The Chronicles of the Tempus

by K. A. S. Quinn

  ‘Yes,’ the young man smiled at her reaction. ‘We are abolitionists; our cause is to end slavery in the United States. President Lincoln is determined to free the slaves, but first the North must win our nation’s civil war. We are here to influence Britain and convince this country to take up our cause.’

  ‘Plead with this country is more like it,’ the older man sounded bitter. ‘The British, so high and mighty, they make us feel like beggars. This here is a country that condemns slavery, won’t have it on their own shores, yet they aren’t joining the Unionists in the North, and just might side with the Confederacy in the South. The Brits just ain’t listening. They’ve got no sense.’

  The younger man sighed and continued in his gentle tone. ‘My friends call me Sonny, I hope you will too.’

  Katie smothered a smile – Sonny.

  ‘You think it’s a funny name,’ he said, catching her look. ‘It’s quite typical of the South, for I am Southern born and raised. Our family lived in Virginia even before the birth of our nation. You will find my ancestors’ signature on the Declaration of Independence. They see themselves as the finest folk in Virginia: cultured, enlightened Americans.’

  The other men murmured dissent, and Sonny suddenly looked miserable. ‘How could we be so blind?’ he asked. ‘We are plantation owners, and all of our wealth, our power, our influence, is based on slavery. My family believe they are morally superior, but this is absurd. All of our grandeur rests on the backs of men and women who came to us in chains.’

  Katie could feel his sadness washing over her. ‘There must be someone in your family who feels the way you do?’ she said. Along with the sadness in his face there was now a touch of bewildered loneliness, like a child who finds himself lost in a crowd.

  ‘No,’ he replied, ‘not one. I have seen my mother and sister, playing duets on the piano while a slave is whipped in the yard. And my father,’ Sonny stopped and swallowed hard, several times, before he could go on, ‘let’s just say my father is worse, much worse.’

  There was complete silence in the basement. If Katie’s hands hadn’t been tied, she would have reached out to comfort him. ‘I can’t even imagine,’ she said. ‘It must have been . . . like . . . so hard . . .’

  ‘I wanted to save the world,’ he said, ‘but in their world, I just seemed crazy.’ Where had Katie heard that before?

  ‘I had to leave,’ Sonny explained. ‘How could my family sit calmly taking tea, while hundreds of human beings around them were treated like animals? When war brewed, I knew I could never fight for the South. I left home and joined the underground movement against slavery. There I met this group of like-minded men – Jeb Lawson here, and Bill Patterson and Elias Finch.’

  Katie wondered, would she have had the strength to leave home and fight for her cause? She was a Unionist of course. As a New Yorker, she was a Northerner through and through. But this was a war, well over a hundred years behind her. A low voice spoke in her head, ‘don’t get involved’. She didn’t like this voice at all.

  ‘I can’t tell you how much I admire what you’ve done,’ she finally said, ‘but I can’t think of any way to help.’

  Jeb Lawson cut across her. ‘There are lots of things you could do,’ he said. ‘You might already be acting – and not for the North, but for the South; for all we know, you might be some kind of Southern spy. Let’s just take a look at you: an unknown girl, who shows up, all alone, in England. You’re travelling under a false identity. Yet somehow you manage to worm your way into court life; a complete stranger who is on friendly terms with the Queen’s own daughter and has cosy chats with Prince Albert’s Private Secretary, Bernardo DuQuelle. It seems a girl like you would be hearing many of the nation’s secrets, maybe even the country’s thoughts and plans on the war in America.’

  Katie was horrified. She looked towards the door, calculating a means of escape. Sonny leaned forward in his chair, locking eyes. ‘We want to trust you,’ he said. ‘I’ve told you my story, and every word of it is true. Now I think it’s only fair if you tell us yours.’

  He was so decent. And what he said made sense. But it was impossible for Katie to tell her story. She could just imagine the looks on their faces when she told them. ‘I’m Katie Berger-Jones-Burg – my popstar mother gets divorced a lot – I live in New York City in the twenty-first century and I TRAVEL THROUGH TIME.’ If she hadn’t been so terrified, she would have laughed.

  ‘I can’t tell you who I am,’ she said. ‘It would put other people in danger. And even worse, I can’t tell you why I’m here, because I don’t know – I just don’t know what I’m doing here.’ She could hear her own voice and she sounded awful: defensive, frightened and really, really lame. Looking around the room, she saw suspicion and distrust. She sought out Sonny instinctively. ‘The one thing I can tell you is that I am not a spy – not for anyone, but especially not for the South.’

  Sonny smiled ever so slightly, the only friendly face in the room. ‘You are about as far from a Southern Belle as they come. Somehow, I do believe you. So you are not a spy and you don’t know why you are here. Then we can give you a reason to be here, a cause worth believing in. Help us to keep our country as one.’

  Katie paused. She hated to give away anything about herself, but she was interested in this young man and she believed in him. When the dark voice rose in her, she batted it away. ‘I support your cause,’ finally she said. ‘I admire President Lincoln. I mean, we all celebrate his life and mourn his—’ she stopped abruptly, biting her tongue. She could not tell Sonny what every American in her time knew: that the North won the war and kept America together, that President Lincoln freed the slaves in 1863 and that the great man was assassinated in 1865.

  Yet for Sonny she had said enough. ‘I knew it,’ he exulted. ‘You had the look of a true patriot.’ Katie smiled back at him, feeling like she had passed a test.

  ‘So you say you support the North,’ Jeb Lawson interrupted. ‘Well then, prove it. Work with us. Use your position to talk up the North and pass us information.’

  Katie wondered if she could really change the course of Lincoln’s life. Could she stop the assassination? And then a dreadful thought occurred: could her actions actually make the North lose the war? And result in a world of slavery, which she, Katie, had created? Keeping history on track was one thing, but changing it was too dangerous. ‘I can’t. No matter how much I want to help, I can’t become involved,’ she said.

  Sonny leaned forward and brushed a stray curl from her forehead. ‘If you had seen what I’ve seen, you would not hesitate. You do not want to betray your friends, I understand that. Yet think of the burden of guilt, the blame that would befall the Royal Family should they choose to recognize the South as an independent nation. I have seen your friend, the lovely and gentle Princess Alice. How would she feel if Britain joined the South in battle and supported the enslavement of men?’

  Katie’s face showed her indecision and Jeb Lawson was quick to jump in. ‘It is my belief that a girl, at court, who takes on a false identity, could be in big trouble. She could even be charged with high treason.’

  Katie’s heart had been thumping hard in her chest. Now it seemed to plummet to the ground. High treason. She knew the outcome of such a charge – hanging.

  Sonny shot Jeb Lawson a furious look, and tried to reassure Katie. ‘There’s no need for such threats,’ he said, ‘as I know you will help us. All we need are trifles of information – anything you can learn of the Palace’s opinions and the government’s actions. And you can talk to the Princess; explain things to her that she otherwise might not understand.’

  Katie tried to speak. There was a hint of betrayal in what Sonny was suggesting. He had misjudged two things: Princess Alice’s intelligence and Katie’s loyalty to her friend.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ Sonny continued. ‘I don’t need a reply. Just think about it.’ He untied her arms. ‘We’re going to let you go,’ he said.

  ‘For now,’ Je
b Lawson added. Right might be on his side, but Katie did not like that man.

  Sonny simply ignored him. ‘We will make contact again,’ Sonny continued. ‘You will come to make the right decision. I know you and I believe you know me. You will not let me down.’

  Katie looked again at the straight brown hair, the strong nose, the blue eyes that had seen so much, yet still contained a hint of fun. She did know him, and this was baffling. She thought of her life – a life that spanned several centuries – and the people who filled it. How did this young abolitionist fit in?

  Vivid scenes flitted and bubbled in the back of her mind. A doctor’s office in New York City, a trivial funny conversation with a young man, and then abruptly she saw something that made her shut her eyes and press her hands against them: a stormy sky, the clatter and charge of horses, the cry of a young man, fallen in the battlefield. ‘Oh, Katie,’ he had said. ‘Someone has blundered.’ Jack O’Reilly – he seemed to be everywhere at times of duress. She rubbed her palms hard across her eyes, trying to wipe this vision from her memory.

  The men behind her were talking. ‘I don’t believe she is of any use,’ one was saying. ‘No girl is stable or steady enough to carry out such actions. There is that Lord, high up in the hierarchy, who sought us out. He’s a strange man, but he says he has sympathy for our cause, influence at court and the money we need . . .’ Sonny too heard these words. He turned to his comrades and, for the first time, Katie heard him lose his temper.

  ‘Lord Belzen? You’d be insane to take him at his word. He is a dangerous man. I hear he is false. That he works with the South, burgling embassies and stealing dossiers of correspondence. Rumour has it that he is involved in the unrest in London. That gruesome murder, the body in the Thames – people say this is the work of Lord Belzen. Would you truly associate yourself with that man?’

  Katie continued to rub her eyes, pretending that she wasn’t listening. Belzen! To think that they were considering this, that the North would be in league with Belzen and the Malum. This war might be based on human freedom, but it could still be hijacked by pure evil. The low, soft voice in her head spoke again. ‘This is not your concern.’ Again, she pushed it away. Of course it was her concern; but could she help without endangering her friends, or herself?

  Katie opened her eyes, ready with a hundred new questions, but the men were gone. They had melted away, leaving her alone, in a dark basement, with some difficult choices to make.

  Chapter Seven

  South Street

  It had seemed like hours – forever to Katie – but it must have been ten or twenty minutes at most. When she emerged from the basement, blinking at the cold winter sun, she could see James and Alice far ahead. James was consulting his pocket watch as Alice scanned the crowds. Spotting Katie, she waved and hurried towards her.

  ‘I am so sorry we lost you,’ Alice apologized. ‘We thought you were with us, but when we turned you were gone.’

  James loped over and, taking Katie by the arm, began to half-pull her towards South Street. ‘We’re going to be late now,’ he complained. ‘Besides, you’ve worried Princess Alice. What happened to you?’ Katie opened her mouth to tell them everything. But that new dark speck of defiance stopped her.

  ‘Everyone has a secret,’ she reasoned with herself. ‘Just look at James and Alice. They’re not exactly opening up about their feelings for each other.’

  ‘I just kind of got lost in the crowd,’ she said, ‘that’s all that happened, OK? Now, what is Florence Nightingale’s address? I’m dying to see Dolores.’

  James and Alice nodded. They had complete confidence in her. Katie felt a pang; she was changing, and she didn’t like it.

  It wasn’t a maid who answered the door to South Street, but Bernardo DuQuelle. His face, as always, was impassive, but his green eyes held a hint of frustration. ‘I have been counting the minutes, awaiting your arrival,’ he announced. ‘Katie, perhaps you are the animal tamer we need. That . . . that . . . nanny of yours is an impossible house guest.’

  ‘She’s not exactly a nanny,’ Katie explained. ‘Dolores kind of does everything. Really, she runs our lives. Mimi calls her “our personal provider of domestic detox.” You see, Mimi has problems with the concept of a master–servant relationship . . . but really she shouldn’t, you know, Dolores has always been the master.’

  DuQuelle shook his head. His usually coiffed and pomaded black curls were in disarray. ‘Katie, don’t babble. We need action. Your Dolores is trying to be the master in this house as well. And with a mistress such as Florence Nightingale, that is a mistake.’

  At that moment Mary Seacole ran down the stairs. She was an unmistakable figure in her bright yellow dress and red calico scarf rising and falling on her bosom as she tried to catch her breath.

  ‘I’ve no time for how-de-dos, my dears!’ she cried. ‘Get yourselves upstairs, or there’ll be a bear fight in the sitting room!’

  Florence Nightingale’s elegant sitting room indeed had the air of a bear pit. Miss Nightingale and Dolores were circling each other, heads held high, tensed, as for battle.

  ‘Katie!’ Dolores cried. ‘Thank the Lord, child, that you are safe and sound. We have got to get out of here – climb right back in that snow globe of yours. This woman here, she’s crazy. I know she’s fed me, and given me a comfy bed. But she says I’m in a whole other time, that it’s a hundred years before I was born. She keeps sticking me in an ice-cold bath, and now she’s trying to put mustard plasters on my feet.’

  Miss Nightingale spoke with greater control, but there was tightness to her voice which conveyed her anger. ‘I did not ask for your presence,’ she retorted. ‘I took you in as a personal favour to M. DuQuelle. Why you have come to us, I do not know. You are a guest, a visitant from another time. I suggest you listen to me and submit to your treatment. Do not irk me, for I am the only thing that stands between you and prison – or even worse, a lunatic asylum.’

  ‘Now, Florence,’ Mary Seacole interrupted, ‘there’s no need to hit this lady with a stick, when there’s a carrot that might tempt her.’ Mary Seacole placed a sisterly hand on Dolores’s shoulder. ‘You know dear,’ she wheedled, ‘mustard plasters are very good for the figure. They bring the curves back to a woman, if you know what I mean.’

  This was a step too far for Dolores. ‘Mustard plasters,’ she muttered with great contempt. ‘Why don’t you just give me powdered bat’s wing, or a dead man’s toe clippings? This is all a bunch of silly voodoo. The two of you might as well be witch doctors.’

  Even Katie was shocked. Florence Nightingale was famous throughout the British Empire. In modern terms she was an international celebrity. Mary Seacole was the celebrated, big-hearted nurse of the Crimean War. To call them witch doctors! But Mary Seacole, as a foreigner of mixed race in London, was used to queer comments. She just laughed. Florence Nightingale was a different matter. In her anger, her face had blanched white. She was as eerily pale as Bernardo DuQuelle, and her eyes glittered in that same unearthly way.

  Yet Dolores might be right about these two women. Katie eyed the amulet around Mary Seacole’s neck. Her mind flew back to that terrible painful time, when Jack lay dying on the battlefield. Katie could remember now: something strange – really supernatural – had happened. The amulet, that golden vessel swinging around Mary Seacole’s neck, had been used by her on the battlefield, in some mystical way. And there were so many questions about Florence Nightingale; the intense bond she shared with Bernardo DuQuelle was just one. Katie suspected Miss Nightingale knew a great deal about Bernardo DuQuelle’s other, much more sensational life. Just how far did Florence Nightingale’s involvement in this other world go?

  Katie cleared her throat. It took a lot of courage to contradict Florence Nightingale. ‘I’m not, you know, sure about mustard plasters,’ she stuttered. ‘I mean, wouldn’t that just make things worse . . . and the cold baths . . . maybe Dolores just needs some rest, and less arguing . . . it kind of makes things
worse when you’re ill . . . all that shouting . . .’ Katie’s voice trailed off as Florence Nightingale fixed her with a terrifically chilly glare. She felt like she was dwindling away. ‘Sorry . . .’ she murmured lamely.

  The room was silent. Finally Florence Nightingale spoke. ‘But of course you know best, Katie Berger-Jone-Burg,’ she said icily, ‘with all your years of study and training. I am nothing compared to you. There will be no mustard plasters, or ice baths.’

  Dolores had been saved from the more stringent forms of Victorian healthcare, but this still did not cheer her. ‘If this is a dream, it’s the worst I’ve ever had,’ she said. ‘I’ve pinched myself till I’m black and blue, but I just can’t wake up.’ For a big woman, she looked small and sad. A tear rolled down her cheek.

  At this, Florence Nightingale melted ever so slightly. ‘There, there,’ she said with a hint of kindness. ‘I do not see the need to cry. Let us try to make the best of the situation.’ She walked over to the mantlepiece and, picking up a bell, rang it. ‘Tea,’ she said. ‘I believe it is time for tea. Princess Alice, with your permission . . .’

  Sitting next to Dolores, Katie gave her a hug. ‘Wipe your eyes, Dolores, and we’ll, you know, have some tea. The British – they really think tea fixes just about everything.’ Dolores gave her a suspicious look. Had Katie gone native? But she settled down on the sofa. She’d already had tea at Florence Nightingale’s home. There had been delicious buns . . . and some lovely little cakes.

  Within moments a brisk and neat little maid began to bustle in and out of the room. A silver urn appeared, followed by a silver teapot, coffee pot, cream ewer and sugar bowl. The tea cups were of thin, almost transparent china, and wonderfully decorated with blue dragons. Tray after tray followed. There was dry toast, buttered toast, crumpets and muffins, white sandwiches, brown sandwiches, jellies, pastries, currant cake, sponge cake and lemon curd cake. ‘Wow,’ said Katie, ‘high tea.’