My Memory Project - A change

Everything on this blog is copyright and must not be used without my permission.
Anita Birt-Copyright 2010

I decided to download the first chapter of my time travel, RING AROUND THE MOON, hoping those of you with e-readers will snap it up. I've been trying to post the cover but something is screwing things up. You can find it on my web site.
www.anitabirt.com

For those of you interested in more chapters of ONE FOR SORROW. TWO FOR JOY, please let me know. Leave a comment or drop me a note at: anita.birt@gmail.com

In the meantime, let me know what you think about RING AROUND THE MOON.

CHAPTER ONE

Beth glanced at the clock on the dash as she pulled into the parking space beside Quest Cottage. Midnight.
The drive from Heathrow Airport had been hell on wheels. Bumper to bumper traffic on the motorway had delayed her planned arrival in Cornwall. Achingly tired, she cut the engine, rolled her shoulders to get rid of the crick in her neck and got out of the car.
Bathed in the silvery glow of a full moon, the thatched cottage was fairy-tale beautiful with a trellised front porch laden with summer roses. Faint traces of their scent lingered on the still night air. Flower-filled window boxes trailed blooms from the ledges of two windows set deep in the white washed walls. Behind the curtains welcoming light gleamed.
Cool. She wouldn’t have to poke around in darkened rooms feeling for switches. She’d make some tea and have something to eat before getting her suitcases from the car. The estate agent handling the rental had promised to stock the cottage with food and Beth’s longing for a thirst-quenching cup of tea had passed the point of no return.
Patting her stomach, she whispered to her baby. “I’ve got to remember I’m eating for two and I’m starving.” Her whispered words drifted into a silence so intense she could hear herself breathe.
Life had stirred for the first time on the flight from the States and Beth hoped the little one didn’t feel as jet-lagged, lightheaded and hungry as she did.
Filled with mellow thoughts of thatched cottages and the promise of restful days ahead she lifted the latch on the gate. Rusty hinges squeaked as she pushed through. Key in hand she hurried up the flagstone path to the door.
“Elizabeth, is it really you?” A man’s questioning voice shattered the silent night.
Beth whirled around. Where was he?
A tall dark figure stumbled out from the trees near the lane.
“Wait for me, Elizabeth.” He took a step.
Elizabeth?
How did he know her name?
The man faltered, almost fell, regained his balance and crossed the moonlit space in front of the cottage.
“Go away. I’m calling the police.” She fumbled in her purse for her cell phone. A jolt of panic shot through her. She’d left it in the car!
Afraid to let him out of sight she backed into the porch, jabbed blindly at the lock and missed. Fingers trembling, she twisted sideways, slid the key into the lock and grasped the doorknob.
The gate squeaked. Swift footsteps scuffed towards her.
She turned the knob.
The man ducked his head and entered the unlit porch.
Beth slammed her fists into his chest. “Go away! Leave me alone!” She aimed a kick at his legs, lost her balance and crashed into the trellis. Rose thorns snagged her shirt and pricked her skin.
“Help! Someone help me!” Screaming and flailing her arms she scrambled past him. “Help!”
He grasped her wrist. “It is all right, Elizabeth. Do not take fright. Allow me to open the door.”
“I’m not Elizabeth. I’m not Elizabeth.”
Beth sucked air into her lungs and forced her brain to function. He’d mistaken her for another woman. That was it. When he had a good look at her he’d apologize and leave.
What if he didn’t?
Keep a clear head. Remember everything about him. Describe him to the police. He had shoulder length hair. About six feet tall. An English accent.
He hadn’t hurt her yet.
She had to survive.
Her baby had to live. “Please don’t hurt me. I’ve got money. Take my purse.”
“Elizabeth, I do not want your money. I want you.”
A hard muscular arm slipped around her waist.
I want you. He was going to rape her! She squirmed out of reach and darted down the path. She had to get to her car.
He captured her at the gate.
“Get away. Keep your hands off me!” Dredging up the last of her strength she swung her purse at his head and sank into dizzying darkness.
Alan caught her. Limp as a rag doll, Elizabeth lolled against his chest. His sudden appearance had frightened her but why was she alone in this unfamiliar place with no servant in attendance when she ventured outdoors?
For seconds he gazed at her pale face. When had she cut her hair? And her clothing was most peculiar. She moaned quietly. Thinking she might open her eyes and take fright again he carried her into the cottage and found his way to a large lighted bedroom.
He lowered her to the bed and removed her soft, laced shoes and short white socks. Why was she clad in trousers made of rough cloth and a faded blue shirt? Why was his Elizabeth wearing garments an estate worker might don to toil in the fields?
Uneasy about leaving her without a maid close by he thought it best to approach her again during daylight hours.
“Elizabeth, my love.” He kissed her, slipped the strap of her purse over a chair in the corner and walked quietly down the hallway.
In the cottage parlor he puzzled over the shaded lamp glowing on a small table. Unlike a candle it did not flicker and he burned his fingers trying to douse the wick. Why was there no flame? He sniffed at the lamp. No scent of melting wax.
He gazed around the room. Except for Elizabeth, and she didn’t seem to know him, he might as well be in a different world.
A long case clock in an alcove chimed the half-hour. ‘Twas not the familiar clock in his home. How had he come to this place? Not by sorcery for such nonsense was for children and kitchen maids who knew no better.
But something was amiss. Was he dreaming? A blaze of color flashed behind his eyes and quickly disappeared.
What had happened to him? He’d awakened in the woodland with the moon shining directly over head, heard a strange sound and listened a few minutes before stepping out from the trees.
The shock of seeing Elizabeth had startled him into losing his balance.
A vague memory calling him away from the dangerous sea cliffs stirred at the back of his mind. Calling him home.
But he had no home. Only a smoldering ruin.
He breathed deeply, pinched his arm and hoped to waken in his own bed with Elizabeth at his side.
Nothing changed. He remained standing in the strange room. Perhaps if he walked to the coast his muddled thoughts might clear.
At the cottage door he pried the small key from the lock and turned it over in his hand. He had never seen such a miniature and made of solid brass as well. The keys to his home were of iron and a goodly size not a small bit of brass like this.
He closed the door, fitted the key in the lock and was pleasantly surprised how easily it turned. Afraid he might lose it, he poked the key through a slot marked LETTERS. That too was strange. Many things were strange. Unease gnawed in his gut. He felt odd. Out of place.
Before heading to the sea, he stood in the moonlight to get his bearings. Alongside the garden hedge was a wheeled vehicle the like of which he had never seen and was reluctant to approach lest it harbored an evil spirit.
He rubbed his eyes. The land under his feet was firm. The opening to the lane was familiar but the stone pillars at the entrance had disappeared. The trees in the woodland had grown tall and dense since he had seen them mere days ago. How could that be?
What had happened to the burned out ruins of his home?
And Elizabeth? How had she come here?
Unwept tears blurred his eyes as he turned towards the sea.
* * * * *
Beth opened her eyes, squeezed them shut, opened them again and gazed up at a white ceiling. A bedside lamp glowed. Where was she?
She examined the bed, the rose patterned duvet and the antique brass bedstead. On the wall a painting hung between two curtained windows. To the left was an open door.
This wasn’t her bed and this was definitely not her bedroom. Something about the room teased her memory and she swung her legs over the side to investigate. Her feet were bare. Her sneakers and socks placed within reach. Someone had taken them off but she still wore the jeans and shirt she’d traveled in.
Traveled?
She was in Quest Cottage! She’d seen pictures of the rooms before renting it.
“Oh no!” She clutched her throat to smother a scream.
That man! Where was he?
She eased out of bed, put on her sneakers, laced them up and stood. The floorboards creaked. Rooted to the spot she held her breath and waited. In the hush blood pulsed loudly in her ears. Slowly she let the air out of her lungs and breathed deeply to prop up her shaky courage.
She tiptoed to the door and peered up and down the hallway.
To her left, light gleamed through a partly open door, to her right, darkness. She shook her head. Not that way. He might grab her in the dark.
Beth turned towards the light and, noiseless as a prowling cat, stole down the hall. She listened at the door. Silence. She pushed it open. Inside the room a Tiffany lamp hanging on a burnished chain shed light over a loveseat. A pair of wing chairs flanked the field-stone fireplace. Book filled shelves lined two walls. A cabinet with inlaid wood doors centered one wall of books.
No shadowy figure lurked in the corners. A small lamp burned brightly on a side table. Beth stepped into the cottage sitting room. In an alcove a grandfather clock ticked. There was a telephone on a table beside one of the wing chairs.
Where was he? Chilly goose bumps mottled her arms. Her heart thudded against her ribs. Almost afraid to look she glanced over her shoulder. Nothing.
The carpet muffled her footsteps as she crossed the room and picked up the phone to call the police. Would they get there in time to save her? Quest Cottage was well off the main road and the sign to Quest Lane partly obscured by ivy.
Phone to her ear she listened for the dial tone. She’d reason with him until they got here, get down on her knees if she had to and plead for her life.
A spike of fear lifted the hair on the back of her neck. Icy chills swept down her spine. The line was dead! Knees shaking she checked the jack. It was plugged in. He’d cut the line outside the cottage.
Dear God what was she supposed to do? Wait to die? Or be raped? Only her parents knew where she was and they were thousands of miles away in Portland. More frightened than she’d ever been in her life, she was afraid to move.
In the quiet room minutes passed. The clock chimed a quarter to one breaking the silence like a call to arms. Stirred into action Beth grabbed a heavy iron poker propped against the field stone fire place. She tiptoed through the small entrance hall to the front door. Her key was on the welcome mat.
She seized the key and slid it into the lock. The palms of her hands prickled. If she ventured outside where would she go? Her car keys were in her purse. The last thing she remembered was swinging it at him. He had it now.
What if she ran away? She’d have to leave the lighted cottage and take her chances in the unfamiliar dark.
She left the key in the lock, turned away from the door and listened for sounds. Where was he?
Poker grasped firmly in her right hand, resolved to kill him if she had to, Beth marched down the hall prepared to fight for her baby’s life and her own.
She switched on light after light, searched the bathroom, the two bedrooms, thrust the poker under the beds and opened every closet. She looked under the kitchen sink and checked the door in the back hall. It was locked and bolted.
She retraced her steps, checked through the cottage one more time and made sure the windows were secure.
Convinced she was alone, Beth dropped into one of the wing chairs to think. Her stomach growled. “I’ll get us something to eat in a couple of minutes.”
The man hadn’t assaulted her and no matter what he’d said about wanting her and not wanting her money, he’d have stolen her purse and the car.
She didn’t care if he’d taken every last penny, she was alive and her baby was safe.
Still uneasy Beth walked to the window and pushed aside the green velvet curtains. The moon cast long shadows across her car parked beside the cottage. Had she locked it? She couldn’t remember. Was he still hanging around?
Too scared to go out and get her cell phone she rearranged the curtain to cover the window. The clock chimed one o’clock. Daylight couldn’t come soon enough to chase away the fear the man had inflicted on her.
It was midnight when she’d arrived at the cottage, hours later than she’d planned. He’d come out of the shadows bent on … What?
He could have raped her. Could have hurt her baby. Bile burned her throat.
He could have killed her!
Get a grip, Beth.
Someone must have heard her screaming, scared him off and put her to bed.
Her head buzzed with unanswered questions. Bone weary and afraid he might return, she barricaded the front door with a chair, hurried through to the kitchen and propped another chair under the handle of the back door.
Satisfied she’d done everything possible to keep him out she filled the kettle and plugged it in to make tea and blessed Mrs. Stevens, the estate agent. She’d used Beth’s list to store enough food in the pantry cupboards and refrigerator to keep her going for a week.
She’d get her phone in the morning and call the police and the agent. She’d rented Quest Cottage for a month to get away from the hassles at home. The dark stranger had wrecked her arrival. She’d demand her money back and find another place to stay, preferably one with people nearby.
Beth toasted four slices of bread, spread them with butter and honey, put them on a tray with a cup of tea and returned to bed. She propped a pillow behind her back, sat up cross-legged, and hoped her favorite comfort food would calm her jangled nerves.
After eating the last crumb and draining the cup, she put the tray aside, got out of bed and undressed. Too tired to shower or clean her teeth, she snuggled under the duvet, reached out to turn off the light and stopped with her fingers on the switch.
Her purse hung over the back of a chair in a corner by the bureau.
She tumbled out of bed, grabbed her purse and dumped the contents on the duvet. Credit cards, passport, wallet, money, car keys, air plane ticket. Nothing was missing. A neighbor must have rescued her, locked the door and dropped the key through the mail slot. Why hadn’t her savior left a note? Totally confused she scooped her documents and money back in her purse and got back in bed.
What was up with the guy? Did he get his kicks creeping up on women in the dark? Why had he called her Elizabeth? She’d been Beth since grade school and didn’t know a soul in England.
Still puzzled she turned off the light, drew the duvet up under her chin, yawned and closed her eyes but sleep eluded her and she lay awake for hours trying every trick in the book to quiet her mind.
She breathed deeply and slowly. She counted from one hundred back to one, started counting to one thousand and lost her place at two hundred and eighty-three. Nothing worked.
She’d describe him to the police. About six feet, shoulder-length hair, an English accent but there was something else. She opened her eyes and stared into the dark.
A memory twitched her nose. His clothes smelled of wood smoke! Probably a drifter camping in the trees decided to scare her.
Why?
Too tired to reason why, she counted backwards by threes from one hundred. 97 – 94 – 91 – 8 –
* * * * *
Thanks for reading the first chapter. You can order my book from Jssmine-Jade publishing.com

Anita Birt