“Different than here. A place where things move very quickly and people dress differently.”
Her face crumpled in anguish. “How did you know?” she whispered. “Have you been to Hell as well?”
“Hell?”
“My mother always told me that I was an evil child. She said I was a sinner and would go to hell.” She hiccupped in fear. “And then one day she was right. I was in Hell for months and months.” She put her palms together in prayer. “Then the Lord Almighty chose to forgive me and return me to my home. But I must have done something wrong because he sent me back to Hell again. Then he changed his mind and once again brought me home. Every day I fear he will send me back.”
Poor thing. “What was your Hell like?” I asked.
She wiped her eyes. “Beasts that move very fast. So much noise. Women who dress like men. Life is very hard for sinners in Hell. We have no money and no place to live. Our punishment is to live outside with nothing. We must watch other people live with wonderful food and fancy homes and nice clothes, things we do not deserve.” Her voice flattened. “That is my Hell. I must be very good or the Lord will once again send me there.”
“Harriet, you might be wrong. I don’t think that was Hell. There is something between Heaven and Hell called Purgatory. I think you were sent there, accidentally, and God finally realized the mistake and sent you back. You weren’t in Hell. You would never, ever be sent there.”
As her face relaxed a little, I touched her lightly on the shoulder. “You are a good person. You have had a glimpse of the future that no one else in this life has had. Consider it a gift and move on.”
“Many thanks, m’lady.” Her folded hands were white from clutching each other too tightly. She needed to flee.
“Thank you for the food.”
With a dip of her head she was gone, letting in a blast of cold wind that nearly froze my ankles. I pulled Vincent onto my lap and wrapped us both in my blanket.
* * *
Time passed. I no longer kept track of the date, so I had no idea where in the year I was. All I did was eat—quite a bit, actually—and oil my growing belly. The baby kicked me all the time now, and my joints felt loose, as if with one good shaking I’d come undone. The baby pressed against my bladder so I had to pee approximately every two minutes. Sometimes I felt like a walking aquarium with a little human sloshing around inside me. The physical reality of this baby-to-be had forced me to accept it as real, at least in the fantasy world in which I lived.
I did receive a large slice of cake with a lion made of spun sugar on the top when the palace celebrated the second anniversary of Elizabeth’s coronation. That told me it was the middle of January.
Jacob continued to help me, and Lady Mary brought me books from the Queen’s library. Once, Mary suggested I visit the Queen, but I claimed to be ill since I didn’t feel like giving any more energy to that part of my fantasy. It was a relief not to attend chapel or to sit among the courtiers and try to look interested in the men’s constant chatter and gossip.
However, I did miss Elizabeth. By now Dudley was surely back at court and once again charming the Queen. Jacob assured me, however, that the word on the street was that Elizabeth could never dare marry Dudley now. Her people would not have her consorting with a man suspected of murdering his wife. Apparently, Dudley would not let go of the idea he could be king, so he rashly approached the Spanish ambassador to ask if Spain’s King Phillip would support Dudley’s marriage to Elizabeth. Cecil found out and began spreading rumors that Catholic Spain wanted to take over England. The fear of a Catholic leader roused the citizens to anger and shut down Dudley’s plan.
Of course this happened because I’d read it in one of my books, and my fantasy was driven by my knowledge. In my lighter moments I wished I could create a fantasy in which Elizabeth did marry her Robin. They would have had many children, all surviving to adulthood, and she would rule happily until she died of old age, surrounded by her family. But since my fantasy was designed to punish me, I couldn’t give the Queen a happy ending either.
A midwife began visiting me, I assumed on the orders of the Queen. The plump woman pressed at my belly and asked how my breathing was. “Easier,” I said.
“Good. That means the baby has settled. You have more room to breathe.” She briskly gathered up her things. “Won’t be long now.”
I’d estimated that the baby was likely due in early April, so that meant we were probably at or past that stupid deadline I’d created—April 3, the storm that burned down the steeple.
That would explain the warming weather and bluer skies. I’d survived the winter in a leaky cottage in my head. I was surprised I hadn’t punished myself with a few Minnesota blizzards.
Jacob brought another cart of wood. He’d grown more comfortable with me and would sit on my bench and talk. His tales of guarding mishaps made me laugh.
One day after his stories, he tilted his head and all laughter left his eyes. “You have changed so much,” he said.
“For the good or the bad?”
“You are kinder and calmer, but…” He pressed his lips together until I encouraged him to continue. “But I miss the feisty Blanche. She was…astonishing.”
Lovely, just lovely. The whole fucking world preferred Blanche, no matter what the year.
As he stood to leave, I touched his arm. “I am curious, Jacob. Do you know the month? The date?”
He grabbed the handle of the empty wood cart. “Methinks it is the first of April, Lady Blanche.” Then he waved as he headed back toward the palace.
The event hadn’t happened yet. In two days, lightning would strike.
Who the fuck cared?
Not me.
Chapter Thirty-five
That afternoon when Lady Mary brought me books, she also brought me a mirror, her not-so-subtle way of telling me I looked like shit. After she left, I stared into the cracked hand mirror. The body, swollen with child, was Blanche’s. The hair, limp and unclean, was Blanche’s. The face was Blanche’s. But the eyes were mine—I could see myself in the eyes.
Then I laughed at my stupidity. What did it matter what I saw in my eyes?
At dusk, I could hear a commotion outside, so I looked out my window. Elizabeth, with four guards and no ladies, was walking down the path to my cottage. I ran to the door and flung it open, wishing I’d washed my hair sometime in the last month.
“Blanche, good morrow! Make way. Spring is here. We have come to visit.” Elizabeth strode into the cottage, her skirts brushing the dust into swirls she was kind enough to ignore. I swept the books off the only chair and offered it to her. With a gracious nod, she sat and motioned me to do the same on my bed. I sat there, waiting, as she examined me.
“You, my dear, look as if you’ve just been let out of Bedlam.”
“Apologies, ma’am.”
“Why have you not come to see us? It’s been months.”
“As I mentioned when we last spoke, I did not want to be seen in this state.” I motioned to my belly.
“Yes, you could not be there as one of our ladies, but you certainly could have come to call. I meant to send for you, but the needs of the realm these last months have been great.” She waved her hand. “But still, we are cross with you because you left us hanging with Harry about to do battle with that horrid wizard whose name can never be spoken.”
I smiled, guessing that J.K. Rowling would be pleased to know her Harry was a hit even in 1561. “Ma’am, I apologize. Once I am delivered of this child, I would be honored to resume the story.”
Elizabeth folded her hands and looked around the cottage. Bird song came through the open windows, and the guards talked quietly outside. “We are most concerned about you, Blanche Nottingham. There is no sparkle in your eyes. You are white as milk.”
I gazed at her, unsure what to say but admiring her skin. It was clear and flawless, cheeks slightly pink from the walk to the cottage. In reality, that skin would not last, for she would em
erge from her smallpox battle scarred. For the rest of her life, she would not leave her chambers without covering her face, neck, and chest with a mixture called “Spirits of Saturn” that was made of white lead and vinegar. My beloved queen would slowly poison herself over the years with lead. That she would make it to age sixty-nine was a miracle.
I shook my head. No, damn it. This was a fantasy. I could have the Queen recover without scars and not rub lead into her skin every day. If it took all my energy, I would find a way to force this fantasy to follow my wishes.
I sighed, then chuckled softly. “My dearest Queen, I appreciate your concern, but you need to know that my health doesn’t matter. This will sound very strange to you, but none of this is real. You’re not real. Whitehall Palace is not real. We are all tucked away in a tiny corner of my brain. I’m having the mother of a fantasy, and you’re part of it.”
She tsked loudly. “Perhaps you truly do belong in Bedlam. Of course this is real. Do not be a fool.” She leaned forward. “Ever since last August, you have changed, and for the better. Before this, when we looked into your eyes, we were not sure of you. Your eyes gave away nothing. But since August, your eyes have shone with such—what did you say your Harry Potter had? Oh yes, your eyes have shone with spunk. We love that, but you have lost your spunk. You have lost your spark.”
Spunk. My eyes welled up, and I looked away, desperately homesick for my family, whom I would never see again as myself. Blanche could be standing in front of my mother right now, hurting her feelings, and I would have no idea. I could do nothing to stop her.
Elizabeth stood and strolled around the small room. “Do you remember when Amy Dudley died and we were despondent over what to do about our sweet Robin?”
I wiped my eyes. “Yes.”
“Your words helped me so much that my gratitude continues to this day. So I will say those words to you because now you need to hear them.”
She knelt at my feet, which caused to me to leap up in horror. “Ma’am, no!”
“Sit down and hush. I am talking to you.” She took my hands and squeezed hard. “You have lost your hope, which you cannot do. You must find it again. Hope is your future, Blanche. It is the light that guides all of us through this uncertain life. You must hope that matters will change. You must hope that life will improve.”
I curled over my belly, suddenly exhausted. “Yes, I have lost all hope.”
Elizabeth rose and sat next to me, her lavender scent tickling my nose. “Then let me give you some of mine.” She held me close and I began to cry, horrified to be sobbing in the arms of Queen Elizabeth I. But I couldn’t stop. It was as if all my uncertainties and fears and confusion poured into a raging river. My fury at Chris and Blanche. My sadness over Meg and Ray and never seeing my family again. My self-loathing at creating this stupid situation in the first place.
Several handkerchiefs later, I finally stopped. My eyes stung and my nose was plugged. The baby hadn’t liked the crying bout, so it was actively kicking.
Elizabeth stood, straightening out her skirts. “We will leave you now. But we want our Spark back, and soon.” She winked at me. “That is an order from your queen.”
I smiled weakly and rose to see her out.
Then I sat on the bench outside the cottage and thought about what she said. Hope. That used to be part of my backbone. I had let Chris steal it from me because she was so sure I was lying about 1560. She had undermined my confidence. No, I had let her undermine my confidence. I’d been so blind that I’d given her more power to influence me than I should have. She said I was both Jamie and Blanche and she wanted Blanche, which actually no longer bothered me. Kind of a relief, actually. I’d spent ten years pursuing something in her she was never going to give me—approval. Meg gave me that in five minutes.
As I replayed the Queen’s words, it hit me that she’d used the first person when talking to me about hope. The words hadn’t come from the royal Queen; they had come from Elizabeth Tudor, not even thirty, who’d taken on the burden of leadership. For all those years leading up to her accession to the throne, Elizabeth didn’t know what would happen—would she ever be Queen? Would her half sister have her beheaded to remove the threat of a Protestant uprising? Yet through all that uncertainty she had hope. She acted as if she would survive.
What if I acted as if I could survive, as if I had enough hope to change my fate?
Hope. The one thing everyone needed in order to not lose themselves to the chaos of life. Something that had died in me.
A tiny spark of something flared in my chest. Was it hope? I breathed slowly, fanning the glowing ember until it flamed into an emotion I could keep alive. What I’d lost, along with myself, was the hope I could get my life back. I no longer wanted a life with Chris, but a life in the present with my family and friends? Yes, I did want that. It hit me that hope wasn’t something people could take from you unless you let them. Hope was a candle you lit every morning when you awoke.
The spark in my chest became a warm glow. I would act as if this world—1561—mattered to my real world. No, I would act as if both worlds were real, and if I believed that, I could find my way home.
I stood, ignoring the baby’s kicks. Shouldn’t I at least give it a shot? What if I really could affect my fate? I pressed a hand over my pounding heart. The lightning would strike tomorrow. Maybe I owed it to myself and to Meg—if she were real—to use some of the hope Elizabeth had shared with me.
Chapter Thirty-six
There was so much to do I didn’t know where to start, so Vincent and I walked through the forest until I had a plan. But before I could put it into action, Jacob arrived with a cart of wood. I thanked him and told him he’d make someone a fine husband some day. He blushed so fiercely I feared spontaneous combustion. For some reason I cannot fathom, I said, “Jacob, what is your full name?”
“Jacob Peter Maddox.”
I sat down so suddenly my teeth clacked together. “Maddox?”
He smiled shyly.
Jamie Maddox. Blanche Maddox. Jacob Maddox. I started to laugh when I realized what I needed to do. I would do this for Blanche’s sake since she would never do it for herself.
I stepped close, then put both my hands on his chest. “Because I am with child, it is very unlikely that you would agree to this, but…Jacob Maddox, would you marry me?”
Jacob’s eyes nearly popped out.
“I realize my personality has changed, but what if I once again became the ‘astonishing and feisty’ Blanche? Would you have me then?”
He swallowed several times. “I have loved you since you were a girl, but you’ve never been interested in a commoner like me.”
“I have been blind, but now I see clearly.” I patted his cheek. “You will be good for her…I mean, me. But we must get the Queen’s permission.”
He hugged me so hard I grunted, then he kissed me like a man desperate for oxygen. “Oh,” he said as he jumped back. “The baby. Pray forgive me.” Then he sprinted down the path toward the palace to see the Queen. I thought about following, then realized it was too much. I’d begun feeling odd, vaguely unsettled, as if something were happening in my body. Great, just great. Watch me give birth before I could reach St. Paul’s.
Thirty minutes later, Jacob returned, flushed with success. We would marry that afternoon. He kissed me again, leaving me a little jealous that Blanche was so passionately desired.
“Do we require a license?” I asked.
“Yes!” And off he ran again.
* * *
That afternoon, most of the court was hunting; they’d passed my cottage, noisy with laughter, the horses tossing their heads and snorting. So I felt comfortable roaming the palace until I found an empty desk with paper, pen, and inkwell. I pulled out one sheet, dipped the tip into the black ink, and began.…
Dear Blanche,
Writing this note may be a total waste of time and paper, but it’s important to me. If things go as I hope, by now I am back in m
y own body, my own time, and you are back in yours. I will make sure we both remain where we are, where we belong.
You are likely to give birth very soon after you return to this time. You are married not to Lord Winston but to a palace guard whom you have known for years—Jacob Maddox. While he is not the rich lord you’d hoped for, he’s a very good man. He loves my dog, Vincent. I know you have been cruel to the dog in the past, but I would reconsider this if I were you. You don’t have many friends in this world. In fact, Vincent is currently your only friend besides Jacob. I know you think being ruthless and selfish will hold off the poverty you fear, but you no longer need to do that. Jacob loves me (you), and will never let any harm come to you…if you treat him right. Treat him and Vincent badly, and you will find yourself poor and alone.
Of course, what is now 1561 could all be in my mind. When I regain control of my body, where do you go? Do you inhabit my 1561 fantasy? While that’s what I wish, it may not be so. Perhaps you’ve created your own fantasy world. God knows what that looks like.
Why did this happen to us? Are you a part of me that I created to make Chris happy? Are you a part of me, long buried, that’s come to life?
I’m not sure I’ll ever know the answers to any of these questions. All I want is to wake up in my own body. I want to hug myself, see my face in the mirror, hear my parents’ voices. Chris and I are over, but I am ready to move on. I need to find out how much of me is Jamie, and how much is Blanche.
Signed,
Jamie
I blew on my signature to speed the drying, then folded it and tucked it into my incredibly tight bodice for Blanche to find.
* * *
The April 2nd ceremony was small and held inside my cottage. I wore my drab blue gown, the only one that fit. Jacob and I stood together, with two of his guard friends behind us as witnesses, Vincent by my side, and the vicar before us. It was over in a few minutes. Blanche—if she really existed—would be furious to find herself married to a mere guard, which made my heart soar. I did worry about her future treatment of Jacob, but I’d seen enough of his character to know he would be kind and patient with her until she came around. Surely Blanche would be smart enough to know she needed his support to raise a child.
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