The day of the picnic was, if anything, even hotter than the preceding week. Xanthe was astonished at how much activity the occasion sparked in the Wilcox household. For three days, servants appeared to do everything at the run, and deliveries arrived almost hourly, it seemed. When she questioned Petronella about how such elaborate preparations could be necessary her hostess merely smiled and told her that her fiancée was not a man to do things by halves, and that a certain number of guests would always merit a certain amount of work. Invitations had been sent out at once, and letters of acceptance arrived with even greater frequency than carts bringing food, drink, and other necessities for the party. Xanthe chose her new muslin dress, which was the coolest garment from her limited wardrobe. As the maid helped her get ready she felt a small thrill of excitement. The fabric was whisper light and would have been entirely transparent without the cotton chemise and petticoat beneath it. She instructed the maid to tie the stays of her corset as loosely as possible, earning a look of pursed-lipped disapproval from the middle-aged woman, who clearly had an opinion about what was the proper way for a young lady to dress, even if she was not allowed to voice it. Xanthe submitted to a lengthy bout of hairdressing, where the maid brushed and twisted and pinned her long curls into a tight, high bun, with loose locks at the sides to soften it. The end result was too severe for Xanthe’s liking, but she knew she would be keeping her hat on anyway, so there was little point in protesting. The bonnet itself was newly purchased on a trip to Bradford with Petronella. They had visited a milliner at the top of the high street and enjoyed girlish glee trying on a dizzying selection of hats, boaters, bonnets, and fascinators. In the end, Xanthe had settled on a small straw bonnet, shaped so that it tipped slightly upward at the front with sides that were not so big as to make her feel as if she were wearing blinkers. The crown was made of beautifully woven straw, the pattern of the weaving needing no further decoration save for the narrow ribbon that held the bonnet in place by tying at the nape of the neck beneath her hair. She found this a far more flattering style than a bow beneath her jaw, which always made her feel faintly ridiculous and became quite uncomfortable after an hour’s wearing. This one, she felt certain, she could wear all day, not feel as if she were in fancy dress, and be glad of the way it kept the sun off her head. The dress had a matching shawl which would also keep the sun off her bare arms and the back of her neck if necessary. Petronella had encouraged her to buy a new pair of light slippers. They were the one element of the outfit Xanthe was sure she would never be fully comfortable with, she was so used to her heavy boots. But they were light, and although she would have to wear stockings, she could at least kick them off when no one was paying attention.
At eleven o’clock she went downstairs. They were all to meet at the front of the house so that everyone could be allocated space in a carriage. She found Liam on the steps.
“I thought we might just stroll down to the lake, maybe carrying a rug and a hamper,” he said quietly to her. “Seems I hadn’t quite understood what a picnic was.” He waved a hand at the almost manic activity going on around them. “Will you look at those beauties!”
Xanthe knew him well enough to know he was referring not to the prettily dressed female guests who were arriving, but the carriages they were being conveyed in. There were already six at the house, their drivers vying for space in which to wait for further directions, and others could be seen moving swiftly up the long driveway. There were more different types of traps and carriages than she knew existed at the time, some more easily identifiable than others, and each, no doubt, reflecting the wealth and social standing of their owners. Just as in her own day, it appeared, a vehicle, besides being a mode of transport, was a status symbol. There were fully covered carriages, large and grand, pulled mostly by at least four horses and suggesting a particularly well-off family. There were smart landaus with their tops folded down, the better to display the finery of their occupants. There were fast cartouches, high-wheeled and precarious, mostly drawn by two racy horses harnessed in tandem. The ones pulled by a single horse fell into two types. There were the ones driven by extravagantly dressed young men, practically standing in the driver’s seat, traveling at daring speed, their horses fighting for their heads and looking fit to bite anyone and anything. The second group were the entirely more workaday contraptions pulled by smart but humble ponies. The space outside the house was quickly becoming overcrowded, and footmen and grooms were sent hither and yon to direct the traffic. The drivers were told to unload their passengers and then park at the stables. There was a general air of excitement and good humor, on which Mr. Wilcox, in particular, seemed to thrive.
“Ha! A fine day for it. Miss Westlake, will you walk to the lake? Those who wish to ride will be conveyed in the smaller carriages to the end of the lane, from where it is a shorter distance.”
“Oh, I should be happy to walk from here,” she told him. “We enjoy walking, don’t we, brother?”
“Indeed,” Liam agreed, tipping his hat to Henry, who was already mounted on his favorite horse, which fidgeted, unused to being made to stand for so long.
“Good morning!” he called to them, raising his hat in a flamboyant gesture. “Capital day! Capital!” he declared before wheeling his mount on its haunches to go and greet what looked like two fellow Corinthians with their caped coats and fast conveyances.
Xanthe turned to Mr. Wilcox. “I wonder Henry has the patience for a picnic. He can’t surely expect that horse of his to stand quietly tied to a tree.”
“There will be riding for those who have a taste for it. See, he is calling the ostlers to help his friends unharness their horses. Shouldn’t be surprised if they have their guns with ’em. Never miss out on the chance for a spot of shooting, in season or out, these types.”
Liam took Xanthe’s arm and they began to walk toward the lawns, taking care not to be in the way of any of the carriages. They caught up Petronella and Evie, who were attempting to reach the picnic spot ahead of most of the guests.
Xanthe commented on the scale of the event. “We’re used to picnics being small affairs, just a few friends and family, a rug on the grass, sandwiches,” she said.
“Oh.” Petronella was surprised. “It’s funny how when one lives in the country one imagines everything in London being so much grander and finer.”
“Not picnics,” Xanthe assured her.
She smiled. “There, we do not have the poorer version of everything here in our little backwater,” she said. “Evie! There is no necessity to climb over the ha-ha.” She tutted at her sister as she attempted to scramble down the sunken wall and its drop to the sweeping lawns below. “Do use the steps, or you are certain to snag your muslin.”
Liam muttered, “Poor little backwater?” under his breath, raising his eyebrows at Xanthe.
She knew he was determined to keep her upbeat about the day’s event. Given its location, and the fact that Fairfax would be there, the upcoming exchange would be on her mind. They had agreed he chose the venue specifically for that reason. It would be hard to avoid thinking about it, particularly as she was still unsure how she was going to prevent Fairfax ending up with both the astrolabe and the book, and what he might do to her to keep them both. She needed to decide on a plan of action soon. The wedding was only a few days away. As they neared the lake they were able to see the preparations that had been made for the picnic.
“Good heavens!” Xanthe said, taking it all in as Evie bounded off to race around the lake, heading for the small footbridge at the lower end which crossed the stream that fed into the body of water. “How has all this happened overnight? It’s as if an army of elves have been working away in the dark to get it all ready.”
Petronella laughed. “I’m sure Cook and Mrs. Mason, our housekeeper, would be most grateful for such assistance! Alas, they have only the belowstairs maids and the footmen. Though I noticed the gardeners were absent yesterday afternoon, so I suspect they too, were pressed into service. Mr. Fairfax was adamant that this was his idea so that he must oversee it and we were not to be troubled by the arrangements. I think he has done rather well, don’t you agree?”
It would have been churlish not to. On the far side of the lake an open-fronted marquee had been put up, providing ample shady seating for at least twenty people. Tables were set with spotless white linen cloths and the finest silverware and glass. There were even vases of flowers and carafes of wine and water. On either side of this central point, further canvas canopies had been stretched between trees, and beneath these were wicker seats and low tables. On the sunny grass there was a game of quoits complete with chalk and scoreboard. A little way off there was a row of archery targets, with bows and quivers of arrows ready and waiting. Three more rowing boats had appeared on the lake to add to the solitary one which was permanently moored there. On the banks sat rods and fishing paraphernalia. Liam let out a low whistle.
“Are we up to this?” he asked Xanthe quietly.
“It’s better than a ball. If someone turns up with a fiddle, just refuse all suggestions of dancing. Stick to things we’re good at.”
“Fixing cars?”
“I mean, we might have to sing. Come on, it’ll be fine.”
Petronella enjoyed making the introductions, leading her new friends through the thirty or so guests as they arrived, presenting them to a succession of faces that blurred into so many fancy bonnets and refined smiles by the end of thirty minutes that Xanthe could not recall a single name. She and Liam were both quick to offer to take Evie out on the lake. A footman appeared as if from nowhere and held the little boat steady while they climbed in. Liam picked up the oars and rowed them out onto the silky water. Evie leaned over the prow, searching for sight of minnows or frogs. Xanthe trailed her hand through the cool surface of the lake, doing her best to enjoy the beauty of the place and not think of Fairfax. Liam, as if reading her thoughts, nodded back toward the throng of guests.
“He’s enjoying playing lord of the manor already,” he said, earning himself a curious glance from Evie.
“It’s an impressive event. Looks like he’s invited all the great and the good from the area. Do you know everyone here, Evie?”
“Most of them. Father loves to entertain, but I’m not allowed to stay up if they are dining late. He makes me eat in the nursery like a child!”
“Imagine,” said Xanthe.
“But I always sneak down to the stairs and watch as the guests come into the house.” She looked up from the water for a moment to study the crowd. “I can see two earls, a countess, and four baronets. I fancy Mr. Fairfax would have been happier had he found a duke, but there aren’t many left in Wiltshire during the season; they are all up in London.”
“Your family doesn’t like to spend the summer there?” she asked.
“No. Father says he prefers entertaining here, and he likes his hunting and shooting. He is always impatient for August and then we shall scarcely see him for days on end and every meal will be pheasant or grouse.”
“Not good?” Liam asked.
Evie pulled a face. “I like fish!” she said firmly, going back to peering into the lake in search of some.
Xanthe looked with her. “Are there lots in this lake?” she asked.
“Oh yes. I’ll catch one later, you’ll see. You have to know which fly to use, because the lake is very deep, and the fish hide down in the weeds, which are all over the bottom. Can you see?”
Xanthe narrowed her eyes against the glare of the sun, forcing herself to focus below the surface. “Yes, yes I can. It looks like seaweed, and it’s moving.”
“That’s because the stream flows in one end and out the other, underground. It looks like a real stream, but it isn’t. It’s built to flow in a circle. The water pulls at the weeds as it goes. You have to take great care if you decide to swim in there, or you will get tangled. One of our distant cousins drowned because he did not watch out for the weeds.”
“Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Do people swim in it much?”
Evie laughed. “Not when there are so many people watching!” she said, reminding Xanthe that there was no such thing as swimming costumes for men at the time, so most people who bathed out of doors did so naked.
“There is a trout!” Evie exclaimed. “Did you see?”
“No, I don’t think so … wait, is that it?” As she spoke she watched a dark shape moving far down in the depths, beyond the reach of the sun’s rays. Slowly it began to rise, so that it emerged into the lighter level of the lake. As it did so it became paler, more distinct, so that she could soon see it was not a fish. It was a face. Suddenly it was near enough to recognize. Now she could see the whole person as he fought to swim to the surface, his hand reaching up toward her, his expression one of panic. As she stared at the apparition the figure began to sink again, his hand dropping, his body receding into the depths, farther and farther until he was lost to the darkness. With a cry Xanthe leapt back, causing the boat to rock wildly.
“Steady on!” Liam warned.
“Did you see a very big fish?” Evie asked.
“I…” She struggled to speak sensibly. “Yes, just a glimpse. Gave me quite a start.” She closed her eyes to try to blink away the shocking vision she had glimpsed but it was there, haunting her mind’s eye too. She opened them again, blinking away the shocking image of the drowned face.
“Are you all right?” Liam asked. “What scared you?”
“Nothing. I’m fine. The fish just … made me jump,” she said, for how could she tell him the truth? How could she tell him that the figure she had seen drifting away beyond her reach, beyond saving, was him? She took a deep breath. “Is anyone else hungry?”
“Me!” cried Evie. “Let us have lemonade and cake. Petronella will tell me I must eat meat, but she will be too busy to notice. And Cook has made such puddings! See how people are crowding around the table? Oh, do please row faster, Mr. Westlake, else it will all be gone before we get there.”
Xanthe was aware of Liam watching her closely as he worked the oars. She did not meet his eye. The image of him pale and drowning was so distressing she needed to distract herself from it, so she chatted lightly to Evie about what other food there would be for them to enjoy. They returned to the bank and Liam eventually helped Evie onto the little jetty. The girl ran ahead to find lemonade. As he helped Xanthe out of the boat he whispered to her.
“What is it? Is Fairfax up to his tricks?”
“No, it’s nothing. Just this damn corset in the heat and leaning over the side of the boat. Made me woozy.”
“You sure?” he asked, unconvinced, letting go of her hand to touch her cheek, searching her eyes for the truth.
“I’m fine, really,” she assured him, concerned about how his gesture might look to anyone watching them. His expression and his concern went beyond the brotherly to anyone who cared to see it. “Come on, let’s get something to eat.”
They left the jetty and made their way toward the food. They had almost reached the marquee when Fairfax stepped out from the shade of a towering oak, glass of wine in hand.
“How quaint to see brother and sister so affectionate toward each other,” he said, his words dripping spite. “What would the assembled company make of the truth of your relationship, I wonder? To masquerade as family whilst in point of fact being … let us say friends … well, it would call into question everything about a person, I should imagine. Wilcox is a genial host but even he has limits to what behavior he expects of his guests. Scandal is not to be tolerated.”
Xanthe opened her mouth to respond to this but Liam acted before she could speak. With a glance over his shoulder to check they were not observed, he strode forward, taking hold of Fairfax by the lapels, and forcing him around the back of the tree. Xanthe lifted her long skirts and scurried after them. Liam had all but lifted Fairfax off his feet and had him pinned against the ancient bark of the oak. The older man had dropped his glass and clutched at his assailant’s hand, his scrabblings having no effect on Liam’s strong grip.
“Just so you know,” he growled, keeping his voice low, “you only have all your teeth left because that suits Xanthe right now. You do anything, anything, to hurt her, and I might just forget my manners and give you the payback you already deserve for what you’ve done.”
Fairfax spoke through his twisted, tightened collar and a furious scowl. “I had thought Miss Westlake more discerning than to bestow her affections upon a thug. It seems she had a use for you in mind after all.”
Xanthe hissed at Liam. “Stop it! For goodness’ sake, what if someone sees?”
Reluctantly, Liam let go, Fairfax dropping to his feet and folding at the stomach, coughing and holding his bruised throat.
“Just so you know,” Liam repeated before offering Xanthe his arm and leading her on toward the marquee.
“That was reckless!” she told him.
“I know.”
“What if somebody had seen what you did? How would we have explained it? Liam, we have to be more careful.”
“I know,” he repeated, the contained rage inside him still evident through the tension Xanthe could feel in his arm as she held it. They had almost reached the refreshments when she saw a figure a few paces to their left. “Wait a minute, look who’s over there,” she said, pointing toward the woman she had noticed.
“Mistress Flyte!” said Liam, before quickly correcting himself in case they were overheard. “Aunt! How nice that she was invited.”
“Let’s go and speak with her.”
Mistress Flyte was wearing a fine cotton dress in a style which suited her well but was a touch old-fashioned for the time. Xanthe thought at first this might be because she had to watch the pennies and make things last, but then realized it was more contrived than that. A woman of mature years would, unless extremely wealthy and modern in her outlook, wear styles that harked back to her own youth and did not attempt to compete with the young girls of the day. Respectable older women invariably wore heavier fabrics, more elaborate corsetry, and covered themselves up. Even so, and despite the heat, she looked, as ever, poised and elegant. She greeted her niece and nephew affectionately, which meant allowing Liam to bow and kiss her hand and Xanthe to curtsey and kiss her cheek.
“How lovely to see you here, Aunt.”
“Mr. Fairfax sent an invitation. A rather insistent one.”
“It is unlike him to be quite so … considerate,” said Xanthe.
Liam frowned. “He must have had his own reasons. I can’t see him doing anything that could be considered kind.”
“No doubt,” Mistress Flyte agreed. “Whatever his motive, I am pleased to be here and to have the opportunity to speak with you.”
“Let’s walk together,” Xanthe suggested, taking her arm. “Liam, would you mind fetching us something to drink?”
“Oh, of course,” he said, understanding that she wished to speak with the old woman on her own. He bowed again. “I will catch you up bearing refreshments shortly,” he promised.
Xanthe took them in a direction that led away from the main party. Other couples were strolling, and some were sitting on the grass, but there was sufficient space for a conversation to be private as long as they kept their voices low.
“I have been concerned at your silence,” Mistress Flyte told her. “I cannot imagine being in such close proximity to Fairfax is either comfortable or safe for you. Has he approached you about the book?” she asked.
Before coming to stay at Corsham Hall, before what the book had revealed to her, Xanthe would have trusted her friend with everything she found out. With all the details of her plans. Now, though, she had been set wondering. Why had the Spinners book shown her a young Lydia Flyte? And what was the connection between her and the Spinner whose story she had heard? Was she the woman conversing with him, and if so, what on earth had she done to warrant a threat of death from him? Once again, her mind went back to how she had felt when she and Liam had arrived at the tearooms: how she had had the sense of glimpsing another side to this refined, elegant woman when she had been so against her having brought Liam with her.
“He has made his intentions very clear,” she said carefully. “He wants the book. If I give it to him he says he will leave me alone and not cause any more trouble for me in my own time.”
“And you trust him?”
“Of course not. I am … trying to find a way to take the astrolabe from him. That is my main concern at the moment. That and … well, I have been having visions, and hearing things from the book. It’s hard to know what is connected to Fairfax and what isn’t.”
“The book has been speaking to you as well as showing you what is written? I recall it doing this in the past. It is a sign of the urgency and importance with which it wishes to communicate its secrets to you. You are fortunate indeed, to be so chosen,” she said, and for the first time Xanthe detected a note of jealousy in her tone.
Was that why the book had shown her Mistress Flyte? Was it warning her not to trust the person who had helped her so much, who had assisted her in learning about the book in the first place?
Whoops of delight from a lively trio trying their hand at archery interrupted her thoughts. It bothered her that she had to be wary of the old woman, but there was too much at stake to be wrong. If, somehow, Lydia Flyte was siding with Fairfax, she must be on her guard and reveal nothing of her plans. However much she resisted believing such an idea, she had to tread softly.
“It’s not just the book,” she said. “I’ve been seeing glimpses, flashes of things—I don’t know what they mean, but they are frightening. And confusing.”
“The more time you spend as a Spinner, particularly out of your own time, the more the gift infiltrates your life. Soon you will not be able to separate the person you are when you are not spinning, from the person you are when you travel.”
“You are speaking from your own experience? From the time when you were a Spinner?”
“It is not always a simple matter to move away.”
“Well, of course, you are still spinning, aren’t you? I mean, you use your gift to live in different times. Even if you aren’t answering any calls, you are still time traveling.”
“As I say, it becomes harder to separate the two aspects of oneself. Which is why you are having the experiences that seem, to you, unconnected.”
“I suppose I know there is a connection, that it all joins up somehow. I just haven’t worked it out yet.”
“Tell me what conclusions you have drawn thus far. It may be that I am able to offer some clarity.”
“That would be very welcome, but … I suppose it’s not surprising…”
“What is it, child?”
“Some of the things I see, I hear, I read … they involve you.”
She felt the slightest tremor of tension pass down Mistress Flyte’s arm as she held it. Other than that she gave no outward sign that this information in any way disconcerted her.
“Indeed. The book will show you many Spinners, no doubt. Perhaps it wishes to put those you have met in context. As you say, it is not, after all, surprising.”
“Maybe not, and yet…” She paused and stopped walking. Still holding the old woman’s arm so that she might gauge her reactions, she asked simply, “Who is Erasmus Balmoral?”
Mistress Flyte’s sharp blue eyes widened and she snatched her arm away, taking a step back. For once her inscrutable expression and her unshakable composure were undone. Her face showed genuine dismay.
She seemed on the point of forming a reply when a shout went up from the main group of the party, followed by several shrieks and cries. Xanthe turned to see that Henry’s horse had broken loose and was thundering blindly across the grass, scattering picnickers in all directions. Men tried to grab its bridle, or waved their arms to turn it away from the women and children. Henry ran after it, shouting alternately oaths and warnings. For an awful moment it seemed there would be casualties until a footman, dropping the silver platter of pastries he had been charged with, leapt in the horse’s path and took hold of its reins, quickly turning it and bringing it to a halt. The danger passed, Henry retrieved his mount and led it away uttering heartfelt apologies.
Evie came sprinting up to Xanthe. “Did you see? Did you see? Lady Melrose was near trampled to death! Mr. Fairfax is calling for poor Henry’s horse to be shot, but Father will not hear of it. I fear they shall come to blows. Oh, please come and bring your brother to speak to them both!” she begged, grabbing Xanthe’s hand and dragging her back toward the marquee.
The remainder of the day passed slowly for Xanthe. Her thoughts were so focused on what she had to do, anything other than preparing for it was an unwelcome distraction. She needed to get back to the Spinners book but could only do so when the household had gone to bed. Up to this point, it would not have mattered if someone had interrupted her reading. To the uninformed observer she would simply be doing just that; reading peacefully in her room. Now, though, the time had come to go one step further. A significant step further. After turning over and over in her mind what she had seen in and heard from the book so far, she had formed an idea of how she might be able to outwit Fairfax using her talent as a Spinner. To be sure of success, she needed to try out the plan first. And that meant she could not risk being interrupted. It was gone midnight by the time the house was quiet. She had not even wanted to tell Liam of what she intended doing. While it was reassuring and helpful to have him at Corsham Hall with her, she needed to spin alone. To have him present as she did so would pull her in the wrong direction. Focus, clarity of intention and thought, would be vital.
Xanthe had allowed the maid to help her out of her day dress and into her nightclothes, but now quickly slipped her pinafore over the linen shift.
“Fail to prepare and prepare to fail. Or something,” she told herself, knowing that she had to plan for both best- and worst-case scenarios. To this end, she also put a few essentials in a small bag and slipped it over her shoulder. There was no key in the lock of the door, so she jammed a chair in place to prevent anyone coming into the room. “Just in case,” she muttered, trying to keep herself calm. She was pleased to realize that it was not apprehension but excitement that was causing her pulse to quicken. She picked up the Spinners book and set it down on the dressing table, a candle either side of it. She hesitated then, wondering if she should leave a note for Liam. She decided against, reasoning that nothing she could say in it would be useful, and nothing he could do—if her experiment went wrong—would make any difference. The thought reminded her that she and he would always have this strange distance between them; that she was a Spinner and he was not. It saddened her to think that distance could never be completely crossed. “Not now, girl,” she told herself, quickly tying her hair into a loose ponytail to keep it out of the way. She slipped on her ankle boots and tied a shawl around her shoulders, not knowing what weather she was likely to encounter. Next she moved the little stool out of the way and stepped forward to stand before the book. She turned the pages, willing it to show her again the incantation she had used when taking Fairfax to find his astrolabe. How long ago that felt. How much had happened since.
“Show me,” she asked. “I am Xanthe Westlake of Marlborough, Spinner, and I wish to travel. Show me the words I need.”
For a moment there was nothing, then the whispers started. Whispers that put her in mind of the clamor she heard every time she stepped into the blind house at home. There seemed to be more than Spinners talking to her through the book. She detected the cries and entreaties of people who needed her. It was as if declaring herself as a Spinner out loud and with the book had allowed her presence to be detected not only by Spinners themselves, but by those who would be helped by her. She shuddered at the thought that, of course, Fairfax would be able to sense her activity. She pushed the thought from her mind in case it somehow summoned him.
At last words began to form on the page in front of her, hastily written, it seemed, scrawled almost. No voice read them, and she decided this was because it was she who was meant to say them aloud. Her voice that needed to be heard now. She took a breath.
Let the door through the fabric of time swing wide,
May I travel through time’s secret rift.
Let the centuries spin at my bidding,
May my return be sure and be swift.
She repeated the lines. An unnatural breeze caused the flames of the candles to dance. The whispering voices fell silent.
Xanthe spoke again, directly to the book, to the spirits of the Spinners within it, and this time she did not ask diffidently. This time she instructed.
“Take me to a time, in this place, where I can see what I need to see, find what I need to find, know what I need to know. Show me something that will help me in my task. But return me here, to this very time and this very place.” As she said these words she stamped her heel hard on the wooden boards. She knew she had to anchor herself to the time somehow. It didn’t feel enough. She looked around for something she could take with her, something small yet intimately tied to the room as it was at that moment. The bed had been made for the house, its drapes and covers too. Quickly she took hold of one of the red tassels on the heavy bedspread and pulled a silk thread from it. This she tied through the buttonhole at the neck of her green cotton pinafore. She stood by the book again.
“Show me now!” she demanded. In her eagerness to make the request work she gestured with her hand, emphasizing her words, failing to take into account how close she was to the candle. Her hand swept over the flame. The sharp pain of it made her cry out, and the burnt line across the tender underside of her fingers continued to hurt as she quickly dropped her hand to her side once more. She dare not let the pain distract her. “Time-within-time!” she said, repeating the words that were now being all but shouted in her ear by a male voice she recognized. “Time-within-time!”
Suddenly, the pages of the book turned of their own accord, flipping first steadily, one at a time, then faster, more and more pages, an impossible number, so that they became a blur, until the air in the room was disturbed out of all sense. Both candles guttered and failed, the darkness enveloping her, the smell of smoldering wax accompanying her as she plunged through time.
The transition was swift. Xanthe felt no dizziness nor lessening of her senses at all. It was as if, being so much more active in the process, she was more able to withstand its effects. She found herself in the walled garden of the Hall.
“Yes!” She allowed herself a quiet expression of satisfaction. She might not be inside the house, but she had controlled the location of her travel point quite well. It was sharply cold and the thin layer of snow beneath her boots and bareness of the fruit trees spoke of deep midwinter. It was not yet fully nighttime; the sun was setting, painting the sky a brash orange, the heavy clouds a dusky pink. She heard soft voices. Not the whisperings of those in a distant time, but words being spoken there and then, in the garden. She must not be discovered. There was a dividing row of thick yew trees into which she quickly stepped, their evergreen branches providing excellent cover. From her hiding place she watched as two figures, a man and a woman, walked into view. They stopped only a few strides from where she crouched, so that even in the twilight she was able to see, and to recognize, their faces. The couple were unmistakably Lydia Flyte and the man Xanthe now knew to be Erasmus Balmoral. Their relationship was clearly one of intimacy and affection. The man turned his love toward him, encircling her in his arms, gazing into her eyes with a fierce intensity. Xanthe tried to pinpoint the date by studying their clothes, but the cold weather meant they were both wearing heavy coats that covered them from neck to ankle. The boots were not much to go on. Erasmus’s hair, grown long past his collar and swept back, was salt-and-peppered with maturity but he appeared youthful and strong. Lydia wore no hat and her hair hung loose down her back. It was a surprise to see her golden tresses instead of the white-grey Xanthe was accustomed to. When the pair kissed it was with passion restrained and evident longing.
Erasmus stroked her cold cheek. “You understand me now?” he asked. “You truly accept what I must do?”
She nodded slowly. “I have made my choice.”
“You will side with me on this? For I can take no other path.”
“I will, I promise.”
“That promise must be freely given,” he told her. “For you will forfeit much and there can be no altering course once the decision is taken.”
By way of an answer she kissed him again.
He took from the pocket of his coat a small sprig of white winter heather. He reached up and tucked it into the buttonhole of her lapel.
“For good fortune and for protection,” he said. And then he kissed her again and added, “You have my heart.”
For a moment they stood, her face tilted up to him, the strange sky lending them both a curious supernatural glow. Xanthe was moved by the passionate way he regarded his woman. Was that feeling returned? As she studied Lydia’s face she noticed an unusual flare from her eyes, which she put down to the low sun and the awkward angle from which she was compelled to observe them.
“I must take my leave,” he said. “Until tomorrow.” He left quickly then, striding away, his boots crunching through the snow as he went.
Xanthe waited, not daring to move. Lydia Flyte watched her lover leave the garden. Once she could see him no more, she took the heather from her coat, crushed it in her hand, and threw the ruined flower onto the icy ground.
It was then that she turned and stared in the direction of the yew trees. Xanthe held her breath. She must not be found, not by her, not at that moment. Quickly, she fumbled at her pinafore until she had hold of the thread of silk.
“Time-within-time,” she whispered urgently. “Return me to my time-within-time.”
She closed her eyes, conjuring a clear picture before her mind’s eye of her room at Corsham Hall, thinking of Petronella and the wedding dress and Liam in his fine Regency clothes. Anything, in fact, that would pull her toward that specific time and place. She felt rather than heard Mistress Flyte moving closer across the frozen garden, but in an instant she was spinning through time again, and in another heartbeat she was there, in her bedroom, snow melting off her boots onto the Persian rug.