Page 4 of Out of Time (Undaunted Courage #3)

“That will be fine. And don’t rush on my account.” Natalie pushed herself to her feet and grasped her cane. “I’ll crochet a few more rows on my latest project while I wait for you.”

As her hostess limped toward the doorway, Cara assessed her.

While her gait did seem a tad stiffer tonight than it had during their visit back in April, the other woman would never move with agility or grace.

How could she, with one leg shorter than the other?

Even with a brace and heel lift to help compensate for the discrepancy, she had to use a cane for stability.

In all likelihood, her awkward carriage had more to do with the lingering effects of polio than her fall today.

Cara sighed.

So many people had challenges the able-bodied never stopped to think about.

She began clearing the table as the woman disappeared through the door.

Was that why Natalie had contacted her after the interview in the Cape Girardeau newspaper?

Any story about twentieth-century French culture around Old Mines would no doubt catch the woman’s eye, but perhaps Natalie had also sensed a kindred spirit when the interview briefly took a personal turn.

Had that compelled her to extend a helping hand?

Hard to know for certain. All her benefactor had offered was that the project would give her the incentive to follow through on the promise she’d made to her father to translate the journals.

Whatever the motive, it was foolish to look a gift horse in the mouth. There were amazing resources under this roof, and she didn’t intend to waste a second of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

After restoring order to the kitchen, she joined Natalie in the living room.

“That was fast.” The woman paused in her crocheting.

“I try not to linger over disagreeable chores.” Cara smiled and motioned toward the pile of pink yarn on Natalie’s lap as she took a seat at a right angle to her. “Pretty.”

“Baby afghan. I crochet them for a pregnancy resource center. It’s a worthwhile use of my spare hours.

” She finished a stitch and put down the hook and yarn.

“Before we talk schedules and routines, are you certain the guest cottage is adequate? I don’t get out there often, and while my cousin never complains when he comes to visit, men tend to view accommodations through a different lens than women. ”

“It’s perfect. Spacious and clean and welcoming. I also caught a glimpse through the trees outside the back window of a lake in the distance. Is that on your property?”

“Yes. I should have mentioned that when I gave you a tour of the house earlier. Feel free to wander about on the grounds. Micah keeps a walking path cut that Steven, my cousin, likes to use.”

“Who’s Micah?”

“My groundskeeper. He lives in a tiny cabin not far from the lake. You won’t see much of him if you ramble around. He keeps to himself. And you met Lydia earlier today.”

“Yes.” Not that the housekeeper had been very amiable. While Natalie napped after the emergency crew departed, the housekeeper had gone about her work with quiet efficiency. Her responses had been polite, but she hadn’t initiated any exchanges.

A taciturn groundskeeper whom the sheriff said had issues, a reticent housekeeper, and a woman who spoke an arcane language that would be extinct once the handful of remaining older people who could converse in it were gone.

It was quite a cast of characters.

Natalie picked up the conversation. “In terms of our schedule—what we discussed last week is most acceptable. We’ll work on my aunt’s journals from nine until eleven each morning, which is all these old eyes can handle of faded, antique handwriting.

You can record as I translate. The rest of the day will be yours for further research and writing, and I hope a bit of relaxation.

Is the desk in the cottage adequate? It’s the one I used until my father died and I took over his study. ”

“Yes. Much nicer than the desk in my condo in Cape.”

“I’m glad it’s sufficient. Not that you have to confine your work to the cottage, of course.

My father collected books related to the history of the area, many of them long out of print.

You’re welcome to borrow any you think may be helpful.

You’ll find them in the study. I typically work there in the mornings, but now that I’ve taken on the journal project, I’ll work after my post-lunch nap from about one to three. Otherwise, the room is yours to use.”

Natalie worked? On what—other than baby afghans?

Since the woman didn’t offer any details, and probing would be rude, Cara let the remark pass. “Thank you.”

“Not at all. I’ve also alerted Paul Coleman that you’re here and may be in touch. I know you two are acquainted from your previous research.”

“Yes. He was very helpful.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. He lives and breathes Old Mines history.

I think he spends every spare minute volunteering at the historical society.

That man is a treasure trove of knowledge.

We’ve had many a fine chat about the old days during his frequent visits.

In fact, he was here last weekend. Feel free to reach out to him if you need anything from the historical society archives. ”

“I will.”

“As for the rest of our daily schedule, unless you prefer to eat dinner in your cottage or go to town, I thought we’d share our evening meals. I can’t promise dinners like tonight’s on a regular basis, but if you’re satisfied with simple fare, you’re welcome to join me.”

That was an unexpected bonus. There’d been no discussion about eating together during their prior meetings. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have stowed a week’s worth of frozen dinners in the fridge in the cottage along with juice, bagels, and lunch fixings.

“I’d enjoy that. I eat alone most nights, except for a monthly meal with my siblings. It would be a welcome change to have company.”

“For me as well. In general, dinners have been quiet affairs since my father died.”

On impulse, Cara leaned over and touched her hand.

“I just want to say again how grateful I am for your generosity and hospitality. The resources and expertise you offered gave me an edge for the fellowship, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough.

This project will help pave the way toward a full professorship. ”

“Let’s hope so.” Natalie patted her hand. “I believe there’s worthwhile content from the pages I’ve skimmed here and there, but I can’t guarantee how much of it will be useful to you.”

“Primary sources are always valuable. A first-person account will give me a unique glimpse into the world of Old Mines during a transformative era and could offer fresh insights into the history here.”

“And as an added bonus, it may also put a family mystery to rest.”

Cara cocked her head. “How so?”

“My aunt died on this property. The official ruling was that she fell off the rocky outcrop at the top of the hill on the eastern edge of the land and suffered massive head injuries along with a broken neck. My father never wanted to talk about it, nor did my uncle, but from what I gathered, there were rumors of suicide. Even murder.”

“Didn’t anyone investigate those?”

“I suppose they did, to whatever extent they deemed feasible. Apparently, there wasn’t any obvious evidence of foul play.

Her journals weren’t discovered until many years later, in a box in the attic of the original house that was on the property, and by then interest in the circumstance of her demise had waned.

There also wasn’t anyone willing or able to tackle the translation.

But I’m thinking we may discover a few clues to her death as we work through them. ”

“You’ve just added a touch of intrigue to our project.”

Natalie waved that aside. “I’m much too old for intrigue. I’ll be happy to learn a bit more about my family history while fulfilling my promise to my father to translate the journals.”

“Why didn’t he translate them himself? He spoke the language, didn’t he?”

“Yes. But his eyes were damaged in World War II, leaving him with compromised vision that would have made working with old, faded handwriting impossible. Besides, he never wrote the language. No one did. My aunt was the rare exception.”

“You must be one too.”

“No. My father and I used to converse in it often to keep our skills sharp, but I’ve never written it.”

What?

Cara frowned. “Then why did you ... how can you translate your aunt’s journals?”

“I speak standard French, and as you know from your research, Missouri French is an amalgamation of Old Norman French, Native American languages, and frontier English. Some of my translation will be guesswork based on context, but I believe I’ll be able to decipher the gist of the text.

My French skills remain quite strong, thanks to my years at the Sorbonne and my continued use of the language. ”

Cara stared at her as she absorbed that news. “You went to the Sorbonne? In Paris?” Why had her research on the woman not revealed that? As far as she’d been able to determine, Natalie had worked as an administrative assistant her whole life for a lawyer in a nearby small town.

“That would be the one.” Natalie leaned back and looked into the distance, a tiny smile playing at her lips.

“Oh, I had grand plans for my life, despite the limitations imposed by my bout with polio. I was studying literature, aiming for a PhD and a university teaching career, like yours.” A shadow passed across her eyes, and she dropped her gaze.

“But that wasn’t to be. I became ill near the end of my junior year with a serious case of mono accompanied by debilitating fatigue, and I had to come home.

By the time I recovered, Papa had health issues of his own, and he needed me. I never went back.”

The poignant note in her inflection even after the passage of decades tightened Cara’s throat. “I’m so sorry you didn’t get to realize your dream.”