Timeswept Brides

Chapter One

Lindsey House, present day

On the third floor of the guest wing, with a light spring rain streaking the windows of the English manor house, Amelia Jamison thought about destiny.

"Pick a card," her friend Penny Bickham urged. She laughed. "Any card." The tarot deck was fanned out on the Oriental carpet, shadows from the flames in the fireplace dancing over the intricately patterned wool.

Amelia's hand trembled only slightly as she finally settled on one. She trusted Penny completely, since the day they'd first met as college roommates. Since that time, they'd gone in separate and very creative directions. She to England because of her work in manuscripts at the British Museum, and Penny to fame and fortune in New York as an incredibly talented floral designer.

Amelia slowly turned the card over and immediately regretted it. The Death card in the Waite deck stared back at her, the dark skeleton astride his white warhorse, the battlefield littered with bodies.

"Appropriate for the night before a wedding, don't you think?" She tried to put a humorous spin on the whole thing, desperate not to reveal how terribly apprehensive she was about marrying Hugh.

"It's not what you think it is." Penny pushed her dark, chin-length hair behind her ears and leaned forward, studying the card. "If it had been the Tower-"

They both stopped, aware of someone else in the room.

"I brought you some tea," the maid announced as she came in, tray in hand. "Mrs. Edwards thought you might like a little something before retiring."

"I do love the Brits," Penny muttered as she gathered up the cards. "There's nothing a cup of tea won't cure."

"Tell me about that card," Amelia insisted. She stood, dusted off the seat of her skirt, then sat in one of the chairs flanking the fireplace.

"Total transformation," Penny said as she sat down in the overstuffed chair across from Amelia. "Which, considering that tomorrow you'll be a married woman, is entirely appropriate."

"But it doesn't mean anything bad."

"No. People just get all creepy when they see the word 'death.' It can represent the death of one sort of consciousness and its replacement with another."

"Hmmm." Amelia busied herself cutting slices of the rich chocolate sponge cake, then pouring them both cups of strong black Indian tea.

The maid hovered in the doorway. Amelia, aware of her presence, didn't have the heart to ask the young woman to leave. She'd been in service to the Lindseys for several years, and had been assigned the task of helping Amelia get ready for her wedding day.

Which was tomorrow. Her classic bridal gown, carefully pressed, hung in her bedroom closet. The caterers had then-elaborate preparations under control, the calligraphers had long since finished with the place cards, and the musicians were hopefully getting a good night's sleep and would do their very best tomorrow.

Penny would be in the garden at dawn, carefully selecting the most perfect blooms for her bridal bouquet. Penny's designs were exquisite, and this one would be a masterpiece. Calla lilies, French tulips, and full-blown peonies. She would also pick sweet peas and violets, hand wiring them into the all-white bouquet Amelia had decided upon, then carefully braiding narrow white satin ribbon over the stems.

"Which will look lovely with your fair coloring," she'd assured Amelia. "Hugh will be absolutely enchanted with you; I'm so glad you chose white flowers."

All was ready for the morning. Now the great house slept, with numerous guests tucked into their rooms, of which Lindsey House had plenty. Almost a hundred and twenty.

Everyone seemed to be sleeping quite peacefully. Except Amelia, who was panicking.

"It's not a bad card, Amelia, honestly. Now, if it had been the Tower-"

Amelia shot her friend a look, and Penny, sensitive to a fault, instantly stopped talking.

"Is everything all right, Annie?" Thank God she'd remembered the girl's name. An American, Amelia had trouble adjusting to the concept of her own maid. It just wasn't the way things were done across the Atlantic.

"No." The girl took a deep breath, and Amelia could see the effort it cost her to speak out. "No. It-it makes me nervous, miss, the talk of these cards and speaking of the tower."

"Why?" Penny asked, clearly fascinated.

"There's a-history to mis house," Amelia began.

"Centered around the tower?"

Annie hesitated. "Yes, miss."

"You know about this, Amelia?"

"Hugh told me about it."

"Tell me." Penny settled back in her chair, cup of tea in hand. Her expression was interested, but she certainly wasn't the sort of person who took delight in misfortune.

"An earlier descendant of Hugh's… forced to marry a man she didn't love, she-" Amelia hesitated.

"She took her own life, she did," Annie finished for her as she cut another piece of the chocolate sponge for Penny. "Hung herself in the tower room. Couldn't go on."

"Lovely," Penny muttered. "And this is appropriate conversation on the eve of your wedding?"

"I don't look on it that way," Amelia said. When she'd first come to Lindsey House, it had been to authenticate a series of letters. John Lindsey, Hugh's grandfather, had called the museum in London where she'd been working. They'd farmed the assignment out to her; she'd taken the train up and fallen in love with John, the great house, his dogs and horses, the garden, Mrs. Edwards's teas, everything.

Then John had called his grandson home, and Hugh had fallen in love with her. So much so that he'd asked her to marry him. And here she was.

She loved him. That wasn't the problem. It was simply that Amelia didn't have a whole lot of faith in the institution of marriage. "Forever," when your mother had gone through six different husbands, didn't have a whole lot of meaning.

But marriage to Hugh Lindsey would be forever. He was a strong man, and his grandfather had told her the story of how his beloved grandson had brought the family out of destitution through his financial wizardry. Hugh worked in London, and had almost killed himself in order to make the money to keep Lindsey House in the family. Not for him, the practice of taking in boarders, making a bed-and-breakfast out of the estate. He also refused the idea of giving tours or opening a gift shop.

What he'd done was far more difficult. He'd exhausted himself, working at a frantic pace, using his skills to the fullest, taking the last of the Lindsey money and turning it into a small fortune. Enough to bankroll the bigger fortune he still planned to make.

The only thing missing from Lindsey House was a bride for Hugh. A mother for the children whose shouts and laughter would soon fill the halls. The continuation and rebirth of a dynasty.

"Something happened," Amelia said quietly. "No one is entirely sure what. She couldn't go on; he couldn't go on without her. He took his own life two years later."

"It's sort of romantic, in a macabre sort of way," Penny mused. She shuddered. "But it gives me the creeps. Where is this tower room?"

"In the south wing," Annie answered. She'd started to gather up their tea things, and Amelia took a last hasty swallow of the strong tea before setting the fine bone china cup on the tea tray. The maid was clearly uneasy at the turn this particular conversation was taking.

"I'd like to see it before I leave," Penny said.

"That can be arranged."

"You'd better get some sleep, or you'll look like death in the morning-no reference to the card intended."

"I know. Can you find your way back to your room?"

"Easily. I'll see you in the morning."

Amelia retired, but couldn't sleep. Close to midnight, she left her bedroom and headed toward the south wing, and the tower room.

She'd never been afraid of the room, even given its rather grisly history. John had converted it into a small library, where he indulged his passion for tracing the Lindsey family history. He was the archivist, he'd told her when she first arrived. It mattered to him, to know where he came from-and what had happened to all the Lindseys throughout time.

Now, knowing exactly what she wanted to find in the tower room, Amelia sped swiftly along the hallway, her slippered feet making no sound.

Inside the small, circular room, she went to its center, to a massive teak table with a wooden box on the right side. Opening it, she stared at the packet of letters. Letters that had belonged to Jane Stanton, and the man who had loved her, Jonathan Lindsey.

That last letter. She'd read them all, feeling there was one letter missing, the one in which Jane should have explained why she hung herself. Impossible, that she should take her own life, cause so much pain, and not even offer a reason why.

She'd never given Jonathan any explanation, but from the letters he continued to write to her after her death, it was clear he knew. Yet he never alluded to it directly.

The last letter Jonathan wrote, in which he laid bare his soul to the woman he loved, a woman dead two years, was the one that had finally broken her. She'd been moved to tears.

The elderly John Lindsey had watched her reaction as she'd sat with the letters for the first time, and had smiled as she'd looked across the room at him through her tears.

"Quite a man, wasn't he?" he'd said. "Like my Hugh."

She'd nodded, overcome with emotion. Even now, before taking that final letter out of the wooden box, she knew its contents, had read it so many, many times that it was committed to memory. The words had been burned into her soul.

My dearest Poppet,

I find that I cannot go on without you. Though I've never considered myself a weak man, life no longer has any meaning without you to share it with me. I'm tired, and I want to go home. To you. I'd thought I would come home to you each evening, but instead the nights at Lindsey House are not to be borne. You are everywhere, my darling, yet nowhere.

God will forgive me for what I am about to do. It is said He never sends us more than we can bear, but I find I have reached my limit. I want nothing more than to be with you, and the thought of you waiting for me beyond death is the only thing than enables me to even contemplate such an act.

Soon, my darling. Soon.

Your devoted servant, in this life and the next,

Jonathan

What could it be like, to love like that?

Amelia traced her fingers over the fine writing, wondering at the state Jonathan Lindsey had to have been in to even contemplate such an act. According to the family legend, he'd recreated Jane's suicide, hanging himself in the tower room. His manservant had found him and cut him down. The family had mourned for weeks, and that particular Lindsey line had died out.

Hugh had told her more about it, as she'd continued to work with the letters. She'd helped his grandfather preserve some of the older letters, which were crumbling with age. Jonathan and Jane's letters had been remarkably well-preserved in their small wooden box. She'd read them all in one sitting, had recognized Jonathan's passion, Jane's reluctance. Somewhere along the line, she felt the girl had either seen a marriage go bad, or been ill-used. She was not a woman who had planned on going to the marriage bed quietly.

Jane had led Jonathan on a merry chase, but he'd loved her, had tried to show her how deeply countless times. Then there had been an oblique reference to another man; then after Jane's suicide, countless letters Jonathan had written, trying to understand how he might have prevented the tragedy.

She'd read them all, many times. She'd called the museum, telling her superior that there was a lot more material here than they'd first suspected. Three months later, she'd had almost all of it cataloged.

Three months later, she'd been engaged to Hugh.

She'd never gone back to London.

Amelia ran her fingers over the packet of letters, then gently plucked the last one from the box. She closed it, then sat down in John's large leather chair. It smelled like him, leather and sandalwood, dogs and horses. He was a generous old man, and she felt he'd recognized a kindred spirit when she'd gotten off the train in the village.

He'd come to pick her up himself in an ancient, battered old Range Rover. She'd recognized his determination immediately, and been comfortable with it. Here was a man who really did want to get to the bottom of various family documents.

There had been other passengers that day, as well. An ancient Alsatian, a spaniel with only three legs, and a tiny Jack Russell terrier who sat in the front seat with the two of them the entire drive home.

"Arthritis?" she'd guessed, looking at the little dog. Though his dark canine eyes danced with mischief, his movements were stiff and painful.

John had nodded, never taking his eyes off the road. He drove fairly fast for a man his age. "Charlie's having a bad day. The vet says I'll have to be making my mind up about him soon."

Then there was nothing more to say until they reached the house.

It had astounded her, Lindsey House. Though her parents came from a certain amount of money, she hadn't dreamed such places existed. Her first glimpse of the estate had been in the late afternoon, close to dusk. The mist had been rolling in, and as they'd turned into the huge circular drive, she'd been overcome with emotion.

"You like it?" John had asked her.

"Very much."

"We'll get you settled in. No use looking at the letters until tomorrow-"

"Oh, I'd like to start right away, if I could."

She'd seen the delight in his face. They understood each other, after all.

Dinner had been in the kitchen, near the warmth of the Aga. She'd insisted on no fussing; she wanted him to maintain his usual routine. That first dinner was incredible. Homemade soup and freshly baked bread, thick with butter from the nearby dairy. A salad made with herbs and greens from the garden.

"Kind of a wreck these days," John had confided over the split-pea soup. "The deer get in and eat everything. What they don't eat, they trample. Hugh sent me the money for a brick wall, but I like to see them in the morning."

She nodded. This was the house of her dreams. A large, marmalade-colored cat lay dozing by the fire, and John's damaged dogs were everywhere.

"You live in a village where they know you have a soft spot for dogs, and you end up with the ones the others don't want."

She'd nodded, leaning down to scratch Charlie behind his ears. The little terrier was fiercely protective of John, but he'd decided to accept her. Knowing the temperament of most Jack Russells, Amelia was grateful.

The menagerie of animals living outside was quiet now, as night had fallen, but she could hardly wait for the morning, when she would come to know them all.

The kettle sang, and Mrs. Edwards, the cook, made them tea.

"We can take it up to the tower room," John informed her. She agreed. One of the handymen had already put her bags in one of the many bedrooms, and now all her attention was focused on the letters and what they might contain.

Several hours later, over yet more tea, she'd been moved to tears by Jonathan Lindsey's life.

"What happened after he died?" she asked John.

"He left the entire estate and all its holdings to several distant cousins. That's where my side of the family comes in. We took over Lindsey House, and quite a state it was in, let me tell you."

"What had happened?"

"The folks around here said Jonathan went a little mad before he died. Burned the west wing to the ground, along with the garden. He'd been quite the gardener; he'd even created a flower distinctly his own. It's in some of his sketchbooks and journals, the details about all that."

"Could I see them?" Now that she'd read Jonathan Lindsey's most intimate letters, she felt compelled to get to know the man through his work.

"I'd be delighted to show them to someone who's interested. Not many are, in these parts. Not many who understand exactly what it is I'm trying to do."

"And that is?"

"Break the curse."

That stopped her cold, but she schooled her face into acceptance and decided to give this delightful old man a chance to explain himself.

"A curse."

"The Lindsey curse. It's been hanging over this house since Jane took her life, and I'm determined to see it put to an end before I die."

She hesitated, aware that his full attention was on her.

"Come now. Tell me what you felt when you came up to this room. After the letters."

She wondered how honest she could be with John Lindsey, then decided to go for broke. The worst that could happen was that he'd pack her off on a train to London the following morning.

She swallowed, suddenly nervous. "That you all have a ton of money but can't find happiness."

"My point exactly. Now, my Hugh has started breaking the curse, though he doesn't know it. It all started when he refused to let the house go."

She'd heard of Hugh, his single-handed attempt to keep the creditors at bay, his financial work in London. He was a regular Scarlett O'Hara fighting to save Tara, but with a lot more ethics than that particular fictional character had possessed.

She didn't get to sleep until almost five in the morning, and woke at nine, the sun streaming in the large bedroom windows as a maid opened the heavy drapes.

"I didn't mean to wake you. Just thought you might like some air."

Amelia didn't want to waste a single day of her great adventure at this house. She got out of bed, showered, dressed, then headed for the kitchen. Taking a scone and a mug of tea at Mrs. Edwards's suggestion, she left the fragrant kitchen and approached the cow stalls, now dog kennels.

She found John there, working with a heartbreakingly thin, sad-eyed sheepdog.

"You have a way with them," she said, keeping her voice low. It wouldn't do to startle the poor animal.

"I do. I wanted to study veterinary medicine, but we didn't have the means. Now I simply try to do what I can."

They spent the morning exercising the dogs, then had lunch at a table by the garden. Afterward, they retired to the tower room, and Jonathan Lindsey's life. They worked nonstop for several hours, then John walked her through one of the hallways in his part of the great house.

Black-and-white photos adorned one wall, and Amelia made her interest known. John identified the various relatives, frozen in time in the photos.

One, of a little boy taking tea with his teddies and his obviously adoring mother, caught her eye.

"My daughter, Frances, Hugh's mother. That's Hugh, around three. He was an only child, though she wanted more."

"And she lives where?"

John paused, and Amelia was immediately sorry she'd asked.

“She was killed. A riding accident. Her husband was in a car accident shortly thereafter. He never got over losing her."

"And Hugh?" She thought of the little boy in the picture, with no parents or siblings to take comfort in.

"Came to live with me. I raised him, but it wasn't the same for him. He missed them terribly."

"How old was he?"

"Twelve. Not a good age to lose one's parents."

She placed her hand on John's arm, offering him comfort. "I don't think there's ever a good time for something like that."

Her days fell into a routine. Walking the dogs, exercising the two old horses that still lived in the stable. Enjoying tea every day at five. Working on the letters and journals. Enjoying Lindsey House and all that its eighty acres contained: the dovecote, the boathouse, the flower beds, the library and sitting room, the fresh herbs from the kitchen garden, Hugh's mother's watercolors, the sleepy river with its pair of swans.

The soft roll of the lawns. The beautiful misty mornings. A crackling fire on a cool day, the afternoon tea table set with beautiful china. Feeding the goats and rounding up the chickens. The distinctive scent of the lavender furniture polish the maids used. The exquisite smells of baking from Mrs. Edwards's kitchen.

She began to understand Hugh on a deeply emotional level, and why he'd fought to keep all this in his family. But nothing could have prepared her for actually meeting him.

She'd been breakfasting in the garden, throwing crumbs from her scone to one of the starlings, when she looked up and saw Hugh Lindsey in the kitchen doorway. He was studying her, and had the oddest expression on his handsome face.

He came forward quickly, offering her his hand.

"You must be Amelia. I can't thank you enough for the time you've spent with my grandfather."

She started to rise, but he gestured her back. He sat down in one of the other chairs, a mug of hot tea in his free hand. He was still holding hers.

It happened that instant. To both of them. But he was more honest than she was. She tried to deny it.

"It's fascinating work," she said quickly as she disengaged her fingers from his. She knew she was about to babble, but she didn't care. Anything to put some distance between them.

He was a glorious man, strong in both body and face. Hugh possessed the same dark coloring that had fascinated her in Jonathan Lindsey's portrait in the great hall. The two men looked rather alike, with their high, strongly defined cheekbones, fiercely intelligent blue eyes, and longish dark hair.

He seemed to read her mind.

"Yes, I do resemble him. I hope Grandfather hasn't bored you to tears with his ideas about the Lindsey curse."

"You don't believe in it?"

"No." He set his mug of tea down on the wooden table, leaned back in his chair, and studied her intently. "But I do believe we're here for a specific reason."

"I do, too." She felt slightly more relaxed with him- slightly-and took another sip of her morning tea.

"But I don't agree with Grandfather. I believe we are our own destiny. Through who we are, the choices we make day by day. What we show our children, what we pass on to them. We're constantly creating and molding the future all the time."

He fascinated her. He frightened her. She was due up in the tower room in less than fifteen minutes, yet they talked nonstop for over two hours. When Amelia finally realized the time, she glanced up toward the window of the tower room, which was clearly visible from the kitchen garden.

John, that rascal, was sitting in the window. He laughed out loud as he waved to them.

Hugh's proposal was swift in coming. Within days, he'd shipped a fax machine, several computers, and a modem to Lindsey House, telling all who would listen that he wanted to spend a little more time with his grandfather.

Unspoken was the fact that he spent most of his time with Amelia.

He could be heartbreakingly romantic, and they took long walks with the dogs over the rolling green hills. John worked on in the tower room alone, not minding this particular interruption one bit.

They were having a picnic down by the boathouse one afternoon when it happened. They'd both finished Mrs. Edwards's sumptuous repast, and were lying on the blanket Hugh had spread beneath the huge walnut tree.

"I love the swans," she said drowsily. "They're always together and they look so graceful."

"They mate for life, you know." Something in his tone made her turn toward him. The minute she saw his face, she knew.

"Hugh-"

"Marry me, Amelia."

How like Hugh. Not will you marry me, but marry me. Then she saw the uncertainty in his blue eyes, and her fear lost its edge.

She did love him. Attraction had been instantaneous, passionate, out of control. What had happened in the weeks that followed had deepened that first feeling into something much more. Something she'd never felt before. Something she couldn't have described if she'd tried.

"Yes."

The joy that lit his eyes made tears come to her own.

"Don't be frightened," he said into her hair. He'd taken her into his arms, and they lay like that, content with each other. She wished she could be as strong as he was, as sure. But she wasn't that way, and no amount of wishing could make it so.

"I'm not-I am." She laughed into his shirtfront, dangerously close to tears.

"I'll show you every day, for the rest of my life, how much I love you. You'll come to believe it."

"Yes," she whispered again, against his strong chest. Against the rapid beating of his heart. "Yes."

Amelia sat in the leather chair, listening to the silence of the tower room. She had to get back downstairs to her bedroom and try to sleep. But she had a feeling she would just lie in her bed, willing the morning to come and put an end to her feelings of apprehension.

Why couldn't she just marry Hugh and be done with it? Why did she have to go through such emotional agony over a decision countless young women made every day? She knew, on an intellectual level, why she was scared. Her father had been seriously ill before she'd reached her seventh birthday. He'd died when she was nine. Six marriages had followed for her mother, and Amelia had stopped trying to get close to any in the long succession of stepfathers a long time ago.

She still missed Max Jamison terribly. The only memories she had left of her father were the home movies her mother had transferred to video. There was the father she remembered, frozen in time. Leading her pony as a four-year-old Amelia practically screamed with joy. On a carousel, riding the prancing wooden stallion next to hers. Sharing an ice cream cone at the beach.

Would life have been better, emotionally, if he'd lived? Would she have these terrible fears of ultimately being abandoned?

Her fingers traced the delicate paper of the letter.

My dearest Poppet…

To love like that. So fearlessly. Passionately. Suddenly depressed, she wondered if she'd ever really been in love. Even with Hugh.

A cloud passed over the moon, and the tower room was plunged into darkness. Amelia was afraid for only a second, then she felt her eyelids drifting shut, the letter slipping from her fingers. The leather chair was so soft, and she was so tired, she'd rest just for a moment… a moment in time…

Chapter Two

The sharp rapping sound awakened her.

Amelia struggled to consciousness, wondering who would be up in the tower at this time of night. The moon was still obscured by clouds, the night still dark.

Someone was trying to get into the tower room.

Perhaps John. Maybe he was having trouble sleeping as well, and wanted to escape to the past, to his study filled with letters, journals, pressed flowers, and sketches. She understood the older man and his fascination with history.

"Let me in!" whispered a voice.

Strange. She didn't recognize it. Amelia got up from her chair. Her back ached, and she wondered at that. The leather seat had grown cold and hard as she'd slept in it. Well, it was nothing like a bed.

She found the doorknob in the dark, then turned it. The door stuck.

How odd.

She tried again. Pulled harder.

"Open this door!" a female voice demanded.

"I will; give me a minute-"

With one last yank, the door yielded. It felt as if the wood were swollen within the frame, and that was strange because it was a door that normally opened without any trouble at all.

The clouds parted, and a thin, cool moonlight slipped through the window, illuminating a scene Amelia knew she would remember throughout eternity.

Jane Stanton stood in the doorway-Amelia recognized the girl from the engagement portrait she'd seen. And this was no simpering chit who couldn't cope with what life handed her. This was no coy miss who simply gave up. She was furious.

"I suppose this is your way of saying you're not coming with me!"

Amelia couldn't answer as shock assailed her, a peculiar roaring in her head, a weakening in her limbs. She steadied herself, a hand grasping the rough stones in the tower wall. How could it feel the same? How could it look the same?

But it didn't. John had put in carpeting. This stone floor was bare; she could feel it through her shoes.

Shoes. No. Slippers. I was wearing slippers.

She didn't have her nightgown on, either, but a wool dress that itched against her skin. All she could see of herself was her hands, and they were broad and square, with freckles on the backs.

She'd never freckled in her life.

"Where am I?" she whispered, then looked at Jane as she started to tremble.

"Stop it! Come back right now, Emma! I won't have you going off in one of those trances like your aunt. Now. you agreed to help me and you shall. Come."

Jane grabbed her hand and started away from the tower room. Though her hand was small, it was surprisingly strong and warm. Vital. Alive.

Alive. No, no, Jane is dead, she hung herself…

Terrified, Amelia pulled her hand away, but Jane grabbed it again and dragged her further down the stairs.

"Stop it," she hissed. "If you get us caught, I'll make your life a living hell, I swear it!"

Alive. Jane Stanton is alive. I have to be dreaming. This has to be a dream. I've just gone a little mad…

She almost missed the bottom step, and the sharp pain that shot up her shin was no dream; this was no dream, this was real, and she had no idea where Jane was leading her, or why, or how she'd come to this place…

For it was Lindsey House, but not the Lindsey House she'd come to love. This was a strange, dark manor house, and she knew with a sharp instinct honed purely by survival that she'd never been to this house before.

A light, misty rain had started to fall as the two women approached the great front door.

"Quiet! Someone may still be about." Jane let go of her hand, then grasped her upper arm with steady fingers. This woman knew exactly what she wanted and how to go about getting it.

"Here." She handed Amelia a cloak and she put it on gratefully. The weather was bitterly cold and damp, and even the wool dress didn't offer her much in the way of protection.

Then they were outside, running across the grounds, dashing and slipping over the wet grass, away from the dark, silent house. Amelia had no idea where they were headed, but as she moved she suffered yet another shock. Her body didn't feel like hers-it was shorter and considerably plumper. Sturdy. Unfamiliar. Strange.

She'd always been thin as a child. Wiry. Miserable because she'd been one of the tallest in her class, almost always the last ever asked to dance. Now she was eye level with Jane-and Jane was not a tall woman.

Was she running away to marry Jonathan? Was that where they were going? As she followed Jane further away from the manor house, Amelia thought furiously, tried to remember every detail of the story John Lindsey had told her.

She couldn't think. The shock was too great. Her breath came in great gasps; her lungs hurt from the cold spring air. She stumbled, and Jane jerked her upright.

"Come on, Emma! Once they know we've gone, we haven't got a chance."

She was a tough one, Amelia thought. Tough and strong and smart. She was a survivor; that was the first thing she'd thought upon meeting her.

What has happened?

She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. One after the other. Breathing through her nose because it warmed the cold night air. Trying not to let the cloak whip open and the frigid wind crawl up her legs.

They reached the main road, and Amelia was struck by how absolutely black the night was. Even when she and Hugh had taken evening walks with the dogs, they'd come back to see the windows of Lindsey House ablaze with light. Not now. Everything was black, except what little was silvered by the new moon.

She stopped, and Jane was yanked back by the force of her strength.

New moon. No. Not new, the moon was full…

The truth began to close in all around her. She couldn't shut her mind off to the final possibility, the only possibility, the reality of what had happened to her. She'd fallen down the hole, like Alice after the White Rabbit, only this was real, this was real…

"Emma! The carriage!"

And there it was, at the end of the dirt road. The road she and Hugh had just walked this evening, three of the house dogs at their heels, Charlie in her arms because his legs were too stiff, Hugh's arm around her…

Tears blurred her vision, but her legs kept moving because she didn't know what else to do.

She assisted Jane into the carriage, then climbed in after her. There was nothing for her here at this Lindsey House, more than two hundred years in the past. She'd been flung back in time, and who knew if she'd ever see anyone or anything familiar again?

The horses started up, and the carriage bounced around horribly. Amelia gritted her teeth, then gave up on that idea when a bone-jarring jounce almost caused her to bite off her tongue. Though she and John were both fascinated and passionate about history, neither had ever romanticized it, and she longed for the safe confines of the Range Rover.

"It won't be much farther now," Jane whispered. She sounded so very pleased with herself.

"Until what?"

"Oh, Emma, don't go off like that again! Jonathan's mother would have let your aunt go had she not been so terribly accurate with those visions." She sighed, then sat back on the seat. The small lantern on the one side of the carriage illuminated her animated face. ' 'I must confess, I'd love to see what the future has in store for Robert and me-"

"Robert?" Her tongue suddenly felt thick, her head filled with cotton wool. "Robert? I thought you loved Jonathan-"

The look on Jane's face stopped her cold.

"Jonathan? Jonathan? To marry him and live that carefully planned out, boring life in that huge old house? Oh, no, not for me! I want more than that, I told him-"

"Does he know about-"

"Robert?" Jane laughed, then glanced out the carriage window, eager to see where they were in their journey. "No." Her expression grew thoughtful. "Even though I didn't want to be Jonathan's wife, I couldn't bear to hurt him. He thought we were betrothed, and I let him continue to think it until tonight. Tomorrow, once he realizes I'm gone, he'll find another girl, much more suitable than I am."

Amelia was quiet, thinking of the letters. Of that last letter. Those passionate words. Jonathan had loved this Jane Stanton, no matter how hard-hearted and cold she seemed to Amelia now.

She ventured a guess. Perhaps this Emma, this woman whose body she'd appropriated, would have known both men.

"I think you're tossing away a good man."

Jane gave her an incredulous look that instantly told her she'd overstepped her station in life. The girl had an incredibly expressive face; it registered her emotions quite clearly.

Once again, Amelia found herself an American misunderstanding British customs. Obviously, this Emma was a maid. Jane's maid. Amelia, in the first shock of tearing through time, had overlooked the plainness of the wool dress she was wearing. But now, seeing the way Jane related to her, there could be no doubt concerning her station in this life. She couldn't meet her mistress's expression and glanced away, embarrassed.

"I'll thank you not to trouble me with your opinion on this matter."

"As you wish."

But now a sense of foreboding grew, a sense that their carriage was racing toward a more sinister future than either of them could anticipate. Amelia stared out the carriage window at the dark forest flashing by; she swayed in rhythm with the drumming of the horse's hooves. It was almost hypnotic, what that sound did to a body.

Something was very wrong. Jonathan had never alluded to what had happened to Jane, what had driven the woman he'd loved to take her own life, but Amelia had a horrible feeling that she was going to watch Jane's life unfold in front of her as if it were some sort of program on television.

What was it Hugh had said to her that day in the garden? / believe we are our own destiny. Through who we are, the choices we make day by day.

She had the strangest foreboding that Jane was about to make a choice that could possibly cost her her young life.

Was this Robert a murderer? Would he make it look as if Jane had committed suicide? And why was there never a mention of a maid named Emma in all the work she'd gone through, the letters, various correspondence, the journal, the estate records? She didn't remember an Emma; it was as if the servant had never existed.

But now you don't exist, except in her body. And perhaps in time your consciousness will fade, to be replaced by this woman's…

She didn't know what to think.

The rain was coming down harder now, lashing the carriage, pounding on its roof, causing the driver to whip the reins down on the horses' rumps, urging them faster. Amelia tried to rid her mind of the thought of the carriage overturning; the idea of a broken bone or worse in the eighteenth century didn't bear thinking about.

She closed her eyes, trying to shut everything out.

"Do you have the sight?"

It took her a moment to realize that Jane was speaking to her. She had to be referring to Emma's aunt.

"Can I see the future, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"No. I've never had a vision in my life." But I get feelings, and I have very bad feelings about this night, Jane, about what's going to happen to you-and to Jonathan.

She thought of all the novels she'd read about time travel, how she'd lazed afternoons away speculating what she would do if she were ever able to leap through time. Now that she was actually doing it, there were two things she was sure of. One, that a person was never ready for such an experience. And, two, that it wasn't as terrific as might be expected. Time travel was as romanticized as the past.

"Do you wish you could? See into the future, I mean."

"No." And Amelia realized what she said was true- she knew the future now, and felt the impossible burden of knowing what was to come and being unable to stop or alter it in any way. For you couldn't alter the future, you couldn't make people's choices for them, of that she was sure.

And even as headstrong and fiery as Jane was, she'd come to like her in a strange way. She didn't want to see her die. The portrait artist who had captured Jane on canvas hadn't captured her spirit, her strength, her determination. If someone could have shown her how to channel all that energy before tonight, if someone had taught her how to make decisions more carefully…

The carriage slowed, and Amelia realized they were pulling into an inn. She didn't recognize where they were; the actual building must have been torn down before she was born. She and Hugh had ridden the horses for miles; she would've recognized this place.

The carriage horses clattered into the stable-yard, and she and Jane were inside the inn shortly, standing by the main entrance, assaulted by the smells of smoke and burning grease, roasting beef, the sour tang of ale, the aroma of too many unwashed bodies.

Jane went forward boldly, and the innkeeper's wife seemed to know what she was talking about. She showed them upstairs, and the two of them entered the small room beneath the eaves. A young girl started a fire, and Amelia stood silently by, not sure if she would be allowed to warm herself by the flames. The night was starting to catch up with her; she could feel exhaustion stealing into her bones.

More than anything, she wanted to go to sleep and wake up in the present, in her bed at Lindsey House, with the most pressing worry on her mind the thought of whether her makeup and hair would do for her wedding day.

That existence seemed so long ago. Time was relative; it could swirl and flow like a river, elongating some moments and throwing others into sharp relief. As long as she had her own consciousness, she could remember, she could keep Hugh and her father and John and even the terrier Charlie alive in her mind and heart.

"Go on," Jane said quietly as the innkeeper's wife and the young maid left the room. "You can sit by the fire." She had taken off her cloak, and now, with more light than she'd had all night, Amelia got her first real look at Jane Stanton.

She was beautiful.

Amelia could understand Jonathan's passion for this woman. Her skin glowed with vitality, her red-gold hair seemed to have a life of its own. Her green eyes were alive with emotion, slightly tilted at the corners like a cat's. Her lips were full, her bones elegant, her body small but lush. Vibrant. Energetic. Filled with passion. Jane Stanton was a woman any man would want. Why hadn't she wanted Jonathan?

"Robert should be here shortly."

"What do you plan on doing?" Amelia heard herself saying. She could already guess.

"We're going to run away and be married." Jane smiled at the thought, lost in her dreams. "I couldn't marry a man simply because it was arranged." Her voice caught fire with urgency. "No one asked me what I wanted. No one thought of how I might feel."

"Not even Jonathan?"

This stopped her, and Amelia knew that Jonathan Lindsey had cared what this woman thought. How she felt. He'd been an extraordinary man in an extraordinary age.

"He-did. He asked me once, what I thought about our being betrothed to each other."

"Did you tell him?"

"I couldn't find the words. But he should've known!"

"How did he feel about you?"

Jane smiled then, and Amelia could sense genuine affection in her expression. "He told me he'd loved me since we were children, and looked forward to our marriage." Now she sounded uncertain of herself and her plans, and Amelia seized the moment.

"And Robert?"

Jane seemed to glow with emotion. "He loves me; I know he does. I can't describe to you the way I feel when I'm with him; it's as if I burn with a rare fever-"

Amelia wondered if anyone had ever bothered to tell this young woman the difference between sexual desire and love, for it was clear she'd confused the two. She did remember reading about Jane's upbringing. Her parents had died, and she'd been shipped off to live with two maiden aunts for the remainder of her childhood.

Not the best way to receive any instruction in life.

They'd probably been relieved to be rid of her, glad of the arranged marriage. Unmarried women without means had to struggle to stay alive, and Jane would have been perceived as just another mouth to feed. The young woman was woefully unprepared for what her future held.

Amelia decided to try. She couldn't live with herself if she didn't. Perhaps if she could make Jane come to the decision by herself, think it was her own, it wouldn't technically be changing the past by much.

"You're sure you don't love Jonathan?"

Jane almost faltered, but Amelia could see the young woman pull herself together. It was a heartbreaking picture, that stubborn little chin rising to the challenge.

"Quite sure."

"Where did you meet Robert?"

"We met at the-"

The sound of booted feet could be heard on the stairs, and Jane hurriedly smoothed her hair, then the front of her skirts.

"Emma, how do I look?"

"Splendid."

The door swung open, and Amelia's heart sank as she got her first glimpse of Jane's Robert. She felt as a mother might feel, with her darling daughter caught in the clutches of a truly bad boy.

"Emma?" Jane indicated the door with a little nod of her head.

Amelia knew she was to sleep outside the door, as was the custom. But how could she leave Jane alone with this man? He looked exactly like Dickens's description of Bill Sikes in Oliver Twist-big, bad, and coarse. A brute. How could Jane not see it?

"You wish to be alone with him?" she whispered, not liking the look Robert was giving her from beneath his heavy-lidded eyes.

"Yes. Robert won't hurt me. We're to be married in the morning." Jane turned toward the man, and the look on her face, shining innocence and anticipation, tore at Amelia's heart.

"I'll be right outside the door," she offered, but neither of them was listening to her.

Once outside, she curled up into a small ball on the hard wooden floor. Her cloak served as both pillow and blanket, part of it bunched beneath her head, the rest covering her from the chill night air.

It was quite cold, away from the warmth of the fire.

A noise like a kitten crying drew her out of a deep sleep. Half awake, she listened, almost relaxed again, then heard it. Louder. Then a deeper, masculine murmur.

A sharp cry. A slap. Amelia sat up, completely awake. All thoughts of sleep flew from her mind. She stood, arms and limbs protesting, then approached the thick wooden door.

The sounds of a scuffle. Another slap. A deep, cruelly amused masculine laugh. Then a howl of pain, and then a scream

Enough. Amelia didn't care what century she was in. If she didn't have a whole lot of time left in Emma's body, she'd give the stout little maid a new consciousness before the end of the night. It was about time eighteenth-century England heard of women's rights.

"Stop it!" Her voice sounded loud and authoritative in the low-ceilinged hallway. "Let go of her."

Another scream, then Amelia was pounding at the door.

"Quiet down!" someone called.

"Give it to her, mate!" another voice called from another room.

Jane was screaming, fighting; the sounds of the fight seemed to go on forever. Amelia pounded on the heavy wood, clawed at it, not even noticing the splinters that gouged her broad, freckled hands. Her only thought was to get to Jane before the bastard murdered her.

It seemed forever before he finally opened the door.

"Little bitch," he said, looking down at her. "Making that kind of noise. Who do you think you are?'' With that, he slammed his fist into her face.

Blood spurted from her nose, filled her mouth. She fell like a stone, heard Robert's laugh, felt the bite of his boot in her ribs; then he was clattering down the stairs and away.

She couldn't breathe, the pain in her side was so bad. But she thought of Jane, and crawled toward the room she'd shared with Robert. She didn't want to see, couldn't bear to see; she'd have to cut her down; what if Robert had-

The small feminine figure was huddled beneath the bed linen. Shaking. Crying. Sobbing as if her heart had been broken, as indeed it had.

"Jane," she whispered, wiping her split lip with the cuff of her dress as she made her way to the bed. She winced as the rough wool abraded the tender flesh. "Oh, Jane."

That beautiful face was bruised; the life was gone from those vibrant green eyes. Instead she stared at the shadows the fire threw on the slanted ceiling, her expression lifeless. Except for the tears. They kept running down her face.

"Jane." Not knowing what else to do, she gathered the weeping girl in her arms and simply held her while she sobbed. And thought, irreverently, that Emma's broad, cobby little body was perfect for this type of nurturing.

Jane's dress was torn, her face bruised, her lip split. Her eye would be black by morning; it was swelling shut. What should have been the happiest day of her life had turned to a nightmare.

A white-hot rage burned in Amelia's heart as she rocked the girl, back and forth, whispering words of comfort, remembering what her father had said when she'd skinned both knees trying to learn to ride her first bike. Only this was so much worse.

By the time Jane let her peel the covers back, Amelia already knew what she would find. Blood was flecked on the linen, Jane's chemise, her thighs. Blood that signified her virginity. Robert had taken that, as well.

Perhaps it was more of Emma's consciousness coming through her, but Amelia knew what they had to do.

"We're going back to Lindsey House, Jane-"

"No! Oh, no!"

"Come on. Let me make the decisions for now. You're in no condition."

In the end, their decision was made for them by the innkeeper and his wife. Rushing upstairs after the commotion was safely over, they both demanded to know who was going to be responsible for settling up the bill.

Jane just stared at the two of them, her lifeless green eyes dull and uncomprehending.

Amelia decided to bluff it out. Neither of them looked that tough, and what could they do that would be any worse than what Jane had been through? Throw them out?

"He took base advantage of the lady," Amelia said quietly as she gathered up Jane's bag, her few possessions. "We'll both be leaving now, and not troubling you further."

"But what about the money?" the innkeeper's wife demanded. Jane started to sob again, and Amelia realized that the innkeeper was cowed by his overbearing wife.

She addressed her comments toward the wife. "As God is my witness, you should be ashamed of yourselves for what you allowed to transpire beneath this roof tonight." Before she was halfway through her statement, she was pushing Jane out the door and toward the stairs.

Something happened when the young woman started to move. It was as if part of her came back to life. Her pace quickened, and even though Amelia realized she was barefoot, she didn't dare try to go back for her shoes.

"I want my money!" the innkeeper's wife demanded. "Filthy little whores!" Her face was turning an ugly mottled color, and Amelia hoped they could get out the door of the inn without her trying to pull their hair out by the roots.

The rain was still coming down in torrents when both women dashed out the front entrance and toward the road. Amelia put her arm around Jane and supported her, trying to keep her upright. Her bare feet kept slipping and sliding in the oozing, sticky mud.

Lightning arched and crackled through the night sky, illuminating everything around them. Amelia counted to three, then heard the deep rumble of thunder. Too close. And here they were in the middle of a forest with immense trees, perfect lightning rods, all around them.

Jane turned her face up to the rain, and it was as if the heavens wept with her. Her vivid hair, already soaked, streamed wildly down her back. Her left eye was almost completely swollen shut now, her lower lip a grotesque puff.

She worked her bloody lips clumsily, trying to speak.

"Don't say anything," Amelia began.

"I heab you-at dah dor."

/ heard you. At the door.

Amelia nodded, signifying understanding.

Jane's fingers tightened on her arm, only this time she wasn't forcing her to follow her. This time she was merely trying to keep her balance.

"Tank you, Em-ma."

"You're welcome."

Jane Stanton started to cry again, but she kept walking.

Chapter Three

Know the true value of time; snatch, seize, and enjoy every moment of it.

– Lord Chesterfield

She felt as if the world were coming to an end.

Rain poured down, slicing through the dark sky. Amelia kept her arm firmly around Jane's waist, forcing the girl to take step after step as they made their torturous way along the side of the muddy road. And it wasn't as if Jane dragged her down. The woman was a fighter; she wouldn't give up. Though Amelia had her doubts as to whether Jane wanted to go back to Lindsey House. She rather doubted it. Jane probably wanted to put as much distance between herself and those odious innkeepers as possible.

The one thing Amelia hadn't counted on was meeting up with any sort of danger.

She sensed the hoofbeats before the riders came into sight. Acting purely on instinct, she dragged Jane into the shelter of a nearby tree, hiding them behind its massive trunk. Several riders, seven or eight of them, came into view, their horses galloping clumsily through the mud. From what Amelia could see of them in the rain and darkness, they seemed to be dressed in a rather ragged fashion, and she surmised that their mounts were probably stolen.

What men like these would choose to do to two women, alone on the road, was anyone's guess. She just didn't want to find out. Her breathing sounded loud to her own ears, but she knew they couldn't hear her over the fury of the rain and wind. The sheeting water also obliterated any tracks they might have made.

The riders galloped past, and Amelia resolved to watch the road, both ahead and behind them. No one was going to get a chance to hurt Jane again.

They walked further down the road, alone for the next hour, before she heard hoofbeats again. This time, both she and Jane dove for the nearby underbrush, seeking the safety and shelter of the thick forest.

But the rider, a lone man on a black stallion, looked strangely familiar. As did the horse. Amelia's heart started to race as she recognized them both. And she should have-she'd spent so much time in the great hall admiring his portrait, astride that same stallion.

Leaving Jane in the shelter of a giant oak, she ran out into the road. Lightning split the heavens, illuminating their small stretch of highway, as she screamed into the night sky.

"Jonathan Lindsey!"

Somehow, despite the noise and the rain, the thunder and lightning, the weakness and exhaustion of her voice, he heard her. The stallion wheeled, controlled by his master's hands. The great animal galloped in her direction, and had barely come to a stop before Jonathan vaulted down out of the saddle and was standing beside her.

Amelia had to look up into his face, and his resemblance to Hugh absolutely overwhelmed her. For a moment she couldn't speak as she took in the sight of his face, his eyes, his dark hair plastered back from his face, soaked by the rain.

Those eyes, so fierce and dark and blue. Intent and passionate and worried.

"Jane?"

"Right over here."

She wondered how they were all going to get back to Lindsey House on one animal, then surmised she was probably in for the longest and wettest walk of her life. After all, Jane was still in shock, after what she'd been through. The girl needed immediate attention.

"Jane!" When he reached her, he went down on his knees, pulled her into his arms, and held her against his strong chest. Jane began to weep as Amelia remembered another time, by the boathouse, when Hugh had held her in his arms and promised to show her every day how much he loved her.

You'll come to believe it.

She hadn't. She'd let doubts and old fears come between them, get in the way, and now the closest she might ever come to seeing Hugh Lindsey was in the face of his ancestor.

It didn't bear thinking about.

"I've got a carriage coming," Jonathan informed her as he and Jane stood up. She seemed to have lost that glowing vitality again, that will to fight, and now leaned on him, giving over to him, seeming to draw strength from him. As Amelia watched the two of them, she thought Jonathan Lindsey a thousand times the man Robert ever had been.

What disastrous judgment Jane had exercised in this matter. But what could have been expected, when all she'd been instructed to do was to look to everyone else in her life to give it meaning? That was women's real tragedy in the past, and even in Amelia's present. The hardest lesson growing up was knowing you were the captain of your own ship, and that some decisions had to be faced head on.

Actions most certainly had consequences.

Yet how was Jane to have known this, when she'd never been given the right to make any but the most frivolous of choices?

The carriage came into view, looming up in the mist and rain like a giant ship. Jonathan flagged it down. He helped Jane inside it, out of the rain. Then Amelia. He tied his mount to the back of the vehicle, then climbed inside, shut the door, and rapped smartly on the roof with his fist.

The carriage started its jouncing, rocking motion forward, and Amelia thought she'd never been as pleased with any particular mode of travel in her life. The Range Rover be hanged-at least this contraption would get them all safely back to the shelter of Lindsey House.

Yet the roads were still dangerous at this time of night, and in a storm such as this. She'd noticed the pistol Jonathan had tucked inside his waistband, and Amelia had utter confidence that he would protect both her and Jane, with his life if necessary.

How like Hugh he is. How Jonathan would have loved to have met him, just for a moment.

She thought how extraordinary it was, to see both people come to life, step out of the mists of history, become living, breathing spirits. They sat on the narrow seat across from her, their faces illuminated by the shifting light from the small lantern. Even in such irregular light, she could see the deep concern on Jonathan's face; the way he looked at Jane was so unbearably intimate that Amelia had to glance away.

Jane had started to cry again, and seemed to be trying to tell him what had happened. It crossed Amelia's mind what an extraordinary thing that was in itself, that she should trust this man with all a woman possessed in this century- her reputation. But this was Jonathan Lindsey, not your ordinary man. He soothed her to silence, and Amelia found comfort in his deep, rich voice.

Soon Jane quieted, her agitation ceased. Amelia leaned back against the seat, her eyes closed, feeling as if she were invading a most private moment but so glad she was out of the driving, chilling rain. Jonathan hummed to Jane; Amelia was sure the man was rocking her in his arms the way a father would tenderly hold his most beloved, wayward child. He talked nonsense into her ear, and at one moment Amelia even heard what sounded like a breathy, exhausted laugh.

Then silence. Jane was asleep, or had fainted from exhaustion, she wasn't sure which. The interior of the carriage was silent as it rocked along the muddy road.

Amelia thought both of them were probably sleeping, or at least Jonathan would have his eyes closed when she chanced a peek. And that moment was the one she knew would be burned into her soul for the rest of her life. She'd remember this, even if Emma's spirit subsumed hers completely and all her former memories left her.

Jonathan rested his chin on the top of Jane's fiery hair. She was asleep, curled into his chest like an exhausted kitten, her small fingers gripping the front of his white shirt and waistcoat. What was so extraordinary about this particular scene was that Jonathan was crying.

The tears coursed down his cheeks, and it seemed as if all the pain in the world were mirrored in his eyes. A pain so deep it seemed to have shattered him.

Amelia couldn't look away. At that moment, she realized the depth of his love for Jane, that he felt her pain as if it were his own, as deeply as she had. He knew her, he could see inside to those most secret recesses of her soul. He knew what tonight had cost her, and it was tearing him apart.

He wasn't thinking about what Jane's folly had done to him, to his dreams, to their impending marriage. He simply empathized, felt her pain, knew her fears. He loved her.

She must have made a slight noise, for somehow Amelia knew she'd alerted him to her presence. His gaze swung to hers, their eyes met, a long frozen moment in time. Amelia almost shrank back, for she knew this certainly had to be a breach in behavior, a most serious offense.

She wasn't even aware of the tears running down her own cheeks.

"We will not speak of this night to anyone," Jonathan said, his deep voice breaking.

Amelia didn't say a word. Couldn't.

"Do you understand?"

She nodded her head.

"We have to protect her."

She found her voice. "Yes."

He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Tell me what happened."

With a certain sort of person, you left out the details, sugarcoated the facts. With Jonathan Lindsey, Amelia sensed that nothing could be left out. He was an extraordinarily sensitive man, but strong as well. He could and would be strong this evening, for both himself and Jane.

Briefly, but with as much detail as she could remember, Amelia recounted their evening.

"And you did not think to come to me?"

“The-this plan came up suddenly. She-she threatened to leave without me. I thought the most prudent course of action was to go with her. To protect her. I had no idea…" She faltered as tears filled her voice and her nose stung painfully. "I had no idea of what that man intended to do to her."

The silence in the rocking, creaking carriage was agonizing.

"I believe you," Jonathan said quietly. "And I thank you, for protecting Jane as best you could." His eyes welled with tears as he looked down at the bright head, nestled so trustingly against his chest. "You acted accordingly."

High praise indeed, from Jonathan Lindsey.

She'd had no idea that Jonathan would have to fight his own father before this long night was over.

The carriage took them to the main entrance of Lindsey House, and Jonathan stepped out first, then swung an exhausted Jane up into his arms. He started up the front steps after giving the driver swift, careful instructions for the grooms. He wanted his horses looked after.

Amelia followed close behind him, knowing where her protection lay. She was so very tired, but filled with the knowledge of what an extraordinary evening this had been. And it was still far from over.

"Get her out of here!" The angry voice came from an old man, sitting in a chair by the fire. Now he rose to his full height and Amelia recognized Edward Lindsey, Jonathan's elderly father.

Jonathan simply kept walking toward the staircase. Amelia followed him, practically running on her short, stubby legs to keep up with his long-legged stride.

"You, young woman. Stop. I won't have this going on in my house."

She knew he was addressing her, knew she was a mere servant and in service to this man's family, but Amelia kept her attention on Jonathan's back. If he continued to move, so would she.

"No, Jonathan!" Now Edward made his final move, and it was quite remarkable for a man of his years. He blocked Jonathan at the foot of the stairs, refusing him entry to the rooms upstairs.

"I won't welcome that whore into my house."

"Step aside, Father."

"You cannot be serious-"

"Get out of my way."

Two strong-willed men, clashing over a woman. Amelia stepped back, knowing she had no place in this particular battle. And sensing that it had been an ongoing one.

"You bloody fool, you'll never know whether your children are your own-"

"If she wasn't in my arms, I'd come after you-"

"I will not have her presence in my house!"

"It's my house as well, old man."

The silence stretched interminably, the only sound the pattering of the rain. Its force had lessened, but still it fell outside, sheeting the garden and vast lawns.

She saw the implacable strength in Jonathan's face, and already knew who the winner in this battle would be. The two men faced off, the younger already the winner in this particularly deadly game of one-upmanship.

"I'll fight you for it, old man. And I'll win. Now, let me by, or suffer the consequences of your foolish actions."

Edward struggled with it, rage apparent on his wrinkled face. He struggled, then finally stepped aside, furious in his defeat. Jonathan started up the stairs, Jane in his arms, Amelia right behind him.

"You fool! You great big bloody fool! She's got you by the bollocks and you can't even see it-"

Amelia heard the sound of another voice, a confused murmur. But she didn't look back as she followed Jonathan up the stairs and through the dark manor house toward the master bedroom.

Apparently he was already the master of Lindsey House, for he occupied its main bedchamber.

Jonathan didn't waste any time. He summoned other servants, and a hot bath was prepared in front of the massive fireplace. He undressed Jane tenderly. She fought him, seemingly caught up in remembering the earlier nightmare.

"Jane," he said as he held her. "Jane, it's all right. I'm not Robert. It's Jon, it's me, darling. You're safe."

Amelia's eyes stung as she watched him help the girl into the bath. Jane cried out in agony as the hot water touched her frozen body. She'd been barely dressed beneath her cloak, and barefoot as well, much more prone to exposure than Amelia had been. Jonathan stayed by her side, talking to her, bathing her, washing the mud and twigs, the leaves and dirt out of her glorious red-gold hair.

He dried her with linen towels, then sat her by the fire and toweled her hair. He helped her dress for bed, in a nightgown and warm wrapper. He rubbed an herbal salve one of the maids brought into the bruises on her face, his ministrations so gentle. Amelia saw a muscle jump in his jaw as Jane reacted to his touch with pain.

She'd tried to stay out of his way as he administered to Jane. Amelia had stood as close to the fire as she'd dared, attempting to get warm. Now that she had a moment in time that was relatively calm, she had to start thinking about what she planned to do with the rest of her life. Perhaps there was a way back to Hugh. She'd come forward in time, she could find a way back. It might simply have to do with the tower room…

She didn't know how this whole process worked, but she knew she had to find a way back to Hugh before she forgot who she really was and where she'd come from.

More than anything, she wanted to go home.

"There's additional hot water coming," Jonathan told her. "I'll be going downstairs shortly. You may take a bath, if you wish."

"Thank you." The man was extraordinarily generous.

"I have to settle things with my father," Jonathan said quietly, his eyes on Jane in his huge bed. She'd fallen asleep as soon as she'd laid her head on the lace-edged pillow. Amelia sensed Jonathan didn't look at Jane as a conquest to be taken to his bed but more as a frightened woman who needed time to adjust to what had happened to her.

"I understand."

"You will not speak of what happened with him this evening."

She smiled up at him. "We will protect her, sir."

Some of the worry was starting to leave his eyes.

"Yes, Emma, we will."

It pleased her that he knew her name. How she wished she could have heard that voice, so like Hugh's, say her name.

Amelia.

But it wasn't to be. She might never hear her name spoken again. It was a sobering thought, to feel that a major part of her identity might only survive within her own mind.

Two maids came back with more buckets of steaming hot water, which they added to the tub. Taking the sliver of French soap and a few of the linen towels, Amelia prepared for her first bath in the eighteenth century.

It was rather like camping. Roughing it. The hot water felt so heavenly, she didn't even care that it had already been used by Jane.

She'd felt fat and clumsy while running from the house earlier this evening, but now Amelia realized she wasn't fat, simply built differently. Stocky and short. Compact. Curvy. Quite a neat little package, if she did say so herself. And breasts! She finally had breasts!

/ had to travel back in time to get cleavage.

The thought made her laugh, and it relaxed her. She continued the physical inventory as she bathed. Tiny waist, flaring hips, strong thighs. No saddlebags on this woman. Short legs and small feet. All in all, very nice.

She scrubbed herself until her freckled skin glowed, then stepped out of the tub, close to the fire. She'd taken her hair out of its severe bun, and the straight brown length of it reached to her waist. Amelia wrapped it in one of the linen strips, turban style, then dried her body and slipped on a nightgown and wrapper.

Thick hand-knitted socks and warm slippers completed the outfit. One of the maids must have gone to her quarters and brought a few of her things to Jonathan's bedroom.

She knew he expected her to stay with Jane and look after her until he returned. As she didn't quite know what her regular duties entailed, she was relieved by this particular turn of events. Soon enough, she would have to make sure no one realized she was a twentieth-century woman inside an eighteenth-century body.

She sat by the fire as she dried her long hair, wondering for the first time where Emma's consciousness had gone. Where was the woman? Had she just awakened one morning and realized she had no body? Was her soul flitting around, waiting for Amelia's own consciousness to leave?

"I'm sorry," she whispered into the silence of the room. The only sound was the snapping and hissing of the fire. She couldn't hear Jane breathing, could only see the barely discernible rise and fall of her chest. "I'm sorry, Emma, for what you had to go through because of me."

She wondered what Emma had to learn from this whole experience. What she had to learn.

/ do believe we're here for a specific reason.

She could almost hear Hugh's voice as he said the words. It was one of her favorite memories, the day they'd met by the garden. That long first talk. John laughing in the tower window. Later that evening, she and Hugh had walked the dogs, and though he hadn't taken her hand, hadn't even touched her, she knew she'd met her destiny that day.

Only to have it taken away.

No. I can't believe that. For if I believe that, I have nothing left to live for.

She thought of Jane, taking her own life. They seemed to be past the worst of it. Much could be repaired by a good night's sleep. She was nodding off herself, almost hypnotized by the dancing flames.

We're here for a specific reason…

If only she could figure out her own. Why had she been sent back in time? Her mind refused to believe it was a symptom of random chaos, with no reason or structure behind the entire event.

There had to be a reason. She'd find it, and in doing so, she'd find a way home. Her spirits lifted, and feeling much more awake, Amelia checked Jane, then turned, catching sight of another person in the room.

Not a person. Her reflection.

The large mirror was not a good one by twentieth-century standards. The glass wavered slightly; it was a bit pitted. But it was certainly enough to enable her to see the face she'd been given for this trip back in time.

Emma-what was her last name?-stared back at her.

Long, straight brown hair. A round face. Irish, if she had to put a nationality to it. Smooth, clear skin, except for the scattering of freckles.

She looked at her reflection more closely, moving toward the mirror. What she saw caused her to take in a sharp breath and hold it tightly.

Her eyes. Emma had her eyes. Or she had Emma's. The eyes were the same. Large, gray, flecked with the smallest amount of green. Darker around the edge of the iris.

Surrounded by thick lashes. She'd always been proud of her eyes, considering them her best feature. Now it was disconcerting to see them staring back at her from a different face.

More than anything else, that small physical resemblance convinced her that she and Emma were linked in a way she couldn't yet figure out.

"I'll bet you want your body back, too."

No answer.

It could get extraordinarily lonely, talking to oneself.

She thought about the body she'd left, the shoulder-length blonde hair, the slender shape, the tall stature. She'd liked her hands. They hadn't been square like Emma's, but they'd been strong and capable.

Her palms tingled, and she remembered what it had felt like, a sense memory, touching Hugh's sleeping face with her finger one day, then flicking a rose petal off his cheek. They'd been lying together in the gazebo, enjoying the late afternoon. One of the scarlet petals from the climbing rosebush had fallen, he'd wrinkled his nose in sleep, and she'd gently brushed it off, waking him…

The memory made her unbearably lonely.

"Sleep," she said to herself quietly. "You need to sleep, just like Jane." She didn't think Jonathan would be angry with her if she slept for a little while. Jane wasn't likely to wake soon, and Amelia knew he would have his hands full with his father.

She curled up on the foot of the massive four-poster bed, opened the bed curtains slightly to catch some of the heat from the fire, and closed her eyes.

As Amelia drifted off to sleep, her last conscious thought was that she might not ever be able to tell Hugh how much she loved him, for he wouldn't be born for almost two hundred years.

Chapter Four

It is one of the most beautiful compensations of life that no man can sincerely try to help another, without helping himself.

– John P. Webster

_Later, she couldn't remember what woke her.

The fire had burned low; the bedchamber was filled with deep shadows. Someone had tucked a warm wool blanket around her, and as Amelia sat up in bed she wondered why Jonathan's return hadn't wakened her. Funny-now she was waking up in the eighteenth century and that seemed perfectly normal.

She glanced around the bedchamber, trying to take it all in and immediately noticing that something was wrong.

Jane. Gone. Her mind raced frantically. Where was she? Had Jonathan come to get her? Had they gone for a walk? Of course not; Jane was in no condition to go anywhere.

She remembered the Lindsey legend, the story that had been passed down for countless generations, and as Amelia leaped off the bed and started out the door, she prayed that the house hadn't changed that much. She could still make it to the tower room from Hugh's master bedroom in about three minutes.

How long did it take a young, frightened girl to suffocate? If she did it right, her neck would snap instantly and her pain would be at an end.

Amelia's side hurt as she raced up the circular stairs, praying Jane hadn't thought to lock the door, hoping against hope she wouldn't find herself helplessly pounding on another strong wooden barrier. Had anyone else suspected? Had anyone else tried to save her the other time? Jonathan hadn't thought she was in such a state; his letters had revealed as much.

Was he still calming his father? Perhaps he and Jane had slipped off somewhere to be together. No, they would have merely asked her to leave the room had they wanted their privacy, for whatever reason.

She climbed the last of the high, narrow stone steps, her breath coming in burning gasps. Her heart pounded, she felt slightly nauseous, but Amelia pressed on, and as she entered the tower room, her worst fears were confirmed.

Jane stood, a silhouette in the moonlight, on a wooden chair. A rough noose lay around her slender neck, the thick rope securely fastened to a cross beam. Once she kicked the chair over, the deed would be done.

For a moment, Amelia couldn't say a word; she simply stared. Shock had almost rendered her immobile. She watched as Jane's split lip moved; the girl seemed to be talking to herself. Her eyes were closed. Amelia wondered if she'd simply gone mad. Then realization struck.

She's praying.

Jane was asking for forgiveness for what she was about to do. And Amelia, no stranger to despair herself, knew the depths a soul had to reach to contemplate such a desperate act.

"No."

Her voice sounded loud in the quiet room, and startled Jane out of her almost meditative state.

"Emma." Her tone was that of a mother asking her disobedient child to go back to sleep. "I want you to leave this instant."

"I can't. You know that. Now, I want you to come down from that chair, but first you have to take that rope from around your neck-"

"Don't you come near me!"

Amelia stopped midstride. She'd approached Jane as carefully as she could, as one might come close to a deer in a forest glade. Jane had that same wild, frightened expression. Though Amelia had thought her so strong, this woman had reached the end of all hope. There was nothing more for her, and Amelia could see it in her eyes.

Stop her.

She couldn't consider any other action. She knew it was wrong, to force destiny to alter itself, to bend in upon itself. The repercussions of this action would be felt for centuries, but Amelia was powerless against the strong tide of emotion assailing her at the thought of this vibrant young woman ending her life.

Stop her. Whatever it takes.

Telling the truth would be a good place to start. Amazing, how lives were altered when the facts were exposed.

"He won't be able to live without you."

That stopped her, just as a small slippered foot almost stepped off the wooden chair.

"You're lying." But her voice had the slightest tremor to it.

"No. I'm not. You see, I finally had a vision."

Jane didn't answer, she simply stared at her.

"Like my aunt."

She continued to stare.

"You can't do this to him, Jane. He loves you so."

"No." Her voice broke on the one word, but Amelia was far too concerned, too wary, to believe she'd gotten through to her. Yet.

“Yes. He ends his own life two years after this date, on the anniversary of your death. He comes up to the tower and re-creates your act." She was hurting Jane and she knew it, but she had to hurt her, to shock her, in order to get through to her.

"His manservant comes up and cuts him down-"

"Stop this! I demand it!"

"-and he is buried next to you, out in the family graveyard, as he wished. He wanted the two of you to be together for all eternity."

"I don't want to hear this! I can't!"

"Do you love him, Jane?" Amelia was shouting now, edging a little closer. Trying to get close enough that if Jane did take that fatal step she could grab her and keep the rope from closing around her neck long enough for help to arrive. She shouted to attract Jonathan, knowing how voices could carry from the tower. She'd loved the Lindsey House of the twentieth century; there wasn't much about the old estate she hadn't discovered while working with John and falling in love with Hugh.

Now it would all work to her advantage.

She watched Jane carefully. Calculated the distance between them. Her chest hurt with the effort.

“Do you love him?'' she shouted again, praying the entire time that the sound would attract Jonathan. He would know what to do. He would help her. Once Jane saw him, she wouldn't be able to leave him this way.

"Yes!" The word came out an almost feral snarl, and Amelia knew Jane hated her for forcing her to admit what she'd finally learned during this long night.

"Then take that noose from around your neck. Now."

Jane hesitated, and Amelia fired her final shot, the only ammunition she had left.

"I see the letter," she began quietly, praying the entire time that her voice would hold up. "He wrote you almost fifty letters after you took your life, Jane."

"No!"

“He needed to talk to you, to finish it-''

"No, I will not hear this!"

"Yes, you will." Amelia was fully aware of the consequences of her decision. Ensuring Jane's survival meant that Hugh would never be born. She knew that, and just as surely as she loved him, she knew what she had to do. John's words echoed in her mind.

He left the entire estate and all its holdings to several distant cousins. That's where my side of the family comes in…

That side of the family had been close to starvation when they'd inherited Lindsey House. Now, if she succeeded, they wouldn't. Hugh's branch of the family wouldn't survive. She'd never see him again, whether she managed to make it back to her own time or not.

Amelia hesitated for one agonizing moment, but once she started, her voice never faltered.

'' 'My dearest Poppet-' ''

That stopped Jane cold.

"How do you know-"

'' 'My dearest Poppet, I find that I cannot go on without you.' " The words rushed out of her mouth, words she'd committed to memory over countless readings of that particular letter. Words she had wondered at, wondered how any one mortal could feel so deeply, could be willing to sacrifice their life because of another.

Now she knew.

"Stop it! I won't tolerate this!"

" '-I'm tired and I want to come home. To you. I'd thought I would come home to you each evening-' '' The pain in her chest was tremendous. This had to be what a heart felt like when it was breaking.

"Don't! You have no right!" But life was back in those green eyes, that vivid presence that had struck Amelia at the inn, by the fire. Jane was angry. Jane was back.

They were screaming at each other like fishwives, and Amelia almost laughed out loud. Whoever couldn't hear them had to be deaf-and Jonathan Lindsey was many things, but hard of hearing wasn't one of them.

" 'You are everywhere, my darling, yet nowhere-' "

"Damn you!"

Oh, Hugh, forgive me. I love you.

" 'God will forgive me for what I am about to do-' "

"No!"

" 'It is said that He never sends us more than we can bear, but I find that I have reached my limit.' " She took a deep, steadying breath. "I see him writing the words, Jane! You cannot cause him such pain!"

"Emma, stop this!"

She could. So easily. If she stopped right now, before Jonathan reached them, if she let Jane sink into the despair that made such an act possible, she might see Hugh again, and John, and her old life-

Impossible. Amelia knew she could never live with herself if she made such a decision.

We're constantly creating and molding the future all the time.

She saw Hugh in her mind's eye. That first meeting, in the garden over breakfast. Somehow, in the strangest way, Hugh had known the truth all along.

"Oh, Jane!" Something of the despair in her heart colored her tone. Their gazes locked, and Amelia knew this was her last chance to get through to her.

"Jane, to love someone like that! I used to think it was beyond me, until I let it go! I doubted it could exist and I lost it! Don't you understand-you have a chance to have something most people never get to experience! Please don't make the mistake I did!"

Jane faltered, and Amelia knew she almost had her.

"I can't. He-he won't want me when-"

"Damn you-you're so much more than your virginity! You're more than the physical body I see before me! And if you cannot believe that, then why were you praying?"

She had her. Almost.

"He loves you, Jane. Really, really loves you. And if you're selfish enough to take your life because of the shame in a foolish mistake, then I-'' A sharp pain squeezed her heart, and she grabbed her right arm. It felt decidedly odd.

She struggled on.

"If you're selfish enough to lose what most people only dream about-damn it, I want you to stop thinking about yourself and think about him!"

"How do you know all this? It's not just that vision, is it?"

Right the first time out, Jane. Smart girl, got it in one.

"No. I'm… not from here." The pain in her chest was excruciating. Like being in the grip of a giant, grinding jaw. She was starting to sweat; she felt the sick dampness along her temple.

"Where?" The green eyes were lit with a feverish glow. "Where are you from?"

Her eyes rolled up, her head lolled back as the pain claimed her. Crushed her. Pain like she'd never felt before. She steeled herself against it. From a great distance away, she heard booted feet on the tower stairs.

Help. Jonathan. Help me.

"From… a long way… far away…" Her vision started to cloud over. Dear God, her heart wasn't breaking, it was failing. She was suffering a heart attack.

"Emma!" And Jane, impetuous as ever, forgot the rope and stepped down to help her.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. Amelia fought for one last surge of strength. It propelled her beneath Jane's slight body, just long enough to prevent the rope from snapping her slender neck. Her short, stubby arms grasped the slender, flailing legs, and as Jane felt her support, her struggles ceased.

"Emma, no, put me down! The noose is off, it's off I tell you! Please, please put me down, I don't want you to-''

She didn't hear the rest of the words. Her vision dimmed, then faded to black.

Hugh. Oh, Hugh. I love…

The last sound she heard was that of a woman crying.

Chapter Five

Those who bring sunshine to the lives of others cannot keep it from themselves.

– James M. Barrie

She woke slowly, to the sound of birds chattering and singing. To the softness of the English country air. The light was diffused as it entered the tower room, and for a moment as Amelia blinked and tried to orient herself, she didn't quite know where she was.

Or who.

Hands. Her hands. Slender and pale, not a freckle in sight. She pulled at her hair as she sat up, and saw strands of the lightest blonde, not Emma's brown-

Everything stilled within her.

"What an extraordinary dream," she whispered, then touched the floor of the tower room. Carpeted. Just like before. John had been so very proud when he'd described how he'd brought the little room back from its rather dilapidated state. It was his sanctuary, his hideaway, his place of peace where he came to be renewed.

Such a powerful dream… almost real…

She sat very still in the comfortable learner chair, so happy to be back. Now, through what she'd experienced during that one wild night of her imagination, she realized she'd lost all her fears concerning her upcoming marriage. She would marry Hugh; they would have children; they would contribute to the Lindsey line and make their lives matter. She would teach their children to live each day to the fullest, to love one another, and to never, ever take anything-or anyone-for granted.

She glanced out the window. Still early in the morning. Still time. She closed her eyes and a powerful peace washed through her.

Thank you. For letting me see so much through that dream. For giving me that realization, that awakening. Thank you for letting me see how much I have, how blessed I am, and how Hugh was right. We do constantly create our own futures, through our thoughts and actions…

She finished the short prayer, then thought of her father and how much she would miss him on this day. She'd asked John if he would walk her down the aisle, and the older man had been delighted. But, still, secretly, she would miss her father's presence on this day.

A sound at the door made her turn her head.

"Miss?" Annie's voice was cautious as she studied her. ' 'Whatever are you doing, sleeping up here?''

"I had-I had the most extraordinary dream, Annie." She found that she had to tell someone. "Do you believe the soul exists apart from the body?"

"I do."

"Well." She laughed then, still delighted to find herself back in her present life. That dream had been so vivid, for a moment upon waking she'd actually thought she'd traveled through time. "I dreamed-I was with some of the older souls of Lindsey House." Somehow, she knew Annie wouldn't make fun of her.

"Really." A pause. "Lady Jane?"

A prickle of unease worked its way up Amelia's spine. How had the girl been so quick to guess?

"Yes. And Jonathan."

Annie nodded her head. Her face was expressionless, but her eyes, those gray eyes, were decidedly animated. Filled with delight.

Strange.

"Probably because we were talking about the tragedy in the tower last night. I remembered it, came up to the tower room, and was thinking about it before I fell asleep."

Annie remained silent.

Something wasn't quite right, and Amelia didn't know what.

"I'm sure that's it, Annie."

"Of course. Now, you must come with me. We have a lot to do, getting you ready for your wedding day." Annie approached her, held out her hand.

How strange. The young maid had seemed so standoffish the night before, while serving tea. Now it was almost as if she were truly welcoming her into this great house.

"Come." Annie took her hand, pulled her to her feet. "I'm glad you slept so well, dreamed so deeply. You'll need your strength for what's to come this day."

She followed the maid back to her bedroom. Everything was as it should be: her bridal gown, her veil, her satin shoes, gloves, and wedding purse. Everything laid out, just as it had been the night before, but it didn't feel right.

Something was… different.

"I'll go get you a cup of tea, and then we'd better run your bath." And Annie was gone, as swiftly and silently as she'd arrived.

She reminds me of Emma…

She wondered where Hugh was, and was filled with an overpowering urgency to see him. But she couldn't; he was charmingly superstitious about such things, and they'd agreed not to see each other on the morning of their wedding. Where could he be at this hour?

Probably in the garden. He was passionate about the grounds surrounding Lindsey House, and would certainly want them to be immaculate for his wedding day.

She approached the window and thought about calling down to him, the maiden in the tower to her prince, when she saw… she saw…

This shock was greater than any her dream had produced. Flowers. Everywhere. Lilies, that particular lily, she'd only seen it one place before, in Jonathan Lindsey's sketchbooks… Creamy white, with the palest pink center, he'd called the flower Bride's Tears, after his Jane, after the woman he'd loved.

But he burned that part of the garden to the ground; he leveled it, would have sown salt into the earth if he'd thought of it. He couldn't bear to see the flower he 'd created. He wanted it over; he burned the garden to the ground right before he hung himself…

Before her mind even consciously realized what she was doing, she was racing out of the bedroom, across the great hall, down the curving staircase, out the double front doors, and toward the flowers…

Hugh. I have to see Hugh.

George, the gardener, was busily raking the path through that part of the garden when she approached him. If he looked a little startled to see a wild-eyed woman in her nightgown and robe at this time of the morning, he had the good grace not to show it.

"Good morning, miss."

"George." She put a hand over her heart to still its frantic racing. "George, how did this flower get here? Why is it here? Isn't it Bride's Tears?" As she spoke, she snapped a slender stem and brought one of the blooms up to her cheek. The velvety petals brushed her skin, seemed to ground her. She was here, she wasn't dreaming…

"Bride's Tears?" He stopped his raking, then leaned on the gardening tool. "No, miss., it's always been called. Your friend Miss Bickham should be here shortly to gather them for your wedding bouquet." He cleared his throat. "Unless, of course, you'd be changing your mind and wanting those red roses. Or maybe the apricot. I can let her know-"

"No. No, of course not. Penny will know what to choose, of course she will, but-that is-do you know where-where is Hugh? Have you seen him?" She knew how she had to appear to him, her hair uncombed, still in her nightgown and robe, but Amelia was confident he'd attribute her wild behavior to bridal nerves. She couldn't possibly confess what she'd really been up to.

But she had to tell Hugh.

"He's on the other side of the garden, miss, taking his morning walk."

She lifted the skirts of her long gown and robe, then raced in the direction he'd indicated.

Hugh was walking in the garden, and when she saw him, she stopped just before the path and simply filled her senses with him. He'd never looked more beautiful to her. He was here. It was enough. All would be well.

"Hugh!"

He looked up, then smiled. But it seemed a rather shaky smile to her; thus, she approached him quickly, took his hand, kissed his tanned cheek.

"Hugh, I know we agreed not to see each other before the wedding, but there's something quite extraordinary I have to tell you-"

"You've changed your mind?"

"I-no, why would I do that?"

He took both her hands in his, then turned so he was facing her. "I know you've had your fears, Amelia, and I'd hoped you'd overcome them with time." The expression in his dark blue eyes was so like Jonathan Lindsey's that it gave her another of those queer little ripples up her spine.

"But I am all right with it; it's part of what I came to tell you. Nothing could stop me from marrying you. I remember what you said. 'I'll show you every day, for the rest of my life, how much I love you. You'll come to believe it.' I do, Hugh, I do!"

His face slowly changed, lit with a cautious happiness, then all anxiety vanished. "Then that's what you came to the garden to tell me?" He looked at her and laughed, and she joined in, knowing how she had to look. "I still don't want to see you in your gown before the ceremony, darling, if that can be arranged."

"No. There's something else. The most extraordinary thing happened to me last night-"

"Master Hugh," the gardener called. "Master Hugh, your grandfather is back, along with Miss Amelia's father, and they-"

She didn't hear any more. Hugh's face swam in front of her eyes, and she, who had never fainted in her entire life, knew she was about to do just that…

"Hugh?" She gripped his arm tightly, the blood roaring in her ears, her pulse thundering. Her father? How could that be? He'd been dead for years…

"Daddy," she said shakily as she came to.

"You gave us quite a scare in the garden, Ami."

Her eyes filled at the sound of the familiar endearment. Max Jamison was sitting on the edge of the huge four-poster bed, holding her hand. She remembered the feel of it, the way he'd held on to her hand while she'd ridden her first pony, so long ago.

She couldn't stop herself from staring at him. Though she'd never forgotten how he looked, he'd been frozen in time in photos and films. Now that same dear face was in front of her, a little more weathered, a few more lines, a sprinkling of white hair at the temples. But he was still her father. Max Jamison was alive.

"I'm sorry."

"No need to be. Bridal nerves." He grinned, and Amelia felt the tears start to run down her cheeks. He had a grin just like Clark Gable's in Gone with the Wind. Cocky and self-assured. And full of such love for her.

No one had ever loved her like her father had. Until Hugh.

"Now, Ami," he said, his deep voice so suddenly familiar. "Sure you want to marry this man? You can tell me otherwise up until we get to the altar, and after that it's in God's hands."

She sat up on the bed, wiped away her tears, and threw her arms around him, hugging him close, so close she felt as if she might crack his ribs.

"I do," she whispered. "But he'll never take your place in my life."

"He isn't supposed to," Max replied, his voice sounding only a little gruff. "But marriage is serious business, darling. Once you make that commitment, you can't back out."

"I know." She wanted to ask where her mother was, but didn't know how. But he answered that question soon enough.

"Your mother's in London, doing some last-minute shopping. Something came in that she'd ordered for you and Hugh. You know how mad about shopping that woman is." He laughed, his gray eyes alive with mischief. "I thought about picking her up at the train station and telling her you and Hugh eloped!"

"You wouldn't!" But she giggled, and remembered her mother as a different woman when she'd been married to her father. She'd laughed a lot more.

Amelia couldn't wait to meet her.

"Up to any more visitors?"

They both turned their heads, and saw John Lindsey standing in the bedroom doorway, a wriggling Charlie in his arms.

"Of course!" How she adored that old man.

He let the terrier go, and the little dog bounded out of his arms, hit the ground running, then leaped up on the bed and began to prance all around Amelia, barking and trying to get in a few swipes on her face with his tongue.

Charlie's having a bad day.… the vet says I'll have to be making my mind up about him soon…

This little dog was in perfect health.

"Charlie." She picked him up and hugged him, and his wiry doggie body squirmed with delight. "Oh, Charlie."

Then she burst into tears.

She went with her father to the train station. Amelia recognized her mother instantly, but not the tall, striking woman with the dark auburn hair and intelligent hazel eyes who was with her.

"Amelia," she said, "I left my car here at the station. Would you ride back with me?"

She looked to her parents, unsure.

The hazel eyes were sympathetic. "I don't mean to take you away from time you'd like to spend with your mother-"

"Oh, it's all right, Frances," her mother said. "We'll have plenty of time once we get back to the house."

Hugh's mother…

"Oh, dear," Max said. "Does this mean we can't stop off for a quick kiss at the lake like I'd planned?"

"Maxwell!" But Catherine Jamison patted his cheek as she said it.

"No, it's fine. I'll ride back with you." As she got into the familiar battered old Range Rover, Amelia wondered how long she'd actually known Hugh's mother.

Maybe she wanted to have a private word with her before the ceremony. After all, he was her beloved only son.

After today was over, nothing would ever surprise her again. How strange were the ways of the Universe. And how wise.

They were a third of the way to Lindsey House before Frances Lindsey spoke.

"I'm probably overreacting… and Hugh would throttle me if he even suspected what I was up to."

"It's all right." Amelia had a feeling she knew what was coming. She could handle it.

"I just… are you sure, Amelia? Really sure? My Hugh has never fallen in love before, and I don't want to see him hurt. I know he seems rather formidable and… something of a terror at times, but he has the softest of hearts. I know him as only a mother can."

Frances was having a hard time of this, but she plunged on and Amelia admired her for it. It was such a demonstration of love for her son.

"So if you have any doubts, please voice them now."

What a fierce mother hen, protecting her only chick.

"I'm sure." Her voice was perfectly steady. How much Jane had taught her. She'd needed to go back through time, needed to see things through different eyes, through a different and very courageous soul, in order to find peace within herself.

She would never, ever forget Emma. Though her health had been frail, the tiny woman had possessed the heart of a lion.

"Personally, I think the two of you are perfect for each other," Frances continued, her eyes on the road. "I knew from the moment you came to the house. Amelia, I never had any doubts, but there were times when I sensed you were afraid."

"I was. I'm not anymore."

"Good." Frances smiled, then reached for her hand and gave it a brief squeeze. "Don't think of me as an ogre of a mother-in-law, will you?"

"Never."

"I know I'm being overprotective, but Hugh is my firstborn, and holds a very special place in my heart. I know that must seem strange, what with seven other children, but-"

Amelia didn't hear any more; she turned her head ever so slightly so her future mother-in-law wouldn't see the sheen of tears in her eyes and misconstrue them.

She had eight children, not just Hugh.

Amelia remembered that day with John, when he showed her the family photos lining the walls. Hugh's teddy bear tea, how Frances had wanted more children, that awful fall from her horse. She'd bet there were many more photos along that wall now.

You'll have seven sisters and brothers now. And who knows how many nieces and nephews.

She sat forward in the car seat, and glanced at her future mother-in-law. Amelia had the feeling they were going to get along just fine.

"Anxious to get back?" Now Frances was smiling.

"Yes."

She was ready to be married.

The wedding took place in the middle of the garden, in the early evening. The weather was gorgeous; everyone commented on it for weeks afterward. The garden was alive with starlings, sparrows, dogs, and cats. Children laughed and an excited anticipation seemed to grip the guests.

Amelia approached the heart of the garden with her father, along a walkway Penny had made through the grounds by draping and knotting white satin ribbon from tree to tree. Tiny white lights sparkled among the branches, making the garden seem magical, inhabited by fairies. The overlapping white runner, scattered with rose petals, protected the hem of her gown.

They reached the arch that Penny had designed, twined with more of Jonathan's lilies, and also gardenias, lilacs, and roses. Hugh looked so dashing in his cutaway suit, trousers, and wing-collar shirt. The expression on his face when he saw her approaching in her bridal finery made her glad he hadn't seen her in it before this moment in time.

Amelia and her father reached the altar, and she found this particular good-bye wasn't difficult at all. He squeezed her hand, then gave her over to Hugh with a wink that seemed to say, No backing out now. She smiled at Penny, her maid of honor, who was trying valiantly not to cry. Then Amelia handed her the bridal bouquet.

Peace filled her heart as she and Hugh faced the minister. Their wedding ceremony began.

Afterward, she tried to find Annie, but couldn't.

"Where did she go?" she asked Hugh as they danced in the grand ballroom of Lindsey House. One of the advantages of marrying into an extremely wealthy English family was that you didn't have to worry about renting a hotel or a country club. The family estate was just fine.

There were a couple of tense moments, when she'd met up with a few of Hugh's former girlfriends, but nothing too harrowing. They were all congratulatory, a few even openly envious.

The day went by as if part of a dream. The toasts, the sit-down dinner, the dancing. She'd opted for candlelight, as it suited Lindsey House. The bride's table had been decorated with more flowers, and even the candelabra were trimmed with miniature white roses at the base of each candle. Penny had been allowed to go quite wild inside the estate, and staircases, columns, mantels, and archways were festooned with greenery. And flowers. Everywhere,, symbol of the day and what it meant to the Lindsey family both past and present.

The reception would last far into the night, but she and Hugh planned to retire early. They were leaving for Barbados in the morning for a monthlong honeymoon, and had to get off to an early start.

She threw her bouquet, and Hugh's younger sister, Olivia, caught it. Amelia took off her gown in the upstairs bedroom, with another maid's assistance. She dressed in a simpler outfit, then picked up the smaller going-away bouquet Penny had created for her and went back downstairs.

Amid showers of birdseed, rose petals, and congratulations, the couple left Lindsey House and walked across the moonlit lawns toward the small cottage on the edge of the woods that had been prepared for them.

Once inside, Hugh directed her toward the fireplace. He started a fire with swift economy, then handed her an elaborately wrapped package.

"Your bridal gift. It's late, I know. Your mother did me the favor of going into London this morning and picking it up. I had it re-covered for you."

He was running on; he was nervous! Hugh Lindsey was actually nervous! She remembered what his mother had said in the Range Rover that morning, about his sometimes formidable demeanor concealing the softness of his heart.

She'd never seen anything but that heart.

Her fingers trembled as she set down her bouquet and unwrapped the package. The lovely paper fell away, and she stared at the large, leather-bound book.

Before she even opened it, she knew what it was.

"Jonathan's journal," she whispered.

"Do you like it?" There was just an edge of apprehension to his voice.

"I love it; it means ever so much to me." She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, and when they finally came up for air, he grinned and cocked a rather arrogant eyebrow at her.

"Weddings. Bloody awful, aren't they?"

"Yes!" She laughed, and then he kissed her and everything faded away to be replaced by both love and desire, made stronger and more poignant for her because she knew in her heart how close she'd come to losing him.

He carried her to the bedroom, nudging the door open, and she cried out in delight. Penny had done her magical and transformative work here as well, with red rose petals showered across the bed, and flowers and candles everywhere.

"Champagne?" Hugh asked, and she saw the absolute delight in his eyes at her reaction to his surprise.

"Oh, Hugh…" She couldn't find the words.

"I just let her loose to do what she does best," he said, pouring the pale, sparkling liquid into one of two crystal flutes. He took a deep breath as he handed her the champagne. "I want you to be happy, Amelia."

"I am." She knew he was still worried about her doubts, but now she saw her fears for what they were, and they no longer had any power over her. That darkness had been lifted forever.

They sipped champagne, then kissed. Hugh lit a few more of the candles, then helped her out of her clothing, slowly, seducing her, kissing her, whispering words of endearment. She loved him for taking time with her, creating a moment she would remember all her life.

Because it was different now.

He joined her on the bed after shedding his own clothing, and emotion overwhelmed her. She felt as if she truly belonged to him. There would never be anyone else; there would never be any barriers between them. She gave herself to him with no reservations, no hesitations, knowing this was right, that they were right for each other.

That they were meant to be with each other at this exact moment in time.

She was lying on top of him when she suddenly cupped his face in her hands and kissed him, remembering the fear and her feelings of darkness and despair, not that long ago. Remembering that horrible feeling of not knowing if she would ever see him again. Realizing he might never be born.

A tear slipped out from beneath her lashes.

"Amelia?" Everything stopped as Hugh tightened his arms around her, holding her closely. "What's wrong?"

"I thought…" Her voice trembled. "I thought I'd lost you."

"Never." He kissed the single tear away. "Never in this lifetime, my darling."

"I know that now," she whispered against his chest. "Oh, Hugh, can you forgive me for being so frightened?"

"There's nothing to forgive."

She raised her head and looked down at him, saw such love in those dark blue eyes that she caught her breath.

"I knew," he whispered, touching her cheek, "the minute I saw you in the garden. That first day."

She nodded her head. "I did, too."

His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Then why were you so frightened?"

She thought of the past before she'd gone back, and didn't know if she'd ever be able to explain it all to him. Someday. Not now. She didn't want to sacrifice this moment to any explanation.

"I couldn't explain those fears, even to myself." She kissed him then, and felt his hands in her hair as he moved against her, up over her, pressing her down into the bed. And mere seconds before they became one she gave a silent, thankful prayer that the Lindsey men were such passionate, understanding lovers, that they cherished their women even when they lost their way.

And that they had faith enough to sustain a marriage into eternity.

Later that night, Hugh fast asleep in their marital bed, Amelia crept down the stairs. The fire had burned low, but there was still just enough light left to read Jonathan's bold handwriting. She searched through the journal until toward the end, where she found the passage she needed to read.

Quite an extraordinary act, what Emma did. She restored my Jane's faith in the goodness of people. Her death had a shattering impact on Jane, both good and bad. It changed her forever, the way she looked at life. Including the way she looked at me.

Perhaps I have Emma to thank for that, as well. We were married only days after her death, and father fought me on that. I insisted Emma be buried in the family cemetery, and the old man fought me on that one, as well. But I won, and Emma was laid to rest. I wrote to all her relatives, but no one ever came for any of her things.

I wondered at that.

We don't speak of Emma, though I know both of us think of her daily. Jane might have been killed, or could have succeeded in taking her life had Emma not intervened.

There was one evening when Jane insisted she'd been in the presence of a heavenly being. She told me Emma had said she was from a long way away, and my Jane took that to mean Heaven. An angel, a heavenly creature, she told me, visited this house and blessed its occupants.

/ don't really know. I don't know if it matters. All that matters is that Jane and I have each other, and the children. She is a different woman from the headstrong, scared, and selfish little creature I had the good fortune to fall in love with. She was profoundly transformed that night, convinced that a merciful God sent an angel in the form of a plump little serving girl to help her see her life. What it was meant to be. What it could be.

Thus, my darling, headstrong, romantic girl has taken it upon herself to single-handedly rescue any unfortunate member of my family. She says that as she has none, this gives her something to do. Just this morning, we arranged for some cousins from the North to come live with us…

Amelia stopped reading, her question answered. Hugh had been spared, but she hadn't known why. Now she did. In saving Jane's life, she had put an extraordinary chain of events into action, all of them good.

Why had she assumed it was a bad thing, to try and change the past? Why had every novel she'd ever read assumed that fact? She turned several of the journal's pages, enjoying the feel of the paper, studying Jonathan's bold handwriting, until another phrase caught her eye.

Thus we were taught the ultimate lesson. That faith, if shared, creates faith. That hope, if encouraged, creates hope. And that love, once given, creates an infinite form of that emotion, so that no one need ever want for it.

How true. There were only a few paragraphs left, and Amelia scanned them quickly.

My only regret in this life is that I never had a chance to thank Emma. I did so for her part in bringing my Jane safely home, but she died before I had a chance to tell her how thankful I was she fought Jane's misguided will and kept her alive.

Had I but one wish, it would be to have the chance to thank her. To let her know what she meant to me, what her actions meant to my family. I take lilies from the garden to her grave each Sunday. My way of doing penance, I suppose…

Here the journal ended.

Amelia closed the book. Gathering up her robe and slippers, she knew there was one more thing she had to do before she and Hugh left on their honeymoon in the morning.

She picked up her small going-away bouquet and smiled at Penny's choices. Red roses for love. Rosemary for faithfulness. Hyacinth for constancy and bachelor's button for hope. All qualities that brought Emma to mind.

Outside, the spring air was gentle and cool. So unlike that cold, rainy night when she and Jane had escaped to the carriage. She walked steadily toward the graveyard.

Hugh had pointed it out to her, but she'd never wanted to see it before now. Graves and their occupants had always left her with a rather creepy feeling, and she'd wanted nothing to do with them.

She wasn't afraid anymore. She'd been in much darker places.

Once inside the gated property, she turned on the flashlight and started studying the headstones and their inscriptions. She would've guessed Emma was buried on the outskirts, but wasn't surprised when she found the headstone toward the center of the family plot.

"Emma," she whispered, sinking to her knees. She placed the small bouquet on the grave. The inscription below the single name was brief, A LOVING WOMAN, A NOBLE SERVANT WITH THE HEART OF A LION. MAY SHE FIND PEACE.

"Emma," she whispered again, then touched the moss-covered stone. She knelt silently for a while, enjoying the feel of the night air, and somehow knowing that Emma and Jane and even Jonathan were close by. Would always be close to the house in spirit. Would possibly even choose to come back, through their children.

She began to speak, the words clumsy and halting, though they came from her heart.

"Emma, I wanted to thank you, for… showing me what I had, and what I might have run from. I could've thrown it all away, I was so frightened. Until you showed me what it meant to step outside yourself and truly love another person."

She paused. Amazing, how right it felt to talk to a dead person, buried beneath the ground.

"I'll come and see you when I get back. I'll bring you flowers. And I want you to know, Emma, what you meant to Jonathan, and to Jane. And especially to me."

She wiped away the tears gathering in her eyes.

"You won't be forgotten. I won't let that happen. John and I will gather up all the papers, the family history, and write a book about the history of this house. You'll be prominently mentioned-"

She laughed then, and the sound carried on the night wind. How funny. The type of person Emma had been, she wouldn't have given a fig about being included in a family history. But Amelia didn't want the little maid to be forgotten.

"I'll always consider you a member of my family. I'm going to name my firstborn daughter after you. And your memory will always live on in my heart."

She stood, then remained silent for a few more moments until she sensed another's presence. She turned and saw Annie, in a dark cloak, standing to the side.

"Annie. I didn't see you at my wedding."

"You went back, didn't you?"

She saw no reason to lie.

"Yes."

"And had the courage to change it. Thank God."

"Yes."

"My mother had the sight. She told me, before she died, that a woman would come to this house and set things right. The day you came, that night I had a dream. I knew it would happen, but I was scared for you. That you might not have the courage to change things. That you might get stuck back there, and die."

"So I did go back."

"You know you did."

Amelia nodded. "And everything is finished now?"

Annie smiled. "Lindsey House casts a strange spell over people. There are more writings that will be found. Perhaps by you, perhaps by your children. They might open up the way for others to do what you've done. I don't know. I only know that my work here is finished."

"I'd like you to stay. To remain in service here. To take care of the children."

"Will you tell your husband?"

"I don't like keeping secrets from him."

"But some things… we have to find on our own."

She nodded her head. "You think I should keep this to myself."

"Yes."

"Would you stay if I asked you to? So that I might have someone to talk to?"

Annie hesitated, and Amelia could sense the conflict within the girl.

"For now, I can't. But I can promise you, should you ever need me, I'll come back."

It had to be enough. "Thank you."

The girl suddenly grinned. "Get back to that husband of yours and keep him warm."

"Oh, I intend to."

She stood in the cottage's small bedroom and watched Hugh sleep. The love she felt for him overwhelmed her, and she thought of all their marriage would entail.

She would do her best to be a good wife. To help him, comfort him, love him. To stand by him, no matter what life might send their way.

The flowers in the bedroom filled the air with their sweet scent. Amelia closed her eyes and thought of her wedding, remembering each moment, treasuring it, knowing it might never have occurred.

She would save those memories. Penny would have a duplicate bridal bouquet waiting for her when she and Hugh returned to Lindsey House from their honeymoon. Amelia wanted to press the flowers, put them in their wedding album along with the satin ribbon. She wanted to create several pressed flower frames for the wedding pictures that would soon join the others on the walls of Lindsey House.

She would take one bloom and put it, pressed, inside the locket Hugh had given her with their wedding date engraved inside.

She would travel through time with those memories, and when this life came to an end, she would pass those memories on to their children. And suddenly she didn't want to wait for a baby. If she could have held their firstborn in her arms this minute, she would've wished for it.

Hugh wanted children right away. She'd been more cautious with her heart. Not anymore.

When she slipped back into bed, Hugh woke up.

"Where were you?" he murmured, drawing her close. She put her arms around his neck and melted into the warmth of his lean body. If she had her way, they would start trying to bring another life into the world this very night.

"Reading the journal. The end made me cry."

He was silent for a moment.

"Have you read it?"

He nodded. "I felt as if I knew Jonathan, the way he thought, the things he observed-"

More than you will ever know…

"It's extraordinarily sad," Hugh continued, "how he never got a chance to thank that woman, to let her know how much her courage meant to him. She changed his world. She changed everything for the Lindseys."

"I know. But you know what? She knows."

He smiled, then pulled her closer. "How can you be so sure?"

She kissed his cheek, then whispered into his ear, "You just have to have faith in these things, darling." She kissed him again, told him she'd changed her mind about having a child right away, then laughed out loud at his expression of total joy.

In memory of my father.

I'd bring you back if I could.