The River of No Return by Bee Ridgway (best novels of all time txt) 📕

He raised his glass to her. “A thrust! But alas, my dear, so easily parried. My parents were married a sure three years before my birth. If any claim to legitimacy is fragile, it is yours. Your runt of a father, marrying a commoner in Scotland? Over the anvil?” He shrugged. “She is seen by no one? And then they simultaneously perish in a carriage accident?”

Julia gaped at him. “How dare you question my parents’ virtue? Their deaths were tragic. Grandfather had given them his blessing! What you suggest is ludicrous.”

“I did not suggest it, Julia.” Eamon drank and set his glass down carefully. “You did. I am merely agreeing with you. Your reputation is fragile. Indeed, it is more fragile even than you know. Probably it is already destroyed.”

“You cannot keep me here a prisoner, Cousin. You must appoint a chaperone. And you—we—must accept visitors and invitations and be seen to be sociable, or we shall both become pariahs.”

Eamon rolled his eyes. “The pariahs of Devon. My dear kitten, who cares? Soon I will find the talisman and be richer than Croesus. I shall marry a diamond, and society will beg me for my very fingernail clippings. And you?” Eamon opened his eyes wide in a look of false concern. “What will happen to you then?” He stuffed a hunk of bread into his mouth.

Julia didn’t answer. But she allowed all her contempt to show in her face as she watched him.

“I shall tell you.” He spoke with his mouth full, spraying masticated crumbs. “I shall drive you from the gate like a whore, be you one or nay.”

Julia took a sip of wine, impressed that her hand was steady enough to do so. “You wish to find an aristocratic wife? Who will have you, Cousin? Everyone will say that you have been living in sin with your own young cousin. Furthermore, they will say that you abandoned her when you set out to find a rich wife. I think you will find that most eligible young ladies have better options than that.”

Eamon slammed his fork and knife down on the table. “I am the Earl of Darchester,” he bellowed. “The Earl of Darchester! Any woman would be glad to have me. Once I find the talisman I shall make my pick.”

Julia twirled her wineglass recklessly in her fingers. “But if you don’t find it? Which you will not, for it does not exist. What will you do then?” She considered the sparkle of candlelight on the cut crystal. “After all,” she said, “who is the Earl of Darchester? Is he well regarded in London? Is he a man of political influence? Is he a man of dashing good looks? Is he such a paragon that he can survive the scandal of a rumored liaison with the old earl’s twenty-two-year-old granddaughter?” Julia took a sip of wine and eyed him over the rim of her glass. Then she spoke again, in a soft voice. “I believe the answer to all of those questions is a firm no, Cousin. I believe that in fact the Earl of Darchester is an ugly man of late middle age, without dash or influence enough to charm a pig.”

She had gone too far. She could see it in his eyes. They were almost popping from his head. Then suddenly everything flew into motion. Eamon was charging down the table, gripping the carving knife, his teeth bared. She scrambled to her feet, but he was upon her, throwing her across the table, sending the china shattering to the floor. She looked wildly around, but the room was empty of servants. She screamed, but his hand was over her mouth and the knife was at her throat. She could feel it pressing into her flesh. His face was inches from hers, his mouth wet and floppy. “I should have killed you that day in the study,” he hissed, his breath smelling of wine and fish. She stared into his bulging eyes, focusing on the black, blank depths of his pupils. The knife pressed with terrible slowness—it was taking so long—and there was a rushing in her head as a single drop of blood began to trickle down her neck. Why was it so quiet? Why were his blue eyes so fixed? Then she caught sight of the wall sconce behind him; the flames were entirely still. It was Grandfather. He was saving her from beyond the grave, stopping time. “Grandfather,” she whispered, afraid to move lest the knife be pressed further. “I am here.”

But there was no answer. She was alone. With infinite care she reached up and turned Eamon’s unresisting hand so that the flat edge of the knife rested against her throat. Time had stopped still, but Grandfather was dead and gone. She took a slow, deep breath and exhaled it, her mind and body flooding with sudden understanding.

“It is me,” she whispered into Eamon’s frozen face. “I am the Talisman.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Soon Nick could feel it whenever Arkady or Alice stopped time. It became impossible for them to catch him unawares, though they tested him constantly. He could even feel it when he was in another room or far away across the house. At that distance he was not caught up in the aura of their manipulations, but he knew that somewhere close by someone had altered the flow of time. It felt like swimming in a river and sensing a different current a few feet away without actually being in it.

He described it that way over dinner one night, and Alice lit up.

“Yes. Remember when I held your hand and said that time is like a river?”

“You held his hand?” Arkady shot a look at his wife. “When was this?”

“Oh, shut up,” she said. She leaned over the table and gestured at Nick, a leaf of lettuce speared on her fork. “This River of Time. It seems to flow in one direction, steadily, inexorably. But there are countercurrents and eddies. Ultimately, and