Edmund giggles at that. “Yes, he looks the same way. Determined.”
I’m about to speak again when I catch a sound. Sleigh bells? My head jerks up.
“Edmund,” I say quickly as I rise. “Turn away. I think the navy men are coming.”
Edmund shakes his head. “The pirate—privateer is gone. He disappeared. I do hear the bells, though. It must be the man who helps people.”
“If you two are hearing what sounds like sleigh bells,” August says. “Then I hear it, too. It seems to be coming from out there.” He points at the field.
“The sleigh ghost,” Edmund whispers. “Only now, we can all hear him!”
I glance at August, who shrugs. It definitely sounds like sleigh bells. We continue in that direction. The jingling had seemed to come from the field, but as we draw close, we see a right-of-way path.
Something is coming along it. Coming fast.
The path dips down a rise. We carefully cross and stand at the juncture of the path and the road.
“Is it a sleigh?” August says. “It sounds like hooves—”
Before he can finish, a giant black horse shoots over the hill. August grabs us and dives to the side. The rider pulls the horse to a halt, and the bridle bells stop jangling.
“What the devil?” a voice says.
“Uncle William!” Edmund says, leaping from his father’s grip.
“Edmund?”
It is indeed William Thorne, atop a black stallion, and for a moment, I again think we have passed back into our world. Then I realize the horse is not Balios, and I remember William has a near-twin of his nineteenth-century horse here. A stallion for breeding, he would say, but really, Lord Thorne is simply the sort of man who must challenge his riding skills with a temperamental mount.
“We are here,” Edmund says, trotting over while giving the monstrous beast wide berth. “We came through the secret spot.”
“Did you?” William looks at me, brows rising.
“Someone snuck through the secret spot,” I say. “After someone else’s toddler daughter apparently told him all about it, in whatever secret language they share.”
“Amelia,” William says with a sigh. “I can only hope Grace is less trouble, though she is giving no signs of it, arriving early and frightening us half to death.”
“You would be most disappointed if either of your daughters was anything less than a handful,” I say. “They come by it honestly.”
“True, their mother is a bundle of mischief. Always has been.”
I roll my eyes. “I trust mother and child are fine?”
“Fine and home at Thorne Manor. Grace was sleeping, and Bronwyn kicked me out for a ride, claiming I was going to wake the child, hovering over her.”
“Hovering over Bronwyn, too, I bet.” I look up at him. “While we have much to explain, I need to confess something before we do.”
William swings off the horse. While I’d seen him in the twenty-first century once before, the puffy down-filled jacket and blue jeans are still disconcerting.
“Is something wrong?” he asks.
“I convinced Rosie to take Bronwyn’s car out for a ride,” August cuts in before I can answer. “It was a clear evening with no signs of snow, and I wheedled and begged.”
“No, you didn’t. You asked, and I made a decision I ought not to have made.” I straighten, which barely brings me to William’s shoulder level. “I borrowed Bronwyn’s car and gave August a driving lesson.”
“On a flat and empty road,” August says. “After an hour of safety instructions.”
William’s lips twitch. “I can imagine. Let me guess. Then the storm hit, and August panicked and drove her into the ditch.”
“I did not panic,” August protests.
“He actually didn’t,” I say. “We were pulling to the shoulder when a car came ripping along and August had to veer. The convertible became stuck. We spent the night in a barn, and when we returned to retrieve Bronwyn’s car, it was gone.”
I clear my throat and look up, meeting William’s gaze. “I believe, in our haste, we left the keys in the ignition.”
“And the doors unlocked?”
“Er, yes. Which is unforgivable, as is the borrowing of the car without permission.”
“I am shocked at you, Rosalind. Shocked. You are usually so much more responsible than that.”
My cheeks heat. “I know, and I apol—”
“First, you invade our nineteenth-century home and decorate it. With Christmas decorations, no less. Then you follow your son through the stitch. Could he not just have stayed on the other side? Perhaps tidied up the mess we left? No. You followed him, and then you borrowed barely enough winter clothing to keep from freezing. Was there not an entire wardrobe to choose from? Imagine if you’d died of cold? How thoughtless would that be? Then you borrowed the car to give this one”—he jabs a finger at August—“a holiday treat that I am quite certain he did not deserve.”
William sighs. “Please tell me you did not leave a piece of jewelry or other valuable in the barn to compensate for sleeping on their hay overnight?”
“Rosie tried to leave her grandmother’s brooch,” August says. “I substituted my stick pin.”
“We also tidied up for the owner,” Edmund says. “That was my idea.”
“Of course it was. Two months back, Rosalind, and you are already infecting this child with your ridiculously inflated sense of responsibility. Well, I suppose I should thank you for this gift.”
“Gift?” I say.
“Yes, the gift of giving me something to hold over your head forever. Now, whenever you are shocked by my own irresponsible behavior, I can bring up the time you stole my wife’s car.”
“Mama did not steal it,” Edmund says. “She borrowed it. Papa also borrowed sweets, which we have eaten, and as we cannot return them, I suppose that is theft.”
William spins on August. “You ate Bronwyn’s candies? God save you, man. The car is one thing, but I cannot help you with that.”
William claps Edmund on the back. “We will have to enlist your mother’s help replacing those treats with bakery goods. A few dozen scones should do the trick. I hear you are becoming quite the expert baker yourself.”
“I am,” Edmund says. “But what about the car?”
“Oh, the car is fine. It’s home in the garage, though I suppose I will now need to call the police and tell them we were mistaken, and it was not stolen and abandoned. That will be embarrassing.”
William peers at Edmund. “Perhaps we can turn in your parents as the thieves. They should be out of prison in a few years. You’ll be fine until then, won’t you? Running Courtenay Hall on your own?”
Edmund knows Lord Thorne well enough to only giggle and shake his head.
William sighs. “Fine, I will tell them it was a misunderstanding, and the miscreants have been apprehended and sentenced to a half day of hard baking labor.”
“While I do hate to interrupt when you’re having so much fun,” August says. “May I point out that Edmund is not exactly dressed for this weather?”
“And whose fault is that?” William says. “Did I not already give you proper hell for dressing him like that?”
William looks down at Edmund. “That coat is rather fetching on you, though. I see you have inherited your father’s sense of style.”
“Are you mocking my son for wearing a girl’s coat?” August says.
William’s brows shoot up. “Never. I am a Thorne. I have at least two great-uncles who preferred women’s attire. My commentary referred to the size, which is rather small for him and looks quite uncomfortable, not unlike much of what you wear yourself.”
“At least I am not wearing those.” August points at the blue jeans. “They have a hole in the knee. Do you even realize that?”
“It is the fashion, although, admittedly, that is not how I bought them.”
William reaches down for Edmund. “May I offer you a ride, young sir? In l
ight of your parents’ terrible negligence, dragging you into a winter wonderland while woefully underdressed.”
Edmund lets William lift him onto the horse. Then William points to the left. “Head that way and take the first right. I’ll get the other car and come round to fetch you.”
William climbs onto the horse, and they are off, bells jangling in their wake.
12
We are back at Thorne Manor. All of us, right down to baby Grace. Amelia runs off with Edmund, needing to show him all her toys and her pony, because the daughter of William Thorne didn’t just have one pony before she was old enough to walk—she had one in each world.
I settle in to coo and cuddle the baby as August relays our adventure to Bronwyn. The new mom sits on the sofa curled up against her husband, who is feeding her scones, insisting she must revive herself after that difficult birth ordeal. Bronwyn might roll her eyes at that, but she doesn’t turn down the scones.
“And how are you doing, Rosalind?” Bronwyn asks. “It can’t be easy for you, being back in this world.”
I grimace, and before I can say that I’m fine, August does it for me, mimicking my tone, which has both Bronwyn and William laughing.
“Yes, silly question,” Bronwyn says. “Of course, she is fine.” She takes a nibble of scone. “Or so she says.”
I sigh. “I have already had the PTSD talk from August, and yes, I know I need to . . .” I fidget, adjusting my position as I shift the baby. “I need to stop ignoring what happened to me. I did not plan to come back to the twenty-first century, but now that I have—safely—I should like to do so more often. This world has its marvels.”
“It does,” Bronwyn says. “As does yours.”
“I think I find it difficult to admit there are things in this world I miss. I can joke about stand mixers and good chocolate, but there are other things, too, and to admit it feels as if . . .” I sneak a look August’s way. “As if I am saying it wasn’t so bad, being here.”
August says softly, “Just because an experience is not uniformly terrible does not mean you didn’t suffer. I have some wonderful memories from the last four years. Memories of life with Edmund. Of life with friends. Of things I did that I enjoyed. Would you prefer I didn’t?”
“Certainly not. I wanted you to be happy while I could not be there.”
“I had moments of great happiness, along with grief and anger and everything else. I expect you had the same, Rosie. Just because you were desperate to return does not mean you spent four years in abject misery. I’d be horrified to think you did.”
I nod, and we sink into the comfortable silence of understanding. The baby wakes, and I get to make faces at her and ooh and aah over how tiny she is before I finally relinquish her to August so he can have a cuddle.
We’ve resumed talking—this time about the baby’s early arrival and the panicked trip to York—when the doorbell chimes. William goes to open it, and I hear two feminine voices. I glance at Bronwyn, who’s smiling and getting to her feet.
“Freya dragged Del up,” Bronwyn says.
I have only a split second of confusion—from the voices—before William brings the couple in. Bronwyn has never mentioned that Del is a transgender person—why would she?—and I’m relieved that my surprise doesn’t last long enough to show on my face.
I’m equally relieved that, despite being from a very different time, August makes the mental leap in a blink and is right there, baby in his arms, introducing us and saying how much he has heard about them, as they say the same about us. Or Freya does. Del only glowers at his wife.
“I told you they’d be too busy for a social call.” He looks at Bronwyn. “I swear, she’s been perched in the front window like a tiny hawk. I practically had to tie her down so she didn’t come up hours ago.”
“Oh, that’s the story, is it?” Freya says. She turns to Bronwyn. “We saw you drive by this morning, and he says, ‘Hmph, they’re early. Figures. Should probably head up, see if anything needs doing.’ I’m the one who said we should wait. And we aren’t here for a social call—we’re here to see what you need.”
“So you don’t want to see the baby?” August says, arms tightening around the little one. “All right then. I’ll just put her in her cradle . . .”
“Only if you want this one tackling you,” Del says, hooking a thumb at Freya.
Freya is white-haired, plump, walks with a cane, and seems the least likely person to tackle anyone, but there’s no mistaking the determined glint in her eye as she cuts off August’s retreat and holds out her arms. He passes Grace over, and as we all head into the living room to chat, I try not to stare at Freya, to study her, to figure out whether she might be descended from me or my sisters or another relative. I want to say more—to take her aside and talk, just talk—but that is a conversation for another time. For now, I am only glad to have met her at last.
It’s early afternoon, and we’re making our way down the hill to High Thornesbury. Del and Freya are watching the children to let us show August around the modern holiday version of the town. William had wanted to drive down so Bronwyn wouldn’t need to walk, but she’d insisted she wanted the exercise.
We’ve changed our clothing. The “heading to a fancy-dress party” excuse doesn’t work as well midafternoon. William had insisted he owns only blue jeans on this side of the stitch, which I’m certain was a lie to force August to wear them. I won’t say they look amazing—they are two sizes too large—but that only requires me to use my imagination and picture what he’d look like in a snug pair of worn jeans, and the image keeps me quite toasty warm on the trip downhill.
As for me, I’m wearing a lovely cashmere sweater over riding pants William lends out to young local equestrians. Paired with the boots from my time, it is a delightfully unique outfit, and I’m rather pleased by it. Judging by the looks August keeps sneaking me, he agrees. His looks are purely appreciative, with no hint of what I would have seen in them four years ago, sizing up my attire in terms of how it might attract men’s gazes.
It’s chilly out, Rosie. Perhaps you’d like a stole with that?
Is that bodice comfortable? The neckline seems a little low.
Are you certain you’d like to wear your hair down today? It looks so lovely pinned up.
I’d tried to take his words as mere fashion advice, but in my heart, I’d known them for what they were, and I’d felt judged for my choices. There is no longer any of that in his look, and the relief I feel only serves to remind me that if I ever see judgment again, I will not mistake it for anything else. And we will talk about it.
“Do you know what we ought to do tonight?” William says as we reach town.
“Dare I ask?” Bronwyn replies.
“Caroling. Edmund’s ghostly friend was right. There is a distinct lack of caroling, which we shall rectify. We’ll see whether Freya can look after Grace.”
“I believe Freya would prefer to join us,” Bronwyn says. “And Grace will be fine coming along as well. Bundle her up and take advantage of these early days, where she sleeps so well.”
William hesitates.
“A brief round of caroling will be fine, William,” Bronwyn says. “Unless you’re suggesting I stay home with her.”
“We’ll bundle her up, and I’ll carry her.”
We head along the main road, pointing out everything to August along the way.
“Is that the same pub?” August asks.
“It is indeed.” William claps him on the back. “What do you say we pop inside for a better look? And a fine warming drink. It seems to be about that hour.”
“You two go on,” Bronwyn says. “Don’t spare a thought for those among us who are breastfeeding and need to spend a third Christmas alcohol free.”
William grins at her. “You are most thoughtful, Lady Thorne. And in return, I’ll be equally considerate and have a drink for you.” He puts his arm around her waist and pulls her to him. “I’m teasing. If we do go in, we can all hav
e something warm and nonalcoholic.”
“No, I was the one teasing.” She pats his shoulder. “Enjoy your drink. I need to grab a few things before the shops close.”
“I’ll go with Bronwyn,” I say, and we part at the pub, the men promising to catch up in time to carry our parcels.
Bronwyn and I continue on, chattering away even more now that the men have left. It’s been a very long time since I had a female friend. I’d been too busy with life after my parents died—caring for my sisters, opening my business, growing up fast. Miranda and Portia had eventually taken the role of friends, but as much as I adore their company, I realize now I was missing something in my life. With Bronwyn, I have started to find it, along with the determination to find more.
I tell her about the farm where we stayed, and the Jewish decorations and my own epiphany regarding my heritage.
“Your parents made the choice not to highlight that in your life,” she says. “In their minds, it was the correct choice for the world you grew up in. I’m not even sure how much has changed. Less than I’d like to think. But now you’ll make your own choice, and whatever that might be, it will be the best one for you.”
I smile and loop my arm through hers. “Thank you. I do want Edmund to be aware of his heritage, even if August and I will need to discuss how open we are with it. I’d like to start with the holidays, though. Impart an awareness that Christmas is not the only one.”
“Oh! Then I know exactly where to begin.” She points to the local bookshop. “I was already going there. I need to buy books for William and Edmund. Our first Christmas together, William bought books for himself from me and—”
“For himself . . . from you?”
She waves a hand. “Don’t ask. It did, however, launch a tradition of buying books for one another, which we read on Christmas night when we’re too stuffed to move. We’ve been trying to carry on our favorite family holiday traditions while inventing our own.”
I smile. “I just may steal that particular one from you.”
“Please do.”
She pushes open the bookshop door. As soon as we walk in, I spot a display celebrating winter holidays across cultures, and I smile at that, as well as at the young family choosing books from it.
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