Divine (3 page)

By contrast, the other letter was thick, white and pristine, bearing the official mark of a prominent London solicitor.

Winter winds battered the solitary window and whistled down the chimney, licking the small fire which burned in the grate. The room was spartan: a chair, a table and low bed in one corner. A rag rug on the floor.

Such was a soldier’s life. At least he had a roof over his head, an improvement over the canvas tents of the Peninsula.

Below him, Sebastian could hear the low rumble of men’s voices and the clink of glasses filled with brandy as they whiled away long hours in the parlor of the officer’s billet. He should join them.

But he didn’t. Not yet.

It was coming on Christmas and, once more, Sebastian would spend it far from home. He wondered, as he always did this time of year, when he would see his friends and family again.

If he would ever see
her
again.

Over the years, Sebastian had kept himself apprised of Georgiana’s life through letters from his sisters. She had a brilliant first Season in London but did not accept any of the numerous offers of marriage she received. Nor did she her second or third Season. He was slopping through the mud of central Spain when he learned that her grandmother had died, leaving Lyndenbrooke to Georgiana.

And yet she didn’t marry. It felt like an ax waiting to fall, the end of any faint hope he still possessed.

But, thus far, he had kept his promise to her.

That crazy, impetuous promise.

For himself, it was hard to care if he lived or died.

What future awaited him? To hear news that she had married elsewhere? To scrimp and save and perhaps one day amass just enough money to sell his commission and support himself and a family, always teetering on the edge of poverty? Or perhaps even worse, marry and retain his commission, forcing his wife to follow the drum, moving with him from camp to camp?

It was no life for a lady.

Though he personally held his own life cheap, that one pledge had made all the difference.

Every skirmish with swords glinting, every battle charge into blazing guns, her words echoed through him.

Promise me you will return
.

He had to stay alive, if only to spare Miss Georgiana Knight a few tears weeping for his fallen body.

It was truly pathetic when he thought too much about it.

He
was pathetic.

But as long as she remained unmarried, he could hope. Could dream that impossible dream where somehow he became
more
than
.

More than a captain in King George’s army
.
More than a brother in
her
eyes.

An utterly futile dream. He knew this.

But Hope was a persistent beggar. Always hovering around the edges of his life, needing only the smallest glance of encouragement to start clamoring for a coin. Eager to purchase a place in his soul.

He looked at his sister’s battered missive and declined to read it just yet. His sister was a diligent correspondent, bless her, but he never found village gossip as fascinating as she.

Instead, Sebastian carefully opened the solicitor’s letter.

And gasped.

Surely, this couldn’t be.

Stared. Read it again.

Felt a wide grin spread across his face, as the beggar Hope suddenly revealed herself to be an angel, granting him the deepest wish of his soul.

Sun shattered the gloom of his wintry mind.

He jumped up with a shout, bringing feet running.

“Something amiss, Carew?” asked Captain John Phillips, popping his head into Sebastian’s room.

A cashiered officer, Phillips had arrived just a few weeks previously from Canada with letters of recommendation from General Brock. He was currently an unofficial member of the billet, but was considering purchasing another commission and joining Sebastian’s regiment.

Phillips had proved himself an immediate friend, good-humored and always up for a lark. When Sebastian didn’t immediately respond, Phillips walked fully into the room, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

With another whoop, Sebastian threw back his head and laughed at the ceiling.

And then read the letter one more time. Just to be sure. Somewhere, his mind noted that the paper he held shook violently.

Phillips waiting patiently, a wry smile on his lips.

“Well,” Sebastian began, his voice hoarse.

He cleared his throat and started over. It didn’t help; his voice was still hoarse.

“It would seem that I shall now be styled as The Right Honourable Earl of Stratton.”

Phillips blinked and then gave a crack of laughter.

“Good one, Carew.” He slapped Sebastian on the back. “You almost had me with that Banbury tale, but you shan’t turn me sweet. I intend to win my ten quid back from you tonight.”

Sebastian could only shake his head, staring at the letter, the glorious reality of it all sinking in.

“No, Phillips. ‘Tis most true. My distant cousin, Lord Harward, and his family were killed in a tragic carriage accident. Upon hearing the news, the old earl’s heart gave out. I had always thought a large family of cousins in Gloustershire were next in line for the earldom, but there have been other deaths the last few years and, well . . . as it turns out, I am the next heir.”

Phillips snatched the letter from Sebastian and quickly read it.

“It says you need to report to London immediately and present yourself before the House of Lords, something about the will needs to be addressed, but you have full possession of all properties, real and otherwise . . . It goes on and on.”

Sebastian knew his face looked stunned silly. He could see the expression echoed on Phillips’.

“Well, well, well . . . Lord Stratton. Imagine that.” Phillips chuckled, deep and low. Then made a deep, somewhat mocking, bow. “If your right honorable lordship will permit me some impertinence, I think this occasion calls for a celebration.”

Laughing, Sebastian shook his head and allowed himself to be led downstairs, listened to the huzzahs and shouts of congratulations from his fellow officers. Grinning all the while, his joy and relief almost palpable.

Fate had suddenly given him options. He was no longer penniless. He could provide for his parents and sisters. Ensure that his nieces and nephews had advantages he never did.

He was an
earl.
A peer of the realm.

His life suddenly held social status, security, purpose.

Possibilities.
Hope
.

Visions of Georgiana danced through his head.

At last! He could finally do something to earn her regard. He could
act
, instead of just longingly wish.

The joy of it fizzed through him. Champagne bubbles exploding in his chest.

It wasn’t until he woke the next morning that Sebastian remembered the letter from his sister. Friends continued to move in and out of his room, congratulating him. The entire officer’s billet had been turned into an impromptu party, celebrating Sebastian’s good fortune.

In between laughing jests from fellow officers, Sebastian gingerly opened his sister’s missive and decoded the words written across each other.

One phrase haunted him for months to come.

Oh, did you hear about poor Miss Knight? The one who inherited Lyndenbrooke? It seems she is now consumptive and has been sent off to some specialist doctor in Liverpool. No one expects her to survive the winter. ‘Tis such a shame. She was such a pretty, vibrant thing.

Somehow, no one in the crowded room heard his heart freeze and then crack, shattering into a thousand pieces. This seemed almost impossible, as the sound thundered in Sebastian’s own ears.

Later, Sebastian would ponder the cruelty of the moment.

Fate handing him the means to finally reclaim his heart and then brutally crushing all hope in the same day.

The irony of Georgiana passing away when Sebastian had survived so much.

He tried to imagine her as a consumptive: emaciated, pale, racked with cough. Dying.

But all he could see in his mind’s eye was a girl, twirling, lost in a flame of golden sun, holding his heart in her brilliant light.

Chapter 1

Duir Cottage

Herefordshire

August 13, 2013

T
he letter arrived on a Tuesday.

Brittle, yellowed, moth-eaten with age.

Georgiana Knight immediately read it, letting the thrill of the words pour through her, absorbing their implications.

The letter seemed innocuous enough at first glance. The direction was clearly inscribed in a looping calligraphic hand on the outside.

Haldon Manor

Herefordshire

Neat and plain. Just as any letter written in 1813 should be addressed.

Georgiana instantly recognized the handwriting—knew it as well as her own, because indeed it was.

Her own.

Which really summed up the problem entirely. As Georgiana was most decidedly not in 1813. Never had been. And she had not written this letter.

At least, not yet.

How Georgiana had come to find herself in the twenty-first century—rather than the nineteenth, the century of her birth—was a long story involving an old oak tree, a time portal in her cellar, her brother, James, and her own near-death from tuberculosis. Modern antibiotics truly worked miracles.

With her health restored, she had spent the last year adjusting to the twenty-first century: mastering the terror of motorway driving, resisting the time-sucking vortex of Facebook, earning a green belt in taekwondo and reconciling to wearing tight jeans.

And now this letter arrived, written in her own hand.

Georgiana stood in the kitchen of Duir Cottage—once the dower house for Haldon Manor, the nearby estate where she had been born—staring transfixed at the letter nestled in a protective plastic sleeve, still warm from the sun-heated post bag. Silence drummed through the cottage, broken only by the sudden tumbling of ice in the freezer. She startled, remembering only then to breathe.

Swallowing, she strolled to the overstuffed sofa in front of the fireplace and sat. Well,
flopped
actually, if she were being honest with herself. Her mother—God rest her soul—would be appalled.

She stared at the letter again. Goosebumps shivered up her arms, the plastic sleeve trembling in her hand.

The quixotic letter made her
quiver
.

When was the last time anything had rendered her breathless?

It was just so unexpected . . . so enigmatic . . . so
thrilling
.

Georgiana nearly giggled from sheer exhilaration.

Setting the letter down on the sofa, she picked up the brief note that had been enclosed with it:

Ms. Knight,

We were sent this letter from the Society of Genealogical Good Samaritans. As we know you have some connection with the original Knights who owned Haldon Manor, we are forwarding the letter in hopes it will mean something to your family. If you do not wish to keep it, please send the letter to the local museum in Marfield for storage in their archive.

Sincerely,

  Charles Ellwood

  Director of Operations

  Haldon Manor Hotel and Spa

Nothing else.

Her tablet suddenly binged, followed quickly by a chirp from her laptop and a wolf whistle from her phone. Alerts always came in threes.

A text from James.

Ready for your date?

Georgiana swallowed and shook her head even though her brother and his new wife, Emme, were half a world away—in a place called Bali, was it?

Emme’s brother, Marc, was working on another martial arts film there, and they had joined him on the movie set for a couple weeks. After that, they planned to travel around the south Pacific for a while. James forever itched to see what lay beyond the horizon.

James and Emme wanted—begged, actually—Georgiana to accompany them on their travels. But she always felt like a third wheel, a spectator on the edge of James’ life, watching her brother blissfully in love.

Not exactly the most enjoyable way to spend one’s time.

Besides, unlike her brother, she didn’t necessarily yearn to see the world. She just wanted her passage through life to matter. To be more than mere existence. She had been making plans, trying to fit her nineteenth century upbringing into twenty-first century life.

But then this letter had to arrive and muddle everything.

Bing. Chirp. Whip-woo.
Another message.

I know you’re there, Georgie. You check your phone like it’s crack
.

Georgiana grimaced.
Pavlovian
was the word Marc used to describe her incessant social media use. He had tried to explain once what it meant, something about dogs and salivating. She still didn’t get it. The wolf whistle was his doing. Marc found it hilarious for some reason.

She pondered the letter. It was riddled with two hundred years worth of moth holes and water damage. But her own handwriting was unmistakable. Slanting, loopy, hurried. She re-read the fragmented words: