Perfect. I curtsied and left as quickly as Harriet had. While I should have sought out Harriet to comfort her, I needed to take advantage of the storm.
I hurried down the stairs and out into the garden. Rain needled my face, my chest, the backs of my hands. I closed my eyes and lifted my face up to the storm. The warm rain ran down my arms, and my skirts grew heavy with water; it felt as if gravity were trying to suck me into the earth. Vincent stood under the arched doorway with his forehead wrinkled in worry and his ears back.
“My lady!” a male servant called from the open door. “Please come in. Think of your health.”
I turned and waved to him. “I’m fine,” I called. “This is just something I need to do.” Once I returned to the future, Blanche could deal with convincing the entire palace that she wasn’t insane.
After another ten minutes of rain, I was soaked to the skin but still here, still in 1560, still stuck in Blanche’s plump, unwieldy body. Why didn’t the lightning take me? Exhausted, I dragged myself back into the palace. Damn it, damn it, damn it.
My skirts clung to my legs and threatened to trip me at every step. It didn’t help that Vincent danced in a circle around me. Distracted, I managed to take a wrong turn somewhere and was in a hallway I didn’t recognize, having to squint because the two candle sconces were losing the battle against the dark.
Then a door flew open at the end of the hallway, and a woman stumbled in from the rain. When she passed the first candle, I could see it was Harriet.
“Hell’s gate, Harriet, you’re soaked.”
She stood before me, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking. I pulled her close. “There’s no need to be afraid, but surely you know that running outside makes you less safe, not more.”
She sobbed against my shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Harriet pulled back to look at me. Her hair had come undone and was plastered against her face and neck. “Believe me, I would tell you if I could.”
“Has someone hurt you?”
“No, no. I must go.” She jerked free and disappeared down a side hallway, her wet slippers slapping against the tile. I sagged against the wall for a minute, then retraced my steps. What an awful night. Harriet had been driven mad with fear by the storm, and I was still in 1560.
I finally found my way back to a familiar hallway and encountered Rosemary dusting a painting. “Oh my,” she said, scanning the soggy me.
As she helped me up to my room, getting herself wet in the process, I apologized once again for slapping her days earlier, but she tutted as if it were nothing. She untied and unlaced me while I stood there shivering, then she lifted the wet chemise over my protesting head. She toweled me down, then helped me into my linen nightgown and robe.
My heart hurt from my failure. Why did one storm sweep me back into my real life, and another leave me here? Rosemary left as Kat Ashley appeared in the doorway. “The Queen has requested you share her bed this evening.”
“I share her what?”
“Do not be ignorant. You know you are her favorite. It shall be you and Lady Clinton.”
“Three of us?” I squeaked.
“Why have you begun lately to play the idiot? Off you go. And this time, try not to be so entertaining. The last time you slept with the Queen, you made her majesty laugh so hard she nearly choked.”
Great, just great. If there were any situation in which I would be revealed as not Blanche, this would be it.
I made my way to the Queen’s bedchamber. The stone floors were frigid, and by the time I reached my destination, so were my feet. Lady Clinton was already there undressing the Queen, so I hurried to help. I knew how to perform this task, since it was all about undoing laces and ties. The dark room was lit only by four candles. Even thought it was August, a fire raged in the fireplace, and it felt good.
The Queen sighed as I unlaced her incredibly tight stomacher. “Ah, Blanche, dressing like a queen can be wearisome.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said dutifully as I searched for the ties holding up the skirts.
Elizabeth peered down her nose at me. “That is all you have? Yes, ma’am? You have no biting comment about the unfairness of parading our narrow waist before our prospective suitors?” Her voice was light, but the tightness around her eyes revealed her worry for Dudley’s brush with death by poison.
“No, ma’am.”
The skirts dropped, and I gathered them in my arms. Outside, as rain blasted the window, I prayed for lightning even though I was uncertain it would do the trick since I’d already been rejected once by this storm.
Lady Clinton folded back the bedding while Elizabeth seated herself on a flowered upholstered stool and looked at me. On the table next to her were a massive silver-handled brush and a series of combs. I grabbed the brush and began searching Elizabeth’s head for the pins holding up her hair. I managed to take it down and begin brushing the glorious red locks without appearing too inept, but my hands shook. Elizabeth’s hair was lush, glistening with red-gold highlights. I stopped, sick when I remembered that Elizabeth would fall gravely ill from small pox only two years from now. Near death, she would name Dudley as the “protector of the kingdom.” She would recover, but the disease would leave her skin pocked, her hair thinned, and her scalp entirely bald in spots. I swallowed hard as the thick, red waves slid through my palms.
I blew out the candles, then climbed into the bed with Elizabeth and bit off a shriek at the cold, hard mattress. With the Queen in the middle, I lay on my back, goose down quilt pulled up to my chin, while Lady Clinton chatted about something that had happened in the gardens this afternoon. I racked my brain for a story I could share with the Queen, but all I had were 1) I was from the future; 2) I was not really Blanche Nottingham, but only inhabiting her body; 3) Winston and I were conspiring to do something treasonous; and 4) Robert Dudley had flirted with me. None of these would make a royal bedtime story.
When Lady Clinton fell silent, Elizabeth sighed and cuddled against me. “Tell us something funny, or even better, outrageous. We must divert our thoughts from useless worry.”
My head was only inches from the woman considered to be the greatest queen England had ever had and possibly the greatest ruler. In the firelight, her green eyes were tired but bright. The bed had begun to warm, but when Elizabeth planted her icy feet against my legs, I gasped. “God’s blood, your feet are cold.”
It was a girl who chuckled in delight, not the Queen of England. Who would ever believe that I would be cuddling up with Queen Elizabeth I? I felt so comfortable that I could have been at home with Chris on the sofa, both of us huddled under the big floral comforter we kept by the TV.
My throat tightened. “I seem to be fresh out of outrageous tonight.”
She sighed, nestling deeper into her pillow. “Then tell us a story, any story.”
I could think of only one. “Once upon a time there was a boy named Harry. He lived in the cupboard beneath his uncle’s stairs. His aunt and uncle and cousin treated Harry horribly, like a servant, because they were afraid of him. They were worried Harry might be a wizard like his parents.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Ah, a wizard story. Our favorite.”
I had gotten Harry to Diagon Alley and was deep into a description of this hidden part of London, when there was a commotion outside the door. Men’s voices, then laughter. The door burst open and in strode Robert Dudley and a servant, both bearing torches. Lady Clinton shrieked and pulled up the covers, but Elizabeth sat up in her nightgown, nipples hard against the linen. Dudley swept off his hat and bowed with an elaborate flourish “I am unable to sleep tonight until I steal one more glimpse of Your Grace’s face.” He straightened, eyes sparkling at Elizabeth.
“Oh, Robin, I have been so distraught—” She stopped, pressing the back of one hand to her mouth until she could gather herself back into the Queen. She plumped up her pillow and sat back against the wall. “Well, Robin, we would hate to be the caus
e of your insomnia. Perhaps you should ride your new mare if you are unable to sleep.”
Robert gave a sly smile and sat on the foot of the bed. “Oh, thoughts of…riding would make it even more impossible to sleep.”
Elizabeth roared with laughter and flung her pillow at him.
My heart raced. First, this was wrong. Rumors about Elizabeth and Dudley would plague her reign. Second, what if Winston found out that Dudley had been here, and I hadn’t told him? But I’d had no warning.
What would Blanche do? I wanted to cower under the covers with Lady Clinton, but instead I leapt out of bed, grabbed my own pillow, and began beating him back toward the door. Everyone laughed as I managed to finally get Dudley out of the room. “And don’t return until your thoughts of riding involve only horses.” I slammed the door in his grinning face.
Elizabeth lay back in the bed, still laughing. “Oh, Blanche, there is nothing like a good pillow fight. Let us fall asleep with Robin’s smile in our eyes.”
I crawled back into bed. Within minutes, Lady Clinton was snoring softly from the other side of the bed.
Elizabeth sighed. “He is a wicked man to burst into our room, is he not?”
“Very wicked,” I said. Thunder boomed in the background, making me think I should try the storm again.
“But oh, so wickedly handsome.” Silence settled over us, then the Queen sighed again. “’Tis a cruel twist of fate that we must love a man whom others insist we must not take as our husband.”
I propped myself up on an elbow. “Why do they resist him?”
The bed rustled as Elizabeth turned. “He is a commoner, and the people would never accept a commoner for a king.”
“Can’t you, well, make him a noble? Make him Sir Robert Dudley?” Elizabeth would do precisely that in a few years.
I could feel her turning the idea over in her mind. “Yes, we could do that. But there is much opposition to Robin as our consort.” Her voice softened. “We wonder why, in this world, we have so much sorrow and tribulation and so little joy. Robin brings us joy, yet many men, Lord Winston amongst them, speak foully of him even though they know it upsets us.”
I stiffened. “Do you know why Lord Winston objects?”
“He believes it would be bad for the realm, yet Robin has a good head on his shoulders and we enjoy having him around.” Her voice slowed as sleep began to take her. “And we do love him so.…”
I felt sick to my stomach as Blanche’s life tightened around me like a noose.
“Blanche?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Will you tell me more of poor Harry’s story tomorrow?”
“Certainly. Pleasant dreams.”
“And you as well.” She snuggled closer. “We love that you can both make us laugh and, with your stories, make us think. You are our beloved Spark.”
The Queen’s breath lightly brushed my hands as sleep approached. I liked this woman and would be sad to leave her. I would wait another ten minutes, then slip from the bed and into the storm. But as I lay there, listening to the Queen breathe, thunder boomed directly overhead and suddenly I was yanked—hard, rude, lightning fast—up into a darkness blacker than night and colder than ice.
Chapter Fourteen
The sense of zooming faster than light came to an end. I opened my eyes and inhaled Chris’s scent—Aveda shampoo, Obsession perfume. We were in bed, spooning, with my arm flung over her. I held my breath, waiting for the hum of my earlier dream, but it didn’t come. I lifted my head, then kissed Chris’s neck, choking back a sob. I was back!
Despite my joy, the sense of disorientation gave me a headache. To instantaneously exchange one set of sights, sounds, and smells for another was insane.
“Blanche, you are frickin’ amazing,” Chris whispered. My eyes widened. “It’s been over five weeks since your accident. I thought we’d never make love again. But these last few nights have been unlike anything I’ve ever known.” She pulled me closer as I tried to sort this out. Chris just had sex with Blanche. Jealousy flared, and I wanted to wring Blanche Nottingham’s neck.
“So everything feels…normal again?” Except that Chris had just called me Blanche, which was anything but normal.
Chris kissed my wrist. “Nothing feels normal, and that’s why I love it. You were pretty out of it those first two weeks, but you’ve really popped back. In fact, you’re better than ever. You have energy. You have drive. You really took what I said to heart. You’re bubbling over with ambition. I love that.”
I needed to watch a movie of the last five weeks. How had Blanche adjusted so well? I, at least, knew something about 1560 from my studies, but there was no way Blanche could know anything about the future. She was obviously better at adapting than I was.
“So you think I’m doing okay?” I asked.
“Are you kidding me? You’ve stopped working on those stupid Froggity paintings. You’re starting to write. It’s all so exciting.”
Another clap of thunder made us both jump. Unable to just sit there and let myself get sucked back in time, I crawled from bed and reached for my robe, which rested, as it always did, on the small chair against the wall. “I’ll be back,” I murmured and ran to the bathroom. The shock of seeing my own face brought tears to my eyes, but when I opened the robe, a plumper me presented itself. “Hell’s gates,” I snapped.
I wandered through our flat, the streetlights shining a path from room to room. In the kitchen I touched the coffeemaker, the microwave. “A stove,” I murmured. I opened the fridge and downed a glass of milk so cold I wanted to remember this moment forever. And water! I whirled and filled my glass with water, drinking three of them before my stomach began to gurgle. Why did all this taste so good, as if I’d gone without it for weeks even though my body had been here all along, free to eat and drink anything? How many of our desires exist only in our minds, having nothing to do with our bodies?
And there was my cell phone. I picked it up, anxious to call my mom again and tell her everything. But I didn’t. I needed more time to find a way to explain it.
Finally sated of my own world and feeling the past begin to fade, I returned to bed and caressed Chris’s shoulder.
“Chris, could we talk?”
“It’s after midnight, babe.” Chris nestled deeper into the covers.
“I know, but it’s really important.”
Muttering, Chris rolled over, blue eyes nearly black in the dark, face open and relaxed. She smelled of sex. She smelled of me. She plumped up her pillow. “What?”
“Could you describe everything that I’ve been doing since the accident in Rajamani’s lab?”
Chris’s eyebrows hitched halfway up her forehead. “Why?”
“Humor me, please. Let’s just say I want to make sure my version of reality matches yours.”
She shrugged. “You spent that day and night in the hospital, then I brought you home the next day. You were pretty out of it, as if everything around you were foreign. I had to show you how to flush the toilet, turn on the water, run the microwave. I was really worried about you because you didn’t want to be touched or held. You just crawled under the covers and stayed there for a week.”
I nodded. Blanche and I had both avoided reality by hiding in bed. Blanche must have been frightened out of her wits, perhaps believing she’d been transported to some sort of hell.
“Then the second week you got better. You started talking to me. You soaked up TV shows and movies like a desert soaks up water. You asked so many questions you drove me insane. Your interest in the Tudors flared up again, and you began skimming through all your books about Elizabeth I. You asked me to remind you how to use your computer and how to research on the Web.”
I shuddered. Now that Blanche was back in 1560, what would she do with the information she’d learned? Would she see that killing Dudley was a really bad idea? Would she somehow harm Elizabeth and change history?
But I was impressed at the woman’s quick recovery. Would I ha
ve been so brave as to embrace the strange world in which I found myself? Back in 1560, all I’d done was stay out of trouble.
“And this week?”
Chris’s lazy grin told me all I needed to know about the sexual component of our relationship. “You’ve been amazing, babe. Insatiable.” She sighed happily, and a pang of something I couldn’t identify nearly broke me in two. How could I be jealous of myself?
“And then a few days ago you showed me the first three chapters of your novel. God, Jamie—oops, Blanche, I had no idea you could write.” She reached for my hand. “You really took what I said to heart. I wanted you to want more for yourself, and you’re doing it. You’re reaching out in ways that would have terrified the old you.”
“You mean the me before Rajamani’s equipment zapped me nearly to death.”
“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think? You got a jolt of electricity, that’s all. And it was good for you. Now you’re writing a novel.”
“A novel.” I shook my head. This Blanche was unbelievable. “And you like what you’ve read?”
“It’s fucking brilliant. Sleeping with the Queen will reach out and grab everyone.”
“That’s the title?” I laughed weakly. How could this be happening? “Okay, Chris, I appreciate the recap, but I need to tell you something.”
She waited.
“The reason I needed you to explain the last weeks is because I haven’t been here.”
“You were certainly out of it that first week, but—”
“No, I literally haven’t been here. The instant Rajamani’s equipment sparked in the storm my mind—my consciousness—was transported.” I took a deep breath. “I know this sounds insane, but it’s true and I need you to believe me. I woke up in the body of a woman in 1560, one of Queen Elizabeth’s ladies-in-waiting. Her name was Blanche Nottingham.”
Chris chuckled. “Is this the story you’ll tell people to explain your pen name?”
My eyes fluttered shut. “The pen name I’m using is Blanche Nottingham?”
“I think it’s cute.”
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