“What’s wrong with this village?” she asked, thinking about the inn they’d checked into earlier.
There had been one broken down looking maid standing around in the bar area, and it had taken forever for someone to come and check them in. The old man who’d shown them their rooms had been tightlipped and suspicious of them, but she’d chalked it up to poor service in a small, backwards village. But now, she wondered if they needed to be nervous.
“It seems like there was some sort of mass exodus,” she said, her imagination going into overdrive. “Do people still get smallpox in this time?”
He looked around, deep frown lines in his forehead. “They do,” he said. “But I don’t think that’s what the problem is.”
His tone did nothing to allay her nerves and she edged closer to him. He put his arm around her shoulders.
“This is normally a bustling port town, very busy, but come to think of it, ours was the only ship coming in. That seems odd. This all seems odd.”
She pulled in the direction of the inn, but he set out toward the cemetery behind the church. With a groan, she followed, but nothing alarming happened as they wound their way through the graves. He led them along a back road, where there were small shanty type houses, all of them shuttered. Not even a dog barked at them as they passed, no chickens scratched in any of the yards. Other than the steady patter of rain and occasional thunderclap, it was quiet.
When they arrived back at the inn, the owner and the maid were arguing loudly, stopping immediately when they walked in. Ashford’s face told her he was intrigued by what they’d been shouting about and she wished she’d paid better attention in her high school French classes. The man asked him some rapid fire questions, which Ashford answered calmly before leading her upstairs.
“What were they saying? What did he ask you?” she asked the second they were behind her closed door.
She began stripping off her wet outer clothes, ducking behind the privacy screen at his scandalized face. She wanted to laugh at him. Surely he’d stop being so proper eventually? But her nerves were too frazzled from the strangely deserted town and the innkeeper’s unfriendly behavior to find anything too funny.
He handed her his old dressing gown and she wrapped herself up in it before coming out and sitting next to him on the bed. She took a cloth and began swabbing at his hair, unable to keep from placing a kiss on his temple. He looked so distressed, she wished she could somehow put him at ease, protecting her own feelings be damned. She crawled behind him and squeezed his shoulders, trying to work out the knots from his muscles.
“That’s lovely, Matilda,” he sighed, letting his head drop forward.
“You still need to tell me what they said,” she reminded.
He stiffened, then sighed. “They were arguing about us,” he said. “She wanted to leave tomorrow, but he wants more money for the journey so let us stay.”
“Did they say where they were going or why?”
He shook his head. “He asked me if we could cut our stay shorter, told me there was another inn in the next village.”
“Are we leaving?” Her hands stilled and he shrugged to get her to continue her massage.
“The next village is several hours ride, I’d rather not. We need to find Camilla as soon as possible. We need to find someone who knows something, but …”
“There’s no one at all,” she finished for him. “Isn’t it likely that Camilla left as well? Why stay in an abandoned town?”
He was quiet for a long time and she stopped massaging to sit beside him, taking his hand.
“I think,” he finally said, “Camilla may be the reason it’s abandoned.”
Chapter 29
Emma walked boldly down the path to her house. If any of the neighbors passed she would wave at them, already feeling as if she was back in her rightful place. Her headache pulsed behind her eyes like a separate heartbeat, each excruciating thrum reinforcing what she had to do.
She ducked inside her hedge and stared at the slightly peeling blue paint on her front door. She’d have someone come and repaint it, maybe red or even a rich, glossy black, make the neighbors envy them for a minute. The scraggly rosebushes probably hadn’t been trimmed in years and she shook her head at how negligent she and her mum had been. She laughed, knowing they were too busy to think about things like chipped paint and roses, when they both worked around the clock and any extra money went to her education.
Was she ever properly grateful to her mother, back then? As she slowly advanced toward the front door in the early dawn light, the pain blurred her vision. Of course she hadn’t been, children never were. She already braced herself for how bratty Dahlia was sure to turn out.
Her heart seized, thinking that wasn’t true at all. She didn’t have to wonder about her daughter, she knew Dahlia was a sweet child. She missed her so much, she crouched down, scooting behind one of the rosebushes to catch her breath. Everything would be fine. She’d get to hold Dahlia soon, and watch her grow up all over again. What mother wouldn’t jump at such an opportunity? She could right so many wrongs.
A persistent vibrating made her look down, and she thought she was shaking more violently than usual. It took a moment to realize her phone had been intermittently buzzing and she patted her cardigan pockets until she could get her trembling hand to grab it. She was nearly thrown into unconsciousness at the sight of Dahlia’s gap-toothed grin, unsure again what was real.
The buzzing continued and she realized hazily she’d tried to answer the wrong phone. Pressing Dahlia’s picture to her heart, she weakly took out her other phone and saw that it was her ex-boss Henry. She almost returned it to her pocket before she realized if she was to stay in this time to do all the things she couldn’t do the first time, she needed him.
Even her fingertips hurt and she wondered if she had the physical strength to do what she needed to do. She heard someone throw open a window at the side of the house and heard herself call out what a pretty day it looked to be. The searing rage besieged her again, hundreds of pricking arrows. It felt like someone was kicking her in the stomach, and her damn phone still buzzed.
Getting away was the only way she could have a moment’s respite. Only distance made the illness recede. She scurried toward her car for a chance to regain her strength, fearing she’d pass out when she faced her former self. Sliding behind the steering wheel, she gulped air, the phone sliding out of her sweaty hand. It instantly sprang to life with another call from Henry.
“Yes?” she asked roughly, trying to calm herself enough to return to the house before her old self left for work.
“Listen, everything’s madness here,” he said in his Liverpool accent.
She nodded, holding the phone away so he wouldn’t hear her trying to calm her shattered breathing. The pain in her limbs was slowly melting away, her headache was clearing, and she was left with crystal cold anger.
“Are you there, Emma?” he asked, and she shook herself.
Get your job back, she told herself. Make everything right. “Yes, sorry, Henry, just out for a morning run.”
She glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror, shocked at how pale she was, how deeply sunk her eyes had become. It was fine, she’d be able to sleep soon.
“Can you get to the house?”
She jerked at his urgent question. She was already at the house, but how could he know? Had she not been careful enough? It took her several confused and frightened beats before she snapped that he meant Belmary House.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
He made a long impatient sound. “Can you get here when it opens?”
She looked at her watch, the numbers swirling in her vision before she blinked and it all came together. She’d have to leave right now, this minute, to make it back. What was more important?
“Yes, of course. I’ll see you soon.”
She needed to be responsible, not rash. If she took over her life here and nothing changed, there woul
d be no point. It would only be worth it if she could make things better. She knew her old self wasn’t going anywhere. With a bitter laugh, she started the car. She had nothing but time.
***
Emma walked through the back of Belmary House to be greeted with the incredulous stares of all the researchers. She knew she must look half mad, having barely taken a moment to brush her hair. She nodded coolly at them and went to Dexter’s workspace. His eyes narrowed and his brows nearly knitted together as he took in the same clothes she’d been wearing when he left her the night before. She shrugged, wanting to get on with it.
“Where’s Henry?” she asked, feeling bad when Dexter flinched at her cold tone.
“In the front office,” he answered, still worriedly studying her.
She was mostly recovered from the terrible side effects of being too close to her former self, but it had left her exhausted and frazzled. She smoothed her hair and tried to tidy her clothes before brushing past him to try to get her job back.
He gripped her shoulders and made her stand still, looking down at her. She noticed that his worried look had changed and there was a different light in his eyes. A tiny ember of hope tried to spark inside of her and she tamped it down, the pain of it almost worse than the illness. She shook her head and tried to ease out from under his hands but he held tight.
“Listen, Emma, there’s a buyer.”
She felt cold all over as her heart wrestled with her mind to be able to believe it.
“What do you mean?”
His face was joyful, but she couldn’t, she just couldn’t be disappointed again.
“He’ll only speak to you, that’s why Henry was so worked up to get you here this morning. This buyer somehow heard about your conservation efforts and he wants to save the house.”
Her legs gave out at the words and she crumpled to her knees. Dexter followed her down, still holding her shoulders. She searched his eyes, which held nothing but pure happiness and she knew she was being offered another chance to get back. As long as the house stood, she could get back to her proper life.
Shaking, she pressed her hands into her stomach, nearly overcome with nausea at what she’d been so close to doing only a few hours earlier. If she hadn’t been so annoyed by the incessant buzzing of the phone, she might have killed her old self. It had seemed like the only logical thing to do. The headache came back in force, along with the confusion. What if she had really tried such a thing? What if she’d succeeded?
She wriggled out of Dexter’s grasp and put her forehead on the worn wood floor, wracked with sobs. How had it come to the point where she’d thought murder was a viable option? He patted her back and she pushed away from him, not deserving his kind touch.
“It’s going to be all right now, Em,” he said, and she looked over to see through her tears that he sat calm and cross-legged beside her, waiting out her storm.
She couldn’t bear the thought of how he might feel if he knew the road she’d almost taken. She also couldn’t bear having him see her in such a state and sat up, wiping at her face with her sweater sleeves. He tisked and handed her a handkerchief. He was so calm, so sure.
He didn’t flutter about trying to make things right, or try to strong-arm her into believing things would be okay. A wild regret almost made her dissolve into tears again, but she knew she had to look normal in front of Henry and the buyer, the savior of the house. She stood up and took a cleansing breath.
“How do I look?” she asked, patting her cheeks.
He swallowed hard before answering. “Erm,” he said nervously. “I think you look beautiful.”
She laughed at his honesty, and the emphasis on himself. Everyone else would think she looked a right mess, which she knew she was. But there was hope now, real hope, not the desperate kind she’d been clinging to in order to not step in front of train. As long as the house wasn’t destroyed, Ashford could get her back.
“I better get in there,” she said. “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck,” he told her with a smile. “You’re brilliant, and the best person to restore this place. They’re lucky to have you.”
She covered her face with her hands, embarrassed by his heartfelt speech. “You’re so cheesy, Dexter.”
He stepped forward, and took her face in his hands. Before she could register what was happening, his lips touched hers, filling her with a calm sureness. She leaned against him, the first time she’d leaned on anyone in years, maybe ever, and absorbed all the gentle and true feelings he poured into the kiss.
“I’m sorry,” he said when he pulled away.
She blinked, almost forgetting where she was. “I’m not,” she told him.
***
She borrowed a lipstick from one of the researchers and after another round of fortifying deep breaths, confidently entered the old music room, which had been made over into an office. Henry popped out of his chair and dragged her forward to meet the buyer, who sat in a plush dove grey armchair, his bandy legs sprawled out on the tattered Persian rug.
He stood up and bowed showily and she tried not to gawk at his outfit. He wore running leggings with a reflective stripe under a muted hunting tartan kilt, with black lace up boots, the hint of striped gym socks sticking up over the edge. His top half was clad in a dark purple sequined waistcoat over a threadbare Clash tee shirt, all topped off with what looked like a bespoke wool suit jacket. She’d met some eccentric rich people in her years of fundraising for the various museums she’d worked for, but this man took the cake.
His slightly buggy eyes gleamed with excitement, and she didn’t care if he’d worn nothing but bright red long johns. If this odd man wanted to spend his millions on saving the house, he looked like nothing less than an angel to her.
“This is our head curator, Emma Saito,” Henry said nervously, giving her a pleading look.
Of course she knew she would take her job back, but she filed away his desperation, thinking to get a pay rise or extra vacation out of him when they were alone.
“Delighted to meet you,” the gangly man said in an old fashioned Oxfordshire accent, holding out his hand.
She awkwardly placed hers on his open palm and he raised it to his lips to kiss.
“My name is Solomon Wodge. I’ve heard nothing but good things about your credentials, and of course your love of this great mansion.”
“Yes,” she agreed as they all sat down, wanting to pinch herself to make sure it was all real. “I definitely think it should be restored to its former glory.”
Solomon Wodge nodded his head about twelve times before answering. “We’re quite the same, then. My only interest in life is to restore this lovely house to its former glory.”
Henry made some butt-kissing agreeing sounds and she couldn’t keep the smile off her face. Everything was happening so fast, it seemed like a miracle.
“Well, the developers are on board for repairs— the roof’s a mess, and it’s downright dangerous to go above the second floor.” Henry rustled through some papers on his desk, already lost in the same nerdy joy she felt at getting to fix up something old.
For truly, while she was weak with relief to still have the chance to get home, she was glad the beautiful and historically rich house wouldn’t be paved over for a tacky shopping mecca. She exchanged a warm smile with Mr. Wodge, and he looked dotingly at Henry.
“Whatever it takes,” he said, reaching over to pat her arm. “Together, we can certainly make this house shine more brightly than it ever has before.”
Chapter 30
Tilly followed Ashford along the gloomy streets, made even gloomier by nightfall threatening to swallow them in darkness. She shuddered to think what these lonely streets would be like lit only by the moon. Ashford’s mood was almost as bad as the weather and while he sometimes seemed to have a destination in mind, walking briskly with his head down for great lengths, after a while he would stop in his tracks and look around, like a hunting dog trying to catch a los
t scent.
“The innkeepers are still here,” he said, walking halfway down an alley before returning to her side. “And we saw someone else earlier, where did that chap go?” He shook his head. “I’ve really no idea what to do, Matilda.”
“What happened to the person whose letter you were waiting for?”
“I don’t know. I confess I’m rather worried about her.”
“Oh? Is she an old friend?” Tilly asked, hoping she didn’t sound jealous.
She never gave a thought to Ashford having a past, but of course he must.
“An elderly friend would be a better way to put it. She’s known both Camilla and me since we were wee bairns.”
He stopped and pressed his lips together before taking her hand and leading her to a small square with several trees growing in it. He took her hand and held it to one of the trunks.
“Can you feel anything?” he asked. “It would be like a humming, but you feel it instead of hear it.”
She shrugged, not feeling anything but soggy tree bark. A gust of wind loosened the raindrops from the branches and Ashford smiled humorlessly as he led her out from under it, patting the damp from her cheeks with his coat sleeves.
“What is this place?” she asked. “Why should I feel anything from the trees?”
“This village was a meeting place, kind of a neutral zone, for my Scottish ancestors, the Povests, French covens, really any coven in Europe who had issues amongst themselves to sort out. Supposedly, everyone who’s been here has left something behind, a spell or amulet, blood, or even something stronger, like bones. So, over the centuries it’s become quite magical.”
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