Time After Time (11 page)

Simone bristled. ‘Ask away.’

‘What’s your date do?’

‘He’s in public service.’

I made a face. ‘Told you he’s a dork. How old?’

‘Twenty something.’

‘Good looking?’

‘His photo is.’ Simone shrugged.

I gasped. ‘You haven’t even met him? He could be a mad rapist or something.’

‘It’s our first date,’ Simone bristled, ‘and he is
not
a mad rapist.’

‘You never know,’ I said. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you if you end up dead in some alleyway somewhere. He could be Brookdale’s own Jack the Ripper.’

‘Honestly, Abbie,’ snapped Simone, ‘is there really no censoring your tongue? You can’t go around saying things like that about people.’

‘I can say whatever I want! I’m not the one about to be murdered by Jack the Ripper!’

I stalked away before Simone could answer, feeling jittery and hot. Something was up; my instincts were almost screaming at me, and I knew to pay attention to my instincts. Instincts might have let countless others down before, but so far, mine hadn’t failed me.

Did it have something to do with Simone’s date? Maybe the fact that I suspected Meredith and Simone had been talking. That meant Meredith was more concerned than I’d realised. She’d probably talked to Beth and Laura too.

I paused, the book I held suspended midair. If Meredith was really concerned she might look for clues in my room or in the attic where I spent so much time. She might look through my things. My throat went dry. She might find my journal.

My secret journal stashed under the chair.

The one that documented all my other lives.

Evidence of my madness.

No wonder Meredith had seemed so surprised to hear that Simone had a date. She’d spoken to Simone recently and yet Simone hadn’t mentioned it, no doubt because they were too busy talking about me.

Dropping the book, I ran back to the counter.

‘Simone,’ I rasped, ‘did Meredith come to see you about me?’

Simone guiltily diverted her gaze. ‘Well, yes, but she is really worri—’

I waved my hand. ‘Never mind. But I have to go—I’ll be back, okay? Just give me twenty minutes.’

‘Well, okay,’ Simone frowned, but I didn’t waste any more time, bolting from the library and down the road. My house was a five-minute bus ride or a fifteen-minute walk, but it was Saturday afternoon so the buses didn’t come that often. I’d have to walk. Or run.

As I ran along the pavement, my only focus was the journal—the clunky, old book that held my deepest, darkest thoughts.
What if Meredith read it? What would she think?
I almost choked on the thought, trying to recall the last few entries of Penelope in an English village.

In the year 1806.

I’d outlined Heath’s proposal, which was our last encounter. I groaned inwardly. Meredith would think I was schizophrenic at the very least, or mad. There would be no escaping the shrink now.

I was rapidly changing from being the poor, misunderstood orphan of
Jane Eyre
to the mad woman in the attic.

It was only when I turned into my street that I slowed, coming to a brisk walking pace and drawing in slow, steady breaths to calm myself.
Maybe it will be okay
…

Meredith’s car wasn’t there so I let myself in and raced upstairs. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I had a feeling I would know if anyone had read my journal.

Pausing inside my bedroom, I looked around. It was in the state of the usual organised chaos I favoured: a poster of Good Charlotte on one wall, the faded pink, floral doona unmade on my bed.

Maybe I was overreacting, too suspicious for my own good.

My eyes scanned the room, searching for signs of trespass. Clothes hung on top of the hamper, black makeup sat on the dresser, the mirror was strung with beads, and books were stacked, not lined, on their shelf, which was the way I liked them. It all looked the same.

Going upstairs, I did the same as I stood in the doorway of the attic. I surveyed the room. The clutter and chaos was the same, my easel and paints where I’d left them.

The blanket.

I kept an old, musty blanket draped over the top of my armchair, and now it was folded neatly on the seat.

Reaching under the cushions, I felt for the journal, my pulse pounding in my head. As my fingers found it, my heart skipped a beat. Opening the thick book, my eyes scanned the tattered pages—they contained the rantings and ravings of a mad person.

It was just as I’d left it. My conversations with Heath, and with Jane and Eliza Smith, remained carefully documented; my pencil sketch of Heath’s face in the twilight was there too. I’d done many drawings of him.

Marcus’ face.

And the rider. I’d drawn him too. As I flicked through the pages, my panic grew.
The rider
.

I turned another page. And another.

I’d drawn him, just as Penelope had, sitting astride the powerful horse, gazing down on her menacingly.

With growing panic, I scrambled through the pages, past my scribbles and drawings. It wasn’t there. The picture wasn’t there. My eyes lit on the jagged edges of a torn page, and a hard lump formed in my throat.

It was gone. The picture of him, of the rider with grey eyes, had been torn from my book.

Cold horror turned in my stomach.

He’d found not just Penelope, but me too.

1806

Alone in the attic, Penelope picked up a pencil and began to sketch. The canvas lay smooth and clean before her, and she couldn’t wait to fill it. Couldn’t wait to recapture the moment that so warmed her heart.

Heath was in love with her. She knew it like she knew the sun would rise tomorrow, like she knew her own self. And her feelings. He was in love with her and she, well, she was madly and utterly in love with him. Her heart swelled with the memory of his kisses, of his arms around her. She couldn’t wait to see him again, couldn’t wait to feel his hands, his lips, on her once more, couldn’t wait for the sensations that coursed deliciously throughout her body.

Time
. It was only a matter of time, and time was something they were not short of. Her thoughts flipped back to Mrs Smith and Jane, and their strange, intriguing words. What had Jane said?
You are part of a great love story?
Well, Jane had been listening to rumours and had told Penelope something she wanted to hear, something she wanted to believe. Something she did in fact believe. But Mrs Smith…What was it Eliza Smith had whispered?
Is he the one you dream of?
What an odd thing to say, as if there could be anyone else when he consumed her every waking and sleeping thought.

Almost.

Penelope shivered again, and the pencil fell from her fingers. Turning to pick it up, she froze, her eyes growing wide with disbelief. Nestled on her tray of paints was the orange rose bloom. The strange bloom from Aunt Elizabeth’s garden. The one she’d stopped to admire with Georgina.

She hadn’t picked it. Neither had Georgina.

But someone had. And someone had been in her attic.

Glancing around the attic, over the large, heavy trunks and the dusty, old furniture, she found nothing to suggest that anyone, other than her, had ever been in the room. Her father never came up here, nor did any of the servants. It was her space entirely. And yet someone had been in here.

Heath? No. Instantly she knew it wasn’t him, and her heart quickened, ice seeping into her veins. Rising, she moved to the attic window. It faced west, and she could see the light from the sun just emerging over the top of the house, illuminating the forest surrounding the parsonage. Her eyes scoured every inch of visible landscape for any sign of
him
, her throat tight.
This is ridiculous
, she told herself,
I am not being stalked by some stranger with odd silver eyes
. The very idea was preposterous.

Downstairs she heard the front door open and her father call up to her. Warmth returned to her limbs. Pushing all thoughts of the stranger from her head, she went downstairs to greet her father, not looking at the orange flower waiting for her.

‘I think there is much you aren’t telling me,’ Georgina said a few days later, her expression smug as the two girls sat on the verandah that wrapped around Broadhurst Manor.

Penelope struggled to keep her features set. ‘Really, Georgie, I thought I was the one with the overactive imagination.’

Georgina laughed, her voice light and pleasant. ‘Oh, this has nothing to do with an imagination, my dear cousin. This has nothing do to with imaginings, and everything to do with fact.’

‘You and your facts.’ Penelope glanced at the book in her cousin’s lap. ‘And what is that you’re reading?’

‘I found it in Harry’s things. And before you can scold me for snooping, I’ll have you know he said I could read it. But you are changing the subject, my dear cousin.’

‘No, I’m not,’ she replied, lifting her chin slightly. ‘I thought we had exhausted it.’

‘I don’t think we have.’ Georgina peered closer at Penelope. ‘No. I think there is something you aren’t telling me.’

Penelope set her mouth in a firm, straight line but didn’t answer.

Georgina gasped. ‘You haven’t!’

Penelope blinked. ‘What?’

‘Well, you know…’ Georgina leaned even closer, scooting her chair across to close the gap between them, and lowered her voice. ‘Tell me what has happened between you. Has he kissed you? More?’

Penelope gasped.

‘Oh, don’t be so outraged Pene,’ Georgina said, her lips playing with a smile. ‘I see the way you look at one another. You’re more in love than any couple I’ve ever seen!’

Penelope kept her lips together, refusing to answer.

‘Well? You must tell me! You know I won’t give up. I can’t stand secrets or mysteries.’

At the mention of secrets, Penelope’s mind flashed back to the rider on the hill, to the man watching from the edge of the forest. Try as she might, Penelope couldn’t forget him, and she found it increasingly difficult not to think of his startling grey eyes. Even pleasant thoughts about Heath couldn’t completely eradicate him from her mind.

‘Pene?’ Georgina was watching her curiously.

‘There
is
something I’d like to tell you,’ Penelope said, furtively glancing around to make sure they were alone. It was late afternoon, and the sun sat low in the cloudless sky, streaking the earth with shimmering light. ‘Something that has been troubling me.’

‘Troubling you?’ Georgina frowned. This wasn’t what she’d been expecting.

‘Well, I’ve been feeling, um, sensing someone watching me.’

‘Watching you?’ Georgina repeated.

‘Yes. I saw someone the day Heath and Harry arrived. A man on a horse. Then I saw him again from my attic window.’ She felt a little silly now. It all sounded completely harmless when she said it aloud.

‘Whom do you think it was? Was it Heath?’

She shook her head. ‘No. It wasn’t him. This person had silver grey eyes. Glassy eyes and a tear-shaped pupil.’ She shivered. ‘And it’s not just that. I often get a feeling, a strange feeling…’ She could find no words to explain her sense of foreboding. As if something ominous lurked on the fringes of her mind, just out of reach.

‘Pene? Is everything all right? Are you well?’ Georgina’s voice was full of concern.

Penelope did her best to smile reassuringly. She’d been silly to confide about her overactive imagination with her cousin; it was nothing. Nothing she needed to share, anyhow. ‘I’m fine. Forgive me. I’ve had trouble sleeping lately.’

‘Sounds like it indeed.’ Georgina sat back in her chair and watched Penelope thoughtfully. ‘If you saw this rider—this person—again, would you recognise him?’

‘Yes. Absolutely.’

‘But you haven’t seen him since Heath arrived?’

‘No. Only that day.’

Georgina shrugged. ‘Then I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Perhaps a passing traveller? Don’t think about him anymore. Think only of Mr Lockwood and what a fine, handsome couple you will make, and how
our Anne
will be exceedingly jealous.’

Penelope smiled, feeling better at the thought of Heath. Purposely she allowed her mind to drift to sweet memories of his kiss, while she did her best to ignore the strange sensations curling in the pit of her belly.

Sensations she soon realised were guilt.

Present day

I caught the bus back to the library. The journal was rehidden in the attic.

As I sat on the bus, my mind was in chaos. Maybe I was imagining it.
He
, the man who stalked me repeatedly, was part of my dreams, my own Freddie Kruger. He wasn’t real, and he certainly couldn’t just appear in my room and read my journal. There was no way he could know about the journal. How would he even know where to find me? No, I must be mistaken. It wasn’t possible.

But the torn page, the missing picture…

Both were evidence that couldn’t be easily dismissed.

‘Everything all right?’ Simone asked as I walked into the library.

‘Yes. Sorry for running out like that. I, ah, left the iron on,’ I mumbled feebly.

Simone looked pointedly at my crinkled dress and torn stockings. ‘I see.’ That was all she said before changing topics. ‘Are you still able to cover for me tonight?’

I nodded and tried to smile reassuringly, but I don’t think I managed it very well. I felt hollow inside, my mind and body almost numb from fear, terror and confusion.

I spent the next few hours stacking shelves, my body on rote, my mind heavy. I couldn’t think of anything but the rider watching Penelope from a distance.

And watching me, too, it seemed.

‘You’ll be okay?’ Simone asked, looping her handbag over her shoulder and scooping a few books under her arm.

‘Sure,’ I told her, glancing at the books. ‘What are you reading?’

‘Oh, love stories,’ Simone gushed. ‘Silly really, but I guess I’m in the mood for a little romance these days. Unlike some.’

I ignored her. Simone was right: romance was the last thing on my mind.

Even if it was forefront in Penelope’s.

Time dragged. Few people venture to the library on a Saturday night, and that night there were even fewer due to the school dance. By eight o’clock I was alone with Daniel, my pimple-faced, fourteen-year-old co-worker.