Violet’s frown held for a moment longer before she relented with a shrug. “Honestly, dear. The last thing a single lass of twenty-five should be doing on her day off is spending it with her granny.”
“I’m twenty-six, Granny.”
“Even worse!” Violet exclaimed. “You should have better things to do with your free time than take care of an old woman.”
Brontë lifted a teasing brow. “Funny, I thought the whole point of my moving in here was to help out with my gimpy old granny.”
“Was it?” her grandmother asked. “I thought it was because you got dumped.”
“I wasn’t dumped, Granny. I was let go. Canned. Sacked.”
Violet’s eyes lit with humor. “I believe all those words apply to being let go from a job, not a relationship.”
“In my defense, being in a relationship with Jake was work.” As she said it, Brontë wondered how she’d never realized the truth before. “Hard work at that.”
It had been. Even before she’d become a redundancy in Jake’s life and was forced to move on. Away from their flat, then ultimately away from London when she couldn’t afford a place of her own. In spite of the many benefits of her dream job, the cost of living had been too high to live there alone, and her friend’s all had long leases. One could only couch surf for so long before being burdensome.
Besides her grandmother had needed her.
“Look at it like a fortuitous circumstance. I’m happy here with you.”
“It saddens me that you’re stuck working at that ratty little theater because of me,” Violet went on.
“Ratty little theater?” Brontë repeated with a raised brow. “Wow, Granny, that’s a hell of a thing for a season ticket holder to say. Besides you love that place. And so do I, for that matter. Working in movies was great, but the theater was always my first love.”
“Isn’t that what people who’ve failed in the big leagues always say?”
They shared a long look before Violet’s lips twitched and they both burst out laughing. “Keep that up and I’ll have nurse Broomfield take you to PT. We’ll see who’s laughing then.”
* * *
“Maybe ye’ll see your historic hottie while ye’re there,” Aila said as she dabbed some theater-quality foundation on Brontë’s wrist tattoo to disguise it.
“I’m not going there for that,” she reminded her friend, though the reasons and particulars had been reviewed and approved already for a greater level preparedness this time around. “I’m off men for the foreseeable future, remember?”
“Ye confessed ye were lying about that.”
“No, I admitted that I wanted a man,” she corrected. “As dating brings out the worst in people and knowing there’s not a truly good one to be had in any case, the search itself is pointless.”
Aila scoffed at that. “Until ye fixed yer family’s troubled past and received the windfall of karma for all yer good works, that is.”
“I was young and stupid when I said that.”
“Ye said it yesterday,” Aila pointed out.
“Things have changed since then. An aftereffect of time travel, maybe. Could be I didn’t change much but enough to alter my views on men.”
Or it could be that Brontë didn’t know what she really wanted any longer. The reality of having a time machine at her disposal laid so many more options on the table. Possibilities she never could have imagined or dreamed of threw whatever resolve she possessed regarding her future love life into turmoil. It wasn’t a matter of exclusively looking forward any longer.
She could look back as well.
A part of her equal to her desire to move on clashed with the fantasy of changing the past so that she never met Jake and had her heart broken. Conversely, she considered going back to tell herself to be more patient with him. To completely spare herself the misery that had driven her to quit a job she adored a year ago and leave London.
Yet those same events had prompted her return to Scotland, to her grandmother. Gifted her with a true friend in Aila. They might all poke fun at one another, nag and occasionally torment, but if her best dates came in the form of days off with Granny and girl’s nights out with Aila, Brontë was good with that. Her prospects for an equally bright future — sans a man of her own or not — were promising.
She couldn’t imagine anything better.
Unless it was the adventures now available to her.
“There, ye look far more presentable than before.” Aila stepped back to view the results of her work in the mirror. “What do ye think?”
Brontë twisted a curly tendril of hair that had been allowed to trail down her jawline around her finger and let it spring back into place. With her friend’s help, her long brown hair had been caught up in a full Gibson Girl hairdo before being topped with a broad brimmed hat decked out with lavender and gray ostrich plumes to compliment her dress. She’d fashioned the hat from the memory of one she’d seen on her walk to Moray Place the previous day.
Research into the subject proved cosmetics were acceptable in moderation for a lady of standing. She could wear makeup, but she couldn’t let the makeup wear her, as it were.
She picked up the parasol she’d made to match the hat. A series of plumes, ribbons and ruffles atop a functioning modern umbrella in case she was caught in the rain again.
It was Scotland after all, regardless of the year.
“You’re a miracle worker.”
“Aye, I am,” she agreed. “Remember, ye need to blend. Watch yer language. Keep it proper.”
“I know. I won’t be there long enough to have to assimilate to the times, though. In and out, right?” Bronte rotated before the mirror. As it was summer this time around, she shouldn’t need a coat. She’d prepared for other circumstances by donning a pair of leggings under her dress and rolled a tee shirt tightly around a pair of flip flops and shoved them in the bottom of her purse in case she needed to make a fast get away again.
“What if they recognize ye?” Aila asked.
Brontë thought about it. “I can’t imagine they would. It’s been more than a couple of years. For them, that is. The dress was covered by the coat last time and I’ve got my fake calling card now.”
Mrs. Brontë Hughes, it said.
Since she didn’t have a chaperone along, she needed to be as acceptable as possible if she were going to make it past the door this time around.
“Ye want to go through it again?”
“I think I’ve got it down.” She ticked off the high points on her fingers. “I walk up to the door, present my card to the Praetorian Guard and ask to see Lady Burnham. I do it with enough hauteur that there’s no way the butler can deny me without being too rude.”
“Then insist on discovering Henry’s plans for the day without seeming rude yerself,” Aila added.
“Right. I pester Hazel for details, excuse myself as quickly and politely as possible. I then make my escape and run to get to wherever Henry is in time to shove him out of the way of a moving vehicle before it has a chance to kill him. Or me, for that matter,” Brontë added. “I mean, it should be fairly simple.”
Her reflection in the mirror displayed a calm, collected lady. Inside however, her nerves were ratcheting up with each passing minute. “Hopefully he won’t be far from home. It’d be nice if I had some period money for a cabbie or something, just in case.”
“Nae worries. If it doesn’t work, ye can always try again,” Aila assured her, patting her back. “That’s the beauty of this thing, aye?”
“You’re right. I got this.” Brontë nodded at her friend in the mirror then spun around and hugged her close. “Thank you for all your help. You’re the best.”
“Go, team vag.”
Chapter 7
Moray Place
Edinburgh, Scotland
August 27, 1914
Brontë contained her triumph as the butler stepped back with a bow to grant her entry. With a cool nod, she swept past him and was immediately
glad she’d put him behind her, for there was no chance her composed, superior look stayed in place as she looked around the grand foyer.
Nothing like the boxed-in lobbies of renovated rowhouses in her time, the interior of Henry and Hazel’s Georgian townhouse mirrored all the grandeur of the exterior. From the gold-veined, polished marble beneath her feet to the mammoth crystal chandelier dangling from three stories above her, each step forward brought her into the incarnation of a lavish mansion. A curved staircase arced up before her. The dark wood bannister elegantly carved down to the intricate newel post. Dark blue carpet covered the stairs in stark contrast to the pale gray walls, but color popped from the dozens of heavily framed portraits and landscapes that marched up the walls. The era was too early for art deco yet the décor bore a dash of a more modern flair than what she associated with straight Victorian.
Small tables around the perimeter of the hall held vases filled with summer flowers. Their scent, sweet and welcoming, warmed the austere space. Made it feel more homey.
Less daunting.
Following the manservant up the stairs, Brontë tried not to gape…or become too engrossed in the paintings she passed along the way. A couple familiar faces. Henry’s and…
“Who is this, Rhodes?” The lady looked back at her with the same bemusement and interest.
“My pardon, my lady.” Rhodes climbed the few remaining steps and paused to bow. “This is a Mrs. Hughes who’s come to call for you. I thought to put her in the formal drawing room before I inquired if you were at home for her.”
How could he ask if Hazel were home when she clearly was? Brontë was so dumbfounded by the woman’s appearance she couldn’t express her additional bewilderment over the statement.
It might as well have been Granny in her younger years there before her…and by extension…
“Why, it’s uncanny. Rhodes, can you see it?” Hazel asked.
Brontë felt more than saw the butler’s frown, she was so engrossed in the lady in front of her. “See what, my lady?”
“The resemblance between Mrs. Hughes and myself,” Hazel smiled at Brontë.
Rhodes frowned down on them both. “I’m sorry, my lady. No.”
The steward was unlikely to approve of any aspect of Brontë’s person. He didn’t approve of strangers in his employer’s home. She sensed that from their brief encounters and on some level appreciated his loyalty despite the fact it worked against her. Even if he’d taken to her immediately, she wouldn’t have blamed him for missing the similarity. She’d seen dozens of pictures of Hazel in her lifetime. Solemn sepia photographs that portrayed a stoic, colorless young woman. Later black and white snapshots of a middle-aged woman, then color when Hazel had been an old woman.
None reflected the resemblance between them.
It was the light in her lavender eyes and mischief in her smile that struck Brontë. Qualities that couldn’t be caught on camera in the early twentieth century, but certainly could in the early sixties when Granny had been this age.
Or by a mirror in 2019.
Hazel’s hair had a touch more blonde than Brontë’s. The general shape of their faces wasn’t exact. Hazel lacked Brontë’s high, overly-pronounced cheekbones, her chin was softer. Her nose was more aquiline, and her lips lacked the fullness of Brontë’s. In any case, from her perspective, the resemblance was marked. Perhaps because of their eyes which were identical. Wide set under the same arching brows and the unusual color…
Well, now she knew where that had come from.
“Please come and join me in the family parlor, Mrs. Hughes,” Hazel gestured down the hall, more collected and cultured than any twenty-two-year-old woman had the right to be. Yet at the same time, her soft refined tone radiated affability and welcome. “I’m anxious to hear how we’re related.”
“Related?”
“Of course. That must be why you’re here?”
The parlor was even more grandiose than the entry hall, something Brontë recognized only peripherally. The bulk of her attention concentrated on her great-great grandmother.
“Ladies, we have additional company this morning,” Hazel called gaily as they entered the room. Brontë tore her eyes away from her ancestor long enough to register the quartet of women seated inside.
“I’m sorr…er, my apologies, Lady Burnham,” Brontë said quietly. “I didn’t know you had company.”
Hazel laughed. “Nonsense. We’re all family here, aren’t we?”
“Are we?”
Hazel laughed again and took her arm, leading her into the room. “Such a surprise. Can you see it? Ladies, this is Mrs. Hughes. She’s my…?”
With a significant pause, she turned to Brontë expectantly.
“I’m…er, I’m….” She cleared her throat and thought fast. This was supposed to be an in and out, one and done undertaking. Any scenario necessitating a back story hadn’t occurred to her. “I’m Hazel’s…cousin…from America.”
After a heartbeat of a pause, one of the women spoke, “I didn’t know any of your uncles had grown children, Hazel.”
Hazel looked at Brontë with still greater expectation.
“Oh, no,” she improvised. “My mother was Hazel’s grandfather’s sister. It’s a very distant connection. Perhaps I should come back another time?”
“Don’t be silly,” Hazel protested above the polite objections from farther within the room. “You’ll stay, of course. I want you to meet my husband.”
She latched on to that important reminder of why she was here. “Yes. I’d love to meet him. Is he here?”
“He’s taken the children across to the park to play for a bit so I could have a nice visit,” Hazel told her. “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
“Quite soon,” a deep masculine brogue added.
Brontë turned to see a familiar man striding down the hall toward them. A bit older than before. More mature. Infinitely more devastating…
Carrying an infant in the crook of his arm.
Should she be surprised that in the single day since she’d met him, he’d spent two years getting busy? Aila’s fanciful ideas must have gotten under her skin after all for her to be upset by the news.
His mossy green eyes met hers, a flash of recognition lit them before he frowned. “Who’s this with you, Hazy?”
“Hazy?”
“A nickname from my childhood,” Hazel said with an affectionate smile. “Mrs. Hughes, may I present my cousin — or rather our cousin, I gather — Mr. Tristram MacKintosh. Tris, this is Mrs. Hughes. A cousin from Mama’s side of the family, come to visit from America.”
“Cousin?” Brontë repeated, trying to wrap her head around the additional unfortunate…and disappointing news. Married with children and her cousin? What a double whammy.
It doesn’t matter, she reminded herself. Focus!
“What a beautiful baby you have, Tri — I mean, Mr. MacKintosh.”
Hazel chuckled and lifted the infant from Tris’s arms. “This is my bonny wee bairn, Caroline. Would you like to hold her, or should I make the remainder of the introductions first?”
Brontë hastened to take the baby to avoid being trooped around the room where uncomfortable questions would no doubt abound. This was becoming far more complicated than she and Aila had anticipated. She looked down and the baby blinked up at her with wide blue eyes, sweet and irresistible. Cradling the infant in one arm, she stroked the baby’s downy cheek with her fingertip. Unable to help herself, she bent and kissed her forehead. “So, you’re my great-aunt Carrie,” she whispered, trying to wrap her head around the knowledge that this baby existed because of her intervention. “Wait ‘til I tell Granny about this.”
“I say, Mrs. Hughes is it?” Tris raised a dubious brow. “Have we me —”
“You have another daughter, don’t you, Haz…er, Lady Burnham?” Brontë asked before Tris could finish his question. Or figure out the answer.
“Please call me Hazel. And yes,” the eager mother answered, r
eady to expound on her precious girls. Something Brontë was counting on given the exuberance of the woman’s diary entries. “Hyacinth. She’s two and a true handful. As I said, my husband took her across the street to the park to play but they should be bac —”
Muffled shouts and the blaring of a horn permeated the room through an opened window to drown her out. Everyone in the room turned to look, then froze in horror as a feminine scream and toddler’s shriek filled with air.
“Aw, son of a bitch.”
Tris and Hazel both gaped at Brontë.
Language, she reminded herself.
She handed baby Carrie back to her mother. “I’m sorry. I’ll be right back.”
Turning, she ran to the stairs and raced down them, holding her skirts in one hand and digging in her purse with the other. How had she let this happen? She’d gotten distracted by Hazel, then the baby. Been thrown for a mental loop by Tris’s appearance when she hadn’t expected to see him at all.
Cousins?
Not that it mattered, she reminded herself.
Nothing mattered except setting things right.
“Mrs. Hughes! Wait!”
“Shit,” Brontë muttered under her breath this time and paused at the bottom of the stairs. Having some experience with Tris’s speed and willingness to sweep her off her feet in the worst possible way, she waited for him to reach her despite the urgent situation outside. Time was on her side, after all. “Yes?”
“Perhaps you should wait here,” he said as he caught up then strode past her. “This may be no sight for a lady to witness.”
“What do you mean no si…?” The absurdity of what he meant registered. “Hold on. Are you saying I’m not man enough to witness a car accident?”
He blinked in surprise. “Madam, there may be conditions present to upset your deli —”
She cut him off with a raised hand. “If you’re about to say the words delicate sensibilities, I may have to vomit all over you.”
Shock left his jaw dangling.
A Scot to Remember (Something About a Highlander Book 1) Page 6