Crossover

By Judith Eubank

Beauty, romance, suspense: Judith Eubank handles a timeless mystery with a light, sure touch. Crossover evokes the brooding atmosphere of Daphne du Maurier with the wit, intelligence, and sensibility of Dorothy Sayers. As she adapts to British university life, Meredith Blake, a young American scholar, discovers that Edwards Hall is not the same for her as it is for the others. For her, it is full of riddles and reminders of the Victorian family that had once lived there and the tragedy that overtook them. Intrigued by the mystery hidden in the Hall's past, Meredith begins to explore the manor house and becomes increasingly challenged, baffled, and threatened by what she finds there. Something has singled her out, slowly isolating her from the twentieth-century world she knows. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Apr 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781497603875

Judith Eubank

Judith Eubank was the author of three nonfiction books and two novels. She took an M.A. in Literature from the University of Exeter in England, where her novel Crossover is set, before completing doctoral studies in the U.S. Readers continue to discover and be charmed by her stories.

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Crossover

Judith Eubank

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

For Vicki

Chapter 1

The house was like a woman of a certain age. There were still good bones and good manners and not a hint of embarrassment at being forced, after years of independence, to go to work in the world. The job might be demeaning and badly paid. Never mind; it was honest work and could be done with dignity and even some grace. Unhappiness was a private matter, to be kept strictly inside.

This comparison, I admit, occurred to me later when I knew more about the house. In time, I learned its history and its floor plan well enough to find my way through it in the dark. (A skill I needed on more than one occasion.) My initial view of the place, however, as the cab chugged up the long curving drive, was pure, uncomplicated pleasure. A great sweep of green lawn, well tended and dotted with tall trees, rose up on my left. The cab crossed a small but genuine brook on a small but moss-covered bridge. To the right, I could see a dell full of shadows and checkered September sunlight. Then I looked up at the house.

It was very satisfying. Late seventeenth century, manorial but not overpowering, with bay-windowed wings and formal borders full of mellow color. The house itself gleamed dazzlingly white. The gravel turnaround was neatly raked, the cornice recently painted. Rosebushes bloomed on the sunny western flank of the lawn.

I paid the cabdriver and stood in a small pile of luggage looking around and smiling.

After a while I walked up to the front door and rang the bell. After a long interval, the door was opened by a tall, very solid woman wearing glasses and a brown tweed suit.

Hello. When this brought no response, I added, My name is Meredith Blake.

Blake? She came back from some deep preoccupation. Oh, you must be the American! How do you do? We shook hands cordially. Sorry, I was up in my study writing. A bit off in another world. I’m Dr. Young, the Warden. Do come in. Welcome to the university and to Edwards Hall! She glanced at my luggage piled in the drive. Don’t worry about your things. I’ll have them brought up.

I stepped into a stone-flagged hall with an empty fireplace on the right and a broad central staircase that ran up to a landing, and then made a quarter turn before climbing on to the second floor.

You’re nearly the first to arrive, said the Warden. Susan Franklin came in last night. A very pleasant young woman from New Zealand. She’s been traveling on the Continent with a friend. I expect you came straight up from London.

I was there for a week. It was wonderful!

London has a great deal to offer, of course. But I think we do, too, in a quieter way.

I looked around. It certainly was quiet. There was a litter of unopened mail on a small table and bulletin boards on the wall. Sunlight streamed in through a clerestory window over the landing. You could almost hear motes drifting down the beams. After a moment, Dr. Young opened a door on the left and led me into a large, graciously proportioned room with a high ceiling and a splendid view of the lawn.

This is our common room.

How lovely! I felt a little sorry about the furniture, though. It was overstuffed and bulgy and covered with chintz. Still, you couldn’t expect a redbrick university to provide Chippendale and Oriental carpets. There was a grand piano in an alcove formed by the bay window. Dr. Young led me out again and across the hall to the dining room. Another fine space with long refectory tables and the kitchen and buttery behind it. Opening off the kitchen was a small courtyard, a walled garden, and the Annex, which must once have been a stable.

We wear gowns to dinner, by the way. Except on Sundays when there is only a cold high tea.

It took me a moment to realize that she was talking about academic gowns.

I didn’t bring one. I had worn an academic gown only once in my life, at my college graduation four months earlier.

Quite all right. You can buy an undergraduate gown. There’s a shop in the Close that’s very reasonable, just off the High Street.

When we reached the second-floor gallery, my regret about the house’s furnishings turned to downright indignation. The old, spacious rooms had been ruthlessly cut up and partitioned with plasterboard. The carpets were threadbare. The library shelves were undusted. Dr. Young didn’t seem to notice but said cheerfully, We’ve put you across from a bath. Do be careful with the hot water, though. There are four baths in Hall, but forty-five women will be using them. Here you are, Miss Blake!

It’s a single room.

Yes. There are a few. Most belong to third-year women. Living with friends is all very well when you’re a fresher, but by the time you’re twenty-one, you want some privacy.

This assumption mollified me a little. Even with chintz and plasterboard, Edwards was far better than a high-rise dormitory filled to bursting with women, none of whom was thought to want or need any privacy.

My new room was a long, high, narrow space with its own washbasin and, in the place of a closet, a tall oak wardrobe.

Most of the women will be arriving tomorrow. We can give you breakfast in the morning, but I’m afraid nothing is planned until then. Can you manage?

Oh, yes.

You might look up Miss Franklin. Her room is on the floor above.

That’s a good idea.

There’s a bus stop just across the road, and it’s a 20-p. ride into town. The Warden looked as if she were longing to get back to her study.

Thank you. I’m sure I’ll find a decent restaurant or a pub.

Well, I’d better go and see about your luggage.

I washed my face in the basin, dutifully sparing the hot water until I remembered that there wasn’t much competition for it yet. Then I splashed contentedly, looking out the window at the view. I could see a rose garden in its late summer splendor and a clay tennis court without a net. Traffic noises could be heard from the road west of the house. Beyond the road, the river Exe wound gently on this side of the small, sweetly molded green hills. What had the woman I met on the train said? Londoners think we’re slow. The country is so rich, you see, they think we’re a bit idle. We must have nothing to do but mend the thatch and shear the odd sheep or two. She had smiled, a pleasant-looking woman in a pullover and wool pants.

With an eye trained by summers spent on a Kansas farm, I could see the richness for myself as the train had sped through the countryside. It was in the red Devonshire soil, the tidy fields crossed by dark lines of hedge, the brilliantly whitewashed houses. By the time the train pulled into the Victorian fantasia that serves Exeter as a railway station, I was sure I had made the right choice. Let other people have the Midlands. Let them even have London. I was prepared to love this quiet provincial city flanked by green hills, where the skyline was low and the air was clean and the largest building in town was still the cathedral.

What a wonderful view!

I turned, a little startled. There was a girl standing in the doorway of my room, a girl who had to be from New Zealand. She was tanned and slim and blonde and blue-eyed and had an accent I couldn’t quite place. (I can detect Australian.)

Susan Franklin.

Meredith Blake. We seem to be the only ones here.

Yes. I rather surprised the Warden by arriving yesterday and requiring a bed. At my welcoming gesture, she came into the room. I have a dormer window that looks east and there’s not as much to see. This is super! Big, too.

It didn’t seem big to me until I saw the tiny cells on the top floor that served the third-year women. Not enough room to swing a cat, as Susan put it.

I’m here to read French, she said. What about you?

English fiction, eighteenth century.

Will you take an M.A.?

If I can.

She sat down on the bed. Oh, I’m sure you can. Americans have a reputation for being terrifyingly hard workers. And the only requirements are a year’s residency and a thesis. Her blue eyes had a touch of mischief.

That’s good. My scholarship only lasts a year.

It couldn’t be extended?

I shook my head.

You could probably finish your thesis back in the States. If your tutor said you were making satisfactory progress.

I’ll have a tutor?

Oh, yes. He’ll direct your work, and you needn’t even go to lectures unless you want.

It all sounded very casual. Susan thought it was the remains of a gentlemanly tradition that assumed you would work or be a wastrel as you chose. In any case, no one would have dreamed of holding your hand or worrying about you. Visiting students, undergraduates in particular, often spent their time going to parties and then hurling themselves frenziedly at the year-end exams. Quite futile, of course. You can’t pass, let alone take a good degree, if you put off working.

But Americans don’t behave like that?

Good heavens, no. They’re far too disciplined and methodical. Especially the graduate students. You will be an inspiration to Edwards Hall.

I laughed. Do I have to start tonight?

It can wait. There’s no one here yet but me. Let’s look for some dinner instead.

Want to go into Exeter?

Oh, yes! There’s a salad bar—

No salad bars, I said firmly. I want a pub and shepherd’s pie.

Or we could have a plate of vegetables at the Happy Hindu.

And I want a beer. A dark beer.

Arguing amiably, we went out to the gallery. We were halfway down the stairs before we realized that we weren’t alone. There was a man standing in the entry hall. A workman, I assumed. He was dressed in jeans and a pullover and Wellingtons. Probably the gardener or groundskeeper.

As we descended, Susan sang out, Can we help you?

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Those your bags?

They’re mine, I said quickly. Could you just leave them in front of room number one? Opposite the bath?

Aye.

He turned and went out the front door. Susan and I reached it just as he came back loaded down with my bags.

Sorry, Susan said, edging past him.

s’all right.

But when I tried the same maneuver, I got a different response. As I squeezed past him in the doorway, he swore under his breath—one soft but heartfelt Christ! I was so startled that I looked him straight in the face. Since he was fairly short, this was easy to do. He was young, no more than twenty-three or -four, and his eyes were as dark as a seal’s or an otter’s and just as unreadable. They betrayed no emotion but went on staring into mine for what seemed at least half a minute and was probably only a second or two. Then his gaze dropped, and he yanked the bags past me and into the house. I joined Susan in the turnaround. Get stuck?

Almost.

We walked down the long curve of the drive, and my annoyance at the man’s rudeness began to fade. Maybe I had been the straw and he the camel on a long hard day. In any case, it was pleasanter to listen to Susan explaining that the front drive, winding down to the road, was much the best way to approach the bus stop because it preserved for a little longer the illusion of being enclosed by the past. The back way, once you shut the gate, quickly dumped you onto an ordinary suburban street lined with dreary row houses.

Erck.

Yes. It’s hard to see why they must be so ugly, but I suppose they’re cheaper that way.

We glanced involuntarily up at Edwards, gleaming like a crown atop a great swath of green velvet.

Of course, said Susan, Edwards is shabby inside, too. But the outside is grand. And it has a marvelous garden with its own strawberry beds.

And all these trees.

Even the inside has civilized touches. There’s a copper dinner gong.

There is?

There ought to be a maid in a starched cap and apron to whale away at it, but I’m not sure about her.

This house ought to have lots of maids. And a butler.

With a good cellar to keep track of.

A stableful of Irish hunters. A carriage for the ladies. A racy little gig for the gentlemen. Everything polished and shining. Rosewood and mahogany and silver and brass—

Stop, stop!

We both began to laugh, and Susan gasped, Oh, I think I’m going to be homesick!

As we stopped to catch our breath, glancing one last time up at the gleaming facade of Edwards, I knew that I had found a kindred soul. It seemed I had also found a soul who wasn’t. The man in jeans and pullover stood in the gravel turnaround smoking a cigarette and staring down at us. When he saw that we had paused, he turned abruptly, tossed away his cigarette, and walked back into the house.

We almost missed breakfast next morning because we sat up half the night talking. It was the kind of friendship in which each person’s history seems wonderfully exotic to the other and utterly dull to herself. I knew nothing of New Zealand beyond mountains and Maori, and Sue thought the United States consisted of New York and Los Angeles with the Grand Canyon somewhere in between. She had never heard of the Midwestern city where I grew up. I was an only child, she had a flock of fractious, affectionate siblings. I had an only parent, she had a nicely matched set.

Is your father—hmm—I mean …

Dead? No, only departed. Suddenly, when I was twelve.

I am sorry. Americans seem to divorce such a lot.

Well, at least he made his child support payments. Financially, he’s pretty responsible. He still sends me checks. And he straightened my teeth before he left.

I beg your pardon?

He’s a dentist.

Oh.

We went on to pleasanter topics. By the time we finally stumbled off to our respective beds, we probably knew things about each other that our own families didn’t know.

We got cold cereal and tea for breakfast, but it was a fine morning, with sunshine pouring in through the dining-room windows and freshly cut flowers on the table. Shortly before noon, the undergraduate women began to arrive, at first by ones and twos and then in clusters. Soon the entire house was rackety and cheerful with people shouting greetings and gossip, rushing up and down stairs, and hauling all sorts of personal belongings ranging from old steamer trunks to hockey sticks and guitar cases through doors that seemed too narrow to accommodate them. Even the freshers were noisy and confident; no one hung back or showed any reluctance to say good-bye to parents and boyfriends once they had done their duty lifting and hauling.

This went on most of the day and only diminished toward evening. When the last parent drove away, the house actually quieted down a little. There was a brief peace.

Promptly at seven, however, the copper dinner gong boomed.

Women emerged from their rooms dressed in short, black, drab undergraduate gowns and descended to the dining room chattering like magpies. Or crows. Excited, healthy young crows with black plumage and bright topknots—all ready to fall voraciously on their dinners once the signal was given. Susan and I found ourselves steered to the high table, with our backs to the windows, and from there we had an excellent view of the room. While the Warden said grace, all the topknots were bowed along the long refectory tables. With the amen, the noise burst out again at a really astonishing volume.

A maid appeared at my left elbow, offering a stack of soup plates. I nodded, and she put them down and came back a moment later with a smoking tureen. Hungry eyes were fixed on my every gesture. The Warden smiled benignly, and I started ladling out soup and passing plates.

Well done, said a clear voice halfway down the table. I’m Imogen Shepherd, by the way. She was dark-haired, handsome, self-assured.

Thanks, I said, and ladled faster.

Not exactly fair, on your first night, to get stuck being mother. The friendly chirp was almost lost in the din. This was Hilary Jamison, I learned, a fresher who looked at me with shy interest.

Several conversations were going on at once, and that was only at the high table. The rest of the room sounded like an aviary on fire. How many of us were there? Forty? Fifty? It could have been four hundred.

Do you walk? Imogen’s voice rang out.

Walk?

Yes. The moor—Dartmoor—quite wonderful … Walking club … sign you up. (Even Imogen faded at times.)

She’s only just arrived, said the Warden in her firm baritone. Let her get her bearings. So many special interests …

I never walk if I can help it. A pair of dark eyes glanced across the table, a faintly malicious tone. Did it belong to Gillian? Alice? I couldn’t remember. So slow. So boring. I’ve brought my bicycle.

Oh, good! cried Hilary. She seemed to be a responding not to Gillian (if it was Gillian) but to the appearance of the second course—the smallest lamb chops I’d ever seen and something called mashed swedes. Rutabaga, I thought, and singularly flavorless. I glanced at Susan, who was listening to the Warden and pushing a pile of swedes around on her plate. She, too, had discovered that the conversation, however disjointed, at least took your mind off the food, which was appalling. The soup had been watery and full of salt. The chops were tough, and the dessert

Reviews for Crossover

[rhonda1111 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

3 STARS Crossover is a good time travel mystery. That has a old time feel to the story. Makes you see the country side. Meredith Blake is a American going to college for a year in England. She is living at Edwards Hall a old manor house dormitory. It is interesting look of how different college life traditions. While there Meredith starts experiencing things that no one else has seen or felt. She finds herself back in time switching places with Nora a governess. No one can tell them apart. The Mystery is back in the past. I missed how or why they could switch places. Meredith falls for Peter her tutor Professor who fell in love with the previous American exchange student. My favorite part was her learning to be a college student and life at living in Edwards Hall. Like Marching together first day of school ect. It is a light easy read. I was given this ebook from Net Galley and Open Road Integrated Media and in exchange agreed to give a honest review.

[aztwinmom · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In CROSSOVER, a graduate student arrives in England to begin her thesis and takes up residence in an old hall. Soon she is seeing visions of people dressed in old-fashioned clothing. At first, she doubts her own sanity, but soon she actually changes places with her look-like from an earlier time. This is a fun time-shifting story with romance and mystery.

[avoraciousreader · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

3.5*Book source ~ NetGalleyMeredith Blake is an American student going to school in England. Lodging at Edwards Hall in Exeter she’s charmed by her surroundings. Until weird things start happening to her and she needs to unravel a mystery regarding past residents of the house before she either loses her sanity or her current way of life.This is mostly a mystery with a paranormal slant and a dab of romance thrown in. The writing is very wordy and at times the character interaction is choppy. This happens consistently throughout the book, so I’m going to assume it’s just the writer’s style. I was confused a lot of the time with the paranormal part of it. I couldn’t grasp why exactly it was happening and basically only to Meredith. The romance doesn’t get much page time at all and came off as kind of an afterthought, but the mystery is what keeps the story moving forward. I enjoyed Meredith’s research efforts and the ending was a surprise. Nice! Keep in mind that this was first pubbed in 1992, so it is a bit aged. (yeesh, like me lol) Overall though it’s a pretty good read.