My Soul Immortal (26 page)

As Leah’s eyes dart from the trees to Wind Rush House, emotions flit across her face. “I want to go inside,” she blurts.

“I’m not sure we can. It’s a private residence. I suppose we can ask, but…”

“There are tours. I read about them in one of the travel brochures.”

“They still do that? Huh.” I recall the summer William and I made sport of the tourist who came from London to see how the country folk lived. He left with frightening stories and colorful memories of the ghost of Wind Rush House. I hold out my hand. “Well, then, let’s go.”

Closer to the house’s ivy-covered facade, I trace the lines of ornate windows and stone pilasters to a window of the upper east wing, where I linger. I brace myself, but nothing hints at rousing the flashbacks from their slumber. I smile.
Could I be free of them?

My pace quickens. I tow Leah in the direction of the house, eager to test this new freedom. I usher her through a large open door and into the grand entryway, where a statue of the Greek goddess Hera welcomes us from her post at the foot of the immense staircase. A mural of an assemblage of Grecian gods gazes down from the high ceiling. Leah gapes at the sheer beauty, taking in the grandeur.

“Like a museum, isn’t it?” I give a low throaty chuckle.

She nods, speechless.

A petite brunette steps into the entryway. “Hello, everyone. Our little tour is about to start,” she says in a high-pitched voice that bubbles over with enthusiasm. “First, I’d like to take this opportunity to welcome you to Wind Rush House.”

The tour guide evidently loves her job. My shoulders slump, and I groan inwardly. Leah glances at me and giggles. She must guess how much this perky tour guide annoys me. I grin at her, trying to hide my grimace. Leah stifles another laugh, and I squeeze her hand.

“My name is Becky, and I will be your guide for this tour. This fine manor is the private home of Sir Samuel Philips and his family. He’s graciously opened his home so others can share its beauty. Please stay with the group, and no flash photography. Now, if you would, follow me.”

Lagging behind the others, Leah and I have little interest in the guide’s monologue. I whisper details in Leah’s ear as we follow the group through the maze of stately rooms into a long, narrow one that looks more as though it belongs at the Metropolitan Museum than a home.

“This is the sketch gallery,” Becky announces.

Portraits still line the wood-paneled walls. From the gold-leaf columns around the windows to the intricate moldings and the ornate geometrical pattern of the ceiling—all the features are unique from the rest of the house. Leah’s pace slows, and she studies each likeness.

I wait for her to catch up.

“I thought there’d be a painting of her here. I was so sure,” she says.

“There was one. It was painted right before her nineteenth birthday.”

Her eyes widen. “I remember. The artist wanted you to leave, insisting you’d be a distraction, but Lydia demanded you stay. The artist became annoyed because Lydia continued glancing at you throughout her sitting.”

I nod. “The house is awakening more memories.”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“If it gets too much, we’ll leave.”

“I want to remember,” she insists.

“All right.” I point to a painting above us, hanging high on the dark-mahogany wall. “Do you recognize him?”

She looks up. Waves of strawberry-blond brushstrokes frame his long, narrow face. His features are soft, almost feminine. His solemn expression seems out of place because of the twinkle of a smile in his golden-brown eyes.

“It’s William, Lydia’s brother,” she says in almost a whisper. “I was his favorite… Lydia, I mean.”

Her words catch me off guard. I stare at her. My attention seems to make her uncomfortable, and she looks away.

“Yes. He was a good man,” I finally say. I continue toward the rear of the immense gallery, in search of Lydia’s portrait. Leah doesn’t follow, instead deciding to stay with William.

I circle the gallery twice but don’t find the portrait.
What happened to it?
I glance behind me to see if Leah has caught up to me yet. She’s nowhere in sight. I scan the room, rushing past the familiar faces of Lydia’s relatives, searching. No Leah. No anybody. I’m completely alone. Why wouldn’t she let me know the tour was moving on? She would. Of course, she would—unless something, or someone, stopped her from calling out.

Vita! No, you’re overreacting.
With a gulp of air, I steady my emotions. I repeat Artagan’s words in my head, willing myself to believe them.
We’re safe. Vita’s no longer a concern.

“Excuse me.”

My eyes flit to Becky’s enthusiastic smile.

“The tour is in the music room now. This way,” she says.

“The girl I came with, is she there?”

“Everyone’s in the music room, sir. This way, please.” The first hint of annoyance breaks through Becky’s cheeriness.

I trail her down the hall. Leah isn’t in the music room, so I slip away from the crowd. She’s not in the foyer, the library, or the front parlor. I charge upstairs and run like a madman from room to room. When I pass the sketch gallery again, Leah’s standing in front of William’s portrait, in the same spot she was twenty minutes earlier, staring vacantly into space.

“Where have you been?” I say, dislodging the lump caught in my throat. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“I think I had a flashback,” she mumbles.

“Haven’t you had one before?”

“No, only memories in dreams.”

“What was it a flashback of?”

Leah hesitates.

“Tell me, please.”

She looks around the room. “It was here in this room, I think. Was this the ballroom?”

Again caught off guard, I nod.

“I was standing in the midst of swirling dresses. Every lady was in an elegant gown, except me. I was in this same jeans and pink frilly blouse. I would’ve thought if I were going back in time, I’d at least get a dress.”

Huh, that’s different.
In every flashback I’ve had, I was part of the action, not a bystander.

“Anyway, everyone was dancing. It was cool, kind of like being in the middle of a Jane Austen movie—a 4-D one.”

“Wrong century.”

She shrugs. “That’s when I saw you, walking through the crowd with William, laughing. By the way, you looked hot. The black dress coat, that white vest over the white pleated shirt. Hmmm… so sexy. Even in a flashback, you make my heart race.”

I smirk and kiss her lightly on the head. “Good to know.”

“When you walked by, your gaze reached past me. I knew you were looking for her. As stupid as it is, it bothered me.”

My eyes narrow into slits. Odder still, this is different from any flashback I’ve known. Maybe it’s because she’s two people and one soul.

She reads my expression wrong. “I know. I know. That’s why I said it was stupid. I looked for Lydia, too. She was younger than I expected—fifteen, maybe sixteen. She sat in a corner of the room next to an old lady dressed in black. Her governess. Miss Weeks. Lydia’s eyes were trained on you.”

She pauses and returns her attention to William’s portrait, seeming to look at him for verification that she’s remembering this past correctly. Satisfied, Leah continues, “I braced myself, expecting you to rush to her, but surprisingly, you didn’t. Instead, you danced with a slender girl in a violet gown. That’s when I realized this flashback was before you and Lydia were an item.” Leah draws in a lungful of air. “Before you loved her, when she was only William’s little sister. I hate it, but I’ve been jealous of her.” Her eyes fall away from me.

“I did love her.
Did.
You have to know you’ve healed me like no one, nothing else could. It’s you I love.”

A radiant smile breaks across her face. “That’s the silliest part—I know that in here,” she says, pointing to her head. “But in my heart, your love for Lydia has intimidated me for a while.”

I start to speak.

She puts her hand up. “Please, let me finish. This flashback was good for me. It helped me realize things. When you danced with Margaret, it hurt Lydia. I wanted to take her hand and tell her it would be all right soon, but then I realized that would be a lie. She’d never have the life she wanted with you. She isn’t yours anymore. I’m getting the life with you she only dreamt of and was promised. I’ll have memories with you that no one else will. The thought gave me a strange mixture of emotions. Pity was there, but happiness, too. Does that make me a bad person?”

“No, of course not…”

The sound of footsteps hurrying down the hallway interrupts me. Becky rushes into the room, looking anxious. Relief sweeps over her face.

“Oh, this is where we lost you two. I’m sorry, but the tour is over.” Becky looks past me and straight at Leah. Her eyes widen, and she stares. “Oh, my!” She takes a step away as her hand rises to her chest. “How didn’t I see it before? Do you know if you’re related to the Philips family?”

“Yes,” Leah says with total confidence.

“Well, that would make sense. Your resemblance to the daughter of Sir Robert Ashford is uncanny. There’s a portrait of her. Would you like to see?”

Leah nods and slips her hand into mine.

Becky beams. “Follow me.”

She escorts us to the entryway and up the great staircase. I say nothing, but stay close, never letting go of Leah’s hand.

Leah looks from side to side. Room after room stretches out from the central hallway. Drawing rooms and glimpses of lavish bedrooms lay beyond them. The last room at the end of the long hallway is a smaller bedchamber, no less luxurious than the rest of the home. It features a large bay window confined by green satin curtains. Lydia’s bedroom.

For a few moments, I take in the scene. Nothing has changed. Hand-painted Chinese wallpaper of exotic birds and flowers covers the walls. A French writing desk and chair sit in the far corner next to an ornate fireplace. A vase of roses sits on the well-polished surface. Dominating the room is the Regency-period canopy bed with rich cream floral fabric spiraled down its embellished walnut posts.

I stay by the doorway. Leah walks into the room. Her fingers trace over the writing desk, and she makes her way to the window with a view of the pair of elm trees.

“Beautiful,” Leah whispers.

“Over here, miss,” Becky says, leading us to a painting of a young woman sitting in a high-backed chair by a window.

The sunlight plays along her golden curls. She’s wearing her favorite lavender gown. One hand lies in her lap while the other touches a simple pendant necklace strung around her neck. The brushstrokes capture the gift I’d given Lydia in every detail, right down to the tiny glass tiles forming a bouquet of daisies. The brass necklace looks plain in contrast to the lace bertha neckline and silk fabric. My gaze follows the delicate chain up to Lydia’s face, to her emerald eyes looking longingly out from the canvas.

I face Leah to gauge her reaction. She studies the portrait, then reaches up and runs her hand along her cheek to her chin, I suppose checking to see if each have the same gently rounded shape. They do. They’re exactly the same. She leans forward, looking closer at the portrait. Her mouth falls slack, and then she whispers, “I’ve seen a necklace like that. My grandmother had one just like it. The pendant always reminded me of a Seurat pointillist painting. I used to wear it around her house when I played dress-up.”

“I gave it to Lydia on her nineteenth birthday,” I whisper.

As our eyes meet, I give her a knowing smile.

When we’re finally alone out in the gardens, in a sea of white and purple hydrangeas, Leah speaks again. “I’m surprised by how much I look like her. Before today, I’ve never seen her. I’ve only looked through her eyes. I didn’t expect it to be like looking into a mirror.” The afternoon breeze snatches a wisp of her hair, flipping the end across her face.

I catch the strand and tuck her hair behind her ear. “Freaky… as you would say.”

She nods.

“You do look like her, but like I’ve told you, there are differences. I want you to remember that.”

“I know.”

I cup her face in my hands, studying her expression. “I believe, Miss Winters, this is the spot where you kiss me this afternoon.” I have many memories with Lydia in this garden, but I want to give Leah one she doesn’t have to share, one that’s all hers.

“Really? I’m not so sure.” The twinkle returns to her eyes.

“I am.” I step closer and bend in for a kiss, letting my lips brush slowly against hers, savoring the moment. I lean back and smile. “Now, are you ready to see Lidcombe?”

I drive through the town of my birth. Rich honey-colored homes line the quiet streets. Each door is painted with a vibrant color—fiery red, electric blue, and hunter green. Flowerpots hanging from the eaves brim with roses, dark-purple lobelia, and clusters of baby’s breath. In the town’s center, an old church stands proudly, its stone tower pointing to the heavens.

On the southern outskirts of the village is a storybook farmhouse. This humble two-story house with steep arched gables was once my home. Now this address is an inn. In front, stretching almost to the road, grows a garden of tall pink phlox where my mother spent her free moments. On the far lawn is the tall maple my father sat under while writing his sermons.