by Nichole Van
“Live, brother. Please do not become him. Father was a bitter, lonely, sad man. Eaten from within by the acid of his soul.”
His coarse breaths jangled in the room.
“This is about more than just our family, Marianne.” Voice hoarse, cracking. “Even if I speak with Miss Heartstone and convince her to cry off. Even if I am able to slip through the portal to fetch Jasmine, the viscountcy will still be bankrupt. This affects all of those who inhabit Linwood lands. How can I turn my back on them?”
Silence.
He looked at his hand. Cut from the cog he held.
Fitting that there should finally be literal blood on the damn thing.
So pointedly symbolic.
Marianne’s hand appeared, dabbing at the wounds with a handkerchief. Healing. Cleansing.
More symbolism.
“I remember this piece. It was the flywheel for that boat you made. So many years ago.”
He nodded.
“You kept it all these years.” Her implied why? hung in the air.
“It was”—voice cracking—“it was a talisman. What I needed to become. A gear. A cog in the machinery of our family history.”
“Oh!” Her soft exclamation anguished. “No, Timothy. Nononononono . . . you have it wrong. That was never your goal. You are not a part of the machine. You are the machine.”
He jerked his eyes to hers.
“You are the boat, brother. You steer it and the rest of us will follow you wherever you go.”
He turned back to the flywheel . . . staring as if he had never seen it before.
The original wheel of the mechanical ship. The piece which guided the rest.
“Set your own course.” Marianne’s voice was insistent in his ear. Soft. Pleading.
He closed his eyes. Allowed the possibility of her words to suck him down.
Everything in him turned inward. Narrowed down to a pinprick of sensation.
To the whoosh of air in his lungs. To the steady beating of his heart.
Nothing more.
His heart.
Ah, Jasmine.
She was his heart.
Without her, he had none.
Just the thought made his pulse beat faster.
A life without Jasmine . . . it wasn’t one he wanted any part of living.
He faced it plainly.
To have her. To keep her. He would fight to his very last breath. Sell anything. Do anything.
This was the emotion which had driven Sir Robert at Agincourt. Not honor.
Love.
Pure, cleansing, perfect love.
And then, it was as if a vision opened up before him.
Jasmine seated beside him in a car, singing along to some terrible song at the top of her lungs. Turning to two small children on the backseat—dark-haired and gray-eyed—giggling as they tried to keep up with the lyrics.
Jasmine tripping down the main stairs of Kinningsley in a high-waisted dress, scooping a wriggling baby out of a nurse’s arms to cover it with kisses before turning back to him, descending behind her. Face radiant with love and devotion.
Jasmine in his arms, dressed in a silk ball gown, hair curled and tumbling about her cheeks, waltzing around the dance floor. Popping up on her tiptoes to whisper something scandalous in his ear.
Jasmine shining brilliant. Vivacious and kind. Taking the ton by storm, as he knew she would.
The fire ignited over his heart. But it spread, jolting through him like lightning. Filling his blood. Expanding his soul.
“Timothy?” Marianne clasped his head in her hands, turning his head to her. And then touched his dimples, flashing deep. A tear splashed onto her cheek. “Oh, Timothy,” she breathed. “There you are. I have wondered when I would see that smiling, happy boy I once knew.”
His shoulders sagged, the weight of her words settling on him. But his smile did not waiver. He clenched his jaw in determination.
“You are right, Marianne. A life without her . . . it isn’t one I care to live. I will find another solution to Kinningsley’s problems, even if I have to fill the long walk with machinery and establish a market in the entrance hall. Uncle Linwood will have an apoplexy.”
She gave a soft laugh.
“Will you mind?” He jostled Marianne’s shoulder.
“Not at all.” She shook her head. “The fire and events of this last year have shown me how ephemeral life can be. Nothing physical remains of Arthur’s ancestral home. All that ‘heritage’ supposedly lost. And yet, I feel it still thrives in the love Arthur and I have for each other. In the joy Isabel brings. Heritage is love. It lives in the stories we tell of those who have passed on.”
“Marianne.” Timothy gathered her into his arms. Held her for a while. “Thank you.”
She cuddled against him, relaxing into his chest with a sigh.
“I love you, brother mine.”
“Dearest, dearest sister, I love you too.”
“Go to your Miss Fleury. Marry her. The Linwood name will survive. It always has. And you will be happy. And of everyone I have ever known, you deserve happiness.”
His smile grew wider. The joy bubbling through him more pronounced.
He was the master of his own ship. He would steer his own destiny.
He would win her back. Nothing else mattered now. Without Jasmine, his very life turned to ash. To nothingness. He would go where she wanted to be. Live where she wanted to live.
Because any time and any place would be home to him. So long as Jasmine Fleury was there.
Jasmine loved a knight-in-shining-armor fairytale. And he intended to give her happily-ever-after.
But first, he needed a plan.
Daniel raised his head from the steward’s desk as Timothy strode through the door an hour later. Scanned him from head to toe.
“May I help you, my lord?” One couldn’t fault the young man’s tact.
“I have spoken with Miss Heartstone, and she has released me from our engagement. I intend to offer for Miss Fleury instead.” Timothy cut to the chase.
“Ah. She is an excellent choice.”
“I agree. But that does leave us with the small problem of being utterly insolvent.”
“Indeed it does.” Daniel sat back. The beginnings of a wicked grin touching his lips. He nodded toward Timothy. “Nice outfit.”
“Thank you.”
Daniel’s grin widened.
“Miss Fleury does have a small inheritance from 2015 which she would bring into the marriage.”
“Can she transition the money into gold or gemstones so it is portable into the past? I imagine modern-cut gemstones could command a respectable price.”
“Excellent suggestion. I will also have to sell off family heirlooms and anything that has value, but hopefully we can avoid turning any tenants out into the street. Beyond that, I have an excellent idea for a long term solution. It will take time to build and no doubt will scandalize my family, but given what I know about the future, it will bear generous fruit.”
Daniel exhaled a long breath. He shot a gaze toward the ceiling and mouthed what looked like ‘Hallelujah.’
Timothy smiled, broad and a little wicked. “If you have a moment, Daniel, let me tell you my ideas. But be prepared. We are about to become the richest men in all of England. And be damned if it is vulgar or not!”
Chapter 27
Where was she?
Jasmine slowly spun in a circle, trying to understand.
It just figured her path home wouldn’t be straight.
After leaving Timothy the previous night, she had cried approximately two thousand gallons of tears and weathered several hundred panic attacks (or something like that). When dawn kissed the sky, she crept out, leaving a note for Timothy. Her heart dragging against the soles of her feet as she walked the miles to Duir Cottage.
Just so . . . alone. A vast emptiness expanding through her chest.
Timothy.
The arrogant, stuffy lord she had been so eage
r to send home. And now she couldn’t begin to understand how she could live without him.
Ah, the bitter irony. Some god somewhere was having a grand ol’ laugh at her expense.
But then her thoughts had devolved into thinking about all of those she had lost.
Her first family. And then her adopted one. Marmi. Boyfriends. Girlfriends marrying and moving on.
And here she was. Still alone.
Like . . . really, creepily, what-the-hell-happened alone.
She had walked down to the portal, ribbons of power swirling in welcome, tugging, pressing her forward. Eager. She had stepped into the dark depression, felt that swooping sensation of falling, falling, falling . . .
And . . . now what?
What happened?
She stood in a . . . meadow. Or was it a walled garden? An orchard?
It was hard to say with any specificity.
She was going to go with orchard. If a grove of oak trees could be called an orchard. Tipping her head to the right, she could see the wall of a wooden palisade which appeared to enclose the area. The oak trees within the space ran the spectrum between ancient giants to young saplings.
Turning around, she could see the portal clearly. A black gaping maw in the ground. A young oak tree stood next to it, its roots starting to encroach on the portal, but not quite covering it.
Okay . . .
Logical deductions were not quite her specialty, but she was going to give it a try anyway.
Obviously, in everyone’s interaction with the portal, they had made one very large assumption:
The portal only allowed travel to a fixed point two hundred years in the past, moving between 2015 and 1815, for example.
Turns out that little expectation was not accurate. Because she was obviously not in 2015 or 1815 currently.
The portal could be used to travel to any time period, provided it was accessible and not buried under a tree or something else equally large.
Right.
So . . . where was she?
Logic. She could do this.
Obviously, she wasn’t within a couple hundred years of 2015. Duir Cottage would be here. Modernity would be here. So either she was in a distant non-technological future, which seemed unlikely, or . . .
. . . she was in the far, far past. And that little sapling planted over the portal would eventually become the ancient oak which had guarded the portal until its death in 1812.
How old had that oak tree been? Twelve hundred years? Thirteen?
Which made this time period . . . like really, really old.
She took a couple more steps forward, hesitant to explore, but she couldn’t see or sense any danger.
The area seemed to be a sanctuary of sorts. An ancient grove of sacred oak trees.
Why did the portal bring her here? What was she meant to see? And why was her heart pounding out of her chest?
There was a faint path snaking toward the palisade. Walking toward the wooden wall, Jasmine could see a crack in the logs.
A door.
She approached the door, standing in front of it for a moment. The latch was apparent. Wooden. A simple bolt.
Deep breath.
Her hand shook as she gently lifted the bar. Pulled the enormous door open.
A pastoral world lived beyond.
Trees, yes. But so much more.
Uhm . . . wow.
A wide ditch surrounded the palisade with a plank bridge extending in front of her.
And then beyond that . . . structures.
Conical huts sat in front of a forest which encroached around. Cattle lowed. A dog barked. Two small children tore past, chasing a runaway chicken which squawked madly.
People stood here and there, dressed in decidedly Roman looking robes, loose and belted at the waist.
It gave every indication of a peaceful village.
A Roman village . . . but still.
Jasmine crossed the bridge, trying to decide if she should continue being awestruck or if she should feel afraid.
But the fear wouldn’t come. Something told her this place was safe.
The running children returned, a chicken in the taller boy’s sturdy arms. His companion noticed Jasmine. Stopped. Said something to her loudly. Jasmine couldn’t quite catch it. It sounded vaguely Latin-ish, she supposed. Had he just said, ‘She is come’?
Or was it, ‘He vomits’?
Stupid Latin.
Several more people noticed, excitedly coming toward her. She was soon surrounded by villagers talking, poking, stroking the muslin of her gown. They were all small like her, which was just crazy awesome. Jasmine could never remember being in a crowd of people and not feeling tiny. So this was what normal-sized people felt like all the time. Weird.
Hands tugged her forward, taking her along a small path around several huts.
Until there it was.
An achingly well-known house.
Different from its brethren and set apart, the large rectangular house sported a tile roof. Modest in comparison to something like Kinningsley, it still boasted a pedimented facade supported by a columned portico. The house was plastered with pale stucco, but there was a line down the right side, where newer stucco had joined with old. Had that portion of the house been damaged and repaired at some point?
And why was this place so familiar?
The crowd called, words rushing past Jasmine so fast she couldn’t decipher them. Men and women darted around her. Others pushed her, urged her.
What was happening? She didn’t feel threatened. Just caught up in their excitement.
The front door to the large house opened. More hands clutched Jasmine, urging her forward.
A petite figure emerged from the dark of the doorway.
Female. Dressed in a long, high-waisted blue dress with a red shawl of sorts wrapped around her body and over her head.
Looking like a living Roman statue.
The woman’s eyes landed on Jasmine and then blazed with light. As if in . . . recognition.
How was that possible?
The woman clasped a hand over her mouth and ran up the short walk.
Jasmine gasped as she drew near.
It was like looking in a mirror. Seeing her own face staring back at her.
The same dark hair. Creamy skin. Egg-shell blue eyes.
Though there were differences too. The woman looked older than Jasmine. More careworn. And though their faces were similar, they were not exactly the same.
The woman’s face was a little longer, her chin not quite as pointed.
But still.
The woman was close enough now to touch.
Who was she?
“Minna?” The woman cocked her head, tears spilling over. And then she said it again, “Minna?” followed by a series of words Jasmine didn’t quite understand.
“I’m so sorry.” Jasmine shook her head. “I don’t understand your language—”
The woman let out a quiet gasp. And reached out a trembling hand to touch the pendant hanging around Jasmine’s neck.
“Minna,” she said again. This time emphatically. Face fierce.
And in that gesture, memory flashed through.
A girl’s face, urgent, terrified.
“You must hurry, Minna. You must come. They mustn’t find you. Hurry. Hurry.”
Without thinking, Jasmine repeated the words, staring into the woman’s face.
Something snapped within her. Scenes and images shuffled through with startling clarity.
Words. Language.
Jasmine sitting in an atrium beside a fountain, playing with a wooden doll. Laughing with her sister. Another woman joining them. Same dark hair. Same pointed chin.
Their mother.
“Come, my beauties. Minna. Gwen. It is time for bed.”
And then a man. Tall with curling brown hair and a smile full of love.
“Good night, Papa. “
But this time the memory expanded. She could see the house
more clearly. The atrium cutting up through two stories, a gallery running around the second floor. A circular oculus cut into the center of the roof overhead, letting in air and light. Bright mosaics on the floor, a dog chasing a hare while deer danced away. And the man. Her father. Dressed in a breast plate and short skirt. Knees bare. Sandals laced up his calves. Looking for all the world like a Roman soldier.
“You remember?” The woman in front of her spoke again.
And this time, Jasmine understood. The language came back to her, filled her. Latin, but not quite. A language long lost in time.
Jasmine nodded.
Gwen. Yes, her sister’s name was Gwen.
And she was Minna . . . Maelona.
Divine princess.
With a sob, Jasmine wrapped her arms around the woman. Gwen crushed Jasmine to her, both of them sinking to the ground in loud tears.
Yep. The past was all about the crying, wasn’t it? Was it a hazardous by-product of time travel?
“Minna . . . Minna . . . Minna,” Gwen whispered. “How I have missed you. I have prayed for the portal to bring me word of you. I did not expect the gift of seeing you myself.”
Jasmine merely hiccupped, her crying going straight from sobbing to gasping right on through to breakdown territory.
She had found her family. At last. The portal had taken her home.
Gwen rocked her, making shushing noises against her hair. The moment hauntingly familiar.
Oh! She had forgotten. Forgotten being held by her older sister. How could she have forgotten this?
“It’s okay, little Minna. I have you,” Gwen murmured. “You shouldn’t be here, but I don’t care. My heart has wept to know of you. To know that you are cared for.”
Jasmine absorbed the words. Remaining crumpled in her sister’s arms for a good while. Letting the emotions wash themselves out.
Finally, she dug a handkerchief out of a pocket in her pelisse and wiped her eyes.
“Gwen.” She gave a watery smile. “I had forgotten. But now I remember.” The words felt stilted and odd in her mouth, but Gwen’s radiant glow let her know she had understood. “Where am I?”
Because that was the most important question. What had happened?