‘Am I allowed to see him?’ she asked, hearing her own voice as though it were coming from a long distance away. She had never felt so confused or dislocated from reality.
‘Yes, they would not deny his family.’
‘Will you come too?’
Mary looked surprised. ‘I dare not, dear sister. You know that Charles and I must appear to support King George. We discussed this. Surely you remember?’
‘I … I …’ she began, and as she stammered her response it was as though some of the mists that had clouded her mind thinned slightly. And now, finally, Jane did latch on to a memory … it wasn’t hers, she was sure of it, but perhaps it belonged to this person called Winifred whom the women were sure they were addressing. She reached toward the memory and could now recall a man wearing a wig who didn’t look like the Will she kept in her mind’s eye, but he was certainly called Will and he was her husband. He was explaining the family’s decision to deliberately split their loyalties. The conversation was filtering through and she remembered her fierce agreement that the Nithsdales of Terregles would support the Jacobites, for they had less to lose and were more committed in their support of the Catholic claim. She could hear the echo of her voice.
Charles doesn’t care who sits on the English throne, so long as London doesn’t interfere with his business concerns in Scotland, Winifred had said; Jane could hear it now repeated in her mind.
Aye, that’s why it’s best we raise our standard for our exiled King James, then rely on my sister’s family for help, William had replied, in a voice similar enough to her Will’s tone for her to wholly believe it might be him, although the rich Scots accent was not her Will’s. And now that she saw the Earl in Winifred’s memory, there was something familiar in his smile, wasn’t there? Didn’t that slightly crooked grin remind her of the grin of the man lying in the hospital bed?
They are both your men, whispered a thought.
And now other memories began to crawl into her mind of a life spent with William, Earl of Nithsdale. Of lost children, and agonies of sorrow for the babies they’d named and then buried. But there was a healthy son, being schooled in France and occasionally visited by her sister. Not the sister she knew, called Juliette, who had scorned her plan to visit Ayers Rock, but a sister in this alternative world she found herself in. She and William Maxwell, the Earl of Nithsdale, also had a surviving daughter called Anne.
These were real memories, real thoughts. They belonged to a woman — not herself, but the woman she’d become. She sensed the presence of this other woman, lost like a shadow but watching from a distance. The woman was frightened, confused — and weak, as though sickening. Worry for a child broke through the strange link and became part of Jane’s thoughts.
‘Where’s Anne?’ she suddenly said.
‘By my faith! Winifred, you’ve remembered. Bravo!’ Cecilia exclaimed. ‘We have sent Anne to our friend Bess. She is safer with her. I did not wish her to see you sickening and confused in your mind. But if you remember your beautiful child, surely you remember us …’
The two women waited, as though holding their breath. The terrible fright for Jane — or Winifred, as she felt herself fast becoming — was that she did remember now. The clouds were clearing rapidly. She recalled everything about this strange world she was in, but she didn’t understand why she remembered, or how she’d come to be here.
‘I do, dear sister Mary. And Cecilia — a better friend one could not wish for,’ she finally said, even the formal words coming easily now.
They hugged her, making soft noises of relief.
Mary shook her head. ‘As I live and breathe, your recovery is astonishing. The doctor had you for the grave last week.’
‘Truly?’
They nodded together.
‘All we could do was make you as comfortable as we could. And you insisted on being dressed,’ Mary said.
Cecilia grinned. ‘You said if you were going to die, then you were going to do so in your silks, looking out the window to where Will was, and not languishing in a bed.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Now look at you. Bonny and bright as ever!’
‘So I must travel to London, you say?’
Mary nodded. ‘But are you strong enough, I wonder?’
‘I feel hale,’ she admitted, marvelling privately at how that word had bubbled up, when she had never used it before. ‘I could do with some air after days inside. I think I’ll take a walk.’
Mary looked doubtful, but Cecilia seemed to agree that it was a fine idea. ‘I’ll fetch your cloak. Just a short stroll down to the stream, mind. Do you wish for some company, Winifred?’ she asked.
Jane shook her head. ‘Thank you, no. I just want to clear my thoughts.’
Jane knew they were watching her, but she pretended otherwise. Rugged up against the biting cold in a scarf tucked into the neck of a heavy velvet cloak with a dramatic hood, she felt every inch Lizzie Bennet. Fur-lined gloves, fur muff and heeled, laced boots completed her look. She could convince herself she was off across the fields to meet Mr Darcy — although this era she found herself in was too early — but, bemusement aside, she also needed to get away and think through this surreal situation as best she could.
Good sense demanded that this was a dream, but her heightened awareness told her she was not going to wake up. Something had happened while she had been on Ayers Rock and, impossible though it seemed, apparently she was in Scotland in the early 1700s and her husband, William Maxwell — she gave a small but vaguely hysterical choke of laughter as she thought of this — was in grave trouble. Wouldn’t Diane Maxwell have been thrilled! Jane was meeting the forebears whom the Maxwell seniors were so proud to mention. They had gone off to learn the history, knowing nothing more than that John Maxwell believed himself to be distantly related to the Earl of Nithsdale from Scotland.
But why had she become Winifred Maxwell? And what had happened to the real Winifred? They’d said she’d been for the grave. Had Jane’s health brought Winifred back from the brink of death? More importantly, how was she going to get back to Jane Granger’s life?
Jane walked without purpose and realised only as she was arriving at the wash house that she had absently followed the path down to the leaching lawns where, Winifred’s memories told her, she regularly supervised the hired labour as they carried out the laundry duties. She could see only two women working today. There would be no treatment with lye and laying garments out on the lawns for bleaching under the sun today, she thought. Apart from the dismally cold weather, there were hens scratching about. Winifred’s memories told her that they only bleached twice a year — mid-spring and at the end of summer, when sunshine and dry weather could be counted upon.
One of the women straightened from where she had been rolling linen through a mangle and stared at Jane intently. The other stepped forward and curtseyed on her approach. ‘Good morrow, My Lady. You are much better, I see.’ She said it with such surprise that Jane laughed. ‘We thought you were for the grave; forgive me for saying it.’
Jane smiled. ‘It seems I have recovered.’
‘Heavens be praised,’ the woman said. Jane recalled her name to be Aileen. ‘We’re nearly done getting the table linens readied for Hogmanay.’
‘Aren’t you cold, Aileen?’ she asked, noticing the bare arms, with only a shawl between her and the elements.
Aileen chuckled, but there was vague confusion in her expression. ‘I don’t think on that, My Lady,’ she replied, and Jane realised she had stepped over an invisible line of etiquette. She smiled to cover her confusion.
‘You make me feel overdressed, that’s all,’ she said, knowing she was making it worse, but feeling embarrassed now.
Aileen was gracious. ‘Well, My Lady. You’ve been sorely ill. You should na’ be out for long. And we can manage here — we’re almost done.’
Jane nodded. She stepped into the small stone shed and ran her hand over the mangle, admiring its simplicity and effectiveness. She smiled
at the petite second woman, younger, and yet it was hard to define her age. Her skin was flawless, her greenish eyes clear, and she was still eyeing their visitor with deep curiosity. Something about her pricked at Jane’s memory.
‘It’s surely a miracle,’ she suddenly remarked, and there was something in her tone that caught Jane’s attention.
‘Don’t mind Robyn,’ Aileen said, coming into the wash house. ‘She’s new. Murdina is sickening, so I called in a friend of hers who offered to work.’
Jane frowned, still looking at Robyn. ‘Have we met?’
The woman smiled and there was something knowing in the expression. She returned to her mangle and Jane noticed how raw her hands were, no doubt burned by the caustic lye the household used to bleach its sheets.
She wasn’t sure how she suddenly knew these facts, but decided she must let go and allow Winifred’s knowledge to fuse with hers if she were to survive this challenge … whatever it was. Without it she understood now that she was doomed to walk this strange landscape in constant confusion. Only Winifred could provide the clues to her role here.
Suddenly Jane realised she had been staring at Robyn in silence.
‘If you’ll excuse me, My Lady …’ Aileen said, sounding awkward as she gave another quick curtsey. ‘I have to take these back to the main house for airing.’ Jane saw her arms were laden with slightly damp linen, ready to be ironed.
‘Of course,’ Jane replied, nodding politely.
Aileen left and Jane knew she probably should too, but she felt compelled to remain with Robyn a fraction longer. She was sure the young woman had some kind of knowledge about her. Robyn had returned quietly to her work, but there was a tension in the air.
‘Is there something you wish to say to me?’ she finally said, embarrassed by the long silence that had managed to stretch between them.
‘I suspect you have a question for me, My Lady.’
Jane blinked. ‘Yes. I’ve already asked it. Have we met before?’
‘Not in this life,’ Robyn said without hesitation, and her words made Jane suck in a breath.
Robyn eyed her intently. Jane’s mouth opened, but she couldn’t speak for a few moments. ‘You’re Robin? The … the clairvoyant?’
The woman shrugged. ‘I am but a washerwoman, as you see.’
‘You brought me here?’ she asked, shocked.
Robyn shook her head and found a sad smile. ‘No, my Lady Nithsdale. You are here.’
‘But you know me as Jane. My fiancé is —’
‘I know you are on a strange journey, My Lady. But the pathway is yours. You chose it.’
‘You guided me to that path!’ she snapped.
Robyn shrugged. ‘’Tis true you were given insight. But the decision was yours alone.’
‘And what now?’
‘Walk the path,’ Robyn challenged.
‘The man I’m marrying is lying in a coma in hospital.’
‘Nay, My Lady. Not yet he isn’t. Not for a couple of centuries. Right now, your husband is a prisoner of King George I of England.’
Jane could feel the cold snagging at her toes through the thin leather of her boots. Even so, she felt pathetic for noticing it while Robyn stood bare-armed, her raw hands immersed in what had to be freezing water. Her strangled breath billowed out in curls of steam.
‘Would you like to come inside?’
Robyn shook her head. ‘’Tis no place for me, the main house.’
‘The kitchen, perhaps? Or one of the outhouses? I must talk to you, but apparently I’ve had a fever. I can’t risk getting sick again. And you should warm your hands at least. I insist.’
Her companion agreed with a shrug. They walked the short distance back to the main house in silence. Jane instinctively knew its layout and forced herself not to question this fact. Go with it, she urged herself. Walk with Winifred. She led Robyn to the yard at the back. ‘Wait in here for me,’ she said, ushering her companion into the stables, where two horses and a donkey seemed to be residing. Inside, it was dry and surprisingly warm, and the straw smelled sweet and fresh.
Jane hastened to the parlour and found a maid. ‘Bring a mug of sweetened tea to the stable, please.’
The woman looked at her as if Her Ladyship’s mind had loosened.
‘Do as I ask,’ Jane added. ‘One of the washerwomen is feeling faint.’
She didn’t wait for a response and was soon back in the stable, eyeing Robyn with fresh disbelief. ‘Who are you?’
‘Exactly as you see, My Lady.’
Jane suspected she would never get to the truth of this woman … man … whoever he or she was. But Robyn had answers, she was sure of it. She didn’t want to waste time on what didn’t matter to Will’s life.
The donkey brayed into the tense silence, then quietened just as abruptly.
‘Will needs me,’ she bleated.
‘Both Wills need you,’ came the reply.
Jane blinked. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Try.’
They heard footsteps. ‘I said you were feeling faint,’ Jane explained.
Robyn nodded, and leaned against a stall affecting a dazed expression.
‘Thank you, Catriona,’ Jane said, amazed by how quickly she was getting used to retrieving information from Winifred, including giving orders. She took the pewter mug from the tray.
The housemaid stared. ‘What ails you such that you’d involve Her Ladyship?’ she sneered at Robyn.
‘Never you mind, Catriona,’ Jane cut in. ‘Back to your duties. I’ll take care of this.’
The servant curtseyed and left. Jane didn’t imagine they would have long before Catriona’s gossiping ensured that others, equally curious, came to snoop.
‘I’m not dreaming this, am I,’ she said. It was a statement, rather than a question, but Robyn shook her head all the same.
‘No. You travelled to a place of great power.’
‘It was a pilgrimage. I wanted to do something tangible, something positive for Will.’
‘You challenged one of the great Earth vortices. You stood on the ley line and yearned for its magic. Your plea was answered.’
‘Here? I’ve been flung back to 1715, nearly three centuries before my own birth, and you want me to believe that this is where answers are to be found?’
‘I promise you that the answer to your yearning is here,’ Robyn replied cryptically, speaking with irritating calm. ‘Most importantly, this is where the journey toward saving Will begins.’ She sipped her honeyed tea and regarded Jane. ‘Lady Nithsdale was dying, Jane. Emotionally, Winifred has always been strong, but physically she is rather fragile. You must fight that fragility if she, you and both Williams are to survive.’
‘How is my Will involved?’
‘Will is a direct descendant of William Maxwell, the Earl of Nithsdale.’
Jane nodded her head, unsurprised. ‘So what?’
‘The Earl has been accused of being a traitor,’ Robyn said, warming her hands around the mug. ‘He is on his way to London for trial.’
‘But why does that affect my life, and Will’s life?’
‘Because if the Earl of Nithsdale is executed, your Will is going to die too. They are inextricably linked through blood.’
‘What!’ she gasped.
‘Blood is the golden thread in the tapestry of life — do you remember my saying that?’
‘You … he … yes, but …’ She began to whimper, not understanding any of it.
Robyn looked over Jane’s shoulder. ‘Hush now, My Lady. You need to stay strong.’
‘Will is going to die?’
‘Yes, unless you save his kin. You must save both of them — William and Winifred — if you want to see your Will again. Time travels differently here, but I warn you it is also contrary. A few minutes in the world you left can be many days — even weeks — in the world you find yourself living in now, but sometimes time speeds or slows. I cannot gauge when that might occur. It is the nature of the mag
ic you are using.’
Jane barely heard anything Robyn had said except for if you want to see your Will again.
‘Why is this happening to me?’ she asked, reaching for a wooden railing to steady herself. The donkey shied, unhappy at her closeness, snorting its warning.
Robyn pulled her to the doorway. ‘You went to Ayers Rock looking for answers. You wanted to do something to change the course that life had put you on. You would have done anything to save Will’s life.’
‘But —’
‘But nothing,’ Robyn cut across her. ‘You have the power now to make history. You alone can decide your future, Will’s future, Winifred’s and William’s futures. Your choices craft four lives.’
‘I didn’t ask for this! My trip was meant to be symbolic!’ she lied.
‘Maybe that’s what you told family, but privately you believed your pilgrimage might change the outcome of Will’s situation.’
‘Yes … but this?’ She looked around her. ‘This is just madness!’
‘Hush, My Lady. There are others coming. I did warn you that magic exacts a price. The price it chooses is not up to you or me to decide. And you have called down a mighty magic for your own ends. It is no use whining that it is frightening, or too hard.’ Robyn put her mug down on the ground and shook her, and Jane felt limp in the washerwoman’s grip. ‘Listen to me, Jane, for it is vital you understand.’
Jane lifted her head to meet Robyn’s gaze. The servant gave a sad smile. ‘Magic’s favour is never given lightly. You are now Winifred, the Countess of Nithsdale. Jane is not yet born. And unless Winifred’s husband, William Maxwell, can be spared the axe of Tower Hill …’ Jane gasped, her hand flying to her chest, where she could feel her heart pounding against her fingers, ‘then the life you want to return to can never be.’ Robyn took Jane’s hands. ‘You must live as Winifred, and if you succeed in what you are about to do, then Jane Granger and Will Maxwell will meet again. The rest will be up to you.’
‘You’re sure?’ she asked breathlessly.
Robyn nodded. ‘Just worry about today. Tomorrow comes soon enough … I must go.’
‘Robyn!’ Jane gripped the woman’s fingers. ‘I can’t do this!’
Tapestry Page 14
