My Soul Immortal

by Jen Printy

  Leah’s brows raise a fraction of an inch. I curse the man silently behind taut lips.

  He leans forward, no doubt misinterpreting our tension as eagerness for his juicy tale. “They say she ran out into a storm, desperate to find him to prove the rumors false, but she never did. Instead, Lydia collapsed a mere quarter-mile from this house and died a week later, never knowing the truth.”

  “What do they say happened to Jack?” Leah asks. Her eyes flick to me for an instant and then to our waiter—the bloody fabulist.

  “No one really knows. The story diverges there. One account says he died alone with a broken heart, while the other has him running off with Ashford’s housekeeper, who was supposedly quite a beauty.”

  I almost spew my cola all over the white tablecloth. Mrs. Mills? Seriously? She had to be close to seventy at that time, and a beauty she was not. Leah gives me a severe stare.

  “Excuse me, lady and gent. It looks like table three needs their check.” The waiter wanders away, probably to screw with someone else’s evening.

  I look Leah straight in the eyes. “Listen. That’s not what happened. There was never anyone else. Mrs. Mills was a very nice lady, but she and I never…”

  Her smile returns. “I know, Jack. I remember.” She laughs. “Gotcha.”

  I gape at her in surprise, a grin yanking up one corner of my mouth.

  “See? I made you smile.”

  After dinner, I walk her to our room. “So, this was your bedroom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have many girls up here besides Mrs. Mills?” she teases.

  “Tons, too many to name.” I roll my eyes. “Of course not.”

  She scowls playfully. “Because that would have been improper,” she says, imitating me.

  I nod.

  She glides her arms around my neck and rolls to her tiptoes then brushes her lips against mine. “How about that? What would that have been?”

  “Scandalous.” I chuckle, rough and deep. The backs of my fingers stroke her cheek. I savor the softness of her skin and lean in for another kiss.

  A different kind of energy arises in this kiss, something more alive than before. My tongue skims the curve of her lower lip. Her breath comes in jagged gasps. She yanks my T-shirt over my head and tosses it to the floor. Her fingertips dance along my stomach. Electric currents run straight through me. A deep growl breaks from my throat. Her tongue pushes my lips apart, exploring the confines of my mouth. I twist my fingers into her hair to hold her close. We stumble backward. Something solid bumps against the back of my legs. We fall onto the bed. I break away, gasping for breath. Her lips burn a path along my collarbone to my jaw.

  “See? I can break rules, too,” she says, her hot breath against my neck.

  My mind is invaded by images of us… together. With trembling hands, I grip Leah’s shoulders and slip out of her grasp. “I think that’s all a gentleman can take for one evening, love.” I lift away from her and sit on the edge of the bed.

  She sits up. “You know, sometimes you make me feel like a villain in some fairy tale, trying to lure the innocent maiden out of her cottage with a shiny red apple.”

  “Me being the innocent maiden?”

  Leah grins.

  “Thanks,” I huff.

  “So what’s this all about?”

  I shrug.

  “No, no. Don’t close down on me now. I know you love me, and it’s pretty obvious you want me as much as I want you. So what’s the problem?”

  “Of course I want you. And someday—” My face grows hot. Running my hand along the sweaty scruff of my neck, I glance away. “Look. I was raised with certain convictions that there are some things kept for marriage. I know the idea is old-fashioned, but although times have changed, I’m not sure I have.”

  “Marriage?” Her voice brightens. I look to find a Cheshire cat grin plastered across Leah’s lips. “You want to marry me?” Her words tumble out. “I mean, I figured you did, but hearing the words out loud—you want to marry me.”

  “Yes.” I smile. “More than I’ve wanted anything in this world, but I can’t ask you properly until I buy a ring.”

  She laughs, her arms encircling my neck, and falls backward onto the bed. I tumble on top of her then kiss her softly. She catches my lower lip between her teeth. Again, my control wavers. A need to have our bodies fused together aches deep within me. I pull her closer. Our lips move together between gasps. My skin burns under every touch, stirring up levels of longing I’ve never allowed myself to feel.

  “So.” I clear my throat, trying to catch my breath. “Do you think I’m worth waiting for?” I ask, wagging my eyebrows.

  Leah looks up and taps her fingers on her lips as if she’s mulling over the question then grins with a spirited gleam. “Yes. But—”

  “There’s a but?”

  She nods. “When you place an engagement ring on this finger”—she wiggles her left ring finger in the air—“we’re renegotiating the no sex rule.”

  “Thanks for the warning. I’ll make sure I have a chaperone with us at all times until the wedding to protect my virtue,” I tease. “I’m sure Grady would be more than willing.”

  She furrows her brows and shoots me a wanton stare. “Don’t you dare.”

  I chuckle. Sliding off the bed, I stand. Leah reaches for me and takes my hand. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I believe it’s best if tonight I sleep on the floor.” Coward.

  Her face tightens. “You’re kidding?”

  I snatch the quilt from the foot of the bed.

  “Jack, you’re being silly. It’s not the nineteenth century anymore.”

  “Agreed.” I avoid her penetrating stare and unroll the bedding on the floor by the door. “If it was, a true gentleman would never set foot in a lady’s bedchamber.”

  She heaves a heavy sigh. “If you feel that’s necessary.”

  My eyes trace the open buttons of her blouse to the white lace of her bra playing peek-a-boo behind the lilac cotton. “I do.” I swallow hard against the bone-deep need fighting to cloud my honorable intentions. “Sweet dreams,” I say as I grab a pillow.

  A glimpse of something like sadness flashes across her face. If I returned to comfort her, there would be no leaving her bed after that. I tug off my shirt and toss it to the floor. After lying down, I fold my arms behind my head, scrutinizing the tiny imperfections in the ceiling and attempting not to think about how warm Leah would feel in my arms. Soon the sound of her gentle, steady breathing fills the room. I close my eyes to find sleep, but my mind conjures behaviors well beyond the bounds of the propriety my mother would approve of. I thrust my thoughts in a different direction, giving in to my haunting fears again. Vita’s no longer a concern. The words spin in lopsided orbits in my head.

  That woman in Lidcombe wasn’t Vita. But that doesn’t conclusively mean that Artagan is right about her. What if he was wrong, and I endangered Leah by taking her on the grand tour of my early days? In all the what-ifs, one fact is clear—Vita needs to die. And I’m going to need Artagan’s help to kill her. My biggest obstacle will be convincing Leah, but first, I need to talk to Artagan. I roll from bed and grab my phone then slip in to the hallway. Scrolling through the short list of incoming calls serves as a distraction. No new calls, as I expected, so I dial Artagan’s number. His phone rings and rings, but no one answers, and then voice mail answers. Unsurprisingly, no message greets me, only a low, squawking beep.

  “Artagan, it’s Jack. Call me. There are some things we need to discuss.”

  I slide the phone into my pocket and step to the door. A noise like the sound of something falling and shattering in the background interrupts me. A shiver of alarm swamps my shoulders, tensing them. My hand frozen on the doorknob, I scan the hall. After another thud, I slowly and quietly steal down the dimly lit corridor. Murmurs of laughter and music float up from downstairs. The door at the end of the hall stands ajar. My mother’s room. I nudge the door
open with my foot. An overfed mouse scurries between my legs, followed by a gray-striped tabby. I twist to the side, stumbling against the doorframe.

  Inside the room, a small circular table is lying on its side, a white porcelain vase smashed to pieces around it. Damn cat. I chuckle. My gaze falls on a hairline crack in the molding along the base of the wall near the shattered remains of the vase, and I recall a distant memory. My mother kept her valuables in a secret compartment behind the wall. I bend down, and with the help of my pocketknife, I pry the short board loose. Lying in the narrow cubbyhole is a small collection of items—a pocket watch, a dark-patina wooden box, and a yellowed envelope.

  I lift the antique pocket watch by its chain. The decorative gold disk swings and sways, playing with the lamplight while it dangles. Inside, I find the engraved message I remembered.

  To my husband and our father,

  John

  With love,

  Helen, Henry, Ruth, and Jack

  3rd March 1847

  It was our gift to my father on his last birthday. My mother saved every penny she could, and Henry worked odd jobs around the village so we could afford it. I set the watch aside and reach for the small box. The hinged lid squeaks open after years of neglect, revealing a gold band decorated with five rectangular-cut emeralds framed with pearls. The ring seems made for Leah; the gems are the exact color of her eyes.

  With a deep breath, I reach for the letter. My mother had the knack of exhuming all my buried emotions with a few simple words. The old paper crinkles. I carefully unfold the delicate yellowing page. Scrolled in an elegant hand is written—

  My Dearest Jack,

  I am writing you this letter in hopes that someday you will find it, and these two items I long to give to you will be yours.

  The pocket watch is for you, my son. It is the only thing I have left of your father’s, and I want you to have it.

  The ring was my mother’s engagement ring. However, this is not for you, but for you to give to someone you love. Do not be vexed with me. My greatest wish is that you will allow yourself happiness and that someday you will realize Lydia’s death was not of your doing. Dear child, seize that belief and hold it. May the Lord direct you.

  I am afraid I am not long for this world, for my health is failing. The doctors fear I am stricken with consumption. I am at peace, for I know I will soon see your dear father and brother. I will be waiting patiently until we are all reunited in Heaven. Remember, I love you.

  Your loving mother,

  Helen Hammond

  Tears spill from my eyes. Ruth had written to tell me that Mother had died, but nothing of the circumstances. I wonder if she suffered. I wish I could have come back and seen her one last time, but I was scared of her reaction. My mother was superstitious. What would she have made me out to be? If Ruth’s and my intuitions were correct, to my mother, I would have been one of the condemned, doomed to hell, and knowing would have caused her nothing but pain.

  After returning to our room, I lie back and examine the ring. My eyes close. My mother’s words chime in my head… Allow yourself happiness. Ed’s words trail in behind… Seize the day. They’re right. It’s time—time to heed their advice and enjoy each moment. That will require changes. I’ll need to make amends with the bones rattling around in my closet, stop wrestling with the future, and start living for the present. All those things are easier said than done.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Back in York, I sit on a bench in King’s Square, arms stretched along the weather-beaten back rail. A morning rain has given way to a bright afternoon sun, leaving behind scattered puddles and silvery streets. My eyes chase after Leah as she runs across Colliergate to the neighborhood café. Her ponytail bounces with her movement and exposes her neck. The blush color of her blouse sets off her creamy skin. She turns before entering the shop and gives me a little wink. The sight sends my heartbeat into uneven tempos.

  Leah optimistically believes my letting her out of my reach is due to a good night’s sleep and a new outlook. I wish that were the case, but it’s not. Truth be known, my vantage point is much better from here. Vita won’t be able to get within a hundred-foot radius of Leah without me knowing first. I can’t chase away the suspicions that Leah and I are in a rigged game of chance. She and I are stuck in the middle of an elaborate spiderweb. We twist and turn while the eight-legged predator approaches. My new aspiration is going to take some work.

  Seize the day. The words nudge the back of my mind again, and my hand dives into my pocket, feeling the band of gold and emeralds between my fingers. Despite my nagging concerns, I can wait no longer. Today’s the day. My heart flutters with nervousness and excitement. After coffee, Leah believes we’re heading to the York Art Museum to see an Impressionist exhibit—her favorite art movement. Little does she know that among the painted canvases of Monet, Renoir, and Cassatt, I will give her my ring and ask her to be my wife. And tonight? My stomach tightens, and I take a deep breath. We’ll see. But I have no doubt that my convictions are no match for Leah’s negotiation skills. That girl could sweet-talk me into doing anything. I smirk and laugh to myself.

  I glance up and down the street then back to the café door as a couple emerges. Laughing, they walk down the sidewalk in the direction of Church Street. I wish she’d hurry. I rake my sweaty fingers through my hair. My self-restraint is wearing thin. I resist the urge to charge across the street and join her. If I did, she would be disappointed, and over the last few days, I’ve caused her enough distress. So here I stay.

  As I wait, a quartet of musicians begins to play their melody. My foot taps impatiently with the rhythm of the folk music flowing from the nearby street corner. People soon gather, blocking my view. I move to a stone-block wall at the far end of the square to get a clear view of the little café and Leah.

  Two coffees in hand, Leah steps into the street, peering to her left as she would at home. She doesn’t see the Volvo heading down Colliergate straight at her, and the car isn’t slowing down. Through the car’s window, I catch sight of the driver yelling into the rearview mirror at the squabbling children in the backseat.

  My heart stops mid-beat. “Leah!” I holler, but my voice is drowned out by the music and the laughter.

  I burst into a run, screaming Leah’s name over and over. My legs feel weighed down as if thousand-ton weights are chained to each ankle. I’m in the middle of one of my nightmares, but I can’t escape into the morning light with a simple blink of my eyes.

  The high-pitched screech of brakes and skidding tires silences every sound around us. Leah’s face turns ashen, and her eyes widen when she sees her fate at the last possible second. She doesn’t even have time to scream before the car slams into her and sends her tumbling.

  The scene around us fades away to a vacant blur. I can hear the screams, the shouts, but garbled and muffled, they fade into the background as if I’m hearing everything from underwater. My eyes stay on Leah’s motionless form. I stumble and fall to my hands and knees onto the pavement at her side. Her right arm and leg are twisted into unnatural positions. I press my ear to her chest, clinging to a sliver of hope. Her heartbeat is so weak that I can hardly hear a pulse.

  “No… No, love! Please don’t leave me. Open your eyes,” I beg, sweeping her matted, bloody hair out of her face. Her eyes are shut. “Oh, please, no. Not now. Not yet. You’re not leaving me!” I bellow, cupping her face in my hands. Desperate sobs erupt from my chest. I press myself against her; I bury my face in her hair. Then I’m being hauled away. I struggle against the hands, thrashing and clawing to get to Leah. A placid voice breaks through my chaotic thoughts.

  “Calm down, son. We’re trying to help her,” a man says. My stance slackens, and the grip loosens. A bald, thickly built man kneels at Leah’s side. After checking her vital signs, he tilts back her head and blows his breath into her mouth. Between puffs, the man calls to another. A woman hurries through the crowd, bends down near Leah, and with fisted hands, s
he begins compressing Leah’s chest.

  In the midst of the burgeoning chaos, Artagan’s aloofness during our last conversation becomes clear. My last sliver of hope disintegrates, crushing my new resolve like a brittle, dead leaf. His curt manner hadn’t stemmed from Vita’s travels or his lack of concern. He knew we’d already lost and obviously didn’t have the nerve to tell me. Darkness threatens to consume me, but I propel the nausea away and scan the sea of shocked, horrified faces clustered around us, looking for the real killer in the crowd—Vita. Artagan’s words run through my head. We don’t get our hands dirty, per se. We orchestrate death. I strangle the incipient growl in my throat. She’s here. Somewhere. Waiting.

  Leah’s form draws my attention again. The woman doing chest compressions places two fingers against Leah’s neck and looks at her partner, shaking her head.

  “Don’t tell the boy, but she’s dead,” she whispers.

  My legs tremble, the sense of being smothered overtakes me. Moisture pools in my eyes. Quick gasps of air drag over my lips while understanding of the woman’s words trickles in. Through the flurry of activity huddled around Leah, the same story is playing out all over again, one hundred and fifty years later. The scenario is different—the result is not.

  Above the city, Great Peter strikes the hour. Between the hollow bongs of bronze against bronze, a siren wails in the distance, echoing the keening of my soul.

  Gone. Leah is lost to me forever. Artagan’s tale of Kemisi and her Amun haunts me from the depths. He didn’t even recognize her—all memories lost. Memories—from my first glimpse of her vivid emerald eyes to our last kiss—stream before my closed eyes. I’ll never forget them, but Leah will. Emptiness presses into my heart, followed immediately by a staggering pain. I grind my teeth into my cheek and clench my fists. Sorrow that clawed at me now rears up to devour me whole.