by Ada Bright
‘Rose.’ His face was serious. ‘Why are you finding it so hard to accept, when you say you just spent some days trapped in an alternate reality with Jane Austen and you’re now here, in 1813? That’s two impossible things in the space of a week. How many more do you need before you start realising this has as much likelihood of being real as anything else?’
‘Perchance you fear it has no truth,’ added Cassandra wisely.
Rose looked from one to the other, the swirling of her insides taking up their familiar dance as she realised they had an all too valid point. Hadn’t she just lived two weeks in the space of one, both beyond explanation? The most important thing she’d learned had been she had to step up, not be so reticent. Did Aiden know just how much that lesson had to do with him?
Rose lifted her shoulders in a light shrug. ‘Right. Okay. I’m ready. I don’t want to give you false expectations, though. I’m still not going to do get up and do karaoke.’ She drew in a short breath. ‘But maybe now I’ll sing along from my seat.’
‘Well that’s a birthday present wasted!’ Aiden winked. Then, he took her hand. ‘I know you can do this, Rose.’
* * *
Despite Cassandra’s reassurances, Jane had not returned by the time she and Rose made their way back to the cottage and, not feeling up to putting on a front for Mrs Austen, Rose excused herself and went upstairs. The temptation to slip into Jane and Cassandra’s bedroom and check the loose floorboard for news from Morgan was severe, but then Rose realised, without Jane and the charm, the portal wouldn’t work.
She tried to sleep, tossing and turning, her mind swinging this way and that, only falling into a slumber as the first fingers of dawn tapped gently on the shutters. When she finally awoke, Rose raised heavy lids, then flopped over onto her back. Seriously, 1813 was not conducive to a good night’s sleep!
* * *
Jenny, the maid, brought water for washing, and Rose prepared wearily for the day, tying her hair back with a piece of ribbon and trying not to dwell on what she might possibly say to Mr Wallace when she saw him at the picnic on the following day.
Keen for Jane’s account of her friends’ safe return, she hurried from the room and along the landing, pausing at the top of the stairs with a frown. Unless she was much mistaken, there was a quite heated exchange going on behind the closed door of the bedroom shared by Jane and Cassandra. She held her breath, trying to decipher the words, but suddenly there was silence. Had they become aware of her presence?
With an anxious glance at the still closed door, Rose fled down the stairs as decorously as she could, to find Mrs Austen already at the dining table and complaining loudly about the breakfast things not being prepared and demanding in a strident voice to know where the new condiment set – a gift from Edward – had gone.
After greeting her, Rose crouched down to pat Prancer in his basket, and the sound of footsteps on the stairs soon heralded the arrival of Jane and Cassandra, who hurried away to the kitchen. The former returned soon after with bread for the toasting fork, and Cassandra followed her in with a tray of cutlery.
As Cassandra unlocked the tea caddy and prepared to make the beverage, Rose eyed Jane warily. She didn’t look herself this morning, and for a second, she panicked something had happened to James or Morgan. There was nothing to be done about it whilst they ate, however, but once Mrs Austen had left the room and Jane began clearing the table, Rose got to her feet and carried some plates as they headed for the kitchen.
‘Jane? Is something wrong? Did they get home okay?’
Sending her a significant look, Rose held her tongue as they entered the kitchen, where the cook was busy with her mixing bowls. Once in the drawing room, however, Jane closed the door.
‘They are safely restored to the present day.’
‘Then what is wrong?’
Cassandra slipped through the doorway from the vestibule, closing it behind her. ‘Tell her, Jane.’
Chapter 13
Jane blew out a huff of breath. ‘’Tis naught of consequence.’
‘It is!’ Cassandra threw her sister an exasperated look, then turned to Rose, speaking quietly. ‘Your friends are perfectly well and back where they should be, but there were some difficulties with Jane’s return last night.’
Rose’s heart sank. ‘Oh no! What sort of difficulties?’
‘Cass makes too much of it.’ Jane waved a frustrated hand.
‘I do not! You forget all I suffered when you were trapped in the future!’
‘Dear Cass, that is beyond us now.’ Jane took her sister’s hands. ‘I promised I would be more careful in future.’
‘This is all very well when you are the master of your own destiny, but not when you put your life in the hands of a…’ She gestured with her hand. ‘A recalcitrant charm!’
‘My life was not at risk!’
‘Wait!’ Rose interrupted the argument, and both ladies turned to look at her. ‘Please, just tell me. What happened?’
Jane’s face assumed a stubborn look, and Rose tried not to be amused, for Cassandra’s concern was blatant.
‘My alarm was valid, for my sister did not return promptly last night. Indeed, she did not reappear for some hours.’
Jane did not seem to share her sister’s concern. ‘The museum was closed.’ She frowned. ‘Did you have something else you needed to do in the future?’
Cassandra threw Jane another exasperated look. ‘When she tried to return, it sent her to a different year than was her intention.’
Rose stared at Jane. ‘Where did you go?’
Jane walked to the door and grasped the handle. ‘I have no idea. It was the middle of the night, but the museum did not yet have that purpose. From its appearance, it was merely three labourers’ cottages.’ She glared at Cassandra. ‘But I returned, did I not?’
If Rose wasn’t mistaken, Cassandra had released a ladylike snort. ‘Indeed. By way of the pond!’
Jane opened the door, and winked at Rose. ‘Then is it not fortunate I had little admiration for my shoes?’
She left the room, and Cassandra turned her expressive gaze on Rose. ‘I fear for her at times, Miss Wallace. She had a propensity for being headstrong in her youth, but since her… well, since she was lost to us, she seemed reconciled to being here. She became focused on her writing. But of late, a recklessness has come upon her.’
Knowing full well Jane had just four years left to live, Rose bit her lip. It seemed she hadn’t told her family that and they were completely in the dark as to how little time Jane had left in this world.
* * *
Having so few clothes and accessories to her name, it took very little time for Rose to prepare for the removal to the great house. Jane was seeing to her own packing, promising to bring further garments of Cassandra’s to share with her, and Rose made her way along the landing, surprised by the sadness she felt at her time staying in the cottage coming to an end.
Jane’s door opened and she peered out. Spotting Rose, she stepped forward and offered her a folded piece of paper. ‘Did I not say the portal would suffice?’
Rose took it gingerly, as if it might disappear into thin air if she were too rough with it, then clutched the letter to her chest as she went downstairs. Would the impending change of residence mean this tentative connection to her friend, to her old life, would cease almost as soon as it had started?
She walked quickly out of the house into the garden, emotion gripping her throat even as she unfolded the paper, only to find herself smiling. Morgan had clearly had some trouble with the quill and ink. There were several blots in the margin and the handwriting was stilted. There was also a column at the bottom where she had been practising and another hand which Rose recognised as James’. With a lighter heart, she read:
Rose! We’re home. There was no sign of James’ suit, but everything else (including his phone and keys, thank goodness!) was turned in to C’s Cup. Jane warned me that I should keep anything I say timeless if you know w
hat I mean so I’m not sure how to say this: First thing I did when I got back to my handheld everything device (I followed instruction and left everything modern in James’ trunk unlike some people…) was to search the information getter for the history of that song. As far as I can tell, it’s just exactly what you already know. So I hope you can clarify if you heard what you thought you heard because that might be important!
Mr Darcy gave us a good scolding when we got back, but did nothing undignified while he was alone. He won’t get off of James now, though, and wants to be cuddled every second. I am very offended that he loves James more than me, but I have my ways. Imagine a winky face here. I’m going to get him some treats from Waitrose the market. I don’t mean to brag, but I can’t tell you how glorious it is to know how easy it is to get to the market here and now, if you know what I mean.
I am, of course, dying to hear how things are going there, but I don’t know how often I can get to Chawton from Bath, let alone be in Jane’s room long enough to lift the floorboard, so don’t stress. You should start writing though because it takes an insane amount of time to write with this stupid quill.
Aiden’s carriage was fine. James tucked the keys a bit further back, no one will know they’re there. He’s working, as I’m sure is not a surprise to you. He gave me a spare key you keep in your desk so I can go by your place to make sure the mail isn’t piling up and water your plants. You still have a landline too, right? So if someone calls looking for you, I’ll make sure that’s all taken care of. I don’t have to redact that because calling means something different there but it’s all okay, right? This is sort of fun, like being a secret agent. But not fun because I want to know what’s happening with you. Also we should make a plan for how you can contact us when you’re ready to be picked up. Much love, M
There was as a short addition in James’ handwriting:
Hi R, testing the quill and can confirm it does work and M is just being impatient. That was a brand new suit, Rose, and I am not…
It looked like the pen had been whipped from James’ hand if the streak of ink was anything to go by, and Rose stared at the words, a smile on her face and tears, ridiculously, in her eyes. She sniffed and carefully folded the parchment, then stood up and hurried back into the house in search of a quill and ink, keen to respond and ask Jane to hide the message in the portal before they left for Chawton House.
The disquiet tumbling through her mind over Christopher Wallace and his origins was currently in combat with her anxiety over Jane’s experiencing some problems with the use of the charm. She hadn’t dared to tell Morgan about what had happened, and Rose eyed the charm warily, nestled in its place under the floorboard, as Jane placed her letter with it. Was she right not to trust it?
‘Is aught amiss?’ Jane rose from fixing the board back in place.
‘No, nothing.’ Summoning a smile, Rose turned for the door. Speculation was pointless, and she had a more pressing matter to focus on for now. ‘I’ll wait in the garden for you.’
Rose ventured outside again, ambling along, her eye caught by the Austen ladies’ donkey, eating grass in the far orchard. She was keen to join the men at the great house. Being with Aiden was a balm to her worry and she wanted to relay to him that the messaging system had worked. But also, it was far easier to be themselves around Edward and Charles, for although the former was clearly not overjoyed by the outcome of his sister’s deeds, they at least both knew who their visitors were and where they were from, so the strain of pretence was much less.
A faint sound reached her, and almost against her volition, Rose’s gaze was drawn towards the low wall bounding the Wallace family’s garden. Should she take this one last opportunity? Any other sighting of them would be purely chance and most likely in varied company.
Her curiosity overruling her sense, she stepped onto the grassy verge and crept towards the boundary. There was someone in the garden. Was it Mr Wallace? Rose hadn’t realised how much she wished it was until she felt disappointment wash over her. It was Olivia, a basket on her arm, and as Rose watched, she bent to cut some herbs before dropping them into it.
Rose turned to ostensibly inspect the leaves of the sapling near the wall for a moment, then froze. There it was again, the familiar tune drifting to her on the breeze in snatches as Olivia went about her errand.
Edging towards the wall again, and feeling all the stupidity of what she was doing, Rose peered cautiously over. The girl had moved closer to the end of the garden, and suddenly she looked up.
‘Oh, good morning.’ A rush of pink filled her cheeks and she bobbed a curtsey, and Rose did the same.
‘Sorry. I mean, forgive me. I did not mean to startle you. I was…’ Rose drew in a calming breath, though her heart was beating rapidly and her skin was tingling. ‘I was enjoying your singing.’
Olivia’s eyes widened, but she said nothing, moving from foot to foot, and Rose wondered if she should just leave. She wasn’t sure Mr and Mrs Wallace, having already been at the receiving end of Rose’s bad manners the previous day, would want their daughter to be talking to her.
‘Good morning, Miss Olivia.’
Rose started. Jane had come to stand beside her.
The girl repeated her curtsey. ‘Good morning, Miss Austen.’
‘I believe my friend is curious as to where you learned your pretty tune. It is not one I am familiar with?’
Olivia’s features brightened. ‘You are not the first to speak so. We have yet to meet anyone who is.’
The tingling of Rose’s skin intensified and she held her breath, her gaze fixed on the young girl before them. She was thankful for Jane’s presence, for she didn’t think she could have summoned a coherent word.
Jane smiled kindly at Olivia. ‘How intriguing. Pray, how came you to learn it?’
To both Jane and Rose’s surprise, a head suddenly popped up from behind a bank of ferns to their left. Anne!
‘I know the answer to this!’
She hurried around the nearby border and approached the wall, a wide smile on her face. ‘Papa taught us!’ She turned to look at her sister. ‘Did he not, Olivia?’
Olivia seemed less wary now Anne had joined her, and stepped a little closer. ‘He sang it to us when we were small. We all know it.’ She waved a hand towards the house. ‘Papa says he loves the name Rosemary, though ’tis a most unusual one.’
‘’Tis but a herb, though a pleasant one.’ Anne beamed at them over the wall, and Rose could not help but smile at her enthusiasm. ‘We used to tease Papa, did we not, about the words?’ She looked up at her sister, who smiled.
‘Indeed.’ She looked from Jane to Rose. ‘We felt it should not be “Love Grows Where My Rosemary Goes”, but the reverse! Rosemary grows, do you see?’ Olivia looked expectantly from Rose to Jane this time. ‘But Papa was adamant he had the right of it.’
Jane cast a quick glance at Rose and seemed to realise she was struggling. She turned to both girls, smiled once again and took Rose firmly by the arm. ‘You do it much justice, for you both sing it so sweetly. We must bid you good day.’
Tugging Rose into a curtsey as both girls bobbed in response, Jane turned her around and led her away. Stumbling a little on legs too weak to support her, Rose clutched her midriff, which was churning wildly. There was no denying it now: her father, by whatever fair or foul means, was alive and living in the early nineteenth century!
Chapter 14
Jane had given her a few minutes to compose herself before suggesting they begin the walk up to the great house, and Rose had drawn in a steadying breath, her arms wrapped around her middle, before following Jane out of the gate into the road.
Rose had very few memories of her father, and those she had, she suspected had been created by her imagination around the only photo she had to remember him by. She had been so young when he had died – disappeared, apparently – that whatever sense of loss she may have experienced was just a distant memory.
She was conscious o
f Jane eyeing her discreetly as they walked, and Rose lifted a hand before it dropped helplessly to her side. ‘I don’t know why I’m feeling so disturbed. You did tell me. The evidence has been growing for the past few days.’
She glanced at the lady walking by her side, but Jane merely squeezed her arm gently and said nothing.
With a sigh, Rose threw a final glance towards the lane leading to the Wallace house before turning resolutely away. She needed to talk to Aiden. He was the only thing she had to cling onto from her old life, the only tangible, logical presence in all of this insanity.
* * *
It did not take long for Rose to settle into the elegant chamber she was shown to by Edward’s housekeeper, and she was thankful to discover a connecting door to Jane’s almost identical room.
They returned downstairs, and Rose was almost desperate for some sight of Aiden. Jane seemed to sense her urgency, and on speaking to Charles determined he was out walking in the grounds.
‘Go, Rose. Take some air. I will remain with my brothers, that you may have some time to talk.’
With a grateful smile, Rose almost flew out of the door and down the steps onto the gravel sweep. Her gaze roamed down the driveway towards the church, then over the surrounding fields. There was no sign of Aiden here, so she turned her steps up towards the back of the house and the grassy walk leading to where she knew in the future there would be a rose garden.
It did not take her long to see him, and she smiled faintly, despite her general disquiet. He was in conversation with one of the gardeners and seemed to be asking about the glasshouses.
Once he saw Rose, however, he excused himself and came to meet her, and before he could speak, she blurted out what had just happened. He led her to a bench, shielded by close hedging on three sides, and dropped into the seat beside her.