Intertwine (House of Oak Book 1) Read online

  The viscount remained silent for another moment. James waited him out; he would not break the silence first. Linwood would have to explain the reason for his visit without any help.

  He knew Timothy well. They had grown up together after all. Linwood’s estate, Kinningsley, butted against Haldon Manor. But they had never been friends. Linwood had always taken himself far too seriously. And James never had—taken Timothy seriously that is.

  “But I am not here to discuss my family’s recent loss.” Linwood turned from the window. “I am sure you know that Arthur has finally offered for Marianne.”

  James nodded. He was well aware of his brother’s affection for Linwood’s younger sister. Their childhood friendship had blossomed into something more substantial over the summer. Marianne was as kind and docile as her brother was cold and domineering.

  Linwood continued, “As I told Arthur, I have no particular aversion to him as a brother-in-law. But he is hardly the match I would prefer for my only sister.” Linwood fixed James with an icy stare, his gray eyes so colorless as to be nearly transparent.

  “Indeed?” James cocked an eyebrow. “To my knowledge Arthur is still the great-grandson of both a duke and an earl, with a family name that extends practically to the time of Edward III. Pray tell me, how is that insufficient?” James kept his tone light, knowing that would be most annoying.

  The viscount’s mouth moved ever so slightly. His eyes tightened imperceptibly. For Linwood, it was nearly a full on grimace.

  “I do not cast aspersions upon your family’s illustrious name or history. But rather point out that, as a younger son, Arthur’s less-than-glowing prospects leave something to be desired. He would not be able to keep Marianne in the style and comfort to which she has been raised.”

  “It is true that Whitcomb, the estate my mother left to Arthur, is not large. But it is modern and generates a reasonable income. I have not seen that Miss Linwood would object to life at Whitcomb.”

  Marianne loved Arthur and Arthur, most decidedly, loved Marianne. It was rather cloying to see them together, all surreptitious glances and wistful sighs. Marianne was born to play the star-crossed lover.

  However, the ever so top-lofty Viscount Linwood had little affection for their longing stares and aching whispers. Granted, he held little affection for most everything. But James knew that Linwood found the doe-eyed looks his love-lorn sister and Arthur cast at each together particularly irritating.

  An irritation James was petty enough to enjoy.

  Many days James wished he had not been born the eldest son. Arthur was made to be lord of the manor. He so perfectly encapsulated their illustrious ducal ancestors with his aristocratic air and sense of propriety. Arthur always acted the perfect gentleman, right down to his overly developed sense of honor and status.

  Unlike Arthur, James took after the not-so-illustrious branches of the family. Knight ancestors who had risen dramatically above humble beginnings and made their own way in the world. Those branches that his mother had diligently tried to pretend never existed. (Though she readily accepted their money, which had replenished the family coffers.) To James, these ancestors were the truly admirable ones. The ones who had fought through poverty and insecurity to shape a prosperous future with the strength of their own raw hands.

  The blood of those ancestors echoed strongly in James. He longed to grasp his future and forge it for himself. He made no secret of the fact.

  “My sister is all that is amiable and good,” Linwood continued. “But as with all young women, she lacks the foresight to understand how marrying Arthur would impact not only her future but the future of her children.”

  Linwood paused for a moment, considering, and then said, “I am not come here today to argue over Arthur’s merits, but instead to inquire if you have decided to improve his prospects?”

  The question hung between them. Heavy and laden with baggage.

  Trust Linwood to come right to the point. James sighed and said quietly, “No. . . . As much as I would like to, in speaking with my solicitors, the family entail would be nearly impossible to break. My late father saw to that.”

  James knew that Linwood had held out hope that somehow the family entail could be broken. That James could declare Arthur the heir to Haldon Manor and give it over to his brother’s capable (if somewhat self-righteous) hands, freeing James to pursue his own life as he wished.

  But as James knew, nothing could change the fact that he had been born first. James could not sign away his responsibilities. He could ignore them. But he could not renounce his inheritance, could not decline it. His father had renewed the entail in its strictest form, perhaps sensing that his eldest son would bolt if given the option. The land and property and, well, everything had been left to James’ care. And to him alone. Until he died and passed it on to his own heirs.

  The entire weight of Haldon Manor and its ten thousand acres, its tenants, its industry, all rested on his shoulders. His unwittingly steady I-will-be-responsible shoulders.

  “That’s a pity,” Linwood said slowly. “My sister turns twenty-one in less than a month and will be of age to marry without my consent. Do you think that your brother will act dishonorably given my rejection of his suit?”

  Cocking an eyebrow, James replied, “Are you asking if Arthur will convince Marianne to elope? That seems unlikely. Arthur’s sense of propriety and family obligations agrees with your own. He understands that Marianne is not for him unless you wish it.”

  It was true. Based on some time-honored sense of gentlemanly morality, Arthur couldn’t even disagree with Linwood’s assessment of him. Of course, this didn’t stop him from pining for Marianne, which left the couple in an endless limbo, not able to marry, refusing to elope but still unable to leave each other and move on. James found it ludicrous. He could not imagine giving his heart to another and then not fighting to secure a future with her.

  Linwood pondered for a moment. “I would have no objection to your brother’s suit if he were to inherit Haldon Manor.”

  “Yes, well, he is my heir currently.”

  “Indeed.” Linwood gave his ghostly hint of a smile. “Unfortunately, at this moment you look to be in good health.”

  James blinked slowly, refusing to rise to Linwood’s bait.

  Silence.

  “How fares your sister, if I may ask?” Linwood asked, changing the subject. “I understand the nature of her illness is quite serious.”

  “She is ill. Her cough worsens, but it is early yet. She might make a swift recovery. And if not, I have already begun to search out the best treatments for her. I am determined she will not remain ill for long.”

  “Well, given our mother’s recent passing, Marianne will not attend the London Season. She will observe the required full year of mourning, so she will remain at Kinningsley through mid-summer at least.” Linwood paused, glanced out the window and then back to James, his face utterly impassive. “I would ask that your sister reduce her visits until the true nature of her illness is understood. Marianne’s comfort and health are the world to me.”

  James narrowed his eyes. Georgiana and Marianne were good friends and Georgiana’s health was not precarious yet. Linwood was being needlessly petty.

  James waited to reply, allowing the smallness of Linwood’s request to hang in the room, silently condemning.

  “Georgiana will be sad to hear it,” James finally said. “She enjoys your sister’s company so. Though it is no matter. I am sure that Georgiana will be recovered and whole in no time.”

  “Of course,” Linwood intoned. But his back remained stiff, his entire demeanor saying otherwise. “Naturally, we all wish Miss Knight a speedy recovery. With my mother’s recent passing, there has already been enough death in the neighborhood.”

  James managed a faint smile. Nothing more.

  Chapter 3

  Duir Cottage

  Beltane

  April 30, 2012

  Emme startled as her cell phone ra
ng, the sound chirping through the growling thunder.

  “Well, how is it?” Marc’s voice sounded eager in her ear.

  Emme understood immediately. “Oh, you know, uh-mazing.” She crawled back under her blanket. An errant draft of wind caused the fire to flicker.

  Marc laughed, rich and low. “I still can’t believe they upgraded you to a BMW for the entire summer.”

  “I know, right? The poor attendant who left the tiny car in neutral with no parking brake on got an earful from his supervisor. But seriously, you should have seen it spiraling down the parking garage ramp.”

  It really had been quite the sight. The car, scraping its way along the corkscrew exit like some drunken escapee from the circus, ending in a dizzy heap three stories below.

  “Don’t you usually make fun of people who drive flashy cars?” Marc chuckled. “Let’s savor the irony of this moment, shall we?”

  “Even all of my luggage survived.” Emme shook her head at the wonder of it, watching rain hammer against the window. “My traveling disasters never turn out like this. Finn seriously saved me.”

  “Well, tell Fabio ‘thank you’ for me. I’ll enjoy driving that BMW when I come visit you after filming this latest martial arts project in Hong Kong. By the way, how’s the internet at your place?” asked Marc. “Football season will be in full swing in September, and I’m going to have to stream all the Broncos games from my DVR.” Marc hadn’t held onto much of their growing up years in Denver, except for the city’s beloved football team.

  “Ugh! You and your Broncos! And you think my Fabio/Finn thing is annoying.”

  “Whatever. At least my obsessions are socially acceptable.”

  The rain slanted against the back windows of the room, making a grating rat-a-tat sound.

  “Fine,” said Emme. “You can watch your Bronco games while you’re here as long as you promise to still go to the Jane Austen Festival in Bath. It’s been what? Five years since we’ve been? I brought your outfit, breeches and all.”

  “Oh, please,” Marc said, his voice pained, “it’s embarrassing how much you geek out on that. I’m not sure my manhood is up to dressing in fancy clothes and prancing around like Mr. Darcy. My self-respect does have boundaries.”

  Emme rolled her eyes. “I think Mr. Darcy would take serious offense over being told that he pranced.”

  “Any grown man who wears a satin vest thingy—”

  “Waistcoat.”

  “—and wraps his neck in a long strip of fabric—”

  “A neckcloth.”

  “—and drinks tea with his pinky elevated can most certainly be said to prance. I think it’s actually something they used to teach, . . . prancing.” There was a smirk in his voice.

  “For the record, you wouldn’t have to be Mr. Darcy. He would bore me to tears in about five minutes. I mean, take away all his money and what are you left with? An uptight, socially awkward guy who can’t relate to people.”

  “You know, somewhere a Jane Austen angel just lost her wings over you saying that.” Marc’s good-natured laugh was buttery warm. “I really think that people have been lynched for less.”

  “Now you’re imagining an angry mob of bespectacled ladies brandishing pitchforks and battered copies of Pride and Prejudice chasing me through the streets of Bath.”

  “Perhaps,” Marc chuckled. “And given your bad travel luck, I wouldn’t rule it out. Though I could choreograph a crazy fight scene to protect you. It would definitely require some ninjas.”

  Emme laughed. “I think you’ve read Pride and Prejudice and Zombies one too many times.”

  “Hey, gotta stay up on all the classics.”

  Suddenly, a large bolt of lightning flashed. Thunder cracked loudly and then boomed, rattling the house. The low noise reverberated, pounding against Emme’s sternum.

  “What was that?” Marc exclaimed.

  “A bad storm. And it’s Beltane today—that’s gotta be bad luck.”

  “Beltane?”

  “It’s like Halloween,” explained Emme, “only on the opposite side of the calendar, in the spring instead of the fall. They’re exactly six months apart, actually.”

  “Sounds like something Jasmine made up. Listen, I gotta go, but you need to promise me one thing—”

  “What?”

  “No catastrophes this summer.” And then, whether because of the storm or Marc’s underdeveloped attention span, the phone call dropped.

  A crash outside reminded Emme she was in the middle of the closest thing she’d known to a tornado—not a comforting thought given her history. She pulled the blankets tighter around her.

  Tonight the cottage seemed oppressive and breathless. Nothing like how it’d felt a week earlier when she’d seen it in person for the first time, with its golden stone and ivy growing up over the peaked front door and paned windows. To the right of the cottage an oak tree wrinkled and stooped with age drew it protectively under its branches. The words Duir Cottage were carved into a board to the left of the front door, duir meaning oak in ancient Celt. Indeed, honey-colored oak covered the house’s interior, most walls boasting wood paneling.

  The house epitomized the romanticized American notion of a quaint English cottage. It was beyond postcard perfect, like Emme could reach out and touch the paper it was printed on. From the first time she’d seen it on the internet, the place had seemed to be . . .

  . . . waiting for her.

  Lightning flashed again. Emme tried to ignore the clap of thunder that followed. But it was useless. The house was tense, air heavy and laden. She absorbed all the apprehension of the wind, the furor of the pounding rain. It hammered against her chest, jittery.

  Trying for a distraction, Emme walked to the large stainless steel fridge. The unknown owners had recently renovated the house with an open kitchen/dining/sitting room at the back. An enormous stone fireplace dominated the space, flanked by high back chairs, flat screen TV and comfy sofa. A rough hewn antique dining table finished off the look. The whole house looked like it had been staged for a Restoration Hardware catalog photoshoot. Pulling out leftover Indian takeaway, Emme watched the rain pelt against the kitchen window as her food rotated in the microwave.

  Sitting at the large table, she decided she needed company. Emme looped the oval locket off her neck and opened it gently, noting the familiar pop of the catch. She then propped the opened locket next to her plate of naan and tikka masala.

  And looked at him.

  As usual, she felt the familiar shock of recognition. That disorienting sense of deja vu. Over the years, it had never changed.

  He still stared out at her in his blue-green jacket and neckcloth. Blond hair stylishly disheveled as was a la mode for any gentleman around 1812. Sun-bleached and tousled. Begging to run her fingers through it.

  Emme stopped and then shook the thought out of her brain.

  Honestly.

  The tiny portrait carefully rendered minute fine details, showing strands of hair and subtle laughter lines around his mouth. His blue eyes looked kind with a dash of devil-may-care, like he laughed at himself as much as he laughed at the world.

  More than just eye-candy, he seemed larger than life, beckoning, his smile always just out of reach.

  Even now as she gazed at Finn propped on the table—rain pounding the roof overhead—the inscription jarred her.

  To E

  throughout all time

  heart of my soul

  your F

  As usual, the words rushed unbidden through her mind:

  You. He means you. Emry.

  Emme brutally repressed them. She was in Marfield to overcome this sense of connection, not wallow in it.

  It didn’t help that Jasmine relentlessly insisted the connection was real, not just imaginings in her head.

  “Look, Jaz,” Emme had said on one particularly exasperating occasion. “I know you think it’s something significant, but it’s impossible for my life to be connected with someone who died two hun
dred years ago.”

  “Well, you can believe that with all your heart,” Jasmine replied. “But as I keep telling you, belief alone can’t change the nature of reality. It is what it is and no amount of wishing reality were different will actually change it.”

  Emme shook her head. There was no arguing with Jasmine when she got like this.

  “What do you think his name is?” Jasmine speculated. “Obviously, E stands for Emry. Don’t look at me like that,” she insisted. “E is you. Definitely. But who is F?”

  Emme shrugged. “E is not me. And I’m sure that they had sensible names for the time period. Probably something simple like Elizabeth and Frank. Or Eleanor and Freddie.”

  Jasmine pursed her lips and thought for a minute. “No, I’m voting more for Eversly and Faxxon. Total hipsters.”

  Emme rolled her eyes with a smile. “No, they were literary snobs: Emerson and Faulkner. Oh, or a Jane Austen character mash-up. Emma and Fitzwilliam.”

  “Elsbeth and Fergus. Star-crossed Scottish lovers.” Jasmine grinned. “But seriously, Emme, E is you. Not letting you distract me. The real question is the mysterious Mr. F. What is his name?”

  Emme couldn’t decide. Neither could Jasmine.

  And so they never settled on a permanent name for F, his name changing on a regular basis. One day he was Francis, the next he was Ford. Once he spent six months as Felix. But nothing ever stuck. Nothing ever felt exactly right.

  Emme picked up the locket, turned it over to look at the plaited hair and brushed her fingers over the stylized combined initials. Why take the initials and turn them into a design on top of the crystal, almost like a modern logo, with the F looping and nestling into the curvy shaped E? Such a puzzle.

  Wind again rattled the house, banging against the doors and windows, pounding for entrance. It’s violence mimicking Emme’s increasingly maudlin mood.

  She had tried hard to keep her obsession over the locket to a low simmer. But that hadn’t really worked. It was too easy to turn Finn into the perfect boyfriend. He was a fantastic listener and was always happy to see her. His welcoming smile on the edge of bursting into actual laughter. Sometimes she found herself straining to hear his voice, as if the connection she felt could will him into being.