Clandestine (House of Oak Book 3)

by Nichole Van

  After Dad died last year, I think I hit rock bottom. I sat in this room, remembering all the stories about our family. All the history this building had seen. I even pulled out the family journals Dad collected over the years. All the diaries and records our grandparents and great-grandparents and their friends, etc. had written. I think I hoped to find myself through them. And to my surprise, I did.

  Literally.

  Read through the documents I’ve enclosed here. Most particularly, the history of a man named Garvis. He tells the story of the first Lord Whitmoor, a wealthy businessman raised to the peerage for aiding the Duke of Wellington in a moment of crisis. This Whitmoor also rambled once in a delirious fever about a time portal. The more I read the account of his history, the more I realized a simple fact:

  I am the first Lord Whitmoor. The person Garvis describes is, in fact, myself.

  I know you are probably laughing right now and thinking I am insane, but this is a truth I feel profoundly in my soul. This is my destiny, Kit. I do not know my fate from here. Once I realized that the first Baron Whitmoor was, in fact, myself, I stopped reading about his history. I want to live it, not necessarily anticipating more than I already know. But if you are reading this letter, then I am already gone through the portal. To my future in the past.

  You have often accused me of not caring about our family, but that is not true. I care more than you can ever know. Most importantly, I care enough (in the nineteenth century) to insist the barony be established through a writ of summons. This means that without a male heir, the barony can continue on through the female line.

  To that end, I have sent in documents abdicating my right to the barony (well, in 2014) and insisting that it pass to you, as the only remaining heir. May I be the first to pay my respects to the newly minted Baroness Whitmoor?

  Do not mourn me, sister dearest. I am living the life I was born to live, the destiny I am to follow. Know that I am happy and love you with all my heart. Be well. Find the path that makes your heart sing.

  Your ever-devoted brother,

  W

  The letter slipped from her lifeless fingers. Stunned. Kit sat motionless, absorbing the shock of it.

  Daniel? Really?

  He was just . . . Daniel. Always needing her help, always getting into scrapes . . .

  But, suddenly, she saw him in an entirely new light. Daniel was a horrid misfit in a technological world. He floundered and struggled here in the twenty-first century.

  Yet, all the things that were weaknesses in 2014 could be strengths in 1814. His boundless energy, his love of the real and tangible, his charisma and charm.

  But how could he know that he belonged in the past? It seemed so unlikely. Like another fanciful idea of his.

  She set aside Daniel’s letter and looked at the other documents enclosed in the envelope.

  And there it was.

  A history written by a man called Garvis Samuelson. She read his account, of his dedication and service to a man named Daniel Ashton, the first Lord Whitmoor who went by the moniker W.

  Garvis stood by his lordship through thick and thin, nursed him when he was fevered and delirious, recording W’s ramblings about a portal and odd futurish-sounding things. He even mentioned Marc’s name. It was apparently an alias W liked to adopt when he had covert dealings.

  And more than once, he referred to his beloved sister, Katharine.

  That last bit caused Kit’s eyes to mist over.

  Oh, Daniel.

  She could see her brother so clearly in the record.

  As she sat reading, a sense of peace washed over her.

  Flooding and cleansing.

  She felt almost as if Daniel were there, arms wrapped around her. Assuring her that he was happy.

  Be well. Find the path that makes your heart sing.

  The words vibrated in her soul.

  For the first time in more years than she could remember, she asked a simple question: What did she want?

  Not, what should she do?

  Not, what was the responsible thing to do? Or who was she responsible for?

  But just simply, what did she want more than anything else?

  The answer hit her immediately. Without a moment’s hesitation.

  Marc.

  She didn’t want a life in 1814 with Daniel. She saw with sudden clarity that holding on to Daniel was a selfish desire. A way to prove she was loved.

  But you are loved . . .

  The thought whispered through her.

  Everyone leaves—

  I don’t. I’m here.

  Finally, she allowed the painful happiness of Marc’s love to flood her.

  A torrent through her heart, washing away all pretense. Cleansing her past.

  What did it matter, in the end, if her mother had abandoned? Her father retreated—Daniel left?

  Their past choices did not need to limit her future happiness.

  She could chose to live in the emotional pain of their long ago decisions. Or she could forge a future bright with hope and full of love.

  And she did love. She loved her friends, her life, her work . . .

  And Marc.

  She profoundly, deeply loved him too. Adored his throaty laugh. The way his eyes lit when he teased her.

  The way he knew her, accepted her for everything she was, even the ugly bits—especially the ugly bits, actually. That sense of rightness when she was with him.

  The feeling of home.

  So he, perhaps, made a mistake in dragging her through the portal prematurely? So what?

  He was human. So was she.

  And, in the end, was it actually a mistake? Or more an action directed by Fate?

  She needed to talk with Marc. Hold him. Kiss him.

  But first, there was one thing she wanted to do—

  No, make that two things.

  Besides, she was going to be a baroness now, it seemed. And couldn’t Lady Whitmoor do whatever she wanted?

  She could already hear Marc chuckling at the thought.

  Chapter 26

  Duir Cottage

  Herefordshire

  March 12, 2014

  The color was gone. All of it.

  The world composed almost entirely of shades of black and white and gray.

  Marc sat in front of the fireplace in the kitchen of Duir Cottage, trying to convince himself to get up and do . . . something.

  But with everything being so bland . . .

  Without Kit, he was sleepwalking through each day.

  Everything lacked color and flavor and . . . Kit-ness.

  And you know who would love the word Kit-ness and spend a good ten minutes joking with him about it?

  Kit. That’s who.

  He groaned and leaned his head against the back of the sofa.

  He had woken up determined to drive down to Whitmoor House in Gloucestershire and, at least, see her. Let her know he still cared. See if he could do anything for her.

  Emme had talked him out of it. Blast her. Something about space and giving it just another day and not seeming desperate.

  But seriously, why wait? Would another day make such a huge difference?

  And, quite frankly, he was desperate. No sense in hiding the fact.

  Then, adding insult to injury, Emme and James had taken off, saying they had errands to run and would be back later. Flirting shamelessly with each other as they walked out the door.

  Which just made everything hurt that much more.

  Kit would love Emme and James.

  He should drive down to Whitmoor House right now and tell her. Who cared what Emme thought?

  That settled it then.

  He was off the couch and working on stuffing his braced wrist through his jacket sleeve when the front doorbell rang.

  What the—?

  Drawing the jacket on all the way, he stomped to the front door, determined to send whoever was there away. Probably some lost tourist looking for Haldon Manor.

  But w
hen he swung the door open, he blinked.

  Surely that couldn’t be—?!

  A tentative lightness crept in to his chest. Color trickled into his day.

  Darth Vader stood on his doorstep.

  Literally, some tall guy in a full-on Vader costume, complete with helmet, cape and electronic asthmatic breathing.

  “Marc kaaa Wilde kaaa?” Vader asked.

  With a smile that was surely far too wide, Marc nodded.

  “This kaaa is for you kaaa.” Vader handed Marc a pillow with the parish church in Marfield embroidered into it. The exact pillow the gift shop at Haldon Manor sold.

  Marc raised a questioning eyebrow. Vader shrugged as if to say, Your guess is as good as mine.

  “I am also kaaa supposed to do this kaaa.” Vader then pushed a button on his chest.

  The peppy strains of ‘The Way You Make Me Feel’ rent the air.

  And then Vader danced.

  Not well. But danced nonetheless. A Michael Jackson routine, circa 1982.

  He finished with a flourishing moon-walk.

  It was about the awesomest thing Marc had seen in a very long while.

  Marc clapped appreciatively.

  Kit. It had to be Kit.

  Only she would arrange something that incredible.

  Relief washed through him, breathtaking in its intensity.

  And just like that color bounced from the green grass. The sky vibrated a flourishing blue. Birds sang in the trees.

  Laughing, he stared at the embroidered pillow, puzzled.

  “It’s kaa a clue.” Vader said, gesturing toward the pillow. “Treasure kaa hunt.”

  Ah. That made sense.

  Marc slapped the man on the back and tipped him five quid.

  And then grabbed his car keys.

  James was lounging against a jauntily angled tombstone in the parish churchyard when Marc walked through the gate.

  James’ own tombstone, to be precise.

  Which wasn’t nearly as awkward as the large bouquet of yellow roses James held in his hand.

  “I’m not sure if you’re waiting for a lover or mourning your own death two hundred years too late,” Marc said as he walked up.

  James shrugged. “It could go either way, really.”

  James nonchalantly patted his tombstone. It was worn and weathered, the lettering long ago faded. Which explained why none of them had known it was James’ until recently.

  James straightened and walked over to Marc, handing him the roses.

  “Good thing this isn’t uncomfortable.” Marc took the flowers, a wry grin on his face.

  James chuckled. “Kit initially wanted me to dress up as a scarlet partridge for some reason, but I said a firm no. Turns out my pride does have limits. Compared to a scarlet partridge costume, just holding yellow roses didn’t seem so bad.”

  “Probably part of her ploy all along.”

  “She seems like the type who would appreciate the awkward.”

  Marc laughed at that. And then studied the flowers. What was this clue?

  “She said you would know what they meant.” James indicated the flowers.

  “Yellow roses? Treachery and death?”

  “Kit said I was to correct you. These are friendly golden roses.” James patted them just to emphasize the point. “Not sure how that makes a difference.”

  As, yes. Well. That did make an enormous difference.

  “If your smile were any more punch-drunk happy, I would think your wits addled.” James added a deep nineteenth century gravitas to his accent.

  “Can’t help it. The sun’s shining.”

  “She is an amazing woman. Congratulations. Not that I thought you would ever fall this hard for someone who wasn’t worthy of you.” James clapped him on the shoulder. “Go find her, my friend.”

  Though pressed tight against the modern road, the Golden Rose Inn looked remarkably the same, minus the stable yard. A sign with yellow roses still hung over the doorway, though it had been given a bit of a modern touch.

  The inside was eerily untouched by time. The man behind the bar directed Marc to the same private parlor along the front of the building with its paned windows and dark paneling. Though the room appeared to be used as an office now.

  Emme sat behind the desk, a decidedly amused grin on her face.

  Marc nodded at her, his own smile so broad it nearly hurt his cheeks.

  Emme took one look at his face and laughed.

  Standing, she came and wrapped her arms around him, giving him a tight hug. “I’m so happy for you.”

  A thought occurred to Marc. “Wait. How did Kit arrange all this?”

  “Online social media. I’m not too hard to find.”

  Marc nodded.

  “Did Vader actually dance for you?” Emme asked with a chuckle.

  “He did indeed.”

  “I understand Kit made him do all his dance moves twice for her. Just to make sure.”

  Marc laughed. “Man, I have missed her so much.”

  Emme patted his back. “Sit.” She turned and gestured toward a leather club chair in the corner.

  With a lift of his eyebrow, Marc did. Emme handed him a tablet with a webpage loaded on it.

  FauxPause.

  “I was told to have you read this.”

  And so Marc did.

  Lessons Learned from Croc-nami

  Hello world. Yes, you really did read that title correctly. Croc-nami does indeed have a moment or two of brilliance.

  And there’s not a drop of sarcasm in that statement.

  Usually I would do some oh-so-witty online review involving my id, ego and superego. However, today I have decided to embrace my entire self: the good, the bad and the indifferent. Hence, no split personalities in this post.

  So, yes, I actually sat down and watched all of Croc-nami . Not just the two hundred and forty second preview of Marc Wilde’s abs (still the best part of the film, but I digress . . . ). Croc-nami is no Citizen Kane and will not be bringing home an Oscar. But I do think it is destined to become a cult classic. Which leads me to my next point . . .

  There is this part in the movie (right before Mr. Wilde cuts a path through an airport full of crocs with his chainsaw) where he turns to a battered friend and asks: “Why are we killing these crocs for being themselves? They aren’t inherently evil. They’re just being true to their croc-ish nature.”

  Which is when I had a personal epiphany. We often metaphorically kill or stifle those we love, trying to force them to make decisions that go against the very nature of who they are. In the words of many a poet and songwriter: If you love someone, set them free.

  This has been the painful lesson Croc-nami taught me. Letting go of those I love is hard. But I have to let go in order to have my hands free to embrace my future.

  And what a glorious future it is. A chance to be with those who will always be there for me. To create the home I have always craved.

  Marc set down the tablet with a deep breath.

  “Where is she?” he asked, glancing at his sister.

  “Where do you think?”

  The answer was obvious. She was home.

  “Oh and Marc,” Emme said as he turned for the door, “thank you for coming back. I am glad to have you here.”

  The road to Whitmoor hadn’t changed much in the past two hundred years either. The dry stack stone fence stood a little higher and covered in more moss, but Marc recognized the landscape.

  A sign at the entrance to the lane told him the house was closed for the day, but a caretaker waved him through when Marc gave his name. Marc pulled down the lane and then parked in the gravel beside the stables.

  Walking across the front of the house, he ran a hand along the aged honey stone. Loving the hodge-podge nature of the house. No one was about, but he had a hunch.

  Reaching the side of the central, medieval tower, he smiled at the small servant’s door. Was even the wood the same? It seemed so ancient.

  Sliding
a hand between the wall and the door, he found the groove with the chain and pulled. The door swung open.

  He walked up the stone stairs and into the great medieval hall. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows, un-shuttered now. Banners hung along the walls and the enormous fireplace still dominated the space. But the room was spotlessly clean and the furniture different. Most of the area was roped off.

  No sitting or lying on settees this time around.

  But he noted all of this only in passing.

  Because there she was.

  Kit.

  His Kit.

  Leaning with her hand against the wall by the first window.

  Jaw-droppingly gorgeous in a wine-red satin dress and stilettos.

  A retro 1950s dress with a tight waist and subtle crinoline that stopped at her knees, highlighting a fabulous pair of bare legs. Her hair tumbled across her shoulders, shiny and waving into subtle curls.

  And make-up. Not heavy, caked on . . . no, that wouldn’t be Kit’s style. But enough to make her eyes luminously large and her lips even more kissable.

  Yet, it was more than that.

  With Kit, the external merely manifested the internal. The fierceness of her heart, the quickness of her mind, her spunky outlook on life. The fact that the entire world seemed brighter and more alive because she was in it.

  Marc literally forgot to breathe.

  Had it really only been two days? It felt like a lifetime.

  “Hey.” She smiled, clearly not missing the effect she had on him.

  Minx.

  He matched her smile with a slow, lazy grin of his own.

  “Hey you.” He walked toward her.

  Drinking in every last inch of her saucy Kit-ness.

  “Fancy meeting a fine, handsome gentleman like yourself here,” she said, heady and breathless.

  He gave a look which clearly said he would fancy meeting her anywhere, anytime. He stopped in front of her.