Tapestry

by Fiona McIntosh

  The beheading of the plainly attired Lord Kenmure had been the opposite of that of the flamboyant Derwentwater in nearly all respects, other than that Kenmure also behaved calmly. Derwentwater had grabbed at this final opportunity to press his case; Kenmure, however, had declined the invitation and simply moved to the southern end of the platform to say a brief prayer.

  Jane had seen the executioner nod as Lord Kenmure first kissed his supporters farewell and then appeared to refuse assistance to remove his coat and waistcoat. He did accept a strip of white linen, which he tied around his head to hold back his hair, and ensure the man beheading him had a clear view for the fatal strike. She’d watched him pass what were presumably coins into the executioner’s hand and they had exchanged a few words.

  She recalled now how she had begun tasting acid at the back of her throat as she had seen the man with the axe open a hand, almost reluctantly, and gesture toward the block. It had been such a polite action, gracious and gentle in its movement. William next to her had been rigidly still. She’d found no further words of comfort to soothe his guilt.

  It seemed Lord Kenmure had not wanted to prolong his personal agony, for he’d immediately obliged the executioner and stretched out his hands. The headsman, she recalled, had possibly been caught unawares by his victim’s readiness and, although the axe swung just as before, this time it missed its mark. Perhaps Kenmure had shifted. That discussion would be left for debate in the inns and brothels, coffee houses, gin houses and tea salons of London. Kenmure’s body had jerked on impact and a spout of blood had erupted, but the stubborn head had not toppled. She remembered how Kenmure’s legs had scrabbled against the straw and sawdust and the headsman had briskly raised his axe again. The lord’s head had been lopped on the second strike and the grisly task of allowing Kenmure’s gaze to fall upon his own headless body had been duly performed.

  Winifred had stumbled away once again to retch repeatedly into the bucket behind the screen. Afterwards, empty and weak, she had sat on the cot and wondered.

  Something had felt and still did feel wrong to Jane. She had thrown up enough times in her life to mark today as different. It had been too violent. There was an instinctive knowledge within that her sickening had not entirely been in response to what she’d witnessed.

  How long had it been since Winifred’s last bleed? She couldn’t remember. Winifred had been so sick these last moons that she’d probably put any doubts down to illness. But her bleeding must have stopped long before they left Scotland.

  You’re pregnant? Jane asked, but Winifred didn’t answer, returning their attention to William.

  ‘It was the necessity for the two blows required to remove Kenmure’s head that unnerved you, my love,’ he said, and she did not dare tell him she had closed her eyes for the second blow and was so glad she had. The only reason she had known the next strike had succeeded was because of the groan of relief from the crowd.

  She could still hear that groan, even while Mrs Mills was fussing with her gloves, first pulling them off and then realising it was just as cold inside this tiny room as outside and slowly edging them back onto her pale, long fingers.

  ‘I made sure I was not followed,’ she puffed, having walked hurriedly up the stairs. ‘Besides, everyone who knew you were staying with me, Countess, believes you have long fled the city. I have made sure not to dissuade them of this notion.’

  Winifred hugged her. ‘Why have you risked coming?’ She frowned.

  ‘For very good reason. I heard this evening that although pardons have been granted to Lords Widdrington, Nairn and Carnwarth, the Crown has put a high price on your head, My Lord.’

  Jane and William exchanged fearful glances.

  ‘You have got away with something impossibly daring, my dear friend, but I suspect you should not test your luck. It is imperative you both leave the country.’

  Jane nodded. ‘You and I discussed Italy,’ she said to her friend.

  ‘Indeed we did. And I have already taken the liberty of contacting someone I know who works in the Venetian Embassy.’ Her anxious gaze flicked between the pair of them. ‘I am confident we can get you across the Channel into France — where you will not tarry, but will take the help that I am sure will be extended by Queen Mary Beatrice and travel to Italy immediately. I suggest you leave for France tomorrow before first light.’

  ‘Only William leaves,’ Jane corrected, surprising even herself by this remark and realising Winifred was genuinely beginning to assert herself.

  They both stared at her, slightly open-mouthed.

  ‘Is everyone forgetting our daughter Anne? Plus our family is now moving into exile. We have important hidden papers and jewels that I must retrieve if we are to be able to salvage anything for our son.’

  ‘We can send for Anne and perhaps my sister might unearth the papers, my darling. I don’t think we should risk …’ William trailed off.

  Perhaps he and Mrs Mills could see in the set of Winifred’s mouth that she was not to be contradicted on this. It was odd, Jane thought. She was not driving this notion; she would have been more than happy to flee the country just to put some space between herself and danger so she could regroup her thoughts and work out how to get back to the London of the 1970s. Right now, it was Winifred who was asserting herself. Jane had been aware, from time to time, of Winifred’s re-emergence from wherever she had fled at the time of possession. Today, however, was the first time Jane had felt as though Winifred was totally present and taking control. Jane, dearest, she whispered now through their shared mind, we must fetch Anne and the papers.

  Are you strong enough?

  You make me strong.

  Surely you detest my being here. I would.

  You have saved my husband’s life with your cunning strategies and derring-do and thus my life too, and you have protected my family’s future. How could I detest you?

  But you are back now?

  I believe I am.

  Does that mean I can now return?

  Who knows, dear one? I hope for your sake as much as mine that it does. Nevertheless, I have to get back to Scotland and I hope you will help me.

  ‘Surely you cannot mean to travel back to Scotland alone?’ William asked, interrupting their curious internal conversation, a note of haughtiness in his tone now. Jane could tell he was being cautious; after all, his wife had proven repeatedly that she was more than woman enough for most challenges thrown at her. And then there was that slap … and the language. She could almost have chuckled at the memory. But she sensed that he was now asserting his familiar role as head of their family, the one who made the final decisions.

  ‘That is exactly what I mean to do,’ Jane said, Winifred’s voice just as firm. ‘I am not sending for our daughter, who could be used against us. I shall fetch her myself and bring her to safety, along with the family papers.’

  ‘Then I shall —’

  ‘No, William, you shall not!’ Definitely Winifred pushing herself forward, Jane thought. ‘You are a liability now. We must get you to safety. Too many people have risked too much to keep you alive. Do not throw that effort aside for the sake of pride. You are a hunted man and we shall put you into the hands of the Venetians immediately. I shall join you within weeks, but we must secure our future first.’

  She looked to Mrs Mills, who had been following this conversation in silent awkwardness.

  ‘Right, my dears. I shall make the necessary arrangements. Please be ready to leave in the secrecy of darkness. I shall send two sedans. You will need to say your farewells here, for you will be heading in separate directions. Countess, you will return to us at Duke Street for the moment.’

  Jane nodded. She was excited at the promise of moving forward. She had a sense now that her own crossroads might be beckoning and she wanted to get to the marker as fast as she could.

  If she was honest, she wanted to be rid of the Earl too. He was easy to be with, even easier on the eye, but her life was complex enough. Now she
just had to get through another few hours without permitting his conjugal rights, but also without damaging his and Winifred’s relationship.

  They embraced Mrs Mills. ‘Five o’clock is the hour.’ They nodded. ‘There is food and wine in that hamper.’ She pointed to a small basket. ‘Do not be seen on the street for any reason. You are safe in here, my husband assures me, but outside there are men who would give you up for a crust of bread. My Lord, your likeness and description are detailed in The Flying Post, so please heed my warning.’ She took them both in with an earnest gaze.

  When she was gone, Jane made a show of sighing. ‘Well, I suppose we must rest,’ she said, guessing it must be closing on nine, as William lit another candle. He was quiet, hurting perhaps, and Winifred protested that her husband needed comfort. She ignored it, forcing Winifred aside. ‘Go ahead and eat. I had enough earlier and am not the slightest bit hungry.’

  ‘I am not either,’ he said, and turned to regard her. Jane did not need to know William better to know what that look meant.

  ‘Not now, my darling,’ she began. ‘Today has been filled with blood and sorrow.’

  ‘Loving heals,’ he murmured, taking Winifred’s hands and kissing them tenderly before swiftly moving to her neck and earlobes, all the while clasping her tightly. Jane felt another swell of dizziness.

  I cannot, she groaned.

  You must, Winifred replied.

  It’s between you and him. She felt Winifred melting beneath his familiar kiss. Please, Winifred, spare me this. This is unfair. It is already too complicated.

  Jane, dear, you are the one who has complicated my life. Do you believe for a moment that I wish you to share this most private of activities? Do you forget Lord Sackville and how I was compromised?

  Inwardly, Jane shrank at the rebuke. She and Julius had not been alone. How could she have convinced herself otherwise?

  Winifred knew her thoughts. Lose yourself while I attend to the needs of my husband … and my own.

  It was over quickly and Jane did disappear, but when she re-emerged to find William snoring softly by Winifred’s ear, her body cupped neatly between his chest and bent knees, a question burned to be asked.

  Their skin was not touching anywhere except face level and hands, because both of them were fully clothed, ready to flee. They were also too fearful to undress in the frigidly cold air that whistled around their garret window and found cunning ways into the room to chill and nip at exposed flesh.

  What time is it? Jane wondered.

  Probably close to two, Winifred answered.

  How can you know that?

  Her host chuckled. It is a curious knack I have had since childhood. I wish I could earn money from it, Winifred said wistfully. I wish I could earn at all, for we shall soon be penniless in exile, and dependent on the goodwill of other Catholics in Europe.

  There are plenty of those, Jane murmured.

  There was a moment’s pause that felt awkward.

  Forgive me for making you share that intimacy.

  It was the opening she needed, and perhaps that was why Winifred offered it so readily. The question hung between them — it had to be asked. Winifred, you are more present than you have been since I arrived.

  Yes.

  I’m glad. I hope it is an indication that my time to leave you is upon us.

  From where have you come, Jane? I have heard your thoughts now and then and not understood. Increasingly, though, I have grasped, I think, that you are from the future. She sounded deeply puzzled.

  Jane told her just how far it was into the future that she had journeyed from.

  More than two hundred years forward, Winifred breathed, astonished. I cannot imagine it.

  No. And I shall not try to explain what my time is like. But she did tell her how it had occurred.

  And so you are going to marry Will Maxwell? Winifred repeated, her tone full of amazement.

  They are inextricably linked over generations, Jane replied, deflecting the question.

  How extraordinary. I should not have been able to believe this had I not been the one to experience it. However, you did not answer my question. Do you really wish to marry him? I fear I sense only reluctance in you.

  I must marry him.

  Why?

  Look at what I have done to make it possible.

  That is no answer, Jane.

  She gave a moue of disdain. You live in an age — and a society — where you marry within your class structure for the right financial and family reasons.

  I also married for love. I suspect in any age romance is imperative. What is there without it?

  Love. Jane said it as though it were a word she did not understand.

  Do you love Will Maxwell?

  I should.

  You do not convince me. Loving — the romantic way — is akin to a sort of madness. Where you would not consider your own safety; where, if the question were tested, you would die for him.

  There we are then. I risked my life for Will.

  You risked your life for you, Jane. It is your life that matters to you, not his.

  Do not say that. It took her breath away in a punch of pain to hear Winifred’s accusation.

  I have said it. I believe it. I have come to know you in this odd relationship of ours. You are trying to save yourself, not Will Maxwell. If you do marry him, it will be to make your life have some meaning, not because you understand what it is to love this man.

  I disagree.

  That is your prerogative. But I have seen you with someone else and I have shared your thoughts about Will. They do not come close. Your fiancé is infinitely less exciting to you than Julius Sackville. You may believe you’ve pushed him to the back of our mind, dear one, but I share that mind and he is ever-present in your thoughts. You can still feel his touch, his kiss. You will never forget that you lay down with him.

  You are wrong, Winifred.

  Am I? Then why are my cheeks burning with shame … your shame?

  They’d come to the point where she had to ask: Winifred, I lack your experience of it, but were you suggesting earlier that you are pregnant?

  There was only a small hesitation. I have suffered many miscarriages during my marriage, Jane. But I have always known when I was with child, even from the earliest moment of quickening. My sickening is usually violent.

  You are sure it was nausea from pregnancy and not from … from the executions?

  Even you are sure of that.

  Jane sighed. Winifred was not letting her off the hook, but she didn’t want to confront any more harsh truths right now. She could feel the nausea simmering like a bog in the pit of her stomach, looking for any excuse to bubble up. Enough had been said about her and Will. It was something she certainly didn’t want to confront; she was deeply unhappy that Winifred had so deftly nailed her to her lies. Will was her life raft; she had to cling to him, or lose her mind. Julius and that sequence of events that she’d hoped, down the track, she might convince herself were almost a dream, an out-of-body experience, a symptom of being trapped by magic, just didn’t count. No one would ever know about them once she left here, least of all Will, and over time she could learn to pretend they had happened to Winifred, not her. Besides, it was Winifred’s face he’d loved, Winifred’s body he’d craved. He didn’t know Jane at all.

  Well, Jane said, I am very happy for you, and I hope there are no problems with this pregnancy — although I suspect there will be fraught weeks ahead while you travel to Scotland and then sail to France.

  I shall not think on it, but simply do.

  Another curiosity surfaced. Jane was not going to ask about it, but it was released into her thoughts before she could temper it. I thought morning sickness, as we call it, only occurred in the early months.

  In my experience, that is correct.

  But you have suffered from it throughout your pregnancy?

  No. Winifred sounded guarded but also vaguely sly, as though she were leading Jane down
a particular path.

  I do not understand.

  Do you not?

  Jane mentally frowned as the sense of her own words thrummed around her, daring her to make the connections, to join the dots. It was Winifred’s body he’d craved, she repeated. Then added: Winifred’s body he’d … She didn’t need a bright light to suddenly switch on. Acid leaked along the sides of Winifred’s tongue, but it was from Jane’s guilt. The sour taste of realisation was the initial sensation, then a slight buzzing in her mind; she wasn’t sure exactly where, because it was hotly followed by the escalation of Winifred’s heart rate.

  It is Julius’s child? she asked, deep shock trembling from her to Winifred and back again.

  It cannot be anyone else’s, Winifred replied, calm but not without emotion.

  Jane gave an involuntary gasp, but Winifred did not make a sound; she was tightly controlling how this conversation played itself out through her body.

  You’re sure? Jane pressed, hearing her redundant, pathetically grasping tone, when she already knew Winifred would not lie.

  Winifred answered her anyway. You gave your consent to Julius when I was not in a position to deny him or you.

  Winifred … I … Shame, anger, disappointment collided. I felt as though I had no control that day.

  Clearly.

  Are you angry? Another doltish question.

  Angry to be carrying a child? No. Angry that it is not my husband’s? Yes! Angry that I feel defiled? Yes!

  She said all of this without heat, suppressing the unneeded emotion as she had been doing, presumably, since that night in the inn when Julius first kissed her. Or maybe — and as she thought it, Jane believed herself right — Winifred could not have made her feelings known then because she had ‘disappeared’.

  What are you going to do? Jane wondered aloud, her voice small, self-conscious.

  What can I do, except have the baby and love it? It is mine, after all. I am taking the approach that this is a divine reward for my desire to be a mother again: to give life and to love that new life without reservation.

  Perhaps, as you have miscarried in the past, this child will not survive.