by Nichole Van
Duir Cottage
The basement
A few moments later
July 13, 2012
Emme blinked in the darkness and sank to the ground, using all her strength to lower Georgiana gently. She could hear the low rumble of a voice. Could see a sliver of light above her head that must be from the trap door. Georgiana moaned, her breath rasping.
“Help!” Emme called. It seemed the easiest way to get attention. “Help me!”
She heard a thump of movement and the scramble of steps. She didn’t know who was up there, but she figured after everything that had happened, she could probably deal with it.
Emme fumbled in the dark, trying to free her phone from her stays. But it was difficult with Georgiana half lying on her.
After a few seconds, she heard the trapdoor moving and light poured down the steep stairs, illuminating her and Georgiana.
A head gazed down at her, blocking some of the light.
An extremely familiar head with dark curling hair and a stunned look of surprise.
There she was, sprawled on the dirt floor, clad in a high-waisted Empire dress, covered in a pelisse. A straw chip bonnet on her head. A blond woman wrapped in a dressing gown and blanket, half dead and gasping across her chest.
“What the hell?”
Emme would know his shocked voice anywhere.
“What are you doing down here? Where have you been?” Marc scrambled down the steps to kneel beside her, shaking his head as he looked her over.
“Were you captured by Jane Austen bandits and held captive for the last two months?” he continued. “I swear, Emme, you will be the death of me! Even by your disaster standards, this is truly impressive.”
“Marc!” Emme cried, relief pouring through her. “Oh, Marc!” She hiccupped, fighting back sobs, grabbing his arm. “Please call an ambulance! We have so little time and Georgiana is dying!”
Chapter 31
Duir Cottage
Nearly two months later
September 15, 2012
Will it ever get any easier?” Georgiana said softly from the passenger seat. “This not knowing is unbearable.”
Emme sighed as she pulled into the driveway, turning off the BMW. Duir Cottage still looked charming. Perhaps even more so with autumn beginning to creep in.
Grimacing, Emme looked over at Georgiana.
“I honestly don’t know.” Emme sucked in a deep, weary breath, reaching out to lay a comforting hand on Georgiana’s arm.
Georgiana had been released from the hospital nearly three weeks earlier. They had just returned from the doctor who had given her a clean bill of health. She would need to maintain her antibiotic regimen for the next six months to guard against a relapse, but she was no longer quarantined.
Georgiana was lucky. She had received treatment just in time, the doctors said. Even another day and she would have been beyond help. But her tuberculosis had responded well to the antibiotics, surprising everyone.
Emme had tested positive for latent tuberculosis, but as the bacteria wasn’t active in her system, she had only needed to take antibiotics for a of couple weeks. Grateful to not be quarantined. Again.
“Let’s go see what Marc has made us for dinner, shall we? He knows how much you love chow mein.” Emme grabbed her phone and purse and then paused as Georgiana made no immediate move to get out of the car. Instead, she sat frozen, furiously blinking back tears.
“What if he doesn’t come?” Georgiana whispered, turning her watery blue eyes to Emme—eyes so like her brother’s. Emme’s heart constricted painfully.
“He will. We just have to have faith—”
“But that entry we found—” Georgiana hiccupped and covered her mouth, trying to shove all her worry back.
Emme exhaled haltingly and moved her hand to Georgiana’s shoulder, rubbing it gently. How many times had they had this conversation over the past month?
Once Georgiana had recovered enough to be coherent, she had insisted they search out what had happened to Arthur and James. Emme had quickly found record of Arthur and Marianne’s wedding in the Marfield parish registry and then subsequent information indicating that Arthur had inherited Haldon Manor.
But finding anything about James had proved challenging. There had only been a snippet inserted between baptism records in the parish registry.
The honorable James Knight, 31, late of Haldon Manor, deceased in a carriage accident.
Emme’s heart still clenched. The words emblazoned in her mind, seared permanently. Dancing before her eyes almost every second of every day. Taunting her. Challenging her to believe them.
There had been no date associated with the entry, though the baptisms before and after it were from July 1812. Had James been killed while rushing back to Georgiana’s bedside?
Emme swallowed, forcing her emotions away. She refused to give up hope.
“He’ll come. He will,” Emme repeated firmly. “Remember, the entry was squeezed between the registry lines and written in a different hand. The vicar still isn’t sure if it’s contemporary to July 1812 or added later. And even if it is legitimate, the carriage accident could just be a cover for James to come forward in time. We must have faith, Georgie.”
Georgiana shook her head and turned away, swiping at her tears. “Have faith,” she murmured. “Do you say that to convince me? Or yourself?”
Emme drew in a stuttering breath. How many times would they say these words to each other?
Trying to lighten the mood, Emme said, “Remember, tomorrow we’re going to the Jane Austen Festival in Bath. We will dress up like proper Regency ladies, take tea in the pump room and stroll through town as if the last two hundred years had never happened. It’s magical. You’ll see.”
Georgiana turned and give her a brave wistful smile, her eyes still red. Even through her tears, Georgiana glowed with a health and vitality that Emme had not seen in her before.
Emme still wasn’t used to seeing her friend in 21st century clothing. For her part, Emme had happily shed her long Regency dresses for tight jeans and soft t-shirts. And showers. Steamy, lengthy, finger-wrinkling showers.
Georgiana, however, could not feel comfortable in pants and instead chose to wear long maxi skirts. Today she looked particularly beautiful in a floor-length, cream-and-lace confection Emme had found in a local boutique. Her teal silk blouse shimmered in the dwindling sunlight. Emme had at least convinced Georgiana to wear her hair down. It now hung, golden and loosely curled, down her back. That said, Georgiana had eagerly taken to wearing some make-up. She loved mascara and could not seem to buy enough lipstick, always finding a new shade to try. And between local pizza take-out and Marc’s cooking, she had put on some much needed weight.
But there was a deep worry in her too. A sense of loss and uncertainty.
Emme found herself fighting the same feelings. A heaviness. A dullness that would not pass.
Was James truly all right, just making final arrangements in 1812? Or was the carriage accident real? Would he come through the portal?
He will come. Have faith.
Sometimes Emme found herself repeating the words over and over. A haunting talisman. That if said enough—if believed enough—would come true.
Emme often sat in the basement, staring at the stone slab with the carved initials, hoping by some miracle to conjure him. They had taken to leaving the trapdoor and closet door open. Just in case.
Once Georgiana had been released from the hospital, she had been determined to try the portal. Georgiana had to know. They had packed a healthy supply of antibiotics and snuck down to the basement. But no matter how they touched the portal and thought desperate thoughts of James, nothing happened.
For now, there was no return. For either of them.
And James still did not come.
What if he never came?
They would need to figure out how to move on—without James. Dealing with all the pesky problems of modern life, like money and jobs and p
assports.
They only had a week left in Duir Cottage and then their lease would be up. Emme hadn’t figured out what to do next. Leaving Marfield—abandoning the promise of the portal—felt impossible, but she had her life and job back in Seattle to consider too.
And Georgiana. She was slowly trying to adapt to modern life, but it seemed to be a love-hate relationship for her. She obviously appreciated being alive and loved modern conveniences like toilets and showers and television. But she struggled with the whirlwind pace of the 21st century—the constant, frenetic bombardment of sound and ideas.
Not to mention the fact she had no identity, at least none the modern world would recognize. Marc said he knew people who could help and Georgiana was indeed a British citizen. Just not a modern one. But until they managed to get her an ID and a passport, she wasn’t going anywhere.
Marc had been a godsend. Both she and Georgiana had explained multiple times what had happened to her. Marc acted like he believed them—and Georgiana’s presence was certainly compelling—but Emme wondered if it wasn’t just a polite front. He had even tried to go through the portal himself, standing in the basement vigorously rubbing the engraved stone.
“Is this how you do it?” he had asked, somewhat teasingly.
“It’s not a magic lamp, Marc,” Emme had said in her most exasperated voice. “And you need to have a strong desire to go through the portal. Your life needs to be intertwined with someone’s from the past. Do you have that?”
Marc had just shrugged and winked at her in amusement.
At least he found the images on her phone impressive. Though he had made more than one teasing comment about how dashing ‘Fabio’ looked in his pretty boy clothes.
“His name is James, Marc,” Emme had said in frustration.
“Whatever. I’ve said it before and I will say it again, he will always be Fabio to me.”
Emme had just rolled her eyes.
She missed James. Viscerally at times. She found herself constantly pulling out perfect memories, running them through her mind. Matching his teasing banter. Waltzing in his arms.
Emme obsessively watched the videos she had taken. Over and over. Not wanting to forget the mellow sound of his voice telling her that she was ‘utterly irresistible.’ Memorizing every nuance in his face, in his body.
But seeing James, hearing his voice, only made his loss worse somehow. Made her remember acutely that he was no longer with her.
Jasmine had been more helpful. More hopeful.
“I’m telling you, he is still your destiny,” she said every time Emme talked to her. “He will find you.”
And so Emme nodded her head and went through the motions each day. She finished her sabbatical research and made tentative plans for herself and Georgiana, all the while ignoring the dullness and lethargy in her heart. The ache of having found that one missing part of her, only to give it up again.
Too many problems. Not enough answers.
Emme had saved Georgiana’s life, but at what cost to them all?
The next day, Emme and Georgiana descended the stairs of Duir Cottage in full Regency clothing: muslin walking dresses covered with pelisses and straw bonnets upon their heads (which Georgiana assured her were the first stare of 1812 fashion). Emme smiled at Marc’s look of appreciation as they strolled into the great room. He was busy hooking up his laptop to the flatscreen TV by the fireplace.
“Are you still sure you won’t come with us, Marc?” she asked.
“Oh yes,” Georgiana sighed. “It would be vastly diverting to have you along.”
Marc merely raised his eyebrows and laughed.
“As much fun as it sounds to stuff myself into tight pantaloons and fight my way through crowds all day, I think I’m going to enjoy the Bronco’s game that I have DVR-ed back home and relax.” He winked teasingly at Emme.
Emme sighed. She had spent the better part of last night begging Marc to come along with them. But he was adamant. And given everything else he had done for them over the last two months, she felt ungrateful continuing to push the issue.
“If you change your mind, we have reservations for high tea at four o’clock. The clothes I brought for you are upstairs in my closet. And I do appreciate you dropping us at the train station,” Emme said. “The traffic into Bath is so bad during the festival.”
“I just can’t believe you two are seriously taking the train dressed like that!”
“We won’t be the only ones,” she answered with a laugh.
Chapter 32
Bath
The Grand Pump Room
September 16, 2012
Emme stood in the Grand Pump Room overlooking the Roman Baths below. The sunlight, gold and slanting, washed over Bath Abbey which loomed beyond the ancient baths.
After finishing their tea, Georgiana had stepped around the corner to visit the ladies’ washroom; Emme had chosen to remain for a few moments longer.
Emme had always loved the historic Pump Room, with tall, paned windows down each side—one side looking out to the streets of Bath, the other overlooking the Roman Baths—bookended by enormous arched alcoves. Finished in 1799, the building had changed little over the intervening years, the interior all classical white columns and fluted pediments.
The room behind her slowly emptied of diners; tea service was through but dinner had not yet begun. Most everyone was still dressed in Regency era clothing, giving the room an almost discordant air. Ladies in their gowns and gentleman in their top hats strolling amongst tourists in jeans and windbreakers.
As if trapped between modern and Napoleonic England. A feeling Emme knew all too well.
The day had been lovely. Georgiana glowed, enjoying being a proper lady once again, nodding regally to passersby as they strolled through Bath. She had seemed more at ease with herself than she had in weeks. Even Emme had admitted to enjoying wearing a corset and clinging skirts again.
But the afternoon had also emphasized what she was missing.
James.
Emme had spent most of the day trying to not think about him.
At least to not think about him every other second. And she had been mildly successful—for about two minutes somewhere between Newport and Bristol on the train when she thought about his horse, Luther.
The pain of his absence was not ebbing. If anything, it grew worse over time. She kept expecting to hear his voice. To feel his warm hand on her back.
Her obsession with the locket had been bad enough. But that was before she actually knew the real man himself.
Now she knew him. Knew the sound of his laughter. Knew the generosity of his heart. She wondered if the ache of his loss would ever abate.
And being in Bath, on this of all days, had been particularly difficult. The city teemed with men in traditional Regency dress. Every other moment, she would see a blond man in a blue coat—or brown or green or black—and her heart would seize until he moved and she would note that he was too short or too old or too whatever to be James. How could there be so many blond men in Britain? And why were they all here in Bath?
It had been a keen sort of torture. Like constantly pressing against a sore, feeling its sharp pain over and over. And how could such a wound, continually tormented, ever heal? How could she even want to heal, to move on from him?
Why didn’t he come?
Emme sucked in a stuttering breath and stared at the Roman Baths outside the window, at the jade green water, at the lingering people moving among the columned ruins.
Clenching her hands slightly, she looked up and shifted her gaze from the scene outside and focused on the glass of the window. Shadowy shapes of people strolled through the room behind her. Blurry ladies in long skirts moved around two gentleman who had recently arrived through the door in breeches and boots. One gentleman doffed his hat to them in greeting.
Mirrored ghosts of the past. Would this be how she would keep James? In memory, fleeting and fuzzy. A nearly tangible shadow always just out of
reach.
Emme looked away, her throat thick with emotion. She closed her eyes, swallowing, trying to still the aching pain.
Letting out a long breath, she opened her eyes. Lifted her head and looked back at the window.
And then blinked.
She shook her head slightly, trying to breathe through the sudden tightness in her chest. A figure advanced toward her in the reflection.
Blond, blue-eyed, chiseled with his mouth hinting at shared laughter. Blue-green, high collared jacket, crisp white shirt and neckcloth.
Golden hair finger-combed and deliciously disheveled.
She choked back a sob and raised her hand to her mouth. Held his eyes in the reflection. Drank every little detail of him. Tasted her tears.
He stopped at her shoulder, sliding his hands slowly around her waist. His touch hot and searing. Emme hiccupped and her body went boneless, melting back against his.
She felt him press his mouth to the backside of her ear, felt the warmth of his breath as he inhaled, the nuzzle of his nose against her neck.
“I warned you,” he whispered, low and rumbly in his divine aristocratic accent. “You are the one and only thing I cannot live without. I would follow you to the ends of eternity, my love.”
His lips brushed her throat. Lightly. Gently.
“So when you think about it, giving up only two hundred years is a bit of a bargain,” he continued softly.
Emme sobbed and turned into his arms. Wrapped her own arms around his neck. Buried her face in his cravat.
And breathed him in, that lusciously familiar scent of leather and sandalwood and him. The heat of his arms wrapped possessively around her.
And then his lips were on her forehead. Her cheek. Her mouth.
Hungry and greedy. Aching. Longing. Drugging her nearly senseless.
Emme clung to him. Finding that she was unable to hold him close enough.
“Oh, my love, how I missed you!” James half moaned against her mouth. “It has been a lifetime without you.”
He pulled back slightly. “Well, several of them, in fact.”