by Nichole Van
One more thing for his overflowing Inbox of Frustration.
La Pochette’s scathing review of Croc-nami had gone viral. Insanely viral. Marc had begun avoiding the internet altogether, as the memes, parodies and links were non-stop. Some enterprising person had even created an animated gif that moved between Marc saying, “Later, alligator,’ hefting that chainsaw above his head, and the big-eyed anime crocodiles pleading, Beware the Croc-nami.
Emme found it hilarious. Apparently, anyone with an internet connection found it hilarious.
It wasn’t as if Marc couldn’t laugh at himself. Really, he could. And often.
The problem was his future as an actor in the industry.
Would he ever be able to live it down? Or was he now doomed to forever be the Croc-nami guy?
Though if knowledge of the time portal were leaked to the press, Marc could claim that it was a promotional stunt for a new movie. A time travel romp with Marc portraying a Navy SEAL turned swashbuckling pirate. It would be more believable than actually having a time portal in one’s cellar.
Ninja Pirate 4, anyone?
He could only imagine the heyday that FauxPause would have with that juicy bit of news.
Driving past the front of Duir Cottage with its jaunty flowers, Marc parked the car in the old stables and collected his groceries from the backseat, pondering the blackmail problem.
Even if the world found out about the portal, it wasn’t as if the portal were a revolving door, allowing any passerby to stroll through. It wouldn’t work for just anyone.
No. The portal had a mind of its own. An agenda.
Jasmine, resident mystic and knower-of-all-things-weird-and-arcane, explained it best.
Past and future formed an eternal now. So to the portal, time was not a river, but a vast ocean where the lives of every person who had ever lived existed simultaneously as concentric rings rippling on its surface. As if each life were a stone dropped into the water by some unseen hand. And where the expanding ring of one person became tangled with that of another, the portal provided a link, a pathway that could be traversed.
But only those who had a connection with someone in the past could travel the portal. Therefore, as a method of transportation, the portal was decidedly unreliable. It usually just sat in the cellar, a slab of carved rock pulsing with unseen power. Marc had spent the last two years jokingly touching it, rubbing it like a lamp, tempting fate to release a genie.
Nothing ever happened.
Not that he expected anything would. How could he—a football-loving, martial-arts-doing, twenty-first century actor—have anything in common with a nineteenth century person? The very idea was laughable.
Shrugging, Marc walked through the overgrown back garden to the kitchen door, balancing his groceries while he dug a key from his jacket pocket. He had the key in the lock and the door open before he noticed that the room was not as he left it.
Nothing had been disturbed per se. The modern kitchen with its marble countertops and stainless steel appliances sat gleaming to his left. The huge, rough-hewn dining table still rested directly in front of him. And the enormous fireplace with its wingback chairs and overstuffed sofa beckoned cozily to his right. Everything in its place.
However, the unexpected addition of a beaver top hat and old-fashioned greatcoat draped over one of the dining table chairs caught his attention. Stark and ridiculously anachronistic.
Beyond the table, he had a clear view of the central hallway. The door down to the cellar—and the time portal—stood open. A large antique-looking wooden trunk sat in front of it.
Every one of Marc’s senses instantly ratcheted to high alert.
Silently, he set his keys, phone and bag of groceries on the wooden kitchen floor. Stepping fully inside, he quietly closed the door. He scanned the room, noticing no one, hearing nothing.
Had he interrupted someone just arriving in 2014?
The entire set-up smacked of planning. One didn’t accidentally fall through the portal with a trunk that size. No, someone had prepared to do this. And was that someone still in the cellar, bringing up more items?
Most importantly, was this the person behind the blackmail attempt? It was too much of a coincidence to not be related. If so, what was this person’s link to him and the twenty-first century?
Stealthily, Marc edged around the table, cursing his squeaky leather shoes, praying he was being quiet enough. He touched the greatcoat as he crept by—both it and the top hat identical to those James would wear.
He paused at the edge of the hallway, listening again. Nothing. No one.
Should he say something? Try to lure the person out?
As usual, he felt no fear, just the heart-pounding rush of adrenaline. He had spent over twenty-five of his thirty-two years studying martial arts and street-fighting. His bare hands had always been protection enough.
Cautiously, Marc peered around the door frame, through the trapdoor in the floor and down into the cellar. The wooden stairs descended steeply to packed earth, empty. But he couldn’t see into the back of the dark cellar where the portal hummed. Was someone down there?
Cloth suddenly clamped around his mouth, a strong hand pressing into his face. Hard.
Marc breathed in a sickly sweet smell, making him instantly woozy. But years of martial arts training sprang into action, despite his suddenly spinning head. He shot back an elbow, delivering a sharp blow to his attacker’s ribs, getting a low grunt as a response.
Male, his mind absently noted. His attacker was definitely a man.
Marc hooked the unknown man’s leg with his own, while simultaneously grabbing the arm which held the cloth over his mouth and twisting it outward painfully, breaking the man’s hold. Allowing Marc to snatch a breath of much-needed fresh air. Even so, the room spun crazily.
Marc sensed blackness creeping in at the edges, enhancing his light-headedness, making his movements less precise than usual. Relying on muscle memory, Marc used the twisting momentum of his body to throw his attacker to the ground.
But the man was not entirely unfamiliar with street fighting, and Marc was sluggish. So instead of tumbling down the stairs alone, the attacker had time to grab Marc, sending them both spinning toward the ground. Marc found himself face-to-face with a brass button embossed with a vine-covered crest. And then they were both rolling, rolling down the wooden stairs.
Marc instinctively braced for impact, but it never came.
Instead, he just continued on . . . falling, falling, falling . . . the button flashing before his gaze, searing into memory.
Until blackness took him.
The Old Boar Inn
Marfield, Herefordshire
February 19, 1814
Lady Ruby’s instructions had been extremely clear:
Take this letter straight to Mr. Millet at the Old Boar Inn to be posted. My nephew’s butler has shifty eyes and is not to be trusted with my correspondence.
Kit had stared at the letter as she drove the Knight’s gig into the nearby town of Marfield.
Firstly, the Knight’s butler, Finley, seemed a perfectly fine fellow with nary a hint of shiftiness about his person.
Secondly, Kit could not imagine—even if the butler were shifty—why he would be interested in letters to a Mrs. Boring of Quiet Street, Bath.
Yes. That really was the address, neat and plain. Mrs. Boring. Quiet Street. Bath.
It was fairly ridiculous.
But nearly every day, Lady Ruby sent Kit into Marfield on some errand or another.
“Poor Jedediah is in need of more blacking for his boots. Off with you.”
“See that Mr. Millet posts this letter to Plymouth. And be sure to ask if any correspondence has arrived for me.”
“The feathers in my purple velvet turban have quite drooped. I believe the haberdasher has some lovely peacock ones you can fetch.”
Kit had become quite adept at navigating the few miles between Haldon Manor and Marfield in the gig. Fortunate
ly, the roads were well-maintained, allowing for easy travel despite the gloomy February weather.
Today, the sun broke through the ever-present clouds.
Away, away, away, Wicked Angel whispered. Let’s fly away. Just take a ring or two from Lady Ruby, hitch up the gig and we’ll be in the next county before anyone realizes you’re not coming back.
Do not listen to her. That was Virtuous Angel. First of all, you are not going to add theft to your growing list of crimes. Second, they would catch you. Third, where would you go? You can’t go home without Daniel, and home is the only place you want to go. You have to find your brother, which means remaining at Haldon Manor. He has to be around here somewhere.
But despite her constant searching, Kit still hadn’t found him.
Was Daniel here? And if so, what were his exact plans? The snippet of discussion she had overheard between Arthur and Linwood had only fanned the flame of her worry. It was exactly the thing she feared.
Secrets. Always secrets. She was so eternally weary of them.
Kit just wanted her brother. She had practically raised him after their mother left and their father buried himself in grief and his books. Six years her junior, Daniel hadn’t understood or even seemed to care that he had no mother. And just like their mother, wanderlust gripped him. Daniel could never stay in the same place for more than a month or two.
With their father’s death the previous year, Daniel was all the family she had left. Without Daniel, she would have no one. He would have no one. Who would bail him out of his scrapes, if not her?
And if he continued down this path, she wouldn’t have a roof over her head to return to.
They needed each other. Didn’t Daniel see that?
Kit stepped out of the Old Boar Inn—the letter having been safely delivered into the hands of Mr. Millet—and tilted her head back, attempting to dispel her anxiety by basking in the warm sun.
Well, warmish-for-February sun. It still felt lovely and helped banish some of the chill which seeped through her winter pelisse and wool cloak.
With a sigh, she walked over to the gig. How long she could stall before returning to Haldon Manor? Lady Ruby would expect her back promptly. And then there was the matter of Jedediah Knight, who had become more aggressive, always appearing where least expected.
“Miss Ashton, how surprising to find you here,” he’d said, cornering her in the still room off the scullery, blocking the door. “And all alone. If I didn’t know better, I would say you have been waiting for me.”
She hadn’t. And she had seen how both scullery maids and the cook had ducked out of sight as soon as they heard his voice.
“Mr. Knight,” she replied with a bobbed curtsy. “I was just fetching some dried lavender for your mother. If you will excuse me, I am sure she is waiting for it.”
He crowded her into the small workspace, forcing her to shoulder her way past him to escape. He took full advantage of the proximity to press against her. Kit jabbed a seemingly accidental elbow sharply into his ribs, causing him to fall back with a grunt.
“Have a care, Miss Ashton,” he had hissed. “You will not always be able to escape.”
A shy, smaller, more retiring woman would have caved to his pressure by now or run off in fear.
Fortunately, shy and retiring had never been words in her vocabulary. And at her age—thirty, last November, firmly on the shelf as Daniel kept reminding her—she had no patience with such men. Bullies always raised her hackles.
So far, her sharp tongue and even sharper elbows and knees had kept him at bay. Men the likes of Jedediah Knight would never cow her. But without her place in society to protect her, she had few other resources beyond quick wits and even quicker reflexes. And, really, it was only a matter of time before she offended him enough to put her position in jeopardy.
Lady Ruby would hardly side with Kit over her wayward son. And Kit could ill afford being tossed into the street.
So she just bottled it all up. Swallowed the scathing retorts. The hissing comebacks. Crammed, stuffed and squeezed it back inside her until she threatened to burst.
A couple rings and the gig. I’m telling you—it’s a good plan. Wicked Angel wouldn’t stop tempting her.
She was not naive. She knew that the game—the thrill of the chase—was a large part of the fun for men like Jedediah. Her life before Haldon Manor had been filled with parties and dinners and never ending socializing. She was no stranger to aristocratic men and their machinations.
Fortunately, standing in the middle of Marfield with her gig, she remembered she had no worries about running into Jedediah today. Arthur and his cousin had strode off that morning in the woods, rifles slung over their shoulders—gamekeeper, servants and a pack of hounds in tow.
She tugged her plain bonnet loose, allowing it to hang on its ribbons. Again, tilting her head back and feeling the sunshine on her face. She righted her head and made a studious show of petting the horse hitched to the gig, putting off returning to Haldon Manor for at least a few more minutes.
A group of day laborers strode up the high street, jackets dusty, sledgehammers over their shoulders. Two servant girls passed them, giggling and whispering.
And then a figure down the street just past the apothecary caught her eye. A taller man, lean with close-cropped hair in a dark blue coat and gleaming boots, turning to walk down the alleyway between two buildings. He came into profile as he turned, nodding a greeting to the laborers.
And in that second, Kit’s heart stopped.
She would know that profile anywhere.
Daniel.
Hallelujah. At last!
He watched the laborers, never fully turning his head toward her. Too far away for her to yell and capture his attention.
Drat.
He hadn’t seen her. And even if he had, how likely was he to recognize her? Heaven knew Daniel had never seen her dressed in a gown like this.
Suddenly, he pivoted entirely and disappeared down the alley. Frantic to reach him, Kit darted across the street, lifting up her long skirts as she picked her way toward the alley.
So her brother really was here. That note she found had been right. But why was he here? What was his connection with Haldon Manor? And please, oh please, let it have nothing to do with French spies and the current war with Napoleon.
Jumping over a pile of manure as she passed the apothecary shop, she realized it didn’t matter anymore. She didn’t care why he was here, what had driven him. He just needed to come home.
If he came home without doing damage, everything would be all right. Their lives would go on just as they had before.
She was almost to the alleyway when a now-familiar voice accosted her.
“Miss Ashton, how delightful to see you.”
Kit turned to the gloved hand touching her arm and the round, smiling face of the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Smith.
Drat, drat and triple drat!
Kit owed the miniature Mrs. Smith a tremendous debt of gratitude. She and her husband had welcomed Kit into their home when she had nothing more than the clothing on her back. In fact, Kit’s current serviceable brown dress, pelisse and cloak had belonged to the vicar’s late sister—fortunately a taller woman for Kit’s sake. The second-hand skirts were only a little short on her.
Even with Daniel perhaps lurking around the corner, every ounce of gratitude and politeness and good breeding in her soul knew that she could not snub Mrs. Smith.
Argh!
More’s the pity.
With one longing look to the corner where Daniel had just disappeared, Kit bobbed a polite curtsy in greeting.
“And you too, Mrs. Smith.”
Mrs. Smith was one of those tiny humans, the kind who made Kit feel just that much larger. As if nature had laughed when it made two women so impossibly different.
And so Kit found herself looking down, down, down into Mrs. Smith’s kind brown eyes. The vicar and his wife made an odd pair—him tall and gangly, his wife ti
ny and round. The top of Mrs. Smith’s head barely reached her husband’s ribcage.
“You look well, Miss Ashton.” Mrs. Smith appraised Kit’s clothing. “I take it Lady Ruby and Haldon Manor agree with you.”
Mrs. Smith, it seemed, took great pride in having helped Kit become placed as Lady Ruby’s companion. As though Kit and Lady Ruby had been courting, and Mrs. Smith had facilitated a match.
It was oddly disconcerting.
Biting back her impatience, Kit responded to Mrs. Smith’s inquiries.
Kit was well. Lady Ruby was well. Baby Isabel was a dear little thing. Haldon Manor was a lovely home. Yes, the Knights did employ an excellent cook.
And then, she moved on to give polite replies to Mrs. Smith’s worries. How terrible that Mrs. Croft had still not forgiven Mr. Smith for that incident involving his heifer and her vegetable garden. Yes, Kit would try to attend the next meeting of the Marfield Temperance Society. Indeed, liquor was the Devil’s own brew.
Wicked Angel snickered at that.
All the while, Kit prayed that Daniel was still down that alleyway, that she would be able to find him.
Her foot wanted to tap-tap-tap with impatience.
Though I deeply appreciate her and all that she has done, Mrs. Smith needs to move along. Virtuous Angel murmured.
Indeed. Doesn’t she have some do-gooder stuff to attend to? Wicked Angel asked.
It was a sign of her impatience and desperation when both angels concurred on anything.
Finally after Kit agreed to give a speech on the deleterious dangers of whiskey (causing more snickering from Wicked Angel), Mrs. Smith hurried off to chat with Mrs. Millet at the Old Boar Inn about the evils of ale.
Kit wished her luck and ducked down the alleyway.
But she had taken too long; the alley was decidedly empty. Just a pile of refuse and an old barrel. Nothing more. She walked through the narrow corridor, which opened up to another small street leading to the village green.
No Daniel in sight.
Kit sighed and leaned against the alleyway wall, resisting the urge to slowly pound her head into the brick.
