Refine (House of Oak Book 4)

by Nichole Van

  “You eaten breakfast yet?” she asked.

  At last. A question he knew the answer to.

  “No. Not yet.” He cleared his throat. “So what is Thanksgiving?” he asked. And then winced. That might not have been a good topic to bring up. But someone appeared to not want her to attend this Thanksgiving.

  She froze. And then carefully pushed back a stack of loose papers to place two cartons of yogurt and a bottle of orange juice on the counter.

  Though, he realized, he didn’t want to know only about Thanksgiving. He wanted to know everything about her. Her history. The life that had made her . . . her.

  He cleared his throat. Tried again. “What is your tale, Jasmine? Your story?”

  She leaned into the marble. Let out a sigh and then gave a wry grin. “It’s a loooooooong saga, full of mystery and woe . . . You sure you want to hear?”

  He nodded his head.

  “Fine.” She pushed off the counter. “I’ll tell you over breakfast.”

  She gathered their breakfast together. He managed to find two clean bowls.

  Sitting at the cluttered table, he listened as she told her story. Voice low and musical, peppered with that throaty laugh of hers. A few blinked back tears. Two hours of talking passed in mere minutes.

  “So scientists can run tests to see if you are related to a specific family, but they cannot do the reverse? Take a family and find all its scattered members? That seems odd.”

  Jasmine sat back in her chair, her yogurt and juice long gone. “As I said, it’s a matter of logistics. In order to do the reverse, you would have to compile the genetic code of every person on the planet, and that is an impossibly large task. So without some sort of break-through in the case, who knows if I’ll ever find the family I was born into.”

  Timothy shook his head. How terrible to know nothing about your own history. Your family. His heart grieved for her.

  “And your adoptive family doesn’t want you?”

  She sighed, looking past him. “It’s not that simple. I was always a burden to them and now, knowing I’m a cuckoo in the nest, they want to push me out.”

  “But this was hardly your fault.” Timothy felt that anger rising again. That desire to pummel someone for daring to hurt her.

  “Yes, but that doesn’t change the way they feel. It doesn’t help that Rita keeps asking me to return every single thing Marmi ever gave me.”

  “The same thing happened when my father died. My uncle insisted on having certain items of my father’s as mementos. They were, of course, things that had more monetary than sentimental value.” Though, as head of the family, Timothy had been able to deflect his uncle’s demands.

  “In a certain sense, it’s silly. It’s just stuff, after all. But, DNA or not, Marmi is still the woman who raised me, and some things are special between us. Like my necklace here.” She touched one of the chains she wore. “Rita insists it’s a family heirloom and demands I return it. But I feel so connected to the pendant. I’ve had it for as long as I can remember and it’s such a part of me . . .” She swallowed hard, eyes glistening.

  Kind Jasmine. Her emotions were always bubbling on the surface.

  “May I?” He gestured toward the necklace.

  Nodding, she swiped at her cheeks and then pulled the chain over her head, handing it to him. He angled the pendant into the light, studying it.

  “Mmmm,” he said after a moment. “I can see the faint tell-tale marks of a goldsmith’s tools but nothing more. There is no assayer’s signature or stamp anywhere to indicate the purity of the gold.”

  The line between her brows deepened. “Really? Given the way Rita has been going on about it, you would think it was a Tiffany piece.” She took it from him, looking at it for a moment. “But you’re right. There aren’t any marks. I never noticed that before. Maybe it truly is an old family heirloom like Rita claims.”

  “Yes. But even in my time, gold pieces are stamped and had been for hundreds of years. It could have been made by a skilled jeweler who chose not to include legal hallmarks.”

  “Maybe it was handmade by one of Marmi’s friends then?”

  “Perhaps. The workmanship is very fine.”

  She settled the necklace back around her neck.

  “Well, I refuse to give it over to Rita without more proof that it truly is an heirloom. Marmi never mentioned anything about it belonging to an ancestor, which would be unlike her. She was always one to go on and on about the historical significance of objects she had.”

  She sighed and wiped her cheeks again before continuing.

  “Regardless of all the stuff, Marmi loved me, that much I do know.” She tapped one of the photographs in front of him. She had pulled them out as they talked about her past. Her memories of the night her family—or adopted family—had been killed.

  It was amazing to see the images. Pictures of Jasmine as a small child. So tiny and lost.

  He picked up the one where she looked the youngest. She was standing in front of an older woman with graying hair. The woman had a protective hand on her shoulder. Little Jasmine looked at the camera with those same wide blue eyes, hair wild and hanging down to her waist. She clutched what appeared to be a fluffy toy in her arms.

  “Rita took that picture the day we returned from Florida. You can see the airport terminal behind us.” Jasmine leaned over the table. “Man, I loved that bear to pieces.”

  Timothy looked up at Jasmine. Noted something. And then looked at the photo again. Then back at Jasmine.

  “What?” she asked.

  “It’s the same.” He tapped the photo. “Your necklace.”

  She snatched the photo from him, studied it for a moment. Eyebrows dipping in puzzlement. “It is the same. I never noticed I was wearing it in this photo.” Her eyes flared. “I always thought the pendant was a gift from Marmi but—”

  “Are you certain it was Marmi who gave it to you?” Timothy had to ask it.

  Jasmine froze. She lifted her gaze to his.

  “No.” A whisper of sound. “I have always just assumed, but I have no specific memory. Certainly not around the time of the accident—”

  “Is there a way to know if you were wearing it that night?”

  She drew in a hissing breath. “That is a very good question. Let me ask Cobra.”

  “Cobra?”

  “The man James hired to investigate this for me.”

  “His name is Cobra?”

  “I know, right? Who goes by Cobra anyway? But let me ask him.”

  She brought her eyes up to his, sparkling with hope.

  “If the necklace doesn’t come from Marmi, then I get to keep it. It is mine and no one can take it from me.”

  “True. But, moreover, it means the necklace belongs to your old life.”

  She gasped. “You’re right.” Awe in her eyes. “It would belong to me. The real me.”

  A smile spread bright and wondrous across her face. Timothy felt that same warm, possessive feeling pound in his chest in response.

  Heavens but she was lovely—

  She paused, looking at him. Cocked her head.

  “We’ve been chatting too much about me, but what about you? What did you write on your list? Is there something specific you like that you want to explore?”

  Timothy pondered it for a moment, remembering the clock from that morning. Would it be too gauche to show his handiwork to Jasmine? Was he now like a little boy, desperate for her approval?

  Be yourself.

  With so many mechanical devices around him, it was hard to know where to start. And then it hit him.

  “I would like to continue to indulge my fascination with machines, and possibly save both our nerves from your driving. I want to learn how to operate a car.”

  Chapter 17

  Duir Cottage

  April 10, 2015

  This was decidedly not what he had in mind.

  Timothy held the car in his hands, the words Cyclone RC Racing blazed on the si
de. The toy had arrived with the morning mail, courtesy of James.

  He was going to have to call Knight out next he saw him. Bloody him in a duel—

  But why wait?

  Text messages were much quicker.

  Timothy: I should have been more specific in my request.

  James: Please tell me you chuckled at least a tiny bit on the inside? C’mon. It’s funny.

  Timothy: I am overcome with hilarity.

  James: Remember, you agreed to loosen your cravat.

  Timothy: No, I believe you told me to do so. I did not agree one way or another.

  James: You’re splitting hairs.

  Timothy: If I must.

  James: I think you’ll actually enjoy the toy truck. And thank you for apologizing to Jas. How’s the whole change thing going?

  Timothy: Slowly. I must say, it would go considerably better if I could drive an actual car.

  James: Hah! I’m liking this sense of humor coming through.

  Timothy shook his head, staring at his phone.

  The past several days had not been easy. Attempting to change a lifetime of rules and behaviors was no simple task. Frustration still roiled in his chest at times. Tight and hot.

  Trusting the process was difficult. Particularly for someone used to facing problems head-on and solving them.

  He still ached to return home, to the life and language and customs which were familiar. But the portal remained firmly closed, despite trying it at least twenty times a day.

  He had been making changes, however. Letting go of the rules which had governed him—not caring about the proprieties and endless social minutiae which had hitherto regulated his life.

  Case in point.

  The toy car rested on a blindingly clean counter. He surveyed the large combined kitchen/dining/sitting room with profound satisfaction.

  Every surface gleamed.

  Turns out there was a machine to clean everything.

  A dishwasher which washed the dishes automatically. A disposal which ground up food waste. A machine which emitted a powerful jet of steam to vaporize grime. Another which instantly sucked up dirt. Cleaners and scrubbers for every surface type and rubber gloves to ensure his hands did not get dirty. The coup de grace was the small round robot which—can you imagine it?—swept and mopped the wood floor, whirring and humming as it went. He had spent an hour that morning printing labels (Printed labels! Such heaven!) for the refrigerator shelves.

  Who needed a maid with such machines everywhere? Why had Jasmine not mentioned all these wonders on the first day? He would have launched into a cleaning frenzy within minutes.

  The best part, however, was the fridge door. Jasmine had reinstated his Cleanliness Is Next to Godliness sticky notes and then added her own underneath—

  Thank You.

  Done in her swirling handwriting and decorated with cute mice bowing in gratitude.

  He liked it so much he hadn’t rearranged the notes to fix their crooked alignment.

  He didn’t want to mar the Jasmine-ness of them.

  Yes. Looking about the glistening room, he had thoroughly indulged his love of machines by this point.

  But it was obviously not far enough. What more did he need to do? Jasmine told him to stop thinking about the changes in terms of bargaining, but he couldn’t help it.

  Less than five weeks remained until Miss Heartstone and her mother visited his estate. If he were not there when they arrived, he could most assuredly assume she would have nothing more to do with him, which would destroy any hope of resuscitating Kinningsley’s finances.

  But every time he thought about Miss Heartstone, Jasmine’s lovely face floated in his vision.

  So alive. So free. And why did the thought of returning to 1815 without her cause that possessive burning to flare in his chest?

  They had spent so much time talking together over the last few days. When had he ever spoken at such length with anyone? Much less a woman?

  James: I’ve chatted with Jasmine, and we’ve come up with a plan to teach you to drive. In the meantime, I was hoping you would do me a favor?

  Timothy: Of course.

  James: You agree? Just like that? Man, you are changing!

  Timothy: It is the least I can do in exchange for your hospitality. I am a gentleman, Knight.

  James: True. Which is precisely why I need you. I have a fine gelding stabled in Marfield, but I am desperately in need of a true horseman to exercise him.

  Timothy: Say no more. Riding would be my pleasure.

  Two hours later, Timothy stood beside Jasmine in the stable yard, waiting for a groom to bring out the horse. Jasmine had insisted on driving him over. She had a sketchpad in hand, eager to draw the horse for her mural.

  After nearly three disorienting weeks, being in a stable offered such familiar comfort. The smell of hay and manure wafting through the yard, a forceful reminder of home.

  This world he knew. This he understood. Finally, something which required no explanation.

  Well, not too much, at least.

  James had clarified that Timothy could not ride the animal cross-country, pounding through farmer’s fields. He would, however, be allowed to run the steeplechase course and explore the large pastures.

  Though Timothy refused to wear one of those ridiculous looking helmets. As a lord, expertise with horses had been a rigorous part of his upbringing. A gentleman was required to have a perfect seat and carriage when riding. If he was thrown from his horse, he deserved the injury to his head.

  Jasmine shifted next to him. She was wearing that frock coat again with tight jeans and knee-high boots. She shot him a look. “Those shades look good on you. They match the dark coat.”

  It took him a second to catch up to her meaning. By shades, she meant the smoked-glass spectacles he wore, cleverly called sunglasses. A brilliant invention, as it allowed him to see without squinting in the bright spring light.

  Though the rest of his outfit felt decidedly more familiar. Tight caramel-colored breeches tucked into riding boots, topped with an open-collar white shirt and fitted riding jacket.

  “Seriously,” she continued, “have you thought about a future in the Secret Service? All you need is an ear piece and shoulder holster to pack heat.” She placed a finger against her ear and then spoke into her hand. “The suspect has left the perimeter. I repeat, the suspect has left the perimeter.”

  She smiled brightly, looking at him expectantly.

  Was there a joke in there? Another one of her terrible puns?

  She was speaking English, of that he was sure. But it came out almost like gibberish. How could the English language have changed so much over the intervening two hundred years?

  It left him floundering.

  And he had come to really dislike the feeling. Not understanding. Not knowing.

  She pursed her mouth. “Yeah, you probably need to watch an unfortunate amount of television to get all of that. Sorry. As you were.” She gestured toward the stable, a wry grin tugging at her lips.

  That panicky sensation tried to ease in. But he breathed through it.

  It didn’t matter that he didn’t understand. It was okay, to use one of Jasmine’s favorite words.

  She patted his arm, giving him one of her glowing smiles. Encouraging.

  Trust the process.

  A groom led a sleek chestnut horse out of the stables, bringing the animal toward them. The gelding was a prime goer, tall and muscled, moving with a fluid grace, ears alert. He didn’t skitter when a loud truck rumbled past the car park, showing his excellent training. Basically, everything a gentleman’s horse needed to be.

  “Wow. He’s big,” Jasmine said at his elbow, easing away.

  Timothy pulled off the sunglasses and tucked them into his jacket pocket. Taking the reins from the groom, he brushed a hand down the horse’s neck, patting the animal, making soothing noises. Letting the gelding learn his scent and voice. The horse whickered in reply, nudging Timothy’s should
er.

  Ah, he was a good animal.

  Not that Timothy would have expected anything less of James’ cattle. Knight had always had a first-rate eye for horseflesh.

  Just feeling the well-worn leather reins in one hand, the soothing warmth of a muscled horse under the other . . . it washed the tension from him. He had desperately needed this small piece of home.

  Lost in the everyday motions of coaxing a horse, Timothy turned to see Jasmine staring at him, eyes wide.

  “You’re really good at that,” she said.

  “Pardon?”

  “The horse. You’ve already made friends of him.” She cocked her head. “You’re a horse whisperer, aren’t you?”

  That made no sense.

  Timothy shrugged the concern away. “You grew up around cars. I grew up around horses. It is merely a matter of what is familiar.”

  His own words sank deep.

  It was only a matter of familiarity. Once this way of life—of letting go, of allowing his internal self to be external—became more familiar, the fear would ease too.

  He could do this.

  “I guess.” She pursed her lips, as if unsure. “Driving a car seems a lot simpler. I’ve never ridden a horse.”

  He paused, resting a hand on the horse’s neck. “How is that possible? You are afraid of this sweet boy?”

  “Uh, yes. Hello? He’s huge. He could trample and eat me in two bites.”

  “You do know that horses, as a general rule, are not carnivorous?”

  She edged back. “I’m not 100% sure on that one—”

  “Well, that decides that then.”

  Timothy swung himself into the saddle, the horse prancing sideways, adjusting to his weight. Jasmine’s eyes went even wider, as she backed away, clutching her sketchpad to her chest.

  She looked adorable. Unsure. Faintly worried.

  Timothy nudged the horse over to her and leaned down a hand.

  “Put down your pad and join me.”

  “What?!”

  “You have taught me much about your era. Give me the pleasure of reciprocating in some small measure.”