Passenger (Passenger, #1)(53)

The realization ripped her down the center. Her mother had run away. She’d run away from an overbearing foster father. One who’d tried to control her life.

Etta turned, studying the old man from under her lashes. The remaining members of the other family lines had been adopted into the Ironwood clan. What if that’s what her mom had really meant? If, after her grandfather died, she’d been forced to become an Ironwood?

“I, too, looked for her.” Cyrus turned, pulling a leather satchel up from the floor. He thumbed through the bag, finally plucking out a piece of parchment and thrusting it at Etta. She took the parchment and carefully unfolded it. Inside, the handwriting was unfamiliar.

January 2, Our Year 1099

Gus,

I’m about to make my report to Father, and yes, gladly receive the punishment, but I’ve been battling my conscience over whether or not to tell you this. You’ve kept a brave face about it, but I know it’s been a considerable source of pain for you over the years. Surely knowing is better than living the rest of your life with the uncertainty hanging over you? These are the questions I’ve sat with for days now.

Earlier this week, I found a passage near to where I was staying in Nassau, and well, chap, the truth of it is that I was bored and more than a little resentful at being called back again to 1776. Why must I follow every absurd lead in his never-ending quest to find this blasted obsession of his? So I heard it, and I went—and you can imagine my surprise when the passage put me out well past 1946, into what looked to be some kind of museum. I’ll spare you the rather vulgar actions of the people around me and say that, upon checking a newspaper, I realized I was in Manhattan in 2015.

Yes. You read that correctly. It was an absolute crush of humanity all around, and the amount of building that’s been done to the island is startling. You’ll see for yourself soon, I believe.

But here is where I hesitate again. Will you hate me for this? I can’t be sure, knowing how one sight of her in Paris tormented you for years. Gus, I read through the newspaper, trying to get a sense of what was happening in the world—better to butter up the old man with it, right? But in one section I saw a photo that nearly stopped my breath, because I thought, with all certainty, it was of our Rosie.

Instead, it was a girl named Henrietta Spencer—she’s a violin virtuoso, and the article was about a competition she’d just won in Russia. I skimmed it to the end and sure enough, there was mention of a mother—a Rose Spencer.

The technology of this time is remarkable, but I haven’t the space here to tell you of it. A librarian at the city’s public library helped me search for more information on something called—the InterWeb, maybe? No, InterNet. In any case, it was easy enough to continue on my own, and I felt I owed it to you to chase this down the rabbit hole. The earliest record I could find of them was a police report on October 5, 1998, stating that a young woman, a Rose Spencer, along with her three-month-old, had been picked up for theft in some sort of department store. In it, Rose said she was new to the city and was hoping to contact a friend.

I hope I haven’t upset you, brother. I know you’ve built yourself a life, and you’ve Amelia and Julian to content yourself with. But I also hope that this helps you put it all to rest, and eases your bedeviled mind. Both Rosie and her daughter seem well enough, and despite the pain she’s caused this family, I felt content to see them settled.

—Virgil



“Virgil was my other son, gone shortly after this letter was sent,” Cyrus explained, snatching it back out of her numb fingers. “Augustus a year later, when his ship sank in the seventeenth century.”

Nicholas swung his gaze back to the old man, an edge to his voice. “Enough of this. Tell her straight what you need of her.”

Cyrus leaned back, giving him a long look. “I could not use Rose, therefore my task falls upon Miss Linden—”

“Spencer,” she corrected sharply.

“Linden,” he practically roared, “and damn you for it. I need you to steal back what was stolen from me by your mother.”

That put a stop to the scalding words she was about to fling onto him. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play deaf, I haven’t the patience for it. I meant precisely what I said earlier. If you continue to be uncooperative, I’ll resume the search for it myself, and you’ll be left here. I’m sure you saw the women as you came off the ferry, the ones who linger by the docks?”

Nicholas growled, “You dare imply—”

“I imply nothing. I mean precisely what I say. That will be your own recourse for survival. What, without any skills or knowledge or protector in this time, will you do otherwise?”

So, her choices were to prostitute herself to others, or to serve him? “I know where the passage is.” Roughly. “All I need is to get back to Nassau—”

“I would bury the passage before I’d ever let you through it again, child, so think twice before you spite me. Let’s play a game, shall we? Close your eyes and try to envision a scenario in which you could possibly get to the island before my men. What funds would you use? What friends do you have here who would help you?” Cyrus asked, his voice light, like he was speaking to a child. “And what would prevent us from coming to claim you again?”

Nicholas would help me. Etta risked a glance over to him, feeling the air vibrate around the two of them with unspoken fury.