You Only Love Twice (11 page)

This was typically Joseph, thought Jessica. He said what he had to say and not one word more. He didn’t go in for displays of emotion or hand out advice. This was as close as he would come to doing either.

As he tidied away his tools, she looked around the barn. It was spotlessly clean. The cow and her calf were huddled together in one pen, and in another, Tulip was standing by the bars, eyes soulfully trained on Jessica. Laughing, Jessica approached, felt in her pocket and produced a small lump of sugar. Tulip puckered her lips and
swiftly gobbled it. Jessica laid her cheek against the mare’s neck and inhaled. She loved the smell of horses.

“You’s country bred.” When she looked up, Joseph went on, “You’s no fear of animals. Now the sisters”—he flashed another toothless grin—“they’s afeared to go into the henhouse.”

Jessica laughed. It was perfectly true. The sisters would rather muck out the barn than face an angry hen who didn’t want to give up her eggs. But if she was country bred, she had no memory of it.

Leaving Joseph to tidy away and lock up, she wandered outside. This was the moment she’d been waiting for, when her chores were done and she had time to explore.

She walked beyond the outbuildings, downhill, toward a forest of trees that seemed faintly menacing in the fading light. When she came to the bridle path, she halted. The way down was soon lost to view in the dense underbrush and stands of trees. She was sure that somewhere down that path, her Voice had lain in wait for her father as he’d made his way home from the Black Swan.

Her heart picked up speed and her breathing became quick and shallow. She gave one last look behind her, to the cluster of buildings that made up Hawkshill. It all looked so safe and solid. The fading rays of the sun were caught in the manor’s many small-paned windows and winked back at her. Below her, everything was in shadow; everything was silent. With a long, trembling breath, she picked up her skirts and started down the incline.

For the first little while, the shadows blurred and flickered, but as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she could see her way quite clearly. The path was wide and smooth and was obviously still in use. At one point, it branched off to the right. Here she stopped, not because she was uncertain of the way, but because she knew that if she followed the fork, it would take her to Lucas’s house.

Walton Lodge
. She said the name softly, hoping to evoke a memory of the place, but all that came to her was what the sisters had told her over dinner. The Lodge, Lucas had told them, had been his principal residence until he’d come into his uncle’s title and fortune. Now he owned a house in London and an estate in Hampshire, but Walton Lodge would always be his home, and it had given him a great deal of pleasure to fix it up, when he’d had the money to do it.

There was a mother and a young ward, the sisters had told her, but they lived in London. It was a comforting thought. She did not think Lucas’s mother would welcome her back with open arms, not after what she’d done to her son.

She swallowed a soft sound of distress. What kind of girl would do such a thing? Not the kind of girl she wanted to be. When she’d returned to Hawkshill, she hadn’t expected to be the most popular girl in town, but she hadn’t expected this, either. If she could travel back in time, she would give that girl a good shake.

Or had Lucas exaggerated? She hoped he had exaggerated. She
prayed
he’d exaggerated. That was the trouble with losing your memory. Anyone could tell you anything and you wouldn’t know what to believe.

Then why had she no friends? Was it just because it was early days yet, as the nuns said? One friend would be enough to satisfy her, a girl her own age, someone who would be glad to know she had returned.

You disappeared the same night your father was murdered. No one knew where you were. For all anyone knows you could have murdered him
.

Lucas’s parting shot drummed inside her head. Did people really suspect that she had murdered her father? Is that why no one had come out to Hawkshill to welcome her back? Well, she knew she hadn’t murdered her father, but how could she explain about her Voice? She couldn’t, of course.

With a shudder of apprehension, she turned her back on the Lodge and looked down along the bridle path. Hawkshill might not be familiar to her, but this shortcut into town was. She’d been here many times with her Voice. In fact, her Voice had given her a map to follow. She closed her eyes, trying to get her bearings.

Behind her was a manor with a hawk soaring over it—that had to be Hawkshill. There was a rich man’s house on a hill. Lucas’s house? She didn’t think so. When her father was murdered Lucas wasn’t a rich man, and the Lodge was not grand enough for the impression she had been given. There was a castle off in the distance, Windsor Castle, of course. It was the most prominent landmark in the area.

She opened her eyes and breathed deeply. She took one step, and another, then her pace quickened and she went forward as if propelled by an invisible force. She was vividly aware that each step took her closer to her destination, but she wasn’t afraid. Her mind and senses were finely honed, poised for the moment of recognition.

The shadows were deepening as the sun slipped below the horizon. A branch whipped at her face, but she pushed it away and ran on. She could hear the stream now, rippling over rocks, just as she’d heard it from her Voice. Her heart was thundering. She was out of breath. This was exactly how her Voice had felt the night he’d lain in wait for her father. She was close, so very close …

The muffled report of the pistol shot stopped her in her tracks. It took her a moment to realize that the sound came from inside her head. Blinking rapidly, one hand pressed to her heart, she looked around her. At this point, the trees were thinning, and the path leveled out. About twenty yards ahead, the vista opened up, and the clouds on the horizon, dappled with the purple haze from the setting sun, gave the impression of a range of mountains off in the distance.

She turned to look back the way she had come. If Lucas was her Voice, he must have taken a different route to get here ahead of her father. Then he’d hidden behind a tree in this very spot, and when her father passed him, Lucas had shot him in the back.

It was logical, but it was all wrong. It was all wrong because she didn’t want to believe it. She didn’t want Lucas Wilde to be the murderer.

She was still staring along the bridle path, trying to remember every detail of the attack as her Voice had told it to her, when she became aware that she had unwittingly opened herself to him. He was there, at the very gates of her mind, thinking the same thoughts as she. Her body went as rigid as a length of iron. She stopped breathing. Every ounce of willpower went into erasing her own thoughts so that he wouldn’t detect her presence.

He was puzzled. One of the images she had passed on to him was unfamiliar, and he had paused to think about it. She sensed his confusion, his growing uncertainty, and finally his suspicion. After what seemed like an eternity, she felt him blink mentally, as though someone had recalled him to another conversation. He lingered one moment longer, then he was gone.

She stayed as she was, unmoving, terrified to draw a breath. When she was quite sure that she was alone with her thoughts, she began to shake.

Hardly aware of what she was doing, she left the path and sought the protection of the trees. Supporting herself against the trunk of an oak, she drew air greedily into her lungs. When her fear had ebbed a little, she sank down on her knees and tried to put her thoughts in order.

This wasn’t the first time she had given herself away. At vespers, when her mind had screamed at him not to murder again, he’d sensed her presence. One intrusion into his mind he might put down to mere imagination, but not two. She would have to be more vigilant in future. There must be no unwary moments, no more openings
for her Voice to enter her mind. If his suspicion became a conviction and he got to know of her existence, he might deal with her as he’d dealt with her father.

She’d learned something from this encounter. She was on the right track. This was the murder her Voice had relived countless times in his mind. If she could only discover who her Voice was, she would know who had murdered her father.

She let out a long sigh and rose to her feet. She didn’t know how to go about proving who had murdered her father. If the constable hadn’t solved the crime, how could she possibly hope to do it? Maybe the constable could point her in the right direction, though. That’s what she would do. As soon as she could be spared from Hawkshill, she would go into town and question the constable.

On that note of resolve, she drew her shawl more snugly around her and made for home.

Later that night, as she lay tossing in her narrow bed, she felt the presence of her Voice, as soft as a whisper. But she had taken care to shutter her mind and there was no way in.

CHAPTER
8

I
n the following days, Jessica was kept so busy that all thoughts of the constable were crowded out of her mind. The first batch of boys was due to arrive by the beginning of June, and there were more jobs to do than she, Joseph and the nuns could manage. She was tired but she was also keyed up. Soon, their boys would be here. She was good with children. She was needed. Her work at Hawkshill was important and left little time to think about herself.

Lucas was a regular visitor, but he came in the role of their landlord, and though he spoke to her in passing, he did not seek her out. He had brought thatchers and slaters with him to fix the various roofs, and carpenters to build new privies and mend broken sills and doors. A time or two, when they were shorthanded, he removed his coat, rolled up his shirtsleeves, and set to work with the men. She could hear them from her kitchen window as she prepared the noon meal. There was good-natured masculine banter at his lordship’s expense, and she could feel
her own lips turn up when Lucas replied in kind. As was to be expected, his credit with the sisters couldn’t get any higher. It was “Lord Dundas this” and “Lord Dundas that,” and they’d taken to thanking the good Lord at evening prayers for sending such a generous benefactor.

They’d also taken to watching Jessica and Lucas whenever their paths crossed, and more often than not, this was when the workers and Lucas trooped into her kitchen to eat the meal she had prepared. The banter, then, became subdued, and she was aware of the veiled looks and speculative glances directed at both herself and Lucas, not only from the nuns, but from the workmen as well. She didn’t know whether they expected her to pounce on Lucas and kiss him or box his ears. It made her all hot and bothered, as though she weren’t hot enough with the heat of her labors, making the mountain of pies, potatoes, stews and puddings these men devoured.

Lucas took it all in his stride. As she and the nuns hovered around the table, setting down the big platters of food and generally fetching and carrying for the ravenous men, he would occasionally catch her eye and wink. It was very hard to keep a straight face, but all she had to do was remind herself that these men thought she had once tried to compromise Lucas and that brought her down to earth.

Neighbors began to call. The first to arrive were the vicar and his wife, John and Anne Rankin. They appeared at their door with boxes of clothes and bed linens that their congregation had collected in anticipation of the boys’ arrival. Others soon followed their lead, among them the apothecary, Wilson, and his wife, and surprisingly, the attorney, Rempel, and Mrs. Rempel. The general goodwill and generosity of their neighbors went a long way to quelling any fears the nuns may have harbored about their reception in the area. In fact, though they had always gone about their work cheerfully and without complaint, now the sisters’ spirits seemed to soar.
There was nothing they could not do, would not tackle, and it afforded Jessica and old Joseph no end of amusement to see Sisters Elvira and Dolores march with raised brooms into the henhouse to do battle with the startled hens for their precious eggs.

Though Jessica was as happy as she could remember, it was inevitable that she would suffer a few pangs when visitors greeted her by name and she did not recognize them. She felt awkward and shy when they had to introduce themselves, all the more so because she felt she had this horrible reputation to live down. But there was more to her discomfort than that. She wondered how she would feel when she finally came face-to-face with her Voice. Would there be a moment of truth? An instant of heart-stopping recognition? Would they know each other? And she would search each new face with a shiver of apprehension.

But no such moment occurred. Everyone was very nice, very ordinary. The only time she’d experienced that moment of recognition was with Lucas, and everything within her rebelled at the thought that he might be her Voice. She couldn’t explain why she felt this way. She hardly knew him. But logic could not control what she felt deep inside.

Sometimes, she would stop what she was doing and look around Hawkshill, her gaze moving from one friendly face to another, and it would seem inconceivable that a murder had taken place only half a mile down the bridle path. No one spoke of it; no one referred to her part in her father’s quarrel with Lucas or to her subsequent disappearance. She’d been missing for two nights before she’d turned up at the convent. Where had she been? What had made her go to London? She could not begin to guess what had driven her to such lengths. And no one would answer any of the oh-so-tactful questions she put to them. They were either being evasive or they did not know.

She mentioned her frustration to Perry, Lucas’s young cousin. There was no one from her former life she felt half as comfortable with. They were the same age, he was open and friendly, and along with Lucas, he was their most regular visitor.

“People are just being considerate,” he said. He looked at her keenly. “Have you been going around asking questions, Jess?”

“I’ve tried. Oh, don’t worry, I’m very diplomatic. But no one will tell me anything.”