by Winona Kent
But there, again, was Jeff’s straightforward logic creeping into her mind. If you are here now, then obviously you did make the right decision when you were called upon to act, or you wouldn’t have existed at all in the future, in order to make this journey back.
Put that way, it made perfect sense.
Except, she was someone else in this version of history. She wasn’t Charlie Duran Lowe at all. She was Catherine Collins.
And that was a complication she suspected not even Nick would have an answer for.
At the edge of the village, the cobbled road gave way to a cart track, which meandered up the side of the grassy hill, first this way and then that way, in a gentle ascent to the top. Two centuries on, this would be called Manor Lane, and it would be widened, and paved, and made accommodating to tourists in large cars laden with luggage.
Now, it was not much more than two ruts carved into the turf by the wheels of wagons, and flattened by decades of footfalls.
At the crest of the hill, she could see Mr. Deeley leading an energetic horse out of the stables. He paused as he spotted Charlie, trudging up the cart track, then waved, and waited for her to arrive.
“And so,” he said, as she approached, slightly out of breath and convinced that climbing hills in long frocks and 19th century footwear was nothing short of madness, “it is my pleasure to discover our paths cross once more. The view of the sea from here is, as you will note—if you turn around—unparalleled.”
Charlie did as she was told, and turned. She knew the view well, but it was different now, unencumbered by houses and shops, buses and cars. And the English Channel, normally chock-a-block with marine traffic, was decidedly absent of freighters and ferries, barges and tankers and cruise ships.
“Fabulous,” she said, as a magnificent three-masted, square-rigged vessel sailed into view, its sheets gleaming white.
“I have often stood here, pausing in my work, to imagine far off-lands,” Mr. Deeley said, his voice revealing something of the nature of a confession. “I have had some schooling, although I was often admonished for expending too much energy on dreaming, and not enough on practicalities such as the Rise and Progress of Geography and Astronomy, the Divisibility of Matter, and Perpetual Motion.”
“We are all dreamers, Mr. Deeley,” Charlie smiled, turning her attention away from the sea, and back to shore. “There would be no inventions and no explorers, and nothing new in the world at all, if someone didn’t first dream about them happening.”
“If only you had been in charge of my education, Mrs. Collins,” Mr. Deeley mused, “and not the very aged and imaginatively diminished Reverend Hopwood Smailes.”
Charlie laughed. Mr. Deeley was lovely. And quite unlike any gentleman she’d known before. If this was what early 19th century Stoneford had in store for her, she would have no objection at all to remaining here.
“The household is in a state of disarray this morning,” Mr. Deeley added, “as the greater Monsieur Duran is expected to shortly arrive from Amiens.”
“Why is he called the greater Monsieur Duran?”
“Because he is the father of the lesser Monsieur Duran,” Mr. Deeley said, with an amused smile, as the crack of a gunshot blasted across the hilltop.
“What was that?” Charlie asked, alarmed.
“There, Marie-Claire,” Mr. Deeley said, soothing the horse with a tender touch on her neck, and a carrot from his pocket. “That would be the lesser Monsieur Duran. Attempting to shoot hedgehogs.”
“Oh no! How horrible! I must stop him at once!”
“Fortunately,” Mr. Deeley added, as Charlie set off at double-speed towards the source of the gunshot, “his eyesight is even less effective than his aim.”
The lesser Monsieur Duran was, at that precise moment, holding court in the kitchen garden, squinting down the length of his flintlock pistol. He was, Charlie judged, about five foot four. And therefore quite befitting his description.
Some ten feet away, his quarry, a young hedgehog, had curled into a defensive ball under a leafy lettuce.
Behind Monsieur Duran, a red-faced, white pinafored woman Charlie assumed was the manor’s cook, and a gentleman she thought could be the manor’s gardener—bespectacled and cloth-capped, with rolled-up shirtsleeves and suntanned arms—looked on with something akin to humorous apprehension.
Beside Monsieur Duran, a dour-faced butler dispensed the accoutrements of reloading and re-firing.
The hammer thus half-cocked, Monsieur Duran poured a measure of gunpowder into the flintlock’s barrel, rammed in a lead ball wrapped in a tiny bit of rag, and finished with a further addition of gunpowder to the pan. He fully cocked the hammer—and fired again, missing the hedgehog by several feet. Before he could reload once more, Charlie was upon him.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “Hedgehogs are endangered! And you are abominably cruel!”
Monsieur Duran lowered his pistol, and glared at the impertinent young woman who had dared to challenge his singular domain. The dour-faced butler followed suit.
“And who,” Monsieur Duran inquired, “are you?”
“I am Mrs. Collins,” Charlie replied, without hesitation, surprising herself.
“Mrs. Collins,” Monsieur Duran said, mocking her. “I do not know the person, Mrs. Collins. In fact, I think I do not wish ever to know the person, Mrs. Collins.” He waved her away with his gun, impatiently. “Be gone.”
“Monsieur Duran—sir,” Mr. Deeley interrupted. “I have made this lady’s acquaintance upon a previous occasion. She is a cousin to Mrs. Foster.”
Monsieur Duran raised an interested eyebrow. “Madame Foster? Indeed.”
“I will be gone,” Charlie decided. “It was interesting but not altogether pleasant meeting you.”
But before she could turn away, Monsieur Duran had seized her hand, and had planted a disgustingly wet kiss upon it. “Enchanté, Madame.”
Charlie removed her fingers from his before he could insult them further.
“Enchanté yourself,” she replied, haughtily. “I am seriously not impressed.”
She succeeded in turning her back on Monsieur Duran at last, but he called after her. “Please stop a moment, Madame! Will you do me the great honour of joining my father and myself for lunch tomorrow? We will dine at noon. It will be no imposition.”
Charlie faced him. “I think not, Monsieur Duran. In fact, I can think of nothing I’d rather do less.”
“But I do not accept non as a response,” Monsieur Duran persisted. “And my mind is made up. I shall expect you at twelve o’clock tomorrow. I will not consume a morsel on my plate until you arrive.”
“Then I fear you may expire from starvation,” Charlie replied, pleasantly. “Good day, Monsieur Duran.”
Mr. Deeley caught up to her outside the stable.
“Not the most auspicious of introductions,” he ventured. “But you have, at least, now become acquainted with my employer.”
“I hate him,” Charlie said. “I cannot believe we are related.”
Mr. Deeley paused. “You are a member of Monsieur Duran’s family?
“No,” Charlie said, quickly. “Not yet.”
Her mind was racing.
“I meant—if Sarah marries him. We will then be related.”
“I see nothing to convince me that is likely to happen in my lifetime. Or yours. And you know, of course, that by inviting you to lunch, Monsieur Duran hopes to persuade you to convey his…advantages…to Mrs. Foster…?”
“Painfully obvious,” Charlie replied. “And since I have no plans to attend, I have become, in fact, his disadvantage.”
Mr. Deeley laughed.
“In that case,” he said, “I am presumptuous and bold, but I am inspired by your courage and the impetuousness of your spirit. May I borrow a leaf from Monsieur Duran’s book…and inquire if I may call upon you at Mrs. Foster’s cottage? You will note that I merely inquire. I am not so reckless as to impose upon you without invitation.”
>
Charlie looked at him. “Oh,” she said.
“You are offended?”
“No—no—only surprised. This is…most unexpected.”
“Might Mrs. Foster object because Monsieur Duran is my employer?”
“I cannot believe she would find you disagreeable,” Charlie smiled.
“Might you inquire, then—if it is not too forward a suggestion—about the possibility of my being invited to tea?”
“I would be very pleased to inquire about the possibility of you being invited to tea,” Charlie replied. “When?”
“This evening.”
“This evening,” Charlie laughed. “You are indeed impetuous, Mr. Deeley. But I do not consider it too forward a suggestion at all. I shall make the necessary inquiries, and you will have your answer this afternoon.”
Chapter 11
Her mind dancing with thoughts of Mr. Deeley coming to tea, Charlie was about to trudge down the hill and back to the village, when she saw an open wagon drawn by two very fine horses, creaking its way up the rutted cart track to the top of the rise.
Seated behind the horses, coaxing them along with a gentle rein, was a gentleman of middling age, quite handsome and fair, though his hair seemed to be less in evidence than it might have been in his younger years, and the fairness was tempered in places with grey.
He wore a brightly coloured waistcoat that was decorated with clever embroidery and delicate hand-stitching. And his many bags and cases were jumbled behind him in the wagon, attesting to a carefree disposition, as well as what Charlie judged was likely a lengthy stay. Beside him, occupying pride of place on the seat, was a musical instrument. A 19th century guitar. Not entirely dissimilar, Charlie thought, to its 21st century six-stringed acoustic cousin.
“This,” Mr. Deeley said to Charlie, “will be the greater Monsieur Duran.”
The wagon, at last, reached the top of the hill.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Mr. Deeley ventured, warmly. “I trust you have enjoyed a pleasant journey.”
“The sea air was as bracing as it was beneficial to my constitution,” the greater Monsieur Duran replied, climbing down from the wagon. “May I be introduced to this charming young woman?”
“Certainly. She is Mrs. Catherine Collins, from London, visiting a cousin who lives in the village. Mrs. Collins, Monsieur Duran. The greater.”
“I am most delighted,” Monsieur Duran replied, with a small bow.
“As am I,” Charlie replied, amused. The man was considerably taller than his son. And altogether more agreeable.
Monsieur Duran turned to acknowledge the manor’s gardener, who had arrived, slightly out of breath from running.
“And where is my repellent progeny?”
“He was earlier discharging his pistol at harmless wildlife,” the gardener replied. “However I believe that he is now in the process of interviewing a new housemaid.”
“My condolences to the poor girl. Take this, Mr. Rankin.”
The greater Monsieur Duran passed the musical instrument to the gardener, who considered it with great interest.
“It is the latest from France,” Monsieur Duran provided, removing the item from Mr. Rankin’s hands, turning it around, and replacing it, right way up. “You must pluck the strings here, and press down with your fingers on the long bit there. The Gypsies are particularly good at it.”
“I do not suppose it will ever supplant the pianoforte in the parlour, will it,” Mr. Deeley mused.
He glanced over his shoulder.
“Ah—here comes your son.”
A somewhat dishevelled Louis Augustus Duran approached the small gathering with a distinct absence of enthusiasm.
“Louis!” his father exclaimed. “My dear child!”
He planted a kiss on either side of his son’s cheeks.
“Father,” the lesser Monsieur Duran acknowledged, begrudgingly.
“What have you for lunch? My journey has been long, and I wish for something substantial and not detrimental to my waters.”
Without waiting for a reply, he considered Mr. Rankin—and the guitar—with amusement.
“Have you any asparagus, sir?”
“There is some in the kitchen, fresh from the garden,” Mr. Rankin replied, “I will ask Mrs. Dobbs if she will blanche it for you.”
He departed, carrying the guitar a little awkwardly, and at arm’s length.
“Let us not stand about,” the elder Duran pronounced, handing the horse reins to Mr. Deeley, and beckoning his son follow him to the manor’s front door. “Idleness leads to insufficiency, and I had quite enough of that when you were a child.”
The walk down the hill was a lot easier for Charlie than the trudge up.
The morning had turned brilliantly sunny and the air was sweet and fresh. There was no industrial muck, no exhaust from cars and lorries on their way to Bournemouth and Southampton, no jet effluent from planes caught in circular holding patterns above Heathrow and Gatwick.
Charlie was still smiling, thinking about Mr. Deeley, as she approached the jumbly row of cottages and houses that together made up what was known as the Poorhouse.
As she walked past, she caught a glimpse of some of the paupers who lived there, supported by the parish.
A pale-faced young woman, barely more than a girl, was sitting in the sun, looking after an infant who was experimenting with the idea of walking.
And a very old man, grizzled and threadbare, was hunched on a stool beside her, diligently taking apart a length of worn rope and pasting the strands onto a flat scrap of wood to fashion a seascape.
“Hello,” Charlie said, bending over to have a closer look. “That’s quite good, that is.”
The old man ignored her.
“It’s very good!” Charlie tried, again.
“He cannot hear you,” the young woman said. “He is as deaf as a post, poor Old John. But he is very good with his hands, as he was once upon a time a sailor, and he knows the ropes, inside and out.”
She gently tapped Old John on the shoulder, and then, when she had his attention, pointed to Charlie, and smiled.
“Aye,” Old John grinned, displaying an alarming absence of teeth. “Thank ye.”
And he returned to his seascape, without further discourse.
“What is your child called?” Charlie inquired.
“His name is Daniel.” The young woman paused. “I have not seen you here before.”
“I am Mrs. Catherine Collins,” Charlie said. “I am visiting from London.”
“London,” the young woman said, with a sigh. “I had thought I might see London one day. Before this.” She nodded at her son.
“Are your circumstances so unfortunate?” Charlie asked, with care.
“Most unfortunate,” the young woman replied, unhappily. “Two years ago, I was employed in the household of Monsieur Duran. But I was relieved of my position, through no fault of my own—other than a poor innocent’s misguided trust in a rogue.”
There. Again. Her forebear, the despicable Monsieur Duran. The young woman had been economical with the details, but Charlie could guess what she meant.
“Monsieur Duran is Daniel’s father?”
“He will not admit to it. I was dismissed the moment I confided in him. My mother and father have disowned me. I have a sister who visits, upon occasion, to bring clothing for me and the little one…but she must do so in secret, or she would be disowned as well.”
And here, the young woman began to weep, wiping her eyes with a thin shawl, and her nose with the back of her hand.
“What is your name?” Charlie asked, kindly.
“I am called Eliza Robinson.”
“Perhaps fortunes will change,” Charlie said, hopefully. “Perhaps, in the future, you may find Monsieur Duran a kinder soul…perhaps the addition of a Madame Duran will transform the household…”
“I do not think kindness is a word familiar to Monsieur Duran,” Eliza replied. “And I cannot imagine any w
oman wishing to marry him, for he is a tyrant.”
She leaned forward, as if to confide in Charlie.
“He possesses cruel and unnatural tendencies,” she whispered.
“Unnatural…?” Charlie faltered.
“He derives pleasure,” she whispered again, “from subjecting innocent maids to his horrific fantasies.”
She swallowed.
“He prefers them to be tied up. Helpless. Subject to his every whim. And if you should weep and beg him to cease…”
She swallowed again, and Charlie was afraid she might burst into tears on the spot.
“…it only serves to inflame his ardour more.”
“Oh,” Charlie said. How could she possibly encourage Sarah to marry him now?
“Furthermore, he is possessed, and interrogates you, demanding that you answer questions about his invention. And if you should answer incorrectly…he punishes you. Severely.”
“Monsieur Duran is an inventor…?” Charlie asked, not quite willing to allow her imagination to consider her ancestor’s private inclinations.
“He wishes to be an inventor. I would not credit him with the title, as he has met with very little success, and it will never be accepted in polite society.”
“What is his invention?”
“A contraption,” Eliza replied, “like a chamber pot, but enclosed in a room of its own, and relying upon water brought in from the outside to empty its contents. It was my duty to attend to this ridiculous contrivance.”
Charlie tried to recall something—anything—about the history of the flushing toilet. Somehow, she felt, she would have known if her great grandfather, six generations into the past, had lent his talents to this most important item of plumbing.
“My sympathies,” she offered. “It cannot have been easy for you.”
“Nothing in this life has been easy for me,” Eliza replied. “Perhaps in the next, I shall find my redemption.”
