Forbia barked and circled their feet. For the first time since his reunion with Ana, Finn felt the knot in his heart re-form. “I’m so sorry, girl. Wolves don’t really blend in. We’ll be back soon, I promise. Jon will watch over you.”
At the mention of Jon, Ana flinched but said nothing. Whatever she was thinking—whatever Finn, too, was considering about that matter—would need to wait until their return.
For now, they had a more pressing matter.
Finn’s eyes closed.
He couldn’t remember meeting Jacob more than briefly, but Amelia’s was a face he could never forget, proof of the strength in the Deschanel genetics; it was Ana’s face, painted with less pain and framed with a halo of white gold.
All right, Goddess. You brought us here, and these are your guiding words. So show me the way. Wherever Amelia and Jacob are, we need to be there as well.
The world launched into a dozen somersaults.
Perpetual motion carried Aleksandr forward, knocking both his parents over onto their backs. They landed in grass. Overhead, the sky was edged in purple, welcoming the first whispers of dusk.
“Sorry,” Aleksandr said with a shy grin and rolling off to the ground. “That happened faster than last time.”
Finn sat up to gather his bearings. Anasofiya was a step ahead of him, both in maneuvering off the turf and in her recognition of the surroundings.
“It can’t be…”
Aleksandr’s eyes brightened, and he sprang to his feet. “No way!”
Finn’s vision cleared, and he examined his surroundings. The looming Big House came into view. All around them the familiar live oaks stood sentry, though they appeared smaller, or perhaps trimmed.
“Ophélie,” he mused, pushing himself off the ground. “I’ll be damned. We came home.”
“Not exactly,” Ana replied in wonder, meandering off ahead. “This is Ophélie, yes, but look at the height of the levee. You can see the river at ground level. Usually, we can only see it from the third floor. And the oaks, Finn, see how much smaller they are? They’ve only recently been planted. The grass hasn’t even grown around the roots yet.”
“Check out the size of those boats!” Aleksandr pointed toward the Mississippi, where two steamships passed in transit.
“What year is this do you think?” Finn asked, gaping wide-mouthed at the fresh white paint on the plantation home. And that garçonierre… still bore the shine of new construction.
“Before the war, maybe,” Ana replied, lost in thought. “I guess it depends on who opens the door when we knock, right?”
“You really think that’s a good idea?”
“I don’t believe we came here to be spectators,” she answered.
Aleksandr studied his clothes and grimaced. “We’re really not dressed for this. Like, at all.”
“We’ll say we’re cousins from the Low Countries,” Ana said. “Or descendants of the Habsburgs. They had their hands in every house of Europe. It would take years to disprove us.”
“You’re enjoying this when you should be crapping your pants,” Finn accused.
“If the alternative to enjoyment is shitting myself, I’ll choose a good time any day, thank you,” she teased.
God, how he wanted to take her in his arms and crush her in a never-ending hug. To see her smile, her lips tilted at the corners on the verge of a laugh… he could admit it now since she was back and safe. He had half expected to never see either again.
“Earth to Poseidon,” Ana said. “We doing this?”
“I love you,” Finn said, unable to help himself. “Both of you. So damn much.”
Ana regarded him from the short distance, and she was, for a moment, the beautiful mystery girl living next door on the island in Maine with the shy, unsure smile as she ran toward him down the coastline, book clutched to her chest.
And then she was in his arms, Aleksandr right behind her. All was right. All was okay. The world had stitched the broken seams, and the fabric had its stretch back.
“This is love,” she whispered, pressing her lips against his neck.
“This, right here,” Finn replied, planting his feet firmly in the soil.
DAY
ONE
I
Amelia and Jacob followed Ophélie Deschanel across the freshly seeded, sprawling grassland of the property bearing her name, in a century not their own, toward a future they could not predict.
Jacob hadn’t had the luxury of time to think through the consequences or results of time dancing, any more than he’d had when he joined form with the bear, recognizing the creature’s own beastly vigor roar and rip through him as he quite certainly saved his wife’s life. Jacob still didn’t even know how he’d done it. He didn’t quite remember the exact moment he’d been stripped of his own mortal skin and thrust into the warm, vital flesh of the bear, becoming one. Could he replicate it? He didn’t know that, either. This gift of warging emerged only in times of great need, which was true of all his gifts, according to Padraig.
He may have saved Amelia, but the world remaining for her offered a fate perhaps worse than death. What happened in Ireland had changed them both, but no one more so than his wife, who had endured horrors neither of them could even speak of. This was the rule that hadn’t been voiced but was true regardless.
Then they had made it even riskier by entering Farjhem in turmoil. This trek was more than a gamble in Jacob’s estimation, and it left them with few choices and even fewer minutes to make them. Always quick on his feet when his back was up against the wall, he searched for the answer, and it appeared. Once he decided, there was no un-deciding: The couple had to do more than leave the where. They had to leave their when.
He couldn’t say why that, of all solutions, had popped into his head, only that he couldn’t bear his broken wife’s wide eyes surveying the landscape like a cornered animal.
Are you sure? Amelia had asked, putting all her faith, all her hope, in him, despite her obvious doubt. How can you be so sure? How do you know this when is any better than the last one?
“I’m not,” he mumbled, under his breath at a volume neither his wife nor the historical figure ahead of them could hear. “Not sure of anything anymore.”
“You’ve brought your appetite with you, I hope?” the young woman called over her shoulder as they meandered toward the dusty drive leading to the front door. She lifted her skirt and bustle as she prepared to ascend the stairs. A few men in dusters and frock coats leaned against a nearby column, a cloud of smoke swirling the air around them as they engaged in animated discourse.
Several young black men worked to calm and corral a handful of horses with a carriage attached. Jacob’s stomach tightened. He was witnessing slavery in action. Amelia offered him a cheerless smile from his peripheral. They would see more before their time here was at an end, he knew, and it would take tremendous willpower not to act on it. Only the two of them possessed the hindsight of a past never lived through.
“Famished,” Amelia answered when Jacob did not.
A cacophony of deep voices followed a strong wind carrying cigar smoke, pouring from inside the Big House of the plantation. He grimaced. More people. Lots more. Later, he might find himself in the mental shape to appreciate that they stood on the lower gallery of one of the finest homes in Louisiana, at the height of its prime. For now, much of him existed in suspended animation, a place where he wasn’t quite convinced they weren’t still stuck outside of Farjhem almost two centuries later.
“The men retired to the parlor early,” Ophélie explained with a light cluck of disapproval. “They never can wait!” She paused at the door, lowering her skirts, leveling her gaze at Jacob. “Would you like me to introduce you to Papa, so you may join them?”
Jacob shook his head a little too emphatically. In his peripheral he saw Amelia look away, biting back amusement.
“No, I suppose you brought manners with you across the sea,” Ophélie decided, then blushed at her own forw
ardness.
As if answering an unspoken command, the double doors yawned open, revealing a bustling hall filled with a half-dozen brightly colored hooped skirts swishing across gleaming cypress boards. The high lilt of excited young debutantes competed for volume against the men congregated in the nearby parlor. A young butler offered mint juleps from a silver tray.
Jacob’s breath caught. He blinked hard to bring himself into the moment. Surely, he’d stumbled into the ballroom scene at Twelve Oaks. Ashley Wilkes would descend the staircase any moment.
A cluster of ladies ceased their animated chatter, running their eyes over he and Amelia, not disguising their appraising looks. Where Ophélie had latched on to them being from England to explain their strangeness, these ladies didn’t know what to make of the sight before them. The gossip later would be interesting, to say the least.
Jacob caught some of the excited whispers. They seemed especially scandalized by Amelia wearing pants.
“I will see you to your quarters so you can dress for dinner. I expect us to be called shortly and do hope Clara hasn’t assigned all the guest rooms yet,” Ophélie commented to herself, boldly separating the gathered girls in two with outstretched arms. They parted, and as they did, their judgmental curiosity faded to silent reverence as the beautiful young mistress of the house ascended the staircase.
She paused at the top, whirling. “Why, forgive me, but I’m not sure if you two are…” her gaze fell to the diamond on Amelia’s left hand and her eyes expanded to saucers. “Well! You know how to treat a lady in England,” she exclaimed in a breathy whisper, her earlier question apparently answered.
Jacob glanced between both women, flushing. Diamond rings were a more recent trend. The women in this period would be wearing plain bands.
If they weren’t careful, it would be the small details that did them in. “Aye,” he answered. “I’ll not have my wife in anything but the best.”
Amelia hid an eye roll, but Ophélie blushed, clearly smitten. “I daresay we neglected to bring along some of the finer traditions when we created this great nation,” she declared in a fluster, then turned to continue up the stairs. “I’ve never heard accents quite like yours. Of course, I’ve never been across the ocean. My brother, Jean, has been on his Grand Tours of Europe, as I said, and my youngest brother will be along on his soon, but it isn’t proper for the women.”
“Colonists,” Jacob muttered with a shrug, falling into character. Amelia elbowed him.
“How rude of me. I haven’t asked your names!”
Amelia went rigid, paling. She wasn’t in the frame of mind for these rapid fire, on-the-spot answers, so the bulk of creativity fell upon him. He saw no reason to lie. “My name is Lord Jacob Donnelly, and this is my wife, Lady Donnelly.”
Amelia released a slight, disapproving sigh, as if in acknowledgment. Now you’ve done it.
Okay. Maybe a small lie.
“You’re of the peerage, then!” Ophélie declared. Her hands crossed over her décolletage. She appeared positively star struck. “Papa never mentioned we had such distinguished cousins. He’ll be so pleased to have you at our table this evening.”
“You must be Charles’ daughter, Ophélie,” Jacob replied in his most charming tone. “We weren’t aware we’d be arriving to help you celebrate. How old are you now?”
“Sixteen.” She beamed. “Tonight, I’m to meet my betrothed.”
“How lovely,” Amelia said, her hand still latched tightly to Jacob’s. She barely held it together. “Happy Birthday.”
They stopped in front of a set of French doors leading to, in the future anyway, Lucienne’s bedroom. Jacob didn’t know who stayed there anymore. After Lucienne had died, he believed the room had remained empty until Nicolas turned the house into a refuge for Empyreans. “I do hope this will be suitable. I know it’s not what you’re used to in London, but—”
Jacob’s smile stopped her in midsentence. “It’s perfectly fine.”
Ophélie sagged in relief. “Oh, wonderful. I do want you to be comfortable here. Where did you leave your trunks? I’ll have Edwin bring them up straight away.”
Amelia glanced away, her stiffness fading to slack. Jacob realized she was moments from a breakdown. “I’m afraid that’s a long story. They didn’t make it with us off the ship.” He held his breath; he’d almost said plane.
Ophélie appeared genuinely mortified. “You poor dears. My brother, Jean, lost an entire trunk on his Grand Tour and never saw it again.” Her hands wrung over her corseted waist. “Not to worry. Ruth can fit you for a new wardrobe later. There are sleeping garments already in the room. Though that doesn’t help us for this evening’s events, and what you’re wearing won’t do…”
Jacob reached out and laid his hand on Ophélie’s delicate upper arm. She looked mildly scandalized. “If it isn’t terribly rude, my wife and I could use some rest after the long journey. She doesn’t fare well on the sea.”
Ophélie skimmed Amelia’s peaked countenance and shook her head. “Poor dear. Since you don’t have a gown… why, perhaps it is best for you to retire for a short while. After the ball, we’ll serve a late evening course. The young women and their chaperones will have departed by then so it will be the local gentry and their wives. Ruth can bring up something suitable for you to wear, and tomorrow we can see about a wardrobe. I won’t be permitted to attend into the later hours, as a maiden, but perhaps Papa will allow me to do so as a hostess. Shall I retrieve you then?”
Jacob nodded, feeling Amelia sway to his left.
“Very well. There’s fresh water from the well on the serving table, and should you need anything, the servant’s bell is on the left wall, near the windows.”
“Thank you, Mademoiselle Deschanel. And happy birthday.”
II
Amelia barely made it to the bed. She slumped forward over the quilt, face pressed into the fabric with her arms akimbo. Jacob was behind her at once, lifting his wife to situate her in the center of the mattress.
Jacob tripped over himself in a rush to get her water. “I’m all right,” she said, winded. A weight she couldn’t see pressed tight into her forehead and constricted her chest. The sensation wasn’t unlike when she’d been imperiled as an empath, except this time she was overwhelmed with no emotions other than her own.
“Clearly not, Blanca,” he replied. He placed one hand behind her head and tilted the glass toward her lips.
“I said I was fine,” she asserted. Water dribbled out the left side of her mouth. She snapped her head away. “Stop. Please.”
Jacob backed away but held tight to the glass in stubborn compromise. “You almost fainted on the carpet out there.”
“You mean the plush scarlet carpet that’s brand new and shouldn’t be?”
Jacob shifted. He set the glass on the nightstand. “We should talk about this.”
“Of course, Lord Donnelly,” she said with a snicker, breaking her gaze away. Amelia didn’t know why she was doing this, pushing him away; picking a fight. Fear and anger wrestled for placement within her, but all she could do was train it on the person who deserved it least.
She was sick with her own behavior, and they hadn’t been here more than a quarter hour.
“Was the best I could come up with at the moment,” he defended. “Are you mad I didn’t think to make you a duchess? Because that would be more easily verifiable, should it come to that. They don’t have Wikipedia, but Charles probably shares correspondence with King Edward’s court from time to time.”
Amelia grunted in response, a dismissive sound. She caught the small smile playing at the corner of his mouth and realized he’d been doing what he always did in tense situations: Trying to lighten the mood.
“I’m sorry,” Amelia said after a long and tense pause. “I know I wasn’t much help out there.”
“I don’t know that anything I said was especially helpful, either.”
She cast her eyes around the room. As a girl, she’d babysa
t Lucienne and Adrienne in those summers when they were still young, still playing with dolls. Lucienne’s room had been an explosion of pink taffeta and ruffles, nothing at all like what she saw now, but she recognized the furniture. In the present, it was spread throughout the house. “This room has a very Parisian feel. Rococo and Louis XVI, if I know my styles.”
Jacob smirked. “And do you?”
“Only what I’ve heard my mother tell tourists,” she conceded. “Years ago, Ophélie was open to the public for limited tours, and my Aunt Cordelia showed no interest so Mom would come out and run them. I loved going with her.” She pointed. “That painting there, above the mantle, is in a museum now, in our time. There’s a fantastic story behind it.”
Jacob followed where she pointed. A young, deeply rouged Frenchwoman with a low-necked carnelian-colored gown posed with an Oriental fan. Her blonde wig piled high on her head was ornamented with powder. The subject’s wry grin spelled of intrigue and trouble. “I’ve definitely never seen that before.”
“Marianne de Deschanel,” she explained. Talking about things, knowing about them, brought her back to a sense of calm. Grounded her. “Charles’ grandmother. She was a very young courtesan of Louis XVI, a favorite who was with them at the start of the French Revolution. Family rumor has it she helped sneak footmen into his room. He fancied the boys.” She laughed. “Who knows if that’s true. But she was definitely with them during the Flight of Varennes, when Louis and Marie Antoinette escaped from Paris. That’s a matter of record. The story goes that she escaped any serious punishment because she was recalled in order to be married. But journals recounting her time at court were downright scandalous. Better than fiction.”
“Why the hell is this in a museum and not still in the house?”
“My mother might tell you Uncle Charles donated it to the preservation society,” Amelia replied with a slow grin. “Aunt Maureen would disagree that Charles lost it in a poker game with the French Ambassador.”
The Secrets Amongst the Cypress Page 2