Endless Time

by Frances Burke

  Conscious of the cold biting through almost to her bones, she dragged herself to her feet. The irony of physical discomfort taking precedence over agony of mind didn’t escape her. You could trust the body to always look after itself, whosever the body might be! Pulling the bedcover off she wrapped it about her, returning to the hearth to crouch over the faint remaining warmth. She thought about what had happened to her.

  Acceptance came hard. Like most of her contemporaries, she had come across a smattering of religions other than her own, even toyed with the idea of looking into them more deeply, some time. But she’d always been too preoccupied with other things. The circumstances of her life scarcely encouraged a belief in a loving creator, still less a wish for immortality of any kind. Who wanted to stay on forever in a world so rife with unhappiness?

  Admittedly there was another side – beauty, challenge, achievement. She discounted love. If it existed it was too vulnerable to survive in the climate created by humanity. But, on balance, the pluses did not seem to be enough. She had never considered the fact that so many millions of people accepted reincarnation as a fact. Now she had to. Whatever had happened to her, while it might not exactly fit the theory of rebirth, there could be no doubt that the essence of Karen Courtney had ended up in another human vehicle. Nothing she’d ever read or heard of could explain that.

  Fervently she wished she’d gone into these matters in detail. Since it was far too late now, with a certain amount of fatalism she recognized the body she presently inhabited was for all purposes her own; and someone had done something unpleasant to it. That being so, it might pay her to find out who and what.

  Perhaps its previous owner had tried to kill herself. Not so surprising, if she was married to a tyrant, she thought resentfully. It would not be her choice. She’d sooner fight back. The man obviously needed a lesson. Such autocratic treatment of wives went out more than a century ago (with the exception of Humphrey and his ilk). But then, this was more than a century ago. It had to be – the furnishings, the manner of dress and speech all fitted the period of the miniature, late Georgian or Napoleonic times.

  Yet, attempted suicide didn’t quite fit the circumstances. Someone who had thrown herself downstairs should surely have more damage to show than a few bruises and an aching head. Maybe it had been a simple accident. Which still didn’t explain how she, Karen, had become involved. The more she puzzled and worked at the conundrum, the worse her head felt.

  Outdoor sounds of hooves and wheels on cobbles probably meant she was in a town of some size, possibly still London itself. But there could be few similarities between a city pre-electricity, pre-major industrialization, and a capital in the age of technology.

  Something niggling at the fringes suddenly burst into the forefront of her mind. What if this Caroline person had been dead before she fell? What if she’d been murdered and thrown downstairs to give the appearance of an accident.

  Familiar waves of panic rose and swelled to a crescendo, finally wiping away all control and sending her scampering to the doorway, a trapped animal desperate to escape.

  He stood there waiting for her, as if he knew the exact moment when she would flout his orders.

  ‘Return to your bed, Caroline. You may rise after you have broken your fast, and not before.’

  ‘No! Let me past. I’ve got to get out of here.’ She tried to dart by and was caught and held. Kicking and struggling futilely against his strength, she was born back into her prison.

  ‘Let me out! I’m not Caroline. I’m not your wretched wife. This isn’t even my time. You don’t understand.’ She beat frantically on his chest, with absolutely no effect.

  ‘Hush. You are hysterical, Caro. Lie down and compose yourself.’

  ‘No, no, no!’ She bounded straight back up from the bed, her shriek enough to rattle the lusters in the lamp overhead. ‘Listen to me! I’m from another time, from the twenty-first century. My name is Karen Courtney. I live in Acacia Road, St. John’s Wood, and I have an aunt named Billie, and a cat, and… Oh, my God! Adele! Adele!’

  Desperately she tried to dodge him but his arms enveloped her, smothering her cries against his chest.

  ‘Caro, Caro, you rave. My dear, calm yourself.’ Real concern colored his voice, proof that her anguish had reached him, but it didn’t help Karen. A sob caught in her throat as he released her suddenly limp body, carefully laying her back on the bed. She turned away from him, burying her face in a pillow, biting into it fiercely. Her hands clutched at the sheets, her nails tearing the fine lace edging as she strove for control. The vision of her child crowded out all other thought. Adele needed her. Her baby had no one but her mother. And who and where was she? A shudder passed through her, leaving her calmer. She turned over and faced the man who was her enemy, and heard him sigh.

  ‘Oh, Caro. If your mind has been affected… Dear Lord! You know how lunatics are treated, as witness the sufferings of our unfortunate monarch.’

  She shivered responsively. Oh, yes. She knew. Poor old George III, restrained in a monstrous iron chair, tortured with hot poultices to draw off evil humors and gagged to stifle his cries – all in the name of ‘modern’ medicine. Who would dare go out of his mind in those times?

  ‘I am not mad,’ she said evenly, although her fingers still clutched at the sheets as if at a lifeline. ‘Really I’m not. But I have to explain to you how frightening it is for me to find myself in a stranger’s body in another world so distant from my own.’ Seeing his expression darken, she faltered, then continued. ‘It’s difficult for you to understand, I do realize…’

  ‘Not difficult, impossible. Madam, you speak too much with reason. I do believe that you are not lunatic, but devious. There is some plot behind this charade of yours. If it pleases you to continue, then do so, but be warned that it will not benefit you. I am not to be deceived. Nor do I believe that you underestimate the dangers of such a game. Do not try me too far, madam, or I might well be driven to have you committed to an institution for the care of diseased minds. It would buy me some peace,’ he added bitterly.

  It silenced Karen. If her fears were a reality, if she really had stepped into another era, she would need to hide her thoughts and guard her actions. Any man of his times, let alone a nobleman as he appeared to be, held enormous power; while a woman of whatever rank counted as little more value than a good horse.

  ‘Well, Caroline?’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  His frown relaxed. ‘If you are well enough to come downstairs, Sybilla and Lady Oriel await you in the small sitting room. I am persuaded that you will wish to reassure them personally regarding your health.’

  Adopting a suitably submissive expression Karen said, ‘I’ll come down when I have eaten. My clothes…’ She looked around, vaguely.

  ‘Your maid has made a remarkable recovery from her indisposition. She will bring you a tray, and later will assist you to rise.’ He crossed to the fire and pulled the bell rope hanging there, then turned and said with the merest hint of irony, ‘May I say that I am overcome with delight at your own swift return to your senses, my dear.’

  Stung, she shot back at him. ‘You’ve given me no choice. You’ve called me a liar and accused me of some kind of plotting. But I guess anybody’s brains would be as scrambled as eggs after the fall I had.’

  His slight start confirmed her suspicion that he had not wanted her to recall the details of her ‘accident’. Last night he had shut the doctor’s mouth smartly when he’d begun to talk.

  ‘How much do you remember, Caro?’

  ‘About what?’

  He shook his head. ‘Your speech is strange. I wonder, now...’

  She leant back against the pillows and marshaled her thoughts. ‘Look here. It’s obvious that I fell heavily. I’ve got the biggest bruises to prove it, plus a headache that’d put Mohammed Ali to bed. What I want to know is how did it happen?’

  ‘You tripped at the head of the stairs, but were fortunately abl
e to catch at the banister rail and arrest your fall. Had you not done so, it might have proved fatal.’

  His unemotional tone enraged her. ‘I might have broken my neck!’

  ‘Yes, you might.’

  ‘And that would have delighted you.’

  ‘No.’ He smiled, this time with true, albeit wry humor. ‘Although you may be forgiven for doubting it.’ He stretched out a hand to her. ‘Come, Caro. Can we not deal better than this? I willingly bear my share of blame for the coldness between us, and would make amends. Will you not meet me? What do you say, my dear?’

  She’d have given a good deal to be able to respond to that offer, so charmingly put and seemingly so honest; but she didn’t dare. Having seen the hard side of this man, knowing he was capable of cutting her down with a word and even using his strength against her, she couldn’t afford to relent. Plain fear dictated her reaction, and unfortunately it was written plainly in her face.

  He withdrew at once. ‘Very well. As you wish. However, I will not permit you to shame me, either publicly or within the family. You will preserve the amenities and be ready to accompany me down to the small parlor within the hour.’ With the slightest of bows he left her.

  Karen felt dreadful. Each new revelation had left her feeling more battered, as did every meeting with this Antony. All her attempts to stand up to him and put her own viewpoint had been wasted. He wouldn’t listen. Still, in fairness, how could she expect him to believe her story? She hardly believed it herself. Time travel! The stuff of science fiction; the creation of an Azimov or, more correctly, the original mind of H.G. Wells. To expect the Georgian mentality to encompass such an idea was on a par with putting a baby in the cockpit of a space shuttle.

  The door opened to admit a maidservant carrying a tray set with dainty porcelain and silver. Eyes downcast, she bobbed. ‘Good morning, my lady. Will you take your breakfast now?’

  ‘Yes, all right. Put it down there, thanks. I want to get dressed. Will you help me?’

  The girl’s plain face showed astonishment. ‘Why, surely my lady. Will you wear the yellow muslin, or perhaps the new green china silk with floss trim? It arrived but yesterday and with the most charming shawl.’

  Putting the tray down she went to fling open the wardrobe doors, all six of them. It was Karen’s turn to be astonished. A perfect fountain of color gushed from the openings, billows of fabric – silks, voiles, laces, brocade and a dozen others she couldn’t name. Plain, dotted, frilled, embroidered and flounced, fringed, ruffled and beribboned, all were for the adornment of one woman, this Lady Caroline. For a moment Karen stood at the mercy of her femininity, praying the clothes would fit her, then remembered, still with astonishment, she had a new body. Or rather, she occupied Lady Caroline’s exquisite little form. If she hadn’t been in such a fix she might have derived a good deal of amusement and pleasure from trying on such lovely gowns. As it was, she didn’t give a damn what the woman wore.

  ‘Anything. You choose.’

  With popping eyes, the maid obeyed Karen’s impatient gesture and quickly selected a pretty jonquil-colored gown, shaking out ruffles and minor creases caused by its folding. It seemed clothes hangers were an invention yet to come.

  Feeling like someone out of an Arabian Nights tale, Karen sat on the edge of the bed and drank her too-sweet chocolate, watching the girl’s preparations. One quick glance under the domed covers on the tray, and she decided to skip the meal. Kidneys and bacon. It had to be a refinement of torture. Or did Lady Caroline actually like such food in the morning?

  Someone brought hot water to the door in a brass can, and the maid poured this into a flowered basin on a stand. With a towel over her arm, she stood waiting.

  Then followed an elaborate ritual of washing, drying, perfuming and powdering, much to Karen’s discomfort. But she let the girl do her job, primarily because she felt rather weak, as well as grubby. With her body covered by a sort of shift and precious little else, she accepted stockings fixed with garters, a petticoat and the yellow gown. It seemed thin for a wintry day, but she was inclined to thank capricious fortune for not landing her in an era of whalebone corsets, or worse. The long sleeves restricted her under the arms; the dozens of buttons down the back tried her patience, and her voile-covered bosom, thrust up by the high waistline, felt distinctly chilly. However, the addition of a shawl in finest cashmere did help.

  ‘Will your ladyship wear the lemon kid slippers?’

  Karen inspected the little heelless shoes being held out and nodded. The girl sounded nervous. Had Lady Caroline been such a dragon of a mistress?

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Why… Munstone, my lady.’

  ‘I mean, your first name.’

  ‘L… Lucy.’

  Karen smiled kindly. ‘Well, then, Lucy, do you think you could do something with this ginger birds-nest I’ve acquired?’

  The refractory curls were brushed smooth and drawn high on the back of the head to a cluster, then teased into a fall over forehead and ears. Karen admitted to a certain satisfaction with the result, followed by irritation at its lack of appreciable effect upon her ‘husband’ when he came to fetch her.

  His gaze moved over her with indifference. He bowed slightly and offered his arm. For the first time she noticed the scar. It ran along the outside of his left hand and wrist to disappear beneath his shirt cuff. Scored viciously deep, the skin had puckered into a raised welt, as though stitched by a handyman rather than a doctor.

  ‘Why do you hesitate. You have seen it before, and much more.’ He turned his hand over to look at the scar. ‘’Tis strange how beauty’s perfection cannot bear to look upon the imperfect.’

  Something in his husky tone made Karen regret her hesitation. She placed her hand in his arm. ‘Shall we go down?’

  A footman threw open the door of the sitting room and she passed in. Two women were the only occupants, one elderly, very grande dame with her high-nosed features framed in a Valenciennes cap, and arrogance oozing from her grossly obese frame. Guessing that this must be the Lady Oriel, Karen crossed the room to greet her.

  The most noticeable thing about her was the smell. Squatting in her chair by the window she reminded Karen of a gigantic, overdressed toad, and the odor of stagnant pond was quite overpowering. She hid her distaste as the woman put out a hand covered in dirty rings and briefly touched hers.

  ‘How delightful to see you so blooming, dear Caroline. So fortunate that you sustained no permanent injury.’ Eyes like gray agate gave the lie to these sentiments. And Karen had heard that toneless whine before, last night, from the woman whose delicate nerves could not tolerate a sickroom.

  ‘Thank you. I’m feeling much better.’

  Antony said smoothly, ‘Lady Oriel was exceedingly distressed by your mishap, my dear – indeed, almost prostrate.’

  Lady Oriel scowled, but Sybilla came forward, both hands held out in greeting.

  ‘My dearest Caro, I cannot describe my relief! Seeing you lying at the foot of the stairs, so white and still, my heart turned in my breast.’ She squeezed Karen’s hands, searching her face for any mark of her shocking experience.

  Karen felt warmed. At last! Here was someone who cared what happened to her, a friendly voice in this wilderness of double-talk and intimidation. It was a pretty elegant wilderness, all the same. Her first quick glance about the room had registered pastel colors and dainty furnishings. Someone with a delicate touch had chosen the chintz coverings and pretty little tambour tables set against walls of pale apple green silk. A scattering of lamps, small pieces of china and sketches of country scenes added to the effect. A ceiling-high window, its white painted shutters folded back, revealed a vista of pleasant paved courtyard and a fountain and stone benches amongst the shrubs. In spring it would be idyllic.

  She gave her attention to Sybilla. Still favoring the flowing drapery mode, this morning she was arrayed in shadings of mossy green with an underskirt of hot pink – colors to flatter her matt
complexion and brilliant black eyes. Her smile was even brighter.

  ‘Come sit with me, Caro. You must take care of yourself. Is that not so, Antony?’

  He inclined his head and pulled a chair closer to the fire, holding it for Karen. She clutched chilled fingers in her lap and felt depression settle over her. She had no business here. How could she break out of this time trap? There’d got to be a way. If she could only remember the events preceding her journey into the past, and perhaps learn how to reverse it. It would at least be a start. She could recall most of that momentous day, from her dreadful interview with Humphrey up until she left the Bull Inn in Ashbourne St. Mary. She’d gone for a walk before bed, but could not remember just where or why. Somewhere beyond the town…

  Antony interrupted her thoughts to speak softly in her ear. ‘Your wits wander, Caroline. My aunt has addressed you twice already, without response.’

  His minatory tone annoyed her, but there would be no more confrontations just yet, not until she had found a way of countering his power. Forcing a smile, she begged pardon.

  ‘I’m afraid I was woolgathering. What did you say, Lady Oriel?’ Such a cross face, she thought, and wondered what life had done to sour the woman so badly.

  Lady Oriel very deliberately took a snuff box from her reticule and made a business of pinching a large portion between finger and thumb, then snorting it up – a process attended by all the delicacy of a walrus sniffing the wind - then followed this with a gigantic sneeze. Snuff showered down in a fine layer of dust to settle upon her bosom.

  Sybilla said hastily, ‘Mama asked whether you felt able to proceed with our shopping expedition. You will recall we had planned to visit the modiste today to discuss new gowns for the Christmas visit at Camray Castle. I myself require several new ensembles for the house party, and I venture to state that Antony will not begrudge us the loan of his barouche to transport all our new finery.’ Her roguish look brought an answering smile from him, confirming that the cousins were on the best of terms.