The Reigning and the Rule Page 7

  “At least I know I liked to read in this life,” I mutter to myself.

  “What’s that?” Ian says.

  “Oh, uh...nothing,” I reply and hurry up to return everything back to the box.

  And then I see the tin box. It’s not very big. I could easily hold it between both hands. I don’t care, though. It’s worn with scratches and dents around the sides. But the graphic on the lid is beautiful, depicting the French nursery rhyme, “The Wolf and the Crane.” Around the print is idyllic pastoral scenes in mustard yellow.

  My fingers are shaking as I lift the lid. The hinges creak in protest. I stare at the contents with wide eyes and let the top fall onto the garage floor.

  Worn, folded letters are neatly stacked in the tin. I pick up the first one and flatten it out. My butt falls to the ground when I see the beautiful cursive script and the year in the right-hand corner of the paper.

  March 2, 1913

  Dear Asa,

  If you are reading this, I am preparing to board a ship back to America. I’m wise enough to know it’s not the most prudent decision to show my face in Charleston. I don’t know where I will go, just as long as it’s not London. I need to create a better life for my baby and me. He is a five-month-old little boy who bears a striking resemblance to his father. I desperately try not to let it bother me. However, at times it does. He is a very patient baby and sleeps so well. I love him dearly.

  I think about you frequently and hope you are well. Have you settled down with anyone? How are you since I saw you last? I genuinely hope you are okay.

  Yours in friendship,

  Emmeline

  “Everything okay over there?” my brother asks.

  I jump at the sound of his voice and quickly refold the letter. “Uh, everything’s good. Just picking things up,” I reply, my voice shaking slightly.

  Closing the tin box, I set it aside and all but toss the boxes onto the shelf.

  Emmeline knew Asa. Emmeline knew Asa.

  Emmeline. Knew. Asa! It’s all I can think about. There’s a possibility Emmeline could’ve been writing to a different Asa or these letters don’t even belong to my great-great-grandma, but deep in my heart, I know they do, and I know Asa Calhoun is who she was writing to. The chances of me ever finding the picture of the four men standing in front of Belgrave is slim to none, but these letters...they could be my key to the past. All this time, I’ve been searching for a way back, and it’s been directly within reach.

  How and why these letters are in my possession is beyond me. All that matters is I found them, and I have to read the rest. Without a second thought, I grab my coat, all the while holding the tin box to my chest as if it’s a fragile piece of china that could break at any moment, and scurry up to my room. Except for Ian, Mom is the only other person home. She’s too busy talking on the phone with a friend about an upcoming charity event they’re hosting to notice me. As I walk past the living room, I can hear her ranting about the caterers mixing up her Eiffel Tower theme and instead of fresh baguettes, tender escargot, and a fine selection of French cheeses, they were serving Greek hors d’oeuvres. She looked on the brink of tears.

  I hurry up the stairs, and for the first time since I’ve arrived back in my own time, I wear a genuine smile on my face. Once inside my room, I lock the door behind me, kick off my heels, toss my coat onto the chair next to the window, and jump onto the bed.

  Crossing my legs beneath me, I set the tin box in front of me and open it back up. I place the already read letter on my bed and move to the next.

  May 3, 1913

  Dear Asa,

  I am where I truly belong. Chicago, Illinois, is a bustling place. Although Chicago is not a city I envisioned myself settling in once I arrived in America the second time. It is certainly a far cry from Charleston from the weather all the way to the accents, but I’ve slowly adapted to the Midwest and their way of life.

  I have a special someone in my life. We’ve been courting for the past two months. I’m confident he will ask me to marry him any day now, and I will say yes to him. He is different from Edward. He’s a hardworking businessman. Treats me well and loves my little boy. In time, I think I might love him as much as I love my son. I have big plans, and he wants to help me. Someday, you’re going to see my name in papers because I’ve made a name for myself. You will see, Asa Calhoun.

  Sincerely,

  Emmeline Hambleton

  July 5th, 1913

  Dearest Emmeline,

  My apologies I am writing this letter now. I’ve been traveling and arrived back in Charleston last night. My eyes are weary. I’m sure if I close them now, I will sleep the day away. I wrote to you in March and used the address you gave me before you left Charleston.

  I trust this address is your new residence?

  I suppose you think I’m going to be indignant over your return to America. However, I am not. I realize you are free to make your own decisions. I merely want you to be happy, and happy you sound. Tell me more about your life in Chicago. Regretfully, I have not traveled there.

  What are your big plans? My interest is piqued, to say the least. There is no question in my mind you can do anything you set your mind to, and if you think I don’t want to see you prove the world wrong, you are sorely mistaken.

  I want to see.

  Show me.

  Asa Calhoun

  August 3rd, 1913

  Dear Asa,

  I came to Chicago out of my own free will and to see if there was something to pursue with Uriah. I’m glad I took the leap of faith.

  I am officially Emmeline Langley. I married Uriah in a private ceremony yesterday with only his mother and brother in attendance. His mother seems displeased with me and by Henry, but I have adapted to harsh stares. She’ll learn to love Henry soon enough. Everyone does.

  I’m writing to you regarding a business venture I’m ready to embark on. This is something I think you will find great interest in. I want to open a department store that caters to the needs of women in upper and middle class alike. There will be four levels to the department store. Each level will have select categories catering to the women’s needs. I want to call my store Hambleton’s. I know it can compete with Bloomingdale’s, Carson’s, and Macy’s. Hambleton’s has the potential because I believe in it and it can break the mold of how we view shopping, but it needs investors.

  I look forward to hearing your thoughts.

  Sincerely,

  Emmeline

  September 15th, 1913

  Dearest Emmeline,

  Your latest letter has me intrigued. I never once perceived you as starting your own business. However, it sounds like a capital idea. I want to hear more information on your store, but just know I will help in any way possible.

  Congratulations on your marriage. While I’m not familiar with Mr. Langley, you seem to hold him in high esteem. Therefore, I am happy for you. Yet I feel the need to advise you to be careful. There are people out there who want to hurt you and possibly your son. You took a risk coming back to the States, and while I admire your determination and bravery, it’s vital you look out for yourself. Keep your eyes toward the future, but every so often, look over your shoulder to see who’s there.

  I look forward to your next letter. They have become a source of delight for me.

  Sincerely,

  Asa

  But there are no more letters. At least not in my possession. The tin box is empty. Frantically, I thumb through the letters before I flip them over; they can’t be done. The story ended before it ever begun. The more letters I read, the more convinced I became it was Asa Calhoun who was Emmeline’s pen pal. The words and phrasing sounded like things he would say.

  Feeling defeated, I drag my hands through my hair, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. So many questions swirling through my head. How did I get these letters?

  How?

  The authentic origins would be nearly impossible to trace.

  Who were the people Asa w
as warning Emmeline to steer clear from? Why was she in danger? The answer is right there.

  Right. There.

  If I had more letters, I’m positive I would discover the truth. But nothing is ever that cut and dry. There are layers to peel back, pain to unravel, and happiness to uncover. What makes me think Emmeline’s life would be any different?

  I pick up the final letter in my possession and scan the words, hoping something will jump out at me, but nothing does. I read the last letter three times, and my eyes keep going back to one sentence repeatedly: There are people out there who want to hurt you and possibly your son.

  Every single time I read those words, a chill rushes down my spine.

  I brush my fingers against the cursive letters of Asa’s last note to Emmeline. The words gradually rise an inch off the paper and become 3-D.

  “It’s just an illusion. It’s just an illusion,” I whisper.

  However, I slowly retrace the words, and when I do, I hear the scrape of the pen brushing against the paper. Black ink stains the pristine white stationery, and it’s as though I’m transported into the moment.

  I stop tracing the letters, but I don’t lift my index finger from the words. I’m overwhelmed, terrified, and excited. I want to remove my hand from the letter and take a deep breath and regroup, but if I do, the moment will be broken, and I’ll never get it back.

  My finger stays put. My hand shakes. Sweat breaks out around my temples. Goose bumps cause the hair to stand on my arms.

  Keep going, I tell myself. This is the only way to understand what happened to Emmeline and to find a way back to Étienne.

  Ever so slowly, I drag my fingertip across the smooth surface of the paper as I outline the word people. The scraping sound of the pen halts the minute my finger stops moving. Now, the noise continues. Only it’s louder the second time. Any sounds in my world are put on pause, and I can hear the distant sound of cicadas. I close my eyes and let my imagination transport me. I can picture Asa sitting behind his desk. The very window I crawled out of is the same one that’s opened, allowing the warm breeze to come in. Asa’s house is quiet. He’s the only one up.

  His desk lamp lights up the office. As his pen moves over the paper, his brows become deeply furrowed. His reaction is visceral. His concern is palpable. Asa knows more than he’s telling.

  My eyes flash open right as I’m tracing the word hurt. Once I touch the word you, blood fills the three-letter word. Very swiftly, the blood overflows and begins to trickle down the paper.

  Immediately, I rip my hand away from the letter. I expect the blood to disappear and the soft sound of the pen to fade, yet it doesn’t. If anything, the noise becomes louder until it’s almost deafening. A powerful metallic scent wafts through the room. The blood pools at the bottom of each letter before it trails down the paper, resembling colored tears. Quickly, I place my palms on the letter to prevent the blood from spilling onto the comforter, but the blood has a mind of its own and curves around the edges of my fingernails, as though they’re road bumps.

  Snippets of different parts of Asa and Emmeline’s letters are whispered in my ears. The voices are different and multiply by the second until they become a cacophony of noise, making it impossible to discern one voice from the next.

  Closing my eyes, I hiss in a sharp breath and press my hands against my ears to block the words.

  Hurt you.

  I know what’s happening. I’m slipping back through time. However, that doesn’t make the feeling any less terrifying. Being out of control of your own body is a horrible feeling. Unlike the previous moments before, I don’t feel a pounding headache, but my bones begin to ache. Forgetting about the letter in front of me, I fall forward. My elbow hits the tin box, and it falls to the floor.

  The pain spreads through my body like a poison. At times, it is so excruciating I wonder why I would ever want to put myself through this a third time. I start to feel nauseous, and my first instinct is to get up and run to the toilet. I try to stand, but the room spins. I try to grab the bed for balance, but my hand slips, and I fall back.

  The floor doesn’t break my fall. I’m in a free fall, and I don’t fight it. My body bows inward, my hands and the tips of my toes pointing toward the light coming from my bedroom.

  As the light travels farther away, the letter whispers one final thing.

  I want to see.

  Show me...

  “Do you think three hundred guests is ostentatious?”

  “Hmm?”

  Scarlett stares at me with her pale blue eyes. “Three hundred guests. Do you think it’s ostentatious?” she repeats.

  Absently, I pat her hand that’s tucked through my arm and look at the window display to my right. “Not at all.”

  Three hundred people is ridiculous, but I’ll agree to anything to get her to stop talking about the wedding. I’m numb to everything centering around it.

  I don’t dislike Scarlett Gould. In fact, she’s a lovely person. I’ve known her since we were children. Our fathers were once business partners, and because of her proximity in age to Nat, she immediately started up a friendship with Nat. The Gould family is prominent in New York, known for wisely investing in the railroad at the right time. Jack, her father, could be ruthless—so much so, he made me appear tame. Very few liked him and no one dared to cross him.

  Her family has had a home in Charleston for as long as I can remember and they traveled to South Carolina during the winter and stayed for a month or two. Their fleeting appearance should have given the Goulds zero access into the elite circle. Some of the families in Charleston dated back to over a hundred years ago, and they don’t take kindly to fresh blood. But Scarlett’s family had two essential things: money and connections. Their connections just happened to be our family. They were embraced, albeit reluctantly, but embraced nonetheless.

  Growing up, if I accidentally made eye contact with Scarlett, she would blush and immediately look away. But almost a year and a half after Serene left—and while the Gould family was visiting—Livingston planted the seed of marriage, and very slowly, that seed started to take root in my brain.

  “I know you’re gonna wait the rest of your life for Serene to come back if you have to, but even if she does, she’ll leave again. And then what? You’ll continue to wait? Is that how you want to live your life?” he asked one night as we poured ourselves some brandy and relaxed in my office at Belgrave.

  I never answered his question.

  “Do you want a family, Étienne?” he prodded.

  This question I did answer. “Yes.”

  It wasn’t a continuous fantasy I had, but when I did, I pictured Serene carrying my children. I didn’t know how many children I would have. That didn’t matter and whether they were boys or girls didn’t matter either. Just as long as they were fiery like their mother and at least one had her red hair with glints of strawberry blond and her wicked smile, I would be happy.

  Livingston smirked sadly as if he could read my thoughts. “You can’t have a family with Serene, what with her comin’ and goin’. I think time has made that abundantly clear.”

  As much as it pained me to admit, he was right. My soul mate was someone I was bound to never be with. Someone who time continuously dangled in front of me like forbidden fruit. I would reach for her over and over. Right when I thought I had her in my grasp, she was yanked away.

  “I know there’s a possibility you’re angry with me for bringin’ this up, but this conversation couldn’t be avoided forever.”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “What are you then? Because the expression on your face has me convinced you’re gonna throw your glass in my face.”

  “Honestly, I don’t know what I’m thinkin’.”

  “You’re the oldest. You have to carry on the family name.”

  “We’re twins. You’re the oldest in the family,” I point out. “It is your duty too.”

  “Correct,” he admits. “However, I’m not in love w
ith a woman I have no chance of havin’ a future with.”

  His words make me flinch even though I know he speaks the truth.

  “If almost losing your life showed us anythin’, it’s that tomorrow isn’t promised to us. Hell, we should know that better than anyone.” He snorts bitterly, and I know he’s referring to the death of our parents and younger brother all those years ago. “But Serene risked her life so you could keep yours. She didn’t do that in vain so you could sit around and drink brandy every night, pinin’ over her. It’s time you do somethin’. It’s been over a year.”

  I rubbed my temples. I wanted to resist Livingston’s words. They were like poison to swallow. But I couldn’t fault his reasoning.

  “She’ll come back,” I say for the hundredth time. Over and over, I’ve said those three words, and they’re all but etched onto my heart. However, the weight they held three hundred and sixty-five days ago isn’t as strong. Doubt started to drift into my mind like tufts of smoke.

  Livingston is hardly fazed by my remark. “Perhaps she will. But we’ve been over this. Serene won’t stay forever. She can’t. She belongs in another time.”

  “She belongs with me,” I say fiercely, leaving no room for argument.

  My brother backs away, knowing he’s not going to convince me. “You stand by your convictions, Étienne. But just mull over what I’ve told you, all right? You deserve a small amount of happiness, rather than a lifetime of heartache.”

  “Livingston—”

  He held up a hand, effectively cutting me off. “What about Scarlett Gould?”

  I arched a brow. “What about her?”

  “She’s friends with Nat. Her family is close to ours.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard her utter a word other than to Nat.”

  “Well, then you’re perfect because you’re quiet too. It’s a match made in mute heaven.”