by Nichole Van
Mr. Betton had been nice enough, but it was obvious that he had an academic’s love of mind-numbing minutiae. He had gone on at length about the provenance of a large rare coin collection believed to have belonged to Sir Henry. Apparently, it was going to auction in a matter of days.
“Auction estimates put the value of the entire collection around £100 million,” he intoned. “But the actual value could go even higher. Of course, the actual owner of the collection has chosen to remain anonymous. . . .” Emme vaguely remembered seeing something about it somewhere, maybe on her rss reader app. She finally interrupted his monologue to inquire about the museum’s portraits from the Napoleonic era.
Leading her through a series of drawing rooms, Mr. Betton showed Emme a canvas of Timothy, the 4th Viscount Linwood and his sister, Marianne. The large portrait depicted a man with a younger woman wearing a soft pink, high-waisted dress covered with a gauzy overdress. The sparkling highlights of the fabric bounced out of the image. Her companion was dressed in the height of Regency gentlemanly fashion: dark coat, gold waistcoat, white shirt and neckcloth, tan breeches with polished Hessian boots. His gray-silver eyes stared challengingly at the viewer.
Emme’s heart plummeted. This stern man was Timothy Frederick Charles Linwood, the man she had hoped was her F? She met the viscount’s haughty stare. Lord Linwood seemed the kind of man who had found little in life amusing. She couldn’t conceive of someone who was more Finn’s opposite. Well, as she perceived Finn.
Mr. Betton also showed her Marianne’s miniature portrait. As was typical for the time period, the tiny portrait had been painted in watercolor on a thin ivory panel. A jeweler had then mounted the miniature into a pretty gold case with a chased filigree edge, covering the front with clear crystal to protect the fragile painting. As was common, the miniature had been turned into a pendant. The recipient would wear the pendent around the neck on a chain or attached as a brooch to a garment, displaying the loved one for all the world to see.
It was rarer to turn a miniature into a locket like Finn, to hide the beloved one away. Usually the image was left exposed to the light like Marianne’s portrait. The exposure to sunlight had faded the flesh tones of her skin to gray. However, Emme could see similarities in the way Spunto had painted her: the minuscule brush strokes, the hair thin lines that suggested gentle eyes and a shy smile.
Emme turned the pendant over. There was no locket of hair, no entwined initials, no inscription. Marianne’s portrait had clearly been set by a different jeweler. Though painted by the same person, the similarities ended there. It seemed unlikely that Finn had been associated with the Linwoods.
In the end, Mr. Betton had suggested she visit the offices of Hartington, Chatham and Ware. They were a long-standing local solicitor firm that had been around at least since the 1790s, still owned by the same original families. Their old files would have more specific information, particularly as would relate to the gentry of the area.
Emme had been disappointed that F wasn’t Lord Linwood. Well, she was choosing to label the emotion disappointment. She didn’t want to consider that it was actually relief.
She wanted to find him. Right? She didn’t think her life could get any more pathetic.
Emme just needed to know. She needed to know that Finn had sired ten children, had grown stout and lost his hair and then died of influenza. Or that he had been a terrible rake who squandered the family fortune and was killed in a duel for deflowering some innocent girl.
She touched her finger to the glass which protected his portrait. He looked too nice for that. He had probably been just a person. One who had been at times cheerful and irritable and sad and joyful—all the normal emotions of life. And he had loved E. She hoped that E had been worthy of this love, that they had had a good life together.
Throughout all time. Sometimes Emme hated the familiarity of him, the disorientation that sometimes came before being fully awake, when she almost felt him breathing next to her.
Jasmine still doggedly insisted that their lives were interconnected. Emme had long ago decided that Jasmine’s well-meaning optimism was at least partially to blame for her own prolonged obsession. Without someone spouting fantasy and keeping these feelings of familiarity and connection alive, would Emme feel so drawn to him? Or was it just the pathetic fact that she couldn’t emotionally connect with someone else that had her pining after a dead guy?
Seriously. She needed to get a grip. She was 29 years old and going nowhere with her love life. She was going to do her research, attach names and a story to E and F and purge him from her heart. She was going to move on, find some perfectly normal man who could actually speak with her. It was the not-knowing that made F so powerful, that gave him such a hold on her imagination.
A powerful gust of wind shook the house again, causing a loud crash and bringing Emme back to the present.
She jumped, looking around for the source of the noise and then realized it was the window, the one opposite the table.
Moving toward the window, she saw one of the external shutters had finally come loose and was now flapping with the wind, slamming with each gust. Emme debated just leaving the window as is. The storm was so fierce. But she knew given her luck, the shutter would tear free or worse, crack the window. Then she would have an even larger mess. And she had never been one to avoid a problem.
Gritting her teeth, Emme opened the window and gasped as the storm howled into the room, blasting her skin. Wincing against the pelting rain, she grabbed the errant shutter and, pitting her weight against the roaring wind, pulled it shut. Her drenched fingers slipped twice before she could latch it securely. She was thoroughly wet by the end.
Emme stood dripping in the kitchen, shaking the water off of her hands, red and stinging from the sharp rain. Sighing, she trudged upstairs to soak in a hot bath, change into dry clothing and cuddle into her warm bed.
Later, as she shivered under her covers, Emme had to wonder if she had just averted disaster or if this was merely a sign of things to come.
The dream came, soft and vivid. Emme found herself in a large meadow. The heat of summer sun slid along her back, broken occasionally by a fitful breeze twisting through the canopy of the surrounding forest.
A solitary towering oak spread over the entire meadow, straining to hold up gnarled and twisted branches. Limbs that only a thousand years of life could create.
It was a relic of ancients, of a time when man worshiped nature instead of forcing his will upon it. Emme continued forward into the cool shade of its beckoning arms. The air was suddenly fresher, lighter, purified by thousands of leaves. The tree seemed to sigh and rustle its branches in welcome.
It had been waiting for her.
“Emme! Emme wait!”
She stopped, surprised. Who had found her here?
Turning toward the voice, she saw him, half walking, half running out of the forest. Emme felt a jolt.
She had dreams about him from time to time, but he was usually a phantom presence, a shape known but not really seen, just a hazy suggestion of reality. More of a feeling. A longing.
But this was different. Here he was vivid and utterly clear. He walked quickly, anxiety on his face. Emme could see every detail with startling clarity: his golden hair, eyes a shocking blue subtly shifting color as he moved. His coat, not the blue-green in the locket, but instead a brown overcoat swinging down to his boots.
He was so alive, so vibrant. She drank him in. He stopped in front of her, and surprised, Emme realized he wasn’t much taller than she.
“Please, Emme,” his voice pleaded, gentle and smooth. He reached his hand out tentatively to her. “Please, my love, don’t go. Don’t leave me.”
Emme could only stare, his face so familiar and yet not. He lifted his right hand and gently touched her cheek, his fingers warm and tender. Emme’s heart pounded in her ears.
“Please,” he whispered, blue eyes pleading.
Anguish clutched her heart. She had to le
ave, had to go, but why? She couldn’t remember.
He brought his left hand up to cup her face in his hands. His touch searing her skin.
“I don’t think I can live without you. Please. Stay.”
Emme still said nothing. Her voice choked, eyes blurred. She felt his thumbs brush the tears from her cheeks. He drew her near, sliding his arms down around her waist, pulling her close. Emme felt a gasp escape, heavy emotions crushing her. She wrapped her arms fiercely around his neck, twining her fingers into his hair, pulling his head tight against her own. She could feel his breath hot on her neck.
Was the trembling her? Him? He moaned in her ear, burrowing his lips into her hair.
Suddenly, the oak tree came alive, branches reaching, wrapping around her. Emme was wrenched backward, lifted, ripped from his embrace. Terrified, she tried to scream and reached out for him. She stared at his horrified face, his stricken eyes. His hand outstretched, just enough to brush her fingertips before they were utterly torn apart. He was yelling something she could not hear as more branches filled the growing space between them. She watched him frantically push against the woody vines, trying desperately to reach her. Emme twisted and turned, trying to free herself, but the snaking tendrils held her tighter. Over the sound of crunching, grinding wood, she heard him.
“No! No! NOOOO!”
His cry still echoed in her bedroom as Emme shot upright, bedclothes tangled and twisted around her legs.
Chapter 6
Emme’s heart pounded with adrenaline as she wiped her damp cheeks. Thunder pounded through the room. What a terrible dream. She sat shaking in her bed, trying to understand. It had been so clear, so real. The anguished sense of loss lingered.
The storm still raged, somehow even more furious, rattling her bedroom window, battering the roof overhead.
Taking a deep breath, Emme realized the night was dark. Too dark. Swathed in inky-blackness dark. Emme blinked, straining to see some glimmer of light. The power was out.
A sudden crash of lightning illuminated the room. Emme caught a startled scream in her throat.
Really? The whole jumpy-jumpy thing was getting old.
Rain beat heavily on the roof above her head. Something outside repeatedly thumped in the wind.
Horrific storm, disturbing dreams and now no power. Perfect. She refused to think about how this disaster could get worse. No need to tempt fate.
Sighing, Emme rolled over and punched her pillow, trying to calm her mind. But not succeeding.
Her phone suddenly binged in the darkness of the room. Reaching for it, she pushed the home button and then blinked against the instant brightness.
Text message. Jasmine.
you up
Yes, bad storm. No power. Terrible dreams.
on beltane that’s such bad luck
Not helping. Why am I so obsessed with a dead man? It’s wrong.
your head is messed
Exactly. It’s beyond pathetic. Don’t you think it’s time to exorcise Finn?
no i’ve been telling you for years that he is part of you
circles intertwined and all
You know comments like that just don’t help, right? Feeding my Finn addiction isn’t in my best interest right now. You’re supposed to be my friend. Not my enabler.
i’m not enabling you, you just haven’t been listening, i’m telling you that Finn is your destiny
Wait! Did you just use punctuation?! Wow. You must be serious.
more serious than i’ve ever been. period. you are linked and he will find you. it’s your fate
When would this obsession end? How had it gotten so out of control? Emme texted a few more lines and then said goodnight, turning off her phone screen.
She was now good and wide awake. And the power was still out. But when she twisted to look out the window, she could see lights punctuating the darkness here and there through the storm. Marfield wasn’t dark. Just Duir Cottage. Which meant that it was most likely a popped fuse. She really should wait until morning. But then her laptop wouldn’t be fully charged. And the baseboard heaters would be off all night. And it was cold.
And Emme was never one to put off a problem.
She threw off her warm covers, trying to ignore the rush of cold air against her skin. She loved her nightgown, old-fashioned and trailing to the floor, but its silk fabric wasn’t much for retaining body heat. She picked up the matching robe and pulled it on, tying its little ribbons across her chest, stuffing her feet into her pink slippers. Grabbing her phone, she flipped on its flashlight.
Following the weak, ghostly light of her phone, she navigated the stairs as thunder rumbled. The house still felt alive, thrumming with energy. Emme took in a measured breath, trying to remember if she had seen a breaker box anywhere. Her memory pulled up nothing.
She reached the bottom of the stairs, puzzling through the options. The kitchen? No. Laundry room? No. Was it in the closet underneath the stairs? She hadn’t done more than casually glance through closets, but it was a possibility. Lightning pulsed through the house instantly flooding every corner with light. A crackling crash of thunder immediately followed. The energy in the air tingled her skin. The booming sound trembled the floor beneath her feet. Emme’s heart raced. This storm needed to be over.
She pulled open the little door to the hallway closet, shining her light to inspect it. She noted the vacuum cleaner and bucket of cleaning supplies, and then her light illuminated something shiny on the floor. Bending down, she realized it was a handle to a trap door. Ah, a cellar. That would be a likely place for the breaker box. She briefly imagined the whole house shining with light, banishing all the ghoulish shadows of the storm. Yes, electricity would be good.
It was simple to twist the handle and pull up the trap door, locking the hinge to hold the door open. To her chagrin, Emme couldn’t help but remember all the movies where bad things happened to heroines—particularly those who wandered into dark unknown basements in the middle of thunderstorms. But she was hardly a heroine. And this was most definitely not a horror story. Spiders were the worst she would find, right?
Her phone light showed steep wooden stairs leading downward, dusty and darkened with age. Gathering the long skirt of her nightgown into her hands, she carefully descended the stairs, ducking her head as she went. At the bottom of the steps, her feet touched uneven ground, packed dirt. The room smelled musty and cool, of things long shuttered and ignored, the rumbling thunder muted. Swinging her phone around, she made out a space just larger than the span of her arms, lined with large cut stones. Her head nearly brushed the ceiling.
A shadow of something unexpected caught her eye on the wall opposite the stairs. The breaker box? Another sweep of her light and she saw that one stone was larger than the others, nearly two feet wide and traveling the height of the space, from floor to ceiling. Stepping closer to inspect, Emme leaned forward.
Impossible! Just impossible. She must be seeing things.
An emotion somewhere between panic and thrilled hysteria swept her. Swallowing hard, she forced herself to think, trying to comprehend what she might be seeing.
She needed a stronger light. And Finn.
Taking a deep fortifying breath, she raced back up the stairs, stumbling over her nightgown, dashing frantically into the kitchen. Where was her purse? Where had she left it?
Glancing around wildly, she cursed the weak light from her phone, unable to penetrate the blackness around her. Another burst of light flashed through the room, allowing her to see her purse lying on the kitchen table. Two steps and she had it in her hand.
She grabbed it and shoved her hand inside, looking for her more powerful flashlight. Finding it and turning it on, she dropped her now dark cell phone into the purse and then dug Finn out of a padded side pocket. Her tablet with all her research notes was in her purse too, so she closed the bag and slung it over her shoulder, wrapping Finn’s chain around her palm, clutching him in her fist.
With the bri
ght flashlight in one hand and Finn in the other, she headed back down the stairs.
Once her slippered feet hit the packed dirt, she took a deep breath to steady herself. Honestly, she was probably just seeing things. It had been an unsettling night. Another round of thunder vibrated through the house, as if to emphasize her mental point. The air was alive with charged particles. She shone the light forward, not sure what to expect.
It was still there, illuminated clearly in the center of her light, on the large stone that stretched from floor to ceiling.
She took a step, her breath loud and harsh in her ears. She swallowed and then lifted the locket in her other hand to compare.
It was the same. Exactly.
The curvy intertwined initials on the back of the locket were etched into the stone on the wall, mirror perfect.
Impossible.
The symbol was too unique to be coincidence. What connection could F possibly have to this house? Why carve initials here too? It was so fantastic. Too amazing.
She took another two steps forward, eyes still darting back and forth between the locket clutched in her outstretched hand and the symbol on the rock, comparing just to be sure.
Yes, it really was the same.
Close enough now, she quickly looped Finn around her neck to free her hand. Lightning pulsed long and sustained, bright enough to illuminate even the dark cellar. Emme felt the hair on her arms and neck raise, prickling with electricity. Thunder vibrated heavily through the air, causing the trapdoor behind her to slam shut.
She stretched out her hand to trace the symbol on the rock, wanting to confirm with touch what her eyes already knew. That it was real.
The bristling feeling of charged electricity became stronger, magnetic, almost pulling her arm forward of its own accord. Blinking in surprise at the sensation, Emme touched the stone.