by Winona Kent
And Charlie was a stickler for detail. She knew her stuff. If anyone wanted obscure details about the village, they fired off messages to her. She always replied. Quickly if she had the answer at the top of her head. Always thoroughly. And taking somewhat more time if she needed to go digging to locate the facts.
Really, Nick mused—as he looked for one page in particular that he knew was there, because he’d been responsible for putting the entire website online—Charlie was far more comfortable in the past than she was in the present.
The thought struck him as strangely appropriate.
And at the same time, it triggered that nagging worry. What if he couldn’t bring her back?
What if Charlie was destined to remain in 1825…communicating with him with 21st century technology…until…
It didn’t bear thinking about.
Until her battery ran down and her mobile stopped working.
Charlie would be lost, forever, in time.
Nick pushed the thought from his mind. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, allow it to happen. And he’d found the page he wanted.
During the summer of 1825, a massive bolt of lightning had struck the upper branches of the Village Oak, causing a small fire which was immediately doused by the rain.
The ancient tree did not suffer any lasting damage. However, several large branches could be found on the green the next morning. The entire population of the village had turned out to watch as the windfall was taken to a local carpenter, one Mr. Haddock, who was able to fashion a commemorative bench from the rescued pieces of wood.
A bench which could, to this day, be found at the northern end of the green, next to the birdbath commemorating Mrs. Tamworth’s early contributions to women’s suffrage.
Nick checked the date of the lightning strike.
“Damn.”
He’d been hoping to harness the electricity to try and bring Charlie back. But this one was a month too early: June 1. And there were no further records of anything similar.
He wondered whether it would be feasible to search the Met Office website for a record of all thunderstorms along the south coast that same year.
No. Not feasible at all. Their statistics didn’t go back that far.
He supposed he could try contacting someone at the weather office.
Or do a Google search…
Here was something, on a meteorological blog site: 1825 proved to a very dry summer, although we experienced a notable hot spell in July.
Nick shook his head. This was the kind of meticulous research that could take months, if not years.
And he didn’t have months.
He wasn’t even sure he had days, given the rate at which Charlie’s phone battery was going to be used up.
There had to be another way.
He re-set his mind, forcing it to go right back to the beginning, and start over.
Perhaps all of his research into sprites and tachyons and the energy generated by lightning strikes was a discovery of distraction, rather than a discovery of cause.
What if the lightning strike had been merely coincidental?
And what if Charlie’s journey backwards in time had more to do with the rogue virus that had invaded her computer, than with the electrical surge that had been produced by the storm?
Perhaps the virus itself had contained both the mechanism and the jolting surge of power to trigger time travel. Something like a binary tachyon particle?
And that was what needed to be harnessed?
Nick opened Charlie’s laptop, and switched it on.
If he could dissect the coding in the malware and find out what made it tick…and if he was able to isolate that theoretical particle, and train it to obey his commands rather than the commands of its original author…and if he could then bottle it and send it back to Charlie in 1825 with instructions for use…problem solved.
Nick let his breath out.
This was going to require another cup of coffee.
Chapter 20
It was, Charlie thought, completely un-Jane-like. And had she been anyone but herself, transplanted from the future with all of the attitudes and independence that the 21st century had equipped her for, she almost certainly would never have done it.
But she had made up her mind that she would, after all, accept the lesser Monsieur Duran’s invitation to lunch at the manor. Because she quite liked his father. And she felt she would not be so much at the lesser Monsieur Duran’s mercy, as long as the greater Monsieur Duran remained in the room.
And she had a second motive. A few extra private moments with Mr. Deeley.
Dressed in one of Catherine Collins’ fashionable London frocks, with a straw bonnet and a shawl, she made her way up the hill from the village. Mr. Deeley, however, was not to be found with his horses.
“He is with Mr. Rankin,” Albert, the young boy who worked in the stables, advised.
“And where might I find Mr. Rankin?”
“Across from the scullery,” Albert replied, without providing any further details.
Charlie set out in search of the scullery. She had visited the Manor Bed and Breakfast on many occasions, and knew the approximate historical layout of its rooms, even though there had been a good deal of refurbishment over the years. The scullery had been on the bottom floor, next to the kitchen. Some of the servants’ quarters were down there too, in modern times their adjoining walls knocked down to create a reasonably spacious place for the guests to eat breakfast.
Charlie found her way back to the vegetable garden, and from there, located the door that led to the passage where the kitchen was. And the scullery. And Mr. Rankin’s room, from which were emanating the unmistakable sounds of a guitar being played. Or attempting to be played. Gathering her courage, she knocked on the plain wooden door.
“That’s done it, Ned,” Mr. Deeley said, laughing. “Cease and desist orders from above.” He opened the door, and was surprised—and then very pleased—to see Charlie.
“Are you lost, Mrs. Collins?” he inquired, cheekily. “Luncheon is being served upstairs.”
“I am not lost, Mr. Deeley,” she assured him. “I have arrived a little early. To visit Marie-Claire. I’ve brought her a treat.” She produced a lump of sugar, which, just as cheekily, she offered to Mr. Deeley.
He accepted. “I shall deliver this to her,” he promised, “with your fondest wishes.”
“You are very welcome to keep it for yourself,” Charlie teased, “with my fondest wishes. Might I come in…?”
Mr. Deeley looked doubtful. “I do not think that wise, Mrs. Collins.”
“Leave the door open, then. I assure you my intentions are completely honorable.”
Mr. Deeley looked to Mr. Rankin for guidance. None appeared to be forthcoming, however, and so Mr. Deeley made up his own mind, and stepped aside to admit her.
It was a tiny room, furnished with a wooden wardrobe, a narrow bed, a small table and a chair. There was a window, high up on the wall.
“Hello, Mr. Rankin.”
Mr. Rankin, who’d been sitting on the bed with his guitar, was quickly on his feet.
“Good morning, Mrs. Collins.”
“I know a little about that instrument, Mr. Rankin.”
“I have encountered several of these in recent years,” Mr. Rankin supplied. “I have seen them being played by the Gypsies. But I must admit, I am confounded by the complexity of its construction.”
He demonstrated.
“It is a trifle awkward to hold. And if one strums the strings thus…”
He drew a tentative finger down all six strings at once.
“…one is not presented with an overly pleasing result.”
“In fact,” Mr. Deeley added, “it is an altogether horrible result.”
“May I?” Charlie asked.
Mr. Rankin gave her the guitar, and she sat down in the chair.
“If you follow the greater Monsieur Duran’s somewhat vague instructions…and place your fingers
here, on the long part…”
She pressed down three of the strings on the upper neck, to create a G major chord.
“You are then able to influence the creation of quite a nice sound. And it is not, in fact…”
She drew the fingers of her right hand down all six strings.
“…half bad.”
“Excellent,” said Mr. Deeley, impressed.
“And furthermore, if you were to pick out the melody that you overheard coming from Mrs. Foster’s cottage the other night…”
From memory, Charlie recreated the lead guitar line from F.B.I. She’d watched Jeff play it so many times.
“…you might find yourself very pleased indeed.”
She returned the guitar to Mr. Rankin.
“You try.”
Stoneford Manor’s gardener attempted to copy what Charlie had just shown him, with middling results. He tried a second time, haltingly. And on the third try, managed to reproduce it almost perfectly.
“You have a good ear,” Charlie judged. “Well done!”
“I am intrigued by the thought of genteel young ladies eschewing the parlour pianoforte for this much more portable instrument,” Mr. Deeley remarked.
“I am amused even more,” said Mr. Rankin, “by the idea of genteel young ladies being attracted to young marriageable gentlemen who are proficient at playing this much more portable instrument.”
He placed the guitar in Mr. Deeley’s hands.
“You must ask Mrs. Collins to instruct you, too.”
Upstairs, in the Great Dining Hall, luncheon had been delayed by fifteen minutes, half an hour, nearly an hour.
Charlie entered the room to find the lesser Monsieur Duran pacing the floor, pressing a muslin bag filled with ice against his face, which bore cuts and bruises from the altercation at the inn the night before.
Not far away, his father was seated at a long, polished table, reading a book with quizzical amusement.
“Madame Collins!” the lesser Monsieur Duran exclaimed. “I am pleased you have undergone a change of your mind. Be seated. You know, of course, my father.”
“I do indeed,” Charlie replied. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Collins,” the greater Monsieur Duran replied, standing, “will you take the chair beside mine?”
“I would be honoured,” Charlie said.
The lesser Monsieur Duran was anxious to impress.
“This table,” he provided, “was imported by me, at great expense and effort, from our chateau in Amiens. Around this table we have entertained innumerable members of la noblesse, before, during and after la Révolution française. You sit, Madame Collins, in the fonds de chaise of my country’s history.”
“I am certain,” the greater Monsieur Duran added, humorously, “that the bottom of Mrs. Collins’ chair is most appreciative of this exclusive opportunity.”
His son ignored him.
“I have instructed the cook to follow a prescription for lunch which has been laid down by your famous John Simpson. I hope you will convey to Madame Foster the eating pleasantries to be found in A Complete System of Cookery, on a Plan Entirely New, Consisting of Every Thing that is Requisite for Cooks to Know in the Kitchen Business. It is a considerable cooking book. It affords a completely different feast for every day of the year. And it has been published by a gentleman who has been employed at the home of the Marquis of Buckingham. I hold this book in exceedingly high estimage.”
“I shall inform Mrs. Foster of your epicurean triumph,” Charlie promised.
There followed two complete courses of food, which in themselves would have been enough to have filled the insides of both Monsieur Durans several times over, as well as half a dozen visitors, and all of the household staff.
The gastronomical parade began with a soup santé, then progressed to a haunch of lamb, served with chervil sauce. A beef steak pie. Risoles, peas and asparagus (much to the delight of the greater Monsieur Duran). A souties of rabbit and mushroom. And finishing up, Rhenish cream and an apricot tart.
“I have it in my mind,” the greater Monsieur Duran said, as the Alfred, the butler, removed the last of the rabbit and mushroom, and Martha, who had apparently replaced a recently sacked Rose King, arrived with the sweets, “to abandon the chateau in France.”
“I beg your pardon?” his son inquired. “Did you not enjoy the rabbit, Madame Collins?”
“I am certain it was delicious,” Charlie lied. “But I found myself quite full after the beef steak pie. Truly.”
“It is far too large,” the greater Monsieur Duran supplied. “And it gives me indigestion.”
“The rabbit?” his son inquired, confused.
“The chateau. The rabbit was soutied to perfection.”
“Sir, you surely cannot consider divesting yourself of my birthright!”
The greater Monsieur Duran waved away his son’s panicked concerns.
“I shall leave it in the care of your brother.”
“Gaston!” The lesser Monsieur Duran was barely able to contain his contempt. “Your rooms will be overrun with stray cats and consumptive orphans!”
“Far more preferable,” his father replied, “than the atrocious poets and half-dressed courtesans which you would install as permanent house guests.”
“A foible of my youth,” the lesser Monsieur Duran explained, nervously, to Charlie. “Which he has never let me forget. It is not the case now, I assure you.”
“We all have youthful foibles,” Charlie assured him, humorously.
“Foibles which gave your mother the vapours, might I remind you. From which she did not recover.”
The greater Monsieur Duran accepted a generous slice of apricot tart from the silver platter proffered by Alfred, while the lesser Monsieur Duran added the last three drops of red liquid from a small stoppered bottle to his wine, downing it with one swallow.
“The blanched asparagus was delicious,” the greater Monsieur Duran remarked. “Please give my compliments to Mrs. Dobbs. And also to Mr. Rankin.”
“Thank you, sir,” Alfred replied. “I shall.”
“Do you require more laudanum?” the greater Monsieur Duran inquired, of his son. “We cannot have you languishing in pain.”
“It is nothing,” his son assured him. “I am in otherwise excellent health.”
“I am pleased for you. As is, I am certain, Mrs. Collins, who will happily convey the state of your physical wellbeing to Mrs. Foster.”
“Happily,” Charlie confirmed.
“In any case, Gaston is not likely to sell the property. You may sort out the question of ownership between yourselves, after I am gone.”
The lesser Monsieur Duran eyed his father with suspicion.
“Where is it you are you going?”
“I was speaking…” The greater Monsieur Duran gestured in the general direction of an upper corner of the room. “…metaphysically.”
“And where will you live if it is not in the chateau?” the lesser Monsieur Duran demanded.
“Well,” said his father. “I have had this thought. That possibly, I might come to live here. With you.”
The lesser Monsieur Duran, now thoroughly alarmed, attacked his apricot tart with a vicious stab of his fork.
“I will not have it!” he fumed, hurling the unfortunate implement against the wall.
Just as quickly, he acknowledged Charlie’s look of alarm.
“Excusez-moi. I am not myself. A temporary affliction. It occurs rarely.”
Dutifully, Alfred retrieved the fork from the floor, and replaced it, silently, with another from the sideboard.
“I can think of nothing more challenging to my sensibilities than bracing walks in the damp English countryside,” the greater Monsieur Duran continued. “And I shall stock the pond with ducks. Whose purpose will be ornamental rather than gastronomic.”
“You shall not!” the lesser Monsieur Duran shouted, with very bad grace. “Pardon, Madame Collins. Your indul
gence s’il vous plaît.”
“My dear son. You have no say in the matter. Since the manor is, in fact, owned by myself. And not by you.”
“But you gave it to me,” the lesser Monsieur Duran replied, with a pout.
“I did not. I loaned it to you, so that you might have somewhere tolerable to live while domiciled in England. You are very welcome to join your brother in Amiens if you find the arrangements displeasing.”
Here, the greater Monsieur Duran paused, and tasted his apricot tart.
“Delicious,” he judged, with a nod towards Alfred. “Again, my compliments to Mrs. Dobbs.”
“I shall convey them, sir,” Alfred replied.
“Now then,” the greater Monsieur Duran continued. “What is this I hear about your latest all-consuming interest, Louis? A sanitary water closet which is able to wash away effluent with the mere flick of a wrist? You must show Mrs. Collins your efforts as soon as we have finished our meal, and you have recovered sufficiently from your wounds to afford us a tour.”
“I do, in fact, know how to create Rhenish cream,” the greater Monsieur Duran was saying, to Charlie, as they walked down the grand staircase from the dining room. “It is not the fashion for a man to be a master of cookery, but I consider all subjects worth pursuing, and I am not averse to learning them all. It is a delightful concoction consisting of the finely beaten yolks of eight eggs added to one quart of jelly, which is then strained and moulded and garnished with oranges.”
“It’s delicious,” Charlie remarked. She made a mental note to try her hand at it later.
The lesser Monsieur Duran’s sanitary water closet was contained in a small construction at the back of the manor, within shouting distance of the scullery.
The building was of brick, with a solid roof and a window for ventilation, and a good wooden door that provided privacy but which would render the interior, Charlie thought, somewhat dark and very foreboding when shut.
“And so,” the lesser Monsieur Duran announced, “here it is. My invention.”
“And how does this invention function?” the greater Monsieur Duran inquired, amused.
“If you would care to sit,” his son replied.
