Tapestry (41 page)

J
ane stood in Traquair House, and although it had changed over almost three centuries, it still felt familiar. Her pulse had begun to race with fresh hope as she’d slipped out of the tour group and come back to the chamber where she had first slept as Winifred. She had fully expected the door to be locked, but the knob had turned and the door had given at her gentle push; obviously, today’s owners didn’t expect the public to ignore their sign asking visitors not to walk down this end of the house.

The room was still a bedchamber, only modernised. However, old pieces remained, including the exquisite French dressing table and its mirror, which she remembered using to study her reflection as Winifred. Now Jane Granger looked back at her — or was it the ghost of Jane Granger? She certainly looked wan. She could see the ribbed shape of her breastbones in the ‘v’ of her T-shirt and her arms looked vaguely skeletal. Her cheekbones, of which she’d been proud when she’d first returned to London, now protruded a fraction too sharply, and she could trace the outline of her skull because it was fleshed too thinly these days.

She heard laughter from the front of the house, where her fellow tourists were probably making their way back down the driveway. How long would it take before she was noticed as missing from the group? When they did the head count on the minibus? She had maybe half an hour at most, probably less.

Robyn was not here. Why had Jane thought she would be?

Desperation, guilt, shame, hope. Everything had coalesced to plague her over these last haunting weeks of searching herself for answers. Jane knew she’d made the right decision not to pursue Will, but her internal longing confused her. Nevertheless, she’d made a fateful move the day before yesterday, striding away from Juliette, and that had led her on the long railway journey and today’s tour of stately homes in Perth. She’d had to walk through two others before they’d arrived at Traquair House and all the familiar sights and names had stirred her longing again. She felt anger at herself for reaching for the past so desperately, and yes, inescapably, anger — despite her best intentions — at Will for letting her down after she’d gone through so much.

It would have been so easy if she’d fallen into his arms as he woke up and they’d both whispered words of relief to one another and their families had sighed happily. She might have waived the pomp and ceremony and married him the next day, because then she wouldn’t have had to confront this.

‘This what?’ asked a familiar voice, and she swung around, seeing no one.

‘Robin?’ She couldn’t hide the tension in her voice, or the excitement that exploded within.

‘Anger serves no purpose.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I warned you that magic always demands a price,’ he said, and she followed his voice to the mirror, where she could see him clearly reflected. ‘Your price for using the magic to restore Will was having to give him up.’

‘I saved his life,’ she said, not knowing what else to say. ‘I wish that he had saved mine.’

‘He did, Jane, by not recognising you.’

‘Will he ever remember me?’

He shook his head. ‘No. But I cannot tell if he would have
fallen in love with you all over again. That would have been up to you.’

‘Robin, I’m lost.’

He nodded. ‘And you’ve come searching for an answer?’

She took a breath. ‘Yes. I want to be like Winifred and William. I have experienced that love now and I know Will and I never had that.’

‘Why have you returned here?’

‘Don’t make me say it.’

‘Oh, but I must.’

She blushed. ‘Because of the letter.’

‘From Julius Sackville.’

She sat on the stool in front of the dressing table and stared at her curious companion. ‘He said he would visit Terregles at the end of autumn. By then he believed I would know my husband’s fate.’ She knew the exact words by heart:
By then you may know your future
.

‘And what do you think he meant by those carefully chosen words?’

‘I suppose that if we were still married, still happy, he would never trouble me again.’

‘And if not?’

‘He did not say.’

‘Well, it’s academic, Jane, because in 1716 Winifred and William
are
still married.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Blissfully happy in Rome.’

She swallowed. ‘And the child?’

Suddenly, for the first time since she’d left Winifred’s body, Jane understood the second reason for her unhappiness, her sense of dislocation, her inability to integrate back into her old life and particularly her sense of loss. She’d allowed people to think it was connected with Will; privately, she’d believed it to be about Julius. But only now in uttering that question did
Jane realise that it was also about the child she and Julius had created.

Robin gazed back at her and hesitated …

‘Winifred had suffered many unsuccessful pregnancies before you met her. She miscarried again on the rough voyage to Belgium, where she was heading to see her sister, Lucy, who was by then Mother Prioress at the convent.’

‘Oh,’ she said, unsure of whether she felt relief or hopelessness.

‘It was for the best,’ Robin said with a stern look. ‘Rather complicated otherwise.’

She nodded, her cheeks burning afresh. And now, the question she was desperate to ask. ‘Robin, can I go back?’

He hesitated again.

‘I accept that there will be a price,’ she said, trying to keep her voice light-hearted, but Robin didn’t return her levity. ‘Julius spoke about the tapestry of life — as you did once. In the letter …’ She took a slow breath. ‘Well, he hoped the threads of that tapestry that bound us might cross once again.’

‘Is that what you hope too?’

She looked back at the mirror forlornly. ‘I have to be with him. I have to.’

‘You could never see your family again.’

‘I understand.’

The mirror shimmered and Robin appeared before her, suddenly real. She gasped. ‘Do you, Jane? Do you really want to grow old in a time before you were born?’

She could feel the thrum of the magic around her, but she remained calm as she nodded. ‘I want to grow old with the man I love. Isn’t that what the great tapestry of life is about — the many threads of love? The relationships that weave their way into the future to form the lives we live?’

‘Yes, someone said a similar thing once,’ he said, unable this time to repress a little smirk.

‘I want to know the love of a man who is loved in return. I didn’t have that with Will. It was a one-sided love affair and he deserved better, and it could be why life has reworked his part of the tapestry. And I want to be Jane Sackville … can you take me back to his time?’

‘Julius Sackville was enamoured with Winifred. Are you sure he could love
you
, Jane?’

She shrugged. Robin could certainly tap into her fears. ‘I can only hope. I think if he met me there would be a chance for us. Isn’t that what love is all about? Hope?’

He nodded. ‘Well, if you’re absolutely sure, we must leave immediately.’

‘Robin, there is nothing for me in this life but disappointment everywhere I turn.’

‘Understand this. The only reason I will help you to unpick the tapestry of your life and rework the threads is because I fear I should not have tampered with it in the first place.’

‘But you did, and I am grateful for it. I have no regrets other than the pain I’ve brought my family.’ She thought of her parents’ dismay as she’d explained she was going travelling again, refusing to answer their questions. ‘I wrote a long letter to them on the train and posted it as soon as I arrived in Perthshire. I told them everything that I choked on trying to explain when I rang them … as I knew I would. It was too difficult. But if you take me back, I’m going to write another letter in the past for them in the future. I shall tell them not to let me make that trip to Cornwall in 1978, and then I shall never meet Will and none of this will happen.’

‘Now you’re confusing me.’ He wagged a finger. ‘And this is why we must not tamper with people’s lives and their destiny. Changing history is dangerous. I doubt you will be there in 1978, Jane, because you are now choosing to change the course of
their
lives too.’

‘Then I’ll save them pain.’

Robin was kind enough not to pursue it by reminding her they’d have to live through her loss anyway. Instead, he shrugged at her. ‘Transference of your whole self is going to be painful.’

‘I’m ready for it,’ she said gamely, hoping she was.

‘Well, you know where to go next?’

‘The standing stones.’

He nodded.

T
he journey back in time was one of breathless agony, to which Jane had to give herself over completely. There was no thought, no light, no dark, no sound, no purchase on anything except the pain that wracked her body, hurt her mind and caused her to scream into a silence where no one could hear her. She had no idea how long it endured, but gradually Jane came back into herself, trembling and damp with exertion at first, then slowly steadying her breathing, calming that hammering heartbeat.

When the panic of transference had passed, she raised her head to see that Robin was now Robyn and they were standing in the gardens of Terregles. She could tell that the house was now shuttered and locked.

‘Welcome back, Jane,’ said Robyn, draping a cloak over Jane’s naked body.

‘That hurt,’ Jane gasped.

‘You were warned it would, if you were to come through fully as yourself.’

She winced, looking up at Robyn from the ground where she had landed. ‘I feel changed.’

Robyn reached out a hand to help her up and rearrange the warm cloak. ‘You
are
changed. You belong here now.’

Jane shaded her eyes against the sun, which was now full and warm. Summer was announcing itself; time had moved on in 1716. ‘So the house is deserted?’

‘Locked up since the Maxwells left, although I suspect the son will return to claim it in due course, when he is old enough, because the King didn’t want it. For now, William’s sister and her husband have put everything in order.’

Jane nodded. ‘I hope a few of Winifred’s clothes remain.’

‘Come, I know a way inside.’ Robyn beckoned.

And it was no longer Winifred’s feelings, only Jane’s emotions surging with relief and delight to be back at Terregles. She’d only been here briefly, yet Winifred’s feelings of home and love had coloured Jane’s, and now it felt familiar and welcoming, even in its deserted state. She remembered Sarah and dear Bran — where were they now? She was sure she could find them soon enough.

With Robyn at her side, she walked through the house, opening shutters, flinging up windows, pulling back drapes — at every opportunity allowing the beautifully soft Scottish sunlight of a summery afternoon to leak back into a house that she remembered had been filled with love.

‘I’m going to take off every dust sheet. It’s going to be a fully working house again.’

‘You’re that confident he will come?’ Robyn asked.

‘He will come.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

‘I don’t regret being here, if that’s what you mean.’

‘You’ll make a life here?’

‘I have no choice. You told me that yourself. I have friends in London — Mrs Mills, Mrs Morgan. Oh, they don’t know we’re friends yet, but they will. There’s dear Mary and Charles at Traquair … even Mr and Mrs Bailey, or Mr and Mrs Leadbetter, if I’m desperate!’ She giggled.

They ascended the stairs, the old dark timber creaking beneath their feet, until they reached the landing, where separate
portraits of William and Winifred hung. Winifred looked back at her with a serene expression, soft golden hair clasped back, curling gently behind her ears.

Jane kissed her fingers and placed them on Winifred’s image. ‘Hello, darling Winifred.’ She blew a kiss to William. ‘Will, how fare you?’

‘Well done, Jane. You already sound like you belong.’

She sighed, smiling contentedly. ‘I do belong. Here they are, my closest friends, with me still.’

‘You’d better write to Mary and concoct a reason for being here.’

Jane nodded. ‘I’ll say I’m an old friend of Winifred’s, for only an old friend would know where money is stashed.’ She chuckled. ‘I shall need to be frugal, though.’

In Winifred’s room, which Jane had not seen previously, she discovered her friend’s wardrobe intact and was assured she would never want for clothes, as they were of similar size. She looked around at the simple, but elegant, furnishings and could see Winifred’s fine and slightly French taste reflected here more than in any other room she’d visited in the house. Two floor-to-ceiling mullioned windows let in golden afternoon light to bounce off papered walls depicting tall and dramatic soft green foliage with pale flowers. A central carpet echoed the colours in a delicate floral pattern and covered burnished parquet flooring, to finish at the four-poster bed, which was set into a wall recess. Jane recalled William’s bed and this was its feminine twin, with finer finials and rich, cream-coloured, silken draping. Beneath the dado, the plasterwork was picked out in sage green and cream while heavily gilded French mirrors either side of the bed and between the windows made the room feel bigger, lighter. It was altogether feminine and beautiful. She sighed. Winifred was still with her.

Robyn beckoned again. ‘Come. I have something for you,’ she said.

Jane tiptoed softly across the carpet, hardly wishing to stir the air of Winifred’s room, until she stood by the walnut dressing table. She watched Robyn lift the lid on a small wooden box that was so simple in design she could see the marks from the maker’s chisel.

‘Willie made this for his mother,’ Robyn said, answering her question.

‘It’s confronting the way you hear my thoughts,’ Jane admitted.

‘Only your questions,’ Robyn confided. She reached in and pulled out what looked to be a bundle of stained, folded papers, but Jane recognised them instantly.

‘Julius’s letters!’ She took them greedily, held them to her chest. ‘Thank you. It means so much to have them.’

Robyn nodded with a half-smile. ‘I knew it would. And this,’ she said, dipping again into the box and retrieving a small glass vial.

Jane had to bite her lip to stop it from trembling, refusing to weep. ‘Winifred’s perfume,’ she breathed.

‘You buried the perfume and letters together on the ley line at Peebles. They belong with each other and now they are back with their rightful owner.’

Jane closed her eyes and sniffed the bottle stopper. The familiar scent that Winifred had called Ashes of Violet filled her senses, and with it came an image of Julius, his expression bruised, struggling — the one he’d worn the day she’d glimpsed him in the Court.

She gave Robyn a kiss. ‘Thank you. Now he is with me, even though he is not present.’

And so began four months of living quietly, with only Robyn for company and to teach her everything about living as a gentlewoman in the early Georgian era. If anyone asked, Jane had learned to spin the story that she was a very close friend of
the Earl and Countess and they had given permission for her to make use of the house. She had taken the precaution of writing to Mary and Charles at Traquair to ensure they understood that she was living at Terregles, but that she was occupying a small cottage rather than the main house. Soon she was corresponding regularly with Mary, who sounded pleased that someone was looking after the family home. She was sure Mary would have written to Winifred and that made her smile, for she knew if she could, Winifred would want to meet her. Perhaps … who knew, she may one day visit Italy and introduce herself properly. But not yet … not until autumn had come … and gone …

Jane remembered where Winifred had buried some of the Maxwells’ silver, and used this coin to buy seeds to plant vegetables. She learned from Robyn about simple animal husbandry so that the purchase of a cow and chickens meant some staples could be guaranteed. She learned how to bake bread and live without anything more technical than a wheelbarrow. Bran was back in her life — it seemed he’d never left — and was happy to come down from his new home in the highlands to help run a small household again for Her Ladyship’s friend, and look after the land. Jane even bought a horse, so that she didn’t feel entirely trapped at Terregles. Life, despite the grandness of her surroundings, was simple in her cottage and she understood, while learning with Robyn’s help to darn socks at night by candlelight, or engaging in her latest passion, spinning wool from stores on the Maxwell property, that she had never felt as happy or fulfilled as she did in living this plain life.

Jane assured Robyn that, although she was often alone, she never felt lonely, whereas with Will she had often felt isolated and guilt-ridden.

Nevertheless, it came as a bright pain when, one morning, Robyn announced that it was time for her to leave.

‘But why?’

‘I must,’ is all her friend would say. ‘This is the right time.’

‘Now, perhaps, I shall be lonely beyond understanding.’

‘You will be fine, Jane. You have carved out a most pleasant existence for yourself. And perhaps that existence may change as time moves on, but for now I know you are capable of taking care of yourself.’

She knew she couldn’t force Robyn to stay, but when they hugged farewell Jane had a teary moment.

‘I do not regret being here, Robyn, but I will miss you.’

‘Perhaps,’ her friend said, and gave her a reassuring smile that Jane didn’t understand.

A few hours later, Jane was in the side garden of the main house, selecting herbs for the rabbit stew she had had in mind since Bran had arrived with a brace, which was now hanging in her pantry. With the colder weather that autumn had brought, it seemed appropriate to start cooking more heartily.

She blinked into the setting sun and could see a rider approaching. At first she thought it might be Robyn returning, having changed her mind, but then Jane remembered that Robyn had left on foot.

As the figure drew closer, she could make out the shape of a man. Jane straightened up and smoothed Winifred’s skirt, wondering what this messenger’s arrival might signify. Was it news of young Willie’s return to the house, or Charles, Winifred’s brother-in-law, paying a visit?

She shielded her eyes to try for a better look — and swallowed hard. The figure of the man was achingly familiar. Not daring to believe it, Jane held her breath as she watched him dismount at the main gate and begin leading his horse up the main path to the house. His hat hid his features, but she knew it was him. He’d kept his word, even though he had no idea whether she had even received his letter.

Since Robyn returned it, she had carried it around with her like a talisman. And now she reached into her pocket and touched the stopper of Winifred’s perfume to her wrist. She
moved around from the side garden to stand at the front of the main house and let out the breath that had been caught in her chest. Her heart sounded like a drummer without rhythm; she took a slow, deep breath to calm her racing mind.

This was the moment. In fact, the next few heartbeats would decide her fate forever.

‘Good afternoon,’ he said, giving a small bow. ‘My name is Julius Sackville.’ The voice drifted over her like a balm. This was no illusion; it was really him. He was even wearing the same riding coat.

‘I know who you are,’ she said, linking her fingers to keep her nervous hands still.

He regarded her, frowning. ‘Forgive me; have we been introduced?’

She smiled. ‘In a manner, we have. You are a friend of Lady Winifred, are you not?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Yes. Is she in residence?’

‘I am afraid not, Lord Sackville,’ and she could see the surprise in his expression that she knew his title. ‘The Earl and Countess are now living abroad permanently. I am a close friend of Winifred and my understanding is that she will not be returning to Terregles, not even for a visit. Perhaps you’ve heard they are fugitives?’

He looked down. ‘I have.’ She could feel his disappointment batter against her senses like a tidal wave of sorrow. ‘Er … forgive me,’ he said, trying his best to cover it. ‘I promised Winifred that I would visit next time I was in these parts.’

‘And I am sorely glad you have,’ Jane said, trying not to blush.

He studied her. ‘I feel embarrassed not to know your name, miss.’

‘Oh,’ she smiled, ‘it is I who must apologise, sir. But first, may I ask if you remember a conversation with Winifred when she asked you to pay attention to a friend of hers who might introduce herself to you as Jane Granger?’

He blinked slowly. ‘I do,’ he said, his throat raspy.

Jane looked down. ‘She asked you, if I’m right, to spend some time getting to know this woman, to give her a fair hearing … at least, to give her a chance to explain something. I believe she tried to impress upon you that it was important that you did.’

‘Winifred did not say her friend would be so beautiful.’ He waited. ‘You are … Jane?’

‘I am Jane Granger, Lord Sackville. And I have been waiting for you throughout the summer. And now that autumn is riding in hard, I hoped with all of my heart that you would come.’

He stared at her, aghast. ‘How did you know this?’

‘Because of the letter you sent me.’

She watched him think on her words, as though replaying them carefully in his mind. ‘I sent a letter to
Winifred
.’

‘No, Julius. You thought you were writing to Winifred. But you were writing to me. Your letter spoke to Jane. And you once said to me in a woodcutter’s hut that you only thought of Jane when you made love to Winifred, because she seemed different to you if you called her Jane. I have travelled a long way to be with you. And I have waited for you.’

The lovely face, tanned by summer’s rays, blanched before her. ‘How can you know this about me … about Jane? I don’t understand.’

‘Because, confusing as it surely is, I
am
Jane. It was always me, Julius.’

Consternation wrestled with despair in his expression. ‘You toy with me, miss. And with my broken heart.’

‘No, Julius, my love. I shall explain everything if you’ll promise to hear it. Winifred asked you to hear Jane out, to give her a chance.’ Jane held out a hand to him. ‘It is wonderful to see you again.’

His manners forbade him from doing anything else but bend over her hand to kiss it politely. Yet as he did so she knew he inhaled a scent that made him pause. She felt the hand holding
hers shake. ‘Ashes of Violet,’ he murmured, his voice gritty with emotion and memory.

Jane pulled the vial from her pocket. ‘I keep this close because it makes me think of you when I smell the fragrance. I wear it only for you.’