Time After Time (28 page)

‘You and him…at that house you painted.’

I blinked at Marcus, awareness slowly dawning on me and chasing away any residual thoughts of Lilly. Marcus was talking about Broadhurst, and Rem and me, in the same breath?

‘What about Rem and me at Broadhurst?’ I asked bluntly.

‘Well,’ he visibly shuddered, ‘I know you probably think this is weird…’

‘Believe me,’ I cut in, ‘I do not think it’s weird, not at all.’

‘Oh. Right. Well, it’s just that when I looked at your painting in art, I saw you and Rem…’

I stared at him open-mouthed.
He remembered
.

‘Marcus,’ I began, my voice grave. Students pushed past us, bustling to their classes, and the air was filled with chatter and laughter. It really wasn’t the appropriate place for such an important conversation. ‘What would you say if I told you that we’d met before? In another life?’

There. I’d said it. Aloud. I hardly believed that I’d said it. I couldn’t breathe as I waited for my words to sink in.

Bizarrely, I considered how much like a scene from
Jane Eyre
this was. Only it was now
him
confronted with the evidence of the mad woman in the attic,
he
who slowly realised what had been in front of him all this time.

‘I’d say that…’ He glanced around and lowered his voice. ‘I’d say I believed you. And I’d say that would make an awful lot of sense.’

I gaped at him. I’d expected outrage, shock, disbelief. I’d expected him to scoff at me, laugh at me and call me a freak.

I’d expected him to walk away.

‘What? What is it?’ he asked, stepping forward and touching my face, his fingers warm and soft. ‘What’s wrong?’

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. How could I have ever doubted him?

And I’d…I’d…no,
Penelope
…had loved someone else.

When I arrived to art class later that afternoon, I stared in stunned amazement at my painting.

My painting, my lovely portrayal of the parsonage, had been repaired, the
House of Horrors
eradicated. It wasn’t perfect—it would never be as good as it was—but it was back to a workable format.

‘It took me a while,’ Miss Morup said, ‘but a little bit of turps and some elbow grease, and it’s not too bad. It would’ve been a shame to see all your hard work go to waste.’

I blinked back tears. That someone had done something so touching for me, had been so kind and sweet…I was without words.

‘Thank you,’ I managed to whisper.

‘No problem, Abbie. You have a lot of talent and a painting I’d hate to see ruined by a little jealousy.’ She tilted her head. ‘It seems old English villages are popular for this topic.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Lilly’s.’

My heart froze and I couldn’t move.
Lilly?
Without thinking, I walked across the room to Lilly’s workstation. I’d never thought to check what Lilly was doing; I didn’t care. If anything, I made sure to stay out of her way as much as possible.

The blood drained from my face, pooling in my feet, as my eyes fell on Lilly’s painting.

Broadhurst Manor.

It was unmistakable. I would know it anywhere, although Lilly had painted a more macabre version of the Manor, complete with grotesque gargoyles positioned along the roof. They’d never been there.

Beyond the Manor, shrouded in darkness, was the forest.

Why would she paint this? What was it to her?

At that moment, she appeared, Marcus close behind.

‘What are you doing?’ Lilly demanded.

‘Why are you painting Broadhurst Manor?’ I countered hotly.

‘I can paint what I like.’

‘How do you even know it?’

‘How do you?’ she rejoined, staring hard at me.

Helplessly I glanced at Marcus. I was missing something—something important—and it niggled at the edges of my mind, pressing against my memories, trying desperately to get out. To reach me.

I blinked.

‘Oh my god!’ I trembled, staring at the girl, at the bleached blonde curls and the hazel eyes that were shrouded in trendy makeup and false eyelashes. At the mouth with the exaggerated Cupid’s bow that never smiled but was permanently painted a dark red.

How could I have been so naive? How could I have not realised?

Feeling ill, bile rising in my stomach and my head suddenly spinning, I turned and raced from the room, stumbling, knocking over an easel as I ran—
my
easel and my picture of the parsonage. Behind me, I heard Lilly laugh and Marcus call my name, but I didn’t stop, couldn’t stop; I was too caught up in a chaotic, incoherent world of thoughts.

It was too much. It was all too much. As I pushed open the girls bathroom door, I made it just in time to be violently ill, retching over and over again until my body quaked and trembled. Until every ounce of my soul was purged and every troubled, tormented nerve stretched raw.

Sitting down on the cold, hard tiles, I leaned my head against the door. How could I not have seen? How many incomplete relationships were there?

Me and Sebastian. Me and Marcus. Marcus and Sebastian. And now Lilly.

Lilly.
Anne
. One and the same.

The big question that loomed menacingly over me, the one that had me reaching for the toilet yet again was,
What did Anne want?

I arrived at work to find Simone waiting, her face a picture of excitement.

‘What?’ I eyed her warily. ‘Don’t tell me, you’re getting married?’

‘No.’ She blushed.

‘You’re not getting married? Then you’re going to live together—oh wait, you’re going to give him your virginity! How romantic…’

‘Abbie,’ Simone cut in, her eyes flashing. ‘Enough. I just wanted to tell you that I found out some interesting things about the girl you asked after.’

‘Oh,’ I faltered. Georgina. Simone had information about Georgie.

She held up a thick file. ‘Quite an extraordinary woman. Very ahead of her times. Where did you hear of her? History? Or science?’

‘Uh, history,’ I replied, eyeing the file, my fingers itching to get hold of it. Science? Why on earth would I have heard about Georgina in science?

‘Definitely an interesting woman.’ Simone handed over the file, and I hurried off to a quiet section of the library to read in peace.

Georgina
. I hadn’t dreamed of her in a while and was anxious for any news. My darling Georgie, the only one I’d ever confided in. The only one who had known about Penelope’s mounting distress.

That’s not true
, I remembered, an image of Jane Smith watching Penelope with those knowing eyes flashing through my mind. I had a feeling Jane Smith knew something too.

A yellowed newspaper article caught my eye. It was Georgina’s obituary. My heart twisted. Of course Georgina was dead; it had been two hundred years. But somehow, seeing it in print and holding the evidence in my hands when just a few nights ago I’d talked with her, well, on top of everything else, it was almost too much.

Reading the article, I felt a growing confusion. It didn’t make any sense. It was about my Georgie—Georgina Broadhurst—all right, but she’d never married. She had never become the societal wife she’d expected to become, had never even left Broadhurst.

Except for several trips to Egypt.

Egypt? What on earth would Georgina be doing in Egypt? As I read on, I discovered that Georgina and Harry had worked together, obsessed with the idea of reincarnation and mesmerism.

Mesmerism…hypnotism?
I frowned. That didn’t fit with anything I knew about Georgina. There was certainly nothing that Penelope had seen that would indicate the direction that Georgina’s life would take.

A direction that only seemed to be set into motion after 1806.

I stared at the pages before me. Had Georgina known something? Had she taken Penelope’s concerns, her inexplicable unease, and her confusing relationship with both Heath and Sebastian seriously?

What did you know, Georgie?
I whispered.
And what did you think you could do about it?

Picking up another article, I was stunned to see a picture of Broadhurst Manor. Georgina’s beloved ancestral home. Penelope’s home. But it was different, hauntingly different, and as I read the headline I felt a chill creep up my spine.

House of Horrors
.

‘Ah, Broadhurst Manor. What a lovely place that was.’

I paused for only the briefest of seconds.

‘What are you doing here?’ I whispered to Rem, his coldness sinking beneath my skin. I didn’t look at him, but my heart turned over fearfully in my chest. I cursed myself for having found the quietest, most secluded spot in the library.

‘I came looking for you, Abbie. Don’t you know that I’m always looking for you?’

‘Well, you can stop looking,’ I replied dryly. ‘You found me.’

‘Ah, that I have,’ he said, perching himself on the edge of my desk.

Ignoring him and my pounding heart, I refocused my attention on the article. Broadhurst Manor was now a ridiculed, gothic tourist attraction. People went there to learn about the mad brother and sister who’d turned the place into a macabre, ghoulish house of horrors where they had performed crazy experiments, autopsies and hypnotism. Where they had dabbled in the occult.

Just like Jane Smith and her gypsy mother.

I shook my head. It didn’t make any sense. What had happened? What had happened to everyone?

Turning, I looked at Rem, blinking at his dazzling brilliance. He had the answers. ‘What did you do them?’

‘What did I do? I did nothing, babe.’

I held up the article for him to see. ‘You did something. You did something for this to have happened to them.’

His face was deadly serious as he regarded the article. ‘It’s not what I did. It’s what you did. You remember, don’t you?’

I swallowed hard and looked away. I didn’t remember.

‘Marcus remembers,’ I offered lamely.

Rem snorted. ‘Sometimes he does. But he’s not like you and me; he’s not powerful enough to remember everything. Nor as ancient.’

‘I think you’re wrong,’ I said eventually. ‘I think that’s the problem. You underestimate him. You underestimate us.’

I’d struck a nerve, and Rem leapt to his feet, hovering menacingly over me. But I held my ground, knowing that he wouldn’t hurt me here, and that he wouldn’t while he still had hope. Hope that I would fall in love with him. It was his hope that I had to manipulate in order to buy me some time.

‘Do not talk about you and Marcus as “us”,’ he said, his voice low. ‘You do not belong to
him
.’

I swallowed hard, his meaning clear.
You belong to me
.

‘What about Anne? Lilly?’ I continued. ‘What does she have to do with any of this?’

Rem laughed mockingly. ‘That bitter little cow? Is she here again?’

I nodded, surprised he didn’t already know that. He seemed to know everything else. ‘Uh-huh.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about her, babe, really I wouldn’t. She’s
ancient
history,’ he laughed, ‘and has her own unresolved issues. Nothing to do with us.’

I tilted my head and regarded him carefully. ‘Were you and she…?’

The edges of his mouth quirked, and he leaned forward, his cool breath wafting over my face. I steadied myself, the perverse desire to kiss him overshadowing every other thought. Whatever had happened between us before was strong; I could feel the pull of it deep within me, as if something were being awoken from a deep sleep.

‘Jealous, babe?’

‘No.’

‘You are jealous. You’re always jealous and you never know why. And you want to kiss me now, don’t you?’

His mouth was inches from mine, and I lowered my gaze, my eyes lingering on his lips, on his perfectly symmetrical smile. My lungs felt like they might explode.

‘No.’ But I didn’t move away.

‘We’re hidden here, in the corner of the library.’ He lowered his voice, shielding his eyes beneath heavy lids. ‘No one will see us. We’re completely alone.’

Stubbornly, I shook my head, but I still didn’t move away. In my mind I heard Penelope’s own self-loathing—
traitor, strumpet
. And
still
I didn’t move. It was as if the very air around him, his icy aura, had anaesthetised me.

‘I won’t kiss you, babe,’ he grinned and his eyes flashed teasingly. ‘You have to kiss me.’

I swallowed, and I heard a tiny voice scream at me, but it was just a tiny voice, and we really were alone and no one could see us, and I
did
want to know if his lips were as cool as I remembered, if his breath really was as icy.

I leaned closer, my eyelids fluttering closed, my blood pounding in my ears, my whole body trembling like the turncoat I was.

His lips
were
cold. They
were
hard, and I should pull away, but they compelled me to stay, compelled me to cling to him. He slid an arm around my waist and pulled me to him. I went willingly, feeling his hands move over my back as he murmured my names—all of them—against my mouth. My mind whirled in a frenzy of thoughts, memories and dreams that screamed at me, but despite it all, despite everything he’d done to me, I couldn’t pull away.

It was as if he was my master, and I nothing more than a willing slave.

‘Well, well, well,’ a voice interrupted, a voice I knew all too well.

Rem and I pulled apart, but I didn’t look at Lilly; I wouldn’t let
her
see the guilt that would be etched all over my face.

‘I knew it wouldn’t take long.’ She sauntered forward, and I saw she had her phone in her hand. What was she going to do? Phone 911?

‘Fuck off, Lilly,’ Rem said, not looking at her, not taking his eyes from my face. Tenderly, he reached and lifted my chin, forcing my eyes to meet his. ‘You did nothing wrong.’

I swallowed and looked away. I’d done everything wrong, and I suspected the consequences would be dire.

It’s just a kiss
, I told myself,
just a harmless little kiss
.

‘Oh, I won’t be fucking off anywhere,’ Lilly snarled, ‘but she will be, won’t you Abbie? I suppose you think you’ve won this time, Sebastian?’

‘Rem. My name is Rem.’