A Stitch in Time

by Kelley Armstrong

  “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” I say.

  “No, of course. I’m not. I just did not expect that. About us.”

  “Which makes it uncomfortable. We were fifteen, William. Children, as you’ve said. It was more than half a lifetime ago. I’m grateful for what we had because it ensured I was never going to settle for less in a relationship. I just wanted you to understand that you did mean a great deal to me, and I certainly didn’t leave because I wanted to.”

  “I know.”

  “Perhaps I should leave now, though, and come again another time.”

  “What?” He looks up sharply. “No. Please, don’t. If you need to go, then of course, I understand, but in no way am I hinting that I’d like you to do so. We have tea to finish. Then, perhaps, if you have time, we could take a walk.”

  “A walk would be lovely, but I’d rather see your horses.”

  He laughs at that, relaxing. “Now you are trying to pay me a kindness. You do not need to feign interest in my hobbies, Bronwyn.”

  “I never do,” I say. “I would like to see your horses. After I finish my scone.”

  He smiles, plucks another from the pile and drops it onto my plate. “There. Finish both, and I shall take you to see my horses. You will need the sustenance to endure my endlessly enthusiastic chatter about them.”

  12

  After an hour with the horses, I return home. As much as I enjoyed the afternoon, I do need to care for Enigma. Also, an otherwise glorious visit could swiftly descend into the awkwardness of the guest who overstays her welcome. I return as easily as I arrived. It’s as if, now that William has lowered the drawbridge, I can once again cross with ease.

  I feed Enigma and give her the attention she requires to forgive my absence. My mind still lingers in that other world with William, and so, once she’s content, I allow myself the luxury of dwelling in those memories. I draw an extravagant amount of hot water for the claw-foot tub, dig out the remains of Aunt Judith’s lavender bubble bath and sink into the perfumed bubbles to replay the afternoon, as if I’m a fifteen-year-old after her first date.

  It’s only once I’m there, immersed in steaming, lavender-scented water that I remember doing the exact same thing when I was fifteen as my friendship with William turned into something more. I soak, and it all slips back. The first time I caught him watching me in a way that said he no longer saw a child. The first time our hands brushed on a walk, and his slid into mine. The first time he reached to help me hop off the pasture fence, and I ended up in his arms, his lips on mine.

  We really did have the perfect relationship for fifteen-year-old me. A gentle descent into the world of romantic love. Which is not to say we never argued. A relationship where never a heated word is exchanged might seem idyllic, but it would have lacked the sense that I was involved with a fully rounded person, who came complete with his own passions and persuasions, ones he was willing to fight for.

  I remember times when I’d storm off back to my world, or he’d stalk off to his barn, days passing before we spoke again, and there’d been a strange sense of satisfaction and accomplishment in those arguments. We discovered more about one another and navigated the deep waters of our differences, successfully returning to hand-holding walks in the moors and sweet kisses in the barn.

  Our earliest point of contention was one that modern women would recognize in a heartbeat. William wanted to see me every day, and if he didn’t, he grumbled and scowled. At first, that felt romantic, the boy who couldn’t wait to see me again and sank into a fit of discontent when he couldn’t. Soon, though, it became constricting, chafing, and I sensed the sinister shadow of control behind his fascination. When I had other engagements, I dreaded telling William, knowing I’d need to cajole him from his sulk.

  That had quickly turned to resentment on my part. I had a life beyond my place in his, and I shouldn’t have been made to feel guilty for that. It’s a lesson I’m glad I learned young. I’m equally glad that I got that lesson with someone who, once I explained it to him, saw my point and stopped doing it. Today, he’d assured me that—while he loved my company—he understood I had other obligations.

  As I remember that, I sink into the water, smiling. The girl I had been would lie in this tub, sighing at memories of stolen kisses and shy glances. The woman I’ve become sighs in equal pleasure at the memory of a man now deft at finding balance, letting me know my company is desired without making me feel guilty for leaving. The memory of a man who could be glad— genuinely, it seemed—that I had found love with someone else. The memory of a man who heard me joke about obviously being too fond of scones and thought I was referring to an abundance of crumbs on my dress.

  William is the best of the boy I knew, and yet he’s become something more, too. Older, steadier, surer of himself and what he wants in life. The boy I knew had been swoon-worthy. The adult, though, is the most attractive, desirable, and sexiest man I have met in a very, very long time.

  I allow myself the luxury of contemplating that, too—the hard lines of his face and the soft fall of his hair, and wanting to reach out and touch both. The way his muscles moved under his shirt. And what he’d felt like against me on the night I’d woken in his bed.

  As delicious as the physical side is, there’s more to desirability than that. There’s the sound of his voice, the way he says my name, the low rumble of his laugh. There’s the way he treats me, the way he looks at me, the way we tumbled back into comfortable conversation. Even our walk through the barn, seeing his eyes light up, listening to his passion as he discussed an intricacy of equine bloodlines I barely understood. All of that is, yes, sexy as hell.

  I could pretend I’ll be satisfied with friendship. I will be if I must. Given the choice between friendship and nothing, there is no choice at all. William is a man I want to know however I can. Yet I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope to read a little extra into those lingering glances and artless compliments. And so I let my mind linger, too, on possibilities, and when the bath runs cold, I simply drain a little and add more hot, extending my self-indulgence for as long as possible.

  Before I first got into the tub, I’d placed a chair beside it for Enigma. She’d soon bored of batting bubbles with one dainty white paw, and when a meow or two didn’t bring me out of the tub, she’d wandered off to pursue her own amusements. So I’m alone in the bathroom, sunk deep in the water, eyes closed, daydreaming of William, when something tickles my bare shoulder.

  I brush it off without even opening my eyes. I have that kind of hair—tendrils are always escaping their bindings. When I sweep my fingers across my shoulder and don’t find dangling hair, I only brush more violently, shivering at the thought of a creeping spider.

  It’s only when the tickle comes again that I remember another touch from the night I arrived.

  My eyes spring open. I’m facing the window . . . which has gone completely dark. The sun has fallen, and I’m not safely in my room.

  I want to laugh at that. What a foolish thought, as if I’m a girl in a fairy tale, warned she must be in her room from dusk to dawn.

  I don’t laugh. I can’t.

  I stay there, every muscle tense, barely daring to breathe as I listen.

  Light flickers against the wall. I’d lit a candle for ambiance. Now, it’s the only thing illuminating the room, a weak flame casting shadows on the wall.

  I want to call for Enigma. I’m acutely aware of how ridiculous that is. Call a month-old kitten to protect me? No, not protect me. I want her to come chirping through the door, wondering why I’m still in the tub, her meows telling me there’s nothing else here.

  I haven’t felt another touch. Maybe it was a bug. Maybe—

  Cold breath tickles across the top of my head.

  I swallow hard.

  Beside me, shadows congeal into a dark shape. Darkness creeps alongside the tub, and I’m paralyzed here, submerged in lukewarm water, watching that shape until it comes into view.

&n
bsp; The woman in black.

  Every muscle bunches, ready to propel me from the tub and out of the bathroom. But I can’t move. I can barely draw breath.

  The woman steps to the front of the tub. Even so close in the flickering candlelight, I see only a black-gowned figure, nothing visible behind her veil but pale skin.

  She reaches into the tub, and her fingers glide through the water, as if she’s testing the temperature. They break the surface but make no ripples as they circle. Cold creeps out, ice crackling through the water.

  I shiver, frozen as if that icy water traps me in place, watching her, unable to tear my gaze away.

  And she’s watching me. Even if I can’t see her eyes, I feel her gaze. When I shiver, my teeth chattering, she withdraws her hand, and her head tilts, as if assessing.

  “May I help you?” I ask.

  The words sound so commonplace. Supercilious, even. There’s a ghost in my bathroom, and I’m primly asking whether I might be of assistance, as if she’s a stranger picking through my berry bushes.

  That is not how I say the words, though. They come out high, stammered, barely intelligible.

  She stops moving and stares at me.

  “I-is there something you want?” I ask.

  Her head drops. Was that a nod?

  “How can I help?” I ask.

  “Name . . .” she says, and there’s more, but it sounds like a bad cell connection, and I don’t catch more than syllables. Even those sound hollow, distant.

  “Your name?” I say. “Who are you?”

  A slow shake of her head. “Name me.”

  “Name you? I-I don’t understand.”

  “Name . . . killer.”

  The hair on my neck rises. “Name your killer? You want—”

  She stiffens, and I jump, water splashing. Her head swivels, looking over her shoulder.

  She wheels back to me, so sharp that I jump again.

  “—e’s coming,” she says, her voice still wavering. She says something else I don’t catch, but the last word rings bell-clear.

  “Run.”

  The woman vanishes, and I’m out of the tub, stumbling and slipping. I grab for a towel. My fingers graze the plush cotton, but when it slides from the chair, I don’t pause to snatch it up. I race from the bathroom, water dripping.

  Enigma’s in the hall, fur bristling as she hisses. I scoop her up. As I’m rising, a shape moves by the linen closet door. A figure steps halfway through the wood. It’s a child, a boy dressed in old-fashioned baggy knickers and a small embroidered jacket over a white blouse. He looks no more than seven or eight, his face out of focus.

  He’s coming.

  Is this who she meant? The boy is still halfway through the door, his hands reaching. I’m moving too fast to stop in time. He grabs at me. The ice of his fingers pass through me, and I skid, one wet foot sliding. My back slams into the wall.

  The boy steps through the door. His mouth works. No sound comes, though. Pale fingers grasp for me. Enigma yowls as she stares at him, her claws digging in. The boy stops, his shadowed face turning to mine.

  “Run,” he whispers, and then he backs up, disappearing into the closet.

  I tear past and shove open my bedroom door, sliding and skidding through. I wheel and slam it shut. Then I lean against it, catching my breath, water dripping onto the hardwood floor.

  After a moment, I set Enigma on the bed. I stay tensed, waiting, but when nothing happens, I head to the dresser.

  As I’m passing the window, I catch sight of a figure. I draw back instinctively, realizing I’m naked. Yet when my mind replays what I saw, I go still, my breath coming fast.

  A figure by the barn. A gray-haired man with a spade in his hands.

  I snatch a nightshirt from my dresser and yank it on. When I return to the window, he’s there . . . staring up at me.

  It takes all my courage not to shrink back. I force myself to stay for a better look at him. Again, he’s dressed in workman’s clothes, not unlike what William wore to the barn. This clearly isn’t an older version of William, though. The man is half a head shorter and rail thin. Like the boy in the knickerbockers, his face is only a shadowy oval, turned upward.

  He watches me, and then he makes his way toward the moor, spade in hand. Despite his age, he moves with purpose, and within minutes, he’s fading as he strides along the path.

  The same path where I’d met the ghost of the woman who’d spotted someone near Thorne Manor and fled deeper into the moors, never knowing how close she’d come to freedom.

  He’s coming.

  Run.

  I’m sure I heard the “run” part. But the rest . . . ? It’s like hearing a sound that your brain translates into words that make sense in context, but when you think back, you can’t say for certain those were the correct words at all.

  The man is gone, though, and any ghosts in the hallway are staying there. I back onto the bed and let Enigma cuddle on my lap. I don’t know how long I stare at the window, stroking the kitten, before I’m finally calm enough to crawl under the sheets.

  13

  I sleep better than one might expect after that encounter. Perhaps because it hadn’t been difficult to escape. The woman in black didn’t try to hurt me. She didn’t try to stop me from leaving. She’d told me to leave. Warned me, it seemed. So had the little boy. He could have leaped in front of me and sent me skidding the other way. Instead, he’d told me to run and retreated out of my path.

  The man with the spade was another story. I definitely don’t want to encounter him in a dark hall. Yet he seems to stay outside. He had another mission last night, and when I think of him striding into the moors with that spade, I shiver, remembering the woman who’d fled the other night, the ghost I’d seen out there, running for her life. There are conclusions I might draw, theories I might devise, but right now, I’m avoiding that.

  These are not characters to be crammed into a play of my own imagining. There is a mystery here, one I want to solve, but I need more information. When Freya comes for tea today, I’ll enlist her help.

  After that, I’ll see William as we arranged. By five, Mrs. Shaw will be gone, and I’ll make sure Enigma is fed and tired and happy so I can enjoy my evening with William.

  I rise from bed only to step on that loose board again. I tell myself I should check in case William has to cancel this evening. Really, I’m just indulging my inner schoolgirl, the equivalent of anxiously checking texts, hoping for some communication from a boy even when there’s no actual need to communicate.

  I pry up the board, and at first glance, I see nothing. At a pang of disappointment, I chastise myself. We aren’t children. Not lovers, either. There’s no reason to leave me notes.

  I start to lower the board when I spot a small black bag in the shadows. When lifted, it clinks. I frown, jiggling the pouch. More clinking.

  I back onto the bed. The bag is black velvet, fastened with a delicate silver cord. I untie that and upend the bag onto the bed, and gold flashes out, winking in the morning sun.

  Gold coins.

  I sputter a laugh. And I almost crawl back into bed because, clearly, I’m lost in a fantasy where I pull up floorboards to discover pirate treasure. It isn’t seventeenth-century plunder, though. It’s coins, a dozen gold sovereigns from the mid-nineteenth century. They’re the “young head” Queen Victoria style with dates ranging from 1838 to 1850, worth a couple hundred pounds each, possibly more, in this mint condition.

  As I set the bag down, it rustles. I reach in to find a note.

  Bronwyn,

  When you visited today, I tried to ascertain your financial situation. Despite my efforts to be crafty, you were, as always, cautious in your replies. I deduced, however, that you will struggle with the renovations to Thorne Manor.

  I told you that I amassed a tidy fortune utilizing your information on the future. What I did not mention was how sorely I needed that windfall. On my father’s death, my mother entrusted her finances to
her brother, and after her passing, I discovered how badly he’d mismanaged it.

  We were in danger of needing to sell the manor house when I recalled your jokes about using your knowledge as inside information. I invested what we had left on what you showed me of the future. Several of those speculations paid off immensely, and they continue to do so. Your gift of prescience allowed me to become the gentleman of leisure I am today.

  Consider this the first well-earned return. Yes, the first. I know better than to fill a bag of gold coins for you. You are already going to balk at accepting this one. We’ll speak more later. For now, I believe this is a reasonable amount that your conscience—and your pride—will accept.

  I look forward to seeing you later today.

  William

  I stare down at the coins. Then I run my hand through them, hearing them clink, the cool metal sliding over my fingers.

  As I reread the note, a few tears fall on those coins, but I wipe them away. I won’t accept them, of course. I’m not starving, and it isn’t as if the house is in ruins. I might not be able to fully restore it this summer, but I have enough to keep it livable. That may mean I’ll be bringing a kettle to my school office rather than buying daily cappuccinos at the campus cafe, but that’s a small price to pay for a summer house in the English countryside.

  And just as I think that, my arm brushes the bag, and I hear another rustle. I reach in to find a smaller note, tucked in the corner.

  By the time you read this, you will have already decided to give me back the coins. You certainly may, but I’ll only return them to their spot, and if you don’t fetch them, some future inhabitant will, because I will not take them out.

  They are yours. Stop feeling guilty. Stop telling yourself you’ll be fine without them, that the house doesn’t really need new furnishings, et cetera, et cetera. You earned this money. I wish you to have it. I will be cross until you take it. I might even start withholding scones at tea.