by Nichole Van
“Uncle Daniel!” Aurelie exclaimed.
“—but then I noted Aurelie has been growing again and has clearly surpassed you in nearly every way.”
Aurelie giggled and blushed. At just barely thirteen, she was well on her way to womanhood. She had her mother’s dark hair and bright, blue eyes, but as she already stood a solid four inches taller than Jasmine, she had thankfully received her father’s height.
“Heavens, Daniel.” Jasmine batted his shoulders, the soft twang of her American accent still evident in her speech. “You never change, do you?”
That was only a partial truth.
He had changed, as a matter of fact. Quite a lot. He was a long way from the eager, optimistic young man who had slipped through the time portal fifteen years earlier.
But then Jasmine had changed too. Tiny and petite, she had a nearly fey quality about her with dark hair and huge, blue eyes. But laugh lines had set in earnest about her mouth, and the strain of the broken portal had caused traces of gray to thread through her hair. She hadn’t had another severe collapse, but she tired easily and her bubbly good cheer often felt forced.
Daniel had met her when she became Lord Linwood’s bride nearly fourteen years earlier. He had been employed as Linwood’s man of affairs at the time. The position had been a springboard for his dealings in business, as well as the Home Office, which meant he owed the Linwoods a tremendous debt of gratitude.
The Linwoods with their three children had become like family to him—brother, sister and a niece and nephews—with Jasmine as the beating heart of them all.
But now . . . Jasmine tugged at his heartstrings. Her eyes still danced, but there was a fatigue about her. She looked . . . worn.
Fossi couldn’t find a solution fast enough. For him. For Jasmine.
Speaking of which . . .
He turned to Fossi standing quietly behind him.
Poor thing. Her eyes kept darting up the enormous facade of Kinningsley, surreptitiously taking in the splendor of the house and estate, twisting her gloved fingers together in a sign of anxiety. Her shapeless bonnet hung low on her forehead, shadowing part of her face.
He nodded encouragingly at her. “Lady Linwood, Aurelie, may I present Miss Foster Lovejoy?”
Fossi, Jasmine and Aurelie made their curtsies to each other and exchanged pleasantries. Say what you would about Foster Lovejoy’s economic situation, the lady had exquisite manners.
“Miss Lovejoy has agreed to help us with our . . . problem,” Daniel continued.
“Oh!” Jasmine sucked in a breath. And then her face split into a sparkling, delighted smile. She laughed like the Jasmine of old. “How lovely, Daniel. A woman!”
“Indeed.”
Daniel had neglected to inform his friends of Fossi’s gender. It mattered little, in the end, and Jasmine’s breathless surprise was worth the small omission. What fun was it having an adopted older sister if you couldn’t tease her from time to time?
“She’s wonderful! Look at her, Daniel.” Jasmine clasped her hands under her chin and bounced on her tiptoes, surveying Fossi from head to toe. It was an utterly Jasmine thing to do. “Such an unassuming woman on the outside, and yet she is one of the most brilliant mathematical minds alive today. Do you think we will be great friends, she and I? Oh, I certainly hope so. Though we will definitely need to have the dressmaker from Marfield summoned. Life is far too short to spend it so shabbily dressed—”
Jasmine stopped mid-sentence, shooting Daniel a concerned look.
“Yes,” he nodded. “You said that out loud.”
She pinched her lips together. Being unable to separate internal and external dialogue was another distinctly Jasmine characteristic.
Jasmine gave a strained smile.
“You must excuse my eccentricities, Miss Lovejoy. I meant no offense. We are so happy to have you.” She extended a hand to Fossi. “Come, let us get you situated.”
The south drawing room
Kinningsley, Herefordshire
Later on August 9, 1828
“The portal is much the same, I take it?” Daniel asked, setting down his teacup.
He, Jasmine and Timothy, Lord Linwood, were seated in the south drawing room after supper. Daniel in a wingback chair; Jasmine and Timothy on an opposite couch. A fire crackled between them, warming the cool summer night air.
Fossi had declined to join them for dinner, claiming fatigue and wishing to have a tray sent to her room. Daniel easily read between the lines, understanding that Fossi found Kinningsley and the Linwoods to be overwhelming. Hopefully she would feel more comfortable here after she settled in.
“No change.” Jasmine leaned into her husband, resting a head on his shoulder. For his part, Lord Linwood glanced down fondly at his tired wife, wrapping an arm around her.
Tall and trim, Lord Linwood’s photo would not be out of place next to a dictionary definition of British aristocrat. Dark-haired and gray-eyed, he embodied the English idea of a stiff-upper lip and impassive demeanor. Until he smiled at his wife.
Daniel still marveled at how thoroughly the tiny Jasmine Fleury had altered haughty Timothy Linwood. Timothy laughed now and often, playing with his children and interacting with his tenants. He was still taciturn and reserved in new settings, but contentment and good humor clung to him.
“How are you faring?” Daniel asked Jasmine.
“No change,” she repeated.
“She is tired and, yet, will not rest.” Timothy shook his head, the topic obviously a sore spot between them.
“You still have warm, fuzzy feelings about Foster Lovejoy?” Daniel crossed a foot over the opposite knee, ignoring the pain festering in his heart.
There will be a solution . . .
He loved Jasmine and Timothy with every last breath. But seeing them together with their children—their happy family life, their easy affection—made his throat ache and his lungs hurt.
That ever-lurking guilt blasted through, escaping with crushing force. The horrid anguish he had inadvertently caused . . .
Some things were impossible to accept. The best you could do was learn to coexist with the pain.
Daniel flinched from the idea, grief heavy in his chest.
There is hope yet.
He had found Fossi and started on the path to redemption.
He would fix this. His mistake would be corrected.
“I do have warm, fuzzy feelings about Foster Lovejoy,” Jasmine chuckled softly. “Though shame on you, Daniel, for keeping her gender a secret—”
Daniel forced a laugh. “You should have seen your wife’s face, Timothy. I’ve rarely seen Jasmine do a double-take on anything.”
Timothy smiled, dimples flashing, and cuddled his wife closer, dropping a kiss on top of her head.
“Well, your intuition to pursue the author of Fourier’s Nemesis was spot on, I think,” Daniel continued.
“Jasmine’s intuition is never wrong,” Timothy agreed.
That was true. Jasmine, mother of three and Viscountess Linwood, was also the Keeper of the portal—a woman of ancient bloodline gifted with a sixth sense of premonition and bound to the time portal itself.
After Jasmine’s collapse and partial recovery, Daniel and Timothy had frantically chased idea after idea for fixing the portal. Jasmine had been the one to sit them both down and work through a more logical approach.
Ironic in the extreme but nonetheless true.
As the Keeper, she could feel and sense things about the portal that were beyond physical understanding. Consequently as they had bounced around possible answers, it had been Jasmine who insisted that a mathematical solution to the portal felt correct. After a lot of back and forth and examples, she had intuitively honed in on Fourier’s Nemesis as being the correct path to a solution.
“If the problem is to be solved, Fossi will solve it. I feel she is critically important, and I’m never wrong. Timothy will tell you.” Jasmine elbowed her husband in the ribs.
“My
wife is never wrong,” Timothy deadpanned.
Jasmine stuck her tongue out at him. Timothy smiled and kissed her head again.
“Well, we’re still going to need some luck,” Daniel said. “Fossi has a long road ahead of her. I’m hoping a merger of Fourier’s Nemesis with later theorems regarding wormholes will do the trick.”
“Are you not concerned about disrupting the space-time continuum?” Timothy’s eyes narrowed. “Wormhole theory will not be formulated for . . . quite some time yet, correct?”
Daniel nodded. “True. I have given the matter considerable thought. As far as I understand, the author of Fourier’s Nemesis is lost to history, which means Fossi was never well-known.”
“That is unfortunate,” Jasmine said. “Women never get enough credit.”
“Agreed, but it works to our advantage. I will require Fossi to sign what basically amounts to a non-disclosure agreement—she will be forbidden to discuss her work for me with others. Timothy, I have your man of affairs drawing up the contracts even as we speak.”
“You think a simple non-disclosure will be sufficient?” Jasmine asked. “We will be giving her nearly a hundred year’s worth of mathematical knowledge almost overnight.”
“True, but Fossi is an honest person, and I trust she will not publish the theorems we discuss. In the end, math is math. The numbers and variables change, but the processes remain generally the same. Besides, I have no intention of letting her know what she is calculating. A computer doesn’t need to know why it crunches numbers. It just needs to give us an answer.”
“How do you intend to use the numbers Fossi calculates again?” Jasmine asked.
“Numbers form models, my dear, as we’ve talked about before,” Timothy said gently.
“Precisely. And models should tell us where something went wrong,” Daniel added. “Perhaps there are orienting stones buried in the ground that the earthquake shifted. Perhaps the portal is now misaligned to ancient star patterns. A model would show us that. It’s hard to say what we will find until we dive in and see where the math leads us.”
Jasmine scrunched her nose. “It makes a sort of sense, I suppose.”
“’Tis an excellent place to start, I believe.” Timothy shifted her closer.
Jasmine focused on Daniel with too-seeing eyes.
“What will you do if the outcome is not what you anticipate, Daniel?” she asked. “Fixing the portal is only the first step. As I have said from the beginning—what you seek may not be possible.”
He bounced his knee and ran a hand through his hair, his agitation breaking free. “I see no other options, Jasmine. I made an unforgivable mistake that caused this entire predicament. Only I can make it right. End of story.”
She heaved a weary sigh. “Yes, but Daniel sometimes we just have to accept—”
“Enough, my love. You and Daniel have covered this ground most thoroughly already. I would not have you quarrel tonight. If nothing else, fixing the portal is critical for returning you to health. Let it be for now.” Timothy stood. “Allow me to assist you to your bed. You are far too fatigued for my liking.”
Daniel stood and watched Timothy tenderly pull Jasmine to her feet. When she swayed, he effortlessly lifted her into his arms, nodding goodnight to Daniel as he carried his wife from the room.
Jasmine’s words lingered.
What you seek may not be possible.
That same pain shoved through Daniel’s defenses yet again.
The walls suddenly felt too close, his breathing too labored.
Just breathe. In. Out.
You will live through this agony.
Which, in a way, was the greatest irony of all.
Turns out one could not actually die of a broken heart.
No matter how hard one tried.
The blue bedroom
Kinningsley, Herefordshire
Early on August 10, 1828
Fossi officially gave up on sleep a little after midnight.
The fire had burned low in the grate, casting her bedchamber in dim shadows. Though Fossi didn’t need the light to remember how the room had appeared in daylight—washed with sun pouring through not one, but two windows. Nestled into a corner of the guest wing, her bedroom had a beautiful dual aspect over the rolling Herefordshire countryside to the north and the rising Welsh hills to the west.
When the sun was up, that was.
In the dim firelight, Fossi could still make out the outline of two wingback chairs flanking the fireplace to the right of the grand four-poster bed. The entire space was elegantly appointed in soothing colors of cream and gold and teal blue.
It was the most beautiful room Fossi had ever seen. And it was to be hers for the duration of her stay.
Her brain reeled with everything that had transpired.
Kinningsley was . . . magnificent. Modern and formed after classical lines. Why, there was even a dressing room and water-closet with running water for her own personal use.
The maid who brought her dinner tray up—Sally, by name—had confided that Lord and Lady Linwood had their own bathing chamber with heated running water.
Such extravagance boggled the mind.
Even without Lady Linwood’s words, Fossi would know that her shabby self didn’t belong here. Part of her refused to be intimidated by Lord and Lady Linwood and their obvious wealth. This was the sort of excess that her father constantly railed against.
But—and here Fossi collapsed back against the soft goose-feather tick and even softer down pillows—why did luxury have to feel so . . . luxurious? It was all too easy to denounce lavish comforts when one didn’t have them. But when faced with the reality of fluffy-plush bedding and delightfully clean sheets . . . casting them off seemed the height of insanity.
Vanity and pride and gluttony.
Heavens but she was adding to her sins hourly.
Granted, leaving the sheltering arms of her family and wandering into the wicked world probably topped them all.
I want to ensure you never feel trapped in your employment with me.
Lord Whitmoor’s words in the carriage would not leave her be. The feel of his large hand pressing the money bag into her palm.
The money will guarantee you always have options. Or, at the very least, a way home.
He had seen. He had known.
He desperately needed her help and yet had provided her with a way to leave him.
Everyone deserves choices, Miss Lovejoy.
She wasn’t sure if she should feel touched at his kind consideration or horrified by his masterful manipulation.
By giving her choices and a sense of freedom, he had engendered her loyalty. He had to know that a woman with so few ties would feel intense allegiance to those who showed genuine care and concern.
Which she now did.
Drat him.
Well-played, Lord Whitmoor. Well-played, indeed.
Fossi sat up with a sigh.
She did have choices, thanks to him.
How could she be so suspicious of Lord Whitmoor’s motivations and secret-keeping, and yet feel deep within that he was to be trusted? It was a conundrum without logical explanation.
For example . . . why had he invited her to dine with the family? Why not send her to sup with the servants?
Granted, he was paying her an heiress’ dowry to work sums, so perhaps he viewed her comfort as a type of security against his investment in her?
Gah! She was driving herself mad with this round and round.
So despite a host of conflicting feelings—concern, unease, excitement, agitation, expectation—she chose to stay the course. She knew what she had left behind and her current situation was decidedly preferable. More to the point, her present course offered her a path into the future.
But what about Lord Whitmoor? From the little she had seen, he clearly doted on the Linwoods and their children, behavior that had caught Fossi off-guard. She would not have considered Lord Whitmoor to be the doting type.
A man she had yet to properly meet.
Well, assuming he ever decided to make a proper introduction, which . . . who knew?
And with all these thoughts rattling around her brain, how was she to sleep?
Fossi threw off the counterpane and found a simple dressing gown laid out for her. She, of course, had never owned anything as dignified or warm as a dressing gown. It was a comfort to draw it on over her worn shift.
Gathering the gown around her, Fossi stirred the fire to life and lit a candle from the embers.
She was eighty-five point nine percent confident she remembered the way back downstairs. Decent odds. And despite the late hour, she wanted to explore the magnificent library she had seen from the enormous entry hall—a soaring, sunlit room with white-washed bookshelves along the walls and tables and chairs stationed throughout the room.
A few minutes later, Fossi was quite sure she had arrived in heaven. Even exploring by candlelight, the library was more than she could have imagined. Books stretched from floor to ceiling and ran full three sides around. Several map tables stood near the doorway, and not one, but two seating areas with comfy chairs.
A large console in the middle of the room held a hodgepodge of mechanical and mathematical objects from automatons to an astrolabe to a selection of tuning forks. Someone in the Linwood household obviously had a love of mathematics and engineering, too.
Everything had the appearance of being well-used and well-loved. Exactly as a library should be.
Yes. She would return here whenever she could.
Fossi lifted her candle high. She had read only a few novels—books lent to her by kind friends and carefully hid from Reverend Lovejoy’s censorious eye. How lovely to have an entire library at her disposal.
She spent the better part of thirty minutes scanning book titles in the flickering light. She finally settled on a novel by Mary Shelley, Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus. It sounded scientific and bone-chilling all at once, which she counted as an excellent boon.
Fossi tucked the book against her chest and crept out of the library. She was halfway across the vaulted entry hall when a noise reached her ears. Muffled but distinct.