He left her again, fading with the dream.

Perhaps it was the honeyed fragrance of the roses that awoke her from the uneasy sleep. A delicious aroma, clinging to the morning sunbeams that had somehow managed to pierce the Wintry November sky and enter through her bedroom windows.

There was no cannon fire within the dream, no distant sound of battle. No screams of the dying as the fighting neared the Montgomery plantation.

The dream began with the sound of her door being opened and then the soft footsteps on the hardwood floor of the bedroom. Was she already awake? She could not remember. Eventually she turned towards the noise, and her first glimpse of the tall stranger.

At first he appeared not to notice her, his smooth, youthful features, seemingly lost in thought. Slowly, she raised herself forward into a sitting position, her thin, milk white hands clutching the cold silk of the bed sheet to her neck, half expecting to be taken again by the dizziness. Yet, this time, there was no weakness, no pain.

She glanced quickly to her right, where the ornate brass mirror hung above the porcelain washbasin and water jug, expecting to see the wan, pinched features of her illness. Instead she held her breath as she looked upon the full cheeked, healthy color of her beauty. Porcelain skin nestled in the deep ruddy frame of her cascading hair, complimenting the soft green of her eyes. The oval face, highlighted by the full red lips, she acknowledged as a natural gift, inherited from her grandmother. She breathed again, and with a slow grace, moved her look back to where he stood.

“Who are you, Sir?” she had asked, with as much indignation as she could muster.

He had been aware of her then, his head turning sharply in the direction of her voice. The face, though unable to conceal his surprise, was pleasant and not without attraction, despite the fair, shoulder length hair spread across the wide shoulders like that of a winsome girl. Such hair on a man was not unknown, but she had always associated it with the bearded mountain men who would occasionally appear in their town, distinguishable by their unwashed, pungent clothes. Yet, it was clear he was not of their ilk. This fellow was clean-shaven, the hair was clean and the clothes colorful and tidy, though of a style unfamiliar to her.

“Who am I?” he repeated, his tone as bewildered as his stare, “I would ask you the same question, how did you get in here?”

“This is my home, Sir, my room,” She had frowned, “are you, by any chance, a Yankee?”

“A Yankee?”

“It is not polite to repeat everything I say.” She rebuked him, “which a Southern gentleman would undoubtedly know.”

The frown had relaxed into a warm smile as he moved to the side of the bed. “I have no wish to be rude, but you gave me rather a start.”

“And you me, Sir. I am not accustomed to strange men entering my room unannounced. From your manner and the cut of your clothes, I can guess you're not from around here.”

“Your room?” His face took on a foolish grin and he suddenly held up his hands. “I know, I’m doing it again.” He lowered his hands. “But you are right. I’ve just recently arrived from England.

“And are you here to fight or loot I wonder?”

“Neither one. My intention is to make a home here.”

“So will you tell me your name?”

“Peter Montgomery.”

“Now I know you mock me, Sir.”

“How so?”

She considered this carefully for a moment, then spoke. “I am Carissa Montgomery, and this is the house of my father, Colonel William Montgomery.”

“Is it now?” He seemed puzzled, “A great coincedence?”

“I think not, Sir.”

“Who else lives here then?”

Carissa pursed her lips in disapproval. She was unaccustomed to being questioned. “My mother and my elder sister.”

“A big house for just the three of you.”

“My father and my sister’s husband are off fighting in the war. Our workers and servants ran away a few weeks ago.”

“Which war would that be?”

“Why, the war between us and the Yankees, sir.”

“A civil war?”

“There is little that can be described as civil in this conflict, Sir.”

“What year is this?” He asked suddenly.

“Is that a serious question?”

“Believe me, Miss Montgomery, I have never been more serious.”

“I warn you, these riddles tire me.”

“Please, just answer my question.”

“It is 1865,” she had replied curtly, her increasing impatience becoming obvious. “The month of November.”

His color drained from his features, and, he quickly looked away.

“What is wrong, Mister Montgomery?”

“I shouldn't be here.” He clenched his fists. “I don't belong.”

“Wait!” She cried. “I don't understand.” But, even as she called him, he had already left her side, crossing the room in several easy strides. The door slammed to a close behind him and once more she sank into the pillows, exhausted as the dream eluded her consciousness.

Far to the east, like the thunder of a distant storm, cannon fire echoed the retreat of the battle weary Confederate forces. It seemed nearer each day, closing the distance between the house and the advancing Union troops. There could be little doubt that the conflict was all but lost. Already, terrifying rumors of cruelty and pillage filtered through to their small community. Several of their closest neighbors had already fled, abandoning their homes in the wake of a lost cause. Within the confines of her own house, she could hear the sounds of heavy crates and furniture being moved, undoubtedly in preparation for the unavoidable evacuation of their splendid home.

It concerned her that she should be downstairs, helping her mother and sister, but the consumption, which had struck without warning, had left her as weak as a kitten. Each breath she took brought her a fresh wave of pain, as if a great rock had fallen across her, crushing her chest until even the slightest breath was a great effort. Mercifully, when the pain became too great, her mind would take her into an oblivious sleep.

There were the occasional lucid moments, when she would be vaguely aware of her sister spooning hot broth between her feeble lips. Far off, in a distant consciousness, she would sometimes hear her sister's words, telling of the latest war news. Her only release from the pain and the fear was the dream. At first she had not even recognized it as such, for it had crept furtively into her reality, like some long forgotten memory, vividly resurfacing from the depths of her wandering mind. With it came the sweet scent of the roses, even though the harsh November winds had already scythed their way mercilessly through the gardens leaving the roots of the hibernating plants and bushes chilled in its wake, covered each morning with a carefully chiseled frost.

She laid her head back into the soft pillow, turning a cheek into the red tresses as they splayed across the silk. The roses to, were a part of the dream, she decided, their scent inadvertently left behind. Yet the memory was so clear...so real. It was another day when the dream and Peter Montgomery returned.

Again the light touch of his footsteps. Her eyes opened slowly, instantly meeting with the piercing blue of his own stare, as he approached the bed.

“You're still here then?” He spoke softly, but there was a faint tremor of emotion, one she could not readily identify.

“Where else would I be,” She answered, taken aback by the strength in her voice. “I am still unwell.”

“You look remarkably healthy, Carissa. Do you mind if I call you that?”

“No, although I think perhaps I should.”

He sat at the foot of the bed, his eyes seeming to caress her face. “You really are a most beautiful woman,” he said.

Carissa felt her lips suddenly dry. “Thank you, Mister Montgomery. Tell me, are all Englishmen this forthcoming?”

“I mean no offense.”

“Really, Sir,” she said, making little effort to conceal her doubt, “then, I suppose it is a mere coincidence that the Yankee army is right behind you,” She retorted, “after all, this is a long way from England.”

“I am not aware of any Yankee army. I simply wish to make a home here.”

“Really, have you found one yet?”

“As a matter of fact I have.”

“Well, which one of our neighbors have you robbed?”

“This house, Carissa,” he said, “this is my home.”

“So you are indeed a thief?”

“No, this is my inheritance.”

“Inherited from whom?”

“My Uncle. I never met him but apparently he had no heirs when he died. So the property came to me.”

A shiver rippled through her body as the fear returned. “Now I am confused, Sir. You speak in riddles again.”

“I suppose it must sound that way, but, believe me, Carissa, I find it just as confusing.”

“I have lain here for several days, perhaps if you were to call my mother, she might explain this issue more clearly.”

“I don't think she can help in this instance.”

“Why not?”

“I do not believe she is aware of me,” He said slowly, as if choosing his words with care. “Neither is your sister.”

Carissa gripped at the sheet beneath her. “You are frightening me, Sir.”

“Please, Carissa, believe that I mean you no harm.” His face took on a pleading quality and there was something in his eyes that allayed her fears.

“I do believe you.” She hesitated. “But you make little sense to me.”

“This is so difficult.” He stared at her intently. “You really are the most beautiful woman I have ever met, and yet, here I am, scaring you with crazy words.”

“More than just words, Mister Montgomery, you appear to be able to creep around our house at will, like some thief in the night.”

“Hardly that, Carissa.”

“Please, Mister Montgomery, I am ill, not stupid. My mother would never have sold this house without my father's agreement, nor would my father have willed it to a stranger thousands of miles away. None of this makes any sense to me. Moreover, who would buy such a property in the middle of a war, when it can just as easily be seized at the point of a gun.”

“My dear Carissa, do I look to be a looter?”

“No,” she admitted, “but then I have never met a looter, so who is to say how one would look.”

“This is hopeless.” He shook his head. “I don't even know why I came back.”

“Came back? From where?”

“A place of which you have no knowledge. God forbid you ever should.”

She leaned forward, “Before, you spoke of not being here, not belonging, but to what?”

“To this time,” He sighed, “this is your life, not mine.”

“Riddles again,” She said angrily, “then where is your life?”

“I wish I knew how to explain this, Carissa, but my life begins and ends in another time, another age.” He shrugged his shoulders, reminding her of a small boy unable to explain a misdeed. “I doubt if any of this makes sense.”

.”When you spoke of my family not being aware of you, exactly what did you mean?”

“They cannot see me, only your eyes are aware of my presence.”

Those same eyes opened wide, and she wondered if he could see the dread that now rose within her. “Are you saying...” She floundered on the words for a moment. “That you are some kind of ghost?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“This plantation was originally established by our family from England, a place called Yorkshire. Do you know of it?”

“Of course. My family has land there.”

Strange thoughts filled her mind, all at once frightening and without reason. His strange dress, the unfamiliar accent, and yet, she was vaguely aware of an understanding, as if the pieces of a puzzle were beginning to fall into place. She tried to desperately remember her family history, the names on the headstones in the family mausoleum, where her ancestors had been interred since 1758.

He stood up slowly and she instinctively knew what was about to happen.

“Please do not leave. I still have more questions.”

“I'm sorry, Carissa, I don't think I have the answers.” He turned away to the door, closing it once more behind him.

For what seemed the longest time, Carissa sat on the bed, hugging her knees to her chest as the scene played through her mind over and over again. A distant memory came to her, from her childhood. A time when she would sit, motionless, by her grandmother's chair in the family room, mesmerized by the roaring wood fire. Thin finger like wisps of gray blue smoke would creep from the hearth as she half listened to the old woman's tales.

According to her grandmother, all flowers had their meaning, a reason for being. Roses, she would say, were a link to that ethereal world, the place where dreams and memories could become as one, where strange and often-inexplicable things occurred. To smell a rose when none were present would indicate the passing of a friendly spirit. One about to leave a world of which it no longer had a part, reluctantly letting go of something or someone it once loved.

She had, since leaving childhood, always believed there were no such things as ghosts, despite her grandmother’s lurid tales. Yet once inside the dreams, the mind could play such strange games, and cross that fine line into the terrors of a nightmare. Of course, it could also be possible that the answer was a simple one. Even as she tried desperately to understand, the tiredness suddenly returned, draining her strength until finally she fell back into the pillows, to welcome the next sleep.

The time passed quickly, interspersed with moments of hunger and thirst, but her sister's voice came no more. There was no more warm broth, nor hot sweet tea. Instead the minutes moved into the inevitable dream, quickly it seemed, or perhaps it was because she wished it so. Despite all the conventions of her upbringing there was something strangely charming about this brash man who seemed to appear out of nowhere, and walk about her home with impunity, unknown to her family.

There was no sound of the door opening to warn her this time. She felt the side of the bed depress and her nostrils suddenly filled with the sweet scent of roses. Slowly, she began to rise into a sitting position, keeping her eyes firmly closed. When at last she opened them he was there once more, watching her, with a warm smile that seemed to reach out and touch her very heart.

“I didn't hear you enter?” she said,

“I tried hard not to return,” He answered.

“Then why did you?”

“I had to know if you would still be here.”

“What's that?” she looked down at the cloth wrapped object beside him.

“Just something I found. Carissa, I am sure now we are not of the same time, and my belief is that we should never have met, though I cannot say I regret it.”

He leaned forward towards her and reaching out, gently cupped her face in his hand. Her eyes half closed as his face neared hers and as their lips touched she felt a shiver, but not as one would feel the cold, instead delicious warmth embraced her. Beneath the light cotton gown her body reacted willingly and she flushed with the knowledge. His other hand moved to her side and gently pressed into her flesh, the fingertips filling her with strange and wonderful tingles.

Taking a deep breath, and summoning what remained of her will, she pushed him from her, “You forget yourself, Sir,” She said huskily.

“I wanted to do that from the first moment I saw you,” His eyes twinkled. “I think you did to.”

Her flush grew hotter. “I think you seek to take advantage of me, Sir.”

“No, but, I wish...” He lowered his eyes and shook his head slowly.

“What do you wish?”

“I wish there was a way by which one of us could leave our time, and stay with the other.”

She laughed, a light, dancing sound she knew that most young men of her acquaintance found her attractive. “I believe I have found you out, Sir,” She said, her eyes bright with merriment.

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, now it's your turn to be puzzled.” She took a deep breath; aware the swell of her full bosom beneath her nightgown had caught his eyes. “Julia has excelled herself on this occasion.”

“Carissa, listen to me.”

“No,” She said firmly, “I have solved your riddle. This is a flirtation she has arranged to bring me back to good health. I have to say, it has been a successful ruse and, I might add, a delightful one.”

“Please, Carissa. Listen to me.”

“Come, sir, there is no need to continue this pretense. This game must end now, enjoyable as it has been.” She stopped speaking and raised a hand to her brow.

“Are you okay?” he asked

“Just a dizzy spell, a leftover from the illness.” Her eyes narrowed. “What's happening, Peter?” She asked, aware of the panic in her voice.

“What do you mean?”

“You're...You're fading.” She closed and opened her eyes quickly. “Peter, what's happening?”

He stood up and she could see the alarm etched into his face. In a desperate action he reached his hand out to her. “No.” He cried. “Not yet.”

She lifted her arm to him but it was too late. Like a morning mist trapped within an unending stream of sunlight, the figure of Peter Montgomery faded completely from sight. All that remained was the faint aroma of the roses, just a dream, nothing more.

Her eyes fell upon the package. For some reason it had not faded with the dream. Coldness descended upon her and she became fixed with a certainty that, whatever lay wrapped inside the cloth, held the answer to her dreams. Slowly she reached towards it, and then, stopped, as the door opened again.

Carissa let out a gasp as Peter Montgomery entered.

“Peter?” she whispered, but he appeared not to hear her as he stared warily around the room. She repeated his name in a louder voice but this time it was clear he could no longer hear her words, any more than he could see her.

Another man followed him into the room. He appeared considerably older than Peter, with neatly trimmed hair and dressed in plainer, though still unfamiliar, clothes.

“So what am I supposed to be seeing?” The man asked curtly.

“Nothing, George,” Peter said, in a tone weighted with a deep sadness. “There's nothing here.”

“What's that?” George asked, pointing to the cloth-covered shape.

Peter sat on the bed and unwrapped it. “I found it in the attic, along with a lot of other old stuff, and a journal.”

Carissa felt herself begin to shake as the oak framed picture came into view. She recognized her likeness in the portrait commissioned by her father a year before. It had always hung in the living room above the mantle. So how was it, she wondered, that Peter could find it in the attic.

“Junk.” George snapped. “I don't know what possessed you to move to this old house anyway, it needs a fortune spent on it. A complete makeover.”

“Not this room.” Peter looked down at the portrait. “This room will remain exactly as it is.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s what I want. Besides, this place will be relaxing after the tour is over.” Peter ran a finger around the outline of the face in the portrait. Tell me, George. Do you believe in ghosts?”

“Peter, you're the hottest recording star in the world at the moment, what you believe in, I believe in. That's what managers are for.”

Peter laid the portrait on the bed, his eyes still wistful as they stared to where she lay; yet not seeing her. “Her name was Carissa,” he said slowly. “According to this journal kept by her sister she died in this room in November of 1865 of pneumonia.” His voice dropped to an almost imperceptible whisper. “She was very young, and very beautiful.”

“Is there a point to this?” George asked impatiently.

Peter straightened up slowly and took a deep breath. “No I suppose not.” He stared in the direction of the bed. “Can you smell anything?” he asked.

George shrugged his shoulders. “Just musty air,” He snorted.

“That's strange,” Peter said softly, “for a moment I thought I could smell roses.”