The Hands of Time

by Irina Shapiro

  What was going on? One minute I was in the shop looking at the cupid clock, and now I was lying in a meadow not too far from the castle; that up until five minutes ago was just a sad ruin. I looked at my watch. It was 4:10pm. Only five minutes had passed since I turned the hands on the ormolu clock. How did I get here? I looked around again. In relation to the river and the castle, I was sitting in about the spot where the shop would have been, except there was no shop and no street. I could see some fishermen’s huts off in the distance, where there were holiday cottages just a few minutes ago. I closed my eyes, shook my head and opened them again. I was still in the same spot. Reluctantly, I got to my feet and looked around again.

  There didn’t seem anywhere to go except in the direction of the castle. I had no idea what I would do when I got there, but at least it was something to do. My purse was nowhere in sight, so I just dusted myself off and began to walk up the hill, my mind spinning out of control. I had no idea what to think, and try as I might, I couldn’t find a logical explanation for what just happened. People didn’t just faint and wake up in a different place and a different time, if that’s what it was. Maybe I was still asleep and I was dreaming all of this. I pinched myself hard and yelped, acknowledging my state of wakefulness. Not asleep then.

  As I got closer to the castle I became more and more anxious. What was I to do once I got there? What could I say to whoever was there? What if they turned me away? Where would I go then? There seemed nothing in the vicinity except a few derelict huts and two fishing boats. I took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy, studded door walking into the yard. I was immediately spotted by two large dogs, who bounded over to me and started barking madly, nipping at my feet. I stepped back involuntarily, and found myself bumping into a man who I didn’t realize had come up just behind me. He caught me by the arms and steadied me before yelling at the dogs.

  “Shut ye traps, ye fiends. Can’t ye see it’s a lady come to call? Away with ye, then.” The dogs seemed to accept this command and slinked off, leaving me with the man. He was wearing a leather doublet in a muddy shade of brown, that could use a good cleaning as it was covered with dust and bits of straw, and his dark pants were tucked into boots covered with muck. The man’s hair was pulled back into a messy tail, and an old hat perched on his head. He looked like something out of a period movie, and I suddenly realized that he was just as curious about my attire as I was about his. I was wearing a sleeveless summer dress in the lightest shade of lilac with a pair of tan leather sandals. The man gaped at me and turned away embarrassed.

  “Are ye here to see the Master?” he asked without really looking at me.

  “I guess so.” I answered his back as he walked toward the castle implying that I should follow.

  The man opened a wooden door and led me up a flight of stairs to the second floor, where he called out for someone named Betty. A plump young woman dressed in a long dress with an apron over it and a cap over her dark, curly hair, came out of a room and froze at the sight of me, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

  “This young lady is here to see the Master. Will ye inform him he has a visitor?” The girl mutely nodded and disappeared through another door leaving me with the man.

  “I am John Dobbs, the overseer,” he informed me, tipping his hat before turning on his heel and leaving me to await the Master, whoever he was. I tried to take deep breaths in order to calm myself, but found myself shaking like a leaf by the time Betty came back into the hall and gave me a little curtsey.

  “If ye would follow me, Miss. The Master will see ye in the library.” She led me through a few well-appointed rooms, before opening the door to what must have been the library and motioning me inside. She didn’t go in after me, and I walked in toward the man sitting in an armchair with his feet propped up on the empty grate and a book in his hands. He turned at the sound of my footsteps and rose, putting down the book on top of the mantel of the unlit marble fireplace. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in dark pants tucked into a pair of riding boots, a white linen shirt and a velvet doublet in rich brown. His coat was slung over a nearby chair, and he reached for it as I walked in, about to put in on, but became distracted by my appearance. He let the coat fall back onto the back of the chair and looked me up and down discreetly.

  “Alexander Whitfield at your service, Madame.” He gave a slight bow of his head and looked at me expectantly.

  “Valerie Crane,” I said simply. We stood in silence for a few moments just taking stock of each other. If I wasn’t so scared, I would have noticed that he was very handsome, in a period movie kind of way, with dark hair that fell to his shoulders and eyes the color of caramel, accentuated by his long lashes. His full lips stretched into something resembling a welcoming smile.

  “How can I help you, Mistress Crane?”

  I was about to say something as a way of explanation, but I suddenly burst into tears, overcome by my fear and confusion. The man instantly sprang into action, leading me to a comfortable chair, pouring me brandy from a crystal decanter and offering me his handkerchief.

  “I am terribly sorry. I did not mean to upset you. Are you all right?”

  I nodded miserably, taking a large gulp of the brandy, and letting it warm its way down my gullet before trying to speak again.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Whitfield. I have no idea how I got here. I found myself in the meadow at the bottom of the hill and saw your home. I thought I’d come here and ask for help.” I realized at that moment that pretending I had no idea what happened would probably be safer, not that I actually did have any idea. All I could do was hope that he was a gentleman and wouldn’t just turn me away.

  He looked at me, and I could see a hundred questions racing through his mind, but he didn’t ask any of them. “I will do everything in my power to assist you. You can stay here for as long as you like. I will ask Betty to find you a suitable gown and show you to your room. I think you can do with a rest.” He looked at me waiting for me to agree and then called out to Betty, who appeared about half a second later confirming my suspicions that she had been listening at the door.

  “Betty, please find a gown for Mistress Crane, I think one of Rose’s will do nicely, and show her to the yellow room. Mistress Crane would like to rest. And bring her some refreshment,” he added as an afterthought and turned to me, giving me an encouraging smile. “I am afraid I am expecting a dinner guest tonight for a private meeting,” he informed me apologetically, “Have some rest and we will talk more tomorrow. Please let Betty know if there is anything you require.” I thanked him and followed Betty out of the library toward the stairs to the upper floor. I could see that she was burning with curiosity, but she didn’t ask anything, just led me up the stairs and down the carpeted hallway to a door at the very end. She opened the door for me to enter and turned to leave.

  “I will be back shortly, Miss, with some garments, and I will bring hot water should ye wish to wash.” She curtsied again and left me alone in the room. I sat down on the four-poster bed and took in my surroundings. The room was done in shades of saffron and cream with a matching coverlet, bed hangings and drapes at the two windows. Being a corner room, one window looked out over the yard and the road leading to the castle, and the other over woods and the distant river, sparkling in the late afternoon sun. There was a painting of a beautiful woman with eyes the same color as Alexander Whitfield, her arms around a pink-cheeked young boy, hanging over the dresser, but otherwise there were no personal objects in the room. It must have been reserved for guests.

  There was a quick knock at the door before Betty came in, a gown slung over her arm and a pitcher of water in her right hand. She set the pitcher on a table by the bed next to the painted ewer, then lay the gown on the bed along with some other garments.

  “I do hope ye like these,” she said showing me what she brought. “Here is a chemise, a petticoat and I thought this gown might suit ye. There is also a nightdress.” She reached into the
pocket of her apron and drew out a handful of pins. “I brought these so ye can dress yer hair. Do ye require help dressing?”

  “Thank you, Betty, I think I can manage.”

  “All right, then. I will ask Cook to send up a tray for ye at supper time. If ye need me, just pull this rope.” She showed me the thick cord by the bed and turned to leave, but couldn’t stop herself from asking at least one question. “Were ye accosted on the road, Miss?” she whispered looking at my summer dress. She assumed that someone had torn off my gown and left me in my underclothes.

  “I can’t recall.” Betty nodded her head as if I confirmed her worst suspicions. She believed that I must have been through some terrible trauma to show up in a state of undress, and with no recollection of what happened, and gave me a sympathetic look, closing the door behind her.

  I decided to try and concentrate on more practical things rather than dwelling on my predicament, and poured some water into the ewer, washing my face and hands before trying to figure out how to put on the gown. I took off my dress, but defiantly left my bra and underwear on, before pulling the chemise over my head. It felt soft and light against my skin and I picked up the petticoat. I assumed it went on under the skirt, so I put it on and looked in the mirror. I was beginning to resemble the Dresden shepherdess I saw in the shop. I carefully put on the gown over my head and tied the laces of the bodice. The dress was the color of bluebells and brought out the color of my eyes. I picked up my hair and held it up, examining my image in the oval cheval glass. I looked like a completely different person. Maybe I was. I let down my hair and sat back down on the bed feeling lonelier than I ever had, even after Michael left me. What was I supposed to do now?

  Chapter 4

  Betty brought up a tray around 7pm, setting it on the small table in front of the window. A covered dish seemed to contain some sort of stew, and there was a heel of bread, pewter mug of ale and some stewed fruit for dessert. I could see that Betty was dying to talk, so I decided to find out as much as I could about my surroundings.

  “Are there a lot of people living at the castle, Betty?” I asked hoping this would invite her to chat.

  “Not so many as before, Miss,” she answered sadly. “There is Mr. Alec and Mr. Finn, Cook, meself and me brother Robbie, who is the groom, and Nell, the other maid. She helps Cook in the kitchen and does whatever is needed, but she doesn’a live ‘ere. She lives at the farm down the road that supplies us with milk and eggs. Nell’s father manages it, but it belongs to the Whitfields.” She suddenly stopped, as if she said too much, and I saw her backing toward the door. This was my chance to ask the question that had been burning in my mind since I came to in the meadow, so I took a deep breath and blurted it out.

  “Betty? What year is this?”

  Betty looked at me as if a third eye suddenly opened up in my forehead and winked at her flirtatiously, but she quickly composed herself and answered my question.

  “Why, it’s 1605, Miss.”

  With that, she bolted out the door and I sat down heavily on the chair, my legs refusing to hold me up any longer. I picked up the mug of ale, my hands shaking so badly that I nearly spilled it on my borrowed dress, and took a sip. If Betty was correct, and I had no doubt that she was, I had traveled back more than four hundred years. How? Why? Why this specific year? I tried to re-enact everything I’d done before waking up in the meadow. I’d walked around the shop and picked up a few things for a closer look and put them back. I’d looked at the shepherdess and then took the cupid ormolu clock off the shelf. It had been set to 8:10 and I’d opened the glass panel adjusting the time to 4:05. That’s when I’d begun to feel queer. The last thing I could remember was hastily putting the clock back on the shelf before everything went black.

  Suddenly, I understood. It had to have been the clock. 8:10 could also be read as 20:10, which was the year I’d been in when I entered the shop, and I turned the hands to 4:05, which could be read as 16:05. But how could that be? This wasn’t Alice in Wonderland. This was real life, and time travel devices didn’t just innocently sit on the shelves in English shops posing as hideous clocks. Who put it there and why? Had anyone else ever vanished, or was I the only fool crazy enough to open the clock and move the hands to the proper time? How could I possibly hope to go back if the clock was nowhere to be found? For all I knew, it hadn’t even been made yet, and if it had, it could be anywhere in the world; but it certainly wasn’t where I’d found it, because the shop hadn’t even been built yet. The building had been from the late 1700’s and, here I was in 1605.

  I tried to remember what I could of early seventeenth century England, but my mind was blank. I’d seen plenty of movies about the Tudors, but I couldn’t recall what happened after Elizabeth I died. Was she already dead? Who sat on the throne of England in 1605? All I knew for sure was that somewhere out there William Shakespeare was alive and well, writing the works that would still be famous in my time. Everything else was a mystery.

  I was distracted from my thoughts by the sound of hoofbeats approaching the castle, as two riders came galloping down the road, their horses’ hooves raising a cloud of dust as they pounded the dry earth. A teenage boy opened up the wooden gates to admit them, and the riders burst into the yard coming to a stop in front of the stables. I couldn’t make out their features on account of their wide-brimmed hats pulled low over the faces, but I could see that they both wore swords at their sides, and pistols were tucked into their belts, giving them a dangerous appearance. The men exchanged a few words with the boy, who led the horses away, presumably to be fed and watered, and walked into the castle talking amiably. The boy didn’t seem intimidated by the men’s appearance, so I assumed that they were expected, and would not be holding the Master at gunpoint. They must be the guests he was expecting for supper.

  I realized that I was hungry despite everything that happened, and experimentally opened the crock containing the stew. It smelled very appetizing and I took a spoonful. Betty said something about mutton, so it must be lamb. It was surprisingly good, with large, tender chunks of lamb and vegetables in a savory gravy. I broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into the rich sauce. At least I wouldn’t die of hunger, I thought sarcastically, as I took a long swallow of ale. It was bitter, but cool and refreshing, and I hoped it would soothe my frayed nerves a little. I finished my dinner and rose from the table. What could I do now?

  There was nothing in the room to occupy myself with, and I desperately needed something to take my mind off my predicament. The more I thought about it, the more confused I became, my panic rising with the approach of the night. Maybe I would go down to the library and borrow a book. There’d been many volumes along the shelves behind Mr. Whitfield when he received me there earlier. Surely, he wouldn’t mind. There was still at least an hour of daylight left to read by, and I would take advantage of it. I hoped that Betty would come to light the candle for me once it got dark, since I had no idea what to do with the flint and tinderbox lying on the mantel.

  I left the room quietly and retraced the way back to the library. It was easy enough to find, and I was about to go in, when I heard voices from the room across the hall. It must be the dining room where the men were having their supper.

  “Have you heard that he has ordered all the priests to leave England? This is intolerable. He is worse than Bess ever was.” The man speaking seemed furious. I waited for a moment to hear what the others said. I wanted to know who they were talking about.

  “He is afraid for his own skin and doesn’t want to anger the Protestants. He is already at odds with Parliament, and seeming to favor Catholics will not win him any fans in the House of Lords. He is shrewd and calculating, and will not give us any liberties if it means endangering his own position. His mother would die all over again if she could see the coward her son is.”

  “Gentlemen, he has only been on the throne for two years, and he is trying to solidify his position before making good on his promises. The people are still
wary of him. They remember all too well what happened when Mary was on the throne, and they are justifiably afraid.”

  “Don’t be naïve, Alec. The man is out to benefit himself and no one else. Bess had good reason to fear the Catholics, but what is his excuse? He is supposed to be one of us. Unless he starts burning heretics by the thousands, the Protestants have nothing to fear. All we ask is for the liberty to worship openly without persecution.”

  “Finn, I do not disagree with you, but you are talking treason, and I will not be a part of it. We are far enough removed from London, and the Court, to be able to live our lives as we choose. There is no need to put our heads on the block. Let us bide our time and see what happens when Parliament is back in session in November.”

  “Alec is right, Finlay. Let us bide for now. Now, pour me some more of that excellent claret and let’s hear about this wench who turned up on your doorstep today. Robbie said she was quite a looker. Why don’t we have a peek? As pretty as the two of you are, I would not say no to a willing wench tonight, or an unwilling one come to that.” The man cackled, and I felt a shiver of unease until I heard Alexander Whitfield’s voice.

  “The lady seems to have been accosted on the road and cannot recall the details. She is under my protection, and no one will be troubling her tonight or any other night. Is that clear?” His voice sounded calm, but full of authority, and I felt sure that no one would try to harm me while Alec Whitfield was on my side.

  I slipped into the library and closed the door behind me, not wanting to hear any more of their conversation. I was anxious enough as it was. I walked along the shelves looking at the titles in the fading light of the summer evening. I saw some volumes in Greek, Latin and French, and several books on astronomy and navigation. There weren’t too many books geared toward women, and I looked around for a long while until finally finding a play by Ben Johnson. I pulled out the slim volume, then went back to my room to read. It wasn’t a very good play, but it was better than nothing, and eventually I began to relax a little and get drawn into the plot.