Refine (House of Oak Book 4)

by Nichole Van

  v1.0

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  House of Oak Series

  Author's Note

  Reading Group Questions

  About the Author

  Copyright

  To Norma,

  for loving all things Jane Austen-ish

  and teaching me to do the same.

  And to Dave,

  for always supporting my late night pastry runs.

  I love your enabling heart.

  Prologue

  Kinningsley, seat of the Viscounts Linwood

  Herefordshire, England

  July 21, 1795

  Timothy Linwood laughed.

  Had he known it would be the last time he would laugh, he would have savored the moment more. Reveled in the joy bursting in his chest like so many champagne bubbles.

  Instead, he merely cringed when his voice cracked between childish giggle and manly guffaw.

  Such was life for a fourteen-year-old.

  “Again, again, again!” His four-year-old sister, Marianne, jumped up and down, bouncing her dark curls. Pudgy hands clapping.

  Smiling indulgently, Timothy placed the metal boat into a long basin of water set on the stone landing. He twisted the metal flywheel that was the ship’s steering wheel, sending the boat churning through the water.

  Marianne’s high-pitched laughter rang down the curved stairs and across the garden. But, most disconcertingly, through the open french doors at Timothy’s back.

  “Hush, Marianne. You will wake Mama.” He tried for stern, but a wide grin belied his words.

  He darted a glance through the doors into the drawing room. Their mother was still asleep on the long chaise, an empty bottle of laudanum resting sideways on the small table beside her. She had already taken two full doses, though it was barely early afternoon.

  “Again.” Marianne nudged him and then giggled, stifling the sound behind her little hands.

  It had all been worth it. The hours constructing the ship, secreting away the materials, working by candlelight, breaking at least twenty-one different rules . . . all to see Marianne’s face wreathed in smiles, banishing that pinched, too-old look a child should never wear.

  Fortunately, their father wouldn’t return from London until next week. And, heaven knew, Mama probably wouldn’t be conscious before then. A few more days of precious freedom.

  He wound the boat. Marianne laughed, leaning forward with clasped hands, anticipation palpable. He released the mechanism and the toy sprang to life.

  Her excited squeals filled the air before she caught herself, covering her mouth again. Timothy lounged back on his heels, smiling broadly. The merriment felt good. Lifting him from the inside out. Hydrogen in his veins, just like those newly-invented hot air balloons he had read about. Quicksilver.

  But it was far too short-lived.

  “What is this, boy?” A deep voice came from the doorway behind him, the sound skittering down Timothy’s spine. The boat gave a final sputter, bobbing to a stop.

  Timothy staggered to his feet and whirled around, unconsciously placing a protective hand on Marianne’s tiny shoulders. And then looked up, up, up into his father’s impassive gaze.

  Lean and dark-haired, Charles, Viscount Linwood, still towered over his only son despite the inches Timothy had grown in recent months. Lord Linwood tugged stiffly on his silver-threaded waistcoat, gaze moving side-to-side, taking in the listing boat, Marianne’s wide expression, surely cataloging each of the twenty-one broken rules.

  Silence.

  Charles Linwood locked eyes with him. Timothy had no confusion as to what would happen next.

  “Marianne, you will return to the nursery.” Words said without taking his gaze from Timothy’s face.

  Marianne whimpered. Grimly, Timothy unclasped his sister’s hands from his leg and gently pushed her toward the door. Her soulful eyes lifted to his, bottom lip trembling.

  “All will be well, sister,” he said. “Go now.”

  Without a glance at their father, she ran into the house.

  Timothy studied his sire. As usual, his father’s face was as expressive as granite. No trace of emotion flickered, anger or otherwise.

  A textbook example of Rule #37: A gentleman is always in control of himself and his situation.

  And its corollaries:

  Rule #23: A gentleman suppresses emotion, whether of disappointment, of mortification, of laughter, of anger, etc.

  Rule #59: A gentleman never allows his thoughts to be evident upon his visage.

  “You will recite rules three hundred and three through three hundred and nine for me.” His father clasped his hands behind his back. “Now, boy.”

  Timothy swallowed, forcing his face into an impassive mask, mimicking his father’s expression. Took a deep breath. Recited.

  Rule #303: A gentleman does not engage in trade.

  Rule #304: Mathematics should remain in a theoretical sphere.

  Rule #305: A gentleman does not toil with his hands like a common laborer.

  Rule #306: A gentleman does not indulge in the vulgarity of practical mathematics.

  Rule #307: A gentleman does not manufacture machines, either with his own hands or with the help of others.

  Rule #308: A gentleman does not design or use machines to bring a good to market.

  As Timothy recited, Charles Linwood walked to the stone balustrade overlooking the back gardens, rigid back to his son.

  “You are my heir.” His father did not turn around. Did not raise his voice. “Rule number three: At all times, a gentleman should maintain behavior and a demeanor which honors the illustrious heritage and sacrifices of his ancestors.” His father straightened his shoulders. “To engage in trade is a disgrace to the family name. Your actions reflect on us all.”

  Eyes staring sightlessly ahead, Timothy absorbed each word as a blow. He knew. He knew how he should behave. It was spelled out. Literally.

  “Why?” His father’s words barely a question. “Despite all my endeavors to impress upon you the importance of your duty, why do you persist in this lowering pursuit?”

  Timothy swallowed and then locked his spine.

  “’Twas for Marianne’s sake, sir. I wished to see my sister smile.” It was, at least, a partial truth. “Rule number nine.”

  A gentleman always cares for the needs of his family.

  His father turned back to him, mouth tensed, eyes narrowed the smallest bit. An eyebrow rose slowly upward.

  For Charles Linwood, it was a catastrophic display of disappointment.

  “That is a lie you tell yourself, boy.” His voice deathly quiet. Cutting. “You made the toy because you wished to. Your sister was merely an excuse. The rules shall never be placed in contradiction with each other.”

  That was Rule #301.

  “If you truly care for Marianne, you will tame this . . . proclivity,” Charles Linwood continued. “
If you sully the Linwood name with such low habits, you will damage her prospects. Would you allow this silly infatuation to be the cause of her ruin?”

  Timothy’s heart pounded. Machines were his very breath. Ideas constantly assaulted him, flitting through his brain, restless. Numbers, gears, springs, levers . . .

  Even as his father continued to lecture, Timothy noted his father’s shadow on the flagstones and, almost unwillingly, mentally triangulated the man’s height, the numbers practically visible before his eyes.

  “It grieves me greatly to see you thus,” Charles was saying. “I will stamp out this stain. I will mold you into a man worthy to bear the title of Lord Linwood. Do you understand?”

  Rule #1: A gentleman will ensure that the next generation is raised in a manner worthy of the Linwood name.

  There was only one answer to such a question. “Yes, sir.”

  “Bring that here, boy.” His father gestured toward the boat, bobbing on its side in the basin.

  Dutifully, Timothy picked up the toy, its metal cold against his skin. It had taken him nearly six months of long nights and cut hands to build. An obsession which had distracted him while he memorized Latin declensions and deciphered Homer in ancient Greek.

  Solemnly, he set it into his father’s outstretched hand. Charles turned the toy around, studying the curved edges Timothy had carefully formed and filed down. Not a single emotion flickered across the man’s impassive face.

  Turning, he gestured for Timothy to follow him. With deliberate precision, Charles walked down the curving rear staircase, across the large flagstones, through an arch and onto the back lawn, stopping in front of a small reflecting pond. Once there, his father set the boat adrift in the pool of water. And then with studied casualness, the man pulled a pistol from his frock coat and handed the weapon to Timothy.

  “Now, you will dispatch this monstrosity. You will take this action as a metaphor for yourself, blasting away this unworthy part of you.” Charles gestured toward the toy.

  Timothy swallowed, hard and fast. He would not cry. He never cried. He could do this. It was the barest minimum he had expected if caught.

  Images flooded through him. Equations and metal . . . cause and effect . . . even the mechanics of the pistol he now held. As he aimed and then squeezed the trigger, his mind saw the chain of events. The flint descending, scraping along the metal frizzen, creating a spark which landed in the flashpan, igniting the primed gunpowder in a flash of sparks which traveled through the touchhole, lighting the main charge which sent the lead bullet flying from the barrel—

  The boat disappeared in a shower of smoke and metal fragments, some sinking into the pond, others landing on the ground around him. Timothy bit his quivering lip, focusing on the pain, the taste of blood in his mouth.

  Rule #23: A gentleman suppresses emotion . . .

  A solitary gear—the boat’s flywheel—rolled across the ground, coming to a stop against Timothy’s boot. He stared as the steering wheel wobbled and toppled over. Which meant he didn’t see his father’s hand coming.

  The blow snapped Timothy’s head back, causing him to stagger. He was proud he didn’t fall over. Or even flinch, for that matter. And his tears stayed firmly locked away.

  Thank the heavens for small miracles.

  His sire had taught him well.

  “That blow is for breaking rule number twenty-nine.” A gentleman will refrain from all displays of levity. “Remember, this is all for your own good, Timothy. I do not enjoy having to discipline you thus.” Rule #77: A gentleman takes no joy in the righteous administration of just punishment. “In time, you will thank me for this day, for saving you from this baser part of your nature before it destroys everything you value, including your sister.”

  Timothy tracked his father’s dark head as the man strode back to the house. For nearly the thousandth time, Timothy wondered why? Why had God seen fit to give him the gift of mathematics but then doom him to love mechanics as well?

  He needed to give it up. For good. Pack it away. He would not risk Marianne. She was the brightest part of his life. With their mother constantly enveloped in an opium haze and their stern father distant and absent, she was all he had. He was all she had.

  He would see to Marianne’s future. Ensure her bright smile remained undimmed.

  Timothy looked back down, eyes resting on the solitary gear which had landed near his boot, its spokes perfectly cut and filed. That piece alone had taken nearly two weeks to make.

  What did the Bible say? When I was a child, . . . I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things . . .

  Yes.

  He would become the man his father wanted.

  In a sense, he was no more than that gear, lying on the ground. A cog in the machine of history. A mindless automaton who would preserve the Linwood heritage and honor.

  He picked up the gear, slipping it into his coat pocket. This he would keep. A souvenir, to use the French word. A remembrance of everything he needed to stamp out of himself.

  There was no other way.

  Chapter 1

  Duir Cottage

  Near the town of Marfield

  Herefordshire, England

  March 8, 2015

  Prince Charming. That was all Jasmine Fleury wanted.

  A dashing man to gallop into her life with a delectable smile and a good knack for dragon-slaying . . . er . . . problem solving. Namely hers.

  Was that too much to ask?

  Apparently, yes. Yes, it was.

  Particularly as every knight-in-shining-armor she had come across ended up being a jerk wrapped in tinfoil.

  Exhibit A: Her current phone conversation.

  “Can you please state your full name and place of birth?” Mike’s gravelly voice filled her ears.

  “You already know all of that, Mike. Or you did.” Once upon a time.

  Silence.

  “Look, Jas, I don’t want this to be any more difficult than it has to be. I’m trying to be a professional here.”

  More silence of the fraught variety.

  Fine. She could do this. She could be calm and collected. Professional.

  Jasmine’s pen tap, tap, tapped as she blinked and swallowed. Let out a slow breath.

  “How could you?!”

  Okay, so maybe not so much with the calm and collected.

  Or, quite frankly, the professional.

  She heard a shuffle over the phone, something beeping off. And then a long sigh.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Mike drew a deep breath. “Babe, we’ve been over this—”

  “Two years, three months and five days. That’s how much of my life I gave you.”

  “Jas—”

  “I’m not ready, you said. Commitment just isn’t my style.” She drawled the word just as he would. “But, oh no. Come to find out commitment is totally your style. Audrey is totally your style. Turns out it was just me who wasn’t your style.”

  “C’mon, Jas, you gotta move on—”

  “Move on?! As in your definition of move on? No, thank you. Did you even wait two weeks after we broke up to go out with her? And now you’re engaged . . . after what? Three months of dating?”

  “Calling you was a mistake. Audrey warned me.”

  Unconsciously, Jasmine moved her pen over the large pad of sticky notes in front of her, doodling, her throat tightening.

  “We were good together.” She sniffed, pen still drawing. Curlicues and calligraphic letters.

  “What?! No, we weren’t. We fought all the time. We were terrible . . . awful.”

  “We could have made it work. We just needed to try harder—”

  “Jas, Jas, Jas.”

  She could practically see him shaking his head.

  “If something is right, you don’t have to make it work. Love isn’t difficult. I know that now. Things with Audrey are effortless.”

  “But—”

  “You can’t fix everything and everyone. N
o matter how much you may want to.”

  Jasmine swallowed and wiped her wet cheeks with her free hand.

  She didn’t even bother trying to stem the tears. She had been known to cry over a diaper commercial. Ya know, the one where the baby crawled around with a puppy licking its face—seriously, you had to be heartless to not cry. But Mike hadn’t even sniffled over it. How could she have missed the signs?

  Stupid man. Stupid, stupid—

  She made an emphatic swirl with her pen.

  It’s not like she wanted Mike back anyway. Not really.

  They were awful together. Gah! The misunderstandings, the stonewalling . . . her tears, his lack of them.

  It had just been the challenge of him. He had been so broken. Humpty-Dumpty to her King’s Men.

  She had been convinced she could put him together again. Mother him back to emotional health.

  Classic Fixer-Upper Syndrome.

  Why hadn’t she seen the break-up coming?

  Granted, most normal people couldn’t see into the future. And it wasn’t as if she had visions or anything.

  But when her best friend, Emme Wilde, left to conduct research in Herefordshire, Jasmine had just known that Emme would bring a husband home with her.

  It came to her as everything else did. A whispering sense pulsing through the ground beneath her feet. A rippling of the ocean of the universe. Jasmine could generally sense the life force of everyone to some degree. Others’ lives lapped against her, wrapped around her, tugged her into the web of humanity. But with those close to her, like Emme, the sense extended from mere awareness to something akin to vision.

  She had seen Emme’s life circle reaching out to intertwine with another, slipping through the cracks of time itself.

  And sure enough, Emme had shown up three months later with James Knight in tow. The two had been married for nearly three years now and had a darling five-month-old boy, Arthur.

  Granted, there was the small matter of James having been born a nineteenth century aristocrat at nearby Haldon Manor. And that little something in the cellar of Duir Cottage which had made Emme and James’ love match possible.