castle's master suite.
***
Blythe gently closed the door to the yellow guest bedroom and slumped against the wood paneling. She took a deep breath to try to steady her nerves, wondering if she had finally, completely, lost her sanity.
Who was that raving lunatic storming around the castle waving his sword, and why was he clothed as if he were playing some down-at-the-heels Sir Percy Blakeney in The Scarlet Pimpernel? She glanced down at her trim waistline, cloaked, as before she'd descended the stairs into Luke's library, by her cotton nightgown. She was at a loss to explain how its sheer material had been replaced earlier by the thick folds of the boned gown that had pressed painfully against her bulging stomach.
Whose bulging stomach? she wondered, utterly bewildered. Whose child? And was that woman named Blythe her— Blythe Barton Stowe from this century? It was as if she'd been in a dream and watching a dream at the same time.
However, thanks to her extensive training in theatrical makeup and costume, Blythe hazarded a guess that the clothes and unpowdered hairstyle worn by the sword-wielding, breeches-clad, pockmarked apparition named Christopher "Kit" Trevelyan dated toward the end of the l700s.
As for the portrait of Kit's brother—it had seemed genuine enough before it had been obliterated by Trevelyan's rapier thrusts. And as far as Ennis's portrait of the first Blythe Barton herself—the resemblance was close enough to be unsettling.
She walked unsteadily to her bed and sank onto the mattress, her mind reeling. The genealogy chart had behaved as if it were a TV screen in some kind of Cornish "virtual reality" video arcade! To Blythe the anguished words uttered by Christopher "Kit" Trevelyan had reverberated across the book-lined chamber, across time, across the centuries, across oceans and continents. The agonized sound of his voice echoed, almost word for word, the phrases she'd shrieked at her husband that ghastly day when she had found him on the Paramount Pictures lot in his private trailer with Ellie.
I loved you! Everyone else must have known! How could you…?
But was any of it real, or had she recently experienced some sort of weird hallucination—a vestige of the raging fever that had plagued her these last few days? How in the world could Luke's genealogy chart have provided such a world-class paranormal peep show—one that had offered a glimpse into the tumultuous lives of ancestors who, perhaps, had sired her branch of the American Bartons?
Blythe ran the palm of her hand along her flat abdomen and mulled over several other possible explanations for the phantasmagoric display she had seen. The likeliest answer to these eerie developments, she concluded, was that she was simply having a nervous breakdown.
And with that Blythe gulped down her antibiotics, plus two extra-strength headache tablets, and fell into bed.
***
A gentle knock roused her from a deep sleep that had been blessedly free of dreams—a remarkable feat in itself, she thought drowsily, considering her bizarre experience in Lucas Teague's study the previous night.
The bedroom door opened a few discreet inches.
"Morning tea, mum," Mrs. Quiller announced softly. "Shall I put it on the table beside your bed?"
"That would be lovely," Blythe replied, struggling to sit up and arrange herself comfortably against the plump bed cushions. Barton Hall's housekeeper set the tea tray on the nightstand and immediately crossed the bedchamber to fling aside the heavy drapes. Brilliant morning sunshine flooded the room, and Blythe felt reassured that her strange encounters in Luke's library had, indeed, been only imagined.
"And could I be bringin' you a poached egg, or perhaps you'd fancy a bit of kippers this morning for breakfast?"
"That's so kind of you, Mrs. Q," Blythe replied. "I'd love to try the kippers, if it wouldn't be too much trouble. It
***
Blythe gently closed the door to the yellow guest bedroom and slumped against the wood paneling. She took a deep breath to try to steady her nerves, wondering if she had finally, completely, lost her sanity.
Who was that raving lunatic storming around the castle waving his sword, and why was he clothed as if he were playing some down-at-the-heels Sir Percy Blakeney in The Scarlet Pimpernel? She glanced down at her trim waistline, cloaked, as before she'd descended the stairs into Luke's library, by her cotton nightgown. She was at a loss to explain how its sheer material had been replaced earlier by the thick folds of the boned gown that had pressed painfully against her bulging stomach.
Whose bulging stomach? she wondered, utterly bewildered. Whose child? And was that woman named Blythe her— Blythe Barton Stowe from this century? It was as if she'd been in a dream and watching a dream at the same time.
However, thanks to her extensive training in theatrical makeup and costume, Blythe hazarded a guess that the clothes and unpowdered hairstyle worn by the sword-wielding, breeches-clad, pockmarked apparition named Christopher "Kit" Trevelyan dated toward the end of the l700s.
As for the portrait of Kit's brother—it had seemed genuine enough before it had been obliterated by Trevelyan's rapier thrusts. And as far as Ennis's portrait of the first Blythe Barton herself—the resemblance was close enough to be unsettling.
She walked unsteadily to her bed and sank onto the mattress, her mind reeling. The genealogy chart had behaved as if it were a TV screen in some kind of Cornish "virtual reality" video arcade! To Blythe the anguished words uttered by Christopher "Kit" Trevelyan had reverberated across the book-lined chamber, across time, across the centuries, across oceans and continents. The agonized sound of his voice echoed, almost word for word, the phrases she'd shrieked at her husband that ghastly day when she had found him on the Paramount Pictures lot in his private trailer with Ellie.
I loved you! Everyone else must have known! How could you…?
But was any of it real, or had she recently experienced some sort of weird hallucination—a vestige of the raging fever that had plagued her these last few days? How in the world could Luke's genealogy chart have provided such a world-class paranormal peep show—one that had offered a glimpse into the tumultuous lives of ancestors who, perhaps, had sired her branch of the American Bartons?
Blythe ran the palm of her hand along her flat abdomen and mulled over several other possible explanations for the phantasmagoric display she had seen. The likeliest answer to these eerie developments, she concluded, was that she was simply having a nervous breakdown.
And with that Blythe gulped down her antibiotics, plus two extra-strength headache tablets, and fell into bed.
***
A gentle knock roused her from a deep sleep that had been blessedly free of dreams—a remarkable feat in itself, she thought drowsily, considering her bizarre experience in Lucas Teague's study the previous night.
The bedroom door opened a few discreet inches.
"Morning tea, mum," Mrs. Quiller announced softly. "Shall I put it on the table beside your bed?"
"That would be lovely," Blythe replied, struggling to sit up and arrange herself comfortably against the plump bed cushions. Barton Hall's housekeeper set the tea tray on the nightstand and immediately crossed the bedchamber to fling aside the heavy drapes. Brilliant morning sunshine flooded the room, and Blythe felt reassured that her strange encounters in Luke's library had, indeed, been only imagined.
"And could I be bringin' you a poached egg, or perhaps you'd fancy a bit of kippers this morning for breakfast?"
"That's so kind of you, Mrs. Q," Blythe replied. "I'd love to try the kippers, if it wouldn't be too much trouble. It
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