Page 35 of I Know You

“I owe you much, Clara,” William says with a tender gaze at his wife. “Your fondness for the piece gave me the idea to woo my dear Isabelle with it, and as you can see, it succeeded and remains her favorite.” Before he takes the bow in hand, he reaches for his wife’s hand and places a gentle kiss there.

He begins to play, and I close my eyes, the sweet notes sweeping over me with a warm familiarity.

“By your besotted expression, I’m led to believe that playing the violin is a talent I should have taken up.” Quint’s voice eases into my thoughts, and I’m grateful for the quiet, slow way he speaks so it doesn’t draw from the spell too much.

“Perhaps not in this case,” I reply. “William reminds me of my father and how he played.”

“And yet I still think if I could play as enchantingly as he does, it would be quite a simple thing to get you into my arms for a kiss.”

I laughed over many of his comments during dinner, but the idea of kissing flies into my mind with gusto and heats my cheeks through. It feels too natural, which in turn sends my thoughts skittering. That daydream I had while standing in Mrs. Guthrie’s house, picturing a socialite life as Ben’s wife, returns. Only now, I sit at a vanity in the dress I pictured myself wearing, and it’s Quint who comes into the room, bending over to kiss my temple, then turning me to graze my lips with his, muttering, “You look divine, love.”

There’s nothing wrong about it this time.

And it’s so much more than a daydream.

I shrug him off now with a laugh more forced than I’m comfortable with, making myself sweep the thoughts away and answer him. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Nonsense. I outgrew my incorrigibility years ago. I prefer to be a rogue now.” And he casts me a charming smile complete with a dimple. That brings a true laugh—hushed, since William still plays.

“Let me listen to your father,” I chide good-naturedly.

“Miss Mitchell—” I can’t help but think he uses the term purposefully. “You may not use such a mothering tone with me when we must be very near the same age.”

“Isn’t it improper to speak of a woman’s age?” I ask.

“I am twenty-three. I will leave it to you to determine who is older.”

That surprises me. He has such a boyish manner, or perhaps it’s his general cheerfulness. “Well, I am older, then,” I say with little triumph. Just barely.

He stands and holds a hand out to me. “Dance this waltz with me and make it that much sweeter.”

I glance at Ben, who turns from watching us and focuses too much on William’s playing. Rescuing Ben from the past and returning together to his family makes things seem more serious than they are, doesn’t it? Our relationship has possibilities, but it’s just begun.

My curiosity over the familiarity of a relationship with Quint that seems to happen in another life wins out. Besides, it would be rude to say no to my host. I take his hand.

When I was little, my mother had waltzed to this music with me, but it’s nothing like the experience of having Quinten Allen circle my waist with his arm, place his hand on the small of my back, and take my hand in his, all while his smiling, charming gaze bores into me. He has golden-brown eyes, like his father, and they study me unrelentingly as he twirls me around the chairs and couches of the drawing room.

Mrs. Allen gives a soft “how delightful,” and that seems to be all the encouragement Ben needs to stand and offer to dance with her, which she accepts.

Instead of giving in to Quint’s obvious attraction and letting it unsettle me any more, I engross myself in the familiar music and the adept way William plays the song. However, the tactic backfires. Giving myself over to the beauty of the music and the romantic world it inhabits intensifies the warmth of Quint’s hand on my back and the way he draws me a few inches closer.

“I know you,” I whisper in a singsong voice to myself, and for the first time, the Disney lyrics don’t remind me of my beloved mother’s off-key renditions. Instead, it draws me into the magic that weaves around me and the man holding me. I didn’t know him a few hours ago, but some chord of familiarity plays over me, as if my father has stepped into the room and begun playing instead of William. I would have recognized the difference in an instant, known with all my soul the way his songs went.

“I can see that we share an appreciation for a well-played violin,” Quint says as he nudges me closer.

I smile. “We share the blessing of growing up with accomplished players of the violin.”

He nods, eyeing me for a long moment. “How strange,” he whispers to himself, and he shakes his head slightly. I have the feeling he’s experiencing some of the same “memories” I am.

I don’t dare ask, worried that he’ll confirm it.

William’s rendition of “The Grand Waltz” draws to a close, and when I step away from Quint, I draw my first deep breath in several minutes. He stares at me with a knowing expression that almost proves that he’s experienced the same moments of revelation. I turn away in fear—I can’t describe the panicked but excited beating of my heart any other way. What’s happening to me? Am I destined to live my life, always upended, anytime I travel to the past? That’s clearly what’s happening here.

William goes on to play more from the ballet, picking and choosing parts from here and there, and I sit back down next to Ben on the couch. He casts me a confused look when I do so, but I don’t respond to that either. I’m too busy trying to unravel the knot of my own confusion that Quint has created. I don’t believe in some kind of fate that draws people together, but then again, a month before, I hadn’t believed in time travel either.

“Are you okay?” Ben whispers a few moments later.

“Perhaps the traveling drains something,” I say lightly. “I’m exhausted.” He nods, slipping his fingers furtively between us to give mine a squeeze. So often in 1901 his touch grounded me, but it has little effect now, which scares me more.