Page 33 of Across the Universe

Jo smiles at Frankie—a private grin that only they share as their friends gab and talk animatedly—and she spots the glitter of happy tears in Frankie’s eyes.

This is good news. The best news. It’s going to be a wonderful year.

* * *

The man's name was Henry. Adeline had woken up in his barn on a Tuesday morning, and by Wednesday evening she'd discovered that she was no longer living in 1965, but instead--somehow, improbably--in 1894.

"Whoa," Henry said, pulling the reins of his horse as he slowed to a trot and came to a stop at the stairs of his house. On the porch, Adeline sat in a rocking chair, staring out at the horizon forlornly. Henry swung one leg over the horse and landed on both feet like a gymnast dismounting a beam.

Adeline wanted to say something, but as she watched this man she'd known for barely over twenty-four hours, she realized mere words couldn't possibly convey her current feelings.

"How are you, miss?" Henry rubbed his hands together as he approached her carefully, eyes averted.

Adeline felt like a skittish horse that he didn't want to spook. She stood, clasping her hands firmly. "I would like to say I'm fine," she said in a loud, clear voice. "But obviously I am not. I don't know who you are, I don't know how I got here, and what I want more than anything is to go home."

Henry, who had listened to Adeline's mad ramblings in the barn the morning before, showed no sign that he either believed or disbelieved her story about coming from a future time. What he seemed to grasp, however, was that she was a fish out of water.

"That's understandable," Henry said, putting his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "Being far from home isn't a favorable state to be in."

Adeline nearly stamped her foot. "Far from home? I'm not just far from home, Mr. Seekins," she said, using his surname to show him they were not yet well-acquainted enough for her to use his Christian name. "I have clearly traveled through space and time and landed in an unfamiliar setting." Adeline looked around her: trees, wide open skies, farmland, and silence. "I come from New York City," she said, enunciating the words as if she might be speaking to a dullard. "There are no cows in New York City."

A slow smile spread across Henry's face, but he stamped it out quickly like a small fire. "No cows, to be sure," he agreed, lifting his gaze so that it met Adeline's. "But surely you've seen one of these beasts before." He gestured at the horse that he'd just dismounted. "And maybe you even see stars in your sky, or trees in Central Park."

"You've been to New York?"

Henry pulled one hand from his pocket and scratched his head. "Sure have." He glanced out at the farmland that surrounded them. "Matter of fact, I was born there."

Adeline felt faint. She nearly sank back down into the chair. "You were?"

"I was." Henry was wise enough not to approach her and attempt to sit in the rocking chair next to hers. Instead, he sat on the top step and looked up at her, urging her to sit down again, which she did. "My parents came here from Great Britain and settled in New York. Once my sister and I were born, they moved south to try their hand at farming, and we ended up here."

Adeline looked around again, narrowing her eyes. "And where, precisely, is 'here'?"

"Virginia," Henry said, leaning his back against a wooden post. "We came here to farm wheat."

Adeline sighed. Farms. Wheat. Small towns. None of this appealed to her whatsoever.

"And you live here alone?" she asked, which she assumed to be the case, as she'd spent the night in a guest room of the farmhouse, emerging in the morning to find an empty, cold kitchen with no wife to stoke a fire or make a pot of coffee or an egg. By the same token, there appeared to be no siblings living in the house, no parents, and (she had noted with dismay) no hired help to prepare the meals or do the housework. "You live here alone and do… everything?"

Henry shrugged. "I do everything that needs to be done. I can cook for myself sufficiently, and while laundry isn't my favorite task, I know how to do the washing and hanging. So, yes, I can do everything."

Adeline blinked. And then blinked a few more times. She'd never known a man who could take care of his own basic needs. Furthermore, she herself could barely take care of her own basic needs. From birth, her parents had employed a full serving staff, and while she did not consider herself spoiled or unappreciative, she knew wholeheartedly that her station in life granted her the ability to wash her hands of trivial things like cooking and cleaning.

In fact, in her real life--which Adeline was quickly feeling as though she may never again inhabit--her time was her own. She woke with the sun and was immediately served coffee and breakfast by her kitchen staff, and shortly after, Adeline always made her way to Central Park with her sketch pad and charcoals in hand, ready to find inspiration for her art or to meet other well-heeled friends for coffee and conversation. But a farm would certainly not allow for such pleasures. Never had she heard of a farm where its owners were free to sip coffee at midday or to pursue artistic endeavors.

"May I ask," Adeline said, coming out of her own reverie, "where is your family? Why have you no wife and children of your own?"

Henry laughed at this--a real, hearty guffaw. "Well, I suppose I never felt the need for a wife when I'm more than capable of feeding myself."

It was Adeline's turn to huff in disbelief. "Surely a wife is good for more than a meal."

He shrugged. "Surely some are. But the ones I've known seem to only require more of their men than they themselves are able to give."

Adeline considered this; perhaps he wasn't entirely wrong on that front. She herself knew plenty of demanding women, and plenty of unhappy, put-upon husbands.

"And you," Henry went on. "Do you have a husband and children in New York?"

Adeline narrowed her eyes at him, wondering for just a moment whether he was perhaps only humoring her by pretending to believe she had a whole other life in New York.

---