by Winona Kent
The signal was still there, though, as strong as ever.
“So you may send,” she mused aloud, to herself. “But it does not, apparently, follow that what you send will be received…?”
“Have you lost something?”
Startled, Charlie looked up.
It was not a White Rabbit with a pocket watch, but a rather handsome fellow in a white shirt and dark waistcoat, with a bright red handkerchief knotted around his neck. He had long thick dark hair, and seemed to be about her age.
For a moment, Charlie thought it was a trick of the moonlight, and she was looking at Ron Ferryman. For a moment, she panicked.
But it was only a trick of the moonlight. And her own sense of guilt.
“Yes,” she said, quickly clasping her mobile behind her back. “I’m looking for…” She racked her brain. Shrubby borders. “Hedgehogs!”
Daft thing to say. Utterly ridiculous. But the gentleman was amused.
“Not too difficult a task,” he said. He strolled across to a thickety hedge on the edge of the green.
“Here we are,” he said, quietly, beckoning to her. “Having a little meal.”
Charlie peered into the bushes. Caught in the sudden silvery moonlight was a family of hedgehogs, feasting on snails.
“Where I come from,” she said, “people are obsessed with turning their traditional English gardens into neatly manicured Outdoor Living Spaces. The hedgehogs have nowhere to go, poor things.”
The gentleman seemed surprised.
“We have dozens up at the manor. Mrs. Dobbs likes them as they keep the slugs and caterpillars away from the vegetables.”
He paused.
“Although I have heard that the Gypsies in the New Forest catch them and roast them for their supper.”
Charlie looked grim. “Yes, I know.”
“I presume to be bold,” the gentleman said, “and you must forgive my curiosity as well as my manners. But I have not seen you here before this night, and it is not wise for a lady to be discovered, at this late hour, unaccompanied on the Village Green.”
He paused, with a nod in the direction of The Dog’s Watch.
“There are smugglers afoot. It is best you were indoors.”
“Oh,” Charlie said. “Yes. Thank you.”
“You are most welcome,” the gentleman replied, though, having warned her of the danger, he now seemed a trifle aloof.
“Is anything the matter?”
“Nothing at all,” he assured her. “It is only my discomfort, engaging you in the dark and in the absence of a chaperone. I do not wish to compromise your integrity and reputation…”
Charlie smiled. Of course. Those damned rules of etiquette, which were as rigid as the class standards which implemented them.
“You have not compromised my integrity,” she assured him. “I am a widow, and so, I am exempt from the customs and courtesies which are in place to protect those who have yet to entertain thoughts of marriage.”
What nonsense. She had no idea if that was true. The subject had never come up at the museum. She knew about Regency-era women who were already married and producing children as quickly as the calendar would allow. And she knew about women who had yet to be married, who were forced to follow the strictest of measures in order to protect not only their reputations, but those of the gentlemen who sought to become their suitors.
But she knew nothing about widows. Which was odd, considering she’d been one herself for half a decade.
“May I then have the honour of introducing myself? I am Mr. Deeley, head groom to Monsieur Louis Augustus Duran.”
Charlie’s heart leaped for a second time that evening. Louis Augustus Duran, her great grandfather six times into the past! And he was French!
“And I am—”
She caught herself. Who was she? Charlotte Duran? Married name Lowe? That would not do at all. Sarah’s family believed she was their cousin from London.
“I am Mrs. Collins. Cousin to Mrs. Foster, who is governess to the Vicar.”
Mr. Deeley bowed, and, boldly, took her hand.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Collins. What good fortune! I presume Mrs. Foster has spoken to you about my employer?”
“Not,” Charlie said, “in so many words.”
In fact, she realized, for someone about to be married in less than a month’s time, Mrs. Foster had been uncommonly silent on the matter of her future husband.
Mr. Deeley released her hand. He had already held it for ten seconds too long, and Charlie was certain he would regret it immediately, if she did not offer him reassurance.
“Will you walk with me?”
“I would be most grateful for the opportunity,” Mr. Deeley replied, his face brightening.
“I am staying with Mrs. Foster while I visit from London,” Charlie said. “Are you familiar with her cottage?”
“I am,” Mr. Deeley replied. “A young gentleman lives there, by the name of Tom, who has shown great interest in becoming apprenticed to the stable as soon as he finishes his studies.”
“I gather,” Charlie said, with great care, as they walked towards the long, low stone wall that separated the west side of the Village Green from cobbled road beyond, “that Monsieur Duran has proposed marriage to my cousin…?”
“Oh, indeed,” Mr. Deeley answered, easily. “He has, in fact, been quite persistent in his overtures. But Mrs. Foster has been reluctant.”
“How so?”
“She despises him.”
Mr. Deeley’s revelation stopped Charlie cold.
She despised him? The man she was destined to marry in a month’s time? Despised him?
“In confidence,” Mr. Deeley continued, as they crossed the road. “I do not blame her in the least for refusing to entertain his affections.”
Worse and worse.
“Why?” Charlie asked.
Mr. Deeley consulted the moon before he spoke.
“Monsieur Duran is my employer,” he said, after a moment, “and he is a nobleman—the son of a Comte with a chateau in France. But as God is my witness, I cannot recommend him as a gentleman. He is mean with his money. He is bad-tempered and disagreeable. He has no respect for man or beast. And there are not many in this village who would volunteer a kind word for him—except perhaps those who wish to remain in his favor.”
Charlie’s heart sank. The man from whom she had descended was despicable. No wonder there had been no mention of him by Sarah.
They continued together along the High Street.
“And he is a Count?” Charlie ventured. “From France?”
“He is,” Mr. Deeley confirmed. “And it is a title that was earned, not merely assumed by an ambitious family. His father possesses as much decency and kindness as his offspring lacks. I have met him, many times, as he visits often. In fact, he is expected to arrive from France tomorrow. The lesser Monsieur Duran has arranged his customary Grand Summer Ball to welcome him.”
They had reached the cottage, with its scented wildflowers, nodding in the night.
And here Charlie paused, to try and arrange her thoughts. She existed in the future. She had come to be, through all of the lines of genealogy, from marriages and births and more marriages and more births. The entries written in parish books, on official certificates and census records, were indisputable.
Sarah Elizabeth Foster and Louis Augustus Duran had become man and wife.
But Charlie was struck with a dreadful thought.
Perhaps, in this time—the time past, the current present—the facts, as she knew them, had been altered.
Perhaps, in this current present, Sarah Elizabeth Foster and Louis Augustus Duran did not become husband and wife.
And then what? Who was she destined to be—if she was not Charlie Duran?
Perhaps Sarah wouldn’t remarry at all, and there would be no Augustus and no Emily, and therefore no ancestors and parish entries. And her own DNA would be jumbled and reformed and she’d be a
descendant of someone else in the family line…?
Her head was starting to ache from the effort of trying to work out the possibilities.
“Mrs. Collins,” said Mr. Deeley, “I must here bid you a good night.”
Charlie’s mind abandoned the conundrum.
Mr. Deeley had taken her hand once again—and was kissing it.
A gentle kiss, Charlie mused, slightly taken aback. Very bold, all things considered. She nonetheless allowed her fingers to linger in his for something more than a moment. It was a tender gesture, a sweet gesture, a gesture most definitely lost in the straightforward courtships of the 21st century.
“Good night,” she said, thoughtfully, “Mr. Deeley.”
Chapter 8
Charlie was dreaming about the wagon in the shed at the back of the Old Vicarage. In her dream, the wagon was no longer broken and ramshackle and in fourteen assorted pieces scattered around the floor. It was whole and assembled and useful again.
And in this dream, the upper part of the wagon’s box was painted a beautiful glossy black, and its wheels and underneath bits a brilliant scarlet, and the lower half of its box a delicious chocolate brown.
The wagon was being drawn through the cobbled streets of Stoneford by Jolly, one of Horace Inkersby’s handsome Clydesdales. It went past the newsagent, the bakery, the hardware shop, the Indian takeaway, the grocery and the chemist. It passed the banner exhorting everyone to Save Stoneford Village Green and Poorhouse Lane from Unscrupulous Developers.
And seated at the front of the wagon, holding the reins that guided Jolly towards The Dog’s Watch Inn, was…
Bother.
She hated waking up before dreams were finished. It was like getting dug into a really brilliant novel, reading almost to the end, and discovering the last five pages were missing—along with the answer to the mystery that the author had spent the previous 400 pages plotting.
She stared at the tiny window set deep into the thick wall of Mary’s little bedroom, and, for a moment, was altogether confused about where—or, indeed, when—she was.
But then, she remembered. She was in 1825. It was all very odd, lying on a mattress stuffed with horsehair, on top of a wooden frame that had straw instead of a box spring. Tucked between linen sheets and a colorful quilt which appeared to have been stitched together from scraps of old frocks. On top of a bed that was situated exactly where her trendy lion-pawed cast iron old-but-new-again bathtub was, two centuries into the future.
And it was morning. Charlie could hear noises downstairs, the sure signs of a household awake: children’s voices, Sarah in the kitchen.
What time was it?
No such thing as a handy alarm clock beside Mary’s bed, although there was, downstairs in the sitting room, a big ticking timepiece that you had to wind by hand.
Charlie reached for her phone, unsure whether or not the answer would be British Summer Time, or original 1825 time.
She switched it on and was amused to discover that it was half past seven. And even more amused to find that her phone’s internal calendar had opened to 1825, and that today was Friday, July 1.
She was less than amused to discover that she was down to 82% on her battery.
Quickly, she disabled all her phone’s apps, and switched it off again. She had no way to recharge it. Even though Michael Faraday had invented a primitive electrical motor four years earlier, mains electricity would not exist for another six decades.
At home her day would have begun with all of those things you took for granted. A toilet that flushed. A bath that had hot and cold running water. A good face scrub with lathering concoctions guaranteed to moisturize, cleanse and restore. Teeth cleaning. Anti-perspirant.
And a practical consideration. Something rarely, if ever, mentioned in the research. Her period was due at the end of next week. How was she going to manage that? Obviously, she’d have to ask Sarah. Delicately.
Assuming she was still going to be here.
Assuming she wasn’t suddenly hurtled forward in time again, through whatever accidental means had brought her here in the first place.
Well. The toilet was easily accomplished. The chamber pot was tucked away under the bed. She supposed she could grow used to it, just as she could grow used to the absence of hot water on demand, unless it was from that large pot hanging permanently over the kitchen fire.
A bath.
Not likely.
There was a bath, a container kept outside in the garden, tipped against the back wall of the cottage. But it would require numerous trips to the community pump down the road, and a good deal of firewood to heat it all to a comfortable temperature. A bath in Sarah’s cottage would be not so much a morning ritual as a major event.
If she was still here on Monday—and she rather hoped she would be—Charlie made up her mind to tackle it, when Sarah and the children were out for the day, and she had the kitchen to herself.
A good wash would have to suffice for now. She wondered whether it would be good manners to go downstairs, clad only in her nightgown, to inquire about the possibility.
There was a knock at the door. And then Sarah herself poked her head inside the room, with the offer of a bowl, a large jug of warm water, a little bit of hard, scented soap, linen for ablutions, and a toothbrush.
“Of best boar’s bristle,” she said, laying the items out on a small table under the window. “I had not thought to inquire whether you had brought your own. But here is Mary’s. I have rinsed it well, and she has no objection to sharing. And some toothpowder. I make it myself, copied from a recipe that I understand is popular in London.”
Sarah leaned toward Charlie, confidentially.
“It has a little gunpowder in it. But the effects are tolerably excellent, and the taste is disguised with the rind of oranges.”
She smiled, revealing teeth which, Charlie had to admit, were very white, and without decay. Gunpowder obviously had many uses.
“Thank you,” she said.
“I shall leave you to your toilet. The children come to the vicarage with me at nine, so there is still a little time for conversation over breakfast.”
Breakfast was simple and surprisingly leisurely, compared to the haphazard things Charlie threw together in the microwave and ate while she pedalled to the museum. It was more like the breakfasts she used to have with Jeff, laughing over the toast, arguing over who’d used the last of the Marmite and then making up in the shower. And occasionally in bed, which caused hurried calls to their respective employers, apologizing for accidentally switching off alarm clock, promising to be in before noon.
Breakfast in 1825 was thick slices of home-made bread, toasted over the fire by Jack, and pats of butter that had been heavily salted to keep it from spoiling, and dabbles from a large and seemingly permanent pot of honey.
“It comes from Mr. Ashe, our favourite beekeeper,” Mary explained, spooning a generous dollop over her toast.
There was tea, and fresh cream, and boiled eggs from Mrs. Horton’s chickens, who ran free in a yard ruled by a noisy cock. Charlie had heard him at dawn, crowing his dominionship over his hens, the village, half of Hampshire and all the ships at sea.
“This,” she pronounced, cutting herself another thick slice of bread, “is lovely. Did you bake it yourself?”
“Of course!” Sarah replied, surprised. “Do you not bake your own breads?”
“I never seem to have the time. Usually I just pick something up…”
“What?” Jack said, cleverly, “Off the floor?”
He laughed outrageously at his joke, and Charlie was momentarily reminded, in both his innocent humour and his infectious laugh, of her father. Something passed down from Sarah, then. A fragment of DNA that had survived the generations. It was curiously fascinating. Her father—and therefore, she herself—were both descended from someone not yet born. But in this half-brother of the yet-to-be, there was a little genetic bookmark.
“I’m so busy picking things up
off the floor, Jack, that I don’t have any time left to bake bread. I’m an incredibly disorganized person, really. Often I don’t even eat breakfast.”
“That is very naughty of you,” Mary replied. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
And there—another bookmark—Charlie’s Auntie Nora, her dad’s sister. Maddeningly sensible. A teacher of six and seven year olds, who yearly went on Agatha Christie-like train journeys, carrying all of her clothes in one canvas knapsack. Sending postcards home which read: Eating bread and goat’s cheese in Lugano. This afternoon: a bathing establishment on the lake.
And Auntie Nora’s favorite admonishment: Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.
Here it was, in the flesh. The theory she’d been talking about with Nick, the persistence of memory. That you carry, in your genes, the vestiges of things passed down from the DNA of your ancestors.
“Catherine,” Sarah inquired. “Will you join us at the vicarage? We finish morning lessons at twelve. I can introduce you to the Reverend and Mrs. Hobson, and then, I thought, perhaps a picnic. In the garden.”
Mary and Jack were beside themselves. “Yes please!” they shouted, almost in unison.
“That would be lovely,” Charlie replied. “As I should very much like to see the room where you give your lessons.”
She desperately wanted to visit the vicarage. She knew its windows and doors and nooks and crannies by heart. She’d explored them all in quiet moments when it was raining outside, and the buses filled with pensioners and schoolchildren had splashed off towards the motorway.
“What will you do to occupy yourself until then?” Sarah inquired. “I have some interesting books…”
She leaned her head towards Charlie, and whispered confidentially.
“I have two written by an Anonymous Lady which are exceedingly good. Sense and Sensibility, and Pride and Prejudice.”
“But those are by Jane Austen!” Charlie said, surprised.
Sarah was also surprised. “Has she a name, then?”
“Yes, of course! But…” Charlie racked her brain to remember the details she had gleaned from the assorted Janeites that Sam knew. “Her true identity was made known only after she died.”