A Step Back in Time
Chapter Eleven

Claire went back to London and Sarah returned to work, her shingles all cleared up and having been given a clean bill of health by the doctor. I gazed at her at work, peering into her office, watching her sitting at the computer typing up letters and conveyances and legal charges, all the while knowing that she led a double life. Her first as Sarah Miller, Legal Secretary to Stuart Rhodes, Reynolds and Rhodes, Solicitors, and the second one as Elizabeth the First, Queen of England. Wow. What more could I say?

I watched Max too. Max, who also led two lives—or so he said—his first as Max Reynolds, Founder of Reynolds & Rhodes Solicitors, and his second as Gregory Walsh, gardener to Sir Richard Pole and Margaret Pole. I still shook my head at this, although a niggling memory of meeting him at the ruin still lingered in my mind. The day I went to confront him about this, to ask him what had happened, I found myself with Gregory in his tiny cottage in the grounds of Warblington Manor, and the thought of what we did together in his soft double bed in his bedchamber beneath the eaves still made me blush.

I didn’t think I would, but I was amazed at how much I missed Claire. Although she texted me on a regular basis, and we had spoken a few times since she went back to London to set up home with her partner, Laura, I wished that she was still in Havant working in Smith & Vosper, and buying my lunch in Wetherspoons.

Now that I knew she was gay, the jealousy that I’d felt at seeing her with Max had completely gone. That little green imp that used to sit on my shoulder whispering evil thoughts into my ear had disappeared. Why had I felt that way, though? Why was I envious of her relationship with Max? I supposed it would always remain a mystery, although I really did think that Max’s resemblance to Gregory had a huge bearing on it.

My little Mini Daphne ground to a halt in front of Mum and Dad’s house in Cosham, a three-bedroom semi-detached with a large garden front and back—the house where I was born and the house I’d grown up in. I walked along the drive past Dad’s old Rover with its cracked leather seats, and giving the back door a little tap, walked straight in. The kitchen smelled like the local Indian takeaway, and Mum was standing at the cooker stirring some sort of bright red concoction with a wooden spoon.

She stopped what she was doing and, wiping her hands on a tea towel, pulled me into a warm hug, reminding me suddenly of Margaret Pole. I looked at her, temporarily confused because she wasn’t wearing a long heavy gown and a little peaked hood on her head, but a pair of jeans and a blue and white striped shirt, a pair of green pom pom slippers on her feet.

“Hannah, darling, how are you?”

“I’m fine, Mum. Mmm, looks good,” I said as I peered into the pan on the stove. “Is this our tea?”

My stomach rumbled alarmingly, prompting Mum to say, “Yes, it’s curry,” giving it another quick stir. “A spicy chicken curry, with rice and poppadoms and onion chutney salad. I hope you like it.”

“Ooh, get you,” I said, and then, “I’m pretty sure I will.”

She grinned at me before saying, “I’m not sure if your dad will. He seems to think that anything spicy is weird!”

“What? Who’s talking about me?” said a voice, and Dad appeared in the kitchen wearing his old man’s uniform—as mum called it—of baggy jeans with an open necked shirt, a V-necked vest—of which he had many, in all different colors—over the top. Straight away he enveloped me in a hug before pulling back, his hands on my shoulders, frowning and studying my face intently. “Hmm, what’s wrong with you? You look like a bulldog chewing a wasp.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I said, thinking no matter how much I bothered about my appearance Dad would always make some sort of silly comment, making me feel that all my effort had been wasted.

“Don’t take offense,” he said. “You just look tired, that’s all.”

A fleeting thought passed through my mind that, yes, I probably did look tired after all I’d been through the past few months, but there was no way that I could tell Dad about that. I couldn’t tell him that I’d had a traumatic birth experience where I’d almost died, and then lost my baby Henry to small pox. After which King Henry the Eighth of England had found me a husband, who I was assured would be a good husband and that it would be an excellent match. But he beat me and was unfaithful, not with a woman, as I’d expected, but with a man who was a particular favorite at King Henry’s court.

And to top it all I then experienced some very strenuous love making with Gregory Walsh, the gardener to my mother and father, Sir Richard Pole and Margaret Pole. How much more could a girl take, Dad?

“Leave her alone,” said Mum. “She looks lovely as always. This curry is ready, so both of you—and you, Ryan....” My little brother sauntered into the kitchen. “Go and sit at the table and I’ll bring it in.”

“Have you heard from Claire?” asked Dad, as he helped himself to a good-sized spoonful of the curry.

I nodded. “Yes, we text regularly, and speak sometimes.”

“Good God, Marjorie,” he said as he took a tiny taste. “This is really spicy!” He did some sort of heavy panting, his lips in an O shape as if he were in labor.

“Calm down, Bill,” replied Mum. She shook her head and gave a great heartfelt sigh.

“It’s well good,” said Ryan, piling his plate high.

“I couldn’t believe it when she told us she was setting up home with a woman,” said Dad, nibbling at a poppadum. “Came as a bit of a surprise, that did, I can tell you.” He put a hand to his heart and raised his eyes to the ceiling.

I stopped eating, my fork in midair, and gaped at him. “She told you that?”

“Yes, of course she did,” said Mum and Dad in unison.

“She’s well pretty,” pointed out Ryan.

“Who’s pretty?” I asked. “Claire?” I poked absent mindedly at the onion chutney salad with a fork. I could hardly believe this conversation.

“No. Laura, Claire’s girlfriend.” Ryan spooned curry and rice into his mouth like there was no tomorrow.

“Have you met her?” I asked in confusion, and also jealous that I hadn’t been invited to meet her too.

“No,” Ryan replied. “Claire sent me a picture on Facebook. She looks a bit like Halle Berry. You know, that actress.”

“Really? So she’s dark then?” I could just imagine her and Claire together, the light side and the dark side, milk chocolate and dark chocolate, the good and the bad, but definitely not the ugly.

Mum nodded and said, “Yes, she’s got short hair and she’s dark.”

“Dark hair?”

“For God’s sake,” boomed Dad. “She’s got black hair and black skin!”

“No, not black,” pointed out Ryan. “Halle Berry hasn’t got black skin!”

“Well, no, she hasn’t,” agreed Dad sarcastically, glaring at Ryan. “But then again, Claire’s girlfriend isn’t Halle Berry, is she?”

“Actually,” butted in Mum, who was picking and poking at her curry with a fork. “She looks a lot like Megan Markle.” Three pairs of wide-open eyes stared at her in amazement.

After such a confusing conversation, I was relieved when we retired to the sitting room and Mum handed me a glass of sherry which, after taking a healthy slug to calm my nerves, I put on the small coffee table.

“Sit there, Hannah,” Mum said, pointing to the armchair nearest to the fireplace. “You can put that book on the floor.”

I glanced at the book as I picked it up. It was always interesting to see what Mum was reading. She was a real proper bookworm, and must get through at least ten books a week. To my total astonishment, the book was called, The Life and Times of Margaret Pole. I almost dropped it in shock.

Margaret Pole? I thought, flicking through the book and looking at the pictures, immediately recognizing her, my mother, the lady that I’d met often but in a different time, a different century. The lady that had held my hand tightly through the birth of my baby. The lady that used my nickname of Little Bear. The lady who kept my secrets, and the lady that I’d seen on her death day being hacked to pieces by a bloody axe. I sat down heavily on the settee, feeling short of breath and panting as if in labor, as Dad had earlier when tasting the spicy curry.

Thankfully nobody seemed to notice, and I asked Mum quite calmly, “What’s with this book, Mum?”

“Ooh, it’s brilliant,” she said. “It’s all about Margaret Pole. Have you heard of her?”

“Well, yes, I have. But—”

“Really interesting local history, you know, Hannah. And also, I think there may be some sort of connection between their family and ours.”

“A connection?” I asked, hardly able to believe my ears. “What connection?”

“I’ve got to do a bit more research, but there were Palmers at King Henry’s court—one of them a musician, I think.”

What was Henry Stafford’s lover called? Oh my God yes, William Palmer! Why hadn’t I noticed that before? Did that mean that I could be related to my husband’s boyfriend? Wow!

“Also,” Mum went on, “The connection with Henry the Eighth is fascinating, and—”

Whatever else Mum was going to say was lost in the ether, as all of a sudden my phone beeped and a text flashed up. Peering closely, I saw it was a message from, of all people, Max.

Hi Hannah. I’m outside your mum and dad’s, saw your car. Have you got time for a quick chat?

Before I could respond to the text, Ryan shouted out, “Hannah, that boss man of yours is coming down the garden path.”

I peered from between the curtains and sure enough, there he was, Max Reynolds, trying to peer through the obscure glass window set into the front door before realizing that he was wasting his time and using the brass knocker to give a sharp rat tat tat.

A beam of sunshine pooled on the carpet as I pulled the door open and we came face to face. He looked cool and casual as usual, dressed in a smart dark suit and white shirt, an overcoat hanging open over the top. He’d obviously just come from work.

“Hi, did you get my message?”

“Yes, but only just,” I replied. “God Max, you could have given me time to reply.”

“Yeah, but.... Well, we need to talk, Hannah. Do you fancy a coffee, or a beer?”

“Okay then. Will have to be a coffee; I’ve just had sherry with Mum and Dad.” And then, nodding towards my car, I said, “I’m driving.”

“No problem. There’s a great little cafe bar in Cosham town center. Do you fancy a walk?”

I beckoned him in and Max stepped into the sitting room where Mum and Dad sat watching the television. Dad had his arms crossed over his chest and a look of horror on his face as he watched a very bloody operation on a cute Labradoodle puppy. It had to be the Super Vet program. Ryan had disappeared into his bedroom, and was no doubt scrolling through Facebook and admiring pictures of Claire’s gorgeous new girlfriend.

The faint drone of Max’s voice sounded from the sitting room as he made conversation with my parents, so I left him there and went into the kitchen to collect my bag and coat. Suddenly feeling the need for the loo, I dashed upstairs, taking the steps two at a time—I didn’t want to keep the big boss waiting—but when I got up there, everything looked so different.

The landing was twice the size, and square, not long and thin as it always had been. When I peered around the toilet door, it wasn’t a toilet any longer, but a dressing room. A massive wooden chest stood along one wall next to a dressing table and stool, and a huge stand-alone mirror with a gilded beveled edge took pride of place in the middle of the room.

A rotund maid dressed in a black dress with a white frilly apron tied over the top was busily searching through the chest, both arms deep within the voluminous folds of brightly colored gowns and undergarments. With a flourish she pulled out a sky-blue garter.

My mother, Margaret Pole, appeared at my side. “Ursula, Little Bear, come, let us get you ready. Why do you tarry? It is your wedding day.” She smiled broadly, and I noticed that she held a beautiful white gown that drooped over her arm like the neck of a swan, and with a sinking heart I realized that I was Ursula Pole again, and today would be the day that I married Henry Stafford, 1st Baron Stafford, son of the 3rd Duke of Buckingham.

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