A Step Back in Time
Chapter Thirteen

I gazed out of the sitting room window of Warblington Manor at the gardens beyond. It was October and the leaves on the trees were turning, the colors of red, yellow, and gold magnificent against the hard bright blue of the sky. A fresh breeze whipped at the trees’ bony branches until they bent and swayed like wayward string puppets. In the distance I saw a black and white figure hunched over the flower borders, furiously digging, weeding, and planting. He had his back to me so could not see my hungry longing gaze, for I had not been alone with Gregory Walsh for some time now. Although, I smiled wryly, my large belly may say otherwise.

Absentmindedly I stroked the huge mound, feeling the baby curled inside like a tiny question mark shift a little, and a fleeting feeling of rising bubbles made my heartbeat quicken. I smiled to myself, unsure if it was my time yet, but a vague needling in my lower back pained me, reminding me of the traumatic labor to beget baby Henry. Such a long time ago, almost six years, but these things were not easily forgotten.

“A penny for them, Little Bear?”

I turned around to see my father, Sir Richard Pole, sitting elegantly in an armchair pulled up close to a fire that crackled bright orange and red in the grate. He had an open book in his hand, into which he placed a slice of leather he used as a bookmark before putting the book on the round occasional table at his side. Casually he crossed one knee over the other and, reaching for his enamel snuff box, took a tiny pinch between his finger and thumb and inhaled deeply.

“The baby did move, Father,” I told him. “And that feeling always makes me smile.”

I gave a tiny curtsey and sat down next to my mother, Margaret Pole, who was sitting on a settee, her voluminous skirts spread around her. She was sewing a sampler that was changing like magic day by day into a picture of Warblington Manor and its beautiful gardens. I gazed in wonder at her artistry; such tiny delicate stitches in brown and umber that shaped the walls of the house, the green that portrayed the grass, and the blue the sky. Flower buds in mouth-watering shades of red and pink and lemon were conjured up like sleight of hand against the dark silk background.

Putting her work aside for a moment, she placed her hands carefully on my mound and closed her eyes. “Why yes, Ursula, I feel her too. Is that a foot or is that a hand?”

I giggled as I asked, “Her? Will we welcome a female this time do you think, Mother?”

“Oh, my dear, I will not prophesy, not even here amongst us three.” My mother lowered her voice and gazed around, as if somebody was there, watching from the shadowy corners of the sitting room. “It is more than my life is worth to be talking of such things. Although it could be that your mound is the right shape for a girl child.”

“Hmm,” said my father softly, as if to himself. “Witchcraft can be hard to prove. But if it were known that you even guessed at a female and a female it was, there would be much trouble for you.” He nodded his head knowingly, and for good measure took a much larger pinch from his little enamel snuff box and breathed in heartily.

The door opened and my husband, Henry Stafford, sauntered into the room. I knew not where he had been, but suspected that William Palmer did. I also did not know if my mother and father knew of his sexual preferences, but sometimes suspected that my mother did if only by the glint in her eyes as she witnessed, dandy that he was, his limp wristed ways and girlish speech. She must have wondered both times how I had come to be pregnant by him. All I could say was that it was a disappointing and loveless act for both of us. Nothing at all could compare that hurried fumbling with the leisurely sexual dance that occurred between myself and my lover. But if that was how it must be, then so it must stay. I had no choice in the matter.

A sudden longing for Gregory overcame me as Henry sashayed to my side and, picking up my hand which lay rigidly across my bump, pecked at it with thin cold lips. I could not help but compare them to Gregory’s, which were as full and lush as tender spring grass.

“My dear Ursula,” he crooned. “How are you today, wife?”

Giving a tiny bow of my head, I said, “Quite well thank you, husband. Although,” and here I turned to my mother, “I have a needling pain here in my back.” I sat forward and put both hands to my sacrum. “As I did when baby Henry started to come.”

Alarmed, my mother said softly as she gently felt my mound with her hands, “The babe is almost fully grown. Perhaps it is time, although I didn’t think so yet. Perhaps the midwife should come.” And then almost to herself, she continued, “It is fortunate that we are prepared and the birthing room is ready.” She looked to my father in a panic. “Perhaps we should call Mrs. Dawes.”

My father, stunned and obviously going to be of little use, gave a small nod of his head as my mother hurried from the room to ask the maid to fetch the midwife. Henry made to sit beside me, but the needling pain intensified and, as I tried to stand, I felt a breaking high up between my legs. Liquid, like a tap turned on full, gushed down my thighs and pooled around my feet in their soft green slippers.

In a panic my father, together with Henry, sprang up and held my arms to steady me, but only succeeded in slipping and sliding like skaters on the oily fluid that was spreading over the stone flagged floor. With great relief I saw my mother hurry back into the room, bringing the good news that Mrs. Dawes was on her way. So, whimpering like a wounded animal and feeling so very, very afraid, I let her lead me gently to the birthing room.

***

Max’s office was shadowy and dim and, after such promising sunshine this morning, I was surprised to find that I had to flick the lights on as I went in. Peering from the tiny window, I saw that rain now fell from the clouds in long silver rods, soaking into the earth that had become dry and crumbly during the warmer weather.

Water in tiny rivers ran down the old Havant Road and a car drove past, tires hissing, and splashing a pedestrian who battled with an umbrella in the squally wind. A sudden shiver ran down my spine and, hunching my shoulders to my ears, I wrapped my chilly arms, clad in only thin silky sleeves, around my waist.

My mind raced madly with thoughts of Ursula Pole and her impending labor. God help her if it was as bad as with baby Henry. According to Wikipedia, Margaret Pole, had been correct in her assumption that it would be a girl child this time. A girl who would go by the name of Dorothy, and who would rise very high and become an influential lady at the court of Elizabeth I, Queen of England. Did Margaret’s prophecy have anything to do with her downfall and eventual execution? Had somebody overheard their conversation that day in the sitting room, Henry Stafford for example, and given birth, so to speak, to the accusation of witchcraft as well as treason?

Trying desperately to put it out of my mind and bring my attention to Max’s filing, I began to flick purposefully through the buff files, sorting them into piles and then putting them in alphabetical order. Max was in court for the next couple of days, and had left strict instructions for me in a bulleted note form, the most important request being to clear the filing. Rain pattered against the window and a ghostly wind moaned, reminding me even more of Ursula Pole, who even now, albeit centuries before, could be writhing and panting on her bloody child bed.

There was a tiny tap and Sarah peeked around the office door, carrying two steaming mugs of coffee on a little round tray.

“Hey, Hannah, are you okay?”

“Sarah. Yes, of course, come in. Ooh coffee, thanks!”

She put both mugs on Max’s desk. “Hey, I thought you might fancy a warm drink. It’s gone really cold.” She hunched her shoulders, “And as well as that I need a file—Mr. and Mrs. Luckhurst? Cordelia and Mark?”

I went to the filing cabinet and, after having a quick flick through, pulled out a file. “Cordelia Luckhurst,” I said. “Yes, here it is. What a name, eh?”

Sarah giggled and said, “Hey, yes, it certainly is.” She sipped from her mug and, after taking the file from me, put it on the desk. “Hey, is everything all right with you? I feel as if we haven’t chatted for a while, even at home.”

“Yeah I know. You’d think we’d see each other all the time because we live in the same house, but it doesn’t work like that, does it?” I drank from my mug and said, “Umm, just what I needed.”

Sarah smiled and said, “Hey, no, it doesn’t. We’re both so busy, and I’ve been at Neil’s quite a bit. I don’t think I’ve talked to you properly since I came back to work. How’s Claire since she went back to London?”

“Claire’s fine,” I told her.

“She disappeared pretty quickly again, didn’t she? I think Stuart wanted to get her a leaving present, but one minute she was there, the next gone.”

“Well, yes, I suppose she did. You do know why she went back, don’t you?”

“Hey, well, not really. But I suspect it involves a man.”

“Um no, not really. Actually, Sarah, it involves a woman!”

Sarah looked completely blank, so I carried on speaking and filled her in on all the juicy details about Claire’s lover, Laura.

Finally Sarah found her voice and said, “Hey, good God. What did your mum and dad say?”

“They’re okay with it, although I think it shook Dad up a bit.” I had a vivid image of Dad putting his hand to his heart after almost choking on the spicy chicken curry.

“Hey, well, I can’t top that for news!” We both giggled. “Anything to tell me about events in your other life as Ursula Pole?”

“Well, events in the 1500s are pretty hard to come to terms with, and definitely more gruesome than my life here,” I joked. Then I said more seriously, “Yeah, well, you know about baby Henry and the execution of my mother, Margaret Pole, which was totally awful and upsetting. Oh, this will be of particular interest to you, because at my last visit Ursula went into labor with her second child, Dorothy—”

Sarah butted in, excited. “Oh my God! Dorothy Stafford, who grows up to be mistress of the robes to Queen Elizabeth I. She stayed Dorothy Stafford when she married William Stafford, who, incidentally, was married to Anne Boleyn’s sister, Mary until she died. Did you know that, Hannah?”

“No, I didn’t. Wow! How complicated their lives were—talk about intermingled. What was Dorothy like, Sarah?”

“Hey, she was lovely. A great lady, who came to be a great friend and ally to me in my guise of Elizabeth the First.” She nodded her head slowly.

“Wow, that’s amazing. Actually though, Sarah, I know I’m changing the subject in a way, but I’d like to talk to you about Max.”

“Max?”

“Yeah, Max. He came looking for me at my mum and dad’s—said he wanted to talk to me about his other life as Gregory Walsh. I don’t believe him at all, Sarah. I think he’s spinning a tale and making fun of me.” Sarah remained ominously silent and sipped her coffee, so I carried on talking. “The weird thing, though, is that he has the exact same mark on him that Gregory Walsh has—a tiny crescent moon shape. Apparently it’s a small pox scar, on his chest just below his left nipple. It’s also in the exact same spot as the one Gregory has. I don’t understand it. It’s pretty scary really—spooks me out. And he also knows Ursula’s nickname, Little Bear, and only her family ever used that.”

I then relayed the whole story about Max pulling open his shirt in the Mooch Cafe bar to show me the scar as being proof that he was telling the truth. Sarah laughed and shook her head, saying how typical that was of Max, but still annoyingly didn’t make a comment.

“You’re very quiet, Sarah,” I said. “Come on—is there something I need to know?”

She took a deep breath and said, “Hey, actually, Hannah, Max isn’t spinning you a tale or making fun of you. It’s true, he is Gregory Walsh. He talked to me all about it when it first began happening to him, and I told him about my experiences too.”

My legs felt shaky, so I sat down on Max’s leather swivel chair and Sarah followed suit by sitting on the chair that I usually sat on opposite Max. I noticed that at last it had stopped raining and the wind had died down, and the sun, just a faint glimmer, was trying to come out from between grey clouds. The pavements sparkled and glittered in the weak sunlight, and cars swished by, their headlights shining in the gloom.

“God, Sarah, are you sure?”

“Hey, absolutely. Do you remember when you asked me if I’d confided in anybody about my experiences, and I told you I’d been to a lady who did past life regression?”

“Yes, you gave me a card just in case I wanted to go to her.”

“Hey, yes, that’s right. Well, Max went to her too, and there’s no doubt about it, Hannah. Max is Gregory Walsh. Anyway....” She suddenly changed the subject. “How do you know that Gregory has a crescent shaped scar on his chest below his left nipple? That seems rather intimate—a bit sort of Lady Chatterley’s Lover!” She looked disapproving, a frown creasing her forehead, although her beautiful almond shaped eyes glittered with mirth.

Heat suffused my face as an image of Gregory Walsh lying naked on his bed under the eaves came to mind, and I grinned at her, my lips involuntarily turning up in a smile. “Well, let’s just say that we became very close one time when I visited him at his cottage. I had an excuse—I was upset because the king had found me a husband, who turned out to be Henry Stafford.”

“Hey, Henry Stafford?” queried Sarah.

“Yes,” I said, then remembered what Gregory had told me. “A man who is a man but isn’t a man.”

“Hey, I see. So you got your loving from Gregory instead? And I suppose you’re thinking that if you made love to Gregory, that really you’ve also made love to Max?”

“Oh good God, no,” I replied, my heart thumping hard. “That can’t be right. Max is my boss. And, anyway, I’m not Max’s type. I’m too dark, too short, and too chubby.”

“Hey, that’s got nothing to do with it, Hannah, not your looks or the fact that he’s your boss. If it happened with Gregory and Gregory is Max.... Well, it happened then, okay? It looks to me like Max is your soul mate, and I think you should face up to that and go and see him, and have a proper talk.”

I drank down the last of my coffee, the dregs tasting bitter in my mouth, and gazing straight at her I said, “I don’t know, Sarah. I think it might be better if I get another job, or maybe a transfer to another branch of Reynolds & Rhodes. I just don’t think I can work with Max anymore.”

Sarah looked upset and shook her head vehemently. “Hey, don’t make any hasty decisions, Hannah. Think about it for a while, please. I don’t think that Max would want you to go.”

“Hmm, I’m not sure about that,” I replied. “But okay, I’ll wait and see what happens. I won’t speak to Max just yet. I’ll choose my time carefully.”

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