Chapter 7
Jem appreciated it when Catherine suggested that everyone not change for dinner.
Something he hadn’t liked during his first visit to this time period was how often the wealthy changed their clothes.
Though he wouldn’t have minded getting Reese alone.
She seemed pensive, and he needed to know what was bothering her.
Besides the whole possibility of impending parenthood, of course.
They both wanted a family. Eventually. But the idea that a child of their love could already be on its way gave him a rush.
He let out a slow breath, reminding himself of his dad’s adage not to worry about things Jem had no control over.
But Dad had never suggested that not worrying was the same as not hoping.
Beatrice surprised everyone by insisting that she wanted to join them. She declared she had witnessed far too many dinners without being able to take part, and she could wait no longer.
Jem couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea of existing while eating nothing for forty years. He shook his head. It was clear why he’d studied drama in college rather than the sciences.
Not that magic was a field of study. At least not in any school he’d ever heard of.
Still, he found it entertaining to watch Beatrice as she tasted each course. She ate little, but her obvious enjoyment of the small amounts she tried was contagious, and she looked ecstatically happy.
Until a footman bumped into the empty painting leaning against the sideboard. As he stumbled, it fell over, and the unfortunate young man put his foot through a small section of the canvas. He nearly did the splits as one foot, still on the picture, slid across the floor.
Jem focused on the poor guy until Reese gasped. Alarmed, he jerked his head in the direction she was looking: Beatrice.
She stared at her hand, which had gone translucent, wavering like heat shimmer. Through her increasingly faded hand, he could see the tablecloth beneath it. Her already pale face had turned ashen, her eyes wide.
Rising from her chair, Evangeline cried, “Beatrice!”
The poor woman tried to speak, but her voice came out distant, hollow, as though from the bottom of a well. “The portrait...”
“Yes, the portrait! Bring it closer, quickly,” Catherine commanded.
Gareth was moving. He grabbed the damaged painting and propped it against Beatrice’s chair. For a moment, nothing happened. She stared at it, her translucent form flickering.
“It’s not working,” Evangeline cried. “Why isn’t it working?”
“The tear,” Beatrice whispered, her voice still remote. “It is through my hand. Where it was in the painting.”
Feeling helpless, Jem peered at the picture more carefully. Even though it was empty now, she was right. The footman’s boot had torn through a small section of the canvas where her hand had been.
The poor, confused guy sent a fearful glance at Gareth. Jem’s stomach tightened. How would they explain this to the servants without exposing the magic?
“I hate to send for Nellie again, but we need to see if she can mend it,” Catherine said, her doctor voice steady despite the worry in her eyes. “We need to relocate Beatrice somewhere she can rest. Michael and Jem, help me get her to the drawing room. The portrait comes with us.”
Before Jem could move to her, George had.
He helped Michael lift her and held her hand as his grandson carried her.
Beatrice’s form flickered like a candle in a draft, her fingers wavering between solid and translucent as Reese kept pace nearby with the torn picture.
What if the footman had stepped through the part with her body?
Jem shifted his gaze from the portrait, not even wanting to consider it.
“It is all right,” George murmured to Beatrice, his face tight. “We have you.”
“The damage,” Beatrice gasped. “What if I am drawn back?”
“It’s only a small tear,” Reese said, though her voice sounded uncertain. “I’m sure Nellie can fix it.”
The footman stood frozen, his eyes wide, staring at Beatrice’s translucent form.
“Ralph, fetch my aunt’s medicine chest from Twickenham immediately,” Gareth commanded, his voice cutting through the footman’s shock. “Quickly, man! She has a rare condition. The rest of you, clear this away.”
The servants scattered, looking grateful for the command to do something normal, and the earl’s quick excuse impressed Jem. But he didn’t miss the wary glances they sent toward Beatrice.
“We have a problem,” Reese whispered as they moved the woman to the drawing room.
“I know,” Gareth said grimly. “We must address it once she’s stable.”
They made their way through the corridor, Michael carrying Beatrice as though she weighed hardly anything. Once in the parlor, he settled Beatrice near the fireplace. Reese propped the portrait carefully against the chair, where it was close but out of the walkway.
Beatrice’s hand remained translucent, her breathing shallow, her eyes closed like someone waiting to die. “I feel it,” Beatrice whispered, her voice trembly. “The pull. As though it wants to take me back.”
Then Nellie appeared in the doorway as if summoned. “I sensed I would be needed,” she said simply.
“Can you repair the portrait?” Evangeline pressed her hands together in a plea. “Please, you must.”
“Yes, the mending is quite easy,” Nellie said calmly, running her fingers along the torn edge. “The canvas need not be perfect for the painting to serve as Beatrice’s anchor.”
“But it’s not working the way it did before,” Beatrice said, her voice rising in pitch.
“No,” Nellie stated. “What you feel is fear, and it is a powerful thing. The portrait is damaged, yes, but not destroyed. You are here. We must focus on that.”
Catherine knelt beside the chair, reaching for Beatrice’s flickering hand, but she hesitated. Only after it solidified once more did Catherine press on the woman’s wrist.
“Your pulse is racing,” she said, her voice calm. “Try to breathe slowly.”
When Evangeline could finally grasp her sister’s fingers properly, the older woman burst into tears. “I thought I’d lost you again.”
Beatrice cried with her sister, touching the frame as though she couldn’t bear to break contact.
Once Beatrice had calmed enough to rest, Gareth stepped into the corridor where Jem could hear him speaking quietly to the housekeeper and the gathered servants. Nellie followed him out.
Jem caught fragments here and there. Once, distinctly, he heard a woman say, “How terribly romantic,” to which Beatrice gave a nod in gracious acknowledgment.
When they returned, Nellie gave Gareth a small nod. The staff had been handled.
“Perhaps you would be more comfortable upstairs,” George suggested gently, coming to stand by Beatrice’s chair. “We could bring the portrait...”
She went pale and shook her head violently. “Not yet. I dare not risk being far from it.”
Jem pressed his fist against his sternum.
“As you wish,” George agreed quickly and stepped back.
Could her obvious fear be feeding some of Beatrice’s instability? Jem could sympathize with her. Being in limbo must have been terrible. But he couldn’t help wondering how this new state was any better.
By the time the drawing room had fallen into an uneasy quiet, the worst seemed to have passed, though nobody said so aloud.
The now-calmed servants had brought in tea and light refreshments, but no one had much appetite after what had happened at dinner. The damaged portrait rested on an easel near Beatrice’s chair, and she still kept a hand on the frame as if afraid to break contact.
Reese sat with Jem on a settee, watching Beatrice. The older woman looked exhausted, her face drawn, her posture rigid. She hadn’t touched the broth Catherine had pressed into her hands.
“You should try to eat something, my dear,” Evangeline urged gently.
Beatrice shook her head. “I cannot.”
George hovered nearby, clearly wanting to help but uncertain what to do. Every time he took a step closer, Beatrice’s eyes would flick to him, a mixture of longing and worry crossing her face, and he would stop.
Reese wished she understood her connection to the woman. Beatrice had been in that in-between state for forty years. What had she seen in Reese, of all people?
And what did it mean that George appeared to have a connection too? If Beatrice could be stabilized, was there a romance in his future?
Catherine examined Beatrice again, checking her pulse and temperature. “Physically, you’re stable now. But you need proper rest. In your bed.”
“The portrait must come with me,” Beatrice said, her voice strained.
“Of course,” Gareth agreed quickly, a muscle ticking near his ear. “We will take it with us as you are moved.”
The stiffness of his back and the tight lines around his mouth were sure tells of his stress. Reese was glad he had level-headed Catherine.
Reese turned to Nellie. “Did you give them something to forget?”
“Not forget, precisely,” Nellie corrected. “The more disturbing details will fade as they sleep, and their recollections of the incident will be more dreamlike and muddled. Catherine’s medical explanation should make sense of the confusing event.”
“I feel bad about manipulating their memories,” Reese mumbled.
“Would you rather risk my family being accused of witchcraft?” Gareth asked bluntly. “Or shunned by society?”
“Of course not.” Reese let out a breath. “I can accept the need but hate the necessity.”
“Exactly so,” Catherine said, her voice soft.
“At least they will not have nightmares about what they saw.” Ellen stared into the distance.
Reese nodded, but she couldn’t shake her unease. Magic that could blur memories was powerful. And like all powerful things, it could be abused. It was a good thing she had learned to trust that Nellie knew where to draw the line.
“Let’s get you upstairs so you can rest,” Catherine said to Beatrice, rising.
“I’ll carry the painting,” George said, jumping to his feet.
Michael helped Beatrice to stand, and George carefully lifted the portrait. Evangeline hovered close to her sister as they headed toward the stairs.
Reese watched them go, then felt Jem’s hand squeeze hers. “We should get some rest too,” he whispered.
She nodded. Jet lag combined with the day’s events made her dry eyes feel gritty. They said their good nights to Ellen and the Colonel, the only ones left, before heading upstairs themselves.
“That was terrifying,” she said when they reached their room.
“Yeah.” Jem pulled her close. “It was.”
They sent the servants away and helped each other get ready for bed in silence. It was only when Reese hung up her gown that something crinkled in the pocket. She took out the pregnancy test Catherine had given her.
Reese had completely forgotten about it.
She stood frozen in place, the dress in one hand and the small box in the other as feelings warred inside her.
Part of her wanted to know. Desperately.
But after watching Beatrice’s terror tonight, seeing how fragile her hold on this world was, Reese’s own emotions were too close, and it seemed wrong that they could experience joy while someone else was suffering so much fear.
“Are you okay?” Jem asked, coming up behind her.
She showed him the box. “I forgot I had it.”
He went still, a crease on his brow, but finally asked, “Do you want to wait?”
“I think so,” Reese said, nodding slowly. “I would prefer to do it tomorrow when things are calmer.” She prayed, for Beatrice’s benefit, that they would be.
Jem’s expression looked hopeful, but Reese could tell he had his doubts too. He gently took the dress from her, and she placed the box on her dresser before climbing into bed.
She cuddled against Jem, but even when his breathing evened out in sleep, she lay awake, wondering how Beatrice was doing. Reese thought of the baby she might be carrying and how all of this could be shaping him or her.