Forever, Lately

by Linore Rose Burkard

  “I’ll explain it later,” she said, looking around nervously for the black truck, but there were similar models all over the parking lot. She hadn’t studied the license plate and wouldn’t know even if they passed it. She was relieved when they were back in her car.

  St. John buckled up like a pro and turned to her with an expectant smile.

  “What is it?” Claire asked, smiling. She backed out of the spot.

  He shook his head. “I am anticipating the ride. I find the speed utterly exhilarating, if you must know.”

  She grinned, edging the car to the parking lot’s exit. “I thought it might be unpleasant—or frightening, for someone unused to it.”

  He surveyed her. “I’ve always enjoyed a good pace.” He went back to playing with the dashboard controls, turning the heat up and down, as Claire wondered, not for the first time, if Julian’s liking for speed contributed to the accident that would take his life. Except, thank God, it couldn’t take his life now, for he wasn’t in 1816. Good thing!

  “Do you have inns that offer good ale?” he asked.

  “We have bars; I’ll find one,” Claire said. But she dreaded taking him into one. He might say something that would start a brawl! “I’ll only take you if you promise not to say a word about anything that strikes you as unusual.”

  He grinned. “Agreed.”

  They passed a bar here or there, but somehow the atmosphere didn’t look beckoning to Claire. She realized she might be able to get him decent ale at a grocery store, and pulled into one that was open. In the back of her mind she worried that Clarissa might still be on the lookout for them, but really—that woman needed a life! When they reached the store, she turned to him. “I’ll only be a minute. Wait here?”

  “And not see”—he surveyed the storefront—“a market in the twenty-first century?”

  They went in together.

  After twenty minutes they walked back out. St. John held two bags, one with items Claire had picked because now she could afford them; smoked salmon, a large chunk of Jarlsberg, artisan crackers, and an olive bar container filled to the brim. She’d also grabbed toiletries for Julian just because he needed them; a toothbrush, comb, and mouthwash—what the heck, he was a man. And since it might be their last night together, she bought an outrageously expensive bottle of Dom Pérignon. They’d share a glass of the champagne before the fire, before she had to send him home in the morning, never to see him again.

  The other bag held a six-pack of ale, and an assortment of junk food. Never had a supermarket’s hopes of capturing impulse buys been so successful, Claire thought, as she watched with a smile while Julian added one of every kind of chocolate bar and bagged chips near the checkout, to their purchases.

  But thinking of the future clouded her mirth. She tried to stay hopeful. The tallit had taken her to St. John And didn’t the embroidered lovebirds prove that its job was to bring true love together? But she couldn’t escape a nagging sense of doom. It had left her in the future without Julian once before. It could happen again—only this time, with the cottage destroyed, it would mean forever!

  At the car, St. John took her arm and looked at the driver’s seat. He motioned with his head. “Will you do me the honour of allowing me to try my hand at this?”

  Her eyes widened. “Not in a parking lot! These places are like the wild west—even for experienced drivers.”

  He looked intrigued. “Is the American West still untamed?”

  She smiled but gently urged him, pressing against him, to go around to the passenger seat. “No. It’s just a saying.” When they were settled in the car she had a sudden hope that perhaps, if the Winthrops had granted her request for more time, there might be a message from Adam. She rummaged in her bag for her cell phone, but realized she’d left it in its charger at the cottage.

  Evil itself may be relentless. I will grant you that,

  but love is relentless too…and the human heart outlasts

  - and can defeat - even the most relentless force of all, which is time.

  Dean Koontz

  CHAPTER 55

  Claire’s cell phone, on the kitchen counter in the cottage, played its little jingo tune.

  In the lodge, Adam listened to her recorded message for the umpteenth time, sighed, and snapped his phone shut.

  Adele was playing fetch with Charlie, but she looked up from her wheelchair and asked, “Still trying to reach Claire?”

  “Her name’s Clarissa,” he said.

  “She’ll get back to you,” Adele said.

  “How do you know?” Adam’s gaze was doubtful.

  She shrugged. “Because tomorrow the cottage will be razed and she’ll be homeless. She’ll come crawling,” she said, and smiled.

  Adam gazed at her. “She doesn’t have to come crawling. She just has to come.”

  There isn't any questioning the fact that some people

  enter your life at the exact point of need, want or desire.

  Nikki Rowe

  CHAPTER 56

  When Lady Ashworth arrived at North Audley Street, Mr. Grey, St. John’s butler, felt relief. Here was someone who might enlighten the staff on their missing master. So when he opened the door and she walked past him into the house, he didn’t try to stop her. He didn’t say, “But the master isn’t in, ma’am,” or, “But, my lady, Mr. St. John isn’t home. He hasn’t been home for two days, and left no word as to where he’s gone, or when he’ll return.”

  Her Ladyship, upon handing Grey her things, said, “Bring tea, Grey, to the library.” She preferred the library to the parlour, perhaps because it was St. John’s favourite room, aside from his study. “And I must speak to you,” she added.

  “Thank you, my lady,” said the servant. He moved smartly to order the tea, along with a tray of biscuits and seed cake. Her Ladyship always did enjoy a little repast when she called. Joining the marchioness shortly, he found her just as she picked up a letter that sat on a side table against the wall. Grey had seen the letter there, but dared not read it himself. He wondered if it held the answer to the riddle of where the master had gone. Lady Ashworth put it back and moved to a wing chair near the fire.

  After the butler settled the tray and poured tea for Her Ladyship—not something he did often, but was nevertheless graceful in the doing—she said, “Tell me, Grey. Where is your master?”

  Grey frowned. “My lady, I rather hoped you would enlighten me on his whereabouts.”

  Lady Ashworth put a hand over her heart. “Do you mean, you don’t know?”

  Grey shook his head. “I am sorry, ma’am.”

  She cleared her throat and looked at him squarely. “Did he take a gig or a coach?” Julian’s love of racing might be the simple answer to his disappearance, she thought. He oftentimes drove to Brighton in hopes of beating Mr. Selby’s record of eight hours, there and back. Perhaps he had gone and was still with the Prince Regent at Brighton Pavilion.

  Grey licked his lips and looked at her plaintively. “That’s just it, ma’am. All the equipages are in the mews, accounted for.”

  She stared at him. “And the horses? He does love a good gallop.”

  “All here, ma’am.” Grey looked as troubled as Her Ladyship.

  Lady Ashworth studied the carpet, in thought. “Have a seat, Grey, please.”

  But the servant shook his head. “If you please, ma’am, I’d rather not.” Grey wouldn’t be comfortable sitting in the presence of the marchioness.

  She surveyed him. “So it’s true, then, what I’ve heard. That he’s—missing?”

  Grey nodded, looking down.

  Her Ladyship sniffed. “Does he often leave without a word?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Has he never gone off on a lark to Brighton, racing the Regent or some other whip, without sending word?”

  “He has gone off, indeed, ma’am, on many an occasion, either to Brighton, or some estate, or simply stayed on the town overlong—but he has always sent word, ma’am.�
��

  “Well,” she said, in an optimistic tone, “I daresay he is too deep in his cups somewhere. We are certain to hear, shortly.” She didn’t believe this, but she hoped to sound convincing. She didn’t want Grey to know how deeply worried she was.

  The butler nodded, but the look on his face said he, too, thought this unlikely.

  Lady Ashworth studied him. “You’ve known him since he was a boy. What is your worst fear?”

  “My lady?”

  “What do you think has happened to your master?” she asked softly, as though the subject was sacred and could only be spoken in solemn tones.

  The butler met her eyes. His were grey, like his name—and, at the moment, haunted. “I—I hesitate to speak of it, ma’am.”

  “Come, Grey, I’m sure you’ve an idea.”

  He licked his lips and swallowed. “I fear, ma’am, that he has suffered a coaching accident. The master, as you know, can never resist the call of the road. If another gentleman dared him to a race—”

  “I see,” Lady Ashworth said, nodding. “That was my thought, exactly.” But she looked up in a moment. “But surely had there been an accident, we would have had word from someone, or read a notice in the paper!”

  “I take comfort in that thought, ma’am.” He cleared his throat. He looked at her rather questioningly.

  “You wish to ask me something?” she said. “Go on, sir.”

  “Ma’am—is Miss Channing—that is, if Miss Channing might be consulted on the matter. Perhaps she might know something of it?”

  Lady Ashworth’s face became guarded. But then she saw what he meant. “You’re wondering if your master eloped with my granddaughter, but no, no, I’m afraid she has no more idea of his whereabouts than either of us.” But suddenly her face lit with a thought. “Thank you, Grey, for your time.”

  “Your servant, ma’am.”

  “Send Fletch to me, please.”

  “The valet, ma’am?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “’Tis an unrelated matter, but he may be of help.” Grey bowed and left the room. Fletch appeared in minutes, a wiry man, straightening his waistcoat, and with eyes full of curiosity. He came and bowed before Her Ladyship.

  “Your servant, ma’am.”

  “Fletch, I wonder if you can help me. You see, Miss Channing left a shawl here, a very particular shawl that she favoured.” The valet immediately wore a knowing look.

  “You know the item I’m referring to?” she asked eagerly.

  “I do, ma’am.” He frowned. “There’s no sign of it here. The master asked me for it—right before we lost him, wouldn’t you know.”

  Lady Ashworth’s eyes widened. “What do you mean, right before you lost him?”

  “Well, ma’am, Mr. Grey and I like to keep abreast of his whereabouts; he often takes me with him, you know, when he goes about town or travelling. So I consider it my part to know where he is, ma’am.” He raised honest, brown eyes to hers.

  Lady Ashworth nodded. “Yes, good man.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but here’s the thing, ma’am.” He looked rightly serious and shook his head. “After he ast me for that shawl”—he looked up earnestly—“the piece Miss Andrews didn’t cart off after she got her claws in’t and ripped it right in two, that is—!” His face wore all the disapproval that anyone charged with the care of textiles, like Fletch, would understand. “He just disappeared, ma’am.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “He grabbed the shawl and hurried off, like.” He looked at her squarely. “And that’s the last any of us laid eyes on ‘im, ma’am.”

  Shuffling one foot uncomfortably, he said, “It was my surmise he took it to Miss Channing; give ‘er back what belonged to ‘er, I thinks.” He looked at her questioningly.

  “Not a bad thought, sir,” she said, “but no such thing, I assure you.”

  The valet’s face fell, and he shook his head again. “Well, that leaves us neither here nor there.”

  “I’m afraid so,” she agreed. She emptied her teacup. “Thank you, Fletch. I’ll go now.” She rose and then stopped to say, “If you hear anything of your master, please—” She stopped and looked at him feelingly.

  “O’course, ma’am.” The servant bowed and left the room.

  Lady Ashworth stopped to examine the letter that lay on the table. This time she unfolded it, hoping she wasn’t overstepping her bounds, but her concern for St. John fueled her resolve. It was the one Clarissa had tried to bamboozle him with! She pocketed it, looking troubled. It was lies, spurious lies, all of it. She thought of Clarissa using the shawl, and her heart throbbed with grief. Only Claire should have use of it! And Julian—oh! He was never meant to use the tallit she was sure! He shouldn’t have been able to! She could only hope and pray he would find his way back, and that somehow, some way, Claire would, too.

  The pull of past and future is so strong

  that the present is crushed by it.

  Jeanette Winterson

  CHAPTER 57

  Claire found an empty parking lot and turned in. It was large and surprisingly well lit—a perfect place to let Julian drive. Had the black Trailblazer been at their heels, she wouldn’t consider it, but they’d seen no sign of Clarissa and her mysterious henchman since they’d gone for dinner. And Julian loved anything on wheels. It would be a thrill for him to drive, not unlike the excitement some feel on roller coasters, she thought.

  She spent minutes going over the dashboard, but Julian had read the car owner’s manual and apparently memorized what each gauge and dial was for. Same for the gas and brake pedals. So when they changed places, and he turned the key in the ignition—his face brimming with boyish anticipation—she was hardly surprised when he put the car into gear properly and gently started them off with barely a jerk or stop.

  “Fabulous!” he said. She loved the intensity on his features and the smile as the car obeyed his will. He went to the perimeter of the lot and started circling. He practiced using the brakes, starting off to different speeds and then braking. Claire didn’t mind, even when he braked too sharply and her belt tightened.

  She marveled at how well he drove. What had he once told her? I was born for speed. She had to agree. After a full half hour of traversing the parking lot in all directions, a police cruiser entered, moving slowly. It came to a stop, keeping its headlights on. Claire didn’t want trouble with the law. Imagine if they asked St. John for ID! So she insisted on taking back the wheel, making him change places with her without getting out of the vehicle.

  He slid toward her, lifted her onto his lap—and kept her there for a warm, sloppy, delicious kiss. “This is what teenagers do,” she said with a smile, when she could speak. But his brows furrowed. “Mere youths? Alone together in cars at night? That’s a recipe for disaster! Does society keep no check on its youth?”

  “Not enough, I think,” she said soberly.

  She started the car and drove quietly from the lot, thankful that the cruiser didn’t stop or follow them. It was pitch-black when they arrived at the cottage except for two weak solar lights at the foot of the porch. As their eyes adjusted, Claire was infinitely relieved to see no sign of Clarissa's truck. Somehow she had half expected to find the black Trailblazer in the driveway. And Clarissa would be on the porch, wild-eyed, with a gun or something, declaring to Julian, “If I can’t have you, no one can!”

  But hadn’t she left a light on inside? A nervous shiver ran down her spine, for the house was dark. She was glad to be with Julian—she thought of his muscular build and remembered how easily he’d carried her in his arms. But she took a flashlight from the car’s trunk and turned it on. As soon as Julian saw it, he asked for it. “A handy, enclosed lantern,” he said.

  She let him light their way inside.

  When she flicked on the light switch, nothing happened. Julian turned the beam this way and that, and they went through the house checking each room for an intruder—for Clarissa and her driver, really—but the
re was no one.

  “There’s a generator that will power a few things,” Claire said. “But it’s in the cellar, and we’ll have to turn it on.” She had ventured downstairs only once on a quick explore when she’d first moved in. The washer and dryer were on the main level, so she’d had no need to return to the old, danky basement.

  At the cellar door, he took the lead, and she followed him down a rickety wooden flight of steps into the cold, dense, dark, which seemed to increase as they descended. For some reason Claire felt positively spooked. She didn’t get jumpy often, but it felt as though at any moment she might feel a bony hand upon her arm, or hear a witchy cackle of laughter. Julian’s strong grasp of her hand was reassuring.

  She led him to where the breakers were and found the power switch for the generator—fortunately clearly marked. After she flicked it on, they heard the faint rumble as it came to life outside.

  She kept a tight hold on Julian’s hand as he led them back up.

  The kitchen light was on. “Can you start the fire?” she asked, while heading to the kitchen and her cell phone to check for messages. To her surprise there were three. She hoped to find a message from her agent. All three, however, were from Adam—of course. To Claire’s consternation, she saw they were from two days earlier. Somehow she’d missed them.

  “Hey, uh, Claire,” Adam’s message began, “Just thought I’d give fair warning that your electricity is about to be shut off.” So that explained it. “We own the property now, so we were able to go ahead and do that. Um, it had to be done in order to schedule the demolition.” His voice perked up. “But the good news is, we’re paying last month’s bill for ya.” As if that would impress her?

  “And even better” his voice message continued, “your suite here at the lodge is all ready for you.” The message shut off at that point, but Adam called back and left another. “If you come to our mixer tomorrow night, I’ll show it to you. You’re gonna love it.”