The rider turned in the direction of the sound and frowned. Looking back at Penelope, his eyes were hidden beneath a heavy brow. Sensing his indecision and disappointment, she trembled.
Dragging his gaze from her, he fixed on some point in the distance and raced off, leaving Penelope alone at the bottom of the hill, confused and utterly, incomprehensibly frightened, and her feet ankle-deep in mud.
Like she’d woken from one of her nightmares.
‘Good morning, Miss Penelope,’ said Annie, the parlour maid, taking Penelope’s coat and bonnet. ‘Miss Georgina is in the sitting room.’
Penelope smiled weakly at the middle-aged servant, still shaken from her encounter with the stranger on the hill. She would have to tell Harry and Georgina about him, and Uncle Henry too. They all needed to be warned, although she couldn’t explain why. ‘And is Harry here?’ she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
‘No Miss, he and Mr Lockwood have gone for a ride—the Master wanted to show him the estate.’
‘Mr Lockwood?’ Penelope asked, not familiar with the name.
‘A colleague of Mr Harry’s from the university.’
Mr Lockwood. A colleague of Harry’s. Of course, Penelope thought with relief, he must be the rider! Relaxing a little, she finally managed to draw a steady breath.
Annie opened the door to the sitting room where Georgina waited, and Penelope followed her in.
Georgina sat by the window, bathed in morning sunshine, reading. Fashionable, blonde curls framed an oval face, within which a pair of bright blue eyes were deeply set. Georgina had received the very best upbringing from her parents, who had prepared her to be an exemplary society wife; she could sing, draw, play pianoforte, and run a household, the latter of which she’d now been doing for two years since her mother’s death. Penelope knew without a doubt that Georgina would make a wonderful wife, and that her cousin would one day leave Broadhurst for the exciting, vibrant world of London society. Penelope would miss her when she left.
‘Pene,’ Georgina said warmly, dropping her book as she rose to greet her cousin. ‘I’m so glad you came! My goodness, what happened to you?’
Penelope wiped at the mud on her cheek, although there was nothing to be done about her dress. ‘I stepped in some mud. Do I look a dreadful fright?’
‘No, you are as beautiful as always. And Harry won’t even notice,’ Georgina said dryly, rubbing at some mud on Penelope’s forehead.
‘I’m looking forward to seeing him. Has he changed much?’ It’d been six months since Harry’s last visit from Cambridge, and Penelope enjoyed the vibrancy and good humour he brought to Broadhurst. Harry could be counted on to never be serious.
‘No,’ replied Georgina, making a face. ‘He is exactly the same. It is most annoying. But it’s not Harry I wish for you to meet.’
Penelope raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘I want you to meet his friend—and you will when they return.’ Georgina’s eyes grew wide as she spoke, and she lowered her voice. ‘Mr Heath Lockwood. Honestly, Penelope, he is the most handsome and agreeable man you could ever meet!’
‘Really?’ Penelope smiled indulgently at her cousin. It must be him, the rider on the hill, she decided. Her brief glimpse had assured her that ‘handsome’ was definitely an appropriate word to describe the man she’d seen.
‘He’s well educated, polite and very, very handsome,’ Georgina continued, ‘and has the most beautiful manners. He’s studying science at Cambridge with Harry and is very, very handsome!’
‘So you keep saying,’ Penelope laughed, her tension fading with each passing confirmation that the man on horseback had merely been Harry’s friend and not some remnant from her nightmare. ‘He sounds too good to be true. And where is he from?’ It was an easy enough question, but one that brought an instant frown to Georgina’s face.
‘Well, that’s the very thing. He has made no mention of family. But he’s obviously well brought up and wealthy—’ A noise outside the room interrupted them, and she started bustling around, smoothing her skirt and curls. ‘Oh! Here they come now.’
Georgina quickly resumed her seat by the window and took up her book. Penelope watched her cousin’s fluster with amusement, rubbing again at the mud marks on her face and dress, more than a little curious to meet this Mr Lockwood.
The door swung open and Harry raced in, scooping up Penelope and swinging her around. ‘Penelope! My favourite little cousin! Annie said you were here! Let me look at you!’ He set her down, and she wobbled giddily on her feet. ‘You’re still as light as a feather. You know, Heath,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘my sister and I used to call Penelope “Sparrow” when we were little because she ate like one and was just as tiny. Some things never change! I bet you still eat hardly anything!’
‘Harry!’ Penelope cried, laughing from both giddiness and delight, ‘No one has called me Sparrow in years, and don’t be boring your friend with silly childhood stories.’
‘Yes, Harry,’ said Georgina pointedly, ‘especially when they haven’t been introduced.’
‘Oh, forgive me and my bad manners,’ Harry winked at Penelope, ‘for my friend here knows me to be a gentleman of exceptional manners.’ At this the two men burst out laughing at something neither Penelope nor Georgina were privy to.
‘Dear cousin, let me present Mr Heath Lockwood,’ Harry said gallantly. ‘Heath—this filthy little urchin is my cousin, Miss Penelope Broadhurst—or if you prefer, Sparrow.’
Heath stepped out from behind Harry, his deep, brown eyes crinkling in the corners, his mouth stretched broadly in a lopsided smile. The effect on Penelope was instant, warming her to her very toes, her heart fluttering as she regarded his tall, strong physique.
‘I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Broadhurst,’ he said, his deep voice smooth and pleasant, and somehow familiar, ‘very pleased indeed.’
He wasn’t the rider on the hill. He was someone else entirely.
Chapter Three
Present day
I awoke, immediately alert. The dream, Penelope’s life, was still raw in my mind. Each detail, each conversation, each glance and look, was as lucid as if I’d just been there.
There has to be some mistake, I thought as my mind skipped to the boy next door. This has never happened before. It can’t be right. It can’t even be possible!
No one had ever crossed between my worlds. How could they? They weren’t even real, although that wasn’t entirely true. Somehow, the people in the other worlds were just as genuine and as real as the people in this world. More so, sometimes. And nicer, too.
Still, I’d never expected someone from 1806 to move in next door. Likewise, I’d never expected my next-door neighbour to simultaneously appear as Harry’s friend.
And yet he had. Amazing as it was, I was sure the boy I’d seen yesterday, the boy with floppy hair and warm, brown eyes, the one who’d looked directly at me and smiled, was Heath Lockwood, who’d moved into Broadhurst Manor.
My mind flittered naturally to the other man. The man with the steel grey eyes that made me shiver even now, two hundred years later. I swallowed hard, knowing what his appearance in Penelope’s life meant.
Penelope was seventeen now, and he had come for her. Like he always came. And all I would be able to do would be to close my eyes and dream, powerless to do anything but watch—and feel—him murder her.
Coming downstairs a little later, I found Meredith sipping her morning coffee, the Sunday newspaper spread wide across the kitchen table, pulled apart into its different sections. After pouring a bowl of cereal, I took a seat opposite, drawing a section of the paper across the table. The travel section. I couldn’t wait to get out of Brookdale.
Once, Brookdale had been a thriving industrial centre, an abundance of factories and warehouses drawing people to the small Midwest town and offering full employment in a growing community. But since the economic downturn, most of the factories had closed, the warehouses had been abandoned, and the
town’s population had dwindled significantly.
So the fact that the Knight family had chosen to move to Brookdale was all the more baffling. Why would anyone come here?
‘What time do you finish work?’ Meredith asked conversationally.
‘Um, not sure. Why?’ I replied distractedly, turning the paper to an editorial on Venice. Italy. I’d love to go there.
‘I thought maybe we could go to Delilah’s for dinner. They do great fettuccine.’
‘Okay.’ I shrugged, sipping my coffee. Meredith always suggested that we do things together such as lunch or dinner, catching a movie, or going shopping. She’d promised Gran she would take care of me, but really, if truth be told, I didn’t need anyone to take care of me.
I could do that just fine on my own.
‘Mr Frank has asked that you not wear so much black makeup,’ Simone announced when I arrived at work later than morning.
‘What?’ I cried, immediately outraged.
Simone held up her hands defensively. ‘Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. He just asked me to tell you, that’s all.’
‘Well, he can’t tell me what to put on my face,’ I replied hotly. ‘It’s a free world. Besides, you don’t see me suggesting that he stop wearing that ridiculous mop on his head, do you?’
‘Abbie!’ Simone fixed her eyes on me. ‘You can’t say things like that about people.’
‘He has obviously been saying things about how I look,’ I countered, glancing at my reflection in the glass cabinet. Short, white, pixie-cut hair and black makeup, including black lipstick. My nails were also painted black, and I had multiple piercings in my ears and one in my nose. I longed to get my tongue pierced, too, but I was scared of the pain, although I would never admit that.
‘Well, you can look a little threatening sometimes,’ Simone pointed out.
‘Good. That’s exactly the way I like it.’
Simone was head librarian at Brookdale Public Library where I worked part-time. Mr Frank was nothing more than a nosy councillor who seemed to think he was in charge of running the library. He was often here making suggestions and, I surmised, perving on high school girls. Apparently he was perving on me, too. Ugh. The very idea made me ill.
Simone stacked a trolley with returned books and wheeled it out to me. ‘You know, you don’t have to be scary all the time. I’m sure there’s a very pretty Abbie Harper under all that makeup.’
‘Nice try, Simone,’ I replied, ‘but no makeovers! Besides, who wants to be pretty? Pretty is boring.’
‘That’s not true,’ Simone smoothed down her neat brown hair, ‘Besides, don’t you want a boyfriend someday?’
‘Not one that only wants me because I’m pretty!’
‘Fair call, but still…don’t you think you’re missing out?’ She tilted her head to one side and regarded me.
‘Not at all. There’s no one around here I would date. Period.’
‘You’re too harsh. You just can’t see them properly under all that black mascara.’
‘Oh, I can see them all right,’ I laughed hollowly, ‘Idiots who follow the leader. They’re only interested in getting drunk and laid. In that order. No. Thank. You! None of that for me!’
I wheeled the trolley away before Simone could say anything else, feeling hot and itchy after my little speech. I didn’t have any desire to be like everyone else, mostly because I wasn’t, and could never be, regarded as ‘normal’—whatever that meant.
My dreams and memories made sure of that. That had been made clear to me from the very beginning. My dreams set me apart as different.
I had a sneaking suspicion that as a child I had talked openly and freely about my other lives. I have a vivid memory of my mother watching me with frightened eyes as I talked about a little girl called Veronica who lived on a farm. Of course, Veronica was me, but I’d not yet learned that not everyone talked about their past lives. That people didn’t even remember them. When my mother vanished, without even saying goodbye, I soon realised not to talk so much. That some things are better kept secret.
Then my father had decided to leave too, and I was left with Gran, whom I adored. Meredith was her daughter, a later-in-life baby that meant she was only ten years older than myself, and we’d grown up more like sisters than aunt and niece. Now it was just Meredith and me, although I did have a mother and father somewhere in the world. I hadn’t heard from either of them in years, but I got the message.
Anywhere was better than with me, their strange, unusual daughter.
I became absorbed in my work, restacking shelves, thinking about Penelope and the rider on the hill, and I barely noticed what was going on around me. It was only when I heard a familiar voice giggling behind me that I turned around.
Lilly Hamilton and Emma Clay stood there, hands on their hips as they eyed me up and down.
‘We were just looking for the freak section. You know, freaks—we thought you would be the best person to ask about it,’ Lilly said meanly, the edges of her mouth curling.
‘I don’t think she’s human,’ laughed Emma, ‘So maybe we need the animal section, or the alien section.’
‘Maybe,’ agreed Lilly, ‘but I really do think freak is the best way to describe her.’ Her eyes raked disparagingly over my black crocheted dress.
I returned her stare and, for added effect, narrowed my eyes.
‘Well?’ said Emma after a moment, shifting under my glare. ‘Do you know where it is? Or do you only know where the sections like death and self-mutilation are?’
‘I know where the serial killer section is,’ I replied thoughtfully, not breaking her stare. ‘You know, I read a story the other day about a girl who snapped and murdered all the stupid bimbos at her high school. Slit. Their. Throats. But not deep enough for them to die straight away, and it took them hours to bleed to death. Have you heard of her?’
Emma and Lilly jostled between their feet, and exchanged glances.
‘Are you threatening us?’ Lilly said.
I smiled. ‘No! Not at all—just telling you a “story”,’ I made quotation marks with my fingers to emphasise the word ‘story’. ‘Don’t you just love a good “story”?’
‘What I’d love would be for the world to open up and swallow all you weirdo freaks,’ answered Lilly hotly, ‘You just don’t belong here.’
They didn’t wait for a response but turned on their heels and flounced away in a flurry of pastel, short skirts and peroxide hair. I watched them go, feeling weary. Why they bothered to pick on me I had never understood, but I was sure that if Lilly was ever in the same room as me, the same building even, then she would go out of her way to make trouble for me. She took great pleasure in reminding me that I was an outsider and she was very much an insider. Why she even bothered, I never knew, and I had long ago given up trying to work it out. Instead I did my best to avoid her, and to not let her get under my skin.
Arriving home later, I found Meredith waiting, dressed up and ready for dinner. Great. To top off my day I was headed to Delilah’s, the number one hangout for anyone who was anyone at Brookdale High. And that, as a rule, didn’t include me.
‘I thought before we left I’d drop off this cake at the new neighbours’ place,’ Meredith said.
I peered inside the little basket she carried. ‘You didn’t make it,’ I accused, taking in the repackaged store-bought cake.
She blushed. ‘Well, you know I can’t bake! That was your gran’s thing. Besides, it’s the thought that counts.’
‘And there’s wine in there as well?’
Meredith ignored me. ‘I thought you could come too. You know, be friendly.’ She waited patiently for me to agree.
I hesitated. This was a chance to prove to myself that the boy next door wasn’t Heath Lockwood—that it was just a trick of my imagination. Or, this was a chance to prove it wasn’t a trick at all.
‘Sure,’ I said, ignoring the surprised and pleased look that flashed across Meredith’s face. ‘Just let me get c
hanged.’
After running upstairs, I quickly changed into a black dress—a different one—and some torn, hot pink tights. Then I reapplied my black lipstick. Upon reflection, I added a few more bracelets, a few more beads around my neck, and replaced my small nose stud with a nose ring. After returning downstairs, I followed Meredith next door. I ignored the frown she directed at my outfit, which contrasted sharply with the casual jeans and pale green cardigan she wore.
I stood silently beside Meredith as she rang the doorbell, staring at the name by the front door. Knight. The new family’s name was Knight.
Eventually the small, neat-looking lady I’d seen yesterday answered the door and smiled at Meredith. ‘Yes?’
I glanced through the open doorway at the boxes and crates placed haphazardly around the room.
‘Hi!’ Meredith said in her cheeriest voice. ‘My name’s Meredith Harper and this is my niece, Abbie. We live next door and wanted to say welcome.’ She proffered the basket.
‘Why, how lovely!’ cried the lady. ‘Please come in and excuse the mess. I’m Valerie Knight.’ She moved out of the doorway, kicking boxes out of the way, allowing Meredith and me entry.
‘Marcus!’ she called up the stairs, ‘Come and meet the Harpers.’
Marcus. The boy’s name was Marcus, not Heath. Crisis definitely averted. It must be a coincidence—after all, how many boys are there in the world with dark brown eyes? Billions? I was being overly dramatic.
‘So, Abbie,’ Valerie continued, ‘do you go to the local school?’ She smiled politely, but I had already caught the up-and-down look she gave me.
Meredith answered for me. ‘Yes, Abbie’s a senior at Brookdale High.’
‘So is our son!’ Valerie cried, going to the bottom of the stairs, which she called up again. ‘Marcus! Come and meet your new neighbours! We also have another son,’ she explained, ‘but he’s away in the air force.’
There came a bounding on the stairs above, and I suddenly had an irrational urge to flee. The flight-or-fight response coursed icily through my veins, growing stronger with each passing moment.
Time After Time Page 2