Refine (House of Oak Book 4)

by Nichole Van

  This was supposed to be a Hallmark moment, cheesy and sappy and full of weepy happiness.

  Instead, it felt like a bad melodrama. A story that twisted in the wrong direction.

  Timothy rubbed her back, reading over her shoulder with her. Surely he understood the implications of everything Cobra listed.

  She really was no one. Without family or history.

  Nobody.

  She sniffled.

  Timothy pressed a tissue into her palm.

  She bit back her hiccupping sobs. But it was no use.

  This was going to be a sloppy, ugly cry.

  Chest heaving, she buried her face in her hands. Letting everything loose.

  Anger, pain, hopelessness. Never knowing her origins.

  Realizing she was utterly alone. Without family or kin.

  She felt arms slide underneath her knees and around her back, scooping her up into strong arms. She melted boneless into Timothy’s strength. He lifted her onto his lap, keeping her cuddled against his chest.

  He didn’t say anything. Didn’t murmur platitudes or try to silence her display of emotion. Didn’t talk needlessly to fill the awkwardness of witnessing her breakdown.

  He just held her, becoming once more her rock in the storm. The solid, recalcitrant mass which refused to let her go under.

  Allowing her to just . . . be.

  He rubbed her back with his hands, dropping the occasional kiss on her hair or her forehead. Once her crying had subsided from howling sobs to hiccuppy gasps, he wrapped his arms all the way around her and held her tight.

  Timothy kept her snugged against him, her face buried in his neck. Let all the grief and sorrow swamp her.

  He held her for what seemed like hours, until her crying subsided to heaving and then to silent dripping tears.

  Held her until the shadows lengthened and she finally fell asleep. He carried her up to her bed, gently tucking the blankets around her before trudging off to his own room.

  Her pain cut him. He wanted to take it all away, give her every tiny thing she wished to be happy.

  Promise to be her family. Beg to be all she needed.

  Yet something held him back. Timing, obviously.

  But also the thought that, beside himself, he had nothing to offer her. No house. No lands. No money.

  No place in the world.

  For the first time in weeks, that panicky feeling returned, pounding through him.

  How could he build a life here? It was one thing to chat with James about it, toss around ideas. It was something else to face it head on. But what other choice did he have?

  He slept fitfully, jagged dreams of Jasmine and Kinningsley haunting him.

  He woke the next morning to find Jasmine plastered to her computer screen. Hair tumbled and pulled over one shoulder. Dressed in more of those baggy trousers and a tight t-shirt.

  She didn’t look at him as he wandered into the kitchen. She just started talking.

  “I was this total mystery sensation. A little girl found wandering in the middle of a suburban neighborhood. They figured I had been on my own for a couple days, given the state of my clothing and feet. It was huge national news with all this media coverage. They realized pretty quickly that no one was going to come forward. So it turned into a criminal case . . . child abandonment . . . but they never identified a single subject.

  “Funny thing is, I remember being lost. I always thought it was the accident I was remembering, but maybe it wasn’t. I have distinct memories of the car accident too, of a child screaming and hands trying to keep me in the car. But those images are different. They feel . . . less. The emotions not as powerful.”

  She paused, shaking her head. Half turning to him, but eyes turned inward, as if searching for something.

  “But my other memory . . . it aches.” She rubbed the heel of her hand against her sternum. “Even after so many years. Like it’s the point where my life shattered. I remember a woman screaming, the girl with dark hair calling me Minna. I’ve wondered if that was my name. The Cricks, my fostering family, called me Jane because that was my legal name . . . Jane Doe. Anyway, this dark-haired girl, the one who called me Minna, told me to run. That I needed to run in order to be safe.”

  Her voice broke and gave a choking gasp. With a shake of her head, she bit back her sobs.

  “I just remember fire and being extremely afraid. And then running. What does that mean? Were my mom or my sister being threatened, and so my sister told me to run out of a house and then someone set it on fire, killing her and my mom, and they assumed I was dead too? Or maybe they were killed and the person didn’t want to come forward to claim me because it would link them to my dead mother and sister?

  “I asked Cobra about it, but he says there is no record of a house fire in the area in the days before I was found. No record at all of a woman or child being murdered or hurt. No one named Minna. Just . . . nothing.”

  She turned her tear-stained face to him. Eyes puffy and bloodshot. Pleading for understanding.

  Timothy stood helplessly. He opened his arms, offering comfort that she had taken in the past. Sniffling, she slipped off the chair and wrapped herself around him.

  “I wish I were better with words.” He stroked her hair. “Please know that I am so sorry.”

  He gathered her into his chest, a tight warmth seizing his lungs. Possessive. Fierce. Mine.

  She came to him for comfort. She needed his strength.

  “Thank you.” She sniffed. “It’s nice to have a lead, but this feels so unsolved and unsolvable. The authorities couldn’t find anything out even at the time. The intervening space of twenty-five years hasn’t helped. The case is totally cold.”

  A thought had been rolling around in his head. An idea which would shed so much light on the situation. He finally voiced it. “Leominster isn’t far from here. Only about a twenty minute drive. Even shorter cross-country.”

  She lifted her head, looking up at him. “You think we should visit? It’s been so long, Timothy. I can’t imagine we would find anything—”

  He shook his head. Her confusion was adorable. “I am merely pointing out that the distance between Duir Cottage and the town of Leominster isn’t so large. A small child wandering for several days could make the journey.”

  “What are you saying?” Her eyes widened.

  “Have you considered there might be some connection?” He motioned his head toward the hallway, indicating the doorway down to the portal.

  She leaned farther back in his arms. “Do you mean, could I have come through the portal?”

  He nodded. “It would explain this situation.”

  “Wow. That is . . . interesting.” Her brow furrowed for a moment and then she shook her head. “It’s impossible. The portal was blocked by that old oak tree until 1812. It wasn’t accessible in the nineteenth century because it had an enormous oak tree growing over the top of it. The old tree was destroyed in 1812, but before that . . . no one had been able to go through it until Emme did. It’s a lovely thought though.”

  She buried her face in his shirt, exhausted of tears. Weak with sadness and loss.

  She always did this. Utterly melted into him. As if his touch soothed her. Just as she did for him.

  “I don’t even know how old I am exactly. Or when my birthday is. I’ve been robbed of even those most basic facts.” Her voice broke. “I’m sorry. But everyone should be allowed to know their exact age. It’s like I just lost everything. Everything that has ever grounded me.” Her voice muffled.

  He rubbed a hand up her back. “Marmi loved you, did she not?”

  “Yes, but she also thought I was her grandchild, so—”

  “Would she have cared had she known you were actually a foundling? Would she have turned you out or handed you over to the government?”

  Silence. And then a watery sniffle.

  “No.” More of a gasp than sound. “She would have kept and loved me regardless. Marmi was just like that. We wer
e such peas in a pod. Complete kindred spirits. That is why this has been so hard from the very beginning. Every last part of me feels like Marmi was my mother. The woman who breathed as I breathe. Who thought as I think. I just see so much of her in me and to know that I was an impostor in her midst—” Voice breaking.

  “You have told me over and over to trust the process, Jasmine. Perhaps this was the path for you. Maybe everyone else abandoned you, but the universe knew there was a lonely woman in Marmi who would welcome you with open arms and raise you to your fullest potential.”

  She stilled in his arms, giving one last hiccuppy sniff. And then pulled back to stare at him with her limpid blue eyes.

  “Th-that’s the n-nicest thing anyone has ever s-said to me.” She placed a hand on his cheek. “Who says you aren’t good with words?”

  He ran a thumb over her quivering bottom lip. And then kissed her.

  Soft. Gentle.

  And, given the way she sighed into him, he must have done something right.

  Chapter 23

  Duir Cottage

  The great room

  May 12, 2015

  So, are you going to return the money? It was John Fleury’s inheritance. It had nothing to do with you. The money belongs to the family.

  Rita’s incessant texts hurt. Jasmine leaned into the marble countertop, staring at her phone.

  In hindsight, Jasmine realized she should have stood firm with the china. But be a nice person . . . give an inch—

  And this was the result.

  Rita wanted Jasmine’s small inheritance back. She was threatening legal action.

  Trust the process.

  Jasmine wasn’t sure why she had to go through all of this. What did the universe have in store for her?

  Timothy had made a good point. The years she had with her grandmother (she would never think of her as anything else) had been magical. Quite literally at times, given Marmi’s love of mystical things. But that’s why it had been so good. Marmi had taught her so much. About the interconnectedness of things, the vast love of the universe for its creations.

  Everything making her the person she was right now, at this moment. Jasmine felt deeply blessed to know she had loved and been so loved in return, even if she never found her real family.

  The front door opened and Timothy came in, newspaper under one arm, riding crop under the other. He had already been riding this morning, dressed in worn close-fitted jeans, riding boots, white button down, loose tie and a heathered gray-blue wool vest.

  She could see him in her mind’s eye galloping through the stable pasture, effortlessly guiding his horse . . . it was endearing how he clung to old-fashioned things. Her look turned dreamy. He smiled warmly in greeting and tossed the newspaper and riding crop onto an entryway table.

  He started toward her and then paused in front of the cellar door in the main hallway. “Forgive me while I test this.”

  He still checked the portal once a day. With James’ help, he had been trying to make a life for himself here, but she knew it hurt. His heart would always belong in the past.

  She crossed the kitchen and followed him down the steep wooden steps. The single light bulb cast the small space in stark shadows.

  As usual, the portal thrummed under her feet, the small space vibrating with electricity. Timothy pressed both palms against the granite slab, standing in the dark depression.

  They stood in silence for moment.

  And then, his shoulders sagged. His entire body leaning forward, pressing his forehead against the stone.

  The sense of his loss in that moment . . .

  Her heart physically hurt. Who knew the organ could do that?

  Why won’t you let him through? she mentally whispered. Why trap him here without a choice? What needs to happen in order for him to go home?

  Nothing.

  The poor man.

  Sighing, she reached out to grab his elbow. Intent on dragging him upstairs and offering him comfort. Preferably of the making out variety.

  And then it happened.

  The seemingly impossible.

  As soon as her hand got within a couple inches of him, she felt a sharp tug. As if something wanted her to step into the depression next to him.

  Into the portal.

  Energy swirled around her, wrapping like a cocoon. Golden ribbons of power, grabbing her, tangling in her arms and legs. Nearly dragging her forward.

  Startled, she snatched her hand back. And then stood staring at Timothy’s bowed shoulders, his hands still pressed against the stone in front of him. The gold tendrils circling him but not making the connection.

  They only touched her.

  And with aching clarity, she knew.

  She knew.

  She had to return with him.

  If she touched him, the tendrils would unite, drawing them both through the portal.

  She was the missing component. The last piece of the puzzle.

  The knowledge was . . . huge.

  Before Timothy could turn and see her wide, wide, wide eyes, she darted up the stairs and into the kitchen.

  Mind churning. Heart pounding.

  Why? Why her? Why did she need to return with him?

  She paced back and forth in front of the kitchen island.

  Surely, there would be no permanent place for her in his 1815 life. His responsibilities were too huge.

  In 2015, they could be together. She liked having him here with her. Hers and hers alone. No need to share him. She was terrible at sharing.

  It made sense. She had thought (hoped, wished) the portal drew him here for them to be together. But what if, after all this time, it was the opposite? He was here to bring her back with him to 1815.

  Would she go? There really wasn’t much holding her to this century.

  The mural was done. She just needed to apply one last coat of varnish. After that, what was there for her here? More painting? She could do that in 1815 just as easily.

  Her 2015 friends were moving on with their personal lives. Her adopted family had kicked her out of the fold, and things were spiraling downward at a dizzying pace.

  The thought of escaping two hundred years into the past was definitely attractive.

  But in 1815, Timothy was a powerful lord. Gah! She wouldn’t even be able to call him Timothy anymore. He would be ‘my lord this’ and ‘my lord that.’ A mighty viscount who could have nothing to do with her. The selfish part of her heart didn’t like that. Not one bit.

  Even worse, what if he returned and reverted back to Rule-Bound Timothy? Would she have to stand at the sidelines and watch him retreat back into a mask of duty and responsibility, losing her friend forever?

  Ugh.

  What to do?

  But . . . Timothy?

  He was resigned to staying here, but she knew he wanted nothing more than to return home. His family, his lands and people needed him. If he were to remain in 2015, it needed to be his choice. His decision.

  Maybe that was the sticking point.

  He needed to choose.

  And if he chose the past? Well, she would take him through the portal—

  “Pardon?!!”

  Jasmine whirled to see Timothy standing in the doorway to the hall, expression utterly wild.

  “You can take me through the portal?!”

  She froze.

  Not quite how she wanted all of this to come out . . .

  “I th-think so,” she stuttered. “Just now, when I was down there. The portal . . . it pulled me forward. Both of us . . . together.”

  Within the space of a heartbeat, he had her bracketed between his arms, hands on the counter behind her, body leaning over her.

  The most astonished, dimpled, wondrous smile lighting his face.

  Pure Joy, she labeled that one.

  “You would come back with me?”

  “I think that might be why you haven’t been able to return. I’m supposed to come with you.”

  Somehow Pure Joy st
retched even wider.

  A cacophony of emotions assaulted her.

  She didn’t have to ask to know Timothy’s choice. He would return to 1815.

  Warmth spread through her. The knowledge that he obviously wanted her to be with him. Maybe there would be a way . . .

  “The nineteenth century has its charms.” His voice excited. “I think you would enjoy it. Certainly, you will love Marianne. I am sure she will adore you. Isabel will be delighted to have an aunt. You could paint and sketch to your heart’s content. Wear pretty dresses and dance the night away at balls.”

  Was he actually . . . babbling? Jasmine smiled, his animation infectious.

  “That sounds lovely.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “But can we have a frank conversation first?”

  “Who is this Frank?” He winked at her.

  Laughing, she swatted his shoulder. “You’re such a nerd.”

  “Only for you, my lady.” He dipped his head, intent on that soft spot between her cheek and ear.

  She loved that spot.

  “No distracting me.” She pushed on his shoulders. He lifted his head, pressed his forehead against hers.

  Waiting.

  “So let’s say that I do return with you to 1815. What happens then?”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You mentioned that you needed to marry an heiress. Probably this Miss Heartstone person you have mentioned. But I’m terribly selfish and liable to get murderish if I have to watch you woo someone else.”

  “Murderish? Isn’t homicidal the word you wanted there?”

  “That too. It’s definitely a stabby sort of emotion. It won’t be pretty. I cannot be held responsible, Mr. Linwood.”

  A flash of Reluctant Smile. He lifted his head, pale eyes drilling into hers.

  “There have been expectations that I would marry Miss Heartstone. But now . . .”

  Silence.

  “But now?”

  He closed his eyes. Sighed. A breath pulling from deep within. “I cannot be without you. I have spent an enormous amount of time pondering the issue. I did not expect that you would be permitted to return with me. But now . . . the thought of not having you, dearest, sweetest . . . I-I never expected to love. But you, my darling . . .”