“Thank you, Angie. I shall take it from here.” Sophie looked over at the cook, who’d just poured the boiling water into teacups and set the tea in to steep. Angie nodded before exiting the room. Though they were now alone, Sophie lowered her voice to a whisper. “You are Amara. Sister to Deveric, Duke of Claremont. Am I right?”
Amara nodded automatically. Could there have been another Deveric down the line, a future descendent? Or did Sophie somehow know—
Sophie’s voice broke into her panicked musings. “He was my great-something grandfather, his wife Eliza, my something-or-other grandmother. Eliza James Mattersley, who lived in Charlottesville, Virginia. In 2012.”
The fork followed the bite of tart. Amara gaped at Sophie, her jaw nearly on the table. Quite unladylike, her mother would chastise, but yet ... this woman knew. This woman knew exactly who Amara was.
Sophie’s eyes sparkled with excitement as her hand flew over to cover Amara’s. “How I’ve waited for this day, hoping you would come. You have no idea! It’s been the family legend for so long, but I was never quite sure it was true. And now here you are, sitting before me. My relative from two hundred years ago!”
Amara held her hand to her head, her fingers visibly shaking. “I can’t—” she said, before swallowing. “I can’t believe you know.” Relief flooded through her, the torrent of anxiety inside her dissipating in an instant. She didn’t have to hide, didn’t have to pretend. And Sophie clearly wasn’t going to throw her out. She had a place to be.
Until she finds out you’re pregnant. Amara frowned. Would that make a difference to Sophie the way it would have to their ancestors?
Sophie leapt up, pacing the kitchen floor, her arms gesticulating enthusiastically. “It’s true! All of it. You’re here. You’re really here! And maybe ...” She broke off, biting her lip.
“Maybe?” What had the woman been about to say?
“Nothing, nothing,” Sophie said, waving an arm. “Though I would most definitely like to meet Catherine Schreiber, the woman who sent Eliza to my ancestors’ time and, well, made me possible. And who brought you here. What a miracle! I can hardly believe it.”
“You and me both,” Amara murmured. “And she’s Catherine Cooper now.”
“I can’t wait to hear all about you, my ancestors, everything!” Sophie paused in her pacing. “I’m the last of the Mattersley line,” she said, her face sobering. “No one else knows this legend. And I’d begun to worry, as I have no children to whom I could pass it on. Though I rather assumed if you were going to show, it’d be in this decade, considering 2012 is when Cat first acquired the manuscript. I’d hoped you might have come a few years earlier. I’ve been waiting so impatiently.”
Amara’s head spun. How did this woman know everything?
“But I get ahead of myself. I beg your pardon; I’m just so thrilled! This is the best thing to ever happen.” She walked over and positioned herself in the chair across from Amara. “Do you want to tour the house? I’d love to know how I’ve done with the restorations. Or do you need to rest?”
Now that she’d found a relative and potential friend, the last thing Amara wanted to do was sleep, though fatigue snaked its way through her body. “A tour would be delightful. I wish to know the history—or rather the future, I suppose. I want to know what happened to Clarehaven since my time.”
How liberating to openly talk about who, and from when, she was. Cat and Ben knew, naturally, but Sophie was a Mattersley, a family member. Amazing.
“Deveric was an astute estate manager, as you know, and his son Frederick, too, thank goodness.”
Freddy. It was hard to imagine her nephew as anything less than the sickly but life-loving little boy she’d known. “Frederick,” she murmured.
Sophie nodded, sipping her tea. “We prospered in the nineteenth century. Though your way of life, the British class system, the whole of the peerage, has undergone massive transformation since the Georgian period.”
Amara nodded. The industrial revolution and changing social ideas had challenged the long-established power held by the peerage. She’d read about it in books at the Treasure Trove, but Eliza also warned her it was coming, that many of the grand houses would be sold off, pulled down, or opened for tourism, especially with the huge changes that swept through Europe and England after World War I and the economic depression of the 1930s.
“Deveric’s and Frederick’s foresight, helped along by Eliza’s knowledge, enabled us to weather events that destroyed much of rest of this way of life. Not that I mourn it. I never did subscribe to the idea of birth determining worth.”
Amara laughed. She couldn’t help it. “You sound like Eliza.”
“Good. That thrills me! She’s legendary in this family for her forward-thinking ways. Though most members had no idea how forward, of course.” Sophie’s eyes sparkled as she took another sip of tea. “Grandmother told me it was Eliza who convinced Deveric to invest in the railways, who got Frederick into steel. It was definitely Eliza who built this family’s fortunes.”
“And managed to pass some of that fortune to me.” The sister-in-law she’d initially wanted to reject, whose intentions she’d doubted, had done so much for her. Amara’s eyes welled up.
Sophie squeezed her hand. “May I ask how long you’ve been here?”
“A little over a month,” Amara choked out.
“Less than I would have thought. And what of the man for whom you came forward? I love that idea. It’s so romantic, to travel across centuries for your soul mate ...”
The tears spilled over, coursing down Amara’s face. The look on Matthew’s face when she’d walked out of the Colonnade Club, the hurt in those blue eyes, haunted her.
Sophie’s brow puckered. “Goodness, I am sorry. I did not mean to upset you, dearest ... cousin.”
Amara’s sobs prevented her from speaking for another few minutes. Eventually, she gulped down great breaths of air, determined to regain control. How vulgar such an expression of excessive emotion must appear to a stranger. For family or not, Sophie was as much a stranger to her as she was to Sophie.
Amara dashed at her cheeks. “No ... soul mate.” She looked Sophie straight in the eye. “But I am with child.”
To her credit, Sophie’s smile didn’t falter. “I take it this was unexpected news?” she said after a moment.
Amara nodded, misery crashing over her as she clutched her belly. The source of all her current anguish.
“Did this occur in 1813?”
Amara shook her head, Matthew’s face shimmering before her.
“All right, then. We shall just have to work this out.” The duchess’s eyes took on a steely glint, and the affirmation in her voice, the utter, unexpected support, swelled Amara’s sobs to gale-force levels. “You’re not the only one in the family to conceive out of wedlock, after all,” Sophie continued, patting Amara’s knee.
That brought Amara up short. “What?” she hiccupped.
Sophie waved a hand. “A bit of family legend. Great Aunt Lavinia. Had a grand love affair in her early twenties. Totally mad for a French aristocrat. They gallivanted about Europe, passion blazing brightly. Until ...”
“Until?”
Sophia grimaced. “Until his wife showed up. Lavinia told everyone she’d married and that her husband was to follow her to England shortly. No husband did, of course, but few challenged her story.” She laughed, a light, tinkling cascade of sound, before her face sobered. “Not that Lavinia’s story is important now. Do you want to keep the baby?”
“Yes.” Anything else was simply unthinkable. This child was part of her, part of Matthew. Her insides ached, her heart pumping erratically in her chest as icy blue eyes taunted her.
She missed him. Plain and simple. She missed his occasionally awkward conversation, missed his solicitous care, missed his explanations of the modern world. Missed his body nestled against hers under the covers, missed his hips pressing into hers as he moved inside her.
She’d been such a coward, running off, running away from Matthew. But she hadn’t wanted to burden him with her own foibles and sins. Cat’s words echoed in her head: It takes two. He is as responsible as you. No one would have stated such in her own time, of course; the woman took the blame for situations like this. Amara had chosen to lie with him, after all.
“Should we expect the father?” Sophie’s eyes held no judgment, merely curiosity.
Amara shook her head. Matthew wouldn’t come to England. Chase her across the world, a woman he’d known for such a short period of time, a woman who’d agreed to no attachment, no expectations? A woman he’d accused of having relations with more than one man, who’d screamed at him and then run away?
No. Matthew Goodson would not come to Clarehaven.
Sophie’s face softened in sympathy. She rose from her chair, extending her hand. “How about you have a bit of a lie-down? You must be exhausted, what with ...” She motioned toward Amara’s abdomen. “Then perhaps we can talk in fuller detail. About anything and everything.”
Amara dipped her head in agreement and clasped Sophie’s hand, allowing the woman to pull her up. A time away to absorb everything, to be on her own, sounded ideal. Something pulled in her midsection and she folded her other arm across it as she trailed behind Sophie. She supposed she’d have to grow accustomed to all sorts of physical changes over the next few months. And other changes for the rest of her life. For she was no longer independent. Her body, her time, her life, now belonged to another human.
Forever.
Images of the young girl in the painting saturated Matt’s dreams, mixed with memories of Amara, her face lit up with laughter, with pleasure. He woke the next morning more exhausted than the night before. Perhaps it was jetlag. Or perhaps it was everything catching up to him, the reality of the situation in which he now found himself.
He sat up, running his hand over his head as his ears picked up noises from outside—horns and traffic. But not Charlottesville traffic. No, bloody English traffic.
What was he doing here? This was ludicrous. If by some miracle he found Amara, what was he to say? Should he fall to one knee and propose? Most people didn’t marry in this day and age solely on account of a pregnancy, and yet it felt the only logical, honorable course of action. He doubted Amara would accept, however, even if he wanted her to.
Did he? Marriage wasn’t on his agenda—at least not for years, if ever. He was too focused on his career to be a good partner. Nor did he wish to repeat his father’s mistakes. But the idea of going to sleep next to Amara, of waking up next to her each day, spurred unexpected feelings of excitement and contentment.
It wouldn’t be just the two of you, though. There’d be a third. A very noisy, demanding third.
Yes, but that third was a reality now, whether he wished it or not. Wouldn’t it be better to raise the child as a family unit rather than a divided household?
Painful personal experience had shown, however, what it was like to have a father not up to the job. To have parents who didn’t love each other. And he and Amara didn’t love each other.
But he could. He sucked in a breath at the thought, which hit him like a load of bricks. He just might be able to love this feisty, mysterious British miss. Yes, he might be able to love her. Under normal circumstances. With more time.
Groaning, he hoisted himself off the bed. Time was one thing he didn’t have. Ben had promised to cover his classes for the week, but more than that was unacceptable. Matt must return.
But first, he had to chase after one very vexing, very missing Amara Mattersley.
After a quick shower, Matt threw his few items into his bag and checked out, hailing a cab to take him to Clarehaven.
“Clarehaven? I drove a young lady there yesterday. Popular place,” the cabby tossed over his shoulder, as Matt settled into the back seat.
At the man’s words, Matt’s body jerked forward. “You took a woman there yesterday? Amara?”
The cabby nodded. “That was her name, matter of fact. A sweet lady.” He broke off, his mouth pressing downward.
“What?” Matt said, not able to believe that in a city this large, he’d hailed the exact same cab Amara had been in the day before. Taylor would tell him it was a sign. If he believed in signs. Which he didn’t. Did he?
“Nothing, nothing. She seemed a bit troubled, that’s all.” His eyes met Matt’s in the rearview mirror, studying Matt as if assessing whether or not he were a threat to Amara. After a minute, he gave one crisp nod before shifting into gear and pulling out into the street.
Matt said nothing further, not trusting himself to speak. Amara had been in this very cab the day before. She was at Clarehaven. And in less than an hour’s time, he’d have to face her. Crap. Crap. Crap. What should he do? What should he say?
He wished Taylor were here. As flighty as she could be, Taylor had a good head on her shoulders, and a keen eye for judging situations from the outside, even if her own choices were sometimes questionable. But she wasn’t here. He knew what she’d say, though. “Matt, you have to be true to yourself, but you also have a responsibility. You can’t walk away. It wouldn’t be right.”
No, he couldn’t. It didn’t matter what he wanted. His sister was right; he had a responsibility, and he wasn’t going to abandon Amara or their baby. But would Amara let him be a part of this child’s life, a part of her life?
The miles eked by slowly. The English countryside didn’t register; all of Matt’s attention and energy focused inward. Eventually, they exited the highway, or motorway, as the cab driver termed it, winding along a curvy road through undulating hills speckled with occasional sheep, the fields green and verdant. Dry-stone walls lined property edges, and Matt begrudgingly conceded the land was beautiful. Another ten minutes and they turned down a narrow lane, going only a short distance before stopping at a gated drive.
“Whom shall I say is calling?” the cab driver asked, as he rolled down his window.
Matt cleared his throat, which had tightened with anxiety. “Matthew Goodson.”
There was a pause after the cabby announced his name, then the gates swung open. They coasted down a tree-lined drive toward one of the most enormous homes Matt had ever seen. It was a frigging mansion, easily several times the size of Monticello. Perhaps more, if the house extended far behind its majestic front façade. The thick white columns lining the porch reminded him of UVA’s Rotunda.
Suddenly, goosebumps peppered his flesh. He recognized this house. It was the one Amara had searched for on the Internet. This was Clarehaven? Amara had lived here? What had she thought of his crummy little apartment? And what on Earth had led her away to room with Cat and Ben in their small place?
He clenched his jaw as the cab stopped at the front entry. The driver jumped out and opened the rear door. Sucking in a breath, Matt unfolded himself from the back of the vehicle, stretching to his full height as the front door of the house—the mansion—opened, and a young woman strode down the front steps.
For a moment, his heart leapt. It was Amara, right there before him. But as the woman neared, he noted subtle differences—the slightly darker hair, slightly browner eyes. The woman could easily have been Amara’s sister, however.
Was she Amara’s sister?
“Hello,” the woman said in a cultured accent, extending her hand to Matt. He almost felt he should turn it over and kiss her knuckles rather than shake it, but he resisted that idiotic notion.
“I’m Sophie Mattersley. May I ask what brings you to Clarehaven?”
“I’m looking for Amara Mattersley,” he said bluntly, as he clasped her hand. No sense beating around the bush.
The woman’s eyes widened, but she maintained her relaxed body language even as she withdrew her hand, smiling at the cab driver. “What do we owe you, sir?”
Before the man could answer, Matt interrupted. “I’ve got it.” He pulled out several bills and thrust them at the man. “Is that enough?”
The cabby nodded, handing Matt his bag. “Would you like me to wait?”
“No, no,” the woman said, that pleasant smile unwavering on her face. “Thank you.”
With a nod, the driver re-entered the cab and drove off, leaving Matt standing before this stranger, on this estate in the middle of England. Nuts. This whole situation is nuts. Matt cleared his throat. “I take it she’s here?”
“Yes.” She broke off, fidgeting with a bracelet around her wrist, the first sign of any unease on her part.
Matt was drowning in discomfort. “May I see her?”
“She has gone to the stones. Perhaps you’d like to wait here?”
“Stones?”
“An ancient monument on the north end of the property.”
“I’d prefer to talk to her now if you don’t mind. Is it far?”
“Nearly ten miles. I’ll drive you out if you’d like.”
Ten miles? This estate’s property extended out ten miles? Good Lord, these people had to be nearly as rich as the Queen. “Yes, please.”
They rode in strangely comfortable silence in the woman’s Porsche. To his surprise, Sophie didn’t quiz him, didn’t pry into why he was there or what was going on between him and Amara. Had Amara told her? She must have said something, given Sophie’s easy acceptance of his appearance.
After a sharp bend, the monument exploded into view. It resembled a tiny Stonehenge, or perhaps that circle of rocks in the Outlander episode his sister had forced him to watch.
“Jamie is so sexy,” Taylor’d cooed, mooning over the far-too-pretty man in the kilt.
Matt had rolled his eyes. The time-travel part intrigued him, though. Not because he believed in such nonsense, but because he’d stopped to ponder what it would be like to step back in time a few hundred years. Just a minute of imagining life without indoor plumbing, Chinese delivery, and the Internet had been enough for him to throw up a quick prayer of thanks for the conveniences of the current era.
No, the past certainly wasn’t for him.