Ever Crave the Rose (The Elizabethan Time Travel Series Book 3)

by Morgan O'Neill

  More words appeared, a message filled with new meaning, with life.

  Dearest Grandma,

  Father Edgar is here... Your plan worked... We’re coming home... Anne

  Trudy leapt to her feet. “Mrs. Howard!” she called out. “Catherine, she is safe! Safe!”

  She clutched the frame and half-hobbled, half-ran as fast as her old bones could take her straight up the stairs to Catherine’s room.

  Her pulse thundered in her ears. When she reached the door, she stopped and forced herself to calm down by taking several deep breaths. Lord, it wouldn’t do to die of a heart attack before she could give Catherine the news.

  Once she felt a measure of composure, she opened the door, hoping Catherine would be lucid. “Mrs. Howard?” she asked. “Catherine, are ye awake? I have wonderful news.”

  As if by a miracle, Catherine Hastings Howard snapped to attention, her eyes flying open, her gaze sharp. “Yes, what is it, Mrs. Leach?”

  Trudy cried out in joy and rushed to her side. She held forth the framed letter and said in as calm a voice as she could muster, “Father Edgar reached her in time. Anne is alive, and she’ll be home soon!”

  * * *

  Catherine closed her eyes in relief. Anne...alive! How long she’d waited for those words. My darling girl is alive! How marvelous!

  “Are ye all right, Mrs. Howard?”

  Her eyelids suddenly felt heavy, too heavy to open. “Yes, Trudy,” she whispered. “Read...I must hear...words...please.”

  She listened as Trudy read Anne’s wonderful message. Dearest Grandma... I’m safe... I love you...

  “Thank you,” she said to Trudy, then repeated, “Anne is alive.”

  There was one more thing to do. She asked Trudy to bring her a pen and paper. She needed to write a last letter to her granddaughter, to be placed by Trudy in a special spot to await Anne’s return.

  Once that was done and Trudy had seen to all the final arrangements, Catherine felt a soft, shining peace envelop her body. Time passed and flowed backward and forward, taking little jumps here and there, her life replaying in her mind. She realized she’d been fortunate, her many joys outweighing the sorrows—and now...

  Anne. She smiled inwardly, feeling wonderful, the heavy burden lifted and spirited away. Now that I know you’re safe, darling, now that I know for certain, I’m ready.

  She felt her life force ebbing, her body weak beyond anything she’d ever felt before, and she was glad to let go.

  Arthur, my dearest heart, I’m coming.

  Catherine was suddenly aware of the sound of weeping. Her mind pulled back from the mists, and she opened her eyes. Richard, Joan, Reggie, Roxana, and the boys, Trudy, Dr. Williams. All stood at her bedside. Even Duffy was there, resting against her in bed. She heard more sobs, mournful grieving.

  “It’s all right,” she heard herself reassure everyone. “I love you. Take care of each other. I’ll be fine.”

  “Hello, love.”

  She closed her eyes and Arthur stood there, young and dashing, wearing a fine suit and his bowler hat, a pink rosebud in his lapel. With a smile, he beckoned for her to follow.

  Catherine took his hand, his skin warm and feather-soft. The air shimmered and glowed, her own body gleaming, weightless.

  She caught a whiff of fine cigars and the lovely scent of the thornless rose.

  Her spirit soared.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  January, 2015, London

  Anne awoke in the dark with Rose in her arms. She felt Jonathan stretched out behind her, hugging them both. It was quiet and she could hear them breathing softly and steadily.

  She drew in her own breath, then exhaled. They’d made it, hadn’t they? The feel of the sixteenth century was palpable, still enveloping her like ghostly fingers, but it was growing dimmer by the moment, like the trace feelings of a spent dream.

  Had they time traveled?

  Waw waw waw! Whine! Anne listened to the muffled yet distinctive sounds of an emergency siren.

  Yes! She sighed in relief just as Jonathan and Rose stirred.

  “Did we succeed?” Jon asked her.

  “Yeah, we did.” Anne felt Rose snuggle against her. She leaned back, sheltered by Jon’s sweet embrace.

  “Blimey,” Jon whispered.

  She chuckled. “My sentiments exactly.” Except I’d say holy shit!

  “Where’s the torch?” Jon asked. “I grabbed it, but…”

  Anne felt his arm moving around on the floor beside them.

  “I remember what happened,” he said. “Norfolk. I’m glad I got the chance to torture the bastard with foreknowledge of his death.”

  Anne gasped as memories surged to mind, and she recalled everything that happened in the crypt. “Do you think Edgar’s all right?”

  Jon kissed her hair. “He’s a smart man.”

  “I hope he got back to Hastings House safely.” She remembered how the priest promised he’d find a way to get a message to them via the Watchers. With any luck, they’d hear from him soon.

  After she and Jon rose to seated positions on the floor, she watched him light the torch.

  “Good thing Edgar gave me some matches,” he said as they both gazed down at Rose’s little face.

  The baby smiled back, and Anne forced from mind the last vestiges of her fright. We made it!

  The only thing that could make this moment any more perfect would be to communicate with Father Edgar and her other friends. She wished information could go the other way around, so she could tell them they were safe.

  If only, she thought.

  * * *

  It took a long time for Anne, Jon, and Rose to make their way through the tunnels, having taken several wrong turns before finding the exit Edgar described, one with a rusty chain-link gate. Anne tried to see outside, but it was too dark.

  Jon balanced the torch and walking stick against the tunnel’s wall, then started to kick at the gate along the rustiest edge. Rose watched with wide eyes as her father kicked again and again. Anne rocked her and whispered, “It’s okay.” To her relief, the baby didn’t fuss or cry. Jon helped by turning back from time to time and making funny faces and kissy sounds, which delighted their daughter.

  Finally, the chain-link gave way, allowing their exit.

  “Lady Anne…Lady Rose,” he said with a smile and a short bow.

  “Why, I thank thee kindly, Sir Jonathan,” Anne answered as they carefully stepped through the broken gate.

  The sky had begun to lighten, and they found themselves in a little park tucked away on a side street. When they reached a sidewalk, Anne laughed. With a happy cry, she pointed at the glowing street lights. “Electricity! LED lighting, no less.” She looked at her husband, excited. “First the siren, now this.”

  At that moment, the streetlights blinked out, and Jon dropped the torch into a rain puddle. They moved away from the sputtering remains, heading down the street in search of a main road.

  Only a few people were out at this time of day, but they all stopped to stare at the costumed trio in their Elizabethan finery.

  Anne held her head high and smiled at the deliverymen and joggers, then chuckled at Jon’s expression of surprise at the spandex one woman was wearing.

  “If ye’re lookin’ fer Hampton Court, ye’ve made a wrong turn,” one joker called out.

  “That’s one spot I’ll never visit again,” Anne said under her breath, while reminding Jonathan it was the first place she’d time traveled.

  “I dare say that’s a good plan,” he said. “We shan’t visit Hatfield House, either.”

  “From now on those are two places to avoid. We’ll visit other places,” Anne said as they reached a main thoroughfare.

  Jon hailed a cab. “Okay. Here we go.”

  “How are we going to pay for it?” Anne whispered, realizing her groats probably wouldn’t be accepted here.

  “I’ve some coin in my pocket, and if pure silver or gold doesn’t tempt the driver, t
hen we can hope there’ll be someone with cash on the other end.”

  As Jonathan opened the cab door, Anne cuddled Rose. “We made it home, sweetie,” she whispered to her. “Safe and sound.”

  * * *

  As the cab traveled to Catherine’s home in Chelsea, Brandon couldn’t believe his eyes. London stood transformed by walls of glittering glass and soaring buildings in shapes he’d never imagined: pyramidal, ovoid, spire-like—and taller than anything he’d ever seen, dwarfing anything he remembered from 1945. Even the dome of St. Paul’s looked small in comparison with the new structures, like a grand old sentinel stooped amongst the young guardsmen.

  But for all the bright glory in his surroundings, and despite the happy relief he felt now that he, Anne, and Rose were safe, he found himself worried about what was to come. A meeting with Catherine was imminent. She’d be an old lady—he still in his thirties. How would she react when they met again? Would the shock be too much for her?

  He shook his head, uncomfortable, then realized he was clutching Edgar’s walking stick with a white-knuckled intensity. He eased his grip. For his part, he felt confident about his own feelings, his love for Anne running deep and true. He’d made his peace with the loss of Catherine years ago. Yet he worried about his being present at the reunion of Anne and her grandmother. He did not wish to destroy what should be a wonderful moment.

  Surprisingly, he and Anne had never discussed any of this. Why, he couldn’t guess. Perhaps she’d been so used to witnessing the love between her grandparents, she hadn’t considered how awkward an encounter between he and Catherine might be should they ever meet again.

  He glanced at Anne and Rose as the cab turned into a street lined with old mulberry trees. Together, they gazed out the cab window—the baby curious, Anne’s expression intent, yet blazingly happy.

  Chelsea, Catherine, almost there.

  Anne turned to him, beaming.

  Almost there.

  * * *

  It’s like I never left. Anne shook her head in wonder, staring at her grandmother’s beautiful brick townhouse, the front door painted burgundy and edged with leaded glass, a small brass bell positioned at eleven o’clock, ready to be rung.

  She heard Jon telling the cabbie he needed to go inside the house and get payment for the ride. The man grumbled, but Anne didn’t look back as she got out, her gaze captured by the house she loved.

  With Rose in her arms, she hustled up the front steps just as the door opened wide.

  Eyes round, brows raised, Trudy stood there with Duffy in her arms, looking shocked. Rose squealed with joy and reached for the dog as it yipped back in delight.

  Anne hugged Trudy and presented her baby for inspection.

  Trudy shook her head in amazement. “Oh, Anne, dear, I canna believe my eyes,” she said. “They said ye were comin, but...so quick? I never imagined it.” Her gaze fell on Rose. “Such a wee bairn, an’ so pretty.”

  Anne grinned. “Where’s Grandma?” she asked, glancing over Trudy’s shoulder and into the house, hardly able to contain her excitement, her need to get inside.

  It was then she saw three people standing in the foyer: a priest, an old man in a tweed jacket, and a nun. Her heart suddenly skipped a beat. What was going on?

  “Trudy, where’s... Where is...?” she asked, but her voice abandoned her.

  Tears filled Trudy’s eyes. “She’s gone, dear. Passed peacefully two weeks ago.”

  Gone...passed. It took a moment for the words to register. Anne was barely aware as Jonathan put his arm around her and gently kissed her hair, then took Rose from her arms. She stood in stunned silence, numb in realization.

  “Anne, dear,” Trudy gently said, “ye must take comfort, as we all do, in knowin’ your grandmother received your message. She knew ye were safe and returnin’ soon.”

  No, no. Grief-stricken, Anne was too far gone to think of anything but the fact they were too late. Her grandmother had died.

  * * *

  Trudy put the terrier down and took Anne into an embrace. The dog began to race around and bark up a storm, which caused Rose to fuss.

  Brandon felt terrible about Catherine and deeply worried for Anne, but first things first—he must attempt to get everything under control. Trying to juggle the squirming baby and pointy cane, he was thankful when the priest shooed the dog into another room, and the nun took Rose from his arms.

  “Hey, mate, I’ll be needin’ payment so I can get on with my day,” the cabbie said from the doorway.

  The priest hurried out to take care of the bill.

  Despite the flurry of activity in the foyer, Brandon noticed the old man hadn’t moved an inch. He had a cane, too, not unusual in the least since he was quite elderly. To Brandon’s mind, he didn’t look a day over one hundred.

  Who is he? He studied the man’s face and realized he’d seen that twinkling blue gaze before—but where?

  “Weel, it’s about time,” the man said in a heavy Scottish accent. He extended his hand.

  Brandon felt positively gobsmacked. “Angus McDuff?” he asked in amazement.

  “Aye, laddie,” he replied with a smile. “At yer service. Whatever took ye so long?”

  * * *

  “Every time I thought about returning here, I never imagined she’d be gone,” Anne said quietly as she faced the laptop on her grandfather’s desk.

  She was talking to her parents back in Virginia via Skype. Brandon shook his head at the wonders of this age. Tomorrow, the Howards would fly to London, having just arrived home after attending Catherine’s burial in Cambridge. The back and forth was much easier now than in 1945, and swift as well—no long trips crossing the Atlantic by steamship or propeller aircraft. Jets ruled the skies nowadays, and cruise ships were the norm for only the most leisurely travelers.

  Elizabethan garb jettisoned, Anne was now comfortably dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt with O’Neill emblazoned across the front. Brandon thought she looked different and rather sexy, the shirt emphasizing her marvelous breasts just so.

  Smiling, he looked down at his own new clothing, courtesy of Marks & Spencer: blue jeans, a white cotton shirt with pale blue piping from someone named Ralph Lauren, and what Anne called running or tennis shoes. Trudy had set it up, summoning a gentleman dresser to the house to fit Brandon with everything from several fine suits to the casual clothing everyone wore nowadays.

  Touching the denim, he could not help but feel odd, since jeans were considered work clothes in the forties, not everyday wear.

  Anne was still speaking with her parents, so, with a shrug, Brandon left the library and headed for the kitchen. Angus, Monsignor Tim, and Sister Marie sat at the table with Trudy. The foursome was deep in conversation.

  For a moment, Brandon watched them. He’d already had conversations with each of them. Tim and Marie filled him in on their work with Daniel and Edgar, and what had happened from their end regarding the time travel. Trudy told him about the dog, Mr. McDuff the Ninth, the sweet tradition Catherine established to honor Brandon’s last Christmas gift to her in 1945. Angus caught him up on the essentials of life since 1945, their old RAF mates now gone, and, most importantly, about his father, Nigel.

  He swallowed against the lump rising in his throat. Poor Dad. Angus told him about his death in 1946, and Brandon felt deeply grateful Angus and Catherine had been with him at the end. He was also thankful his friend had continued to stay in touch with Catherine throughout the years—Trudy, too. Although the Scotsman hadn’t seen either one of them for over thirty years, he’d come south to London as soon as he’d heard of Catherine’s passing.

  Brandon glanced at his old wartime friend, remembering his red hair and wiry build, so different from the bent and white-haired fellow he’d become. And yet he’d learned Angus still lived independently, having taken a pensioner’s cottage in his daughter’s village on the outskirts of Glasgow. It was clear he was in remarkable shape for a man of ninety-eight.

  Tough S
cot, he thought in admiration.

  Trudy looked up and spotted Brandon standing by the door. “Doctor, would ye like some Starbucks? I made a pot of their Sulawesi.”

  “Thank you, no, Trudy.” When she started to get up, he tried to wave her down, but she stood anyway. He added, “I’ve had my fill of coffee today. What I would dearly love is a cuppa. You see, I haven’t had tea in ages.” He noticed everyone chuckled at that. Ages, yes. Fitting, wasn’t it? “I’ll get it myself if you’ll tell me where it’s kept.”

  With a wave of her own, Trudy started for the pantry. “There, there, Dr. Brandon,” she said over her shoulder. “I was just finishin’ up meself, and I’m pleased t’ make ye that first cuppa in ages.”

  She turned and winked, and he grinned back. Anne had always gone on about Trudy’s many merits, and he agreed his wife was spot on in her assessment—the woman was a treasure.

  He took a seat next to Angus, with Tim and Marie across from them.

  “Well, Doctor, now that things are a bit settled,” the monsignor said in his Irish brogue, “we’ve got some business to go over with you, if you’re willin’.”

  When Jon agreed, he added, “We’ve got new identity papers for you, courtesy of the British government. All quite legitimate. The Vatican does work wonders in cutting through government bureaucracy.”

  Sister Marie nodded. “We’ve also got something that belonged to you. In fact, it gave us the news about your imminent return. That’s why Monsignor Tim and I flew up on the red eye to London.”

  Brandon frowned. Whatever could she be talking about?

  Just then, Trudy set a tea pot, cup, and saucer before him. “Wait a moment, please, so that it’ll steep a wee bit more.”

  “I’m certain it’s splendid. Thank you.” Brandon tried to wait but couldn’t, such was his excitement. With a grin, he poured the tea, then breathed in the wonderful aroma. “Ah,” he murmured as he took his first sip. The smooth, rich flavor rolled over his tongue, and he raised his cup. “There’s no place like home.”

  “Toto agrees.” Holding the Cairn terrier, Anne swept into the room, her eyes still red from crying, but her expression gentle, with a little smile playing across her lips.