Endless Time

by Frances Burke

  The watcher narrowed and concentrated his gaze as if to penetrate the bones of her skull, to seek the mind beneath. Then he turned aside and in a voice husky with drink or strain said, ‘She has been bled sufficiently, I think, Horbury. Bind up her arm, if you please.’

  Bemused, Karen was hardly aware of the servile mutter in the background, although she did look down at a touch, surprised to find a tight knot of cord biting into the flesh of her forearm, and a streak of blood running from it.

  I must have hurt myself, she thought. It’s not painful. Nothing major, then. She felt quite wafty. It really had been exhausting, that last tremendous effort to bring back conscious control of her body.

  The room blazed with light, but it was a light that moved and shifted. It bothered her. Briefly she closed her eyes to rest them.

  Another voice, a woman’s, scratched at her mind. It was an intrusive sound, like the whine of a persistent mosquito.

  ‘Oh, my dearest Caroline, such a relief! We thought… We feared… I declare, I really cannot be expected to withstand such frights in my delicate state of health. Antony, I must beg the support of your arm to my bedchamber. Now that I am reassured dear Caroline is recovered I must rest. You do see that I must rest?’

  Karen frowned. What a silly voice, so affected and insincere. Surely no one deliberately spoke that way. And who on earth was Caroline? Perhaps someone else had been injured. Was she in a hospital ward?

  ‘You are as healthy as an ox, Oriel. I must decline to believe that you require my support for the length of one short corridor. But by all means rest. There is little you can achieve here.’ The husky voice held contempt, and Karen wasn’t surprised to hear a door close with a decided bang. Whining Voice had evidently departed in dudgeon.

  Still battling inertia, she opened her eyes again and this time focused them beyond her immediate self. Yes, she was in bed, although a much wider one than the usual hospital style; and even the most exclusive private medical clinic did not provide satin and lace quilted coverlets with gauzy bed hangings to match. Highly insanitary, she’d have thought.

  Her gaze flicked to the side, avoiding the razor and blood-filled bowl, to the man binding her arm. She stared. Had she been taken ill in the middle of a costume ball? What other explanation could there be for a figure in brown velvet coat and breeches and a grubby wig that sat slightly askew above a round, good-humored face?

  ‘Who are you?’ Her voice emerged quite unlike her own. It sounded distinctly odd in her ears. But the stranger beamed.

  ‘Well now, my lady. We are heartily glad to see you back in your senses. Of course you remember me, Doctor Henry Horbury. Have I not attended your ladyship since childhood?’ He deftly bound up her arm and released the tourniquet. ‘You have given us a fine fright, if I may say so. So deep a swoon and for such a length of time can, in my experience, lead to highly dangerous consequences, most particularly when brought about by severe shock – ’

  ‘Enough, Horbury. You will not wish to disturb her ladyship with tales of what might have been.’ The harsh tone did nothing to mitigate the words, and the doctor jumped as if pricked.

  ‘Of course not, your lordship. Nothing was further from my intention, I do assure your lordship…’

  ‘Have done, man,’ the other broke in impatiently. ‘I wish to be private with her ladyship. Take yourself off to the bookroom and wait there until I come. You will take a glass of Madeira before you leave?’

  ‘Certainly, certainly. Your lordship is most gracious.’ The doctor grasped his bag and his still bloody instrument and all but backed out of the room in a display of obsequiousness that left Karen gaping.

  Speechless, she looked at the man who could treat another so ungraciously. However, he had his back turned to her, talking to someone else hidden by his bulk. Then he moved aside. A lovely pale face showed just beyond the range of the quivering light. It hung there almost as if disembodied, its owner trembling between the two worlds of the flesh and the spirit.

  Karen stared, then saw that the woman was real enough. She had wrapped herself in some dark, gauzy fabric that merged her into the background, leaving the dramatically beautiful features to make their impact. Tendrils of fine dark hair escaped the veiling to fall across her cheek, enhancing the impression of mystery. Even her eyes seemed to hide beneath lids too heavy to support their own weight. Karen heard the name, Sybilla, and shook her head. She had her own name for this woman – Bella Donna, Beautiful Lady, the deadly nightshade – and the subject of her latest portrait! She shivered and tried to sit up. Something was very wrong here. Who were these people? Where was this place?

  Now that her sight had adjusted to candle and firelight, she realized what a peculiar room it was, so heavily and ornately furnished, so stuffy - so old-fashioned. Quite definitely not a hospital ward. But who in these days had bedrooms with great marble mantelshelves surmounted by mirrors and gilt? Who hung floor to ceiling velvet drapes, swagged their beds in yards of stuff and filled every corner and lined each wall with bow-fronted chests, all blindingly polished and carved and inlaid to the point of frenzy? Who but a slightly crazed millionaire did these things, then hired medics in fancy dress and ordered people about as if they were nerveless robots?

  Using the bed hangings, she managed to drag herself half upright against the pillows. Thrusting aside the cowardly notion that to sit quiet was safer, she cleared her throat. ‘Excuse me.’

  The man swung around and came to the foot of the bed. He leaned both arms on the coverlet, stretching it tightly across her legs, and stared into her face.

  ‘Well, Caroline?”

  Karen’s heart slammed into her ribs, flattening and rebounding. Thought and reason died as she absorbed the impact. Incredible! Impossible! She shook her head as if to deny what her eyes told her. But reality stood there, six feet of it, his weight pinning her legs to the mattress: the miniature, the haunting painted features of her gift portrait had taken on flesh, and he looked a good deal less than welcoming. No longer two-dimensional, the gentleman had acquired a powerful personality, seeming to fill the room and press down on her bruised senses. Those amazing light-filled eyes now bored into hers, probing, questioning.

  Again she cleared her throat.

  The heavy brows came together. ‘Your pardon, madam?’

  ‘I… You…that is…’ Damn him! It was near impossible to break that gaze. Was she going to lie there like a mesmerized rabbit? Pride rushed in, sweeping away every other emotion but anger at her helpless confusion.

  ‘Look here. I don’t know who you are or where I am, or… or how you did it, but I know it’s a trick of some sort. Dreams don’t feel like this. Not even the worst nightmares have the texture… the… the reality of this situation. But I’ll tell you, whatever you’re playing at I’m not going on with the game any further. If you will kindly move back and let me up I’ll be leaving, and you can count yourselves lucky if I don’t call in the police.’ Her voice rose towards the end of this valiant speech, but its impact was somehow deadened by the room, swallowed up and lost in quantities of stuffy hangings.

  It crossed her mind that this might be an elaborate plot of Humphrey’s devising. But surely not even he would go to such lengths to torment her. Did he have some scheme to drive her to the brink of insanity, thus undermining her case before the court? She wouldn’t put it past him. No. Such a plot required imagination. Straight out stand-over tactics were more his style, such as a couple of thugs paid to visit her apartment and smash up her furniture. She could dismiss that idea.

  The man’s frown had darkened and he leaned uncomfortably close, searching her face.

  ‘What is this strange speech? Has your mind been affected, after all? I hope to God, not.’ He straightened abruptly, the brief concern erased from his voice as he continued harshly, ‘This is more of your trickery. What do you hope to gain from such a performance – my sympathy? If so, you are wide in your aim, my heart. I long since learned there is no softness in you. Y
ou think it sport to play upon the weaknesses of others.’

  “My heart”! The endearment slid off her like the tip of an icicle. This man hated her. It was no trick. He really had mistaken her for another woman, a woman who must have done a dreadful thing to be the cause of such bitterness. Caroline. That was her name.

  He stood back, seeming to relinquish his mental hold on her, and Karen blinked, feeling a sudden rush of strength throughout her body. Muscles that, a moment earlier had felt like wet string, sprang to attention, lifting her bolt upright. Her mind cleared and she spoke with a new authority.

  ‘Listen to me. I am not the person you think I am. I’m not this Caroline woman. My name is Karen… Karen Courtney. I need your help. I don’t understand how I got into this situation, but I refuse to simply sit and wait for it to sort itself out. There’s got to be a reasonable explanation; and since I’m certainly not an invalid, I intend to get up and start doing something about it.’ Thrusting aside the opulent bed quilt she scuttled rather than slid across the bed hampered by what appeared to be yards of nightgown.

  Her feet had barely touched the floor when she felt herself swinging down into a spiral of darkness. Faintly in the distance she heard someone calling to her. Her mind groped towards that voice and she clutched fiercely at the bedpost, willing herself to stay upright, fighting the tidal drag upon her senses.

  ‘Caroline! Are you trying to do yourself an injury? You have just been bled. Sybilla, where is her ladyship’s maid?’

  Karen felt herself lifted onto the bed, was aware of the man’s warm breath on her face as he pulled a pillow beneath her neck and drew up the coverlet. She hid behind closed lids, giving her lagging senses time to catch up. A chill had crept over her that had nothing to do with physical weakness. It was more like a foreknowledge that she was not going to be able to deal with this setup, after all. Ordinary methods were not going to work.

  ‘Caroline, give me your attention if you please.’

  It was a command, and even as she registered this she looked up in obedience. His face had changed alarmingly. Never reassuring, it now had quite a menacing cast. She was annoyed with herself for wanting to shrink back into the pillows.

  ‘You will oblige me by not moving from your bed until Horbury gives permission. Your injury could easily lead to a concussion of the brain and we must take the greatest care.’ His indifferent tone belied his words, and she was not in any danger of overestimating his professed concern. Why had she ever thought those green eyes so dazzling? They were more like an Arctic sky. Polar bears could catch cold just standing alongside of the man! He was pure autocrat, concerned only that his will should be obeyed.

  She tried to whip up the spark of rebellion into a warming anger, to thaw her icy fear of having all control slip through her hands. She had fallen into a looking-glass world where anything might happen. Water could run uphill, the sun might set in the east – or paintings come vividly to life. More frightening than all was the fact that no one else saw it. Or if they did, they had no intention of acknowledging this, let alone giving an explanation.

  The beautiful woman who had remained in the background all this time, now glided forward in a swirl of dark draperies to lay a hand on Karen’s arm and smile warmly. However, when she spoke it was to the man beside her.

  ‘Antony, your guests will begin to arrive in but a short space of time. Would it please you if I were to act as your hostess for the dinner? Clearly Caroline is in no position to do so.’

  ‘That would be exceeding kind of you, Sybilla. I confess, the thought of greeting thirty hungry and expectant people with the news that their meal has been cancelled does not recommend itself to me, although they will doubtless feel obligated to leave – under the circumstances.’

  ‘We cannot permit that. Your reputation would be quite out the window.’ When she smiled, her lids slanted in an oriental manner. Bewitching, Karen thought, wondering how on earth she had managed to choose this particular face as a subject for her painting. Intrigued, she listened to the half-teasing, half-serious tone as the lovely voice went on.

  ‘I shall say that I am deputizing for your lady who, regretting a sudden indisposition, begs that her guests will remain and enjoy the hospitality of her home.’ Patting Karen’s arm she leaned over and said with sincerity, ‘Rest now, sweet cousin. You have suffered a severe shock. And be assured, between us, Antony and I will administer your responsibilities. We may discuss other matters more comfortably in the morning. Sleep well.’

  She brushed Karen’s forehead with her lips, leaving behind a wisp of some exotic scent, then departed in a rustle of silk. The man called Antony followed, holding the door for her and pausing to direct a last admonitory glance at Karen.

  Totally swamped in the current of her fear and bewilderment, Karen slumped down in the bed. Reassurances were all very well, but what did she care about the concerns of play-acting strangers? The important thing was for her to get out of here; and judging by the brief encounter, the only way was to play dumb and wait for them all to go. Accordingly she again closed her eyes and willed herself to relax, listening for the sound of the closing door.

  When it came, she peeked cautiously, only to see her tormentor standing almost at her elbow, smiling grimly at her confusion.

  ‘Did you expect to cozen me so easily? Have I not had endless experience of your tricks and ploys, my heart? Too long to be anything but suspicious of your slightest movement. No, Caroline. In this matter you will obey me implicitly. You will not place foot to floor for the next twelve hours or, believe me, you will regret it.’ He beckoned towards the doorway and Karen was freshly humiliated to realize that his contemptuous words had been overheard, not by the mystery woman, but another, tall and narrow in cap and apron, with the uncompromising demeanor of a wardress.

  ‘Roberts will attend your needs. ‘Tis unfortunate that your own maid is also indisposed this evening. Yet I venture to say you will find this woman efficient and loyal, to me.’

  She knew her face must mirror her feelings, for he smiled unpleasantly before turning away and finally leaving the room.

  So much for her escape plans. She watched her jailer move about the room, tidying away the medical debris, mending the fire and monitoring her charge from the corner of her eye. There would be no slipping past her.

  Still pretending compliance, Karen sipped the hot milk offered and permitted her pillows to be straightened. Then she feigned sleep and set herself to find a way out of this mess.

  She knew nothing more until wakening in the chill of a gray, watery dawn.

  *

  Her tongue stuck to her palate and her lips felt and tasted like dried play dough. Moving her aching head on the pillow, seeking a cool spot, she felt sticky tendrils of hair catching about her neck. And she remembered what had happened.

  Hallucination! She’d somehow ingested some drug – LSD? Crack? – and gone on a horrific trip! That had to be the explanation. It accounted for so much, including feeling as limp and tacky as the newspaper wrapping from last night’s fish and chips. So, when she opened her eyes it would all be over.

  Light filtered through square-paned windows, a moody, ungenerous light from a surly sky. Someone had drawn back the curtains to reveal the naked limbs of a frostbitten tree. The room bore no resemblance to her own tiny apartment. Cold and airless, stale with the ashes of a near-dead fire, it was the room of her hallucination – the room where she’d encountered her miniature in the flesh, the man named Antony.

  Don’t panic! Relax. Hold on for a minute. She squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them again, cautiously. Nothing had changed. A domed clock on the mantelshelf tinkled like a music box and a bird in a hanging cage trilled a reply. Hooves clattered and iron wheels rumbled below the windows. Silence came down like a blanket, thick and smothering. Karen raised her hands to her face – and screamed.

  They were not her hands. These dainty, beringed fingers belonged to someone else. Where were her familiar, longer,
somewhat hardened hands, the square cut nails, with one knuckle knobby from holding a brush?

  In total panic she tumbled from the bed, catching her feet in her nightgown as she raced to the mirror above the fire. She stared into the terrified blue eyes of a stranger. Clutching at the marble she felt faintness engulfing her, passing over and gradually receding.

  It isn’t true. This is not happening. God, don’t let it be real! She forced herself to look again. The face was enchanting, pearly skinned, dimpled, with classic nose, rosebud mouth, the works. Too good to be true.

  She probably had a thick neck, was her jaundiced thought – a slander she could not verify as the lovely stranger had the added attribute of a petite figure which simply did not allow her to see any higher in the mirror. A pocket Venus, she thought bitterly, considering her lack of inches and the almost embarrassingly voluptuous curves her fingers traced through the folds of satin bed gown.

  There was one other thing, her hair. That really put the lid on it. Karen’s own hair, black, straight, fringed, could never in a million years be mistaken for a flaming halo, writhing and curling and clinging about her bare shoulders. Even in such a tousled state it shouted for notice. It had a bold, attention-seeking vitality, demanding a personality equally extrovert. Certainly that wasn’t Karen.

  ‘You’re not me,’ she whispered through dry lips. ‘Who are you? And where is my body?’

  The mirror image looked back at her in anguish. ‘What have you done with me?’ it mouthed back.

  Karen whimpered and flung herself down on the hearthrug, her new face buried in her new dainty hands.

  Much later the clock tinkled its chimes and she raised her head. Her lacy sleeves had fallen back to reveal bruising on her right arm above the elbow. Pulling up her gown she found another great spread of purpling stain running up her hip and thigh, and when she prodded she yelped. What had happened to it… her?