by Nichole Van
Which really had been the problem. Particularly as she had watched relationship after relationship fizzle. She had struggled with dating before Finn. She often felt attracted to a guy. But that attraction just never seemed to move beyond a physical sense. There was never that deep, soul-nourishing emotional spark that books, movies and friends assured her did exist.
Since finding the mysterious Mr. F, her longest relationship had been with Carl. Web programmer by day, uber-Trekkie by night. At least, he had understood her obsession with the locket. The problem had come when she realized that he took his own obsession just a little too seriously. How could she not tease him when he tried to teach her Klingon? A person was born with only so much self-restraint. And he had gotten way too into her zombie apocalypse question. He had even drawn up multiple Star Fleet Command evasive maneuver charts in preparation. And hadn’t once seen the humor in the whole exercise.
And then she had had the temerity to question his choice of forehead prosthetic for an upcoming Trekkie convention. Well, not really questioned. More like giggled. Which had led to a huge fight where he had insisted she give back his “Keep Calm and Klingon” coffee mug. And that had led to more giggling. Quirky, yes. Self-deprecating sense of humor, not so much.
Then there had been Steve. The accountant. Her mom had particularly liked him. And he did have wonderful hair. Emme and Steve had really clicked because she loved to create lists, and he was a whiz with spreadsheets. They had had many a planning session together.
Emme found his obsessive need for order rather endearing. Not annoying at all. At least, not at first. But when she’d had The Talk, he had gotten the crazy eyes. And zombies? That hadn’t gone over well either.
This had led to Steve’s polar opposite: Forrest. Forrest was a photographer. And a wannabe poet who adored knitting. He cried over beauty. And sappy love songs. And internet memes. He had wanted to discuss the metaphysics of zombies for hours on end. To the point that Emme was sorry she had brought it up.
And then there had been the locket. At first, Emme had been excited that Forrest didn’t mind her obsession. In fact, he had gotten into it with her. It was one of their best bonding moments. But then he had started to refer to the guy in the locket as Forrest too. And she got jealous. Things became awkward, and so she broke up with him.
All of this left Emme alone with Finn and his enigmatic half smile—her perfect fantasy man. Dead men didn’t really make for good boyfriend material. Why couldn’t she connect with actual living, breathing human males? Sometimes she felt helplessly paralyzed. Unable to let go of Finn and the pull she felt to him, but equally unable to forge a bond with someone else. She feared something inside her had been broken long ago.
Emme had come to Marfield to find Finn. The real F. She would pull him from the realm of myth down to reality. Assign real names to the initials. Real people.
Screeeeeee! A branch scraped against the window opposite the dining table. Loud and shrill.
Emme jumped, her heart suddenly clawing its way up her throat.
Seriously. This storm would be the death of her—
No wait. Given her track record, that wasn’t even funny to think about.
Chapter 4
In the village of Marfield
Beltane
April 30, 1812
By the time James reached Marfield, he considered taking shelter for the night. The wind still beat ferociously. Thunder boomed. But he was so close to home and his own bed. It seemed a shame to disturb anyone so late at night.
Every now and again, he thought he could hear the peal of church bells. Was someone ringing the parish bell or was the violent wind swinging the bell of its own accord? Local superstition held that church bells rung in a storm would keep thunder and lightning away.
Not that it seemed to be working.
At least James wasn’t the only one absorbing the bewitching quality of this fierce storm. Though not terribly superstitious himself, the local inhabitants around Marfield were.
James had often noted the stonecrop growing on his tenants’ roofs, supposedly to protect from lightning. And witches too. Some even took to placing a cross of whitethorn above their front door, also to ward off enchanters and their spells. The list went on and on. James shuddered to think what ill omen the villagers would make of this horrific Beltane weather. Bad weather on one of the most powerful spirit nights of the year would not ease superstitious minds. He would probably spend the next month seeing his tenants wear pouches of hazel leaves and twigs to ward off ill luck.
Nearly all of the local folklore and mystical beliefs came from one source. Auntie Gray with her gnarled hands and kind eyes was a fount of information, both historical and arcane. Though sensible and kind, Auntie Gray’s stories and knowledge fed rather than allayed local superstitions. James suspected that in an earlier time she might have been burned for being a witch.
Fortunately, they lived in a more enlightened era.
Pulling his greatcoat more tightly around him, James let his mind wander to his plans for the week, assuming the storm broke soon. He hoped Ethan Fletcher would have time for one of their famous bouts with swords or sticks or both. He would let Ethan choose. An old childhood friend, Ethan had recently cashed out of the army to take over the running of the large family farm after his uncle’s death.
Though a yeoman farmer, Ethan excelled at fencing and quarterstaff fighting, a legacy of his time as a soldier. Even if adventure never found James, he enjoyed being ready for it, knowing how to move his body in a fight. And James found he usually had a reserve of latent aggression to burn through. A drive to pulverize his overabundant energy into a limp mass.
Finally a flicker-flash of lightning illuminated the gates to Haldon Manor to the right of the road, comforting James with the promise of dry clothing and a warm bed. He turned down the familiar track, grateful as the sloppy mud of the main road turned into the more grass-laden lane.
Just a mile more and he would be home.
The study
Haldon Manor
Around one month prior
March 28, 1812
“Well, what does Dr. Carson say? What does he recommend for Georgiana?” Arthur asked impatiently from his position near the fireplace, watching James at his desk reading a letter.
When James didn’t immediately respond, Arthur began to slowly pace the dark paneled room, irritation evident in the tightness of his shoulders.
Georgiana sat motionless in a chair opposite James’ desk, wrapped in a shawl despite her long-sleeved morning dress and seat near the roaring fire. Sun poured through the window behind James, glinting off her golden hair. Her eyes vividly blue in the afternoon light, but restless. Almost feverish.
Finishing his reading, James set the letter down. “Dr. Carson makes some suggestions for herbal treatments, many of which we have tried already. But he recommends one involving birch bark that could be promising. Other than that, he suggests a consultation when I am next near Liverpool.”
“Liverpool?” Arthur said, slight contempt lacing his tone. “Why would you ever just find yourself near Liverpool? The entire town is full of merchants and commerce. Hardly the place that a proper gentleman just happens to go.” Arthur snorted as if he had made a very fine joke.
James gritted his teeth slightly. Really, his brother was rather absurd at times. Arthur had inherited more than just their mother’s grey eyes and brown hair. He had also absorbed her love of propriety. By contrast, James and Georgiana heavily favored their golden-blond father, both in looks and easy-going nature. He knew that Arthur found James’ careless appreciation of status and societal position to be a sore trial.
“Well, fortunately, you have never really thought me a truly proper gentleman, Arthur, so I shall be able to venture to Liverpool with equanimity.”
James saw Georgiana give a small grin, her eyes dancing briefly. It was the barest hint of herself, of the woman she had been before this illness. Before fatigue and dullness
had engulfed her.
James watched as she coughed, deep and harsh. The bones of her hands moved in sharp relief under her skin. Her weight loss had been slow but relentless. His heart clenched at the sight. Georgiana was his champion, the one person in the world he could always count on to see reality as he did. Though separated by nearly eight years, their ability to read each other’s thoughts and moods was often uncanny.
Recovering from her cough, Georgiana said, “Don’t Lord Preston and the lovely Miss Preston live near Liverpool?” Her tone was teasing, her grin sly. It filled James’ heart to see her face with some animation.
“Indeed, he does.” James gave wry smile. “But I cannot think that Miss Preston would appreciate my attentions. I believe she nearly fainted from fright the last time I tried to talk with her.”
Though passably pretty, James could only think of Miss Anabelle Preston as colorless. This described more than just her nearly featureless white-pale hair, brows and lashes. She seemed washed of life. Empty. Bland.
Arthur snorted. “Miss Preston is merely reserved and well-mannered, brother.”
“She trembled for a full five minutes the last time I endeavored to engage her in conversation, not once raising her voice above a whisper.” James fixed Arthur with a stare. “Is it now fashionable for well-bred ladies to quiver like a leaf in a gentleman’s presence?”
Arthur opened his mouth to deliver a blistering retort, but Georgiana intervened first. “Please, don’t argue. Miss Preston does not warrant ill words.”
Arthur and James eyed each other for a moment.
“Though James is right, Arthur,” Georgiana continued with a glance at him. “Miss Preston is impeccably well-bred but terribly shy. She would hardly be a good match.”
James knew he was that most sought after of species: An eligible bachelor. The first-born heir to a wealthy estate with impressive holdings in the five per cents and a revered family name, despite his lack of a title. Though, he was the great-grandson of both a duke and an earl.
All of which made him a enticing matrimonial fish to be landed. Wherever he went, conspiring mamas threw out their lures, casting their fresh-faced daughters in his path, trying to reel him in. As a rule, such girls were well-mannered and polite. Often they were pretty. Occasionally witty and passably clever.
But never thrilling or truly fascinating. Never compelling or with a promise of adventure. Nothing in them generated a spark of something more within him.
James had tried to find such women interesting. Truly he had. He had no particular aversion toward marriage.
There had been the lovely second daughter of a marquis, Lady Margaret. She had been everything his mother had ever wanted for him. Well-bred from an illustrious family. But when she had thrown herself at James in the family library, he had realized that she wasn’t everything he had ever wanted. James had decidedly strong feelings about the importance of self-worth. Feelings Lady Margaret apparently did not share.
Of course, that hadn’t been nearly as bad as Miss Mariah Croft. Well, Miss Croft herself was actually fine and amiable. Mrs. Croft had been the problem. Hinting not so subtly that if he were to marry her daughter, James could enjoy more than one marriage bed. As if he were that type of man.
It all had left a bad taste in his mouth.
“True, sister. I don’t think I will bother Lord Preston with a visit. Instead, perhaps I will head north to Liverpool to consult with Dr. Carson and stop by Lyndenbrooke as well. I should ensure that your steward is managing the estate well.”
“Lyndenbrooke,” she sighed. “It would be lovely to see it again. Perhaps in the spring. I miss it so.” Lyndenbrooke was Georgiana’s estate, left to her by their paternal grandmother. Though small in comparison to Haldon Manor, it provided an adequate living. James knew that Georgiana had had hopes of perhaps living there independently one day. A hope that James profoundly prayed she would realize.
“Heavens, Georgiana!” Arthur said, his voice too loud. “You are so ill. How can you even talk of visiting Lyndenbrooke? It is completely out of the question.”
“Arthur, really, that is uncalled for—”
“—James, she needs rest not a holiday!”
“You have no right to assume—”
“Enough! Both of you.” Georgiana’s eyes snapped with anger. “Arguing with one another will not help me. I know you both would like me to live. But the reality is that very few survive the white death. It kills in degrees, but it kills nonetheless.”
“Really, Georgie.”
“Georgiana—”
“No, hear me out. I want to live. Trust me, I do. But I want to live fully. Death will claim all of us at some time. Neither of you can stop that. But until then, I want to live, . . . not die beforehand, slowly in inches.”
Georgiana looked between them both. James could feel the strength in her. The determination.
Arthur stared and then turned away. James swallowed and slowly nodded, letting out a low, harsh breath, raking a hand through his hair.
She was right, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
For the thousandth time, he silently vowed that she would live. He would find a way. Somehow.
Georgiana had always been the brightest part of his life. The one thing that held him firmly to Haldon Manor.
As a youth, James had planned to leave, despite his responsibilities as heir. To find adventure. But then his father had died unexpectedly and he had found himself suddenly the head of the family. Everyone looking at him, requiring something of him, their mother distraught with grief, Arthur and Georgiana needing someone to guide them. Then their mother passed away too, leaving Georgiana to find her way to womanhood alone. And now Georgiana herself was ill. He would not leave, not when his sister needed him so much. Not when he needed her so much.
“Well, Georgie, we will just have to get you well. I won’t tolerate this illness of yours any longer,” James said quietly. “Just promise me you will be careful while I am gone.”
“Oh, James, you must stop pleading with me to be careful.” Georgiana paused, looking sightlessly past James for a moment. Then she brought her eyes back to his. “Life will bring what it will. We cannot change that.”
James grimaced and hoped that Georgiana didn’t see the pain flicker in his eyes. There for a second and then gone, tucked back away.
She would live, he promised. He would find a way.
Chapter 5
Duir Cottage
Beltane
April 30, 2012
The branch screeched along the window. Once, twice—a terrible nails-on-the-chalkboard sound. And then the wind gusted again, moving the branch away from the house. Rain continued to pour, pounding relentlessly against the roof.
Sighing, Emme finished the last few bites of food and then reached for her purse slung over the back of the chair next to her. Flipping it open, she grabbed out her tablet. She loved her leather purse with its clever hidden clasp and series of zippers. Well, really it looked more like a satchel than anything else. But it was the only purse she had found that met all her disaster traveling needs, fitting her tablet, some makeup and travel toiletries. And a first aid kit with a couple of MRE’s, solar charger and a fierce looking multi-tool. Marc had gotten creative through the years.
Turning on her tablet, she reviewed what she had learned over the last several days in her hunt for Finn. Trying to ignore the fearsome weather outside, refusing to allow the howling wind to rattle her mood.
Between 1811 and 1813, there had been at least three families of consequence in the Marfield area. The preeminent family were the Viscounts Linwood, which she had already known.
Another family—the Knights—might also be good contenders. There were three living Knights during the time period: two brothers, James and Arthur, and a sister, Georgiana. Both of the brothers were about the right age to be Finn, but Emme could see no connection with the letters F or E within the family.
Unfortunately, the Knight’s
family home, Haldon Manor, had burned to the ground sometime around the end of the Napoleonic Wars, destroying all the estate records, family history, paintings and, well, everything. Haldon Manor had been rebuilt a few years later in the Gothic Revival style the Victorians so loved and had been converted into a hotel and spa in the 1950s.
Emme had visited Haldon Manor earlier in the week, as the estate was less than a mile from Duir Cottage. She had spent the afternoon chatting with the friendly staff and sipping tea in the dining room. Interestingly, she had learned that Duir Cottage had actually once been the dower house for the estate. Haldon Manor was known for its large enclosed garden, a riot of flowers and trees surrounded by an ancient wall—all that remained of its time as a medieval monastery. Emme had particularly loved the ruins of the gothic cloister, taking an embarrassing number of photos with her phone.
After the Knights, the Stylles were another family of prominence in the area. Sir Henry Stylles was the only member of the family listed for the time period, and the parish registry indicated that Sir Henry was older, in his mid-50s. Not a good candidate for Finn. However, Sir Henry had been a voracious collector and his former estate near Haldon Manor now functioned as a de facto museum for the entire area. In fact, the museum had Spunto’s miniature portrait of Marianne Linwood in their collection.
Rain pattered loudly against the window. Wind clutched at the shutters outside, twining around and shaking them. Though latched against the house, Emme could hear them rattle in protest, shivering against the window casement.
Emme sighed and thought back to her visit to Sir Henry’s estate just the day before, the home still owned by the same Stylles family who had inhabited it in the early 19th century. She had arranged a guided tour with the curator, Mr. Betton, to see the estate’s impressive collection, particularly Spunto’s portrait of Marianne Linwood.