Chapter Fourteen
I do not tell him who I am. I cannot risk the revelation ruining my mission. I still have so much to uncover. This is not the time, or the place.
With a heavy heart I return with him to the auditorium, and I resume my duty.
Cavill leaves the theatre, once again taking the oxygen with him, and the rest of the day passes slowly and dully, as if with his departure the clock drags its hands in protest. I turn my attention to my task and keep my ear cocked for the name Taran, but it isn’t uttered, and Nessa gives nothing away.
In fact, I don’t see her talk to anyone in particular, and I don’t get to see her perform.
I get to watch Lavinia, however, who is very good as a witch, and I notice Nessa, arms folded in the front row of the stalls, looking pained.
I’m sure she would have been content with the part of a witch.
At least, she’d have had more airtime than playing a meagre apparition.
A chance, perhaps, to show her father what she can do, and why she’s chosen this path.
My heart goes out to her. She looks forlorn there on the red velvet seat.
I can’t imagine why her father would put up such a fight to prevent her from doing what she loves.
Why would he care so much about her wanting to be an actress?
In four days’ time she’ll be dead. I wonder whether he’ll regret his behaviour and wish that he had supported her instead.
If we all knew our destinies, would we live our lives differently?
I walk home with Nessa and Lavinia. The shadows are lengthening over the cobbles as the sun dips behind the prettily painted houses of Seacombe.
The air is damp with the smell of brine, and growing increasingly chilly as night approaches and the wind picks up, advancing inland over the cold water with a wall of purple cloud.
Perhaps it will rain. The girls chatter away like a pair of crickets, discussing the performances with glee and giggling at those they consider abysmal.
It’s hard to listen to their carefree chatter and not project forward to Wednesday.
They cannot imagine what is lurking in their future.
None of them will get to perform. The fire will literally steal the show.
There’s a dance at the town hall and after dinner the girls go upstairs to change.
Nessa notices that her red dress has disappeared, and I explain that it was stained and had to be cleaned.
She doesn’t question my explanation and chooses another.
She certainly has plenty of choice. They dress quickly and set off, and I hear their chirping die away as they walk out into the street.
I’m alone wondering what to do with myself when the doorbell rings.
My stomach clenches at the thought of a visitor.
I’m tired, and I don’t feel up to any more pretence.
It’s exhausting minding everything I say, everything I do, trying to imagine how Eddie would behave.
Not wanting to let her down. I want to lie on the bed and be Pixie for a while.
Mrs Crocker answers the door while I remain upstairs in the drawing room, at the window, trying to see who the visitor is.
Shortly, I see a maid hurrying off through the gate, the same way as the girls, and realise with relief that it’s not a visitor at all, but a message, perhaps.
A minute later Mrs Crocker comes in with an envelope.
‘A letter for you, ma’am,’ she says and gives it to me.
She leaves, closing the door behind her.
I sit down at the round table and glance at the words on the envelope.
It’s the same handwriting as that on the letter I was holding when I slid into this very room.
Cavill. I waste no time in opening it. I pray that he doesn’t ask me to meet in our usual place, because I still don’t know where that is!
Tomorrow I will steal you after church. I have finessed an entire day. I will explain when I see you.
I’m ecstatic. I can barely contain myself. I press the letter to my chest and close my eyes. Cavill comes to me in wave after wave of memory; in the garden at St Sidwell Manor; on the deck of the Titanic; in the carriage in New York; and that dreadful longing tugs at my heart like a begging child.
And like a begging child, it is never satisfied. One day? Two? A lifetime? My longing is unquenchable.
How I wish I could be Eddie Skipton forever.
I tell Mrs Crocker that I don’t need her and run the bath myself.
I’m weary of being with people and relish the time on my own.
I could do with a television but settle instead for one of Eddie’s books.
I cannot concentrate, however. My eyes trace the lines, but the words are rendered meaningless by my straying mind, which is constantly drawn to Cavill.
He’s all I can think about. I will spend the day with him tomorrow, but what then?
I want more. I cannot live in the present moment and enjoy it for what it is when I know what the future holds.
Fire will consume the theatre, Nessa will die, and I will slide back to my own life with my heart once again in shreds.
But this time it will be the final good-bye.
How can I savour the present moment when I know that every second with him is one more grain of sand that’s slipped through the neck of the sand timer?
But end it, I must.
I close the book and lie back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling, my emotions in turmoil.
I go over what Avril told me, trying to make sense of it.
She made it clear that in order to sever this invisible force of attraction that keeps reuniting us, I must allow my longing to fully express itself.
Like a bud, I must give it the opportunity to flower, to fulfil its destiny, to reach completion.
But in order to fully comprehend this, I need to go back to the beginning and work out what exactly it is that I have done.
Undeniably, I have altered time and given Cavill a life he wasn’t destined to have.
That is the simple truth. But now it’s not so simple.
When Cavill fell in love with me he decided not to travel to South America.
Therefore, he avoided his destiny and didn’t die on the voyage.
But in changing his destiny I set in motion something that has gained a momentum of its own.
I created a soul connection. I consider love, not the physical attraction of two people who are sexually drawn to each other, but the deeper, eternal love that is divine.
That soul connection we created in St Sidwell in 1895, was found again in 1912 when I embodied Constance Fleet.
Of course, Cavill didn’t know he’d recognised it.
How could he? But he had, on a subconscious level.
On the level of his soul. Once again, our souls were trying to reunite, to fulfil their destiny, to do what they were never able to do in the beginning because I withheld the truth of who I really was.
Now they’re trying to come together again, but until Cavill sees beyond Eddie Skipton’s eyes and recognises my soul behind them, the force of attraction will be denied, and I don’t know how many times I will slide back to him before the truth is finally revealed and our souls can at last recognise each other for what they are.
Is that what Avril was trying to tell me?
I’m fumbling about in the dark for answers. With no one here to guide me, I’m having to follow my intuition. But how do I know that I’m right?
Regardless of whether my theory is true, Cavill loves Eddie, and he deserves to find happiness with her. If I come back again, as someone else, I’ll deny him that happiness. I can’t do that to him. I can’t do it to me. I can’t do it to Eddie.
Somehow, I have to make him understand who I really am and say good-bye, without changing the status quo. Isn’t that like trying to make scrambled eggs without breaking a shell?
The following morning, I wake to the sound of rain. It’s like someone’s throwing gravel at my windowpanes. I lie in the warmth of my bed, a nervous feeling churning in my stomach. Today I will tell Cavill who I am.
‘Will we recognise each other when we no longer have our physical bodies? Will we recognise each other when we are made of light?’
We will see.
The following morning, Mrs Crocker comes in to open my curtains and run the bath.
She chooses my outfit and lays it over the upholstered chair.
I notice it’s a formal skirt suit in gunmetal blue.
Perhaps it’s what Eddie Skipton always wears to church.
Mrs Crocker picks a piece of lint off the lapel of the jacket and brushes it lightly with her fingers.
‘You’ll need an umbrella today,’ she says. ‘It’s raining cats and dogs.’
‘I like the rain,’ I tell her, climbing out of bed. ‘It’s romantic.’
She chortles and shakes her head. ‘Only you would think it romantic, ma’am. There’s nothing romantic about wet feet and frizzy hair.’
But I think of lying in the arms of the man I love.
After breakfast the entire household gathers in the hall.
There’s Cook, Nancy, Mrs Crocker, Nessa and Lavinia.
When I was at St Sidwell, the cook remained in the kitchen to prepare the lunch.
I imagine in this household Eddie and the girls spend the day at the Aphrodite, rehearsing, so don’t require feeding.
With just over three days to go until the first night, they must have a lot of work to do.