‘I don’t know. The damage might already be too great.’ Sofia cleared the table and held up a saucer. ‘This plate represents you in your own time line.’ She placed the saucer with great ceremony at one end of the table. ‘You are a woman from the year 1803. At some point in your life, you write a series of novels. These books are published, and remain in print two hundred years later. That is your story, your time line.’ She ran her finger along the table in a line. ‘But this teacup is you now.’ She picked it up. ‘Instead of following your destiny to write those books, you have come here.’ She moved the teacup away from the saucer. ‘You have created an alternative version of events, a new time line.’
Jane looked at the cup, then the saucer, then back again. She blinked.
‘The longer you stay and immerse yourself in this world, the less likely it becomes that you will return to your own time. If you are not in your own time, you cannot write the books for which you become famous.’ She threw her hands up. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking, showing you that museum. Jane, don’t you see? Going out into the world, interacting with people – you changed history. I shouldn’t have let you go to London. One of your books has already disappeared. More will follow. And if you keep doing it, eventually all of your novels will disappear. You will disappear.’
She touched Jane’s arm and lowered her voice. ‘It’s quite the confusing thing to get one’s head around,’ she said. ‘It might take you a while to understand.’
‘If I never return to 1803, I never write those books,’ Jane said.
‘Or it might be quite easy for you to understand.’
Jane raised her china cup and blinked down another large gulp. The bitter substance coated her tongue and lingered in her throat. It seemed to prickle her insides and ring her mind like a bell. She found herself jumping in her seat a little. ‘What can be done?’ she asked with a flinch.
Sofia picked up her own cup. ‘We need to get you back to your original time line.’
‘But Mrs Sinclair is gone! How do we do that?’
‘I don’t know. But you should take a good look around. This is the last time you will be leaving the house.’
Jane looked around the shop and surveyed the contents. The steel box that produced the coffee gleamed from the serving counter, wooden tables and chairs littered the room in ramshackle pairings of twos and threes, and the transient gentleman from the public library dozed in one corner. ‘I feel unsure as to what I am taking a good look at,’ Jane replied.
‘It’s an expression, Jane,’ Sofia replied with a sigh. ‘I was trying to be dramatic. You’re not supposed to be looking at anything.’ She grabbed Jane’s head, turning it away from the room and back to her face. ‘I meant I want you to stop falling in love with the twenty-first century. Don’t you understand? You went out into the world, you talked to people, you saw your books, you rode the tube! You took a photograph – with a phone! The more you grow to love this time and place, the less likely it becomes that you will leave! We’re going straight back to Fred’s and you won’t be going outside again. You cannot risk further reducing your chances of returning home.’
Jane nodded. ‘But if I remain inside your brother’s house, how will I discover the means to return home?’
‘You cannot go outside,’ Sofia said. She drained her cup and stood with determination.
‘What is it?’ Jane asked.
‘It’s up to me, Jane. This is my hero’s journey. I am going to get you home.’
Jane nodded, confused. ‘Oh. I am honoured. Thank you.’
‘No problem. Now close your eyes and I’ll escort you home.’
Jane and her saviour walked home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The next morning, Sofia dragged Jane out of bed and filled her ears with a list of rules and demands, designed to protect her from erasing herself and, if correctly recalled, the universe. ‘Rule one: You must not go outside,’ Sofia declared, as she passed Jane a plate of toast, butter and a boiled egg.
‘May I go in the garden?’ Jane asked, pointing out the window. She placed a piece of toast in her mouth and chewed with delight. The bread was far softer than the loaves from the Austen house, baked by Margaret the housemaid, which possessed roughly the density of stone.
‘Yes. But try not to observe too much. Don’t make a study of the telegraph poles. Don’t peek over next door’s fence. Who knows what might set you off, what stimuli will send you further down the novel-destroying path?’ Sofia marched around the kitchen, placing steel boxes in cupboards. ‘You might witness electricity, become enamoured of it and decide you want to stay,’ she explained, hiding another contrivance. ‘Then, whoops, you don’t go back, and all your novels – gone!’
‘What is electricity?’ Jane asked.
‘See? You’re showing an interest already. Luckily for you, I don’t know what electricity is so I won’t be tempted to explain it to you. Just accept like the rest of us that it’s there, it’s useful and move on.’
‘What shall I do all day then, if I may take an interest in nothing? Stare at the wall?’
‘If you like,’ Sofia said. She gasped. ‘That reminds me. Do not switch on the television.’ She stabbed her finger in the air as she said it, speaking in a horrified whisper. Jane gave her a confused look. ‘The paintings that move,’ Sofia explained.
‘That’s called television? How interesting. Tele is Greek, meaning “far away”. Vision or visio is Latin, meaning “to see”. I’m warmed that the tradition for clumsy hybrids continues in the English language.’
‘Yes, well, enough of that,’ Sofia said. ‘Rule two: No more finding things interesting. Just promise me you will not watch television.’
‘I promise,’ Jane said. It was an easy promise to make; even if she located one of the modern inventions, she doubted she would be able to operate it.
Sofia ceased hiding kitchen objects and sat down next to Jane at the table.
‘Perhaps I could read?’ Jane asked. ‘To occupy my time.’
‘I suppose there’s no harm.’ Sofia walked over to the bookcase. ‘Let’s see.’ She scanned the titles. ‘You are restricted to things you could read in your own time. Here we are.’ She took two large heavy books from the shelves and handed them to Jane.
‘Sermons to Young Women, by James Fordyce,’ read Jane, ‘and The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. That’s it? These two?’
‘They will keep you going. Above all, you must not read these.’ Sofia gathered up the remaining five Austen novels: Emma, Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Northanger Abbey and Mansfield Park. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked then, when Jane scowled.
‘I read some of Mansfield Park,’ Jane said. She swallowed. ‘Yesterday. In a bookshop in London. Only a little; a page or two. Three pages at most.’
‘Austen!’ Sofia cried. ‘What were you thinking? That’s probably the culprit! I cannot spell out enough the dangers of this. Rule three: no reading your own work.’ She placed the books in a pile in the glass cabinet, next to a dusty sherry bottle. She locked the door and pocketed the key. ‘Fingers crossed that does the trick.’
Jane stared at the small tower of novels behind the glass. ‘When shall you be home?’
‘As soon as I can,’ Sofia said.
Fred emerged from the bathroom, bleary-eyed. He wore only a towel, wrapped at the waist. He saw Jane and Sofia at the table and jumped. ‘What are you doing up?’ he said to Sofia. He shot a nervous smile at Jane. ‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning, Fred,’ Jane replied. It was all she could muster in light of the sight before her. Previous to this, she had never seen a man’s chest before in her life. Now she had seen the same one twice in as many days.
‘I have a six a.m. call time,’ Sofia explained. ‘Look, Fred. Jane is going to be staying here a few days, okay? She won’t be in your way.’
‘Fine,’ said Fred, a little too quickly. ‘Makes no difference to me,’ he added, coughing. He shr
ugged and his towel came loose. He caught it awkwardly before it fell. He looked at Jane, and she looked away. She felt certain her cheeks now shone a shade of beetroot. ‘Where’s the kettle?’ he asked. He stared at the place on the worktop where the shiny steel pitcher used to sit, the one Sofia had stashed in the cupboard.
‘It’s broken,’ Sofia replied. ‘Get coffee at school. By the way, what’s a book about time travel?’
Fred scowled at her. ‘The Time Machine, H G Wells. Why?’
‘When was it written?’
‘I don’t know, 1850?’
‘Sorry, won’t work,’ Sofia replied. Fred frowned at her, confused. ‘Never mind,’ she said.
Fred raised an eyebrow at Sofia and turned to Jane. ‘Can I get you anything to make your stay more comfortable? Any food you like to eat?’
Jane shook her head. ‘The food is wonderful, thank you.’
‘Look at you,’ Sofia cried to Fred. ‘Now you’re Mr Hospitable? You never offered me special food!’
He ignored Sofia. ‘You don’t have any clothes, or bags?’ he asked Jane.
‘I’ve given her some clothes,’ Sofia said.
‘And my dress is being washed by the white box,’ Jane added, pointing to the box by the kitchen sink which rattled and spun. Her white muslin dress swished behind the glass window in a sea of suds and froth. ‘I don’t know what women do with the seven hours spare every week,’ she rejoiced, ‘liberated by the drudgery of clothes washing!’
Fred laughed kindly and excused himself.
Sofia waited until he was gone, then turned to Jane. ‘You can’t say things like that, Jane,’ she hissed. ‘You have to pretend like you’re from this day and age.’ Jane furrowed her brow, not following. ‘I saw you appear out of those curtains,’ Sofia explained. ‘It’s my quest now to help you get back to your own time. But if you tell another person you’re from the nineteenth century, that you’re Jane Austen, MI6 will take you away for experiments.’
Jane looked at her curiously, still not following, and now even more confused than before.
‘Bad example,’ Sofia said, shaking her head. ‘Just don’t tell Fred you’re Jane Austen – remember, like I said before? Time travel is not a normal occurrence. It’s actually quite weird. Fred has no idea who you really are. He thinks you’re an actress from my film. If you tell him you travelled here from 1803, he will think you’re crazy.’
Jane went green as the mortifying realisation dawned. Sofia had indeed told her earlier to keep her true identity a secret, but she had never fully understood why. ‘I’ve been speaking to him all this time as though he is aware that I have travelled here from a long time past.’ She recalled all the conversations she had had with him and cringed. ‘What must he think of me?’
Sofia raised an eyebrow. ‘Why, what did you say to him?’
‘I commented at length about the price of sugar, among other things.’ She placed her head in her hands.
‘Don’t worry,’ Sofia said.
‘But how should I behave around him?’ she asked in a frantic voice.
‘Don’t panic. That was probably the last time you will see him. But if you are forced to engage with him, just remember your cover story. You are an actress. You are from the twenty-first century.’
Jane nodded. ‘I am an actress. I am from the twenty-first century,’ she repeated.
‘Do you know the expression “when in Rome”?’ Sofia asked.
‘Indeed. Augustine, 390 AD.’
Sofia smirked. ‘For now, how about you “do as the Romans do”?’
‘I shall observe and replicate the modern custom,’ Jane said.
‘It won’t be a problem anyway, as you won’t be leaving the house.’ Sofia bade Jane farewell and shut the front door behind her.
Fred emerged a few minutes later. He wore a blue shirt. ‘I’m off to work,’ he said, in the casual way everyone now seemed to speak. Many times, her brain chased down the meanings of the phrases which littered the new vernacular. ‘Faster than a speeding bullet’ she liked, though it had required a full twenty seconds of cognition, staring into confused space, before she gathered its meaning. ‘Did Sofia go already?’ he asked her.
Jane nodded. She searched his face for any signs of residual awkwardness. Where did things between them now stand? She wasn’t sure. There had been some softening between them after their trip to London, but it did not undo the hostility that had existed during the events before it. Were they friends now? Certainly not. But did he still dislike her? It was hard to tell.
‘She’s left you here alone all day?’ Fred asked her. ‘They don’t need you on set?’
Jane hesitated at the unexpected question and scrambled for an explanation. ‘I am unwell,’ she lied. She coughed and hoped the accompanying noise approximated the severity of a head cold. ‘I am to stay inside. I shall be fine. I have a book to read.’
The excuse seemed to work, for the next thing she knew he was offering to make her a fire. ‘You should keep warm,’ he said. Despite Jane’s protests, he walked outside to the back garden. ‘Stay inside,’ he commanded. Jane watched from the back window as he selected a 2-foot log from a pyramid of wood stacked against the house’s back wall. He rolled his sleeves to the elbow and placed the wood on a stump. He raised an axe over his head, then brought it down with ease. It split the log in half. The muscles in his jaw tensed and relaxed as he raised the axe and carved three more.
A memory struck Jane, from when she was twelve years old. The lid had stuck on a jar of pickled carrots in the kitchen of the Austen’s rectory in Hampshire, and Jane and her mother had quarrelled over how to liberate the vegetables from their briny sarcophagus. Jane favoured a scientific approach, warming the lid whilst cooling the glass beneath, whereas her mother preferred to bash it across the bench. They each tried with their own system, yet the lid remained tight on the jar, as though cemented in place. Martin, the rectory steward, had entered then – summoned no doubt by the dulcet tones of the discussion between Jane and Mama – and gently took the jar from them. A young man in his twenties, Martin held the jar, and with no warming or bashing, turned the lid with his fingers and popped it open like it was nothing. Jane witnessed the muscles flex in his forearms and realised for the first time that men existed, separate from women.
Fred brought the wood inside and knelt at the hearth. He laid the logs well; he placed the kindling at the base, and then built the larger logs around it. He drew a spark from a box he took from his pocket. He lowered the flame to the wood and held it there, watching. It did not catch at first, so he left his hand there and waited. Jane watched him, astonished at the sight. The wood caught fire, but he held his hand there, watching the orange flame lick his fingers. This startled her. She could not be sure he did this deliberately; perhaps he simply wanted to make sure the fire caught fully. But he left his hand there well longer than required, and the sight evoked a piece of his character which disarmed her. She sensed a small darkness in him, some recklessness or desire for ruin she had not seen before. Finally, he retracted his hand.
The fire grew with assured speed and soon a prickly warmth glowed through the room. Jane thanked him, unsure of how profusely to do so. ‘Thank you. Producing a fire is not easy,’ she said to him.
‘You’re welcome,’ he said.
‘And the night we danced, I recall you telling me you did nothing well,’ she said. ‘But you did that well,’ she added.
He nodded. ‘I do some things well,’ he said. He smiled but did not look at her.
Jane swallowed, unsure of how to take the comment. She tried not to inhale too deeply.
‘Feel better, Jane,’ he said, and touched her elbow. He took his leave.
Jane felt startled by the uncommon mix of teasing and tenderness that seemed to pervade her interactions with him. One moment, he appeared annoyed and distant with her, mocking and making fun, or away somewhere else; the next moment he was patient and attentive, anticipating her needs. She could not
make head nor tail of it. She ordered herself to stop dwelling on the mystery of his regard for her, for it played no material part in her present predicament. Mulling over the intentions of a person so wholly unconnected with her was a pointless endeavour when her focus should be on returning home.
The fire crackled in the hearth and Jane stared at the clock. The hands read seven o’clock. Jane sighed and, in the absence of a better plan, hoped Sofia would succeed today in finding the means to send her back to 1803. She needed a way to pass the time until then, so she sat in an armchair and opened Fordyce’s Sermons.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Jane finished Fordyce’s Sermons for the third time. She had attended to this book previously as an aid to sleep, but now that she had the opportunity to read it in full, she saw it also presented great potential for comedy. The two-volume compendium of lectures on the morality and chastity of young women abounded with sound advice. But after the third re-reading, she’d exhausted even her capacity for laughter and felt dismayed to discover the hour only reached eleven.
Disobeying Sofia was not her intention. She possessed every desire to do as directed, to make no interaction with the advancements of the twenty-first century, lest she erase herself, her novels and then the universe, as Sofia had prophesied. She took special care to ignore the candles which turned on from the wall switch and burned brighter than any candle she had seen. She made sure not to marvel at the steel box in the kitchen which froze water and kept the foodstuffs cold. She spent the morning closing her mind off from any sort of admiration, fascination and calculation about the wonders and advancements of the future time in which she found herself, lest she grow so enamoured with the place she might elect to remain, thus ruining everything.
This required no small feat of discipline. The world fascinated Jane. She had taken the grandfather clock apart when she was eight to see how it worked; her mother declared her insolent and destructive. Asking a person who spoke her first word at eight months and taught herself to read at two to not show curiosity at the world around her rivalled the futility of asking a lioness to save the antelope for later.
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