“And there they all are,” he said in a resigned voice. Definitely not the voice of someone who was happy to be home after a long absence.
Still a fair way in the distance, she could see a crowd of uniformed servants standing in a row in front of the tall double doors, a man and woman standing slightly ahead of them. He looked down at her hand resting on his sleeve and she instinctively dropped it to her side. His lip quirked apologetically.
“Let’s be on, shall we? I’ll wager there’s a feast waiting. The cook here is quite good, she’ll make you fresh fruit tarts every morning if she likes you.”
“I’ll endeavor to suck up to her, then, for I do love a fresh fruit tart,” she said in her best Downton Abbey voice, making him laugh, and for an instant erasing the lines of apprehension from his face.
“The things you say,” he told her, “quite take me by surprise.”
The man who stood ahead of the servants waved and hallooed. As they grew nearer she saw that Ashford’s brother-in-law Kostya was only a few inches taller than her, slight of build, with a fine-boned, well proportioned face, almost more pretty than handsome, like a manga prince or fairy king. He had an edge about him, and though his smile was kind and friendly, his deep brown eyes held a well of sadness.
After Ashford clapped him on the shoulder and hugged him heartily, she took his offered hand and curtsied. As she rose, she was distracted from his warm welcome by Ashford picking up the beautiful blonde woman who stood next to Kostya, and twirling her around.
“Word must have traveled faster than I thought if you’re already here,” he said, putting the dainty porcelain doll of a woman back on her feet. Her blue eyes sparkled as she gazed up at him, and she wrinkled her pert nose.
“Are you sorry for it?” she said, her voice like a bell.
“Never,” Ashford replied.
Synapses fired in Tilly’s brain. It did not compute. She’d never seen Ashford look so delighted. What was the burning feeling in her chest area? Was she feeling jealousy? No, that was ridiculous. Ashford remembered her existence and waved at her.
“Serena McPherson, please allow me to introduce my secretary Miss Matilda Jacobs. She’s American.”
He moved like a young boy behind Serena’s shoulder and winked at her as he introduced her as his secretary. Serena cast her eyes heavenward and turned to look at Ashford, as if to catch him teasing her. They must have known each other a very long time. She barely glanced at Tilly, her smile and nod perfunctory. She would have prefered the judgemental battleaxe and looked to Kostya for a possible ally. He smiled affectionately at their antics, clearly used to them.
Once Ashford accepted the welcome of the servants and assured them they needn’t go out of their way at all for him, they went inside the imposing manor house and settled in a front sitting room that looked like an explosion at a doily factory. She had barely settled into the crushed velvet settee when a servant brought a cart laden with cakes, meats and cheeses, fruit, and hot tea.
“Miss Jacobs was unfortunate to have all of her belongings stolen the moment she set foot on our shores,” he said, loading up a plate and handing it to Serena. “I hope I can impose on you to take her to the dressmaker?”
“How terrible,” Serena said, nibbling a corner of biscuit.
“It’s not old Mrs. Begbie, anymore,” Kostya said. “She retired. There’s a new young lass who’ll come here.”
“Ah, even better, then.” Ashford filled another plate, and began eating from it. “Help yourself, Miss Jacobs,” he said. “The way you complained so heartily about starving the last few hours of our journey, I would think you would have tucked in by now.”
To her credit, Serena didn’t snicker out loud, but the look on her face told Tilly she was snickering inwardly. Tilly laid the roses across her lap and glared down at them, trying to remember that fleeting moment Ashford had acted human. She wanted to throw them at him for ruining her appetite when there was a delicious spread in front of her, for making her seem like a destitute charity case again, and stupidly, for not fixing her a plate. And for being right about the secretary thing.
He’d said the word, but she knew Serena didn’t believe him. It was clear from the way she kept gazing at him that she was in love with him, but she didn’t seem the least bit threatened by Tilly’s existence. As if she was used to Ashford’s foibles, and forgave them, knowing who would be the last in his heart. Now she wanted to throw the roses at Serena, and felt like the worst person in the world for being so petty. She was nothing to Ashford, just an obligation who would be gone from his life soon, and she had no right to feel the way she did right now.
She tried to get her feelings and her face in order so Ashford wouldn’t have any reason to call her on bad behavior, but when Serena jumped up and told Ashford he simply had to go see the new cherry trees before it got too dark, she felt herself wrinkling up like a prune.
“You’ll take care of Miss Jacobs?” he asked Kostya, already halfway out the door, practically clinging to Serena’s frothy pale yellow sleeve.
Kostya handed her a plate of sliced pears. “We grow these here,” he said. “They’re especially good this year.”
She took a bite, the nice gesture and the sweetness of the fruit returning some of the good mood she’d had in the rose garden.
“You’re not really Julian’s secretary, are you, Miss Jacobs?” Kostya asked abruptly, giving her a considering look with his slightly cat-like eyes.
“No,” she said, feeling better and better. “And I’m not his mistress either.”
He laughed and nodded understandingly. “I wouldn’t have thought so, no. You came through Belmary House, then, I assume, and not from America? Julian does love to tell his stories.”
She leaned into the stiff cushions of the settee, relieved her secret was out in the open, but wondering what he meant about not thinking she was Ashford’s mistress. Not ten minutes earlier she hadn’t wanted Kostya to think she was, and now she was offended that he didn’t think it at all, quite the opposite apparently. Was she that clearly not Ashford’s type? She needed to calm down, and stop caring about stupid things.
“Yes, but I really am from America, too. I was visiting my cousin, when I, uh, went through the house.” She placed the same emphasis on the words as he did and he seemed content that they were on the same page.
“We can speak freely, then.”
“Yes, let’s, please. And please call me Tilly. I’ll go mad if Ashford starts up that Miss Jacobs nonsense again.”
“If we’re doing away with formalities, then you must call me Kostya.” His smile revealed a dimple in his left cheek.
“Thank you, it’s an interesting name. I’ve never heard it before. It’s not Scottish, is it?”
“I’m from a small village in Moldavia. It’s a shortened version of Konstantin, which no one has ever called me save my grandmother.” He frowned and shook his head. “And I never see her anymore.”
He didn’t look sad about that, in fact his eyes grew hard at the mention of her, and his dimple melted away.
A silence settled over them that threatened to become uncomfortable and she cast around for something to say, settling on the worst possible thing. She could have mentioned the long journey, spoke of the mild weather, even asked to see the cherry trees that were so all-fired important.
“I’m sorry about your wife,” she said instead, causing him to jerk slightly in his chair. He turned his serious eyes on her.
“Ashford spoke to you of Camilla?” he asked, voice rich with disbelief.
“Yes, that’s why we’re here, actually. He’s supposed to get some information about her.”
She felt uneasy, as if she said too much, but how could Kostya not want to know if someone knew something about his wife? Honestly, why wasn’t it the first thing he and Ashford spoke about to each other?
Kostya emitted a short, bitter sound. He got up and paced to the window, looking out at the darkening estate. Now that she n
oticed it, the room had grown darker as well. There were unlit lamps by the door and along the walls, and the furniture cast long shadows across the glossy wood floor. She wished Ashford would hurry up and return, feeling oppressed in the gloomy room.
“Ah, for a moment I thought he might have come to his senses,” Kostya said, turning back to her. “But he’s still looking.”
“Looking for Camilla, you mean?” Tilly asked, confused at his hard tone of voice. “Shouldn’t he be?”
Kostya closed his eyes before speaking, his voice coming out ragged. “Camilla was on her way to France when fire overtook her ship and it sank. There were no survivors. My wife is dead.”
***
Tilly sat in stunned silence, only able to stare aghast at Kostya. Too many questions tumbled through her mind to land on one and she swallowed hard, trying to force something out of her mouth. She’d only known Ashford for a week, but she’d trusted him implicitly. Had he lied to her, or was he delusional?
She didn’t like the notion of either, and the sweet pear taste in her mouth turned sour. She squeezed the rose stems in her hand, gasping as one of the thorns pierced the base of her thumb. Turning her trembling hand over, she saw a drop of blood welling up, and quickly pressed a napkin against it.
Kostya looked tormented. There was no way she could ask him anything more, not with the look on his face. With a bow and apologetic shake of his head, he left the room, seemingly as unable to continue talking as she was. She sat alone in the room, staring out the window until a servant came in and lit the lamps and closed the curtains.
Feeling a sense of suffocation with the flickering light in the closed up room, she got up and threw them back open, startled to see her anguished reflection in the window. A shadowy figure loomed behind her, and stifling a shriek, she whirled around with her hands up, ready to knock whoever it was in the face.
Ashford smiled inquiringly at her and she quickly assumed a less defensive pose, but was unable to hide her mood. Her heart raced and her mind was in turmoil over what she’d learned.
“What’s wrong?” Ashford asked, leading her back to the settee. Instead of sitting in a chair opposite, he sat beside her, too close for comfort. “Kostya looked a bit unhinged when I passed him a few minutes ago, refused to speak to me.”
Nothing had seemed real up to this point. Not the threat of a madman hunting them, not the possibility that she may never get back to her own time again. She’d been distracted by Ashford’s aristocratic beauty and trying to whittle past his closed up nature, distracted by posh carriages and lush countryside, the accents and costumes, as if it had all been a big production for her amusement. She’d been on a real life adventure to save someone. Now she saw the truth of it.
She was lost with a man who couldn’t get past his grief, who was doomed to travel through the ages, never able to have a real relationship with anyone, probably as insane as the person who wanted to kill him. A tear slid down her cheek, followed by others, and she pressed hard against the spot the thorn had pricked her, trying to feel that pain and not the other, worse pain of it all crashing in on her.
“Matilda.” Ashford awkwardly took her hand and turned it over, running his thumb over the tiny red spot. “Are you unwell?”
“He says Camilla’s dead.” She flinched at the pain in his eyes and wished she’d eased into it more. He let go of her and ran his hands over his face. “He said her ship sank on the way to France. I don’t think he’s lying about it. Why would he lie about his wife being dead?” She couldn’t stop the shrill tone her voice had risen to.
“He’s not lying.” He sounded exhausted and resigned.
She realized she had nowhere to go, couldn’t even leave the room as she hadn’t been shown anywhere else in the house, hadn’t been given a chamber of her own yet. “I want to go home,” she said miserably.
“I shall try to get you home,” he said, taking her hand again. “With everything I have, I’ll try.” She didn’t want his touch to be so comforting, but it was. “But what can I do right now to make you stop crying? Would you like some more cheese?”
She snorted through her tears, and scrubbed at her cheeks, the familiar irritation at him bubbling up through her fear and sorrow.
“How about you tell me the truth? Everything, the whole story. I don’t care if it takes all night, but I’m sick and tired of not knowing what’s really going on. If Kostya’s not lying, then are you? And why?”
He got a look as if she’d asked him to clean a row of urinals with his bare hands, and she scoffed at him. Of course having to speak for more than two minutes straight with no obfuscation would cause him physical pain. But he was about to feel more if he didn’t start talking.
“Kostya isn’t lying about Camilla. It’s what he believes to be true. There was a ship, and it did go down, and there were no reported survivors. This was five months ago. He’s been very patient with me, hasn’t even put up a stone in the family cemetery.”
“But?” she prodded mercilessly, when he paused for a long moment.
He sighed, and his eyes were so full of grief she almost relented, but kept still, and stared at him expectantly.
“From the beginning?” he asked. She nodded, and he continued with another put upon sigh. “When I first fell into the portal, my sister cried for three days straight, knowing I was in danger but not knowing why. When we were children, she always lied and said she did something I did, because she rarely got a beating and I always would, but she said it hurt her just as much so it was worth it to her to take the blame. When we were seven, she broke her ankle and I couldn’t walk home from my tutor’s house, my own leg hurt so badly. I knew she was in love with Kostya before she admitted it to herself. She used to write letters for me because she knew my feelings better than I did, and could express them better. She was always spot on. When Lucy died I felt her grief as keenly as my own. Have you ever heard of anything such as all that?”
“Like a twin bond? I guess so.”
“Yes, a twin bond. We have that.”
“Well, it sounds terrible for the most part,” she said pityingly.
“It is,” he assured her. “But it’s still there. I still feel it. It isn’t broken.”
She started to waver. “That’s why you think she’s alive? What exactly do you feel?”
He grabbed her hands again, clearly relieved she continued to listen. “At first I thought it was just a shadow of me remembering her. But it kept changing. First flashes of anger, then fear, then sadness. A cycle of emotions that had nothing to do with what I myself felt at the time, which is how we’d always been our whole lives and learned to ignore it unless it was very strong. Then we’d check on each other if we needed to. Wherever she is, she’s in a very dark place. It eats me up to feel it. That couldn’t still happen if she was really gone, don’t you think?”
She looked up in alarm at how seriously he asked her opinion. She couldn’t possibly know something like that. It all seemed so mysterious. She had only ever known one set of twins and they were very good at communicating with just glances, but she didn’t know them well enough to know if they ever had such a deep psychic bond. And Ashford’s family did have that magical bloodline from way back. Maybe that added to it. He squeezed her hand impatiently and she nodded.
“I suppose not,” she said slowly, believing he felt what he said he did. At least he wasn’t crazy, or a liar. “I just don’t understand why she wouldn’t be able to get in touch with you somehow after all this time.”
He frowned, looking defeated once more. “Someone may have a hold on her. I hated to think it was one of Kostya’s—” he stopped, pressing his lips together, but it was too late.
“One of Kostya’s what?” she demanded. “Oh no you don’t. I was just starting to understand, please don’t clam up now.”
“Kostya’s family,” he said begrudgingly. “Our last resort.”
“Kostya’s family? Our last resort? The witches, you mean?”
&n
bsp; He smiled at her parrot act, and looked around sheepishly as if someone might be listening. It gave her a chill down her spine and she edged closer to him.
“I don’t wish you to think ill of Kostya. He’s a good chap, definitely one of us. He’s suffered as much as anyone by their hands. But those people, the Povest coven—” he paused, embarrassed. “If you’ll forgive my use of the word coven, but I don’t know what else to call them. They’re incredibly powerful, and if you’ll forgive me again, just complete assholes.”
She cracked up from the use of his modern swear word. It was a small relief to her frazzled nerves. The deadly serious look on his face made her stop laughing as soon as she started.
“Why would this coven want your sister?” she asked, fairly alarmed that she could use the strange word so easily.
She was speaking of witch covens in the year 1814 with a table still laden with food sitting in front of her. To ease the shock, she reached for a flaky meat pie and took a bite.
“She’s very powerful, as I mentioned before.” He rolled his shoulders and stood, pacing across the room and back. “It goes back quite a ways.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said around her mouthful of pastry. He narrowed his eyes at her and shrugged.
“Up until my mother, my family was actually, er, a coven of quite some repute. My great-grandmother was extremely good at the craft, or so I’ve heard, as well as my great-uncle and a few of his offspring, all long dead.”
“From old age or the witchy stuff?”
“A bit of both, I think. My grandmother dabbled, but never did much more than help the crops along or keep people from getting divorced. It was a peaceful time in the village while she was alive, due to her little spells.”
Belmary House Book One Page 14
