Blake
CHAPTER 62
Claire and Julian watched from the front porch while various vehicles pulled up to the house, coming to a halt in a line on the driveway. A police car made its way alongside them, just able to squeeze past the large vehicles and slowly sidle up to the house. Claire was sorry she’d paid to have the area cleared of snow.
Sheriff Levin got out and came forward. “I’m sorry, Miss Channing,” he said. “But I have a warrant here. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave the premises.” He glanced at Julian. “That means both of you.”
Julian looked him over. “Are you a military man?”
“Huh?” said the sheriff, squinting in the light of the porch to get a better look at him.
“He’s police,” Claire explained. “Like a Bow Street Runner, only institutionalized and paid by the government.”
“A public servant, in other words,” Julian said, eyeing him with disdain. “Not a landlord.” He was about to continue, but Claire took his arm and then shook her head when he looked down at her. She turned to the sheriff. “It’s all right, I understand. But it isn’t dawn, yet. Surely you can call off these men until we’ve had a chance to eat breakfast.”
Sheriff Levin pushed his hat back. “Well—I guess they can start the unloading. We’ve got a POD here in this lineup. You understand, of course, anything still remaining now belongs to the Winthrops—unless you’re hauling it out when you go.”
Julian moved as if to object, but Claire tugged on his arm and shook her head again when he glanced at her. “I understand,” she said. “But they can’t start until we’ve eaten. And we’ll need a path to get out. They’ve completely blocked the drive.”
The sheriff took a deep breath. “They’re already here, ma’am,” he said. “It’s gonna be a big deal to get them to back out.”
“It’s a big deal already, Sheriff,” she replied.
“Tell you what,” he said. “When you’re ready to go, I’ll back my car out. You can get out the way I came in.”
Suddenly Adam was there. “Clarissa!” he said, looking curiously at Julian. To their surprised faces he added, “Er, Claire. Her real name’s Clarissa,” he explained to Julian, as if he had insider information. He turned to the sheriff. “It’s all right, Sam, Clarissa’s already moved out. She’s staying with us at the lodge.”
Julian and Claire exchanged surprised glances.
Adam turned back to Claire. With a sideways glance at Julian, he slipped an arm about her waist and leaned in to kiss her on the mouth. Claire leaned back in horror, but suddenly Julian pounced like a lion on its prey. Adam went flying off the porch, landing on his rear-end on the hard, packed snow of the drive. St. John looked ready to jump down after him, but Sheriff Levin instantly put his big bulk in front of him.
“Stop right there!” he cried.
Julian gazed at him with narrowed eyes, while the sheriff stared at him belligerently.
“It’s all right,” Adam said, getting himself up. He looked at Julian. “I guess that makes us even, now.” He brushed snow off his pants and looked plaintively up at Claire. She turned to Julian and whispered, “He thinks I’m Clarissa.”
“I comprehend that. But if he thinks—”
“Please,” she said, putting a hand upon his arm. “Go back to the analytical engine. We have very little time. Let me talk to Adam and the sheriff.”
He scowled. “Leave you to the wolves? No gentleman could countenance such a thing.”
She let out a breath. “Please. I promise you, I can manage. This isn’t—” She hesitated and lowered her voice even more. “This isn’t 1816. I can do this. I need you inside. And it’s your last chance to—” She didn’t complete the thought. She knew the pull of the laptop and its magical “compressed library” was strong bait for him.
“Call me if they give you”—he stopped and glared at the men—“the merest hint of trouble.”
Meanwhile, Adam and the sheriff had been talking, but now Sheriff Levin walked away. Adam climbed the steps to Claire, looking wary. “I wondered where you went,” he said. “You are coming back, aren’t you?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” asked Claire. “But you’ll give us time for a decent breakfast, right? My last meal in my grandmother’s home,” she added wistfully.
Adam checked the windows as if searching for Julian. No stern face appeared but he kept his distance from Claire. “The suite is only for you,” he said, in a lowered voice.
“He won’t be with me,” she replied.
Adam’s gaze swept over her face. His eyes softened. “I don’t know what it is about you, Clarissa,” he said. “But ever since I first saw you—”
“Give us two hours before these men begin,” she said.
“Two hours?” He looked back at the line of trucks, their lights blinking. The sky was still black. “Fine.” He looked at his watch, and then thumbed on its backlight. “The clock’s on.”
“Thank you, Adam.”
He nodded. “There’s a lot I’d do for you,” he said softly.
She blinked, surprised. Clarissa had evidently given Adam encouragement—far more than Claire ever would have. And he’d fallen for her charms. If only Clarissa would be satisfied with having this man who so wanted her! Adam turned and approached the closest long-bed truck, going around to the driver’s side to inform the driver of the delay. Claire hurried back inside the cottage.
Julian wasn’t at the laptop, but it was open. She remembered that he never had given his word not to look himself up. She pulled down the history tab. She saw a series of sites leading to information about car engines—so far so good. She kept looking; she’d go back as far as the search he’d done on her name so she wouldn’t miss anything.
She saw a page about the Prince Regent, then one about his doomed wife, Caroline of Brunswick. After that more pages on car engines. And then—her heart sank. There it was—St. John’s name in a URL. Claire clicked through. She cursed her own curiosity for she saw he’d gone directly to the page of the newspaper story about his coaching accident. If she hadn’t dug for two hours to find it, he’d never have been able to come across it so soon. Blast computer memory!
She sat back in despondency, staring at the page. Her grandmother’s name had appeared as the wife of the marquess after they fell in love. She didn’t say whether they were married before it changed. Why hadn’t St. John’s death notice changed? Here he was in the present—he couldn’t possibly die on the road to Wembley in England in 1816! Today was the day he would have died—or would die—if he returned to the past. If only the newspaper had included the time of day, Claire could hold off his return until after that hour.
But once the demolition began, who knew when the tallit would cease to be a portal?
She heard Julian approaching and closed the page with the old clipping.
“I suppose I understand now, what you were trying to keep from me?” he asked, as he approached.
“I suppose you do,” she said quietly. “My thought was to keep you here in the present until the day was past, but with the demolition crew at our door, we have no choice but to return you while we can.”
He came over and kissed the top of her head. “And I thought you were jealous,” he said.
Claire smiled sadly. “I am jealous. Of anyone and everyone who lives in 1816 and knows you and will get to know you and live out their lives near you—especially if I cannot.”
His jaw hardened. “You must.” He paused. “Coming here and knowing you, my dear Miss Channing, has apparently saved my neck. I owe you thanks.”
“Don’t thank me until I get you home again safe and sound,” she said, with another sad smile.
“Until we both get home.”
Her eyes watered at the thought of not getting back with him. He kissed her. “Do not despair. The shawl in Miss Andrews’s possession belongs to you. She never had a right to it, and it must be returned to its rightful owner, wouldn’t you agree?”
“I entirely agree,” she said. She sniffled and tried to smile up at him.
“Clarissa has taken residence at the lodge, according to Adam,” he continued. “Let us hope she likes it there.” He looked around. “Is there aught in this place she will need if she stays?”
Claire said, “I’ve put my important documents in a safety deposit box—er, a safe,” she explained. “All she needs from here is my copy of the contract.” And it was true—Claire’s legal identity amounted to a stack of papers in that box. She owned an appalling lack of personal mementoes, but those things wouldn’t matter to Clarissa anyway.
But Claire couldn’t erase a feeling of doom. It seemed so unfair that Julian would have to leave because of the Winthrops and their darned lodge. If only they’d had more time!
He took her arms to look deeply into her eyes. “We will get home. Together.”
She loved it when he said home. And together! The very thought filled her with longing. But what if she couldn’t get back? What if Clarissa wouldn’t give up the shawl? Claire would be trapped two hundred years away from Julian! Why, why, was her fate dependent upon that woman?
Julian grabbed her hand and led her toward her bedroom. Claire looked at him curiously. He stopped at the bathroom door. “Give me that shaving equipment. I’ll manage for myself.”
She frowned. “We have so little time! Must you shave? I like that shadow, for your information.” She ran a hand along the line of his jaw.
He squinted at her. “A gentleman does not leave the house unshaven. The equipment, if you please.”
Claire pursed her lips, but said, “Not on your life. That chin is all mine.”
An hour and 15 minutes later—the length of time needed for Julian’s shave and their breakfast, as well as packing a few more boxes of things into Claire’s car—she backed the Capri out of the garage, giving a last, long look at the cottage. The quaint dwelling with its red metal roof was really appealing. Why couldn’t the Winthrops keep it? Why did they insist upon destroying it? She saw Adam’s gaze settle jealously upon Julian as they backed out. As they slowly went past him, Claire stopped and lowered her window. He came over with eager strides and leaned his hands upon the door.
“You’ll be emptying out the furniture and other things, right? Before starting the demolition?”
He hesitated. “Only the big stuff. I tried to tell you to put in storage anything that was important.” His lips compressed. “Do you want to show me what you’d like to keep? We did bring a POD for that stuff.” Claire thought of the contents of the cottage. There was nothing other than what she’d already packed in the trunk and back seat of her car that was truly important. If she never returned to the past, she’d miss the cottage, not what it held. But there were perfectly good things in it. She said, “You ought to save the flat-screen TV and Bluetooth speakers. And the other appliances.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, nodding. “We’ll do that.” He gave her a searching look. “I’ll even store it for you in case you ever want it.” He paused. “But you won’t need any of your old stuff. Not if you stay with me.” His heart was in his eyes.
Claire almost felt sorry for him. She bit her lip. “Thank you,” she said. “But it will take a few hours, won’t it? Emptying the furniture? Before you start razing the building?”
He nodded. “Oh, yeah. There’s preliminary stuff they have to do. Make sure the electricity’s unhooked, and the gas lines are empty and all that.”
She glanced at Julian. “That’s good. We’ve got a few hours, yet.”
Adam’s brows furrowed. “You can’t go back in there; you know that, right? Even if the wrecking doesn’t start for hours yet, you won’t be able to go back.”
Claire stared at Adam. His words, You can’t go back, were like a haunting chorus, echoing her biggest fear. She nodded. “I know.” And raised her window.
AGAMEMNON: Oh immovable law of heaven!
Oh my anguish, my relentless fate!
CLYTEMNESTRA: Yours? Mine. Hers. No relenting for any of us.”
Euripides
CHAPTER 63
When they hit the road, Claire was downright disappointed not to find the black Trailblazer behind them. Had Clarissa given up the chase? Worse, could she have returned to the Regency? If so, Claire’s shawl would have gone with her. She had visions of Julian going back to retrieve it. He’d chase Clarissa’s coach—and still die in a crash! That could be why the old news clipping hadn’t changed.
He turned to her, pulling her from her thoughts. “I should enjoy above all things having another go at that.” He nodded at the steering wheel.
Claire glanced at him and then turned back to the road. She remembered how well he’d driven on his first attempt, and how much he’d enjoyed it. Also, this was his last chance to experience such a thing. They passed an intersection. As they went by Claire got a split-second glance at the vehicle sitting at the stop sign: a black Trailblazer. Her pulse picked up as it turned onto the road behind them. It gained on them swiftly.
“I believe we will have opportunity to get your shawl,” Julian said, as he gazed into his side-view mirror. He pulled down the rearview and met Clarissa’s eyes. She offered a cold, insolent look. “We must be making some progress with Clarissa,” he said. “This is the first time she didn’t offer me a brazen smile. Perhaps she realizes I am a lost cause? We can only hope,” he added.
Claire began slowing, and, when a wide shoulder appeared, she pulled over. The pines lining the road with mountains in the distance made a pretty sight. When the Trailblazer duly parked behind them, Claire said, “Let me try first.” She got out and walked to the passenger side of the truck. Clarissa looked at Omar, who lowered the window for her.
“Well, well,” she said, when Claire appeared at her window. “Come to negotiate terms with the winning party? Unless you’re offering surrender, I have no interest in it.”
Claire stared at Miss Andrews in surprise. She spoke like an American! It was disconcerting. It had to mean something—but Claire had no time to consider what it was. Gathering herself, she said, “Surrender what? Do you mean, Julian?”
Clarissa looked at her driver. “I no longer want Julian.” She turned back to Claire. “In fact, I haven’t the faintest idea what made you come speak to me.”
Claire glanced at the man at the wheel—he was staring at her in surprise. She guessed he’d no idea that Clarissa had a lookalike. She took a breath. “I’ve come to make you a proposal.” Glancing again at the mean looking man she added, “But I need to talk to you privately.” She opened Clarissa’s door. “If you would?”
Clarissa pursed her lips; for a moment Claire thought she wouldn’t cooperate. She started to get out but the man said, “You said she looked like you—not that you were twins.”
“She’s not my twin; she’s not my sister,” Clarissa muttered. She got out of the car, frowning. Claire moved out of the man’s earshot.
“What is it you’re talking about?” Clarissa asked.
“Just as I said. I propose to offer you a new life. Here in the future.”
“With Julian? Tired of him already?” She glanced at Claire’s car to where Julian sat in the passenger seat.
“Not that.” Claire’s lips compressed. “Adam Winthrop believes you are Miss Channing the author. And if you take that identity, you have just won a contract for $100,000. You will also get royalties.” When Clarissa did not look impressed, she added, “It’s a great deal of money.”
“I know all about that,” Clarissa said, with an impatient shake of the head.
“You’ll be famous. And you can write more books that will be even more lucrative,” Claire said evenly. “You’ll have Adam at your beck and call—he already worships you.”
Clarissa couldn’t help cracking a small smile. But her animosity returned. In an acid tongue, she said, “I, write more books? How do you see that working, when I’ve never written a book in my life?”
“You can hire the help you
need. Just ask Nigel, he’s my agent—your agent, now. He’ll get you an editor, a book doctor, a ghostwriter, whatever you need. But with your firsthand experience from your life in the past”—Claire leaned in—“you will be unsurpassed as an author of historical fiction in this day and time. You’ll be world famous. And rich; far richer than you could have been with St. John, had you captured his interest.”
Clarissa stared at her a moment, considering. “I won’t know any of your friends or relations.”
Claire gave a bitter laugh. “No worries there. I’ve been reclusive for years; my own mother only speaks to me twice a year, and no one knows me well enough to ever suspect that you are not me.”
Clarissa crossed her arms, surveying Claire. “And you, I suppose, will return to the past with Julian and live happily ever after?”
“The moment we disappear to the past, as far as you’re concerned, we’re long dead. While you will be very much alive.”
Clarissa took a slow, long breath. She thought of her life in 1816 and of everything Claire had said. You’ll be world famous…incomparable as an author…far richer than you’d ever be in the past… Last night’s experience with Omar had taught her that people were far less concerned with scrutiny and manners, not to mention, morals. She could enjoy that, for sure. She had already envisioned herself playing both men—Omar and Adam—to her heart’s desire. And having a great deal of fun in the process.
She looked back at Claire. “I already have your identity. I don’t need your permission or help. No one can tell us apart. So what do you have to offer?”
“You look like me, but that isn’t enough. There are things you need to pull it off that I alone can give you,” Claire said. “For instance, a birth certificate; and you’ll need my driver’s license—”
Clarissa’s eyes lit up. “You mean to drive a modern carriage, er, car?”
“Yes. You must have someone teach you how, but I’ll give you my license. And my college-degree certificate, my old photos—Clarissa just blinked at her—and all the paperwork I have to prove I am me. Finally, I will give you bank account access, or the money will be useless to you.”
Forever, Lately Page 27