Jane closed her eyes momentarily to draw some calm. ‘Will sees his karate as a philosophy — he uses it for spiritual guidance, not as a weapon.’
Maxwell glared at her. ‘It’s a fighting craft, Jane. It’s there to be used so you can protect your own life and the lives of those you love!’
Will’s mother gasped and wept a little harder. It was obvious Maxwell was used to winning in everything. Jane couldn’t have cared less about him and his anger at this moment, but she was perceptive enough to realise it was the raw pain of a father talking, with little rationality behind it. So she said nothing, simply sighed and nodded.
‘Well, he can’t stay here,’ Maxwell growled, as though the silence had finally broken through whatever barrier had been holding him back. ‘I’m not leaving my son in this place.’ His American accent sounded suddenly harsh, aggressive.
Jane’s father blinked. ‘What would you suggest, John?’ his singsong Welsh accent a foil in its mellowness.
‘He can come home.’
Startled, Jane glanced at her parents, then shook her head at her mother, who seemed ready to launch a counter-argument. ‘The decision’s mine, surely?’ Jane wondered aloud to her in-laws. Does a fiancée not count?
‘I’ve made a few calls,’ John Maxwell said, as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve contacted one of the top neuro guys in the States and he wants Will brought to John Hopkins in Baltimore. My boy is going to get the very best care that money can buy.’
Jane’s mum spoke with appeal in her voice. ‘The people here are very —’
‘It’s our son lying there, Catelyn,’ Will’s father cut across her mother. Rather savagely, Jane thought. ‘If you were in the US right now and this was Jane lying here, wouldn’t you want her at home?’ His voice cracked.
It was a fair point. No one could deny his logic.
‘We want to get him the very best help,’ Diane whispered, as though the obvious needed further reinforcement to the dullard English around them. ‘John Hopkins is the top neurological hospital in America.’
Jane was glad that none of her family responded to that statement. She saw Ellen watching her from the nurse’s station, some distance away. Ellen gave her a ‘stay strong’ sort of smile.
‘Listen,’ Will’s father continued, jabbing a finger into the air, but fortunately pointing at no one in particular. ‘I’ve spoken to the folk here. They want to pull the plug. Well, no way, mister.’ He shot Jane a searching look and she helplessly nodded to indicate she couldn’t agree more. He seemed to take heart from this; his hostility dissolved and his tone softened as he turned to address Jane’s parents. ‘There’s some cutting-edge research going on at Hopkins.’ He shrugged. ‘I want to give your daughter back the husband she wants. These kids — well, they may be young in our estimation and they’ve only known one another a few months, but there’s no doubting that Will is besotted with Jane and I have to presume she loves our boy just as hard.’ Jane felt a fresh wave of guilt break against the shore of her pain as John Maxwell continued. ‘Hell! Diane was just eighteen when we married, not even twenty-one when she had Will. Who are we to preach? We have to do everything we can to give these kids a future so they bear us grandchildren.’ He fixed them all with his glare. ‘We all want the same thing, surely? Now, Diane and I can handle this better at home. They’re not going to do anything more for him here — you folk need to understand that. I’m not stealing him from Jane. I’m going to find out how to cure our son and then give him straight back to her.’
He was challenging Jane and her family to argue differently, pursing his lips and sticking out his chin, which turned even more square.
She looked at Will’s own slack jaw, where a dribble of saliva had followed the line of the breathing tube and left a thin stain against his darkening beard. She remembered how that beard had been stubble a couple of days ago, and how, in his enthusiasm to show her something he’d once seen done in a movie, that unshaven chin had rasped against her belly, making her buck and giggle and spoiling any potential for serious passion, because then Will had pursued her ticklishness and the whole hotel had heard her begging convulsions of laughter. Yet now the stubble had grown, testimony to the life ticking over behind the unconscious mask.
‘When do you see this occurring?’ she asked, working to achieve a reasonable tone and a steady voice.
John Maxwell didn’t flinch. ‘As soon as the hospital allows that he can be safely moved.’
‘He’s stable now. Would you take him away from me tomorrow?’
‘I would, Jane,’ he said without hesitation, ‘because he’s absolutely no use to you right now. He’s no use to anyone. We might as well flick the fucking switch.’ Jane shrank back, but Will’s father clearly didn’t care how brutal he sounded. ‘The Institute medical team isn’t exactly filling me with hope, so I say we give Will his best shot at recovery … and it’s not here. It’s in Baltimore.’
‘Jane, dear, you know you can come with us, of course,’ Diane said, as though everything had already been agreed.
Jane glanced at her parents, both of whom looked stricken, but kept their own counsel. She loved them for their silence. She hadn’t realised she’d let go of Diane’s hand, but she reached for Will’s hand now; it was unnaturally dry to the touch.
‘Diane, John. I’m going to the hotel now to take some sleeping tablets and try and rest my shattered mind for just a few hours. Please let me sleep on your plan.’
John nodded once. ‘Good girl. Thank you. I realise that’s not a yes,’ he said, when Jane took a breath to respond, ‘but I’m glad we’re on the same page.’ He leaned over to kiss her brusquely. ‘Get some rest. We’ll stay with him tonight.’
Jane turned and cupped Will’s face — all the more beautiful to her in repose — and kissed his lips, feeling the slippery sensation of lip balm, which she’d seen Ellen gently smear on earlier.
‘See you in the morning,’ she whispered to him.
Ellen caught her eye as she left with her parents. ‘Dr Evans, our most senior neuro, is coming to assess Will this afternoon. You’ll meet him tomorrow, probably, and I know you’ll really like him. He’s a forward thinker, all for giving the patients the time and space they need.’ She squeezed Jane’s arm. ‘He believes patient knows best. Trust him.’
Jane nodded, hopes rising. ‘Thanks for looking after Will.’
‘Oh, that’s the easy bit. He’s worth fighting for. I’ll kiss Will goodnight for you too.’
Jane smiled weakly at the joke and imagined that Will was probably going to enjoy it.
FIVE
Scotland, autumn 1715
As Winifred’s coach emerged from the cover of the royal forest of Ettrick, where deer roamed aplenty, she and Cecilia caught their first sight of Traquair House, built on a rise above the River Tweed. Formerly one of a series of defensive towers built along the line that protected the Scottish borders against English invasion, it was now the family home of Charles, Fourth Earl of Traquair, his wife Mary — William’s sister — and their brood of children.
Winifred recognised in Mary the features of her brother, and she also found Mary’s warm, sympathetic nature immediately endearing. It was obvious to their new guest how much in love this couple were.
‘I am so glad to welcome you here, dear Winifred,’ Mary said, clasping her sister-in-law’s hands between her own. ‘You are to make Traquair your home in dear Will’s absence.’
And so life settled down for Winifred as she and Cecilia fell into the rhythm of Traquair’s routines and the demands of helping Mary with the household management, which included everything from hiring staff to ordering shopping from Edinburgh.
‘Two new moons have come and gone,’ Mary mentioned one day. ‘Hard to credit,’ she added, shaking her head.
Winifred didn’t need her to say to what she referred, for William strode around her thoughts every moment she was awake and roamed her dreams as she slept. ‘I try not to think about it,’ she
lied, and quickly changed the subject. ‘We must add some mace and cloves to our list, sister. Here, let me write that down.’
Mary’s expression showed she understood her remark was being deflected. She nodded. ‘And I must not forget to procure my husband’s grey writing paper from Messrs Gordon in Canongate. Upon my word, he’ll be in fair wrath if I forget.’
Winifred sent Mary a look of dry amusement. ‘Your dear husband couldn’t be angry with you over anything, Mary. He worships the very ground you tread.’
Mary grinned. ‘Why don’t we travel to Edinburgh and do the shopping ourselves? You could use a diversion.’
Winifred leaped at the opportunity. ‘Oh, yes, and then we can choose the candles ourselves! You said you didn’t trust the cotton wicks they’ve been sending.’ She bent her head over the list again. ‘I’m adding starch blue. The laundrywomen will need fresh reserves if they are going to work through the linens to put away for winter.’
They had their trip to Edinburgh, autumn began to surrender and Winifred grew increasingly glad that Will was a reliable correspondent. When his letters came, she sat down with Mary and read parts of them aloud. Anne would giggle at the little stick pictures he drew at the end of the letters, usually of himself and Anne picking apples, riding horses or holding butterflies.
The latest had greeted them after Winifred had spent the day in the dairy overseeing the making of cheese. It was Mary’s son, Linton, who had been sent with the message.
‘Aunt Win, it’s another letter from my Lord Nithsdale,’ he said excitedly.
Winifred picked up her skirts and ran with her nephew back to the main house.
Mary and Cecilia soon scuttled in after her. ‘I heard.’
Winifred tore open the letter, not even pausing to seat herself. She began reading aloud, hungrily devouring the words like a woman famished.
‘My dear hearte …’ And now she did pause, blushing slightly as she skipped over her husband’s endearments and enquiry as to her health and Anne’s.
‘What news of Willie? he asks,’ she said, looking up at her sister-in-law, who smiled benignly. Cecilia nodded encouragement. ‘I must tell him that our son took his first hunt.’
Winifred continued reading aloud. ‘Mar’s army is moving south through the winter like a great snowball, gathering up more men as we travel. Behind us Perth is captured, as are all the towns on the north side of the Forth. Our standard flies o’er the kingdom of Fife, Forfar, Kincardine, Aberdeen, Banff and Moray. Even Inverness is proudly Jacobite. Lords Kenmure and Carnwarth and I took Moffat, and now we journey to Dumfries.’
The three women exchanged a look of nervous relief. Mary smiled encouragingly. ‘He is safe,’ his sister murmured.
Winifred read on, her shoulders visibly relaxing. ‘Regrettably our Jacobite army failed to capture Edinburgh Castle, foiled at the last by stupidity, but we stay hopeful that our monarch, King James, will arrive hitherto with much needed men and arms from France. We are assured a dozen ships are docked at Le-Havre-de-Grâce, loaded with men numbering two thousand and well equipped with weapons ready to sail to Dumbarton.
‘Mar’s army is camped at Perth. The highlanders number nearly five thousand. Lord Argyll’s forces are outnumbered sorely, and I am one of those who believe we must take our chances and overpower the English now, for we are scarce of weapons and ammunition for prolonged battle. Our spirits remain high, dear Win, but keeping our men’s minds on the fight and their tinder dry is the challenge. Even you knowest the mindset of the highlander. His attention wanders, and if we do not keep him amused in fighting and marching, he will become bored and be consumed by other amusements.’
‘’Tis true,’ Mary agreed.
Winifred turned the page. ‘The weather is infernal and the terrible roads we travel are scarce more than bridle tracks. I should avoid them like the devil in any other situation. We are frozen most of the time and often so soaked to the skin that nary a fire can dry us, but we are heart-full of optimism, my love. I shall write again soon — my next letter surely from England and more triumphant.’
Her voice broke slightly as she began the next sentence but steadied swiftly at Cecilia’s soft squeeze of her arm. ‘Kiss Anne for me, my best to dear Mary and Charles, and I send this with all my love, and my urgings to you to stay cheerful and strong. I do love you with —’
She blushed and shrugged.
Mary hugged her. ‘Let his sweet words be yours alone, Winifred. Come, Linton, we have work to do.’ Cecilia followed them.
Winifred stood in the front doorway of Traquair House, her hands still chilled but aching, as they had begun to slowly thaw from being indoors. She used the murky sunlight filtering through cloud to read again the letter from her sorely missed husband, especially his declaration of love for her and their son and daughter.
He was unharmed and still optimistic, and these things were all that mattered to Winifred. She cast a prayer, her eyes closed, his letter clasped to her breast. ‘Oh, dear Lord, please let Will live,’ she whispered.
SIX
London, December 1978
In the taxi Jane could have sworn she heard faint words, as if from a great distance. She accepted that it was probably the echo of her own fervent hope, communing with her in prayer. ‘Please let Will live,’ she repeated in her mind, and snatched away a tear that had just welled up and threatened to spill down her cheek.
She stared at the shops passing her by and realised everything was suddenly irritating her — especially everyone else’s tears, their stolen glances of sympathy, the pity that seemed to permeate the bubble of chaos she walked around in. Even her parents’ whispered mutterings in the taxi were getting on her nerves.
‘Darling?’ her mother said as Jane asked the cabbie to pull over. That word darling could mean so much coming from her mum — everything from a question, to an admonishment, to the endearment it normally expressed.
‘I’m going to walk back to the hotel,’ Jane said. She tried to sound affable, but even she heard in her tone a warning for them not to argue.
It didn’t faze Catelyn. ‘It’s miles. Plus it’s raining.’
‘Mum … please. We’re on the Strand. It’s not miles. It’s about ten minutes and it’s always raining in London. I have an umbrella.’
‘You’re sure?’ her dad offered, but only because her mother had glared at him to say something.
Jane reached for an excuse. ‘I just want some air.’
Mercifully, her mother seemed to understand that what her daughter really wanted was to be alone. ‘Don’t get lost, darling.’
‘You need some rest, Jane,’ her father cautioned out of the taxi window. ‘By that I mean sleep. Total switch-off.’
She gave him a sad, tight smile of agreement, saying, ‘I won’t be long,’ and lifted a hand in farewell as the taxi eased back into the traffic. Absently aware of her surroundings, she walked without purpose or direction, wandering in the footsteps of whoever happened to be in front of her. Right now she was following red sneakers, but she had spotted some black heels clicking along; their loud clatter might help keep her focused. Her mind was uncharacteristically empty. She was aware of having no desire to think, or even to look up from the pavement, to which her gaze remained riveted. She switched to the black heels as the red sneakers veered off to beat the lights before they changed and cross the busy Strand.
Just walk, she told herself.
The rude clangour of a sudden ambulance siren dragged her from the stupor where neither today’s Will nor the world could reach her. She was walking in a haze of memory. Will’s kiss, Will’s love, their laughter, their lovemaking … all rolled into a warm fug in her mind. The screaming siren pulled her from the thin bubble of safe blankness and threw her straight back to days ago in the Tube station. The police were searching for the attackers, and if Will died, a senior officer had explained to her father, they would be looking for men to charge with manslaughter.
But Will was not going to
die, and she couldn’t have cared less whether they found the perpetrators or not; revenge was not on her mind. All she wanted was for her life to wind back to that morning when she was kissing Will at the Seven Dials, eating chocolate cake for breakfast, talking about magic and seriously contemplating another day in bed … Why hadn’t they done that? Why had they passed the hotel?
A leaflet was thrust into her hand by someone she barely noticed, and only now did she realise it was one of five she was clutching: ads for a new pizza restaurant, a small show that was running just off Drury Lane, a pub that had introduced its winter menu, a Christmas market that was the new rage in London; and now, this last one, on lilac-coloured paper, inviting people to a session with a clairvoyant. The first five people who visited and carried a leaflet would have their reading provided free.
Got questions that need answering?
Confused by your life’s path?
Need to make a big decision?
The address was in Covent Garden. Why not? It would be a good distraction. She could have answered ‘Yes’ to each of those questions. Maybe just listening to a stranger would help. She snapped back to alertness and threw the other leaflets into a nearby litter bin, turning off the busy Strand to make her way back into the market area.
The clairvoyant’s room was at garret level, straddling a Moroccan restaurant and an outdoor clothing shop. It was a tiny room at the top of two tall flights of stairs and as she entered the smell of frying spices wafted up the stairwell.
Jane glanced at the time. Her parents wouldn’t be wondering about her yet; she reckoned an hour at most was all she had, though. She knocked on the thick, gloss paint of the creamy-white door and waited. As she knocked again, the door opened and a man of indeterminate age looked back at her from pale, searching eyes that she thought were blue. His mid-brown hair was trimmed close to his head and his oblong face sported a close-cut, precisely shaped beard, as though from another century. You’d look perfect with a sword in your hand and a cloak tied at your throat, she thought, relieved that she could feel amused by anything. On this first glance, everything about him struck Jane as spare, from his lean frame to his neat, symmetrical features. Surprise must have been reflected in her expression.
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