by Ada Bright
Edward’s eyes widened, and he sputtered, ‘Inconceivable!’ His gaze flew from Jane’s serious face to Rose’s anxious expression. ‘Is it possible? How? How could it possibly be possible!?’
Charles, however, leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Now that is a compelling thought.’
Rose gripped Aiden’s hand tighter, willing him not to give in to the strictures of the day and release her, but Jane had turned to Charles.
‘How long had Mr Christopher Wallace been in Gibraltar when you made his acquaintance?’
Charles shrugged. ‘As I once said, I am not entirely certain, but for some considerable duration. He had acquired a wife and young family. Mrs Wallace was born there, daughter to one of the Commissioner’s aides. It was at a gathering in the residence that we were first introduced.’
‘Yes, but when was this?’
Charles got to his feet and walked over to where his sister sat. ‘Around the time I acquired the topaz crosses – some thirteen years ago? Wallace and I got along famously, and we met several times before I once more set out to sea. He confessed his desire to return to England with his family. I would have given him passage but for our being bound for Ireland, but I was able to put him in touch with an acquaintance whose command was headed for Portsmouth the following month.’
Jane tilted her head to one side as she studied her brother. ‘When I asked you about him, you said he had been vague about what brought him to Gibraltar.’
Edward made an impatient gesture. ‘Where is all this going, Jane? I do not see—’
‘Nor will you, Brother, unless you open your eyes.’ Jane shook her head at him and turned back to her younger brother. ‘Did you not say he had been shipwrecked in the Straits?’
Charles was staring into the middle distance, and Rose looked from him to Aiden. She felt some sympathy for Edward in all this. Where exactly were they going with it? They could debate and dissect what little facts they had all day long, but it wouldn’t make it any more likely that Jane’s theory would be true.
Aiden sent her a small smile, but then turned his attention back to what Charles Austen was saying, and Rose, comforted simply by knowing he was there, did likewise.
‘…and pulled from the sea.’ Charles stopped, a faint look of surprise on his face. ‘I had forgotten! We did find an odd connection. It seems he was tended back to health by a native woman whom, according to local lore, possessed a talent for healing.’ He gestured towards Jane. ‘We later discovered her to be the very same woman who, some years later, sold me the charm with the mystical power, Jane, and enabled you to bring your friends here.’
‘But did Mr Wallace ever say whence he came, Brother?’
‘Yes, I wish to understand this too.’ Edward was eyeing his brother keenly. ‘Through your introduction, Charles, he is now a tenant of mine. I wish to know more on his background.’
Charles turned back to his sister. ‘He came from England, though the name of the vessel I know not. As I said, when I first met Wallace he had been in Gibraltar several years. But,’ Charles glanced at Rose thoughtfully, ‘I recall now that Wallace owned the loss of his first family. He gave no indication as to what had happened to them, but there had been a wife and a young daughter.’
Rose’s throat felt tight and a tear pricked her eye. It was all just too ridiculous… wasn’t it? Everyone’s gaze seemed fixed on Charles Austen, who looked around at them then smiled ruefully.
‘Hardly proof, I know. The conditions in Gibraltar could be harsh, especially for a child. But it does add to the mystery, does it not?’
A silence descended on them as all eyes turned on Rose. She tried to swallow, but a constriction had risen and instead she coughed. Were they expecting her to say something?
‘I— I cannot—’ She stopped, attempted to clear her throat, and Aiden placed his other hand over their clasped ones.
‘Miss Wallace, what do you recall of your father?’
‘Very little. I was only two when he died…’ She looked from Jane to Charles. ‘He went missing after a boating accident. He was never found.’
‘And your family? You have brothers and sisters?’
She shook her head, wishing she did. It would put paid to all this nonsense. ‘No. I was – I am – an only child.’
Aiden’s thumb stroked the back of her hand methodically, and Rose summoned a smile for him before her gaze was drawn back to the three Austen siblings eyeing her with avid interest. Was it simply the magic of being here, being with this incredible family in these ridiculous circumstances, or was she starting to consider there might be something in Jane’s outlandish theory?
Chapter 6
‘You will not encounter them.’
Rose glanced at the lady walking by her side as they made their way back through Chawton. Then, she smiled.
‘How did you know?’
Jane placed a hand on Rose’s arm and drew her to a halt. ‘Dear friend, the distraction of your mind may not be visible, but that of your eyes is quite the contrary. Seeking sight of the Wallaces at every turn will serve you little, for they took the path towards Farringdon, some three miles distant, and will likely not return for some time.’
Rose nodded. ‘Yes, that was the place the one daughter mentioned earlier.’
They turned to continue their walk back to the cottage, and silence consumed them for a moment as Rose mulled over the fact that – should Jane’s supposition prove to be true (not that she was believing it for a moment!) – Anne and her sister would be her half siblings. A momentary ache consumed her. How she had longed for a sister or brother when growing up, fatherless and lonely in their big house, and distanced from a mother who seemed to have no time and even less patience for her.
As they reached the pond across the road from the cottage, Jane drew Rose to a halt again.
‘I regret causing you such disquiet, Rose, but I remain steadfast in my purpose.’
‘I know you do.’
‘What is it you most wish for?’
Rose said nothing for a moment as her gaze roamed over the building before them. Aiden, her mind whispered. She wished they had not had to leave him with Jane’s brothers. Then, she let out a reluctant laugh.
‘A glass of cold water.’
Jane shook her head vehemently. ‘You must not—’
‘I know.’ Rose hurried to reassure her. ‘Cholera. Typhoid.’ She sighed. ‘I just miss being able to quench my thirst so easily.’
‘Martha makes the most delicious lemonade. There will be some in the kitchen. Let us refresh ourselves and take some sustenance, and then we can talk further whilst we aid Cass.’
They both watched a donkey cart rumble past, laden with hay, before stepping across the road, avoiding the puddles.
‘With what?’
Jane smirked as she led the way through the gate into the garden. ‘You will see, and I believe it will provide sufficient distraction for the present.’
* * *
Jane was not wrong. As the afternoon drew to a close, Rose wiped an arm across her forehead, her desire for a long draught of water prevalent in her mind. It seemed all hands were required to prepare supplies for the winter, and an inordinate amount of canning, pickling and so on had been taking place, with the cook and Mrs Austen in the neighbouring store and Rose in the bake-house with Cassandra.
It had been hard to determine what of many unfeasible things she should focus her mind on. Here she was, out of her own time and comforts, the father whom she knew to be dead possibly living the other side of the garden wall, and Cassandra Austen instructing her in how to salt a pig!
This was, in and of itself, a contradiction, as the lady was one of the most graceful, sweet people Rose had ever met, and though she was performing her present duty with aplomb, it all seemed so very wrong.
‘Yes, now add more salt,’ Cass instructed in her soft voice.
Rose obediently did so, and then, without having to be told, added
another chunk of meat into the cylinder, then glanced to her left and frowned. ‘Is that not where the laundry is done?’
‘Indeed, but we are not due a great wash imminently.’
Trying to ignore what was hanging from the ceiling behind her, Rose applied herself to the task, conscious of her teacher’s eyes on her.
‘Somehow, I pictured you doing more sewing than this.’
‘You are not mistaken, Miss Wallace. There are plenty of things to put a needle and thread to, but food preparation takes precedence over sitting down to our work.’
‘Makes sense,’ Rose muttered as she added another scoop of salt to her canister, then eyed Cass again. Would she mind if she asked her something? ‘Do you really take on more chores to give Jane time to write? I mean, she is not here and…’
Cass smiled. ‘My sister has an obligation to write to our brother, Henry, in London, postponing her visit until tomorrow fortnight. She was due to accompany Edward and some of his daughters before going onward into Kent for some duration.’
Conscious she was the cause of the disruption, Rose threw Cassandra an anxious look. ‘I am sorry. It’s – this is my fault, all this disruption.’ She looked around the room. ‘And now you are all obliged to offer me – and Aiden – food and accommodation, and—’
‘Miss Wallace.’ Cassandra placed a hand on Rose’s arm. ‘It is impossible to do justice to the hospitality of your attentions towards my sister when we were estranged. I would do anything by return for your comfort, for Jane is everything to me.’
Rose’s affection for the Austen sisters increased.
‘The sisterly bond between you is beautiful. It is well known amongst her fans, and we owe you thanks. It is obvious she would have found it difficult to find time to write without you.’
Cassandra turned to put her utensils into a large bowl. ‘Jane is quite determined. She would have found a way.’ She joined Rose at the counter again. ‘Never more so than since she returned from her captivity in the future.’
Rose rested her filthy hands on the rim of the counter. Close as they were, Cassandra must surely have read everything Jane had written so far. ‘Do you like her stories?’
The lady laughed. ‘How could I not? We have all grown up listening to Jane reading aloud from her writing. She is the consummate performer; perhaps you did not know?’
‘Do you have a favourite of her novels – the two she has published so far, I mean?’
Cassandra offered a damp cloth to Rose, who took it thankfully. ‘Not really; the merits of each will always resonate with me.’
‘And what of her present writing? She must be some way into Mansfield Park by now?’
With a raised brow, Cassandra lifted the cylinder and placed it on a wooden table.
‘It is all but complete.’ She glanced at Rose, a smile touching her lips. ‘It is quite singular that you know the story before it is written, before I have read it.’
‘Does she let you read as she writes, or must you wait until it is finished?’
With a laugh, Cassandra waved a hand at the door. ‘Come, let us repair inside and freshen ourselves before dining.’
Rose followed her out onto the gravel pathway leading away from the service buildings, and Cassandra looked over her shoulder.
‘We argue now and then when she will not let me skip ahead, or if she is writing too slowly for my pleasure.’ She laughed again. ‘We have been having some debates about the closing of her present manuscript; I do not like it, but she will not yield. To be fair, I have read the ending before the preceding chapters, so I may not fully appreciate her point.’
Rose laughed too. ‘That sounds a bit like my friend, Morgan.’
They had reached the back door into the house now, and Cassandra paused to turn and look at her.
‘Indeed? Jane has told me something of her. She sounds like quite the character.’
Cassandra entered the house and, with one last glance back at the bake-house, Rose sighed before following her. How she missed Morgan!
With a rueful smile, Rose hung her apron on the hook in the boot room and walked over to the washstand as Cassandra brought warm water from the kitchen and poured it in. She felt unkempt and uncomfortable. Her stays were digging into her ribs and her feet – well, they were worse than ever in their cramped shoes. Her hair was escaping from its pins – and her hands! How she longed for a shower, or even a bath, and to wash her hair, but it seemed she would have to wait until she was back home.
Rose sighed. With the added complexity of the social gaffes she knew she’d had to cover up in just these twenty-four hours, it was probably a good thing Morgan – and James – were more than 200 years away through a curtain in time.
* * *
Inspecting her reddened hands as she strolled in the garden after dining early with the ladies, Rose pulled a face. It had taken a lot of scrubbing to rid them of the smell of salted flesh. At least she had achieved a thorough wash in her room with a full bowl of water, some strange-smelling soap and a rather scratchy towel. She’d even managed to eat some of the food: a mutton stew with vegetables from the garden followed by what was known within the family as Mrs Austen’s Pudding, but bore quite a similarity to bread and butter pudding. The glass of orange wine pressed upon her by Jane had also helped ease a little of the ever-present tension from her shoulders, although its sweetness had made her shudder.
How she wished Aiden had been there, but he would be dining with the gentlemen and, to be fair, she didn’t miss the company of either of the brothers. Edward seemed almost as sceptical of this whole scheme as she was, and Charles unnerved her with his steady gaze and his preference for siding with his sister.
Rose’s feet had drawn her, almost against her will, to the low brick wall dividing the Austens’ cottage from the house where the Wallace family lived, and she eyed it warily. Could there really be anything in this wild idea of Jane’s?
The sound of voices drifted through the early evening air, and Rose stepped behind a young tree planted near the wall as three girls of varying heights entered the garden. Anne led the way, skipping, but Olivia, who had come looking for her sister earlier, was deep in conversation with a slightly taller girl. From their both sharing the same shade of auburn hair, Rose could only assume this was another sister. How many more people were there in this family Jane believed Rose shared?
Fingers of tension gripped her shoulders. The gentleman she’d seen leaving the shed had just pushed open the gate for a lady to walk through, doubtless his wife from the fond look she bestowed on him. He followed her along the path, and Rose’s throat tightened as she stared after him.
‘I shall join you directly, my dear.’ He held the door open for the lady as she disappeared inside after the girls, and then turned to walk along the path leading to the shed. His voice was well modulated and educated, but Rose had no memory of it.
Conscious he was walking in her direction, albeit his gaze was on his feet, Rose looked around anxiously for somewhere better to conceal herself but the tree – really little more than a sapling and completely inadequate as a screen – was the only one at this end of the garden. Before she could take the only possible action of crouching down behind the wall, he looked up.
A small gasp escaped her, and she quickly turned her head to look at the hollyhocks filling the border. Regardless, a movement caught her eye, and she looked back into the neighbouring garden. The gentleman had noticed her, but he merely docked his hat with a smile and disappeared inside his shed.
Turning around in a daze, Rose walked unseeingly back towards the house, her insides doing somersaults and her head spinning.
Either the Wallace genes were incredibly strong and they really were related, or Jane was spot on with her reasoning. Rose may not recall her father or his voice, but that smile she knew. It was identical to the one in the only photo Rose possessed of her father: him cradling her in his arms when she was a mere toddler.
* * *
The evening seemed torturously drawn out, with the only sounds in the drawing room, when conversation was lacking, being the crackling of the fire, the clink of a spoon in a cup or the turning of a page. Her eyes straining against the candles, which emitted a pungent odour, Rose was thankful to put aside the sewing she had been given to do and followed Jane and Cassandra up the stairs, longing for some privacy.
At the top of the stairs, however, Jane urged Rose to follow Cassandra into the bedroom they shared.
‘You do not seem yourself, Rose.’
Rose shook her head as Jane closed the door. She’d been relatively silent since she’d seen Christopher Wallace in his garden.
‘You are troubled?’
Rose hugged her arms to herself. ‘A little.’
‘And the cause?’
Cassandra threw her sister a warning look. ‘Do not pester her so, Jane!’
‘I do not pester her, Cass. I merely made an observation for which I seek clarification.’
The Austen sisters’ bickering would have been entertaining, but for the numbness consuming Rose. She walked across the room, stumbling slightly on an uneven floorboard near the closet, and sank into a nearby chair.
‘I have—’ She paused. ‘I saw him.’
‘Whom did you see, Miss Wallace?’ Cassandra came over and perched on the edge of her bed opposite, and Jane joined her, her eyes sparkling.
‘Mr Wallace.’
Jane rolled her eyes at her sister. ‘Of course it was he. Who else could so discompose her?’ She looked back over at Rose. ‘And the sighting taught you something, did it not?’
Rose looked from Jane to Cassandra before her gaze dropped to her lap. Then, she lifted her hands in a helpless gesture.
‘The only photo I have of him is more than twenty-five years old, but the smile… it’s uncanny.’
Cassandra’s expression softened, but Jane’s became even more intently fixed on Rose.
‘Your sensibility seems to be opening to the perception of it.’