A Stitch in Time

by Kelley Armstrong

  “Yes.” That’s all he says, and I know what it means.

  Yes to all of that.

  I put my arms around his neck. “The last is the worst, isn’t it? That you can do nothing about it. In a normal world, you could always come to me for answers. But if I leave, you have no recourse but sending letters that I cannot even return.”

  “Yes,” he says, the word thick now, a faint tremor running through him. “Yes.” He kisses me, and it’s desperate again, deep and hungry and filled with longing and fear, but before it goes beyond a kiss, he pulls back and runs one thumb over my cheek.

  “When we were young, I used to panic every time we argued and you left,” he says. “I never admitted that. I felt foolish even then. Afraid and powerless. Even at fifteen, those were unfamiliar emotions for me, and I didn’t know what to do with them. I still don’t. Yet no matter how often I drove myself into a frenzy of worry, thinking I’d driven you off forever, that never stopped me from losing my temper and arguing with you again and telling you to go, just like . . .”

  Just like I did with Cordelia.

  I am afraid I’ll do that again, and you’ll do what she did. Take me at my word, fly off in a rage and never return.

  This is what he means. I see it in the spark of grief that flits over his face as he realizes what he’s saying.

  William drove his sister away. Combine his temper with hers, his stubbornness with hers, and therein lay the recipe for personal tragedy.

  I must remember what happened with Cordelia and how that affects him.

  Thinking of her brings a harsher slap of awareness. William is alone. He might have joked about that on our first meeting when I was reduced to asking about his aged housekeeper, but it hadn’t really penetrated. He’s truly alone. His father passed when he was ten, his mother when he was a young man, and then his only sibling left. Even by modern standards, they’d been a close-knit, loving family, the kind I envied. Which was even rarer for William’s time and class.

  Now they were gone. All of them. One pair of grandparents had been dead when I returned at fifteen, the others estranged before he was born. His only remaining relative is that distant cousin who’ll inherit the estate, the one he’s only met a time or two.

  For a man raised in such love, that isolation would be devastating, and it makes our situation even more difficult. I could disappear in a blink. Like his father. Like his mother. Like his sister.

  I cup William’s face in my hands. “I will never argue, stomp off and not return. I didn’t do that when I was three or five or fifteen, so I’m not going to do it now. You never told me to leave. We walked away from each other. We knew when an argument was getting too heated, when we might lose our tempers and say things we didn’t mean, and we parted, you going your way and me going mine. I always knew, though, that you couldn’t reach out to mend it, so I returned. So long as I have the ability to return, I will do so. If you tell me to leave, I’ll come back later. If you really and truly want me gone, I will, of course, honor your wishes, but you always have that floorboard space to tell me differently.”

  “I will never want that, Bronwyn.”

  “But if it ever did happen—for either of us—we respect one another enough to end things properly. I will not walk away and make it forever, and you will not tell me to go and mean forever.”

  He nods, and when he kisses me again, it’s softer, still rich with longing and desire, but that edge of fear slipping away with the tension in his body. His hands slip under me, pulling me against him. A pause, and I have to chuckle at that, already understanding the language of his lovemaking, this pause a polite request to continue in the direction he’s heading. I slide my nails down his back, pulling him against me, and he chuckles and continues on course.

  28

  “Can I ask you about August and Cordelia?” I murmur as we lie there afterward on the stable floor. “I stepped onto treacherous ground a few times at breakfast, and I’d like to not do it again.”

  I brace for William to tense, but he only knits his brows, as if in confusion.

  “I saw their engagement announcement in your mother’s room. I can understand why August is so hurt by her leaving, especially when they had a child.”

  His brows only knit more. Then I jump as he gives a short laugh. “Cordelia is not Edmund’s mother.”

  My cheeks heat. “Ah, so he was born, as they say in your time, on the wrong side of the sheets. August’s child that Cordelia took on to raise as their own.” I pause. “Or is he adopted?”

  As I talk, William waves one hand, clearly telling me that he can explain. I’m too caught up in the puzzle.

  “August was engaged to my sister,” William says. “He did not marry her. She left before the wedding. Edmund’s mother—and August’s wife—is another woman entirely. Rosalind.”

  “But August said you’re his son’s uncle . . . Ah, that’s an honorific.”

  “It is. I’m the boy’s godfather. There was no marriage between our families.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I catch the look on William’s face and say, “Or, perhaps not. You weren’t thrilled with the prospect of your dearest friend as your brother-in-law?”

  William settles onto his side, pulling me against him. “August would have made a fine brother-in-law. A fine husband for my sister, though? Let’s just say I was not in favor of the match. He was far too fond of the ladies, and they were too fond of him. Even my fiancé used to make eyes at him when she thought no one was looking.”

  “Ouch.”

  He shrugs. “With August around, one became quite accustomed to not being the center of female attention. He swore that he would be a faithful husband, and he was when he finally did marry though I’m not certain the same would have applied with Cordelia. That was marriage for duty. Rosalind was love.”

  “Two women have left him?”

  William makes a face, and it reminds me of the one he made at breakfast when August snapped about his wife’s abandonment.

  “Rosalind did not leave,” he says, “though please don’t say that to August. He is the most good-natured of men . . . but that is the one topic certain to ignite his temper. I have spent two years trying to convince him Rosalind would never abandon him and Edmund. He will hear none of it. I fear if I continue to pursue the subject, it will prove the breaking point for a friendship I thought unbreakable.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say and kiss his lips. “That’s not fair. He must have loved her very much, though.”

  “Too much if such a thing is possible.”

  “What happened?”

  He flips onto his back and sighs.

  “You don’t need to tell—” I begin, but he pulls me onto him and says, “That sigh is grief for my friend and for his wife, not annoyance at telling the tale. August is the son of a . Third son. The family has a summer home near York that makes Thorne Manor look like servant’s quarters. Rosalind adored it. She loved to walk, and she loved to ride, and the moors gave her plenty of opportunity for both.”

  “A young woman who loved the moors and horses? I’m surprised you didn’t marry her yourself.”

  A look passes behind his eyes, and I stiffen, then force it back with a soft, “I’m sorry. She chose August, I presume.”

  “What?” He blinks at me, startled. Then a short laugh. “No, not at all. I enjoyed Rosalind’s companionship, but she was not to my tastes otherwise. In another life, she’d have been my younger sister, instead of—”

  He clears his throat. “No, there was nothing between us. If I looked uncomfortable at your jest, it’s because August . . . When I say he loved her too much, what I really mean is he was unhealthily jealous of her love. He spent his youth changing women as often as he changes clothing. But then he met the girl he truly wanted, and he could not believe every man didn’t want her. Worse, he could not quite believe she wanted him.”

  “Ah. That’s . . .” I connect his explanation to his pained expression earlier
. “He was even jealous of you?”

  “Yes. For absolutely no reason, let me assure you. Not only did I never harbor such feelings for Rosalind, she never had eyes for anyone but August. So back to my tale. They were at the family estate for the summer. One night, after they’d gone to bed, she rode out. She did that sometimes. That is, she used to before August began following her, thinking she was cuckolding him. She’d stopped, for his sake, and I’m not sure why she went that night, but the next day, her horse was found drowned at the base of a cliff overlooking the sea.”

  “Oh!” I gasp.

  “He’d stumbled and gone over. Rosalind loved to ride along that clifftop and . . .”

  “The horse lost his footing, and they were both drowned.”

  “Yet the lack of Rosalind’s body convinced August that she’d run away. Which is ludicrous. Ran away and abandoned her horse, which then ran off a cliff in despair?” He snorts. “It’s madness, and I do not know why he will not accept the very obvious fact that his wife is dead.”

  “Because it hurts too much,” I murmur. “He’d rather hate her than mourn her. Easier to think she’s run off with some unsuitable man, and she’ll return one day, begging forgiveness.”

  He shifts, uncomfortable. “Like a young man who decided to hate a girl because she didn’t come back through time for him? Almost ran her off when she did?”

  “It’s not the same,” I say softly. “August’s self-delusion is unhealthy and self-destructive. I’m glad you’re here for him, though.”

  “Well, I am glad I wasn’t here that night. They’d visited here that very day, and we’d departed together as I needed to return to London. Otherwise, I fear August would have thought Rosalind was coming to visit me, particularly after late-night revelers claim they saw her heading this way.”

  I frown. “But we’re ten miles from the ocean.”

  “Yes, and one ought not to doubt the word of three men, drunk on youth and gin.” He rolls his eyes. “It makes for a fine scandal, though. My dearest friend’s wife came for a secret assignation, and I murdered her and tossed her body into the sea.”

  “What? People think . . . ?” My mind spins. “You said scandal. That day I overheard you with August, there was some mention of a scandal.”

  His brows rise. “And you didn’t ask me about it?”

  “I thought it involved a lady. I was going to ask, but it didn’t quite seem the time to bring up past relationships.”

  He chuckles. “Well, I admire your discretion, and I appreciate your faith in me, that you suspected only something so relatively benign. The scandal does involve women, but not, alas, a deliciously forbidden affair.”

  “I was thinking duel.” I pause. “Wait, women? Plural?”

  “I killed my sister, too, don’t you know?” he says, and his tone is light, but anger and pain simmers behind his blue eyes. “Murdered my sister and my best friend’s wife. Oh, and I also killed you.”

  “Wait? What?”

  “You and I were seen at least once by local villagers. The young lord, spotted in the company of a mysterious girl, who was never seen again after that summer. At the time, no one thought much of it. But after Cordelia left, people remembered . . . and added you to my death toll.”

  “The locals—?”

  “No, the villagers—bless them—defend me, sometimes with fisticuffs, I fear. It’s others, taking their stories and twisting them. The locals also know that Cordelia left of her own accord. One of their own drove her to the train station. They also know that I was not here the night Rosalind died. I was in a coach bound for London, with witnesses.”

  I open my mouth, but words won’t come. I know rumors can be vicious, but this is ridiculous. Accusing a man of murdering his sister . . . when witnesses saw her leave? Of murdering his friend’s wife . . . when witnesses place him a hundred miles away? Of killing a mysterious girl seen with him once or twice?

  “I’m sorry,” I say, finally. “People can be nasty and horrible and downright stupid.”

  He shrugs. “They like a good story, and I was not particularly popular in some society circles. Too successful at business. Too successful”—he clears his throat—“in other ways.”

  I smile. “With the ladies as you’d say. I’m still sorry, though.” I pause. I see an opening here, and I take a moment to evaluate his mood. He’s calm, relaxed, relieved at having revealed his “scandal” and getting nothing but outrage on his behalf.

  I could ruin that mood with my question, but I’m going to gamble and decide that this is, instead, the perfect time to pose it with care.

  “As much as I’d love to dismiss the impact of the rumors,” I say, “I know at the very least, they’re inconvenient. It would help if Cordelia returned. She hasn’t, though?”

  He shakes his head. “No. I wish she would, and not merely for the sake of the rumors. I would like to know where she is and if she’s well. If she has children, they can still inherit my fortune even if the property is entailed.”

  “Have you ever . . . tried to find her?”

  I ask very carefully, ready for him to tense, but he says, “I have. Soon after she left, I regretted the haste of my actions and hired a man to search for her. He found clues, but he never caught up with her. I expected she would eventually come home.”

  And she did not. At least he knows she got somewhere safe and began her own life. She eluded William’s private detective, not ready to come home, but after all these years, surely that must have changed.

  Cordelia doted on her big brother, and she’s out there, and if I can reunite them, I will. For now, I’m reassured to know he wants to make contact. One day, I’ll bring his sister home to him.

  29

  William puts Balios to bed with extra brushing in apology for his failure earlier. While he’s doing that, I return home to visit with Enigma. Then I come back, and we assemble a meal from the kitchen and take it up to the library to eat.

  Yes, William has a library, and I’m very displeased that it took me this long to realize it. Had I only asked where he’d put the kittens the other day, I’d have discovered this wondrous addition to Thorne Manor in a converted guest bedroom. I remember William’s tales of the library at his family’s London home. It’d seemed the very model of a Victorian library, complete with rolling ladders and overstuffed chairs flanking two fireplaces, the entirety decorated with oddities from distant lands.

  Here, William has a space probably a quarter the size . . . and possibly holding every book from that London house. Each wall-sized bookcase is so jam-packed that my inner librarian is torn between giddy delight at the sheer quantity and shuddering horror at the complete lack of organization. Yet this is a library for personal reading, not public display, and as such, it’s the perfect little book-stuffed nook. There’s one comfortable chair, parked in the middle of the room, facing the fireplace, with a reading lamp beside it. A pile of cushions on the floor suggests that not all reading is conducted in that chair, and tonight, we make use of those pillows, William shoving the chair unceremoniously aside so we can lounge on the thick Turkish carpet, propped up on pillows.

  Dinner is a casual combination of tea and supper, a hodgepodge of whatever looked best from the overflowing cold repast Mrs. Shaw left, supplemented by cookies and fruit I brought. We graze from a floor buffet as we read. It’s a library, and so we’re reading, stretched out before a roaring fire, bare legs entwined, clothing . . . somewhere. Let’s just say that it’s a good thing all the food could be served cold, because we hadn’t gotten to it quite as soon as expected.

  We’re reading our respective books as we did at fifteen on those afternoons when it was too wet to walk, and we just wanted to be together. I’ve missed this, enjoying my book while listening to the soft rustle of William’s own pages turning, the faintest snort of a laugh or grunt of displeasure as his story unfolds. Sometimes, Michael would pull out a professional journal while I read my novels, but he radiated energy even while sitting st
ill, and it wouldn’t be long before I’d suggest a walk or a bike ride. I loved all the things we did do together—reading just wasn’t one of them.

  One advantage to an actual Victorian library is that it’s filled with novels lost to the annals of time. The classics survive, but even William’s current read—The Tenant of Wildfell Hall—isn’t found alongside Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights in modern bookstores. Some of the books we consider Victorian classics weren’t even widely read in their day. On William’s shelves, I find novels I’ve never heard of, which he assures me were “all the rage” in their time.

  I’m enrapt in a book he suggested when a line about a “fair-haired lady in a blue gown” reminds me of the ghost in the moors. An image sparks, that of the light-haired woman in my vision of the pair heading out to the moors. I’d thought the dark-haired woman must be Cordelia, but she wasn’t August’s wife, which casts the entire conversation into another light.

  William said Rosalind loved walking on the moors. Was she the dark-haired woman? Not necessarily. Standing behind them, I couldn’t tell which woman had said which lines, and it’d been the light-haired woman who’d laid her fingers on August’s arm.

  Let’s say then that Rosalind was the light-haired woman, and the dark-haired one had been her companion, brought to Thorne Manor to meet William. That works. Yet it doesn’t answer the question of why I saw them.

  My gaze returns to my book, to the line about the fair-haired woman in a blue gown. I picture the ghost I saw fleeing in the moors. She’d had light hair, and while I didn’t get a good look at her face, what I did see suggested she’d been a young woman. She’d been at least six inches shorter than me and had a slight figure, wearing a dirt-streaked blue dress decorated with flounces and ribbons.