‘I am real and so are you. We are flesh and blood. I have travelled through more than 200 years, I cannot have come this far only to have you dismiss me as a figment of your imagination!’
She could tell from his earnest gaze upon hers, the tightening of his grip upon her hands, that he wished to believe her.
‘Dream or not, Rosie, I shall not turn away from you.’ He looked around, his gaze moving from the grazing sheep to a small dung heap nearby. Then, he wrinkled his nose and turned to look down at her. ‘I’m not dreaming that smell, am I?’
Rose shook her head. ‘No, sir.’
He winced. ‘You have no need for formality with me, child. I cannot believe it, but I must. If such a strange alteration has taken place in my own life, why should it not be so for others?’
‘And…’ Rose bit her lip. ‘Are you happy?’
Smiling now, Christopher Wallace squeezed her hands before releasing them.
‘I am indeed, though your presence makes my life complete.’ He frowned as he brushed his hat and returned it to his head. ‘Though it could be quite… uncomfortable to explain, if you truly are here – obviously you are, even though you cannot be…’
‘You must accept it.’
Grey eyes held grey for a moment; then, he nodded. ‘I do so with a pleasure beyond my own comprehension. There is much we need to discuss, much I must explain, both to you and to…’ He paled. ‘Oh lord, how complicated is this?’
Rose felt a little awkward. After all, his family were unlikely to know anything of his previous life.
‘I don’t wish to cause you any difficulty. If you think there is a better way, other than owning who I am…’ Her voice faded. It was the last thing she wanted, but she was the interloper here, was she not?
Christopher, however, shook his head. ‘Not at all.’ Then he grinned, and Rose could not help but smile. ‘Besides, what is life without a little absurdity? A little challenge?’ He sobered. ‘Talking of which, how… uh… how is your mother? Please tell me she is not with you!’
‘No!’ Rose pursed her lips. What else was there to say? ‘She is, well, the same?’
His lips twitched. ‘So, how long are you visiting your friend, Miss Austen?’ He lifted his hands, acknowledging the ridiculousness of his question. ‘How long do I have you for?’
The reminder of the tenuousness of her situation returned to Rose in full measure. ‘I do not know. I came not knowing Jane’s purpose. I have passed three days here, with each one growing more and more certain you were my father.’
‘I am curious, what convinced you?’
‘The song. The one you taught your daughters.’
Culpability filled his face. ‘Your sisters…’
Rose nodded, and he shook his head ‘You must have had quite a few days of it.’
‘And you must have had quite the years of it.’ Rose eyed him warily, unsure how he would feel about explaining why he had never returned to the present, why he had abandoned his wife and child.
‘I am adjusted. I have passed nigh on as many years here as I did in my earlier life.’
‘Did you…?’ Rose was conscious of heat filling her cheeks as emotion grew in her breast. ‘Did you never think of returning?’
A silence embraced them both, and she raised cautious eyes to his only to be surprised by the look of shock on his face.
‘Never think?’ Christopher Wallace resumed his earlier pacing. ‘What sort of man do you believe me to be, Rosie?’ He turned on his heel and faced her. ‘You believe I had a choice? That I chose to stay hundreds of years away from you? You were my life!’
‘Sorry!’ Rose hurried forward and took his hand. ‘I assumed you were able to pass through time in both directions, as Jane has!’
He drew in a long breath. ‘I never had such an option. To this day, I know not exactly how I came to be here.’
Rose stared at him, at first in disbelief, then with great sadness at all he had endured. What must it have been like to be trapped here, with no way of returning?
‘I am so sorry. I can’t begin to imagine what it was like.’
‘Dearest Rosie.’ Christopher Wallace’s eyes were wet as he raised a hand and touched her cheek lightly. ‘If you only knew the anguish I felt when I lost you… when I had no way of getting back to you.’ His hand dropped to his side. ‘We have so much to discuss; how can we—’
‘Christopher! What are you about? We have been waiting on you this half hour!’
Spinning around, her father docked his hat. ‘Forgive me, my dear.’
Rose peered around him. Mrs Wallace was in the orchard by the stile, and her smile faded as she realised someone was with her husband. The last thing Rose wanted was to cause anyone distress, and she knew it was time to leave.
‘Coming, my dear!’ He turned back to Rose and bowed formally. ‘Until we meet again.’ He raised serious eyes to hers. ‘Which I trust will be timely.’
‘Mr Knight is sending out invitations to a picnic on the morrow.’ Rose spoke hurriedly, quietly, conscious of the frown on Mrs Wallace’s features. ‘Please say you will come?’
He bowed again. ‘You may depend upon it, ma’am.’ He winked at Rose, then turned on his heel and strode towards the stile. Mrs Wallace had likewise turned away and was making her way back across the orchard, and he looked over his shoulder.
Rose laughed. ‘You will fall if you do not take care!’
‘It would be a pleasant trip, would it not?’ With a grin, Christopher Wallace scaled the stile with ease and waved a hand as he disappeared under the trees.
Emotionally spent yet elated, Rose waited a few moments before following her father over the stile and through the orchard. As she returned to the road, she could just see their backs as they entered the gate to their house.
What on earth should she do now? She needed time to gather her thoughts, time to think, time to absorb the enormity of what had just happened! She hesitated on the side of the road, oblivious to a passing cart and some children playing near the pond.
‘Miss Wallace?’
With a start, Rose looked to her left. Cassandra had joined her, an empty basket on her arm, and was eyeing her with some concern.
‘Miss Austen!’ An idea suddenly came to Rose. ‘Please may I borrow a quill and some ink? I must write a further note to Morgan, Miss Taylor.’
‘Of course.’
‘Shall I wait in the garden?’
‘There is no need. My visits are complete, and Mama and Martha have gone to call upon Miss Benn.’ Cassandra gestured along the lane ahead. ‘They will be some time.’
Following Cassandra across the road, Rose sighed. Goodness only knew what Jane’s sister must think of her, with her distracted air and no doubt pale as a ghost! But what could she possibly say? No words could match what had occurred just moments before.
Now the idea had taken hold, Rose was desperate to tell someone, though, and who better than Morgan? Thankful for Jane making it possible for them to communicate, however awkwardly, Rose’s long legs wanted dearly to rush ahead, but she forced herself to keep pace with Cassandra as they reached the gate into the garden.
A few minutes later, Cassandra ushered Rose into a seat beside the small table by the window in the dining room.
‘I cannot sit here!’ Rose stared up at Cassandra, but she merely frowned.
‘Why ever not? My sister finds it more than conducive for composition.’
Precisely! Rose chewed her lip as Cassandra fetched paper, ink and a quill and then left the room, and she gently touched the wood of the table, smoothing it in reverence, before dipping the quill into the ink. Then, she frowned. Where were the words? How could she possibly explain what had just happened? Knowing how arduous writing in this old-fashioned method was, this was no time for a long explanation; brevity would have to suffice.
Met him alone, by chance, on a path across the fields. Told him who I was! He’s my father, Morgan, he really is! There’s to be a picnic tomor
row and he’s coming. More when I can! R
* * *
Jane was as good as her word, and was soon able to return to Chawton House, confirming she had placed Rose’s letter and the additional note under the floorboard. It was now only a matter of time before Morgan managed to get back to Hampshire from Bath.
Trying to ignore her frustration over the delay – talking to Morgan was essential to her peace of mind – Rose stood at the window, watching for any sign of Aiden. He and Charles had been gone for the entire day, and Edward was growing impatient for their return.
‘This truly is too much, Jane.’
Rose turned around. Edward was pacing to and fro in front of the fireplace, and Jane was eyeing him with amusement from across the room. She cast Rose a fleeting glance. Had she winked at her? Biting her lip, Rose looked over as the door opened, but to her disappointment, it was merely a servant come to clear the tea things.
‘How typical of Charles, to absent himself when there is so much to do. Was not this,’ Edward waved his arm in irritation, ‘whole picnic notion one he raised?’
Cassandra, who had joined them in staying at the great house now Martha Lloyd had returned to keep Mrs Austen company, hurried to his side. ‘There is little for you to trouble yourself with, Brother. It is not as though we are travelling; we are hosting it here. The servants are well versed in what to prepare, and all our guests will happily contribute a dish, as is tradition.’ She smiled around the room. ‘I have liaised with Cook and all is in hand. We simply needed to extend the invitation and that is done.’
Edward grunted and dropped into a nearby chair. ‘And pray, Sister, who might our guests be, other than the Wallace family?’
‘Dear Edward.’ Cassandra spoke soothingly. ‘We have asked Miss Benn, the Prowtings, Captain and Mrs Clement.’ She paused as Jane faked a yawn. ‘And Mr Papillon and his sister. That should be sufficient, should it not, with Mama and Martha joining us? Oh, and I understand the Hintons to be away.’
‘Which saves us the trouble of excluding them.’ Jane smirked at Edward, and when he threw her a warning look, she lifted a brow. ‘They are hardly the best company, Edward. Mr Hall passed an intolerable evening at their home in the winter. There was a monstrous deal of stupid quizzing and common-place nonsense talked but scarcely any wit.’
Rose turned back to look out of the window. So many people. But then, she supposed it would be so much easier to speak to her father under the cover of others. Something caught her eye, and she peered down the drive. Two men on horseback were cantering towards the stables, and her heart leapt. Aiden was back.
Chapter 16
Sunday dawned fair, and Rose breathed a sigh of relief as she followed the rest of the Austen family down the drive for the morning service. Filled with trepidation at coming face to face with the Wallace family, she was relieved to find they were not in attendance, and when she whispered to Jane, who sat beside her, she confirmed they often attended evensong instead.
Her relief was tempered by her desperate need to lay eyes on her father again, but Rose tried hard to put her thoughts aside. He would come to the picnic, wouldn’t he? He had said he would, and she had faith in him.
She cast Aiden a discreet glance as they began the first hymn, then tried to conceal her smile. Though he was mouthing the words, she was pretty certain his concentration was on the roof trusses. She followed his gaze, then looked around the interior more carefully. It was a little run-down and in need of some love. Rose returned her attention to her hymn book. She could almost be describing herself before Aiden…
She peeped at him under her lashes. He had been eager to hear about her encounter with her father the previous evening, but having already told Jane about it, Rose did not wish it to be openly discussed over the dinner table. As such, he had come to sit beside her after the gentlemen had re-joined the ladies, with Jane taking to the pianoforte at Edward’s request, and the two brothers holding a quiet discourse as she entertained them.
Aiden’s admiration for Rose’s attempt to seize the moment had been heart-warming, and he had allowed her to talk herself dry before even hinting at how much pleasure his own day had brought him.
As they settled back into their pews for the sermon, she cast him another glance from under the rim of her bonnet. Everything she had learned since their strange journey to the past only attracted her more; she only hoped he felt the same.
* * *
Once the service was over and the requisite interactions with the congregation had taken place, the Chawton House party took their leave, attended now by both Mrs Austen and Martha Lloyd, who seemed like a very steady, pleasant-natured woman. They returned to the house, which was already full of bustle as the servants gathered the necessary items for the picnic on the sunny terraces adjacent to the house: cushions, blankets, serving trays and all the assorted accompaniments for dining al fresco in style.
Rose’s only knowledge of such things came from her reading of Jane Austen’s Emma and its infamous picnic on Box Hill. On that occasion, everyone had travelled by carriage and the servants had had to carry everything some distance to their chosen spot.
Jane had disappeared for a while, and Rose didn’t want to know where, fearing she had taken it into her head to slip through time again. She had sufficient distraction in the meantime, though, as Mrs Austen had engaged her in conversation with Martha Lloyd. Trying her best to concentrate so as not to slip up, Rose looked up in relief as Jane returned to the room.
‘Miss Wallace, would you be so kind as to come?’ Jane held the door open, and Rose excused herself and hurried over.
‘What is wrong?’ Had her father decided against coming? Her insides were twisting in anticipation of disappointment, but Jane shook her head and opened her reticule.
‘I did not err in my assumption your friend would communicate at the earliest opportunity.’
Taking the letters from Jane, Rose smiled gratefully, then hurried up the stairs to her room, collapsing onto the bed and then starting to laugh. There was not one response from Morgan, but several. The first was clearly written before Morgan had read Rose’s second short note:
I got a train and a cab to Hampshire, and I spent the morning at the cottage today, wondering where exactly you were at that same moment. Do you remember how we used to call our friend Crazy Jenny? Well, trust me, I am definitely dubbed Crazy Californian by the docents here. I got caught kneeling on the floor in Jane’s room looking for the loose board, told them I was praying for her. Not that praying is crazy, but considering the situation, it looked a tad excessive. I’ve found a place to stay closer to where you are – I need to be here for when you need me. Found a really nice lady, runs a bed and breakfast just a twenty-minute walk away from the cottage. I’m in the Tower Room, I couldn’t resist a room with a name like that! The proprietor will cook me anything I need for breakfast. Result! P.S. I’m making lists of places to look at to rent in Bath and James is going to take me somewhere a little less densely populated to learn how to drive a modern carriage in this country. Wish both of us luck and tell me what’s going on. No pressure, but I’m desperate and you know how I get when I’m desperate. P.P.S It’s taken me three hours to write with this system. Not really. But sort of.
Rose smiled; she did indeed know how Morgan got when she was impatient. Rose would describe it politely as mercilessly repetitive. The next letter was almost unreadable it was so smeared:
Tell me EVERYTHING!! I can’t believe it but I knew it. Can’t write with this stupid quill while I’m crying. Love!!
There was an even tinier piece of parchment next:
And I’m so proud of you! Way to seize the moment! Oh, I’m so happy!
Rose moved on to the last one, which was a variation on the same: Morgan expressing extreme happiness and extreme curiosity, all the while saying she understood if Rose needed time before she could write again. Knowing her as Rose did, that meant Rose should risk everything but bodily harm to update her friend i
mmediately.
* * *
As the hour for the arrival of the picnic guests approached, Rose returned to her room. Both Jane and Cassandra had proposed they change into something more suitable for company, and with the help of one of Edward’s maids, she was soon wearing yet another modified gown of Cassandra’s, her hair suitably dressed and a shawl and some shoes bestowed upon her.
Staring at her reflection, Rose could feel her anxiety returning. Would her father really turn up? Had he told his wife about her? What, if anything, did she already know about his past? Did she know the truth? Rose tried to observe herself in the mirror as if she didn’t know who she was. Did she look suitably elegant, a daughter to be proud of? Her father already had three daughters – and hadn’t there been mention of a son, too?
With a sigh, she turned away, clutching her shawl as her insides began their familiar dance. Why was it she felt more nervous of the pending meeting with her father’s family than she had when she’d bumped into him yesterday?
‘Come, Rose; it is time.’
Jane’s head had appeared around the door, and she came into the room and walked over to where Rose stood.
‘You will mangle it beyond all recognition if you do not take care.’ She removed the silk shawl from Rose’s taut grasp and walked around to drape it over her arms. ‘There, that is better. Come.’
She looped her arm through Rose’s and they left the room, making their way downstairs and out into the weak sunshine. An open carriage could be seen slowing down on the main road, and there were people approaching the gate near the church who were also on their way to join them.
Jane tugged on Rose’s arm, and she turned away.
There were several servants ferrying all sorts of items to the level terrace where a serving table had already been set up, along with a white canopy of some sort.
‘Here, take this.’ Jane stopped to pick up some cushions where they had been piled ready for the guests and thrust two of them at Rose. ‘We shall be able to secure the most favourable situation.’
The Unexpected Past of Miss Jane Austen Page 15
