Love Again: Love's Second Chance Series

by Kathryn Kelly

  “Okay.” She placed the cameo back in its box. “Thank you. It’s a gift I’ll always cherish.”

  “You’ll let me know if anything is wrong.”

  She tilted her head to one side. “Of course.” If it’s possible.

  “You get some rest now.”

  “Jonathan…”

  His deep gray eyes met hers. “Yes. What is it?”

  “I love you!” She blurted and buried her face against his shoulder.

  He patted her back. “I love you, too, Kitten. I’ll be alright.”

  Leaving him, she hurried down the hall to her own bedroom. She couldn’t bear to see her grandfather like this. She would find a way to be here Monday when the doctor came.

  Hanging her clothes in the tall cedar wardrobe, she decided to take a quick nap before fixing supper. She searched unsuccessfully through her things for a nightgown. Giving up, she chose an old red plaid flannel shirt. It came to about mid-thigh in the front and back, but had side slits that gaped open a little higher. After rolling the long sleeves up to her elbows, she removed her barrette and used her fingers to fluff her hair. Wistfully pinning the brooch to the nightshirt, she climbed into bed and closed her eyes.

  Within minutes she had drifted off to sleep.

  Noises from outside the room woke her. She strained, but couldn’t make out what was going on over the music.

  Music? She got up, walked through the darkened room, and stepped into the hall. Her shadow wavered beneath flickering candlelight as she made her way toward the banister leading to the stairs… and the increasingly louder music and voices.

  And a faint ticking noise.

  She stopped just below the landing and could see into the smoke-filled library off to the left. Finely dressed men stood there, talking amongst themselves.

  The clock began to chime. She grasped the banister and breathed in sharply. It had happened again. This was no dream. No figment of her imagination. She was certain of it now. Shivering, she watched the pendulum swing back and forth as the clock chimed nine times, echoing throughout the house.

  Erika slowly moved down along the banister until she could see into the parlor.

  Playing a lively tune, a six-piece orchestra sat at one end of the room. Dozens of couples either waltzed about the crowded floor or watched from the chairs and sofas that had been slid up against the walls. Dressed in the finest fabrics she had ever imagined, they seemed to float on a delicate cloud of satin and lace.

  Erika was so engrossed in watching the dancers, she didn’t notice Villars coming up the stairs. He was now almost beside her.

  “Miss Sierra,” he said, backing away from her and studying her suspiciously. He cleared his throat and continued. “I’m sorry you’re missing the dance, but Mister Charles say to let you rest. And that’s good because I didn’t know where you got off to anyway.”

  “What’s going on?” she asked, leaning over the banister, one bare foot dropping over the edge of the step. Why was his expression so odd?

  “Why, it’s the cotton ball,” he said proudly.

  Of course, the annual ball. A Becquerel tradition that lasted all the way to World War II.

  “I think you better go on back up, Miss. It wouldn’t be proper for you to be seen dressed like this.”

  Villars had no more finished speaking when, as though in response to his words, the music drifted away in mid-strain and the whispering became louder. The violin bows grew still and the soft flute became silent. The dance room seemed to have frozen and there were entirely too many eyes turned in her direction.

  Erika scanned the room of faces - faces she had never seen before. Several pale skinned women stared at her from behind their open fans and others from behind crystal goblets poised at their lips. A couple of men blew cigar smoke into the air as they watched her.

  “Who is she?”

  Their whispered words, spoken by voices unchecked, drifted clearly to Erika’s ears.

  “Hardly dressed at all.”

  “A man’s shirt.”

  “Of all the nerve.”

  “You’d expect this kind of thing under the hill, but how did that trollop get in here?”

  What were they talking about? Her eyes paused on a man in the back of the room whose face stood out from the others. His eyes locked with hers across the crowded room. She inhaled sharply.

  It was him! It was the man she had seen riding up on the black horse - the man in the portrait hanging in the parlor.

  Once again he was staring at her with that intensity that made her hands quiver. The passion in his gaze frightened her. His eyes slowly caressed her body down to her bare feet and slid back up to imprison her eyes.

  He weaved his way across the ballroom, then started up the stairs.

  He spoke. But she couldn’t make out his words.

  Chapter 2

  Twist of Fate

  The room had suddenly grown warm - much too warm. Releasing her hold on the stair railing, Erika tugged on the sides of the flannel shirt, but realized with frustration that she only succeeded in lowering the unbuttoned neckline.

  She was trapped. She shouldn’t be here. All these people staring at her as though she had grown stripes made that clear enough. Villars, the only friendly face she’d encountered had gone about his original errand and left her here. Alone. She was on her own in this unfamiliar world.

  She thought of Jonathan. Where was he? What had happened to his world?

  She had to remember the stories he and Vaughn had told and the people they spoke of. That was the key to survival. Frustration built as her memory went blank, but her mind raced with frantic thoughts.

  What now? She could flee this house, but there was nowhere to go. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what unfamiliar terrain lay beyond the grounds of this house.

  If she left these people, she would doubtlessly be far worse off than she was now. Most importantly, she had no money, no means of survival. Whatever their reaction and subsequent treatment of her, she would have to survive until she could get home.

  She would have to make sure no one realized she was an imposter. Here, at least, she would have food and shelter until she could figure out what to do. And figure out the gateway back to her own time.

  If the gods were with her, she would soon be swept back to her own time. Yet, something was different this time. Things were… less hazy. The thought sent a shot of fear through her cells. She took a deep, cleansing breath. I can’t worry about that now.

  She had to stay in the house. There was no other choice.

  The man stood in front of her now, watching her with a slightly bemused expression. By standing in front of her, he shielded her from the gaping strangers.

  “Put this on and come with me, Sierra,” he repeated, placing his dress coat over her shoulders and gently placing his hand on her elbow, led her back up the stairs and down the hall. The coat, nearly dragging the floor, enveloped her, its weight comforting her. She rubbed her chin against the slightly coarse material and breathed in the clean, manly scent.

  She didn’t resist and soon found herself upstairs and alone with him.

  “You’re creating quite a stir down there. Villars told me your trunks haven’t arrived. Why don’t you wait in your room until I’ve spoken with Mother. She’ll find something appropriate for you to put on.”

  Erika looked into his eyes and her breath caught in her throat. They were a clear slate blue. He was even more handsome up close. His face freshly shaven. His lips curved in a kind expression. But it was his eyes that tripped her heart. The way he looked at her, as though he found her amusing and at the same time wanted to devour her.

  Her disturbing thoughts were interrupted when a woman with silver-streaked, but still blonde hair, curled and stylishly piled high upon her head, came into the hallway. Erika recognized the woman from the portraits in the parlor. She regretted not bothering to learn the names of her ancestors.

  “Charles,” the woman asked, “what’s
going on?”

  “Here’s your Aunt Rebecca now,” he said, releasing his hold upon her elbow. “It seems Sierra arrived before her trunks. Do you think you could find her something to wear?”

  “Of course,” she said, kindly, shooing her son away.

  Erika watched as he walked down the hallway, doubtless to rejoin the other guests. The music was playing again. Hopefully they had forgotten about her.

  “Mon ami,” Rebecca said, “J’sais vous?”

  “What?” Erika’s history was bad enough, but her French was worse.

  “Pardon,” she said with a slight accent, “I’m sorry. But you do resemble the Creole. My dear, do I know you?”

  “Um,” Erika hesitated, her cheeks flushed, and allowed Rebecca to lead her along the upstairs hall toward her room. Her thoughts tangled with the implications of any answer at all.

  “Well, we both know you aren’t Sierra. What’s your name?”

  “Erika.”

  “Erika,” she echoed, seeming to test the unfamiliar name on her tongue. “Where are you from?”

  They reached the guest room and went inside. Erika tensed as she watched the older woman, elegant and sophisticated in her mushroom brown ball gown, close the door and come to stand in front of her. She liked her immediately, yet was afraid of her. Somehow she sensed that if she met this woman’s approval, she would have no problem staying here. On the other hand, if Rebecca decided she wasn’t welcome, she could give up any thought of remaining in the house.

  Unfortunately, she was balanced on a precarious ledge. Rebecca, as well as all those stuffy guests downstairs, no doubt thought she was here as Charles’ prostitute. Her curiosity about this man was increasing.

  “Have you been here long?” Rebecca persisted.

  “No,” Erika answered, choosing her words carefully. “I only arrived this afternoon.”

  “My son brought you here.”

  “No,” she answered swiftly, “I’m really not sure how I ended up here.”

  Relief crossed the woman’s features. She sat down on the blue velvet settee at the foot of the bed, her skirts flowing around her.

  “Did you come with someone else?”

  Taking a swift glance around the room, Erika swallowed hard. An image of her grandfather flashed in her mind. The only light came from a short, thick candle burning brightly on the nightstand. She hadn’t noticed it earlier. Villars must have lit it while she was downstairs.

  “No, but my grandfather told me to wait for him here.” She didn’t know how much more of this interrogation she could survive. Her stomach churned in knots of nervous panic. The primitive world outside this house terrified her. At least here, she had a chance to get back to her own time.

  “Now, are you going to tell me who your grandfather is?”

  “Jonathan Becquerel”

  Rebecca frowned. “I’m sorry, Dear. I don’t know all my husband’s family,” she said, now speaking in a gentle voice. “Enough of this, let’s get you properly dressed so I can introduce you to our guests. I have just the thing for you.”

  In a whirlwind of silk, Rebecca was gone from the room. Alone again, Erika went to the wardrobe and opened it. It was empty. She had no clothes. She had nothing but this inane flannel shirt. And Charles’ jacket, she was reminded, as its masculine scent enveloped her.

  She was getting more than a glimpse into the past. She was being swept into these people’s lives.

  Closing the wardrobe, she went back to stand next to the four poster bed and ran a hand along the wood. Her bed. She recognized the unique swirls in the wood. The wood was lighter now, much younger. She was still staring at the patterns of wood, her mind in turmoil, when a knock came at the door.

  “Who is it?” she asked, clutching Charles’ jacket around her.

  “Anna.”

  “Anna?” Erika mumbled. “Pretty soon I’ll need a program.”

  “I’m not dressed,” she called louder.

  Ignoring Erika’s response, a young woman with creamy skin, a full mouth, large blue eyes, and long, light brown curls came into the room. Her deep blue ball gown was almost black in the dimly lit room. Anna was as gorgeous as any twentieth-first century model.

  “Who are you?” Anna asked bluntly.

  “My name is Erika Becquerel.”

  Anna made a quick turn around the room and returned to stand in front of Erika. “Charles is mine, you know.”

  Erika swallowed a laugh, whether of humor or panic, she wasn’t sure. How much more ridiculous was this going to get? She’d barely even met Charles and now his girlfriend was threatening her. Charles was handsome enough, but she wasn’t sure he was deserving of all this mess. She wished desperately for Rebecca to hurry back. It would be nice to put on some clothes, especially if she had to entertain strangers.

  “I’m Erika Becquerel. My grandfather is Jonathan Becquerel. I’m just waiting here for him.” That response worked once, maybe it would satisfy Anna, too.

  “Humph,” Anna uttered, her beauty only emphasized in her anger. “Surely you don’t believe he’s going to marry you. Men don’t marry women like you. You’re only here for his pleasure.” Though her words were harsh, she spoke each word with a control that could only have been attained from breeding.

  “I don’t even know Charles. I have no more desire to marry him than to go to bed with him.” She had grown tired of the loose reference these people were making of her character. Her fingers tightened on the carved wood of the tall poster. This was her bed, she thought, with tears stinging the corners of her eyes. She had slept here during countless visits to her grandparents’ home since she was a child.

  “You may be telling the truth, but in any event, the least you could do is to be discreet about it.”

  No longer amused, Erika was tired of being on the defensive. It was time to put this woman in her place. “My name is Becquerel. I am part of this family. I am not dressed and I would like you to leave this room.”

  “You may be part of this family, but what difference do you think that makes? Why do you think he has to sleep in the garçonnière away from his own sister? Anyway, I saw the way Charles looked at you. He’s still looking forward to having you for the first time.”

  Her eyes widened as she remembered stories about the young men of the time living in their own bachelor’s quarters on the property. Nonetheless, this woman had gone too far. Erika smiled tauntingly. If this girl insisted on slandering her, she would get it back twofold. “I bet you wish he still looked at you that way.”

  Anna inhaled deeply, looking at Erika’s button-front shirt, slender body, and smoothly shaven bare legs. “I trust you do not plan to be here long,” she said, as she turned and stormed from the room.

  Charles left his guests and escaped out onto the veranda. Clenching an unlit cigar between his teeth, he grasped the rail with both hands as he gazed across the moonlit lawn. Even outside, the orchestra music was loud. Absently, he wondered if it could be heard from the landing on the river. Probably not, he thought. It would first have to pass through Perry Miller’s thick woods.

  He couldn’t understand Perry’s ideas. Why hadn’t he cleared that land and planted cotton? Why was he holding onto those trees? Cotton produced a hefty crop every year. Even with the depressed market, he could hold his cotton until prices went up and continue producing.

  When Perry’s land became his, the first thing he would do is clear it and plant the acreage in cotton. Becquerel fields would then stretch uninterrupted to the river bank.

  As the cool breeze swept over him, his thoughts drifted back to Sierra – his long lost cousin. He hadn’t realized that it had been so many ages since he’s seen her. The child he remembered was most certainly all grown up. His thoughts wandered to the way she was dressed… or practically undressed. It was hard enough to get a glimpse of a lady’s ankles, much less her legs. Oddly enough, his first thought had been to protect her. Even more oddly, it was her sea green eyes that haunted him.


  And on this, the night his engagement was to be announced.

  Why was he damned with such a beautiful cousin?

  “Have you been with her?”

  Charles immediately recognized Anna Miller’s controlled voice. He knew her anger well. Turning, he faced his livid betrothed.

  “What are you accusing me of?” he asked, clenching his cigar between his fingers, although he was certain he knew the answer.

  “Really, Charles. You should be more discrete.”

  “Discrete about what?”

  “Your cousin. I saw you with her. You seemed quite familiar.”

  “Although I don’t owe you an explanation, I will tell you this. Contrary to widespread occurrence I would never bed my cousin.” Would I?

  Anna stood close to him now. She knew her effect on men and obviously hoped to use her wiles on him. Unfortunately for her, Charles felt no more than an acquaintanceship toward her.

  “How do I know it won’t happen?” she asked, her voice turning syrupy.

  “You don’t, do you?”

  She whirled on him, now going headlong with this different technique. Tears glistened in her eyes and Charles wondered how she could summon them so easily. “Charles, are you certain you want this marriage? I mean, you’re so worldly. How can you stand to be tied down to just one woman?”

  “I’ve told you before. Once I’m married I expect my wife to be willing in every way. I will have no need to seek comfort elsewhere. We’ll be married only if you agree to those terms.”

  Anna turned, angry at the humiliation she was being subjected to, and left him as quickly as she had appeared. His conversations with Anna over the years had been trying at best. It had always been apparent that she wanted the marriage and was behind Perry’s instance of the arrangement of her hand in exchange for the property. But the woman’s desire for more than an arrangement was exasperating.

  The thought of being tied to Anna for eternity left him queasy in the stomach. The land, he reminded himself. It’s the only way to get the land for my family.