by Winona Kent
“Certainly a life free from the unceasing demands of Monsieur Duran,” Charlie agreed, comfortingly. “I am very pleased to have made your acquaintance, Miss Robinson. I shall bid you a good morning, with the hope that we will talk again soon.”
And she continued on her way, walking past several Gypsies who were knocking on doors with offers to mend pots and pans, and the dodgy-looking fellow with the eye patch, who she’d seen speaking with Lemuel Ferryman yesterday, going into the butcher’s shop carrying a dead rabbit.
And it wasn’t until she’d walked all the way to the top end of the Village Green, and was about to cross the road and take a shortcut to the vicarage through the St. Eligius churchyard, that she realized…if Daniel Robinson was the son of Louis Augustus Duran—acknowledged or not—then he was, in fact…one of her ancestors.
Charlie knocked upon the front door of the vicarage. It was answered by a stout woman carrying a bad-tempered infant.
“Hello,” Charlie said. “I am Mrs. Collins—cousin to Mrs. Foster. Has she told you of my arrival from London?”
“Indeed she has,” the woman replied. “I am Mrs. Hobson. Will you come inside?”
Charlie stepped into the front hall. It looked the same, except that two hundred years into the future, there would have been signs giving directions to the visitors. It was a little disorienting to see what appeared to be framed portraits of all of Reverend Hobson’s clergy-minded forebears decorating the walls instead.
“I have heard so much about your vicarage, I feel as though I have been acquainted with it intimately,” she said.
“Well, you have found us all at sixes and sevens today,” Mrs. Hobson replied. “Mr. Hobson has received some rather unexpectedly good news. Mrs. Foster will be instructing the children in the Lesson Room, if you would care to join her.”
Charlie dodged two of the smaller Hobson offspring, who, too young for schooling, raced in front of her waving a large white home-made flag, screaming with mischief, and causing two alarmed-looking cats to seek shelter beneath a table.
Mrs. Hobson disappeared with her infant, and so Charlie knocked on the nearest closed door. It was opened by Sarah.
“My dear cousin! Do join us!”
Two centuries in the future, this room would be made over into the Ladies, Gents and Disabled Toilets. Charlie entered.
Five Hobson children—three boys and two girls, ranging in age from six to fourteen—were seated around a crowded table with Tom, Jack and Mary Foster. All were preparing, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, to sew buttons onto squares of cotton.
Resuming her place at the head of the table, Sarah consulted a linen hussif that was embellished with intricate embroidery. Inside its pockets were needles and pins, and a thimble, a measuring tape and a wooden piece wound with a selection of threads. And there were buttons. All manner of buttons—wood, bone, mother-of-pearl and pewter and china. Buttons wrapped with thread, and buttons covered with fabric.
She tumbled the collection onto the tabletop, then held up a length of cotton thread, and a large needle.
“It is much easier if you make a little knot in the end of the thread before you pull it through the needle,” she said. “That way it cannot slip out. Would you like to demonstrate, Mrs. Collins?”
Charlie had not threaded a needle since she was in school, and learning, with not much success, how to make an apron she knew she would never in a million years wear. She’d given the rather poor result to her mum, who had put it on and promptly spilled barbecue sauce down its front. It was never seen, or mentioned, again.
Charlie managed, however, to poke the thread into the eye of the needle, and after pulling it through to make a double strand, knotted the ends together.
“There you are,” Sarah said. “Simple and straightforward. Would you like to sew a button for us, Mrs. Collins?”
“I would rather it were you,” Charlie replied, handing her back the needle and thread. “I am somewhat out of practice.”
Sarah laughed.
“What a pleasant humour you possess, my dearest cousin. Only last month you wrote to tell me of the success of your most recent delicate embroidery.”
Sarah picked up a large brass button that looked as if it had come from a seaman in the Royal Navy, and one of the cotton patches.
“Watch, children, as I draw the needle and thread through the fabric. You can see that because of Mrs. Collins’ knot, it is well anchored and will prevent the button from becoming loose later.”
Jack nudged his older brother. “I am going to sew my button onto the bottom of Mary’s pantaloons.”
“Master Jack,” Sarah said. “Kindly name the four great ancient monarchies.”
“The Assyrian,” Jack replied, readily, but then he paused. “The Persian?”
“The Grecian,” Mary finished, “and the Roman.”
“Very good,” Sarah said, as there was a further knock upon the door, and a befuddled-looking gentleman in clerical clothing poked his head into the room.
“I am so terribly sorry to interrupt,” he said, with some hesitancy. “But might I have a word with you and your cousin, Mrs. Foster?”
“Of course!”
Sarah left her needle and thread in Mary’s custody.
“You may instruct Jack in the art of the button hole,” she said, to Mary, and to the children in general: “Do try to behave while we are gone.”
Reverend Hobson escorted Sarah and Charlie into the front room which, two centuries into the future, would house the museum’s Travellers Display. It was very cluttered. Mrs. Hobson had taken up residence beside the fireplace and was nursing the bad-tempered infant. The two children who had earlier terrorized the cats were playing at her feet, building a fortress out of wooden blocks.
Charlie searched, unsuccessfully, for a chair that was not occupied by something damp that had been hung up to dry in front of the fire.
“Oh dear,” Reverend Hobson said, mopping his forehead with a large white handkerchief.
“Do stop dithering, Mr. Hobson,” Mrs. Hobson said, with a slightly perturbed look.
“Mrs. Foster,” Reverend Hobson began. “I am afraid we have received some rather dreadful news.”
“It is not so dreadful for ourselves, Mr. Hobson,” Mrs. Hobson corrected. “In fact, it is a matter I consider long overdue in arriving.”
“But I fear it will be terribly inconvenient for you, my dear Mrs. Foster. Fortunately, your cousin who is visiting from London is nearby to assist you, should you be overcome by our dispatch.”
He glanced at Mrs. Hobson, who smiled back, benevolently.
“I—we—are being assigned to another parish. There. I have said it. Oh dear.”
“Bournemouth,” Mrs. Hobson provided, disconnecting the infant from her breast. “A significantly increased population. With a significantly increased congregation. We shall miss you, of course, Mrs. Foster.”
“We are promised a very large house,” the vicar added, hastily.
Speechless, Sarah looked first at Reverend Hobson, and then at his wife. And then at the infant, who, rather loudly, was objecting to the interruption of his lunch.
“Is there no possibility Mrs. Foster might continue her employment with you as governess in Bournemouth?” Charlie asked, as Mrs. Hobson rearranged herself, and connected her infant to the other breast.
“My dear, we would have it no other way,” she provided. “But there is a governess who is already in place. She is the unmarried daughter of the vicar who has, with utmost misfortune, recently departed this life. She has known no other home. I am told she is very plain and most unlikely to find a husband, and so, of course, we must exercise our Christian generosity…”
“Of course,” Sarah said, struggling to maintain her composure. “I understand. And the vicar who is coming here in your place? Have his children no need of instruction?”
Reverend Hobson looked as if he needed very badly to relieve himself. “The Very Reverend Hopkirk is advanced
in years. As I understand it, Mrs. Hopkirk has produced eleven offspring, nine of them surviving infancy…but alas, dear Mrs. Foster, the youngest is herself now a woman close to your own age…”
“If there is anything we might do for you,” Mrs. Hobson added, quickly. “We shall, of course, provide a reference…”
“Yes. Thank you.” Sarah replied.
“When are you leaving?” Charlie asked, rather more to the point.
“Very quickly, I am afraid,” said Reverend Hobson. “It is somewhat of an urgent nature, as the congregation has been left without spiritual guidance…”
“Within the month,” said Mrs. Hobson. “If not sooner.”
Sarah’s hand was upon the door.
“I must return to the children,” she said, quickly, before tears could betray her composure. “As I am more than certain the lesson room has by now descended into chaos.”
Chapter 12
The lesson room had indeed descended into chaos, if not outright war. In one corner, two of the Hobson brothers had seated themselves on top of Jack, who was flat on his back on the floor, objecting loudly. Meanwhile, the third Hobson brother—not being terribly concerned about the inclusion of anatomy—was in the process of sewing a large wooden button onto the middle of Jack’s shirt.
In another corner, one of the Hobson sisters had removed her petticoat, the other had cut it up into squares, and the two of them, plus Mary, were busily stitching the shapes together to make a flag.
Only Tom was uninvolved, lounging in the window seat, sketching a picture of a horse that was not unlike Mr. Deeley’s favourite, Marie-Claire.
All eight children stopped cold as the door to the room was flung open, and Charlie entered with Sarah.
“What in heaven’s name,” Sarah demanded, “is going on in here?”
The garden behind Sarah’s cottage was much the same as Charlie’s. The exceptions were the apple trees, which were smaller. And the surrounding stone wall, which was newly built and lacked the moss and lichen that, in Charlie’s future, would texture into fuzzy greens and slippery golds and delicate browns.
Charlie sat on a blanket with Sarah, underneath the largest of the apple trees, doing her best to enjoy the picnic that had been planned at breakfast, but which was now not a very happy occasion at all.
Spread across the blanket was a feast. A freshly baked veal and ham pie, still warm from the fire. A salad, with tomatoes and cucumbers and lettuce, and a dressing made from oil and vinegar. And more of the delicious bread that they’d had for breakfast, with butter and cheese.
And there was a sponge cake, made into four squares, pink and white, each separated by layers of strawberry jam, with whipped cream on top. Very like a Battenberg, Charlie thought—though the cake itself would not appear for another sixty years, commemorating the 1884 marriage of Queen Victoria’s granddaughter to Prince Louis of Battenberg.
“And how have you managed to make these squares such a lovely pink colour?” Charlie inquired.
“A little cochineal,” Sarah confided. “A tiny touch here and there provides the cheeks—as well as the cake—with a healthful bloom.”
Their quiet contemplation was interrupted by Mary, running into the garden from the house, crying loudly.
“Whatever’s the matter?” Sarah asked, opening her arms to comfort her.
“I don’t want to go and live in a hayloft like Great Uncle Hamish!” Mary sobbed.
“I am certain we will not have to live in a hayloft,” Sarah reassured her. “And please tell Jack to stop saying such ridiculous things.”
Mary ceased her tears, and turned her attention instead to a rabbit she had just seen hopping past the four lilac bushes at the bottom of the garden.
Sarah looked at Charlie. “You are miles away,” she said.
“I am. I apologise.”
Charlie pulled her thoughts back to the picnic. She’d been thinking about the lesser Monsieur Duran’s invitation to lunch, tomorrow. An hour or two earlier, she had dismissed it as a foolish request. But now…
Now, everything had changed.
“You are fortunate to be able to remain in this cottage,” she said.
Sarah poured a glass of lemonade for herself, and another for Charlie.
“Indeed,” she agreed. “Although it was owned, at first, by Mr. Foster’s uncle, who built it with his own hands. When he died childless, it was passed down to Mr. Foster by way of an inheritance. We were living in Christchurch at the time, and came here to take possession.”
So, Charlie thought. She’d been right all along. Stoneford had not been Sarah’s home at all. If only she’d thought to look at the parish records in Christchurch.
“When Mr. Foster was swept to his death, as his widow, I assumed ownership of the cottage. If only I also had possession of the deed to the two plots of land that I was given as my birthright.”
There, Charlie thought. The very question that had been perplexing her for two years.
“What has become of that deed?” she asked. “I know we exchanged letters in which it was spoken of, but my memory has failed me concerning the details.”
“It was lost,” Sarah replied, despondently, “by Mr. Foster. But surely you must recall this? I was inconsolable.”
“I do remember,” Charlie said, sensing it was better to tell an untruth than to risk upsetting Sarah further. “Please forgive me.”
“The title was mine,” Sarah said, as if repeating it again now might somehow result in a different outcome. “The land was owned by my father’s ancestor, Mr. John Harding, who had a farm here. The land was passed down, father to son, until my own father departed this earth. As the first born, and as I had no brothers, the title reverted to me. But when I married, everything I owned became the property of Mr. Foster. Who lost it, Catherine. Lost it. Everything.”
She looked at her cousin, hopelessly.
“I am so sorry,” Charlie said, meaning it.
Sarah’s expression became more stoic.
“I believe that cruel advantage was taken of Mr. Foster. I have never been privy to all of the details…but he had, just before he died, fallen under the influence of certain men. Who smuggled and gambled. And were liberal with their drink. And the deed was taken from him to account for a debt which was worth far less than the value of what the paper represented.”
“Do you know who took it?” Charlie asked. “Was it Lemuel Ferryman?”
“Lemuel Ferryman?” Sarah laughed. “Alas, no. If he had, I would know where to go to demand its return. The gentleman—and I use the word with prejudice—remains unknown to me.”
Charlie was confused. How had Lemuel Ferryman ended up with the land, then? Had history been changed?
“And now,” Sarah continued, “although we have a roof over our heads, I am shortly to be without means to provide food and clothing for myself and my children. I must count my pennies. There will be nothing extra for cochineal…or sponge cake.”
The universe might yet right itself, Charlie thought. Perhaps, in the end, the union of Sarah Foster and Louis Augustus Duran would be created, not out of love, but out of necessity.
“Perhaps,” she ventured, “it would not be such a bad thing for you to attend Monsieur Duran’s Grand Summer Ball.”
Sarah looked at Charlie.
“It would be a very bad thing,” she countered, “as it would do nothing but signal to Monsieur Duran that I am considering his proposal of marriage. No. I would rather spend my days washing other peoples’ soiled linen than consider a union I do not want, to a man I cannot possibly love. So let that be an end to the speculation.”
Chapter 13
Nick needed to walk.
He switched off Charlie’s laptop, a precautionary move. There was no telling what it might get up to with Mrs. Collins sitting downstairs, acquainting herself with two months’ worth of Coronation Street on his digital recorder.
Rather than resort to yet another concoction of pharmaceuticals for his ach
ing leg, Nick’s preferred remedy was a gentle stretch, followed by a slow and steady plod about the village.
“Breakfast was all right…?” he checked.
“Breakfast was delicious,” Mrs. Collins replied, without removing her gaze from the large TV screen. “I have not previously had occasion to eat Superfruity Shredded Wheat. It is yet another invention that London would surely benefit from.”
She made a face at the television.
“This creature, Tracy Barlow, is easily the most annoying individual I have ever had occasion to meet. She needs to be married off to a gentleman who might instill in his bride some common manners. And very soon.”
“You could get a job scriptwriting,” Nick laughed. “I’m going for a walk. Would you care to join me?”
“I would rather not,” Mrs. Collins decided, after a moment. “I would rather stay behind to see what becomes of Tracy Barlow. And her interfering mother. Goodness, if I were to live in their street I believe I should be quite apoplectic by now.”
“Promise me you won’t touch anything, or go anywhere, while I’m out,” Nick said.
“I shall remain steadfastly seated in this chair, Mr. Weller.”
And so, Nick set out, deep in thought, taking his familiar route, down the grassy drive to the road. His journey took him past a row of post-war red brick houses, and then an older group of whitewashed dwellings, their front gardens splashed with antique roses, their tall Victorian chimneys reaching into the blue morning sky.
A theory was beginning to take shape in his mind. Until now, he’d believed that the woman who now sat in his front room, caught up in the drama at The Rovers Return, was his cousin Charlie. And Charlie had simply undergone some sort of brain blip the night before which had convinced her she was someone else. That much had made sense. Charlie often lost herself in time, immersed in her family tree research, or some new historical project for the museum.
Last night, she’d simply gone one step too far. Perhaps it had something to do with the damage she’d allegedly done to Ron Ferryman’s property. Possibly the shock of it had been too much for her, and, coupled with the anniversary of Jeff’s death, it had caused her to retreat, temporarily, into the persona of Mrs. Collins.