freight and heavy goods, but which was a godsend for anyone cutting it too tight and arriving just as their train was about to pull out. She headed for it and waited in the shadows until her train arrived.
Minutes later she was settled in a window seat watching the night rush by outside, and wondering if the wraithlike creature staring back at her could really be her own reflection.
53
Something impossible had happened.
“Darling,” Ralph Cazaubon had said as his wife entered, “this is Dr. Sam Towne of Manhattan University. He's been telling me a rather odd story…”
He stopped because Sam had gasped audibly. Both he and the woman who had just entered turned their gaze toward the man who stood with his mouth slightly open and his pale blue eyes staring, unblinking, at her. His face was white and he looked to be on the verge of passing out.
Sam Towne had not been ready for this. The Joanna Cross who stood before him was the same age and physical build as the one he knew; but she was quite distinctly someone else. Her hair was lighter and worn shorter. Her eyes, too, were lighter-blue instead of the green that he was used to. The contours of her face were subtly changed. They could have been sisters, but they were different people.
“Is something wrong, Dr. Towne?”
The question came from Ralph Cazaubon. Sam swallowed and made an effort to pull his thoughts together.
“To be honest, I'm not entirely sure. Your wife isn't…isn't quite the person I'd expected.”
She was looking at him curiously, a half-smile of polite anticipation on her face, waiting to hear what this stranger was doing in her house, what he'd been saying to her husband.
“What strange tale has Dr. Towne been telling you?” she asked him.
“It might be better if he told you that himself,” Ralph replied. They both turned to Sam and waited for him to go on.
“There's a woman who's been involved in some work I've been doing,” he began, a little unsurely, “who's been using your name-your maiden name, that is. Joanna Cross.”
She frowned. “ Using my name? Or someone with the same name? It's not that unusual a name. There must be more than one Joanna Cross in the world.”
“Yes…yes, I suppose there are…perhaps that's it,” he finished lamely, not knowing what else to say.
“Is that all?” Ralph said, frowning. “You seemed convinced when you arrived that there was something a good deal more sinister going on.”
Sam ran a hand across his mouth. He could feel his lips were dry. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to alarm you. But the coincidence was, from where I stood, rather strange.”
“You say this woman's been involved in work you've been doing? What kind of work is that, Dr. Towne?” Joanna asked.
Dr. Towne is an investigator of the paranormal,” Ralph said with a faintly disparaging smile. “I have a feeling he suspected there was some kind of doppelganger at work here.”
He caught the flash of response in Sam's eyes. “Good God,” he said, “I believe that's what you did think, isn't it?”
Joanna spoke before Sam could find a reply. “Dr. Towne looks as though he has a lot on his mind. I think the least we can do is ask him to sit down and offer him a drink.”
“Thank you-your husband has already offered. If you don't mind, though, I will sit down. And with your permission ask a couple of questions. I won't take up much of your time.”
“Please, go ahead.”
Sam resumed his place on the sofa where he'd been when she arrived. “Can I ask first,” he said, “if the name Adam Wyatt means anything to either of you?”
“Well, of course it does,” she said, as though mildly surprised that he should ask, but at the same time pleased. She crossed over to a shelf and took down one of several identical white-bound paperbacks. “Here's a proof copy of my book. It's due for publication in the spring.”
Sam took the book she held out to him. On its cover he read in plain print:
ADAM WYATT
An American Rebel in Revolutionary Paris by
Joanna Cross
Hoping that he was concealing the astonishment he felt, he thumbed through its three hundred or so pages, its print broken here and there by illustrations and portraits reproduced in color.
“How do you know about Adam?” she asked, happily intrigued by the conversation now. “I thought he was my secret-at least until the book comes out, then I hope he'll be everybody's.”
“Oh, I…I don't know a great deal about him,” Sam lied awkwardly. “It's just that I've come across several references to him recently…”
“There you are, it's what I always say,” she said with a triumphant glance toward her husband. “When a subject's time has come, it's just in the air, up for grabs. It's simply a question of who gets to it first.”
“To be honest,” Sam said, “I wasn't sure whether Adam Wyatt was a fictional character or a real one.”
“Oh, he was real all right,” she said with the brief laugh of someone utterly certain of what they were saying. “When I started to research him I came up with an extraordinary amount of documentation. He was quite a character. When he was hardly more than a boy during the War of Independence he wormed his way into a friendship with Lafayette-risked the whole Battle of Yorktown to fake an incident with a runaway horse that made him look like a hero. Years later he almost certainly murdered the only surviving person who knew what he'd done. Meanwhile he'd persuaded Lafayette to take him back to France, where he married an aristocrat who was a close friend of Marie Antoinette's, and got mixed up in every kind of wickedness you can imagine. Despite all of which he died old, rich, and apparently happy, thereby proving,” she added with another laugh, “that, as we all know, there really is no justice in this world.”
Sam had been watching her as she spoke. She had an innocent and lively effervescence, quite obviously a spoiled and privileged young woman, but one whose advantages not even the hardest heart could easily resent. Something about her made him say to himself that this was a charmed life. Pain, misery, and meanness would somehow never touch her. She would survive them. She was born to be, and always would, he felt, be happy, just as surely as some were fated not to be.
“D'you remember how exactly you came across Adam Wyatt in the first place?” he asked her.
She answered with a slight frown. “I'm not sure I do now. I think it was a casual reference in some local history of the place where I was born in the Hudson Valley.” She broke again into a bright, enthusiastic smile. “The amazing thing is he turned out to be an ancestor of Ralph's, on his mother's side. In fact it was Adam who brought us together-literally.”
As she spoke she reached out for Ralph's hand. Sam noticed that they touched each other with an easy spontaneity and total lack of self-consciousness. They looked, he thought, like a couple very much in love.
“My parents still live there and I've always gone up to see them quite often. Ralph was renting a house nearby, but we didn't know each other until one morning we were both out riding, and we met literally over Adam's tomb in this little churchyard. I was there for research, and Ralph was curious about where this notorious ancestor of his was buried…”
“Excuse me,” Sam interrupted, “that was the first time you met? Do you mind telling me how long ago this was?”
Ralph gave a smile and looked at his wife with undisguised adoration. “Exactly twelve months and three days ago,” he said. “But may we know why you ask?”
He was relaxed now, apparently over his initial distrust of Sam and untroubled by his questions, but still curious.
“I…I just wondered,” Sam said lamely. “That would make the date…” He did a rapid calculation and confirmed it with them-chiefly to assure himself that he and they were working within the same time frame. They
