A Stitch in Time, Page 2

  “I don’t need that. Thank you.”

  While I hate the thought of Aunt Judith selling furniture, I’m not surprised. Thorne Manor had been her one luxury, passed down from her grandfather, whose first wife had been a Thorne. The fact that she passed it on to me is both an honor and a responsibility, one that makes my heart ache and tremble at the same time.

  I follow Delores up the wide, grand staircase. My hand slides over the wood railing, worn gray and silk-smooth with age, and at the feel of it, I remember all the times I stepped through the front door, dropped my bag and raced straight upstairs as my dad laughed below.

  “Uh, Bronwyn? Your aunt and uncle are down here.”

  True, and I adored them, but first I had to see . . .

  “Your room,” Delores says, as if finishing my sentence.

  I smile. “I know the way,” I say, and I turn left at the top of the steps.

  She shakes her head. “I made up the master suite. That old room is small and dark, and the bed’s ready to collapse. No reason for you to use it.”

  No reason except that it’s mine, and I spent some of my happiest days there. My perfect, wonderful room, with its perfect, wonderful secret.

  Secret? No. Delusion.

  I swallow, tear my gaze away and hurry after Delores to the master suite.

  “Linens are all new and laundered,” she says.

  I cross the large, airy room to the king-sized bed and make a show of smoothing the linens. I’m ready to gush politely, but they’re five-star hotel quality, and I sigh with pleasure as I rub them between my fingers. Then I notice the thick quilted comforter. It’s clearly handmade . . . by someone who knows what they’re doing. It’s a star pattern, diamonds of jade and wine against a black backdrop.

  “Oh, wow,” I say as I stroke the comforter. “This is amazing.”

  Delores harrumphs, but she’s clearly pleased. “The wife made it for your auntie and never got a chance to give it to her.”

  I turn to face her. “Thank you. For everything. This is far more than I expected.”

  Delores waves a gnarled hand. “I told her she was making too much fuss. You’d think Queen Liz herself was coming.” She tromps from the room. “I’d best be getting home.”

  I walk her down to the front door, and then say a heartfelt, “Thank you, Ms. Crossley.”

  “It’s Mr.” She doesn’t give me time to respond, just meets my gaze with that challenging stare. “I prefer Mr.”

  “And he? Or they? Ze?”

  His eyes narrow, as if I’m mocking him.

  I hurry on. “I’m a university professor, Mr. Crossley. I use proper pronouns.”

  A slow, thoughtful nod. “I prefer he.” A pause. “If you forget and use she, though, I won’t hold it against you.”

  “I won’t forget, Mr. Crossley.”

  “Del’s fine, too.”

  That’s right. He’d signed his e-mails “Del.” The only time I’d seen “Delores” was in the introduction from the lawyer handling the estate.

  He heads for the door. “You have any trouble, call. Or come on down’t. We’re at the bottom of the hill, first cottage on the left. Easy enough run for a strong lass like you.”

  “I’ll be fine, but thank you.”

  “I’ll be back come morning. Take a look at that old car. See if there’s any life left in her.”

  I thank him again, and then walk out and watch him leave, a shadowy figure on a bicycle, newly lit pipe gritted between his teeth.

  2

  Del leaves, and I’m alone, which is nothing new, and hardly bothers me, even in this isolated old house. I plan to snuggle in with tea and biscuits and a book. I get as far as donning my nightshirt—one of Michael’s old tees—before the bed upstairs seems a lot more inviting than tea or biscuits or even a book. I’ve spent the last day crammed into a seat of some sort: plane, train, taxi. I desperately need to stretch out and sleep.

  When I flip on the stairway light, it flashes once and sputters out. I flick it a few times before fetching a candlestick from the kitchen.

  Being this isolated means the house is subject to power outages, and the utility company is never in a rush to fix them. Granted, I don’t actually need to light a candle. It’s one burnt-out bulb. I could get to my bedroom by leaving on the foyer light. Which would be no fun at all. I’m climbing a darkened staircase, alone in an eighteenth-century haunted house in the English moors. Anyone with a speck of imagination would want to ascend with a lit candlestick, white nightgown—or oversized white T-shirt—billowing around her.

  I do exactly that, and I hear not a single ominous creak of a floorboard, catch not one unearthly flicker in the corner of my eye. Terribly disappointing.

  I step into the bedroom and—

  Something moves across the room. I jump and spin, nearly dropping my candle, only to see myself reflected in a mirror. It’s Aunt Judith’s antique vanity with three-way mirrors. I see it, and I can’t help but smile, that spark of fear snuffed out. As a child, I’d sit at that vanity for hours, silently opening jars of cream and pots of makeup, sighing over the exotic scents and jewel colors. Aunt Judith would always “catch” me, and I loved to be caught because it meant a little girl makeover, creams rubbed on my face, stain on my lips and my hair stroked to gleaming with her silver brush. Then out came the cold cream, as chilly as its name, wiping off Aunt Judith’s work before my mother saw.

  I walk over and lower myself into the seat. The top is still covered in pots and boxes, their cut glass and silver tops gleaming as if Aunt Judith were here only moments ago. I open one jar of night cream, and the smell that rushes out is so familiar my eyes fill with tears. I sit there a moment, remember. Then I rise and pinch out the candle.

  With moonlight flooding through the drapery-free window, I crawl into bed, and oh my God, I was not exaggerating about the linens, sheets so soft I want to roll in them like a kitten in catnip.

  My eyes barely close before I’m asleep.

  I wake to a tickle on my cheek, like a stray hair dancing in the night breeze. Michael used to say it had to be twenty below before I’d sleep with the windows shut. I crack open my eyes and—

  A face hovers over mine.

  I jump up with a shriek and crouch there, fists clenched as my gaze swings around the room. The empty room.

  When I spot something big and pale to my left, I twist to find myself gazing out the huge bay window. A nearly full moon blazes through . . . a pale circle hovering above me.

  I exhale and shake my head. In the bleary confusion of waking, I mistook the moon for a face, the shadowy craters for features. And I’d woken because a stray hair tickled my cheek, caught in the breeze coming through that window, which I . . .

  I look over. Which I did not open last night—the window is shut tight.

  Well, then, it was a draft. It’s an old house.

  I flip onto my side, away from the window. No sooner does my head touch the pillow than someone whispers in my ear.

  I jump, flailing as the sheets tangle. I fight my way free and scramble from the bed with a “Who’s there?” so tremulous that shame snakes through me.

  A memory flickers, from my last night in this house, twenty-three years ago. I woke to a figure looming over me. A figure whose face I can never remember, who said words I can never recall. Who sent me screaming from my sleep and then—

  I swallow hard and rub my eyes. There is no ghost here. There never was. A hair tickled my cheek. I opened my eyes to see the moon, and then I imagined the whisper. I’m tense and stressed, overwhelmed by memory and emotion, in a place I once loved above all others, a place I haven’t set foot in for two decades when that love twisted to heartbreak and grief and fear.

  There’s nothing here except memories, and so many of them are wonderful. Focus on those. Remember those. Exorcise the ghosts and reclaim Thorne Manor as that place of magic and mystery.

  I cross the room and open the window. The night breeze rushes in, and I gulp it
down, lowering my face to the screen. As I do, I see my beloved moors, paths winding through it, familiar trails that make my feet and my heart ache with wanting. A cow lows somewhere, and a dog barks, as if in answer. My gaze moves to the narrow road down the hill, and the glow of houses below. A reminder that I’m not truly alone.

  I’m crawling back into bed when something thuds deep within the house. I go still, my head swiveling. Another thud, coming from the direction of my old room.

  I push to my feet, but a yowl sends me tumbling back onto the bed. I grab the nearest thing at hand, wielding it like a shield, taking sanctuary behind a . . . pillow? I stifle a choked laugh, cut short by another yowl, weak and quavering, a drawn-out cry of despair.

  Still clutching the pillow, I creep to the door. The sound comes again, prickling the hair on my neck. My fingers graze the doorknob.

  What? You’re going out there?

  That only makes me square my shoulders. Yes, I’m going out there. I’m not fifteen anymore. I won’t huddle in my bed, a frightened mouse of a girl.

  Except I hadn’t huddled in my bed that night. I’d run, which is when everything went so horribly wrong.

  Well, I’m not running now. I’m acting clearly and decisively, armed with my . . . I look down at the pillow, toss it aside and snatch the umbrella from my open luggage. I take my cell phone, too, before I slide into the hall.

  The creature keeps yowling. Pitiable sounds that come from behind the closed door to my old bedroom.

  I turn the knob. Then I knee the door hard enough that it slaps against the wall.

  A cry. A skitter of claws on wood. A streak of orange hurtles under the bed.

  Orange?

  Well, it’s not a ghost.

  I play back a mental video of that streak. Too big for a mouse. Too orange for a rat.

  Huh.

  As I step into the room, the stink of still air and mildew washes over me. Dust cyclones in my wake. Ahead, my old bed is indeed broken, the box spring sagging, mattress gone.

  Propping my umbrella against the wall, I turn on my phone’s flashlight and lower myself to the floor. When I shine the light under my bed, teeth flash. Razor-sharp teeth half the length of my pinky nail. Tiny black lips curl in a hiss, and orange fur puffs, little ears flattened in the most adorably fierce snarl ever.

  It’s a kitten. One barely big enough to be away from its mother.

  It hisses again. She hisses. I know enough about felines to realize that calico means female.

  When I move the light aside, the kitten spots me. Or she seems to, her tiny head bobbing, her eyes likely still struggling to focus.

  How young is she?

  And what is she doing in my old bedroom?

  The kitten lets out the tiniest mew.

  “Where’s your momma?” I ask.

  Another mew. I reach under the bed, and she skitters away, claws scrabbling over the hardwood.

  I eye her. Then I back out and look around. There’s clearly no mother cat in here. My gaze trips around the moonlit space as my heart swells with love for this room, and I have to remind myself I’m looking for a mother cat . . . or some way a kitten could get in. Even then, of course, I notice everything, the disrepair hidden by shadow. Two large windows, one overlooking the moors, the other the old stables. My narrow bed and double dressers, and something I’d almost forgotten—a small vanity with a padded stool and mirror, a surprise from Aunt Judith and Uncle Stan when I’d returned at fifteen. My gaze slides over my own collection of makeup and creams, and my eyes mist until the room swims.

  I blink hard. This isn’t solving the kitten mystery. I circle the room, studying the walls. They’re in perfect repair without a baseboard gap big enough to let in a mouse. I look behind the dresser and vanity and bed. No holes there.

  I walk to the windows. They’re shut tight, the smell in here guaranteeing this room wasn’t aired out with the rest of the house.

  I turn to look around again, and I spot the kitten peeking from under the bed. I lower myself to the floor. When she mews, I stay where I am and dangle my fingers. A pause. Then she takes one tentative step. Another. She makes her way across the floor until she’s sniffing my fingers. Then she rubs against my hand. When I go to stroke her head, she hops right onto my lap and purrs up at me.

  I chuckle under my breath. “Not a stray, are you?”

  She is adorable, a puff of long, soft fur, her back and head abstract stripes of black and orange, her belly and paws snow white. As I pet her, she rubs against my hand. A house cat, then, raised with people and a mother who trusted those people to handle her babies.

  I lift the kitten as she motorboat purrs. She really is tiny with an oversized head and huge blue eyes. I know kittens are born with blue eyes, so does that mean she isn’t old enough to be weaned? Either way, I’m sure she’s not old enough to be exploring on her own. So, where did she come from?

  As I pet her, I lift my phone in my free hand and thumb to the browser to see how old kittens are when their eyes change color. When I get a message that I’m not connected to the internet, I glance at the signal strength icon. It’s flat. I had a signal on the drive here, but I haven’t checked my phone since I arrived at Thorne Manor.

  I push to my feet. I hold the kitten just tight enough that she can’t jump to her doom. I needn’t have bothered. She isn’t going anywhere, and when I tuck her into the crook of my arm, she snuggles onto the convenient boob perch.

  I take the kitten downstairs and give her a plate of water. There’s a cold chicken in the fridge, and I tear off tiny bits, which she ignores. When the grandfather clock chimes, I expect it to be three or four in the morning. Instead, it gongs twelve.

  Only midnight? How early did I go to bed?

  Maybe I didn’t fall asleep at all. Or not as deeply as I thought. That might explain that phantom touch. One explanation for ghosts is hypnogogic and hypnopompic hallucinations, where you think you see something while you’re falling asleep or waking up, but you’re actually asleep and dreaming without realizing it.

  Overtired and unsettled by a long day of travel, I’d fallen into a restless sleep and thought I woke to someone leaning over my bed . . . but it was the dream-hallucination that actually woke me. And the dream itself was precipitated by the eerie sound of a trapped kitten.

  Even with the explanation, I’m not eager to return to the master suite. Also, it makes a fine excuse to reclaim my former bedroom. I find the old mattress wrapped in storage and drag it in while the kitten watches in fascination. I put the oversized master suite sheets and comforter on my narrow bed. One corner sags, but I can fix that tomorrow. For now, I settle the kitten into a blanket-filled cardboard box, and by two a.m., I’m drifting off to the music of tiny kitten snores.

  I wake to the call of a mother cat. As I surface, I catch scents that don’t belong in my bedroom—the perfume of sandalwood, and the musk of horse and the tantalizing aroma of a smoldering fire. Which means I haven’t woken at all. I’ve tumbled into a dream where the kitten’s mother anxiously searches for her lost baby.

  In the dream, someone sleeps beside me, and when I shift, a hand slides onto my hip. A broad, masculine hand tugs me closer, and I ease into the heat radiating from the other side of the bed. My legs bump his, and his reach forward, inviting me in, our feet and calves entwining.

  It isn’t Michael. Not his scent or his touch or even his still familiar breathing. That doesn’t make me pull back in alarm. It’s been eight years. I no longer suffer pangs of guilt on the rare occasion that other men invade my dreams. Michael still visits them often enough.

  The man’s fingers splay over my hip, pulling me closer. A nuzzle, then lips parting against my forehead in a whispered, “Bronwyn.”

  I hesitate.

  I know that voice.

  No, I know that inflection to my name. I do not know the voice. The man’s scent, equally familiar and yet not familiar, smelling of sweat and horse and sandalwood, teases me with hints of familiarit
y.

  I touch his hand on my hip and slide my fingers over the hard muscles of his forearm, making him shiver against me. He exhales through his teeth as my fingers trace up his biceps to his shoulder. That shoulder shifts under my hand as his mouth drops to the crook of my neck, kissing there, whispering words I can’t catch, just the sound of a British accent, again both familiar and not, a voice in my head, insisting I know him yet refusing to fill in the missing piece with a name.

  I crack open my eyes to see jet-black hair curling over pale skin. He’s still kissing my throat, tickling kisses as he murmurs my name.

  One hand still rests on my hip. The other slides underneath, gripping and pulling me closer, until I feel the hard urgency of him against my stomach. I ease up, breaking his kiss to adjust my position to a more satisfying one. He chuckles and shifts to accommodate me.

  I arch my hips into his, and he lets out a low groan, the sound ending in my name. I try to see his face, but it’s buried in my hair. He’s tall, then. Tall, dark and possibly handsome, but I’m not terribly concerned about the last. This is quite enough, a well-built man groaning my name, his body hot and hard against mine, perfect fodder for a midnight fantasy.

  Our legs entwine further, and I realize he’s naked. I’m still wearing my nightshirt and panties, and he seems to be in no rush to relieve me of those. I’m in no hurry, either, enjoying the journey, the destination inevitable. He presses against me, and I part my legs, and he groans again, his hands gripping my hips.

  Then the cat yowls.

  His eyes fly open. The room’s too dark for me to catch more than a flash of light eyes, blue or green. Before I can get a better look, he shoves me away with, “What the bloody hell?”

  That voice . . .

  No, not the voice. The accent. A proper upper-crust London accent, one that isn’t actually heard in London anymore, a relic of a bygone era.

  He scrambles out of bed, realizes he’s naked, and yanks the coverlet with him, imperfectly draped over his front.