Going upstairs, I did the same as I stood in the doorway of the attic. I surveyed the room. The clutter and chaos was the same, my easel and paints where I’d left them.
The blanket.
I kept an old, musty blanket draped over the top of my armchair, and now it was folded neatly on the seat.
Reaching under the cushions, I felt for the journal, my pulse pounding in my head. As my fingers found it, my heart skipped a beat. Opening the thick book, my eyes scanned the tattered pages—they contained the rantings and ravings of a mad person.
It was just as I’d left it. My conversations with Heath, and with Jane and Eliza Smith, remained carefully documented; my pencil sketch of Heath’s face in the twilight was there too. I’d done many drawings of him.
Marcus’ face.
And the rider. I’d drawn him too. As I flicked through the pages, my panic grew. The rider.
I turned another page. And another.
I’d drawn him, just as Penelope had, sitting astride the powerful horse, gazing down on her menacingly.
With growing panic, I scrambled through the pages, past my scribbles and drawings. It wasn’t there. The picture wasn’t there. My eyes lit on the jagged edges of a torn page, and a hard lump formed in my throat.
It was gone. The picture of him, of the rider with grey eyes, had been torn from my book.
Cold horror turned in my stomach.
He’d found not just Penelope, but me too.
Chapter Thirteen
1806
Alone in the attic, Penelope picked up a pencil and began to sketch. The canvas lay smooth and clean before her, and she couldn’t wait to fill it. Couldn’t wait to recapture the moment that so warmed her heart.
Heath was in love with her. She knew it like she knew the sun would rise tomorrow, like she knew her own self. And her feelings. He was in love with her and she, well, she was madly and utterly in love with him. Her heart swelled with the memory of his kisses, of his arms around her. She couldn’t wait to see him again, couldn’t wait to feel his hands, his lips, on her once more, couldn’t wait for the sensations that coursed deliciously throughout her body.
Time. It was only a matter of time, and time was something they were not short of. Her thoughts flipped back to Mrs Smith and Jane, and their strange, intriguing words. What had Jane said? You are part of a great love story? Well, Jane had been listening to rumours and had told Penelope something she wanted to hear, something she wanted to believe. Something she did in fact believe. But Mrs Smith…What was it Eliza Smith had whispered? Is he the one you dream of? What an odd thing to say, as if there could be anyone else when he consumed her every waking and sleeping thought.
Almost.
Penelope shivered again, and the pencil fell from her fingers. Turning to pick it up, she froze, her eyes growing wide with disbelief. Nestled on her tray of paints was the orange rose bloom. The strange bloom from Aunt Elizabeth’s garden. The one she’d stopped to admire with Georgina.
She hadn’t picked it. Neither had Georgina.
But someone had. And someone had been in her attic.
Glancing around the attic, over the large, heavy trunks and the dusty, old furniture, she found nothing to suggest that anyone, other than her, had ever been in the room. Her father never came up here, nor did any of the servants. It was her space entirely. And yet someone had been in here.
Heath? No. Instantly she knew it wasn’t him, and her heart quickened, ice seeping into her veins. Rising, she moved to the attic window. It faced west, and she could see the light from the sun just emerging over the top of the house, illuminating the forest surrounding the parsonage. Her eyes scoured every inch of visible landscape for any sign of him, her throat tight. This is ridiculous, she told herself, I am not being stalked by some stranger with odd silver eyes. The very idea was preposterous.
Downstairs she heard the front door open and her father call up to her. Warmth returned to her limbs. Pushing all thoughts of the stranger from her head, she went downstairs to greet her father, not looking at the orange flower waiting for her.
‘I think there is much you aren’t telling me,’ Georgina said a few days later, her expression smug as the two girls sat on the verandah that wrapped around Broadhurst Manor.
Penelope struggled to keep her features set. ‘Really, Georgie, I thought I was the one with the overactive imagination.’
Georgina laughed, her voice light and pleasant. ‘Oh, this has nothing to do with an imagination, my dear cousin. This has nothing do to with imaginings, and everything to do with fact.’
‘You and your facts.’ Penelope glanced at the book in her cousin’s lap. ‘And what is that you’re reading?’
‘I found it in Harry’s things. And before you can scold me for snooping, I’ll have you know he said I could read it. But you are changing the subject, my dear cousin.’
‘No, I’m not,’ she replied, lifting her chin slightly. ‘I thought we had exhausted it.’
‘I don’t think we have.’ Georgina peered closer at Penelope. ‘No. I think there is something you aren’t telling me.’
Penelope set her mouth in a firm, straight line but didn’t answer.
Georgina gasped. ‘You haven’t!’
Penelope blinked. ‘What?’
‘Well, you know…’ Georgina leaned even closer, scooting her chair across to close the gap between them, and lowered her voice. ‘Tell me what has happened between you. Has he kissed you? More?’
Penelope gasped.
‘Oh, don’t be so outraged Pene,’ Georgina said, her lips playing with a smile. ‘I see the way you look at one another. You’re more in love than any couple I’ve ever seen!’
Penelope kept her lips together, refusing to answer.
‘Well? You must tell me! You know I won’t give up. I can’t stand secrets or mysteries.’
At the mention of secrets, Penelope’s mind flashed back to the rider on the hill, to the man watching from the edge of the forest. Try as she might, Penelope couldn’t forget him, and she found it increasingly difficult not to think of his startling grey eyes. Even pleasant thoughts about Heath couldn’t completely eradicate him from her mind.
‘Pene?’ Georgina was watching her curiously.
‘There is something I’d like to tell you,’ Penelope said, furtively glancing around to make sure they were alone. It was late afternoon, and the sun sat low in the cloudless sky, streaking the earth with shimmering light. ‘Something that has been troubling me.’
‘Troubling you?’ Georgina frowned. This wasn’t what she’d been expecting.
‘Well, I’ve been feeling, um, sensing someone watching me.’
‘Watching you?’ Georgina repeated.
‘Yes. I saw someone the day Heath and Harry arrived. A man on a horse. Then I saw him again from my attic window.’ She felt a little silly now. It all sounded completely harmless when she said it aloud.
‘Whom do you think it was? Was it Heath?’
She shook her head. ‘No. It wasn’t him. This person had silver grey eyes. Glassy eyes and a tear-shaped pupil.’ She shivered. ‘And it’s not just that. I often get a feeling, a strange feeling…’ She could find no words to explain her sense of foreboding. As if something ominous lurked on the fringes of her mind, just out of reach.
‘Pene? Is everything all right? Are you well?’ Georgina’s voice was full of concern.
Penelope did her best to smile reassuringly. She’d been silly to confide about her overactive imagination with her cousin; it was nothing. Nothing she needed to share, anyhow. ‘I’m fine. Forgive me. I’ve had trouble sleeping lately.’
‘Sounds like it indeed.’ Georgina sat back in her chair and watched Penelope thoughtfully. ‘If you saw this rider—this person—again, would you recognise him?’
‘Yes. Absolutely.’
‘But you haven’t seen him since Heath arrived?’
‘No. Only that day.’
Georgina shrugged. ‘Then I’m sur
e it’s nothing to worry about. Perhaps a passing traveller? Don’t think about him anymore. Think only of Mr Lockwood and what a fine, handsome couple you will make, and how our Anne will be exceedingly jealous.’
Penelope smiled, feeling better at the thought of Heath. Purposely she allowed her mind to drift to sweet memories of his kiss, while she did her best to ignore the strange sensations curling in the pit of her belly.
Sensations she soon realised were guilt.
Chapter Fourteen
Present day
I caught the bus back to the library. The journal was rehidden in the attic.
As I sat on the bus, my mind was in chaos. Maybe I was imagining it. He, the man who stalked me repeatedly, was part of my dreams, my own Freddie Kruger. He wasn’t real, and he certainly couldn’t just appear in my room and read my journal. There was no way he could know about the journal. How would he even know where to find me? No, I must be mistaken. It wasn’t possible.
But the torn page, the missing picture…
Both were evidence that couldn’t be easily dismissed.
‘Everything all right?’ Simone asked as I walked into the library.
‘Yes. Sorry for running out like that. I, ah, left the iron on,’ I mumbled feebly.
Simone looked pointedly at my crinkled dress and torn stockings. ‘I see.’ That was all she said before changing topics. ‘Are you still able to cover for me tonight?’
I nodded and tried to smile reassuringly, but I don’t think I managed it very well. I felt hollow inside, my mind and body almost numb from fear, terror and confusion.
I spent the next few hours stacking shelves, my body on rote, my mind heavy. I couldn’t think of anything but the rider watching Penelope from a distance.
And watching me, too, it seemed.
‘You’ll be okay?’ Simone asked, looping her handbag over her shoulder and scooping a few books under her arm.
‘Sure,’ I told her, glancing at the books. ‘What are you reading?’
‘Oh, love stories,’ Simone gushed. ‘Silly really, but I guess I’m in the mood for a little romance these days. Unlike some.’
I ignored her. Simone was right: romance was the last thing on my mind.
Even if it was forefront in Penelope’s.
Time dragged. Few people venture to the library on a Saturday night, and that night there were even fewer due to the school dance. By eight o’clock I was alone with Daniel, my pimple-faced, fourteen-year-old co-worker.
Bored, and with nothing else to occupy my time, I flipped the library intranet over to Google and typed in ‘Marcus Knight’. I didn’t really know what I was looking for and paused before hitting the search button. Googling a boy’s name was so outside of my normal behaviour.
There are quite a few Marcus Knights in the world. I found the Facebook page of the one I knew at the top of the results, an image of his twenty-first-century self smiling back at me. He looked like the kind of boy with which girls everywhere fell in love—a fact that had been proven at Brookdale High.
Flipping back to the search engine, I paused, then I typed ‘Heath Lockwood’. There were few hits, not as many as Marcus Knight, but that was to be expected; it was a very nineteenth-century name. Scanning the list, I saw little to grab my attention. Well, nothing that seemed relevant, anyhow.
Curious, I switched the search engine and tried again. I almost expected to see a colour photo of Heath smiling crookedly but, of course, there were no cameras in 1806. More’s the pity.
The image results were vague and uninspiring, although one caught my attention and I enlarged it.
It was a tombstone. I couldn’t breathe while the words swam before my eyes.
Here lies Heath Lockwood, died October 25, 1806.
With wide eyes I stared in horror at the inscription. It was Heath’s grave. I was looking at Heath’s grave. And the date was 1806, the year I’d met him.
The year it was in my dreams now.
The year he and Penelope planned to marry.
Nausea swirled in my stomach. The tombstone made no mention of his wife. Did that mean he and Penelope hadn’t married? Did that mean she’d already been murdered? Or had Heath died first?
October…October…
My blood ran cold. In my dreams, it was September. Heath had only a few weeks left. It was impossible to believe. How did he die? He appeared well enough.
I hoped that Heath and Penelope had found some time together, although I knew, deep in the very core of my soul, that it wasn’t so. He had gotten to them.
Taken her. Taken her from her soul mate.
A new thought occurred to me. With unsteady fingers, I typed ‘soul mates’ into the computer and was immediately assailed with more than a million hits. The first five pages of results were devoted to clairvoyant websites promising to help find yours. I scoffed. People really are desperate. Imagine believing in the ridiculousness of soul mates, of souls being…
…reincarnated together, over and over, throughout time.
My fingers shook and I had to place them in my lap as I read the website, my whole body rigid.
Reincarnation is also called transmigration of the soul, the website explained before outlining the various religious theories of reincarnation. Hinduism. Judaism. Islam. Buddhism. Christianity. It seemed they all had a theory.
Briefly I wondered what Pastor Broadhurst’s theory would be.
Clicking on a link to another website, I scanned the page, my eyes wide, hungry for new information. This website suggested that people were reincarnated in order to learn lessons they hadn’t fully grasped in previous lifetimes.
Drawing a ragged breath, my pulse pounding in my ears, I chose another website. My blood ran cold. Soul mates, I read, were couples who appeared in each other’s lives time after time. But there was another type of soul mate—the enemy. Unresolved relationships, I read, my throat constricting with rising panic, can bring the same souls together, again and again.
An image of luminous eyes with tear-shaped pupils filled my mind. I shuddered, knowing what I’d read was true. He was the constant between my dreams. He appeared over and over again with the sole purpose of killing me. He was my enemy.
Clicking on another website, I read on, devouring as much information as possible. I lost track of time, my head filling with new words and terminology such as transmigration, soul connections and soul gardens. It wasn’t until Daniel appeared in front of me that I realised how late it was.
‘You okay to lock up?’ he asked. ‘I want to make the dance.’
There was no suggestion that I might want to make the dance. Even the lanky, oily-haired Daniel had a better social life than me.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You go ahead.’
I took my time turning off lights and computers, and arming the building’s security system, my head spinning with information. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d learned.
Soul mates. Enemies from past lives.
Pretty horrible past lives that all ended with my murder. Perhaps the therapist that Meredith wanted to hook me up with could find a way to stop my memories. Perhaps there was a way to break free of the dark dreams that plagued me every night.
Maybe there was hope after all.
Chapter Fifteen
1806
Penelope tilted her head, studying the way the afternoon sunlight streaked across the lawn. Picking up her paintbrush, she applied a trail of crimson to the scene she’d created.
‘How is that painting coming along?’ Georgina asked.
Penelope glanced askance at her cousin, who sat quietly nearby with the book she’d been reading resting in her lap. Modern Science. Another book of Harry’s. Georgina was becoming quite interested in science, but Penelope knew her to be intelligent. Georgina was probably cleverer than Harry, in actuality, although no one would ever admit that. It wasn’t seemly for a daughter to be smarter than a son.
‘It’s getting there, although I’m having difficulty with
the light,’ Penelope admitted with a slight frown.
‘Well, I’m getting cold,’ Georgina complained, ‘so I think we should go up.’
‘Just a few more minutes…’ The sun was fading rapidly, now just a pale, yellow hue on the horizon, but Penelope wanted to capture the dying light, wanted to get the sun’s rays just right.
‘God’s fingers,’ came a deep voice from behind, causing Penelope to pause mid-stroke. Her blood pooled in her cheeks and her pulse quickened.
‘What?’ queried Georgina with amusement, while Penelope looked over her shoulder to find Heath’s dark brown eyes glowing at her.
He blinked, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, before lifting his gaze to meet Georgina’s. ‘God’s fingers. That’s how the light, streaking through the parting clouds like that, is described,’ he explained.
Georgina’s lips quirked but she didn’t reply, her eyes flitting carefully between Penelope and Heath.
‘God’s fingers,’ Penelope murmured, returning her gaze to the shards of light that shone through the voids in the clouds. Tilting her head, she regarded the image she was painting carefully. It did indeed look like God’s fingers were reaching out from the heavens to stroke a comforting hand over the manor house. As if God sought to reassure or console its inhabitants.
A chill raced up her spine.
‘A beautiful painting,’ Heath continued, his eyes roaming the canvas. ‘You’ve completely captured the beauty of Broadhurst.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured as her eyes lingered on his.
‘Well, I’m cold,’ Georgina complained, standing, a smile playing on her lips, ‘so I’m going up.’ She tucked her book under her arm before looking back to where Penelope still sat, eyes locked with Heath’s. She sighed. ‘You two may join us when you wish.’
Heath smiled in response, but Penelope barely acknowledged Georgina’s comments.
‘Another few days have passed,’ Heath said at length once they were alone, his voice heavy with meaning. ‘Does that mean we are now free to share our engagement?’
Time After Time Page 9
