Across Time: Across Time Book 1

by Elizabeth O'Roark

  “When Marie asked you, not once but twice, if you thought I looked nice, all you had to say was yes,” I hiss. “Don’t worry. I’d never in a million years believe you meant it. But you couldn’t even do that much. And it wouldn’t hurt if you were an asshole to everyone, or maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much…but I saw you tonight and you’re not. You were only an asshole to me.”

  He looks uncertain for the first time all night. “Of course you look nice,” he offers.

  I slowly raise my eyes to his. Every hope I had for the evening is gone, and it leaves me feeling hollowed out inside, emptied. Even replying to him takes energy I no longer to seem to have. “It would already have been meaningless if you’d said it the first two times Marie asked. For you to say it now because you think I’m upset means even less. I don’t give a shit what you think anyway. It’s just time for me to go home.”

  I take the crutches from him and walk inside the house, certain I’ll hear something about my unladylike mouth before I reach my door, but it doesn’t come. Instead he walks up behind me in the kitchen, where not a single light flickers, and places a hand on my shoulder.

  “You’re exquisite,” he says quietly. “You’re exquisite when you’re outside feeding the chickens and when you’re in here scrubbing laundry, sweaty and annoyed with me. You took my breath away when I walked in the room tonight…something I assumed you must realize since no one at the dance could look away from you.”

  I swallow and turn toward him. His dismissal tonight hurt more than I could even admit to myself until now, and my eyes threaten to well over. He places one hand on my waist and I feel like I can scarcely breathe.

  “Then why didn’t you say so?” I whisper, my voice rough. “You acted like you didn’t even want me there.”

  He glances between us, at his hand on my waist, at the hint of cleavage rising above the bodice of the dress, and takes a deep breath. “I didn’t want you there tonight because I knew exactly what would happen.”

  “What did you think would happen?”

  His lips press to the top of my head. “That everyone would discover a secret I wanted to keep to myself,” he says quietly, and then he turns and walks away.

  21

  Nothing has changed, and everything has changed.

  I was awake for a long time after he left me at the door to my room, facing some facts I probably should have faced far sooner—about how much more I feel for Henri than I should, and how much my feelings for Mark seem to pale in comparison. I don’t know what this will mean when I go home, but what it means while I’m here is that I can’t look at Henri the way I did before. It’s more than a crush or infatuation, and maybe it’ll all die away when I leave—it would certainly be for the best if it did—but I know now that a part of me wants it to never end.

  I'm sitting with Marie at the kitchen table shelling peas when Henri walks in.

  "Good morning," he says.

  "Good morning," I reply. I am blushing.

  “No jokes about murder today, then?” Marie asks, regarding the two of us with amusement in her eyes.

  He glances at me and I flush again. Something has shifted between us. It feels dangerous but also beguiling, like a beautifully wrapped gift I know I shouldn’t open. I'm drawn toward this thing knowing full well I should head in the opposite direction.

  There's a good breeze and the sun is strong, so when Marie leaves for town I grab the laundry basket full of wet sheets and head outside to hang them on the line, accustomed enough to the cast that I can manage small distances without crutches.

  The sheets billow as I hang them and the air is heavy with their fragrance. My dress whips around my legs in the breeze, a stray lock of hair flying across my face. I wonder what it's like here in the fall, in the spring. I picture the winter hard and cold, yet even that has a certain appeal. I could make Henri cocoa again, I find myself thinking. A smile crosses my face at the thought when I see Henri climbing the hill, his eyes fixed on nothing but me. I meet his gaze and he doesn't look away. He keeps walking towards me until we stand only feet apart.

  His eyes dip to my mouth. "You shouldn't be doing that," he says. "You could fall." His voice seems to come from far away, but his eyes are right here, on me, in a way I swear I can feel.

  "I'm okay," I reply. "I've gotten used to the cast."

  He considers me for a moment. I see the tiniest hint of vulnerability in his eyes. "It's supposed to storm later in the week," he says. "If you'd like to go riding, we might want to go today."

  I feel faint. I'm so consumed with whatever this new thing is between us that it's hard to even understand what he's saying.

  "I have to read to Madame Perot this afternoon."

  "Afterward, then," he says, pulling one end of the sheet from me and draping it over the line.

  I smile. "Okay."

  His mouth lifts, just a hint of pleasure. "Okay."

  Henri drives me to Madame Beauvoir’s a few hours later, the two of us saying little.

  "You don't have to do this," he says, "if you don't want to."

  I swallow. I desperately don’t want to do this, and yet I think of Marie last night with her pleading eyes, silently begging me not to cause problems. "She's expecting me. And who will she have to yell at if I'm not there?"

  "Isn't that what they have servants for?" he asks with a small smile.

  I struggle to return it. I’m probably being paranoid, but I don’t want to be anywhere in that house alone with André. Henri, no matter what words come out of his mouth, sees me as an equal. André treated me like property out on the balcony. And something about that strikes me as a dangerous, especially in a time when women have so few rights.

  Henri walks me to the door. Today, it's Andre who answers. He and Henri exchange a look before André gives him a broad smile, one that is too amiable to be believed. Did I actually think he was attractive the first time we met? Because the sight of him is making my skin crawl now. His lips press to my hand for longer than they should and I hear a low noise, a growl, coming from behind me.

  "Your cousin is in good hands," André says to Henri as I walk in. He starts to shut the door and Henri puts one large foot over the threshold. "I will be back in precisely ninety minutes," he says to me, and then he leaves with one lingering, particularly hostile glance at André.

  "If you're not in the mood to read to my grandmother today," says Andre, "perhaps we could go have lunch somewhere? It's a bit warm out but fortunately we live in town so things are close."

  I smile. "That's kind of you, but I love reading to your grandmother,” I lie. “She was so helpful last time, correcting my accent."

  "Come to lunch with me. Your accent is already quite good, as is your French,” he says. He smiles conspiratorially at my look of surprise. “I heard you with my grandmother the last time—there’s no way you could have read as well as you did without knowing the language. Don’t worry. I won’t tell your cousins."

  I tighten my grip on the crutches. I am not interested in sharing secrets with André, and if he thinks this gives him some leverage over me, he’s very mistaken. “I made a promise to your grandmother," I say, passing him to reach the stairs. "You don't need to show me the way. I remember the room."

  He bows his head. "Your dedication is admirable. I'll come up to check on you in a while."

  I scurry up the stairs as fast as a woman on crutches can scurry and tap on the door, which is not fully shut and swings open with little pressure. The old woman gives me another narrowed-eye glance and tells me to get on with it.

  "It's so lovely to see you today, Madame Perot," I reply in English.

  Stop speaking to me in your gibberish and start reading, she replies.

  I open the book where we left off and begin, but within seconds she is yelling at me. Your American accent is like oil in my ears, she yells. It's not guh, it's gah. My God they must teach you nothing over there.

  Fortunately, when I ignore her she dozes off. I continue to r
ead, because Henri won't be back for another hour and I'd rather spend time up here than with André downstairs. I begin to read more slowly, though, finally capable of saying the words and translating them as I go.

  Madame Perot wakes, her eyes beady, all pupil, and accuses me of talking to the gypsies outside.

  I decide there's no sense in pretending I don't know what she's said. I didn't see any gypsies outside, I reply, but they’ve never caused me any problems.

  They're a dirty people, she says, still glaring at me as if I'm lying. They stole my husband's car once, at the end of the war. A very, very dirty people.

  I’ll keep that in mind, Madame, I reply, hiding my smile.

  I begin to read again and she soon falls back asleep, which is my preference, as it means I'm being neither hit nor yelled at. Unfortunately, it also means she is snoring loudly when André pokes his head in the door.

  "Come have tea with me," he says. "My grandmother won't wake again for hours."

  I return the book to her nightstand and reluctantly leave the room. "I don't have time for tea, I'm afraid. Henri will be here to get me soon."

  "Then come," he says, "we can sit outside until he arrives."

  I follow him to the garden on the side of the yard, which is flourishing in the warm July air. "It must be so dull for you, out on the farm," he says.

  My dislike for André intensifies. "Not at all. Henri and Marie-Therese are very pleasant company."

  "You're very good to them," he says diplomatically, walking closer than seems reasonable, given that I'm on crutches. His hand extends toward the garden. “So here it is. We've created a little bridge over this pond. A sort of mini Giverny if you will. You’ve seen Monet’s paintings, yes?"

  I give him a tight smile. His garden is not Giverny by any stretch of the imagination. “Yes. I study art history, remember?”

  "Ah, yes, of course," says André, stepping an inch closer. "We should go visit Giverny together. I know the current owners and it's just a few hours by car. Next Saturday perhaps? We will make a day of it."

  I blink. I do not want to be alone with this man even here, a mile from the farm. I certainly don't want to be alone with him in a car, hours away. "I'm not sure my cousins would approve."

  He raises a brow. "Henri seems rather proprietary of you, don't you think? It's a bit unseemly."

  I move forward quickly, toward a small stone bench. "I'm sure you are mistaken," I say firmly.

  He stills, as if he will argue, but then nods slowly. "Either way, I have no right to interfere. I just worry about you. So what do you think of our little garden?"

  I'm loath to compliment anything about this man. "It's beautiful," I say, forcing out the words.

  His palm slides over mine. "Your beauty makes all else fade by contrast."

  I pull away with another tight smile when suddenly his hand lands on my thigh, his fingers sinking into my flesh through the thin fabric of the dress. I begin to slide away but his free hand has already snaked out to hold my jaw, and just as suddenly his doughy mouth is on mine, thick tongue pushing between my lips, his hand sliding beneath my dress to the juncture of my thighs.

  "What the hell are you doing?" I demand. I shove him and he barely moves, just presses harder, doing his level best to get his fingers inside my panties.

  "I'm giving you a better option than having it on with your own cousin," he says. "Everyone knows you're fucking Henri."

  I jump to my feet, grabbing the crutches. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Anyone with eyes can put together what's happening."

  He stands, reaching for me again and I try to step backward but stumble, thrown off balance by the cast, landing on my ass. He leans down and I don't wait for his next move. I grab one of the crutches, which has fallen with me, and swing it straight at his face. I hear the impact, a thwack, and his jaw blossoms into an ugly bright red patch that will undoubtedly be a deep purple within the hour.

  He holds a hand to it, dazed and astonished. "Putain," he gasps. "You think you can do better than me?"

  "It would be hard to do worse than you," I hiss.

  "Fine," he says. "Continue to fuck your cousin instead, American whore." He walks off and leaves me there, lying in the yard with a dirty dress and bleeding hands.

  When he's out of sight, the sob that was locked in my throat releases. I'm not even sure why I'm so upset. I wasn't raped. He called me names every woman hears at some point in her life. It's the adrenaline and my absolute helplessness, I think. I'm not in my own time, I'm not in my own country, and I can't even trust my legs to keep me upright when they're supposed to.

  All I want in this moment, oddly enough, is Henri. Henri with his smirk and those eyes that are angry as often as they are kind. Henri who does nothing but ridicule my clumsiness and ask how soon I'm leaving. He is all I want in the world right now, and as bizarre as my life has been and continues to be, that's the most puzzling fact of all.

  I dry my face on the inside of my dress and brush myself off, limping to the front of the house, feeling a little more shaky and off-kilter than I normally do—and given how off-kilter I've been since breaking my ankle, that's saying something. Henri is waiting beside the car.

  I try to smile, but it feels as if my whole body trembles with the effort.

  "What's wrong?" he asks immediately.

  "Nothing."

  He looks me over, head to foot, and I see rage settling over him like a cloak as he takes in the dirty dress, the cut hands. He takes three large strides until he's directly in front of me. “What happened?”

  I could lie and tell him I fell, but it's not going to add up, especially once I insist I will never again set foot in this house. “André tried to kiss me," I tell him. "It turns out the crutches make a fine weapon. He won't try it again." I give him a tremulous smile, one he doesn’t return.

  "Tell me exactly what happened," he says. His voice is quiet, and lethal. "Everything he did and every word he said."

  I limp past him. "It doesn't matter. I dealt with it."

  His hand lands on my shoulder to stop me. It's a firm grip, just as André's was, but different somehow. Perhaps simply because I trust Henri. "It does matter. Tell me."

  I turn to him. "Fine," I say roughly. I sound angry but it's only so I won't dissolve into tears. "He insisted on sitting in the garden with me to wait for you. Then he kissed me and put his hand up my dress and when I yelled at him he called me an American whore..." There’s more, of course, but it seems like I’ve probably told him enough.

  His face is blank for a moment and then morphs into a rage so fierce and absolute it scares me. I wait for the outburst to come but there is nothing. After a moment of stillness, he takes the crutches from me and gently helps me into the car. I'm relieved by his lack of response but surprised by it too.

  The ride home is silent, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles pale with the pressure. I stare out the window, arguing with myself about what I didn’t tell him. Yes, it will be awkward to admit there are rumors about us, but maybe he should know, since he’s the one who’ll be left to combat them when I’m gone. He hesitates for a moment after we arrive, as if he wants to say something, but then climbs from the car instead, opening my door and offering me a hand, more careful than normal, and also more restrained.

  “There’s something else,” I say, staring at the ground rather than him. “André said everyone in town thinks we’re…together. Sleeping together, I mean.”

  “Merde,” he hisses under his breath, an expression of disgust on his face. It’s the disgust that surprises me. I’d have thought after everything he said last night…I flinch now, wondering if I somehow misunderstood him. Based on the way he looks right now, it certainly seems that way.

  He turns on his heel and marches into the house, leaving me to follow. Marie is in the kitchen, but he’s heading upstairs without a word. She looks at me. "Are you two fighting again?"

  "No," I re
ply. I can't go through the whole story and it would just worry her if I did. "I don't know what's wrong with him."

  We can’t go riding since Marie has decided to stay home, but I’m not sure we’d go anyway. He emerges from his room and tells Marie he’s not staying for dinner because he’s going out to clear some things up. Then he leaves the house without even glancing at me once.

  She frowns at the door as he walks through it. "You're sure you didn't fight?"

  "Yes."

  Is he out tonight because of what André said? Will he clear up any illusions about our relationship by sleeping with some slut from town? Or maybe he was just reminded of what he’s been missing out on. Either way I find that I am absolutely livid.

  “How was reading to Madame Perot today?” Marie asks.

  The urge to blame her is strong. She’s the one who agreed to have me read there. She’s the reason my ankle is still broken. And if none of this had happened, maybe Henri wouldn’t be off with someone tonight the way he is.

  “I won’t go back to that house,” I reply, rising from the table. “I don’t care what you have to tell them.”

  It's late when I hear him pull up outside. Marie has been asleep for hours and I should have been too, but I’m too busy stewing, wondering if he was going to stay out all night and stumble home in the morning with some sheepish grin on his face. I wrap the borrowed robe around me and walk into the kitchen just as he enters, bleary-eyed and unhappy.

  "Did I wake you?" he asks. He isn't drunk but he's not quite sober either, and he can't seem to mask his discomfort in my presence, that he wishes he was alone right now.

  My lips press tight. “You made enough noise to raise the dead,” I reply, though it’s not true. "I assume by your level of sobriety that you went out?"

  "Can't get anything by you," he says with a smirk I'd like to wipe off his face. Now that I've hit someone with a crutch the desire to do it again is positively calling to me.

  "I'd like a night out myself before I leave," I reply, feeling something mean and spiteful rise up inside me. I want to strike out like a cobra and I have no means to, but something keeps my mouth running. "I imagine there must be someone in the town nicer than you and André."