by Nichole Van
She laughed. A joyous, unfettered sound. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for a guy to say that to me! You’re stuck in this century while your entire life falls apart two hundred years in the past, possibly rendering your estate insolvent and turning it into the very thing your ancestors despised. I have a mental pseudo-aunt harassing me, no legitimate family and little hope of ever finding them, but hey—”
“At least we have each other?”
An enormous smile. “Exactly.”
Duir Cottage
The great room
May 9, 2015
“You have created a marvel here.”
Jasmine turned to see Timothy standing in the doorway to baby Arthur’s bedroom.
She straightened and took a step back, studying her nearly finished mural. After the visit to Caerphilly, the images had practically flown from her brush. The castle acted as a backdrop, set against the rounded hills of Wales.
Knights and ladies stretched across the foreground. A couple flirting here. Two armored men clashing swords there. King Arthur riding out to survey his land, a gentle nod to Roman armor in his otherwise medieval clothing. And if he looked a little like Timothy, well, that was just coincidence, wasn’t it?
She was still working on the more minute details, but it was close to completion. She hoped Emme and James would like it.
“Are you pleased with your work?” Timothy asked from behind her.
She turned to him. He still lounged in the doorway, a shoulder leaned into the door jamb. Thumbs hooked into the pockets of his dark jeans. A deep gray fisherman’s sweater pulled over a nubby blue button down, both open at the throat with sleeves pushed up. Hair tousled, still wet from his morning shower. Pale eyes unnervingly clear in the light streaming through the window in front of him.
Basically, he looked delectable, and she wanted to do nothing more than to arch into him like a cat. Purr into his chest while he wrapped his arms around her and sent a hand into her hair.
Mmmm, why was she still standing here?
She strolled over and hooked her fingers into the belt loop at his waist, tugging him into her. He didn’t disappoint, instantly gathering her into his arms.
The second her head hit his chest, every stress and worry slipped from her body. The man was Prozac. Calming her, narrowing the world down to just him and her and the warmth of being held. Cherished. She sensed more than felt his lips brush the top of her head.
He did that a lot. It was incredibly cute.
“I like how it has come together,” she said, finally answering his question. “How are you doing this morning?”
“Good. Checked the portal. No change.”
She sighed, snuggling a little closer.
Why was he here? She had asked herself that question over and over.
Obviously, he needed to learn to let go of The Rules, laugh, relax, become a more whole person. And they had needed to meet.
Even with that though, he seemed more resigned than happy about staying in this century. He would do it, but he wasn’t thrilled. Which didn’t make a lot of sense to her. Him being stuck in 2015, that is. The resignation she could understand.
The portal had always seemingly allowed others a choice. Though she adored Timothy and wanted to see where this incredible attraction between them led, she wanted him to choose her. Not just be trapped with her by default.
Kinda stupid, when she thought about it. She should just grab him with both hands and never let go. But her mothering always got the better of her. She cared more about his intrinsic happiness than her own heart.
And if the portal opened, he would return. That she knew.
He had told her more about his problems in the past. The wealthy heiress everyone wanted him to marry, Miss Heartstone. His domineering uncle with four daughters to marry off—one daughter, Emilia, on the verge of betrothal to a duke’s son. Widowed aunts and cousins who relied on his generosity to live. The thousands of tenants on his properties who looked to him to help maintain their livelihoods. The sheer scope of his responsibilities was staggering. No wonder the prospect of bankruptcy weighed upon him.
Which all begged another question:
If the portal opened, would she go with him? Could she return? Would he even want her with him?
She wouldn’t mind seeing 1815, hanging out with Timothy in his milieu. She had always been drawn to old ways. Marmi had nurtured that.
But she wasn’t naive. Given everything Timothy had told her, she assumed it would be nearly impossible for him to retain a relationship with her if they were in 1815. Most likely, he would need to marry someone like this Miss Heartstone for her dowry. Too many people depended on him. His sense of honor was too deeply ingrained to place personal happiness above the misery of so many others.
Granted with the portal firmly closed, the entire discussion was thankfully moot. For now, she was content to cuddle a former nineteenth century viscount and consider herself lucky.
“I came up to see if you wanted breakfast,” he murmured against her hair. “You’ve been up since first light. You have to be hungry.”
She nodded and let him lead her downstairs.
He had set two place settings on the table complete with folded napkins and cups for coffee, juice and milk. Toast cooled on a rack.
Timothy slid back a chair. “Your seat, madam.” He gestured with a subtle bow.
The man was determined to make her fall madly in love with him, wasn’t he?
Giving him her widest smile and a sloppy peck on the cheek—because, quite frankly, you could never be too over-the-top when a man made you breakfast, positive reinforcement and all that—she sank into the chair. With a flourish, he strode back into the kitchen and pulled a pan from the oven, bringing it back over to the table. She could see eggs neatly cracked into small cups.
“May I present coddled eggs?” He set the pan down. The eggs looked delicious, bits of pepper and herbs floating on top of their gooey yellow centers.
She clapped with suitable feeling, laughing. “You’ve been holding back hidden talents, Lord Linwood.”
“No. Google is truly the master of everything. It took me two dozen eggs and seven YouTube tutorials to get it right.”
He smiled, flashing her some dimple-sugar, then went over to the fridge, pulling out a carton of orange juice and another of milk.
In the meantime, Jasmine set about helping herself to the eggs. They did look wonderful. No wonder he preferred them cooked like this instead of scrambled. She slipped one out of its ramekin and onto her plate, licking a drop of golden yolk from her finger.
“Now you’re going to have to teach me how to make these,” she said. “Do you grease the sides first—”
She raised her head to him. And stopped mid-sentence.
Timothy was frozen in front of the island. Eyes wide. Staring at the back of the milk carton. She could see the rapid rise of his chest from across the room.
His very stillness freaked her.
“What is it?” She dashed over to him, touching his arm. He started and looked down at her.
And then slowly turned the milk carton around so she could see it.
Every last breath left her body in a loud hiss.
She actually had to tighten her grasp on his arm to keep her balance.
She sent out a hand, tracing the color image on the milk carton. And then swiped at her cheeks when tears blurred the photo.
A little girl stared at the camera. Enormous blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face with a stubborn pointed chin, all framed by wild dark hair. She clutched the arm of someone out of frame with both hands.
And hanging from her neck on a leather cord . . . a gold pendant formed into intricate strands.
The word ‘Missing’ blared above her head, followed by ‘Do you know where I am?’
Next to it, a computer age-progression image that did a reasonable job capturing her.
With shaking hands, Jasmine took the carton from Timothy and
walked back to the table, sinking down. Studying the images.
Please help the fostering system find its lost children. If you have any information about this child, we would love to hear from you.
It had to be her. The resemblance, the pendant, the age progression . . . she was so little though. Probably not more than five or six.
A sense of destiny flooded her. An emphatic swirl of energy. As if Fate had drawn her, relentlessly, to this moment.
But Jasmine was in Britain, looking at a British milk carton.
How?
Though if she were British in origin, it would explain why Cobra had been so stumped looking for her in the U.S. At every step, they had assumed she was American.
Staring at the photo, she had vague memories of a nice man. That was his arm she was clinging to. He had a soft voice.
Was he her true father?
Just . . . so many feelings roiled through her.
Relief that she might (finally) get some answers about her family. Sadness that someone had probably been missing her all these years. Grief for the memories she had missed out on.
She swiped her tears away and reached for her phone.
“Do you remember?” Timothy’s voice murmured from behind her.
“No. Not really.” She swiveled to look up at him with a wobbly smile. “But I hope Cobra can find me some answers.”
She snapped a photo of the carton and texted it to Cobra.
please tell me you can do something with this
His response came less than a minute later.
Shaking my head. I never thought to look abroad. Forgive me. It’s fortunate Britain still does the milk-carton campaign. Weren’t you a cute little thing? I’m on it.
Chapter 22
The next hours passed in agonizing slowness.
The first hour she spent pacing in front of the sofa, phone in hand, Timothy sitting patiently, watching her, telling her that answers, any answers, were good.
Basically talking her off the ledge.
Bless him.
He was her rock in the storm. The one who anchored her despite the stormy seas swirling around. Pale eyes tracking her calmly as she restlessly walked the room. Finally, he caught her hand as she swept past him.
“Enough. Come sit. Relax and focus on remembering what you can.” He tugged her down onto the sofa with him, taking her phone and placing it on the sofa arm.
Smart man.
She cuddled into his chest, which predictably, instantly calmed her. The steady thump of his heart under her ear. The gentle swoosh of his breathing.
She brought up the new photo before her eyes. Concentrated. Slowly bits and pieces came back to her.
But for some reason, everything was all tied up in memories of the car accident.
Fear. Cold. Hunger. Loss.
A woman’s screams. That girl’s face, framed in dark hair, so like her own.
“Minna, open the door and then run. Think safe thoughts. You must be saved.”
Hands pushing her, falling, getting up and then running. Fire and fog, branches scratching her legs, cutting her bare feet.
Away, away . . . she had to get away . . .
And then right on its heels, the same memory. But twisted.
The terror of knowing what lay ahead. Fire. Danger.
The girl’s scream. “Mummy, she opened the door!”
In a blinding flash, she realized.
Two memories.
They were two different memories.
Two different little girls.
In the first memory, her dark-haired sister told her, Minna, to open the door and run.
In the second, a girl screamed, pleading with her to not open the door.
No wonder she had found the memories so confusing.
The second one felt like it was her memory of the car accident.
But what about the first with her sister? It had always been the more powerful scene. Was that one a real memory? Or just another one of her vivid dreams?
The bing of her phone forced her back to the present.
She scrambled, reaching across Timothy for her phone.
Cobra. Email.
At last!
She sat up and reached for her laptop on the side table, the better to check her email. Timothy moved with her, a comforting hand on her waist.
The email was short with an attached document.
So . . . I guess this is our answer, was all Cobra had written in the body of the email.
The attachment spun as it downloaded. And then she read the documents. The history of her life.
Snippets jumped out at her.
. . . Jane Doe, found wandering near Leominster . . .
. . . Small female child, approximately six years old based on dental assessment. Partially naked. Feet bare and scratched . . .
. . . Gold pendant on a leather cord around her neck. No other identifying information. Child non-verbal . . .
. . . After months of searching and media attention, no parent or identifying person came forward. Child was registered as a ward of the state . . .
. . . Given into the fostering care of Mr. Michael Crick, a solicitor from Gloucester helping with the case . . .
Here Cobra had made a note:
Mr. Crick and his wife and daughter were killed in the car crash in Florida just a few months after you were placed with them. They had traveled to Florida on vacation to Disney World. You must have been with them on the trip but were thrown from the car. But because you were not their child and the U.S. didn’t have computerized records of visiting tourists at the time, no one realized you were there. The U.K. fostering system assumed they had lost track of you.
And then his final comments. The devastating blow:
You were a foundling. In chatting with a British case worker, they have never figured out where you came from. It appears to have been quite the media story in 1989 when you were found. Like we did, they tried to use the pendant to track you by contacting goldsmiths across the country but hit a dead end. Despite all the press, no one ever came forward with a legitimate claim.
The common consensus is your parents were unable to care for you, and you either wandered off or were dropped off somewhere in the vicinity of Leominster. Most likely the latter. You were found digging through a trash can by a sanitation worker, cold, bruised and hungry. Michael Crick, the public solicitor assigned your case, was your legal guardian. In chatting with a few people, he and his wife were quite taken with you. You clearly were with them on the family trip to Florida and somehow escaped the inferno that killed them. Unfortunately, the fostering system didn’t know where you had gone, hence your inclusion in the milk carton campaign.
Jasmine stared at the words in disbelief. And then turned to the photos attached. Not many. But enough.
She touched the screen as they loaded.
A balding man with kind eyes crouched beside her tiny self.
Michael Crick.
Him kneeling down before her. “C’mon, little Jane. You can be our girl for a while.”
Jasmine standing in front of a vintage Peugeot, holding hands with a small girl on one side, a woman on the other.
Of course. His wife. His child . . . the blond daughter about her age.
Mr. Crick tickling the blond girl, both laughing. Loneliness tugging at her heart.
The photos released memories, images flooding her.
That fateful night on a freeway in Florida crystallized.
She leaned to the left and raised her head, peering at the road ahead from the backseat. The fog creeping in, whitely dense. An enormous sense of unease rattled through her.
A revelation flashed before her eyes.
Up ahead. A ball of fire. Horror. Death.
But the fog . . . no one could see . . .
So close. They were going to die if they didn’t stop.
She was so little. She didn’t know the words to tell them.
Get out. Get out. She had to be saved.<
br />
She unsnapped her seatbelt and then fumbled for the door handle. Hearing the noise, the nice Mr. Crick turned around, eyes drawn in confusion, slowing the car.
“Jane, put your seatbelt on.”
No, no, no . . . she had to get away. Terror stopped her throat.
“No, love. Don’t open the door. You have to stay here.”
She pulled on the door handle.
“Mike, stop her. She’ll kill herself,” the woman cried in front of Jasmine, twisting around. “Jane, stop! You’ve got to stop!”
A child screamed. “Mummy, she opened the door!”
And then a smaller hand grabbed at her, trying to hold her in the car. But Jasmine pushed the hand away, desperate to escape.
And then she was falling. Rolling. Safe from the danger ahead.
A second later, an enormous blast of fire and heat pierced the fog.
And she knew. She knew. Her second family was gone.
Breathing hard, Jasmine absorbed the memory.
She had known. She had seen the accident in vision before it happened. And unable to warn the kind Crick family, she had opened the car door to save herself.
Just so . . . awful. Those sweet, kind people.
But she clearly remembered thinking the Cricks were her second family.
But where was her first? Where had she come from?
Were her other memories even real? The dark-haired girl telling Minna to run for the door? That same dark-haired girl playing in the fountained courtyard and the man with close-cropped hair? And why a fountain at all if she were British? Such things were hardly common in the U.K.
Why did her memories have to be so fragmented and ephemeral?
And after all this time, this was to be her answer? Confirmation that she had never been wanted? How could a child not be wanted? That happened, like, never.
Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how much hope she had held. That somewhere out there, someone had missed her. Longed for her. Would shed tears of joy to know she was alive.