Elise sighed. She tried not to dwell on her hurt, but every morning the misery assaulted her afresh. She’d put her trust in the men in her life, and they had all betrayed her. Her father sold her in marriage and left the country, Gavin had sworn his love then married another, and James had abandoned her to her fate. Did he not care about the child she carried? He might have done his father’s bidding, but somewhere deep inside he had to have some feelings about the coming babe. It was his, after all. He’d been gone since the very day she discovered she was pregnant, and there had been complete silence since.
“How about the green gown today?” Lucy asked once she finished coifing Elise’s hair. “Ye look ever so lovely in that shade. Shall I fetch it for ye?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Elise sighed. “I’ll wear whatever gown you choose, Lucy.”
“Come now. Ye must take care. A lady should always look her best.”
“For whom?” Elise demanded. “There’s no one here.”
“Still, ye must do it for yerself. How about a walk in the garden after breakfast? That’ll lift your spirits, I wager. ’Tis a beautiful morning, and mayhap Lady Barbara will join ye. She likes looking at the flowers.”
“All right,” Elise conceded. A walk did sound good. It was a beautiful, sunny day outside, and the prospect of getting out of this tomb of a house was suddenly very appealing.
“Ah, there ye go,” Lucy cackled. “I see a ghost of a smile. I know I do. Just let me finish my chores, and I’ll come with ye. His lordship said ye’re not to go out alone.”
“What, even to the garden?” Elise gasped. Did he know that she used the garden gate to slip out when she went to Southwark, or was he afraid that, given half a chance, she’d throw herself into the river? He probably wouldn’t care if I did, as long as I gave birth to a son first, Elise thought bitterly.
“Now, now,” Lucy chided as she watched Elise’s expression in the looking glass. “No feeling sorry for yerself. Ye are young, beautiful, and wealthy. Life won’t always be like this. Ye’ll see. Things have a way of changing when ye least expect them, they do,” she added wisely. “Me mam always said that the good Lord loves us the most when we are at our lowest.”
Elise threw Lucy an amused look. “I must have a ways to go yet since the good Lord seems to take no interest in me.”
“Don’t blaspheme, me lady. The good Lord knows all, and he won’t let ye down.”
Elise chose not to point out that the good Lord let down countless people every single day. He wasn’t there for the women who died in childbirth, the children who died before reaching adulthood. Nor was he there for the countless men who died on battlefields or the streets of the city from disease, hunger, or work accidents. And he certainly wasn’t there for her.
Elise allowed Lucy to finish dressing her and made her way downstairs, where she ate a solitary breakfast of buttered bread and ale. She barely tasted what she ate. She had no desire for food this morning, but the babe was hungry, so she had to eat.
Chapter 31
By the time Elise returned to the house, she felt marginally better. They’d spent an hour in the garden, and despite her sour mood, the sight of colorful blooms and the heady fragrance of primroses lifted her spirits. Barbara drifted off to the parlor as soon as they came back in, intent on returning to her crewelwork, but Elise decided to stop by the kitchen for a cool drink. She was suddenly very thirsty. Elise walked along the passage, acutely aware of the silence enveloping the house. The only place bustling with activity was the kitchen, where Cook and several kitchen maids worked all day long to bake bread, roast meat, and prepare numerous side dishes that were hardly touched unless Edward came home. She supposed the servants ate well these days since all the leftovers went straight back to the kitchen for their own dinner.
Elise stopped just outside the kitchen when she heard Cook’s cry of dismay. She sounded unusually upset, her voice trembling with unchecked panic. She was normally a level-headed woman who ran her kitchen as a captain would his ship, so her distress was alarming.
“We must double our order of flour. Or even triple it. We don’t know ’ow long it’ll last this time,” Cook exclaimed. “And take stock of all our stores.”
“Come now, Bess, don’t ye despair. We’ve weathered it afore, and we will again,” a calm male voice said. It was the gardener, Cook’s husband, who’d come in for a cup of ale before returning to his work.
“Nay, John, I refuse to sit idly by,” Cook screeched. “We ought to prepare. There’ve already been several deaths in St. Giles, St. Clement Danes, and St. Andrew. A dwellin’ ’ad been sealed up in St. Giles, but a riot broke out, and they freed the condemned, those soft-’earted fools. Don’t they know what will ’appen?” Cook wailed.
“Bess, this ’appens every year,” her husband tried to soothe her. “We are safe ’ere in ’is lordship’s ’ouse. ’Tis the poor that ’ave to worry, living in such close quarters as they do. We’re well removed from the city gates and slums.”
“Not far enough,” Cook retorted. “What’ya think, ye daft fool, that no people of quality die from the plague? Why, the king himself could be in danger. ’E’ll be off to the country, ye mark my words, leaving the common folk to die.”
Cook sounded quite hysterical, and Elise was suddenly no longer thirsty. She turned and fled, going back up to her bedroom. This was terrible news indeed. She’d been so wrapped up in her own feelings that she hadn’t paid much heed to what was happening outside. There were deaths from the plague every year, but having lived in Southwark, Elise and the rest of the family felt relatively safe. The first plague deaths each year were reported in areas close to the docks, having been brought to London aboard ships from Europe. Measures, in the form of a quarantine, had been instituted by the Privy Council. Ships from infected areas were required to dock at Hole Haven at Canvey Island for a period of forty days before entering the Thames Estuary. Only ships with a certificate of health were allowed to proceed upriver, and they had to pass another checkpoint at Tilbury or Gravesend.
Elise could understand Cook’s distress, but she thought the older woman was overreacting. Most deaths occurred in poor, overcrowded areas where people lived in squalor and filth. Those areas were found closest to the city gates and beyond city limits, in the Liberties. They were quite safe here; there was no need for panic. Besides, Edward was always at Whitehall Palace. He was privy to the latest news and would look after them should the need arise.
Elise kicked off her shoes and crawled into bed. Sunlight flooded the room, but she didn’t bother to draw the bed hangings. She was suddenly very tired and was asleep within minutes.
Chapter 32
November 2013
London, England
Quinn got off the tube at Charing Cross Station and walked briskly toward St. Martin-in-the-Fields, where Rhys was due to meet her at ten. She’d considered if it was worth visiting a few other churches in the area just to give Rhys the impression that she was searching for a needle in a haystack, but she dismissed the idea. If Elise lived at Asher Hall, as all evidence suggested, then it stood to reason that she would have attended St. Martin-in-the-Fields, as it was the only church in the area at the time. Several other parishes were created later on in the seventeenth century to relieve the overcrowding, but that would have happened after Elise’s death. St. Martin’s had been enlarged and beautified during the reign of James I, and it would have been the church Elise was married in and attended until her untimely death.
The grandiose building that towered over Trafalgar Square was not the original church of St. Martin. There had been a church on the site as far back as medieval times, but the neoclassical building that graced the square now had been built in the eighteenth century. The church Elise attended would have been the one built during the reign of Henry VIII with the intention of diverting plague victims away from Whitehall Palace. The Tudor building was constructed of brick and decorated with stone facings. It boasted a tall tower with butt
resses that could be seen for miles. At the time of construction, the area was quite literally a field between the cities of London and Westminster, hence the name St. Martin-in-the-Fields.
Quinn ascended the steps and smiled at Rhys, who was leaning against a column, hands in his pockets as he watched her approach. He had a knack for looking casual and elegant at the same time, a trick that few men mastered. Gabe always looked a bit disreputable, no matter how much effort he put in. He joked that it was the dark stubble that shadowed his jaw by midmorning and made him look slightly piratical, a genetic “gift” from the Norman ancestors whose portraits graced the gallery of his family home.
“I’d nearly given up on you,” Rhys said as she gave him a peck on the cheek.
“I’m only ten minutes late,” Quinn protested, glancing at her watch.
“I know. Just teasing. Shall we go in?”
They walked into the building and instantly lowered their voices so as not to disturb the solemn hush of the church. There was no service in progress, but at least two dozen tourists milled about, taking pictures and craning their necks to admire the soaring ceiling illuminated by chandeliers suspended by cables at equal intervals. Unlike most churches, this building was filled with space and light, and it could have just as easily been used as a palace instead of a place of worship.
“So, you think this would have been the church Lord Asher attended?” Rhys asked as his eyes scanned the stunning interior.
“It would have to be, although, of course, it wouldn’t have been this modern incarnation of the building. Everyone in his household would have attended it as well, unless they were Catholic, but given the jewelry we found and quality of the gown, the servants are of no interest to us. What we are looking for is anyone from the Asher family. The woman might have been his wife, or his daughter,” Quinn added.
“How do you know he had a daughter?” Rhys asked, intrigued.
“I don’t. I’m only suggesting that it’s possible,” Quinn improvised. She’d have to be more careful. She knew much about the Asher household from her visions, but ninety percent of what she had gleaned wasn’t supported by any historical data. She’d done extensive research on Lord Asher but found only a few mentions of his name in relation to the Privy Council. What she needed was personal information, but Edward Asher had been a courtier—a man largely forgotten by history.
“I think this is a long shot, actually,” Quinn said as they proceeded down the nave. “The records from the seventeenth century are likely no longer kept here, but I thought we’d ask.”
Rhys stopped to admire the ceiling while Quinn approached a woman in her thirties wearing a clerical collar.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Allenby, and that’s my colleague, Rhys Morgan. I was wondering if we might have a look at the archives. We are researching an individual who might have attended this parish in the mid-seventeenth century.”
The woman smiled pleasantly. “We do keep some records here, but they date from the twentieth century until the present. All the parish records from the seventeenth century have been moved to the City of Westminster Archive at 10 St. Anne Street,” the vicar replied. “We have so many people stopping by who are in search of their family history. I do wish we could be of more help.”
“You have been. Thank you very much.”
“Phew, I’m done in,” Quinn said as she closed a dusty parish register several hours later. “But I’m glad we got something.” She slammed her notebook shut with finality, stowed it in her bag and rose to her feet, easing her back.
“I’m starving,” Rhys announced.
“Why am I not surprised?” Quinn laughed.
“Oh, come now, we’ve been at it for hours. Let’s go get some lunch.”
“All right,” Quinn conceded. “I suppose I could eat.”
They walked to Osteria Dell’Angolo a few blocks away—Rhys’s suggestion. Rhys leaned back in his chair after they placed their order and studied Quinn across the table, his expression inquisitive. He looked as if he was about to say something, but he remained silent instead, waiting for her to speak. Quinn noticed that he did that from time to time, silently manipulating his companion into filling the void. It was a good way of getting people to talk, and Rhys liked information.
“Why are you looking at me that way?” Quinn asked. She felt disconcerted by his intense stare. It wasn’t unfriendly, just full of expectation.
“There’s something you are not telling me,” Rhys informed her.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Quinn countered.
“Quinn, I watched you go through those registers. You weren’t just searching, you were looking for something specific.”
“Of course I was. I was looking for any mention of Lord Edward Asher.”
“It wasn’t him you were interested in. You were looking for a particular name. You came across a record of his first marriage and the baptism of his daughter, but you barely glanced at those. You kept searching, and you found the person you’d been looking for. Elise. How did you know her name?”
“Are you always this irritatingly observant?” Quinn asked in an effort to hide her discomfort. He’d noticed. She tried not to be too obvious, but her delight at finding Elise’s name in the parish register had been difficult to hide. She’d given herself away.
“You know, I think I’d like a glass of wine after all,” Quinn said, looking around for the waiter who seemed to have vanished when she needed him most.
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Was I?”
“Obvious tactic,” Rhys joked. “Please, tell me.”
“I’d rather not.” Quinn looked away, unable to meet his steady gaze. She’d kept her secret for so long, but suddenly she longed to tell him the truth. He didn’t seem like the type of person who’d make her feel foolish and ashamed of her gift.
“Quinn?” Rhys prompted.
“It’s complicated,” she mumbled, still hesitant to share with him. Rhys might find it fascinating, or he might immediately dismiss the possibility that her gift was real and relegate her to the category of a cheap charlatan who tried to capitalize on something she’d invented in her mind and was foolish enough to actually believe in. When faced with something otherworldly, most people were skeptical at best, filled with derision and disbelief at worst.
“What is it? What are you hiding?” Rhys persisted.
Quinn finally looked up to find Rhys’s gray eyes watching her. He reached across the table and took her hand in his.
“Quinn, why won’t you tell me how you know? It’s not as if you’re psychic. You found a reference to her somewhere.”
Quinn laughed nervously. “You see, the thing is that I am.”
“You are what?”
“Psychic. I’ve never really told anyone. Gabe knows, but I never even told Luke, my boyfriend. I thought he’d laugh at me. He was ever so much the scientist.”
Rhys shrugged. “I won’t laugh at you. I know there are a lot of scammers out there, but I do believe that a chosen few have the ability to see into the future—or the past. Are you one of those?”
Quinn nodded. “I can’t see into the past at will. It’s only when I hold an item that belonged to someone who’s passed. I can see images of their life. And I can also feel some small measure of what they felt during certain events in their life.”
“That must be amazing,” Rhys breathed, “especially for a historian, or a filmmaker. What I wouldn’t give to see things as they really were, not as we envision them.”
“It is and it isn’t. I get attached to them, you see. They become real, but I can’t share what I’ve seen with anyone. People in the archeological community would ridicule me and question my scientific data. All I can do is find evidence to support what I have seen. It’s sort of a backhanded way of doing research, but as long as I find what I’m looking for, I can use my knowledge to tell their story.”
“I’m not ashamed, just wary of telling people about it, I suppose. I’ve often wondered if I inherited this ability from one of my parents, but I guess I’ll never know.”
“Do you think it’s genetic?” Rhys asked, his eyes aglow with wonder.
“Isn’t everything, to some degree? I can’t imagine that I got this ability out of nowhere. Someone along the line must have had the same gift. Only I’ve got no one to ask.”
“Yes, I can see how that would be frustrating for you. Still, I think it’s incredible. So, you know who our lovers are, do you?”
“I know who the woman is. I’d decided to start with her. I can see glimpses into her life every time I hold her brooch in my bare hands. I usually use latex gloves when handling artifacts around other people, for fear of going off into a trance.”
“Is that what happened when I came upon you that day by the institute? You looked as if you were a million miles away. Or a few hundred years in the past,” he quipped.
“Yes.”
“And I interrupted.”
“You sure did,” Quinn replied with a grateful smile. She’d been terrified of Rhys finding out, but he was totally fine about it. There was no derision or sneer of contempt. He looked fascinated.
“So, can you tell me about her? Elise,” he said the name slowly, savoring it. Until that moment she’d been a nameless, faceless relic of another time, but now she had a name, and once Quinn described her, she’d have a face.
Quinn felt a pang of sadness as she began to speak, her voice low for fear of disturbing the dead. Hearing Elise’s name spoken out loud had a strange effect. It was almost as if Elise was there, watching Quinn with those bright blue eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips. Quinn had known of her existence for only two weeks, but already Elise had taken over her heart, and Quinn felt a strange kinship with the young, friendless girl who was sure to meet with a tragic end.
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