Time After Time (2 page)

The Manor stood only a mile from the parsonage, and the walk in the late September morning was pleasant, despite the autumn chill. Penelope loved walking through the fields, but most of all she loved the manor house itself. She adored the large, grand home of her ancestors, although she lived in the more modest parsonage bordering the forest, having the misfortune to be born to the second son of the Broadhurst family. But Georgina and Harry, her cousins, plus Uncle Henry and his late wife Elizabeth, had always made her feel welcome, made her feel as if she belonged there as much as they did.

Following the brook that ran through Broadhurst, she strolled up the hillside dotted with craggy rocks and trees, inhaling deeply and letting the fresh air fill her lungs. There was something magical about the North York Moors that made her feel as if she was part of something bigger.

It’d rained heavily the night before, and she scooped up her skirts to avoid getting their hem muddy. As she walked she hummed a little tune, one her mother used to sing, losing herself in a world of thoughts that quickly turned from the beauty of the day to the nightmares of the night before.

Would they never leave her alone?

Absorbed in her own world and not watching where she trod, Penelope didn’t notice a puddle of mud and stepped into it, sinking ankle-deep. Particles of mud splashed up, smacking her face and smattering her clean dress. Annoyed, wanting to look her best when she saw Harry, Penelope began rubbing at the mud marks, smearing them across the pale fabric as she struggled to pull her feet from the sticky mud.

Slowly, like the sun’s weak rays reaching out, the back of her neck began to prickle, a course of shivers running up and down her spine.

She straightened, instantly alert. Her eyes swept over the land before her, taking in the familiar shapes of trees, the odd fallen branch, craggy rocks and the stream that trickled past.

Nothing to spook her.

And yet her stomach was clenched in tight knots, her heart straining against her rib cage.

She was most definitely spooked.

Glancing behind, she saw only the fields and stream, a few sheep roaming aimlessly in the meadow.

Her chest squeezed and she inhaled deeply.
It feels like I’m being watched
. Which was impossible. Her father had left for Mrs Smith’s. She was too far from Broadhurst Manor to run into any servants or fieldworkers, and none of them would have this effect on her.

Swallowing hard, she turned back, surveying the hill beyond her. Over the rise, just at the top, she would be able to see the Manor. Shielding her eyes against the feeble rays of sun with her hand, she hoisted her skirts higher and made to move forward, but her feet were stuck firmly in the mud.

Then she saw him.

At the top of the hill, perched on a black horse, he stared down the slope towards her. The sun rose behind him, bathing him in gold, darkening and obscuring his features so that he appeared as a silhouette on the horizon. A blight in the familiar landscape and her perfect world.

Penelope’s heart thumped. There was something about him…something familiar. He wasn’t from the village. He was too tall, too broad-shouldered and physically commanding to have gone unnoticed before. No, she knew him from somewhere else.

Sometime else
.

She shuddered.
That makes no sense
, the rational part of her brain corrected,
how could I know him from sometime else?

Suddenly, the horse reared and kicked its forelegs in the air as it whinnied, the cry carrying down to where Penelope stood stock-still. Without thinking, she stepped back, dragging her feet through the mud, prepared to run, her heart hammering against the wall of her chest and the sound filling her ears. She could run back to the parsonage but then what? Father was out and there was only the housekeeper at home. She could run up the hill, towards him, and hope she managed to pass by and get in sight of the Manor to attract attention. But it was doubtful she’d be able to outrun him, especially since he sat astride a powerful-looking horse.

Penelope swallowed her increasing anxiety. She felt as if she was squeezed into a tiny box, four walls closing in and suffocating her. There was no escape.

A cool breeze slipped across her cheeks, reminding her that she was outside in the wide open moors, not suffocating and not in one of her nightmares.

Who are you?
Penelope wondered, staring at him.
And how are you doing this to me?

Abruptly, the rider turned and faced the manor house. Something had caught his attention, and she sensed he was torn between following her and following the distraction.
Please go
, she begged silently, wanting to be far, far away from him.

Standing, imprisoned in her spot, she waited for him to decide and felt as if she balanced on a precipice. The horse jostled between its feet in indecision, and as it did, the light changed. For a moment, the rider’s face emerged from the shadows, his features laid bare for her to see.

A flash of brilliant white teeth shimmered as he turned the horse towards her, his decision evident. She tried to stagger back but her feet were caught, and she could only hold her breath and brace herself as he raced down the hill towards her. The sound of hoof beats pounded in her ears, mingling with her frantic pulse.

Run
, a soft voice whispered in her mind.
Run from him
. But she couldn’t move, and before she knew it he was there, towering over her and once again blocking the sun.

She gasped as vivid silver eyes met hers; they shimmered as if a myriad of crystals had been embedded in them, a strange, tear-shaped pupil taking centre stage in each. Dark hair fell across his forehead in a boyish fashion, although there was nothing boyish about his sharp, angular jaw and his furrowed brow. There was nothing boyish about him at all.

He’s beautiful!

She opened her mouth to speak, to say something to the man who gazed down at her and who inexplicably terrified her, when the sound of laughter filled the air. It came from just over the crest of the hill, and Penelope sighed, relieved that someone was close by. If she screamed for help they would hear her.

The rider turned in the direction of the sound and frowned. Looking back at Penelope, his eyes were hidden beneath a heavy brow. Sensing his indecision and disappointment, she trembled.

Dragging his gaze from her, he fixed on some point in the distance and raced off, leaving Penelope alone at the bottom of the hill, confused and utterly, incomprehensibly frightened, and her feet ankle-deep in mud.

Like she’d woken from one of her nightmares.

‘Good morning, Miss Penelope,’ said Annie, the parlour maid, taking Penelope’s coat and bonnet. ‘Miss Georgina is in the sitting room.’

Penelope smiled weakly at the middle-aged servant, still shaken from her encounter with the stranger on the hill. She would have to tell Harry and Georgina about him, and Uncle Henry too. They all needed to be warned, although she couldn’t explain why. ‘And is Harry here?’ she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

‘No Miss, he and Mr Lockwood have gone for a ride—the Master wanted to show him the estate.’

‘Mr Lockwood?’ Penelope asked, not familiar with the name.

‘A colleague of Mr Harry’s from the university.’

Mr Lockwood. A colleague of Harry’s.
Of course
, Penelope thought with relief,
he must be the rider!
Relaxing a little, she finally managed to draw a steady breath.

Annie opened the door to the sitting room where Georgina waited, and Penelope followed her in.

Georgina sat by the window, bathed in morning sunshine, reading. Fashionable, blonde curls framed an oval face, within which a pair of bright blue eyes were deeply set. Georgina had received the very best upbringing from her parents, who had prepared her to be an exemplary society wife; she could sing, draw, play pianoforte, and run a household, the latter of which she’d now been doing for two years since her mother’s death. Penelope knew without a doubt that Georgina would make a wonderful wife, and that her cousin would one day leave Broadhurst for the exciting, vibrant world of London society. Penelope would miss her when she left.

‘Pene,’ Georgina said warmly, dropping her book as she rose to greet her cousin. ‘I’m so glad you came! My goodness, what happened to you?’

Penelope wiped at the mud on her cheek, although there was nothing to be done about her dress. ‘I stepped in some mud. Do I look a dreadful fright?’

‘No, you are as beautiful as always. And Harry won’t even notice,’ Georgina said dryly, rubbing at some mud on Penelope’s forehead.

‘I’m looking forward to seeing him. Has he changed much?’ It’d been six months since Harry’s last visit from Cambridge, and Penelope enjoyed the vibrancy and good humour he brought to Broadhurst. Harry could be counted on to
never
be serious.

‘No,’ replied Georgina, making a face. ‘He is exactly the same. It is most annoying. But it’s not Harry I wish for you to meet.’

Penelope raised an eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘I want you to meet his friend—and you will when they return.’ Georgina’s eyes grew wide as she spoke, and she lowered her voice. ‘Mr Heath Lockwood. Honestly, Penelope, he is the most handsome and agreeable man you could ever meet!’

‘Really?’ Penelope smiled indulgently at her cousin.
It must be him
,
the rider on the hill
, she decided. Her brief glimpse had assured her that ‘handsome’ was definitely an appropriate word to describe the man she’d seen.

‘He’s well educated, polite and very, very handsome,’ Georgina continued, ‘and has the most beautiful manners. He’s studying science at Cambridge with Harry and is very, very handsome!’

‘So you keep saying,’ Penelope laughed, her tension fading with each passing confirmation that the man on horseback had merely been Harry’s friend and not some remnant from her nightmare. ‘He sounds too good to be true. And where is he from?’ It was an easy enough question, but one that brought an instant frown to Georgina’s face.

‘Well, that’s the very thing. He has made no mention of family. But he’s obviously well brought up and wealthy—’ A noise outside the room interrupted them, and she started bustling around, smoothing her skirt and curls. ‘Oh! Here they come now.’

Georgina quickly resumed her seat by the window and took up her book. Penelope watched her cousin’s fluster with amusement, rubbing again at the mud marks on her face and dress, more than a little curious to meet this Mr Lockwood.

The door swung open and Harry raced in, scooping up Penelope and swinging her around. ‘Penelope! My favourite little cousin! Annie said you were here! Let me look at you!’ He set her down, and she wobbled giddily on her feet. ‘You’re still as light as a feather. You know, Heath,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘my sister and I used to call Penelope “Sparrow” when we were little because she ate like one and was just as tiny. Some things never change! I bet you still eat hardly anything!’

‘Harry!’ Penelope cried, laughing from both giddiness and delight, ‘No one has called me Sparrow in years, and don’t be boring your friend with silly childhood stories.’

‘Yes, Harry,’ said Georgina pointedly, ‘especially when they haven’t been introduced.’

‘Oh, forgive me and my bad manners,’ Harry winked at Penelope, ‘for my friend here knows me to be a gentleman of
exceptional
manners.’ At this the two men burst out laughing at something neither Penelope nor Georgina were privy to.

‘Dear cousin, let me present Mr Heath Lockwood,’ Harry said gallantly. ‘Heath—this filthy little urchin is my cousin, Miss Penelope Broadhurst—or if you prefer,
Sparrow
.’

Heath stepped out from behind Harry, his deep, brown eyes crinkling in the corners, his mouth stretched broadly in a lopsided smile. The effect on Penelope was instant, warming her to her very toes, her heart fluttering as she regarded his tall, strong physique.

‘I am very pleased to meet you, Miss Broadhurst,’ he said, his deep voice smooth and pleasant, and somehow familiar, ‘very pleased indeed.’

He wasn’t the rider on the hill. He was someone else entirely.

Present day

I awoke, immediately alert. The dream, Penelope’s life, was still raw in my mind. Each detail, each conversation, each glance and look, was as lucid as if I’d just been there.

There has to be some mistake
, I thought as my mind skipped to the boy next door.
This has never happened before. It can’t be right
.
It can’t even be possible!

No one had ever crossed between my worlds. How could they? They weren’t even real, although that wasn’t
entirely
true. Somehow, the people in the other worlds were just as genuine and as real as the people in this world. More so, sometimes. And nicer, too.

Still, I’d never expected someone from 1806 to move in next door. Likewise, I’d never expected my next-door neighbour to simultaneously appear as Harry’s friend.

And yet he had. Amazing as it was, I was sure the boy I’d seen yesterday, the boy with floppy hair and warm, brown eyes, the one who’d looked directly at me and smiled, was Heath Lockwood, who’d moved into Broadhurst Manor.

My mind flittered naturally to the other man. The man with the steel grey eyes that made me shiver even now, two hundred years later. I swallowed hard, knowing what
his
appearance in Penelope’s life meant.

Penelope was seventeen now, and he had come for her. Like he always came. And all I would be able to do would be to close my eyes and dream, powerless to do anything but watch—and feel—him murder her.

Coming downstairs a little later, I found Meredith sipping her morning coffee, the Sunday newspaper spread wide across the kitchen table, pulled apart into its different sections. After pouring a bowl of cereal, I took a seat opposite, drawing a section of the paper across the table. The travel section. I couldn’t wait to get out of Brookdale.

Once, Brookdale had been a thriving industrial centre, an abundance of factories and warehouses drawing people to the small Midwest town and offering full employment in a growing community. But since the economic downturn, most of the factories had closed, the warehouses had been abandoned, and the town’s population had dwindled significantly.