A Stitch in Time

by Kelley Armstrong

“I forgot where the blankets were kept,” August protests.

  William’s look only darkens as he wraps the large blanket around both of us. “I don’t know why you’re here, August, but I would strongly suggest you depart and hope I am in a better mood when you return. Lady Dale is my guest. You surprised her in a state of undress and allowed her to remain that way as you ogled—”

  “He wasn’t ogling,” I say. “He caught me off-guard, and I forgot what I was wearing. Then we got wrapped up in a discussion. He seems to have mistaken me for a girl he glimpsed with you one summer, a girl he thinks comes . . .” I glance at August. “What did you say? From the future? It’s a very fine story. You ought to write it down.”

  I’m trying to defuse the situation while warning William, but if anything, his face goes darker still.

  “You spied on me?” William says. “You told me a villager had spotted me with a girl.”

  “I lied,” August says. “I spied because I was concerned for your well-being. This is obviously the same girl, now grown to a woman, and I do believe she’s from the future, having fed you the information you used to secure your fortune and also increase mine.”

  “Yes.”

  William’s word hangs there, and we both look at him, waiting for the rest.

  “Yes,” he says. “You are correct in all of it. Now, leave us to enjoy our morning in peace.”

  August turns to me. “See how easy that was.”

  “I believe you know where to find the door,” William says.

  August’s smile fades as he goes serious. “I wish I could go, William. But I’m here on a matter of rather urgent business. I do apologize for disturbing your day with Lady . . .”

  “It’s Bronwyn,” I say. “No lady attached.”

  “And you may call me August. I apologize to you as well, Bronwyn, for catching you unawares and teasing about not knowing where to find a blanket.” He looks at William. “Bronwyn is correct that we became engrossed in our conversation. A battle of wits, which she was winning, and I was too intent on the game to be a gentleman and fetch her a blanket. I am sorry for that, too.”

  “That apology goes to her, not to me,” William says.

  August apologizes, and I brush it off with, “We were distracted by a very entertaining argument.”

  “August is always entertaining,” William murmurs.

  “That’s not the adjective you usually use,” August says. “Now, if I may join you for breakfast, I can explain our business problem.”

  “You two do that,” I say. “I need to pop home. I’ll return later today, William.”

  He catches my arm before I can go. Then he hesitates, grip loosening.

  “Why don’t you join us for breakfast?” August says. “I would very much appreciate the opportunity to better display my manners and my wit. I shall occupy no more of William’s time than necessary.”

  “If you’re sure—”

  “Excellent. I shall set out Mrs. Shaw’s lovely cold breakfast and brew coffee. Please tell me you have coffee, William?”

  “In the cupboard from your last visit,” William says.

  “Do they drink coffee in the future, Bronwyn?”

  “They have entire shops devoted to coffee, one on almost every street corner.”

  He sighs. “Heaven.”

  William shakes his head and ushers me upstairs.

  25

  At the top of the stairs, William pulls me into a kiss that leaves me gasping. One gulp of air, and then another kiss, deeper still, the blanket falling as he pulls me against him.

  “Good morning to you, too,” I say when we finally part.

  He chuckles, but there’s an uneasy edge to it.

  “It really was a mistake, William. I heard a crash in the kitchen, and Pandora came running up, so I thought she knocked something over. Your shirt covers me, so I wasn’t thinking how inappropriate it is in your time, and August and I really did get caught up in our conversation—”

  He cuts me off with a kiss. “I’m not the least bit concerned about him seeing your bare legs, Bronwyn. While I’m annoyed that he didn’t help you find a blanket, I do not suspect you of flirting with him. As for August, the man flirts like others breathe—he scarcely realizes he’s doing it. If he did, it was not intentional.”

  “Are you all right, then? You seem a little off-kilter.”

  “Oh, I’m fine. I certainly did not wake to find your side of the bed empty and fly up in a panic, worried you’d changed your mind.”

  I hug him. “I most definitely have not.”

  He looks down at me. “At the risk of sounding like a fretful boy, I realize I may have said things last night that were more than you wanted to hear just yet.”

  “I believe I reciprocated them.”

  “I also know I was very . . . physical in my affections, affording you little sleep.”

  “And it was glorious.” I put my arms around his neck. “You did and said nothing last night that I am not thrilled about. Now, how about we get dressed, go downstairs and have breakfast, and then we will separate for the minimum amount of time before I return in hopes of compensating for the fact that our first morning together has been rudely interrupted.”

  The coffee is . . . well, let’s just say it’s better than some overpriced espresso chains, which isn’t saying much. Coffee in Victorian times was relatively new, and with no modern machines, it’s made almost like tea with ground coffee being steeped in cloth bags. Also, it’s not exactly quality coffee to begin with.

  When August asks me how it tastes, I try to demur, but August seizes on that with the fervor of a true aficionado. Coffee in the future is better? Tell him about it. Where is it from? How is it made? He’s genuinely fascinated, and by the time we’re done with the conversation, I’m promising to bring better coffee. More importantly, we’re both relaxed and comfortable, devouring the repast he’s laid out.

  “So this business problem . . .” William says.

  When August glances at me, William says, “Bronwyn is no society maiden who expects frivolous conversation over breakfast until we can retire to our manly business discussions.”

  “Certainly not,” I say. “And in truth, I suspect many of those maidens—and matrons—would be happy to hear such conversation if it wasn’t deemed too ‘complicated and coarse’ for their untutored and delicate ears.”

  August laughs and says, “You sound like . . .” He wipes a hand over his mouth and cuts a slice of ham. “All right, then, the problem is with a shipment. William and I have shared interest in a shipping company that docks in Whitby, and one of the ships was supposed to depart last night, but the new harbormaster is causing trouble.”

  “He wants a bribe,” William says. “Which he’s not getting. Bribery is for thieves and smugglers, and to suggest we are either . . .” He stabs his ham and mutters expletives under his breath.

  “Agreed,” August says. “I was hoping you’d come to the wharf and tell him that yourself. I’m better at charming, and you are better at scowling. This particular problem requires scowls.”

  I take a strawberry from the bowl. “Then, William is your man. I will busy myself at home for the afternoon.”

  August assures William they’ll settle the matter as quickly as possible.

  “I have hopes of returning to London by morning,” August says. “I have made a promise to someone who expects me to keep it.” He glances at me. “My son. He’ll be driving poor Margaret to distraction.”

  “Ah,” I say with a smile. “Yes, your wife will appreciate your prompt return.”

  They both go still, and before I can speak, August says, his voice strained, “No, Margaret is his governess. My wife left us.”

  William winces as I hurry on, with some desperation. “How old is your son?”

  “Two. Nearly three.”

  “Do you have any pictures?” I ask.

  “Portraits? Not with me, I fear.”

  “Of course. Sorry. I’m forgettin
g my time period.”

  A faint smile. “Ah, so in the future, parents carry pictures of their children?”

  “Photographs, yes.”

  “On tiny devices that can hold hundreds, perhaps thousands,” William says. “Be happy August doesn’t have one of those, or we’d be here all day. Here’s Edmund eating an apple. Here’s Edmund playing with his dog. Here’s Edmund sleeping.”

  I chuckle. “People do exactly that. Wait . . . your son’s name is Edmund? Isn’t that your middle name, William?”

  “He’s named after a relative,” William says. “Not me.”

  “Yes,” August says. “I named him after my great-grandfather’s brother, whom I never knew, rather than the childhood friend who loathes the idea of being anyone’s namesake.” August lowers his voice and whispers. “It’s a great responsibility, you know.”

  “Ah. Well, I’m sure your great-grandfather’s brother was a lovely man.”

  “Undoubtedly. As for my Edmund, perhaps you can convince his favorite uncle to come to London for a visit? Bring you along, show off the sights of our grand city?”

  Uncle?

  Wait. Yes, of course. August was engaged to Cordelia. William’s sister left years ago, and so did August’s wife . . . because they’re the same person. That’s why William winced at the reminder.

  I’m spared from a reply by William grumbling that there’s no need for him to go to London when August will bring Edmund to the summer house next month.

  “And how about you, Bronwyn?” August says. “Do you have children?”

  I shake my head. “My husband passed away before we reached that stage, unfortunately.”

  “Ah. Then you must have them with William.”

  William and I sputter in unison, but August waves us off. “Not immediately, of course. After you’re married. That part’s important. Or so they tell me. Give it a year or so. Edmund would be delighted with a baby cousin.”

  William glowers at him. “Are you trying to frighten Bronwyn off?”

  August leans toward me. “He will make an excellent father. Wait until you see him with Edmund. He’s a natural parent.”

  William stands abruptly. “And you are a terrible one, dawdling over breakfast and delaying your return to your son.”

  “Is that a hint to drop this conversation?” August looks at me. “That sounded like a hint, didn’t it?”

  I smile and shake my head. “You two go. I’ll tidy up here and see you on your return, William.”

  William turns to August. “Please note the use of my name and the lack of yours. You will say your farewells to Bronwyn before we leave and not inveigle your way into dinner.”

  August’s brows shoot up. “Inveigle? Me?” He glances over. “What is for dinner, out of curiosity?”

  I shoo them off and tidy quickly so I can get home to Enigma.

  I’ve been away from Enigma too long, and I feel terrible about it. Worst of all is the guilt that comes from knowing I haven’t even thought of her for nearly twelve hours. I made sure she had everything she needed before I left, and I’d played with her yesterday until she collapsed from exhaustion, but I’m still racked with guilt.

  I made a commitment to this kitten, and I can’t leave her alone for that long while I’m off gallivanting with my new lover. Yet I’m not sure how to resolve the issue. After I return and shower her with affection, I test popping back with her. I sit on the floor and hold her . . . and end up in William’s bedroom empty-handed. I try from the spot where, in William’s world, there stands the chest where Pandora came through. I end up sitting on that chest, with no kitten.

  My failure sparks a larger problem. William said he’s committed to making this work, while understanding I have my own life here. That would make sense if I worked down the road and could pop back to the twenty-first century each morning, returning to him in the evening. But my job is across an ocean. Changing to a local university isn’t like switching jobs in retail. Even if I could get a position, the commute alone would be hell.

  So stay with him, a little voice whispers. Find a way to take Enigma, and stay there. Surrender the rest.

  Give up my modern life to live in his world. It seems like such a romantic sacrifice. It’s not. It’s the death knell of a relationship.

  One of Michael’s cousins met a girl in the United States and took her home to Cairo where she knew nothing and no one. They lasted two years, separating amid a maelstrom of blame, she being desperately unhappy away from her family and he being hurt that he wasn’t enough. I’ve seen other variations on that story—girl abandons her home or her family or her career goals for a man and ends up miserable and resentful.

  My career is important to me. My world is important to me. I could live here for a year or two in perfect bliss, holed up in Thorne Manor, William occupied with his horses while I managed the household. Then I’d get restless, hemmed in by the isolation and the restrictions of his world, missing my father, my stepmother, my friends.

  So what is the answer if he can’t come to my world and I can’t stay in his? The very question steals my breath, and all I can do is remind myself that we have all summer to figure this out, and we will figure it out.

  I had plans for housework and errands, but guilt over Enigma keeps me from them. So I spend all my time with her, and she responds the way a child would, saddled with a guilt-stricken parent who returned from a work trip. She’s happy with the play and the cuddles for about an hour, and then she’s had enough of me and wanders off for some kitty alone-time.

  After lunch, I strip woodwork. There are few things in home renovation as satisfying as removing paint, watching long strips slough off in ribbons, revealing the gorgeous wood beneath. I’m busy with that when a clatter sounds, and I realize I haven’t see Enigma since before lunch. I drop my scraper and leap up as if I’ve left a baby in the bathtub.

  “Enigma?” I call.

  No answer. I race up the stairs, shouting her name like a crazy woman. I skid into my bedroom, heart thudding. Her box is empty. So is my bed. There’s a kitten-sized divot in the comforter.

  “Enigma?” I call as I hurry down the hall.

  Silence.

  “Enigma!” I call, adding a “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!” because obviously it’s the universal language for feline summoning. And maybe it is—no sooner do I croon that magic phrase than I hear an answering meow.

  I’m in the master bedroom, and the sound comes from the walls. Inside the walls. I freeze in confusion. Then I remember the secret passage.

  Back in the hall, I throw open the linen closet door to see the padlock. It’s still affixed. So how did Enigma get in there?

  I return to where I heard the kitten, but she’s very clearly inside that wall. She must have found another way.

  I run to the garage for the pry bar.

  26

  I pry off the old lock. The panel comes away with an explosion of dust that sets me coughing and sputtering. I duck into the passage, where I can stand. It’s so narrow I need to move sideways. I cringe as my shirt slides over the filthy wall, and the stink of bat guano warns me not to shine the flashlight up.

  It’s been over thirty years since I last did this. At fifteen, William and I had been far more interested in sneaking into the moors for kisses than creeping through dirt-crusted walls to spook the maids. Still, I’ll admit to a thrill as I ease along the passage.

  There’s the scrap of carpet I dragged in as a child after William got a splinter and I’d been too young to realize the carpet wouldn’t be in his version of the passage. Here’s the spot where the passage widens, and William brought two old pillows for us to sit on. The pillows are still there—or the moldering scraps of them, the rest having spent the centuries lining baby mouse nests.

  As I move, my flashlight shines on marks carved into the wall, and a forgotten memory bursts back. I see William, at five, carving our names into the wood with a pocket knife. He starts to put a plus between them, and my hand c
lamps on his.

  “What’s that?” I ask, my heart tripping.

  He frowns at me. “The algebraic sign for addition. Because we’re here together. William and Bronwyn.”

  “Where I come from, if you put a plus between a boy’s name and a girl’s name, it means they’re boyfriend and girlfriend.”

  His head tilts in thought, and my heart trips faster, certain he’s going to say, “Eww” or make a face, because that’s what boys do.

  “So you’re not my girlfriend?” he asks.

  My cheeks heat. “I could be. If you asked.”

  “I just did.”

  “Not like that. You need to say, ‘Bronwyn Dale, will you be my girlfriend?’”

  He grumbles, and there are such echoes of the adult William in that grumble. But he says the words, and I accept, and he puts a plus between our names. Then, in a surge of boldness, I take the penknife and add, “4ever.” He squints at it, sounding it out, and then nods, satisfied.

  Now, I’m staring at those names on a wall, tears spilling over my cheeks. Happy tears for a promise kept, and sad ones for time lost.

  Was time lost? I’m not certain it was. I feel horrible for any pain I inflicted on William, but the truth is . . .

  Would I have had it any other way if that meant Michael never came into my life? No. As much as I love William—have always loved him—I would not have wanted to miss out on Michael. If I’d known William was real, that place in my heart would have been full, and I would have never paid attention that first time Michael said my name, and my life would be poorer for it. I’m a better person for knowing him, loving him, and I’ll never wish that away.

  I touch the “4ever” and send out a fervent hope that it’s a prediction come true. William and I were “forever” in our way, and now we can be that in every way.

  I’m staring at the names when Enigma’s annoyed meow reminds me that I’m not here to traipse down memory lane. I have a kitten to rescue.

  I turn a corner, which is not easy, given how narrow the passage is. When I shine the flashlight, I see no sign of Enigma. She should be easy to spot with her bright orange and white fur. She’s not there, though, which means I need to duck past the window.