A Step Back in Time
Chapter Eight

I gazed out of the massive bay window of my bedchamber at Warblington Manor, watching the snow as it fell thick and fast, concealing the lawns and the lush flower beds beneath its thick white cover. Flakes twirled through the air like tiny dancing fairies, and rimmed the skeletal branches of the trees as if with a deep layer of fur, reminding me of the sable edged cloak that I had wrapped around my grieving body at my baby Henry’s funeral that very day. My heart lay heavy as a stone in my breast as I thought of him lying so pale and still in the dark dismal crypt in St. Thomas à Becket Church. I wrung my hands with misery.

We had travelled for days, the long journey from London to Warblington, in the jolting coach, with Henry’s tiny body in its casket, the poor horses’ hooves stumbling over stones and their skinny legs knee deep in slimy, stinking mud, for the snow had not yet begun then. I thanked God that my mother resided in Warblington Manor, for when the temperature dropped and the snow began to fall, the way back to London became totally impossible, and we were so glad to have a roof over our heads and food in our bellies.

Depending on how long the snow stayed, it could be many months before we were able to return to London, and the thought that I would be close to my mother for that length of time sustained me for now, although I knew that Henry would want to return as soon as possible. I was aware that I should make the most of this time, but my grief was disabling me, and taking pleasure from everything that I normally loved.

The snow was a blizzard now, and I had a sudden panicked thought that my baby Henry would be cold in his lead lined coffin, and that I should have put a warm scarf around his neck and cozy bootees on his bare feet. I wished that he was there now, lying in my arms and blowing bubbles from between his rosebud lips, his blossoming smile a cheeky ray of sunshine. I had an urge to run out into the snow and creep through the eerie graveyard amongst leaning tombstones, and from there to the crypt where my baby lay sleeping forever and ever. My heart pounded with terror.

I curbed this desire, for Henry, my husband, watched my every move, and any irrational behavior from me would be cause for him to speak to his father, Lord Buckingham, and then perhaps the king, and I had a dread of them conspiring together and locking me away. My mother was always there for me, but in this world of powerful men, there was only so much that she could do.

The door swung open and Henry minced into the room, his whole attire, particularly his long skinny legs in black hose, an affront to my attraction to Gregory Walsh. “Ah, Ursula you are here. Have you nothing to do, wife, but stare from the window at the falling snow? Rouse yourself. You are neglecting your needle skills and your music, my dear. You know how much you love your music.”

Leaden hearted, I gazed at him, wondering if he, as much as I, missed our son, Henry. Our beautiful boy, who used to lay in his crib waving chubby arms and legs, and awakening the whole household by bawling his head off before the sun, in a crimson glow, had risen from behind banked clouds.

Somehow guessing my thoughts, Henry came closer and, unusual for him, put a comforting hand on my shoulder. “We cannot replace our boy, wife, but there will be more children in time.”

The thought of the years to come spent in bearing Henry’s children filled me with the utmost dismay; and how must it be for him too? After all, his pleasure lay in the bodies of men, not women, and it must be as much of a trial for him to bed me as I to bed him. For Henry, though, as most men, heirs were of the greatest importance compared to any feelings they may have for a mere wife.

I nodded and tried to raise a smile, and Henry, encouraged, said, “Your harp strings will stiffen, wife, if you do not pluck them. Now you are here in your childhood home and have access to your instruments, you should practice.”

I nodded and said, “Yes, husband, I will go to the music room and practice for a while.” I bobbed him a curtsey and began to leave the room, Henry informing me as I went that he would be with my father and brothers in the great hall. They were to meet before dinner was served.

My beautiful harp stood still and solitary on the stone flags of the music room. The room was chilly, and no fire burned in the grate. As I hadn’t been there and my brothers had limited musical ability, it would have been a long time since anybody entered this room.

A snow shower splattered heavily against the window as I sat on the stool and positioned the harp between my legs. Running my fingers gently over the strings, I picked out one of my favorite tunes, Greensleeves, which instead of bringing me the comfort I had hoped for, grieved me more. The pain in my breast over the loss of my baby intensified, as well as the longing to see Gregory. I knew that he lived in a cottage with his father and sister on the grounds of Warblington Manor. Surely it would not be too hard to find.

Overcome by the desire for the irrational behavior that I knew I should avoid, I sprung to my feet and rushed from the room, my feet flying down the stairs and into the hallway, where I grabbed a cloak, wrapped it around my body, and pulled the hood up over my head. I crept stealthily to the back of the house, through the main kitchen and scullery, which was quiet at this time of day, and from there out of the back door and into the garden, hoping against hope that nobody had seen me. I would certainly pay a high price if Henry found out where I was going.

A blast of icy air hit me immediately and I sunk to my knees into deep snow, my thin slippers and the hem of my black mourning gown becoming soaked through. As if wading through deep sludgy water, I made my way over to a nearby copse of trees, silhouetted bright white against a glacial sky. They looked familiar, and I thought from there I could follow the path through the woods. Hopefully it was the right path, as everything looked alien to me, the snow having turned the landscape into a blurry haze.

I trudged on through the deep snow for what seemed like hours, when all of a sudden I saw a plume of smoke spiraling up into the air and a snow covered cottage came into view, its windows peeking out like glassy eyes from beneath the overhanging snow laden thatch. Almost collapsing with exhaustion and relief, I banged on the sturdy wooden door. It opened swiftly and there he was, Gregory, my love Gregory, the surprise evident in his eyes as he stared at me.

“Ursula!” Grabbing hold of my arm, he pulled me into the warmth of the cottage and slammed the door shut. “Good God, woman, where have you come from? Are you an apparition?”

Stammering and crying, my teeth chattering with the cold, I tried to explain as Gregory helped me with my cloak, pushed the hood back from my face, and smiled with relief when he saw that it is unmarked from my husband’s cruel hands. He took my own freezing hands between his and pulled me into his warm embrace. A bright red fire crackled and burned in the fireplace as he helped me to a chair and settled me there, while pushing a cup of hot broth to my lips. Melted snow dripped onto the floor, soaking the sweet scented rushes.

“I had to come, Gregory,” I told him between sobs. “Oh God, I need you. My baby Henry has died, and my grief is unbearable.”

“Oh Ursula, Ursula.” He rocked me gently, his lips raining kisses on my damp hair. “It was the smallpox then?”

I nodded yes, and then a voice intervened.

“Ah, so this is the fair Ursula then, son?”

“Ursula, this is my father, Isaac.” I took him in, feasting on him, seeing the resemblance and the source of Gregory’s good looks. “And my sister, Alice.” I couldn’t see her at first, but peering from behind Isaac there was a girl, her hair long, well past her shoulders, and glinting fair in the snowy light from the window. Her skin looked as smooth as porcelain, and she had a deep dimple in her chin below lips as plump as pillows.

I tried to stand up to honor them with a curtsy, but Gregory held me back, saying, “No, Ursula, take care. You are too weak.”

Gregory was right. My legs quivered unsteadily as I tried to stand, so I sunk back down into the cushions and said, “It’s so good to meet you both at last.” They walked towards me, but Alice reached me first, and as her hand touched my arm she began to fade very slowly, her vibrant colors becoming muted. The room spun, and I was as giddy as if on a twirling carousel, painted horses bobbing up and down, up and down.

“Hey, Hannah?”

A hand waved in front of my vision, but I ignore it and turned back to where I thought Gregory was. I longed to nestle into the warmth of his body. I was still cold from my snowy walk, my hands and feet freezing, my fingers and toes still numb. To my surprise, though, sunlight poured through the window, and I saw that the snow had stopped falling and the air was warm. I flexed my fingers and toes and reveled in the heat, and looked up at a sky that was bright with skeins of creamy clouds dotted all over the blue.

A face floated above me, and with some disappointment I saw that it wasn’t Gregory—not my dear Gregory—nor even Max, but Sarah. She looked worried, a deep vee creased into the space between her eyebrows. I looked around and saw that we were in the sitting room at Mitchell Road, and that the clock on the mantelpiece was ticking very loudly, its golden pendulum swinging backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards.

“Sarah—oh, Sarah,” I said to her. “My baby has died, my baby Henry.”

“Hey, Hannah, I know it seems very real to you, but it’s Ursula’s baby. Ursula’s baby has died.”

“But I am Ursula,” I told her violently. “I am Ursula Pole.” I burst into noisy sobs, tears running in sluggish trails down my burning cheeks. “Help me, Sarah, you must help me, for I feel so alone.” I held out my hands.

***

Claire had texted me and asked if I’d like to meet for a drink—she needed to talk to me, she said. Hmm, I thought to myself. Is she going to tell me the whole sorry tale about what happened in London? Hopefully she would, otherwise curiosity was going to get the better of me and I’d have to sit Max in a cold miserable room on a hard, wooden chair beneath a naked burning light bulb, and torture him to get the full story.

Max, I thought. Max Reynolds, who has spun me a pretty tale about him going back in time as well and being, of all people, Gregory Walsh. There was no way in this world—or the other world, come to that—that I believed a word of it. He must have thought I was born yesterday—or indeed in the 1500s. Haha, how funny am I? He must have heard me say something about a Gregory. Actually, yes, I remembered him asking me once if I had a boyfriend called Gregory, so yes, he had heard the name. I must have said something when I was coming around in the office the very first time I had a time travel experience.

He was obviously having a bit of fun with me, a bit of a tease. Typical of Max. But hey—as Sarah would say—I was not going to let him get the better of me, that was for sure. Just one thing was bothering me, though. How did he know the name Gregory Walsh? Yeah, okay, he could have gotten the name Gregory from my ramblings, but I didn’t think I’d said his surname. In fact, I knew that I hadn’t. So how did he know?

Anyway, back to Claire, I really wanted to find out what had brought her back to Havant. As far as I was aware—and Mum and Dad too, I thought—she had loved London and never wanted to leave. I’d always thought that London suited Claire so well, and that was before her transformation into Barbie, so something really serious must have happened to change her mind.

As I got ready to meet my sister, I mulled over the last time I’d gone back and the trauma of losing baby Henry. It had taken me a long time to get over the experience, and I found myself waking in the early hours, my heart galloping as hard as the horses that had pulled our coach on that awful long journey from London to St. Thomas à Becket Church, with Henry in his tiny white coffin.

I kept picturing his little face, so pinched and pale, sunken within the folds of the sumptuous pale blue satin that lined his casket. I was trying to take Sarah’s advice, and reminded myself that it was Ursula’s baby that had died and not mine, but, oh God, how hard it was to make myself believe that.

The trauma of the birth also kept running through my mind, and, indeed, the fact that I—or Ursula, I should say—had almost died. All that pain and suffering, and for what? A poor dead baby that would eventually crumble to nothing but dust and decay? Hunching my shoulders against a sudden shiver along my spine, and trying to clear my mind of all things connected to the 1500s, I checked that I had everything I needed, all the essentials—my bag, my phone, a bottle of water, my keys—and went to my car to drive to Havant.

The Wetherspoons pub The Parchment Makers was busy, but I spied Claire straight away, sitting at a table for two by the window, intently studying the menu. She was wearing her usual Barbie uniform of a very short skirt and low-necked top, teamed with a short leather biker jacket decorated with silver studs and a massive fur collar. She looked as if she had a black fluffy cat curled around her neck.

Looking up and seeing me, she raised her hand in greeting and said, “Hannah, do you want to look at the menu before going to the bar? I’m starving, and some of the food comes with a free drink.”

“Hi, Claire. Yes, okay; I’m a bit hungry too.”

I sat down opposite her. We chatted about this and that as we decided what to order, and then Claire said that she would treat me—which came as something of a shock—so she went off to the bar, taking the massive plastic menu with her. The pub was a hubbub of noise, with diners at nearly every table, most with a high chair beside them and children running around as if in a kindergarten. Some of the tables hadn’t been cleared and were littered with a jumble of dirty plates and smeary glasses.

I noticed a couple of men and women at a nearby table eyeballing Claire as she walked back to our table, her belt masquerading as a skirt, wriggling further and further up her thighs as if it had come alive. A skinny waitress, clad all in black, a look of panic in her eyes, raced past with plates of burgers and chips laid along both arms, almost tripping over a baby crawling on the floor like a clockwork doll.

“It’s a bit manic in here, isn’t?” I said to Claire as she put two glasses of red wine on the table.

She sat down opposite me and said, “Yeah, maybe we should have gone to our local The Old House at Home, or perhaps The Bear. But it’s so cheap in here.”

I took a sip of wine before saying, “Well, I just hope the food is good.”

“Yeah, it is. The veggie burger is lovely. I’ve had it a couple of times with Max.”

“Oh yes,” I said sarcastically. “The Max that you don’t like because he’s up himself?”

She laughed and said, “Yeah. Well, things aren’t always as they seem, are they, Hannah?”

“What do you mean by that? And what about you, Claire Palmer? You, who have spent the past few weeks shamelessly flirting with him. Actually, it makes me wonder if you two aren’t an item.”

“Well, what I mean by that is—Max and I think that you’ve been acting strange lately. Maybe having some sort of other worldly experiences. And I also think you’re jealous of me flirting with Max. You like him, Hannah—it stands out a mile.”

I felt a tiny hurt stab at the thought of Max talking about me to Claire, but said calmly enough, “Of course I like him, as a boss. But that’s it!” And then with a bit more venom, I added, “Take no notice of what Max says. Things are not as they seem with him either. Actually, he complained to me about the amount of time that he’s had to spend with you—says that you follow him around.”

She glanced up quickly, “He never said that.”

Before I could reply the panicky looking waitress arrived with the food and, dumping it down on the table in front of us, said, really really quickly, “Hopeyouenjoyyourfood”—or something like that—before rushing away and once again almost tripping over the clockwork baby, who was making her way ungainly over a floor littered with discarded greasy chips and hunks of rapidly hardening bread.

Using her fork to poke around at the burger and chips in front of her, Claire said, “Well, whatever, it won’t matter soon because I’m going to be leaving.” She speared a chip, put it in her mouth, and began chewing rapidly.

I bit into my burger which, as Claire had said, tasted really good, and said, “Leaving? You mean because Sarah’s coming back to work next week?”

“Well, yeah. But I’m leaving Smith & Vosper too.” She took a deep glug of wine.

I stopped mid chew and gazed at her. “Why?”

“Well.... look, Hannah, I’m going to tell you everything now.” She laid her knife and fork on her barely touched plate and, sitting back in her chair, took a deep breath. Her phone, which was on the table beside her, suddenly beeped and a text message popped up. She glanced at it quickly and smiled.

Well, well, I thought. At last I’m going to find out what had happened in London. “Have you already told Max about this?” I asked her, and then, noticing her almost full plate, said, “I thought you said you were hungry?”

She nodded and assured me that she had told Max, and then began to poke at her front teeth with her finger as if she had food stuck there. When she’d finished with that, she speared another chip and chewed again. “I am, but I need to tell you this before I can concentrate on the food. I’m a bit nervous.”

“Nervous? Why? Is it bad news?” I held up my glass of wine. “Do I need to drink some more of this to fortify me?”

She laughed, and was just about to speak when the panicky waitress appeared again and said, “Isyourfoodokay?” or something like that, before rushing off before we could either shake or nod our heads.

We leaned in towards each other, and Claire, glancing nervously over her shoulder, said softly, “Hannah, I left London and legal work and came back to Havant because I was having an affair with somebody—my boss, actually—and their partner found out.”

I couldn’t help it—my mouth gaped open like a trap door, and I said, “Good God, Claire. Go on.”

“Well, the thing is, I’ve been in touch with this person all the time I’ve been here. We’ve missed each other and…. well, they’ve decided to leave their partner for me so that we can make a go of it together.” She picked up a chip with her fingers and began to nibble at it delicately, and then swallowed another healthy slug of wine.

“That’s good news in a way—for you,” I stammered. “You said partner. Are they married?”

Claire nodded. “Yes, of course it’s good news, and yes, they’re married. I know that it must all sound a bit messy to you, but we love each other, Hannah.” She gazed at me imploringly.

My food forgotten for the time being, I took another sip of wine and asked, “Aren’t you going to tell me who he is? What’s his name?”

The noise in the pub seemed to intensify, and the small child sitting at the next table began to scream and bang her heels against the rungs of her chair. I leaned forward even closer so that I could hear Claire’s very low voice, and for the first time in ages noticed that Claire’s eyes weren’t blue like Max’s Barbie dolls, but hazel, just like mine.

She focused on her plate, staring at it really hard for what seemed ages, before looking at me intently and saying, “Hannah, I don’t know what you’re going to think, but the thing is.... It’s not a he, but a she, and her name’s Laura.” I think I must have simply stared at her, my eyes wide, because she said, “So, Hannah, you can rest assured that Max and I are definitely not an item.”

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