The Dark Between Part 19

She thought of the lady in the dark between. She'd loved him so desperately she could not stay away, not even in death. Did he long to speak with her? Would he even wish to see how desperate she was?

"I think it may be that I can read an old grief in your face," Elsie said.

His eyes widened. "Really?"

"At supper you said you'd lost your father and a close friend. I can see that their deaths still haunt you." She smiled. "I certainly didn't mean to be disconcerting."

He shook his head. "I am behaving like an idiot." He moved closer and took her hand, staring at it for a moment. When he looked up his expression was blandly cheerful. "I invited you to go rowing, but instead of offering you lively conversation I've maundered on about religion and death. And this tree won't protect us from the rain much longer. Can you forgive me?"

Even though he held her hand, she could feel him pulling away. Her mention of grief and loss had made him skittish, as though she'd touched upon something he wished to hold to himself. Of course, this only made her long to delve further into those very secrets he protected.

She wove her fingers through his. "I don't care about the rain, Mr. Wakeham, and I don't desire lively conversation. All I want is for people to talk to me about real things, things that matter, even if they are painful." She sighed. "I wish you weren't leaving Cambridge so soon, for I should like to know you better."

He met her gaze directly, and though his face seemed haunted, his eyes were wide with surprise ... and something like yearning.

The rain began to fall with more force, dripping down through the leaves. Simon blinked as a drop splashed his temple. With her free hand Elsie smoothed a lock of hair that had tumbled over his brow and then allowed her fingers to trail down his cheek, following the path of the raindrop. Her heart was pounding, but she no longer felt shame at her boldness. This was innocent. She only meant to comfort him, to put him at ease and encourage his trust in her.

But she also wanted very much to kiss him.

Her fingers trailed by his mouth, and then she let her hand drop to her lap.

He swallowed, his grip tightening on her other hand.

She leaned forward ever so slightly.

And then, finally, his lips were on hers, slightly open and soft as a whisper. She closed her eyes and sank into him. There was nothing frenzied about it-he did not clasp her by the back of the head and crush her mouth with his own ... as the artist had done. Simon's kiss was so light, like a tentative caress, that she longed to be the aggressor. She pressed against him, imagining herself pus.h.i.+ng him to the ground.

A shudder went through her body, but it wasn't a tremble of desire. Rather, it was the sinking feeling that always prefaced a convulsion. She roughly pushed away from Simon, closing her eyes and gasping for air.

"No, no, no," she moaned, willing her body to stop shaking.

"My G.o.d, what did I do?"

She lifted her hand to silence him. "Just ... allow me a moment. Please." She took several deep breaths, willing her pulse to slow. This will not happen. I do not want this to happen. I control this.

And somehow ... as it had the night of the dinner party, her body listened. Only this time the fit had come upon her much more suddenly and powerfully. It had taken all the strength she could muster to push it back. And the only thing that could explain such an onslaught was that she was here with him. Simon's lost love.

She opened her eyes.

Simon Wakeham was pale. "I beg your forgiveness. I never intended that to happen."

"You were here with her," she whispered.

His eyebrows shot up. "What?"

"I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "It was a fleeting thought. The friend you mentioned-it occurred to me that you might have brought her here once. Perhaps for a picnic like this one?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Why would that suddenly occur to you?"

"Her memory haunts you. It's ... holding you back somehow."

"Miss Atherton, when we first met at the British, you spoke words to me. They almost sounded like a message from another person-a person I once knew."

Panic fluttered in her chest. "I hardly remember that day. My condition often leads to gaps in memory." She was stumbling horribly, no doubt sounding like a fool. Asher needn't have worried she would confess everything to Simon, for she was terrified of the havoc her truth might wreak. She was so close to having him.

"What caused your condition, Elsie?" His eyes were gentle, encouraging.

"I was struck by lightning." The words rushed from her mouth like a sigh she could no longer contain. "I really should be dead."

He stared at her for a long and uncomfortable moment, his eyes steely. She forced herself to return his gaze steadily.

"You are the most unusual person I've ever met," he finally said, his mouth softening into a smile. Then he leaned closer and kissed her again.

Chapter 23.

It was Tec who stood in the rain. Kate broke into a run, eager to throw her arms around him. She had so many questions, and so much to tell him.

But when she came within ten paces of him, he turned and stalked away.

"Tec!"

She lowered the parasol and again screamed his name into the rain, but he didn't even glance back.

Heart sinking into her gut, she followed him across the gra.s.s and through the gate to Garret Hostel Lane. The rain fell more heavily now-perhaps he meant to find shelter so they could have a proper chat without being soaked. Instead he turned onto Trinity Lane without pausing. She called out again, but he either didn't hear her or was ignoring her. When she stepped up her pace, he did the same. She would have broken into a run but her skirt, heavy with rain, threatened to trip her. The material of Elsie's parasol was so waterlogged that it was tearing from the frame, offering little protection from the drops that splashed her face. She folded it up, praying Elsie wouldn't be too angry when she saw it.

Tec led her on a bewildering chase through the market without once looking back. Each time she thought she'd closed the gap between them, he made an unexpected turn or increased his pace so that she once again found herself far behind. Why had he stood there by the river if he'd not meant to speak to her? And why run away when she called out to him?

On Sidney Street she stumbled on a rock and nearly fell just as a pony cart clattered past, coming within inches of running her over. She dropped the parasol and wrapped her arms around her body, shuddering at the thought of the pony's iron-shod hooves. When she'd caught her breath, she retrieved the parasol and dashed into the alley, giving wide berth to a speeding bicycle ... and ran headlong into a man.

He grunted at the impact, and she reeled back, apologizing. She tried to edge her way around him, but he grabbed her arm.

"And just where are you going in such a hurry?"

The voice was chillingly familiar.

Lifting her head slowly, she peered at the face.

Robert Eliot.

"You'll cause an accident if you carry on like that."

Kate tried to duck her head as he scrutinized her, but he roughly pulled her chin up.

"There's something familiar about you," he said. "Dark eyes. Pointy chin." One hand gripped her shoulder, but the other ran down her free arm and clenched her wrist like a vise. "It's as though I've seen you before, only you were different."

Kate looked around, hoping for a stranger to see her plight and take pity. But no one bothered to glance toward the muddy alley. The knife was heavy in her pocket, but his iron grip kept her right hand pinned.

He laughed softly. "I know it now. You were the spirit apparition at Martineau's seance." Eliot turned her around, crus.h.i.+ng her backside to his body so she could not see him. He twisted her wrist until she squeaked. "You were good, too," he said. "Made fools of us all, didn't you? Working your schemes on the streets now, eh? I should take you to the police this instant."

"Let go or I'll hurt you," Kate growled between clenched teeth, wriggling in his grasp.

He clutched both her wrists in one hand and searched her body with the other. She started to scream, hoa.r.s.ely, but he only pulled her tighter and moved his free hand to cover her mouth. Better there than in her pockets ... or under her skirt. She squirmed with all her strength, trying to break his hold on her wrists.

"Strong for such a skinny thing. Must I tie you up?"

He let go of her hands to pull something from his own pocket. Heart thumping in her chest, she fumbled for the knife. As she slipped the blade free of its sheath, he pulled a silk scarf toward her wrists.

Before he could restrain her again, she stabbed at his thigh.

He cried out in pain, finally easing his grip, and she shoved him hard enough to throw him off balance. As he sagged against the wall, whimpering, she leapt toward the street and slogged as fast as she could through the mud and muck toward Trinity Lane, not daring to slow down until she'd reached Garret Hostel Lane.

She leaned against the cold stone of Trinity College and gasped for breath.

What had she done?

Eliot would have the police after her now. She wasn't merely a fraud anymore. Causing bodily harm with a knife would land her in the clink for certain. Eliot didn't know her name, or where she lived, but he could learn it from anyone who used to work for Martineau. It was only a matter of time. She would have to leave Summerfield, never to see the Thompsons or Elsie and Asher again. Seeing Tec there by the river had made her think he'd come for her, that they would leave Cambridge together. And she would have followed him anywhere. But he'd run from her. She simply couldn't make sense of it.

She must somehow find a way to leave Cambridge on her own.

For now, however, the rain was easing up, and there was nothing to do but go back to Elsie and Simon Wakeham.

Her first sight of them did nothing to ease her desperation. The two faced each other on the picnic blanket, damp from the rain and sitting too close for casual conversation. Something had happened-they stared at each other without speaking, their expressions grave. As she drew closer, Elsie turned. For a moment the ghost of a frown played at her mouth, stopping Kate in her tracks. Then Elsie seemed to draw herself up, leaning away from Simon Wakeham. She raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"Kate, you're absolutely soaked! Why did you run off like that?"

"I saw a friend. I meant to catch up to him, but the rain ... it was pouring and I-"

Elsie made shus.h.i.+ng noises. "Silly goose. Here-let me wrap this blanket around you. We need to get you home and out of these wet clothes."

As Kate stood still and dumb, s.h.i.+vering under the blanket, the other two worked quickly to pack up the picnic items, all the while averting their eyes from each other. Clearly they must have misbehaved in some way, but Kate didn't care to speculate further. She did note, however, how gently Mr. Wakeham held Elsie's hand as he helped her into the boat. How they shared a glance that seemed heavy with meaning-something deeper than flirtation.

They were a quiet group on the journey back. No one asked her about the boy she'd chased through the rain. They would never guess, of course, that she'd attacked a gentleman in an alley. Alone in her thoughts, Kate focused on the sound of oars slapping the water. She had little time for planning her next move, but she knew her future wouldn't include Summerfield College much longer.

Asher had warmed to Philip Marshall at the Thompsons' dinner party, but he found him even more interesting in his own element. Self-a.s.sured and free with his opinions, Dr. Marshall came across as refres.h.i.+ngly logical.

He also seemed sincere in his desire to open Asher's eyes to the wonders of his alma mater. As they ate a private supper in Dr. Marshall's rooms, Asher listened intently to the man's detailed introduction to the most important people and buildings of the college. Dr. Marshall was an accomplished lecturer, apparently accustomed to speaking for long periods of time without interruption. But he did eventually pause long enough for Asher to pose a question.

"Dr. Marshall, how exactly did you come to know Mr. Thompson? I have trouble seeing you as a member of the Metaphysical Research Society."

Dr. Marshall put his fork down and lifted his napkin to his lips, almost as if to stifle a laugh. "I'm not a member, really. I have spoken at their meetings before, on subjects relating to the mind rather than the soul or spirit. I'll speak at their London meeting this weekend, as a matter of fact. But I keep my distance from their ghost hunting." He set the napkin down, his expression thoughtful. "Once upon a time, Oliver and my father were part of a group called the Ghost Society at Cambridge-they had grand plans to collect true ghost stories and investigate the claims of local mediums and psychics. But nothing much came of it. Oliver was considerably more enthusiastic than my father. Later he did ask me to join the Metaphysical Society, no doubt out of respect to my father, but I declined."

"Because you don't believe in ghosts?"

Dr. Marshall shrugged. "It was more that I had other research interests, and I wished those pursuits to be taken seriously by the scientific and medical community. When I saw how much ridicule was aimed at the Metaphysical Society's efforts, I was relieved I hadn't joined them. I'm not ashamed to confess that. However, I did keep in touch with Oliver and a few others."

A few others. "Did you, um ... did you count Frederic Stanton among your friends?"

The man's eyes widened in surprise. "Why, yes. Stanton was older, but he supported my work and often mentored me. He had a medical degree, you know, so we had something in common other than an interest in the metaphysical. His death was a blow-in fact, I testified at his inquest." He paused to wipe his mouth again. "He was a good friend to your father as well. Did you ever meet Stanton?"

"No, I didn't." Asher paused, uncertain how to phrase his response. "But Mr. Thompson and my father have spoken of him with great fondness. And Mr. Eliot knew him."

"Eliot?" Dr. Marshall grimaced. "A fool of a man-he's exactly why I don't wish to be a member of the Society. Such a fatuous brute."

"I know you and Simon Wakeham are cousins. Are you good friends as well?"

"Oh yes. We practically grew up together, so we may as well have been brothers. Simon's a bit of a dreamer, I must say. Rather suggestible. I did my best to toughen him up when we were boys, but he's still so d.a.m.ned idealistic." Dr. Marshall grinned. "The ladies love it, of course."

Even as Asher nodded he felt his stomach sink. It would be so easy to put Elsie off Simon Wakeham forever, if he could convince her that Wakeham was the one who hurt Billy. At the same time, he could clearly imagine Kate's penetrating glare if she knew what he was about, and he was ashamed for wis.h.i.+ng so desperately to discredit Wakeham just so Elsie would be free of his influence. It smacked of the most cowardly sort of deceit. And the man wasn't even pursuing her, as far as he could tell.

"I'd hope to hear more about your work," Asher said, keen to change the subject. "I confess to finding my father's research rather far-fetched, but your theories on the subliminal self intrigue me."

"It is my dearest hope that you will hear more about my theories in the not so distant future-you and everyone in the scientific community." Dr. Marshall smiled. "There's more data to collect, but one day these theories could make my career." He pointed to a handsomely carved file cabinet of oak. "I keep all my notes locked away for now, lest one of my colleagues steals my ideas ... or, even worse, misunderstands them. I'm afraid it's all a bit unconventional, you see."

"Unconventional how?"

Dr. Marshall crossed his arms. "I feel it's wise to keep those details to myself for the moment. You understand, surely?"

Asher could only nod, for it did seem better to keep unconventional ideas to oneself until sufficient evidence was gathered. Much preferable to spouting baseless theories, as some members of the Metaphysical Society seemed eager to do.

Once the meal was finally cleared away, Dr. Marshall reclined on a lumpy sofa in the sitting room. "I'm just going to close my eyes for a minute or so, and then I'll take you to my favorite pub. Tomorrow we'll dine with a medical friend of mine, and Thursday night we'll sup at High Table-it's not quite so grand out of term, but I've no doubt you'll enjoy it. And at some point you must come by the hospital to see my work with electrotherapy," he said, his eyes closing as he sank farther into the cus.h.i.+ons.

That night, as Asher settled into the spare room's narrow bed, he imagined the Thompsons relaxing comfortably in their sitting room with Elsie and Kate. Would the young ladies be talking of their row on the Cam? Had they spared a thought for him at some point during the day?

Somehow, he doubted it.

Chapter 24.

The morning after the rowing trip Elsie woke with the feel of Simon's lips on her own. She closed her eyes and snuggled deeper into the pillow, luxuriating in the memory, but the warm sensation soon faded like a dream. Rising from the bed with a sigh, she took her dose-an even smaller spoonful than the day before. Then she dressed and arranged her hair. She wished to develop the previous day's photographs before breakfast.

No one stirred downstairs except for Millie, who smiled and bobbed a curtsy as she opened the door for Elsie. The morning air was cool and fresh after the previous day's rain. As she walked toward the Science Annex, the flesh on her arms p.r.i.c.kled again at the memory of Simon's kiss.

Had she confessed too much? He hadn't seemed shocked, nor had she read doubt in his eyes. In fact, her honesty had seemed to draw him to her, and their kiss had consecrated this delicate new bond.