I have a stack of his old T-shirts and jerseys, my only sleepwear for the past eight years. I treat them like antique lace, washing them on delicate, mending every hint of a separating seam. And now this one needs repair, which has nothing to do with a dream from last night and everything to do with the fact that, perhaps after eight years, I should stop wearing my dead husband’s shirts to bed.
Perhaps someday. Not today, though. Today, I grab the shirt and the sewing kit and settle in with my kitten and a cup of tea and stitch the torn hem as if the shirt’s owner will return at any moment and expect it back.
4
By late afternoon, Enigma is ready for a nap. The name seems fitting, given the mysterious circumstances of her arrival. I take her upstairs and settle her into her box. Then, I glance at the bed and realize perhaps it’s not the kitten who’s in need of a nap. I barely got five hours of slumber after a sleepless night of overseas travel.
I kick off my slippers and slide under that wonderfully thick quilt. As my cheek touches the cool pillow, I remember my dream from last night, the one of waking in William’s bed. I smile and snuggle down in hopes of recapturing it. But as soon as my eyes close, I realize what I’m truly hoping for—not a dream of William, but the reality of him. And it’s more than hope. It’s a wild soul-deep plea that William be real, that I can cross time and reach him.
Dreams like that are false fantasies guaranteed to twist into nightmare. For years, I’d dream of waking to find Michael beside me, alive and whole and safe. Then I’d truly wake up, shaking with grief and longing, terrified of falling back asleep. Terrified of wanting to fall back asleep and stay there, of eyeing the sleeping pills on my nightstand and wondering what would happen if I took the whole bottle . . .
I shiver and climb from bed. Hoping to drift off into fantasies of William smacks of those Michael nightmares. A dream that could drain my soul with wanting.
I peer into the dresser mirror, checking the baggage under my eyes. Definitely not carry-on size. Time to brew a pot of strong coffee.
As I’m turning away, I catch a flicker in the mirror. It disappears in a blink, and I tense, imagining a ghostly visage, but that isn’t what I saw. A face, yes. But firm and real, severe and masculine, with a tumble of black curls over the broad forehead and eyes blue as the summer sky.
“William,” I whisper, and the word barely escapes before my dresser disappears and I’m gazing into another mirror, my reflection slightly warped, the glass imperfect. Behind me, William turns toward the bedroom door.
He’s dressed in a cutaway morning coat over a white linen shirt with a high collar, wide necktie fastened with a sapphire pin. A dashing figure, his dark hair slicked, curls tamed. He’s already turning away, and I catch only a glimpse of his profile, and then his back is to me, his shoes clicking as he strides from the room.
“Lord Thorne?” a voice calls from the hallway. “Your solicitor is here.”
“Put him in the parlor.”
“Not the pantry?” the voice asks with a teasing lilt.
William grumbles, but there’s no rancor in it.
I know the other voice. It’s older than I remember, but I heard it many times as a child, a voice that would set us scrambling for a hiding place before she spotted me. Mrs. Shaw, the Thornes’ housekeeper.
As soon as I think her name, I picture her face, and then I see another one, weathered with short-cropped steel gray hair and a pipe in his mouth.
Have we met? You look . . . familiar.
William’s footsteps clomp down the steps, Mrs. Shaw’s click-clacking after him as she asks about tea, and William mutters that refreshments might induce his solicitor to linger, so, no, they can skip tea.
I smile at that, and my gaze turns to the bed. It’s not the narrow child’s bed I remember, but a four-poster mahogany one, still no larger than a modern double. There should be curtains, but they’ve been removed.
Seeing the folded-back sheets, I remember how they felt against me last night, cool and featherlight and coarse. The perfect counterpoint to the fingers on my hip, warm and strong and smooth until they slid up to my waist, the callused skin of William’s fingertips tickling across my—
I yank my thoughts from that precipice and shiver with something between delight and dread. I told myself I wasn’t going to dream of William, and yet, I am. I curled up in bed thinking of him, and then I must have dreamed that I rose and saw him in the mirror.
This very room proves it’s a dream. It’s a child’s bedchamber, for one who is no longer a child. William would be Lord Thorne now, as Mrs. Shaw called him. His father died when he was ten, and his mother had been ill when I saw him at fifteen. His only sibling was Cordelia, five years his junior. As the lord of the manor, William would have the master bedroom, yet in my dream, I nonsensically see him in his old room.
I look back at the bed. If I crawl into it, will the dream end? Or will I then dream of being in it with him? Another shiver, delight mingled with dread again. That way lies madness. Best to keep this dream in the light of day. It will end soon enough.
I glance down at the dresser, the wood smooth under my hands. It’s more dressing table than modern dresser, with a wardrobe to one side and a washstand to the other, all in gorgeous gleaming mahogany. In less affluent families, furniture in a Victorian bedroom was recycled from lower rooms as it began to show wear, but the Thornes had the money to furnish their bedrooms new, and while this one is small, it’s well-appointed. Overdone, with more square footage allotted to furniture than is my taste, but that, too, was the Victorian way.
With no closets, most of the furniture is for storage, primarily clothing, and that includes the dressing table, topped with a horsehair brush, a pair of brown gloves, a pocket watch and several stickpins in an enamel tray.
I touch the washbasin pitcher. Without thinking, my fingers move to a crack in the handle, a rough spot under my fingertips. In my mind, I see my chubby five-year-old self demonstrating my ballet positions, and then executing a clumsy pirouette, hitting the pitcher and sending it tumbling to the floor. I wail in dismay as the handle snaps free and bounces over the hardwood, and I manage to clamp a hand over my mouth before anyone comes running. Tears stream from my eyes as I stare at the broken pitcher.
“I—I’m so—”
William catches me in a hug before I can get the apology out. “I’ll tell them I did it. Papa’s away, and Mama’s busy with the baby coming. I’ll hardly get in any trouble.”
“You shouldn’t get in any trouble at all. It’s my fault.” I pick up the handle and turn it over in my hands before spinning on him. “Do you have Super Glue?”
“Super glue . . . ?” His brow furrows in a way I know well. It’s the same expression I must make when he talks about an abacus or a Punch and Judy show.
“I’ll get some,” I say. “Uncle Stan keeps it in the cupboard.”
I brought a tube of Super Glue and fixed his pitcher, and it’s still here, with that barely noticeable repair. I run my fingers over the handle again and then look down, seeing my reflection in the water. When I touch the surface, it ripples.
The old pitcher is no family heirloom, just a cheap water jug, perfect for a child who might knock it over in the night. It’s out of place now among the lavish furnishings. As out of place as . . .
My gaze snags on what looks like a scrap of yarn tied to a post on William’s washbasin. It’s a bracelet. A braided one made of Chinese knotting cord.
Behind me, I imagine an echo of my voice saying, “I’ll be leaving soon.”
In my mind, I see myself at fifteen. I’m outside, perched on the pasture fence with William, watching his horse, his gaze moving between the horses and me. His eyes light up a little extra when they land on me, and that’s the secret reason I always suggest we hang out here. I know how much William loves his horses, and if his gaze brightens even more when it moves to me, that means something. It really does.
We’re sitting hip to hip, our ha
nds clasped on my thigh. He’s been talking about horses—not surprisingly. He has his eye on a young stallion, and his mother says he should stick to geldings, but he’s trying to convince her the stallion would make good breeding stock.
When I say I’ll be leaving soon, his hand tightens on mine.
“You’ll be going soon, too,” I remind him. “Back to London.”
A grumble, one that sounds remarkably like the man who just stalked down the stairs.
I lean against his shoulder. “I’ll be back next summer. Mom can’t keep me away anymore. Dad won’t let her.”
A pause. A long one, and I smile as William’s new colt kicks up his heels and tears across the pasture to nudge a filly. William has been breeding horses since he was twelve, and he already has buyers for this colt and filly. They’ll go to their new homes before he leaves for London.
I’m about to ask whether it’s hard, parting with them, when he says, “I want to ask you to stay, but I know that’s wrong. You don’t belong here, so I shouldn’t ask . . .” His voice trails off. When I don’t reply, he straightens and says, “I wouldn’t. Ask, I mean. You have a life and a family there. I understand that. I’ll miss you, but I’ll see you next summer.”
“You will.”
He turns, face over mine. “In the meantime, perhaps I can have a little something to remember you by?” His lips twitch, eyes dancing.
“Of course, my lord.” I lift my mouth toward his. Then I tug off my braided bracelet and hold it out. “How about this?”
He laughs, plucks it from my hand and tucks it into a pocket. “I’ll take that, but I was hoping for something a little more like . . .” His fingers tuck under my chin, lifting it. The barest brush of his lips. “This?”
“Mmm, yes. I believe I can part with a few of those.”
“I may need more than a few. They have to keep me until you return.” His eyes turn serious for a second. “You will return, won’t you?”
“Always,” I say, as I lean over to kiss him.
The memory fades, and I’m back in his bedroom, staring at the bracelet hanging on his washstand.
You will return, won’t you?
Always.
I swallow.
A corner of my mind whispers that this is all a dream, but the reminder drifts past unheeded. Then a sound from the hallway has my head jerking up.
A cat’s meow, like the one that interrupted my night.
I push aside all other thoughts and follow the sound from the room.
I stand in the hall, listening. The cat has gone silent.
As I take another step, a reedy voice from downstairs says, “If you don’t intend to return to London, my lord, perhaps you should consider selling the townhouse.”
“Why? Do I need the money?” William replies. “Have the coffers mysteriously emptied since your last unnecessary visit, Phelps?”
“Of course not, sir. Your estate is in excellent financial health. I simply meant—”
“You meant to scold me into returning to London. Remind me of my responsibilities there. Responsibilities that I pay you very well to tend.”
“He isn’t scolding you, William,” says another man. “Phelps is suggesting, politely, that you are overdue for a return. Five years overdue. I won’t be nearly so polite about it. Get yourself home, old boy, and stop moping in the hinterlands.”
“Moping?” A short laugh. “Is that your plan, August? Insult me until, in proud indignation, I stride from my manor house, ordering my footman to prepare the coach for London.”
“That would work so much better if you had a coach,” August says dryly. “Or a footman.”
August. I remember the name. I’d never met him, of course, but he’d been a good friend of William’s, whose family’s estate was nearby.
August continues, “You don’t even allow your housekeeper to live in.”
“No, I permit Mrs. Shaw to live out where she can enjoy her grandchildren. In future, August, please announce your intentions to visit and do not sneak in with my solicitor like a stray cat slipping through an open door. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have had Mrs. Shaw prepare a room.”
“No, you’d have told me to stay in London.”
“Only because, lately, your visits transform you into a fishwife, haranguing me to return to a society that no longer cares to have me. And before you accuse me of sulking, let me clarify that I am perfectly happy for the excuse. Being a social pariah only gives me justification to live as I wish.”
“You are not a social pariah. Yes, there are the blasted rumors, but no one of good breeding believes those.”
Silence.
August comes back, his voice strained. “All right, yes, not as many invitations may land on your doorstep as once did, but it’s been years. Whatever tar they brushed on your reputation, it’s faded to an intriguing lacquer of mystery and scandal. The well-born ladies will fight like gaming dogs to get you to their balls.”
“Yes, that’s what I long to be: a scandalous addition to their party list. My word, Lady Grayson, did you say Lord Thorne is coming Tuesday night? Lord William Thorne? How delightfully wicked of you to invite him.”
August sighs. “Forget balls and dinners. Come to town for some fun. How long has it been since you visited a gaming hall? A brothel?”
“When did I ever visit a brothel?”
August chuckles. “True, you never needed to. The ladies do love a mysterious lord, particularly one with a past as dark and danger—” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry, William. That went too far. You know I pay no heed to those ridiculous rumors. No one who knows you does.” A sound, as if August is shifting in his seat. “No brothels, then. Why don’t we get you a wife. You’re well overdue for that.”
“Too overdue, sadly. I’m past my prime, and so with deep regret, I have removed myself from the pool of eligible bachelors.”
August snorts. “Nice try, old boy. You are prime marriage material. Wealthy as an earl. In as fine a physical condition as you were at twenty, the one advantage to locking yourself up here with the fresh country air. And you’re not unattractive.”
“Thank you,” William says dryly.
“There’s a little too much of the dark and brooding about you, but the young ladies today have all read Wuthering Heights. They’ll positively devour a mysterious lord who lives in the moors, pining for—”
“Dear God, yes, that is exactly what I want. A silly chit who mistakes me for a sadistic, obsessive fictional lout. Please, send a dozen on the next train.”
I choke on a laugh. It echoes through the stairwell, and I slap a hand over my mouth as the parlor goes silent below.
“Don’t tell me you still have that bloody feline,” August says. “Blasted thing nearly ripped my arm off last time I visited.”
“Pandora is an excellent watch cat. Perhaps I can send you home with a kitten or four?” William pauses. “No, it’d be three, I’m afraid. She seems to have mislaid one.”
August makes some retort, but I don’t hear it.
She seems to have mislaid one.
I look behind me. The meow I’d heard came from there. I tiptoe and peer along the hall. There’s only one open door. The master bedroom.
I creep to it. The door’s only open a crack. I push as gently as I can, braced for the screech of hinges. The door swings open soundlessly, and a calico cat pops her head up from her box. Green eyes fix on mine, and she rises, fur bristling.
A peep. Then a tiny meow. Three sleepy kittens’ heads rise to see what’s the fuss.
Three kittens, two black and one orange, all of them the same size as Enigma.
She seems to have mislaid one.
Pandora stands with her back arched, tail bristled.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I’m not going to—”
She zooms from the box, a blur of orange fur, yowling as if her tail’s on fire.
In the distance, I hear August say, “Your cat doesn’t appreciate you offerin
g up her babes, William.”
I frantically wave the cat to silence. She yowls and hisses louder.
“Excuse me,” William says. “I believe Pandora has found her missing kitten, trapped in a hole or some such predicament. The bloody thing is always getting into trouble, wandering off and needing rescue.”
Footsteps sound below.
August calls, “I think it’s perfectly charming that you’re so devoted to your kitties, William, but might I suggest young ladies may not feel the same? Get yourself a big hound dog or something far more befitting your status as a mysterious man of the moors.”
William calls back, “Draw me up a list of everything you’re certain eligible society ladies would not find suitably attractive in a man’s home, and I shall fill mine with them forthwith.”
I smile at that. Then I realize William is coming up the stairs, and I’m standing in the hall. The nearest door is shut. It’s the bath. I ease it open as quickly as I can, but when I push, it squeals, and I barely get through before William’s footsteps crest the stairs.
I’m inside the bathroom, but the door’s open, exposing me, and I don’t dare shut it. I press myself against the wall, and he walks past, his gaze on the hissing cat.
“Please tell me you found that damnable kitten of yours, Pan. Your little doppelgänger, that one, no end of trouble.”
Pandora keeps hissing, her gaze firmly fixed on me. I wave, as if I can distract her.
“What’s—?” William says as he turns. Then he sees me.
“I—I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to disturb her. I think one of her kittens came through . . .” I trail off.
He’s staring at me. Not staring in shock. Certainly not in delight. After a moment of surprise, his jaw sets, face darkening, blue eyes icing over. Then he turns on his heel, abruptly putting his back to me.
A Stitch in Time Page 4
