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  “Then you might become a governess or teach in a village school, but one must have references for that.”

  Susanna heaved a great sigh. “Nothing seems quite suitable,” she murmured.

  “Suitable! You are without family or fortune. You must take what you can and be thankful, else it’s the streets for you, my girl.”

  “I will never, ever resort to such a thing, of that you may be sure!”

  Her dark eyes flashing with anger, Mrs. Zeman said, “Like you, I once had a family and bright prospects. Then my father died, his partner absconding with all his money. My suitors left, looking for girls with fortunes. My mother and I were forced to leave our house and live in lodgings. We took in sewing, barely keeping body and soul together. Then my mother began coughing up blood and died. Alone, I could no longer afford even our meager lodgings. I slept in the streets for a week. That is when the master found me. You are fortunate that he takes an interest in you.”

  “Maybe I will marry,” said Susanna defiantly.

  “Yes, you might—you’re pretty enough—but you would still need to know how to bake bread, make preserves, and know which herbs are good for certain illnesses so that you may treat your family …”

  “Isn’t that what servants are for?”

  Mrs. Zeman smiled thinly. “If ever you should be fortunate enough to marry well, you will be expected to organize and supervise the servants. In addition, you might help your husband with his accounts.”

  Susanna brightened. This was something she might learn to do. Mrs. Zeman dampened her enthusiasm by saying, “I will teach you how to keep accounts, but first you must learn the housewifely arts.”

  A week passed, with Susanna reluctantly learning somewhat of cookery from Mrs. Zeman. She had just baked a loaf of bread, which was deemed “at least edible,” when suddenly they heard the clatter of boots in the hall and men’s voices.

  Soldiers! They had found her! Fear swept over Susanna in a great roaring tide. Then a torrent of anger swept away the fear. Was she never to be safe again?

  Susanna ran into the hall, skidding to a halt in front of Paul and an older gentleman. She could feel the blood rushing to her head. Darkness filled her vision. She staggered. Then she felt Paul’s arms around her, steadying her.

  “I thought … soldiers,” she whispered.

  She could hear Paul calling for Mrs. Zeman and saying, “She has had a shock; take her up to bed.”

  Then he was gone, and the housekeeper was leading her by the hand upstairs, putting her to bed, soothing her as one would a child, and she was sobbing in great wrenching gasps that she could not control.

  Time passed. Worn-out, she stopped sobbing. Then Mrs. Zeman was helping her to sit up and telling her to drink. Obediently, she swallowed, and then the blackness came again.

  Susanna awoke slowly out of a dream in which Paul figured prominently. Remembrance of the events of the day before rose vividly in her mind. She wanted to dive under the bedcovers and never get up. What must Paul think of her, in an apron, her hands covered with flour, and nearly fainting in front of a strange gentleman. She must never allow herself to be so overmastered by emotion again.

  A quick rap on the door, and Mrs. Zeman marched into the room. “You are up, I see,” she said. “The master has been asking after you. Come down when you are dressed.”

  Susanna sat up in bed and asked, “Who was the other gentleman who was here last night?”

  “Mr. Antonio Carvajal, a merchant whose ships trade from the continent to the Indies, a man of great wealth, one not to be trifled with, but withal generous to the poor. And,” she added drily as she drew the heavy curtains open, “from all accounts he is happily married with two fine sons.”

  Susanna dressed quickly and went downstairs.

  Paul saw her and rose to greet her. “I trust you are feeling better?” he asked.

  “I am much recovered,” she said, feeling a sudden shyness in his presence. She shoved down the delight she felt. His inquiry was only the customary politeness he showed to all.

  “Please convey my apologies to your visitor for my unseemly behavior last night.”

  Paul waved away her apology. “I have seen it happen thus,” he said, “that when the danger is passed, some slight thing may provoke an individual to temporarily lose control of himself. It may be that the mind becomes so overheated that it can no longer function as before. I am glad that you are over your difficulty. Now come along and let us do justice to the fine repast that Cook has prepared.”

  The days fell into a rhythm, with Mrs. Zeman teaching Susanna the many things required to run a household. Paul and she spent many evenings playing chess and backgammon and discussing the affairs of the day. He treated her with courtesy and something else—respect for her as a person of intelligence.

  Several times Mr. Carvajal came to dinner. The conversation then was lively, with the two men discussing the latest Mercurius, the paper that held forth on various political opinions, and the latest discoveries in medicine and exploration.

  It was nearing Christmas when Paul joined Susanna in the parlor, where she was warming herself in front of a fire. She turned and noticed that he was looking gravely at her.

  “I have some news of your relatives,” he said. “The information you gave me previously was correct. My agent found that Lady Arabella had, indeed, been taken on Cromwell’s orders to the Fleet.”

  “Is there a way to have her released?”

  “I am much afraid that would be impossible. She died of a fever shortly after she had been brought there.”

  “And my father?” asked Susanna in a low voice, her hands twisting in her skirt.

  “I am so sorry. Your father also was taken to the Fleet, where he died a week after his arrival. That is why it has taken so long to find information about them. And then I was not sure if you could safely stand the shock of it.”

  Susanna put a hand to her mouth, stifling a sob.

  “How did he die?” asked Susanna in a low voice.

  “The jailor was loath to speak of the matter, but some coins from my man loosened his tongue. It seems that one of the thieves imprisoned there tried to steal your father’s boots. When your father resisted, he was thrown against a wall and died shortly thereafter. As to your brother, he left Amsterdam for the New World.”

  Paul put an arm around her. “Susanna, stay here as long as you desire.”

  “I would not be a useless burden to you?”

  “Never useless. Do you not realize how I feel about you?”

  “But I have no family, no fortune.”

  “I have more than enough for both of us. I have loved you since the day I saw you.” Paul lifted her chin and smoothed back her hair as he said softly, “You are a woman of uncommon intelligence and independent spirit, but you are alone and need a protector. I would like to be that one.”

  Susanna drew back and asked in a tight voice, “What precisely, sir, are you proposing?” Did he think her a wanton, a woman who would agree to be his mistress?

  “That you become my wife. I made up my mind some time ago, for an assortment of reasons, not to marry, but I did not count on meeting a woman such as you. You need not give me your answer immediately. Take as long as you need to think on this matter.”

  Emotion clogged her throat as a torrent of feeling swept over her.

  Mistaking her silence for rejection, Paul said, “If you feel an antipathy towards me because of my religion, I would not hold you against your will.”

  Startled, Susanna asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Surely you must have guessed. I am a Jew.”

  Things she had wondered about fell into place: Paul making a Jew his housekeeper, the fact of his going out punctually every Saturday at the same time, never going to church. Now she understood.

  “You didn’t know.” He let her go, taking a turn about the room as he ran his fingers through his dark hair, graying at the temples.

  “Your faith does not
offend me,” Susanna said in a low voice. “Catholics and Protestants are locked together in a civil war that is tearing apart our country. Neither side is practicing the virtues of Christian love and forbearance. I have seen nothing of this vileness in you. On the contrary, you have treated me well.” She took a deep breath and added, “I will marry you, Paul.”

  A great gladness filling his eyes, he drew her to him. “My love,” he said and kissed her.

  CHAPTER 12

  Geraldine Morgan Golden Dragon Restaurant, San Francisco, Saturday, June 20, 1992

  * * *

  “Sorry I’m late,” said Geraldine as she rushed over to the table where Dan was seated.

  He stood up immediately and helped her take off her coat. “Not a problem. I was a little early. I hope you like dim sum. Cummings said the food was good here.”

  He looked quite handsome, wearing a navy blazer over a white shirt and tan slacks. “I’ve never tried dim sum. I’ll take whatever you’re having.”

  A waiter, a young Chinese man pushing a cart loaded with food, came over to their table.

  Dan pointed to a tureen of steaming soup. “For starters, you might like the hot and sour soup.”

  The waiter ladled out their soup into small white bowls, which he put on the table, and then left. Gerry took a sip of her soup. “I like it,” she said.

  “I missed breakfast because I went early to the gym,” explained Dan. “I haven’t exercised since we got here and thought I’d better do it while I had a little free time. So what did I miss?”

  Gerry put down her spoon. “Well, we all got to meet Mr. Stevens. Jason works for him in his antique shop in the summer. I gather that Mr. Stevens is supposed to accompany Jason around San Francisco, but Jason had other plans.”

  Dan grinned. “Yeah, like shopping with Laney. I wouldn’t let her wander alone in San Francisco, so she got J.J. to go with her.”

  Gerry smiled back and said, “He seems like a nice boy. He suggested that Mr. Stevens accompany Marjory around town.”

  Dan’s grin got wider. “And what did your aunt think of that?” he asked.

  “She didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, I think she was quite pleased. Oh, and Caleb, who was just leaving for his office, invited Mr. Stevens to dinner.”

  “Sorry I missed all that, Gerry. And how was your author meeting?”

  “Interesting. He was friendly and full of all sorts of stories that weren’t in his book.”

  “What was his book about?”

  “Reincarnation. He’d worked for ten years to find actual proof.”

  Dan looked skeptical. “What kind of proof?”

  “He found children who remembered their past lives and interviewed them and their parents.”

  “But how did your author know that they weren’t just telling stories? Kids do make up things. They don’t know any better.”

  “Their stories checked out. He located their past-life families, who vouched for the truth of the children’s stories.”

  Dan moved uneasily in his seat. Gerry could tell he didn’t believe her. Maybe he was one of those people who wouldn’t change his mind no matter how much evidence you gave him.

  “Lots of cultures believed in reincarnation: the ancient Celts, Druids, North American Indians. Even today, Hindus, Buddhists, and quite a few people in the U.S. believe, too,” said Gerry.

  The waiter came around with the food cart again. Dan eyed the selection of food and said, “Cummings said that the squid with Chinese broccoli was pretty good. You want to try that?” he asked.

  “All right.”

  After their waiter had left with the cart, they ate in silence. Then Dan put down his chopsticks and said, “Look, I never really thought about past lives before, but I’m willing to accept that we don’t know much, if anything, about what happens after we die. Did this author of yours ever say why we have to keep coming back to earth?”

  “It’s usually about learning lessons.”

  “So it’s not about punishment for what a person did previously?”

  Gerry shook her head. “No. We act out of ignorance according to what we think is best for us at the time. By paying attention to what we do, we can choose not to repeat the mistakes of the past.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, if you were a killer in the past, for example, you might find yourself in situations now where you have opportunities to learn how to care about people.”

  “I guess from what you say that soldiers have a lot to learn.”

  “I’m not saying that the military are bad people,” said Gerry defensively.

  “I hope not. I was once in the Marines and found that many of them were just as moral as anyone else—some of them more so than the general population. And a lot of us signed up because we thought it our duty to defend our country. Someone has to do it.”

  “My author was talking particularly about people who enjoyed killing. You must have met some of those,” said Gerry more sharply than she had meant.

  “Some,” admitted Dan. “But far fewer than you might think.”

  Gerry flushed. “I didn’t mean to sound rude. How long were you in the Marines?”

  “I did one four-year tour of duty. I learned a lot.”

  “What sort of things—that is, if you don’t mind talking about it.”

  “Oh, things like situational awareness.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Our commanders taught us to become aware of everything going on around us. Being good at it could mean the difference between getting back to camp on your own two feet or being carried there by your buddies. Often I’d get hunches about situations we were in, like where the enemy was, how bad it could be.”

  “That sounds like a very useful ability.”

  “Essential. They say there are three kinds of people: the good guys, the bad guys, and the clueless. Most people fall into the last category. You see them walking around, not paying attention to anything around them …”

  He stopped, a faraway look in his eyes as he fiddled with his chopsticks.

  Gerry rushed in to break the awkward silence and said, “I also learned that a wound you might have received in the past could result in a birthmark.”

  “Interesting. On my right arm just above my elbow, I have a birthmark—a big one. So you think that could be an old war wound?”

  “Or maybe you fell off a horse.”

  Dan laughed as he sprawled back in his seat. “I’ve never been crazy about riding horses. Fast cars are more my style. I’ve got this 1973 Barracuda I’ve almost finished restoring, but anything’s possible, I guess.”

  He was really quite handsome when he smiled. And he seemed so comfortable in his own skin, no affectations, so up-front.

  “Often people reincarnate with people they’ve known before.”

  “The same people each time?” Dan asked, sitting up straight and leaning toward her, his eyes probing hers.

  Gerry drew a quick breath and said, “That’s right.”

  Dan’s mouth turned up at the corners in the beginning of a smile. “Now why would that be, I wonder?”

  He really paid attention to what she said, not like some men, who seemed more interested in themselves than in her. It was a refreshing change, but was it all just an act? Gerry gave an elaborate shrug. “Because we have things to learn from one another. And because sometimes the group has a common purpose.”

  “Sort of like us Morgans all meeting together to do …” Dan waved his hands expressively.

  “You could be right.”

  “So,” said Dan, a teasing glint in his eyes, “do you think that you and I might have had a past life together?”

  As Gerry looked at Dan, she suddenly knew what had been tugging at the back of her mind, the thing that she had refused to acknowledge ever since that dream she had been having about Susanna.

  In a gentle voice, Dan said, “It’s okay, Gerry. I shouldn’t have asked that.”

  Unwillingly, she lo
oked at him. His eyes were brown, not black, but the feeling in them was the same, a love that wouldn’t let her go … Was he the reincarnation of Paul? Then that would make her the reincarnation of Susanna.

  Gerry stood up. “I should leave. I have things to take care of.”

  “I’ve upset you. I’m sorry.”

  She shook her head, reaching blindly for her coat. Dan was ahead of her, putting it on around her shoulders. Struggling for control, she shrugged into it.

  “I’m tired, didn’t sleep much last night after reading Jeremy’s memoir.” Especially because of her dreams about Susanna and Paul.

  Dan stood as if undecided, then asked quietly, “Could I call you a cab?”

  “No thanks. I’d like to just walk for a while by myself.”

  Opening her purse, she found her sunglasses and jammed them on, then rummaged around for some money.

  Dan put a hand on her arm. “I’ll pay. My treat,” he said. “Take care, Gerry. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  “Thank you,” she said and walked away.

  CHAPTER 13

  Jason Kramer Caleb’s mansion, Saturday, June 20, 1992

  * * *

  “Thanks for coming shopping with me, J.J.,” said Laney as they walked after dinner into the library.

  “No problem.”

  It was the first time he had been allowed to go off on his own in a big city. Well, not quite on his own, but close, with no adult to supervise him. Laney wasn’t really an adult, although she thought she was, but she was okay—didn’t boss him around—and he did have fun. After shopping for a bathing suit, she had helped him find a scarf for his mother, and then he had helped her find a watch for her father.

  Would he ever get the chance to visit San Francisco again and take in some of the sights, maybe with someone his own age like Crystal, Davis’s friend? She was smart—definitely not an airhead—and kind of cute.

  J.J. flopped into a wing chair, wondering if he dared to stretch his legs out over the side of it, and then decided not to, not in front of his relatives.

  Dan was looking at Gerry like she was the sexiest thing alive. Too bad they were cousins.