist manifesto, he could find no unifying ideal for the Confederacy.
He leaned back in the large leather chair, linking his
hands behind his head. The whole process of writing the editorials had been cathartic for him, healing in a way he never imagined possible. It had been Margaret's idea for him to simply put down on paper his train of thought concerning the war, as well as his feelings about the way he was forced to come to London, shipped in a casket by his wife.
Without his knowledge, Margaret bundled his jottings over to the office of the London Times. Delighted with the content, the newspaper ran the first three installments on the front page. The reader response had been tremendous, and the end result was that not only was he earning money hand over fist but he and Margaret had become celebrities in their own right. Only her condition, now obvious to all who saw her rounded figure, prevented them from receiving a dozen invitations for each evening. As it was, only six or so arrived with the morning mail.
Although he was vastly uncomfortable with his role of expert on all things American, and Confederate specifically, he was able to pay back some of the people who had been supporting them in England. He was shocked when Margaret reluctantly handed him a list of patrons, both Union and Confederate, who had raised money for them. At first the funds were for a lonely widow, but when news of Ashton being alive and well began to filter back to America, the checks became larger and more frequent.
"I suppose they truly don't want me to come back," he mumbled one morning, opening another package of checks.
"It's actually a compliment," Margaret had replied, rising from her breakfast to stand beside him, her hand resting on his shoulder. "The Yankees think you're too good. It's much easier to pay you to stay here than risk having you against them again. I also believe they genuinely like you. This is sort of a peace offering for when the war finally ends."
"How do you explain the Confederate money? For God's sake, Mag, they have barely enough to eat, and yet they have sent us hundreds of dollars."
"That is even more of a compliment, Ash. You're doing more good over here through your articles and, indirectly, through your diplomatic work. It may not be formal, but goodness knows, the English and other sympathetic Europeans are sending scads of aid—not military, but humanitarian—to the Confederacy."
She had then kissed the top of his head and pulled the checks from his hand. He was unable to think of anything else to say, other than make the simple comment that no one, as far as he could remember, had ever kissed him on the top of his head before.
Shaking his weary hand in the air in hope of restoring circulation so he could finish the piece he was working on, he grinned, thinking of Margaret. The feeling of hopelessness that had threatened to consume him a few months ago now seemed as remote as his patriotic Confederate fervor. The center of his life had shifted from intangible ideals to his very tangible wife. She was still delightfully unpredictable, and more than a little odd at times, but he wouldn't have had her any other way.
Mrs. Thaw stepped brusquely into Ashton's study, a feather duster poking from the large pocket of her apron.
"May I get you anything, General?" She asked, smiling with satisfaction as she straightened a bookshelf. She had come over as soon as Eliza Johnson explained the whole peculiar situation to her, that the general was indeed alive, but that Margaret was having a rather tough time with her pregnancy. Mrs. Thaw, with both her husband and only son dead, was delighted to be sent with all haste. Eliza herself would have crossed over to London, but she wanted to be near Eddie, who had rejoined the Confederate ranks.