The truth sank in with a sickening weight at the pit of her stomach. Not that Henry didn’t deserve saving — for his own sake, now that she’d gotten to know the exemplary person he was — but Granny was right. Hazel herself may have benefitted from the intervention of a good grief counselor as much as she had from Brontë’s in saving her husband’s life. She’d worn her desolation like a mourning cloak through the rest of her days. Every reiteration of her diary had proven that. The abandonment of her home, her friends, and in many ways, her children all for the sake of her loss. She’d accomplished it so thoroughly there was an entire branch of her step-father’s family — the MacKintoshes, friends of Henry’s — that she’d forsaken so thoroughly that by Brontë’s generation they didn’t even remember the connection.
But if love wasn’t everything…worth everything, what was?
“I never intended for you get so caught up in them that you didn’t live a life of your own,” Violet went on. “Your mother was right. They’ve given you unrealistic expectations.”
“I have a life,” Brontë defended herself. Her expectations were best not addressed. Especially not now.
“But not love. You mustn’t give up on finding it, dear.”
Brontë’s forehead wrinkled with the force of her skeptical stare. “Odd advice coming from you, Granny. You never bothered to look after Grandpa died.”
“Yes. As I said before, my greatest regret. I don’t want you to be me,” her grandmother shot back. “By the time I realized eternal mourning was a poor substitute for a real live man to have and hold, it was too late to do anything about it. Don’t be me, dear. Don’t end up old and alone.” She raised a hand to stifle Brontë’s protest. “I know I’m not technically alone here. I love you dearly, my girl, but you must agree the pleasant company of a granddaughter cannot compensate for the time I squandered. I missed out on years of companionship, romance, and to be honest, sex.”
She bit her tongue and Violet caught the gesture with another grin. “Hard to imagine us old folks enjoying a warm body, isn’t it?” she said with a laugh. “My point is, you’ve a lot of years ahead of you yet, dear. Trust me, you don’t want to live them alone.
“Are you saying something is better than nothing then?” Brontë asked. “That settling is better than waiting for something more?”
Her grandmother fell silent. A frown marring her brow as she sipped her wine. “Perhaps not settling for it precisely.”
“What then?”
“Fighting for it.”
Chapter 30
“Nay, ye cannae be pulling that, ye radge bampot. Ye’ll bring the whole thing down on top of us. That. Aye, that! Turn it doon. Doon, ye eejit,” came the bellow, then a lower mumbled, “Ye feckin’ dolton.”
No one could swear like a Scotsman. A thick Scottish brogue could convey more exasperation than any number of insults. Despite the headache jackhammering her head, the lyrical burr if not the words themselves made Brontë smile as she crossed backstage of the Lyceum. The hubbub involved with the break down of sets signaled that the run of Cyrano de Bergerac had come to an end. The play would move on.
As would the set director and announcer of all those insults she’d heard coming in. Donell grinned at her as she walked by and tipped his flat cap. “Och, Miss Hughes, there ye are,” his brogue softer and far friendlier than it had been seconds before. “Whit like? Ye look a wee bit peely-wally.”
How was she? The hangover from hell had set up shop in her head and extended to her stomach. Of course, she looked pale. The liquid contents of her stomach were in full rebellion. “I’m fine.”
He nodded. “What brings ye about? There’s nae show tonight.”
“I know. I wanted to get ahead of the next production.”
Yes. One ingeniously entitled Brontë Travels Back in Time: Part Three. Or was it four?
“The next one?” He lifted off his cap and scratched his balding head before donning it again. “I dinnae think ye finished wi’ the last one as yet. Given the way things were left, that is.”
His nonsensical comment confused her. “As you know, Cyrano’s run is over. That’s why you’re taking down the sets, isn’t it?”
The old man shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “That’s no’ the project I was referring to, lass. Ye left a pure tangle of things, aye?”
As if he might snatch it from her hands, she clutched her purse to her chest, protecting the precious time machine within. To her last breath, she wouldn’t give it up without seeing Tris again. And Donell sounded as if he knew what she’d been up to. How could that be possible when he didn’t even know she’d borrowed his device?
“Dinnae fash yerself, lass. I’m no’ going to fight ye for it.”
He did know.
“Aye, I kent what ye hae. How could I no’? I gave it to ye, dinnae I?”
Her chin found its way to the floor before she snapped her mouth shout again. “You did? I mean, you did it on purpose? Why?”
“Why do ye think? I tend to favor people wi’ like-minded goals.”
I’m not going to ask. I’m not going to ask.
“How did you know? About them? About me? About —”
Donell held up a hand to stall her interrogation. “I believe ye’re comfortable wi’ the notion that ye’d be happier if ye dinnae ken the truth, aye?”
He knew about the excuse she’d given Tris when he’d asked the same question? How?
“I kent many things, lass. First and foremost, ye’re no’ done wi’ the task I set ye to yet.”
All her worries about keeping his device from him and he’d done it on purpose? The truth rang through her already aching head. He not only knew everything she’d done, everything she’d gone through, but had planned the whole thing? Knowing he’d set her up did nothing to comfort Brontë and everything to galvanize her temper.
“Your task? You mean your impossible task? Every time I save Henry another catastrophe rises to take its place. In fact,” — she made a show of checking her wrist for a watch that wasn’t there — “I’m running late on the way to execute another exercise in futility right now. Isn’t that right?”
Brows high, he shot a wary glance around the stage and caught her by the elbow to lead her down the hall to the costume shop. “Simmer yerself ’ere ye work yerself into a lather, lass.”
“Simmer myself? I just found out that the enormous pile of shit I’ve been wading through has been orchestrated by…by…by a madman, clearly,” she lashed out at him along the way. Her regrets and fears all swarmed to the forefront, eager to be purged. “What? Do you get some cheap thrill out of playing with people’s emotions? Do you have any idea what you’ve done? To Tris? To me?”
“I ken well enough ye maun be the most temperamental lass I’ve dealt with yet,” he muttered with a scowl.
Astonishment forced her to downshift from anger to sarcasm. “So nice to know I’m not alone. What the fuck, Donell? I hurt him. I hurt all of them. And for what? If I save Henry again, there will be something else, won’t there? Then another and another?”
“And here I thought foreknowledge would save me a fair amount of anxiety. Sit, lass.” He grasped her shoulders and pivoted her toward a chair, though he didn’t go so far as to push her into it. Dazed by his revelations, she sank down. He hovered over and the next thing she knew he stood six inches to the right holding out a glass of whisky to her. “Here. Calm yerself, lass.”
“It’s ten in the morning.”
“Ye look like ye could use it.”
Yes, she could. Brontë took a sip and looked back up at him. “You went and got this, didn’t you? To another time?”
“To mine. Aye. I needed a moment to collect myself as well,” he told her. “Ye’re a headstrong lass.”
The temptation to ask him what time he’d come from was great, however she refrained from doing so. He was right. Mired in shock and plagued by a brutal headache as she was, she didn’t need anything more to
compound her despair. Someday — certainly not right now — she’d be interested to know who those other temperamental lasses he referred to were.
“No’ everything works out as planned the first time around,” he explained. “Adjustments need to be made to get them right. Timing is everything. One wee second can send a ripple down the timeline, mucking everything up. Time is nothing to be toyed wi’, lass.”
The speech had an odd ring to it, and she got the impression this wasn’t the first time he’d delivered it. Not to be toyed with? Ha, from her perspective he did plenty of that.
“It shouldnae hae been so difficult for ye. Ye’ve been burdened wi’ an unexpected and unfortunate challenge.” With one fingertip, he guided the glass to her lips. “Other parties wanting to undo what ye’ve done. For that, I apologize.”
The whisky burned a welcome path down her throat. He meant the unforeseen circumstance of one Heath Wyndom obviously. “I’ll succeed in the end then?”
At least there would be that to offer comfort.
Donell shrugged. “I’ve learned that sometimes ’tis no’ always possible to save everyone. That no’ everyone is meant to be saved. The icy fate that first took him wisnae meant to be. I’ve seen millions of versions of the future, lass. Save him from this last attempt and he’ll have accomplished his purpose.”
Was he saying Henry would or would not make it in the end? Confusion muddled her thoughts. Brontë wished she were in a better state of mind to understand what he was getting at.
“I don’t understand, if I’m not supposed to ultimately save Henry, then why send me back at all? What’s changed between then and now to make him expenda …?” The thought slipped away as she grasped his ultimate objective. Hazel’s pregnancy. That’s what was different between this time and the last. The unborn baby Phineas. “They’re after the baby?”
“They’ll seek to prevent his birth.”
“Who? Who are they?” She jerked her head and took another sip of the whisky. “Scratch that. I’m not ready for that yet. They don’t know Hazel’s already pregnant? What? Is math not their strong suit?”
“Certain records may have been altered.” He shrugged.
“Why wait two years after the Titanic to send someone to finish him off then?” she asked. “Why not right away?”
“Time itself is irrelevant. Years are naught while timing itself is everything.”
Brontë pondered what he’d said. “You’re saying no matter what I do, Henry will die? I don’t get it. If you wield such a power, why can’t you have everything you want?”
“Sometimes what we want is not what we need.”
He’d said that before. The concept worked for her to some extent when applied to her love life but not to Henry’s survival.
“Yer ancestor has a passel of children he never had before,” Donell went on. “His wife, bairns a plenty to love and comfort…and to draw comfort from. She’ll be happy again when all is said and done.”
He was wrong about that. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“A comedian of this time that ye’re fond of once said ‘Our job is improving the quality of life, no’ just delaying death,’” he quoted.
Yes, she was familiar. Robin Williams, God rest him, might have been the greatest philosopher of her time.
He stared down into his glass then guzzled down the remainder of the Scotch in a manner it was not meant to be. “I ken ye want him to live, lass, but he disnae need to.”
He was wrong about that, too. Brontë shook her head. “I need him to. Hazel needs him to. His children will need him to.”
“I’m sorry, lass.” He looked duly regretful. “There is a greater cause at play.”
“What can be greater than this?” she protested. “Why should children and a loving wife have to sacrifice their father?
“Why would a father sacrifice his own child?” came his cryptic response. His brogue dropped with emotion. “Why would a man sacrifice the love of his life? When I say greater good, lass, I mean a cause greater than one man’s life. I’ve fought many battles, the greatest of them all is coming. Ye’ll need to let him go. As we maun all eventually let everyone we love go.”
Following his example, she drank the contents in a single swallow, and welcomed the dull buzz it brought to her mournful contemplation. “You expect me to sit back and watch him die? I can’t do that.”
He nodded again. “Ye hate having nae control. Being unable to mold the world to suit ye. All yer life, ye’ve been a dreamer disappointed by an imperfect world. And all the more unhappy for it. If ye’ve learned nothing else from this, what is it, lass?”
He wanted to her say that she’d learned to let it go. To accept what she couldn’t change and be content with what she had. Not to look back with regret but forward with optimism.
Brontë couldn’t say that.
Sadly for him, what she’d learned was to fight. Fight for what was right, for what she wanted and who she loved. She wasn’t going to dwell in the darkness and let it consume her any more. She was going to drag it, all of it into the light.
He’d see that soon enough.
For now, he seemed satisfied by her lack of response. “Let me gi’ ye a ride to where ye need to be, aye? Ye’ve got a foe to conquer. And a lover to make up wi’ if I’m no’ mistaken.”
The suggestion swept away her fierce musings on conquest and reminded her of her failures. “Right. How am I supposed to do that? Tris doesn’t trust me.”
Donell scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Ye ken, I’ve spent my life moving through time. The future can be a shock for those from the past. Disnae mean ye shouldnae try.”
“Are you suggesting…?”
His blue eyes twinkled with humor.
“I’m suggesting ye keep him close. Verra close.”
Chapter 31
Glenrothes, Scotland
September 10, 1914
Tris stopped in his tracks at the breakfast room door. The last person he expected to see at the table at such an early hour was Brontë. Unless it was Henry. His friend was no more a morning person than she, yet there he was, seated at the foot of the table adjacent to her. Neither appeared pleased to be facing the early morning sunshine beaming through the windows. Mirrored scowls marred their faces.
The incongruously humorous sight lifted the dread that weighed upon him through the night. His anger the previous evening had been inexcusable. Spewing his frustrations upon her as if she were nothing more than a handy target was beyond the pale. Then to twist her reaction to his abrupt declaration as he had… Tris sighed and crossed his arms, leaning a shoulder against the door jamb to watch the play of emotions on Brontë’s face.
She hadn’t come down to dinner last night and looked tired this morning. Ashen with dark circles beneath her eyes. Bonny, aye, but weary. Their argument must have disrupted her sleep as it had his. Nonetheless, in spite of her crooked hairdo and wearing nothing more spectacular than a white blouse and blue skirt, to him she shone bright as the sunshine.
He’d surprised her last night to be sure. There’d never been mention of anything more than lust between them so how could he be angry with her for her response? If he were honest, he’d surprised himself. He’d played his feelings regarding their affair close to his chest, as had she. The emotions she stirred in him were new, numerous and difficult to identify. He hadn’t put a name to them himself until last night.
Sweet aching tenderness pierced his heart without pause. The smell of her lingered in the air even when she wasn’t near. Each thought to pass through his mind brought him back to her. What would she think of that? What would she say? All the things his father had told him, and he hadn’t taken notice.
Now that they were there, however, he couldn’t ignore them. Aye, especially the lump forming in his throat as he watched her. His once stoic heart would bleed if he were to lose her due to a bout of foolishness. He owed her a bloody good apology.
He’d have to arrange
a moment alone with her to deliver it.
Dorian and his father were breaking their fast at the near end of the table with their backs to him, talking about the battles Dorian would face in the days to come. Knowing something about the trials of war, his father was imparting sage advice.
At the far end, Henry and Brontë sat mute, reading the newspaper. Both lifted their cups in a silent entreaty as a footman entered with a fresh pot of coffee. As always, Henry abused his, adding the atrocious amounts of cream that Tris was accustomed to seeing and then nudged the small pitcher across to table to Brontë. A soft grunt reached his ears. Of thanks? The possibility revived his good humor and extended his lips with an affectionate smile. She poured equally copious amounts of the liquid into her own cup, then dropped in cube after cube of sugar before handing the bowl to Henry. A silent routine, so rote they must have played it out time and again these past weeks. Henry dropped the same amount of sugar into his cup with a similar grumble of appreciation. Gad, but his two favorite people abhorred the morning hours and abused their brew in equal measure.
Brontë braced her elbow on the table and propped her chin in one hand, idly stirring her coffee with the other while she read the paper laid on the table next to her. The pose struck Tris as oddly familiar and the burst of amusement slipped, as did his smile. He looked from Henry to Brontë and back again. Elbow up, hand in cheek, stirring the brew with the same degree of inclination of their bodies as if either one of them might tilt right out of their chair at any moment. He saw it then, what he hadn’t noticed before. The hair color, the nose.
Hazel’s cousin Brontë might be but she also bore a striking resemblance to his friend.
How could that be?
Had Henry’s father ever been to —
“Good morning, darling boy.”
Tris looked down to find his mother by his side and straightened. He bent to kiss her cheek without showing an outward grimace for the juvenile affectation. Abby would forever see him as nothing more than a child no matter how he towered over her. “Good morning, Ma.”
A Scot to Remember (Something About a Highlander Book 1) Page 27
