The Thornless Rose (17 page)

“See? Nothing to it,” Anne said.

Jane eyed her curiously. “Thy speech, m’lady, ’tis marvelous queer, yet the sound o’ thy voice is pleasin’ t’ me ear.”

Anne exchanged a swift look with Brandon. “Thou art kind,” she said, turning back to Jane, striving to sound more like an Elizabethan. “My father courted my mother in a foreign land, and I was raised there. I must needs continue to learn the speech of this realm.”

“Aye, thou must, else no one will understand thee,” Jane said, glancing at Brandon’s bag. Then she grinned in anticipation. “Pray tell, where’s me biscuit?”

…

“You give them cookies?” Anne laughed as Jane Clemens walked out of the barn, munching happily.

“Smoothes one’s feathers, so to speak,” Brandon said matter-of-factly as he removed a clean set of instruments from his bag and then motioned toward the milking stool. “I instructed Cook in the art of making them. Except for things like cocoa and refined sugar, we lack none of the necessary ingredients.”

“You realize you’ve changed history, don’t you?” Anne asked, taking a seat. “I know for a fact the Elizabethans didn’t have cookies.”

“I fear it is something I wrestle with every day,” Brandon said, his mood sobering. “Every time I interact with someone, every time I treat a patient, I know I’m changing the future. Sometimes, I lie awake at night wondering what will happen down the road. What if I’ve changed the lineage of Newton’s family, or Churchill’s?”

“It’s too bad you can’t find Hitler and bin Laden’s ancestors and mess with their futures.”

“I gather this bin Laden is some new twenty-first century madman?”

“Was. We killed him, but it would be nice to prevent his ever being born.”

Brandon nodded. “Well, hopefully I haven’t had too much influence on the future. By the way, do you know when biscuits, er, cookies were invented?”

“Actually, I don’t have a clue.”

He smiled. “Now, please lower your blouse on your left shoulder.” His features reverted to a look of clinical detachment as he swabbed her upper arm with eau-de-vie. He touched the tip of his scalpel into the fluid-filled spatula. “I shall nick you, thus admitting the cowpox virus directly into your body. It may hurt a bit more than a normal injection––”

Brandon’s voice faltered, and Anne looked into his eyes. Had he noticed the goose bumps his touch had caused?

He flushed, and Anne sensed the intensity of his thoughts. “What is it?” she whispered.

The scalpel hovered for a moment as he looked at her shoulder, her neck, and face. “I hate the thought of marring such perfect skin.”

A spark leapt between them, a crackling burst of desire. Without thinking, her body swayed toward his.

To her surprise, he cleared his throat and merely brought the scalpel toward her arm.

She closed her eyes and felt a touch of cold metal, wishing it was his warm lips instead.

A sudden sting. Her heart reeled in disappointment.

“Done,” he said as he reapplied the swab. “Please do press this against your skin.”

Anne did as requested, watching him closely as he placed his implements in the pack. The intimacy of those few moments was gone, but had it been forgotten?

“You will be safe now, Anne,” he finally said. “You did famously.”

She felt for the first time that the sense of obligation might have changed to something more. “Thank you,” she said, her voice subdued.

With a grave smile, he replied, “I would not want to lose you now.”

“You won’t,” she said, smiling back hopefully. “May I have a cookie, too?”

Chapter Seventeen

Anne and Jonathan walked toward St. Bart’s with a sense of growing familiarity, yet she knew something divided them still, an elusive and remote presence.

But this presence was not someone from the past. She was even more intangible, because Catherine Hastings Howard had not yet been born.

How would her grandmother react to their marriage? Anne couldn’t even grasp the notion. She glanced at Jonathan as he walked beside her, then swallowed heavily. Was he going out of his mind, too? How were they going to pull this off?

“Let’s make a detour, Anne. If you don’t mind, I should like to go to The Bishop’s Crook.”

Her thoughts veered to the pub and her dreams of finding a way back home. “Sure,” she agreed, trying to sound casual. “I could use a drink.”

They strolled a few minutes more. She hoped he might provide some answers about his experience and, maybe, with the information she’d learned from the articles in the attic, they could put their heads together and figure out what to do.

They reached a familiar door. “Wow, it looks exactly the same.”

“Aye, lass,” Jonathan said, affecting a lower class Elizabethan accent. “They’ll serve thee well here, fer certs, providin’ thou doth possess the coin.”

Anne grinned as he held the door open for her. The interior looked different, of course, without a bar and electric lights. Jonathan reminded her the typical, long, oak bar, separating patrons from servers, wasn’t invented until the American frontier days; before that, alcohol was kept in a strong room and brought out by the glass.

Yet, despite the changes, despite all she’d been through, The Crook felt like a welcome bit of home transplanted into a most alien setting.

“I was just here a few days ago,” she murmured as she studied the nearly empty tavern. “But it was hundreds of years in the future, wasn’t it? It’s all so weird.”

“Indeed,” he said. “I’m here fairly often, most days, actually. This is where I came through, of course—scared everyone to death. After a month or so, I took a chance and ventured back.” He patted his doublet. “Perhaps it was the new clothes, but no one seemed to recognize me as the bloke who’d popped up out of nowhere. Since then, I’ve been a regular.”

He nodded to a smiling, dark-haired, tavern maid, who was studying Anne with a curious expression.

“Yer pleasure?” the barmaid asked them. “Wot’ll it be, Dr. Brandon?”

He turned to Anne. “What would you like?”

“I don’t suppose I can get a shandy, can I?”

“No, but they’ve got a variety of ales, white and red wines, and sweetened––”

“Yes. Something sweet. But you choose, Jonathan. Surprise me.”

He considered a moment and then turned to the barmaid. “Dost thou have any clary today, Molly?” When the maid nodded, he went on, “Clary for the lady, then, and I’ll take a double-double.”

Order given, Jonathan led Anne to a table in the corner, the same place where she speculated he’d sat with her grandmother, the spot where he’d disappeared in 1945.

Their table. His table. The significance gave her pause.

He was watching her. “You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve waited here, wishing I could...”

“Go back,” she finished for him.

“Right. Wishing I could find a way.”

They sat opposite each other as the barmaid placed wooden tankards before them. Jonathan waited for her to leave before telling Anne, “Alas, nothing’s happened here, not a hint or feeling that the rift in time, or whatever it was, will open again.”

“Do you still have hope?”

His large blue eyes grew stormy-dark, veiled with sorrow. “No, not anymore. My hopes are dashed. Since I haven’t the slightest idea how I got here, how can I possibly discover how to go back?”

“There has to be a way back. I can’t stay here. I can’t make this my life. I’ve read a lot about the science behind time travel––”

“Anne, quiet!” he whispered vehemently, leaning toward her. “Don’t ever utter those words again. Remember where you are. They burn witches here, and what you just said would certainly be seen as devilry.”

Nodding, she recognized the stark truth in his warning.

“You must learn to accept this, Anne.”

She looked away. Could she ever learn to think like him? Would she ever be able to resign herself to what happened? No, she definitely wanted to find a way back to her own time—she
had
to find a way—yet she knew if she persisted, she might not only jeopardize her life, but his as well.

“Cheers,” Jonathan said quietly, raising his mug.

“Yes, cheers.” She took a breath and absently sipped the clary. They sat in silence for a time.

“Is it to your liking then?” Jonathan finally asked.

She nodded. “My mom’s mom is Swedish, and she makes something like this at Christmas.” She gestured toward his mug. “What’s a double-double?”

“A dark beer. Rather potent. As close as one can get to Guinness.”

“Sounds good––”

“Anne,” he interjected, “I realized this morning we haven’t really spoken about, er,” he hesitated and frowned, “you see, I don’t know much about your personal life. You haven’t told me if... Have you left behind a husband, or someone special?”

She shook her head. “No. There wasn’t anyone.”

He took a deep pull from his mug. Anne couldn’t tell if he was relieved or made nervous by this bit of news. “What about you? I hope Grandma’s request to take care of me isn’t taking you away from someone else.”

“No, there’s no one.” He shifted uncomfortably. “So, if you’re not married, then you’ve a proper job, I expect? What do you do?”

“I’m a high school history teacher.”

“Bloody hell.” He grinned. “I hadn’t expected to hear that. Your knowledge could be a help.”

“American history—sorry.”

“Ah, too bad, that. Where were you educated?”

“The University of Virginia at Charlottesville—Thomas Jefferson country. I was going to start on my master’s thesis next year, write a paper about colonial women and their struggles in a male-dominated society,” she shrugged and gave him a little smile, “but now, I think I’ll switch to Elizabethan women.”

He laughed then, vibrantly, almost raucously, as if he’d been waiting for something, anything to lighten his mood. Everyone in the pub turned and stared at Jonathan, grins coming swiftly to their faces, enjoying the atmosphere created by his warmth.

What had Grandma said about him?
she wondered.
That he was the “salt of the earth”?
She was beginning to see what that meant.

His grin mellowed, but his eyes still danced with amusement. “I’m glad you’re here, Annie,” he said, patting her hand.

Annie?

“I’ve decided that’s to be my special name for you.” Jonathan held her gaze. “That is, if you don’t mind?”

“It’s okay by me.”

The front door of the Crook burst open, and the young groom from St. Bart’s thrust his head inside, a look of panic on his face. His eyes widened with undisguised relief. “Dr. Brandon! I’ve found thee at last!”

Jonathan stood. “Here, Bob. What’s amiss? Has Wright taken a bad turn?”

“No, no.” The groom held a piece of paper in his hand. Waving it about, he hurried inside. “’Tis the palace! From Whitehall! From one o’ the queen’s ladies in waitin’!”

Jonathan took the paper, scanned it, raised his eyebrows in surprise, and turned to Anne. “It’s from a lady—Leticia Knollys. The queen is ill and requests my attention.”

“Elizabeth?” Anne asked breathlessly. “Is it serious?”

“I dare say...”
He perused the letter again quickly. “Come on.” After he placed a few coins on the table, they rose and followed Bob out of the pub. “It’s a fearsome headache, according to Lady Knollys,” Jonathan explained. “I’ve something that may work, a concoction made from ground willow bark.”

Hurrying along, Anne suddenly grasped Jonathan’s sleeve. “I’ve got a bottle of aspirin in my room!”

He stopped in his tracks. “Aspirin?”

“Yes, I forgot all about it.”

“Penicillin and now aspirin? And what other wonders do you have that I don’t know about?”

“Uh, I guess we need to make an inventory, don’t we?”

He gave her a smile. “Indeed.”

…

When Anne, Jonathan, and Bob reached St. Bart’s, a beautiful royal carriage, with a liveried footman, a driver, and a team of perfectly matched, chestnut horses, waited in the street by the Tudor gatehouse. Jonathan ordered Bob to run and tell the footman they would need a little time to prepare his medical equipment. That said, he and Anne headed straight for her room.

With Jonathan on her heels, she pushed open the door and glanced around for her leather bag. She spotted it on the nightstand and crossed the room in four steps, opened the bag, and shook the contents onto the bed quilt.

Anne gazed down at the scattered remnants of her former life. Even though she had stashed many of her most patently modern items in the niche, there were still things she’d missed in her haste, things that could prove very useful.

Jonathan picked up the bottle of aspirin and studied it. “I never dreamt I’d see this again,” he said, turning it slowly in his hands. “Tell me, Annie, if they’ve gotten rid of smallpox, what about cancer, or might they also have found cures for more mundane things, like arthritis or migraines?”

“No, but they’re working on all of it. It’s a shame I don’t have any Motrin. It works wonders on pain, too.”

He looked at her quizzically and then glanced at the bed again. Anne followed his gaze, eyes roaming from one item to another, momentarily focusing on Alice’s makeup tin, a few bars of chocolate, ballpoint pens, some loose antacids, a box of Mackintosh’s toffee, her breath mints, a scattering of American coins—and her grandfather’s switchblade.

He reached for the knife, opened it, and whistled softly. “What have we here?”

“Grandma wanted me to be prepared.”

“Bloody wise of her. This is a wicked blade. Have you any training for it?”

“No.”

“Then it’s far too dangerous to carry about. Mind if I lock it up?”

When she shook her head, he placed the switchblade in his pocket and turned back to the items from the bag. One of the candy bars caught his eye—a Nestlé’s Yorkie.

“The sweet taste of football,” he said, reading the caption. “Ah, football.”

Anne was quiet for a moment, leaving him to his memories. “You can have it,” she finally said. “Go ahead, Jonathan. I don’t mind.”

“No, it’s football I miss the most, not chocolate,” he said, smiling. He placed the chocolate back on the bed, then patted it for good measure. “We must see to the queen.” He took the aspirin bottle. “I’ve a notion to grind up a few tablets and mix the powder with coffee.”

“You could add some of my chocolate and make her a mocha.”

“Mocha?” he asked, puzzled.

“It’s delicious, Jonathan. Remember when I mentioned Starbucks?”

He looked at her uncertainly. “Well, mocha or not, the aspirin and coffee should work wonders for her, since her body is unused to any of this, and providing she has nothing worse than a bad headache.”

Worse?
Anne searched her memory. “Do you think it could be smallpox?”

Jonathan shook his head. “Not just yet. I thumbed through your Tudor book last night. She’s not supposed to get it until 1562. Now, let’s be off. There’s work to be done.”

…

The growing commotion surrounding the royal carriage did not surprise Anne as she and Jonathan left the gate of St. Bart’s. In addition to Mary, Bob, and a few of the hospital staff, neighbors, and passersby clambered for a look at the queen’s coach.

Anne studied the exterior of the ornate carriage. Every inch seemed to be covered with ormolu, the gleaming brass and gold leaf molding framing fine inlaid woods of intricate pattern. Elizabeth’s initials were interwoven into the door panels in shimmering, opalescent nacre, while the panels on either side held the famed Tudor Rose.

Everyone watched with unabashed curiosity as the liveried footman helped Anne and Jonathan—medical bag in hand—inside the coach. They sat opposite each other, the plush crimson cushions enveloping them in stuffy warmth, faintly scented with flowers, like worn-out potpourri.

The footman brusquely folded the steps beneath the coach and closed the door behind them. Anne felt the rear of the carriage sway; the footman had taken his station on the running board in back.

“Away, driver!” he called out, and the carriage lurched forward, heading toward Whitehall Palace and the ailing queen.

Nervous, Anne drummed her fingers against her knee and stared at the passing scenery. She should have pretended to be sick, or made some other excuse to stay behind.

As if reading her troubled thoughts, Jonathan, sitting on the opposite bench, reached over and took her hand.

Anne’s reaction to his touch was subdued by fear. “I’m terrified to go there,” she admitted. “I feel like I’ll make some huge blunder in front of everyone, and they’ll see me for who I really am.”

Smiling, he squeezed her hand. “You’re doing famously, but if you feel uncomfortable, stay quiet and observe. It would be quite natural, anyway, for a woman to remain in the background, so no one should bother you, or think it odd if you choose not to participate.”

“The queen might. She thinks I’m so daring.”

“Quite right.” He patted her hand before letting go and glanced out the window. Her gaze traveled back and forth between luxury homes and the brilliantly clothed lords and ladies parading on the street. “Look at the beautiful people! Look at their clothing, Jonathan, it’s lovely.”

Anne glanced down at her outfit. What had once seemed quaint and perfectly adequate now seemed horribly drab. She was embarrassed to think of her plain woolens among all of the glamour and glitter of the court.

Jonathan noticed her frown. “I shouldn’t worry. You’ll be the prettiest one there.”

Anne blushed. “Thanks. I needed that,” she said, still looking at men and women outfitted in lace, satin, and velvet.

“These are probably hangers-on, or servants,” he continued. “They’re certainly not the owners, who are probably all at court, or traveling by barge from riverside. I come here fairly often when I take a constitutional.”