Emmie and the Tudor Queen

by Natalie Murray

  “You just got back,” Mom said, frowning.

  Dad appeared from the kitchen, holding a half-eaten cookie. Mom passed him a cup of tea like an obedient sixties housewife. It was a jarring flashback to a childhood that I’d worked hard to forget.

  “Are you sticking around, or can I get a ride to the bus station in Amherst?” I said to him, still finding it hard to meet his eyes. “I need to get to Boston.”

  He glanced at Mom. “What are you doing in Boston?”

  “Visiting a friend at MIT.”

  Dad’s chin lifted like that was impressive…like his daughter could be smart by association instead of a loony who thinks she’s a time traveler.

  “How long until you can be ready?” he said.

  “I’m ready now.”

  He dropped his mug onto the counter and grabbed his keys. The look on Mom’s face broke me. Dad wasn’t here for her; he was here for me, and now we were both taking off. But this was the way it had to be, at least for now.

  “Thanks for everything, Carol. It was good to see you.” Dad dropped an awkward air-kiss onto Mom’s cheek and hightailed it outside to his car.

  She watched him go from the doorway until I wrapped an arm around her. “Bye, Mom.” She smelled like she needed a shower.

  “When are you coming back?” she said into my shoulder.

  “I don’t know. But I promise you that I’m keeping safe.” I pulled her tighter, telling myself that our separations were becoming easier—even if I didn’t believe it—before heading outside to the car that was already running.

  After months of riding in horse-driven coaches, Dad’s Toyota Camry felt like a roller coaster, but a cushiony one. He turned the heat up and tuned the stereo to a public radio channel, and for the first ten minutes, neither of us spoke. I’d felt more comfortable with total strangers. We’d just crossed the bridge over the river when he spun the volume dial down.

  “Will you still be in Boston next week?” he asked. “I’ll be there on…uh, Friday I think it is, and maybe we can have lunch.” He gripped the steering wheel so tight that blue veins bulged from his wrist.

  It took me a second to find my voice. “Maybe.” Next Friday was an epoch away. “But, to be honest, probably not.”

  He drove toward Amherst in silence, before spinning the wheel to make a right turn.

  “What are you doing?” I said, watching the town center shrink in the rearview mirror.

  “Driving you to Boston. I don’t have classes today, and it will give us a chance to talk.”

  “Jeez, thanks, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  The car picked up speed, and for a few painfully awkward minutes, we just listened to the hum of the engine.

  “Why did you drop out of college?” he finally asked me, checking his blind spot so he could merge onto the highway.

  The question felt so heavy, especially from Dad, who’d taken such little interest in my life in recent years.

  “It wasn’t an easy decision,” I replied honestly. “I still regret it sometimes.”

  He seemed pleased about that. “Your mother said she deferred you, so you can still go.”

  “I know.” I didn’t turn away from the bottle-green blur of passing trees through the window. In my view, Dad didn’t deserve to speak to me about Mom or my future.

  “Why all the interest in the Tudors?” He glanced at me.

  I sighed heavily. “Dad, I don’t really want to talk about this. I appreciate you taking me to Boston, but can we save this conversation for later?”

  He chewed his lip and nodded. “Alright.”

  I just wasn’t ready to talk to him about something so significant as my relationship with Nick and what I’d given up for it. For years, I’d fantasized about long drives with Dad again, his random talk shows playing on the radio, but now that it was happening, it felt too little, too late. Dad had absolutely no idea who I was, let alone why I’d done this. Plus, what was the point of rebuilding our relationship if I was only going to leave again?

  After a radio program about the connections between people’s desires and brain activity, we resumed light chatter about Dad’s pet birds, my latest jewelry ideas, and how funny Ruby was, until we were deep into the suburbs of Boston. He insisted on driving me all the way to MIT, and I had no reason to protest.

  He pulled up outside the main entrance and jumped out of the car, stepping onto the sidewalk to hug me. I let him, breathing in the scent of his shampoo that hadn’t changed in ten years.

  “Bye, Dad,” I said. “Thanks so much for the ride.”

  He squeezed my shoulders, his olive-colored eyes shining. “Let me know when you have a new phone number.”

  “What do you mean?” I said as he climbed back into his silver Camry. Cars were beginning to queue up behind him.

  “I must have tried to call you fifty times in the past few months,” he called as an irate driver honked her horn. “I’ve been emailing, too—I wanted to know how you were settling into London. That was before I knew you never turned up, of course.”

  I waved as he drove away, grappling with his statement. Dad had tried to call me before he even knew I was missing. Sure, it came after years of neglect, but it was something.

  I turned to face the imposing columns of MIT, which reminded me of pictures of ancient Greece, the impressive sight flooding me with hot pride for Mia. The temptation to just walk through the doors and find her residence was eaten up by nerves that upset my stomach. But I couldn’t. For now, I had to stay focused on my mission: finding Jane Stuart.

  At the bus station, I bought a sandwich and a ticket to Newton and parked myself on a bench, plugging my phone into a socket to charge. A few minutes later, I sucked in a deep breath and switched on the phone. The background selfie of Mia and I beside her swimming pool last summer lured a smirk to my face.

  The messages and voicemails arrived in a flurry of beeps and flashes. Tensing my muscles like I was preparing for battle, I opened the texts from Mia. The last message appeared first.

  * * *

  Emmie, I don’t understand this at all. If I’ve done something wrong, PLEASE tell me. Please.

  * * *

  Chewing my lip, I scrolled back further.

  * * *

  You better be dead or I’m going to KILL YOU myself!! Seriously. WHERE THE F ARE YOU?

  * * *

  I clicked the icon to reply, but my fingers stiffened over the empty speech bubble. What could I say?

  * * *

  Hey babe, I’m SO sorry for the delay, I was back in Tudor England. They don’t have cell phone reception there.

  * * *

  My love! I would’ve been in touch sooner, but I was planning my wedding to Nicholas the Ironheart. OMG, he’s so intense.

  * * *

  How are you?? I’m good. Been missing everyone, but Hampton Court Palace is awesome…apart from the Duke of Norfolk wanting me dead, ugh. How’s MIT?

  * * *

  My bus rolled into the stop with a strained squeak, and I slid my phone back into my pocket.

  Downtown Tudor London was hardly a perfume store, but the buses of modern-day Boston weren’t much of a step up. I sank into my seat, tugging the collar of my sweatshirt up to my nose. The city was neat and impressively developed, but I’d forgotten how much hideous gray concrete had been dumped onto the earth in my time. If I shut my eyes and ignored the poisonous smell of exhaust fumes, I could still see the broad meadows and smoking chimneys scored by a steady clop of horses’ hooves.

  I missed Tudor England already. I missed Nick, and the revelation of how far away I was from him felt blisteringly disorienting. This was so much worse than a long-distance relationship: wherever he was, I couldn’t even look up at the sky and feel comforted that he was sharing it somewhere. He may as well have been on another planet. I didn’t think I’d ever truly understand a world in which people were executed purely for their beliefs, and our relationship had issues the size of a continent, but no
thing felt right in my time anymore. Coming back home alone hadn’t been the respite I thought it would be. The thought of never feeling Nick’s protective arms around me again turned my whole body cold.

  It was early afternoon when I scaled the cement steps of the Cedar Lake Rest Home. There weren’t any cedar trees or lakes in sight, just a brick building scrawled with illegible graffiti. The cheerless foyer smelled like disinfectant, and the reception desk sat vacant beside a locked pair of doors. I peeked through the gap like a creeper, watching for Jane Stuart.

  A young guy strode into the foyer from the street door, balancing three jumbo-sized packages of toilet rolls on his chest.

  “Hey, can I help you?” he said in a friendly voice. His dark hair was carefully blow-dried into a fifties-style pompadour.

  “I’m looking for a resident called Jane Stuart,” I stammered. “She came here in July. I’m a really good friend of her daughter’s.”

  “Janie has a daughter?” he said with a squinty grin. “I had no idea.”

  “Her daughter lives…far away. I just came from Hatfield, where Jane used to live.”

  He dumped the toilet rolls beside the lavatory door. “Janitor didn’t show up this morning,” he explained with an eye roll. “Come on, I’ll take you through. I’m Ajay, by the way.”

  He waved his ID card over the panel beside the double doors, and they clicked open. I followed him down a short hallway leading to a recreation room that smelled faintly of urine. At the far end sat Jane Stuart in a tattered armchair, her white, wild hair and vacant stare unchanged since the last time I’d seen her. An elderly lady was seated beside her, brushing her fingertips up and down the arm of her own chair.

  “You’ve a friend here, Janie,” said Ajay, crouching in front of Jane with a cheerful smirk. “Her name’s Emily.”

  “Emmie,” I corrected, pulling up a wooden chair beside her. Jane didn’t look at me, her knobby fingers tightly clutching two plastic forks.

  The woman beside her tilted toward me. “Hello, Chris,” she said in a frail voice, clip-on crescent moons dangling from her paper-thin earlobes. “Look at your pretty face.”

  Before I could reply, Ajay guided the lady up onto her worn ballet flats. “How about we find that fashion magazine you like, Molly?” he said, throwing me a sympathetic smile.

  “Oh good, Chris,” she said to him, stumbling a little as they walked away.

  Jane Stuart hadn’t moved the entire time.

  “Jane, do you remember me?” I said softly, leaning forward.

  She looked right at me but revealed no recognition. I gave her a reassuring smile, scouring her for evidence of an earlier century. Her polyester shirt and checked pants were straight from a discount clothing store rack downtown. Triangles of dry skin peeped from the sides of her slippers.

  “I’m Emmeline Grace from Hatfield,” I said clearly. “The nurse Carol Grace’s daughter.” Jane made a flinch of understanding. The blue-diamond ring was safely tucked away in my pocket. When I mentioned the ring to Jane once, she went ballistic and spurted half-nonsense about evil and heretics. The last thing I wanted was to resurrect that side of her.

  Yet, I had to find out whether she was Alice’s missing mother, Susanna Grey. It wasn’t like I had a selfie with Alice from the Tudor world to show her, so there was really no choice except to ask point-blank.

  My voice dropped to a whisper. “Lady Grey?” I said. Jane’s sallow brow crinkled. “Is your real name Susanna Grey?”

  Her milky-brown pupils expanded, revealing copper edges. In a flash, I recognized that her eyes were the same color as Alice’s sister, Violet’s.

  “Madam, it is I, wife to Sir Thomas Grey,” she said without flinching. “May God save you.”

  13

  My chest emptied of breath. Beside me, in a faded floral armchair, sat Alice Grey’s mom, Susanna Grey…the wife of the former chief advisor to King Nicholas the First. I could’ve hugged her, but I didn’t want to freak her out—or break her.

  Blankness seeped back into Susanna’s face and her knobby fingers fumbled with the hem of her shirt as she watched a man with a walking frame shuffle past us.

  Hesitant to push her, I silently helped her eat her lunch, which was two scoops of mashed potato topped with ground beef and gravy. She wanted to hang onto the empty bowl, but the kitchen lady gently pried it from her fingers with a knowing smile.

  Ajay glided by again and suggested I take Susanna for a stroll outside in the back garden. She didn’t say much as we meandered along a short but pretty path that circled the rear of the rest home. I pointed out the fuchsia flowers, and Susanna seemed to understand—even smiled at times—but she never asked why I’d called her by her long-lost name of Susanna Grey. If I brought her back to Tudor England, would it reverse some of her inertia, or was it permanent?

  I wasn’t exactly pumped to return to the musty recreation room with the florescent lights, and Susanna seemed happy enough to sit on a bench warmed by the sun. A plastic straw was impaled in the flowerpot beside us, and she plucked it out and slid it into her shirt pocket.

  “You are in need of lodging, dear?” she eventually said to me in a withered voice. Her cloudy eyes had fallen back into confusion.

  My chest constricted as the words cascaded out. “No, my lady. I am Mistress Emmeline Grace, the Marquess of Pembroke. I’m a friend of your daughters, Mistresses Alice and Violet Grey.”

  Susanna’s face brightened with clarity. “Lottie,” she said. I’d heard her say that name before, but only then did I realize it’s what she called her daughter Violet.

  I set my hand on hers. Her skin was warm and startlingly soft. “Lottie and Alice are at Hampton Court Palace,” I said. “They’re both well and are in His Majesty’s favor.”

  OMG, if Ajay could hear this.

  Susanna Grey’s fingers froze beneath mine, her eyes glistening with recognition. I decided not to mention anything negative, like Violet losing her husband, or any of that stuff I’d been told about Susanna Grey once plotting against the king.

  “Your husband, Sir Thomas Grey, is also well,” I said. “He has withdrawn from the king’s service and is living in your manor in Northamptonshire. I just visited there a few weeks ago on progress with the king, and everything is as exactly as you left it.”

  Susanna’s eyelashes darkened with tears. I patted her hand and watched for any sign of reproach after mentioning King Nick, but her face disclosed only relief. She wiped her cheeks and hunched forward, her papery eyelids falling closed. I’d exhausted her.

  We slowly made our way back to the recreation room. A nurse with braids of black hair wheeled a trolley of medicines from one resident to the next.

  A protective instinct triggered me to guide Susanna the other way. She didn’t need drugs; she needed her family back. When I asked her if she knew how to get to her bedroom, she nodded at one of the U-shaped corridors. We headed down it, past a series of half-open doors that offered glimpses of colorful patchwork bedspreads and framed family photographs. Susanna’s bedroom looked more like a hospital ward, with unadorned walls and stock-standard sheets. The number ‘23’ was pinned to the door.

  An unexpected shiver of apprehension scrambled up my spine. Susanna Grey was only in the twenty-first century because she’d fallen asleep wearing an enchanted ring that was supposed to curse my beloved fiancé to die. How was it my right to bring a treasonous conspirator back to Tudor England? God, what would Nick do to her if he found out? I could never tell him about Susanna’s past.

  She sat on the bed and drew her legs inside the thin sheets that smelled like antiseptic. No matter the cause, Susanna Grey was trapped in the wrong century with zero family here. She’d probably live out her days in this bleak rest home, perhaps paid for by the forced sale of her house in Hatfield. I didn’t know how she came upon that house or why the previous owner left it to her in his will, but boy was I glad she’d lived there. Without Susanna, without that ring, I would never have met Nick Tudor.
The thought of life without him left me feeling suffocated with loss. Why had I let us push each other away so quickly?

  “Lady Grey, would you like to go home?” I asked gently. “Do you want to go back to Northamptonshire, to Sir Thomas, Alice, and Lottie?”

  A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Oh, blessed Alice…my Lottie. I pray that God shall bring me to their grace. Have mercy on me, eternal Father.” She closed her eyes.

  I took that as a yes.

  “Then please wait here a moment and don’t go anywhere,” I said like she’d suddenly lurch up and dance the Charleston out the door. I slipped into the surprisingly spacious bathroom, psyching myself up to steal a resident from a rest home. I swallowed one of Mom’s sleeping pills in my pocket and gulped water from the faucet, slipping the blue-diamond ring back onto my thumb. I poked my head around the door. Susanna lay on her side, drawing slow, steady breaths.

  Making a split-second decision, I pulled my phone from my pocket and shut the bathroom door. I sat in the shower chair and pressed Mom’s number. She answered right away.

  “Hey, Mom,” I said, already jittery at the sound of her voice. “I’m in Boston. Dad drove me all the way in.”

  “Oh, did he? How did it go with Mia?”

  “Yeah, all good…thanks.” I scrunched my face. Mom would probably give Mia a call and ask her for feedback on my mental state.

  No more lies.

  “Actually, I didn’t see Mia,” I added, my voice echoing off the tiles. “I chickened out.”

  She sighed. “Emmie.”

  “It’s cool. I decided that I didn’t want to lie to her anymore, and she can’t know about the Tudor stuff. Can you imagine if something like that got out? You can’t tell Mia, ever. Or anyone, okay? Please.”

  “I won’t.” The phone rattled like Mom was scratching her ear. “How did things go with your dad?” Her voice always crept up an octave when she mentioned him.