by Sandra Heath
“Possibly.”
She was aghast. A minimum of six more months of this?
He glanced at her. “Look, it mightn’t come to that. It might just be that I can come back from Chicago, and we can go.”
“But it might not. I can’t wait that long, Richard. I’m desperate to go now.”
“Aren’t you being a little selfish?”
“As is my wont, you mean?” she inquired acidly.
He fell silent.
She watched the way he kept swirling his glass. “Besides,” she added, “what difference will it really make to you whether I’m here in New York or in England? Either way, you’ll be in Chicago with your damned elevator shaft, or in Phoenix doing whatever it is you have to do there.”
Her tone needled him. “I have a job to do, Kathryn!”
“Don’t give me that. You’re going to Chicago because it suits you, and you’re hoping like hell to get that Phoenix project too. Anything to further your career.”
“And that rankles with you right now, doesn’t it?” he fired back.
“Yes. No. Oh, I don’t know.” She looked out at the skyline again. “All I do know is that I want you to come to England, like we planned.”
“You know your trouble? You have an attitude problem!”
“If by that you mean I think this vacation is more important than getting Brand Philips out of his own hole, then yes, I do have an attitude problem! Maybe you don’t know, but I don’t just have an attitude problem. I have a marriage problem too. Correction, we have a marriage problem. Haven’t you noticed that things aren’t hunky-dory around here anymore?”
He gave a cold laugh. “Oh, I’ve noticed, all right. I’ve noticed that any difficulties we have are usually your doing. You’ve made it pretty damned clear lately that you resent my career, which I think is a little rich coming from someone who once put her own career before everything else. If you hadn’t lost the baby...” He didn’t finish the sentence, but looked accusingly at her, his blue eyes bright with bitterness.
Was this the long-overdue explosion? The one that was far too late in coming? She made herself meet his eyes. “Lost the baby? You make it sound like I mislaid it somewhere in the subway!”
“Do I? Well, that wasn’t my intention,” he said evenly.
The tone wasn’t lost on her. “Then what was your intention?” He averted his gaze, so she pressed him. “Come on, Richard, there’s obviously something on your mind, so you might as well say it.”
“All right, damn it, I will! Your selfishness caused that miscarriage. You were so darned determined to keep your failing career going that you sacrificed our child! And for what? A career not worth mentioning anymore anyway!”
“It wasn’t selfishness,” she whispered.
“No, you preferred to call it independence! Well, screw your independence! I’ve no doubt that part of you is glad about what happened, for a top TV reporter can’t be tied down by babies, can she? But it had already gone west anyway because Joe Carini retired and Diane Weinburger took over.”
The accusing words hung in the air long after he’d said them, and for a moment she was too distressed to respond. She’d always known he blamed her for the miscarriage, but she hadn’t realized he thought she didn’t regret it. “Is...is that what you really think? That I was glad I lost the baby?” she asked haltingly.
He shifted uncomfortably. “How could I not think it?”
Tears leapt to her eyes as she fired her own reproaches back. “Did you ever bother to ask? You’re so quick to accuse me of selfishness, but what of yours? When it all happened, you were so wrapped up in your own grief, you never gave a thought to how I felt! Well, for your information, I did want that baby, I wanted it more than anything else in the world.”
He’d colored a little when she pointed out his lack of concern toward her at the time of the miscarriage, but guilt made him continue the attack. “I wish I could believe you, Kathryn, but somehow I can’t help doubting.”
“Then there’s not a great deal more to be said, is there?” she observed quietly.
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“That we should seriously consider if there’s anything left to save.”
He cleared his throat. “Look, we’re both overwrought. I’ve been working too hard, and I know your health has taken a long time to recover since the baby...”
It was an olive branch of sorts, and in spite of the bitterness of the altercation, she responded to the conciliatory tone. They might be racing toward the brink, but the brakes could still be applied. If only he’d come to England with her...
She pleaded again. “I’m begging you to come on this vacation, Richard. We desperately need to spend time together away from here.”
He drew a heavy breath. “I hear what you’re saying, but I simply must go to Chicago. It really is important. You see, Brand’s going to retire and `he’s considering putting me up for a partnership in his place.”
“So, that’s the carrot, is it?” she replied coldly.
His eyes flashed again. “Call it what you will, it’s what matters to me. I want to be a partner.”
She saw how useless it was. What room did such ambition leave for marriage? “Do what you want, Richard.”
“Then you agree to postpone things?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m still going to England.”
His temper snapped. “Then go, damn it!”
“I intend to.” She walked from the room.
He was in Chicago when she left at the end of July. Right up to the moment her flight took off she hoped he’d change his mind and join her. He didn’t.
She didn’t know she’d never see him, her homeland or her friends again, or that she was flying to a destiny so fantastic she’d never have believed it possible.
Chapter Three
England was all Kathryn could have hoped for. Even the weather. She drove out of London in brilliant summer sunshine, and soon left the capital far behind as she made her way west toward Gloucester, choosing to go across country rather than follow the main routes. She liked the rolling green countryside, quaint towns, and slower pace. She even liked the narrow roads and the evil gears of her rental car, but in her present frame of mind she’d probably have liked anything that took her away from the twin battlegrounds of marriage and career. Right now, both Richard Vansomeren and Diane Weinburger were magnificently far away on the other side of the Atlantic.
She was determined to use the next two weeks to think carefully about the future. There was no point in having this time to herself if going home meant picking up where she left off. Something had to give in her marriage, or she and Richard were headed straight for the divorce court. As for her fond wish of becoming a top TV reporter, well as things stood she’d already kissed that good-bye.
All this was going through her head as she drove, but as she reached the edge of the escarpment above the wide valley where Gloucester and neighboring Cheltenham were laid out before her, something happened that was so strange it made her temporarily forget all her problems.
The moment the panoramic view came into sight, she was struck by such a fierce feeling of déjà vu that she almost swerved her car into the path of an oncoming truck. With a scream she slammed on the brakes and the truck thundered past. It was a close call, and her heart pounded as she rested her forehead weakly against the steering wheel.
Recovering a little, she looked at the view again. There was something so oddly familiar about the way the magnificent medieval tower of Gloucester cathedral rose from the late afternoon haze that she shivered in spite of the summer heat. Then she shook her head. The prospect was clearly a famous one, for there was a special parking area just for admiring it, so she told herself she must have seen it in a travel magazine or something. But if she had, it wasn’t recently, because she hadn’t looked at any of the literature Richard had sent for. A wry smile touched her lips. If anyone should experience déjà vu here, it was Richard, not her.
After all, it was his mother’s family, the Larvilles, who came from these parts.
The “been here before” feeling lingered as she drove on down into the wide valley that had been carved by the River Severn, and intensified the closer she went to the city. By the time she turned into the short cobbled street that led to the cathedral gates, the sensations were so strong she felt that at any moment she’d see someone she knew. But there was no one.
The rented apartment lay just off the street, and was reached by a paved alley between the cathedral gates and a picturesque half-timbered restaurant called the Monk’s Retreat. The alley was fifty yards long and wide enough to drive down, ending in a rose-decked courtyard where simple seventeenth-century townhouses had been transformed into luxurious tourist accommodation. The little development was right in the heart of the medieval part of the city, but at the same time was very private and secluded, and every apartment enjoyed a splendid view of the cathedral tower against the flawless blue sky.
There was a resident janitor, a burly, comfortable man, with a broad smile and equally broad Gloucestershire accent. He came out the moment her car halted in the yard.
“Would you be Mrs. Vansomeren?” he asked, buttoning his blue jacket.
“Yes, I would, Mr. er...?”
“Elmore. Jack Elmore. I’m the caretaker. Everyone calls me Jack.”
“Right, Jack. I take it you got my message about my husband not coming?”
He nodded as he helped take her luggage from the trunk. “I trust you had a good journey?”
“Yes, excellent, thank you.” The courtyard roses were sweet and heady in the warm air, and the fragrance seemed to stir hidden memories. It was another odd feeling, like the way she’d felt when she saw the view from the escarpment.
“This way, if you please.” He led her to a corner door, beyond which a staircase led to the upper apartments. A thick plum-colored carpet softened their steps, and white-painted walls were hung with foxhunting prints. It was very quaint and “olde worlde”, as was the six-room apartment that was to be her home for the next fortnight. The pretty floral chintz furnishings, polished brass and copper, low beams, and alcoves were just what one wanted of England, but all the modern comforts were provided too. The kitchen was very well equipped, and the refrigerator was filled with all the food Richard had meticulously listed on first making the reservation.
Jack put all her luggage in the main bedroom. “I hope you like your accommodation, miss, I... I mean, Mrs. Vansomeren. Begging your pardon, but may I just call you ‘Miss’? It’s my habit, and I keep slipping back into it.”
“That’s okay. And yes, I do like the rooms. To be honest, I feel quite at home.” Well, certainly as if I’ve been here before, anyway!
“I’ll take that as a compliment to my wife’s homely touch, miss. Now then, we’ve stocked up everything on your husband’s list, and things like bread and milk are delivered every day. If you need anything else, just let me know. We’ll bring you whatever you want. And if you’d like to eat out, you won’t go wrong at the Monk’s Retreat. It’s run by my sister Daisy, so I can recommend the cooking! Nothing fancy and Frenchified, just plain English recipes. If you prefer ready meals delivered to your door, I know the best places for dishes from Chinese, Indian, Greek, Italian, and so on.”
“Thank you.”
He took a sheaf of leaflets from his pocket. “These might be of interest. They tell you about most of the attractions in the area. The Victorian docks are well worth a visit at the moment.”
“Docks?” She was taken aback, for Gloucester was inland.
He grinned. “I can tell you haven’t done your homework.”
“None at all.”
“Gloucester’s been a port since Roman times because it’s at the first fordable point on the Severn, which is tidal and treacherous quite a way inland. It’s got the second highest tide in the world, the highest is in Canada, I believe, so they built a dock basin and a canal to avoid the worst of the estuary.”
Something strange happened again then. She suddenly felt she knew all about the docks and the canal, and yet this was the first she’d heard of them. It must be some effect of jet lag.
Jack went on. “The tall ships are in at the moment, some of them genuinely old, others built for the movies. You shouldn’t miss seeing them. There’s a carnival, too, with all sorts of entertainments. It’s not quite Rio de Janiero, but we try our best.” He chuckled. “Well, I’ll leave you then. Now don’t forget, if there’s anything you want, anything, I’m your man.”
“Thank you, Jack.”
When he’d gone, she opened all the windows to let the scent of roses flood in. There was no great city roar, no automobile horns blaring, no distant sirens, just voices and the sound of footsteps on cobbles. It was a world away from New York. She gazed up at the cathedral, and knew she’d done the right thing coming here on her own. She felt relaxed already—in fact, she almost felt at home.
At home? She thought again how familiar everything seemed, and sighed. She was out of practice at traveling any distance, Diane Weinburger had seen to that. The flight here had taken a long time, and then there’d been the drive on the “wrong” side of the road in a car she didn’t like. All she needed was a rest to be as good as new, she decided.
After taking a shower and selecting something from the refrigerator, she rang Chicago in the hope of speaking to Richard, but he didn’t answer his cell phone. To be truthful, she wasn’t too displeased not to have caught him, because any conversation they had now was almost certain to end acrimoniously. So she sent a text message and then settled back to watch some TV, browse through the literature Jack had left, and generally while away what was left of the long summer evening.
It was twilight and she was just about to go to bed when Richard returned her call. As she feared, the conversation didn’t go well. He left her in no doubt he didn’t think much of her taking the vacation alone, then he hung up after again accusing her of selfishness. Slowly she put the receiver down. They couldn’t even speak long-distance without snarling, and divorce seemed inevitable.
She gazed down at the phone. Right now she felt like calling him back to say where he could stick his resentment and chauvinism. And after that she’d like to call Diane Weinburger and tell her a few choice home truths. The temptation was almost too great to resist, but resist it she did. She’d come here to think sensibly, not to let her stress run berserk.
After such a hectic day, she expected to sleep like a log until morning, but something awakened her just before midnight. She lay there in the darkness wondering what had disturbed her. The night was unexpectedly humid and uncomfortable, not what she’d expected of England. Maybe she shouldn’t have closed the window before getting in bed.
She got up to open it again. Cooler air swept refreshingly over her naked skin, and the night perfume of the roses in the courtyard was almost intoxicating. The cathedral was floodlit, standing out in amber glory against the starry black sky. A group of people laughed and joked together as they left the Monk’s Retreat, and she was watching them cross the road when they suddenly disappeared.
Disappeared? She stared blankly. One moment they’d been there, the next they’d simply vanished. But then, so had most of the street detail she’d seen so clearly only seconds before. Then she realized there were no bright street lamps anymore. Everything was in virtual darkness, even the cathedral. What had happened? Had there been a power outage?
Instinctively she turned to try the TV, but it wasn’t there; instead, there was a lighted candle on a table that had seen better days. The little flame swayed gently, illuminating a room that wasn’t there either. At least, a room that shouldn’t be there, but was. The bed she’d just gotten out of had changed into an ancient but good-quality four-poster that almost touched the low ceiling. There was no TV, video, or phone, not even a carpet, nothing modern at all, just the bed, table, two chairs and a dusty old fireplace that yawned blackly where a few moments be
fore there had been a replica inglenook complete with traditional log effect.
It was a simple room, and not the property of someone of means. A retired servant from a mansion, perhaps. Yes, that would explain the four-poster, which had clearly once been a very superior piece of furniture...
Her mouth ran dry. She was looking into the past, at the house as it had been. Oh, no, first of all the déjà vu, now she was hallucinating! She choked back a cry, closed her eyes, and turned toward the window again. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. She’d count to ten, pinch herself, and then look again.
But when she’d done that, and hesitantly opened her eyes once more, she found herself staring at her jeweled reflection in the window glass. Jeweled reflection? She gasped, for a glittering comb sparkled in her carefully arranged golden curls. Her heart gave a sickening lurch. She didn’t have a comb like that, or long golden hair worn up in a style that reminded her of ancient Rome, but the woman who gazed back at her had both, and was dressed in an high-waisted emerald silk gown with the Empire silhouette that been all the rage in the first quarter of the nineteenth century. English Regency. Yes, that was it. Like a character from Jane Austen, or Georgette Heyer.
She gazed incredulously. Everything about her had changed. Her boyish figure had become much more feminine and curvaceous, with a tiny waist and full breasts that were barely contained by the low-cut neckline of her gown. She was still in her mid-twenties, but now had an appealingly beautiful face, with a pale but perfect complexion, and eloquent lips that trembled a little nervously. She was clearly a woman of high fashion, poised and confident. No, perhaps not poised or confident. In fact, this new self was clearly uneasy, maybe even a little frightened, and not just from the shock of what was happening.
Always one to seek a rational explanation, Kathryn’s first thought was that the reflection must be of someone standing behind her, so she glanced sharply over her shoulder, but there was no one there. Maybe it was a trick of the light, like in the desert or most of the so-called UFO sightings. Yes, that could be it. But when she looked at the reflection again, she knew it was no mirage. What she was seeing was really there.