Look Ahead, Look Back (The Snipesville Chronicles Book 3)

by Annette Laing

  “Do you think the Professor will show up?” she asked quietly.

  “Of course,” Brandon said with a confidence he didn’t feel. “That’s probably why she went missing. I bet she’s already here.”

  Hannah said nothing. That wasn’t really how time-travel worked: They always arrived back at the same time they had left, so they weren’t missed. But she wanted so much to believe what Brandon was saying. Now another thought struck her. “Have we got any money?”

  Brandon searched his pocket and, with relief, drew out a small leather pouch filled with coins. Meanwhile, Hannah slipped her hand into a slit in her outer skirt, and felt through several layers of clothing in search of her pocket, before realizing that her pocket was a separate garment. It was strung around her waist between her skirt and petticoat, and from it, she pulled out a purse identical to Brandon’s.

  “Well, good. Money’s always helpful,” said Brandon with a grin.

  The forest wasn’t nearly as deep as they had feared, and within minutes, they had emerged into a field next to a church. “That’s a good sign,” Brandon said, pointing up to the dark shadow of the steeple. “If there’s a church, there’s people. There must be a town or village near here.”

  But there was no town, or even a village, only a miniscule hamlet of five mean cottages clustered at the entrance to the churchyard. A small, bearded old man, wearing a rumpled and dirty white smock and a broad-brimmed black hat, was lolling on a bench outside one of the dwellings, smoking contentedly on a short white clay pipe.

  Hannah waved away his smoke with a peevish look, and said, “Excuse me, what year is this?”

  Well, that gets to the point, Brandon thought.

  The man stared at them, and Brandon worried for a moment that he believed them to be supernatural creatures. But then he cackled and said, “Maid, you are a confused ’un! This here is the year of our Lord seventeen hundred and fifty-two.”

  Brandon cringed inwardly now that his hunch was confirmed. This was the farthest back in time they had ever traveled.

  “Great,” Hannah said sarcastically. “And where are we, exactly?”

  “This here’s the estate belonging to Lord Chatsfield,” the man said patiently. Brandon and Hannah exchanged excited looks.

  “We’re close to Balesworth, then?” Brandon asked, wanting to be sure. If the old man was surprised to meet a strange black kid asking directions, he didn’t show it. Instead, with an amused smile, he pointed the way with his pipe, along a dirt track. “T’ain’t far. Just follow the path.”

  Before they set off, Hannah described Alex to the old man, and asked him to direct her brother to Balesworth if he should pass by.

  Walking toward the town, Hannah glanced back at the church, which was now silhouetted against the fast-setting sun. “I know that church,” she said quietly, with a satisfied smile. “It’s St. Swithin’s. Mrs. D. and me, we climbed the tower in 1940. That seems like a long time ago now.”

  “Funny you should say that,” said Brandon with a bitter smile. “Because, technically, your climb with Mrs. D. hasn’t even happened yet.”

  The kids had known Balesworth in several incarnations across time. In 1940, it was a small market town. In 1851, it was a rural backwater. And twenty-first century Balesworth was something else again, a bustling medium-sized city.

  But Brandon and Hannah were truly astonished by what they saw in 1752. Hannah could only say “Wow . . .” when she clapped eyes on the High Street, the main road that ran through the town.

  As night fell, the High Street was thick with coaches and wagons, men on horseback, and heavily-laden people on foot, some tending flocks of sheep and herds of cattle. Traffic trickled off to either side of the road as travelers sought rest for the night. Hannah and Brandon joined the river of people and vehicles, just as a lumbering coach, pulled by a team of horses and packed inside and on top with passengers and luggage, took a sharp left through the great archway of an inn’s courtyard.

  “Balesworth is a happening place!” Brandon laughed over the noise. “Who’d have guessed it?”

  “I know, right?” Hannah agreed with a grin.

  She watched in fascination as coaches turned this way and that, left and right, up and down the street, into the courtyards of the various inns. “I guess this explains why Balesworth has so many pubs,” she said excitedly. “You know what this means? They didn’t start out as pubs! They’re, like, hotels.”

  Brandon sighed heavily and gritted his teeth. “Yay, you. Ten thousand points. I know that. I told you before. Balesworth High Street used to be part of the Great North Road. That’s like the freeway is today . . . . I mean, like the freeway in our time.” Suddenly, a thought struck him. “Actually, it kind of reminds me of Snipesville. You know, all those old rundown motels we have on Main Street? Snipesville used to be where people stopped on their way to Florida, on the old Highway 301, before the I-95 freeway got built.”

  Hannah had been proud of figuring out why Balesworth had so many pubs, and she resented Brandon’s patronizing tone. “Too much information,” she sniffed. “Come on. Let’s go check in before they all get full.”

  As Brandon rushed to keep up with her, Hannah made a beeline for the most brightly lit and grandest inn of all. Candles guttered in every window, and the light drew her like a moth to a flame. She boldly shoved open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, holding it open for Brandon. But then she halted in the entrance to the bar, feeling very out of place: The room was full of men. The only woman was a barmaid wielding an earthenware beer jug. A few men looked up from their tankards and card games, but nobody seemed surprised to see two young people enter the bar. A cluster of customers sloshed around their drinks as they laughed uproariously at a joke, while an elderly man slowly ambled across the room toward the staircase. A large man sat down heavily in the corner by the fire, then, taking up a paper spill from a container by the fireplace, lit a foot-long white clay pipe.

  “This place looks like the Leaky Cauldron,” Brandon muttered.

  “You got that right,” said Hannah. “Except no witches. Only wizards. Hey, where’s reception?”

  A male servant with a dishtowel slung over his shoulder caught Hannah’s eye and hurried over. However, he did not give them a welcoming smile. Instead, he scowled at them, and held up both hands to stop the two of them from coming any farther inside. “Can I help you?” he asked guardedly.

  “Yeah, we want to check in,” said Hannah.

  Abruptly, the servant said, “We don’t lodge passengers who arrive on foot.” Then he added in a mocking tone, “We cater only to the coach and carriage trade. Did you arrive by coach or private carriage? No? Then get yourselves to the Woolpack Inn, just up the High Street. They cater to those of your rank.”

  Hannah bridled at him. “We’ve got money, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  But Brandon put a hand on her arm and said quietly, “Leave it, Hannah. Come on, let’s go check out this Woolpack place.”

  The servant gave them both a haughty stare as Brandon returned outside, reluctantly followed by Hannah.

  The Woolpack was not appealing. For one thing, it was obviously filthy: It smelled very, very bad, like unwashed bodies. Cobwebs, dead flies and dirt were scattered about the windowsills and floor. For another, the men in the bar looked rough, and a few of them stared openly at Hannah, making both her and Brandon feel deeply uncomfortable. The kids had no sooner entered the door than they were out again, gulping down fresh air.

  “No,” Hannah said firmly. “No way are we staying there. That place is scary.”

  “Fair enough,” Brandon said, relieved. “But if the other inns won’t take us unless we arrive by coach, what do we do?”

  Hannah exhaled noisily. “So we gotta arrive by coach, I guess. Come on, I’ve got an idea.”

  She led Brandon by the arm toward a whitewashed pub bearing a sign that announced its name as The Balesworth Arms. Brandon smiled. He already knew this establis
hment, having visited it in two other centuries. The kids halted a safe distance away, close to the large arched gate to the left of the building.

  “Next slow coach that comes along,” Hannah muttered, “Let’s get right behind it. They’re so busy, they won’t even see us walk in.”

  Brandon wasn’t so sure, but since he didn’t have a better plan, he nodded. He tried not to look conspicuous as he anxiously gazed south along the highway toward London, while Hannah looked northward. Both of them awaited the telltale lurching silhouette of a coach.

  They had several false alarms when fast post chaise carriages thundered through town, but within minutes, a slow coach lumbered up the street. Fortunately for Hannah and Brandon, the passenger seating on the roof was empty, and so no one spotted the two of them speed walking right behind the coach as it trundled into the Balesworth Arms’ courtyard.

  The moment after vehicle and kids passed through the gates, the big black painted doors slowly swung closed, pushed by two young stable lads wearing smocks. With their backs to Hannah and Brandon, the boys busied themselves latching and bolting the doors for the night, while the coachman supervised the ostlers as they unharnessed the horses. The coach’s passengers, meanwhile, gathered their hand luggage and disembarked, looking as relieved to be on the ground as any air traveler in the twenty-first century.

  Brandon and Hannah tried hard to look like they fit in while they hovered on the edges of the activity. Nobody paid them any attention.

  At the side courtyard entrance to the Balesworth Arms, a very fat and tall man in his late fifties was standing with legs planted firmly apart. From beneath his slightly-askew white wig, he smiled genially at the newly-arrived passengers, all of whom were respectably-dressed men.

  “Welcome to Balesworth, gentlemen,” the innkeeper boomed cheerfully, stretching his arms wide in greeting. “My name is Jenkins, and as landlord of this house, I bid you a warm welcome to the Balesworth Arms. Be so good as to step this way. My servants will direct you to your quarters, and then serve you a fine dinner of choicest steak.”

  Nervous, and expecting to be busted at any minute, Hannah and Brandon followed the passengers inside, while the servants continued to unpack luggage from the coach. As the guests passed through the doorway, a maidservant stationed in the hall glanced at their feet, then handed each of them a pair of slippers from a large basket.

  Hannah and Brandon accepted the slippers offered them, and then sat on a wooden bench in the hall, and fiddled with removing their street shoes. Both struggled with the unfamiliar buckles, and with fitting into the slippers, which were too small in Brandon’s case, and too large in Hannah’s. While the maid helped them find better-suited footwear from her basket, they heard a woman’s voice greeting the guests.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” said the voice. “I am Mrs. Jenkins, and I am gratified to be of service to you. Our servants will deliver your luggage to your respective rooms, and I invite you all to inspect our accommodations before dinner, should you wish to do so.”

  When Hannah and Brandon finally found and put on satisfactory slippers, they stood up to get a look at Mrs. Jenkins. She was a tall, dignified woman in her mid-fifties, wearing a long blue dress, a white bonnet, and a plain white apron tied around her waist. She was also the spitting image of Mrs. Devenish, their foster mother in World War Two Balesworth. Their mouths fell open.

  Hannah loudly blurted out, “Mrs. D!”

  The room instantly fell silent, and at that moment, everyone also clearly heard Brandon’s angry whisper of “Shut up, Hannah!”

  Mrs. Jenkins shot the kids a startled look, but she quickly gathered her wits, cleared her throat, and continued with her welcome speech.

  Hannah, meanwhile, was gazing at her in fascination. As the guests began to shuffle toward the staircase behind Mrs. Jenkins, Hannah turned excitedly to Brandon. “Oh, my God, Brandon. That’s the woman in the picture Verity sent me! I’m sure of it!”

  “Either that,” said Brandon, “Or a lot of Brits look alike, and it’s one big fat coincidence. But I think you’re right. You know,” he added with a grin, “it’s very helpful that she’s here. This must be where we’re supposed to be. We always seem to end up with a member of Verity’s family.”

  “Hmm,” said Hannah absentmindedly. “But how can we afford to live in a hotel? I’m not even sure we can stay for one night.”

  As the passengers tromped upstairs, Hannah and Brandon followed. At the landing, Mrs. Jenkins directed Brandon to a room, which he was discomfited to realize that he would be sharing with strangers. To Hannah, she said kindly, “Since you are the only female traveler, you shall have a room all to yourself.” Then she opened a door, and bid Hannah enter.

  As Hannah stepped forward, Mrs. Jenkins lightly laid a hand on her arm. “You do remind me of someone, my dear,” she said with a kindly smile.

  Hannah was unnerved. “I don’t really think we know each other,” she replied awkwardly.

  “No,” sighed Mrs. Jenkins. “I suppose ’tis just a curious happenstance. Please accept my apologies.”

  Their tour of the Balesworth Arms complete, Brandon, Hannah, and the other guests returned to the dining room, at the center of which sat a large oak table. At the head of the table stood Mr. Jenkins, who smiled heartily at the guests. “You arrive in good time for a fine repast,” he announced. “For recompense of only two shillings, I am pleased to offer you steaks of your choosing from the fireplace, with carrots and roasted potatoes, to be followed by plum pudding and choicest Cheddar cheese. Mrs. Jenkins will now show you to the kitchen, there to select your steaks.”

  Two shillings seemed reasonable to Brandon, but he overheard a pair of passengers grousing about the outrageous cost of the meal. One of them asked Mr. Jenkins whether there was a tavern in Balesworth where he might seek a cheaper supper. Mr. Jenkins’s reply was a stony-faced “No.”

  Most of the passengers, however, were too hungry to argue over the price, and the kitchen smelled temptingly delicious. Slabs of meat sizzled on racks over the coal fire. Some steaks were barely browned, some had turned to shoe leather, but still others looked perfectly done. The would-be diners jostled each other as they lined up, craning their necks to spot the best-looking steaks. Once they were handed plates and cutlery, they took turns spearing steaks and lifting them from the fire, using their two-pronged forks. When Brandon reached the front of the line, he chose a filet with heavy grid marks on it, and he prodded it to be sure it was done before spearing it and lifting it onto his pewter plate.

  While the guests trickled back to the table, two servants stood by to offer steaming bowls of vegetables. Hannah sat down, and the maid immediately leaned over her shoulder, and deposited a heap of piping-hot golden-brown roasted potatoes on her plate. They smelled wonderful. However, the carrots which the young waiter served her were not so appealing: They were so overcooked and waterlogged that they were practically liquid. But when she turned to complain, the boy had moved on to another guest.

  Shrugging, she cut into her steak. It was rare and bloody, and she recoiled. She turned to Brandon and whined about it until, to shut her up, he finally offered to swap meats with her, an offer she happily accepted.

  Brandon, rolling his eyes at Hannah’s pickiness, tasted the coffee, and grimaced. He decided that it was not coffee at all. It was a sort of warm brown liquid, and that was where its resemblance to coffee ended. He pushed it aside, and asked the manservant for a glass of water. When he got only an incredulous look in return, he pulled the coffee back in front of him.

  A man sitting opposite took a large bite of potato, and chased it down with a gulp of alleged coffee. Then he turned his attention to Hannah and Brandon. “You weren’t on our coach,” he said firmly through a mouthful of food, looking Hannah in the eye. Shocked, Hannah silently appealed to Brandon for help.

  Unlike Hannah, Brandon had presence of mind. He said casually, “No, I don’t think we met you before. We arrived on a coach about an hou
r ago. We went to have a look at the horses in the stables, so we missed our time for supper.” The man seemed satisfied with that explanation, and returned his attention to his food.

  The meal otherwise passed without incident. Toward the end, as some guests cleaned their plates with chunks of white bread, others started to drift toward the bar, or upstairs to their rooms. Soon, Hannah and Brandon were alone. They tucked into their desserts, sweet and hot plum pudding, darkly thick with dried fruit and spicy with cinnamon and nutmeg.

  Just as they scraped the last crumbs from their pewter bowls, Mrs. Jenkins stalked out of the kitchen, making straight for the kids. She put her hands on the table, and leaned over them threateningly. “Whence came you?” she demanded loudly.

  Brandon, shocked, gulped as he instinctively shrank back from the angry old woman. “About an hour ago,” he said.

  Mrs. Jenkins shook her head impatiently. “I asked you whence, not when. From where did you enter this inn?”

  He tried to look truthful while Hannah stared at the floor. “On a coach,” he said.

  “You did not,” the landlady snapped, thumping the table with her fist. “None of my other guests saw you.”

  “Not the same coach as the others,” Hannah said quickly. “An earlier one.”

  The landlady arched an eyebrow at her. “One of the gentlemen said that he saw you join their company on foot after they disembarked. Now, give me good reason why I ought not to take a broom and chase you from my premises.”

  “We’ve got money,” Brandon said, holding up his purse. “We can pay.”

  Mrs. Jenkins took the pouch from his outstretched hand, peered inside, then shook out a couple of silver coins and held them up. “I will take two florins for your dinner. Now be off with you.”

  Hannah burst into tears. She was so tired, and so frightened of having nowhere to stay except the scary, smelly inn down the street.

  Mrs. Jenkins was a tough woman, but she was not cruel, and Hannah’s breakdown softened her. She took in their anxious faces, looked once again into Brandon’s purse, and removed more money, and showed it to them. “You may remain tonight,” she said firmly. “And be gone on the morrow.”