Xandra followed her outstretched hand as it felt around a corner. She stopped. Fear dispelled, a smile germinated. A glorious shaft of light, like a curtain of rainbow colours, was no more than fifty yards ahead. Xandra gasped as, once more, she felt the sandy floor beneath her and hastened towards the irresistible luminance. She hesitated before stepping into the wispy-looking light; it stole her breath. Not light and airy as she’d expected, it was heavy, an intense radiance, as if the light of centuries had been condensed into this one, deceptive shimmer. Defiantly, she shielded her eyes, pushed through the curtain of light and did not look back.
The sound of the sea attracted her and she turned towards daylight, the end of the tunnel and the shore. The tide delivered a wave to the edge of the cave and sank it into the sand with a hiss. She must hurry. What time was it? She looked at her wrist. Why had she done that? There was nothing there except a band of pale skin; had she been wearing a wristband? Had she escaped from an institution? “Escape” – that word rang true. She dodged the waves to keep her neat, leather lace-up shoes dry and, noticing the sandy beach further to the right, she laboured across mounds of seaweed and onto the dry, white sands beyond.
She turned to look at the sea. The sun was to her left. Did that mean it was morning or afternoon? Was she facing north or south? Or the east… Where was she? She turned around to see the high, chalk cliffs imprisoning her. She hugged her bag. Gosh, she was hungry. Tucking it under her left arm, she instinctively edged closer to the cliff and felt along the chalky wall with her right hand. Why was she doing this? But it worked. Soon a cave, made invisible by the abundant growth of bushes clinging from the cliffs, revealed a set of narrow steps hewn out of the chalk. Again she gave into instinct and her right hand remained on the cliff walls to steady herself. Her left grasped her damp, clinging, sandy skirt and her bag. She counted the steps as she ascended the dank shaft.
The seventy-seventh transferred her to scrubby grass enclosed by wild, high thorn bushes. Beyond was rough, tussock grassland; but how could she reach it? There was no way around and certainly no easy way over the thorns. She inspected her prison. Tunnelling. What about tunnelling? She knelt on the grass and studied the ground. There was a slight gap between two bushes. On the other side it looked as though an animal had tried burrowing. A fox, maybe. Carefully she deposited her bag on the ground, grasped the base of the scrubbiest bush and pulled hard. It lifted more easily than expected, she fell backwards and was showered in earth and tiny thorns. Out of prison in seconds, she retrieved her bag, replaced the bush, and busied herself with brushing off the dirt. Where was she? Despite the extreme effort needed to attempt an answer, she refused to relent. She’d come from the bottom of the cliff, to the left. Wearily she looked around. Nothing but grass. Tall grass, a foot or more. She listened intently. There was only the sound of the waves gently lapping the shore and the occasional breeze whistling in the tussocks. She wondered how many miles it was to the nearest town or village and took a few steps away from the cliff edge. A small tree in the distance caught her eye; a few leaves had turned yellow. It’s autumn, she thought, and the breeze is increasing. Could it be an autumn afternoon? Where was the sun? Ah, yes, slightly lower than when she’d first looked. But she was slightly higher. She wondered if this made a difference. If it is the afternoon, and the sun is to my left as I face the sea, then this is a north-facing coast. But what use was this information?
A distant noise caught her attention. A racecourse. She was near a racecourse. The unmistakable pounding of hooves was coming her way. She picked up her bag, and the hem of her skirt and leapt over spiky tussocks, ditches, scattered lumps of chalk – until she reached a muddy track. Thundering towards her was a coach and four horses.
“Whoa, there,” barked the man with the whip that had been flailing perilously close to the scarlet-liveried man standing guard at the back. “Whoo, whoo.” He brought the horses to a halt and bellowed, “Get out of the way, woman. Are you weak in the mind!”
“Great flumpleducks, girl; what are you doing here?” A woman, wearing a long, grey skirt, brown shawl tied around her shoulders and a white mobcap, stepped down from the coach onto the track.
Instinctively, Xandra put her hand to her head and felt her own cap with the lacy scarf still tied around it. If she could have answered, she would have, but she wasn’t at all sure what she was doing here.
The horses restlessly pawed the ground and tossed their heads. “Get her out of the way. We’re already late,” called the driver.
“You mind your manners. You’re charging a king’s ransom to take us to Canterbury tonight, so you just…”
“What is it, Martha? What causes the delay?” A man in clerical garb alighted from the coach. To say he was amply proportioned would do his physique insufficient justice. He approached Xandra. “Are you in distress?”
Xandra looked down at her wet, sandy shoes and the hem of her dress which hung damp, heavy and close around her ankles.
“Flollops! Of course she’s in distress. Can’t you see she’s all wet and wobbly?”
Parson Emmanuel Raffles looked both annoyed and abashed. “Martha, you are to be my kitchen maid, not my mouthpiece.” He sighed and muttered, “God forbid.” Drawing in his breath, he boomed, “Return to the coach immediately.” Waiting to see that she did so, he turned to Xandra and, in a concerned tone, said, “You do indeed appear to be in need of assistance. May I offer you the limited comforts of this…” he sniffed loudly and raised his eyebrows, “coach. We are bound for Canterbury but you may not wish to go that far, of course. This being a mail coach, we cannot deviate from our route.”
Xandra responded in a similar vein. “Thank you, sir, I should be most grateful.”
“Who’s paying?” called the coachman.
“I will settle with you at Canterbury,” Parson Raffles said peremptorily.
Once all were seated on the shabby, brown upholstery, Parson Raffles rapped his walking stick on the front of the carriage and the coach resumed its journey.
At least, thought Xandra, I know we are near Canterbury and that means we are in Kent.
Parson Raffles leaned forward a little, “Vous etes Francaise?”
“French? Certainly not. Whatever makes you think…”
“Forgive me. You appear to be wedded to a travelling bag, you are wet, and you are miles from anywhere save the shore. Have you been at sea?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
Parson Raffles was seated opposite Martha and Xandra and he took up almost the entire back of the carriage. He spread his hands to either side to steady himself as the coach hit a boulder in the road. With resignation he submitted to the coachman’s bellowing of profanities before continuing, “You don’t think so?”
Xandra pondered for a moment before she replied, “No, I can see that my hem is wet, but I cannot think why. The rest of me is dry.” Had it been raining? Had she had a raincoat over her? She looked at the two travellers. Well, maybe a cloak or a cape? Oh, hadn’t she been on the beach? Yes, that was it. She’d almost forgotten. They clearly had reservations about her as they still had not introduced themselves properly. She had learned their names, little more, and the questions kept coming.
“You’ll be a stranger to these parts, Miss?” said Martha gently.
Xandra looked at the little woman sitting next to her. She was maybe in her late thirties, small and cuddly, with a few teeth missing. Xandra wasn’t sure how to reply.
“It was raining earlier, Miss. Cloudloads of the stuff, all tipped out at once. That’ll be why you’re a bit wet. Been through a puddle and lost your cloak by the looks of it.”
“Where do you wish to alight?” interrupted Parson Raffles.
Xandra managed only an anxious look.
“The coach will make a stop at Merrygate,” he added.
While Xandra was trying to decide whether Merrygate or Canterbury would be preferable for a homeless person, Martha leant forward and tried whisperin
g to her new employer.
“I find it difficult to hear with that ear, Martha. Is this not something that can be said aloud?”
“I was wondering, Mr Raffles, if she knows much about anything?” Hastily to Xandra she said, “I don’t mean that unkindly, girl, but you look like you’ve had a bit of trouble and maybe we could…”
“Acquaint your family?” Parson Raffles clasped his hands in front of him, peered over his spectacles, and awaited an answer. When none came, he asked, “Your name? What is your name?”
Xandra could not answer. She thought for a long time before saying in her low, soft voice, “I cannot remember my name.”
“You need to sniff rosemary,” Martha said as if she were the fount of wisdom.
“Rosemary? Who is Rosemary?”
Martha and the parson exchanged worried looks. “For weakness of the brain, girl, that’s what you’ve got.” There was a significant pause before Martha added, “Probably,” with an exaggerated nodding.
The parson did his best to silence Martha with a look then smiled compassionately at Xandra. “Rosemary, the herb. Some say it helps the memory and others that it is to show we shall not forget someone. Surely you remember your Shakespeare? Rosemary for remembrance?”
“Yes, yes, I do. From Hamlet, I believe.” Xandra momentarily looked hopeful then pressed Martha’s proffered cotton handkerchief to the corner of her eyes.
“Oh there’s lots of hamlets round here, girl, but Merrygate’s bigger, more of a town.”
“You mistake my meaning…” Then Xandra thought again – an explanation would be lost on Martha and unnecessary for the parson.
“Have a look in your bag, girl,” Martha said kindly. “See what you’ve got. It might remind you.”
Xandra had been quite unaware of the tight grasp she had on her bag and, embarrassed, she looked down and liberated it from under her left arm. With a returning sense of security she said confidently, “The answers are all in here. Of this I am sure.” She opened it a little, endeavouring to keep Martha’s prying eyes out of its depths. Several sheets of paper fastened by candle wax lay on top.
“Ooh that letter smells nice, girl. Never smelled sealing wax with a scent before, I ain’t. It’s come from a lady.”
The scent was familiar to Xandra. It reminded her of someone. Who was it? She turned the letter over and read aloud, “Adam Leigh-Fox, Esquire, “Foxhills”, Torwell Bridge.”
“Torwell Bridge!” exclaimed Martha. “I knew she couldn’t be a hated Frenchie.”
Parson Raffles chuckled, “Why, we are going there ourselves. Not to “Foxhills”, of course, but we shall see you are safely conveyed there.”
“Have you got something with your name on it in the bag, another letter perhaps?” asked Martha with an attempt at a little more decorum and an encouraging smile.
Parson Raffles suddenly threw both hands in the air, “Martha, Martha, we are staring at it. Her family name is engraved on the inside. Miss Mulberry, do forgive us, from now on we can address you correctly.”
“You’re from good stock,” said Martha feeling the leather.
“I am quite alone; of that I feel sure.”
“You been orphaned?” Curiosity overruled propriety.
“Martha! I should like you to stop your impertinent inquisition now, and please, if you need to speak, address Miss Mulberry correctly.” Turning to Xandra, Parson Raffles said by way of explanation, “Martha has just lost her husband in the war. I have conducted his funeral and she is returning with me to Torwell Bridge.”
War? Xandra wondered what war. Their clothes, the mode of transport, the mention of the ‘Frenchies’, all clues. If she played this carefully she could find out what year it was, maybe even the full date.
“My condolences to you on your sad loss, Martha. Was your husband a soldier?”
“Sailor, Miss. Sailor. Round here, most are.”
Xandra noticed the parson’s inquiring eyes upon her, though he seemed mostly concerned with keeping himself upright.
“I don’t travel well, Miss Mulberry. I pray you will excuse me whilst I leave Martha to engage you in polite conversation.”
Xandra nodded in assent and turned to Martha. “How goes the war?”
“Never seems to stop. All this killing; ’tain’t right.” Martha thought for a moment before saying, “You not had much news of the war then?”
“I fear I remember so little.”
“Well that Napoleon, he’s been sent to some island or other, so things are getting better. Well they should be, girl, er, Miss Mulberry. I do beg your pardon. Then there’s more war in America…” Martha chattered on until interrupted by Parson Raffles.
“We are nearing Merrygate. Hush now, Martha.”
Martha cast a sheepish glance at the parson before peering out of the window.
Napoleon exiled. 1814. The year was 1814 and it was an autumn afternoon for sure – more trees with yellow and browning leaves confirmed this. Xandra was reassured to realize that she might have lost the memory of her own life but she had not lost her memory of life in general. There must be many widows like Martha. Xandra looked at her own left hand. No sign of a ring having been worn.
Hide in Time ~ Anna Faversham
CHAPTER TEN
The coach rumbled to a halt and the post horn rang out enthusiastically until, sounding more like a strangled cat, it finished abruptly as the driver jumped down, rocking the carriage and calling, “Canterbury Mail.” The liveried guard stowed his horn, leapt off and flung open the carriage door. “Short stop at the inn – just time enough to change the horses. We’ve got some catching up to do.” He slammed the door after they had all left, and endeavoured to deter a drunken man intent on securing passage to Canterbury. Xandra heard the beginnings of a row but hurried inside the inn.
Upon her return, the man was slouched across the entire seat facing the front where Parson Raffles had been sitting; Parson Raffles was remonstrating with him. “My good man,” said the parson in a manner that conveyed doubts about his own choice of adjective, “I feel I should apprise you of the fact that I am a poor traveller and I need to face the front.”
“Good man? D’you know who you’re talking to?”
His doubts confirmed, the parson replied, “I can see you are no gentleman, despite your attempt at a gentleman’s garb.”
Ooh, thought Xandra, this could turn into an interesting journey.
“I am Alfred Smith. You’ll know my name, of course.”
“I do not, and I have no wish to hear more of it.”
Alfred Smith, no more than twenty-five years of age, held high a bulging, chinking, pouch. “Alfred Smith shall soon be one of the richest men in the county and you’ll be saying you had the good fortune to meet the great man.”
Parson Raffles climbed in the carriage and sat next to, and almost on top of, the aspiring great, but currently drunk and scrawny, Alfred Smith.
The driver, clearly still annoyed at the further delay Xandra had caused, ignored her as she too climbed aboard. “Five o’clock to Canterbury,” he boomed.
“You’ll be telling us ’tis still morning next,” called a jocular bystander. “’tis nearer seven.”
“And it will be dark by the time we near Canterbury,” murmured the parson.
No sooner had Martha and Xandra climbed aboard than the coach set off.
“Mr Alfred Smith, Miss,” said the new traveller eyeing Xandra from head to foot and attempting a friendly smile which, due to the amount of alcohol he had obviously consumed, morphed into a leer.
“She’s lost her bonnet,” said Martha defensively.
Xandra did indeed wish for a wide brimmed bonnet to hide behind. Just where was hers?
Parson Raffles turned to Alfred Smith and said, “Neither this young lady nor any of those here wish to converse with you and we shall be grateful if you will fall into the arms of Morpheus.”
“And that’s not me!” exclaimed Martha leaning as far away from
the smirking man as possible.
Undeterred, even by a bout of loud hiccupping, Alfred Smith inclined towards Xandra as if to touch her face. Immediately her arm flew up and sent his hand smacking back into his nose. Angrily, he sneered, “You’ll be sorry. Think you’re too good for me, you muddy-booted charlatan. See here,” he said waving his money pouch in front of Xandra’s eyes, “feel the weight of that, and that’s the third time I’ve taken him for the fool he is.” He sniggered as he said, “Aces, that’s what I’ve got – lots!” His boasting impressed none of them, though he looked gratified in granting himself some redress for being so energetically rebuffed. He began muttering, settled back into the corner of the carriage and soon fell asleep. No one spoke after that. Xandra took off her shawl with the convenient hole in the middle, rolled it into a makeshift pillow and gratefully closed her eyes.
The journey proceeded uneventfully until the coach stopped abruptly. Alfred Smith continued to snore but the other occupants stirred.
“No cause for alarm, Miss Mulberry, they’ll just be lighting the lamps,” murmured the parson.
Xandra was surprised to see what looked like the guard’s shotgun being flung past the window and into the bushes at the side of the road. She felt the guard dismount from the back.
Clearly Martha was aware too for she gripped Xandra’s hand. “Luvucks, girl, ’tis robbers.”
The only sound was of scuffling footsteps. Xandra put her head out of the open window; she could make out the driver and guard shambling away from the back of the coach. A tall man, attired in long, black leather boots, black knee breeches and a dark jacket stood at a short distance, facing her. He held a pistol in each hand. Keeping one pistol covering the receding men, he approached slowly. He turned his head to roar at the guard and driver, “Kneel.” And they did. He turned to face Xandra again, paused, and then quietly but with no doubt that it was a command, said, “Alight.” Only his eyes were visible between the kerchief covering his nose and mouth and the black hat pulled down to his eyebrows.
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