Author's note: Past Imperfect picks up shortly after the events of Out of the Past. For those of you who've not read it, here's a capsule summary:
Barnabas travels to 1897 to learn the origins of Chris Jennings's werewolf curse. Once there he learns that Quentin Collins is the source of the curse. He persuades Angelique to cure Quentin, which she does. Cured of the curse, a now-aimless Quentin uses the I Ching in an attempt to cheat time and go back to the past to save his slain fiancé. Instead the I Ching leads him to 1968. In 1968, Maggie Evans has been having vivid dreams of a man from Collinwood's past. When she meets Quentin, she realizes that the man from her dreams is real and alive in 1968. The two fall in love and marry after an all too brief courtship.
When I realized that I wanted to continue the story, I took a page from the DS writers playbook, and decided to ret-con a couple of things. My apologies for that, but it's not really central to the story, which I hope you enjoy.
The great estate at Collinwood has long stood as a portal between the past, the present, and the future. None of its residents is immune to its mysteries, or to the strange and dark forces so frequently at work there. For one woman, Maggie Collins, née Evans, the estate's mysteries are a constant, albeit suppressed, companion. While she was not born a Collins, the estate is now her home, its residents are now her family—and its mysteries are forever woven into her life.
Prologue – London 1879
He had stalked her through the streets of the city—watching her from afar, yet never losing sight of her comings and goings. He had followed her as she went in and out of shops on the high street; waited under the awning of a bookseller while she took afternoon tea in an establishment across the street; and tracked her at a distance, following her dark purple hat and short cloak as she at last turned from the heavily populated streets onto a smaller tributary lane.
By now the sun was setting, and the moon was making its entrance—still so low that the buildings obscured its appearance. It was here on this small lane, before she reached the door that led to her apartment of rooms, that he must waylay her. Once inside, it would be too late—it would never do to confront her there.
Following her all day, as he had, brought his age into stark relief. He was an old man. In his youth, such an undertaking would have been nothing to him, but now his joints ached, and he longed for nothing more than the comfort of his armchair and the warmth of an evening fire. That was not to be—at least, not yet.
The lane ended in a T-junction with another lane. Just to the left was the establishment she sought—her sanctuary for another night. He quickened his pace, willing his legs to make long strides in order to intercept her.
To his surprise, she stopped at the junction of the two lanes and turned to face him. Her dark auburn curls peeked out from beneath her stylish hat. She was a beauty—sculpted bone structure, eyes the color of emeralds, framed by long lashes. Her bow-shaped lips formed the perfect mouth. If he were a younger man, he would go to her and beg her to bestow her attention on him. But his youth was but a memory now. His hair, his features, his hands all bore the mark of age. Even his suit, well tailored of fine worsted wool, looked old from constant, daily wear. He was glad of it now, for he knew that no approaches, no entreaties she might make to him would be inspired by anything but cunning.
"So, you've come for me at last," she said. Even her voice sounded lyrical and sweet to his ears. "Did you learn nothing from our last encounter?" she hissed.
This brought him back into himself and his purpose. "I've learned a great deal," he began. "I watched you from afar. Then I hired apprentices to be my eyes, ears, and legs. Would you like to know what I learned, my dear?"
"What have you learned, old man?" Her eyes shone red in the evening's waning light.
"Only this," he said and from the pocket of his topcoat, he drew out a small wooden box.
She laughed, but the bravado that was evident only a moment before was gone. "How did you get that?"
Ignoring her question, he continued. "This," he said in a commanding voice. His wrinkled hands slid one of the boxes wood panels to the right. "And this." He slid another and another. "See what I've learned!"
She turned as if to flee. "Stop!" His voice rang out and echoed through the small lane. "Stop demon!" She turned back to face him. He slid the final panels of the box and its lid popped open.
She took a tentative step back away from him. "No," she said, her eyes still glowing red.
"Stop demon!" the old man cried out loudly. "Stay."
At the end of the lane, a passerby turned to look, and then hurried on, with an astonished look on his face.
Holding the box in one hand, the old man raised the other arm, extending it out toward her. "Light of the moon, pull of the tides, aid me in my task. Return this creature to the darkness from which it came. Light of the moon, pull of the tides, aid me in my task. Return this creature to this vessel—consecrated for our use, for this purpose and only this purpose. Light of the moon, pull of the tides, I implore you, aid me my task." His hand shook so violently, he nearly dropped the box. The shaking rippled out and overtook his entire body. Still, he chanted "Light of the moon, pull of the tides, I implore you, aid me my task."
She threw back her head and laughed. He is old and weak, she thought. Then, at the far end of the lane, the moon rose and crested the sightline of the buildings and shone brightly into the narrow lane. "No," she screamed, "I won't."
"Return this creature to the darkness from which it came," his voice, amplified in the moonlight, boomed out from his wizen body.
Her screams dissolved into a whimper, "No. I won't."
Then, her eyes widened and from each a plume of red smoke poured out. From each nostril and from her open mouth, dark plumes of smoke came out. The plumes mingled together, weaving themselves into a thick single strand, like a braid of smoke. Then, it was bidden toward the box. It moved with purpose and yet reluctance. Finally, it wound its way in slowly into the box. When at last the final end of the plume disappeared inside, he shut the lid, and slid the panels back into place.
At the end of the lane where she'd turned to face him, the woman collapsed. As she fell to the ground, her eyes shone green once again. He walked over to her. He could see that she was breathing; she was still alive, but her beauty was somehow diminished. He tucked the box back into the pocket of his overcoat. Then he turned and left. She was only the host. What happened to her now was of little consequence to him. What mattered most was that it was once again sealed in its proper vessel. His mission was complete.
The old man slowly made his way back down the high street, turned the corner and made his way down a now-dark street to his small shop. "Objects de Arte" the small shingle read. The shop window was dark, as he turned the key in the lock. Passing through the small shop, crammed with small, unique pieces, he headed toward the dim light at the rear of the shop. There he found his apprentice waiting for him.
"Is it done?" the younger man asked him.
"Yes," the old man responded wearily. "It is done."
"And the woman?"
The old man chuckled. "You have an aptitude for this—if only you would focus," the old man told him with a gentle smile. "I suppose you are still intent upon leaving?" he asked.
"My passage is booked, and the time I've spent here with you, reminds me that my own father is aging. I should like to see him again before his days grow short."
"You must take this with you," the old man said, reaching into the pocket of his topcoat, and drawing out the small box.
The young man gave him a quizzical look that invited an explanation.
"My time grows short as well. I believe you will be the last apprentice I will ever take on. You must take what you like from my collection, but this," the old man said indicating the small box with a nod of his head, "I am entrusting it to your protection."
Collinwood 1969
When Quentin Collins entered the drawing room of the Great House, he expected to find his wife, Maggie, already there, waiting for him. Instead, the room was empty. A small fire was struggling to life in the fireplace.
Quentin loosened his tie and made his way to the liquor cabinet. Removing the ornate stopper from the crystal decanter, he poured himself a pre-dinner brandy. The antique decanter had been in use from at least 1897. He turned it in his hand, and marveled that it had somehow survived not only the intervening decades between 1897 and 1969, but also the concomitant renovations, upgrades, and refurbishing that had taken place.
He had traveled from 1897 to 1969 courtesy of the ancient divination practice of the I Ching. His own hubris led him to believe that he could bend it to his will. Instead he discovered that the wands used in the ancient practice held a will of their own. It brought him to a time and place of its choosing—and in the process had given him a new lease on life—whether he wanted one or not.
He woke up each day and told himself that he was now settled in 1969. He was accepted by the Collins family of 1969, as one of their own. He married a woman he loved—a woman of 1969. He'd joined the family business and lived on the family estate—he had settled there. And yet, each day as he readied himself for a day at the Collins mill in Collinsport, he was aware of a murmur at the back of his mind challenging this definition of settled.
He often wondered now whether it would have been the same had he stayed in 1897. Would he have met a woman to fill the void left by his late fiancé? Would he have eventually reconciled with his brother, Edward, and joined the family business? Would he have lived the rest of his life at Collinwood—never again to travel or seek intrigue and adventure?
"Are you going to stand there fondling the decanter? Or pour me a drink?" Quentin's "cousin", Carolyn Stoddard, appeared at his side. He'd been so lost in thought, that he'd not heard her approach.
"Carolyn," he greeted her warmly and took her in with his eyes. She was a lovely young woman, with long blond hair, that she pushed behind her ears in a nervous gesture. Tonight she wore a green sweater, tucked into a short skirt that hung low on her hips. "I'm glad someone's here to join me in a drink," he said as he drew another snifter from the cabinet, poured a healthy dram into hers and topped his up. He handed her her drink. "I was expecting Maggie to be here when I arrived."
Carolyn colored slightly. "That's my fault, I'm afraid. Maggie asked me to meet you and let you know that she went home to dress for dinner." A look of irritation crossed Quentin's face. "Did I say something wrong?" Carolyn asked.
Quentin put his genial face back on as he responded, "No, of course not. So, what's new with you?"
"New?" she asked, as though the word itself was new to her. "Nothing, I suppose. I'm looking forward to mother's little dinner party tonight. Other than that, things have been pretty quiet—unusual for Collinwood, to say the least. But I'm glad of it," she went on. A wry smile crossed Quentin's lips. "But I see you don't agree with me."
"It's not that. It's just that sometimes I crave something different—really different. Do you understand?" he asked. A raised eyebrow served as punctuation.
"I think I do …"
"Everyday at the mill is pretty much the same as the last. Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful for the opportunity Roger's given me. It's just that sometimes I think there has to be more to life—sometimes I want something more, something different." Quentin paced away and found himself in front of the fireplace. Carolyn followed and sat beside him in an armchair.
She paused as she considered, then continued, "Does Maggie know how you feel? Have you spoken to her about it?"
He played it off lightly. "It's just a feeling I have sometimes-nothing to worry her about. So promise me, you won't say anything to Maggie."
"Won't say anything to me about what?" Maggie asked.
Quentin looked up. Maggie was standing in the drawing room doorway. She'd traded the sensible turtleneck and tweed skirt she'd worn that morning for a short navy blue, bell sleeved dress that he'd never seen before. She'd styled her hair too—pulling the top up, and leaving two perfectly curled tendrils to frame her face. The rest trailed down her back.
Quentin set his drink on the mantle and crossed the room to greet his wife. "You look lovely," he said softly then drew her into a lingering kiss.
"Ahem," Carolyn pretended to clear her throat. Maggie's cheeks colored as Quentin released her from his embrace. "You do look nice, Maggie. Is it new?"
"Yes. Do you like it?" Maggie asked as she gave a little twirl, sending the dress fanning out around her thighs.
"Very much," Carolyn enthused. "It really suits you."
Even after the many months that had passed since he found himself in 1968, Quentin still found it difficult to comprehend that women—even a decent, married woman like Maggie—routinely exposed every measure of their legs—and more. Looking at her, he had to suppress mixed emotions and desires.
Carolyn continued, "I'll leave you two while I go make myself presentable before Tony arrives." With that, she left her friends and ascended the stairs.
"Sherry?" Quentin asked.
"Yes, please," she said as she moved to take a seat on the davenport next to the fire. "I could really use one after the walk over from the farm."
"You needn't have walked. I'd have come for you," he began then added, "Better still, you didn't need to be here today in the first place."
Maggie sighed. "Quentin, I told you before, I like working here. I still love teaching David and Amy."
Exasperation showed on Quentin's face as he joined her on the davenport. "You're my wife, Maggie. You don't have to work."
"I know I don't have to. I want to."
"You said it would only be until Elizabeth found a new governess," he said in a stern voice.
"I like keeping busy," she said.
"You're a Collins now—and my wife. Do you know what the men at the mill say about me?" He answered his own question before she could put forward a response. "That I don't treat you like a Collins."
"Who cares what they think?" Maggie asked defiantly.
"I do. I need to command their respect."
"So this is about them?" she persisted. He didn't answer. Instead he turned his gaze away from her. When he turned back he could see her lips were pressed tightly together, but she said nothing.
"This isn't the time or place to discuss it," he said at last. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up." He took her hand and brought it to his lips. "Forgive me?" he asked.
What could she say? What could she say to convince a man from the late nineteenth century to see the world from her point of view. His attitudes were of his time, not hers, but she loved him deeply nonetheless. "Of course I forgive you. You're right—we shouldn't quarrel—not here, not tonight," she cooed in a soft, lyrical voice.
He leaned in, found her lips with his, and ended their argument as they always did in their mutual passion.
Later that evening, while Elizabeth Collins Stoddard, her brother Roger, houseguest Julia Hoffman, and Professor Eliot Stokes retired to the library for brandy and a game of bridge, the "young people," as Elizabeth referred to them, headed to the Blue Whale for a nightcap.
Carolyn and her boyfriend, Tony Peterson, sat nursing their whisky and sodas, watching Quentin and Maggie on the dance-floor. Quentin had selected three slow numbers on the jukebox, which he deemed suitable for dancing. He'd not grown up in this century, and thus there were many things, like the music and dance moves of the twentieth century, that eluded his understanding. But holding Maggie close and moving slowly to the music had been easy to master.
Carolyn and Tony drank in silence for a time, before Tony observed, "They look good together—happy. Maybe that's what marital bliss does for you."
Carolyn didn't read anything into his observation, instead she countered, "Actually, I think there may be trouble in paradise."
"Oh?" Tony asked. "What makes you think so?"
"Just something Quentin said earlier, and did you notice how quiet Maggie was all through dinner?"
"Yes, I suppose she seemed a little off," Tony agreed.
"Maybe I should talk to her."
Tony's face contorted into an expression that spoke his displeasure. "Carolyn let me give you some advice as an experienced attorney," he began, though he knew how much she chafed when he reminded her of his age and experience. "Don't get involved. Let them figure things out on their own."
"But they're our best friends," Carolyn persisted. "Of course I want to help them."
"I know you do," Tony told her in a tone that she found at once sexy and infuriatingly patronizing. "But if things go wrong between them, they won't thank you for getting in the middle of it."
Carolyn, true to her Collins upbringing, was not to be denied. When Tony and Quentin went to the bar to get another round of drinks, she turned to Maggie, and began, "You're awfully quiet tonight. Is everything okay?"
Maggie glanced over at the bar, where her husband stood chatting with the Blue Whale's bartender and owner, Ed. Then she turned her eyes to Carolyn and said, "It's Quentin. He wants me to quit my job."
"Oh?" Carolyn had not expected that response. There was more discontent between her two friends than she had suspected.
Maggie went on, "He said the men at the mill think he isn't treating me like a Collins. But Carolyn, I want to work."
"I know you don't want to hear this Maggie, but maybe he's right," Carolyn said.
"You too?" Maggie's face conveyed her exasperation and disappointment. "Carolyn, you and I both know how people are in this town. If I keep working, they'll say Quentin isn't treating me like a Collins. If I quit my job and join the hospital board, they'll say I've forgotten who I am and where I come from. Either way, we can't win."
"I'm not thinking about them," Carolyn said in a serious tone. "I know how much you care about David, and especially Amy. Neither you or my mother likes change, and you'd both be happy to have things go on as they are, until … I guess until you have a family of your own."
Maggie's cheeks colored in response, but she regrouped and asked, "What's wrong with that?"
Carolyn continued, "Nothing, but I think maybe it's time for you to find something you enjoy for yourself, before you and Quentin start a family."
"There are some things I've been thinking I'd like to explore," Maggie conceded. "But the kids still need me, especially Amy, and we haven't found anyone suitable to replace me."
"Well, as to that, I think it's time David and Amy went to school … in Collinsport."
"School?" Maggie was incredulous.
"Yes, school," Carolyn repeated. "After all, it's 1969. And I think it would be good for them, especially David, to interact with other children."
"A Collins has never gone to school in town," Maggie told her.
"Well, maybe it's time that changed."
Maggie looked up to see that Quentin and Tony were making their way back to the table with the next round of drinks, effectively ending their conversation, but not her train of thought.
Elizabeth Collins Stoddard wore her countenance as matriarch of the Collins family like a shield—a shield against all of the things that she knew the townspeople of Collinsport believed about her family—that it was cursed, that it was responsible for all the strange things that befell the family and its namesake town. Elizabeth never allowed any of it to penetrate her shield.
She had long been responsible for managing the estate, ceding to her brother, Roger Collins, responsibility for the two family businesses—the cannery, fed by a fleet of fishing ships, and the lumber mill that at one time supplied the lumber to build that fleet.
Of late, an unusual calm had settled over the estate. There were no strange disappearances, or other unexplained phenomena on the estate or in town. Instead, all was unusually quiet, or so it seemed to Elizabeth. She stood in the foyer waiting for Harry Johnson, the family chauffeur, to pull the station wagon around to the front of the estate. The unusual calm had allowed Elizabeth to consider her role at Collinwood. Things seem to function well enough without her constant attention. Although, she had long been a member of hospital board in town, she longed to be of greater service—to be more occupied, more fulfilled. So she'd asked Julia Hoffman to arrange for her to join the board of the Windcliff Sanitarium. It was there that she was headed on this particular morning.
The door to the corridor that connected the foyer to the back of the house—its kitchen and servants' quarters—opened. A moment later, Mrs. Johnson, the housekeeper, came in carrying a box. She added it to the small stack of boxes already assembled in the foyer.
"That's the last of them," she announced.
"Mrs. Johnson," Elizabeth began in an admonishing tone, "You should have asked Harry to carry it."
"It was light enough," Mrs. Johnson responded, as she wiped her hands on her apron. "I'm not sure why he left it behind in the first place," she added in an irritated tone she reserved for speaking to or about her son, Harry.
At that moment, the oft-maligned Harry entered the Great House through the front doors, and set about loading the boxes into the waiting car. Though she said nothing, Elizabeth thought that household standards had slipped a bit since her attention was elsewhere. Harry should have loaded the car through the servants' entrance and then brought it around front to pick her up. She tried to suppress the thought and pretended to focus on adjusting her scarf.
When the car was loaded, Harry opened the rear passenger door and waited while Elizabeth got in. Then he settled himself behind the steering wheel, and pulled the car down the drive.
Elizabeth and Mrs. Johnson had spent some part of each of the past several days going through the Great House's basement, unused bedrooms, even the tower room to purge them of generations of accumulated items of all varieties—clothes, children's toys, knick-knacks. It had taken far longer than was necessary, because for each box they opened, each item they examined, Elizabeth stopped to wonder to whom it belonged, had they been happy, and implicitly, had they too been plagued by the family curse.
They sorted everything into three categories. Some were destined for local charities; a hand-selected few would be sent to the new antiques shop in town; and some would be given to Windcliff. One of the first decisions Elizabeth participated in as a board member at Windcliff was to add an art therapist to the staff.
Some of the long-serving board members, as well as psychiatrists on staff, were reticent. They did not see the value some argued; others did not believe it was efficacious; still others had argued that the resources would be better spent on tested, verifiable treatments—after all, they did not want to become known for unproven modes of treatment. Hypnotherapy was one thing, this was quite another. But Elizabeth had been quite taken with the presentation by the young art therapy practitioner. She resolved to identify funding for the first year, after which they could evaluate its efficacy and value. By identifying funding, she meant writing a sizable check and privately shaming two other board members into doing the same.
Now as she headed up the coast, the edifice of the sanitarium came into view. She was bringing several boxes of art supplies, which she'd purchased for this purpose, and boxes of toys and other objects from the Great House that the art therapist had indicated she could put to use in her work. One chest in particular proved to be a treasure trove of objects d' arte. It had belonged not to a Collins, but to someone named Evan Hanley. Elizabeth had no idea how it came to be in the Great House basement, but it was packed with small, interesting objects for which, the art therapist had assured her, she would find a use.
Later that day, having made her deliveries, Elizabeth joined Dr. Fisher, Windcliff's director and head psychiatrist, for coffee, followed by a tour of the sanitarium. She'd been there before of course, but now that she was on the board, Dr. Fisher used every opportunity to press home the needs that a board member might help to address. But Elizabeth Stoddard had her own priorities. When she felt that she'd seen and heard enough of Dr. Fisher's pet projects and ideas for board involvement, she said, "I should very much like to see the new art therapy room."
"Of course," Dr. Fisher replied solicitously, internally marveling at the new board member's single-mindedness. He led the way to a small room on the sanitarium's ground floor. As they walked, Elizabeth's mind drifted to a time not long before when her family believed she belonged at Windcliff. They deemed her obsession with her own death and premonition that she would be buried alive, to be a psychotic episode. She had come out of it on her own, but it fueled her desire to help others.
When they entered the art therapy room, they were met by the pert, but serious, art therapist. The space was indeed small but art therapy, by its very nature, was intimate. At one easel, a young woman with straw-colored hair was painting. Her brush moved methodically back and forth across the small canvas, depositing a thick coat of red paint. At another table, an older woman was hard at work molding a clay figure with her hands. Her look of deep concentration gave way to a shy smile when she noticed Elizabeth observing her.
The third patient sat at a small table—his eyes unfocused. When Elizabeth's eyes came to the third patient, she said aloud, "Joe." If he heard her, he gave no indication. Nothing about his affect changed; there was no glimmer of recognition. His catatonic state persisted.
"Do you know Mr. Haskell?" the art therapist asked.
"Yes, very well," Elizabeth responded. She turned to Dr. Fisher, "I should like to stay on for little while, if Miss Pritchett doesn't mind, of course."
Miss Pritchett's expression suggested she'd scored some small victory over the head psychiatrist. "Of course, I don't mind. I welcome the opportunity to speak to you about the work we're doing here—and about Mr. Haskell."
Elizabeth turned to Dr. Fisher with an imperious mien. "Thank you Dr. Fisher. I needn't detain you further today. I'm sure I can find my way out when we're done here," she said as she offered him her hand.
He looked at her as though he was uncertain whether to shake her hand or kiss her ring. In the end, he took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, rather than an authentic shake. "Thank you, Mrs. Stoddard, both for your time and your generosity," he said in an unctuous tone. Then he turned on his heel, and left, closing the door behind him.
Elizabeth released a deep exhale when he was gone. She turned to the art therapist. "Now, I'd like to hear all about your technique." She hesitated, thinking how not to appear callused. "But, I'm most interested in Joe."
Miss Pritchett smiled. "I understand. Let's start there. In all honesty, he's not a good candidate for this kind of therapy, but I convinced Dr. Fisher to let me try. It's better than letting him sit staring at nothing day after day," she said.
They turned almost in unison, and looked across the room to where Joe sat. "So, what does it entail?" Elizabeth asked.
"Well, in Joe's case, given his condition, I'm looking for the key to unlock his catatonic state. I'm looking for an image or object that resonates for him." The young woman had a bright, open countenance appropriate for her chosen profession. She continued, "I've tried imagery—photographs, paintings. I've given him small sculptures to hold. It sounds strange, but if I put his hands on an object, he'll hold it until I take it away. Of course, I have no way of knowing what's going on in his mind, but I keep hoping to trigger something, to reach him." She paused and collected herself, setting aside the emotions that surfaced in her tone. "That's why I'm so grateful for your donations."
"That box he's holding is one of the things we donated, isn't it?" Elizabeth asked.
"Yes, it is."
"Would you mind if I sit with him for a few minutes?"
Miss Pritchett offered her a smile and nodded. "Please do. I'll be over there," she gestured to the other patients, "when you're done."
Elizabeth crossed the room and took a seat at the table beside Joe. "Hello Joe," she began a one-sided conversation. "How are you?" She realized all at once the futility the Windcliff staff must experience daily.
She turned her attention to the box in his hands. At first, she covered his hands with hers. Then she gently took the box from his hands, which were as pliable and compliant as a doll's. She looked at the box closely for the first time. "It's a puzzle box," she said softly to Joe, as though it was a secret between them. "I had something similar when I was a girl," she continued. Her hands went to work on the small box, sliding a panel in one direction, then another panel in the other direction, then a third and fourth. "And now, it should open," she said. When nothing happened, she looked at it in frustration. It seemed a perfect parallel to Joe's situation.
Elizabeth put the box back into Joe's hands, gently wrapping his long fingers around it. "I'm sorry, Joe. I was hoping we might discover what's inside of it together." She patted his hand and smiled with warmth that belied the sadness she was feeling. "I'll come again soon. I promise—and I'll bring Amy with me next time. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Joe?" She carried on speaking to him as though he might answer. She patted his arm gently. "Goodbye, Joe." She stood. He didn't look up or acknowledge her in any way.
Elizabeth swallowed a lump of grief that had lodged in her throat and went to join Miss Pritchett, who was speaking with the younger patient, encouraging her to consider using more, different colors to express herself.
Joe remained impassive. The only movement he exhibited was the steady rise and fall of his chest. His hands remained as Elizabeth had positioned them. Unseen by anyone other than Joe, the lid to the puzzle box suddenly popped open.