I swat at his arm and shove off before stomping over to the water’s edge. I watch the water lap at my bare feet. How wonderful would it be to be born to another station in life so I could be free to decide my fate. Instead, I am like the doll Nate accused me of being. I am only expected to dress up and look pretty on James’s arm. The emptier my head, the better.
“I know you believe me a frivolous creature too prone to do what Papa or James wish of me, but I do yearn for more,” I say. “If I were at liberty to choose my own fate, this would not be it.” I turn to face Nate. “Please do not be cross with me. I do so hate our arguments. They are so very taxing.”
Nate’s long strides carry him back to me. His work-roughened hands find my face as he kisses me repeatedly between whispered apologies. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Never leave me. I love you. I love you. I love you.”
Haunting, Present Day
Meredith
“I do not believe I want to tell you any more at present.” I’m suddenly aware I’ve closed the book on that memory and am once again standing in the circular library in my mind. I know where the memory leads. I guess Mercy didn’t want to share the details of her beach make-out session, which I get. I’m not into kissing and telling either. What’s private should stay private. Especially since she wasn’t supposed to be seeing Nate.
“Do you wish to find another memory to explore?” Catalina asks.
“No.”
Just like with the deepening and visualization, Catalina leads me through the process of awakening from a hypnotic state. I open my eyes, back in the present, and stare at the ceiling for a moment, trying to adjust to what I’ve seen and heard and even what was left unspoken. “Mercy has her secrets,” I say, barely recognizing my own voice. “She didn’t want to share everything.”
Catalina tears off a sheet of paper and pops out a cassette tape from a mini recorder. “You should write what you saw that she didn’t want to share.” She comes around the desk to hand the page of notes and tape recording of the session to me. “Usually, more insight comes to you once you write your own impressions of the sessions.” She glances toward where Jay and Nathan are sitting. “Are you ready, Nathan?”
“I think so.” Nathan gets to his feet and swaps places with me on the recliner. Catalina leads him through the same breathing, deepening, and visualization techniques she used on me. My heart pounds as she asks the first question.
“What year is it?”
“1888.” Nathan answers like the information is coming from deep inside.
“Can you tell me your name?”
“Nate Thatcher.”
“What are you doing now, Nate?”
“Serving. I got stuck with drinks. I hate servin’ at the hotel galas. I’d rather be stuck washing up in the kitchen.”
“Why don’t you like serving at the galas?” Catalina asks.
“Because it shows the difference in our stations. It’s easy enough to pretend we’re the same when we’re walkin’ along the shore or talkin’ on the Widow’s Walk but here I’m just another servant and she’s the boss’s daughter.”
“Who is she?”
He acts like he’s unwilling to answer despite his earlier talkativeness, but finally says, “Mercy.”
“Can you tell us more about you and Mercy, Nate?”
There’s another long pause like he’s considering the question. “Yes, but don’t be goin’ and tellin’ her what I say ’bout her.”
“I won’t. I promise,” Catalina says. “Please, whenever you’re ready, Nate.”
He sighs. “I’m ready.”
Haunting, 1888
Nate Thatcher
Whoever thought to put red and yellow together in a ball gown for Mercy was not thinkin’ with their head. They shoulda picked one color or the other but not both. She looks like that circus trapeze girl me and the mates saw in Denver on our last day off before the season started.
“Wine, Madame?” I hold the tray out to Mercy and try to affect a posh accent instead of my usual rough-around-the-edges one. I hold my nose up in the air for good measure. Posh people have been lookin’ down their noses at me my whole life. I might as well return the favor —even if just for a night.
Mercy laughs. “Thank you, kind sir.”
“Are ya tired out yet from all that twirling and whirling with Mr. Whoever-Is-Next on your dance card?” I ask.
“You didn’t drop your g’s. Fantastic.” She brushes up against me on purpose. I about drop my tray full of wine glasses but recover before I make a mess of the dance floor and the night.
“I’ve been practicin’.” I exaggerate the Irish brogue that still creeps in no matter how long I’ve been away from the Old Country. I came to work in America, and work I found. I also found the great class divide is alive and well even across an ocean. Instead of living the American Dream in the land of opportunity, I receive constant reminders of why I’m good enough. Mercy, bless her, looks beyond the “immigrant” and “poor” labels to see the person beneath. Not all from her social circle do—or will. Sometimes I think we’re fooling ourselves thinking what we have is more than a flirtation. Society won’t welcome me, and all doors will be shut to her if she does marry me. I could die tomorrow, and my tombstone will read “Nathaniel Thatcher: Irish Immigrant” instead of “Nathaniel Thatcher: Chased The American Dream.” I pity shortsighted people. I’m glad Mercy isn’t one of those.
Mercy motions at James Piper, banker and railroad heir, as he twirls Miss Marianne Mills aroun’ the floor. I dislike the man, but I won’t deny he can cut an impressive rug on the dance floor. “James tried to fill my card, but I needed to leave some spots open. I am not his property.”
“Does he know that?” I ask.
Mercy laughs. The sound is music to my ears. If I could grab her hand and run off this instant with no one stoppin’ us, I would.
“Jilt him,” I say instead. “Go on and cause a scandal. It will be the talk of the hotel for months, but talk always dies down if you give it time. No one will remember you or me or him in ten years or less. We’ll just be another story. Just another tale to tell from a time best forgotten.”
“I cannot jilt James.” Her eyes widen in fear at the thought.
“Why not?”
“Because Papa would be livid. He would disown me for going against his wishes. Then where would I be with no money or home?” Her hand brushes against mine. “Where would we be? I have never worked a day in my life, Nate. As romantic as elopement sounds, it is not practical in the least bit. Even you have got to know that.”
“Even if it is impractical, it would make you much happier.” I run a finger along the gobs of jewels around her neck she calls a trinket. “If ya sold even one jewel from this trinket, we could live like kings in the Irish District of New York. I got friends that work the rails still. They’d never rat us out to your pops or James. We could be free just to be you and me. No family, no class system, just us.”