Refine (House of Oak Book 4) Page 4

  Jasmine looked at the photo she held in her hand.

  Marmi in the same loose blouse and culottes, gray hair a mass of shoulder-length curls with sunglasses sitting on top. Jasmine could practically smell the scent of lavender that always clung to Marmi.

  Young Jasmine held Marmi’s hand tightly, dark hair long and wild, dressed in scruffy blue jeans and a pink Little Mermaid t-shirt.

  Man, she had loved that shirt. Loved it literally to pieces.

  Jasmine hadn’t changed that much over the years. Hair still dark, long and unmanageable. Eyes the same shocking blue. Though now a bit taller, she retained that child-like, elfin look. A woman perpetually trapped in a teenage body. Everyone assumed she was at least a full decade younger than she was.

  Make that fifteen years. What had that woman at Oxfam asked?

  Does your mother know where you are?

  Ironic. Just so very, very, very ironic, all things considered.

  She touched a finger to her younger self in the photograph, tracing her small body. Young Jasmine wore that same pendant—a Celtic knot nestled inside a quatrefoil—around her neck on a leather cord. When had Marmi given it to her? She tried to remember, but nothing came. Marmi worked as a shrink by day, but her first and lasting love had always been mysticism. Hence all the talismans and rituals and stuff.

  She traced the glowing happiness on her childhood face.

  Those had been good years with Marmi. Despite having lost her family, her grandmother had ensured that Jasmine never lacked for love. For that sense of home.

  Had they all been duped? Had Marmi known?

  And how do you casually ask your aunt if she really is your aunt?

  There was only one way . . .

  When Rita came up for air from her Breanne-tastic monologuing, Jasmine jumped in.

  “So, Rita, remember how Mike took those cheek swab samples over Thanksgiving?”

  Rita gave a non-committal grunt.

  “Uhmm, the results came back . . .” Jasmine’s voice trailed off.

  “And let me guess—you’re not related to us?” Rita registered a complete lack of surprise.

  Well . . . didn’t that explain a lot.

  Silence.

  Jasmine couldn’t speak. She swallowed. Once, twice . . . and then gave up. She just moved the photograph away from the tears dripping off her cheeks.

  “Look, Jasmine, I’ve wondered for a long time.” A long-suffering sigh. “Why do you think we all went along so easily with the testing?”

  Ouch.

  “So . . . so was I adopted? Like . . . how did this . . . happen?”

  “We think it was the accident. The one in Florida.”

  “The accident? How could that—”

  “We got word John’s family had been killed, and Mom freaked out. She just lost it and hopped on the first plane to Florida alone. She went to the hospital, hoping maybe one of her grandchildren had survived and found you. She insisted you were her little Jasmine, and the authorities released you into her care. I guess no one else came forward to claim you. The accident scene was such a mess. Forensics couldn’t clearly identify which car you had been in.

  “You looked like Jasmine, I suppose. But because John lived in Florida and we were in Seattle, none of us had seen the family in years. Except Marmi, of course. She visited at least once a year, so we just agreed with her when she claimed you were Jasmine. But there were differences too.”

  “Like what?” Jasmine whispered.

  “You definitely were close in looks and age to our Jasmine, though no one remembered you being so tiny. And then there were your eyes. In the photos we did have of the real Jasmine, her eyes were smaller and more hazel. No one ever remembered Jasmine’s eyes being like yours.”

  Jasmine swallowed. The real Jasmine. She had always known that no one else in her family had her eyes. While her hair was nearly black and impossibly curly, her eyes were a startlingly vivid, robin’s-egg blue.

  But blue eyes could be recessive, skipping generations. Jasmine had always chalked it up to genetic chance.

  Jasmine closed her eyes, letting the tears fall, muffling her sobs with the velvet blanket.

  Memories washed over her from that terrible night.

  “Minna . . . Minna.” A firm hand shook her awake.

  She opened her eyes. A girl. Her sister? She had the impression of desperate eyes and long, dark hair.

  A woman screamed. Jagged terror filled with pain.

  “Quickly,” her sister said. “Open the door and run. It will save you.”

  Someone pushed her. She stumbled and curls of mist snatched at her, pulling her upright, tugging her forward.

  And then she was moving, through fire and fog, brush grabbing at her bare feet.

  Away, away . . . she had to get away . . .

  But, as usual, the memory caused confusion.

  Why tell her to run away? Why hadn’t her family gone with her?

  And why was she Minna in her memories? Marmi had never called her that, but Jasmine had always assumed it was a family pet name. But if that wasn’t the case, was Minna her real name?

  Of all the nights of her life, why couldn’t her memory of that one be clear?

  “Why did you never say anything?” Jasmine asked. “There is probably a family out there who has been missing me—”

  Rita sighed. It was her signature why-are-you-making-my-life-miserable sigh. Jasmine had heard it a lot as a teenager.

  “No one came forward, Jasmine. After a few months, I contacted the police department in Florida, just in case, but none of the other victims matched your description. They considered the case closed. Mom was out of her mind with grief over losing John and the other children. She was fiercely adamant you were her grandchild. She felt you were her gift in this terrible trial.”

  You are the child of my heart. How many times had Marmi said those words to Jasmine?

  “Why would I take that from her without a good reason?” Rita continued. “We just accepted Mom’s version of everything and cared for you the best we could after she passed.”

  It explained so much. Why Jasmine had drifted from family to family like an unwanted stray. Staying until she wore out her welcome and then escaping to the next relative.

  Everyone had known. Or at least suspected she was an outsider, not one of their own.

  “I know Marmi left you great-grandma’s china.” A pause. The sounds of Rita shifting something. “It’s been in the family for three generations now, and I would hate to see it leave with you. Would you be willing to part with it so Breanne can have a piece of her heritage? Especially seeing how it’s not actually your birthright?”

  Jasmine’s breath snagged.

  Yep. That comment was Rita at her best. Or was it worst?

  “Uhmmm, I’m going to have to think about it. Marmi was pretty insistent that the set go to me—”

  “Yes, but don’t you think she might have seen things differently had she known?”

  No. Jasmine instinctively rebelled at the thought. I was the child of her heart, remember?

  “I’ll think about it, Rita,” was the only answer Jasmine gave.

  “I’d appreciate it. It’s the least you can do for us.”

  And with that parting shot, Rita hung up.

  Gah! Why did talking with Rita always go like this?

  Jasmine chewed on her cheek, staring sightlessly into the popping fire, its warmth doing little to help.

  An errant draft flickered the flames, rustling the sticky note she had slapped onto the flat screen television to the right of the fireplace.

  One of her doodles:

  You know my name. Not my story.

  Ironic. Just so terribly ironic. Jasmine knew her story—but her real name? Not so much.

  And, right next to it, another maxim:

  Don’t confuse your path with your destination. Just because it’s stormy now, doesn’t mean you aren’t headed for sunshine.

  Marmi would have
loved her anyway.

  They were two old souls, lives tangled together by ties that were even stronger than blood.

  “Look at how the trees droop this Fall. Can you feel their wariness?” Marmi stood at the back door, hands on hips, staring into the Washington forest.

  Jasmine turned toward the trees and closed her eyes. Felt wind whisper through her. Heard branches rustle. A heaviness threading through it all, the sense of a silver ribbon lacing the ground. Not quite grief or melancholy . . . more the anticipation of pain. Of hardship.

  “Winter will be harsh this year. Mark my words.”

  Jasmine reached for her sticky notes and pen. As usual, drawing soothed.

  Her hand sketched, almost of its own volition. She always kept a sticky pad close at hand . . . one of those larger sizes of soft, off-white paper. The adhesive back ensured that she could instantly display her art anywhere. Practical for someone who was far too scattered to keep track of things like tacks or tape or, heaven forbid, a frame.

  How many hours had she and Marmi sat side-by-side in companionable silence, her grandmother reading while Jasmine sketched? Marmi loved posting Jasmine’s work all over the house. Sometimes there had been hardly an inch of wall space in their old bungalow for another drawing, but Marmi always found room.

  It was Marmi who had taught her that eternity stretched, not as a river, but as a vast ocean. The life of each human being was dropped into the ocean by the hand of the Maker—the impact causing expanding rippling circles. If the rings of one life intersected with those of another, they formed a link. A supernatural bond. A pathway powerful enough to traverse time itself.

  These bonds formed the time portal’s power. Jasmine felt their presence here, a swirling mass of lives tied between past and future, stretching through the portal. The pathways allowing a chosen few to travel through the portal and hence through time. It was somehow . . . comforting. Familiar. A huge cosmic web that encompassed as many people as possible.

  Something Jasmine ached to be caught up in.

  She continued her doodling. As usual, barely paying attention to what she was doing, the motions muscle-memory.

  When a friend was having a bad day, who brought him or her the right essential oils to perk up their day? She did. When someone needed life advice or their horoscope read, who was there with incense and a star chart? She was.

  She was always the group Mother. (Not to be confused with the group Smother . . . which was a totally different thing, despite what that mean roommate had claimed back in her sorority days . . . Jasmine wasn’t being controlling—merely offering persistent, unsolicited advice.)

  But it didn’t seem to matter. The more Jasmine reached out to others, the more Fate pulled people away from her.

  Mike had been small potatoes . . . but her entire family?

  It was almost too much to comprehend.

  No one came forward . . .

  The pain ached.

  Jasmine looked down at what she had drawn.

  Does your mother know where you are?

  Wasn’t that the question of her life?

  Chapter 4

  Lady Cartwright’s Spring Ball

  London, England

  March 14, 1815

  You must marry.

  The words hung like a millstone around Timothy’s neck as he watched the dancers move through the quadrille forms.

  Despite the gloomy March weather, the ballroom was full to bursting.

  Timothy had come to the ball with one goal:

  Be introduced to Miss Heartstone and determine if he could accept—more like tolerate—her as a wife. And, if yes, begin his campaign to convince her of the same.

  Marianne and Arthur had joined him this evening, having returned from Lady Rutland’s entertainments. Even better, Miss Heartstone and her mother had attended the same house party, allowing Marianne to form an acquaintance with the heiress, who she declared to be a perfectly amiable young lady.

  Marianne had drifted off as soon as they arrived at the ball, promising to find Miss Heartstone and facilitate an introduction.

  It was the perfect opening gambit.

  Timothy positioned himself so he could see the entire ballroom at a glance. Bright silk skirts swirled around gentlemen dressed in dark tailcoats, the strains of the orchestra soaring above the hum of conversation and clink of wine glasses.

  This was Timothy’s milieu. His place.

  He nodded polite greetings to other lords who drifted past him and then spent a pleasant thirty minutes discussing a recent mathematical paper with a Scottish earl. Timothy published papers himself on occasion, keeping the mathematics theoretical, of course, as was most proper.

  “Nephew, a pleasure to see you this evening.” A cool voice drawled at his elbow.

  Timothy turned as his uncle, Mr. John Linwood, came to stop beside him.

  Timothy nodded in greeting. “Uncle, what a delight.” His tone indicated otherwise.

  Encountering his uncle was akin to seeing his father’s ghost. Tall. Thin. Silver-haired. Regal. Immaculately dressed. Eyes the same clear gray. The man ensured Timothy had never missed his sire’s presence. His father’s younger brother smoothly filled the void.

  Without sons of his own, Mr. John Linwood focused all his fatherly attention on his brother’s only son. Attention Timothy barely tolerated.

  Uncle Linwood surveyed the room, a quizzing glass in hand adding to his air of disdain. “I have been given to understand that you are in sudden need of cash.” His uncle always knew the happenings of Timothy’s life. “I expect you will do your duty.”

  It was his father’s script. The one Linwood men never deviated from. Duty. Honor. Family. Above all else.

  “How fares Cousin Emilia?” Timothy asked, deftly changing the subject.

  “Events are progressing most satisfactorily.”

  Uncle Linwood’s concern for Timothy was second only to his drive to secure suitable husbands for his four daughters. It was a never-ending challenge. His eldest daughter, Emilia, was on the verge of betrothing herself to the second son of a duke. The alliance would further their family connections within the upper echelons of the peerage.

  “I trust your current financial crisis will be solved quickly and without much undue attention,” Uncle Linwood continued. “You owe the family no less. No whiff of scandal can touch us during this particularly . . . delicate time.”

  Hence Uncle Linwood’s concern over Timothy’s finances and marital status.

  Rule #11: The disgrace of the paterfamilias is the disgrace of all.

  How many times had Timothy’s father said that?

  His uncle eyed him speculatively. “I hear there is a spelendidly eligible heiress in attendance this evening. A Miss Heartstone, I believe.”

  “Indeed,” was Timothy’s cool reply.

  “This Miss Heartstone’s dowry could not come at a more needed moment. It is time you did something about filling the nursery at Kinningsley.”

  At thirty-three, Timothy most certainly should have married by now.

  It was his biggest failure. The one area of his life in which he did not live up to the expectations of his heritage.

  Rule #2: A gentleman will marry early and provide an heir and a spare to ensure the bloodline continues.

  Starting at the age of twenty-one until his death when Timothy was twenty-five, his father had discussed—and then lectured, badgered and, finally, threatened—Timothy to secure a bride.

  All for naught, his father would repeat.

  Timothy was not unilaterally opposed to marriage. He just had yet to find suitable inducement.

  Heaven knew he would never marry for love. Linwood men, as a general rule, seemed immune to the emotion.

  “I am actually well acquainted with Miss Heartstone’s uncle and guardian. He is a man much like us. Would you like me to open a dialogue with him concerning the chit?” his uncle asked.

  Timothy shifted his weight. Not a trace of emotion touching hi
s face.

  “I have already instructed Daniel to do so, Uncle. At this point, I should like to actually meet the lady before taking things any further.”

  “Does it matter, boy? You will have her even if she is wall-eyed and pock-marked. The family is depending upon you right now to preserve our honor. You are the paterfamilias. Do not fool yourself into thinking you have a choice in this matter. You will secure her.”

  Uncle Linwood’s biting tone did not go unnoticed.

  Timothy clasped his hands behind his back, back ramrod straight. No agitated foot-tapping. Forcing the cool anger of his muscles to stay at bay.

  Rule #37: A gentleman is always in control of himself and his situation.

  He was the master.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Timothy noted Marianne approaching.

  “Thank you for the reminder, Uncle.”

  Timothy clicked his heels in a sharp bow and turned away, striding to greet his sister, dismissing his uncle while walking a razor thin line between politeness and outright contempt.

  A line he masterfully maintained.

  Marianne arrived with both arms interlinked—a young woman on one elbow and a middle-aged lady on the other.

  As usual, his sister was lovely in a blue silk gown with tiny puffed sleeves and white lace trim, her dark hair arranged in delicate curls around her face.

  And as for her companions . . .

  “Good evening, brother,” Marianne said as the trio stopped in front of him. “Allow me to introduce Mrs. Heartstone and her daughter, Miss Arabella Heartstone. Both of whom I met last week at Lady Rutland’s house party.” The ladies curtsied. “Mrs. Heartstone, Miss Heartstone, may I present my brother, Lord Linwood?”

  As required, Timothy bowed to Miss Heartstone and her mother.

  “Lord Linwood, delighted I am sure to make your acquaintance.” Mrs. Heartstone favored him with what could only be described as a tolerant smile. As if she were the one bestowing a favor. “Your sister quite dotes upon you.”