Clandestine (39 page)

Marc had told her that he loved her. Well, more or less.

And, yet, she had still
walked out
on him.

Gah! What kind of a person was she? To just walk out on a man like that?

Correction: To walk out on Marc Wilde like that.

She lay in bed, feeling as if a weight the size and breadth of all of Britain had taken up residence on her chest.

The previous night, she had returned home, called her two managing editors and apologized for her absence. Made up a (partially true) story about having to dig Daniel out of one of his scrapes. Smoothed things over.

And then took an absurdly long shower.

The website was doing well, despite her unplanned ‘vacation.’

Yes, the
Croc-nami
post had gone mega-viral. Apparently several media outlets had been eager to interview her.

Lovely. So many people wanting to be with her, wanting to have her around.

Everyone but her family. The
only
people who should want to be with her, no matter what.

She staggered out of bed. Pulled a cotton wrap over her tight t-shirt and pajama bottoms. Loosely gathered her hair into a messy bun.

And wandered down the stone stairs of Whitmoor House.

The family wing, of course.

Ironic that. Given she had
none
now.

She was deep into her pity-party. Intent on wallowing there for a good long time. She had already gone through a full package of hobnobs and was deep into a package of shortbread biscuits.

Kit could hear the low rumble of voices coming from the medieval hall. Visitors gaping at the enormous wooden beams and faded banners. The tour guides recounting the history of the building.

How much longer would it be hers? Eventually, Daniel would have to be declared dead. And then, without a living male heir, the entire building would revert to the National Trust.

Gone, gone, gone. All gone.

She wandered into her father’s study. His desk stood in the same place in the middle of the room. Heavy, solid. Grounded. Light filtered in, faded and gray, casting the room in blue shadows.

Walking up to the desk, she touched her father’s books, his notes. At some point she would need to sort through this room. But she just hadn’t been able to face it yet. To box up her father’s life. Now to have to box up Daniel’s too. . .

It just felt like such a betrayal. A negation of them as people. To what they had meant to her.

She stared out the window for a moment. The rain drip, drip, dripping down the panes. A mimicry of her soul.

She turned away, unable to think about it any more.

But as she did, a flash of white near the fireplace caught her eye.

With a frown, she walked over. There, nestled on the marble mantle, sat a thick envelope. Her name written across the front in sloppy handwriting.

Daniel.

The letter he said he had left for her. How could she have forgotten?

With shaking fingers, she took the envelope down. Walked back to the desk and sat in her father’s chair. Opened the envelope and pulled out a stack of old papers.

Wrapped around them was a single sheet of crisp modern stationery. A note. Handwritten, of course, given Daniel’s love of a tangible world.

Kit read her brother’s sloping hand:

Dearest Kit,

You are probably going to be very, very angry with me when you receive this letter.

But, please, do me the favor of being angry at
me
, Daniel. Not our circumstances or our parents or, worst of all, yourself. This letter is not about you. It is about me and who I intrinsically am and my decisions. Most importantly, the person I feel I am destined to be.

Let me begin by saying you are the very best of sisters. Because of you, I know I have been thoroughly and unconditionally loved in my life. I know I have caused you pain and considerable frustration over the years. And for that, I am deeply sorry. You deserved better than my indifference. I wish I had a good excuse for my behavior, but I don’t. Not really. But I’ll try to explain.

All my life, I have felt like an outcast, a misfit. Like a square peg in a round hole, to use a cliché. This sense of unease within myself has driven nearly all my bad behavior over the years as I’ve searched for the place where I belong.

After Dad died last year, I think I hit rock bottom. I sat in this room, remembering all the stories about our family. All the history this building had seen. I even pulled out the family journals Dad collected over the years. All the diaries and records our grandparents and great-grandparents and their friends, etc. had written. I think I hoped to find myself through them. And to my surprise, I did.

Literally.

Read through the documents I’ve enclosed here. Most particularly, the history of a man named Garvis. He tells the story of the first Lord Whitmoor, a wealthy businessman raised to the peerage for aiding the Duke of Wellington in a moment of crisis. This Whitmoor also rambled once in a delirious fever about a time portal. The more I read the account of his history, the more I realized a simple fact:

I am the first Lord Whitmoor. The person Garvis describes is, in fact, myself.

I know you are probably laughing right now and thinking I am insane, but this is a truth I feel profoundly in my soul.
This
is my destiny, Kit. I do not know my fate from here. Once I realized that the first Baron Whitmoor was, in fact, myself, I stopped reading about his history. I want to
live
it, not necessarily anticipating more than I already know. But if you are reading this letter, then I am already gone through the portal. To my future in the past.

You have often accused me of not caring about our family, but that is not true. I care more than you can ever know. Most importantly, I care enough (in the nineteenth century) to insist the barony be established through a writ of summons. This means that without a male heir, the barony can continue on through the female line.

To that end, I have sent in documents abdicating my right to the barony (well, in 2014) and insisting that it pass to you, as the only remaining heir. May I be the first to pay my respects to the newly minted Baroness Whitmoor?

Do not mourn me, sister dearest. I am living the life I was born to live, the destiny I am to follow. Know that I am happy and love you with all my heart. Be well. Find the path that makes your heart sing.

    Your ever-devoted brother,

    W

The letter slipped from her lifeless fingers. Stunned. Kit sat motionless, absorbing the shock of it.

Daniel? Really?

He was just . . .
Daniel
. Always needing her help, always getting into scrapes . . .

But, suddenly, she saw him in an entirely new light. Daniel
was
a horrid misfit in a technological world. He floundered and struggled here in the twenty-first century.

Yet, all the things that were weaknesses in 2014 could be strengths in 1814. His boundless energy, his love of the real and tangible, his charisma and charm.

But how could he
know
that he belonged in the past? It seemed so unlikely. Like another fanciful idea of his.

She set aside Daniel’s letter and looked at the other documents enclosed in the envelope.

And there it was.

A history written by a man called Garvis Samuelson. She read his account, of his dedication and service to a man named Daniel Ashton, the first Lord Whitmoor who went by the moniker W.

Garvis stood by his lordship through thick and thin, nursed him when he was fevered and delirious, recording W’s ramblings about a portal and odd futurish-sounding things. He even mentioned Marc’s name. It was apparently an alias W liked to adopt when he had covert dealings.

And more than once, he referred to his beloved sister, Katharine.

That last bit caused Kit’s eyes to mist over.

Oh, Daniel.

She could see her brother so clearly in the record.

As she sat reading, a sense of peace washed over her.

Flooding and cleansing.

She felt almost as if Daniel were there, arms wrapped around her. Assuring her that he was happy.

Be well. Find the path that makes your heart sing.

The words vibrated in her soul.

For the first time in more years than she could remember, she asked a simple question: What did
she
want?

Not, what
should
she do?

Not, what was the
responsible
thing to do? Or who was she responsible
for
?

But just simply, what did she want more than anything else?

The answer hit her immediately. Without a moment’s hesitation.

Marc.

She didn’t want a life in 1814 with Daniel. She saw with sudden clarity that holding on to Daniel was a selfish desire. A way to prove she was loved.

But you are loved . . .

The thought whispered through her.

Everyone leaves—

I don’t. I’m here.

Finally, she allowed the painful happiness of Marc’s love to flood her.

A torrent through her heart, washing away all pretense. Cleansing her past.

What did it matter, in the end, if her mother had abandoned? Her father retreated—Daniel left?

Their
past choices did not need to limit
her
future happiness.

She could chose to live in the emotional pain of their long ago decisions. Or she could forge a future bright with hope and full of love.

And she did love. She loved her friends, her life, her work . . .

And Marc.

She profoundly, deeply loved him too. Adored his throaty laugh. The way his eyes lit when he teased her.

The way he knew her, accepted her for everything she was, even the ugly bits—especially the ugly bits, actually. That sense of rightness when she was with him.

The feeling of
home
.

So he, perhaps, made a mistake in dragging her through the portal prematurely? So what?

He was human. So was she.

And, in the end, was it actually a mistake? Or more an action directed by Fate?

She needed to talk with Marc. Hold him. Kiss him.

But first, there was one thing she wanted to do—

No, make that two things.

Besides, she was going to be a baroness now, it seemed. And couldn’t Lady Whitmoor do whatever she wanted?

She could already hear Marc chuckling at the thought.

Chapter 26

Duir Cottage

Herefordshire

March 12, 2014

T
he color was gone. All of it.

The world composed almost entirely of shades of black and white and gray.

Marc sat in front of the fireplace in the kitchen of Duir Cottage, trying to convince himself to get up and do . . . something.

But with everything being so bland . . .

Without Kit, he was sleepwalking through each day.

Everything lacked color and flavor and . . . Kit-ness.

And you know who would love the word
Kit-ness
and spend a good ten minutes joking with him about it?

Kit. That’s who.

He groaned and leaned his head against the back of the sofa.

He had woken up determined to drive down to Whitmoor House in Gloucestershire and, at least, see her. Let her know he still cared. See if he could do anything for her.

Emme had talked him out of it. Blast her. Something about space and giving it just another day and not seeming desperate.

But seriously, why wait? Would another day make such a huge difference?

And, quite frankly, he
was
desperate. No sense in hiding the fact.

Then, adding insult to injury, Emme and James had taken off, saying they had errands to run and would be back later. Flirting shamelessly with each other as they walked out the door.

Which just made everything hurt that much more.

Kit would
love
Emme and James.

He should drive down to Whitmoor House right
now
and tell her. Who cared what Emme thought?

That settled it then.

He was off the couch and working on stuffing his braced wrist through his jacket sleeve when the front doorbell rang.

What the—?

Drawing the jacket on all the way, he stomped to the front door, determined to send whoever was there away. Probably some lost tourist looking for Haldon Manor.

But when he swung the door open, he blinked.

Surely that couldn’t be—?!

A tentative lightness crept in to his chest. Color trickled into his day.

Darth Vader stood on his doorstep.

Literally, some tall guy in a full-on Vader costume, complete with helmet, cape and electronic asthmatic breathing.

“Marc
kaaa
Wilde
kaaa
?” Vader asked.

With a smile that was surely far too wide, Marc nodded.