A Stitch in Time

by Kelley Armstrong

  “If it is August’s son, what happens if I interfere?” I ask. “If I have William bar up that passage so Edmund doesn’t die in it?”

  “The butterfly effect? Do a good deed in the past and change the world in unexpected ways?” She shrugs. “We have no idea what it will do, but I’m sure that will not stop you from preventing his death.”

  She’s right, of course. If I can save young Edmund, I’ll do it.

  “We can also look up the boy in the archives,” Freya says. “That might give us answers. What was his father’s name again?”

  “August Courtenay. He was the younger son of an earl.”

  She goes still. “Courtenay? And his wife’s name? The baker?”

  “Rosalind.”

  She lets out a gasp of delight and springs to her feet, gasping again as she massages her hip and chuckles about forgetting not to do that. Before I can speak, she’s across the room at a bookshelf. She returns with a box and pulls out a very old journal. When she lays it on the table, she grins, looking like the girl she must have been.

  I touch the journal’s cover and then carefully open it to find a handwritten recipe book. The name inscribed is Rosalind Hastings, with the Hastings crossed out and replaced with Courtenay.

  I stare up at Freya. “This is . . . hers?”

  That grin again. “One of my fondest treasures.” She sits in her chair. “Rosalind Hastings was a cousin of mine. Many generations past and several times removed. She was something of a family legend. Lady Rosalind, who defied tradition and refused perfectly good marriages to make a living as a baker . . . And there, she not only made her fortune but found an earl’s son to marry. Her bakery is still in London today.”

  “What?”

  “She sold it, of course, when she married, but it still bears her name. It does not, however, have this.” She taps the book. “This went back into the family. I grew up hearing stories of Rosalind from my grandmother. The one with the Sight. She ran her own business and looked on Rosalind as a role model. She gave me this book when I began baking. When I was young, I adored the story of Rosalind. Thrilling, romantic and, ultimately, tragic. As I grew older, the tragedy stuck with me more. Newly married with an infant son, gone riding at night and tumbled off a cliff.” She looks at me. “Which we now realize might not have been what happened at all.”

  I nod and gather the teacups. Time to go to town and search for answers.

  When I told Freya about the man with the spade, I didn’t mention that now I know his name. Mrs. Shaw is Del’s ancestor. I presume Harold Shaw is, too. That means telling Freya that her husband’s ancestor may have murdered hers, which is just . . . really, really awkward.

  My first step, though, is looking up young Edmund Courtenay. I find nothing except proof of his existence—a birthdate and confirmation that his parents were The Honorable August Courtenay and Rosalind Courtenay, nee Hastings. I’d need to do a full records search to get a date of death, and that isn’t available at the High Thornesbury archives. I’m both disappointed and relieved. Disappointed because I hoped to find that Edmund Courtenay died a very old man. Relieved because it gives me an excuse not to look up my William’s death date. I desperately don’t want that information. It isn’t just fear that I’ll see a date sooner than I expect, but the grim reminder that, in my world—this world—William is dead. Long dead and turned to dust.

  Freya had spoken of August’s tragedies, hoping he didn’t lose both wife and son. That’d given me pause, thinking, But his son is alive. August was just talking about him. To Freya, though, they’re both dead even if they lived to be a hundred. A tragedy that has not yet come in William’s world is ancient history in mine.

  As unsettling as that is, my focus is on a tragedy that has already passed in William’s world, and that one I do find in the archives. The death of Rosalind Courtenay. The information I find matches William’s account to the last detail.

  According to an article from the time, Rosalind was known to ride at night, but had not done so since her pregnancy. She rose to “tend to” her ten-month-old son, which I presume is a euphemism for breast-feeding him, a practice less common than wet nurses in her time and social class. At two a.m., a trio of “carousing youths” spotted her riding out of High Thornesbury, heading up the hill to Thorne Manor. The next day, her horse was found drowned in the ocean ten miles away. Police dismissed the claim of the drunken young men and presumed she’d gone to ride by the ocean, instead, where she’d fallen with her steed. The article also notes that the current resident of Thorne Manor, Lord William Thorne, had entertained the Honorable August Courtenay and his wife earlier in the day, but was already in London when the youths claimed to have seen Rosalind heading to his home. Since Lord Thorne lived alone, this further supported the police’s belief that Rosalind had not gone to Thorne Manor. Yet if I am correct, she had. Something drew her back to the manor and the moors, where Harold Shaw followed and killed her.

  I hoped for a photograph, and not surprisingly, there isn’t one. That article, however, does contain a line that sends a chill through me. When the young men were trying to prove they saw Rosalind, they claimed she was riding a dark horse—which she was—and that the horse dwarfed her small figure, clad in a gown of blue, her blond hair streaming out behind her.

  Small figure. Blond hair. Blue gown.

  That fits the ghost in the moors. It all fits.

  I continue my search but only find references to Rosalind’s story in local history books, the sort self-published by someone with an eye for tourism rather than truth. One claims Rosalind is seen riding along the cliff every year, dressed in white, calling for her lost child. Another names William as her killer, the “mad lord of the moors” who slaughtered his entire family, starting with his father . . . who actually died in India on business. When Freya sees what I’m reading, she clicks the browser shut.

  “That filth will do nothing but give you nightmares, lass,” she says. “If you want the real legend of William Thorne, we’ll grab a pint in the pub. The owner knows all the old tales—the true versions.”

  When I hesitate, she lays a hand on my shoulder. “It would do you good to meet a few people, Bronwyn. Your neighbors wish to respect your privacy, but they’re curious. They remember your aunt, and they remember you, and they’d like to say hello.”

  I flush. “And I’ve been rudely ignoring them, dashing into town on errands and then dashing home again.”

  “They understand you’ve been busy, but stopping by the pub would be a nice gesture. I’m meeting Del for a pint, so I was going to ask you to drop me there anyway.”

  “Let’s get that drink, then. I’m done here.”

  31

  The locals joke that the pub—the Hart and Hound—was the first building built in High Thornesbury, the village growing up around it. The Hart and Hound is actually the oldest building in town . . . but it’d started life as a church. The transformation apparently came in the nineteenth century, by which time it had undergone so many changes of use that it was no longer scandalous to house a tavern in a former house of worship. It dates from the fifteenth century, and few traces of its first incarnation remain, the steeple having long since been removed, leaving a rectangular stone building with narrow arched windows.

  Those windows don’t let in much light, but the cool darkness is a welcome respite from the strong late-spring sun, and we slip inside to find the place empty save for an elderly man at the end of the bar, speaking to a woman behind it.

  The woman looks up and steps out to greet us. I barely catch a glimpse of her—tall and slender with a graying blond braid—and then she’s enveloping me in a hug, whispering, “It’s so good to see you, lass.”

  I stammer an appropriately vague response, and she laughs, holding me at arm’s length.

  “You have no idea who I am, do you?” she says.

  I stammer more, my cheeks heating.

  She leans in for another quick hug, and that’s when the smel
l hits. Her perfume, a floral scent, mingled with the yeasty odor of beer.

  “You’re—” I begin. “You found me. That night. When my uncle . . .”

  “Aye, lass. Out walking my dog, I was, and I heard you crying.”

  “Screaming, you mean,” I say with a wry twist of a smile.

  She gives me a searching look. “No, lass. You were just crying. Crying like your heart would break, bent over your poor . . .” She pats my back. “Enough of that. As for not remembering me, your aunt didn’t bring you in here. We’d done no more than pass in the street, like a hundred others who stopped to say hello. We remember you far better than you remember us.”

  She says it kindly, but I flinch, both at why they remember me and the reminder that I have been ignoring the locals, using their businesses only for what I needed, as I would in Toronto.

  When I apologize, she cuts me off. “You have your hands full with that old house, and everyone who has met you says you are as sweet and kind as they remember. Whatever happened up there that night didn’t change you, and I’m glad of it.”

  Oh, but it did. I’m just really good at hiding it.

  “We’re all so pleased to see you hale and hearty, coming back to us a proper professor, no less. Like your daddy.” She swings back behind the bar. “Now look at me talking when I should be serving. What’ll you have, lass? And Frey?”

  As we place our orders, Freya whispers, “You can ask her about that night if you’d like.”

  The woman—Daisy—brings our drinks, and I ask about her family instead. We chat for a while before I broach the subject with, “About that night. I-I’m afraid I don’t remember much.”

  “A blessing,” she says.

  “I just . . . I know what happened afterward . . . I went to a hospital and spent some time there.”

  Her face hardens, and she flicks a tea towel hard over her shoulder. “I know.”

  “They helped me forget things, which was useful at the time, I guess, but now I’d like to remember. That night, did I say anything about what drove me outside?”

  “The ghost, you mean?”

  I try not to flinch.

  “You saw a ghost,” she says, her voice firm. “Nothing wrong in that. The fault lies with those who made it seem wrong.”

  “Did I give details? Describe what I saw? What she said?”

  “Nowt, lass. Only that she said terrible things and drove you from the house, and then she went after your poor uncle.”

  After that, conversation drifts. Two men come in, heavy boots tromping mud in their wake. Day laborers, Freya whispers. Daisy serves them and returns to us, and Freya steers the conversation to Thorne Manor, asking whether Daisy knows any good stories for me.

  Daisy laughs. “Stories about the Thornes? You’ll need to start me somewhere, or I’ll be talking all night. We could begin with the first William Thorne, who used to promise a copper to any child who could do a trick that made him laugh. Everything made him laugh, and soon High Thornesbury had an entire generation of little circus performers . . . with pockets full of coppers.”

  I smile, and I’m about to ask for another story when one of the day laborers calls, “Tell her about the mad lord of the moors.”

  Daisy stiffens as does the old man at the end of the bar. Ignoring the laborers, she says, “Then there was the first lord’s wife, who—”

  A mug slaps the bar right beside me as one of the day laborers slides into that seat. He’s about my age with thinning hair, and he seems to mistake my breasts for eyes, his gaze settling there as he talks.

  “Did I hear you’re the new owner of Thorne Manor, lass?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I say, the word brittle.

  “Well, then ask our lovely bar mistress about the mad lord, the one who murdered all those girls. Might make you decide to spend your nights elsewhere.” He grins, clearly ready to suggest where else I could spend them.

  Daisy starts to interject, but he continues, leaning in close enough for me to smell tobacco and wet sheep as he whispers, “He murdered his own bride on their wedding night. They say you can still see the blood at night when the moon hits it.”

  “No, not his wife. ’Twas a lover,” his friend says as he ambles over. “Two lovers. A girl he met in the moors—a comely milkmaid—and his best friend’s wife, who he was—” He makes a rude gesture.

  “Don’t forget the sister,” the first man says. “Two lovers and a sister, which makes you wonder just how close he was with his sister.” His brows waggle suggestively.

  “Enough!” The old man at the end of the bar clangs his mug down. “Perhaps they have no love for the old families where you’re from, but while you are here, you will respect ours.”

  Daisy waves for the old man to sit down and says to me, “There are stories about that particular lord, but they’re just stories. Entertaining tales to tell over a pint . . . if you aren’t in High Thornesbury. Lord Thorne’s sister took off for London—with witnesses who saw her off—and his friend’s wife plunged over a cliff while he was in London, again with witnesses.”

  The day laborers grumble and glower. As they wander back to their table, Daisy leans over and whispers, “Those two have been causing trouble all week. You might call and tell Del to come by a little later today. They’re usually gone by six.”

  Freya’s mouth sets in annoyance, but she aims it at the two men and then thanks Daisy, saying they will indeed come by later. That’s when I realize what Daisy means. I think of Del as a man, but yes, once he speaks, he sounds female, and these two are certain to make something of it.

  We finish our pints, and then I drive Freya to a neighbor’s, where Del is working on fence repair, and I head home to prepare for my evening with William.

  William had asked me to check the floorboard before I came over, in case he wouldn’t be back in time. I’m not quite sure the logic behind that works, but I do as he requested and find a note . . . one with three simple words: close your eyes.

  I laugh and pocket it as I bustle about, getting ready. Enigma sits on the dresser, watching me with a look that so obviously says, “You’re going away again, aren’t you?”

  I’ve spent the last hour racing through the house with a length of fluffy yarn trailing after me, and I’ll pop back this evening for cuddles, but I still feel guilty enough that I almost forget to shut my eyes as I cross. I remember at the last second and put my hands over them for good measure.

  The smell of a hearth fire tells me I’ve crossed, but before I can open my eyes, William’s hands go over mine. Then he chuckles, and as he says, “There you are,” I’m about to reply when I hear a very familiar kitten mew. His hands slide away, and when I open my eyes, he’s scooping up a tiny calico kitten, who purrs against his hand before shooting me a haughty look, as if to say, “See? Someone loves me.”

  “Enigma?” I say. “You crossed over!”

  Another look, one that clearly implies that she could have crossed over any time she liked. A mrrup from the doorway as Pandora trots in. Seeing her missing kitten, her eyes narrow, and Enigma leaps back into my arms, as if to say, “I’m ready to go now.”

  I chuckle and lower her to the floor where her mother sniffs her over as Enigma now shoots me a pained look.

  “I suspect she hasn’t crossed back before because she’s happier where she was,” William says.

  “The center of attention?”

  He smiles. “Oh, she was always the center of her mother’s attention, to her eternal dismay.”

  Pandora lifts Enigma by the scruff of her neck, the kitten mewling at the indignity.

  “Uh-uh, Pan,” William says, taking Enigma away. “This one has flown the nest, and she will be staying with her new person.” He hands the kitten to me, and Enigma snuggles in, sneaking looks at her mother.

  I’m turning to William when I notice a chair where his dresser should be.

  “You redecorated?” I ask.

  He curses and slaps a hand to my eyes again. “B
loody cats disrupt everything. Let us try this again.”

  He turns me around, takes his hand away and waves a flourish around his bedroom. Which is . . . no longer a bedroom. The bed is gone as is his dresser and washbasin. Where his dresser once stood by the fireplace, there are now two chairs, one overstuffed horsehair, the other looking as if it’s been pulled in from the parlor. The red velvet and gold paint chaise longue from the parlor now sits under one window. A writing desk has replaced the bed, and there’s a bookshelf beside the desk that has definitely been requisitioned from his library, books still haphazardly stacked in it. He’s also relocated the terrestrial globe, the elephant’s footstool and the stained-glass floor lamp.

  “It’s a bit rough.” He makes a face. “More than a bit, actually. A muddle of what I could acquire at short notice plus pieces temporarily relocated to give you a sense of my intentions.”

  “But . . . your bedroom . . .”

  “I’m taking my mother’s old chambers as I should have decades ago. This one . . .” He shrugs, his cheeks coloring. “This was my connection to you. Part of me always hoped you’d come back and feared I needed to be in this room if you did. Now, I can relocate to a larger room with a bed more suitable for two while giving this one to you.”

  “To me . . . ?”

  “As an office.” He walks to the desk. “This isn’t the final piece. I know a desk is important—or, I should say, I know it is important to others. I usually do my paperwork by the fire.” He points to the chairs. “If it wouldn’t bother you, I’d do it here, alongside you. This chair”—he points to the one from the parlor—“is as temporary as the desk. Simply to show you what I have in mind. I will have both a chair and desk built to your specifications.”

  My first reaction is joy, utter delight at the thought of him making space for me in his life, space that recognizes my career. But then I realize what I’m looking at. A place for me to do my job . . . in his world.

  He said that he’d never expect me to live here permanently. Now, I realize that was no more genuine than when he’d said those words as a boy, clearly hoping I’d leap in with the offer to abandon my home and family for him.