“Then you are my Achilles heel, because I can’t resist you.” His tone was as intimate as a caress, a brush of his hand down her cheek and neck.
The clock struck twelve, and she jerked. She’d been expecting the hour, but was surprised when it arrived so quickly. Through the linen of her dress, the breeze turned cold on her skin.
This was the moment she’d been waiting for. Then why was she ambivalent? Because there were so many goodbyes to say. Not just long goodbyes, but forever ones.
And she had no portrait to take home to add to her collection. Monsieur David had pleaded with her to let him exhibit his portrait of her at the Salon when it was finished. He was far enough along now to finish it without her present.
Thomas pulled her to him and took her mouth again. All resistance fled, burned away by the heat of his touch, leaving her weak and wanting. His mouth roamed at will, no longer gentle as he devoured her, ravenous against the smooth curve of her throat, the soft flesh of her ear. With a guttural groan, he jerked her even closer with powerful arms, consuming her mouth with a kiss surely driven by the sheer will to ravish.
She broke the kiss and rested her forehead on his chest. His heart pounded against her cheek.
“You are one of the truly greatest men God will ever put on this earth.” She slipped her hand into her pocket as the seconds ticked past the witching hour. “You’ll be remembered through the ages for everything you’ve accomplished”—She used her fingernail to flick open the brooch—“and will accomplish in your lifetime. People listen to you because you are the master of the science of human rights.”
Perspiration dampened the back of her neck, and she had the strangest sensation that she was observing herself from the other side of the room. “I’ll never forget the day I tripped and fell into your arms.”
“I’m sorry you were hurt, but the injury kept you here with me, with Patsy and Polly.”
She rubbed the brooch between the fabric of her skirts and her palm. “When you look at your portrait, I hope you’ll remember our conversations about women and voting and freedom.”
“When I look at these portraits, I’ll think of you. But why are you talking like this? You sound like you’re leaving tonight. You must be tired. I’ll call Marguerite to help you to your room.”
She had only a few minutes left to tell him what she wanted him to know. She rubbed the brooch harder, her breathing more and more erratic. “Don’t be a contradiction, Thomas. If you believe in freedom, free all those who are enslaved. If you believe in education, teach all who desire to learn. If you believe in the pursuit of happiness, let those around you freely pursue a joyful life.”
Her entire body was primed, ready for what was to come. When she came through the fog two weeks ago, the pearl was hotter than it had been on previous trips, and she had tossed it back and forth. But now…
It was stone…cold.
Fear rang in her bones as she rubbed the stone harder and shook uncontrollably.
“Sophia.” He backed up a little to look down into her face. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
“I have to go.” She pushed past him, shambling away as if sleepwalking through the garden, putting distance between them to face the delinquent brooch wizards alone. “Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an’ gaol ach ’s ann le neart anama.”
“Sophia!” Thomas rushed after her. “Come back inside. It’s late. And you don’t have your crutches.”
He reached for her arm, but she yanked it away. Her stomach did flips of fear—crippling, paralyzing fear.
“I can’t…I can’t breathe.” A jolt of dread shook her so hard she could scarcely move. She limped toward the gate leading out onto the Champs-Élysées. “Heat up. Please heat up,” she mumbled.
This time he reached for both of her arms and held her in place. “You’re shaking. Tell me what’s wrong.” There was a new tone in his voice. Not just concern. Fear.
He sounded so far away. Everything around her was fading. “Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an’ gaol ach ’s ann le neart anama.” The blackness was coming for her. “Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an’ gaol ach ’s ann le neart anama.” But the brooch wasn’t heating. She held it between her hands and blew on it. But it didn’t get any warmer.
“What are you saying?” he asked. “I don’t know what you’re saying.” He swooped her up into his arms and rushed back into the studio, where he placed her gently on the sofa. “The blood’s drained from your face, and you’re shaking like a person with palsy. What in God’s name happened? What language are you speaking?”
She squeezed her eyes shut, pulled herself back from the unknown blackness, focused her energy on the brooch to ground herself in the here and now, but the shaking worsened. “When was the B-Bas…tille stormed? What was…the date?”
“Fourteenth of July.”
“What’s…t-today?”
“The twenty-eighth.”
Confirmation held the sting of a knife cut. “Fourteen…days. Two weeks…ago.”
“A fortnight,” he said.
She wasn’t wrong about the date. The brooch had always worked at midnight at the end of the fourteenth day.
This time it wasn’t working. It delivered her to the wrong year, and now she was stranded in the eighteenth century. And no one knew where she was. Even if they knew, they’d have no way to come after her.
Absolute terror shook her to her core. Thomas pushed the sofa closer to the fireplace, lit the laid fire, grabbed his jacket, and covered her with it. “My God, Sophia. What’s wrong?”
When she didn’t respond, he threw open the door and yelled for Mr. Petit. “Get the doctor. Sophia is having a spasm.” He poured wine into a glass, lifted her head. Somehow she was able to drink a few sips, but she couldn’t stop shaking. It was worse than the post-anesthesia shaking she had following previous surgeries.
“I’m scared.” A tear trickled down her cheek.
He wiped it away with his fingertip. “I’ll protect you.”
“I want to go home.”
“I’ll take you there.”
“I want to go to my home.”
“I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
“You can’t!” She rolled over onto her side, curled into a ball.
In her mind she was seventeen again and being ripped from Pete’s arms.
She covered her mouth with her hands while chanting, “Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an’ gaol ach ’s ann le neart anama. Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an’ gaol ach ’s ann le neart anama. Chan ann le tìm no àite a bhios sinn a’ tomhais an’ gaol ach ’s ann le neart anama.”
No matter how many times she chanted the incantation, there was no fog, no smell of peat, no hot brooch. Only the crackling of the fire and Thomas’s strong arms.
27
Paris (1789)—Sophia
For four days Sophia was almost comatose. She either sat in the garden, barely speaking, or she rested in her room. She ate very little and slept even less.
Thomas told everyone her frantic pace the last two weeks had exhausted her, and the doctor had prescribed bedrest. He allowed the girls short visits once a day, and Marguerite stood vigil to make sure everyone obeyed his edict. The brooch stayed pinned to Sophia’s dress, close to her skin so she would know immediately if it heated.
So far, it hadn’t.
What was she going to do? She spent hours mindlessly gazing off at nothing, hopelessly lost in time.
Thomas’s temporary leave still hadn’t arrived, and he was waiting to hear from John Trumbull about booking a ship to depart from the Isle of Wight. It was assumed she would travel with them. She had yet to say yes or no. Staying in Paris wasn’t an option. Returning to Florence as an Orsini would get complicated. Going to America was the wrong direction. Maybe London would be a good compromise.
Early on the fifth day, while sitting in the garden, Margueri
te placed sketching paper and chalk in her lap. “Mademoiselle, everyone is concerned about your health. Please, won’t you sketch today?”
Sophia recalled a memory of her grandmother setting a college catalogue in her lap after she’d grieved for an entire month over losing Pete. “You have a life to live. Start living it today,” her nonna had said. Marguerite was telling her the same thing.
She still had a life to live. Her mind couldn’t remain stalled in neutral forever. A plan for her future had to be made, and what better way to start the planning process than with a mild workout? Maybe afterwards she’d feel like sketching.
“Will you get my Tai Chi clothes? I’ll do a short workout, then sketch for a while.”
Marguerite’s face lit up. “I have them in the studio. If you’ll come inside, I’ll help you undress.”
Fifteen minutes later Sophia was immersed in an intense workout, ignoring the minor knee pain. Each posture flowed into the next without pause, ensuring that her body was in constant motion, promoting serenity in gentle movements. She hadn’t set out to go through her entire repertoire of rhythmic patterns and positions, but once she started, she continued, searching for the inner calm she desperately needed.
After a final deflect, parry, and punch, she pivoted around, scooped down, stood up, brought her feet together, and bowed. When she looked up, Thomas was standing in the middle of the open French doors, his arms folded, the sun hitting him full on the face. She was disheveled and sweaty, but from his awed expression, he didn’t seem to care. She swiped sweat off her brow.
“Good morning, Ambassador.”
He stepped out into the garden. “That was the most alluring series of movements I’ve ever seen—part heron, part ballerina.”
Her unbound breasts went rigid under his heated gaze. “How long were you standing there?”
“Marguerite told me you were exercising. I came to see for myself and was so enthralled I couldn’t leave. I stood in the shadows so I wouldn’t disturb you.”
“I’m glad I did a short routine, or you could have been there for hours.”
He pulled on the gold chain dangling from his waistcoat pocket and checked the time on his watch. “Two and a half to be exact. But I could have stood in the shadows for twice as long. Come inside. Mr. Petit fixed a pitcher of lemonade. He thought you’d be thirsty.”
“Would he mind bringing it out here?”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t. But I’ll do the honors.” Thomas tucked the watch back into his pocket, went inside, and came out carrying a silver tray. He set it on the table next to the bench and filled their glasses. “If Tai Chi was developed for self-defense, at that turtle pace, every practitioner would be killed instantly.”
She wrapped a linen towel around her shoulders and dabbed at the sweat on her neck and cheeks. “Tai Chi loosely translated means Supreme Ultimate Skill. Its history comes from the legend of the snake and crane. After witnessing a fight between them, Tai Chi was created.”
“I can see the snake and crane in your movements, but the crane would have been bitten on the leg and killed.”
She shook her finger back and forth. “Not so fast, Grasshopper. Let me show you.” She dropped her towel on the bench, bowed, and then proceeded to perform a two-minute demonstration at combat speed. She finished, bowed again. “Now do I have a believer?”
He stared in open-mouthed disbelief. “You must teach me.”
“I take it that’s a yes.” She picked up her towel again and wiped off additional sweat. “If you want to learn, you’ll need a pair of loose-fitting pants and shirt so you can move freely. Marguerite can make them for you. If you want, we can start in the morning at sunrise.” She sat down, closed her eyes, and concentrated on nothing except her breathing—in, out, in, out.
Thomas joined her on the bench and sat quietly until she opened her eyes. Then he handed her a glass of lemonade. “Why did you call me a grasshopper?”
“It’s a reference to a novice.” She drank deeply, then wiped her mouth with the bend of her finger. “The snake and crane are a perfect exhibition of the principles of adapting to change and the ability to blend soft and hard, strength and yielding. The crane can swoop down from a tree with its wings fully spread and use its hard beak to initiate an attack. The snake uses its deceptive coiling movements to evade danger and then lashes out with its tail. They could eventually tire themselves out and call it a draw.”
He refilled her glass. “Debates with you are often like a battle between a snake and crane. But with us it’s usually a draw.”
“Hmm. I’m not sure how to take that. At least I’m not the loser.” She finished her second glass of lemonade. “Now that I’m somewhat recovered, I owe you an apology. It’s been very stressful since I arrived in Paris. With what happened at the Bastille, then my knee injury, and the painting frenzy, it created a perfect storm.” She untied her hair and ran her fingers through it to let the sweat dry. How could she explain how horrendous it had been to discover she couldn’t go home again? She couldn’t. Even now she found it impossible to believe. “I snapped. I have no other explanation.”
“It happened so quickly, I knew I had caused it.”
“It wasn’t anything you did.”
“Since you’ve been here you’ve worked day and night. You haven’t slept and have barely taken time to eat. The doctor said you should recover after sufficient rest.” He set his glass aside and laced his fingers with hers. “You have overtaxed yourself, but I’m at fault. I apologized once for my behavior, then proceeded to transgress again.”
“An unmarried man kissing an unmarried woman isn’t a transgression. Unless the kiss was forced. Then it would be wrong. A few kisses didn’t cause a mild breakdown. It was a combination of exhaustion, fatigue, and the knee injury.”
And total anguish at the possibility of being stranded in the eighteenth century.
He fixed her with his intense gaze. “Are you sure?”
She set her glass down, placed her hand over his, sandwiching it between hers, and squeezed. “Can we put it behind us and not talk about it again?”
“I will, if you’ll answer one question.”
She reclaimed her hands and retied her ponytail. “I’ll try.” At least he didn’t ask her to answer truthfully.
“What language were you speaking?”
“Gaelic. It’s a Gaelic…blessing. I’m not sure of the translation.” She had to tell him something, so she fell back on the ancient Irish prayer. “A literal translation is ‘May you succeed on the road,’ or ‘bon voyage,’ or ‘May the wind be ever at your back.’ I learned it as a child and I fall back on it…” She rolled her hand around. “Sort of like a mantra.”
Mr. Petit came to the door. “The Duke of Dorset is in the salon. Shall I ask him to return later?”
“No, I need to speak with him. I’ll be right there.”
Thomas stood and gazed down at Sophia, and a jolt of electricity sizzled through her, spilling from the roots of her hair clear down to the tips of her toes.
“We have an invitation to attend Lafayette’s salon tonight,” he said.
Heat had returned to her cheeks, and it had nothing to do with exercise or the warm August morning. “Why don’t you go without me? The General will ask when I can start on their portraits, and I’m not sure yet.”
“I’ll pass along your regrets. Until later, then.”
After Thomas left, she stretched out on the sofa Mr. Petit had moved out to the garden earlier. What was she going to do?
She closed her eyes and slipped back into meditative breathing, searching for clarity. She mentally traveled back to the day her grandmother gave her the brooch. Then later, when she discovered the letter from James MacKlenna. With the help of a Gaelic dictionary, she’d translated it. Weeks after that, she time-traveled for the first time—accidentally. Talk about frightening. But once she met Leonardo, nothing else mattered until the brooch warmed up again.
But that wasn’t the cas
e this time. Going home mattered. Recovering her life mattered. Making peace with Pete’s ghost mattered.
The pearl had taken her back and forth five times, but the sixth time it screwed up. Why?
She snapped her fingers repeatedly as she attempted to draw something from memory. The answers were clanging around in her brain, trying to sort themselves out.
She shivered, feeling all goosebumpy. “Come on. Come on. I know you’re in there.” If only she had someone to brainstorm with. Together they could solve her dilemma. What if she told Thomas? Would he believe her? He’d have to. She knew everything about him. At least everything Meacham thought a reader needed to know.
A lightbulb exploded in her brain.
Kapow! Thwack! Zam! Digby!
What about him? Think. Think. What did she know about her grandfather and his family? Digbys were around in 1625, and they were still around in the twenty-first century. That meant only one thing—they had to exist now—in 1789.
She paced back and forth in the garden. Her heart was beating so fast it might just burst through her chest wall and take off on its own Digby search. Here a Digby, there a Digby, everywhere a Digby.
But where was the beginning of the Yellow Brick Road?
The beginning was in Scotland. Right? Of course. So all she had to do was get there, ask around, find a Digby. Simple. Once she found one, she could flash her brooch and watch for some sign of recognition, then trade her pearl for another one.
Was she crazy? But what were her options? Live in the eighteenth century for the rest of her life? No. That wasn’t an option at all.
She had a lot to learn about Scotland in the eighteenth century. Thomas might have some helpful books, but what she really needed was firsthand knowledge from someone who had spent time there. Someone who knew the country well.
She snapped her fingers. Bingo! The perfect candidate was visiting Thomas at that very moment—Britain’s Ambassador to France, the Duke of Dorset.
She rushed into the studio and dressed. But her hair was still damp and her face flushed. There was an important guest in the house, and she should respect Thomas’s position enough to look respectable. She would sneak upstairs and let Marguerite help her change and dress her hair. If she looked and smelled like a scullery maid, His Grace would ignore her. Thank goodness Thomas closed his door when he met with diplomats.
The Pearl Brooch Page 36