The Garden of Promises and Lies

by Paula Brackston

  “He has made his intentions very clear,” she said carefully. “He wants the book. If I give it to him he says he will leave me alone and not cause any more trouble for me in my own time.”

  “And you trust him?”

  “Of course not. I am … trying to find a way to take the astrolabe from him. That is my main concern at the moment. That and … well, I have been having visions, and hearing things from the book. It’s hard to know what is connected to Fairfax and what isn’t.”

  “The book has been speaking to you as well as showing you what is written? I recall it doing this in the past. It is a sign of the urgency and importance with which it wishes to communicate its secrets to you. You are fortunate indeed, to be so chosen,” she said, and for the first time Xanthe detected a note of jealousy in her tone.

  Was that why the book had shown her Mistress Flyte? Was it warning her not to trust the person who had helped her so much, who had assisted her in learning about the book in the first place?

  Whoops of delight from a lively trio trying their hand at archery interrupted her thoughts. It bothered her that she had to be wary of the old woman, but there was too much at stake to be wrong. If, somehow, Lydia Flyte was siding with Fairfax, she must be on her guard and reveal nothing of her plans. However much she resisted believing such an idea, she had to tread softly.

  “It’s not just the book,” she said. “I’ve been seeing glimpses, flashes of things—I don’t know what they mean, but they are frightening. And confusing.”

  “The more time you spend as a Spinner, particularly out of your own time, the more the gift infiltrates your life. Soon you will not be able to separate the person you are when you are not spinning, from the person you are when you travel.”

  “You are speaking from your own experience? From the time when you were a Spinner?”

  “It is not always a simple matter to move away.”

  “Well, of course, you are still spinning, aren’t you? I mean, you use your gift to live in different times. Even if you aren’t answering any calls, you are still time traveling.”

  “As I say, it becomes harder to separate the two aspects of oneself. Which is why you are having the experiences that seem, to you, unconnected.”

  “I suppose I know there is a connection, that it all joins up somehow. I just haven’t worked it out yet.”

  “Tell me what conclusions you have drawn thus far. It may be that I am able to offer some clarity.”

  “That would be very welcome, but … I suppose it’s not surprising…”

  “What is it, child?”

  “Some of the things I see, I hear, I read … they involve you.”

  She felt the slightest tremor of tension pass down Mistress Flyte’s arm as she held it. Other than that she gave no outward sign that this information in any way disconcerted her.

  “Indeed. The book will show you many Spinners, no doubt. Perhaps it wishes to put those you have met in context. As you say, it is not, after all, surprising.”

  “Maybe not, and yet…” She paused and stopped walking. Still holding the old woman’s arm so that she might gauge her reactions, she asked simply, “Who is Erasmus Balmoral?”

  Mistress Flyte’s sharp blue eyes widened and she snatched her arm away, taking a step back. For once her inscrutable expression and her unshakable composure were undone. Her face showed genuine dismay.

  She seemed on the point of forming a reply when a shout went up from the main group of the party, followed by several shrieks and cries. Xanthe turned to see that Henry’s horse had broken loose and was thundering blindly across the grass, scattering picnickers in all directions. Men tried to grab its bridle, or waved their arms to turn it away from the women and children. Henry ran after it, shouting alternately oaths and warnings. For an awful moment it seemed there would be casualties until a footman, dropping the silver platter of pastries he had been charged with, leapt in the horse’s path and took hold of its reins, quickly turning it and bringing it to a halt. The danger passed, Henry retrieved his mount and led it away uttering heartfelt apologies.

  Evie came sprinting up to Xanthe. “Did you see? Did you see? Lady Melrose was near trampled to death! Mr. Fairfax is calling for poor Henry’s horse to be shot, but Father will not hear of it. I fear they shall come to blows. Oh, please come and bring your brother to speak to them both!” she begged, grabbing Xanthe’s hand and dragging her back toward the marquee.

  * * *

  The remainder of the day passed slowly for Xanthe. Her thoughts were so focused on what she had to do, anything other than preparing for it was an unwelcome distraction. She needed to get back to the Spinners book but could only do so when the household had gone to bed. Up to this point, it would not have mattered if someone had interrupted her reading. To the uninformed observer she would simply be doing just that; reading peacefully in her room. Now, though, the time had come to go one step further. A significant step further. After turning over and over in her mind what she had seen in and heard from the book so far, she had formed an idea of how she might be able to outwit Fairfax using her talent as a Spinner. To be sure of success, she needed to try out the plan first. And that meant she could not risk being interrupted. It was gone midnight by the time the house was quiet. She had not even wanted to tell Liam of what she intended doing. While it was reassuring and helpful to have him at Corsham Hall with her, she needed to spin alone. To have him present as she did so would pull her in the wrong direction. Focus, clarity of intention and thought, would be vital.

  Xanthe had allowed the maid to help her out of her day dress and into her nightclothes, but now quickly slipped her pinafore over the linen shift.

  “Fail to prepare and prepare to fail. Or something,” she told herself, knowing that she had to plan for both best- and worst-case scenarios. To this end, she also put a few essentials in a small bag and slipped it over her shoulder. There was no key in the lock of the door, so she jammed a chair in place to prevent anyone coming into the room. “Just in case,” she muttered, trying to keep herself calm. She was pleased to realize that it was not apprehension but excitement that was causing her pulse to quicken. She picked up the Spinners book and set it down on the dressing table, a candle either side of it. She hesitated then, wondering if she should leave a note for Liam. She decided against, reasoning that nothing she could say in it would be useful, and nothing he could do—if her experiment went wrong—would make any difference. The thought reminded her that she and he would always have this strange distance between them; that she was a Spinner and he was not. It saddened her to think that distance could never be completely crossed. “Not now, girl,” she told herself, quickly tying her hair into a loose ponytail to keep it out of the way. She slipped on her ankle boots and tied a shawl around her shoulders, not knowing what weather she was likely to encounter. Next she moved the little stool out of the way and stepped forward to stand before the book. She turned the pages, willing it to show her again the incantation she had used when taking Fairfax to find his astrolabe. How long ago that felt. How much had happened since.

  “Show me,” she asked. “I am Xanthe Westlake of Marlborough, Spinner, and I wish to travel. Show me the words I need.”

  For a moment there was nothing, then the whispers started. Whispers that put her in mind of the clamor she heard every time she stepped into the blind house at home. There seemed to be more than Spinners talking to her through the book. She detected the cries and entreaties of people who needed her. It was as if declaring herself as a Spinner out loud and with the book had allowed her presence to be detected not only by Spinners themselves, but by those who would be helped by her. She shuddered at the thought that, of course, Fairfax would be able to sense her activity. She pushed the thought from her mind in case it somehow summoned him.

  At last words began to form on the page in front of her, hastily written, it seemed, scrawled almost. No voice read them, and she decided this was because it was she who was meant to say them alo
ud. Her voice that needed to be heard now. She took a breath.

  Let the door through the fabric of time swing wide,

  May I travel through time’s secret rift.

  Let the centuries spin at my bidding,

  May my return be sure and be swift.

  She repeated the lines. An unnatural breeze caused the flames of the candles to dance. The whispering voices fell silent.

  Xanthe spoke again, directly to the book, to the spirits of the Spinners within it, and this time she did not ask diffidently. This time she instructed.

  “Take me to a time, in this place, where I can see what I need to see, find what I need to find, know what I need to know. Show me something that will help me in my task. But return me here, to this very time and this very place.” As she said these words she stamped her heel hard on the wooden boards. She knew she had to anchor herself to the time somehow. It didn’t feel enough. She looked around for something she could take with her, something small yet intimately tied to the room as it was at that moment. The bed had been made for the house, its drapes and covers too. Quickly she took hold of one of the red tassels on the heavy bedspread and pulled a silk thread from it. This she tied through the buttonhole at the neck of her green cotton pinafore. She stood by the book again.

  “Show me now!” she demanded. In her eagerness to make the request work she gestured with her hand, emphasizing her words, failing to take into account how close she was to the candle. Her hand swept over the flame. The sharp pain of it made her cry out, and the burnt line across the tender underside of her fingers continued to hurt as she quickly dropped her hand to her side once more. She dare not let the pain distract her. “Time-within-time!” she said, repeating the words that were now being all but shouted in her ear by a male voice she recognized. “Time-within-time!”

  Suddenly, the pages of the book turned of their own accord, flipping first steadily, one at a time, then faster, more and more pages, an impossible number, so that they became a blur, until the air in the room was disturbed out of all sense. Both candles guttered and failed, the darkness enveloping her, the smell of smoldering wax accompanying her as she plunged through time.

  The transition was swift. Xanthe felt no dizziness nor lessening of her senses at all. It was as if, being so much more active in the process, she was more able to withstand its effects. She found herself in the walled garden of the Hall.

  “Yes!” She allowed herself a quiet expression of satisfaction. She might not be inside the house, but she had controlled the location of her travel point quite well. It was sharply cold and the thin layer of snow beneath her boots and bareness of the fruit trees spoke of deep midwinter. It was not yet fully nighttime; the sun was setting, painting the sky a brash orange, the heavy clouds a dusky pink. She heard soft voices. Not the whisperings of those in a distant time, but words being spoken there and then, in the garden. She must not be discovered. There was a dividing row of thick yew trees into which she quickly stepped, their evergreen branches providing excellent cover. From her hiding place she watched as two figures, a man and a woman, walked into view. They stopped only a few strides from where she crouched, so that even in the twilight she was able to see, and to recognize, their faces. The couple were unmistakably Lydia Flyte and the man Xanthe now knew to be Erasmus Balmoral. Their relationship was clearly one of intimacy and affection. The man turned his love toward him, encircling her in his arms, gazing into her eyes with a fierce intensity. Xanthe tried to pinpoint the date by studying their clothes, but the cold weather meant they were both wearing heavy coats that covered them from neck to ankle. The boots were not much to go on. Erasmus’s hair, grown long past his collar and swept back, was salt-and-peppered with maturity but he appeared youthful and strong. Lydia wore no hat and her hair hung loose down her back. It was a surprise to see her golden tresses instead of the white-grey Xanthe was accustomed to. When the pair kissed it was with passion restrained and evident longing.

  Erasmus stroked her cold cheek. “You understand me now?” he asked. “You truly accept what I must do?”

  She nodded slowly. “I have made my choice.”

  “You will side with me on this? For I can take no other path.”

  “I will, I promise.”

  “That promise must be freely given,” he told her. “For you will forfeit much and there can be no altering course once the decision is taken.”

  By way of an answer she kissed him again.

  He took from the pocket of his coat a small sprig of white winter heather. He reached up and tucked it into the buttonhole of her lapel.

  “For good fortune and for protection,” he said. And then he kissed her again and added, “You have my heart.”

  For a moment they stood, her face tilted up to him, the strange sky lending them both a curious supernatural glow. Xanthe was moved by the passionate way he regarded his woman. Was that feeling returned? As she studied Lydia’s face she noticed an unusual flare from her eyes, which she put down to the low sun and the awkward angle from which she was compelled to observe them.

  “I must take my leave,” he said. “Until tomorrow.” He left quickly then, striding away, his boots crunching through the snow as he went.

  Xanthe waited, not daring to move. Lydia Flyte watched her lover leave the garden. Once she could see him no more, she took the heather from her coat, crushed it in her hand, and threw the ruined flower onto the icy ground.

  It was then that she turned and stared in the direction of the yew trees. Xanthe held her breath. She must not be found, not by her, not at that moment. Quickly, she fumbled at her pinafore until she had hold of the thread of silk.

  “Time-within-time,” she whispered urgently. “Return me to my time-within-time.”

  She closed her eyes, conjuring a clear picture before her mind’s eye of her room at Corsham Hall, thinking of Petronella and the wedding dress and Liam in his fine Regency clothes. Anything, in fact, that would pull her toward that specific time and place. She felt rather than heard Mistress Flyte moving closer across the frozen garden, but in an instant she was spinning through time again, and in another heartbeat she was there, in her bedroom, snow melting off her boots onto the Persian rug.

  17

  Now that she had succeeded in moving back through time and returning to a time that was not her own, Xanthe dearly wanted to share her news with Liam. She needed to talk it through, to try to make sense of what she saw, to get his opinion on Mistress Flyte and whether or not she could be trusted. More urgently, she wanted to talk to him about how they might use her newly acquired ability to safely take the astrolabe from Fairfax. She was up and dressed early, taking a moment to wrap a strip of cotton over the candle burn on her fingers. She found his room empty and was told he had gone out riding with Henry before breakfast to avoid the heat of the day. She resigned herself to spending the morning with Petronella and tried not to be impatient. The bride-to-be was becoming increasingly subdued as the days went by, and Xanthe suspected the reality of her upcoming marriage was beginning to strike home. They went to visit a family who lived in one of the estate cottages, taking them produce from the garden, and then into Bradford to find new shoes for Evie, who had unhelpfully outgrown the ones she had planned to wear for the wedding. After buying a pretty pair of blue leather shoes, the three decided to stroll around the town for a while before returning home. Petronella took Xanthe’s arm, while Evie skipped ahead, looking in windows or stopping to pet a passing pet spaniel out for its constitutional.

  Petronella regarded her sister a little wistfully. “How lovely to be young enough not to care for anything beyond climbing trees and greeting dogs.”

  “Life is certainly simpler when you’re a child.”

  “Which is as it should be of course. One day, Evie will grow up and we shall be planning her wedding.”

  At that moment Evangeline clambered up a short run of railings so that she could reach a caterpillar she had spied on the branch of an ornamental cherry tree
at the edge of the park. Watching her, both women laughed.

  “I think it might be a while yet,” Xanthe said, pleased to see Petronella happy for a moment. “Do you feel ready for your own wedding? Only a few more days. Is everything in place?”

  “All is prepared, I believe, now that Evie is shod! In truth, there is more to organizing a ball than a country wedding. It is important that the villagers and the estate workers witness our marriage, as they are to have a new master at Corsham Hall. Beyond that, there will of course be a wedding breakfast, but a modest one. This is not London, after all, and people are still mindful of so many years of war.”

  “And you will not go on a honeymoon?” The puzzled look on Petronella’s face made Xanthe wish she could swallow her words. Only in that moment did she recall that such things did not exist at the time. “I mean, you will not be going on a holiday, with your new husband? A short trip abroad, perhaps?” she asked, merely to try to cover her mistake.

  “Oh no, Benedict is eager to begin work modernizing the estate. He has great plans.”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “And I shall do my best to run the house according to his wishes. Oh, look! There are the Miss Sullivans. I’m sorry to say but they are terrible gossips and I have no wish to be interrogated by them in the street. Come, Evie! We must go home,” she said, turning around to walk quickly back toward the coaching inn where their carriage was waiting for them.