The Wayfarer's Daughter: A Time Travel Romance (The Wayfarer Series Book 2)

by Jennifer L. Hayes

From her mother’s bedroom, Isobel could see the rolling hills of the South Downs.

  What a pretty view, she thought.

  After Emma’s revelation she’d made her own inquiries and, sure enough, William’s body had been pulled from the Thames two days ago. Relief had swelled over her. It felt as if Isobel had been dealt a new hand. With Mr. White gone for good, poor silly boy, she no longer had anything to worry about.

  Sure, his letters were in Miss Redford’s hands and now Emma’s as well, but what did that prove? In her estimation it proved nothing but that he had an infatuation with her and, to be honest, who could blame him? Some things just could not be helped.

  Isobel had already carefully planned her arguments should those letters turn up before her father’s eyes, but for now, she felt quite confident that they would not.

  Miss Clayton had far more to lose at the moment, so if she was as clever as she pretended to be she would be long gone. With so much evidence against her she’d be foolish not to be. Even Phoebus was convinced that Emma had set the fire at Dormer. Of course it had been Isobel’s suggestion, but at the slightest hint of foul play Phoebus had risen to the occasion and confirmed the sighting to her father as if he’d seen it with his own two eyes.

  Emma’s fate was sealed as far as Isobel was concerned.

  Now, she had more important things to think about.

  Mrs. Trebor had written to tell them of Mrs. Dudley’s unexpected passing. As Mrs. Dudley had been one of her closest friends, despite the fact that she was a good ten years her senior, Mrs. Trebor felt particularly stricken with grief and would not be able to make the trip south to see Isobel’s mother. A fact that Isobel herself was most relieved about. She’d already spent more than enough time with the Trebors and was not at all inclined to spend another minute thus engaged.

  Especially now with this exciting news.

  Mr. Dudley a widower.

  Everything was going to plan.

  She’d known that Mr. Dudley could be prevailed upon to see the light. A mere suggestion was all it had taken for the man to take action.

  True, she had taken it upon herself to poison the tea Mrs. Dudley was quite fond of, but it was only to help things along. Mr. Dudley himself would have done the deed if there had been more time, but Isobel’s mother had demanded she come home and therefore forced her to act.

  The desired result had been obtained nonetheless and with surprising swiftness.

  Death came to us all at some point—she didn’t see any harm in helping things along sometimes.

  Isobel watched her mother as she slept and imagined how she would look inside a coffin.

  Which dress would suit her best?

  Her mother’s features strained as she started to cough. With a slight wheeze, her eyes fluttered open.

  “Are you all right, Mother? Are you struggling for breath?” Isobel asked anxiously, almost willing it to be so.

  “No, I feel much better, thank you,” the countess answered sarcastically. “Is it my welfare that concerns you or my sudden recovery?”

  “Mother, you know I’ve been in a dreadful state since you’ve taken ill.”

  “Well, you need not pick out my dress just yet. I fear I shall be around for still some time.” The weary tone in her voice was unmistakable.

  Isobel’s visions of being the mourning daughter were instantly squelched.

  No matter, there was always Mr. Dudley. Soon he would come for her, she was sure of it.

  Miss Barnsby came through the door with another tray of food. “Ah, you’re awake, madame, would you care for some soup?”

  “That would be lovely,” the countess said and started to struggle to sit up.

  Miss Barnsby, noticing that the countess was having difficulty, set the tray down and went to help her. Isobel made no move to do anything. She simply watched the exchange.

  “Glad to see the color’s returned to your face. Are you feeling better then?” Miss Barnsby asked.

  “Much, thank you.” The countess forced a smile. “Tell me, has my husband returned?”

  “Not yet, Lady Pembrooke, he’s still in Oxwich, I’m afraid.”

  “Oxwich?” Isobel was surprised by the news.

  “Yes, dear, he’s gone to meet Henry.” Miss Barnsby ignored Isobel’s surprise and continued on in her usual singsong voice.

  “What’s it to you anyway?” her mother scolded.

  “I just thought Henry was in London?”

  “Mr. McCleary definitely said they were meeting in Oxwich.” Miss Barnsby shrugged dismissively and turned her attention back to the countess. “Just ring if you’d like anything else. So glad to see you on the mend, ma’am.”

  Isobel’s thoughts whirled around in her head.

  What was Henry doing back in Oxwich? He was supposed to be in London!

  Did he know that Emma was back? Was he helping her?

  He would never go against Father’s wishes, would he?

  A small tingling of fear wove its way through her belly.

  What if her father’s conviction could be swayed?

  However unlikely it was, she wondered what would happen to her.

  “Are you well, Isobel?” her mother asked crisply. “If you’ve taken ill, daughter, you should remove yourself from my bedchamber. I do not wish to have a second bout myself.”

  Isobel only nodded and walked swiftly from her mother’s room.

  She needed to do something, but what?

  Again, she thought of the bird on the bridge, how it had seemed to look inside her soul.

  Would she ever truly be free from all that she had done?

  Only one man could be prevailed upon at a moment like this to see this finished for good.

  Mr. White had worked with a man. Someone whom he’d counted on to do many of his dirty deeds.

  She only hoped that he could be persuaded.

  Chapter 41

  Charles

  Eileen stood on Lombard Street in London and waited for Charles to come out of Barclays.

  She was amused to see that he’d kept to his routines. On Mondays he had always tended to his accounts.

  His schedule rarely varied. He liked it that way.

  Standing here on the street watching the doorway, she felt like a stalker. Why had she not simply gone to his residence?

  Perhaps because it was not customary for a lady to call on a gentleman in the morning, she told herself.

  The truth was, she was afraid. Here on the street she could watch without being seen and be a spectator without having to engage.

  She was worried about what she might see when his eyes finally made their mark of recognition. Would she see hurt or anger? Or would it be love and longing?

  Maybe all of it.

  However, what if enough time had passed that he’d forgotten her completely? For her it had only been eight years since she’d last set eyes on him, compared to his twenty-four. What if there was no recognition?

  In that case, she’d have her answer and she’d simply get back on the train and no one would be the wiser. Maybe Miss Crabtree had been mistaken.

  Part of her longed for that not to be true. Leaving had been torture, but staying away had been even more so.

  But here she was, possibilities looming and tantalizing, her hopes soaring so high the only place for them to go was down.

  So she kept her distance. She wanted to watch and gauge and then plan her next move.

  A drizzle of rain fell continuously, giving the cobbled streets a shiny gleam. The clatter of hooves coming from all directions mingled with the voices of men calling out to one another. Wooden scaffolding framed a third of the buildings as painters and stonemasons worked on repairs. London was a hive of activity.

  She’d worn a bonnet with a wide brim, which helped to shield her from the weather. Her long coat kept her warm and dry for the moment but she feared before long it too would be soaked through.

  What a dreadful sight she must be. The thought made her feel se
lf-conscious.

  Just when her resolve had started to weaken and she thought that maybe she’d been foolish to come, she saw him.

  Her heart fell to the bottom of her stomach where her muscles clenched.

  Taking the few steps with ease, his gait as graceful as it was all those years ago, he made his way down to the waiting carriage. Only the slight graying at the sides of his hair was indication of the time that had passed. His black top hat stood by stark contrast against the dull gray sky.

  Eileen wanted to call out to him.

  The urge to run to him was strong.

  How would she even address him now after all this time? Would she call him by his formal name? Or would she call him as he had always urged her to, by his given name, Charles?

  Charles. The name was on the tip of her lips. They moved like a whisper but without making any sound.

  Without thinking she started to move and shift to get a better look. She feared he was about to leave and she wasn’t ready for him to go. Her eyes still craved the sight of him.

  His carriage rocked from side to side as he settled in. He gave a lazy glance out the window to take in the bustle of the street but she could tell that he wasn’t really looking at anything in particular—he was deep in thought.

  About what? What thoughts occupied his mind these days? What troubles did he carry on those broad shoulders?

  She remembered how he’d shared all those burdens with her. They’d talked endlessly through the days and nights, best friends and lovers. She used to rub his shoulders and ease his stress. He in turn would rub her feet and keep her toes from freezing.

  He knew what she was and accepted her.

  But such a man had obligations and that was where things got difficult.

  She’d run from the pain of watching him with another. The idea that someone else would claim him as theirs had been too much for her to bear. She knew he hadn’t had a choice in the matter but still it was like a sharp rod through her heart.

  But here he was almost within her reach, or so it appeared.

  What would she say to him?

  What would he think of her?

  The driver mounted his seat in front of the carriage and urged the horses forward with the crack of a whip.

  With the horses’ hooves clattering over the cobblestone they surged forward and she watched helplessly as his carriage rushed towards her.

  Holding her breath, she braced herself to steal another look. A closer look.

  Silently she willed Charles to see her standing there.

  Her heart took a double-beat but she knew it was not from her nerves.

  No, this was a very different kind of feeling that gave her a shock.

  She’d been seen by another.

  Slowly she turned her head to the right and saw a tall woman dressed in men’s clothes.

  Her skin was pale as porcelain and her features sharp.

  Another wayfarer.

  This had to be the one who had been trying to get to Emma. Emma had described her as somewhat androgynous-looking.

  There was not a hint of kindness in her eyes. It was the distinct lack of expression that made her skin crawl with fear. Eileen felt like a deer catching sight of a lion right before it pounced.

  Every nerve ending screamed for her to run.

  She dared another look at Charles’ carriage as the black horses trotted past her.

  From within the carriage, behind the rain-dotted window, Charles’ gaze fell squarely on hers. And in that moment their eyes locked. His hazel eyes, so much like Emma’s, flashed with something…recognition? She took in his stunned expression, and then bolted in the opposite direction away from the other wayfarer.

  And hopefully away from danger.

  Chapter 42

  Crown and Anchor

  Only a week ago I’d walked through these doors with nothing but love in my heart and hope of a future with the man I loved. Now I was a tatter of nerves as I prepared to meet the earl.

  Henry had requested a private room for the encounter and so I sat and waited. I hoped that Henry would not be angry at me for going without him.

  As my mother had not yet returned, Miss Crabtree had volunteered to accompany me, as meeting a man in private—an earl, no less—would certainly amount to some form of scandal.

  I heard the rattling of the door and turned in time to see Henry’s father walk through.

  He was stunned to silence for a brief moment as his eyes fell on me and widened.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he thundered.

  “Please hear the young woman out, Lord Pembrooke, she’s gone through quite an ordeal to be here,” Miss Crabtree barked from the other side of the room, not bothering to rise out of her chair. “We’ve also ordered some refreshments, so do sit down.”

  “Evelyn?” The earl studied her in surprise.

  “Yes, dear, but most still call me Miss Crabtree,” she said with pursed lips.

  “You two know each other?” My own surprise was like an afterthought.

  The earl gave a noncommittal shrug.

  “We are acquainted, dear,” she said and gave me a knowing wink.

  This woman was full of surprises.

  “Where is Henry? What have you done with my son?” The earl recovered and his ill temper was growing at a steady pace.

  “Right,” I said, feeling this one was a bit dicey. “Well, Henry wanted to be here but he is currently indisposed, but alive and well, so not to worry.”

  “I agreed to meet with him and him alone. He is well aware of my conditions, and you, Miss—” He paused, no longer sure what to call me.

  “Clayton. You mean Miss Clayton. And while we’re on the subject, why do you insist that I am guilty if you know Mr. Jacob to be a fraud? A fraud hired by your own daughter, I might add.”

  “Hogswash! You’ve no proof to support such an allegation!”

  “As a matter of fact I do and much more, but first I need to tell you a little story.”

  “I’m in no mood for your tales, Miss Clayton,” he practically spat.

  The earl made a move for the door, but Miss Crabtree was already there blocking his path, her delicate gloved fingers bolting it shut.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Crabtree,” he said with contempt. “I’ll have to ask you to remove yourself from my path or I may be forced to—”

  “What will you be forced to do, Lord Pembrooke? Run me through? I think not. Who would do such a thing to a helpless blind woman?” she said innocently. “We’ve not come here to fleece you of your precious pounds. Good heavens, we ask only that you hear Miss Clayton out and then you are free to go. She does after all deserve the right to speak in her own defense. Even such a distinguished man as yourself would not deny her that, would you?”

  I couldn’t help but admire the balls on this old woman. Never judge a book by its cover.

  Air escaped the earl’s mouth in a throaty sigh of frustration.

  What could he say to that?

  At a time when honor was everything, a man such as him could hardly argue, and so against his wishes he sat and allowed me to say my piece. Even Henry could not have called the earl to heel as Miss Crabtree had done.

  I resisted the strong urge to high-five her.

  With him now completely under submission, Miss Crabtree dove in to the cakes and tea.

  “Thank you, Lord Pembrooke,” I said and pulled my iPhone from my purse.

  Now for the hard part—how to shatter a man’s view of the world as he knew it and reconstruct it again to make sense.

  He gave a casual glance at the phone with growing curiosity.

  “I’m sure you are familiar with photography, my lord. Where I’m from we’ve had quite a few advances in that area. You see this little thing?” I held up the phone for him to inspect. “Not only can it take pictures that you can see right away, it can also take a series of moving pictures and record the sound. Let me show you.”

  I put the phone onto camera
mode and flicked it to video.

  “Say something,” I urged.

  The earl rolled his eyes.

  “Go on, Howard, don’t be such a fustilug,” Miss Crabtree teased.

  His jaw dropped at the insult. “Miss Crabtree, I’ll have you know you’re speaking with a gentleman, not a muck snipe.” He huffed.

  “That’s perfect,” I said to them both. The earl shot me a shocked look as I brought the phone over to him to watch the playback.

  He nearly jumped out of his seat as if the phone itself was possessed.

  “As you can see”—my confidence was building—“there is no trickery.”

  With my hand outstretched, I offered for him to inspect the iPhone.

  He hesitated at first, like the thing could possibly explode. But, turning it over in his palms, he slowly grew more intrigued and less fearful.

  “What do you call it? Where did you come into possession of such a thing?” he said, now in awe.

  “It’s an iPhone, but the rest is part of a much bigger story that I will get to. However, I first wanted to show you what this device was capable of doing.”

  “How does this iPhone,” he said reluctantly, “clear you of your crimes?”

  “Well, that was what I was getting to. If I can prove that someone else plotted all the things I am being accused of, would that then clear me of any wrongdoing in your eyes?”

  With a heavy sigh the earl contemplated my question.

  “Perhaps then I may be prevailed upon to acknowledge your innocence,” he continued. “But Miss Clayton, it will take a miracle to provide me with such evidence, not an impressive trinket.”

  His arrogance was nauseating, but I kept my eyes on the end result.

  He was about to eat those words and I was going to enjoy every second of it.

  “Agreed, my lord. I will show you a miracle then.”

  I hit play and slipped the iPhone into the earl’s waiting palm.

  Now it was my turn to feel vindicated.

  He sat riveted by the video of his daughter’s confession. His eyes slowly tinged with red rims.

  A pang of sadness dusted over me at his growing distress.

  When the video finished, the earl said nothing. He stared at the last frame of Isobel, frozen in a grimace.