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to anyone but Jack Martin. That means I will have to act as if I belong in this time. Therefore, if I
want to clean my face and hands before eating, I will march right out to the pump and fill that old
pitcher with water as if I know what I'm doing. I wonder if it's safe to drink the stuff? No, I'm not
going to worry about it." She lifted the pitcher, which was surprisingly heavy, and hurried down
the hall and out the back door.
The pump was easy to find. Getting water out of it wasn't so easy. Clarissa had never used a
pump before. Hoping to avoid wetting her long skirt and soft, ballet-type slippers, she bent over
from the waist, holding the pitcher under the spout with one hand, while with the other hand she
tried to lift the pump handle.
"Put the pitcher on the ground and use both hands on the handle," a familiar male voice said
behind her. Clarissa looked around to discover her host, stripped to the waist, a towel in one
hand. His feet were bare and he was wearing a clean pair of tan breeches that fit him like a
second skin from his waist to the curve of his calves. His hair was damp. He was obviously fresh
from using that bath stall he had mentioned.
"Like this, Miss Cummings." Slinging the towel over his shoulder, he took the pitcher from
Clarissa's unresisting fingers and set it down under the spout.
"I just used it, so it is primed. Now, pump," he ordered, stepping back a pace. "You must learn to
do it on your own."
For a moment Clarissa could do nothing but stare at him. He was magnificent, hard muscled and
sleek, like a finely bred stallion. On that thought she swallowed hard and reached for the pump
handle.
"Pump smoothly and steadily," he instructed. "Up and down. Up and down. Keep on. It is easy
once you find the rhythm."
Clarissa had already caught the motion and she fervently wished he would go away. His
powerful, half-naked body, the steady pumping motion, the hypnotic sound of his low voice, and
his repetitious words were all conspiring to threaten her shaky self-control. Between strokes of
the pump handle she glanced at his face. She saw laughter in his eyes, and far worse, she
thought she detected masculine erotic interest.
"Up and down," he said. "Up and down again."
"I understand!" she cried. "I can do it."
"Of course you can. Just don't give up. Now up and down again."
"Stop saying that!"
"Here it comes." His voice became almost a caress as water spurted from the pump spout, then
began to emerge in a steady stream. "It always comes. After a certain number of strokes, it is
inevitable."
"I'm sure it is!" She gave the handle one last downward push and watched water running over the
edge of the pitcher.
"There you are," he said in the same caressing voice. "You learn quickly, Miss Cummings."
She fancied she could still see that dangerous glint in his eyes. Clarissa ran her tongue across
dry lips and made herself look away from him.
"Thank you for your help." Seizing the handle of the pitcher, she attempted to lift it. The full
pitcher, heavy when empty, was too much for her to carry in one hand. Releasing the skirt she
had just lifted out of the dampness, Clarissa bent down, using both hands to pick up the
overflowing pitcher.
"If you try to hold it out in front of you like that, it will only seem heavier," said Jack Martin, still
watching her.
"If I hold it against my body, my dress will get wet," she pointed out. "My hem is already wet, my
shoes are soaked, and I am hot and tired." She stopped, realizing that she was beginning to
sound like a spoiled child. "Sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to scold."
"Just this once, I will help you." He took the pitcher from her and led the way to the guest
bedroom. There he poured water into the basin. "I trust you will find the pitcher a little less
unwieldy now that some of the water is gone."
"Thank you." Her voice was small and filled with the embarrassment she felt. His bare arm
brushed against her as he turned toward the door. Some laughing devil dwelling deep inside her
mind made her look full at him while his head was turned for a second, and she noted the bulge
at his groin. He saw. She knew he had seen and noted her quick downward glance.
"Hurry and wash," he said. "You don't want to keep Sarah waiting when the meal is ready to
serve."
Clarissa barely resisted the impulse to lift the pitcher in both hands and hurl it at him in
retribution for the faint, knowing smile that lifted the corners of his mouth. She wondered how
nineteenth-century ladies ever kept their tempers if all the men were like this one. Surprisingly,
she kept her own temper under control.
"I will be as quick as I can," she told him sweetly.
"No more than half an hour," he said, his face impassive once more.
After he was gone, Clarissa began to wonder if she had only imagined the emotional content of
the scene at the pump. Very likely she was seeing sexual interest where none existed. Jack
Martin was only being kind and trying to help her adjust to a difficult situation. After all, her own
husband had not been especially interested in sex with her, not after the first few months of
marriage, and she had never been bothered by the kind of propositions that other women claimed
to have received. A year or so after her marriage, Clarissa had finally come to the conclusion that
she was a sexually uninteresting person. Thus, though the act of infidelity had been her
husband's, she was all too ready to assume a large share of blame for the failure of her
marriage. If she had been more interesting, more womanly, perhaps Rich wouldn't have looked
elsewhere.
Should have seen--should have done--failure-- failure....
The words tumbled over and over in her mind each time she thought about Rich and the scene in
their bedroom upon which she had stumbled. The rhythm of pumping, the spurting of the water,
and above all, the caressing tone of Jack Martin's voice had brought that shameful scene back to
her, and with it, a crushing sense of guilt.
It was not Jack Martin's fault. He knew nothing about Rich. He didn't even know that Clarissa
was--had been--married. In this time, only Madam Rose knew, and Clarissa did not think she
would tell anyone. Men were Madam Rose's business, so she would be an expert in keeping
secrets from them. In any case, Madam Rose did not know all the details.
In this time. With a sense of relief Clarissa splashed cold water on her face and then looked up
into the mirror on the wall behind the wash-stand. In this time her marital problems didn't exist.
She wasn't even married, for how could there be a marriage with a man who would not be born for
another one, 134 years?
"It's gone," she said, smiling at her reflection. "Wiped out. It hasn't happened. As long as I stay
in this time, I'm free of all that pain and I don't have to feel guilty anymore."
Refusing to listen to the quiet inner voice that told her the scars on her heart would not heal
easily, she washed her hands, tidied her hair, and went to dinner with Jack Martin.
Sarah was a handsome black woman in a dark blue calico dress and a spotless white apron. An
orange-and-yellow printed scarf, twisted into an intricate pattern of folds, completely covered her
hair. She arrived at the dining room door a minute or two after Clarissa had entered the room.
"Oh, my God--er, my goodness." Clarissa stared at the tray Sarah was carrying and then at the
second tray borne by a slim teenager, who, from his resemblance to Sarah, was obviously her
son. Clarissa looked from the food to her host. "Are the two of us expected to eat all of that?" she
asked.
"Once you taste Sarah's cooking, you won't be able to restrain yourself," Jack Martin responded.
"I found a true jewel on the day I discovered Sarah."
This compliment was greeted by a throaty chuckle from the woman in question. Sarah finished
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