Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Sixteen
Gwen is sullen and unforthcoming at breakfast. The colour has drained from her face and her eyes betray her worry. I go to the window and look out. The stable yard is quiet. I wonder whether John has been climbing the drainpipe again and keeping her up all night with his demands.
I glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. The hands move inexorably forward. The local newspaper on the table reminds me of the date: 27th June, 1895. In two days’ time I shall know who steals away the child. I shall witness it, God help me, because I will lie in wait in his bedroom and watch, and then I will follow and see where he’s taken. I’m terrified of what I’ll witness, but I’ll have to endure it. It is my job. It’s what I’m here to do. I’ll want to prevent it, but I’ll have to be strong. I remember the words of the old gypsy woman at the encampment: It is a dangerous game to play with time . Indeed, it is.
I feel Gwen’s heavy eyes watching me and turn around. She smiles absentmindedly and sighs. I tell Robert to go and practise the piano, and give Felix paper and colouring pencils, which ensures his total absorption, and sit down at the table beside her. I look at her steadily. ‘You are not well, Gwen,’ I tell her quietly. ‘Is there something you would like to tell me?’
She drops her gaze onto her hands. I notice that she’s been chewing her nails. They’re ragged and raw.
I lower my voice further. ‘You can trust me, you know. I am neither a servant nor a member of this family.’
She lifts her eyes off her hands and faces me squarely. Her lips tremble and a tear slides down her grey cheek. ‘I think I’m carrying a child, miss,’ she says in a voice so tiny I can barely hear it.
I wasn’t expecting that. I take a beat, lost for words. If it was 2013 that would not be dire, but it is 1895 and Gwen is unmarried. The implications are horrendous. ‘Does the father know?’ I ask, my heart flooding with pity.
The word ‘father’ releases more tears. She shakes her head.
‘Are you going to tell him?’
She shrugs. I sense her dilemma at once. John Snathe has no intention of marrying her. He never has and he never will. Gwen has given herself to him in the hope that he will marry her, and he has allowed her to believe it just so that he can satisfy his lust. It’s all so obvious and sad. Gwen is a fool, but that’s no crime. I could bloody kill John Snathe!
‘Perhaps you should tell him,’ I suggest.
‘I don’t know.’ Gwen’s eyes darken with fear.
‘Has he told you he loves you?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Has he mentioned marriage?’
Her shoulders slump, uncertain suddenly. ‘He ought to, but …’ Her voice trails off. She averts her eyes. ‘If he does not, what will become of me?’ She begins to cry.
Her distress alerts Felix. He stops drawing, holding his pencil above the page and staring at her with big round eyes. Then he starts crying too. Seeing her upset like this shakes his little world. Gwen notices at once and hastily wipes her cheeks. ‘Oh, look at the two of us. What are we? A pair of sillies! Come and give Gwen a cuddle then. That’ll make us both feel better.’ Felix slips off his chair and runs round to be gathered into her fervent embrace. ‘I love you so much, Master Felix. You know that, don’t you?’
He puts his hands on her cheeks and presses his face to hers. ‘No more tears, Gwen,’ he says.
She smiles happily, forgetting her dilemma in the warm light of the child’s affection.
Gwen looks at me over the boy’s head. ‘I’ll tell him,’ she says firmly. ‘I think it’ll be all right.’
I hope for her sake that she’s right.
Later that morning we are to have our photograph taken. The entire household, including me. Symons has organised for chairs to be arranged in a row upon the gravel in front of the house. Those are for the family. We will stand in a row behind them. A photographer has come down from London especially. He’s called Mr Pringle and is apparently quite celebrated. Everyone is very excited.
I go to my room to tidy my hair and make sure that I look my best. I gaze into the glass and run my fingers over my face. How strange it is that I have a completely different appearance to Pixie Tate. I am Hermione Swift and comfortable in her skin. I feel the same inside. I always feel the same inside, in my core. The deepest part of me, the quiet, still awareness that observes, is eternal. But my outer appearance changes with every slide I make. It never ceases to amaze me how I become someone else and yet, at the same time, remain unchanged inside. I take in my hazel eyes, the dark lashes that frame them, the slim, straight nose and full pink lips, the creamy skin and delicate sprinkling of freckles. I would quite like to take this face with me back to my own time. But that’s not the way it works. When I slide back, I’ll leave everything behind. Except for love. My love for Cavill. That I will take with me. It’s a part of me now.
I turn away from the looking glass with a sigh. I’m enjoying this dream and do not wish it to end. But end it must. Time is ticking and will not wait. It will draw me closer and closer to the tragedy, and then I will be gone.
It’s another hot day. The sun sits restlessly behind cloud that’s as damp as a sponge. There’s no breeze to blow it away. The heatwave has lasted over a week. It started a few days before I arrived and is perhaps going to see me out. The air is heady with the floral scents of the garden. It’s luxurious and lifts everyone’s mood, for how can one not feel blessed in such a paradise? Even Mr Pengower is cheerful. I notice, however, that he ignores Mr Bray, and Mr Bray, in turn, ignores him.
Cavill draws my attention away. His obvious affection softens his features, and he takes me in with eager eyes. ‘Beautiful Hermione,’ he breathes.
I laugh and glance about to make sure we are not being overheard. ‘I think I am only beautiful in your eyes,’ I reply quietly.
‘Mine are the only eyes that matter,’ he whispers.
I look at him lovingly and, as I do so, I feel him slipping away. Tomorrow he will be gone and I will be alone, to do my duty. A duty I don’t want to do. ‘Yours are the only eyes that will ever matter,’ I respond, and he cannot imagine how deep is the ache in my heart, or why.
‘Your face will be immortalised in this photograph, Hermione,’ he says. ‘I will have it sent to me in South America, even though I will not need it, for I will carry your image in here.’ He presses a hand to his chest.
Mr Pengower orders everyone to go to their places. To my surprise, Cordelia asks me to sit on one of the chairs with the family and I take my chair beside her. The two boys sit cross-legged in front of their parents. Behind us the entire household assembles with those who work outside it. Mr Grantly, John Snathe and the stable boys join those who work in the gardens. It’s a surprisingly large group. Mr Pringle stands before us like a conductor about to lead an orchestra. He has a bushy black beard and a big, bulbous nose on which sit round glasses. He fusses about his camera which he has set up on a tripod a short distance from us, and makes sure we are all where he wants us to be, silent and still. He tells us that we must not move until he lets us know that we can. ‘Are we all ready?’ he asks.
‘As ready as we’ll ever be,’ replies Mr Pengower merrily.
‘Now, remember. No smiling, no fidgeting, you are as statues. Is that clear?’
‘As clear as it will ever be,’ Mr Pengower replies. ‘Now let us get on with it, Mr Pringle.’
I glance at the boys and hope that Felix is able to sit still for as long as it takes.
Mr Pringle disappears beneath the black cloth. ‘Still as statues,’ he repeats. ‘Go.’
‘At least we’re not dead,’ says Rose when it is done. She’s standing directly behind me.
I turn to her and laugh. ‘What do you mean?’
She grins down at me, brown eyes lively with mischief. ‘The last time I had my photograph taken was when my father died. We sat him in a chair, in his Sunday best, and gathered round. I hope they don’t take my photograph when I’m dead. I don’t think I’m going to look my prettiest that way.’
‘Oh, Rose. What a thing to say!’ I exclaim. But it’s true. Victorians have a certain fascination with death. Where I come from, we’d rather have photographs of the living.
Everyone returns to their work. Felix takes Gwen’s hand and they go inside. I notice John watching her as she disappears into the house. I wonder whether he has any idea that she’s carrying his child. I return to my duties, accompanying Robert upstairs to resume his lessons. I look forward to the afternoon when we’ll ride out with Cavill. I’m acutely aware that it’ll be the last opportunity we have.
Mr Pringle stays for lunch. I’m not required, but when I come downstairs to search for a book on Greek mythology in the library, I hear him holding forth in the drawing room. Mrs James Pengower is also present, and I hear Cavill’s laughter erupting at something Mr Pringle has said. If I didn’t have to leave, this is the life I would expect to have. A life of endless lunches and dinners, of dressing up and socialising, of riding across beautiful countryside and picnicking on the beach. A life like that of Cordelia. If I didn’t have the perspective I have, I’d probably accept it without question, without analysis, and be satisfied. But if I stayed, if I left my world for this one with the knowledge I have, would I be happy as Mrs Cavill Pengower? Would I eventually forget where I come from and sink into this reality until it covered my head like water? Until this was all there was? All there ever was. Until Pixie Tate was a distant memory, like a wisp of a past life relived only in dreams? Would loving Cavill be enough? I don’t know.
I’m in the library when there’s a sudden commotion in the hall. A cold wind seems to blow in and sweep through it, reaching me at the bookshelf. I hear raised voices. There’s a sense of urgency in them, and fear. I rush to the door to see what is going on. The lunch party is spilling out of the drawing room as curious as I am.
It’s Mr Bray. I hear him say that he needs to speak to Mr Pengower urgently. I sense there’s trouble at the mine. The two men exchange words. I can’t hear what they’re saying. But Mr Pengower’s face reddens. He summons his brother. The two of them leave with Mr Bray. There seems not a moment to lose. The front door slams behind them, leaving us in the wake of the ruckus, reeling from the shock of it.
Cordelia turns to Mr Pringle and tries to hide her fear behind a smile. I’m familiar with that smile now, the way it conveys serenity while beneath, her whole being is in turmoil. ‘I think we should eat,’ she says bravely. ‘My husband and his brother will not be joining us, I’m afraid.’ She feigns laughter. ‘They are like the Three Musketeers, riding off to fight for their sovereign.’ No one laughs with her. They are too shaken. There’s trouble at the mine and no amount of fake good cheer can disguise it.
I retreat upstairs, hoping that Cavill isn’t in danger. I find it difficult to concentrate on the lesson. Robert doesn’t know that his father and uncle have ridden off in haste. I keep looking out of the window at the stables, hoping to see them return. But the sun moves across the sky, and still they do not appear.
Robert and I ride out at our usual time. When we return home for tea, I recognise Cavill’s horse immediately as I walk mine beneath the clock tower. The grooms are busy in the stable yard watering down all three who are steaming hot and covered in sweat. The men must have ridden them hard. I don’t linger but take Robert inside. I’m keen to know what has happened. I send Robert upstairs to change out of his riding clothes and loiter on the landing to find out what happened.
The family is gathered in the drawing room once again. From what I can hear of their conversation the man engine that Mr Pengower is so proud of broke and sent thirty men plunging into the chasm. It’s a miracle that no one was killed, but some of the men were badly hurt. As a consequence, the miners rioted. This is not the first time a piece of machinery has failed and caused injury. The miners set fire to some of the wooden structures and threw stones. It took all three men and the police who joined them, to quell the revolt.
‘You are so brave, Ivan,’ I hear Mrs James gush in her sweet, girlish tones and Mr Pengower continues to boast about how very brave he was, as if Cavill and Mr Bray, or, indeed, the police, had little part to play in the drama. By the animated tone of his voice the crisis has clearly excited him.
I listen keenly for Cavill, willing Mr Pengower to stop talking for a moment to give his brother the opportunity to speak. I need to know that he’s there and that he’s all right. Mr Bray insists that measures must be taken at once to ensure the safety of the mine and the adequacy of the equipment. ‘These things can no longer be ignored,’ he says firmly. Mr Pengower announces, in a tone that implies magnanimity, that he will take steps to guarantee that the mechanism is repaired and that more time and manpower are dedicated to fortifying the tunnels. ‘We’ll have no more accidents on my watch,’ he announces. It’s breathtaking how he accepts no responsibility for the substandard conditions of his mine or the welfare of his workers.
At last, I hear Cavill’s voice and I’m filled with relief. ‘You must go further than that, Ivan. You must give the men more pay,’ he says. ‘And there must be a review of their housing. Their living conditions are squalid. And those children are too young to be down a mine – they must be educated. It is within your power to raise them up and give them opportunities. At the very least you must talk to them to show that you care, or they will come and burn down this house, or worse. You owe it to your family to make peace.’
‘I will go as far as I deem fit,’ Mr Pengower growls, his exuberance now deflated. ‘I will not be told by you, Cavill, or indeed anyone else, how to run my business. I am not a charity nor am I a bottomless pit of gold.’
I notice Symons then. He’s in the hall, listening too. We catch eyes. I expect to see disdain, but something surprising passes between us: an understanding. In that moment we are united in condemnation even though neither of us has uttered a single word. I shake my head sadly and walk slowly on up the stairs. I’m sure now that Felix’s disappearance must be linked to the events at the mine. Evil’s dark tentacle has already climbed these steps. It’s making its way to the nursery, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Even if Mr Pengower declared today that he was going to make amends, it would be too late.
That evening I’m included at dinner. It’s only the four of us for Mr Bray has escorted Mrs James home in her carriage and gone home himself. We don’t discuss the trouble at the mine. It’s another festering carcass in the middle of the table that everyone pretends is not there. Cordelia’s eyes are red. I can tell that she’s been crying. And there’s an obvious tension between husband and wife that they take trouble to conceal. I sense there’s been an argument and that Cordelia has lost. My heart floods with pity for her, for what she is to become. There’s nothing anyone can do to avert it. I watch her and for the first time, see the light around her grow dim. Her jawline is stiff, her lips pursed into a thin line, her eyes dull and her skin pale. Everything about her face betrays defeat. In the golden glow of the gas lamps she looks beautiful but wretched, as if she senses intuitively the tragedy that is to come, even though she does not know what form it will take.
Cavill barely speaks to his brother, and I sense a gulf widening between them. They simply cannot see eye to eye. In order to change the subject, and investigate further, I ask Mr Pengower to tell me about the priest hole here in the dining room, which Robert showed me on my first day. He launches into a soliloquy about the persecution of Catholics and the clever Pengower family who built hideaways all over the estate to enable priests to flee from the soldiers who came often to arrest them. ‘There’s one in the chapel,’ he tells me. ‘A hole concealed beneath the altar, as well as a secret stair in my dressing room, barely wide enough for a child, which takes you down to the kitchen.’ He doesn’t mention the one behind the bookcase in the library, and Cordelia doesn’t volunteer its existence. I can’t believe he doesn’t know about it. Cavill eats his dinner in silence. I catch his eye and he blinks back at me despondently. Today’s events have really shaken him up and it seems as if he can’t forgive his brother.
The sky darkens outside the window, the pale blue of dusk deepening to a beguiling indigo, and finally to black. Stars twinkle and the waxing moon shines through a halo of mist and illuminates the gardens so that one could walk in them without needing a light to guide the way. I would like to walk with Cavill, but the grandfather clock in the hall chimes eleven and Cordelia stands up. ‘I will retire now,’ she announces. ‘Tomorrow Mr Trimlock is coming to paint me.’ She sighs and lifts her chin. ‘I am not in the least enthusiastic about it.’
‘Tomorrow is another day,’ I say, quoting Margaret Mitchell’s classic that hasn’t been written yet.
‘Indeed, it is,’ she says, smiling forlornly.
Mr Pengower insists that Cavill accompany him while he smokes a cigar and drinks another glass of whisky. He kisses his wife goodnight; I notice she gives him her cheek and grimaces as he presses his prickly moustache against it. Then the two of us leave the room.
‘I am beside myself, Miss Swift,’ Cordelia says as we lift our skirts and set off up the stairs. ‘I do not know what to do. What I can do? But he will not be told. He will never be told. That is his greatest folly. He is too proud to admit that he is in the wrong. Mr Bray has told him a thousand times and even Cavill is at the end of his tether.’
‘One can only learn wisdom through experience,’ I reply. ‘Perhaps today will give him the wisdom he needs to make the mine work for both himself and the miners.’
‘I am afraid he is too stubborn to learn anything.’ She turns to me and her eyes are wild with fear. ‘Oh, Miss Swift, I have a dreadful feeling roiling in the pit of my belly.’ She puts a hand there. ‘Something terrible is going to happen, I just know it.’
‘Your priority is the children,’ I remind her.
She nods keenly. ‘At least they were not in the tunnel when it happened.’ Her hand shoots to her breast. ‘I thank God for that. I thank God for the children. If it wasn’t for them …’ She stops on the landing and takes my hand. ‘I envy you, Miss Swift. You have your whole life ahead of you. There are choices you are yet to make. I have made mine and I must live with them.’ She turns away a moment and inhales through her nostrils. Then she looks at me fiercely and squeezes my hand between hers. ‘You have the chance to find true love. If I had known then what I know now, I would not have made the choices I did. I would have held out for someone who was compassionate and kind. I would have followed my heart not my head. I would have been wise. But we are not wise when we are young. We know nothing of the world. We do what we’re told, and we don’t expect too much. We are taught, as women, not to expect too much. But I tell you, expect the world, Miss Swift, for you can have it. Don’t compromise. Don’t think you don’t deserve it. You deserve to love with all your heart and to be loved in return. Don’t do what I did and marry a man who …’ Her breath catches in her throat. ‘Does not know how to love.’
I don’t know what to say. What can I say? I wish I could be a better friend to her.
We part ways, she to her bedroom and me to mine. I stand by the window on the landing, watching the wind rustling the branches in a melancholic dance, and ponder on her words.
I think I’m falling in love with Cavill, but I cannot have him. Tomorrow he will leave, and I will never see him again. When I slip back into my own time, he will have left this world long ago. I can do nothing about that, but I can help Cordelia Pengower. Poor, sad Cordelia Pengower. I can and will help her find love and happiness in the light.
I hear the familiar knock on my door and see the turning of the brass knob. He enters. ‘Cavill!’ I exclaim and run to him. ‘I thought you might not come.’
‘My brother …’ he begins, but I do not let him finish. I press my lips to his in a fierce kiss. I want this moment to last for ever. If time can be manipulated, why is it, I ask myself in frustration, that I cannot halt it?