by Susan Hughes
When he saw Marguerite’s blonde head beside Abby’s darker one, his smile turned downward. Great. The one person he didn’t relish seeing right now.
Standing directly below the porch, Jason was about to climb the steps and announce his presence, when Marguerite’s robust voice reached his ears, her words bringing him to an abrupt stop.
“You should have told him when he called. Then you’d know already where things stand. You’re going to suffer through another sleepless night.”
“I’ll tell him as soon as I see him,” Abby said, sounding agitated. “I just don’t know quite how to do it.”
“It’s very easy, Abby. You just say ‘Jason, I’m having your baby.’ Quick and simple.”
Jason stood frozen, his heart dropping into the pit of his stomach. Although the meaning of the words he’d overheard was perfectly clear, and the way in which the situation came about completely obvious, somehow it didn’t make sense. Abby had told him she couldn’t have children.
In a moment adrenaline took over, propelling him up the steps two at a time until he stood on the porch, facing the two women.
“You’re pregnant?”
Abby jolted, her eyes wide with alarm. She looked pale, her elegant features strained. Despite this, and the shock of what he’d just overheard, the sight of her warmed him to the core.
“Even quicker and simpler than expected,” Marguerite remarked dryly under her breath.
Ignoring her friend, Abby goggled at Jason, struggling for a moment to speak. “What are you doing back already?” she asked, her voice high and thin.
“Things wrapped up early in France, and I wanted to surprise you. Turns out I’m the one being surprised.”
Marguerite shot to her feet. “I’ll go freshen my drink,” she said, having the good sense to leave Jason and Abby alone. Glancing between them as she went, she scooted inside with her glass of iced tea, still half-full.
After pulling in a few deep breaths, Jason ambled over to the swing and lowered himself into it, settling next to Abby. “Are you sure?”
“I had a blood test,” she said. “I’m sure.”
“How long have you known?”
“A few days.” She peered down at her hands, twisted together in her lap. This wasn’t the way she’d wanted him to find out, and her unease was apparent. “I was going to tell you tomorrow, when you came back.”
“I didn’t think—”
“I know, you didn’t think it would happen. Neither did I.”
Reaching over to gently separate her tightly clasped hands, Jason threaded his fingers through hers. He remembered what she’d said the night of the charity gala, about her dream of a home with a husband and children—a dream she’d been forced to abandon. He’d felt compassion for her then, never imagining this outcome.
“Are you feeling all right, physically?” he asked.
Abby’s shoulders lifted. “Not too bad. A little tired and woozy at times.”
“Are you happy?”
“I am.” A small smile curved her mouth, as colour bloomed high in her cheeks. “The timing is off, but I suppose, at my age, I can’t be choosy.” Her amber eyes searched his face, deciphering his detached response to the life-altering news he’d just learned. “Don’t worry, I’m not expecting to get married. But I’m going to have this baby. Your level of involvement is up to you.”
“I will look after the child,” Jason assured her at once. “I’ll be there, I promise you that.” He tried to envision the child he would soon bear responsibility for, but the reality of it was too new. He’d always imagined having children someday, once he was married and settled. This wasn’t how he’d pictured becoming a father. In an instant his entire future had been reshaped, thrusting his life in a direction for which he hadn’t been prepared.
“That’s reassuring,” Abby said coolly. Her gaze lingered on him, her expression wilting. This wasn’t how she’d pictured becoming a mother, either, and his lukewarm reaction had done nothing to ease her mind. A couple finding out they were having a baby were supposed to rejoice, embrace, call their families with the good news. Abby deserved that. She deserved to have him sink onto one knee and ask her to be his wife. A braver man would do it without hesitation. But Jason found himself paralyzed, unable to do more than squeeze her hand.
Frustrated with himself, he raked his free hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know what more to say right now. I suppose I just need some time to absorb this.” What he wanted to do was draw Abby into his arms and hold her close, but her guarded expression kept him at bay. She’d expected something more from him, and he’d disappointed her.
“Sure. Meanwhile, I’ve got to get to the bathroom.” Abby stood up, disengaging her hand from his. “Why don’t you go home and rest? You must be jet-lagged. We can talk later.”
Jason nodded. “All right,” he agreed, with the dreadful sense that he’d been dismissed.
Left alone after she disappeared into the house, Jason got to his feet and headed down the porch steps to the driveway, his legs oddly rubbery as he walked.
He was halfway to his car when he heard rapid footfalls on the pavement behind him, and turned to see Marguerite sprinting down the sidewalk after him, her blonde hair billowing behind her.
“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” she asked sharply as she reached him.
Jason slowed his pace, but had no intention of stopping to endure an interrogation from Abby’s hostile friend. “Home. I’ll be back.”
“Will you?” she demanded. “I had you pegged from the start, Jason Brinleigh. You used my friend and now that she needs you, you’re letting her down.”
“You don’t know me,” he growled, spinning to face her. “Where do you get off—”
“I know your type,” she went on, stabbing a reproving finger in his direction. “You’re no better than Colin. He turned on the charm when it got him what he wanted, but deep down he was just a spoiled child and a coward.”
“Don’t you dare compare me to Colin Bennett,” Jason flared, barely controlling his anger. “I didn’t use Abby.”
Unfazed, Marguerite raised her chin in challenge, her fists thrust onto her hips. “Do you love her, Jason? You should know, she loves you like crazy. And I think you just broke her heart.”
Jason drew a shallow breath, her words constricting his chest. Some of the anger seeped away from him, replaced by an agonizing pang of remorse. “That’s the last thing I wanted to do. I just need some time to think.”
Marguerite glared at him, unmoved. “Think about this newsflash—Abby isn’t Brianna Kent. She’ll never betray you.”
“What do you know about it?” he barked, taken aback.
“Enough. If you know who to ask, the grapevine can be quite enlightening.” After a pause, she let her hands drop to her sides, her voice and manner softening. “I get it, Brianna ripped out your heart and you’re determined not to let it happen again. If that’s all that’s holding you back, then let me assure you, Abby’s well worth the risk.”
Jason didn’t reply at first. With all of his being he wanted Abby, soul and body—she touched a place in his heart that no one else ever could. But he knew Marguerite wasn’t wrong. He was a coward, and he was letting fear guide his actions. As much as his heart told him to run straight back to Abby, he needed to be by himself for a while.
“I have to go.” Turning on his heel, he paced down the sidewalk toward his car, leaving Marguerite standing alone.
“Take all the time you need,” she called out coldly behind him. “I’ll be here, comforting my friend.”
Chapter Eleven
Abby pushed her dinner plate aside. She’d been famished and had managed to eat most of the meal before her stomach began to sour.
“I thought the chicken pot pie was your favourite,” Oscar remarked, stopping by her table.
“It was excellent, but I’m full.”
“You look a little down.” He eyed her with concern.
“I suppose I am, a little. But I’ll be fine.” Abby summoned a wan smile, though she was weary and beginning to feel a bit woozy. It was after nine o’clock; she’d be curled up in front of the TV in her pajamas by now if not for the insistent craving for chicken pot pie that had brought her to The Roses. Only a handful of customers remained in the pub with her, enjoying a drink or dessert and coffee at nearby tables.
“Need something stronger than that?” Oscar suggested, glancing at her glass of milk.
“Yes. But no thanks.”
He observed her more closely, taking in the discomfort that must have shown in her face. “Are you suffering from something?”
Definitely suffering. Jason had promised to return to her house, but she hadn’t heard from him in the day and a half since she broke the news of her pregnancy to him. Desperate as she was to talk to him, she had no intention of calling him and forcing any decisions or commitments. It was torture, not knowing what was on his mind—although Abby had a pretty good idea what he was thinking, judging by the deer-in-the-headlights look he gave her when she told him she was expecting his baby. She understood he was shocked, but she had somehow expected, or hoped for, something more than a vague promise to care for the child. She’d hoped his vow would extend to caring for her. But if it wasn’t what he wanted, she would have to accept it and focus on the baby she carried. Over the past day and a half, she’d been forced to consider that Marguerite may have been right about Jason all along.
Remembering that Oscar had asked her a question, Abby managed a sedate tone. “Thanks for your concern, Oscar, but I’m all right, really.”
“Rebecca’s been on the prowl again,” he said. “A couple of guests were relaxing in the lounge last night and some books tumbled out of the bookcase.”
“They are stuffed in there pretty tight.”
Oscar’s thick eyebrows rose, underscoring his cautionary tone. “From what the couple said, the books shot right across the room and hit the wall.”
Abby straightened in her chair, a quiver darting along her spine as she remembered the portrait dropping from the wall upstairs. “After what I saw the night I stayed over, nothing surprises me.”
“That was pretty creepy. I’m surprised you stayed the whole night.”
At once memories of that night flooded her mind; funny that what had begun as the most disturbing night of her life had evolved into the most sensual. She’d relayed the events to Oscar the next day—well, not all the events, only the unexplained ones.
“If there really is a ghost,” Abby reflected, “why do you suppose she’d still be here? What does she want?”
Pulling out the chair opposite hers, Oscar sat down, resting his arms on the table. “I’m no expert, but I’ve heard that spirits sometimes hang around if they’ve been through an ordeal that was never resolved, or a traumatic death. Rebecca had both; she was still mourning the loss of her husband when she died in childbirth. Personally, I think she may have stuck around to watch over her orphaned child, and just never left. Or perhaps she simply doesn’t realize she’s dead.”
The quiver returned, this time making Abby shudder noticeably. “What a thought.”
“You’re a believer now, are you?”
“Not exactly. I just don’t have the focus right now to figure out what’s going on.” She’d been feeling steadily worse, her queasiness developing into a dull ache in her temples.
“Has your beau come back from Europe yet?” Oscar asked, astutely deducing what might be on her mind.
Abby simply nodded, the mention of Jason causing her heart to dip.
“Things not working out?”
She lifted her shoulders, then let them sag. “I don’t know. Time will tell, I suppose.”
Reaching across the table, Oscar patted her hand in encouragement. “Take heart. Sometimes these things aren’t meant to last. A pretty lady like you is sure to find someone else soon enough.”
Abby offered a small smile, but could only imagine how attractive she’d look in a few months, with swollen ankles and a belly like a beach ball. But what did it matter? She didn’t want anyone other than Jason to want her.
“I should get home.” The moment she rose to her feet a wave of vertigo hit her, making her sink back onto her chair.
Oscar pushed his chair back, hurrying to her side. “Are you all right?”
“Just a dizzy spell. I’m fine.” Abby buried her face in her hands, attempting to stay as still as possible until the dizziness passed.
“You keep saying that, but I’m not buying it,” he admonished, his hands on her back to support her. “Is there someone who can take you home?”
Abby first thought of Jason, rejecting the idea just as quickly. The other possibility was Marguerite, but she’d gone out with her husband to celebrate their anniversary. “I’ll be okay in a bit.”
“Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down?” Oscar suggested. “Your favourite room is free again tonight.”
Abby didn’t relish the notion of being alone in that room, but the idea of lying down someplace more comfortable than the old sofa in the lounge was too appealing to reject.
“All right,” she said, allowing Oscar to help her to her feet.
* * *
Damp and chilled to the bone, Jason shuddered, blinking into the thick haze surrounding him. Muddled sounds reached him from somewhere nearby—intermittent sharp cracks among more resonant booms that shook the ground under him; voices, several at least, shouted words that cut through the air with urgency yet were unintelligible.
Unable to see anything around him in the mist, Jason peered down at the matted grass under his feet, noticing the mud-caked black boots he wore. Further examining himself, he noted with surprise the rest of his attire— white breeches, a red wool tunic, and white leather crossbelts that crisscrossed his chest, joined over his heart with a decorative brass plate. At once he recognized that he was dressed as a 19th-century British foot soldier, complete with a bayonet and cartridge box resting one against each hip. Both bewildered and fascinated to find himself uniformed this way, he could only come to the conclusion that he was dreaming.
The knowledge that none of it was real did little to diminish the sense of dread that gripped him, as he stood helpless among the deafening noise and hot smoke that rasped through his lungs. Smelling the acrid tang of gunpowder heavy in the air, he noticed only then that his hands were wrapped around the stock of an enormous rifle almost as long as he was tall.
Unable to see more than a few feet in front of him, Jason stumbled forward in a vain attempt to find something familiar. What unnerved him most was that although he could hear voices and muffled movement all around, as far as he could see he was utterly alone.
A blow to his chest sent him stumbling back, and he glanced down to see a small hole in one of the crossbelts. At first he thought he’d been lucky; a bullet must have lodged itself in the leather, sparing him. But as he stared at his chest, a dark patch began to seep outward across the tunic beneath. Jason watched it spread over the cloth, realizing with growing alarm that it was his own blood. He felt his heart pumping furiously, and sensed the blood flooding from his veins with each frantic beat, his body growing steadily colder.
In a moment all feeling drained from his limbs and he fell. Expecting to hit the ground, he instead continued plunging into blackness, tumbling forward and losing all sense of direction.
The darkness began to recede and Jason found himself standing in a room. Relief flooded through him; he wasn’t dead after all. He glanced around, curious, seeing a bed, fireplace, three-panel mirror, chair and washstand. So he was in a bedroom, befitting the time period in which he somehow found himself—dreamed himself, rather.
He hadn’t noticed at first that the four-poster bed in the far corner was occupied. Stepping closer, he gazed at the woman lying still in a white shift, the sheets and comforter covering her tucked under her arms. Her dark hair, damp and tangled, hung limp across the pil
low. Approaching her with cautious steps, Jason recognized her delicate features at once.
“Rebecca,” he said quietly, and her sunken eyes fluttered open, their deep blue vivid against the pallid hue of her skin. Her gaze wavered as she struggled to focus on his face. She was obviously very weak, perhaps near death.
“Jack.” Her white hand lifted slowly off the comforter, trembling as it reached for him.
Jason spun to face the mirror, his reflection showing not his own face but that of a younger man. Though he was fair, the stranger’s face was smeared dark with soot, his eyes strikingly round and white beneath the rim of his cap. Though Jason didn’t recognize the man, he realized it must be Jack Norris, Rebecca’s fallen husband. If Rebecca now lay on her deathbed, Jack would have been killed some months before—shot dead on the battlefield.
Before Jason had time to puzzle out why in the world he was dreaming himself into Jack Norris’ body, dead or not, he heard an exhalation of breath from the bed, and glanced back to see that Rebecca’s eyes had fallen closed. She lay motionless, her head lolled to one side, her arm limp. His gaze fixed on the still, fragile hand that had moments before reached out for the solace of the man she loved, and the tragedy of it struck him with a deep, heart-rending ache.
“Sleep well, Rebecca.” He bent to gently squeeze her hand, the skin cool but pliant.
A sudden cry pierced the quiet, and Jason whirled around. No one else was in the room, but he recognized the distinctive, thin wail of a newborn baby, coming from another room. Remembering that Rebecca had died in childbirth, he felt a pang of sorrow for the infant, only a few hours old and now orphaned. He’d seen the child’s name on a chart of his family tree, but couldn’t seem to remember it now, or even whether it had belonged to a boy or a girl.
As he turned back, his gaze coming to rest again on the woman on the bed, Jason stumbled back, gasping in shock and horror. The woman’s face had somehow changed; it was no longer Rebecca, but Abby, whose body lay still and silent on the bed.