Borrowed Vows (3 page)

“Would you be Mrs. Vansomeren?” he asked, buttoning his blue jacket.

“Yes, I would, Mr. er...?”

“Elmore. Jack Elmore. I’m the caretaker. Everyone calls me Jack.”

“Right, Jack. I take it you got my message about my husband not coming?”

He nodded as he helped take her luggage from the trunk. “I trust you had a good journey?”

“Yes, excellent, thank you.” The courtyard roses were sweet and heady in the warm air, and the fragrance seemed to stir hidden memories. It was another odd feeling, like the way she’d felt when she saw the view from the escarpment.

“This way, if you please.” He led her to a corner door, beyond which a staircase led to the upper apartments. A thick plum-colored carpet softened their steps, and white-painted walls were hung with foxhunting prints. It was very quaint and “olde worlde”, as was the six-room apartment that was to be her home for the next fortnight. The pretty floral chintz furnishings, polished brass and copper, low beams, and alcoves were just what one wanted of England, but all the modern comforts were provided too. The kitchen was very well equipped, and the refrigerator was filled with all the food Richard had meticulously listed on first making the reservation.

Jack put all her luggage in the main bedroom. “I hope you like your accommodation, miss, I... I mean, Mrs. Vansomeren. Begging your pardon, but may I just call you ‘Miss’? It’s my habit, and I keep slipping back into it.”

“That’s okay. And yes, I do like the rooms. To be honest, I feel quite at home.”
Well, certainly as if I’ve been here before, anyway!

“I’ll take that as a compliment to my wife’s homely touch, miss. Now then, we’ve stocked up everything on your husband’s list, and things like bread and milk are delivered every day. If you need anything else, just let me know. We’ll bring you whatever you want. And if you’d like to eat out, you won’t go wrong at the Monk’s Retreat. It’s run by my sister Daisy, so I can recommend the cooking! Nothing fancy and Frenchified, just plain English recipes. If you prefer ready meals delivered to your door, I know the best places for dishes from Chinese, Indian, Greek, Italian, and so on.”

“Thank you.”

He took a sheaf of leaflets from his pocket. “These might be of interest. They tell you about most of the attractions in the area. The Victorian docks are well worth a visit at the moment.”

“Docks?” She was taken aback, for Gloucester was inland.

He grinned. “I can tell you haven’t done your homework.”

“None at all.”

“Gloucester’s been a port since Roman times because it’s at the first fordable point on the Severn, which is tidal and treacherous quite a way inland. It’s got the second highest tide in the world, the highest is in Canada, I believe, so they built a dock basin and a canal to avoid the worst of the estuary.”

Something strange happened again then. She suddenly felt she knew all about the docks and the canal, and yet this was the first she’d heard of them. It must be some effect of jet lag.

Jack went on. “The tall ships are in at the moment, some of them genuinely old, others built for the movies. You shouldn’t miss seeing them. There’s a carnival, too, with all sorts of entertainments. It’s not quite Rio de Janiero, but we try our best.” He chuckled. “Well, I’ll leave you then. Now don’t forget, if there’s anything you want,
anything
, I’m your man.”

“Thank you, Jack.”

When he’d gone, she opened all the windows to let the scent of roses flood in. There was no great city roar, no automobile horns blaring, no distant sirens, just voices and the sound of footsteps on cobbles. It was a world away from New York. She gazed up at the cathedral, and knew she’d done the right thing coming here on her own. She felt relaxed already—in fact, she almost felt at home.

At home? She thought again how familiar everything seemed, and sighed. She was out of practice at traveling any distance, Diane Weinburger had seen to that. The flight here had taken a long time, and then there’d been the drive on the “wrong” side of the road in a car she didn’t like. All she needed was a rest to be as good as new, she decided.

After taking a shower and selecting something from the refrigerator, she rang Chicago in the hope of speaking to Richard, but he didn’t answer his cell phone. To be truthful, she wasn’t too displeased not to have caught him, because any conversation they had now was almost certain to end acrimoniously. So she sent a text message and then settled back to watch some TV, browse through the literature Jack had left, and generally while away what was left of the long summer evening.

It was twilight and she was just about to go to bed when Richard returned her call. As she feared, the conversation didn’t go well. He left her in no doubt he didn’t think much of her taking the vacation alone, then he hung up after again accusing her of selfishness. Slowly she put the receiver down. They couldn’t even speak long-distance without snarling, and divorce seemed inevitable.

She gazed down at the phone. Right now she felt like calling him back to say where he could stick his resentment and chauvinism. And after that she’d like to call Diane Weinburger and tell her a few choice home truths. The temptation was almost too great to resist, but resist it she did. She’d come here to think sensibly, not to let her stress run berserk.

After such a hectic day, she expected to sleep like a log until morning, but something awakened her just before midnight. She lay there in the darkness wondering what had disturbed her. The night was unexpectedly humid and uncomfortable, not what she’d expected of England. Maybe she shouldn’t have closed the window before getting in bed.

She got up to open it again. Cooler air swept refreshingly over her naked skin, and the night perfume of the roses in the courtyard was almost intoxicating. The cathedral was floodlit, standing out in amber glory against the starry black sky. A group of people laughed and joked together as they left the Monk’s Retreat, and she was watching them cross the road when they suddenly disappeared.

Disappeared? She stared blankly. One moment they’d been there, the next they’d simply vanished. But then, so had most of the street detail she’d seen so clearly only seconds before. Then she realized there were no bright street lamps anymore. Everything was in virtual darkness, even the cathedral. What had happened? Had there been a power outage?

Instinctively she turned to try the TV, but it wasn’t there; instead, there was a lighted candle on a table that had seen better days. The little flame swayed gently, illuminating a room that wasn’t there either. At least, a room that
shouldn’t
be there, but was. The bed she’d just gotten out of had changed into an ancient but good-quality four-poster that almost touched the low ceiling. There was no TV, video, or phone, not even a carpet, nothing modern at all, just the bed, table, two chairs and a dusty old fireplace that yawned blackly where a few moments before there had been a replica inglenook complete with traditional log effect.

It was a simple room, and not the property of someone of means. A retired servant from a mansion, perhaps. Yes, that would explain the four-poster, which had clearly once been a very superior piece of furniture...

Her mouth ran dry. She was looking into the past, at the house as it had been. Oh, no, first of all the
déjà vu
, now she was hallucinating! She choked back a cry, closed her eyes, and turned toward the window again. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. She’d count to ten, pinch herself, and then look again.

But when she’d done that, and hesitantly opened her eyes once more, she found herself staring at her jeweled reflection in the window glass.
Jeweled
reflection? She gasped, for a glittering comb sparkled in her carefully arranged golden curls. Her heart gave a sickening lurch. She didn’t have a comb like that, or long golden hair worn up in a style that reminded her of ancient Rome, but the woman who gazed back at her had both, and was dressed in an  high-waisted emerald silk gown with the Empire silhouette that been all the rage in the first quarter of the nineteenth century. English Regency. Yes, that was it. Like a character from Jane Austen, or Georgette Heyer.

She gazed incredulously. Everything about her had changed. Her boyish figure had become much more feminine and curvaceous, with a tiny waist and full breasts that were barely contained by the low-cut neckline of her gown. She was still in her mid-twenties, but now had an appealingly beautiful face, with a pale but perfect complexion, and eloquent lips that trembled a little nervously. She was clearly a woman of high fashion, poised and confident. No, perhaps not poised or confident. In fact, this new self was clearly uneasy, maybe even a little frightened, and not just from the shock of what was happening.

Always one to seek a rational explanation, Kathryn’s first thought was that the reflection must be of someone standing behind her, so she glanced sharply over her shoulder, but there was no one there. Maybe it was a trick of the light, like in the desert or most of the so-called UFO sightings. Yes, that could be it. But when she looked at the reflection again, she knew it was no mirage. What she was seeing was really there.

Her lips parted, and her heart almost stopped. There was no doubt about it, she and the woman in the glass were one and the same!

Chapter Four

Kathryn could still see her own hazel eyes behind those of the green-eyed stranger, as if she were trapped inside. A terrified numbness settled over her. She was two people at once! But that was impossible, there had to be a logical explanation—the reporter in her told her so. She was dreaming! Yes, of course! She’d never really awoken and left the bed. But as she continued to look at the glass, her own eyes faded, and there were only those of her new self—wide, clear, and expressive.

The initial confusion began to disperse, and new knowledge flooded in its wake. She suddenly knew the identity of this dream self! Her name was Rosalind, Lady Marchwood. More than that, she was married to Sir Dane Marchwood, one of Regency England’s most feared gentlemen, and she’d gone back in time to perhaps the most famous Regency year of all, 1815, the year of Napoleon Bonaparte’s final defeat at Waterloo. But Lady Marchwood felt little joy at the great victory. She was too frightened to be happy, because she was an adulterous wife, and her husband was a very dangerous man to cross.

But how could all this happen to a modern New Yorker? Kathryn’s glance went to the table where a wedding ring shone in the glow of the candle. For an illusion, the flame seemed very real. She felt that if she reached out, she would definitely feel its heat. And yet she was also sure this was all a dream. Yes, for what else could explain it?

Suddenly she realized there was someone else in this most vivid of dreams, for a man appeared behind her.

“Rosalind?” He touched her shoulder softly as he said her name. “You must leave Dane and come with me, somewhere he’ll never find us. We were meant to be together, and all we have to do is go to my plantation in Jamaica. He doesn’t even know I’ve purchased it.” His voice was very English and refined, reminding her of Lawrence Olivier in the old black-and-white
Pride and Prejudice
movie. He was twenty-seven or twenty-eight, of medium height, with tousled brown hair and warm dark eyes. His clothes were fashionable, a sage-green coat and cream cord breeches, with a pearl pin in his starched neckcloth, and he had about him a hint of the same anxiety that pervaded her.

Oddly, in spite of his dark coloring, he reminded her of Richard, although she couldn’t have said why. She knew who he was. Thomas Denham, Rosalind’s lover, the man she’d risked everything for, and the reason she’d set her wedding ring aside for a few stolen hours tonight.

Kathryn knew he was waiting for her to respond, but she didn’t know what to say. In a situation as incredible as this, the cat had more than gotten her tongue!

Her silence perplexed him. “Did you hear me, Rosalind?”

“Yes. Of course.” Her voice was no longer modern New York, but British and reserved.

“Then why don’t you answer?”

“I... I can’t.”

He turned her to face him. “Can’t answer, or can’t leave him? Rosalind, I will not believe it to be the latter. You don’t love him, how can you when you so eagerly break your vows with me? We’ve lain together this very night while he dines barely two hundred yards away with the bishop and other worthies. You wouldn’t do that if you felt anything for him.” Thomas searched her face in the candlelight. “Yours was an arranged match, pure and simple, and you should never have agreed to it. The two years since you went to the altar have been misery for you because he can’t put his first wife’s memory to rest. Every time he touches you, he still touches Elizabeth.”

The first Lady Marchwood had died ten years ago giving birth to Dane’s only son, Philip, who now attended Eton and was at present staying with friends for the summer vacation. Kathryn felt dizzy from the potent mixture of knowledge and confusion swirling through her. She knew so much about Rosalind, but was in some way aware she hadn’t completely taken on this new self. Inside she was still Kathryn Vansomeren. That’s why she was sure it was all a dream. She must have read all this in one of the historical romances she couldn’t get enough of, or maybe seen it in an old movie, and now her subconscious was recalling it in this weird dream.

Well, whatever it was, she had to go along with it, for it was real enough, or would be until she awoke. That meant getting a grip on herself and deciding what she felt right now. The real Rosalind was deeply and irrevocably in love with Thomas Denham; Kathryn Vansomeren in Rosalind’s clothing most certainly wasn’t. The real Rosalind went in fear of Sir Dane Marchwood, but her modern alter ego was curiously intrigued about him. For the moment he was a shadow on the edge of her consciousness, and she couldn’t bring him forward into the light, but hearing his name caused her a shiver of illicit excitement.

Thomas put his hand lovingly to her cheek. “Dane will still mourn Elizabeth ten years hence; to him you’ll never be anything more than the wife he took to oblige his father’s longstanding friendship with your father. You’re his property, but to me you’re everything in the world.”