‘No matter how much the possibility has been mooted between us all, confirming it was always going to be a shock.’
Aiden’s voice was sympathetic, but also logical, and Rose’s agitation calmed.
‘Rose?’
She let out a huff of breath, then summoned a smile. ‘You’re right. Part of my turmoil is that I don’t know how to feel. Clearly, this man is my father and yet…’
‘We have faced some unbelievable facts these past few days, but you’re doing brilliantly in a challenging situation.’
Rose smiled ruefully. ‘I wish I felt I was!’
‘Tell me what you’re thinking. It may help to share it.’
‘I’m starting to realise I, privately, defined myself as a girl without a father. I was barely two when he… left. As a child, he held the same place as a favourite fictional character. As I grew up, I saw friends with their fathers and felt some sense of how there was something I’d never had, you know, the way as a teenager, you miss the kisses you haven’t even shared yet?’
Aiden smiled faintly and took her hand, but Rose felt shallow and full of guilt. ‘Then, as an adult, I didn’t dwell on him any more than I did a distant ancestor. And now…’
Aiden squeezed her hand. ‘Go on.’
‘I see the daughters he’s been able to raise, and I envy them. I’ve lived my whole life without needing him, but now it’s as if I suddenly have a huge hole in my heart.’ Rose stopped. Her throat was tight and she wiped away the sudden wetness on her lashes. ‘How can it be so different, so fast? This man is no one to me, and I’m nothing to him, and yet it feels as if my world will end if he doesn’t want to know me.’
Aiden turned in his seat to face her. ‘None of us can predict how he will react. His response will be what it is. All you can do is make a choice over whether to reveal who you are, and whatever decision you come to, you need to be able to live with yourself afterwards.’
Had she really been expecting platitudes and empty assurances? ‘Usually your straightforward way of talking reassures me.’
‘Usually?’
Rose nodded. ‘You don’t understand how far I’ve come just in the last week. I’m normally paralysingly shy.’
‘You keep saying that.’ Aiden leaned towards her, speaking softly. ‘But how can an alternate reality survivor, a history-saving time traveller, ever be considered paralysingly shy?’
Regardless of whether anyone saw them, Aiden swept her into his embrace, and she melted against him, losing herself in the moment, until the persistent call of a passing rook penetrated her mind.
Pulling back, she straightened up and looked around frantically. ‘Oh my God, Aiden, what if someone outside the Austen family saw us kissing? Mr Wallace would have to reject my acquaintance for the moral good of his daughters!’
Aiden dropped a kiss on her nose, then tucked a loose curl behind her ear. ‘You forget he wasn’t raised in this society.’
‘No, but he’s been here a long time, and he’s raising his children here.’ Rose folded her hands primly in her lap. ‘I have the morals of a Regency hussy.’
Aiden laughed, turning to face the open grounds before them. ‘Well then, we must control ourselves a little longer.’
‘One point in favour of going home, isn’t it?’
A strange look filtered across Aiden’s features. Then, he said quietly, ‘Is there another option?’
Rose blinked; she’d never even considered staying here. Where had that come from? She shook her head, embarrassed. ‘Of course not.’
‘Well then.’ Aiden got to his feet and offered her his arm. ‘Let’s join the others and find out the plans for this picnic tomorrow.’
* * *
As the day progressed, the occupants of Chawton House separated to attend to various interests. Edward professed a need to meet with his steward, who was not based on the estate generally, and disappeared in the direction of the estate offices. Charles suggested accompanying Aiden on a ride around the neighbouring villages, which offered a wealth of historical sites of interest, and Rose had urged him to go, but as they strode towards the stables, Jane begged Rose to excuse her too.
Left to her own devices and company, Rose paced restlessly around the oak-panelled room on the first floor, frequently pausing in the alcove where the window looked down the driveway. Her insides would not stop churning or her mind spinning. She had to do this; she had to be brave about it, but how on earth would she make a beginning at the picnic? There had better be wine on offer!
If only Morgan were at the end of a phone, a text or a video call. She was only in Bath, but hundreds of years away in time, and Rose had never felt so bereft, so in need of her reassuring company, not even during her foray into the alternate reality.
‘Jane, would it be possible to… oh, sorry!’
Rose had hurried into the neighbouring room, where Jane had taken herself, and she was now hurriedly pulling her slope over the page she was writing on.
‘Is it Mansfield Park?’
Jane hesitated, then smiled. ‘You know my habits. It is instinctive for me to conceal my purpose. I forget who I am with. How may I assist you?’
‘Would it be too much to ask to send another note to Morgan? I know I only just wrote, but…’
‘You are used to easy communication, yes?’ Jane’s tone was understanding, and she gestured towards the bureau against the far wall. ‘Edward has ample resources at his disposal. Take what you wish. May I leave you to your own devices for a time? These edits are long overdue, but I shall endeavour to call at the cottage at the soonest opportunity.’
‘Yes, of course.’
It took Rose over an hour to pen the relatively short note to Morgan, updating her on the morning’s revelation, and several ruined sheets of precious parchment. She began to understand her friend’s difficulty in mastering the use of a quill and ink. Had the consumables not been Edward’s she would have been riddled with guilt at the wastage. Should she wait for whenever Jane was ready? Rose peered out of the window; she was growing impatient with her own company. She would walk down now, get some air and walk off some of her agitation. She tucked the carefully blotted letter into her reticule, grabbed her bonnet and shawl and hurried out of the house and down the drive.
How long would Aiden be gone? She had no idea how far Charles would decide to roam. Rose’s spirits lifted as she walked towards the lane into the village. Charles may rue having made the suggestion. He had no concept of how deeply Aiden could lose himself in history when given the chance.
As Rose neared the cottage, however, she hesitated. Wasn’t Martha Lloyd due to return today? Hadn’t they moved to Chawton House to avoid further awkward questions? She bit her lip, her hand going to her reticule. She really needed to know she’d sent her letter on its way through time, even if Morgan didn’t get over to Chawton again for a day or so to retrieve it.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Wallace.’
Cassandra was walking along the road towards her, and they met on the corner by the pond.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Austen.’
‘I have been for the post.’ Cassandra raised her hand, which contained a couple of letters. ‘Perhaps you would be so kind as to pass this to my sister?’ She handed one over. ‘It is from our brother, Edward’s, eldest. She and Jane are regular correspondents.’
Rose was well aware of the closeness of Jane and Fanny Knight and smiled as she took the letter. That she should be holding such a piece of history!
She opened her reticule to place it inside and was reminded of her purpose. ‘May I trouble you to put this in the usual place, Miss Austen? Your sister was busy with her writing, but says she will call to do what she must later.’
She held out the letter addressed to Morgan, and Cassandra took it. ‘Your friendship with Miss Taylor reminds me of my bond with my sister. Corresponding with her is all that keeps me sane when she travels.’
Rose smiled. Cassandra was the sweetest person. It wasn’t
the time to point out she’d been used to being eight hours away from Morgan’s time, not more than 200 years. She could understand, after all, why she and Jane had missed each other so much when Jane became trapped in the future. How sad was it to consider the many years Cassandra would live on in Chawton without her sister’s companionship?
‘You are well?’ Cassandra was peering at Rose in concern, and she summoned a smile.
‘Yes. Forgive me. My mind was wandering.’
They parted company, and Rose watched the lady enter the house before turning on her heel to retrace her steps. The gratification of a swift response from Morgan was beyond both their reaches, but at least this was something.
She had no idea how long Jane would be engrossed in her writing, and the thought of roaming restlessly around the great house with no one to distract her wayward thoughts wasn’t appealing. Looking around, Rose noticed the stile she had climbed over the other day, when she had found Anne Wallace in the nettles.
She hurried across the road and was soon in the field beyond, relishing the autumnal sunshine, its gentle warmth caressing her arms, wishing she could shed her bonnet and gloves and free her hair from its restraints. There were sheep grazing nearby and the tips of the leaves on the distant trees were turning to burnished gold.
Trying not to use her usual stride, she made her way along the field, but had barely gone a few paces when she became aware of someone coming towards her.
It was Christopher Wallace.
Rose’s heart felt as though it had leapt up into her throat before sliding back into position, and she almost gasped at the effect.
Calm, keep calm. Breathe, she intoned, trying to take her own advice as he neared her. His gaze was on the ground, and he didn’t seem to have detected her presence, and Rose cast around frantically for some way of concealing herself, but it was a vast open field aside from the grazing sheep, and she didn’t think they’d oblige if she tried to hide behind one of them!
‘Oh! Forgive me!’ Mr Wallace had looked up and seen her, and he raised his hat, his gaze narrowing. ‘Were we not introduced recently?’
Rose opened her mouth, but no words came and, conscious of warmth filling her cheeks, she nodded. This was her father, that was his voice. Had he read stories to her at bedtime? How was it she couldn’t remember it?
‘I do not recall a name?’
With a start, Rose’s gaze flew to his. Come on, Rose. At least show better manners than you did yesterday! Pulling herself together, she tried to smile. ‘I hope you will forgive me. We were being introduced by Captain Austen when… something startled me. I left rather precipitously.’
‘Then permit me to do the honours.’ He bowed formally. ‘Christopher Wallace, at your service, ma’am.’ He smiled and Rose’s insides did a strange dance. That smile; the smile in the photo in her flat…
‘I, I…’ She tried to clear the restriction in her throat. ‘We share a name. It is a coincidence, is it not? My name is also Wallace. Miss Wallace.’ Something stopped her from giving her first name. Was it done for women, when introducing oneself to a gentleman? For the life of her, her mind was blank and she couldn’t remember!
He looked surprised, then smiled. ‘Coincidence indeed. Well, I shall not keep you from your rambles, Miss Wallace. Good day to you.’
He raised his hat once more and set off along the path towards the stile, and Rose stayed motionless for a moment, her mind racing. What should she do? What could she say? Should she not seize the moment? Was she a history-saving time traveller as Aiden had said or not?
‘Wait!’
Christopher Wallace’s steps slowed, and he turned around.
‘Please wait.’ Rose hurried to catch up with him, her heart pounding in her chest. Was she really going to do this?
She fetched up in front of him, conscious of the wary look in his eyes.
‘There is something I wish to say to you.’
He inclined his head. ‘As you wish, ma’am.’
‘I… I know who you are.’
His gaze snapped to hers, the wariness increasing. ‘I would be surprised if you did not. Were we not just introduced?’
There was no going back now. Rose raised her chin, straightened her shoulders and tried to ignore the swirling of her insides. ‘Yes, but not properly. I know where you came from, about your past. You—’ She hesitated, swallowing hard this time as he took a step back from her. Would he believe her? Suddenly, she unfastened her bonnet and pulled it from her head, revealing the auburn curls so similar in shade to Christopher Wallace’s own hair. ‘You will think me mad for saying this, but I have to. I believe you are my father.’
Chapter 15
To Rose’s surprise, Christopher Wallace laughed. ‘Forgive me, madam. I think you mistake me for someone else.’
‘Do you? Do you really?’
He shook his head, waving a hand dismissively, but then his gaze fell on her hair, the pinkened cheeks, took in the grey eyes, so like his, so like Olivia’s, and he faltered. ‘You cannot be my…’ He shook his head. ‘She… I lost her, many years ago. She cannot be here.’
‘But you do own to having had another child? An older child?’
‘How do you know this?’ He looked unsettled, tossing his hat to the ground and running a hand through his auburn curls. ‘Have you been speaking to my wife?’
Rose shook her head, and he began pacing, gesturing with his arm. ‘Perchance we are related in some way, but I know not how. We share a common name, a less common shade of colouring, but this is merely conjecture.’
Rose released a huff of breath. For some reason, she felt on surer ground, despite his denial. Having come from where he had, surely he realised the incredulous could become credible?
‘You have slipped up. Did you not recognise Jane Austen for who she was?’
He turned on his heel. ‘I know not of what you speak.’
‘Yes, you do. She told me.’
‘Miss Austen would do well to mind her own business. So she tells tales. That is where you are getting your information.’ He stared keenly at Rose. ‘It is many a year since I faced such interrogation. I had not supposed they would enlist women for such duties.’
Rose almost rolled her eyes. Should she mention the song? She certainly wasn’t about to start singing it!
Christopher Wallace retrieved his hat and brushed it clean. ‘I will take my leave of you, madam. Good day.’
He turned away again and began walking towards the stile, and Rose drew in a deep breath, raising her voice.
‘You came to the past twenty-five years ago. I know not how. You left behind a wife and a daughter. You lived in a large house in Bathampton.’
He stopped but did not turn around. ‘You cannot know this.’
‘But I do. I am that child!’
He spun around. ‘Do not torment me so! What you speak of is impossible!’
‘As is your being here… Kit.’
His eyes widened at the use of Christopher’s Wallace’s nickname. His mouth opened, then closed again. He had gone terribly pale, and Rose took a step towards him. Perhaps she had given him too big a shock, but it was too late to stop now.
‘You disappeared after a boating accident off the coast of Gibraltar in 1995. No body was ever found. Now I know why.’
He had paled even further, but no words came, and Rose took another step towards him, pleading with her eyes. ‘You are my father, the father I lost when I was two years old. I have a photo of you; you are holding me and smiling. It is at the seaside somewhere and you are wearing a T-shirt with Duran Duran on it.’
He stared at her, then walked away a few paces, and Rose’s heart sank. He didn’t want to know her. She was part of a past he no longer wished to own. A tight band was gripping her chest and she could barely breathe. Her eyes ached with the effort to hold back tears.
Then, he swung around and strode back across the grassy path, stopping in front of her, his frantic gaze taking in her features. Ro
se held her breath as he reached out to touch one of her auburn curls. Then, he let out a guttural sound, as though a sob had been wrenched from him.
‘Rose,’ he whispered. ‘My little Rosie.’ His voice cracked as he swept Rose into his arms and hugged her so fiercely she felt she might break, but she didn’t care as the tears finally flowed.
Recalcitrant though time had been in recent days, Rose was conscious of its stillness, of its weight around her – around them both – as they stood enfolded in each other’s arms for the first time in twenty-five years.
Slowly, however, the outside world began to intrude: the sound of birds calling as they circled over the treetops, the bleat of the nearby sheep and the slow rumble of distant wheels on the road beyond the orchard.
Releasing each other, Rose and her father stepped back, both of them finally allowing themselves the indulgence of staring. Christopher Wallace was a good-looking man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a shock of auburn hair and the same grey eyes as Rose. Eyes which were now narrowing as he took in the figure before him.
‘How can this be?’ He ran a hand through his already unruly hair. ‘This has to be a dream, or worse – a hallucination.’
Rose shook her head tearfully. ‘You have no idea how many times I’ve thought the same in recent days, for several reasons.’ She sniffed, then wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘It is real. I… well, for my part, I‘m here because of Jane Austen. She… we…’ Rose waved a hand, as if it could possibly encompass all that had happened since she first met Jane. ‘We are friends. Something about you alerted her to the possibility of you not being from this time, so she came to fetch me, from the future.’
Confident this would confirm things, Rose looked expectantly at her father, but his face fell.
‘Definitely a dream, then, and not a very coherent one at that.’
Rose took both his hands, smiling despite the disappointment in his face. How strange was it, despite his long residence in the past, that she had more experience of the shifts of time than he?
The Unexpected Past of Miss Jane Austen Page 14