Helena:
By the time I reached the inn, I was beyond done—wrung out like a rag and still damp from the storm. My father had been the one to insist on the arrangement, of course. My permanent lodgings—already chosen, already paid for—wouldn’t be ready until next weekend. This was the compromise. His terms. If I could secure scholarships and sponsorships, he’d cover my rent. A fair trade, I supposed. Especially since he’d cut me off the moment Will slithered into my life. Now, he was graciously helping me back on my feet. His word, not mine.
The little boutique inn looked like it had stepped straight out of Shakespeare’s time—its black-beamed frame filled in with whitewashed plaster, the upper floor jutting over the street the way old houses on Warwick Street did. Half-timbered, if I remembered my history right. Quaint, in that tourist-brochure way, though the drizzle had left the bricks dark and the beams slick with shine.
I pushed through the door, the bell chiming overhead, and the inside matched the exterior perfectly. British pub charm at its most earnest: low beams you’d have to duck under if you were tall, mismatched furniture that looked stolen from half a dozen estate sales, and the smell of wood polish layered with something warm from the kitchen. A fire popped faintly in the hearth, more for atmosphere than heat, and tucked into one corner was a small bar.
Behind it, a woman bustled out, drying her hands on an apron before greeting me with a smile that was warm but weary.
“Evening, love. You must be Miss MacLeod.” She leaned on the counter, tilting her head like she could size me up in a glance. “I’m Mrs. Ashworth, owner and resident jack-of-all-trades around here.”
“Hi,” I managed, clutching the coattighter around me.
Her gaze flicked to it, then back to my face. “Goodness, look at you—drenched clear through. My last booking left the rooms in a state, mind you, so I’ve been running about sorting that, but nothing near as bad as you. Must’ve been caught in that dreadful downpour.” She shook her head, already rambling. “Half my guests come utterly unprepared for English weather, and you’re no different.”
“I, um… lost my jacket somewhere,” I offered lamely.
“Ha! Of course you did. Typical American.”
“Canadian,” I corrected, too tired to sugarcoat it.
She grinned, dismissing the correction with a wave. “Close enough, darling. Same continent, isn’t it?”
I bit my tongue. Canadian weather was just as unpredictable as this—more so, probably. But fine. Let her think what she wanted.
“Come on, then,” she said, rounding the bar. “I’ll show you up. Don’t mind the noise if the bar’s lively—it happens on weekends. You’re welcome to join for a drink, of course. First one’s on the house. My welcome gift to all the poor souls passing through.”
“Thanks,” I said, following her up the narrow staircase. “But I’m good on my own.”
She didn’t press. Just unlocked the door to my room on the second floor, handed me the key, and gave me one last look like she wasn’t sure what to make of me.
“No luggage, dear?” she asked, glancing down at the single bag I clutched like it was all I owned.
I let out a sigh. “No. It’s… a long story. Honestly, I’d just like to get to bed.”
Her expression softened into something pitied, brows knitting as though she’d seen this a hundred times before. “Oh my. Must’ve been some journey to get here, then. I’ll leave you to it.”
She gave a small nod, kindly but resigned, before slipping back down the hall and leaving me to the quiet.
The door clicked shut behind me, leaving me alone with four walls that looked like they belonged to another century. A sagging bed with a quilt straight out of somebody’s grandmother’s attic, floral curtains that drowned the window in roses, and the low hum of voices drifting up from the bar below. Not exactly modern, but clean, lived-in. There was even an ensuite tucked neatly in the corner—just a shower stall and a stack of crisp white towels. Functional, plain, but more than I expected.
Funny thing was, I didn’t mind the vibe. The beams overhead, the plaster walls, the mismatched furniture—it had that Austen-esque coziness, like a set piece from one of the period dramas I’d binged after the breakup. First the strange man at the station in his old-fashioned clothes, and now this inn that felt like it hadn’t quite moved on from the 1800s.
For half a second, I wondered if the whole country had a Regency theme I’d missed in the guidebooks. But then I brushed it off. Just a long day, jetlag, and my brain making connections where there weren’t any.
I dropped my small bag on the floor and sat heavily on the mattress. God. I needed a minute to figure out my shit. The luggage fiasco at Heathrow wasn’t going to fix itself, but that was tomorrow’s problem. Tonight? Tonight I needed a hot shower and a bad romcom. Something with dumb jokes and swoony scenes, the kind of predictable comfort that didn’t ask anything of me. Anything to shut out the chaos at the airport, and… whatever that was back at the station. This adventure had barely begun, and already it felt like too much.
Before drifting off, tough, my curiosity got the better of me. Questions about the station had been needling at the back of my mind all evening. There was something so strange about it—how even after I’d taken the next train, it felt like no one noticed I’d ever gotten on. Not that anyone would’ve cared, but still. The whole thing gnawed at me.
I hadn’t wanted to believe it at the time. It was too absurd, too far outside the realm of reason, for my brain to even compute. But now, tucked into this little room with Wi-Fi on my laptop and the whole of Google at my fingertips, I gave in.
What had he called it? Wentford… Wentford something. That was it. I typed Wentford UK into the search bar and immediately landed with no results linking to a location.
I frowned, mouthing the syllables again. Wentford… shire… Yes. That was it. Wentfordshire.
But when I typed Wentfordshire into Google Maps—nothing. No town. No station. No place with that name. Just Google redirecting me to similar names and a “Did you mean Hertfordshire?”
“Maybe I misheard,” I muttered. Maybe he’d said something else. Maybe the whole thing wasn’t where I thought it was at all.
Either way, my brain was spiraling into ridiculous territory, and if I didn’t shut it down soon I’d be up all night chasing ghost train stations across the internet. Besides—if I indulged the idea that some spectre was meeting me at a platform, Regency England had no such transportation yet. Unless I’d misplaced the fashion in my head; but no—the hat, high collar and elaborate cravat, the whole manner of him—those were straight out of the period. It made no sense, and that made me more determined to stop thinking about it.
I snapped the laptop shut and flopped back against the bed, pulling the quilt up to my chin. The room was quiet, save for the muffled rise and fall of voices from the bar below. Ordinary sounds. Normal.
I told myself to stop thinking about it. To stop replaying those eyes, that coat, that voice echoing in my ears.
Just sleep already. He was probably exactly what I thought—a costumed guide, playing some part, then ran off before I could blink. That was it. Nothing more. I repeated that to myself again and again until, at last, the jetlag won out and pulled me under.
ns216.73.216.211da2
and then Add to home screen.