Belmary House Book One (32 page)

Her head throbbed and she shoved the thoughts away. If she left straight away, she’d get there in time to get a glimpse of them before her other self went off to work and school, then she could watch her mother feed Dahlia her breakfast before taking her to daycare. She’d be back in London in time for Dexter and her to begin their endless round of fretful studying again this evening.

She ate a bit of protein bar while she drove, the rubbery fake chocolate burning in her stomach like hot coal, and she quickly gave up. She knew she looked like a ghost, but couldn’t make herself eat, everything turning to acid after a few bites, and rest eluded her every time she tried, only falling asleep here and there while reading. The thought of the demolition kept her awake and full of fear.

What if she couldn’t get back? They were down to the wire, with no sign of Ashford, the hope of saving the house felt like wishful thinking anymore, and there was no information to be found anywhere. Whomever or whatever had opened that filthy portal certainly left no clues behind.

She found herself at her regular parking spot and was surprised at how quickly the time went, almost as if she hadn’t been present for most of it. She patted her cheeks to try to revive herself. It didn’t help, and she shambled toward her house. The sun wasn’t up yet and she made no effort to hide herself. The last few visits she’d all but knocked on her front door, rustling back and forth in the shrubbery from window to window, and never raising the least suspicion.

As she stood in the lane, her old neighbor took his bin to the curb, walking within ten feet of her. She froze next to the hedge bordering their gardens, certain she’d have to speak to him, but he didn’t so much as glance her way. She wondered if she was even there at all, roughly pinching her arm to see if she was still flesh and bone. It hurt, but nothing compared to the headache that was already building, the closer she got to her house. She found her thoughts drifting back to her reckless kiss with Dexter. That had felt real enough. If only she weren’t so confused, she might not have done it, but he had started it after all, being so kind and helpful and so damn handsome.

She felt herself drifting off, thinking about Dexter’s capable hands as he sorted through the ages worth of junk at Belmary House. She’d never seen anyone take their job so seriously as he did, and he loved it to boot. What would her life have been like if she had met him when she really was eighteen?

He probably wouldn’t have looked twice at a divorced teen mum, and her old, single-minded self wouldn’t have got into a new relationship for a million pounds. But, it would have been so nice to have someone supportive and loving, with the same interests. She thought of his beautiful, soulful brown eyes and felt a tingle of regret for pushing him away.

She heard Dahlia’s wake up cry and hurried closer to the window, which was cracked open for the refreshing night breezes. She peeked in before her old self woke up and the urge to pick up her baby nearly suffocated her. Sinking to the side of the house, she sucked in air and pressed at her temples to keep her head from exploding. For some reason, her old self was taking her sweet time in getting up, and Dahlia really started to howl.

It was so unfair. She thought about all the pathetic birthdays when she could barely afford a hair bow, and how different everything would be if she, the real her, took over. Because certainly she was the real Emma, the one huddling in the bushes in agonizing pain, the one who’d been through all this before and had made something of herself. Not that other one, who couldn’t seem to be bothered to get her arse out of bed to take care of her child.

Hot tears burned her cheeks as she crawled away toward the street, the sound of Dahlia’s crying too much for her, and her stomach about to turn inside out. She made it to the small vacant lot two houses down and threw up, sobbing at the pain that threatened to shatter her.

As it slowly subsided, a powerful anger took its place. Who was that other woman living in her house, reaping the kindness of her mother and getting to hold her child? She shuddered, wanting to smell Dahlia’s baby smell more than she wanted to keep breathing.

A dark clarity came over her, forcing her pain to the background, and for a moment she felt strong and sure. Why was she the one huddling in the shadows, when she was the one who deserved to be here? She was certain of it. If there was no going back, she would be damned if she skulked around waiting to see if the other her fell victim to the portal in ten years, and then what? Did she disappear, or have to relive all this again? Not if she could help it.

The sun winked its way through the shrubbery and she jumped, realizing she’d been zoned out for at least an hour, lost in her rage. Her fists were clenched and she slowly uncurled them, flexing her fingers as she made up her mind. It was the only way, really, and the only thing that gave her pause was the thought of getting close enough. That was going to hurt like crazy, and the notion of actually laying hands on her other self nearly made her vomit again. She shook it off and stood up, clearing her mind of everything except what she had to do. Because, she surely had to do it.

“Then I can go home again,” she said out loud, starting to cry at how lovely it sounded.

It had been so long since she’d been home. All she wanted was to walk into her mother’s embrace, feel Dahlia’s wispy haired head resting against her shoulder. A glance at her watch told her she still had time if she acted fast, and she was surprised to find she didn’t have the least bit of fear. Certainly that meant she was making the right decision.

It wasn’t as if she was really harming anyone, she told herself. She was merely righting a wrong. A terrible, cosmic wrong. After carefully smoothing her hair and tucking in her top, she made her way back to her house, bracing herself for the pain. Soon, it would all be over, and she would feel fine.

“Are you unwell?”

Tilly rolled over and saw him swaying above her. The light that filtered through the tiny window cast a bluish glow over his face that made her stomach heave again.

“Seasick,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.

She felt his cool hand on her brow and for a brief moment stopped feeling like she would turn inside out.

“I’ve never been on a ship before, I didn’t know. It’s not like we had an alternative means of travel.”

“You could have stayed in Scotland, or I could have taken you to Belmary—”

“I wanted to stay with you,” she said. His palm still rested on her forehead, but it had grown hot and she shook it off. “Just leave me with the bucket, I’ll live.”

“You’re being very courageous,” he said, without a hint of sarcasm.

“Shut up,” she said anyway.

He chuckled and left, returning a few moments later with water and a towel. He soaked the towel and wrung it out, twirling it in the air before laying it across her brow.

“Ah, that’s nice and cold,” she sighed.

Wind rattled the window frame and the planks of the ship creaked. Shoving Ashford aside, she leaned over and retched into the bucket.

“Just go,” she begged. “I can’t stand to be like this.” She tried to block the light with her hand. “I hate the sea.”

He jumped to cover the window, and the darkness soothed her eyes, making her feel a bit better, until the ship reeled to the left. She heaved again, certain they were going under.

“It seems to hate you as well,” he said, cooling the towel and replacing it when she lay back down.

He offered her a sip of water, but the thought of anything hitting her stomach was too much. Holding out her hand, she leaned over again, but miraculously nothing more came out.

“It sucks because I’m weirdly hungry on top of this misery,” she moaned, tears leaking out the sides of her burning eyes.

“Tell me what you want, and I’ll get it for you.”

“Nachos,” she said pugnaciously, her stomach flopping dangerously at the thought of melted cheese. She tried to think of something else there was no way he’d be able to bring her. “Barbequed chicken. Your cook’s fruit tart. Don’t come back unless you have those things.”

“Dry bread it is,” he said patiently, placing a kiss on her hand before leaving.

If she hadn’t been so weak she would have thrown something at his back. Why was he being so kind to her? It was as if her sickness brought out a whole new Ashford. It was unnerving. He came back in record time with some crackers and wine, saying several of the deckhands swore that getting drunk helped immensely.

“I seriously can’t even look at it,” she told him, covering her face with the sheet. “Get it out of here.”

“I’ve hidden it behind the chest, now show your sickly pale face.” She poked her head out and he shoved a cracker under her nose. “Take one bite and see if it helps.”

She took a fingernail size bite and let it dissolve on her tongue. “Maybe it helps a little,” she admitted, mostly to get him to leave her alone to die in peace.

He took her hand and began massaging the joints, stretching out each finger, then working his way up her wrist. Goodness, was he humming? It was a lovely tune, like a gentle breeze. She closed her eyes and pretended she was in a hammock tied between two trees, the safe, grassy ground beneath her, instead of endless rolling sea. The cold cloth was plopped onto her head again, and then he set to massaging her other hand, all the while humming softly.

She woke up to pitch blackness and a heavy weight across her chest. Ashford was asleep, half sitting on the floor and half sprawled across her. For about two minutes it was comforting, until she heard the ship creaking and her stomach remembered where it was.

“Julian, I’m going to be sick,” she said, struggling to get out from under him.

He sat straight up, and she rolled off the bed, groping around for the bucket.

“Here.” He slid it across the boards until it hit her hand and she let loose.

“Can you see in the dark?” she asked bitterly, bumping her head trying to get back into the bunk.

“Just got lucky,” he said, opening the door to let in a bit of light. He grabbed their lantern and went out, returning a moment later with it lit. “Is that better or worse?”

“It’s better, thank you. It’s not that fun to puke in the dark.”

“It doesn’t seem so very fun either way, poor thing.”

He smoothed her stringy hair off her brow and made a very cute sympathetic face.

“Stop that,” she told him, hunching up and putting her chin on her knees.

“What am I doing?”

“You’re being strangely likeable.”

He laughed. “Don’t act as if you didn’t already like me.”

He nudged her knee and gave her a mock suggestive look.

Oh, why did she have to be sick? Couldn’t they have these few days as a kind of time out from all the frightening things they had to constantly face? The second their feet hit French soil, he’d be grim and proper again, worried, harried, the opposite of how he acted now. He was being sweet, of all the things she never thought he could be. He was caring for her.

She wanted to kiss him so badly it almost made her forget her motion sickness, but the sour taste in her mouth quickly put her off that idea. She was clammy and probably stinky and her lips felt dry and cracked. Hot tears burned her already stinging eyes and she blinked them away, too tired to cry.

“I do like you,” she admitted. “I just feel like crap.”

“You look like—”

“Shut up.” She tried to punch him in the chest, but she could barely make a fist and he caught her hand before it could make an impact.

“I like you too, Matilda,” he said, kissing each knuckle.

He placed his finger in the middle of her forehead and pressed backwards until she was lying down again.

“I was going to say you look like a wee baby bird that’s fallen from its nest. So, get back in your nest, baby bird. I shall watch over you.”

She turned her face into the pillow to stifle a giggle. “Didn’t I tell you to stop that?”

“This will all be over in a few days, and then you’ll be on dry land in a comfortable bed, aye?”

The thought of arriving in France filled her with dread at what they might have to face, but anything would be better than the sickening, neverending roll of the sea. Standing on deck and breathing the fresh salty air helped for a minute or two, but the constantly moving horizon didn’t allow her to keep her equilibrium, and as hard as she tried not to, she’d end up heaving.

Ashford’s promise of dry land and a comfortable bed turned out to be a lie as it was pouring rain when they finally got to their destination, and the tiny inn room’s bed was lumpy and damp. Still, all she wanted to do was fall face first into it and drag Ashford along with her, so happy was she to be on solid ground. However, he stood in the doorway shaking his head sadly.

“As much as I’d love to, Matilda, we haven’t much daylight left.”

“There’s no daylight at all, it’s pouring rain, let’s just take a break.”

He took a step in and she thought he might be faltering. She wanted so badly to feel his arms around her while not feeling like throwing up. She wriggled around on the bed and gave him a face she felt positive he wouldn’t be able to resist and he took another step into the room. Yes, she almost had him and a crack of thunder made him look sourly at the window. She offered up thanks to the foul weather and reached out to him.