Divine (House of Oak Book 2)

by Nichole Van

  “I agree. ‘Tis a pity that Dr. Carson hasn’t been more forthcoming. It is as if Miss Knight has fallen off the planet. I have not been able to find a trace of her anywhere.”

  They rode in silence for a minute.

  “It seems unlikely that she is no longer . . . living?” Sebastian shied away from the word dead.

  Phillips nodded almost reluctantly. “It would be odd of Knight to lie about her death. But, it is hard to know his true motivations. Perhaps the manner of her death was disgraceful in some way, and Knight wishes to protect the family honor . . .” Phillips’ voice trailed off.

  Sebastian swallowed. It was his worst fear.

  That Georgiana was already gone, his chance with her lost before it had even begun. He didn’t care if Georgiana was dying, if she was emaciated and feeble, her body wracked with ragged coughing. He just wanted to see her again, to hear her voice.

  Sebastian stared sightlessly out the window. Wildflowers dotted the lane, poking their heads out from the grasses, a riot of late summer color. Reds, pinks, yellows followed by bush after bush covered in small icy blue flowers.

  “Here, Seb,” Georgiana said, handing him poppies and daisies. “These will do.”

  “What about some of those cornflowers?” He pointed to the cobalt stems dancing farther out in the meadow.

  She glanced at the flowers and then turned back to him. “To match my eyes?” she asked, shamelessly fluttering her eyelashes.

  “No. Cornflower is not the right color. Too dark,” he returned drolly. “Your eyes are definitely more forget-me-not blue.”

  “Not larkspur or bluebell?”

  “Not in the slightest. Forget-me-nots. Two little flowers of them.”

  She matched his wry smile. Nudged him with her shoulder. “And will you ever?”

  He gave her a questioning eyebrow.

  “Forget me?” she asked, teasing.

  He stilled, her words a lance to the heart.

  “No.” A pause. “That’s what ‘forget-me-not eyes’ mean. You don’t ever leave them behind.”

  He ran a hand over his face and turned away from the window.

  He was nearly at the end of his tether, unsure and helpless as to what to do next.

  Two months. He had just shy of two months left. What time did Georgiana have?

  He needed to find her. Soon.

  He refused to leave her behind, to forget, to move on with his life.

  But time was, indeed, running out. For both of them.

  Chapter 3

  Duir Cottage

  Herefordshire,

  August 14-17, 2013

  What to do?

  Georgiana felt herself sliding into a morass of indecision. It beat a steady tattoo in her head.

  Whattodowhattodowhattodowhattodo.

  The letter had thrown her life into confusion. It was proof—wasn’t it?—that she did indeed return to the past and soon.

  Like a tourist. She could take the air, wear a high-waisted dress, embroider some flowers. Discover what her letter was all about.

  But . . .

  What if she returned to 1813, and then the portal didn’t let her come back to the present? What if she fell in love and decided to stay in the nineteenth century? What if she never saw James again?

  That thought made her want to stay put. How could she risk being parted from James? Being nearly eight years apart in age, their relationship had always been part brother/sister and part father/daughter. With the death of their parents, James had assumed responsibility for raising her, for guiding her into adulthood. He was so very dear, and she was closer to him than anyone else. Just the mere thought of life without him made her eyes sting.

  But to not return at all . . . would she tear apart the fabric of the universe if she didn’t go back?

  Honestly, proper young ladies should not be faced with such difficult questions, as etiquette books did not cover these topics.

  The fair maiden, when presented with a paradoxical time travel enigma which threatens the very foundations of humanity, should endeavor to listen to the tender admonitions of the gentle muse . . .

  It was probably just nerves. Dinner with Shatner on Tuesday had rattled her. Committing herself to a more serious relationship with him was a big decision. She had watched enough American sitcoms to know this. Of course she would find it difficult.

  She had promised Shatner she would think over his proposal and call him while he was in Namibia.

  Georgiana pondered this on Wednesday as she drove to taekwondo, shopped at Co-operative Foods and studied modern culture by reading a celebrity mag. She also took three quizzes on Facebook. Answers: Lydia Bennett, executive chef and 89% British. For dinner, she ate her favorite low-mien takeaway and then slumped on the sofa, watching the BBC Sherlock into the wee hours of the morning. Again.

  She tried to assess the situation with Shatner, but it was hopeless. All her concerns about him were wrapped up in her inscrutable letter.

  Oh, that letter!

  It was like the holy grail of mysteries, an unbearable siren calling to her. Circe to Odysseus.

  A church steeple to lightning.

  A white t-shirt to ketchup.

  Sherlock would take one look at it and divine all its secrets, she was sure. But, alas, she was no detective.

  Not for lack of trying, however.

  She had taken a photo of the odd number four-ish symbol and plugged it into Google image search. Google had pulled up page after page of spindly floor lamps. Decidedly less-than-helpful.

  Wasn’t Google supposed to know everything? What was the point of living in the twenty-first century if she couldn’t get an immediate answer to every nagging question?

  The letter teased her. She read it over and over, her breath repeatedly snagging on those simple words: my darling love.

  Who did she adore like that? Did she mean those words for Shatner? She wasn’t sure she felt that way about him yet. Perhaps spending time in the past would solidify her affections for him.

  But why did she return to 1813 to write a love letter to Shatner? It all made no sense.

  She knew from past experience that a good list could solve most problems.

  So sitting at the rough-hewn kitchen table, bare feet tucked underneath her, tablet and the plastic-covered letter in hand, she made a list of all the clues she could deduce.

  My Mysterious Love Letter

  She looked at her title for a moment and then decided to replace all the ‘o’s with heart emoji.

  Much better.

  From there, she studied the contents of the letter. The moth holes and generally terrible poor condition of the paper didn’t give her much, but after a few minutes, she did have some items listed.

  The letter bears my signature and most certainly appears to be my handwriting.

  The date and my own memory indicate that I have not, as of yet, written this letter.

  Though with what is legible from the date (—ber . . . 1813), I write it sometime between September and December. Which means that I could leave for the past any time now.

  The letter implies that I fall in love, so much so that I long for this mystery man’s embrace. And I call him ‘darling.’

  I say ‘forgive me.’ Have I done something that needs forgiveness?

  She pondered that for a minute. She regularly did and said things which required forgiveness, so that part actually wasn’t too surprising. Half the letters she wrote included an apology of some sort.

  She turned the letter over and examined the outside.

  There is an odd mark on the outside that looks like a swooping letter four. It seems deliberate. But what does it mean and why?

  I wrote the letter to Haldon Manor (where I usually live when in 1813). Am I not at home when I write this? If not, who would be at Haldon Manor while I was away?

  She studied her list, particularly the last point. Why did she put the direction as Haldon Manor? Perhaps she did write it to Shatner and then Arth
ur was supposed to deliver it somehow?

  It made no sense.

  The letter was a torment. She hated not knowing.

  She didn’t call Shatner.

  On Thursday, Georgiana pondered curiosity and wondered why God had cursed her with it.

  She even trekked down to the cellar in Duir Cottage and sat in front of the time portal. It seemed innocuous enough. A huge slab of stone standing upright on the wall opposite the narrow wooden stairs. Sitting crossed-legged on the dirt floor in pajama bottoms and tight t-shirt, she felt the heavy air, the thrum of some unseen force. The portal was potently alive.

  Once hidden under the roots of an ancient oak tree, the portal had been inaccessible for millennia. But the death of the old oak had uncovered the portal, making travel through it possible. This particular portal was connected to a point two hundred years in the past, tethering 2013 and 1813 together.

  Georgiana knew that, for the portal, time was not a river but a vast ocean—a sea where the life of each person who had ever lived existed simultaneously as rippling concentric rings on its surface. Past and future being eternally present. Jasmine—Emme’s best friend and a bit of a mystic—had told her this much. Where the rings of one person’s life touched those of another, the universe provided a link, a pathway that could be traversed. So if the path of one’s life required a trip through the portal, then the trip would be possible. If not, the portal would not work.

  Worst of all, due to the cosmic forces at work, she couldn’t research the letter. Georgiana knew from experience that the universe prevented one from seeing things that pertained to one’s own life. She had tried multiple times to see information about her past. But something always got in the way. The person she needed to talk to was out sick for the day or the required documents couldn’t be found.

  There was always some impediment.

  Emme claimed it had something to with protecting the space-time continuum. It was often hard for Georgiana to get her mind around it.

  But one simple fact was obvious: receiving the letter indicated that her destiny was still linked to someone in 1813. But who? And why?

  After climbing out of the cellar, Georgiana watched Pride and Prejudice again, smugly pointing out each and every historical inaccuracy. Honestly, real nineteenth century ladies always wore gloves. Though Colin Firth plastered in a wet, muslin shirt was a delicious twenty-first century perk.

  She read another celebrity mag and took a few more Facebook quizzes. Answers: Watson, adventurous personality and slim leg Hudson jeans.

  She still didn’t call Shatner.

  On Friday, Georgiana woke up with a firm resolve.

  It was time to bring in the heavy artillery. She needed answers, and there was only one person who could help with a time travel, love conundrum such as this.

  She texted the letter to Jasmine.

  “I knew that something was in the works for you. I just knew it!” Jasmine said, her American accent exuberant and startlingly loud on the phone. Jasmine was always excited. And loud. “Your star charts have been pointing toward an enormous change for months, but it’s been shrouded in this fog of mystery. I mean, I just thought it was related to Shatner and his travels, but now this letter arrives and, all I can say, is, uhm . . . wow! Are you so thrilled?”

  Finally! Trust Jasmine to get into the proper spirit of the thing.

  “This letter is killing me, just . . . killing!” Jasmine added for emphasis.

  Georgiana laughed. “Yes, it’s been tying me into knots. I am at a loss as to what to do. Obviously, I am supposed to return to 1813, and the letter itself is thrilling, as you say. But the consequences worry me. What if I return and then can’t come back?”

  “Hmmm, that is a legit concern. The portal isn’t something you can travel at will. You can only go through if the expanding ring of your own life is intertwined with another’s—”

  “Exactly! But if I don’t go back, what will happen? Will I shred the space-time continuum? Will we all wake up one morning with webbed feet and eating flies because I chose not to—”

  “Oh please!” Jasmine laughed “No offense, Georgie, but I don’t think you’re that important to the universe. I mean, of course, you are important, but you travel the portal for your own good, your own happiness.”

  “But I’m worried to risk it, to be parted from James and Emme and everyone else here. If I don’t return, won’t something terrible happen?”

  “I honestly don’t know. This letter indicates your circle is still linked to someone in the past. You can chose to ignore that connection and, at some point, the link will break—”

  “Break?”

  “Well, it’s probably more of a rip. When your circles come apart, the division will tear through the fabric of your life. Cause some kind of damage.” Jasmine sounded excessively sure on that point.

  A shiver shot through Georgiana. “I can’t say I like the sound of that.”

  “Agreed. Obviously, I have never seen a situation like this, so I can’t say what the exact damage would be. It’s entirely possible that it means you remain single for the rest of your life. Like choosing to ignore the path of your destiny kinda pulls you out of circulation, as it were.”

  Georgiana swallowed. To remain single? For the rest of her life?

  “Okay,” she said after a moment. “So deciding to remain here is not a good idea. Do you have any thoughts about the letter?”

  “It’s definitely fascinating.” Jasmine clicked her tongue, as if thinking. “My only question is why the Jupiter sign? I didn’t know you took a serious interest in astrology too.”

  Georgiana froze.

  “Pardon me, the what?”

  “The Jupiter sign, ya know, king of the Roman gods and all that.”

  Georgiana knew who Jupiter was. She did know her ancient mythology better than most. She hadn’t been born in 1789 for nothing.

  At Georgiana’s silence, Jasmine continued. “That odd number four looking design is the astrological sign for Jupiter. It’s an extremely old symbol, found in some of the earliest Greek texts.”

  Georgiana felt her eyes widen. This whole mystery just kept getting better and better.

  There was now an astrological symbol involved too. The thought made her toes tingle.

  Jasmine continued, “Personally, I think it’s a stylized letter zeta from the Greek alphabet.”

  “Zeta? It’s a zeta?” Georgiana was quite sure she was babbling just a bit. She pulled her thoughts together. “Representing Zeus, the Greek equivalent of Jupiter?”

  “Exactly. Though some say it’s meant to look like a stylized thunderbolt or an eagle’s wings—”

  “An eagle?”

  “Yeah, eagles were always associated with Jupiter and Zeus.”

  An eagle! Just when she didn’t think her letter could get any more interesting. Georgiana grabbed her tablet and looked at her list. She added another point.

  The odd symbol on the outside could be an ancient symbol for Jupiter (planet or god) or a zeta for Zeus, both associated with thunderbolts and eagles. If that is what the symbol represents, why is it in my love letter?

  She surveyed her new entry with satisfaction. If she could put aside her worries over being parted from James, the entire situation would be euphorically intriguing.

  Jasmine sighed. “Oh, Georgiana, I’m so happy for you. This is going to be so awesome!”

  Awesome. Right. That was an excellent way to view it.

  “I don’t see the connection with the rest of your letter, though,” Jasmine said. “I mean, Jupiter is the king of the gods. The god of power and rule. He has little to do with love. How does it all tie together? I cannot wait to hear what you find out about this in 1813.”

  Georgiana laughed. “Assuming, of course, that the portal allows me to return to the twenty-first century.”

  Jasmine made a dismissive noise.

  “Don’t worry, Georgiana. The universe has your best interest at heart. It wants you
to be happy. You will end up where you are meant to be.”

  When phrased like that, Georgiana’s decision seemed so fatalistically easily.

  Of course, Jasmine regularly made ridiculous things sound sensible. It was a bit of a gift with her.

  Or was it a curse?

  “Seriously, Georgie. Just enjoy the ride and trust the process. All will be right in the end.”

  Saturday arrived and Georgiana still hadn’t called Shatner.

  But she had made a firm decision.

  James was not happy about it.

  “Georgie, don’t listen to Jasmine. You don’t have to return.”

  “But if I don’t return, who knows what will happen. It’s my destiny. Besides, the letter presents so many delicious questions—”

  “You and your mysteries. Is it time for a Sherlock detox again? You don’t have to return to 1813 to find a perplexing secret to unravel.”

  She stared at him on her phone screen; Skype calls were her favorite. James wore a body-hugging t-shirt and loose khaki shorts, eyes vividly blue in his tanned face. He and Emme were still in Bali. Blurry palm trees swayed behind him.

  He scrubbed a hand through his bright blond hair, shaking his head.

  “If I somehow arranged for you to have dinner with Benedict Cumberbatch, would you stay?”

  Georgiana stilled. Mmm, that was tempting.

  “James, this isn’t about solving some random mystery. This is my mystery. Something from my own life—”

  “But if you go back . . . you nearly died of consumption. What if you returned and—”

  “Yes, returning is fraught with danger. But then so is staying here. I could die just as easily in a car accident.”

  He gave a wry smile.

  “True that. I have experienced your driving and—”

  “James, stop! My driving has improved immensely.”

  He waved his hand.

  “And what if you return and Arthur has told everyone that you died? It seems he has already told everyone in 1813 about my supposed death in a carriage accident. Remember the parish entry we found? It has to be significant if the universe allowed us to see such a small detail about our own lives. Arthur can only hedge for so long about you too. Everyone back home thinks you have gone to Liverpool to be treated for consumption. At some point, Arthur needs to resolve that story. What if you return home only to barge in on your own funeral?”