The Bride of Time (35 page)

Beside her, Giles, fascinated with the train, sat speechless. If the situation weren’t so grave, she would have laughed at his sobriety. How she longed to take him in her arms, but that wouldn’t do. Not here, not now and in public.

After a time, his attention returned to her, and he saw what she so desperately tried to hide. “You really fear the time corridors, don’t you?” he murmured, inclining his head to speak quietly, for the coach was filled with travelers.

“I do not know why I am so afraid,” she said. “It has been thus since this odyssey began. I am just afraid of…of accidentally doing what I did that first time and thereby separating us. The trouble lies in that I do not know exactly what I
did
do that first time, except imagine the patchwork hills in your ‘Bride of Time.’ Then all at once I was there. It was…magical.”

Giles sighed. “And I nearly frightened you off, getting shot of that whore who stole my snuffbox. I should
have let her have it. At least then it might have survived as an antiquity. It would be priceless today.”

“It was scandalous!” Tessa corrected him.

“Quite so,” he agreed with a laugh, “but so was I in those days. You’ve tamed me, lady wife. I am scandalous now only in bed with you.”

He kissed her with his eyes then, and it was more of a seduction than if he had used his sensuous lips. Tessa blinked away the urge to melt under that gaze, and the Devil take the spectators who were already gawking at them. Thus it went the entire journey, which only took hours instead of the days it would have taken overland by coach.

A horse-drawn bus was waiting at the station to pick up passengers for Bodmin. Tessa took a chill as they boarded it, recalling the night she saw the burned-out shell of the Abbey. She never had found out what year that was, and she wondered if the same caretaker would be there, if he would remember her.

Thus far, the landscape seemed the same as it was in Giles’s time, with the exception that some of the trees in the forest that bordered the moor had been cut down, and another copse had risen on the opposite side. When they reached the rise that led up to the Abbey, Giles couldn’t vacate the bus quickly enough. They got out at the stile that had become a bus stop over time, and began to climb toward the blackened skeleton of what once had been Longhollow Abbey.

It was just dusk, and already the moon shone brightly down upon their progress, reminding her that it would only be a few more days before it waxed full. Then they would know—really know—if the curse had been cancelled, if they could live a normal life together, or if they would forever dread the rising of the moon.

It was plain that Giles wasn’t thinking about that now.
His eyes were riveted to the Abbey, and to a little puddle of golden light spilling from the open stable doors.

“The caretaker lived there when I last saw this,” Tessa said. “His name was Ezra Jones, a strange curmudgeon. He held me off with a shotgun. He told me the place had become a curiosity, that folk came from miles around to see what was left of Longhollow Abbey and hear his tale. He said the Prince Regent set up a trust in your name after your…death that protected it, and the proceeds go to the Crown. I don’t know what year that was. I never found out. I came down the hill and Moraiva collected me in the wagon and brought me back to you.”

“Is that the man?” Giles asked, nodding toward a bowlegged, shogun-toting silhouette in tweeds hobbling toward them, a lantern held high.

Tessa grabbed her veil and lowered it. “It is!” she murmured. “He takes his job quite seriously.”

“Hold there!” the caretaker bellowed. “We’re closed for the day. You’ll have to come back tomorrow. Tours begin at one o’clock. We close at five. Now, git!”

“That is ridiculous, sir,” Giles said. “How can you ‘close’ what is open to the elements? We shan’t be here tomorrow. We’ll gladly pay your admission price.”

“Town folk,” the caretaker said in disgust. “Ya can spot them a mile off. Well, this ain’t London. Ya can’t come out here and do like ya please. We’ve got rules, open to the elements or not, and I’m paid to follow them.”

Giles whipped out a note and offered it. “This should cover any inconvenience. We would like to hear your tale, Mister…?”

“Jones,” the caretaker said, snatching the note. “Ezra Jones. You’ll have ta settle for the abbreviated version. I need my sleep.

“There was a young woman come out here not long
ago in the dead o’ night—another Londoner—walked right up in there, bold as brass.
Nobody
gets ta go in there, not even on the tours; too dangerous after all these years.” He raised the lantern, coming closer. “She looked a lot like you, missus, only she weren’t no lady. Half-dressed in whore’s clothes, by the look of her, said she was a relation o’ the doxy what burned up with old Longworth in the fire—name o’ LaPell, or some such, she said.”

“That’s nothing to us,” Giles said. “We’ve paid. Now, let us hear your tale before our bus comes back to collect us, hmm?”

“Anyway,” Jones went on, “the gel, her ancestor, was governess to the lad what set the fire. Some say the little blighter was cursed. He was a Gypsy, ya know, Longworth’s ward, and that Longworth used ta lock him up when the moon was full. He was a bad hat, old Longworth. Never met an artist yet that wasn’t an elbow-bender, given ta lay about with the bawds. Yes, sirree, bad hats, the lot!”

“All this happened almost a hundred years ago, so I’m told, and folk hereabout still recollect it?” Giles asked, his brows knit in a frown.

Tessa looped her arm through his and gave it a reassuring squeeze, but the muscles beneath her fingers were as hard as steel bands, and they didn’t respond. Ezra Jones had his full and fierce attention.

“Folks hereabouts are a superstitious lot,” the caretaker said. “It’ll be three hundred years afore they forget the tale of old Giles Longworth, and maybe not even then.”

“I’m sorry, please continue,” Giles said.

The caretaker spat to the side, and went on with a nod. “Everybody said old Longworth was round the bend, if ya take my meaning—crazy as a loon. He shut himself up in there with whores comin’ and goin’ all
hours o’ the day and night, passin’ them off as his models, but everybody knew they was his whores…’scuse me, missus. And all the while, he was supposed ta be carin’ for the little boy. One day, the poor lad up and run off, and who could blame him? Folks hereabout was sure old Longworth had done for the poor lad till young Monty—that was his name: Monty—he come back and set the house afire. They was all in there, so the tale goes: the lad, Longworth, and that doxy of a governess. She was a brazen tart, she was, took ta posin’ for Longworth
nekked
, mind, after the blighter run all the other whores off the place. He was workin’ on a painting called ‘The Bride o’ Time,’ for the Prince Regent. That was George IV.”

“And the painting…what happened to it?” Giles put in.

“I’m just gettin’ ta that,” Jones said testily. “I dunno what it is with you Town folk always interruptin’. That gel what was up here a while back scarcely let me get a word in, neither.”

“My apologies,” Giles said. “Please continue.”

Jones nodded. “Anyhow, after the fire, all the servants dispersed without saying a word. It was if a ghost had sworn them all to secrecy. Old Prinny set up a trust for Longworth. Then all the blighter’s paintings sold overnight. Everybody wanted to own a piece o’ the bloke who painted Prinny’s Bride o’ Time. Between that and the scandal out here, Longworth became a local legend to this very day.”

“He died in the blaze, you say?” Giles probed.

The caretaker nodded. “No trace was ever found o’ any o’ them. One of our good old Cornish flaws blew the remains clean away. Rumors spread that they was all werewolves. The guards from the Watch swore they actually saw old Longworth turn into a wolf out on the moor just south o’ Lamorna jail. They was takin’ him in
for the murder o’ one o’ their own, when the moon come full and he changed before their very eyes. To this day, folks say they hear wolves howlin’ when the moon comes full. I heard them myself, and there ain’t no more wolves in these parts anymore, so you folks go figure that out if ya can.”

“Extraordinary,” Giles said.

The caretaker nodded. “Some say Longworth’s ghost haunts these ruins, and others say he ain’t dead at all. I dunno which is what”—he brandished his shotgun, backing Tessa up a pace—“but I’m ready for him, man or wolf. There’s silver shot in this here weapon, just in case.”

“Be careful how you sling that thing about!” Giles warned him.

“ ’Scuse me, gov’nor,” the caretaker responded. “Ya wanted the tale. Just givin’ ya your money’s worth.”

“Well, we thank you for your time, Mr. Jones,” Giles said, turning Tessa away. “We shan’t keep you.” He cast one last look at the Abbey ruins silhouetted black against the star-studded sky in the moonlight. The look in his misty eyes turned Tessa’s away. “Our bus is due by. Good evening, sir.”

With a nod and a wave, Giles turned Tessa back toward the lane. Once they were out of earshot, Tessa said, “Well, you got a bit more out of him than I did.”

“I paid him more than you did, too, I’ll wager,” Giles responded.

“Without a doubt.” She cast a glance over her shoulder toward the remains of Longhollow Abbey, which stood like a skeleton in the moonlight, and shivered. There was no sign of Ezra Jones now. “What a strange little man,” she observed, as if to herself.

“That is why I left him so abruptly,” Giles said, helping her over the stile by the lane. “He was making entirely too free with that blunderbuss of his, or what ever
it’s called.” He glanced back toward the misshapen moon poised overhead. “He did say his ammunition was silver, and until the moon waxes full again and we see how it affects us, I do not think it wise that we take chances.”

He settled Tessa on the stile, and turned back for what would be a last look at his former life before boarding the bus that was lumbering toward them at a distance from the south. Moonlight danced in his misted eyes, and his handsome mouth almost smiled, but not quite. The sight of him thus brought a lump to Tessa’s throat, and she swallowed hard before speaking.

“Will we be returning here, Giles?” she murmured.

His head snapped toward her, but it was a long moment before he spoke. “No,” he finally said. “I have done what I needed to. We go now to purchase my paintings. Your ‘railroad’ has made the world a shockingly small place, my love. We could never lose ourselves here any longer, and we could never bring the paintings here—not after what that man back there just said. Not amongst the superstitious Cornish folk, who still use silver bullets. ‘The Bride of Time’ notwithstanding, there is my self-portrait. It is a very good likeness, if I do say so myself. An incredible likeness. Can you imagine the brouhaha if I were to bring it home? Besides, any artist settling in these hills, on these moors, could be suspect now.”

“I am so sorry,” Tessa said.

“Don’t be,” he replied, raising her up in the custody of his strong arms. How good they felt, how warm and comforting. “I think I always knew I couldn’t come back here for good. God bless you for letting me see for myself.”

He stooped to kiss her as the bus drew near. All was still around them until the plaintive howl of a wolf
pierced the silence and tore their lips apart. For one heart-stopping moment, their gazes locked.

“Oh, Giles!” Tessa cried, her voice quavering.

“Come,” he said, rushing her toward the horse-drawn bus lumbering to a stop alongside. “It’s time to go.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

Passing the time until Tuesday was the most difficult. Foster had given the curator’s partner a deposit on Giles’s paintings; nevertheless, they passed by the little gallery in a hackney cab each day just to be certain they were still there. They spent time in the Bond Street shops, choosing proper clothes, converted more funds in the Threadneedle Street banks, and strolled in Hyde Park and Vauxhall Gardens: places that were discreet, not Cheapside or anywhere that someone from Tessa’s former life might see and recognize her.

While they were at those pursuits, Foster saw to the mundane arrangements for their journey to Yorkshire. They would travel north by train, and take lodgings at a proper inn or hotel while they sought a suitable permanent residence. They would keep their given names, since they were common enough to pass, and choose a different surname for the sake of anonymity. Giles and Tessa Lang was chosen. Who knew but that the Giles Longworth scandal had reached as far as Scotland, which was looking better and better as an option for their permanent residence, come to that. This was something to be worked out once they reached the
North Country, though. The horses would be boarded at the livery and sent on once they had a place to send them. Paramount now was getting out of London without incident.

Tuesday morning dawned white with cottony fog ghosting in off the Thames, much to Giles’s relief. Thus far, except for converting notes and the daily, well-concealed reconnaissance from the shadowy confines of a hackney cab, they had avoided Cheapside and surrounding areas completely.

Giles was hopeful that new togs, his slicked-down hair parted in the middle, and the shadow of stubble he’d been nurturing since they returned from Cornwall, much to Tessa’s chagrin, would change his appearance enough to prevent the curator’s partner from noticing any likeness during the brief visit. Now it was time for the test, and he set out with Tessa, who was wearing the veiled hat that brought a smile to his lips, in a hackney cab to finalize the sale.

“What is it, my love?” he asked, watching her gaze into nothingness.

She squeezed his hand. It felt clammy and cold, even through her gloves. “I think it outrageous that you must pay such a sum for your own paintings,” she said.

“Thirteen-thousand pounds is hardly a fortune these days, and the way blunt is gained and multiplied in your twentieth century, I should soon earn it back. Hah! The gudgeon wanted double that. You have Foster to thank for the negotiations. He spied some worn spots on ‘The Bride,’ and why wouldn’t there be in almost a hundred years? It’s nothing I cannot fix. He found imperfections on the others as well, and talked the curator down. Foster’s a genius. I’d have not done half as well.”