C1PHER Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Monica E. Spence

  C1PHER

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Author’s Notes

  A word from the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “Mary, it is I, Robert. You know me.

  The accident must have addled your wits.”

  “My wits are fine, thank you very much. Are you trying to gaslight me? How do you know my name? Have you been in my purse?” She looked around. “Where is my purse? And where is my car?” She glanced up and down the path paralleling the wall. “And where the hell is the road?”

  The man stepped toward her, but Mary poked him with her stick. Robert jumped out of range.

  Mary stood, cursed herself for hurting her ankle—twice—and perched on the wall. Keep sharp, old girl. “Stay back. I need answers, and I need them now.”

  “Of course. If you put the stick down, I will be happy to answer what questions you have. I give you my word of honor as a gentleman.”

  “OK, but try anything funny, and I’ll skewer you like a marshmallow at a Fourth of July barbeque.” She set the branch aside but kept it at the ready on top of the wall.

  “That’s better.” He looked only marginally more secure without her waving the weapon at him.

  She rubbed the back of her neck to relieve some of the tension but kept her eyes trained on the man. “First, where am I?”

  “Can you recall nothing? That bump on your head is more serious than I suspected.”

  “That does not answer my question. I warn you; I’ve had a bad day. This headache is making me testy, so don’t push me.”

  Praise for Monica E. Spence

  “C1PHER is a fun adventure, full of rich historical detail, with a thrilling love story that spans centuries.”

  ~Beth Anne Miller, author of Into the Scottish Mist

  ~*~

  “For lovers of romance, history and time travel, Monica E. Spence’s novella C1PHER delivers a timeless story of true love that time cannot deny.”

  ~Robin Ruinsky, author

  C1PHER

  by

  Monica E. Spence

  The C1PHER Series

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  C1PHER

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Monica Elaine Spence

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by RJ Morris

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First American Rose Edition, 2017

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1163-0

  The C1PHER Series

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Paul, my Husband,

  I would travel through Time for you.

  With Love Always.

  Chapter One

  September 20, Present Day

  In the failing light, Mary Banvard fought to keep her car from skidding on the wet leaves blanketing the exit ramp of the New York State Thruway. Through the rain-slicked glaze of the windshield, her view of the cement barriers lining the ramp looked way too close to the passenger’s side door. Just what she needed—a nasty scrape on her nice, new-to-her, car. She slowed and guided the car toward the center of her lane. From the opposite side of the road, the bright lights of an oncoming panel truck blinded her for a moment. Blinking to clear her vision, she inched into the toll plaza and moved out when the green E-ZPass light clicked GO. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so hard she could feel her heartbeat in her perspiration-coated hands. Reaching the intersecting county road, she pulled onto the shoulder and sat for a minute as the gloom extended its clutch on the daylight.

  “Recalculating.” The mechanical British voice of Jenny, her GPS, sounded annoyed, as it did whenever it had to assist with anything beyond the original directions.

  Due to the downpour, Mary almost missed the marker nailed to a telephone pole: West Point 8 miles. Against the stormy, opalescent gray sky, the gold, rust and red leaves glowed and danced in the gusty wind. The wind bared a rough, hand-lettered second sign wired to an ancient oak. Rev War: 5 miles. A yellow arrow pointed the way toward West Point. Thank goodness she didn’t miss the signs in the rainy twilight; she could have gotten totally lost.

  Her heart thumped in time to the CD playing fife and drum music. Anything to get her into a more positive mood. For months she had awaited this event, a weeklong historical re-enactment of the capture of Major John Andre and the betrayal of West Point by General Benedict Arnold.

  In her excitement to get to the site, she bantered with her teasing co-workers at the Raynham Hall Museum about Betsy Ross and Martha Washington, then escaped into the tiny ladies’ room with her clothes and carry-all. She peeled off her sweater, bra, and jeans and folded them into her carryall, then layered on her Colonial-era chemise, stays, pockets, small side panniers, and a navy blue wool jacket-style Robe a la Anglais. Twisting her hair into a braid, she stuck in a few hairpins and tucked it into a lace-edged mob cap. She checked the mirror one last time. Not bad. She grabbed her cell from the narrow shelf above the sink, slid it into a pocket beneath her skirt, zipped up her makeup case, and with her tote over her shoulder, yelled farewells to her friends as she scurried down the stairs and headed out of the building into the pouring rain.

  Driving with her garb pulled up around her knees was something she usually avoided, since she hated the looks she got from people when she stopped along the way to wherever she was headed. Today’s trip from Oyster Bay was slow as the proverbial molasses, because of the killer rainy Friday afternoon traffic through New York City and into Orange County. If she wasn’t already dressed, she would be too late to join her friends at supper at the site.

  Up until last week, she had no real need to be at the event, other than her passion for the period and her desire to visit with her re-enactor friends. Besides, anyone who was anyone in the field of Revolutionary War studies would be there, and she always looked forward to learning something new from them. As the interim curator of the Raynham Hall Museum, part of her job was to keep her eyes and ears open for interesting tidbits about grant money, private donations, and scraps of heretofore unknown historical trivia.

  Then, on Tuesday, while checking a split frame around a painting of Robert Townsend, she discovered three old coded documents, actually letters, wedged behind the ripped paper backing of the frame. Her gut told her they were purposely hidden and were very important. Now, the papers lay unencrypted in her leather portfolio, buried under her clothes in her trunk, and in desperate need of expert authentication.

  What a coup it would be if they were real. Having already written and published her Master’s thesi
s on Oyster Bay’s Townsend family, and with her doctoral classes in American Colonial History completed, she had been searching for a focus for her PhD thesis. The missives might be the answer. If authentic, she could write her own ticket in the world of academia. Or better yet—her greatest wish—be granted a permanent appointment as the curator of Raynham Hall, the Townsend family homestead.

  Anything was better than the threat of being tossed out of her PhD program, due to her revolutionary—pun intended—ideas about Robert Townsend, the owner of Raynham Hall, and his part in the Revolutionary War.

  A Colonial-era home, Raynham Hall had fascinated her since her childhood. Her parents bought the huge yellow Victorian house directly across the street from the Hall before she was born. When her folks retired to Florida, she purchased the house from them, not just because of the sentimental value, but because she could not bear to leave Raynham Hall. Now it was all she had, since they, along with her sister, died in the coastal flooding during a devastating Florida hurricane three years ago.

  But all her plans depended upon the legitimacy of the papers in her folder.

  She eyed her side view mirror and made a left-hand turn onto a two-lane rural road.

  The basket filled with her eating utensils, her cooler crammed with bottles of unsweetened iced tea, and her suitcase of modern clothes slid around the back of her minivan as she made her turns on the bumpy road. A tan leather trunk, salvaged from the Salvation Army last month, held her additional eighteenth century garments, shoes, and hats. It didn’t budge due to its weight, but she heard the plastic bag-wrapped dress and the skirt-supporting wide panniers ooze off the back seat. So much for all those hours of ironing. Maybe she could steam it out in the shower before tomorrow night’s formal dinner.

  After driving a couple of miles on the winding, hilly road, an ancient red pickup slowed her to a crawl. Darn it. At this rate, the pre-supper meet-and-greet will be over before she arrived.

  As she bounced over the midnight-dark road, she checked for oncoming headlights. Nothing. Good. She gunned her accelerator and moved into the left lane to pass the rickety truck.

  From a rise on the road, she saw an oncoming car, a monster of an SUV, slip onto the road from a hidden driveway. Mary wrenched the steering wheel back to her own lane. Not fast enough.

  The SUV whacked her front bumper as it passed and sent her into a spin. She fought to maintain control; the car kept turning. She banged her head back against her headrest as the car bounced off the guardrail. With the sound of breaking plastic, the driver’s side headlight flickered and died.

  Life experiences flashed through her mind. Falling from a swing and fracturing her skull. Washing out of the elementary school choir because her voice was too mature. Her last fight with her sister. How one of the “important” people in the Revolutionary War group accused her of wanting to take over the group.

  When would she ever learn?

  The papers. What will happen to the papers?

  She stood on her brakes and pulled the steering wheel again, hoping to get on to the side of the road. As she ground to a stop, she faced the wrong way. The red pickup she had passed crested the hill and barreled toward her. She sat frozen, a deer in the headlights, watching the truck and waved her hands in front of her. “Don’t hit me!” she screamed, knowing the driver would never be able to stop, much less hear her.

  She heard the truck screech as the other driver slammed on the breaks. With a squeal and a crunch, the two vehicles made contact. Her van flew off the road, slid down the hill, and crashed into something unseen and very solid.

  Her head impacted the steering wheel, and her world went black.

  Chapter Two

  A firm hand shook Mary’s shoulder. She moaned. Her mind’s eye saw the fading images of a car accident. What a nightmare. Did she fall asleep at her desk in Raynham Hall?

  “Mary. Mary, please wake up.”

  She caught a whiff of the comforting aroma of sandalwood cologne as gentle fingers stroked her cheek. A cool cloth lay on her forehead.

  Bright sunlight made Mary blink as the stranger assisted her to sit up. Her head hammered in concert with the ache of muscles she had not thought about since gym class at St. Dominic’s High School. No. Definitely not asleep in Raynham Hall. That crash was no dream. She grabbed the cloth as it slid off her face, pushed it over her eyes, and abandoned hope for her make-up to win the war against the water-soaked cloth.

  She gathered her thoughts, not sure she really wanted to look at the mess that was bound to greet her, but she never took the coward’s way out. Opening one eye, she saw a dark-haired man in travel-worn Colonial clothing kneeling beside her. His wire-rimmed glasses made him look very wise. Thank goodness, another re-enactor. He looked familiar, too. She opened the other eye, relieved. At least she won’t have to explain her clothes.

  “Thank the Lord you are awake, Mary. I was so worried.”

  “I’ll be fine, though my head feels like it was shot out of a cannon.”

  “You struck it a number of times.”

  “I vaguely remember that. How bad is my car?” She tried to look toward the wall, but the pain in her head made her dizzy, so she turned back to him. He obviously knew her, but she couldn’t remember his name. She would worry about it later, when her head stopped throbbing, but his identity nagged at her. “I can’t see it from here. There has to be major front-end damage where that jerk smashed into me. I could have been killed.”

  “Your car?”

  “Well, okay, it’s a minivan. Not glamorous, but you and I both know all our re-enactment stuff could never fit in a sedan. So, where is it? Did you have it towed to a garage? If not, I have to call a tow truck.”

  “Re-enactment? Garage? Tow truck?” The man looked as if she was speaking a foreign language. “Mary, we came here together in my carriage. You struck your head several times when we skidded on wet leaves and hit a wall. The wheel was damaged. Ned, our driver, took one of the horses and rode ahead to get help. When he returns, we can set to repairing the vehicle and arrive at my cousin’s home in time for supper.”

  Mary heard the concern in the man’s voice. Great. Of all the people she had to meet after an accident, it’s some nut job who believes he is back in the Revolutionary War. She stood, using his arm and shoulder to lever herself up, limped over to the wall, sat, and took turns rubbing her head and her sore right ankle.

  There was no sign of her van—not even tire tracks. Dense forest grew all around, and a dirt road, more like a glorified path, ran parallel to the fieldstone wall. The asphalt road was gone. A black coach listed toward the wall, with one of the wheels at a strange angle. Though still on the axle, it definitely had problems. A single dappled gray horse, tied to a tree, grazed placidly in the shade a few feet away.

  She blinked. It’s sunny. What’s going on? “How long have I been out? It was near dark when I crashed. And raining like cats and dogs.”

  The man pulled out an old-fashioned pocket watch and checked the time. “I am uncertain of what you mean, but you have been unconscious for almost an hour, my dear. It is but one o’ the clock. It will not be evening for several hours. If not for the accident, you and I would have made excellent time on our trip from Oyster Bay. It should have taken us three days, not two. We would not have made it as far past the British lines as we did, if not for the safe passage secured for us by James Rivington. It is fortunate he is such an outspoken Loyalist, or the papers would never have appeared as quickly as they did. It certainly is a benefit to have a newspaper publisher as a friend.”

  What’s happening here? Mary’s panic rose in her chest as the man approached. She backed away, limping, along the length of the wall, trying to escape, but fell in a hollow, hurting her ankle again. “Ow!” Staying on her back, with her dress around her knees, she stared up at him from the dirt, reached for a dead branch from the ground, and waved it at him. “Keep away from me, mister.”

  “Mary, it is I, Robert. You know me. The
accident must have addled your wits.”

  “My wits are fine, thank you very much. Are you trying to gaslight me? How do you know my name? Have you been in my purse?” She looked around. “Where is my purse? And where is my car?” She glanced up and down the path paralleling the wall. “And where the hell is the road?”

  The man stepped toward her, but Mary poked him with her stick. Robert jumped out of range.

  Mary stood, cursed herself for hurting her ankle—twice—and perched on the wall. Keep sharp, old girl. “Stay back. I need answers, and I need them now.”

  “Of course. If you put the stick down, I will be happy to answer what questions you have. I give you my word of honor as a gentleman.”

  “OK, but try anything funny, and I’ll skewer you like a marshmallow at a Fourth of July barbeque.” She set the branch aside but kept it at the ready on top of the wall.

  “That’s better.” He looked only marginally more secure without her waving the weapon at him.

  She rubbed the back of her neck to relieve some of the tension but kept her eyes trained on the man. “First, where am I?”

  “Can you recall nothing? That bump on your head is more serious than I suspected.”

  “That does not answer my question. I warn you; I’ve had a bad day. This headache is making me testy, so don’t push me.”

  The man sighed, but responded with great patience. “Mary, we passed through the British lines in New York City at dawn today on the way to see my cousin, Peter Townsend. We will be staying at his home near West Point for a week. Don’t you recall? Tonight’s supper is planned in honor of our betrothal.”

  Mary’s head spun. Yeah, right. Betrothed? As in engaged? Not in this lifetime. “Look, Robert. Something weird has happened—is happening—and I intend to find out what it is. Last evening, I traveled from Oyster Bay to West Point. Alone. My car hit something, and I blacked out. So, let’s quit playing games.” She took a deep breath to calm herself. “Just who the heck are you?”