As I made my way around, it quickly became apparent that each room was grander than the last, with their high ceilings and wainscoting on the walls. Elaborate chandeliers hung over a dining table that could seat twenty. On the walls in the dining room were paintings of shipwrecks and hunting scenes.
I followed a trickle of wide-eyed visitors to a large receiving room with a ten-foot fireplace dominating the space. Faces were carved into the marble on either side. Portraits of past earls and deceased family members hung over red flock wallpaper. It was a mixture of both paintings and photographs.
A black and white portrait of a man caught my attention. He had dark hair and piercing light eyes. His sideburns reached down to his cheeks, but he was otherwise clean-shaven. He was strikingly handsome, despite his expression, which was serious and haunting. No one ever smiled in those old pictures. There was a depth in those eyes. A longing, perhaps? “Lord Henry William Drake 1827-1854,” read the plaque beneath the frame.
A tingling sensation coursed through my body. The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. What was it that drew me into this picture? I wanted to reach out and trace the outline of the man’s strong jaw line.
From the opposite side of the room, a small old man with a booming voice and a slightly hunched back approached with several visitors in tow. His nasally English accent brought the word ‘posh’ to mind. Among the visitors, white Reebok sneakers and gray sweatpants immediately pegged the Americans.
“Here is the portrait of the third Earl of Pembrooke’s only son Lord Henry William Drake, who died tragically in a hunting accident at the age of twenty-seven. His body was found on August twenty-second, 1854, by a river bank near the White Hart. There were whispers of foul play, although nothing was ever proven, and the earldom then passed to his brother-in-law,” the old man finished in a dramatic voice before moving on to the other side of the room. The visitors all whispered to each other.
How sad, I thought, staring at the portrait once more, as one might look at a body in a coffin during a wake. All done up in their finest, a life cut short; what a waste.
I had been to my fair share of wakes when I had been a child. My parents had thought it healthy to be around dead people. I’d learned the proper social etiquette—looking somber, bowing my head and speaking of the deceased with what I thought were words of solace. Things like, ‘They will be sorely missed.’ ‘He was such a lovely person.’ I wasn’t sure why I felt compelled to say something, because most of the time I hardly knew them, but it always felt like the right thing to do. However, in this moment I could not summon a single one of my standard clichés. A life cut short was so tragic. He had been the same age as Ben was now.
Afterwards, I had lost interest in searching out the library and decided to leave that for another day. Like an art museum, Dormer House had left me feeling drained and thirsty. In the foyer, or receiving hall as they referred to it, I scanned the large staircase. On the top landing before the stairs spiraled out of sight stood a mahogany grandfather clock. As if on cue, it chimed three times. I stared at it for a moment longer, half expecting someone to appear on the staircase.
The voice of the tour guide echoed through the old house. An older woman wearing a flower print dress bumped into me on her way by, scattering her pamphlets to the floor. Instinctively, I bent down to help her pick them up. When I stood up I swayed a little. Was I having a dizzy spell?
“You all right?” the woman asked with concern.
“Fine, I think. Just stood up too quickly.”
Outside, the welcome warmth of the sun banished all evidence of my prior dreariness. Walking away from Dormer House, I felt the light breeze on my cheeks. The crunch of the small pebbles under my feet grew louder. Not only that, the trees and grass were the most vibrant shades of green. A strong sense of déjà vu rushed over me and I stopped to take it in. Walking again, I thought, Yes, I did this last time.
My throat started to tighten and it felt like I had just come off the pitching deck of a ship. Anxiety? It had been a while since my last panic attack, if that was what this was. I let the nausea roll over me and once the floating feeling stopped I walked carefully back to the cottage to wait for Ben.
Chapter 3
The White Hart
The White Hart was a short drive from the cottage. The sun was low in the sky, bathing everything in warm golden light. Inside the old pub, with its low-beamed ceilings and long wooden bar, the locals were settling down with a pint after a long summer’s day. The place had a musty smell, infused with fried food and strong beer. Passed out in front of the unlit fireplace, clearly a regular, was a large chocolate Lab.
Sitting in a tiny little booth made only for two, I scrolled through my Facebook messages while Ben ordered at the bar. I took a picture of the Lab and posted it with the caption, ‘One of the pub locals.’ I knew April would ‘like’ it right away.
I had decided not to tell Ben about my dizzy spell this afternoon. He’d only jump to conclusions and race me over to the nearest doctor’s office, or ‘surgery’ as they called it here. Maybe worse, he’d feel guilty that my panic attacks were coming back because of the stress of the move. No need to alarm him. I was sure it was just the jet lag, or getting over my period, which had been heavier than normal.
Ben slid gracefully into the bench across from me with a delicious-looking pint in either hand and the number eight tucked under his right armpit. I relieved him of one pint. The coasters on the table read, “The White Hart, established in 1847.” I took a picture of that too with my iPhone and posted it to my Instagram. With one hundred and seven followers, there was pressure to keep posting. A Facebook message came through from April.
Aprilhunt: Holy Cuteness! Miss you already.
Me: Can’t wait 2 CU in a few days! ;)
Aprilhunt: Counting the minutes. xx
“Are you documenting everything?” Ben always laughed at the ridiculous things I liked to photograph.
“Maybe.” I tucked my phone back into my jean pocket.
“What a great place, isn’t it?” Ben adjusted the number perfectly on the table and took in the atmosphere of the place. “This was the first pub my mates and I came to.” He looked around, reminiscent. “Cheers!” he said and smiled. “To a new life.”
“To a new life,” I repeated with more enthusiasm than I was feeling at the time.
We clanked our full pint glasses, spilling some beer on the table.
“Do you know why people would say cheers before they drank?” Ben asked with his boyish grin.
He loved little bits of trivia. He always retained the most useless facts. People always felt it added to his charm.
“Because it was polite? Why?” I asked, taking the bait. He’d told me this already on several occasions but I never let on. He liked the story so much I never wanted to spoil his telling of it.
“Because in medieval times, it was common to poison your enemy.” He paused to take a long sip of his ale. “And so when you banged your glasses together, a splash from each was supposed to fall into the other’s cup. It slowly became a mark of trust.”
“Makes sense. I guess I have nothing to worry about, then,” I said, smiling and pretending to look anxiously at my beer. “How was your time at the office?”
“All right… I mean everyone was nice and everything…” He paused.
I could sense a ‘but’ coming.
“… but there is definitely this archaic way of doing things here.” He started fidgeting with his coaster while he spoke. “Maybe I’ve just spent too much time in America. They love to keep telling me, ‘It doesn’t work like that.’” He put on a posh London accent. His own was more like a Hampshire farmer’s, with his f sounding more like a v. He dropped his shoulders. “And how about you? How was your day?” He looked at me anxiously. Was he bracing himself for a complaint?
The last thing I felt like doing was giving him any more reason to worry, so I perked up.
“Great! I walked
over to the Dormer House and checked that out. It was pretty amazing. I didn’t quite get to the library there but maybe I’ll see that tomorrow,” I said, excited once again by the thought of it.
Our food arrived. I’d opted for the goat cheese salad, but ended up eating half of Ben’s fish and chips. He watched with patience. He never understood why I didn’t just order the food I wanted.
I told him about the paintings and artwork at the Dormer House, but his mind was elsewhere. Art had never really been his thing. He understood and appreciated books, but paintings were never very inspiring to him. He was a practical kind of guy and I guessed so was I in many ways. The decisions I made in life were never inspired by passion, but always practicality. Maybe that was why I sometimes wondered if I’d only just scratched the surface of life. What if I made different choices? Deep down I knew that was silly and girlish and naive. Why try to fix something that wasn’t broken? I could coast quite comfortably just like this.
Ben was dousing the remainder of his fries in malt vinegar. I hated malt vinegar. I wondered if he knew that.
“So, Em, I was thinking we should get married,” he said in the same way one might make a plan to see a movie.
“Oh!” Was this some kind of proposal? I hadn’t ever considered the idea. I wasn’t sure why. It should have crossed my mind, I supposed, but it hadn’t. I certainly didn’t have any immigration issues, since I had a British passport. “What is this about? Are you proposing?”
“What? Did you expect me to get down on one knee?” He laughed. “I know you hate that romantic bollocks.” Why on earth would he think that? I’d never said that. A little romance might be nice. “I just thought it’s about time. We’ve been together for a while.”
I knew I had to overlook Ben’s delivery, but did he really know me so little? Could I imagine myself with him forever? April always said I had problems when I griped about Ben. ‘Seriously, Em, you are nuts. He’s gorgeous, smart and totally into you,’ she loved to remind me all the time. So why did I feel hesitant? Shouldn’t I jump at the chance to marry the perfect man? Maybe I did have a problem. I was pretty much alone in the world, with no parents or siblings. Other than Ben—and of course April—I had no one.
“Fine. I mean, sure. If you think we should?”
“I knew you’d say that. I’ve already told my parents. They’re so excited. They’re going to pop around for tea tomorrow night to celebrate. Maybe you can whip something special up?”
Already I could feel the domestic duties piling up.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Ben continued as he searched his jacket pockets, pulling out a small worn velvety box. “My mom’s giving us her great-great-grandmother’s ring. I’ll just have to have it sized to your finger.”
He handed the box to me without ceremony.
“Are you sure? That’s such a big deal.” Jewelry was a big thing in Ben’s family. Pieces were passed down from generation to generation. I opened the box carefully, as if whatever was inside might spring out.
The first thing that struck me was the size of the emerald. It sat flanked by two good-sized diamonds and three tiny ones circling each of those. This ring was probably worth a fortune. Certainly not something we could afford if we had to buy it.
“You should give it a try, Em.”
“I’m afraid to even touch it, let alone wear it.”
“Don’t be silly.” He reached for the box, yanked the ring out of its black velvet perch and slid it on to my finger.
The stones were so heavy and the ring so big that it nearly slid right off my finger.
“We’ll have it sized to your finger. My great-great-grandmother was a rather large woman. It’s a tad garish, but my mum says it’s one of a kind.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I said absently. Not like I’m a connoisseur of jewelry.
I studied the ring, still trying to process the enormity of what this piece of jewelry represented.
A bus boy started to clear our plates, oblivious to the recent proposal.
“What do you have for pudding?” Ben asked him. Our business seemed to have come to an end. My head was still whirling, but not the way I thought it should be.
After dinner we decided to go for a walk. The pub sat right at one of the many trail heads. It was a beautiful evening. The sun was quite low, but still about an hour from setting completely. In this light, England seemed much less dreary and much more mysterious. I thought of all of the people who had passed through these same towns and woods—royalty, peasants, noblemen and knights. How many of them had also walked through this same spot and felt as I did now? It was an odd sense of connection.
We walked under a thick canopy of trees. The ground was still soft and squishy from the earlier rain, certainly not the hard dusty trails I was used to in L.A., so parched that you could practically spell your name in the dust cloud behind you. On our right, a steep embankment led to a narrow stream that snaked through the forest. They called this area the South Downs. Its forests led onto beautiful rolling hills; farms and towns butted onto each other as far as the eye could see.
“Look, over there. What is that?” Ben pointed to what looked like a plaque mounted on a rough concrete block, something you might find as a grave marking. It was at the bottom of the embankment on our side of the stream.
“Well, only one way to find out.” I stepped out, lost my footing and skidded right down to the bottom.
“Em, you okay?” Ben called down, half laughing and half concerned.
With nothing more than a bruised ego I stood up and started brushing the mud and leaves off my back and legs. Not quite the graceful descent I had planned. I’d forgotten how slippery mud could be.
By now, Ben was jogging above me and taking the path that led to this same spot. Reaching the plaque first, I started to read.
“Here the body of Lord Henry William Drake was found on the twenty-second of August, 1854. He was the only son of the Earl of Pembrooke. It was said that after he separated from his hunting party, a stray bullet pierced his chest and he bled to death on this very spot. His body was later discovered by Mr. Richard Greasly, the owner of the White Hart pub.”
The picture. It was like uncovering another piece of a puzzle. I was standing on the very patch of dirt where that handsome young man had lost his life. My eyes started to well up for no good reason.
A twig snapped beside me and without looking I knew it was Ben.
“So, who’s died then?” he asked, looking at my somber expression. He knew I cried easily. Often he even teased me about it.
“It was the man in the picture I saw today, the one I told you about from Dormer House. The earl’s son.” I brushed at the rogue tear. “This is where he was found.” I touched the plaque gently, as if to soothe the soul lost here.
“Ouch!” Ben was reading over my shoulder. “Bleeding to death is not on my list of ways to go.” He was trying to be funny.
“How would you like to die?” I asked with as much sarcasm I could muster.
“In bed, with the love of my life,” he said and snatched a quick kiss before I gave him a playful shove.
Was I really the love of his life? More importantly, was he mine? My heart never leapt out of my chest when I saw him, but did that mean it wasn’t love? When we kissed, it was nice but not the passionate embrace you read about. How was what we had different from anything else? How did one measure love? Strong friendships often led to lasting, loving relationships. Didn’t they?
“Shall we?” he said, reaching for my hand.
“Yes, I guess it’s starting to get dark,” I said, brushing some dirt from my jeans with my other hand.
On the way back to the car I couldn’t help but imagine how terrifying it must have been for that poor lord to die alone in the middle of the forest.
Chapter 4
The Storm
I decided to bike into town to get groceries for the dinner I was tasked with making. Ben had offered to leave me the c
ar when he went off to work, but there was no way I was ready to drive on the wrong side of the road.
The sun was high and bright. Puffy clouds dotted the sky like sheep grazing in pasture. Even in August the weather here was so unpredictable, so I threw a baggy white t-shirt over my leggings, slipped on some ballet flats and grabbed a shawl just in case. My engagement ring was tucked back in its box on the dresser. There was no way I was going to risk wearing it until it was sized.
Rifling through my things, I found my small brown leather Marc Jacob bag that fit across my body. It had been a splurge at the time, even on sale, but it had since become a well-loved and well-worn accessory. There was just enough room for my iPhone, ID, a small wad of twenty-pound notes and my short little list.
I texted Ben.
Emma: Heading to the store, LMK if you want anything. xx
Ben: No thanks. I’ll pick up wine on my way home. ;)
I found the bikes exactly where our landlady, Mrs. Grimshaw, had said they’d be: in the dilapidated barn at the bottom of the drive near Dormer House. They were covered with a blue, spider-infested tarp. So after careful inspection for extra passengers, I set off riding the bicycle with the cute little basket perched on the handlebars. It was an old rickety thing that rattled whenever I tried to pedal faster.
A short ten-minute ride later and I was in the small village of Foxford, which was comprised of a main high street and an old town square. A statue of a man on a horse overlooked the Tesco Express corner store. Across the street stood the old stone church, St Mary’s. I looked around for somewhere to lock my bike but realized that not only did I not have a lock, the likelihood of someone wanting to steal this old thing was slim. So I simply rested it against the red phone booth clearly left as a tourist attraction.
The Wayfarer: A Time Travel Romance (The Wayfarer Series Book 1) Page 2