“That shawl,” he said in a heavy, subdued tone. “The one that was torn. Where did we put it?”
“I know exactly where ‘tis, sir.” Fletch took off and in a few minutes returned with the damaged garment and gave it to his employer.
St. John thanked him and returned to the library. Distraught, he paced the room, clutching the shawl. Finally he sat down and examined it. “It passes all reason,” he whispered. “Forgive me, Claire! Are you truly caught elsewhere in time? God help us both!” He held it against his chest.
And with that, a loud rushing sound filled his ears.
The moment when you feel like giving up
is right before your breakthrough.
Victoria Arlen
CHAPTER 43
Adam Winthrop, dressed in dark clothing, stood near Dove Cottage trying to decide what to do. His father had lost patience with Claire. They’d sent numerous eviction notices, but she hadn’t left. They’d sent warnings of the demolition scheduled to take place in only two days. But still Claire hadn’t budged. Adam had even showed up at her doorstep, but Claire wouldn’t open the door.
Old man Winthrop feared things could get drawn out and ugly, as eviction proceedings were slow. He was determined to go through with the razing of the cottage, and he had big money deep in the pockets of the law to make sure it would happen. He’d had plans drawn up for a perfect beginner’s hill on the site where the cottage sat. It was long overdue for their lodge to cater to the novice skier as well as the experienced ones. The cottage’s smaller hill would add nicely to the lodge’s list of features—and prevent them from losing that segment of clients to a competing ski lodge to the north.
He’d told Adam they needed to try a new tactic. If Claire couldn’t be bought out, coaxed out, or romanced out by Adam, they must try scaring her out. Adam’s job was to somehow create a noise or disturbance that would frighten a woman living alone.
Adam didn’t relish the job. He liked Claire. He didn’t need his father’s encouragement to wish to get closer to her. If she would only have been friendly, things could have been different. He could see himself getting serious with a woman like Claire. But she hadn’t ever been friendly. Even after he’d watched her darned dog without any notice, she still hadn’t agreed to see him—or to sell. And now they were past trying to negotiate. They wanted Claire out.
He approached the front of the house, glad to remember that Charlie wasn’t there to bark and alert her to his presence. He quietly climbed the three steps to the porch, and just as quietly removed a light log from the wood crib. He’d hit it against the house a few times and then run, leaving a frightened woman behind. Suddenly, he heard a thump behind him and spun around. To his shock, in the dark he saw the shape of a person—a man! He hadn’t been there a moment ago! Without another thought he lifted the log and slammed it down on the intruder’s head.
The porch light came on. Instead of running, Adam stood there, stunned, staring at the oddly dressed man on the porch floor, out cold. Claire’s face appeared as the drape moved aside. She saw Adam and her eyes widened. In a moment the door opened and she said, standing there holding it open, “What is it?” Adam looked down at the man just as Claire saw him. She gasped and came out and fell to her knees beside him.
“Julian!” His name left her lips in something akin to a sob. “Oh, my word! Julian!” She blinked back tears of joy mixed with concern.
“You know this man?” Adam asked, feeling guilty now. He dropped the log.
“What did you do to him?” she cried. But she didn’t wait for an answer, and turned back to Julian, shaking him gently and calling his name. When he didn’t respond, she cried, “Help me get him inside! Grab his hat.”
Together she and Adam carried him in—no small feat for St. John was a tall, muscular man—and put him on the sofa. As they carried him, Adam said, “Why is he dressed like that? Does he actually wear that hat?”
It was a beautiful beaver top hat and quite dashing for a Regency gentleman. “Don’t worry about it,” Claire murmured. She was far more concerned with Julian than with explaining anything to Adam. She stroked his face. “Julian!” she said softly. “Please, wake up!” She turned accusing eyes to Adam.
“Why did you hit him?”
“I—I didn’t mean to knock him out,” Adam said. “He showed up out of nowhere! I never heard him coming. I’m sorry—it was a knee-jerk reaction.”
Claire stared at him. “Why were you on my porch?”
Adam grasped for words. “I—uh—was just—I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” She stood up. “I’m calling an EMT.” But just as she said that, a low moan came from the sofa. She rushed back to Julian’s side, dropping again to her knees beside the couch. Julian blinked at her.
“Julian!” she cried. He blinked again, but said nothing.
Adam said, “I’m glad he’s waking up. Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
Claire said, “I don’t think so.” She couldn’t imagine trying to explain his lack of identification to medical personnel. And he was coming out of it. But she turned and glared at Adam. “I think you’ve done enough tonight. I don’t know why you were on my porch, but I don’t want you to check on me again.”
Adam nodded. “I’ll get going.” He motioned at Julian. “Tell him I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Good night, Adam.”
Adam hesitated. “Claire—you’ve only got two days—”
“That’s really why you came here, isn’t it? To harass me. Good bye!”
As Adam left, she turned back to Julian, who was just now starting to rise. Concerned that he was in no condition to do so, she pressed his shoulders back so he was lying down again, though he seemed to be blinking at her strangely.
“Hi!” she said softly, sniffling back tears of joy. “Are you all right?” Her heart was soaring! Although she couldn’t return to him, somehow, somehow, Julian had come to her! It seemed a miracle! She stroked his hair and impulsively kissed him on the mouth.
This seemed to pull him from his stupor. He sat up on one elbow, looking frowningly at Claire. “What on earth are you about? I will overlook that impropriety. Do not attempt it again.”
Claire blinked at him in surprise, but then realized he was joking. She threw her arms around his neck. “I am so happy to see you!” She went to kiss him, only he removed her arms with strong hands and forced her away. With a disturbed look, he said, “Miss Andrews, you astonish me.”
Rough diamonds may sometimes be mistaken for worthless pebbles.
Thomas Browne
CHAPTER 44
“I’m Claire!” she cried. “Miss Channing!” She pulled her arms free and threw her hands around his neck again, only he said gruffly, “I beg your pardon!” And forced her arms down. He sat up fully, but winced and put a hand to his head.
Claire’s heart sank to the floor. She was so horrified she could hardly speak. “You don’t know me?”
He gazed at her warily. “You are Miss Andrews,” he said in an irked tone. His gaze roamed over her nightdress and hair.
“She is my relation, but I am not Clarissa Andrews. It’s me, Claire!” She couldn’t believe he didn’t know her!
He rubbed his head again.
“You’re hurt,” she said. “Let me look at it.” She moved to touch him, but he pulled his head back and gave her an odd look.
“Let me just take a look,” she said, moving a hand again to touch him, but this time he stopped her with a crushing grasp of his hand.
“Oh-ow!” She stared at him indignantly.
He let her go and started to get up.
“Wait,” she said. “You’ve been hurt. You need to rest.”
He gave her another strange look, but after sitting up, remained seated. He stretched his neck and put a hand again to where Adam had whacked him.
In consternation, Claire said, “You must let me take a look!” She pushed away his hand and e
xamined the spot that hurt, just above his forehead.
“Oh, my! You’ve got a huge lump.” She rose and said, “I’ll get ice.”
“How did I get hurt?” Julian asked, when she returned. He had been looking around the cottage in perplexity.
“My neighbor—for some reason—was on my porch when you appeared from the past. He didn’t know where you came from; he was startled and so he hit you.”
“He did this—with his fist?” he asked doubtfully, rubbing the swollen lump.
“No. A log. A small log. I’m sorry.”
She held the cloth with ice to his head, but he took over holding it. He said, looking at her strangely, “You happen to have ice on hand? In this small box?”
Claire nodded. She wouldn’t bother trying to explain.
“You said, ‘when I appeared from the past.’ What did you mean by that?”
Claire stared at him for a moment. He had no clue what had happened! How much of his memory was affected, she wondered. Getting closer to him, she asked, “Do you remember me, yet?”
He gazed at her. “You speak differently, but you are surely Miss Andrews.”
“I’m not Miss Andrews. I’m Miss Channing!”
His gaze flicked over her, and Claire felt suddenly exposed, despite her nightgown being about as modest as they came. It reached her ankles at bottom and almost her neck, at top. Maine winters did not encourage the use of teddies. But she stood and went for her robe, feeling a strange mix of elation and despair. St. John had appeared, and she hadn’t lost him! Clarissa hadn’t done him in! But he didn’t remember her.
When she came back, he was no longer sitting, but examining a floor lamp. He was squinting at the bulb, and tentatively putting a finger up to touch it. He spied the little cord and pulled it, turning the light off. He pulled it again. When he’d done this three or four times, Claire cleared her throat.
He said, “There is no flame, but ’tis hot. And quite bright. Rather ingenious. Where did you get this?” He looked down and saw the cord and now began to follow it. When he got near the outlet, Claire said, “You mustn’t touch that!”
He looked up at her and then back at the outlet. “The cord supplies a heating element?”
Claire’s lips compressed. “Julian. I know you have questions, and you’re bound to have many more unless we can figure out a way to get back to your time.” She frowned. “But we must go together. I couldn’t stand to lose you again.” He took a final look at the outlet and came to his full height to give her a curious look. Then he winced, retrieved the cold cloth, and applied it to his head.
“Please lie down and rest. Your head will feel better.”
He sat down and looked at her. “Nearly every word you’ve uttered makes no sense to me whatsoever. You use my Christian name, but if you are not Miss Andrews, I do not recognize you.”
Claire turned away for a moment while she stifled tears. She turned back, blinking hard. “I am Lady Ashworth’s granddaughter. Do you truly not remember me?”
He gave her a reproving look, though his tone, when he spoke, was soft. “Lady Ashworth has no granddaughter.” He suddenly sat forward, looking at her closer.
She brightened. “You remember me?”
“You are indeed Miss Andrews, and this is another of your larks.”
Claire pursed her lips. “I resemble Miss Andrews, but I am not her. I am Miss Channing. Have you really forgotten me? You offered for me!”
He stared at her, but shook his head. “I made no offer for you.”
“You did. You most certainly did. That blow to your head has affected your memory!”
He gazed at her again but then shook his head. He knew for a fact that Lady Ashworth had no granddaughter; therefore, it stood to reason that he should believe nothing else this woman claimed. “If you don’t mind, I must be off. Summon a servant to fetch my coach, please.”
“Off to where, Julian? You’re not in London.”
He stared at her a moment. “I do not recall leaving town. How far away are we?”
She frowned. “Very far. What do you remember happening last to you?”
He thought for a moment. He looked puzzled. He closed his eyes. “I cannot—seem—to recall today at all.” He took a breath. “Very well, Miss Andrews—”
“Miss Channing! You called me Miss—” Her voice almost broke here and she compressed her lips while gathering herself. “Miss Enchanting.”
He looked at her thoughtfully. “Miss Channing, if you insist. Pray, remind me. Why am I here, and where is here?”
She tried to think how best to answer. She remembered how difficult it was to convince St. John of anything. “You came here…because you love me—”
He let out a snort of derision. “You are indeed Miss Andrews.”
“I am Miss Channing! And the very fact that you must ask such questions, proves that you have forgotten quite a lot; including me!” She turned agonized eyes up to his.
He regarded her; the disdain in his eyes softened. “If I have distressed you, I beg your pardon.”
“Stop!” she cried. “Do not be kind! You can’t be kind while you don’t know me! It’s just more cruelty!” She bit her lip and searched his face. She would revert to Regency-style speech. She’d done it in the past without trying. In fact, she’d had no choice, for it just happened. But she could try to speak in a manner he’d recognize as normal, couldn’t she?
“Cannot you recall me, really?” She asked softly.
He studied her, his eyes more gentle than she’d yet seen them. But he showed no recognition. Claire said, “Let me show you to the guest bedchamber. ’Tis very late. In the morning, you may ask questions to your satisfaction.”
“I’m afraid that won’t answer. I must be off tonight.”
“But that’s not possible. There is no coach, and as I said, you are very far from London.”
“How far?”
She stared. If she said America or Maine he would no doubt laugh or grow angry. He wouldn’t believe her. She said, “Very far. The farthest you’ve ever been, I daresay.”
“Where exactly are we, Miss—Channing? Pray, do not trifle with me.” He was losing patience. Just what she hadn’t wanted.
She took a deep breath. “You’re not going to like this, Julian.”
“If you please—Mr. St. John will do.”
She stifled a pang of hurt.
He crossed his arms. “So?” he said expectantly.
“You won’t believe me!” Claire looked tragical.
“Where, madam?”
Oh dear. It was ‘madam’ again! “Very well! You are in America. The state of Maine. It’s part of New England. You came here from the past, the same way I was able to visit you in your time.”
He stood up. “This is madness. Good evening.” He went toward the door.
“Julian—I’m sorry, St. John—” She shook her head. “Mr. St. John—it's freezing out! You’ll die of exposure!”
He turned and gave her a look of disdain and went to the door. He had trouble opening the strange lock, but finally managed. Without another glance, he left the house. She went to the door, opened it and watched. Where could he go? As an icy wind blew and made her shiver, and as she watched the dark figure of St. John disappear around the side of the house—he’d be looking for mews, of course—a bitter irony occurred to Claire. When she’d been in his time, Lady Ashworth had said she suffered from amnesia, though she didn’t, really. And now Julian was in her time and did have amnesia.
If only it were funny.
Love is suffering. One side always loves more.
Catherine Deneuve
CHAPTER 45
Clarissa cornered Miss Margaret shortly after they arrived home. “You must think me a fool, Margaret. I’ve thought about your little scene in the carriage. I understand what you did earlier to alert St. John. As if you cared for me!”
“I would be very happy to care for you, Clarissa, if you would allow it.”
&
nbsp; “What flummery. You ought to know, I’ve written to the School for Young Ladies in Cheapside, and told my father you shall be sent there as soon as they allow.”
Margaret stared at Clarissa. “I shan’t go. If you try to force me, I’ll tell St. John! And Lady Ashworth. One of them will stop you.”
Clarissa laughed. “You cannot think they care a fig what happens to you, Margaret. Even you must have enough sense to know you matter not at all.”
Margaret stood up to leave the room, but Clarissa said, “There is one thing you may do that will induce me to change my mind about the school.”
Margaret stared. “Well?”
“You must explain to me how the shawl made Miss Channing vanish.”
Margaret shook her head. “Ask Lady Ashworth! I only guessed that it did.”
“But what made you suspect a mere shawl?
Margaret thought for a moment. “Because twice she had it about her shoulders, and once, it was incorporated into her gown, like an embellished hem! And then, there it was again at St. John’s house. I deduced it must be magical.”
“If I discover you are correct, you shan’t be sent to the school.”
“So, where is the shawl?” asked Margaret.
“My half of it,” said Clarissa, “is in my chamber. Shall we take a look?”
The ladies moved together from the parlour to the corridor and then on to Clarissa’s bedchamber, which was the grandest in the house. Clarissa took the torn half of the shawl from a chest and held it up.
Margaret took it and examined it closely, wishing it would do something magical, give a sign so that Clarissa would believe it was.
Clarissa took it back, and held it out before her. “’Tis an ordinary shawl but useless, being torn.”
“May I keep it, then?” asked Margaret. She intended to examine it again. She must find something to convince her sister it was special in some way. She must not go to that school for young ladies!
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