Read Online Across the Sands of Time by Pamela Kavanagh - Free Book Online Page A

tirade on a dinner party she had attended the previous night.
    Mollified by her aunt’s bright company, Polly then returned home to more trouble.
    â€˜It’s your brother,’ Marion wept. ‘The rector has found out that Edward’s been secretly courting his daughter and is in a fine fury. Your father’s forbidden Edward all further contact with the girl. My poor boy! I know he’s high-spirited but he means no harm and he truly loves Susanna.’
    â€˜And she him,’ Polly agreed. ‘Hush, Mama. You mustn’t distress yourself or you’ll be ill again. See what Aunt Jessica has sent you. Some lace trim for a gown and a bottle of cordial she says will help boost your blood. Oh, and there’s a new anthology of verse by Mr Browning. Shall I read it you?’
    â€˜That would be splendid. Dearest child, what would I do without you?’
    Polly opened the book. She had arranged to meet John Royle at high tide. Now she would be late.
    When, eventually, she sped to their trysting place in the lea of the boatshed, John was no longer there. He had left a note. Polly read it feverishly.
    My dearest Polly , John began in his flowing hand. It has come to my knowledge that you have been spoken for. I was at the Harbour
House earlier and happened to overhear your father with a group of friends, celebrating your imminent betrothal to the man who owns the ferry boats.
    Polly, I know this will have come as a great shock and my heart goes out to you, but I am sure you will understand the position it puts me in also. Even when my ambition to have my own school for boys is realized, as one day it surely will be, I can never hope to compete with a man such as George Rawlinson. Therefore I deem it best to end our relationship at once.
    You will be always in my thoughts. Respectfully yours, John Royle.
    The rain had started up again, the stinging drops blending with the tears on Polly’s cheeks, blurring the ink on the page so that the words were no longer legible. And still she stood there, her head bowed, until a salt-laden breeze snatched the letter from her grip and carried it away.
    Â 
    Thea woke with a start. The dreams again, and so real! She bit her lip, peering around her, reluctant to accept that these strange dips into the past were somehow tied up with the house. The house that was to be her future home. Could she face living here? Did she want to try?
    Some superstitious streak deep within her cried out against it. But the real Thea, the sensible down-to-earth side, rose in challenge. All things had a rational explanation and this was no exception.
    Getting up stiffly, rubbing her aching neck, she gathered together the material for the kitchen suppliers and left the house.
    She drove slowly along the Parade, fragments of the dream still running through her mind, and turned into the street where Dominic lived. On the side lawn Trina was getting to grips with a large marrowbone.
    Dominic opened the door.
    â€˜You remembered about the brochures … well, come in. Coffee’s brewing.’

    It wasn’t until she had entered the newly-decorated beamed and flagged-floored living-room that she was swamped by a feeling of déjà vu. She had seen this place only moments ago, when Polly had poured out her troubles to her aunt! Thea swallowed hard, trying to check the peculiar swimming sensation in her head.
    â€˜Hey, are you all right now?’ Dominic’s soft Irish voice came from what seemed like very far away. ‘Here, sit down, put your head low. That’s the way. Better?’
    â€˜Yes, I think so.’
    She sipped the water Dominic handed her, avoiding his concerned gaze.
    â€˜I can’t think what came over me.’
    â€˜It could be the fumes from the paint. I noticed myself how strong they were. Let me open a window.’
    Fresh air rushed in, salty, reviving.
    â€˜I’m fine now, really. What a lovely room. Bigger than it looks from the