by Mez Blume
“At home, we say ‘goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite’,” I responded, and we both giggled. After a few minutes, I heard Sophia’s steady breathing and turned over to watch my own candle flicker and throw shapes on the wall. All the talk of Frederick had made me think of Charlie. I wondered what he was doing in Scotland, and whether he missed me and wished I had come along. That’s when it hit me, like a stone on water: Charlie doesn’t exist here. None of them do.
The thought made me shiver in spite of the weight of warm covers. I propped myself up to blow out the candle, then lay back, shutting my eyes tight against the dark. When I woke, would I find this whole strange day had been a bizarre dream? Or was my adventure at Otterly Manor only just beginning?
9
The Blank Canvas
Warm sun rays lit up the insides of my eyelids. I opened them. A stream of silver morning light poured through the open bed curtain and landed in a pool on my pillow. I stretched, yawned and sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. I found myself inside a cosy cocoon of crimson. Outside the red curtains, I heard the hushed voices of ladies and the soft scuttle of a dog’s claws on floorboards.
So it wasn’t a dream.
I scooted across the bed to the open curtain and dangled my legs over the side. Sunlight bathed the bedchamber; it sparkled off the silver objects on the dressing table and left a latticed design across the floor. Odd, I thought, that all the paintings from back in these days should look so dark and creepy. This morning was fresh and dazzling … and delicious! A whiff of something savoury tickled my nostrils, and my eyes followed my nose to a steaming tray of bowls and platters on the table.
I planted my feet on the thick, Turkish rug and looked about the room. Sophia was sitting by the fire, already dressed and with Britannia chomping a deer antler at her feet. One of the maids was combing Sophia’s hair back and fixing it into a complicated bun.
“Is that you, Katie?” Sophia asked, unable to turn around.
I padded across the carpet to stand beside her at the fire. “You look very nice!”
“Thank you. I would sooner wear fewer petticoats, but Master Van Hoebeek has requested an early portrait sitting as the Earl is due to arrive by midday. I was just going to wake you.”
“How long have we got?” I asked, squatting to stroke Tannia’s boxy head.
“Oh, time enough for you to dress and for our breakfast. I only had to make an early start as this hairstyle does take an age for poor Tatty to perform.”
Tatty did look rather taxed, I thought, with pins stuck between her teeth, and her eyebrows pinched in stern concentration as she wrestled Sophia’s long, golden strands.
“Shall I call for Elinor to help you dress?” Sophia asked.
I was going to say I could manage. Then I remembered the ordeal of lacing and latching my dress the day before and decided to take her up on the help. So Elinor came and had it all done up in no time, and I was dressed and seated at the breakfast table before Sophia’s hair was even ready. Tatty finished her off with the lacy ruff collar that stood straight out, a bit like those plastic cones dogs wear when they’ve got an injury they mustn’t lick. I was thankful I didn’t have to wear a stiff, scratchy thing like that!
We had to go to the drawing room for the portrait sitting. Master Van Hoebeek greeted Sophia with what must have been a very tickly kiss on the hand through his woolly black beard.
She turned to me. “Katie, I believe you met our resident artist yesterday?”
Master Van Hoebeek, as expressionless as one of his portraits, bowed his head towards me.
“And that over there is his apprentice, Tom Tippery.”
I hadn't even noticed the other man sitting in a shadowy corner behind his easel. He too had a beard, but it was short and scraggly and salted with white. It was easy to tell who was the Master and who was the assistant. Unlike Master Van Hoebeek’s fine, silk clothes, Tom’s were plain and woollen and looked like they needed a wash. He stood and doffed his flat, floppy cap in a bow, revealing a large bald patch. When he raised his head, he looked me right in the eye and gave me the slyest wink, and I knew with a skip of my heartbeat, it was him. He was the gypsy painter I’d seen in the painting. He was the one who had brought me here, somehow or other.
I was dying to ask how and why he’d performed his magic on me from centuries away, but my questions would have to wait. It was straight to business before Master Van Hoebeek’s artistic muse could run away. A bird cage stood near Sophia’s stool, and she took from it a dainty, yellow canary that perched and chirped happily on her finger. The artist positioned her on the stool and ordered Britannia to lie down beside her. Britannia cocked her head but didn’t budge. Sophia ordered her, “To me, Tannia,” and the dog trotted right over and obediently lay down beside the stool.
I sat myself down out of the way in a hard, wooden chair to watch and wait. The morning passed more slowly than the longest car journey I have ever suffered through. It must have been hours! I will never know how Sophia sat there, still as a marble statue, for so very long. To keep my eyes from closing, I watched Master Van Hoebeek at his work. Though I couldn’t see much from the opposite side of the canvas, it was still quite a performance. Sometimes his brush strokes became quite violent, slashing across the wooden canvas. Other times, he dabbed delicately like he was tickling it. Tom Tippery, meanwhile, sat in his corner and appeared to be doing very little other than plodding away with his own paintbrush.
How I wished I’d brought my book along! I constantly had to shift around in my chair to keep from nodding off. After what felt like half a day (though it was probably no more than two hours), Master Van Hoebeek finally put down his paintbrush. Leaning back, he observed his work and rubbed his hands together.
“It is nearly finished,” he said in his wiry accent. “And, if I may be so bold, a work of rare beauty.”
“May we see it?” Sophia asked. Our plan was that she would find a way of distracting Master Van Hoebeek while I tried to steal “a private word” with Tom Tippery.
The painter smiled wryly. “I am afraid I cannot reveal it to you until I have applied some … final touches.”
It was a good attempt, but it hadn’t worked.
Sophia didn’t miss a beat before trying the next strategy. “Master Van Hoebeek, I wonder …” She hesitated just long enough to cast a meaningful sideways look at me. I straightened up, waiting for my moment. She continued, “I have always imagined having my portrait taken in the park, with my horse. My aunt, the Queen, has one such portrait in our gallery. Have you seen it?”
“Yes, I believe I know the one,” Master Van Hoebeek answered with only half of his attention. The other half was employed in packing away his brushes.
Sophia boldly jumped up and walked over to the window, the canary still bobbing on her finger. “I’ve found just the perfect backdrop. I believe you can see it from this window. But I should like your expertise, if you’d care to have a look?”
This time, Sophia’s ingenious plan paid off. We shared the sneakiest of smiles as Master Van Hoebeek made his way across the room to her side. Here was my chance! I crept along the wall and stopped just behind Tom Tippery’s easel. He was still busy adding his own finishing touches to his canvas and didn’t seem to notice me.
There was no time to lose, so I cleared my throat. “Hello, Mr. Tippery. I’m Kat—” Before I could even get my name out of my mouth, the strangest thing happened. Tom jumped to his feet, nearly knocking over his easel. He looked at me with wide, terrified eyes as if I were a ghost. Pushing me aside, he flew to Master Van Hoebeek’s stool and threw a cloth over the painter’s canvas before snatching it up under his arm. But he hadn’t been quick enough in covering it to hide a rather interesting feature of Master Van Hoebeek’s painting. It was blank! After hours of slashing, dotting and tinting, there was not a spot of paint to show for it!
I was speechless. Tom and I stood there gawking at each other, he clutching the blank canvas under
his arm, his eyes darting between me and the window. Master Van Hoebeek must have heard the clamour and turned around. When he saw Tom and me in our face-off, his eyes narrowed angrily on me for half an instant, then softened. “Is anything … amiss, Tom?” he asked with nonchalance.
Sophia looked at me questioningly.
Tom opened his mouth as if to answer, but he only just managed to mumble, “Er, no … sir.”
The drawing room door opened, and the moment of pins and needles was shattered. We all turned our attention to the manservant who stood as stiff as a soldier in the doorway.
“The Earl has arrived and requests the audience of Mistress Sophia and Master Van Hoebeek at dinner,” he announced.
Sophia gave a little jump for joy, then caught herself and looked at me, biting her lip. I’m sure she didn’t know what to make of my befuddled face. “Master Van Hoebeek,” she asked as innocently as a little child as she returned the canary to its perch, “Would you be so kind as to escort me to my guardian?”
Master Van Hoebeek cast one last dark glance at me, then straightened up. “But of course, my lady.”
“I will meet you after dinner, Katie,” Sophia called over her shoulder as she took Master Van Hoebeek’s arm. “How about in the Stone Court? It is such a fine day, we can go for a walk.”
I nodded and waved awkwardly as she left, then spun around to seize the moment with Tom Tippery. My jaw dropped. The man was gone! Completely vanished without a peep! And Master Van Hoebeek’s blank canvas had gone with him. He had, however, left his own canvas and painting kit in the corner. I moved around it, half-expecting to find another blank board. But to my astonished eyes, what I found instead was the most exquisite likeness of Sophia! It was the one I’d seen in Otterly Manor that morning, almost complete.
So Tom wasn’t just an apprentice; he was the real artist! But if that was so, what was Master Van Hoebeek? Why would Tom allow him to steal all the credit for his own work?
I rubbed my forehead, trying to make sense of it all. My stomach made a complaining gurgle, and I decided it was no good trying to solve a mystery until I’d had some lunch. Then I could tell Sophia all about what I’d seen, and perhaps she or even the famous Frederick would have some answers.
But as for speaking to Mr. Tom Tippery, it wasn’t going to be as simple as I’d imagined. I was just going to have to wait a little longer and watch a little closer.
10
Sneezing Suspicion
I waited for Sophia in the Stone Court on a sunny bench, reading my book. I’d nearly finished it and had just got to the part when Holmes and Watson are lying in wait in the fog-veiled mire only to be sprung upon by a giant, fire-breathing hound!
“Katie!”
I jumped at the sound of my name.
Sophia and I met each other’s surprised faces and both laughed. “Phew! I was just getting to the scary bit,” I explained, tucking the book back into my apron pocket.
“Well I hope you shall find us less frightening.” She stepped aside to present a tall, sinewy boy with the same serious blue eyes, flushed cheeks and wavy blonde hair as her own. He was quite dashing with a neatly trimmed, golden goatee. I thought he might have been around Charlie’s age.
“Frederick, this is my new friend I have been telling you about, Katherine Watson.”
“Mistress Watson.” Frederick smiled and made a very gentlemanly bow. It made my face burn to hear him call me by my code name so very politely. Charlie would die laughing if he’d heard it.
“Sophia tells me that you are from the Americas, but she will not tell me how you came here.” He spoke in the same slight German accent as his sister, and had the same look of genuine interest in his eyes as he spoke. “She says I must ask you to tell me yourself.”
“Oh, um, well …” I began, not really knowing where to begin. “It’s a funny story, really …”
“Wait.” Sophia laid a hand on my arm. “The manor is crawling with ears. Everyone is bustling about preparing for the King and Queen’s arrival. We should go somewhere quieter where we can talk without being heard.”
“Is it a secret? Is this Katherine Watson a fugitive? Or perhaps a foreign spy?” Frederick teased.
“Even better!” Sophia stuck up her nose with pretend snootiness. “Now where shall we go?”
“How about the stables?” Frederick suggested. “Or better yet, the hayloft? ’Tis a good place for thinking … or divulging secrets.” He wiggled his eyebrows.
“But Frederick, what about your hay fever?” Sophia asked in her motherly way.
He looked affronted. “What hay fever?”
Frederick sneezed for the tenth time, just as I’d finished explaining my fall through the painting.
“Come now,” he said through watery eyes. “You girls are practically ladies and much too old for these fanciful children’s games. Where have you really come from, Katherine?”
At Sophia’s prompting, I had just given the whole strange account of the previous day’s incident, and to my extreme discomfort, Frederick wasn’t buying a word of it. He had an unamused look on his face that made my cheeks go hot, like he thought I was just a silly little girl.
Sophia stood up so that she was taller than her brother who sat on a bale of hay. “’Tis not a game,” she said defiantly. “We can prove it.” She looked at me to produce the proof.
“Yes!” I said, wishing Sophia had simply let me make up some believable story to tell Frederick. “I can answer questions about the future …” I was quite good at history, but just then, I was scrambling to think of any historic fact that would impress him. He didn’t even give me the chance.
“That doesn't prove anything. You could just make it up.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the curved wooden rib of the stable’s vaulted roof.
I bit my lip, trying to think of something … anything to show I wasn’t being childish. If only I had a mobile phone or a tablet to knock his stockings off with. But I hadn’t come with any modern technology. Even my watch was useless. All I had to show from the future were books, but that gave me an idea. “I know! I’ve got this.” I took the copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles from my pocket and handed it to him.
Sophia nodded triumphantly. “Yes, have a look at that! The sketches are most strange and otherworldly.”
Frederick took the book with a smirk and flipped through its pages, stopping to examine the illustrations. He looked especially closely at the inside cover. His smirk turned into a perplexed scowl. “Who is this Sherlock Holmes?”
“He’s a detective,” I answered. “Probably the most famous detective in all of English literature.”
Frederick scanned the page with eyebrows knitting all the while, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “It says ‘originally serialised in 1901’.” He smirked. “I suppose you want me to believe that you have come here from nearly three hundred years in the future?”
“Not exactly.”
“No?”
This wasn’t going as I’d hoped. I sighed and launched into my explanation. “That book is an antique. It was a gift from my brother Charlie because we both love detective stories so much.” How I wished Charlie were here! He’d know how to persuade Frederick, who was still scowling at me. “Anyway,” I continued, “the Sherlock Holmes mysteries were written about a hundred and fifteen years before my time. I’m from the twenty-first century.”
He closed the book with a thud and flatly handed it back to me.
Sophia was smiling. “So you see, Frederick. Now you believe us, don’t you?”
Frederick kept glaring at me like he was trying to see into my thoughts. I sat as still as stone and dug my hands down into the hay beneath me. I was determined not to show Frederick any of the signs of dishonesty I was certain he was looking for.
“Sophia,” — he addressed his sister but kept his eyes fixed on me — “I have read of such intrigues as bodies transported through time. I do not advise tampering with games that may have … de
vilish origins.”
I nearly swallowed my tongue at that. Thankfully, Sophia came to my defence.
“Devilish? In truth, Frederick, is not God the Master of Time and not the devil? Do you not remember the verse Mama embroidered on your handkerchief before we left home?”
“Of course I remember.” He took a cloth from his pocket and read the tiny thread words embroidered on it. “But as for me, I trust in You, O LORD, I say, ‘You are my God. My times are in Your hand.”
“You see?” said Sophia. “Time is in the Lord’s hand. Only he could have turned it back.”
Stuffing the handkerchief back into his pocket, Frederick jumped eagerly into debate mode. “Yes, of course. The devil’s servants cannot actually travel through time. But they might use trickery or witchcraft to make us believe they had.”
Sophia was not daunted. She crossed her arms over her chest and answered, “Since just when are you so quick to believe in old wives’ tales? Is that what they teach you at Oxford? And what is more, when have I ever been known to tell a lie?”
I tried to back her up, but my own voice came out as shrill as a piglet’s squeal. “I’m not a witch, I promise!” I squeaked. It was so unfair of Frederick to accuse me of trickery when I was the one who’d been tricked into going back in time. “I didn’t mean to fall through that painting,” I insisted. “It was an accident!”
“Frederick, I cannot believe you would be so discourteous as to accuse my friend of consorting with the devil! And anyway, Katie is only here because I asked for her.”
I looked at Sophia, completely surprised.
“You did?” Frederick and I asked at the exact same time.
