Intertwine (7 page)

Turning on her tablet, she reviewed what she had learned over the last several days in her hunt for Finn. Trying to ignore the fearsome weather outside, refusing to allow the howling wind to rattle her mood.

Between 1811 and 1813, there had been at least three families of consequence in the Marfield area. The preeminent family were the Viscounts Linwood, which she had already known.

Another family—the Knights—might also be good contenders. There were three living Knights during the time period: two brothers, James and Arthur, and a sister, Georgiana. Both of the brothers were about the right age to be Finn, but Emme could see no connection with the letters F or E within the family.

Unfortunately, the Knight’s family home, Haldon Manor, had burned to the ground sometime around the end of the Napoleonic Wars, destroying all the estate records, family history, paintings and, well, everything. Haldon Manor had been rebuilt a few years later in the Gothic Revival style the Victorians so loved and had been converted into a hotel and spa in the 1950s.

Emme had visited Haldon Manor earlier in the week, as the estate was less than a mile from Duir Cottage. She had spent the afternoon chatting with the friendly staff and sipping tea in the dining room. Interestingly, she had learned that Duir Cottage had actually once been the dower house for the estate. Haldon Manor was known for its large enclosed garden, a riot of flowers and trees surrounded by an ancient wall—all that remained of its time as a medieval monastery. Emme had particularly loved the ruins of the gothic cloister, taking an embarrassing number of photos with her phone.

After the Knights, the Stylles were another family of prominence in the area. Sir Henry Stylles was the only member of the family listed for the time period, and the parish registry indicated that Sir Henry was older, in his mid-50s. Not a good candidate for Finn. However, Sir Henry had been a voracious collector and his former estate near Haldon Manor now functioned as a de facto museum for the entire area. In fact, the museum had Spunto’s miniature portrait of Marianne Linwood in their collection.

Rain pattered loudly against the window. Wind clutched at the shutters outside, twining around and shaking them. Though latched against the house, Emme could hear them rattle in protest, shivering against the window casement.

Emme sighed and thought back to her visit to Sir Henry’s estate just the day before, the home still owned by the same Stylles family who had inhabited it in the early 19th century. She had arranged a guided tour with the curator, Mr. Betton, to see the estate’s impressive collection, particularly Spunto’s portrait of Marianne Linwood.

Mr. Betton had been nice enough, but it was obvious that he had an academic’s love of mind-numbing minutiae. He had gone on at length about the provenance of a large rare coin collection believed to have belonged to Sir Henry. Apparently, it was going to auction in a matter of days.

“Auction estimates put the value of the entire collection around £100 million,” he intoned. “But the actual value could go even higher. Of course, the actual owner of the collection has chosen to remain anonymous. . . .” Emme vaguely remembered seeing something about it somewhere, maybe on her rss reader app. She finally interrupted his monologue to inquire about the museum’s portraits from the Napoleonic era.

Leading her through a series of drawing rooms, Mr. Betton showed Emme a canvas of Timothy, the 4th Viscount Linwood and his sister, Marianne. The large portrait depicted a man with a younger woman wearing a soft pink, high-waisted dress covered with a gauzy overdress. The sparkling highlights of the fabric bounced out of the image. Her companion was dressed in the height of Regency gentlemanly fashion: dark coat, gold waistcoat, white shirt and neckcloth, tan breeches with polished Hessian boots. His gray-silver eyes stared challengingly at the viewer.

Emme’s heart plummeted. This stern man was Timothy Frederick Charles Linwood, the man she had hoped was her F? She met the viscount’s haughty stare. Lord Linwood seemed the kind of man who had found little in life amusing. She couldn’t conceive of someone who was more Finn’s opposite. Well, as she perceived Finn.

Mr. Betton also showed her Marianne’s miniature portrait. As was typical for the time period, the tiny portrait had been painted in watercolor on a thin ivory panel. A jeweler had then mounted the miniature into a pretty gold case with a chased filigree edge, covering the front with clear crystal to protect the fragile painting. As was common, the miniature had been turned into a pendant. The recipient would wear the pendent around the neck on a chain or attached as a brooch to a garment, displaying the loved one for all the world to see.

It was rarer to turn a miniature into a locket like Finn, to hide the beloved one away. Usually the image was left exposed to the light like Marianne’s portrait. The exposure to sunlight had faded the flesh tones of her skin to gray. However, Emme could see similarities in the way Spunto had painted her: the minuscule brush strokes, the hair thin lines that suggested gentle eyes and a shy smile.

Emme turned the pendant over. There was no locket of hair, no entwined initials, no inscription. Marianne’s portrait had clearly been set by a different jeweler. Though painted by the same person, the similarities ended there. It seemed unlikely that Finn had been associated with the Linwoods.

In the end, Mr. Betton had suggested she visit the offices of
Hartington, Chatham and Ware. They were a long-standing local solicitor firm that had been around at least since the 1790s, still owned by the same original families. Their old files would have more specific information, particularly as would relate to the gentry of the area.

Emme had been disappointed that
F wasn’t Lord Linwood. Well, she was choosing to label the emotion disappointment. She didn’t want to consider that it was actually relief.

She wanted to find him. Right? She didn’t think her life could get any more pathetic.

Emme just needed to know.
She needed to know that Finn had sired ten children, had grown stout and lost his hair and then died of influenza. Or that he had been a terrible rake who
squandered the family fortune and was killed in a duel for deflowering some innocent girl.

She touched her finger to the glass which protected his portrait. He looked too nice for that. He had probably been just a person. One who had been at times cheerful and irritable and sad and joyful—all the normal emotions of life. And he had loved E. She hoped that E had been worthy of this love, that they had had a good life together.

Throughout all time.
Sometimes Emme hated the familiarity of him, the disorientation that sometimes came before being fully awake, when she almost felt him breathing next to her.

Jasmine still doggedly insisted that their lives were interconnected. Emme had long ago decided that Jasmine’s well-meaning optimism was at least partially to blame for her own prolonged obsession. Without someone spouting fantasy and keeping these feelings of familiarity and connection alive, would Emme feel so drawn to him? Or was it just the pathetic fact that she couldn’t emotionally connect with someone else that had her pining after a dead guy?

Seriously. She needed to get a grip. She was 29 years old and going nowhere with her love life. She was going to do her research, attach names and a story to E and F and purge him from her heart. She was going to move on, find some perfectly normal man who could actually speak with her. It was the not-knowing that made F so powerful, that gave him such a hold on her imagination.

A powerful gust of wind shook the house again, causing a loud crash and bringing Emme back to the present.

She jumped, looking around for the source of the noise and then realized it was the window, the one opposite the table.

Moving toward the window, she saw one of the external shutters had finally come loose and was now flapping with the wind, slamming with each gust. Emme debated just leaving the window as is. The storm was so fierce. But she knew given her luck, the shutter would tear free or worse, crack the window. Then she would have an even larger mess. And she had never been one to avoid a problem.

Gritting her teeth, Emme opened the window and gasped as the storm howled into the room, blasting her skin. Wincing against the pelting rain, she grabbed the errant shutter and, pitting her weight against the roaring wind, pulled it shut. Her drenched fingers slipped twice before she could latch it securely. She was thoroughly wet by the end.

Emme stood dripping in the kitchen, shaking the water off of her hands, red and stinging from the sharp rain. Sighing, she trudged upstairs to soak in a hot bath, change into dry clothing and cuddle into her warm bed.

Later, as she shivered under her covers, Emme had to wonder if she had just averted disaster or if this was merely a sign of things to come.

The dream came, soft and vivid. Emme found herself in a large meadow. The heat of summer sun slid along her back, broken occasionally by a fitful breeze twisting through the canopy of the surrounding forest.

A solitary towering oak spread over the entire meadow, straining to hold up gnarled and twisted branches. Limbs that only a thousand years of life could create.

It was a relic of ancients, of a time when man worshiped nature instead of forcing his will upon it. Emme continued forward into the cool shade of its beckoning arms. The air was suddenly fresher, lighter, purified by thousands of leaves. The tree seemed to sigh and rustle its branches in welcome.

It had been waiting for her.

“Emme! Emme wait!”

She stopped, surprised. Who had found her here?

Turning toward the voice, she saw him, half walking, half running out of the forest. Emme felt a jolt.

She had dreams about
him
from time to time, but he was usually a phantom presence, a shape known but not really seen, just a hazy suggestion of reality. More of a feeling. A longing.

But this was different. Here he was vivid and utterly clear. He walked quickly, anxiety on his face. Emme could see every detail with startling clarity: his golden hair, eyes a shocking blue subtly shifting color as he moved. His coat, not the blue-green in the locket, but instead a brown overcoat swinging down to his boots.

He was so alive, so vibrant. She drank him in. He stopped in front of her, and surprised, Emme realized he wasn’t much taller than she.

“Please, Emme,” his voice pleaded, gentle and smooth. He reached his hand out tentatively to her. “Please, my love, don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

Emme could only stare, his face so familiar and yet not. He lifted his right hand and gently touched her cheek, his fingers warm and tender. Emme’s heart pounded in her ears.

“Please,” he whispered, blue eyes pleading.

Anguish clutched her heart. She had to leave, had to go, but why? She couldn’t remember.

He brought his left hand up to cup her face in his hands. His touch searing her skin.

“I don’t think I can live without you. Please. Stay.”

Emme still said nothing. Her voice choked, eyes blurred. She felt his thumbs brush the tears from her cheeks. He drew her near, sliding his arms down around her waist, pulling her close. Emme felt a gasp escape, heavy emotions crushing her. She wrapped her arms fiercely around his neck, twining her fingers into his hair, pulling his head tight against her own. She could feel his breath hot on her neck.

Was the trembling her? Him? He moaned in her ear, burrowing his lips into her hair.

Suddenly, the oak tree came alive, branches reaching, wrapping around her. Emme was wrenched backward, lifted, ripped from his embrace. Terrified, she tried to scream and reached out for him. She stared at his horrified face, his stricken eyes. His hand outstretched, just enough to brush her fingertips before they were utterly torn apart. He was yelling something she could not hear as more branches filled the growing space between them. She watched him frantically push against the woody vines, trying desperately to reach her. Emme twisted and turned, trying to free herself, but the snaking tendrils held her tighter. Over the sound of crunching, grinding wood, she heard him.

“No! No! NOOOO!”

His cry still echoed in her bedroom as Emme shot upright, bedclothes tangled and twisted around her legs.

Chapter 6

E
mme’s heart pounded with adrenaline as she wiped her damp cheeks. Thunder pounded through the room. What a terrible dream. She sat shaking in her bed, trying to understand. It had been so clear, so real. The anguished sense of loss lingered.