Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-One
I open my eyes. Cavill is staring down at me in alarm. I’m lying on the ground, on the wet ground, and rain is falling gently on my face. But I don’t care. I’m here, in his arms, and I never want to be anywhere else.
‘Hermione!’ His eyes are very blue. He has no idea how relieved I am to see them. How relieved I am to see him . To be back, exactly where I left off, as if I had never gone. I can scarcely believe it. But the law of attraction, the most powerful force in the universe, has drawn me back to this moment. ‘Can you hear me?’
Mr Grantly’s worried face appears beside Cavill’s, and I’m brought to my senses with a jolt. I allow Cavill to lift me onto my feet. I put a hand on my heart. Love did, indeed, bring me back. Back to Cavill.
‘I’m all right,’ I reassure him, feeling a strange swell of happiness.
‘You fainted,’ he says, perplexed. He’s white. I must have given him a great shock.
‘I am well,’ I reply, slipping once again into the Victorian mode of speaking.
He looks at me searchingly. ‘I have to leave, Hermione. You must understand that. But I will come back.’ I recall his memorial stone that declares the date of his death to be years from now and know that he doesn’t die in South America. He lives a long life. It isn’t cut short, after all. I feel a sting of guilt for having changed the future, but there is no time to consider what the implications of my meddling might be. No time to think about how my meddling might affect Hermione. It is done. I have to accept it and concentrate on what I am here to do.
I put my fingers against Cavill’s cheek. ‘I just needed to tell you that I love you,’ I say quietly.
His expression relaxes. He puts his hand on mine and presses it into his face. I have never said those words to him before, but I say them now and I mean them with all my heart. ‘And I love you, my dear Hermione,’ he replies. ‘I hope you will wait for me,’ he adds, releasing me and sweeping my wet hair off my forehead. ‘But stay not a moment longer in the rain. You will catch a chill.’
I nod, overwhelmed with sorrow, but also with gratitude for these stolen extra moments with Cavill. I lay my eyes on his face and commit it to memory – his gentle gaze, the lines that fan at his temples when he smiles, his sensual mouth and straight, patrician nose. Most of all I commit to memory the love reflected in it.
I watch him climb into the carriage. Mr Grantly shakes the reins, and the horse walks on. I remain there until the carriage has disappeared out of the driveway into the lane. Then I turn and make my way back to the house. I have a mission. That is my focus now. And I must not fail.
I remember where I am in the past. It’s still Friday. Tomorrow night Felix will vanish. Tomorrow night I’ll discover what happened. But there is much to do before I leave.
I retrieve the sketchbook Cavill gave me and then go up to my room and change out of my wet skirt and blouse. I appraise myself in the looking glass and bemoan my bedraggled appearance. I tidy myself up as best I can – I could really do with a hairdryer. Then I go and check on Robert. He’s in the schoolroom studying the book on inventions that he found in the library. I tell him to search for his favourite invention and write a short piece on why he likes it so much. Then I go and look for Gwen. When I enter the nursery, she’s not there. Instead, Rose is sitting on the rug, playing with Felix, who’s in his den. ‘Where is Gwen?’ I ask.
‘She’s sick, miss,’ Rose replies. ‘I’ve been told to look after Felix until she’s better.’
‘Has someone called the doctor?’ I ask.
‘She says she doesn’t want a doctor.’ Rose shrugs. ‘She hasn’t got a fever. She just looks tired.’
‘Yes, she’s been complaining about being tired. A rest will do her good. I might go and see her.’ I leave them to their play and head upstairs to Gwen’s bedroom.
Motivated by the hope of being able to help Gwen as well as Cordelia, I knock softly and open the door. Gwen is in bed, lying on her back. She’s been crying. ‘May I come in?’ I ask.
She nods. Her white face peeps at me from beneath the cover. It’s heartbreaking. I perch on the edge of the bed. ‘How are you feeling?’ I ask, but it is a stupid question. Her anguish is obvious.
‘I think the pain in my head is worse than the sickness,’ she says, glassy eyes overflowing.
‘You have to tell him.’
‘What can he do? He’s married.’
‘You can’t be left to deal with this on your own.’
‘Yes, you’re right. It’s not fair, is it, to be left to deal with it on my own? It takes two to have a baby, after all.’
‘You need to tell him, Gwen. Write him a note.’
‘I can’t write, miss.’
The world stops turning. I stare at her in astonishment. How is it possible that a woman of her age can’t write? But this is 1895; illiteracy was common. ‘You can’t write?’ I repeat.
‘I can’t write.’
‘But …’ I stop myself. If she can’t write, then who writes the letter? For a moment I’m baffled. Then I come up with a plausible theory. Maybe she asks someone to write it for her?
Gwen doesn’t notice my confusion. She can’t imagine what’s going through my mind. The letter from Your loving friend hasn’t even been written yet. It’s dated September 1895, over two months from now, around the time, I imagine, that the pregnancy starts to show. ‘If they discover that John …’ she begins, then her round eyes widen as she realises that she’s just revealed the identity of the father. She doesn’t know that I already know it.
‘John Snathe?’ I ask. ‘I did suspect it was him.’
She nods and sighs helplessly. ‘Well, you suspected correctly. The father is John Snathe.’ She smiles feebly. ‘You’re sharp, you are, miss.’ She takes another full breath, as if trying to relieve a weight bearing down on her chest. ‘John will be in terrible trouble if they find out that he’s the father. And they will ask me, won’t they? And I’ll have to tell them.’
‘John has to take responsibility, Gwen. This isn’t your fault alone. This is the fault of the both of you. Like you said, it takes two to make a baby.’
She nods, but I can tell she still believes the fault is hers entirely.
There’s nothing more to say. I pat her arm. ‘You rest now and don’t worry about Master Felix. Rose is looking after him and he’s very content.’
‘He might come looking for me.’
‘We’ll make sure he doesn’t.’
‘Tell him I’ll be back soon. Tell him Gwen needs to sleep and then she’ll feel better.’
‘I will.’
I leave the room and linger a moment in the corridor. The letter has to be from Gwen. If it’s not her hand, I wonder then who she will ask to write it.
I remind myself that I have already interfered by unintentionally preventing Cavill from dying on the way to South America. I can’t allow myself, however great my desire, to interfere again. I’m here to observe. I mustn’t forget that. Events must play out without me trying to influence or alter them. I’m a timeslider. I don’t belong in this dimension. I’m merely a visitor. This time, I won’t sink into the dream, but remain awake, alert and ready to witness whatever may unfold. Without Cavill, this world has lost its sheen. The sun has retreated and the once vibrant colours in the garden have grown dull. Heavy clouds hang over the land like sodden linen in the wash. They’re grey and dense and unmoving. There’s little wind, only a blustery breeze blows in from the sea, bringing with it the sulphurous smell of the estuary. I think of the birds there, the spoonbills and yellow-legged gulls, the plovers and greenshanks, and Cavill’s face appears before my eyes with his tender gaze, and my heart aches with longing. I put him to one side. I can’t allow him to distract me now. I go to the schoolroom and resume lessons with Robert. He has eagerly written out a page on why he’s so enamoured of photography. I read it with amusement. If he were to see the films that are available in my time, he’d be truly flabbergasted.
I’m uneasy. I will time to move faster so that I can get the job done and return to my own time. Instead of remaining in the schoolroom I suggest to Robert that we go into the garden. I feel like a caged tiger inside. I need the air. I need a diversion. As we walk downstairs there’s a loud knock at the front door and Symons strides out from the direction of the kitchen to answer it. I’m curious, and wait to see who it is, for the usual stream of vendors and labourers call at the tradesmen’s entrance at the back of the house.
Symons opens the door. A woman stands on the step with a child. A boy about the same age as Robert. They’re not wearing travel coats so they can’t have come far. I imagine they’re from the town. The woman asks to see Mrs Pengower. Symons is about to turn them away when she says, clearly and in a firm but tremulous voice, ‘Tell her it is Mrs Tonkin. Billy Tonkin’s mother. She will know who I am. Tell her I want to see her.’ I know from having slid back and talked to Olivia and Antoinette that Billy Tonkin is the boy who was killed in the mine. I know from having talked to Cordelia that his mother put a curse on Mr Pengower. My heart starts to race. It’s beginning. That dark tentacle is unstoppable now.
Symons asks Mrs Tonkin to remain outside while he goes to see if Mrs Pengower is at home. He turns and walks into the hall. When he spots me, he shakes his head. We both sense trouble. I put a hand on Robert’s shoulder. ‘Go into the drawing room, Master Robert, and play something nice on the piano. I want to have a quick word with Mr Symons.’
Robert does as he’s told. Symons sucks the air through his teeth. ‘I know what that woman is after,’ he says in a portentous voice.
‘That’s the mother of the child who was killed in the mine, isn’t it?’ I ask, although I know the answer.
Symons nods gravely. ‘She’s after work for her other son.’
I imagine that Cordelia will give the woman whatever she demands, out of both fear and charity. She might hope that, by helping the family, she will break the curse. But if she employs the boy, she’ll infuriate her husband. When Mr Pengower hears of it, he’ll be outraged. They’ll have a terrible row. Cordelia will want to appease the Tonkins. Her husband will want nothing to do with them.
‘I would defer to Mr Pengower,’ says Symons dolefully. ‘But he is out. Mrs Pengower is having her portrait painted in the blue drawing room.’
I haven’t yet been into the blue drawing room. ‘What are you going to do?’ I ask.
‘I will go and tell her. But Mr Pengower will not want to hire the Tonkin boy. I can tell you that.’
‘But Mrs Tonkin has lost a child,’ I remind him. ‘Perhaps it would be wise and compassionate to take pity.’
‘Does Mr Pengower appear to you to be a man to take pity?’ says Symons and I’m astonished to hear him speak ill of his employer. ‘Frank Tonkin is an angry, vindictive man, Miss Swift. He believes his son died because of Mr Pengower’s negligence. I would not suggest allowing him to infiltrate this house by way of his son. It would be prudent to keep him at arm’s length.’
‘Would it not be prudent to make a friend of Frank Tonkin, and not an enemy?’ I suggest.
‘He is already an enemy, Miss Swift. And once an enemy, always an enemy. That man is as likely to transform as base metal to gold.’
Symons leaves me in the hall. I wait for him to come back. I listen to Robert’s playing, but my mind is focused on the events unfurling before my eyes. Tomorrow night, Felix vanishes. Frank Tonkin’s son will very likely be denied employment in the house. Maybe that will be the straw that breaks the camel’s back and lead the man to do something terrible out of anger and frustration. Perhaps Frank Tonkin seeks a terrible revenge. I want to persuade Cordelia to give the boy something – a job in the kitchen or the garden. Anything, to keep Mr Tonkin sweet. But I must not change the sequence of events that are now developing fast. I feel in my gut that this moment is significant.
Eventually Symons reappears. ‘Mrs Pengower must speak to her husband first, as this is not a decision she can make. Mrs Tonkin will be disappointed.’
‘And Mr Tonkin will be even angrier,’ I add with a shudder.
Symons walks past me to relay the message. I remain in the hall and listen.
‘You tell your mistress that she owes me!’ Mrs Tonkin exclaims, and I feel her pain. She’s lost a child. There’s no greater suffering than that. My heart goes out to her. But I sense foreboding in her husband’s wrath, for surely Mr Pengower will never give their son a job. I fear that grief will make Mr Tonkin do something he’ll later regret.
I take Robert into the garden. It’s no longer raining but the air is damp. ‘Let’s see if we can name some of your uncle’s favourite birds,’ I suggest as we walk across the lawn. Robert is delighted with the idea and spots a couple of thrushes on the grass.
The day drags. I can think of little else but Felix. At lunch I look at him across the table as he forks his fish into his mouth, and my heart hurts. I can’t bear for this child to suffer, and I hope that whatever happens to him is swift. It might be a gift to be able to slide through time, but it’s a curse to know of something as dreadful as this, to have to watch it take place, and to be compelled, out of a sense of responsibility, to stand back and allow it to happen. Because I could prevent it from happening very easily. I could. Have I not already changed events? But I know I mustn’t. Who’s to know that if I prevented it, it wouldn’t simply delay it for another night? Maybe you even meet your destiny on the road you take to avoid it.
After lunch, we go for a walk. Rose accompanies me with Felix. The four of us set off down the track where Robert, Cavill and I used to ride out together. But Cavill isn’t here and I have therefore lost the will to remain. I take Felix’s hand and he skips along merrily. This cheerful, innocent child who has never known anything but security and joy. I decide to make today special for him.
We enter the wood and I suggest that we see how many creatures we can find. I know how much Felix and Robert both love insects and animals. Rose is enthusiastic too and sets about searching the leaves for caterpillars and butterflies. We immerse ourselves in our task and the minutes pass rapidly. I don’t think about what’s to come, but only of what’s happening right now. There’s pleasure to be had in nature whatever the weather, however sick the heart – pleasure to be had in the ferns unfurling gently, in the red campion and cow parsley, in the wild jasmine and elderflowers. Those simple things never fail to lift one’s spirits. It’s impossible to be unhappy in the midst of such abundance. As long as one remains in the present, one can find joy.
Felix delights in the fat bees that toddle into the trumpets of the foxgloves and lifts them up with his unsteady hands to watch them feast upon the nectar within. He chases butterflies and laughs at the skittish darting of dragonflies. I show him a quail and we listen as a woodpecker makes rat-a-tat noises against a tree with its beak. There are wonders to be found in the woods and we encounter many and are delighted by them. The cloud breaks and the sun beams through in luminous shafts of gold. We watch the midges dancing in the warmth of those sunny shafts, and the butterflies soaking up the energy with their wings outspread as they rest upon the hogweed. A blackbird sings from the top of a sycamore tree, and I hold Cavill’s image close while the beautiful tune floods my heart with a bittersweet yearning for what I’ve lost and will never get back.
When we return to the house for tea the boys are weary but happy. They’ve enjoyed their afternoon. So too have Rose and I. We discover that Gwen is still in bed. I wonder how much of her sickness is in her body and how much is in her heart. Rose suggests that, if she’s still unwell tomorrow, we should call a doctor. I know Gwen will protest. She won’t want anyone to know about her condition. If the doctor comes and detects that she’s pregnant, he’ll surely tell Cordelia and then I don’t know what will happen.
That evening I read to Felix. He requests I read from a book of fairy tales. His favourite is Rumpelstiltskin . He sits up in bed in his pyjamas. ‘Why isn’t Gwen going to read to me?’ he asks.
‘Gwen is not well, Master Felix,’ I tell him. ‘But I’m sure she will be better tomorrow.’
Satisfied, he listens to the story. He likes the happy ending. Don’t we all like happy endings? ‘Rumpelstiltskin is a bad imp,’ he says.
‘He is a very bad imp,’ I agree. ‘But the Queen is much too clever for him, isn’t she?’
‘What happens to the imp?’
‘I should think he disappears into the forest and is never seen again.’
‘Where does he go?’
‘I don’t know,’ I reply.
‘Does he come back?’
‘I don’t think so.’ A lump lodges itself in my throat and I’m assaulted by a wave of sorrow.
That night, Cordelia requests that I join them for dinner. It’s just the two of them and me. Cavill has left and she’s nervous about being alone with her husband. ‘I fear we are going to have a fight about the Tonkin boy,’ she explains anxiously. ‘I need you to be there to support me. He will behave better if you are present.’
‘Of course I will join you,’ I reply.
‘He has been under a great deal of strain recently. After those menacing words in paint on the gate and then the accident in the mine and the riot. But instead of reaching out to people and making peace, he digs in his heels. He will not yield, even though his resistance only makes him unhappy. He’s too stubborn and proud, and will not admit that he is in the wrong.’
‘After the riot, did he agree to improve the conditions in the mine?’
She laughs bitterly. ‘Some of them, yes. The machine will be mended. Limbs will be mended too. But spirits will grow harder and more resentful.’
‘If he won’t listen to you or Mr Bray, or even acknowledge the evidence of his own eyes, who will he listen to?’ I ask.
She gives a pitiful shrug. ‘There is no one, Miss Swift.’ She sighs in defeat. ‘But I must try to be heard. I must not give up. Even though it would be easier to step aside and let him continue in his folly.’
At dinner, Mr Pengower declares that the Tonkin boy will not work at the manor. ‘I sent word to them that there will be no employment for him here,’ he says in a tone that indicates the subject is not open for discussion. ‘I will not permit that family to gain a foothold in our home,’ he adds. ‘I am glad you deferred to me, my dear.’ He pats her hand approvingly. ‘Very sensible of you. Very sensible, indeed.’
Cordelia stiffens. She’s not happy. ‘I wish you had taken pity, Mr Pengower,’ she replies, taking her hand away. ‘They lost a child …’
‘It was an accident,’ says Mr Pengower through gritted teeth. He feigns a chuckle to mask his irritation and takes a swig of wine.
‘Accident or not, it is your mine, Mr Pengower,’ Cordelia insists bravely. ‘They blame us for it. They always will. Mrs Tonkin says we owe it to her.’
‘We owe her nothing. Employing her son will not redress the balance. It will not bring their dead boy back. I am sorry for it. Very sorry, indeed. But I will not change my mind. Frank Tonkin is a menace, and I will not bring his child into the fold.’
‘He will be angry when he hears,’ says Cordelia apprehensively.
‘Let him be angry. He has been angry for years. He was angry even before his child was killed. He was likely born angry.’ Mr Pengower chortles and forks a potato into his mouth.
‘But he might do something …’ she begins.
‘Like what? Burn our house down? I think not.’ He laughs. ‘Really, that is absurd, my dear. Sometimes, you are quite hysterical.’
Cordelia is affronted. ‘Now you are being absurd, Mr Pengower.’
‘Do not raise your voice at me,’ he growls and glares at her.
But tonight she will not be cowed. ‘They are decent people,’ she continues, lowering her voice a little. ‘They lost a child. They are only asking for employment for the brother. We can put him to use somewhere. You do not have to pay him very much. But it would be a way of making peace with them. Of being kind. Can you not, Mr Pengower, find kindness in your heart, somewhere?’
‘Kindness,’ he scoffs. ‘More like weakness.’
Cordelia bites her lip and her eyes shine. She plays with her food a moment. Then she takes a breath and looks at him steadily. ‘Do you know that after their Billy was killed, Mrs Tonkin cursed you.’
Mr Pengower sighs wearily. ‘I imagine they all cursed me that night.’
‘Her words were, and I think I have them right: “I curse Ivan Pengower and his blood line, that they and their house may be dogged by unhappiness. That tragedy will follow them like a shadow and not release them, so they know what it is to suffer loss.”’
‘Is that meant to intimidate me?’ he asks.
‘It has frightened me ,’ Cordelia returns.
Mr Pengower narrows his eyes. ‘And how did you come by it? Who was the fool who told you?’
‘I do not wish to say.’
‘Tittle tattle. You should not listen to it.’
‘Please, I beg you, Ivan. Give the boy something, anything. You might not believe in the curse, but I do. I do not wish ill on our house, on your bloodline – on our children.’
Mr Pengower’s face darkens. ‘Enough, madam. We will speak no more about this. Not a word, do you understand?’ He takes a slurp of claret. It has stained his teeth red. ‘I am sick of hearing about it. Sick, do you hear me?’
There is a long silence. Only the scratching of Mr Pengower’s knife on the china plate disturbs it. Finally, Cordelia turns to me. ‘I hear that Gwen is still unwell,’ she says, changing the subject. She looks pale and there’s a shadow of defeat about the eyes, as if she’s lost the will to fight.
‘Yes, she is. I’m afraid she spent the day in her bed.’
‘D’you know what’s wrong with her?’ Mr Pengower asks. I don’t imagine he has much sympathy for sick servants.
‘I do not,’ I reply. ‘I imagine she will be better tomorrow. She does not have a fever.’
‘That’s good,’ says Cordelia.
Mr Pengower nods. ‘We do not want her spreading disease, now, do we? If she has something that is catching, she must remain in her bedroom.’ He turns to me specifically, wielding a potato on the end of his fork. ‘Do not let the children near her, do you hear?’
‘Absolutely not, Mr Pengower,’ I reply. ‘I am keeping them apart.’
‘Good, good, Miss Swift.’ He smiles and looks me over appreciatively as if seeing me for the first time. ‘I am beginning to feel that I can rely on you. Yes, indeed, you are a good sort, Miss Swift.’ I wonder if he is saying that in order to hurt his wife. Perhaps he wants to put a wedge between us. Maybe he senses we have grown close and doesn’t like it.
‘Thank you.’ I lower my eyes.
Cordelia smiles wistfully. ‘It was sad saying goodbye to Mr Cavill this morning. But he will return soon. We must all write to him. Perhaps you can write, too, Miss Swift, and tell him about the birds on the estuary. He will miss them, I’m sure.’
Mr Pengower is no longer listening. He’s pouring another glass of claret and summoning the footman to bring him more potatoes. Cordelia gives me a knowing look. ‘I think the birds and you are what he will miss most about St Sidwell Manor,’ she adds.
It is past midnight when I slip behind the curtain in the library. I imagine that tonight, after the tension at the dining table, Cordelia will need her solitary time on the bench. I presume she needs it now more than ever. But I wait until the grandfather clock in the hall chimes two and realise then that she is not going to come. I imagine her crying into her pillow, alone in her bedroom, believing the worst has happened, when the worst is yet to come, and feel ever more intensely the desire to help her find peace.