She rubs her eyes. “That doesn’t matter. What matters is that he can hurt you, as he hurt us.”
I shake my head. “You’ve made a mistake.”
My voice doesn’t waver. It’s no timid plea for her to be wrong. She is. I know that in my gut. Of course, when I think that, my brain kicks in, like a debate team captain throwing out challenges.
Can you be sure? You’ve only known him a few days.
That’s a poor attempt, laughable, even. I’ve only known the man of thirty-eight for a few days. I knew the child for years. I knew the adolescent for a summer.
In the course of a lifetime, a summer is a fleeting moment, yet even these last few days are worth months of casual acquaintance, building on an already solid foundation.
I know William Thorne.
You may feel as if you do, but can one person ever really know another?
Yes, they can. After years of marriage, Michael could still surprise me, but it was trivial things, like discovering he didn’t care for mango. No fundamental revelation of character surprised me. I knew him at that level. And I know William the same way.
You wouldn’t be the first woman to say that and be proven wrong. Does that make you better than them? Smarter? Wiser?
This one makes me flinch. I had a colleague, a woman I considered a friend, who’d discovered her husband had been stalking his former intern. My friend had steadfastly denied it, breaking down in tears, pleading with me for help. But I knew her husband, and I’d endured his attentions myself. So when his wife defended him, I judged her. I would never make this mistake. I would never be so blind to my lover’s faults or so quick to defend him.
Is that what I’m doing here?
My gut says William is innocent.
My brain agrees, but warns me to tread with care.
And my heart? My heart is the timidest of all, retreating behind a stone wall of “Please let him be innocent,” hastily erected fortifications in case I’m wrong.
Cordelia isn’t falsely accusing her brother. There’s pain in her voice and in her eyes, deep and agonizing pain. She thinks her beloved brother murdered her, and she has suffered nearly two centuries under the weight of that horrible conviction.
“It wasn’t William,” I say. “I saw Harold carry your body here to bury you.”
Fresh pain. “Harold loved my brother. We all did. William is difficult, and he is hard, but that only makes the prize all the sweeter. When he smiles, the skies open overhead, and the sun shines only on you.”
That is indeed the allure of falling for a difficult man. It’s the siren’s call of a million literary bad boys. They’re a challenge. Winning them is so much better than gaining the heart of a sweet boy who turns his smile on everyone.
Except William is no literary bad boy. When August compared him to Heathcliff, William scoffed. Rightly so. Heathcliff was an egocentric, obsessive sociopath who would destroy his supposed true love rather than see her happy without him. There’s no evil in William. He’s hard and difficult, but the villagers adore him, and he earned their love through genuine goodness.
“I saw—” I begin.
“You saw Harold with my corpse. You saw a loyal family pet helping his master. William killed me in a rage, and Harold cleaned it up for him. Buried me and let William tell the world I’d walked away. That we’d argued, and I left.”
Cordelia and I had a falling out many years ago. I have not seen her since. I regret that, but . . . Perhaps we could change the subject?
I want to ask Cordelia how she died, but first I must speak to William. Hear his story, untainted by her version of events.
Am I saying I think she might be right?
No, I’m not. Yet there may be a tragic grain of truth here. Not that William put his hands around Cordelia’s neck and strangled the life from her, but that they argued, and something happened, and she accidentally died.
“You doubt me,” she says.
“I don’t doubt that you think William—”
Her frustration lashes like an electric whip. When I stagger back, her eyes widen in horror, and she hurries toward me.
“I am sorry,” she says. “I don’t know how I do that. It isn’t intentional. But I need you to understand. I have two deaths on my conscience, and I cannot bear a third.”
“Two deaths,” I say. “Teddy and Eliza. You believe William killed them as well.”
“You do not understand my brother, Bronwyn. You please him now, and so you see only the best of him. You are a plaything, an amusement, a trifling.”
I must flinch, because she surges toward me again, saying, “I’m sorry. That sounds cruel, but if I must be cruel to save you, then I will. Teddy adored William, and my brother enjoyed the attention . . . until he did not. He tired of Teddy, and Teddy did not tire of him. So William claimed that Teddy went for a walk alone in the moors and never returned. Then there was Eliza. At first, William thought her sufficiently dull and plodding, no threat to his freedom. He would marry her and live the life of a country lord with his horses and his mistresses and a dutiful wife to manage his household. But Eliza pursued William like a lovesick boy intent on winning a shy maiden. She stole what he values most—his privacy. Like Teddy, she would not leave him be. I tried to reason with her. The day she died, I took her walking in the moors to give him time without her, but we became separated—I’m convinced William had a hand in that. She was lost in the moors, just like Teddy. She was never found again, just like Teddy. William killed her, just like—”
Her gaze rises over my shoulder, and her blue eyes harden.
“No,” she spits. “No, you will not.”
She stamps one foot, glowering into the predawn moor. I turn, following her gaze, and there is Harold, the head groom. He stands ten feet away, spade gripped in both hands, gaze fixed on her.
“No!” She lunges at him, but stops short, as if afraid to go closer. “Have you not done enough?”
He doesn’t move. Just stands there, empty gaze fixed on Cordelia. Then he raises the spade and slams the pointed tip into the earth, and she screams.
She screams . . . and disappears.
I wheel on Harold. “She’s right. Haven’t you done enough?”
“No.” His voice comes like the rasp of a file on metal. “I have not.”
He lifts the spade from the earth and walks away, fading as he goes.
There’s no point in lingering. The ghosts are gone. I make note of my surroundings so I can find Cordelia’s body. Then I return to the house.
Once back, I gather the items Freya suggested for summoning ghosts. I work quickly—it’ll be dawn soon, and I’ll lose my chance if I tarry.
I sit cross legged on the floor outside the linen closet. I leave Enigma in my room—I don’t want her frightened if I succeed. When I succeed. I’m determined to do so.
For two hours, I attempt to summon the spirits of the woman and the boy. I even use Teddy’s name. It does no good.
I’m about to give up when I hear the softest sound of a boy crying. I throw open the linen closet door, but the noise seems to come through an open window. I hurry down the stairs and out the front door, following the soft crying around the side of the house, and there is the boy. He’s wearing the same outfit as his ghost—the baggy knickers and white shirt. He sits beside the house, his head on his knees.
I hurry over and bend in front of him.
“Teddy?”
He doesn’t lift his head. Doesn’t pause his quiet sobs.
“Teddy?” Another voice says behind me. It’s an older boy’s voice, high and musical.
I turn to see a fair-haired boy of about twelve jogging toward us. He bends beside Teddy and puts a hand on his knee. Teddy looks up, swiping away the tears, his face a mask of mortification.
“I—I wasn’t—” Teddy begins.
“It’s the hay, isn’t it?” the boy says. “It always makes my eyes water. I swear William knows it, and that’s why he works so much in that blast
ed barn, hoping if the hay bothers me enough, I’ll leave him alone.”
The older boy smiles, but Teddy only drops his head. “He doesn’t want you to leave. He likes you, August. You’re his friend.”
“So are you,” August says. “But William and I are of an age, and there are things we can do that you cannot. Like riding into Whitby for the day. William could have been kinder when he said you couldn’t join us. I’ve already told him that, and he feels badly.”
August lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Bad enough, I suspect, to bring you a treat.” He shifts on his haunches. “When William is brusque, do not take it to heart. If I did, our friendship would have died ages ago. He gets so caught up with his blasted horses that he snaps at any distraction—you, me, even Cordie.”
August pushes to his feet. “Speaking of little Cordelia . . .”
He shades his eyes, looking around.
“Harold!” August calls, and I see the groom rounding the back of the house. “Have you seen Cordelia? William and I are going to Whitby, and Teddy here is in need of a playmate.”
Harold nods. “I believe she’s playing in her room. I can take the lad up.”
August’s hand moves to Teddy’s shoulder, as if he’s ready to say no, he’ll take the boy to Cordelia. Before he answers, though, the figures fade, and I’m left alone at the side of the house.
I turn toward the old stables, and I see myself inside, leaning into a stall while William brushes an ancient pony. It’s the summer I was fifteen, and I hadn’t been visiting for long. This is the only pony in the herd, and all the other horses are at pasture.
“He’s too old to be with the others,” William explains. “I let him out when they come in, but he’s happiest right here. There’s a run he can use to get some sun.” A pat on the pony’s withers. “That’s all he wants at his age—a bit of sun, a bit of attention and an apple or two, mashed up so he can eat it.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirty-three.”
I whistle. “That’s ancient. I remember you used to have a pony, but this isn’t him.”
“No, this one belonged to . . .” A half-shrug. “A boy I knew. Theodore. His family has a summer home on the other side of the village. Teddy was three years younger than me, so he mostly played with Cordie, but he liked to follow me around.”
“Just like Cordelia?” I said, smiling.
“Exactly like Cordelia. Between the two of them, I scarcely had a moment to myself all summer. When I was twelve, I resolved to be firmer. I enjoyed riding with him, but there are limits to how long a twelve-year-old wishes to play with a nine-year-old. As it turned out . . .” His hands tightened on the brush. “He only wanted a little of my time, and I was a selfish brute.”
I moved beside him. We hadn’t shared that first kiss yet, so my fingers only hovered over his arm, not daring to touch more than the folds of fabric. “What happened?”
William swallowed. Then he said, his voice low, “He wanted to play in the moors. I said I was busy, and when he pressed, I became . . . brusque. So he went alone. I did not realize that, of course. If I had, I would have gone after him. He didn’t know the moors the way Cordie and I did. I should have paid more attention. I did not and . . .”
A sharp intake of breath as he set aside the brush and turned to me. “We searched for days. All they found was his coat by the bog.”
I gasped, hand flying to my mouth.
“Yes,” he said darkly before turning back to the pony. “He was alone out there, and it was my fault.”
I argued with him, and I could tell others had done the same, but that would never change how he felt, never abolish the guilt.
“This was his pony.” William’s lips quirked in a strained smile. “Teddy was a terrible rider, but he did love this old beast. After he passed, his parents planned to put the pony down. I offered to take him. He has a place here for as long as he lives.”
He reaches over to pat the pony’s piebald neck. “I am also far more tolerant of Cordelia’s demands on my time, as you might imagine. As Mother reminds me, Cordie will be grown and married soon enough, and then she’ll want little to do with her older brother. I should enjoy her adoration while it lasts. And I do. I have learned my lesson.”
I stand there, at the side of the house, staring at the barn. Then I run inside and up the stairs to the secret passage.
William thought Teddy had been lost in the moors, but I know exactly where he is, and I think I know what happened to him. Harold took him upstairs to see Cordelia, but he never got to her room. Harold showed him something guaranteed to catch a young boy’s attention: a secret passage.
I’m in the passage, shining my flashlight down the hole, and seeing nothing more than I did before. I want to get a better look at what the small body is wearing, to confirm that it’s the knickerbockers Teddy wore in the vision.
I need a stronger light. In the garage, there’s a corded trouble light Ronnie used to see under my car. I’ll get that and an extension cord.
Before I go, I try one last time, leaning into the hole as far as I dare.
My flashlight beam catches on those boot buttons again. I strain to remember Teddy’s boots in the vision. Had he—?
Something hits me between the shoulder blades, sharp and fast and hard. My hands shoot out, dropping the flashlight as I instinctively grab for the edge. My fingers slide over wood, and then I’m clawing, madly clawing as I fall headfirst down the shaft.
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I slam into the bottom. Pain explodes through me, and my first thought is: I am dead. I’ve hit the stone foundation headfirst, and I am dead.
I’m lying on my side, pain coursing through my head, my shoulder, my hip. I managed to twist as I fell, and I’m not sure what part hit first. Everything hurts, but I can move. I am alive.
I try to push up on one arm and—pain rips through it. Fresh panic sparks. I’ve fallen fifteen feet onto stone. I’ve broken my neck or snapped my spine, something that means I can’t rise. I’ll never rise again. I’m trapped here in the walls of Thorne Manor, paralyzed—
My arm quivers and screams with pain, but my foot strikes the wall with a dull thud. I focus on moving my foot, and it hits the wall with another thud. I fall back to the floor, exhaling in relief.
In the event of spinal injury, do not move the victim. I’ve read that countless times, yet I have no idea why it’s so dangerous to move. Books never explain that part, and I barely passed high school biology.
But if I don’t move, I’ll be trapped here, pinned between these walls, my damned phone left in the kitchen—
Take a deep breath . . .
Pain sears through me as I inhale.
I pause and focus. Is it sharp pain, as if a lung is pierced? Another careful breath. No. It’s the duller pain of injured muscles.
Relax and focus.
Do not panic.
Do not go into shock.
Is it possible to go into shock from a fall? Again, I have no idea. Just one more thing to worry about, one more specter looming over me.
Specter . . .
Had an intruder snuck up behind me? That makes more sense than “a ghost pushed me,” but I would have heard footsteps. I would have felt the heat of living flesh through my thin shirt.
Does it matter who pushed me? Not right now.
I need to stand. If my spine is injured, surely my body will send a warning shot of pain to tell me to stay still.
I’ll take it slow. Put my hand down, brace myself and lift—
A twinge of pain as my wrist snaps back, my hand half-resting on a rounded stone. I brush that aside, and it clatters across the ground, a hollow sound that prickles the hair on my neck. Beneath me, I feel more rocks and sticks, and I reach down to touch one. My fingers run over a sharp broken end and down the smooth sides.
I go still, my heart pounding. I tentatively find the “stone” again and run my hands along to discover it’s the bulbous end of a bone. An arm bone shorte
r than my forearm.
The bone of a half-grown child.
I hunt for my flashlight, flinching each time I touch bone. When my hand slides over a smooth globe, my breath hitches. My fingers find the eye sockets, the missing jaw, extinguishing any doubt of what it is.
I reverently set the skull aside and keep feeling for my flashlight. I find it lying atop half-rotted fabric. When I flick the switch, nothing happens. I smack it against my hand . . . and it blinks on.
The beam illuminates bones and clothing. The remains of a nine-year-old boy.
Hands trembling, I force myself to examine the bones, searching for some sign of how Teddy died. There’s a depression in the skull, and several of the vertebrae have separated. The last might mean nothing—no tissue connects them, and my fall could have jolted them apart. That skull depression isn’t as damning as it seems, either. It could indicate a blow to the head, or it could simply be from the fall. Either way, Teddy didn’t die slowly, trapped in here, alone and afraid. I can banish that horror from my mind. His body was dumped here.
Harold led Teddy upstairs, murdered him and dumped his body in the hole.
Why? I have no idea, and it doesn’t matter. No one will stand trial for this murder. I already suspect Harold of Eliza and Cordelia’s deaths. What do all three have in common? They interfered with Harold’s favorite, his young master. They pestered William and would not leave him be, and while no sane person would kill for that, it’s a motive if I need one.
There is another suspect, though . . .
In my mind, I replay the visions, seeing August watch Cordelia and Eliza go into the moors, seeing him seem to tell Harold that he’d take Teddy to Cordelia.
I shake off the thought. Right now, none of this matters. Teddy may not have died trapped between these walls, but I’m trapped here now. While Freya is coming for tea tomorrow, she knows I can step between worlds. If she finds an empty house, she’ll presume I’m with William. If I never return, she’ll think I stayed with him.
I’m not the only one trapped, either. I locked Enigma in my room. I do keep a water bowl upstairs, but it was empty this morning, and I forgot to refill it.
A Stitch in Time Page 26
