Time After Time (9 page)

‘Are you coming back to Broadhurst Manor today?’ Harry asked, oblivious to the situation as only he could be. ‘We’re planning a walk through the forest later. Show Heath more of the country.’

‘I’m not sure,’ Penelope managed to croak out, ‘I’m visiting Mrs Smith. Perhaps afterwards I could join you.’

‘That would be wonderful,’ Heath replied, and even Harry looked a little startled by the depth and sincerity in his voice. ‘We shall wait for you, won’t we, Harry?’

‘Of course,’ smiled Harry. ‘A party is not a party without our Penelope.’

‘No,’ agreed Heath, ‘it certainly isn’t.’

Penelope packed a basket with bread, butter, apples she’d collected from the orchards at Broadhurst, and some sweet cakes for the children, before she set off to Mrs Smith’s cottage, which sat on the outskirts of the village.

As she was meandering through the woods, her thoughts wandered naturally to Mr Lockwood, as they were wont to do these days. It was as if he’d cast a spell over her, one that compelled her to think of him and only him.

Oh, and the rider on the horse.

At that thought, a chill crept up from her feet. Behind her there was the softest flutter of leaves, the whisper of wind through the trees, and she turned, her heart frozen in her chest. Was someone there? Was someone following?

A hard lump formed in her throat as she flicked her gaze anxiously between the tall, towering trees. Overhead, through the canopy of leaves, was the gentle sunlight, which barely reached her. The wind picked up again and whistled through the forest, calling to her, calling her name. Calling her a different name.

Drawing a ragged breath, Penelope swallowed the hard lump and hugged the basket closer, her chest tight and every muscle alert and ready to react. To what though? There was nothing to be scared of. It was just an overactive imagination and a cool forest breeze. There was no one following, no one hiding in the shadows of the forest or the thick, bordering shrubbery.

Turning, she hurried down the path, focusing her attention on the soft thud her boots made on the dry earth and ignoring the sense that someone followed closely, too closely, behind. Images of the rider tearing down the hill towards her, towering over her, filled her thoughts, and she quickened her pace. The blood pounding in her ears sounded too much like the thundering hoof beats of a horse.

Mrs Smith’s cottage sat at the bottom of a laneway on the outskirts of the village. It was small and run-down, the thatched roof badly in need of repair before winter arrived. Coming into view of the house, Penelope was greeted by several dirty children running up and surrounding her, their grotty faces grinning delightedly. The sight of them immediately lightened her mood.

‘Miss Penelope! Miss Penelope! What have you brought us?’

‘Have you got apples? Have you got cakes?’

‘Ssh, Joseph, what has mam told you about asking? Where are your manners?’ scolded the oldest of the small group, who was only about eight herself.

Penelope laughed, handing each of the children an apple. ‘There you go, children! Now, where is your mother?’

‘She’s inside with the new babe,’ one of the little boys informed her, chomping into an apple.

Penelope made her way into the small cottage to greet Mrs Smith.

Eliza Smith had once been an attractive lady with wide, deep brown eyes and a cascade of dark curls. But time, ten children and a drunken husband had taken its toll, and her face was now tired and worn, her eyes etched with weariness. Her mouth, once pert and pink, was now drawn in a thin line of disappointment, and her glossy curls were streaked with grey.

‘Ah, Miss Penelope,’ she said in a wan voice, ‘how nice to see you. Your father said you might visit.’

Penelope took the tiny babe from Eliza’s arms and gently cooed to him. Her father had insisted the babe be baptised and came especially to see to it, concerned for the fate of the child’s soul. Eliza had seen no harm in performing the trite, irrelevant ceremony if it would keep the Pastor happy. ‘How are you, Mrs Smith?’

‘Tired, very tired,’ she sat down in a chair by the weak fire, ‘but you’re good to visit us.’

‘How is Mr Smith?’ Penelope glanced around the small, dusty cottage but saw no sign of him.

‘He’s fine, Miss.’

‘Is he out then?’

‘Yes’m.’ But she didn’t meet Penelope’s eyes.

‘Have the children been going to school?’ Penelope asked, changing the subject.

‘When I can get ’em there. But they don’t really heed me.’

‘Perhaps I can talk to them.’

‘Well, I need Mary here to help,’ Eliza said, ‘and Clara’s twelve, so she can probably stay too.’

‘Perhaps Jane could work at Broadhurst Manor?’ Penelope suggested.

Eliza brightened. ‘Oh, that would be grand.’

Penelope placed the sleeping babe in a fruit crate that doubled as a cradle, and started unpacking the basket. ‘Well, let me speak to Miss Broadhurst first, then we’ll see.’ But she knew Georgina would help. Broadhurst Manor probably didn’t need any extra staff, but Georgina would take on Jane to help Mrs Smith. Georgina might not visit with a basket of food, but she’d do what she could indirectly.

Penelope spent the afternoon tidying the cottage as best she could, sweeping the floor, insisting Mrs Smith relax with a cup of tea. The poor woman looked as if she hadn’t slept in a year. Then Penelope dragged in an old tub from outdoors and filled it with steaming hot water. From her pocket she pulled a cake of soap.

It wasn’t easy rounding up the children for a bath, but with the help of Jane and Thomas—the eldest—she managed. They complained and whimpered the whole time, but afterwards she was glad she’d insisted. The water was black, but at least the children were clean. By the time the last was washed it was late afternoon and there was still no sign of Mr Smith.

‘Jane, can you help me drag this tub outside?’ Penelope asked.

Jane, who was almost the same age as Penelope, helped drag the tub outside. Tipping it over behind the cottage, they watched as the grubby water drained into the soil.

‘Jane, how long has your father been gone?’ Penelope asked.

‘Three weeks,’ she admitted, ‘Mam said we aren’t to tell anyone.’

‘Three weeks!’ cried Penelope, ‘But how has she been managing?’ Penelope struggled to think how Mrs Smith would cope raising ten children on her own with no husband, no other family, and no income.

Jane shrugged but didn’t reply.

‘What is it Jane? You know you can tell me.’

‘Well, she asked me not to say, seeing as your father is the preacher and all.’ She chewed her bottom lip, and Penelope immediately guessed what she’d been trying to say.

‘Oh. Your mother has been giving readings again?’

Jane nodded and wrung her hands. ‘You won’t tell your father, will you? He’ll come here lecturing again and she’ll be all mad at me.’

Penelope sighed heavily. ‘No. I won’t tell Father. But it’s the Devil’s work she mixes in. You know that, don’t you?’

Silence greeted her statement, and Penelope stared at the girl, who looked completely wretched. ‘Jane? What is it?’

Again more silence, and Penelope realised she wasn’t going to get a straight answer. ‘Oh, Jane. You too?’

‘Yes, Miss. I can’t help it. Mam says it’s my gypsy blood and that I have a gift.’

‘It’s not a gift, Jane! It’s a curse.’

‘Only if it’s used for bad.’

‘And you don’t?’

‘No.’

Penelope stared aghast at the girl. Her father was completely wasting his time coming out here and expecting to reform the Smith family. Eliza Smith had been deeply indoctrinated in her beliefs and was doing the same with her own children. Penelope’s father had spent hours lecturing the woman on the evils of doing the Devil’s work, but at the same time, what else was she to do? Her husband had vanished, she had a squabble of children to feed, and villagers would pay handsomely to hear about their pending good luck. Penelope could hardly blame Eliza Smith for doing what she could to support her family.

‘I could tell you a few things about yourself,’ Jane said slyly now, watching Penelope carefully.

‘Really?’ Penelope replied dryly. ‘I’m sure I’m a completely open book and there’s nothing you could tell me that everyone doesn’t already know.’

Jane tilted her head and regarded Penelope for a moment before she spoke. ‘I could tell you that you’re part of a great love story. That even now you’re falling deeply in love. I bet people don’t know that.’

At Jane’s words Penelope was instantly assailed with memories of silver grey eyes, of a darkly handsome face looming over her and consuming her, sucking her into the never-ending depths of his eyes and soul.

She blinked, mortified that the thought had even appeared.

‘Aha! I see you have your own suspicions,’ Jane chortled, catching the look that flashed across Penelope’s face.

‘Miss Penelope! Miss Penelope!’ The children were calling for her, and she stepped back, grateful for the interruption. She was unnerved by Jane’s words, as well as where her own thoughts had inadvertently wandered. ‘There’s a gentleman come looking for you.’

Penelope glanced in surprise to Jane, who met her eyes with amusement. Blinking, she was suddenly terrified that the man with grey eyes had come for her.

Rounding the front of the cottage, she was surprised and relieved to find Heath perched atop his horse. He was surrounded by children, who squealed with delight at their unexpected visitor.

What is he doing here?

Jane whispered in her ear, ‘This must be the Mr Lockwood everyone is talking about. I’d heard he’d taken a liking to you. Perhaps he’s the one?’

Penelope couldn’t suppress her surprise. ‘Jane Smith! I didn’t know you listened to idle chitchat. And it’s not true.’ Although, she thought with some relief, that explained Jane’s reference to falling in love. She wasn’t psychic; she simply listened to gossip.

‘This
isn’t
Mr Lockwood?’ Jane asked innocently.

Penelope flushed. ‘Yes, but…well, the other part is not…oh, never mind!’ She bustled forward to greet Heath, who had climbed down from his horse and was making his way to her, leading his mount by the reins. ‘Mr Lockwood, what a surprise. What brings you to Mrs Smith’s cottage?’

‘Why,
you
do, Penelope,’ Heath replied, his eyes warming hers. ‘It was getting late, and we’d delayed our walk to wait for you.’

‘Oh! I completely forgot! Please forgive me. I was so busy that it totally slipped my mind. But you needn’t have waited; you could have gone without me.’

Heath hesitated before replying, as if choosing his words carefully. ‘That was never an option, I’m afraid.’ His brown eyes burned into hers. Nervously, she wiped her shaking hands on her apron, feeling suddenly guilty for ever thinking about unusual silver eyes.

Penelope and Heath stayed like that, staring at one another for a few seconds, before Jane spoke. ‘Would you like to come in, Mr Lockwood?’

Penelope blinked, remembering her manners. ‘I’m sorry. Mr Lockwood, this is Jane Smith.’

Heath greeted Jane politely then returned his attention to Penelope. ‘It’s getting late and I was worried it might be unsafe for you to walk home in the dark. Can I perhaps escort you?’

For the first time Penelope realised how late it was. The sky had darkened quickly and was streaked with a pink and orange sunset. A chill marred the air, bringing a shiver of goosebumps up her arms. She’d been too busy to notice the approaching twilight and fast-descending brisk night air.

‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘just let me collect my things.’ She turned to go inside and Heath followed. He stoked the meagre fire and, upon seeing there wasn’t enough firewood, disappeared outside to chop more, leaving Penelope to suffer under the amused stares of Eliza and Jane as she packed her basket.

‘Oh, Miss Penelope, you definitely have an admirer,’ cooed Eliza.

‘And you said he didn’t fancy you!’ cried Jane. ‘He fancies you better than anything I have ever seen. What I wouldn’t give to have a handsome man look at me like that!’

‘Jane Smith, you have no idea what you’re talking about! Mr Lockwood is a friend of Harry’s, residing for a short time at Broadhurst Manor. That is all.’ But even as she spoke, Penelope’s face flushed red and her hands trembled.

Eliza peered at her curiously, her eyes assessing Penelope carefully. Suddenly, she stepped forward and whispered furtively, ‘Is he the one you dream of?’

Penelope blinked.
What did she say?
But before she could reply, before she could utter another word, Heath entered and Eliza stepped back, smiling benignly as if she hadn’t just hissed the most bizarre words at Penelope.

Glancing over at Jane, who watched her curiously, Penelope felt a growing annoyance. Her father was right to keep coming here and preaching to their souls. They were in desperate need of salvation.

Saying goodbye to the Smiths, Penelope was all too aware of her flushed cheeks and the amused grins of Jane and her mother. She couldn’t wait to be away from them and their unsettling words.

‘You’re very kind,’ Heath commented while walking beside her, his horse trailing behind.

‘Eliza Smith is a good woman,’ Penelope said. ‘She cannot help nor fix her situation. Mr Smith seems inclined to drink his wages and disappear for days on end instead of providing for his children.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’ he offered generously, ‘To ease their situation?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Penelope replied, thinking about what Mrs Smith and now Jane were already doing for themselves. She wondered how many of the local villagers had ventured out to the small cottage to pay for a superstitious reading. ‘I’ll speak to Georgina about hiring Jane at Broadhurst Manor—that will help.’

They were silent once more. Penelope shivered in the cool night air.

‘Are you cold? Here, allow me.’ He didn’t wait for a reply but swept off his coat, draping it around her shoulders. His fingertips brushed against her cheek, and she looked up at him from under her lashes, feeling the warmth of his body heat in the coat, all thoughts of Mrs Smith and her family vanished from her mind.

He paused, and Penelope stopped also, wondering what had halted him. She could hear her frenzied heartbeat in her ears, feel the gentle thrum of blood as it pulsed through her veins. She swallowed hard.