Shades of the Past (16 page)

“Gee, thanks.” He didn’t look back as he walked away.

She closed the door, and leaned against it for a moment. He was already out of her thoughts, for she was too taken up with knowing she didn’t disappear during her time adventures. She apparently carried on as normal while part of her managed to go back to 1818. It was like she divided into twins, but was only ever aware of what happened to one. She didn’t know how else to define it.

She heard a car drive off furiously, and knew it was Kyle, who drove like that at the best of times, let alone when he was annoyed. “Good riddance,” she murmured, feeling absolutely nothing for him. He might as well have never existed.

She flung herself on a sofa, put her hands behind her head, and gazed up at the ceiling. So much had happened today. From being racked with conscience about what had taken place in the library, she’d been swept toward unbelievable hope by Blair’s confession that he’d known what was happening. If only Marianna hadn’t called out when she did. And if only there was someone to talk to about all this! She desperately wanted to confide in someone, but there wasn’t anyone. Except perhaps Gulliver, who she was sure knew much more than he was letting on. She was pretty certain Ron Sawyer’s great-grandfather had traveled in time at least once, and that Gulliver knew it—perhaps such an adventure had befallen him too. It was worth tackling him again, and there was no time like the present, especially as she also wanted to ask him if anyone got hurt in the 1818 tunnel fall.

Her other self had already showered and changed after riding, so she got up and reached for her shoulder bag and a coat before hurrying out.

She was told Gulliver lived at Lion Cottage, on the corner of Great Deveril village green, and a quarter of an hour after her impulsive decision, she parked her car alongside the churchyard wall. The cottage was the one she’d noticed when she’d driven down Barge Lane to the canal, and took its name from the fierce stone lions supporting the porch. The air was bitterly cold in spite of the sunshine, and the bare trees swayed against the sky.

She knocked at the cottage door, and after a moment was answered by a plump middle-aged woman in a comfortable floral dress. Was she Gulliver’s wife? Somehow Laura hadn’t imagined him being married.

The woman smiled. “Yes? How may I help you?” The aroma of fresh-made coffee drifted out into the cold air.

“Is Mr. Harcourt in? My name’s Laura Reynolds.”

Gulliver’s voice echoed along the whitewashed passage. “Tell her to come in, Dolly.”

That was the name of the merry widow whose favors were vied for by Ha’penny Jack and Harcourt the butler, Laura thought with interest. What had she been called? Dolly Framwell? No, Dolly Frampton, that was it.

The woman smiled and stood aside for Laura to go in. Gulliver’s electric wheelchair stood in a corner off the passage, and he was in the parlor, a jumbled room where piles of books and papers cluttered every conceivable surface. He occupied a chintz-covered armchair by the fireplace, and a pair of walking sticks rested against his knee.

“Ah, we meet again, Miss Reynolds. Please take a seat, if you can find one free.”

Dolly tutted and went to remove some books from a nearby sofa. “I don’t know why you waste your money getting me in three days a week, Gulliver. I can’t clean most of the place because you won’t let me move this lot!”

“Don’t you want the job, Dolly Frampton?” he demanded with mock severity.

Laura’s lips parted. Dolly Frampton! Exactly the same name! Surely the woman had to be the merry widow’s descendant!

Dolly frowned at Gulliver. “You know I want the job.”

“And I’m happy with the arrangement, so don’t fuss.”

Laura studied him. His tone was grouchy but his eyes kind, she thought. He was fond of Dolly. Maybe as fond as his ancestor had been of hers.

Dolly sighed. “And stop pretending you’ve forgotten I’m a Renwick now.”

“How could anyone forget you married that old misery?”

“That’s no way to talk in front of company,” Dolly chided, and then smiled at Laura. “Would you like some coffee, Miss Reynolds?”

Gulliver answered. “Yes, she would, and remember she’s an American, so expects good coffee.”

“I only make good coffee,” Dolly replied tartly, and went out.

Laura sat down and fiddled with her car keys as she glanced out of the window at the long walled garden behind the cottage.

Gulliver looked at her. “I expected you to call, Miss Reynolds,” he said.

“You did?”

“Well, your interest in Deveril House and the tunnel could only be described as marked.”

“And so was your reluctance to answer my questions,” she replied candidly.

He raised an eyebrow. “The direct approach?”

“I see no point in beating about the bush. I think you know more than you’re letting on.”

“Well, if you imagine I have some dark reason for withholding information, you’re wrong. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but the reason I’m reluctant to talk about Deveril House and the tunnel is that researching them led to my being mainly confined to a wheelchair for these past twenty years.”

She was startled. “What happened?”

Dolly returned with a tray of coffee, which she placed on a free corner of a table by Laura. “I’ll let you pour, my dear; Gulliver’s liable to spill it.” She looked at him. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, that’s all, Dolly. Thank you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow then. Good-bye for now. Good-bye, Miss Reynolds.”

Laura smiled at her. “Good-bye, Mrs. Frampton, I—I mean Mrs. Renwick, it was nice meeting you.”

The woman smiled and then bustled out. A moment later the front door closed behind her, and as the sound echoed along the passage, Gulliver sighed. “There she goes, back to that miserable old codger of a husband.”

Laura put her keys down and began to pour the coffee. “I’ll take it you don’t care for Mr. Renwick?”

“He’s a mean-hearted, selfish, bad-tempered, dim-witted old curmudgeon,” Gulliver replied. “Still, I suppose it’s not my place to criticize; I gave up that right twenty years ago...”

“By not proposing first?” she ventured shrewdly as she gave him a cup of coffee.

“Something of the sort.” He pressed his lips together, then smiled a little ruefully. “The tunnel must bear the blame for that too, I fear.”

“The tunnel? I don’t understand.”

“Well, as I said just now, researching Deveril House and the tunnel was why I ended up in a wheelchair. I couldn’t ask Dolly to spend the rest of her life with an invalid. I wouldn’t change my mind, so she married Jim Renwick instead.”

“What happened to you? Was there an accident?”

“Yes. I was interested to see some shoring up ordered by Sir James Deveril back at the turn of the nineteenth century, so I rowed in to look and went smack into a roof fall. The boat capsized and I damaged my spine. I’ve been like this ever since.”

She didn’t know whether to mention the 1818 accident after that, but decided she would. “Mr. Harcourt, was anyone hurt in the roof collapse of 1818?”

“Not as far as I know.”

Well, that was something, she thought, then found herself asking him a very pointed question indeed. “Why were you so startled when you learned my name?”

He laughed. “Startled? I don’t know what you mean, my dear.”

“Come on, I think you know as well as I do that there was a Laura Reynolds at Deveril House in 1818; that’s why you were so rattled when you heard who I was.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” he insisted.

“Oh, yes, you do. I think you also know there was a Harcourt who was Sir Blair Deveril’s butler, a Dolly Frampton who was a widow in the village, and a traveling showman called Ha’penny Jack, Ron Sawyer’s ancestor, who was the butler’s rival for Dolly’s favors.”

“My dear, there have been Harcourts, Framptons, and Sawyers hereabouts for centuries.” His tone was light, but his eyes were guarded.

“Mr. Harcourt, why won’t you come clean? It’s driving me crazy that I can’t discuss all this with anyone, and here you are, knowing all about it, but refusing to talk.”

“Please don’t presume to tell me what I do and don’t know, Miss Reynolds,” he replied quietly.

“I’m sorry, but if you’d just be straight with me—”

“There’s nothing to be straight about,” he interrupted.

She put her coffee aside in frustration. “There is, I know there is! There’s something strange going on around here, and I’m certain you know all about it. What about Ron Sawyer’s great-grandfather, the canal watchman? He said he’d been back to Deveril House as it was? I know, and I think you do too, that he traveled back in time. I’ve been doing the same thing, going back to 1818 and becoming the other Laura Reynolds!”

Gulliver’s cup slipped from his fingers, and shattered on the floor. She bent to retrieve the pieces, but he shook his head. “Leave it.”

“But—”

“Leave it. Miss Reynolds, and then please leave this house.”

She straightened with a few pieces of china in her hands. ‘Tm sorry if I’ve upset you, but I think you know what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ve traveled in time too.”

A nerve flickered at his temple. “Close the door on your way out,” he said quietly.

“At least tell me where you saw the floor plan of the old house.”

“There isn’t one.”

“But you told the hotel receptionist—”

“I asked you to leave, Miss Reynolds. Be so good as to do so.”

She stared helplessly at him. “Please, Mr. Harcourt.”

“Good-bye, Miss Reynolds.”

She put the broken crockery on the tray, picked up the car keys, and left the cottage.

But as she emerged from the porch, the scene on the village green brought her to a startled standstill. The Mercury Fair was setting up beneath sycamores that were suddenly in full leaf. There were people, wagons, booths, and animals everywhere, and the noise was tremendous, from hammering and shouting, to music and dogs barking. She saw acrobats, tightrope walkers, minstrels, puppeteers, a prizefighting ring, and a fortune-teller’s booth. Men were assembling a wooden roundabout with leather horses and little carriages, and gypsies led strings of ponies to a far corner of the green, where horse sales would be held.

Laura realized the car keys had become reins in her hands. She was in her riding habit, and her horse was drinking from a water trough by the door of Lion Cottage. Excitement sharpened through her. Would she see Blair in a moment?

But as she turned, the person she saw was Ha’penny Jack. The showman was peering angrily into one of the windows of Lion Cottage. It was the parlor window, and there, on a settle enjoying tea and smiles, were Harcourt the butler and Dolly Frampton. At least, she presumed it was Dolly, for the woman bore a distinct family resemblance to Dolly Renwick.

Hooves approached, and on hearing the familiar barking of the spaniels she turned gladly. Blair was riding toward her, but her gladness on seeing him again was tinged with guilt, for if he should discover
why
she’d ridden to the village like this, he’d be very angry indeed. And rightly so.

Chapter Thirteen

The reason Laura felt so guilty was the note in her pocket. It was from Marianna to Stephen, now staying at the King’s Head, and was to be given to the Cirencester stagecoach that would shortly pass through the village. Blair’s cranberry coat was bright in the sunshine As he rode toward her, and she fervently wished she hadn’t become embroiled in this latest scrape. Arranged matches and unwilling brides might be anathema to the Laura of the future, but Regency Laura was much more accustomed and susceptible to such things.

The atmosphere at Deveril House had been tense since Stephen had been thrown out, especially as Marianna refused to give any promise of obedience when the Handworths arrived in a few days’ time. Laura knew how difficult Blair’s position was, but she couldn’t help feeling for the illicit lovers, and so had been persuaded by Marianna’s tears to carry the letter.

Blair reined in beside her. Sartorially he was as stylish and perfect as ever, but the shadows in his eyes told her of the strain he found in the situation with Marianna. He smiled at her. “You came to see the fair?”

“Yes,” she lied, almost wishing he hadn’t smiled. She didn’t deserve it. It wasn’t simply that she was on Marianna’s errand; her whole existence here in the past was based on deceit and treachery. It was Blair she looked at, but right now it was Miles Lowestoft’s cunningly loathsome face she saw...

Blair dismounted. “We need to talk, Laura,” he said softly, his voice almost lost in the noise of the fair.

Warm color touched her cheeks. “Yes, I know.”

“You made your confession, but Marianna interrupted before I could finish mine.” He held her gaze. “When we made love in the library, I knew you weren’t Celina. The cognac made little difference, except perhaps to brush aside my inhibitions. Sober I wouldn’t have behaved as I did, but in my cups I gave in to the desire I’d felt for you since the night of the ball.”

She lowered her eyes. “For me? Or for Celina?”

“For you, Laura.” He took her hand and raised the palm gently to his lips. “I don’t look at you and see my late wife, nor do I see someone who is merely in my employ, I see the woman who has made me live again. Before you I hadn’t made love in two years, but you aroused me from that numb existence. You’ve changed me, and it doesn’t matter that we hardly know each other, only how we feel.”

For a quivering moment she thought he would kiss her right there in the green in front of the entire village, but instead he said, “Shall we ride together?”

“If you wish.”

He lifted her onto the side saddle, then remounted and turned his horse toward Barge Lane. “We have time to ride in the valley before the weather changes,” he said, nodding toward the horizon, where storm clouds were beginning to loom.

With the spaniels loping before them, they left the noise of the fair and rode down into the valley. If they’d looked back they’d have seen Estelle’s carriage drive slowly around from behind a cottage across the green, and halt at the top of the steep lane. Estelle quivered with loathing as she watched Laura. The redheaded harlot would soon pay for her sins!