In the Shadow of the Moon Read online

  The tall, thin man standing in the doorway looked down his slightly beaked nose at Stuart and me on our hands and knees, scrabbling around the floor, picking up music. He appeared not to be amused. I wasn’t sure about the habits of dress of the times, but the collar of his shirt could not have been stiffer. Head movement seemed nearly impossible. His eyes were a soft, liquid brown and they regarded me with cool condescension. He had elaborate sideburns that made me think of Elvis Presley, and I grinned involuntarily. His soft chin wagged back and forth as he stared at my silly grin, and that made me grin even more.

  Stuart must have guessed that the appearance of this strange visitor was the object of my merriment and rose suddenly to intervene before I began to laugh outright.

  “Dr. Charles Watkins, allow me to introduce Mrs. Laura Truitt.”

  The young doctor bowed stiffly and murmured, “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  The appearance of the mistress of the house interrupted the pleasantries, even more of her light brown curls escaping from her bun and framing her oval face.

  “Hello, Charles. I see you have already met our guest, although I do not believe that she and I have been properly introduced. She was exhausted when she first arrived, and somehow my manners abandoned me temporarily.”

  Julia must have been working outside, because her face was beaded with perspiration, but her manner was cool and collected as she approached me with outstretched hands. With a warm smile she said, “I am Julia Elliott. Welcome to Phoenix Hall.”

  “I’m Laura Truitt, and thank you so much for taking me in.”

  Julia turned to the doctor and explained, “Mrs. Truitt saved my Willie’s life today when he was attacked by a wildcat. She hurt her shoulder, and I would like you to take a look at it to ensure nothing was broken.”

  “Oh, really, that’s not necessary. It’s fine now—just a little bruised. I have full range of motion in it.” I demonstrated this by moving my arm as if preparing to serve a tennis ball, and involuntarily grimaced as the pain shot through my body.

  The doctor frowned and walked toward me. “Yes, I see, but Mrs. Elliott would like me to examine it anyway.”

  I unbuttoned the top button of my blouse but stopped before I unfastened the second one, as the doctor’s face turned the color of a cherry tomato.

  “I would not dream of impinging upon your modesty, Mrs. Truitt. I will do my examination through your clothes.”

  With a slight cough, Stuart excused himself and Julia from the room, closing the door behind them.

  The doctor motioned for me to sit on the piano bench. Remembering how lethal my uncontrollable skirts were, I ignored his suggestion and instead sat down on a more stable-looking wingback chair, which appeared to be covered in horsehair.

  He placed his left hand firmly on my back while he palpated my shoulder with his other. He stared at a spot over my head to avoid eye contact with me. In the course of his ministrations, he must have noted the absence of a corset.

  “Mrs. Truitt, I cannot help but notice that you are not wearing a corset. Do you have some sort of breathing affliction?”

  “No, Doctor, I don’t—but I would if I forced myself into one of those contraptions.”

  He stopped in his muscle manipulations of my arm and dropped the limb as if he couldn’t bear to touch it any longer. “I see,” he said in a tone indicating that he did not. “A follower of Catharine Beecher. The thought that corsets restrict a woman from exercise and deform her body is balderdash.” He stepped back and closed his black doctor’s bag. “Nothing seems to be broken, just bruised. I suggest restricting your movement of the shoulder, and it should be better in a few days.”

  “Thank you.” I wanted to contradict his opinion on corsets, but kept my mouth closed. If this really wasn’t a dream from which I’d be waking soon, I needed as many friends as I could get.

  “Where are you from, Mrs. Truitt? Your voice has the inflections of the South, but your mannerisms are more reminiscent of the North.”

  His question caught me off guard, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

  “To be honest, I think I hit my head or something, because I don’t seem to remember much. I remember my name and that I’m a widow, but not much else.” I had watched enough soap operas in my day to know that amnesia was a good explanation for just about anything.

  “Oh, really?” His expression told me he didn’t believe a word.

  His examination apparently over, he walked to the door and opened it. Julia appeared in the doorway, an expression of concern on her face. “Is everything all right? No broken bones?”

  The doctor’s stern features softened as he looked at Julia. “No. Physically she seems to be fine.”

  Julia smiled. “Wonderful. Now, Charles, would you like some coffee? And I insist that you stay for supper.”

  “Why, yes, thank you, Julia. That is kind of you.”

  Stuart reappeared and the two men found seats while Julia went to see about the coffee. I remained where I was to avoid any further embarrassment.

  Stuart turned to me. “Mrs. Truitt, when I met you, you said something about a Mimosa Boulevard here in Roswell.”

  I set about straightening my skirts to cover my long pause as my mind raced about for an explanation. “Yes, I do remember. I live on Mimosa Boulevard. I thought it was in Roswell, but you told me there’s no such street.”

  “No, there is not,” interjected the doctor. “Your case is very interesting, Mrs. Truitt. I know a woman’s mental health is weak at best and, when put under the least bit of strain, tends to suffer greatly. I am sure after a period of bed rest your memory will return.” He stressed the word “memory,” making it sound as if it wasn’t my memory that was the problem, but something more akin to my character.

  I opened my mouth to make some retort about the insufferability of male chauvinists, but closed it quickly. I needed their help, and offending them would not advance my cause.

  Softly, Stuart said, “You also mentioned something about your daughter.”

  I nodded and looked at the doctor hopefully. If what I believed had happened to me had also happened to Annie, then maybe this was a chance to find her. Surely if a child had been found abandoned she would have been brought to a doctor for medical attention. “Yes—she was only a baby.” I paused, wondering if the five years that had passed in my own time would be the same in this time. “Perhaps you treated, or heard of, a child found on the mountain?”

  He tucked his chin into his neck and shook his head vigorously. “No. Not ever. And how does a mother misplace a child?”

  My eyes stung and I ducked my head, but not before I saw Stuart reach over and grab the doctor’s arm.

  Julia arrived, followed by Sukie carrying a large tea tray. I looked closely at the tray, recognizing it as the one Mrs. Cudahy had used to serve Michael and me tea on the first day I had seen this house. Despite the heat, I shivered, and remembered something Mrs. Cudahy had said about how the family’s treasures had been saved during the war. Something about being forewarned.

  Julia poured and handed everyone a cup. I noticed her hands as she bent to her task: small and well-tended but somehow capable-looking, too. Finished, she sat down next to me on the sofa.

  I brought the cup to my face and noticed a peculiar aroma. I took one sip and was rewarded with a taste so bitter and so awful that I literally wanted to spit the vile stuff out rather than swallow it. I could feel three pairs of eyes on me and I made my throat swallow.

  “What kind of coffee is this?” I asked politely. “It doesn’t taste like any I’ve ever had before.”

  “Actually, it is made from a recipe that Stuart brought back from the army. It is parched and roasted acorns with a little bit of bacon fat. I don’t believe it is so bad once you get used to it.” Julia smiled feebly. “Thanks to the Yankee blockades, we have not seen a re
al coffee bean since ’sixty-one.”

  The doctor cleared his throat. “Well, wherever you are from, it would appear that you have been drinking real coffee.” The doctor stared openly at me, as if I were Abe Lincoln himself sitting in that parlor. “Perhaps William has sent you down here to spy on us.”

  Julia’s cup slammed into her saucer. “Charles, you are being rude to our guest, a woman who saved my son’s life, and I demand an apology.”

  Charles looked chagrinned at her reprimand, but continued to eye me warily. “My apologies, Julia, if I have offended you. But she has not denied it.”

  “Who’s William?” I asked, feeling nervous at the mention of the word “spy.” As if I needed these sorts of accusations to further complicate matters. Spying during wartime was no light matter.

  Julia turned to me. “He is my husband; Willie’s father and Stuart’s brother.”

  I turned to the doctor. “I promise you that I’ve never met William before. And I’m certainly no spy.” I took another sip of my coffee, hiding my grimace, and wondering why Julia’s husband would spy on his own family.

  The mention of the year prompted me to ask, “What is today’s date?”

  The doctor paused briefly before replying, “June second.”

  The thought had barely crossed my mind before I voiced it. “Was there a lunar eclipse seen with a comet last night?”

  The room grew silent, with only the sound of the ticking of the hall clock. Dr. Watkins narrowed his eyes at me. “Yes, there was. Why do you ask?”

  I ignored his question, my mind already racing in another direction. “What year is it?”

  The doctor didn’t try to hide his exasperation. “It’s 1863.”

  My mind spun back to all the history lessons I had ever sat through at the side of my father, a self-described history buff, and all of my studies in school. I remembered a biography of General William T. Sherman I had done in honors history in tenth grade but nothing specific about the year 1863.

  “Please help me refresh my memory. What’s happening in the country right now?”

  Either he didn’t believe a woman could actually be a spy or he’d forgotten that he’d just accused me of being one, because the doctor proceeded to tell me everything I would want to know if I were, indeed, a spy. “This is pure conjecture, mind you, gleaned from listening to our wounded heroes and reading between the lines of the newspaper, but I believe that our General Lee has finally taken the initiative and is attempting to bring the war into Lincoln’s backyard. I imagine he will be crossing the Potomac any day now and heading north toward Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Smack-dab in the middle of Yankee territory. I wish I could be with them, but I know this town needs a doctor more than General Lee needs one more soldier.” The doctor crossed one skinny leg over another and settled back in his chair.

  Keeping his stiff leg out in front of him, Stuart balanced his coffee cup on his other knee and turned to look at Dr. Watkins. “Yes, Charles. It is also convenient that you had to pull your two front teeth—the ones a soldier needs to tear open a cartridge with in the heat of battle. Unfortunately, that will also keep a man off the battlefield.”

  The doctor stiffened. “If you were not such an old friend, Stuart, I would call you out for that. You know as well as I do that those teeth were rotten and that I am needed here.”

  “I am sure you are,” Stuart said as he took another sip of the rancid brew, and grimaced.

  The mention of Pennsylvania and Lee’s initiative pricked my memory. “Gettysburg,” I murmured. The one piece of trivia that stuck in my mind was that following the battle, Lee’s train of wounded stretched for more than fourteen miles.

  “What do you mean by Gettysburg?” The doctor looked at me with irritation, his hand waving my comment aside. “No, Mrs. Truitt, it is rumored that General Lee is going to the state capital of Harrisburg—and will hopefully do to them what Grant’s army is doing to those poor suffering people in Vicksburg.”

  I knew nothing of Harrisburg, but the name Gettysburg and its bloody aftermath would be etched on the minds of the American people for centuries to come. Not wanting to get into an argument, and perhaps reveal more than I should, I let his remarks go without comment.

  I looked at Stuart, a soldier in this conflict. Although I didn’t really know him, I was comforted in the knowledge that here was one less soldier whose bullet-ridden body would be lying on the field of battle in a war that was to me a foregone conclusion.

  Stuart stood and limped over to the window. “Julia, Mrs. Truitt seems to have suffered a blow to her head and cannot remember much more than her name and the street she lives on. I would like to offer her our hospitality until her memory returns or we find out who she is.”

  Julia turned to me. “Of course. You may stay as long as you like. I am beholden to you for what you did for my Willie.” She placed a warm hand on my arm and squeezed it gently.

  “Thank you both. I’ll do my best to help you with the house and children, Julia. And I’ll find some way to repay you for your kindness.”

  “You already have. Do not think any more about it.” Julia patted my arm gently.

  “I’d also like to ask your friends and neighbors to see if they know anything about a baby being found on the mountain. I don’t know where else to look.”

  Julia’s hand on my arm tightened and I winced. Her face blanched and she clutched her rounded belly with the other hand.

  “Are you all right?” My voice seemed higher than usual. “Is it the baby?”

  She nodded, her face contorted with pain. My first impulse was to rush to a phone to let the hospital know we were on our way. But this was 1863; no hospitals, no high-tech birthing rooms, and no epidurals. A woman was left to her own devices.

  “Where is your husband?”

  She took a gasping breath. “I am not sure. He is off fighting with the Yankees out west. I have not heard from him since last September, when he was here on furlough.”

  If this were a dream, this would be the moment for me to wake up. I clenched my eyes, but when I opened them again, I was still there and Julia’s hands were clutching her abdomen as the two men hovered behind me.

  “What can I do?” I asked, trying to push the panic out of my voice. I knew next to nothing about natural childbirth, but I did know the presence of another woman would be comforting.

  “Just help me walk. It is not my first baby so it should not take too long. And somebody go get Sukie.”

  I put my arm around Julia’s shoulder and gently led her to the stairs. She stopped suddenly and shook her head.

  “No, not in my bedroom. The birthing room has been prepared down here.”

  Before we could proceed, Julia gasped and a small puddle pooled at her feet. She looked back at the two men standing in the parlor doorway and her cheeks burned red.

  Feeling her discomfort, I said, “Don’t pay any attention to them. They know that if childbearing were left to men, it would be the end of mankind.”

  I caught a scowl on the doctor’s face but a quick smile from Stuart as I led Julia to the little birthing room at the back of the house.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.

  —GENESIS 3:16

  The birthing room, which would become part of a modern kitchen addition in about one hundred and fifty years, was sparse and clean. There were no beeping monitors, no running water, and no television to while away the time. I had been left alone with Julia, and it dawned on me that I had somehow been elected to be the birthing coach. I assumed being a woman was my best qualification. But my own child-birthing experience in 2007 bore no resemblance to the episode unfolding before me.

  Sukie came in with a clean cotton nightgown and helped me dress Julia. She was so petite and her burden so larg
e that I was concerned, until I remembered that this wasn’t her first child. If she had already survived childbirth before she stood a greater chance.

  “Julia, is there a midwife here that I can fetch for you?”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “No, our midwife died last year. But Dr. Watkins is here.”

  Her words offered no consolation. As if on cue, there was a light tapping on the door and the doctor strode in. He walked over to Julia and picked up her hand. The gentleness with which he touched her surprised me. The look of devotion was plain on his face, revealing the extent of his feelings for the patient. I was quite certain his feelings weren’t returned.

  “Julia, I will need to examine you now to see where the baby is positioned.”

  A small groan escaped through Julia’s clenched lips as another spasm swept through her. She struggled under the sheet, her covered mound roiling as if it were a ship on a stormy sea.

  Dr. Watkins looked up at me expectantly. “Madam, I require your assistance. Please hold up the sheet for me.”

  Things were happening so fast. The day before I had been in my car, listening to the radio in the year 2014. And now I was standing in an un-air-conditioned room in 1863 and being asked to help deliver a baby. I stood staring at the doctor, unsure how to respond.

  “Is there a problem with your hearing? Have you never been present at a birth before?”

  I nodded. “Just once—but I was the one giving birth.”

  “Surely, then, you can hold up this sheet. But only if you don’t think you might faint. I have smelling salts in my bag if you require them.”

  I stumbled forward and grasped the sheet while the doctor began his examination. I immediately had a flashback of my own birth experience, of doctors and nurses garbed in sterilized gowns, with masks and rubber gloves. Everything had been coated in a reassuring antiseptic smell. I knew that modern technology was out of reach, but I also knew enough about the basics to realize that Dr. Watkins didn’t understand the first thing about germs.