Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
N ora made an impatient sound. ‘We’re a hundred feet up,’ she repeated.
‘Not to the outside. To wherever Esme is. We got it wrong this time, but perhaps if we concentrate extra hard…’
‘Extra hard?’ scoffed Nora.
‘Well, do you have any better ideas? We still have our tokens, yes? And Gwen has the key—’ she broke off. ‘Gwen, the token you chose. It was Esme’s pocket watch?’
Gwen nodded. She still held it in one hand.
Tiffany slumped against the wall for a moment. ‘Gwen,’ she said patiently. ‘You can see the past and the future, and you are holding a pocket watch, and you opened the door…’
Madhu groaned as she caught on. Nora said, ‘She opened the door to the wrong … time?’
‘Right place, wrong time,’ said Tiffany. She pressed her hands to her face. ‘Do you still have the key?’
‘Yes,’ said Gwen. She frowned, and felt at her bodice. ‘No. Mayhap they took it?’
Tiffany made a noise of frustration. Nora swore. Madhu tried to soothe Gwen.
‘Even if I had it, wouldn’t guarantee we’d get to the right time,’ Gwen said. She looked a bit ashamed. ‘Esme did tell me not to tinker with it, after last time.’
‘What happened last time?’ Tiffany asked, morbidly fascinated.
But right then a commotion could be heard coming up the stairs. Tiffany saw Madhu reach into her pockets, and Nora square her shoulders. She felt in her pocket for some chalk.
She refused to look at Santiago.
‘… let me see… Ah, yes, there you are.’
The door opened, and a woman stood at the top of the stairs, blocking them for anyone following. She was dressed in the most scandalous garments, all of a deep scarlet. It was almost like a riding habit, but with a skirt so short Tiffany could see her knees .
Her hat was quite dashing, though.
‘Morning, chaps,’ she said briskly. ‘Seems you’ve been blown a bit off course.’
The witches got to their feet, Tiffany ignoring Santiago’s outstretched hand. She noted that the other witches looked quite pleased to see this woman.
‘Lot of that happening,’ said the woman, and added to the soldier behind her. ‘Like you chaps up at Utah beach, eh? A lot of confusion today. Well, up you come,’ she said, and looked at them all squarely. ‘I’ll get you back where you need to be.’
To Tiffany’s great annoyance, it was Santiago who spoke. ‘Mistress Winterscale,’ he said. ‘We met at Mistress Blackmantle’s soirée.’
‘Can you believe these guys?’ muttered one of the soldiers.
‘We did, Your Grace, and I was sorry to see you leave so early. Mistress Buttars,’ she nodded at Gwen. ‘Miss Nayak. Miss Leatherheart. Miss…?’
Santiago cleared his throat. ‘Mistress Winterscale; my wife, Her Grace the Duchess of St James.’
There was a slight hush amongst the soldiers behind Mistress Winterscale, who gave Tiffany a very thorough look over.
‘An honour,’ she said, but she did not curtsey. Tiffany gave her a nod. ‘Now, Your Graces, my sisters, if you would perhaps follow me? Time and tide wait for no man.’
Tiffany glanced urgently at the others. They all seemed quite happy to follow this woman. Relieved, even. She was clearly a witch. Tiffany could not say exactly how she knew this, but Mistress Winterscale’s poise and confidence probably had something to do with it.
‘And you can take us where we need to be?’ she said.
‘Indeed I can. Sergeant, I shall need a briefing room. Spit spot!’
As they followed her down the narrow, winding stairs, Tiffany felt Santiago fall in behind her. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
I am a fool for marrying you . ‘Quite,’ she said haughtily, and shrugged away from him.
‘So, who are these guys?’ said one of the soldiers to Mistress Winterscale.
‘Ah, top secret, I’m afraid.’
‘Okay, but why are they dressed like they’re in a play or something? Are they USO— I mean, what do you guys have?’
‘ENSA. Not quite, but it’ll do. Your CO will lend me his office,’ she said, and it was a command, not a request.
In short order, they were bundled into what appeared to have been the lighthouse keeper’s cottage, which had now been turned into an office that was being vacated by a rather put-out officer with a moustache.
‘Goddamn Brits still think they rule the world,’ he grumbled.
‘Goddamn Brits kept the wolf from the door for two years on a worldwide front,’ said Mistress Winterscale crisply, and closed the door behind the harrumphing officer.
A sort of silence fell, but only inside the room. Outside it, the rattle and crash of gunfire could still be heard, alongside other noises Tiffany could never identify.
‘Now,’ said Mistress Winterscale, taking off her hat and smoothing her jacket. ‘Bit of a sticky wicket here. I do seem to spend half my time rescuing witches who are in the wrong time and place. Why is it so difficult to stay in your own time, hm?’
‘When are we?’ Tiffany ventured to ask.
‘Probably best not to say. No spoilers. Now—briefly, please—what happened, and where and when do you need to be?’
Gwen was the senior of the witches, but Tiffany was the senior in social standing, and besides, Gwen didn’t seem as if her head and her body were in the same week right now.
She cleared her throat, and tried to explain what had happened.
‘We were considering trying to repeat the trick, but we don’t have the key any more. And besides…’ She bit her lip as she looked at Gwen, who was smiling faintly.
‘What happened to the key?’
‘The soldiers took it.’
‘Along with my knuckle dusters,’ said Nora.
‘And my pistol,’ said Santiago.
‘Well, it shouldn’t be hard to get those back. The problem is, I’m afraid, that while I can take you back to your own time, I can only do so in one specific place.’
‘And where is that?’
‘Essex.’
‘And we are in…?’
Mistress Winterscale looked surprised. ‘Normandy.’
‘France,’ said Gwen unexpectedly. ‘Knew it was an F place.’
‘Where did you mean to be?’
Tiffany shrugged helplessly. ‘Wherever Mistress Blackmantle is. She was supposed to be rescuing my mother, who is trapped in a tower somewhere.’
‘You mother?’ Mistress Winterscale’s expression suddenly cleared. ‘Of course! Amelia Davenport.’ For some reason she glanced at Santiago. ‘You are Lady Tiffany?’
Tiffany opened her mouth to explain that the ‘lady’ part had been superseded by the ‘duchess’ part, and shut it again. She nodded.
‘Now it makes more sense. You are in the right place, I believe, but the wrong time. We could really use Esme’s help here, but…’
Santiago cleared his throat. ‘May I ask a question about this … time … journey business?’
‘Of course, but don’t expect to understand the answer. Quantum mechanics are quite complex.’
He smiled politely. Damn his eyes for being so handsome!
‘You require a door in a specific place to take us home, correct? But we came here—now—using Mistress Blackmantle’s key and Mistress Buttars’s ability to see through time, aided by Mistress Blackmantle’s pocket watch. Also correct?’
So he had been listening. And comprehending, far more than Tiffany really did.
‘May I ask, Mistress Winterscale, if you can control the precise time to which you travel? The year—the day? The hour?’
‘The year, certainly,’ she said. ‘The day, usually. The hour—not so precisely. But I need my door.’
Santiago glanced at Tiffany. ‘My wife can draw,’ he said.
Tiffany snapped. ‘I have a name. I am more than your— Draw?’ she said, as his meaning suddenly became clear.
Santiago didn’t take his eyes off Tiffany as he spoke to Mistress Winterscale. ‘If you had your door here, would it work?’
‘Yes, but I don’t?—’
‘Tell me what it looks like,’ said Tiffany. ‘And if you could retrieve my satchel, I would be most grateful.’
Mistress Winterscale seemed bemused, but she swept from the room and her voice was heard beyond, issuing orders.
‘Tiffany,’ said Santiago, moving closer. The room was too small to back away. ‘What is wrong?’
His jaw was swollen on one side, the bruise already darkening. The skin around his eyes was tense, as if he was trying not to frown.
‘Nothing is wrong,’ she said. ‘I shall draw the door and we can all go back to where—when—we should be.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘What did you mean about having a name?’
She sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. She closed her eyes. ‘No, wait, it does. I don’t have a name anymore, do I? I’m just your wife. The duchess.’
Santiago looked bemused. ‘Of course you have a name. That did not change. Do you … wish to be called Theophania now?’
‘No!’ She didn’t know how to explain it to him. ‘It’s more that I … I don’t have an identity other than how I relate to you. For years the only connection that mattered was my father; now it is my husband. I am defined by men. One day, I will be the mother of a duke, and that is all.’
She looked over at the other witches, who were examining one of the strange devices in the cottage kitchen.
‘I will never be my own woman. I will always be … your woman.’
His brow creased. ‘And I will be your man. That is how marriage works, no?’
He tried to take her hand and Tiffany shrugged him off. ‘No! Because you do not belong to me, whereas I am merely a possession of yours. A belonging. Chattel. I fooled myself that you would give me the independence I wished for, and yet what has happened since our marriage? I have been a duchess, not a witch. I am only ever “Your Grace” to absolutely everybody. Even Billy! I couldn’t even come here—now—on business that solely concerns witches, without you keeping an eye on me. I have given up everything I…’
Santiago looked very troubled, but he let her speak. Tiffany tried to organise her thoughts so she wasn’t shrieking incoherently.
‘That night. When you and my idiot brother shot at each other, do you know why I was there? I was running away. To go and live with Aunt Esme. And I was happy. I wanted it.’
He shook his head, uncomprehending. ‘But you were the one who wanted to get married?’
‘Yes! Because I thought you were dying! And I—’ She broke off. It was too hard to explain. How could she want to be with him and yet yearn for her independence at the same time?
She tried to remember that feeling, how desperate she had been for him to live, how she loved him so much, how she would have given anything for him to survive. And now she had given everything, and she felt so … hollow.
Then Santiago spoke. ‘You wished to marry me solely because you thought I was going to die?’
There was a coldness in his voice she had not heard before.
‘Yes,’ she said wretchedly. She had suddenly realised her feelings for him and been stupidly rash.
‘Ah. Becoming a duchess without a tiresome husband around to keep an eye on you. I see now.’ He stepped back from her, and for the first time regarded her with contempt. ‘I see now why you did not wish me to come to your bed, if I was to be solely a means to an end. Although an heir would cement your position in a way being widowed would not.’
‘What do you?—’
‘And now you are stuck with a most troublesome husband who merely requests ,’ he spat the word, ‘your presence in his bed. I have told you, you are free to decline at any time, but now you will not need bother as I will not trouble you any longer.’
‘But—’ Tiffany began, confused about how this had got away from her.
He turned away, then back again, and his face was dark with fury. ‘There is the possibility that you are with child,’ he said in a low, quick voice.
‘I have been taking Madhu’s powders.’
‘Forgive me for not trusting the word of a witch.’ He glanced down at her belly in a disparaging manner. ‘If—’ he began, but right then the door opened and Mistress Winterscale strode back in, followed by a soldier carrying their possessions.
‘We will continue this later,’ he said.
‘Fine.’
‘Fine.’
Tiffany snatched up her satchel and found her colouring crayons. She looked around for a section of blank wall, asked Nora to move a table, and addressed Mistress Winterscale for instructions.
As she drew, she rolled Santiago’s words over and over in her head. She could not find the words to say that she loved him but also wanted her independence, and then she had said something that made him angry.
She did love him, that was the problem. She hadn’t wanted to and she hadn’t expected to, but the mere memory of him lying bleeding on the ground made her heart clench. She couldn’t be without him. She couldn’t be a witch with him.
It was impossible, and in her frustration she had made things worse.
‘Don’t cry, dear, there is always a solution,’ said Mistress Winterscale with stiffness in her voice. ‘We shall overcome and all that. No, the hourglass is a little larger…’
Eventually, she was happy, and Tiffany stood back to see a red door drawn on the wall, bearing an hourglass symbol and some hints of decoration. Mistress Winterscale had not been able to supply their full details.
‘Is it close enough?’ she said.
‘Close enough for what?’
‘Oh.’ Tiffany realised she had not explained this part. She placed her hand upon the door and felt it come to life beneath her fingers.
‘Remarkable!’ breathed Mistress Winterscale. ‘Can you do this with anything?’
‘Anything that isn’t living. Or food. But it doesn’t last long.’
‘Then we had better get moving. Do you all have everything? And you wish to be right here, at this lighthouse in Normandy?’
They nodded. Tiffany did not look at Santiago.
Mistress Winterscale produced a key from around her neck and paused. ‘Your Grace,’ she said, removing from her pocket a very small device that looked as if it might be a distant cousin of the Manton. ‘Is your pistol loaded?’
‘Does it need to be?’
‘I don’t know what will be on the other side of this door. France in 1815 is almost as bad as France now.’
Santiago nodded and loaded the pistol with shot and powder. ‘Nora,’ he said, ‘you are good with your fists?’
‘When I need to be,’ she said.
‘In the vanguard with me, please. Your Grace’—here he gave Tiffany a lightning glance—‘to the back, please.’
What did that mean? That he cared about her? Or that he thought she might be carrying his child?
She was barely in place beside Gwen when the door opened onto a dark room that seemed very similar to the one they were in, but suddenly very much quieter.
‘Same place, different time,’ Mistress Winterscale whispered.
‘The correct time?’ Nora whispered back. Rain pattered on the roof, a blissful relief from the heavy gunfire.
‘Well, only one way to find out.’
She curved her hand around the air and a ball of light appeared. A voice began, ‘ Qu-est ce —?’ and a shot rang out. It wasn’t Santiago’s pistol. Someone cried out and whimpered desperately in French.
The light grew large enough to illuminate the room, and Tiffany crowded in behind the others to see a man curled on the floor, clutching at his leg and swearing. To her great relief, he was wearing pantaloons and a grubby shirt, and the musket by his side was of a familiar type.
‘ Quelle est la date ?’ Mistress Winterscale demanded.
The injured man stammered out an answer. Santiago and Nora both slumped in relief but Tiffany had never learned French, and she really didn’t have the energy to pull off the trick she had with Father Thames.
‘He says it is the seventeenth of June, 1815,’ Mistress Winterscale reported. ‘Is that close enough?’
‘It is the day after we left,’ Tiffany said. She wanted to collapse with relief, too.
‘The day before Waterloo,’ Mistress Winterscale said. ‘Cannot be a coincidence.’
‘The day before what?’
‘Oh … you’ll find out soon enough.’
Mistress Winterscale rapped out a few more questions, but the Frenchman was sobbing in pain.
‘Let me through,’ said Madhu, and knelt by him, reaching into her bag and various pockets.
‘I don’t know why he’s making such a fuss, it’s a small calibre bullet and I only hit his calf,’ sniffed Mistress Winterscale.
She made more demands in French, and this time got some answers. ‘There are two women in the tower, he says. There are more guards in the base of the tower, three I think.’ She shifted rapidly into French again, and then back when she got her answer. ‘He does not know who is in charge. A foreigner. He is not here.’
‘Then what are we waiting for?’ said Tiffany. Aunt Esme and, possibly, her mother were up there.
The mother who had abandoned her when she was a mere babe. She ought to work out what she felt about that, but her head was full of Santiago telling her he didn’t want her anymore.
But I love him .
And she loved him so much that the thought of being without him was like a physical pain. Could she survive if he decided to live a separate life from her, as so many couples did? Would she end up going to live with Esme, as she had originally planned?
It had once seemed like the only thing she wanted. And now it seemed a poor second choice.
A hand touched her arm. It was Nora. ‘Are you ready?’
Tiffany squared her shoulders and forced herself not to look at her husband. ‘Let’s go.’