‘We’re not meant to.’
‘And yet we do … all the time, in little ways.’
‘This is not little. This is changing the course of history. It is forbidden.’
‘Whose history?’
‘Any one of the cast of characters whose lives you are dabbling with.’
‘I’m giving one person a chance to choose, that’s all.’
‘But you are changing her life — and the lives of others — by shutting down her choices. You gave her no choice!’
‘I know you do not believe that. Jane is yet to make the hardest choice of all. I’ve given her a chance to look at her life from a different perspective. What she thinks she wants, perhaps she really doesn’t. What she turns away from, she knows is what she searches for.’ Robin watched his female reflection blink and hold back what she wanted to say. He smiled slyly. ‘What’s more, Julius Sackville could —’
Robyn hissed, cutting him off. ‘Do not play with his life!’
Robin held up his hands in surrender and chuckled.
‘This is not your role,’ she snapped.
‘What is my role?’ he asked, sounding defiant.
‘To offer insight when someone looks for guidance, but not to coerce.’
‘She came to me, searching for answers. When someone actually looks beyond the obvious and is prepared to open themselves up to a spiritual awakening, I feel it deserves reward.’
‘Do you really see this as a reward?’
‘She could be bleating by her fiancé’s bedside, watching him die.’
‘She could die in a snowstorm on the snow-blocked roads of Britain in 1715!’
‘1716,’ he corrected. ‘The New Year is nearly upon us all. Let it be, Robyn. Jane Granger will make her choice soon enough. Until then, Winifred Maxwell is being given an opportunity like no other and both William Maxwells could live.’
‘Or die!’
He shrugged. ‘That was the situation with or without my involvement.’
‘And Julius Sackville?’
‘I sense you have a soft spot for him.’
‘He doesn’t deserve this, Robin. He’s suffered enough at the hands of women.’
Robin didn’t answer. Hearts were hurt every day. He couldn’t be responsible for every single one of them. He waited, knowing Robyn would move on.
She did. ‘Maybe we should have let Winifred die instead of leaving her dormant within herself.’
‘Perhaps, but occasionally it’s intriguing to see what mortals will do when they’re shown a pathway. Winifred needed Jane’s strength to live. Now it’s up to Jane and Winifred to —’
‘Hello? Is anybody in here?’ came a new voice. It was Mahmoud. He shook the door handle to check it was locked. Robyn heard the sound of keys rattling in the lock and her reflection in the mirror blurred and disappeared as her male self, Robin, winked out of existence.
Mahmoud burst in through the door. ‘I’m warning you —’ he said, to be greeted by silence, an empty space and the sound of the old mirror leaning on the mantelpiece cracking as time stood still.
TWENTY-FOUR
Jane and Cecilia made it through the early part of the blizzard, arriving at Stamford on New Year’s Eve, where even Jane could see the sense of staying put while the worst of the weather raged. On New Year’s Day, after she had shared a slightly more lavish meal than they were used to — roast goose, and even a small sherry — Jane asked for paper, nibs and ink. She set to and wrote a long letter to Mary Traquair to assure her that all was well, careful that Winifred’s voice came through so as not to alarm her sister-in-law.
… The snow was so deep that our horses yesterday were in several places almost buried in snow. In such weather we could not stir today, but tomorrow shall set forward again. I must confess such a journey I believe was scarce ever made by a woman. But an earnest desire compasses a great deale, with God’s help; though if I had known what I was to have gone through, I should have doubted whether I would be able to do it …
Jane smiled at the strange, stilted language, but that was how Winifred wrote. She was mindful also of the need to thank Mary for looking after her ‘little girl’, as Winifred had guided Jane to write. Had I had her with me she would have been in her grave by this time with the excessive cold.
A ‘flying coach’ was booked for the next morning, headed first for Peterborough, where they would stop for a meal, pick up more mail and change horses. Then it was on to Cambridge, by which point they would have covered almost half the distance to London. The ostlers at the coaching inns, especially as they got closer to London, had the capacity to turn around a team of horses every twenty miles, unharnessing the exhausted animals and harnessing a fresh team in a matter of minutes. The mail would be loaded and fresh passengers speedily taken aboard, leaving barely half an hour for travellers to snatch a hasty meal and a drink.
‘We’ll make London tomorrow.’ Cecilia quietly aired the thought that had been bouncing around in Jane’s mind since she’d stepped aboard the carriage.
‘Yes,’ she said blandly, masking her disturbance at the notion of finally meeting the Earl of Nithsdale. She had so little idea about the man she was going to meet under such tense circumstances, and delving into Winifred’s life wasn’t yielding anything but the obvious. Winifred was keeping that side of herself private. While Jane respected this, given the surreal situation they found themselves in she needed her host’s help, for she was afraid of letting her down in front of her husband. He was teetering on the cliff edge of a trial that would almost certainly end in death by beheading. Jane didn’t need any additional awkwardness added to what she, as well as he, were already experiencing.
Why, for instance, wouldn’t Winifred clue Jane into his voice, his mannerisms, his likes and dislikes? Again, she hated to rummage around in such private spaces, but access to Winifred’s most intimate thoughts and memories about her husband was essential if Jane was going to get them through this.
And then what? She had no idea whether it was Winifred asking her that question, or her own scrambled thoughts. How would she know if Will had recovered … or if he was dead? How would she get back to her own life? Worst of all, what if she couldn’t save the Earl of Nithsdale? What would that scenario mean to her life, now so enmeshed with that of Winifred Maxwell? Would she have to live her life out, and die, as Winifred? And would that be it?
Jane tried to wipe away a tear surreptitiously, but the ever-attentive Cecilia saw it.
‘Oh, my dear Winnie,’ she whispered. ‘I did not mean to upset you.’
Jane shook her head gently. ‘It was not what you said,’ she assured. ‘It is that we are now close to our destination after so many trials, but I wonder how close we are to our goal. I am worried for William, for the children, our future.’
Cecilia nodded, patted her gloved hand. ‘Few woman would find the courage to do what you have already achieved.’
‘Cambridge!’ interrupted a yell from above them.
There was a collective sigh of relief throughout the carriage. London tomorrow, and the real tests were yet to come.
Moody thoughts of Julius were banished. He had to be confined to her memories now. When this adventure somehow ended, only then would she allow herself to examine what had occurred and the feelings he had aroused within her.
The coach driver blew his horn to announce their arrival at the Golden Cross Coaching Inn at Charing Cross and it felt to Jane as though a thousand winged creatures took flight in her body. Strong hands helped her alight from the coach into the freezing late afternoon of a soggy, grey London, where any snowfall had melted, to stand alongside Cecilia, who was engrossed in directing the careful unloading of their luggage. Jane, however, was captivated by a familiar place she barely recognised. The Charing Cross she knew — the meeting point of the Strand and Whitehall and the sprawl of Trafalgar Square, the dominating art gallery, the blitz of pigeons, swarm of traffic and forever swirling river of people and riot of shops �
�� was yet to declare itself.
Through Winifred’s eyes, she saw a statue of King Charles I on his horse and close by it a raised pillory where an unfortunate man stood slumped, his head and hands locked into the stock. Jane couldn’t read the placard that declared his crime, but she could see the man’s head was filthy from being pelted with rotten food and she didn’t want to imagine what else. No one seemed terribly interested in him, so presumably the public humiliation had passed. She knew she must not stare or look overly surprised, yet shook her head in awe at how sleepy the area seemed, how few people were milling around. Yet here was Cecilia catching her attention and saying, ‘How frightfully busy it is,’ and then, ‘We could take a hackney carriage.’
‘No, let’s walk,’ Jane risked suggesting. She knew their destination was perhaps ten minutes’ walk away at most.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Why spend the money on four legs when we can get there on two?’
Cecilia laughed. ‘There is something so different about you, Winifred. I swear I cannot recognise you at times!’
Her inclination was to head for the Strand immediately, because it was such a major thoroughfare for people, horses, carriages and hand-drawn and pony-drawn carts, where they would be sure not to get lost. But she sensed Cecilia — and gentlefolk like her — might choose a different route. So, unsure of what that route might be, she let her friend lead. Furthermore, she felt Winifred beginning to shiver and was aware of the vague light-headedness that seems to travel slightly ahead of fever. She hoped Cecilia, just in front of her, was too distracted to notice.
Not yet, Winnie, she whispered in her mind to her host. You have to stay strong … just a few minutes longer.
‘Beware of these costermongers, Winnie. The lady I was talking to in the stagecoach warned me of their unsavoury habits. They’ll pinch your bottom as fast as your purse.’
Jane had to laugh. She looked now at the row of barrows, where men were yelling their wares — fruits, vegetables, fish, cordials. Each owner wore a large kerchief around his neck; she recalled from her studies that it was called a kingsman.
The two women passed by, amid a barrage of raised voices urging them to notice, to pause, to purchase. ‘Comerlong, comerlong, ladies! ’Ere’s yer loverly apples an’ pears. Six for an ha’penny.’
Further on a different sort of produce was being sold. Jane tried not to show her ignorance. She could see coal and charcoal, but the bags of dust?
A grubby-looking man answered her silent query. ‘Don’t be shy, ladies, walk up and take a look. High-quality brickdust to sharp’n yer household knives. Buy it or miss it; I won’t be ’ere tamorra.’
Jane would have loved to stay and watch the men, listening to their amusing brogue and their rhyming songs, which they shouted to attract attention. But she knew it was not a place where a lady of her rank should linger.
‘I do hope Mrs Mills has received your letter,’ Cecilia remarked, maintaining a brisk stride.
‘Presumably, since we managed to defy the snow, the mail coach would have got through a week ago. Either way, our dear friend would always make us feel welcome.’
‘You are right, of course. I daresay she would be sorely miffed if you chose to stay anywhere but her guest house when in London.’
Jane nodded, continuing to take in her surroundings, and suddenly aware of a mixture of strong aromas that had been sadly lacking in the small towns. She could smell coffee being ground, mixed with the not dissimilar fragrance of tobacco; meat was roasting, its smell carried on the wind with the scent of newly baked bread. She could hear animals braying in the distance, and as the streets narrowed they became more clogged with people and houses. More costermongers, with running noses and cloth caps above unshaven faces, led barrows down these streets, or lined the way ahead to make the women’s path narrower still. They were again creating their own type of song, yelling their wares. Some of them were sinking draughts of ale; Jane couldn’t blame them, imagining that shouting for hours on end would require regular lubrication.
Jane had lost track slightly of where they might be in the modern London of her memory but right now she was more concerned with being careful to lift her skirts. For now they had entered streets that ran with muck and the cobbles seemed permanently damp and slippery, particularly in parts where the surface damp had frozen.
She was aware of a light breeze as they rounded a corner and she caught a glimpse of shockingly bright green. Given that she’d travelled through countryside that was mostly snowbound, it was not only a surprise to see grass, but also a shock to see it here, where she was used to seeing skyscrapers.
Jane strained to see more before that tiny ‘picture window’ was shut to her. It was Lincoln’s Inn Fields stretching northward, she realised with a sense of wonder, and she had to stop herself from giving a soft yelp of pleasure at the recognition. How amazing to be experiencing the London of almost three hundred years ago.
She had a powerful desire to run to the spot in the city where she knew in three centuries her fiancé would be lying in a coma in his hospital bed. Would she feel anything? Would there be a connection through the magic that had trapped her in this time?
Cecilia was heedless of her scrambling thoughts. ‘Down here, dear,’ she muttered. ‘We’ll move into the Strand and wider streets again.’
Jane followed, her mind still thinking on Will, convinced now that he was aware of her travelling the ley lines … they had brought her back to him, to the same city, separated from him only by time. In spite of the fact that she’d never felt further from him, here in London Jane also felt more connected. Sadly, it wasn’t love in the way he wanted, but it was love nonetheless: she had loved him enough to risk her life for him.
Hope flared and with it came a fresh wave of determination.
‘Oh, my dear, do not wear yourself out,’ her companion warned, increasing her long stride to match Winifred’s sudden burst of speed. ‘Your fever could return.’
The wide boulevard of Lincoln’s Inn Fields opened up, and Jane became aware of a great open green space with tall, regular houses, fresher air and reasonably ruly traffic. In the middle of the square, young men were practising archery, others playing what looked to be a form of bowls. It was a shock to her sense of what she knew of this part of London. She felt Winifred’s recognition and understood that her host’s parents, Lord and Lady Powis, had once possessed a magnificent mansion here, one of the first to be built during the reign of James II, the father of the exiled king in France. She felt Winifred’s sorrow that the family had been forced to leave it behind for their faith and loyalty to the King.
There were three rows of fine houses, clearly providing accommodation for the nobility and gentry, while the northern side possessed a great turnstile, which opened into a densely populated area showcasing all manner of artisans — from shoemakers to milliners. Jane knew that she and Cecilia were headed southward, to where a passage would ultimately lead them through an arch into Duke Street — their destination.
‘Your Ladyship!’ exclaimed the tall, high-bosomed woman of middle years, clucking behind the servant who opened the door. ‘I have been expecting you for two days. Good gracious, you look ready to fall over my threshold!’
‘Mrs Mills,’ Jane answered, drawing deeply on Winifred’s memories and instincts now. ‘Thank you; it is so heartening to see you again.’
‘Come in, come in,’ the woman fussed, closing the door as quickly as she could to protect the meagre warmth. ‘Jenner, organise pots of hot chocolate and let Miss Cambry know that our Scottish guests have arrived and she must make sure those beds are warmed.’
Jane found herself ushered through a high-ceilinged hallway and up a flight of stairs that soared to the first floor, where a beautiful window flooded the landing with soft evening light. Painted wood panelling covered the bottom half of the walls up to dado height in a soft eggshell-blue colour, before a lighter colour — almost a grey cream — completed the w
alls. A fragrance in the air hinted that the silver had recently been polished, and mingled with the smell of beeswax that shone from the exquisite furniture.
‘Thank you, Mrs Mills. We were concerned as to whether Win—, I mean whether Her Ladyship’s letter had arrived before us.’
‘It certainly did, and gave my heart quite a start to hear of your adventures. Is Her Ladyship feeling well, Miss Evans? She looks to be shaking with a fever. Your eyes appear somewhat glassy, my dear Countess.’
‘I should not be at all surprised if she is unwell, Mrs Mills, but nothing would persuade her to take the journey slower or be easier on herself.’ She turned to Jane. ‘My Lady, let me draw you a tub to soak in and you can finally put your head down on a comfortable pillow again.’
Jane blinked at the notion of suddenly being spoken about as an invalid.
‘Could we get some food, Mrs Mills?’ Cecilia continued. ‘My Lady has been eating like a bird on our journey.’
‘No.’ Jane shook Winifred’s head, beginning to feel the presence of her host more strongly, but only her thoughts. Her strength was still sadly lacking. ‘You may both bathe and eat, take some rest or exchange news, but I will not spend another minute on my needs until I have laid eyes on William.’ Her voice cracked and she coughed; Jane could gauge how fragile Winifred was at this moment and could sense her two friends having to resist the urge to reach for her. ‘I don’t even know if he’s still alive,’ she croaked.
‘Oh, my dear Countess, of course he’s still alive. Forgive me for my thoughtlessness in not mentioning that immediately. He is awaiting sentencing, as I understand it.’
Jane took a deep breath of relief. The hardships of the journey — including the flaring up of Winifred’s chilblains — had been worth it, but there was probably not a lot of time left to get William Maxwell released and to give Will Maxwell back his life.
Tapestry Page 26
