Just as in that first week in my 1560 fantasy, I stopped getting out of bed. That first week was because I kept expecting the nightmare to disappear. Now it was because I knew it never would.
Lady Mary told the Queen I was ill, then harassed me ten times a day to get up, since it was clear I wasn’t sick. Vincent spent most of the day on my bed, only running off to visit the kitchen for food and outside to relieve himself. Not even when he nudged me repeatedly with a wet nose did I rise.
“Mary,” I said one morning as she was about to return to the Queen. “We aren’t friends, thanks to you ratting me out about being with child, but when the Queen becomes ill in a few years, I will care for her instead of you. Since none of this is real, why should I let you become disfigured by smallpox even if it’s just in my head?”
She made a sad sound in her throat, shaking her head. “Perhaps you have a fever.”
I sighed. “No, I’ve just let Blanche take control of my life.”
I slept nearly all the time and refused most food. What was the point of eating in a fantasy? For three months, I’d believed 1560 was real. Now I knew it wasn’t. Perhaps I could starve myself, die, then wake up in my own body again. I tried not to think of the life growing inside me…no, the life I imagined was growing inside me. My middle had widened considerably, and while I lay there quietly, I could sometimes feel a funny flutter inside. I no longer battled nausea, so that was nice. While I had no idea how the various stages of pregnancy progressed, I was doing a fine job of making it up. And because there was no water, I drank mug after mug of ale, which can give one a nice buzz on an empty stomach. Probably not too good for the baby, but that was made up as well.
And what was the point of all that Dudley drama? Me trying to keep Robert Dudley alive, me causing Amy Dudley’s death. That bullshit was all something I’d read somewhere. Why fight to keep history accurate when history hadn’t even been involved? I was a pathetic weakling trapped in my own mind because I lacked the strength to face the real world. I had let Chris’s comments so freak me out that I retreated into my mind and created Blanche. Pretty sick.
I tried to imagine what was going on with the body I no longer controlled. Did Blanche have Bradley and Mouse arrested? Was Blanche still charming Chris? Had the bitch finished writing her riveting novel?
Hope was a funny thing. I knew it could come and go, advance and retreat, but I didn’t know others could rob you of it. Chris took my love and perverted it, forcing me to create Blanche as a desperate measure to keep Chris. Bradley had said life was one long battle not to lose yourself. Well, I had lost. Blanche was in charge now. She had access to my cell phone. One text from Dr. Rajamani and Blanche would be knocking at his door to receive the serum. In fact, she’d likely done that weeks ago.
I laughed so suddenly Vincent jumped to his feet and barked at me, scowling in alarm. What was I still doing thinking that the serum and time travel were real? I hadn’t been transported back in time to 1560 by riding the lightning—God, what a stupid explanation. And no thunderstorm could transport me back into my own body.
I was already there.
* * *
After a week in bed, boredom got me up, washed, dressed, and back in Elizabeth’s entourage. Of course I punished myself for this by “scheduling” the marriage to Winston for the following Saturday.
That day dawned bright and clear. Tubs were brought in and filled with hot water. The Queen and Kat Ashley bathed first, then I as the bride was able to go next so the water was still lukewarm. I sank down into the tub and moaned with pleasure. Someone behind me began washing my hair, so I dropped my head back and relaxed. Pain shot through me when I realized it wasn’t Meg. It couldn’t be. I’d created her to fill a need.
Once out of the bath, a servant brought me a note. I carefully unfolded the thick, coarse paper and ignored the poor spelling:
Dear Blanche,
Do not do this. You have not been yourself for weeks. Where is the Blanche who fights back, who refuses to compromise, who always puts herself first? Are you so desperate about being poor again that you will marry this stuffed fish? You have another choice.
With respect, Jacob
Huh. Nice. This “note” from Jacob was clearly my twisted mind trying to give me a way out. But by now I was four and a half months pregnant and visible. I needed to do something for the baby.
Yet while I let the others fuss over me, dressing me in a cream gown shot through with gold thread and making the necessary adjustments, I already knew I couldn’t do it. So once my bridal cap had been fastened onto my head, I found Elizabeth, curtsied, and asked if we could have a moment alone. She waved the others away.
“My dear, the spark has totally gone out of you. Mary tells us you eat less than a bird.”
I lowered myself carefully onto a stool, feeling lightheaded, grateful for Jacob’s note. “Ma’am, I realize that you cannot have an unmarried woman with child in your court. The scandal would be too great. But please, I beg of you, don’t force me to marry Lord Winston. We are ill suited. He is not kind and he brings out the worst in me.”
She tipped her head back, glaring down her nose at me. “Then what would you suggest? We know your purse is light, in great part thanks to your late father. If you do not remain in court, where would you go?”
I blew out my breath. “There is an old cottage at the edge of the park in which the gardeners store tools. What if I were to take up residence there until the child comes?”
“Live alone in a run-down shack?”
I nodded. “Yes, please. You won’t even know I’m there. No one will. And I could work to pay for it. I could clean or do laundry.”
“Do not be ridiculous. You shall not work.”
Elizabeth chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. “We do understand the pressures of being expected to marry someone you do not like. Our councilors have been at us to do this very thing since the day we were crowned.” She leaned forward and rested a hand on my shoulder. “If you really cannot manage to marry Winston, then you may have the cottage until the birth of your child. After that you will find a wet nurse to take the child and return to us at court.”
I nodded, pleased that I’d managed to steer the fantasy in the direction I preferred. “And, ma’am, I intend to stay away from court to avoid causing you any embarrassment. You should not be seen with an unmarried woman in my condition.”
She frowned, then sighed long and loudly. “So it will be.”
I never heard how Winston took the news, and frankly, I didn’t care, since none of this was real.
* * *
Vincent and I passed the winter quietly. I would sit in my chair by the fire and read while he would snore and snuffle and chase mice in his sleep. Some days the only sounds I heard were my own voice and the clicking of Vincent’s nails on the stone floor. Every few days a servant would bring a plate of cold food and another jug of wine. I had no problem drinking while “pregnant” because the fetus wasn’t real. I kept the fire burning and was only cold in the mornings when the fire had died out. Soon my clothes, hair, and skin smelled like campfire. Even Vincent’s ears smelled of smoke when I nuzzled him.
Jacob kept me supplied with firewood but he didn’t say much. I thanked him for his note, but he didn’t reply. For weeks, he glared at me as if I were a total stranger. Perhaps his crush had been crushed by my growing pregnancy.
The long winter months were, not surprisingly, free from thunderstorms. I no longer needed them to switch places with Blanche; I would live in this fantasy, and she could have my life.
One morning, I remembered something funny. Queen Mary, Elizabeth’s sister, had been desperate to give birth to an heir once she married France’s King Philip. Eventually, she announced that she was with child and would give birth in May of 1555. When the announced date arrived, the country celebrated to hear of the birth…except that there had been no birth. It was just a rumor. Mary remained secluded through May, then June, then July, insisting the baby would come soon. Finally, by August it was clear to even Mary that the pregnancy hadn’t been real. That was likely why I’d created my own false pregnancy. Instead of a child swelling my belly, it was probably just gas.
By mid-December, I could tell I’d gained at least ten pounds. I was exhausted all the time. By January, I carried a basketball under my loose dresses. My skin itched, my legs cramped constantly, and I found it hard to breathe. I managed to visit the pond a few times, gasping at the shock of cold as I sank into the water. But after a while I decided that staying clean didn’t matter and stopped going. Besides, it was lonely there without Meg.
I slept well. But now and then, when a howling wind rattled my windows and reached cold fingers through the slender cracks in my walls, I would lie awake and try to conjure up Meg again. This was my fantasy, damn it, and I wanted her back.
The very next day came a knock on my door that I knew would be food. When I opened the door, there stood Meg, bundled up in a heavy coat and hat! My heart leapt into my throat until I realized—No, not Meg. Harriet.
She entered and put the bowl and jug on the table. “Do you require anything else, m’lady?”
The voice was the same. The body was the same. But the spirit, the soul, the spark of who Meg was, had disappeared. Despite that, I frantically searched for a topic that would keep her with me longer.
“Harriet, you have been to a different place, haven’t you?”
Her eyes skittered around the room. “Different place, m’lady?”
“Different than here. A place where things move very quickly and people dress differently.”
Her face crumpled in anguish. “How did you know?” she whispered. “Have you been to Hell as well?”
“Hell?”
“My mother always told me that I was an evil child. She said I was a sinner and would go to hell.” She hiccupped in fear. “And then one day she was right. I was in Hell for months and months.” She put her palms together in prayer. “Then the Lord Almighty chose to forgive me and return me to my home. But I must have done something wrong because he sent me back to Hell again. Then he changed his mind and once again brought me home. Every day I fear he will send me back.”
Poor thing. “What was your Hell like?” I asked.
She wiped her eyes. “Beasts that move very fast. So much noise. Women who dress like men. Life is very hard for sinners in Hell. We have no money and no place to live. Our punishment is to live outside with nothing. We must watch other people live with wonderful food and fancy homes and nice clothes, things we do not deserve.” Her voice flattened. “That is my Hell. I must be very good or the Lord will once again send me there.”
“Harriet, you might be wrong. I don’t think that was Hell. There is something between Heaven and Hell called Purgatory. I think you were sent there, accidentally, and God finally realized the mistake and sent you back. You weren’t in Hell. You would never, ever be sent there.”
As her face relaxed a little, I touched her lightly on the shoulder. “You are a good person. You have had a glimpse of the future that no one else in this life has had. Consider it a gift and move on.”
“Many thanks, m’lady.” Her folded hands were white from clutching each other too tightly. She needed to flee.
“Thank you for the food.”
With a dip of her head she was gone, letting in a blast of cold wind that nearly froze my ankles. I pulled Vincent onto my lap and wrapped us both in my blanket.
* * *
Time passed. I no longer kept track of the date, so I had no idea where in the year I was. All I did was eat—quite a bit, actually—and oil my growing belly. The baby kicked me all the time now, and my joints felt loose, as if with one good shaking I’d come undone. The baby pressed against my bladder so I had to pee approximately every two minutes. Sometimes I felt like a walking aquarium with a little human sloshing around inside me. The physical reality of this baby-to-be had forced me to accept it as real, at least in the fantasy world in which I lived.
I did receive a large slice of cake with a lion made of spun sugar on the top when the palace celebrated the second anniversary of Elizabeth’s coronation. That told me it was the middle of January.
Jacob continued to help me, and Lady Mary brought me books from the Queen’s library. Once, Mary suggested I visit the Queen, but I claimed to be ill since I didn’t feel like giving any more energy to that part of my fantasy. It was a relief not to attend chapel or to sit among the courtiers and try to look interested in the men’s constant chatter and gossip.
However, I did miss Elizabeth. By now Dudley was surely back at court and once again charming the Queen. Jacob assured me, however, that the word on the street was that Elizabeth could never dare marry Dudley now. Her people would not have her consorting with a man suspected of murdering his wife. Apparently, Dudley would not let go of the idea he could be king, so he rashly approached the Spanish ambassador to ask if Spain’s King Phillip would support Dudley’s marriage to Elizabeth. Cecil found out and began spreading rumors that Catholic Spain wanted to take over England. The fear of a Catholic leader roused the citizens to anger and shut down Dudley’s plan.
Of course this happened because I’d read it in one of my books, and my fantasy was driven by my knowledge. In my lighter moments I wished I could create a fantasy in which Elizabeth did marry her Robin. They would have had many children, all surviving to adulthood, and she would rule happily until she died of old age, surrounded by her family. But since my fantasy was designed to punish me, I couldn’t give the Queen a happy ending either.
A midwife began visiting me, I assumed on the orders of the Queen. The plump woman pressed at my belly and asked how my breathing was. “Easier,” I said.
“Good. That means the baby has settled. You have more room to breathe.” She briskly gathered up her things. “Won’t be long now.”
I’d estimated that the baby was likely due in early April, so that meant we were probably at or past that stupid deadline I’d created—April 3, the storm that burned down the steeple.
That would explain the warming weather and bluer skies. I’d survived the winter in a leaky cottage in my head. I was surprised I hadn’t punished myself with a few Minnesota blizzards.
Jacob brought another cart of wood. He’d grown more comfortable with me and would sit on my bench and talk. His tales of guarding mishaps made me laugh.
One day after his stories, he tilted his head and all laughter left his eyes. “You have changed so much,” he said.
“For the good or the bad?”
“You are kinder and calmer, but…” He pressed his lips together until I encouraged him to continue. “But I miss the feisty Blanche. She was…astonishing.”
Lovely, just lovely. The whole fucking world preferred Blanche, no matter what the year.
As he stood to leave, I touched his arm. “I am curious, Jacob. Do you know the month? The date?”
He grabbed the handle of the empty wood cart. “Methinks it is the first of April, Lady Blanche.” Then he waved as he headed back toward the palace.
The event hadn’t happened yet. In two days, lightning would strike.
Who the fuck cared?
Not me.