Tapestry

by Fiona McIntosh

  He did so. The hiding of the documents went faster than the digging and within minutes the hole had been filled.

  ‘Now replace the turf in precisely the same divots as they came out and no one will be any the wiser, save us,’ she instructed.

  She carefully handed him the three squares of turf, which he reverently returned to their original spots before he banged down on them with his boots.

  Winifred smiled. ‘Perfect, Bran. They are to be dug up only on my instructions and their whereabouts must not be shared with anyone. I trust you in this.’

  ‘You can rest easy in that trust, My Lady. I will not forsake ye.’

  She squeezed his bony shoulder. ‘Seventy-four steps north, in a straight line, from the great urn.’

  He touched his cap. ‘It is already forgotten, My Lady.’

  Winifred smiled grimly in the dark. ‘May it protect our family and yours, Bran.’

  Jane was dreaming, and this time, deep in her subconscious, she knew it. But was it a dream … or was it a glimpse into the reality she craved?

  Sarah had done her best to make her mistress comfortable, given that she’d arrived unannounced. Her old bedchamber had been considered too large to heat and hadn’t been aired, so it was not only freezing but also smelled musty.

  Instead, Winifred had chosen Anne’s tiny nursery room. After a thorough prodding of the fire to coax the flames into a merry dance the two women had finally left her alone. Cecilia had covered Winifred’s hand with her own. ‘I shall wake you at dawn, I promise.’

  Jane listened to the soft hiss and crackle of the wood and to the haunting cry of a nighthawk on the wing. With her feet resting on the warmth of the ‘bedpig’ to prevent the chilblains Winifred sometimes suffered, she felt herself drifting. Fever niggled on the rim of her awareness and seemed to launch her into a plane that was neither sleep nor wakefulness. And there she saw Will in his hospital bed in London — not America? — with several people working busily around him. Dr Evans, whom she’d met and liked instantly, was reading a printout. He looked intrigued rather than concerned. Jane tried to reach out to them but the window into her own world began to fade as she drifted into a fitful sleep.

  When she woke in the initially strange room, it shocked her. Gradually, familiarity seeped into her consciousness and she remembered it was Anne’s nursery, she was at Terregles and she was still Winifred. She woke up fully and realised Cecilia was shaking her gently. But that wasn’t what was making her teeth chatter.

  ‘Oh, my dear, I fear we will not be journeying anywhere today.’

  Recalling her vision, Jane was blazing with determination as brightly as her cheeks blazed with fever. ‘With or without you, Cecilia, I am going to Newcastle today! Now, help me up.’

  ‘Wait!’ her maid and friend urged. ‘Let the fire catch properly. I have lit it for you.’

  Jane nodded, wondering at how achey a thirty-five-year-old, eighteenth century body could feel, with some early twinges of arthritis in her hips and the punishment of childbirth taking its physical toll. She sat up, dizziness her most obvious companion, and sensibly waited for the initial light-headedness to pass. Jane knew her friend was watching her keenly.

  ‘I cannot wait to recover,’ she explained before Cecilia could comment. She sneezed. ‘Every minute counts.’

  ‘If you die of a fever on the way, it will not help the Earl.’

  ‘Yes, but I would rather die than not try to save him,’ she said passionately, also thinking of Will in his hospital bed in her dream. People had been flitting around him, the neuro-physician looking intrigued as he read a printout. Amazed that she could remember this dream so vividly, Jane wondered what had happened. Perhaps he’d shown some signs of real life. Yes, that must have been it. The expectancy around him was probably excitement. Had he fluttered his eyelids, or had his toes suddenly flexed? She’d got tired of doctors and nurses, even orderlies, warning her not to read too much into twitches. They’re just reflexes was a phrase she’d learned to despise over the days in the hospital.

  Cecilia was offering an arm and she took it now, hobbling to the fire to warm herself. ‘I shall be fine. I need to relieve myself, dear, and then I need to wash and get myself readied.’

  ‘Sit here for a moment or two by the fire. I am going to fetch some hot water and a sponge.’ Cecilia must have seen her nod because she left quietly. Jane knew she must rally … and fast.

  ‘Come on, Winifred, dig deep,’ she muttered beneath her breath. ‘For both our Williams.’

  Something in her determination worked, because when Cecilia returned with a jug of hot water, soap and a flannel — as well as a strange grey paste — she remarked that Winifred did indeed look stronger, although Jane was hiding her shivers well. Staying close to the fire, she sponged herself and then considered the tacky grey paste before her.

  Toothpaste, Winifred’s memories assured her. Jane lifted the small porcelain dish and smelled. Fresh mint hit her first; she could see it chopped up finely in a mix that she now tasted on her tongue. It was slightly abrasive, from salt and she didn’t know what else. Dipping the corner of the damp flannel into the paste, she scrubbed Winifred’s teeth as best she could, taking care to massage the gums in a circular action.

  ‘You’ll thank me for this in years to come,’ she said ruefully to her reflection in the mirror, ‘when your teeth don’t fall out as quickly as your friends’ teeth do!’

  She opened her mouth wide. Winifred’s teeth weren’t a perfect white, but they weren’t rotten either. Clearly, being highborn, her host had enjoyed the benefits of a healthier diet than most people of this era.

  Later, dressed, she felt a fraction better for the luxury of donning fresh undergarments that nevertheless itched, and tying up her hair for the journey. Most of all, she was pleased to pull on a riding habit, and although she was going to rely on Winifred’s ability to ride like a lady, she was thrilled at the close-cut, comparatively non-fussy attire she was now wearing. There had been another option in a heavy brocade that screamed French overkill but she’d preferred the dark green tailored jacket and matching long, narrowish skirt. The floppy sleeves irritated, as did the frilled lace that Cecilia tied at her neck, but Jane did not complain.

  She had begun to sneeze. And when it was obvious that the fever was giving way to the real enemy, Cecilia went running for ‘the elixir’, as she called it. She returned bearing a largish, squat, cloudy-green bottle with a thick cork stopper. Jane could read True Daffy Elixir embossed on the glass, which was half filled with dark liquor. In her other hand Cecilia clutched a huge silver spoon.

  ‘A dose of Daffy’s will fix the ague,’ Cecilia pressed enthusiastically. ‘I ordered some for the Earl and left it here many moons ago. He was grateful for it. It is best for the colic and the bowel-gripe, but I myself have used it for bad digestives as well as for the night sweats.’

  Jane fought the inclination to reel back. ‘Nay, Cecilia, I fear I may return it.’

  It didn’t take much of Jane’s deductive power for her to appreciate that the tarry-looking medicine was most likely a laxative. One glance at the bottle told her it was indeed laced with all manner of ingredients, from aniseed and senna to rhubarb and guaiacum wood chips … all geared to help the bowels loosen their load.

  She shook her head and pursed her lips. ‘I prefer not,’ she finally said, the runs being the very last complication she needed in her life right now. ‘Truly, it is best if I don’t add to our woes by needing the privy too often on our journey.’

  ‘What will you take, then? Perhaps some menthol vapours before we leave?’

  Jane nodded, mainly to appease her friend. ‘I think I shall just fetch a few things for my lord husband from his chamber. He will surely need a fresh shirt,’ she said, impressed by her own ingenuity in managing to escape without giving further offence. She squeezed Cecilia’s hand. ‘I shall be down shortly,’ she said, then added, ‘I’m looking forward to some porridge,’ although it was a lie.
Eating was not on her mind; in fact, partly due to her anxiety over facing the commode — which was in the dining room, of all places — she had no appetite at all this morning. Oh, the horror of it! Who would empty the pot? Cecilia, of course! Childhood friend, devoted companion … but paid to attend to her mistress’s many needs, from running errands to emptying the chamber pot into the cesspit at the bottom of the garden.

  Jane shuddered inwardly as she now made her escape down the short hallway to where William had his own suite of chambers. Winifred guided her to the right door and the key was already in the lock. The rooms were a cacophony of styles, she now recalled. William had resisted renovation in his bedroom and only allowed his wife to cover the original paintwork with blue-grey striped paper; but the two big tapestries he’d insisted on re-hanging looked rather incongruous against it.

  The bed was a huge four-poster affair with richly brocaded drapings that Jane remembered was one of the vast array of wedding gifts presented to them by Queen Mary Beatrice in France. It didn’t match the curtains, but Jane felt the mixture of styles worked in a pleasingly eclectic way, probably because she was experiencing Winifred’s surge of pleasure at being in her husband’s room again. She could smell a lingering hint of the pomade he used on his hair when not wearing a wig, and she couldn’t help but run her fingers over his brush and comb.

  Jane opened drawers and cupboards, suddenly determined to learn about this man Winifred was married to. She touched his shirts and held his soft scarf to her face, inhaling his smell. She ran her hands over the velvet and brocade jackets, but knew that he was happiest in his riding gear, or his ‘farm clothes’ as he’d called them. Memories flooded in as she rode on Winifred’s swell of love.

  Yet it was the tiny portraits painted on porcelain that captured her longest span of attention. She remembered now that Winifred had commissioned these as a special gift to William for a recent anniversary. There were four ovals, two large, two smaller: the immediate Maxwell family. She recognised each member of the quartet now. There was Willie, adopting the rather serious and proud stance of the adult men he emulated; and Anne, looking appropriately reticent and supremely pretty. Her hair fell in a cascade of golden ringlets not unlike her aunt’s, but she certainly resembled her mother too. Winifred smiled only slightly in her own portrait, yet Jane knew Winifred was capable of joyous laughter, usually in the company of William. And there he was, the Fifth Earl of Nithsdale, staring out at her from the last porcelain oval.

  The curled wig aside, Jane was struck breathless momentarily by the likeness to Will she saw in this portrait. The man in this small painting seemed to hold back his smile, but the humour was there in the firm gaze, which seemed to stare into her soul. Intelligence lurked in his expression, and just a whiff of boredom at having to pose. He was romantically painted, wearing armour — odd, but compelling all the same, given that Winifred had lost her William to a battle he was duty-bound to engage in, and Jane had lost Will in a fight he had not gone looking for either.

  Jane covered Winifred’s face with her hands, trembling again — and it was not from fever. Everyone was counting on her to stop some leather-hooded executioner from chopping off William Maxwell’s head. It was terrifying!

  She opened one of William’s drawers and found a small tower of neatly folded and ironed handkerchiefs, embroidered — by Winifred, of course — with his initials. Two others featured the family crest. And one, she noted, had some very poor embroidery: a sampler attempted by Anne, she remembered. She took that and one other of simple, embroidered linen, and after dabbing her streaming nose she tucked them into her pockets.

  She relied on Winifred’s good sense to grab a shirt and undergarments. When she finally descended the stairs and found her way to the parlour, she was genuinely feeling stronger, but feigned even better health to ensure that Cecilia and Sarah stopped fussing. Enthusiastically tucking into the thickened oat gruel from the shallow pewter porringer that Sarah placed in front of her seemed to appease them. The housekeeper had pointed at the salt bowl, as if she might like to help herself, but Jane declined.

  ‘I might take some honey if we have any, Sarah.’

  Sarah walked gladly into the pantry, returning with a pot. ‘I would have warmed it had I known. It may be set.’

  The sticky sugariness made the gruel more palatable, along with the fresh, rich milk, from which Sarah had skimmed the cream for her mistress. Jane wished she could mix up a honey and lemon drink for her sore throat, but knew a lemon in 1715 Scotland would be as likely as the arrival of a train to whisk her down to London.

  ‘Ale or tea?’ Sarah interrupted her thoughts.

  Ale? ‘Tea … thank you.’ It was served strong and stewed, with no sugar and only a dash of milk. It didn’t matter; it warmed her insides, and would keep the fever at bay.

  She quietly mentioned the commode to Cecilia and that remark sent her friend scurrying off to the dining room.

  Bran arrived. ‘I brought this for My Lady, as ye bid,’ he said to Sarah, handing her a silver case.

  Winifred knew what it was. She took the case from Sarah and felt the warmth through her hands immediately.

  ‘Tha’ should last ye for a few hours, My Lady,’ Bran said, pulling his cap off and hovering at the parlour entrance.

  ‘Thank you, Bran.’ She smiled, appreciative of the neat hand-warming case filled with warmed charcoal, which she could slip into her cloak pocket. ‘I do believe the fever has broken,’ she added truthfully. Yes, she was definitely feeling stronger for the food and drink.

  ‘The horses are readied, My Lady,’ Bran told her.

  ‘I still think I’m too well dressed,’ Jane remarked to Cecilia.

  Her friend bit her lip, which seemed to indicate her agreement. ‘What do you suggest?’

  Jane dipped into Winifred’s memories. ‘I need a long cloak that covers me fully. This one I’m wearing is too fine and too short. Something as unremarkable as possible.’

  ‘There’s the blue one. That’s long.’

  ‘And extremely eye-catching with its pink satin lining! No, that won’t do.’

  ‘Wear mine,’ Cecilia offered.

  ‘Tosh! You need it.’

  ‘I have a very old, dun-brown cloak, My Lady,’ Sarah offered, slightly embarrassed at joining the conversation. ‘I only use it to go out into the paddocks. If you want to travel unnoticed, I daresay it will do the trick if ye can bear it. It’s awful long.’

  ‘Bear it? I’d be glad to swap it with this one.’ Jane pulled off her own crimson cloak.

  ‘Nay, My Lady, I could not.’

  ‘Oh, Sarah. This cloak is meaningless in the scheme of what I set out to do. Here, take it. Stay warm when you walk the paddocks and think on me. Please, fetch me that old brown one of yours. I recall it well.’

  Sarah hurried away, returning trailing a shabby velvet cloak and trying to dust away the grime that had gathered at its base.

  ‘Yes, it is perfect!’ Jane exclaimed as she caught sight of the garment and its wide floppy hood. She took it from Sarah, who was blushing slightly to have the beautiful crimson cloak pushed into her hands. Jane twirled the cloak around her shoulders and tied its ribbon at her neck. She looked down and was thrilled to see it drop to her boots, skimming the top of their leather. She raised the hood and fastened it with the small clasp. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Like a peasant,’ Cecilia exclaimed with a mischievous grin.

  ‘Wear your oldest clothes, my friend, and then we shall make a good pair,’ Jane retorted, glad of the momentary light-heartedness that released the tension of their departure.

  ‘My Lady …’ Sarah began.

  ‘Not another word, Sarah. This cloak is thick, warm and precisely what I require to travel as inconspicuously as I can.’

  The housekeeper held her tongue.

  ‘It’s time,’ Jane said, looking around at her trio of supporters.

  Not long after, sniffing into Anne’s handkerchief to stem the flow of
her obviously running nose, she watched Sarah press a linen parcel into Cecilia’s hands. ‘I don’t know what My Lady is sickening from, but make sure she is well nourished.’

  Cecilia smiled at the housekeeper.

  ‘Wish me luck, Sarah … Bran,’ Jane croaked as Winifred expertly eased her horse away from the stable to the side gate, and onto the road that, to her, was little more than a path.

  SIXTEEN

  The going was treacherous. Jane’s palfrey stumbled twice, losing its footing momentarily on the ground’s thin coating of ice beneath the fresh fall of snow that was more than a foot deep in places. But her horse was brave of heart, she knew from Winifred’s memories, and it would ride until that brave heart gave up if its mistress asked.

  How glad Jane was now of the riding lessons her mother had encouraged her to take since she was old enough to sit a horse! But right now she was drawing on Winifred’s knowledge, because although Jane had ridden in a few exhibitions using a side-saddle, it was Winifred’s competence that would get her through this trial. She remembered from her lessons, rehearsing for the Regency Exhibition, that she must align her spine with the horse’s, which would prevent her from putting too much weight onto one side of the animal. The saddle, though strange for her, was well worn in and felt curiously comfortable as Winifred’s skills came to the fore, enabling her to find the perfect position and balance, as well as the all-important correct draping of her skirt.

  Now, though, a couple of hours’ riding into their challenging journey south, Jane wasn’t sure she could feel her face; it was too numbed by the chill wind howling gleefully around them. She reached up and pulled the woolly scarf back over her mouth and nose, tucking it in around her collar as best she could. The cloak was far thicker and warmer than her own had been, and she silently blessed Sarah for suggesting that she take it. Nevertheless, she could feel the morning frost biting through the fur lining in her gloves and clawing at any skin on her face that was bared to its cruelty.