Chapter Fourteen #2
The women are all dressed in their Sunday best, complete with hats and gloves.
Cook has even applied a little rouge to her cheeks.
The rain has diminished to a light drizzle, but the low-hanging, soggy cloud looks as if it’s going to stick around for some time.
We set off under umbrellas. Lavinia and Nessa link arms, leaving me to walk alone behind them.
I’m grateful that they’ll show me the way.
Behind me Cook, Nancy and Mrs Crocker quietly talk among themselves.
I pick up snippets of their conversation, but my hope of hearing someone say the name Taran is dashed.
Perhaps he will be at church. I will watch Nessa closely.
The church is an old, grey stone building with a tall, crenellated tower and arched windows.
The grassy yard is littered with gravestones.
Some must be extremely old for they’re blackened with age and listing.
I’m reminded at once of Cavill’s gravestone in the churchyard at St Sidwell and shiver.
I don’t want to think of his death. I want to commit to the present moment and live it fully.
Cavill wants to spend the day with me. How is that possible? How has he swung it?
It looks like the entire town is filing into the church and I search the faces for Cavill but without success.
I pretend to know everyone and return their greetings with a smile and a brief comment about the weather.
Fortunately, the English love discussing the weather, and today they’re expecting a storm.
‘Love a storm,’ says Lydia, who I meet just inside the big doors.
She’s with her Aunt Wallie, Countess of Faversham, who looks suitably grand in a purple skirt that reaches the floor and a matching jacket worn over a white lacey blouse.
Her grey hair is arranged tidily beneath a wide-brimmed hat laden with flowers and her ears and throat sparkle with gems. She looks quite out of place here, as if she’s from a different age, but perhaps that’s the point; she enjoys standing out.
‘My dear Eddie,’ she says when she sees me. ‘I hear you have all been frightfully busy rehearsing.’
‘We have,’ I reply.
Lydia grins. She looks uncomfortable in an ill-fitting dress and hat, as if she’s worn them under duress.
She looked much happier in her knickerbockers.
‘I’m nearly finished,’ she says cheerfully, and my smile remains fixed because I have no idea what it is that she’s finished.
‘Cavill says he’s bringing you over after the service to have a look. ’
‘Yes,’ I say with confidence. ‘I can’t wait.’
The Countess cuts in. ‘You’ll be impressed. Lydia has been working day and night.’ She sniffs and gives her niece a sidelong glance. ‘However, that is no way to find a husband.’
Lydia laughs. ‘No time for a husband, Aunt Wallie.’
The Countess is not amused. She sets off down the aisle and I see her a little later taking her place in the front row, after having smiled graciously at those already seated in the pews as if they’re her loyal subjects.
‘I hope you like it,’ says Lydia. ‘Cavill has already seen it and thinks it’s smashing, but it’s you I want to impress, girlie.’ She gives me a sympathetic smile. ‘I know how much this play means to you.’
‘I’m sure I’ll like it,’ I reply, wondering why Macbeth means so much to Eddie.
More people are coming into the church and we’re in the way.
We walk together down the aisle, and I look out for Nessa and Lavinia – and Cavill.
I spot Cavill near the front beside Gilda and my spirits immediately soar.
Just knowing he’s in the same room makes me feel as if I’m suddenly walking on air.
I find the girls and take the place Nessa has saved for me beside her.
The church is packed, and I can’t help but compare it to my time where most churches are suffering dwindling congregations.
Some are so small that parishes have had to unite and share a vicar.
There’s something rather nice about the community spirit here, where everyone meets on a Sunday.
It gives one a warm feeling of belonging.
The chattering stops as soon as the vicar steps into the nave to welcome everyone and I switch off and allow my mind to wander into the past. The last time I went to church was in St Sidwell in 1895.
To the Pengower’s private chapel on the estate.
Cavill was a young man of thirty-eight then, and I was the governess in charge of his small nephews.
I remember him well, with his sun-kissed blond hair, his face that barely had a line on it, except for the crow’s feet at his temples and the leonine laughter lines around his mouth.
He had an air of insouciance. He was untroubled and carefree.
Responsibility weighed heavily on his brother’s shoulders, but Cavill, being the youngest son, could spend his days in idle pursuits, like painting, riding, and reading.
How his life changed, and he with it. I want to run my fingers over the lines tragedy has carved into his skin and smooth them out.
I want to press my lips to his forehead so that he forgets the past. And I want to put my hand against his heart and heal the wound that loss has inflicted there.
That I have inflicted. Because were it not for me, he would have died that summer of 1895.
I did what timesliders are not meant to do: change the future. But I changed his.
Is it true that it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all?
The service is long and typically boring. I’ll never understand why religions don’t make worship more entertaining for their congregations. Why does it always have to be so dull? Where’s the joy and the laughter. Why so serious and fearful? God is love and love is beautiful.
It’s a relief when we file out into the rain. Cavill finds me beneath my umbrella talking to a stout man about the molehills that have sprung up in his garden. ‘An enthusiastic and tireless little digger he is, Mrs Skipton. I’m not sure how to deal with the little fellow.’
‘You need to catch him in a trap and then set him free somewhere far away,’ I suggest.
The man frowns and appraises me in a condescending manner. ‘Why, this isn’t Wind in the Willows, Mrs Skipton. It’s curtains for the miscreant, I tell you.’
Cavill rescues me, politely drawing me away from this bombastic man. I lift my umbrella so Cavill can shelter beneath it, even though he’s wearing a hat and coat. ‘I’m taking you to Hartismere,’ he says quietly.
I nod. Fortunately, I don’t need to know where that is as I won’t be driving. ‘And Gilda?’
‘Honing her craft with Bentley.’ He gives me a look that suggests he knows full well that her craft, such as it is, needs honing. ‘I’ll pick you up at midday.’
‘Marvellous,’ I reply. I can’t help but grin because he’s looking so serious. ‘Are we really going to Hartismere?’ I ask.
His face relaxes into a smile. ‘For five minutes,’ he replies, holding my gaze, and we both laugh. ‘I couldn’t think of anything else,’ he adds.
I return to the house with the girls, and they hurry upstairs to change into what they call ‘mufti’ – casual clothes – then they set off for the theatre.
I rifle through the wardrobe for a less formal dress, although I long for a pair of jeans and trainers.
It’s not the weather for dresses. Eddie loves colour and is quite chic, so I decide on a forest green dress, a matching cloche hat, T-bar shoes and a camel-colour coat that seems much too big for me, but I suppose that’s the look.
I’ve never much cared for fashion, but as Eddie Skipton I rather fancy myself.
I certainly cut a dash in this ensemble, and hope that Cavill will be impressed.
As the hands of the clock move slowly towards midday, I feel my excitement rise.
I don’t know where we’re going, but I don’t care.
We’ll be together and that’s all that matters.
Perhaps this is the only opportunity I’ll get to spend time alone with him.
The only opportunity to tell him the truth.
I’m certain I can persuade him I’m not a fantasist. He’s a man who believes in the eternal nature of the soul.
Might he be open-minded enough to consider time travel?
Before leaving, Cook asks me what I’d like for supper, and I tell her to leave out whatever is available and to take the rest of the day off.
She seems surprised, but thrilled. When I tell Nancy and Mrs Crocker that they will not be needed either, they are equally surprised.
Don’t they automatically get Sunday off?
Cavill’s car draws up outside the gate and I don’t wait for him to come up the path and knock on the door but hurry out into the rain to meet him.
He walks round to open the passenger door for me, and we smile at each other with ill-concealed joy.
It’s hard not to throw myself into his arms, but I know that very soon nothing will come between us.
We set off. He reaches over and squeezes my hand. ‘Just the two of us,’ he says.
‘Just the two of us,’ I reply, and hold his hand until he requires it back in order to change gear.