Tapestry (39 page)

L
ondon was misted with the kind of nearly invisible drizzle that rarely tempted an umbrella, tending more to show itself as tiny crystals on the shoulders of dark overcoats and irritating the hell out of women.

Jane smoothed down her damp, darkly golden hair, which had immediately frizzed in the misty atmosphere, and stared at herself in the mirror. She realised it was still something of a novelty not to see Winifred looking back at her. She’d lost weight.
Can’t complain about that!
she thought, with a small spark of triumph flashing in her eyes. She could now see the apples of her cheeks — her mother’s term, not hers — sitting high and round, pinched slightly with a blush of colour that was not make-up, but nervous anticipation. Jane licked her dry lips. She’d not bothered with colouring or glossing them; she wanted to be able to kiss Will without having to apologise for the gluey sensation and coloured residue every man must loathe when kissing lipstick. He’d always said that her lips were perfect cupid bows and that they had been searching for his lips all of her life. She blinked slowly at this memory. Will had enough romance in his imagination for both of them.

Whether it had been the weeks as Winifred, or just a new mindset, make-up and fashion felt suddenly trivial. This was how she truly looked. And she liked her face, especially now
that she had it back. The gene pool had been kind to her and she knew she was pretty in every conventional way: an oval face, symmetrical features, well-shaped teeth, and eyebrows that were neither bushy nor invisible, arched in an artist’s sweep above eyes that people invariably mentioned for their startlingly pale grey. She knew her eyes attracted people to her — made her seem, sometimes, ‘otherworldly’. That used to please her. It didn’t now … not since she’d experienced otherworldliness first-hand and knew how cruel and bloody it could be.

She didn’t want to remember any of it, and yet her time as the Countess of Nithsdale remained vivid. Moving through London in 1979 now felt strange, the city almost clinical by comparison in its cleanliness, though she didn’t believe a single Londoner would agree with her! In spite of the filth, the disease, the poverty — fortunately little of which she’d had to experience personally — the London of the early eighteenth century had felt infinitely more romantic than the careless, hard-nosed metropolis of today. Jane had reflected more than once that if you fell over during the afternoon rush hour, then heaven help you, because you would surely be trampled by commuters streaming down into the bowels of London, desperate to be rushed away to the south’s green belt and released from the city for a few hours. It was dog eat dog down there in the Tube stations, where no one made eye contact until the first soupy gust of wind told commuters that a train was imminent. It would roar toward them, pushing the air before it, which gradually flowed over waiting passengers like a warm metallic-scented breath. Only then would gazes connect, and more often than not in a gladiatorial look.
Where will the door stop? Can I get on before you do?

Yes … even if flushing toilets were now, in her opinion, the single greatest advance in human technology, she realised that she was genuinely missing the polite, elegant lifestyle of the eighteenth century. Why had she thought that women were
subdued, whispering creatures whose single preoccupation was marriage? She could name so many of her contemporary friends who suffered that angst. No … women of that time just knew how to achieve their influence while working behind the façade of that polite, tea-sipping atmosphere.

Now she was assaulted by music in the street — new romantic, punk and other styles jarring with the deeply smooth harmonies of the Carpenters. It had seemed fabulously modern just a short while ago, but now, after her experience in history, it almost saddened her that her children — if she ever had any — probably wouldn’t learn the piano in quite the same way as Winifred’s memories told her Anne would have, nor would a daughter of hers easily learn to dance the quadrille — would she even want to? Would she sew well? Jane wondered whether she would teach any daughter of hers from a young age how to set about managing a large household. She had glimpsed a world where the phone was yet to be invented, and now she was living in a world where it seemed plausible — if you believed the technology experts — that people would soon be able to make calls on a phone that could be carried around in their pocket! Really? The art of letter writing would surely be lost, she thought, remembering the two notes from Julius Sackville, in his sloping handwriting, which she’d memorised because she’d been unable to bring them back. They were buried at Peebles on an ancient ley line, along with the precious phial of Ashes of Violet.

Her parents had met her at Manchester Airport, expecting to whisk her back to Wales in a couple of hours on the motorway. But they didn’t seem surprised when she refused and demanded they hit the motorway for central London. They’d even packed for that eventuality.

The journey down was tense. Her mother was still too shocked to speak with any fluency and simply clung to her in the back seat, holding her hand as though she never intended
to let it go again. Her father wouldn’t let go of her arm, which he held gently on her other side, so she was flanked by watchful parents, determined not to lose sight or contact with her. Even Juliette seemed unable to let go of her, constantly flicking her gaze into the rear-view mirror to glance at her sister with a haunted expression while she drove.

How could Jane explain any of it? She couldn’t. So she stuck to the well-crafted lie, which she’d massaged and got pitch-perfect in her mind on the flight home. There had been a brief press conference in the Northern Territory where Jane had been able to fudge her way through with a dazed look and lots of shrugs and
I really can’t remember
s. She haltingly explained, in enough detail to please the hungry press, what she could recall of the build-up to her ‘event’, as she termed it, on Ayers Rock. Beyond that moment of the rogue wind, she allowed the story to trail into a no-man’s-land of lost memory.

A medical team had performed a thorough examination, to pronounce her in surprisingly robust health despite her trauma, although a lack of food and water meant she was showing signs of dehydration and weight loss. She was thankful that her body was looking fragile, or the mystics of the world would have been howling that she was some sort of phenomenon, she was sure.

And now here she was at the hospital, exhausted, keenly aware of her body’s shortcomings while it got used to having her animate it again. She had begged a few moments alone in the bathroom to gather her thoughts.

Will had woken yesterday, apparently. He was still quite groggy, as Juliette had warned.

She’d already run the gauntlet of meeting his parents in the hospital reception, had briefly trotted out her story and had allowed herself to be hugged and kissed then passed to the next person. She was glad that the coincidence of Will waking up and her discovery at the Olgas on the same day was not resonating
with anyone present. She alone understood the inherent magic of that coincidence. Winifred and William would hopefully be reunited and safe. She’d saved William’s life as she’d been charged with doing, and as a result her Will had been given the gift of his rebirth.

How tenuous life is
, she thought, as she tried to coax her honey-golden hair back into a smooth, silken sheen. This was how Will liked her to wear it: free from her preferred ponytail, so he could knot his fingers in it absently while watching a movie or smooth it tenderly while lovemaking.

Her reflection seemed to shiver before her and she thought for a fright-torn moment that she saw Julius behind her, staring at her with that dark look of slight injury he wore so well. She’d imagined it. A blink later and all she could see was her reflection, and the peppering of freckles around her nose that make-up would normally hide. The light tan from Australia helped add an artificial glow of health.

‘Julius,’ she whispered to the mirror, ‘you have to leave me alone now.’

Juliette pushed through the door, which protested with a creak. ‘Jane? What are you doing? We’re all waiting. The nursing team say he’s sitting up, ready for the family to arrive.’

‘Does he know I’m here?’

Juliette shook her head, grinning gleefully. ‘We’re all holding our breath with excitement. Diane’s already discussing wedding dates with Mum. They’re out of control, but they’re so happy, Jane. I mean, this really is a happy ending and there was a time — I will admit — when I didn’t think we were going to have it.’

Jane swallowed. She couldn’t tell her sister how nervous she was feeling; she dared not tell her parents that her experiences in a different era had changed her; she certainly couldn’t tell Diane and John Maxwell that she had been a harlot and unfaithful while their son lay near death.

She nodded. ‘I know what you mean.’

Juliette stepped fully into the bathroom to hug her. ‘It wasn’t until I thought we’d lost you that I realised how much I love you, Jane.’

Jane was startled by the admission but allowed herself to be hugged, returning the gesture with feeling. ‘I … I’ve missed you all too and I’m sorry I seemed so preoccupied with my needs. It felt so important at the time to go to Australia.’ Her sister nodded and sniffed. ‘Good grief, Juliette, you’ve gone soppy on me.’

Her sister’s eyes were misted. ‘Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. Come on, let’s get you two kissing again.’ She grinned. ‘You must be so excited.’

‘Yes,’ she said, overly bright. ‘I was in here pinching myself.’

‘Dr Evans wants to say something to you first. He wants you to go in alone.’ Jane frowned. ‘Let him explain.’ Her sister dragged her out into the small reception area of intensive care.

Jane smiled when she saw the nurse she recalled as Ellen beaming at her.

‘You’re back,’ she said, coming forward to surprise Jane with a hug. Everyone was in a huggy mood, apparently. ‘Seems your magic worked,’ she whispered for Jane’s hearing only. ‘Lucky, or I was going to ask him to marry
me
instead,’ she jested.

Jane pulled back, determined not to cry, but feeling her chin wobble. She nodded, swallowing hard, determined to hold herself together. ‘The magic asked a lot of me.’

‘So I gather.’ Ellen gave a sympathetic smile. ‘Dr Evans has asked the two families to hold back. We think it will be overwhelming for Will if everyone is staring at him.’

‘I couldn’t agree more. I have to be honest: I wasn’t prepared for today to be quite so emotional.’ She couldn’t tell Ellen that she was thinking of an entirely different man from an entirely different century. ‘I want to see him alone.’

‘He spoke briefly to his parents yesterday.’ Ellen stepped closer again. ‘He’s been resting ever since and we’ve kept
everyone away. Obviously the Maxwells are champing at the bit to get to his side again, but Dr Evans spoke to them before you arrived and warned them that Will could experience what we call an overload. Come on, come and speak to Dr Evans and then you can have some private time with Will.’ She looked back at the anxious relatives. ‘Excuse us, everyone. Won’t be long.’

Evans was waiting for them in the corridor. Jane could see Will lying asleep and caught her breath. Her promise not to cry was broken. He looked angelic lying there, so still and golden and heartbreakingly handsome. But her fears were borne out. She was not as thrilled to see him as Juliette had been to see her. The man she wanted was not lying in that bed. How would she ever find the right words to tell him this when he had been on a long and challenging journey to come back for her … as she had come back for him?

Julius
, she wept inside as tears rolled down her cheeks, and everyone quite likely — and quite reasonably — presumed they were tears of joy.

‘Hello, Jane,’ Evans said, beaming. ‘Welcome back. We’re very relieved you’re safe.’ He surprised her with a brief, fierce hug too. What was in the air today? ‘Wow, you’re as tiny as a bird. No wonder you blew off Ayers Rock.’

‘Have you seen it?’

‘Seen it, climbed it, signed my name at the top. Amazing experience. Not as dramatic as yours, though.’

‘No, that’s for sure,’ she said, her full meaning lost on him.

‘Jane, I have to tell you, he’s still a bit blurry.’

‘I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.’

‘No, I mean, we are not yet able to measure damage.’

‘Oh, I see. He’s talking, right?’

‘Yes. But he’s confused.’

‘He recognises where he is, though?’

‘He knows he’s in hospital. He knows he was injured. He remembers nothing of the incident. He recognised his parents,
but he’s had no contact with the family since. It’s only been hours. He’s been sleeping for most of them.’

Ellen squeezed her arm. ‘He made us laugh this morning, recalling a story of his childhood when the family was clustered around his bed at Christmas time, because he was so ill they brought the party to his bedroom rather than leave him alone upstairs.’

Jane grinned. ‘And he threw up over Great Aunt Esme,’ she finished.

Ellen giggled. ‘He’s a good storyteller.’

Evans smiled encouragingly. ‘Ready? Go slowly with him. Perhaps best not to let him know about how we lost you for a while.’

Jane gave him a wry glance. ‘Yes, I might just keep that to myself for now.’ She wondered why they hadn’t mentioned that Will had been asking where she was. But the thought was lost as she was shown into his private room by Evans. Ellen followed them.

Gone were the machines that Jane recalled from the last time she’d been here. Will’s hair remained a bright blond, but looked somehow darker and duller after all his days prone in a bed. His eyelashes, tipped with gold, lay against the tops of his cheeks just as she remembered from mornings waking up next to him. He too had lost weight and his face had sunk slightly against his teeth. There were longer hollows where once small dimples had pressed into his flesh when he grinned. He looked every bit as beautiful as he always had, but now he appeared as a haunted echo of the sometimes impossibly cheerful, ever-smiling person she had been enamoured with.