Tapestry (12 page)

She stepped up and onward, emptying her mind again of conscious thought, but exquisitely aware of minutiae: how her muscles were tensed in her calves, how she was perspiring and could feel the prickle of the wet patch on her back, how
her normally soft blonde hair was curiously itchy against her skin because of the dampness. She could taste saltiness on her lips and her eyes stung a bit from her sweat. She’d forgotten sunglasses and felt fortunate that so far this wasn’t one of those achingly bright days, like yesterday, when it almost hurt to look up at the sharp, sunny sky.

The cry of an eagle caught her attention, dragged her from the void of her mind. She shielded her gaze, looking for its dark, distinctive shape hovering overhead. There it was: a wedge-tailed eagle, called walawuru locally, she’d read. Its cry was lonely and haunting, like a woman’s shriek, echoing her own feelings. Odd. Just moments ago she had been feeling so upbeat. Why had this bird’s piercing cry stirred a sudden, inexplicable feeling of dread and dislocation?

Jane sat down to take a breather. It was warming up fast, and the atmosphere was turning muggy. Totally different from how it had felt on arrival yesterday afternoon. The humidity had been gathering without her sensing it while she’d climbed and she could hear the wind now, like a lion’s roar against a cliff-face. Somewhere below her it was whistling shrilly, as though hurtling through the hollows of the ancient rock.

The gusty conditions had crept up on her too, and she noticed they were no longer comforting or pleasant. They had strengthened enough that she was yearning for the chain again. But she was close now … too close to consider anything other than pressing on. She touched her pocket, reassuring herself that her biro was there. The eagle was back, its shriek even more ghostly as it challenged the cries of the wind, which had torn some of her hair free from its attempted trapping.

Desertion in the desert
, the eagle called at her as it hovered high, directly above her.

Jane ignored the fanciful notion that the bird was mocking her. She wished again for something to anchor herself to. There was no doubt in her mind any more that the claim of
people having been blown off was not a fantasy. Her nine stone certainly felt light enough on this precarious angle that she believed she could be blown away. There would be nothing to grab at, or hang on to, if she lost her footing. She forced herself not to look down or even across the landscape until she was on the summit’s plateau. With each step she planted her feet as solidly as she could, leaning almost at right angles into the wind, which wanted to knock her sideways and tumble her across the face of Uluru.

You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t climb our sacred site
, the eagle baited.

Jane trudged on, much more slowly, taking great care to ensure each footstep was secure, hands tensed like claws very close to the Rock’s surface so that she was almost on all fours. She was no longer perspiring. Instead she was cold, cold with fear. Where had that come from? When had fear penetrated? Voices were whispering now on the wind, nagging at her. She couldn’t make out their words.
It’s just the wind
, she told herself;
your imagination is running away with you. This is the right choice. Robin told you to seek the path; this is it
. This was the ley line that connected her to Will. This was the vortex that would deliver him back to her and her to him.

Finally, unbelievably, she scrabbled over the last few feet and hauled herself onto the summit, lying on her belly, panting. It shouldn’t have been this hard. Why was she so exhausted? Her parents had tried to tell her that she was fragile;
brittle
, her father had said. Her mother had railed that she hadn’t slept, had lost weight, that her body was fatigued and ravaged by grief. Her sister had tried to counsel that, physically as well as emotionally, she wasn’t strong enough right now. But she wouldn’t be told. Had refused their advice.

Jane had dutifully called her parents from reception on arrival and the connection had been scratchy enough that she was all but shouting down the phone. Still, she’d managed to
produce a breezy tone, which wasn’t all feigned, so they were probably feeling secure in the knowledge that she’d reached her destination, even though they didn’t understand her journey or her driving ambition to climb to the summit of a massive rock in the middle of Australia.

It did sound peculiar. No longer daft in that amusing, ‘What a funny loony you are!’ kind of way. She lay here with the wind growling around her, knowing there was no help at hand should anything happen to her. It was madness of a dangerous kind. Only Baz knew she was here. He wouldn’t be back at the motel for hours to raise the alarm should anything occur.
Nothing’s going to happen
, she admonished herself, looking up toward where the book awaited her.
Sign our names and down I go
.

This was an unhinged idea
, she finally allowed.
Everyone’s right. You’re lost in guilty grief and making poor decisions
. It was as though rationality were only just seeping through her mind, past the craziness of the last few days … the preoccupation with magic and miracles … and only now was she appreciating the peril she’d put herself into.

She tried to stand, but immediately went down on her knees as the wind gleefully began to tease her with its strength.

I can push you off
, it whistled.
You could become a statistic. There’ve been quite a few deaths already of foolhardy tourists who didn’t pay attention to good advice … who ignored the sacred site … who wanted to trip the light fantastic of the ley lines
.

Jane yelled aloud — no words, just pure emotion.

Then she began to talk aloud to herself. ‘Ignore everything,’ she calmed herself, glad to hear her own voice, even though the wind tried to steal that as well. ‘Sign and go home!’

Baz had warned her to make the descent
like a donkey
. ‘Take a winding path down — longer, but safer. Don’t be tempted to descend in a straight line. And don’t be too proud to slither down on your arse,’ he’d added with a wink.

Jane rallied despite the sky’s suddenly ominous aspect, the sinister clouds clustering directly above. They’d crept up on her — in partnership with the wind in their silent, hasty stealth. The gusts began to intensify further now that she was on the summit and vulnerable. On her knees she half crawled, half staggered to the book, flesh protesting at the hardness of the rock, bones grinding. She was trapped between the pressures of nature and gravity, one of which, the wind, wasn’t giving a smidgen.

Her shaking hand reached for the biro that was tied on to the book with a piece of weathered string. Normally, somewhere like this, she would have read previous entries, but now she was too distracted and frightened.

She pressed the pen down onto the lined paper to enter the date in the appropriate column. The biro dimpled the page but made no other mark; it had run out of ink. She scratched with it, made frantic squiggles on the page, but it refused to write for her.

‘Shit!’ she yelled, flinging it aside and digging into her pocket for her spare pen. Oh, how sound that advice had been.

She dragged it out, her breath coming raggedly now, and after pulling off its plastic lid with her teeth she once again put nib to paper. But just as she was about to scrawl the date, Jane screamed in fright as something — a coach driver who was just pulling his tour bus into the car park would later describe it as a rogue squall — howled and shoved angrily against her.

At ground level, where lizards capered and birds flitted, that same wind blew hats off and made some people squeal as they felt hurried along, but mostly it provoked laughter and a decision not to risk climbing today.

Yet on the exposed summit of the great Uluru, that same rogue squall hit a vulnerable woman at nearly three times the speed as had entertained the other tourists. And as it knocked away Jane’s already tenuous hold on the smooth surface, easily
flicking her legs from under her, she screamed for help, but her cries were yanked away, borne on the winds into the desertscape beyond.

Jane rolled several times, feeling the unyielding surface bruise her flesh, and then she was suddenly scooped up and shot close to the edge of the massive red rock. She was half running, half falling, aware that she was now headed for certain death. She should have listened to the advice of those who loved her.

She’d let Will go to America and now she was even further from him, and most likely going to die before he did. What a tragic couple.
A modern Shakespeare would love it
, she thought as she toppled. His parents would keep him alive, believing it was devotion and love while they witnessed him wither to a husk of himself. Better he died than lived the life of a seeming corpse. But still she clung to hope.

Stretching before her was the vast central Australian desert, full of secret knowledge. Was this what the powerful Earth vortex wanted? To lure her here, only to kill her? Relentlessly pushed and toppled and scooped closer to the killing edge, she screamed at the magic that so many believed had existed here for millennia … in this place of ancient cunning.

‘How can I save you, Will?’ she yelled in desperate rage.

You’ll need courage
.

The response was a thought. It had no voice, but rode on the wind and pushed into her mind fiercely enough to make her gasp.

Do you have it, though?
demanded the thought.
Do you, Jane?

For Will, I have the courage of every brave man or woman who’s walked this Earth
, her mind growled back.

Magic exacts a price
.

I’ll pay it!
she shrieked.
Make him safe!

And the wind keened like a wolf howling as the clouds broke over Uluru and turned the hulking mountain from red to
purple-grey beneath the sheet of rain that engulfed it, sending cascades of rivulets and tiny waterfalls pounding down its crevices, turning its surface slippery.

But Jane felt none of it. She was aware only of falling as the wind got its way and shoved her off the giant edifice. Her screaming faded, until there was only the silence and a void as death beckoned and opened its arms to her. And what consumed her was that she had never signed Will’s name or hers in the book. Neither of them was real any more … they had both winked out of existence and all she could hope for was that their spirits would meet on the ley line down which she fancifully decided she was hurtling, on an ancient and cosmic straight track to her death.

Peebles, November 1715

D
istantly, Jane heard women. First, the chittering sound of excitement and then a single voice, firm in spite of its gentle tone.

‘She’s swooned. Hurry, Cecilia, fetch the smelling bottle.’

The rank smell of ammonia startled her into full consciousness and she coughed and spluttered, pushing away the hands that fussed, vaguely aware of being dressed in frilly clothing and not understanding why.

‘She’s all right, Mary, thank heavens.’

Jane gasped a new breath, her eyes startled open. ‘Where am I?’

There were two women; she recognised neither and kept blinking, confused as to why they were dressed in period costume and leaning over her with worried expressions. One of them was holding her hand.

‘Feeling better?’ that one said. She had eyes like liquid chocolate and coarse dark hair parted in the middle. It was pulled back loosely beneath a small linen cap trimmed with lace, leaving a modest festoon of curls around her squarish face. Jane would have described her as handsome rather than pretty.

Her companion, however, clutching the offensive bottle, was doll-like by comparison, with large blue eyes, hair the shade of
ripe corn silk and a smile to melt hearts. Her hair was swept gently behind her head and was without a bonnet.

Both looked trapped in a costume drama.

Jane, confused, nevertheless lost interest in the women, her attention snagged by her surroundings as she took in the rich timber panelling, the moulded stone fireplace and the bookshelves that lined the room. The pervading smell, apart from the sweet timber burning in the grate and the lingering ammonia, was leather, possibly from the covers of the books.

‘Where am I?’ she repeated.

‘In the library, dearest,’ the doll said. She had a roundish face and wore no make-up or jewellery, but she was dressed exquisitely in clothes that the BBC costume department would surely appreciate having returned.

‘Who are you?’ Jane whispered.

‘It’s me, darling Winifred. Mary. Don’t you recognise me? You fainted. The news was a shock, I know, but you must take heart.’

‘Will …’ Jane began.

‘Yes, Winifred dear, we know,’ the bonneted one — not called Mary — said, taking charge. ‘Please be still. You have been so unwell. We know you’ve been worried about him, and now this turn of events. But William is not injured.’

‘He’s woken?’ she asked, shaken by where she found herself, but thrilled by the news that Will might have returned to consciousness.

But neither answered, as they had both turned at the sound of someone entering the library. A tall, dark man in a long, chestnut-coloured wig strode toward them. Jane gave a small gasp — half amusement, half shock. ‘It’s cuts and bruises, nothing serious,’ he said wearily, in answer to the question in their combined gazes. ‘However, the situation is serious. He will be taken to London, apparently.’

Jane frowned, realising she too was dressed in strange silks and was showing off most of her chest in a gown with a rounded,
low-cut bodice. Uncomfortable pressure was emanating from an upside-down triangle of embroidered linen that held the dress tightly against her breasts. And she was lying down on a sofa.

Was she dreaming? Dreaming had never felt this real. ‘Why is Will back in London? He’s meant to be in —’

‘He’s not
back
there yet, sister,’ Mary said. ‘He’s on his
way
there with the English Army. I beg you not to fret. Your health has been sorely weak; you know how anxious we have been for you.’

Jane blinked in deep consternation. All right, this was a dream … must be. She had to get out of it; she tried to wake herself, but failed. Vague memories of climbing up the face of a huge rock, being smashed around by a terrible storm and then falling began to filter into her mind. She clutched at these images, reaching toward reality, hoping to drag herself from this dreamscape. But her recollections were disrupted by the tall, slim woman — she possessed an achingly sweet smile, Jane thought irrelevantly — who perched herself on the edge of the sofa and took Jane’s hand … again.

‘Winifred, you’ve always been the strong one. I know you’ll be strong now for Will, for the family.’

What on earth was this woman talking about? Who was Winifred? And more to the point … ‘Who are you?’ she repeated, frowning.

The woman stared back at her with a flustered expression, her eyes misting. ‘It’s Cecilia. Cecilia Evans, your lady’s maid and oldest companion. Why don’t you recognise me?’

‘I don’t recognise any of you,’ Jane admitted frankly, sitting up.

Cecilia pursed her lips. ‘It must be the fever,’ she said to the others before returning her gaze to Jane. ‘We thought we’d lost
you
a few days ago; now it seems
you’ve
lost your memory.’

Physically, Jane felt as though she’d had one wine too many and her mind were dulled, filled with cotton wool. ‘I don’t
understand where I am, or why I’m dressed in these ridiculous clothes, or why you’re talking to me as though we’re straight out of an Austen novel, or how you know Will, or most of all why he’s in London.’

Cecilia blinked back at her in clear consternation. ‘Oh, Win, dear. ’Twas such a devil, this fever of yours. You look stronger … though I daresay the sickness has muddled your mind.’

Mary was back. ‘Winifred …’

‘I am
not
Winifred. I’m Jane. You’re all potty. Is this some sort of weekend with the Georgians?’

Mary and Cecilia shared a glance of fresh concern.

‘Did she fall? Hit her head?’ the man asked.

‘No, Charles. She was resting on the couch when the messenger came. She read the letter lying down. Upon my blessing, though, dear Winifred looks to have some colour back in her cheeks at last.’

Charles and his huge wig hove into view, the better to see for himself. ‘Indeed, madam, you look ten times better than you did yesterday. The fever is broke, and your strength is returning, it seems — which is a blessing, for you must be especially strong of heart for what must now be endured.’

Jane couldn’t hold her laughter in any longer — not now that he was hovering above her with fat, chestnut curls dangling about his head. ‘That truly is an outrageously large wig, Charles. Don’t you feel ridiculous?’

He stared at her as though she might have regained her health but her mind was surely lost. ‘You’d better call the physic, Mary. Mayhap she needs to be bled.’

‘Bled?’ Jane repeated in horror. She rallied and stood up, pulling and scratching at the silks that rustled with every movement. Her hand went to the stiff bodice that held her tight, and only now did she become aware of the huge, hooped skirt
billowing beneath her waist. ‘I can barely breathe in this get-up. Someone will have to undo it, or I really will pass out.’

Mary glanced pointedly at Charles, who took his leave. ‘Yes, of course, dear Winifred,’ she said, and moved to Jane’s back to start undoing buttons. ‘We’ll loosen the stomacher.’

‘Can someone please tell me about Will?’ Jane asked. ‘All of it!’

It was Cecilia who obliged. ‘I shan’t spare you, Win, for I know you prefer candour. Your lord husband wrote that the men were divided. He was imprisoned with his fellow peers, including the Englishman Lord Derwentwater; they handed over their swords and other weapons at the Mitre Inn in Preston and were put under guard.’ Jane was still registering
your lord husband
, her expression clouded with fresh confusion, by the time Cecilia paused for her to say something, and when she didn’t Cecilia continued. ‘When the messenger left Lancashire with this letter, William had been kept at Preston for several days, although four of the regular officers had already been court-martialled and executed, as we understand it.’

Jane blinked at her. She had no grasp of what they were talking about, but neither did she care. All she wanted to know about was Will.

Cecilia again continued after leaving a polite pause for Jane to say something. ‘We’ve been told that the prisoners were divided up and that William, together with the other peers, was put into a carriage and taken to Wigan under the escort of dragoons.’

‘Wigan,’ Jane repeated with laughing disbelief, desperately trying to make sense of this onslaught of information.

‘But they’re definitely on the way to London,’ Mary continued from behind her, where she was loosening the ties on Jane’s bodice. ‘They paused at Middlewatch and William was able to get the letter away to you. I think you swooned before
you finished reading it, so I took the liberty of reading it instead. He needs you to send some money via a messenger to Barnet.’

‘He also thinks you should endeavour to travel to London,’ Cecilia added.

Mary reappeared in front of her and Jane felt she could breathe again now. Both women smiled hesitantly, waiting.

‘Listen to me now, both of you,’ Jane said slowly. ‘I think you have me confused with someone else. I am talking about Will Maxwell.’

They both smiled sadly. It was Mary who spoke. ‘Yes, dearest. William Maxwell, Earl of Nithsdale. He is my brother, your beloved husband and the father of young William and Anne,’ she said encouragingly, as though willing Jane to agree. When Jane didn’t respond with more than blinking confusion, Mary continued hurriedly, golden curls dancing around her face. ‘And though my heart wants to be light, for your sake, I think I must say what’s in it, dearest. He’s in trouble most keen with the English king. King George will seek to make an example of the highborn who promoted this rebellion.’ She paused, seemingly keen for Jane to grasp the import of her words. ‘The government has six nobles as prisoners.’

‘The Earl of Nithsdale,’ Jane repeated slowly, her tone filled with incredulity, as though she’d heard nothing since Mary had uttered those words. This was the forebear Diane Maxwell was so proud to be associated with; it was the very man Will’s parents had been researching in Scotland when their son had been attacked. Will had never given her the full story; he’d waved her off with
yadda yadda
, bored with the family connection his mother dined off. What had happened, though? He’d never told her what had happened to the man who had been accused of treachery!

‘This is not happening,’ she murmured, feeling unbalanced.

Another confused glance was exchanged by the women.

Cecilia spoke first. ‘Winifred, you really must have hit your head. How did we miss that?’

Jane took a deep breath and, before the others could notice, pinched herself as hard as she could. She could feel her nails digging into her flesh, and instead of waking up, she discovered that she was still very much here in the musty-smelling library with these strangely dressed women who were clearly trying to be kind, but were only confusing her further. She reached for the only real fact that might help her. She’d set out on the morning of 29th December 1978, to climb Ayers Rock. ‘Will you tell me the date, please?’ she asked.

Mary frowned. ‘Of course, dear. It’s 19th November.’

Jane blinked. That couldn’t be right; how had she jumped back a month? ‘19th November 1978,’ she murmured.

Both women chuckled, but not happily, by the sound. They both appeared concerned. ‘No, dearest, not the year 1978. Heavens, we’d all be long dead. The year is 1715, of course,’ Mary assured her.

Jane gasped.
What?
‘1715,’ she repeated and watched them nod at her with worried looks. ‘It can’t be.’

‘Here,’ Mary said, handing her the letter and ignoring her babble. ‘William says he has no one to work for his release and is not permitted contact with the outside world. He needs you to travel to London on his behalf.’

Despite her internal chaos, Jane forced herself to accept that everything would explain itself shortly. For now, dream or reality, these people were her only lifeline. She must play along until she could work out what was happening to her … and especially to Will.

‘Am I allowed to see him?’ she asked, hearing her own voice as though it were coming from a long distance away. She had never felt so confused or dislocated from reality.

‘Yes, they would not deny his family.’

‘Will you come too?’

Mary looked surprised. ‘I dare not, dear sister. You know that Charles and I must appear to support King George. We discussed this. Surely you remember?’

‘I … I …’ she began, and as she stammered her response it was as though some of the mists that had clouded her mind thinned slightly. And now, finally, Jane did latch on to a memory … it wasn’t hers, she was sure of it, but perhaps it belonged to this person called Winifred whom the women were sure they were addressing. She reached toward the memory and could now recall a man wearing a wig who didn’t look like the Will she kept in her mind’s eye, but he was certainly called Will and he was her husband. He was explaining the family’s decision to deliberately split their loyalties. The conversation was filtering through and she remembered her fierce agreement that the Nithsdales of Terregles would support the Jacobites, for they had less to lose and were more committed in their support of the Catholic claim. She could hear the echo of her voice.

Charles doesn’t care who sits on the English throne, so long as London doesn’t interfere with his business concerns in Scotland
, Winifred had said; Jane could hear it now repeated in her mind.

Aye, that’s why it’s best we raise our standard for our exiled King James, then rely on my sister’s family for help
, William had replied, in a voice similar enough to her Will’s tone for her to wholly believe it might be him, although the rich Scots accent was not her Will’s. And now that she saw the Earl in Winifred’s memory, there
was
something familiar in his smile, wasn’t there? Didn’t that slightly crooked grin remind her of the grin of the man lying in the hospital bed?

They are both your men
, whispered a thought.

And now other memories began to crawl into her mind of a life spent with William, Earl of Nithsdale. Of lost children, and agonies of sorrow for the babies they’d named and then buried. But there was a healthy son, being schooled in France
and occasionally visited by her sister. Not the sister she knew, called Juliette, who had scorned her plan to visit Ayers Rock, but a sister in this alternative world she found herself in. She and William Maxwell, the Earl of Nithsdale, also had a surviving daughter called Anne.