Tapestry (25 page)

‘No.’ Jane shook Winifred’s head, beginning to feel the presence of her host more strongly, but only her thoughts. Her
strength was still sadly lacking. ‘You may both bathe and eat, take some rest or exchange news, but I will not spend another minute on my needs until I have laid eyes on William.’ Her voice cracked and she coughed; Jane could gauge how fragile Winifred was at this moment and could sense her two friends having to resist the urge to reach for her. ‘I don’t even know if he’s still alive,’ she croaked.

‘Oh, my dear Countess, of course he’s still alive. Forgive me for my thoughtlessness in not mentioning that immediately. He is awaiting sentencing, as I understand it.’

Jane took a deep breath of relief. The hardships of the journey — including the flaring up of Winifred’s chilblains — had been worth it, but there was probably not a lot of time left to get William Maxwell released and to give Will Maxwell back his life.

‘I shall retire briefly and have a sip of black tea with honey, Mrs Mills, and then if you would be so kind as to hail me a hackney, I must make haste to the Tower, where I gather he is incarcerated.’

Mrs Mills threw a worried glance at Miss Evans as she smiled sadly. ‘Yes, of course. The Earl is confined in the Lieutenant’s Lodgings. I am assured he is well cared for and in reasonable spirits.’

‘Thank you. I shall tidy myself, if you’ll excuse me.’

Mrs Mills nodded. ‘Second floor, Miss Evans. The Countess’s room is at the end of the hallway and yours is the adjoining. I shall have tea sent up.’

Jane’s chamber felt palatial after the accommodation they had become used to on the journey. After drinking her tea, she sat down and released her aching, inflamed toes from her boots while regarding the card of Julius Sackville.

She had been emptying the pockets of her cloak because Cecilia had come in to voice her concern that it would not do for her to appear at the Tower in such rude attire. Jane had
gladly agreed to the long, moss-green velvet cloak that Cecilia had just borrowed from Mrs Mills. It was trimmed with fur and warmer than the dun-brown one in which she’d covered all those frozen miles, and yet she was fond of the old cloak for what it represented.

Jane ran her fingers over the card, touching the letters of Julius’s name as he began to infiltrate the barrier she’d tried to create between them. She could taste his urgent kiss again, his breath on the bared skin of her neck, the promise of his touch in places yet to be bared to him.

Jane leaned on the dressing table, head in hands, hating the way she could lose control at just the thought of him and yet relishing that thought. She wanted to deny it, but she was forced to admit to herself that her feelings were now fleeing into separate camps. It was as though by living these two lives she could rightly devote one half of herself to Will and the other to a relative stranger.

Jane accepted that she was the interloper who had possessed Winifred, stealing into her life. So was it Jane who had fallen under the spell of Julius Sackville, or was it Winifred? Had he fallen for Winifred, the woman he looked at, or Jane, the woman he spoke to? She wished she could say Winifred, and divest herself of the responsibility of having given up her host’s honour and of the guilt that now pressed upon her faithless heart like a bruise.

And yet Jane knew it had been Winifred who had resisted and only Winifred who’d resented it. It was why Winifred had been silent and closed to her since that stolen time in the woodcutter’s hut.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered to her host. ‘It was completely irresponsible. I don’t know what’s happening to me.’

The kiss at the inn was irresponsible. Allowing Sackville to take you was a betrayal
, came a thought, like an echo through times and worlds, bursting through her fragile defence. She
didn’t know if it had come from Will, from William, or from Winifred. Perhaps it was from Robin … or Robyn? Whoever had reached her, the accusation stung. So, she was to blame.

But she did currently feel like two versions of herself.

There was the Jane who was with Will and her parents, her sister, her life in the twentieth century. And there was this Jane, ethereal, invisible and impressionable … or was it more correct to describe her as honest?

She’d been running from her guilt and uncertainty ever since Will put the diamond engagement ring on her finger. Julius Sackville had only had to look at her with that stormy, troubled gaze to immediately get beneath her clearly crumbling defences. Jane hoped no one was listening in on her thoughts, because right now, as she stared at his name, despite the hot, red pain of Winifred’s swollen feet, she wanted nothing more than to be kissed by him again. To be unlaced, undressed and —

Damn!
Could she hate herself any more? No, it would be impossible, she decided, to feel any more disgusted by Jane Granger than she did right now. She swallowed, gave thanks to Winifred’s remedy of soaking her chilblained feet in water previously used to boil potatoes, and mentally gathered up her despair. She could not fail now, or lose faith in herself or the job that she was here to do. She had to throw her energy into saving Winifred’s husband. And maybe, if she could get back to Will’s bedside, this surreal time with Julius would be forgotten, like a dream was lost when you regained full consciousness from sleep.

That thought appealed to her. She would have no memory of Julius, or perhaps even this whole strange episode, when she woke up on the top of Ayers Rock. Yes, that was it. She would put the guilt and helpless attraction behind her, because soon it would be meaningless.

For you, maybe, Jane
. That was Winifred’s thought pushing through, she was sure.
I can’t fix it now
, she thought back.
So
find forgiveness. I’m doing this for you and William and your descendants
.

She squared her shoulders.
Ignore the pain, Jane
, she coached herself.
Boots back on and it’s time to meet the Earl
.

Cecilia knocked again and didn’t wait to be asked in. ‘Winifred, are you — oh, my dear, look at your toes!’

‘I am looking at them,’ Jane replied. ‘Don’t fuss. I ordered up potato water from the servant who brought me my tea.’

‘I was going to say that my aunt, who was something of a specialist with herbs, believed that a mixture of the root of fennel with egg and port is a helpful remedy.’

Jane smiled. She could just imagine suggesting to her Welsh father that he paint such a concoction on his swollen toes each winter. ‘Indeed? We shall worry about my feet another time. They are the least of my concerns.’

Cecilia frowned. ‘The hackney is here. Would you like me to accompany you?’

Jane finished lacing her boots, then stood up and gave Cecilia a hug. ‘You have been a true friend. But I think I should make this part of the journey alone. I shall be back, I suspect, within a couple of hours. I cannot imagine they will allow William the privilege of a long conversation with me. Rest. You deserve it. I am sure I will need your strength in the days to come.’

She left Cecilia watching her from the first floor landing as she glided down the stairs, grateful for the cosy velvet cloak, and thanked the portly Mrs Mills on her way out for arranging the carriage.

Mrs Mills had to bend slightly to give her a brief embrace. ‘Our hearts are with you, Countess.’

Jane gave a gracious smile, realising there was no point in suggesting Mrs Mills call her Winifred, for her old friend clearly enjoyed using the title and no doubt telling others about her important guest. Nevertheless, Mrs Mills was a generous
woman — the daughter of one of Winifred’s mother’s oldest companions.

A servant of the household helped Jane into the small carriage and gave the driver permission to depart when she was settled. Jane felt the hackney jerk forward and soon she was lost once more in the busy streets of London, alive with people, horses and carriages.

The hackney skimmed the edge of one of London’s ‘rookeries’; Jane could barely recognise where she was as she glimpsed a ramshackle, squalid-looking warren of lanes and alleys where overcrowded hovels accommodating dozens of families sat shoulder to shoulder with gin houses and brothels. As they passed these slums, she noted open sewers in the streets, men urinating directly into them without any coyness, and children running wild in and around the shallow cesspits. She saw a small girl selling what looked to be watercress from a basket, and another boy of similar age selling fish — mackerel, she thought she heard him bawl as the hackney momentarily drew alongside him. She held her breath instinctively while rummaging for a sweet-smelling handkerchief to hold to Winifred’s face, and imagined just how easily the Great Plague of fifty years ago had taken hold amid such squalor.

The stink was so ripe, even on a wintry day like today, that it made her eyes water. She’d have to learn to control her inclination to retch, but understood now the tiny sachets of potpourri that she had seen people carry, frequently holding them to their nostrils in the streets.

She realised now how often she had complained during her study days of how grimy the London of the 1970s was. And yet, glimpsing this era, she wondered if she would survive long alone in this forbidding, dangerous and plague-ridden London of the early eighteenth century.

The scenery changed and she could finally see St Paul’s Cathedral. Although it was in the far distance, and in the
opposite direction to where the carriage was heading, it gave her the reassuring landmark she needed to fix her position.

Approaching faster than she wanted was the most terrifying aspect of her dangerous journey to date. She now had to meet the Earl and convince him that she was Winifred.

Would he notice her strangeness immediately? Cecilia had had no problem in accepting Winifred was sometimes ‘not herself’. But Jane didn’t believe William Maxwell would be quite as forgiving. Why hadn’t she found a way to learn more about him, even from Cecilia? She was walking into this confrontation almost blind.

Jane felt the beat of panic in her chest, like a huge bird suddenly leaping into flight. She raised her hand to rap on the ceiling, in order to stop the driver; she had to think this through. She urgently needed to know more about William Maxwell.

But as her fingers balled into a fist, someone spoke.
Calm yourself
, the voice soothed.
The knowledge is within
.

She didn’t recognise the low-pitched timbre, but she knew it wasn’t Robin or Robyn, or even her own thoughts gusting around and tricking her.

Jane didn’t know if it would work, but she tried.
Winifred?
she queried, hearing the thought reach out tentatively. It was met with silence. She tried again, more assured this time, hoping to somehow command her host to acknowledge her.
Winifred, speak to me!
There was no response, and by now it was too late to change direction or heart; she felt the horses slowing as the coachman announced their arrival.

This was it, Jane realised. She was at the point where her destiny and Will’s would be shaped. She lowered the window and spoke to the yeoman who waited.

‘I am the Countess of Nithsdale, come to visit my husband,’ she said firmly. ‘I believe he is held in the Lieutenant’s Lodgings.’

A
tall man of slim build with a neat, reddish beard, and a penetrating blue gaze to match his greatcoat, greeted Jane with warmth at his brazier.

‘Sir George Moseley, Lord Constable of the Tower, My Lady,’ he said, bowing over her hand.

She returned his gracious smile. ‘Thank you, Sir George, for allowing me to visit.’

‘Countess, your stoicism is to be admired. I am told you have journeyed from Scotland.’ His quizzical expression suggested to Jane he didn’t believe it.

‘You were told no lie, sir. I left my lord’s seat at Terregles the moment I learned the news from Preston.’

He nodded and said nothing, but his mouth twitched, showing his discomfort at what they both knew William Maxwell was facing.

‘How is my dear husband?’ she continued.

‘In good health, My Lady. I assure you he is being accorded the respect and comforts due to a man of his status, although I am obliged to keep Lord Nithsdale confined alone. You understand that he is —’

‘Yes, of course,’ she interrupted. Winifred understood only too well the accusations against him.

‘How is your family coping, My Lady?’

‘We are saving the children the worst of it, Sir George. Our son is abroad; his sister is with friends in Scotland. She is too young to understand politics or why her father is not at home with her. Do you have children, sir?’

‘Nine, several of them daughters.’ He shrugged.

‘And you would spare them unpleasantness no matter what their age.’

‘Indeed.’

Jane wanted to move past the polite small talk, even though Sir George was doing his utmost to make her comfortable. ‘Do we have a trial date, sir?’

He nodded sombrely. ‘His Majesty is addressing Parliament in three days, My Lady.’

‘And?’ Jane held her breath.

He sighed. ‘Can I offer you anything, Countess? A draught of wine, perhaps?’

‘Nothing, thank you; I have taken adequate refreshment,’ she said, although conscious that Winifred appeared pale and fragile.

‘A seat perhaps … er, by the fire?’

‘Sir George, I wish to see my husband.’

‘I am not permitted —’

‘Please, sir. Please. What can it hurt? He is a condemned man, by all accounts. You may search me if —’

‘That will not be necessary.’

Jane had brought coin. ‘I have money to pay for my husband’s care. Please see to it that he receives all he needs.’

The older man stared at the gold guineas. Jane did not want to admit that they were almost the last of her family’s dwindling savings, but she suspected he might already know that. She was also convinced he knew this was a bribe.

‘I am in a hurry to see my lord husband. I’m sure you understand,’ she pressed.

‘Of course … of course. Well, My Lady, um, if I may take a gauge of government opinion, I suspect it is keen to show
leniency.’ Jane’s hopes flared. ‘But,’ he continued, holding up a long-fingered hand to prevent her enthusiasm from spilling out too fast, ‘an example must be made. Forgive me, Countess, but I fear the lords we have in captivity may have to bear the burden for the rebels who have been allowed to slip away, and for their leaders, who will not be pursued.’

‘I see; so the King will wish a trial?’ she asked, hoping to confirm Mrs Mills’s words.

‘I would not wish to steer your thoughts any other way, My Lady.’

She had to focus on William’s plea for clemency.

‘I have already recommended some names of advocates who might represent your husband. Lord Nithsdale has employed the services of one of these men, as I understand it. He has had several meetings with his counsel.’

He took the money she proffered. She nodded. ‘Thank you again, Sir George. May I see him now?’

With just a hint of embarrassment he replied, ‘Of course.’ He rang a bell and a guard appeared.

‘The Countess of Nithsdale is to be escorted to her husband’s chamber and accorded the highest respect during her one-hour stay.’

The man bowed and Jane followed him.

‘I am at your service, My Lady,’ the Constable said gently behind her.

She cast him a final look of thanks and followed the guard into a cold hallway lit by cressets. She turned toward the small windows to her right and saw Tower Green beyond them, where — not quite two hundred years ago, she realised — a young queen called Anne Boleyn had lost her head. She shivered, unsure whether it was from fear, or the thrill of history. Other guards passed and nodded at her respectfully as she was led up a flight of stairs.

Jane felt a sudden desire to pinch herself as her head flooded with memories of staying with her university friend Emily in
the Queen’s House, as this was later renamed. She recalled that this had been the prison of many famous people in history, from Sir Thomas More to Guy Fawkes. The thought that she was seeing it as a working prison, and not as Emily’s happy family home, sent a shiver of excitement through her. Just for a couple of heartbeats, she forgot about her strange and fearful situation and allowed herself the indulgence of feeling caught up in history.

Jane grabbed for the stair rail and caught sight of ravens plodding across the green. She counted four, but was pulled from her thoughts as she found herself being handed over to an older yeoman, this one emerging from a small room — the warders’ room, she realised, provided for the comfort of the yeomen supervising her husband.

‘One hour only,’ she heard the first man murmur.

‘Thank you,’ she said to the man departing, then smiled at her new keeper.

‘Follow me, please, My Lady,’ he said, and led her across a vast room with steepled beams and huge windows made up of squares of leaded glass in the Tudor fashion. The floorboards creaked beneath her light frame as they reached the middle of the room. She felt light-headed, recalling that it was in this very room that she and Emily would often swot for exams or make plans for the weekend.

‘This be the Council Chamber, My Lady,’ the yeoman leading her explained — although she already knew it, knew this was where Guy Fawkes had stood and refused to give up the names of his fellow conspirators before he was handed over for torture.

The guard reached for the large iron keys that swung on an iron hoop dangling from his belt. He duly repeated what she already knew. ‘You may stay with Lord Nithsdale for an hour, My Lady.’ She nodded. ‘If it helps, My Lady,’ he added, ‘you might care to know that your husband is popular with us yeomen, polite to us and generous with his coin.’

What little he has
, Jane thought she sensed Winifred thinking. Most had come from Mary and Charles. She found a smile. ‘I thank you for being kind to him. He is here because he is a loyal man, rather than a traitor. It is all about perspective, I fear.’

He frowned and she knew her reasoning was too subtle. ‘Aye, well, there is no reason to be brutal without cause,’ he replied. ‘I suspect his day of reckoning is coming at him, if you will forgive my saying so.’

She nodded wearily as he turned the key in the lock.

‘You have a welcome visitor, my Lord Nithsdale,’ he called into the room before stepping back to allow Jane to cross the threshold.

She took a deep breath and stepped inside the chamber.

Ellen was giving Will a shave. She liked to do this for all ‘her men’, as she called them. Nursing had changed since her initial training; these days it was increasingly dominated by paperwork, and the management of wards was all-consuming. Handling staff and reaching targets set by management were not the reasons why she went into nursing. Far from it: the vocation, to her, was all about care.

‘Caring for patients, that’s what we do,’ she impressed on trainees. ‘Never forget it. And it doesn’t matter whether they’re old, smelly, drunk, deranged, confused, hostile or comatose.’

And so Ellen emptied urine and stoma bags with the same good cheer as she would show when checking a pulse or temperature. And she liked it when her patients looked and felt fresh … even if they were unconscious.

‘They don’t know,’ one of the newest trainees remarked during handover after Ellen had asked why Will Maxwell looked so scruffy. At Ellen’s glare, the young nurse shrugged. ‘I’m just saying, it’s not as though they can tell their armpits haven’t been sponged.’

‘And how do you know they can’t?’ Ellen demanded. ‘How do you know what Will here is thinking, feeling, experiencing?’

The girl’s eyelids lowered slightly, making her look even more sullen than the defiantly pinched lips already had. ‘I
don’t
know,’ she snapped.

‘That’s right, Lisa. You don’t know. In fact, you don’t know very much at all, given that you’re a trainee of what, nineteen?’ Lisa stared at her, saying nothing. ‘In the meantime, you’ve forgotten the fundamental reason why we became nurses. What’s more, you’re privileged to work on this ward; most trainees never get the chance. Now, Will here — and his traumatised family — are counting on us to take care of his bodily needs because he can’t. And if that means brushing his teeth or combing his hair, then it’s the very least you can do.’ She knew her eyes were narrowing in anger. ‘And you can get rid of that pout. I presume his notes are up to date?’

‘Of course,’ the trainee said, still not cowed.

Ellen turned away and in doing so dismissed her subordinate with silent disgust.

There had been rounds and checks, plenty of urgent duties to get to before Ellen finally kept her promise and got around to bathing Will. It was now the early hours of the morning and the ward was at its quietest, on skeleton staff. Tina wandered up from another ward to puncture the silence with a bright voice, otherwise it was just Ellen murmuring to her mute patients.

‘There you are,’ Tina said. ‘I thought you were on tonight; why am I not surprised to see you with that particular patient?’

Ellen smiled. ‘My handsome Will,’ she said gently. ‘He never gives me any lip.’ They both laughed.

‘No change?’

Ellen shook her head as she dangled the razor in the sudsy water, flicked it and continued gliding the blades along Will’s jawline. ‘But I know he’s coming back to us. It’s slow, but there
are signs. The problem is his parents have only given us days to prove it. They’ll be taking him to America tomorrow.’ She didn’t add that she might just be going with them. So little time left to decide.

‘Take a short break. Free for a cuppa?’ Tina wondered, no longer interested, it seemed.

‘I’ll just comb his hair.’

Jane watched the tall man turn and exclaim, ‘Winifred!’

But even before she saw his face, something extraordinary happened.

Winifred’s spirit suddenly seemed to flood Jane’s awareness with her love for this man. It roared through her, and to Jane it felt in that heartbeat that she was witnessing every good thing that could happen to a person: sunlight, warmth, safety, sensual pleasure, emotional delight, and an inexplicable joy that comes with the happiness of knowing you love this person and that you are loved in return.

And she knew in a blink that she had not felt any of this with Will, other than perhaps the sensual pleasure. Was that all that she had proposed to base her marriage upon? It was true — if she dared let herself think on him — that she had shared more passion with Julius Sackville in a few days than what had passed between her and Will in all their months together.

Worse, she knew she had felt everything that Winifred felt for William Maxwell in that final heart-wrenching kiss that she and Julius had shared.

In the couple of heartbeats it took him to cross the chamber and pull her into his arms, she realised it wasn’t just William Maxwell, Fifth Earl of Nithsdale, embracing her but also Will Maxwell, American adventurer and geophysicist. The likeness was astonishing.

He was kissing her neck, her cheeks, finally her lips. ‘Oh, my darling,’ he said, sounding feverishly happy. ‘You are here.’

Jane knew she must give herself over wholly to Winifred, keep the promise she’d been making to herself to
be
Winifred.

She let go.

As Ellen combed Will’s damp hair, his body convulsed theatrically. She gasped softly.

‘I saw it,’ Tina said, without Ellen having to ask.

Ellen stared, unmoving, at Will, wondering if he would do it again. She blinked, waited, still holding the comb in his hair. ‘I’ve never seen that before. Patients twitch, sometimes groan, but never anything so completely physical. I hope it’s a good sign. Teen, go get help. Tell Sandra to page Dr Evans, or you do it if Sandra’s not around. We need him immediately. I can’t leave Will.’

Her colleague nodded and departed quickly. Ellen watched, determined to be there to witness any other changes or movements. She checked the time and reached for his file, quickly making a note of what had occurred and when.

‘Come on, Will, come back to me now,’ she murmured, convinced he was on his journey to the surface from wherever he had been drowning and not even realising how possessive she sounded of him.

William held Winifred at arm’s length to stare at her, as though he couldn’t fully believe she was in his arms. Jane felt deeply self-conscious about the appraisal. Would he guess? ‘My, but you are a sight for sore eyes.’ He hugged her again. ‘How are the children?’

Jane nodded in his arms. ‘I’ve written to Willie to tell him of your imprisonment. And our little Anne is confused, but she is well, always happy with Mary and her cousins, as you would expect. And you? You look thin.’ She stood back to regard him fully.

He was devoid of wig or fine jacket, though he kept himself neat and shaven. Although the likeness to her Will was strong,
she’d been tricked by shadows and low light into ignoring their differences. They didn’t share the same eye colour and Will’s hair was far lighter. Nevertheless, it was unnerving to see the unquestionable echoes in William’s height and the shape of his head; even the pitch of his voice was dauntingly familiar. The family resemblance ran powerfully through the generations, reaching more than two hundred and sixty years into the future to paint her fiancé with similar brushstrokes to the man Winifred loved.

‘Do not fret about my health, dearest. My head, mayhap, but not my health,’ he jested, and grinned lopsidedly as Will might have. But the gallows humour frightened Jane. The reality of what Winifred and William were facing slammed home in her mind.
Beheading! Something from horror tales
, she thought, and then corrected herself.
No, something from the history books!
And here it was, all too real for her comfort. She felt sickened, the nausea galloping in on the prevailing fear that she was not equipped to know what to do, how to prevent this …