The Thornless Rose (6 page)

Catherine reached out to comfort her, but drew back when Anne shook her head and rose.

Trudy clucked her tongue. “Aye, that would be for the best, Anne dear. Ye canna stay. All o’ England—and Scotland, too—are filled with places where the veil is thin, and the past and present come together.”

Anne rolled her eyes and then picked up the phone. “I’m okay, really. I wish I could stay longer, but I can’t. I’m changing my flight and going home.”

After several minutes of being put on hold and dealing with a grumpy airline agent, Anne put down the phone. “There’s nothing for four days,” she said.

Trudy placed her teacup on the table. “That’ll work, dear. Just stay close t’ the new places. Keep yerself apart from the old an’ ghosty spots.”

Anne gave an ironic laugh. “And that way I won’t time travel?”

“Aye. The Druids worshiped at sacred springs and old groves ’round London. Those places are long gone, but many o’ the spots have churches on them now. Stay away from them, and ye’ll be fine.”

“I didn’t see any Druids.”

“The Druids had power, Anne, and it’s their places o’ worship that hold power still.”

“This is insane,” Anne said.

“I understand how you feel, darling. I too wavered between disbelief and acceptance.” Slowly, gently, Catherine unwrapped the flat package she had carried in earlier. “But it is true, darling. I have proof.” She showed it to Anne. “This is Jonnie’s official military photo.”

A chill swept through Anne’s body as she looked at the black and white image. This was a close-up portrait, not a snapshot taken at a distance.
Oh my God. It’s him!
Jonathan Brandon was the man who had kissed her in the Abbey.
It was really him!

“This was taken before he was injured,” Catherine added. “In 1953, a gentleman with whom your grandfather had been acquainted for many years informed us that an old letter was coming up for auction at Sotheby’s. This gentleman, Clive Wakefield, found the letter remarkable, because it was addressed to someone bearing my maiden name. You see, Clive was with Scotland Yard, and he’d been working with Arthur on Jonnie’s case for years. He hoped the letter would provide a clue as to the vanishing. The three of us went to Sotheby’s to have a look. When we verified the letter’s authenticity, Arthur and I were determined to buy it, whatever the cost, which we did.”

Catherine handed the photo to Anne. “Please, turn it over. It’s a double-sided frame.”

Hands trembling, Anne did as she was told. Yellowed paper and faded script. An old letter. She examined the handwriting. “Is it another love letter?” she asked.

“Not precisely.”

“Then what?” Trudy craned her neck to get a better look.

Anne shifted, so they could read together.

Miss Catherine Ellen Hastings

Stratford, London

Dearest Catherine,

I am well. As well as a man with a broken heart can be. I shall always endeavor to return to you, but have little hope in that regard. Fear not, for in the meantime I have found safety and acceptance in Smithfield, at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.

I hope and pray my words shall find you one day, or that I may somehow be able to deliver them in person. Know that I love you still.

Yours ever,

JB 3627555

25.2.1559

Anne looked up, eyes wide.

“Sweet Mother o’ Christ!” Trudy blurted.

“Yes, just so.” Catherine’s voice was soft. “The date is one month after Elizabeth I’s coronation, and several hundred years, of course, before Jonnie’s vanishing at The Bishop’s Crook. That is his military ID number beside his initials.” She tenderly recited the number from memory, “Three, six, two, seven, triple five.”

“Dr. Brandon wrote you a love letter from 1559?” Anne sat back, stunned.

Trudy crossed herself. “Christ defend us!”

Catherine nodded. “It was found in an ancient Hastings’s family Bible, as part of the estate of a distant cousin. Sotheby’s had the lot of old documents and books from this cousin’s library for sale in London in an auction of Elizabethan memorabilia. Seems fantastic that it survived to the twentieth century, but then, Jonnie knew which family to send it through. Still, Arthur and I were awfully lucky to find it.”

“Then Dr. Brandon is really there, right now,” Anne said, astounded she could say the words, let alone believe them.

“Yes, he’s truly there,” Catherine agreed.

And I was with him
, Anne thought.
At least for a moment
.

…

A half hour later, the women finished the tea Trudy had laced with generous dollops of apricot brandy. The liquor had done the trick; Anne was feeling so relaxed she found herself acknowledging the wisdom of her grandmother’s planning.

“Grandma, if the impossible happens...” She faltered. “Just in case I somehow meet Dr. Brandon, er, perhaps I should take along a couple of photos of the two of you, and of you and me together. One from now, you know, so he’ll understand where I fit in with all of this.”

Catherine studied her thin, knotted hands. “A snapshot from now. Yes, of course. He’ll want to see how things have changed.”

“I know the very snap ye’ll want t’ take, Anne,” Trudy said. “It’s in the album in the lounge.” She rose and tottered out.

Catherine looked into Anne’s eyes. “I don’t suppose, if you are able to find Jonnie, that he’ll have changed much from the old photographs. Oddly, you seem to be seeing very much the same time period into which he disappeared. He would be, at most, in his mid-thirties.”

Anne nodded, remembering him in the Abbey.

“When Jonnie first told me about his experiences,” Catherine went on, “we both assumed he was having a problem with war fatigue—what nowadays, I believe, is called post-traumatic stress. At the time of his vanishing, he hadn’t had any visions for many weeks, so we thought he was well. But it wasn’t war fatigue, of course, and he disappeared on Christmas Eve, exactly one week before our wedding.

“In the beginning, Jonnie said he would hear disembodied conversations in Old English occasionally, or see images that seemed ancient. Once, he was walking somewhere out along Greenhithe, on the Thames, when he noticed a strange woman. She had unnaturally red hair, missing teeth, and was dressed like a peasant from the Middle Ages. She propositioned him, even fondled his personals to entice him. Her impertinence and foul body odor so disgusted him he pushed her away, almost knocked her over.

“After she’d gone, he was startled to see the scenery around him had changed, though it was still vaguely familiar, like an old painting of the riverside quay as it had once been. There was a great sailing ship tied up at the pier, which he assumed at first to be the
Cutty Sark
, since it was berthed there in those days. But when he realized this ship was far smaller and of an older style, he went to have a look at her name; it was the
Cisne
Negro—The Black Swan—
belonging to the fleet of Prince Phillip.”

“Prince Phillip?” Anne interrupted.

“Of Spain,” Catherine explained. “He was the husband of Queen Mary, Henry VIII’s first daughter.

“One curious aspect of these occurrences was that Jonnie seemed to gradually gain his senses the more he was drawn in. At first, he could only hear, then he could hear and see. The sensation of that redhead’s touch was as startling as how she touched him, but finally it was her odor and later, the stench rising off the Thames, that struck him most vividly. Maybe taste is the last sense he experienced, but I’ve no way to confirm it.

“Tell me, Anne, could you see and hear Robert Dudley in an obvious way? Did you feel the touch of his hand when he gave you the rose? Could you smell it?”

Anne blushed, thinking of Brandon’s kiss, instead. “Dudley did more than touch my hand, Grandma. He kissed me and said, er, I felt his touch, uh, Dudley’s touch, for sure.” She paused, remembering. “As for the rose, no, I don’t remember smelling it until I got back here.”

Catherine put her hand on Anne’s. “I’ve thought about this for ages. It’s my belief Jonnie had gained all of his senses and that’s when he vanished into the past. Already you’ve heard, seen, and been touched. The sequence seems to be moving much faster for you. If you are able to smell or taste, it might indicate your time is pressing very close, indeed.”

“I’ll be safe at home before then,” Anne said with determination. She shook her head in amazement. “Time travel. You realize this is totally insane. Shouldn’t scientists have some evidence? I mean, wouldn’t history change, or wouldn’t people come from the future and tell us all sorts of amazing things about medicine or something? It seems like time travelers would stick out.”

“History is full of people who were deemed ahead of their time,” Catherine explained. “Many were burned at the stake because they were thought to possess evil powers. Mightn’t they have simply known things because, for them, they’d already happened? And, for that matter, there are people turning up every day who claim to be from the future or the past. They either get ignored, locked away in an asylum, or establish a cult following.”

Catherine poured more brandy into their empty teacups and together they drank.

“Anne, losing you will break my heart.” Catherine briefly closed her eyes as if summoning the strength to go on. “Yet, if it happens, then try to return. There must be a way.”

Neither of them spoke for a long moment, and Anne covered the silence by carefully refolding the cape into a small bundle.

“Yes, I promise.”

“You must do everything in your power,” Catherine’s voice wavered, “everything to come back.”

Anne nodded, fighting tears.

“One more thing.” Her grandmother’s tone was deadly serious now.

“Yes?”

“You should carry the cape with you at all times. Take note of the hidden pocket in the inner lining, on the left side. I have something I want you to keep in there.” Catherine rose, walked to her husband’s desk, and reached into a side drawer. She removed a large switchblade, and placed it on the desktop between them. It was inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

“Grandma, I’m not carrying that thing around!”

Catherine met Anne’s startled gaze with hard eyes. “Humor me, Anne. You bloody well had better be prepared.”

Anne swallowed. She had never heard her grandmother use such strong language.

“Once in a while,” Catherine went on, “your grandfather had to deal with some very unsavory types. If the worst happens, you may well run into many more than he ever did, in Elizabethan England.”

With the tips of her fingers, Catherine pushed the blade across to Anne.

Chapter Seven

Fear not, for in the meantime I have found safety and acceptance in Smithfield, at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital
.

That morning, as Anne applied her makeup, she recalled Dr. Brandon’s words and pondered how the mundane rhythms of a typical London vacation had returned to lull her into a feeling of normalcy. Nothing strange had happened since Hampton Court, neither visitations by ghosts, nor journeys to long-gone places.

With a guarded sense of calm, her determination had grown. Brandon’s note was sad, resigned, and she vividly recalled the tragic look in his eyes at the Abbey. She wanted to help figure out a way to bring him back. She’d do it for his sake and for her grandmother’s peace of mind. Once she got back to Virginia, she could study the phenomena from the safety of home, do some digging, and consult with her old college profs. Then, next summer, she would return to London, perhaps with an answer.

She smiled at her reflection, feeling more confident. At times, she could almost believe she’d never experienced anything bizarre at all, except for the thornless rose lying in the fridge and Brandon’s haunting letter. And, of course, his kiss.

Time travel. Whoa.

The evidence couldn’t be dismissed, no matter how normal life now seemed. She frowned and added more blush, wanting to erase all traces of stress.

Do stay away from the Smithfield Market area, darling... Och, aye. Keep t’ the new, or the nearly new.
Grandma and Trudy’s advice had worked so far. Anne heaved a sigh. So much for her plans to spend the summer visiting favorite historical sites in and around London.

The advice was about to be tested one last time; Anne and Catherine planned a trip to the Tate Modern Art Gallery to see an exhibition of Jackson Pollack’s work. Surely Pollack’s brilliantly drizzled and splattered canvases were as far removed from Elizabethan times as any of them could hope for.

Anne took a last check in the full-length bathroom mirror, knowing her grandmother would disapprove of anything but her “acceptable for time travel” clothes. For the last two days, her wardrobe had been limited because of Catherine’s demands
—
a choice between a long, free-flowing, floral maxi dress and an ankle-length denim jumper, worn with a pair of sturdy, leather walking shoes. Today, she had chosen the flowered dress. Tomorrow, on her flight home, she’d wear the denim jumper. She could hardly wait to get back into shorts and a tank top.

Anne headed for the stairs. “I’m ready whenever you are, Grandma,” she called out when she reached the foyer.

“I’m in here, darling.” Catherine’s voice was composed as it drifted in from the parlor.

Anne stopped in the doorway. Her grandmother stood by the front window, gazing out at the street.

Catherine turned. “Yes. That frock will do nicely. It covers your ankles better than the denim.”

“I haven’t felt anything at all recently. I’m sure I’ll be fine at the Tate.”

Catherine’s gaze hardened. “Where is your shoulder bag with the things I gave you?”

Anne shrugged. “It’s so heavy. Can’t I take a break just this once?”

“No, Anne. Never leave the house without it.”

“But I can’t take a knife past security at the museum. They’ll confiscate it.”

“I’m sure there will be a bag check, darling. Please.”

“But then I won’t have it with me.”

“It’s a fairly modern building, not Elizabethan. I’m certain you’ll be fine, once inside.”

“All right, all right.” Anne retrieved her leather bag, but her grandmother wasn’t done.

“And you’ll need this, too.” Catherine jammed a collapsible umbrella into the already overstuffed bag. “Rain is in the forecast.”

Anne groaned, but said nothing. With all the stuff she had to tote around, she was glad they’d called a cab.

As their driver negotiated London’s bustling streets, the women said little, and Anne let her mind wander. When she caught sight of a homeless woman, dressed in rags and talking to herself, Anne suddenly focused. Pedestrians avoided the poor woman as she shuffled along, her broken mind lost in another world.

Another world?
Anne strained for a last glimpse of the bag lady as the cab moved on. Could she be a time traveler? Had she arrived unprepared for her strange journey, unable to cope with a new and frighteningly unfamiliar reality?

The possibility of ending up like the homeless woman, a forlorn and pitiful creature wandering alien streets, was not only unappealing, it was unthinkable.

“Please, do stop here,” Catherine told the cab driver. She turned to Anne. “I must pop into the chemist’s for a moment, darling. I’ve a prescription that needs filling. I’ll meet you in the queue at the cash register.”

Anne wandered to the food section and picked up some gum, a bottle of water, and several packages of chocolate. She wrinkled her nose in disgust as her gaze fixed on a jar of Marmite. How did anyone choke it down? Although it was vegetarian, she thought it tasted like the meat of forty cows, condensed into one little jar. It was very popular with the Brits, though. Trudy loved it and always put it on her morning toast.

“Jolly good.” Catherine came up beside Anne, holding a white paper bag. “I’m set to go. Are you ready?” She saw the Marmite. “Oh, my.”

“What is it, Grandma?”

“Jonnie loved that. If you ever did find him, imagine his surprise if you had some in your possession.”

Anne’s mouth twisted. “You really considered marrying this guy?”

“Your grandfather liked it, too, although his tastes ran more to caviar.”

“And Dr. Brandon was a more regular guy?”

“Salt of the earth. But remember, Anne, it was just after the war. Marmite or caviar, it didn’t matter to us. We were just glad to be alive.” Catherine studied the row of plastic squeeze jars. “If Jonnie could taste it again, I’m certain he’d be overjoyed.”

Anne rolled her eyes.

“Humor me, darling,” Catherine said. “Take one with you. And this prescription, too.”

“What is it?”

“Penicillin tablets. I merely thought––”

“Oh, Grandma!”

“Anne, I said humor me. Please.”

There was a shakiness, a note of desperation in Catherine’s voice, enough to give Anne pause and force her to smile.

“Okay, okay,” Anne said as she paid for her things. “I’ll carry them with me. Just in case.”

…

They arrived before noon at the Tate Modern, the towering museum grandly resurrected from the skeleton of an old power plant. The women stood on the broad promenade overlooking the Thames. Multi-colored banners hung near the entrance of the museum, advertising the Pollack exhibit.

“I’m not against having a look at modern art,” Catherine replied, “as long as it’s not so obscure that I cannot make heads or tails of it.”

“Well, we’ll see what you think of this guy,” Anne said, grinning.

Gazing at the Thames, she focused on Blackfriar’s Bridge for a moment and then breathed deeply. The air was warm and smelled vaguely of the sea.

Stomach growling, Anne pointed to the scattering of ice cream carts near the entrance of the Tate. “I’m going to get a cone. Would you like one?” she asked her grandmother. “Or would you rather have lunch first?”

“No, do go ahead with your cone. We’ll lunch after we’ve seen the exhibit.”

Anne paid for some chocolate soft-serve and rejoined Catherine at the metal railing overlooking the river. “Are you sure you don’t want some, Grandma?” She took a lick. “It’s really good.”

Catherine shook her head as she glanced across the Thames. Anne followed the path of her stare, looked past the Millennium Bridge and on to the grandeur of St. Paul’s Cathedral with its great dome.

“Did you know that Old St. Paul’s had an enormous steeple which was hit by a bolt of lightning?” Catherine asked. “It destroyed the spire and the Elizabethans viewed it as an omen sent by God.”

“Really? When?”

“1561—good gracious!” Catherine exclaimed. “Close to Jonnie’s time.”

“Do you suppose he saw it, or will see it?” The ice cream was melting, and she licked it off her fingers.

“I don’t know, Anne, but––”

Suddenly, everything went black. Anne gasped as chaos pulled at her mind, ripped at her with unhinged speed. She rocked unsteadily, caught herself, and waved her fingers before her face. She couldn’t see! She glanced around, realizing she stood in cool night air; her eyes simply hadn’t yet adjusted to the darkness.

Where am I?

Her heart lurched as she made out a bit of her surroundings—the glinting waters of a starlit river and tall-masted sailing ships bobbing in the currents. Then, her gaze traveled to an enormous steeple, where only moments before a dome had been.

Old St. Paul’s? Is this
—
is this Elizabethan London?

Without warning, the smell of sewer gas engulfed Anne’s senses. She drew back from the river, gagged, and then...

She blinked and was instantly back, standing in the sunshine, the sweet air of the twenty-first century metropolis filling her lungs.

“Grandma, it just happened again, and the stink—and my ice cream—I, I think, when it started I could taste the chocolate!”

“Oh, Lord! Anne, no!
Anne!
”

It was the only time she’d ever heard her grandmother scream.

Anne looked down at herself, saw the fading flesh, heard the crowds react with alarm, with sharp gasps of surprise and high-pitched shrieks. A man—a stranger from the crowd—reached out to her, trying to grab her hand, desperately attempting to keep her there.

But it was too late.

“Anne!” Catherine cried out from what seemed like a long way off. “Find Jonnie! Remember Smithfield! Find him there!”

Anne closed her eyes and sensed the darkness, smelled the foul night air once more. Suddenly, she heard something—a gasp or choking sound? —then, spotted a pair of bearded faces, looming up from the other side of the road.

She dropped her ice cream cone, turned, and ran.