Forever, Lately

by Linore Rose Burkard

  Washington Irving

  CHAPTER 36

  St. John returned to the library, his favourite room for contemplation before the fire. Though it was going on eleven, like most of the ton, he was used to keeping late hours. He gazed at the sofa where he’d once kissed Miss Channing—Claire—and felt warmth about his heart. In fact, he was filled with a sense of well-being, of having done the right thing in offering her marriage. Their acquaintance was short, but somehow he felt he understood her deeply. He glanced at the shawl, wondering if he should indeed destroy it. But Claire wasn’t in a sound state of mind. He’d best check with Lady Ashworth about it. If he remembered correctly, Her Ladyship had shown an interest in the shawl when she’d first come to claim Claire.

  A scratch at the door revealed Grey, with a face that looked foreboding—for a butler trained not to show emotion, that is. St. John was too familiar with his long-time servant not to catch the hesitation on his features.

  “Sir, a Miss Andrews and her sister Miss Margaret, await your pleasure. I have kept them in the entrance hall for now, allowing that you may not be at home.”

  St. John felt a frisson of annoyance. How like Miss Andrews to call upon him, when it wasn’t done for ladies to call upon gentlemen not of their kin. And at such an hour! She was too brazen. All he had to do was have Grey insist he wasn’t home. But a sudden curiosity got the better of him.

  “Good show, Grey, but I suppose we can admit them. I may as well know what she breaks all propriety to see me about.”

  Grey nodded and left to admit the ladies, who entered shortly.

  Miss Andrews was all alight with triumph. That St. John had received her was proof to her mind that he was not averse to her. Miss Margaret curtseyed apologetically with regretful eyes, and took a seat near the fire. Miss Andrews held out her hand, but St. John merely nodded at her and said, “Have a seat.”

  “I know you find it irregular, sir,” she began, sitting at the edge of her seat with her reticule upon her lap, “for me to call upon you, but you see, I brought Margaret; she is enough to ensure there will be no impropriety.”

  “If you mean, that she will force me to behave to you, she is entirely unnecessary; there is nothing that could induce me to misbehave with you, Clarissa.”

  Miss Margaret turned her head in astonished delight, which she tried to keep from her features, though her sister was not watching her.

  “If you mean, however,” St. John continued, “that Margaret’s presence will prevent the gossips from sending a new on-dit into town, then I applaud your foresight. But I must ask why you are here?” He was standing politely to one side with his hands behind his back. For some reason, now that he loved Claire, his dislike of Clarissa was stronger than ever. That she looked like his love was now an affront.

  Clarissa’s lips compressed, and she shifted uncomfortably on her seat. But Miss Andrews wasn’t one to be put off easily. “Julian,” she said, “I have heard a rumour of a most dreadful nature. I needed to check with you to determine if ‘tis true.”

  “And what rumour might that be?”

  Clarissa shifted again and didn’t meet his eyes. “That you are to marry Miss Channing.” She now looked up at him.

  St. John was much surprised, but quickly deduced whom the source must have been. “You have spoken with Lady Ashworth.”

  “No, sir,” said Clarissa innocently. “I received a note from Miss Channing; she warns me away from you and says it is her great design to ensnare you for herself.” To St. John’s look of doubt, she added, “Those were her exact words, sir—to ensnare you.” She paused and added, “I thought I should warn you.”

  St. John folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the mantel of the fireplace as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “Did you bring the note?”

  “Happily, I did.” Clarissa fumbled in her reticule and brought forth a folded sheet of foolscap. She handed it to him.

  Miss Margaret was staring at the fire, but with a stony expression. If only she had the courage to expose her sister. It was a falsehood, this tale about a letter from Miss Channing! But if she dared tell St. John, Clarissa would make her life miserable. She’d already threatened to send Margaret off to a school for young ladies. A school, moreover, that had the reputation of being severe in its treatment of pupils—frugal with regard to food and good things—and in short no place Margaret ever wished to see. To her mind, it was only a step above a workhouse. She said nothing.

  St. John perused the note, which Clarissa painstakingly had written out in Claire’s handwriting, using the notes she’d found in Claire’s bedchamber for her guide. He handed it back to her, but Clarissa said, “Oh, keep it! It concerns you more than I, and you must surely confront the lady with it.”

  He tucked it into a pocket of his waistcoat, but said, “Thank you for your concern. If you will excuse me now, I have business to attend to.” He hadn’t confirmed the rumour—though he did indeed intend to marry Claire—because Miss Andrews did not deserve to know his business. She would discover the truth along with the rest of London, in time.

  But Miss Andrews’s eyes lit up. “Am I to understand, then, that you are not to be married?” She stood and motioned for Margaret to follow. But she stopped in front of St. John, who had still not confirmed the matter. “It quite fills me with hope.” She smiled beguilingly and moved on. But suddenly Clarissa stopped in shock, staring at something draped upon the sofa. “That shawl!” she cried. “I know that shawl. It belongs to—her. She has been here?”

  “I will not answer that question, as it is not your concern.”

  Clarissa picked up the shawl. For a moment St. John almost told her to take it, to keep it. Claire wanted to be rid of it, didn’t she? But to his surprise, Clarissa suddenly tore at it as though trying to cause a tear. He took it from her—or would have, except she refused to let go.

  “If you please,” he said, in a near growl, pulling the shawl. But still Clarissa hung on and tried pulling it from him. Suddenly, with a sound almost like a human gasp, it tore. The release nearly sent Clarissa to the floor, but she recovered enough to regain her footing. The shawl, however, was now in two pieces, so that each held one half of it.

  He looked at the torn item, folded his arms, and frowned. Though Claire had told him to destroy it, it was another thing to have it ruined by Clarissa. “What on earth made you do that?”

  She raised her chin impudently. “I will not answer that question, as it is not your concern.”

  He held out his hand. “It belongs to Miss Channing. If you please.”

  Clarissa gazed at him defiantly. “She will little want it, now. It is useless to her.”

  “And to you. Give it to me.”

  When Clarissa made no move to comply, St. John took a step toward her. She immediately wadded up the fabric and shoved it down her bosom. She eyed him suggestively. “Will you take it now, Julian?”

  His eyes were daggers. “You are a vixen, Miss Andrews. Do not call upon me again.”

  As she walked out, Miss Margaret stopped to drop a quick curtsey in front of him. She gave him a frantic look, shaking her head in the negative. He noted her gestures with a nod, but, unsure of what she was trying to tell him, said only, “Good night, Miss Margaret.”

  As for the note being from Claire, St. John knew she would never write any such thing. If she were capable of that, he’d been wholly misled about her character, and if there was one thing he felt sure of, it was Miss Channing’s character.

  He never dreamt he could so quickly make an offer to a woman, but when he’d told Claire she had beguiled him, he meant it with every fiber of his being. Since Lady Ashworth claimed her as a granddaughter, any doubts he may have formed regarding her character instantly cleared. He could hardly understand himself how he’d moved quickly from attraction to something much deeper. But he now felt a need to have Claire beneath his roof, and by his side. He wanted more of her. He needed an heir. Marriage answered every purpose
.

  His biggest conundrum, as Fletch, his valet, shortly assisted him to prepare for a night’s sleep, was whether he ought to get a special licence or not. Claire would no doubt want to go the traditional route and publish banns, or Lady Ashworth might insist upon it. He’d never thought he would do otherwise, if and when he found a woman he wished to marry. But with a special licence, they could be married in two days. He thought again of Lady Ashworth. If she would allow him to get it, and he thought she would, for the old dame was inordinately fond of him and in favor of the union, then he would go that route.

  Having Claire in his house made him anxious to keep her there.

  It was a pleasant prospect to sleep upon.

  Before drifting off that night, Claire decided to leave Julian a note. Just in case she was to disappear again, she couldn’t bear the thought that he’d think she willingly left. She must make him realise that she had no control over it—even more, that she loved him terribly and still wanted to be his wife, even if she was gone come morning.

  She had Mary bring her the supplies and then wrote a heartfelt letter. Tears fell as she wrote, and painstaking efforts to be neat were in vain. Handwriting in the past was far prettier than anything she could accomplish, which meant that to his eyes, hers would not be to her credit. But she did her best.

  She told him how it had all begun when she moved into the cottage. She gave more details, now. How the tallit was central to the time travelling and why he must destroy it! She even admitted that she’d fought against her feelings for him, for all she’d wanted to do was gather data to write a tour-de-force Regency romance. It would make her a celebrity author in her day. But she’d fallen in love with him. Now she wished only to stay in 1816.

  She left the note upon the little table beside her bed, blew out the candle and went to sleep. At least, if the worst were to happen, St. John would know she hadn’t wanted to disappear. He would know that she truly loved him, and had been telling him the truth all along.

  By the time you read this letter, these words will be those of the past.

  The me of now is gone.

  Fennel Hudson

  CHAPTER 37

  Claire awoke in her own room at the cottage. With a groan, she looked about the bed for the tallit, but didn’t see it. She wanted to put it on and get right back to Julian without delay. Where could it be? It always accompanied her through time, whether going back or coming forward. She must find it and return! Like Grandmamma, she would stay for the rest of her days—but where was it? After searching all over the cottage, Claire had to accept that it hadn’t come through. Why had she been able to, without it? If only she understood how it worked, this time travel!

  She thought of St. John. She thought of his sweet declarations of love. He was ready to marry her! And then she had a terrible thought. Grandmamma had said her going-back path was shrinking. Claire thought she’d meant her going-back path to the future. But it seemed it was her going-back-to-the-past path that had shrunk! Not only shrunk, but vanished, vanished with the tallit.

  Claire lay down again, feeling thoroughly shattered.

  Her sobs, had anyone been about, would have been heard outside.

  When you’re in a different place every day,

  there’s this kind of madness that sets in.

  Sia

  CHAPTER 38

  St. John could hardly rise and get dressed fast enough in anticipation of seeing Claire at breakfast. When the maid came to the morning room with the news of her absence, his face darkened. He put down his newspaper and quietly rose and made his way to the guest bedchamber. A maid was already changing the sheets, but she handed him the note left by Claire. He read it with a sinking heart. He interviewed Mary: hadn’t she seen or heard Miss Channing leave? He gave her a thorough scolding for being remiss in her duties when she had to allow that she hadn’t seen or heard anything.

  Somehow Claire had slipped out during the night, though it boggled his mind and perturbed him to think of her unprotected on the streets of London. But then it no longer mattered. Though the note was less neat than the one Clarissa had given him, there was one thing he could not deny about it. The handwriting matched. It was a poor hand, to begin with, and despite an eloquent plea, and all the nonsense she still seemed to believe—or at least wanted him to think she did—Claire was no less a she-devil than Clarissa. To think, he’d been willing to marry her! In a fit of anger, he ordered his carriage. She must have gone to the marchioness. He’d find and confront her there.

  The pursuit of truth will set you free;

  even if you never catch up with it.

  Clarence Darrow

  CHAPTER 39

  When three days passed and Claire was still unable to return to the Regency, she felt at her wit’s end. She’d lost St. John! He had said he would not lose her, but he had. And if she didn’t take her mind off him, of wondering how he was, what he must be thinking and feeling, or of how she must have hurt him—oh! It was enough to drive her mad.

  There was no way to get in touch. She couldn’t call someone who lived two hundred years ago, and she had no way without the tallit to get back. She’d sat at her laptop hoping it would transport her as had happened in the past, but without the shawl, she stayed put. Oh! Why had she been able to return to the cottage without it, but not get back? Why had her path closed up so quickly and suddenly?

  She saw a note on the floor which someone had evidently slipped under the door without her noticing. She picked it up and read, in a choppy handwriting, a request from Adam for his younger sister Adele, a special-needs child who was wheelchair bound had bonded instantly with Charlie. Could they keep the dog awhile longer? And if she accepted their offer to move into the lodge, his sister would be able to have Charlie nearby indefinitely. Wouldn’t that be nice?

  Claire missed her shaggy friend, but hadn’t taken him back because she hoped not to be staying in the present. Now it seemed Charlie was all she had. But how could she deny a wheelchair-bound child? And, if she ever did get back to the Regency, it was safer for Charlie to be with them, wasn’t it?

  Only she could not get back. She struggled with whether or not to claim her dog, but decided Adele should have him—at least for now. She called Adam to let him know. He expressed real gratitude, pointing out how convenient it would be for Claire to move into the lodge whenever she was ready. Did she remember she only had eight more days until a demolition crew showed up? How could she forget, she’d pointed out, with Adam constantly reminding her?

  But only eight days! And then the cottage would be gone—the final nail in the coffin for any chance of returning to Julian! He’d be lost to her forever! It was enough to drive a person to drink. She thought of Grandmamma and felt a wild hope that Her Ladyship would locate the shawl and bring it forward in time to Claire. If only there was a way—if only!

  Suddenly, she remembered the safety deposit box. She moved the area rug aside in the bedroom and tried various floorboards, looking for one that was loose. When she finally found one that seemed different, she used a kitchen knife to pry it up—and there it was. A key with a tag attached. The box number was on the key, and the tag held the name and address of the credit union which housed it.

  It was a good excuse to leave the cottage and perhaps get her mind off Julian. On an impulse, she gathered a leather portfolio that held all her most important documents: diplomas, awards, her birth certificate and the like, and brought them with her to put in the box. Whether she returned to the past or not, her documents would be safer there than at a cottage poised to be demolished.

  Forty minutes later she was sorting through the box. The jewelry was a lovely matched set of diamonds and sapphires set in white gold—maybe it was sterling silver, but Claire guessed not. There was a necklace, earrings, and brooch. She skimmed through the rest but saw only old letters and cards. Claire read one. It was a love letter to Grandmamma from her grandfather, deceased for over two decades. Normally her history-loving brain
would have devoured such things, but she was too heartsick over having lost her own love to enjoy them. Flipping through the stack and seeing only dozens more such letters, she hurriedly put them back. She couldn't stop thinking of Julian and was ready to burst into tears. She took out the necklace and earrings of the set, leaving the brooch for now. She put her leather portfolio of documents on top, and locked the box. Someday, if she never did get back to St. John (perish the thought!) she’d return and read every single letter.

  Back at the cottage, it was all Claire could do not to give in to despair. She mentally rehearsed every episode of time travel. There had to be a clue, something that would point the way for her return. Had she done anything different before going back? Had some action on her part opened a time portal? Was there something, some way, to open it again without the prayer shawl? But every memory pointed only to the tallit. Without it she was stuck in the present, the same way her grandmother had become stuck in the past.

  There was nothing she could do.

  The specter of the coming demolition of the cottage grew in scope with each passing day. It wasn’t just a building that would collapse—it was her whole life. The last possible connection to Julian would disappear when the walls fell. She hadn’t even achieved her main purpose in coming to Dove Cottage, which was to write her book. And then it hit her. The only way not to lose her mind with grief and regret was to write.

  With grim determination, she set her mind to completing the book. She’d already changed the names of the characters; it brought back too much grief to use them. And she wouldn’t use Julian’s name anyway much less have him fall in love with another woman—even in fiction. With bitter irony, she made the story a tragic time travel. Weren’t authors always told to write what they know?