Time After Time

by Wendy Godding

  Steeling myself, I lowered my eyes to the floor, tracing the pattern on the carpet with my toes and counting each breath, before I lifted my gaze. I gasped.

  The impossible had happened. Standing before me was the boy of my dreams.

  He smiled, his dark brown eyes crinkling at the corners in a way I remembered, and he repeated my name warmly, as if committing it to memory.

  I stared hard at him, searching his face for some sign of recognition. Do you know me?

  ‘Nice to meet you, Abbie,’ he said. He didn’t have that strong, eighteenth-century English accent, but he had the same smooth voice. The way he had said my name made my spine tingle.

  I stared at him, stunned. It took me a second to reply. ‘Sure.’

  Meredith shot me another annoyed look.

  ‘Maybe you two will have classes together,’ Valerie said.

  A cool wind whipped past me and I shivered, the back of my neck prickling. Peering closely at him, trying not to stare too much, I assessed this Marcus Knight. Unlike me, he didn’t seem at all fazed by my appearance in his life. He also didn’t seem to notice my gothic attire, which usually set people on edge straight away.

  How are you even possible? I wanted to ask.

  Meredith and I stayed only a little while longer, Meredith obviously anxious to get me out of the house since all I could do was stare at Marcus Knight and barely say a word.

  ‘He’s cute,’ Meredith observed over dinner at Delilah’s.

  I shoved gnocchi in my mouth and shrugged, avoiding a reply. My head was still whirling as I tried to make sense of this senselessness. People from the past don’t just reappear, do they? I mean, obviously I did, but I was the only one. I’d never met anyone else before. What were the odds? Of all the millions of people ever born, what were the chances that someone I’d met in England in the nineteenth century would reappear here, in this small Midwest town, two centuries later?

  ‘Perhaps you two could be friends?’ I heard Meredith say through the fogginess in my brain.

  I blinked, clearing my thoughts and returning to the present. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not? He’s cute, nice enough, and lives next door.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So why wouldn’t you want to be friends with him?’ Meredith insisted.

  ‘I already have friends.’

  Meredith looked as if she was considering my statement. My friends numbered two, Beth and Laura, who were the only other students at Brookdale High who embraced goth subculture—Laura sometimes a little too much. It wasn’t a wide circle of friends, and I didn’t even bother with Facebook, but they were true friends. Plus, there was Simone at the library; I counted her as a friend.

  ‘Well, you can have more friends,’ Meredith said eventually. ‘Besides, he’s new. You could do something nice and help him fit in.’

  I grimaced. Hanging around me would do nothing for his popularity other than ruin it. This much I knew for a fact—even the geeky kids stayed away from me. I was the equivalent of social suicide. There was no way Marcus Knight would want to be anywhere near me once he learned that.

  No, I decided firmly, ‘friends’ was something I and Marcus Knight would never be. Not in this world, at least.

  Chapter Four

  1806

  Penelope considered the image on the canvas before her. A pair of eyes. She knew once she added the grey, the tear-shaped pupils, and the reflections of light, they would take on a completely different appearance.

  They would be cold and hard. The eyes of the rider on the hill.

  She was pleased with her work. Having seen the man for only a matter of minutes, his eyes for just a few seconds, she’d somehow managed to capture them perfectly.

  A breeze blew against the back of her neck and she shivered, moving to close the attic window. Dusk had descended, bathing the fields in a blanket of orange and pink, and she paused, her fingers resting lightly on the sill, to stare up the hill towards Broadhurst Manor.

  She couldn’t see the Manor as it was beyond her line of sight, but she knew it was there. It was always there, like a rock or an ancient tree, part of the enduring landscape. The Manor gave her a sense of belonging, even though she didn’t live there, a sense of being a part of this world, a part of Broadhurst.

  Below her, on the grounds of the parsonage, sat the village’s small cemetery. The marble statues of angels and crucifixes shined in the sunlight. Penelope’s mother was buried there, her simple tombstone hidden amongst the more extravagant of the Broadhurst tombstones. Like the Manor, Penelope felt comfort to know her mother was there. Close by, but unseen.

  Glancing around the darkening room, Penelope decided to pack her art utensils away. Having returned in the early afternoon from Broadhurst Manor, she’d spent the afternoon painting, and it had taken several attempts to capture the slant of his eyes and the pupils, which were not rounded but shaped like a teardrop. There’d been a strange reflection in his eyes, too, that she wanted to capture, like a shard of glass or a piece of mirror. She imagined that when she looked into them she would see herself reflected. Or someone who looked a lot like her.

  She picked up another sketch that she’d done that afternoon. It was of Harry’s friend, Heath Lockwood. It’d been easy to capture the warmth and intimacy of his features.

  Two new acquaintances in one day, she mused. Although, only one had she experienced the actual pleasure of meeting. The other…Something about him suggested ‘pleasure’ might not be the correct word.

  A noise outside made her look up, her sketched image of Heath fluttering, forgotten, to the ground. It had sounded like rolling thunder, and yet there’d been not a cloud in the sky a moment ago. Curiously, she made her way to the window again and peered out.

  The sun had set, the forest bordering the parsonage cloaked in greying shadows. She wondered if something within forest had made the noise, and her gaze lingered on the trees before wandering back to the cemetery. She paused at a large, exaggerated seraph, its wings stretched in flight. Already a light fog had curled around the tombstones. But there was nothing to startle her. With a sigh, she turned to go, when her glance flickered back to the forest.

  She froze.

  Standing on the edge of the forest, half-hidden in the encroaching shadows, was the stranger. She would recognise him anywhere. He stood with his feet apart, arms crossed against his broad chest, while staring at the attic window of the parsonage. At her.

  Something yanked deeply at Penelope’s chest, and she wanted to look away, wanted to move from the window.

  Wanted to run and hide.

  But she couldn’t. Like in the mud she was stuck in earlier, her feet were anchored to the floor, her eyes fixed on him. And somehow, he held not just her eyes, but her heart, too. It was as if he’d reached out and wrapped a tight fist around it, squeezing it tighter and tighter. She could barely breathe.

  He moved. It was the slightest lift of his chin, almost imperceptible, and her fingers itched to reach out and touch him. She knew he would be as cool as the marble of the statues below. As cold as the giant seraph.

  Move away, a voice whispered in her mind. Step back.

  She shivered, the cool breeze again stirring the hairs on the back of her neck and breaking the trance. It was all she needed. Without a second’s hesitation, she fled the room, racing down the narrow attic stairs.

  Only when she was ensconced in her room, the door firmly closed behind her, did she realise what troubled her the most.

  Twice she’d felt the cool breeze on her neck, as if a gust of wind had blown through the attic, when she had been staring out at him on the edge of the forest. But there was only one window, and it was shut.

  ‘Harry is well?’

  ‘Yes, and, as usual, he is in very good spirits,’ Penelope told her father that evening as they sat by the hearth. She toyed briefly with the idea of collecting her drawing materials and sketching, but she was too afraid to go up to the attic in the dark.
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br />   Afraid of what might be lurking in the shadows. Or who.

  ‘I hear he has a friend with him?’

  ‘A colleague from university. Mr Heath Lockwood,’ she explained, blushing slightly as she recalled the warmth of his chocolate brown eyes.

  The parson nodded. ‘Very good for Harry.’ He fell silent and Penelope struggled to think of something else to say. Her father wasn’t known for conversation, although standing at the altar in front of a crowded church he was never short of words.

  ‘Did you visit Mrs Smith?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘Ah yes. Poor, poor woman. Her situation is dire, with her husband being such a wretched man, drinking and vanishing of his own accord. And her lack of faith does little to help.’

  ‘Mrs Smith has faith, Father,’ Penelope said. ‘Just not the same kind of faith that you have.’

  ‘As we have, Penelope,’ he corrected quietly. ‘I’ve done my best to bring her and her family to the church, but she won’t hear of it.’

  ‘Her own mother was very strong,’ she said gently, knowing how much her father disliked atheism, agnosticism or worse. Eliza Smith had her own firm beliefs on the subject of her soul. Beliefs that were in stark contrast to those which Penelope’s father preached.

  ‘I told her you would visit during the week.’

  Penelope smiled. ‘Yes. I will.’ After a moment, her thoughts drifting once more, she said, ‘Father, have you heard of any visitors to town?’

  He looked up. ‘No. Just Harry’s friend. Mrs Priscopp said the other day she might send for her niece, Anne, but otherwise, no.’

  ‘Oh.’ Penelope didn’t elaborate further, and her father didn’t ask. Eventually she said goodnight. Preparing for bed, she remembered the breeze in the attic, and felt it creeping slowly into her own chamber.

  Bravely she went to the window and peered out. Beyond the garden was the forest, which was dark and unyielding, a white fog hovering on its edges. Bright stars shone in the night sky, but there was no moon. She waited for the stranger to appear, to step out from wherever he lurked and reveal himself.

  But, after a few minutes of scouring the outside world, she realised he wasn’t there. He wasn’t watching or waiting for her, after all.

  Letting the curtains fall back into place, she climbed into bed, snuggling beneath the covers and thinking not of grey eyes but of dark brown ones that crinkled at their edges. Heath Lockwood’s eyes.

  Chapter Five

  1806

  ‘Miss Georgina says your father is the finest preacher in the whole of England.’

  ‘Georgina is too kind and a bit biased, I think,’ Penelope replied, ‘but he is very good. Will you be here long enough to attend one of his sermons?’ Her breath caught slightly as she awaited his response.

  Over the past few days, Penelope’s opinion of Heath Lockwood had grown considerably, so much so that she found herself thinking about him constantly. Her attic room was covered with sketches of his angular face, lopsided smile and dark brown eyes. Although, she couldn’t quite capture the expression she saw in his eyes when he looked at her. It was unlike any she’d seen before, and one she didn’t quite understand.

  ‘Yes, I hope so,’ Heath replied. ‘I’m here for as long as Harry and Georgina will have me.’

  ‘Your family won’t miss you?’ asked Georgina, joining them. She tilted her head slightly, watching him carefully. Penelope could read her like a book and knew she fished for information.

  ‘I’m an orphan, Miss Georgina. My only kin is an older brother away in the navy. I’m accountable to none, but in the same way there are few that would miss me.’

  ‘You have no other kin at all?’ Georgina asked, and Penelope heard the interest in her voice. Georgina, she warned silently with a frown, discretion!

  ‘I should love to have a large family like yours,’ Heath said, glancing pointedly at Penelope, Georgina and Harry, with only the slightest hint of sarcasm, ‘but I can’t change that fact, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Of course you can,’ Harry burst out loudly, his voice booming around the room. ‘Marry! Marry into a big family that has a mother and father who’ll adore you, sisters who’ll desire you from afar, and enough cousins and aunts to keep your house filled year in, year out. That is how you can fix such a terrible predicament.’ He laughed generously at his own wit.

  ‘Harry, you’re teasing Mr Lockwood!’ Georgina admonished, ‘And making marriage sound awful at the same time.’

  ‘Marriage is awful,’ laughed Harry. ‘Just ask any husband! Although, I can imagine there are a few fun things to do in marriage.’

  The two men burst out laughing, whilst Georgina frowned disapprovingly. Penelope ignored Harry, thinking how pleasant Heath Lockwood’s laugh was. It wasn’t a booming, boisterous laugh like Harry’s, but it wasn’t insipid and weak, either. No, she decided, it’s a gentleman’s laugh—firm, strong, velvety, and very appealing. She liked it immensely.

  ‘Well,’ Harry said, continuing the previous conversation, ‘we’re hardly great company—there’s just the three of us.’ He turned to Heath. ‘And I have to say, it can get very dull sometimes with just these two little girls to keep company with. But you are welcome here as long as you wish.’

  ‘Harry!’ cried Georgina, outraged again at her brother’s comments. ‘We aren’t little girls. We’re both grown, I’ll have you know. Mr Lockwood will think we spend our time playing dolls and hide-and-seek.’

  ‘Oh, I hardly think that,’ Heath assured Georgina, ‘I’m well aware you and Miss Penelope are not little girls.’ He glanced at Penelope as he spoke and she felt her cheeks darken, as if he’d sent her a secret message. ‘And I think a game of hide-and-seek in the garden would be most enjoyable.’ Again his heated eyes locked with Penelope’s, and she felt a dull ache form in her belly.

  ‘Well, at least Penelope has some interesting hobbies,’ Harry continued.

  ‘Oh?’ Heath dragged his eyes from Penelope’s.

  ‘She likes to walk, don’t you, cousin? Walks for miles and miles. All over the countryside,’ Harry informed him. ‘Most of the time she’s doing it to visit people, providing charity for neighbours. Otherwise, I think she does it for the exercise. If not, then I really don’t know why she does it.’

  ‘Harry, you are talking about me as if I’m not here,’ Penelope said gently.

  ‘Sorry, cousin! Forgot you were, you had grown so quiet.’

  Heath looked to Penelope, and she averted her eyes only to meet Georgina’s amused blue ones.

  ‘And she paints fabulous works of art,’ Harry added. ‘They should be hung in a museum. Perhaps one day they will be.’

  ‘What do you paint?’ Heath asked.

  ‘Landscapes mainly,’ Penelope replied. ‘A few portraits as well, although they aren’t very good.’

  ‘I’d be happy to sit for you, if it would help perfect your skill,’ Heath offered.

  ‘And she plays croquet rather well, actually.’

  ‘Is that so?’ queried Heath. ‘Perhaps we can play a game one day? Whilst the weather is still fine?’

  ‘Sounds like a grand idea,’ Harry burst out just as Penelope opened her mouth to reply. ‘I will get Georgie to organise a picnic with all our neighbours. Do it soon though, Georgie, won’t you? Before the weather turns.’

  Georgina nodded, watching Heath, whose eyes were fixed firmly and appreciatively on Penelope.

  ‘I think Mr Lockwood has taken a fancy to you,’ Georgina informed Penelope as soon as they were alone. They walked the gardens of the Manor, enjoying the last rose blooms of the season.

  ‘I’m sure you’re mistaken,’ Penelope replied, hoping just the opposite. ‘I think he is only being polite.’

  ‘I see how he looks at you. He doesn’t look like that at me—nor Annie—and he is just as polite with us. No, I do believe, my dear cousin, that you have your very first admirer.’

  Penelope flushed with pleasure as she recalled Heath’s dark brown eyes and how
he’d looked at her with such…She couldn’t find the right word. It wasn’t interest. It wasn’t admiration. It was something else entirely.

  ‘You like him too!’ cried Georgina, eyeing Penelope’s coloured cheeks.

  ‘How could I not? You, yourself pointed out how handsome he is. And agreeable. Many times.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I did,’ Georgina frowned slightly before continuing, ‘but you know, I simply cannot find out anything about his family.’

  ‘It’s a delicate subject,’ Penelope observed. ‘Being an orphan must be difficult, and it’s amazing to hear he has no other kin to speak of, save a brother.’

  ‘Yes, I thought so, too. That’s why I have sent a note to my aunt in London to see what she can find out about Mr Heath Lockwood.’

  ‘Georgina, you didn’t!’

  Georgina shrugged, looping her arm around Penelope’s. ‘Of course I did. Father would not want someone of questionable character staying in our home, I am sure. And as for Mr Lockwood, well, there is no point keeping secrets—if he has any. Everyone knows secrets always come out in the end.’

  Something about the way Georgina said that made Penelope feel uneasy, her stomach performing a small flip in the pit of her belly. But she ignored it, spying a bright orange rose bloom and hurrying across the lawns to inhale its scent. ‘Look!’ she cried, ‘Isn’t it marvellous? I’ve not seen one this colour before.’

  Georgina eyed it sadly. ‘That bush was Mama’s favourite. It hasn’t bloomed since she passed away. I think it has been in mourning, too.’

  Penelope felt for her cousin. ‘You miss her still?’

  ‘Every day,’ Georgina nodded, ‘I miss her counsel and advice. She would know exactly what to do about Mr Lockwood.’

  ‘I’m not sure anything needs to be done.’

  ‘Oh Penelope, you are so naive!’ Georgina admonished. ‘Of course there is everything to be done. Mama would find out in an instant who he was, where he came from, who his parents were, and how much income he has.’