More than anything else, that small physical resemblance convinced her that she and Emma were linked in a way she couldn't yet figure out.
"I'll bet you want your body back, too."
No answer.
It could get extraordinarily lonely, talking to oneself.
She thought about the body she'd left, the shoulder-length blonde hair, the slender shape, the tall stature. She'd liked her hands. They hadn't been square like Emma's, but they'd been strong and capable.
Her palms tingled, and she remembered what it had felt like, a sense memory, touching Hugh's sleeping face with her finger one day, then flicking a rose petal off his cheek. They'd been lying together in the gazebo, enjoying the late afternoon. One of the scarlet petals from the climbing rosebush had fallen, he'd wrinkled his nose in sleep, and she'd gently brushed it off, waking him…
The memory made her unbearably lonely.
"Sleep," she said to herself quietly. "You need to sleep, just like Jane." She didn't think Jonathan would be angry with her if she slept for a little while. Jane wasn't likely to wake soon, and Amelia knew he would have his hands full with his father.
She curled up on the foot of the massive four-poster bed, opened the bed curtains slightly to catch some of the heat from the fire, and closed her eyes.
As Amelia drifted off to sleep, her last conscious thought was that she might not ever be able to tell Hugh how much she loved him, for he wouldn't be born for almost two hundred years.
It is one of the most beautiful compensations of life that no man can sincerely try to help another, without helping himself.
– John P. Webster
Later, she couldn't remember what woke her.
The fire had burned low; the bedchamber was filled with deep shadows. Someone had tucked a warm wool blanket around her, and as Amelia sat up in bed she wondered why Jonathan's return hadn't wakened her. Funny-now she was waking up in the eighteenth century and that seemed perfectly normal.
She glanced around the bedchamber, trying to take it all in and immediately noticing that something was wrong.
Jane. Gone. Her mind raced frantically. Where was she? Had Jonathan come to get her? Had they gone for a walk? Of course not; Jane was in no condition to go anywhere.
She remembered the Lindsey legend, the story that had been passed down for countless generations, and as Amelia leaped off the bed and started out the door, she prayed that the house hadn't changed that much. She could still make it to the tower room from Hugh's master bedroom in about three minutes.
How long did it take a young, frightened girl to suffocate? If she did it right, her neck would snap instantly and her pain would be at an end.
Amelia's side hurt as she raced up the circular stairs, praying Jane hadn't thought to lock the door, hoping against hope she wouldn't find herself helplessly pounding on another strong wooden barrier. Had anyone else suspected? Had anyone else tried to save her the other time? Jonathan hadn't thought she was in such a state; his letters had revealed as much.
Was he still calming his father? Perhaps he and Jane had slipped off somewhere to be together. No, they would have merely asked her to leave the room had they wanted their privacy, for whatever reason.
She climbed the last of the high, narrow stone steps, her breath coming in burning gasps. Her heart pounded, she felt slightly nauseous, but Amelia pressed on, and as she entered the tower room, her worst fears were confirmed.
Jane stood, a silhouette in the moonlight, on a wooden chair. A rough noose lay around her slender neck, the thick rope securely fastened to a cross beam. Once she kicked the chair over, the deed would be done.
For a moment, Amelia couldn't say a word; she simply stared. Shock had almost rendered her immobile. She watched as Jane's split lip moved; the girl seemed to be talking to herself. Her eyes were closed. Amelia wondered if she'd simply gone mad. Then realization struck.
She's praying.
Jane was asking for forgiveness for what she was about to do. And Amelia, no stranger to despair herself, knew the depths a soul had to reach to contemplate such a desperate act.
"No."
Her voice sounded loud in the quiet room, and startled Jane out of her almost meditative state.
"Emma." Her tone was that of a mother asking her disobedient child to go back to sleep. "I want you to leave this instant."
"I can't. You know that. Now, I want you to come down from that chair, but first you have to take that rope from around your neck-"
"Don't you come near me!"
Amelia stopped midstride. She'd approached Jane as carefully as she could, as one might come close to a deer in a forest glade. Jane had that same wild, frightened expression. Though Amelia had thought her so strong, this woman had reached the end of all hope. There was nothing more for her, and Amelia could see it in her eyes.
Stop her.
She couldn't consider any other action. She knew it was wrong, to force destiny to alter itself, to bend in upon itself. The repercussions of this action would be felt for centuries, but Amelia was powerless against the strong tide of emotion assailing her at the thought of this vibrant young woman ending her life.
Stop her. Whatever it takes.
Telling the truth would be a good place to start. Amazing, how lives were altered when the facts were exposed.
"He won't be able to live without you."
That stopped her, just as a small slippered foot almost stepped off the wooden chair.
"You're lying." But her voice had the slightest tremor to it.
"No. I'm not. You see, I finally had a vision."
Jane didn't answer, she simply stared at her.
"Like my aunt."
She continued to stare.
"You can't do this to him, Jane. He loves you so."
"No." Her voice broke on the one word, but Amelia was far too concerned, too wary, to believe she'd gotten through to her. Yet.
“Yes. He ends his own life two years after this date, on the anniversary of your death. He comes up to the tower and re-creates your act." She was hurting Jane and she knew it, but she had to hurt her, to shock her, in order to get through to her.
"His manservant comes up and cuts him down-"
"Stop this! I demand it!"
"-and he is buried next to you, out in the family graveyard, as he wished. He wanted the two of you to be together for all eternity."
"I don't want to hear this! I can't!"
"Do you love him, Jane?" Amelia was shouting now, edging a little closer. Trying to get close enough that if Jane did take that fatal step she could grab her and keep the rope from closing around her neck long enough for help to arrive. She shouted to attract Jonathan, knowing how voices could carry from the tower. She'd loved the Lindsey House of the twentieth century; there wasn't much about the old estate she hadn't discovered while working with John and falling in love with Hugh.
Now it would all work to her advantage.
She watched Jane carefully. Calculated the distance between them. Her chest hurt with the effort.
“Do you love him?'' she shouted again, praying the entire time that the sound would attract Jonathan. He would know what to do. He would help her. Once Jane saw him, she wouldn't be able to leave him this way.
"Yes!" The word came out an almost feral snarl, and Amelia knew Jane hated her for forcing her to admit what she'd finally learned during this long night.
"Then take that noose from around your neck. Now."
Jane hesitated, and Amelia fired her final shot, the only ammunition she had left.
"I see the letter," she began quietly, praying the entire time that her voice would hold up. "He wrote you almost fifty letters after you took your life, Jane."
"No!"
“He needed to talk to you, to finish it-''