Tapestry (6 page)

Jane’s mum spoke with appeal in her voice. ‘The people here are very —’

‘It’s our son lying there, Catelyn,’ Will’s father cut across her mother. Rather savagely, Jane thought. ‘If you were in the US right now and this was Jane lying here, wouldn’t you want her at home?’ His voice cracked.

It was a fair point. No one could deny his logic.

‘We want to get him the very best help,’ Diane whispered, as though the obvious needed further reinforcement to the dullard English around them. ‘John Hopkins is the top neurological hospital in America.’

Jane was glad that none of her family responded to that statement. She saw Ellen watching her from the nurse’s station, some distance away. Ellen gave her a ‘stay strong’ sort of smile.

‘Listen,’ Will’s father continued, jabbing a finger into the air, but fortunately pointing at no one in particular. ‘I’ve spoken to the folk here. They want to pull the plug. Well, no way, mister.’ He shot Jane a searching look and she helplessly nodded to indicate she couldn’t agree more. He seemed to take heart from this; his hostility dissolved and his tone softened as he turned to address Jane’s parents. ‘There’s some cutting-edge research going on at Hopkins.’ He shrugged. ‘I want to give your daughter back the husband she wants. These kids — well, they may be young in our estimation and they’ve only known one another a few months, but there’s no doubting that Will is besotted with Jane and I have to presume she loves our boy just as hard.’ Jane felt a fresh wave of guilt break against the shore of her pain as John Maxwell continued. ‘Hell! Diane was just eighteen when we married, not even twenty-one when she had Will. Who are we to preach? We have to do everything we can to give these kids a future so they bear us grandchildren.’ He fixed them all with his glare. ‘We all want the same thing, surely? Now, Diane and I can handle this better at home. They’re not going to do anything more for him here — you folk need to understand that. I’m not stealing him from Jane. I’m going to find out how to cure our son and then give him straight back to her.’

He was challenging Jane and her family to argue differently, pursing his lips and sticking out his chin, which turned even more square.

She looked at Will’s own slack jaw, where a dribble of saliva had followed the line of the breathing tube and left a thin stain against his darkening beard. She remembered how that beard had been stubble a couple of days ago, and how, in his enthusiasm to show her something he’d once seen done in a movie, that unshaven chin had rasped against her belly, making her buck and giggle and spoiling any potential for serious passion, because then Will had pursued her ticklishness and the whole hotel had heard her begging convulsions of laughter. Yet now the stubble had grown, testimony to the life ticking over behind the unconscious mask.

‘When do you see this occurring?’ she asked, working to achieve a reasonable tone and a steady voice.

John Maxwell didn’t flinch. ‘As soon as the hospital allows that he can be safely moved.’

‘He’s stable now. Would you take him away from me tomorrow?’

‘I would, Jane,’ he said without hesitation, ‘because he’s absolutely no use to you right now. He’s no use to anyone. We might as well flick the fucking switch.’ Jane shrank back, but Will’s father clearly didn’t care how brutal he sounded. ‘The Institute medical team isn’t exactly filling me with hope, so I say we give Will his best shot at recovery … and it’s not here. It’s in Baltimore.’

‘Jane, dear, you know you can come with us, of course,’ Diane said, as though everything had already been agreed.

Jane glanced at her parents, both of whom looked stricken, but kept their own counsel. She loved them for their silence. She hadn’t realised she’d let go of Diane’s hand, but she reached for Will’s hand now; it was unnaturally dry to the touch.

‘Diane, John. I’m going to the hotel now to take some sleeping tablets and try and rest my shattered mind for just a few hours. Please let me sleep on your plan.’

John nodded once. ‘Good girl. Thank you. I realise that’s not a yes,’ he said, when Jane took a breath to respond, ‘but I’m glad we’re on the same page.’ He leaned over to kiss her brusquely. ‘Get some rest. We’ll stay with him tonight.’

Jane turned and cupped Will’s face — all the more beautiful to her in repose — and kissed his lips, feeling the slippery sensation of lip balm, which she’d seen Ellen gently smear on earlier.

‘See you in the morning,’ she whispered to him.

Ellen caught her eye as she left with her parents. ‘Dr Evans, our most senior neuro, is coming to assess Will this afternoon. You’ll meet him tomorrow, probably, and I know you’ll really like him. He’s a forward thinker, all for giving the patients the time and space they need.’ She squeezed Jane’s arm. ‘He believes patient knows best. Trust him.’

Jane nodded, hopes rising. ‘Thanks for looking after Will.’

‘Oh, that’s the easy bit. He’s worth fighting for. I’ll kiss Will goodnight for you too.’

Jane smiled weakly at the joke and imagined that Will was probably going to enjoy it.

Scotland, autumn 1715

A
s Winifred’s coach emerged from the cover of the royal forest of Ettrick, where deer roamed aplenty, she and Cecilia caught their first sight of Traquair House, built on a rise above the River Tweed. Formerly one of a series of defensive towers built along the line that protected the Scottish borders against English invasion, it was now the family home of Charles, Fourth Earl of Traquair, his wife Mary — William’s sister — and their brood of children.

Winifred recognised in Mary the features of her brother, and she also found Mary’s warm, sympathetic nature immediately endearing. It was obvious to their new guest how much in love this couple were.

‘I am so glad to welcome you here, dear Winifred,’ Mary said, clasping her sister-in-law’s hands between her own. ‘You are to make Traquair your home in dear Will’s absence.’

And so life settled down for Winifred as she and Cecilia fell into the rhythm of Traquair’s routines and the demands of helping Mary with the household management, which included everything from hiring staff to ordering shopping from Edinburgh.

‘Two new moons have come and gone,’ Mary mentioned one day. ‘Hard to credit,’ she added, shaking her head.

Winifred didn’t need her to say to what she referred, for William strode around her thoughts every moment she was
awake and roamed her dreams as she slept. ‘I try not to think about it,’ she lied, and quickly changed the subject. ‘We must add some mace and cloves to our list, sister. Here, let me write that down.’

Mary’s expression showed she understood her remark was being deflected. She nodded. ‘And I must not forget to procure my husband’s grey writing paper from Messrs Gordon in Canongate. Upon my word, he’ll be in fair wrath if I forget.’

Winifred sent Mary a look of dry amusement. ‘Your dear husband couldn’t be angry with you over anything, Mary. He worships the very ground you tread.’

Mary grinned. ‘Why don’t we travel to Edinburgh and do the shopping ourselves? You could use a diversion.’

Winifred leaped at the opportunity. ‘Oh, yes, and then we can choose the candles ourselves! You said you didn’t trust the cotton wicks they’ve been sending.’ She bent her head over the list again. ‘I’m adding starch blue. The laundrywomen will need fresh reserves if they are going to work through the linens to put away for winter.’

They had their trip to Edinburgh, autumn began to surrender and Winifred grew increasingly glad that Will was a reliable correspondent. When his letters came, she sat down with Mary and read parts of them aloud. Anne would giggle at the little stick pictures he drew at the end of the letters, usually of himself and Anne picking apples, riding horses or holding butterflies.

The latest had greeted them after Winifred had spent the day in the dairy overseeing the making of cheese. It was Mary’s son, Linton, who had been sent with the message.

‘Aunt Win, it’s another letter from my Lord Nithsdale,’ he said excitedly.

Winifred picked up her skirts and ran with her nephew back to the main house.

Mary and Cecilia soon scuttled in after her. ‘I heard.’

Winifred tore open the letter, not even pausing to seat herself. She began reading aloud, hungrily devouring the words like a woman famished.

‘
My dear hearte
…’ And now she did pause, blushing slightly as she skipped over her husband’s endearments and enquiry as to her health and Anne’s.

‘
What news of Willie?
he asks,’ she said, looking up at her sister-in-law, who smiled benignly. Cecilia nodded encouragement. ‘I must tell him that our son took his first hunt.’

Winifred continued reading aloud. ‘
Mar’s army is moving south through the winter like a great snowball, gathering up more men as we travel. Behind us Perth is captured, as are all the towns on the north side of the Forth. Our standard flies o’er the kingdom of Fife, Forfar, Kincardine, Aberdeen, Banff and Moray. Even Inverness is proudly Jacobite. Lords Kenmure and Carnwarth and I took Moffat, and now we journey to Dumfries
.’

The three women exchanged a look of nervous relief. Mary smiled encouragingly. ‘He is safe,’ his sister murmured.

Winifred read on, her shoulders visibly relaxing. ‘
Regrettably our Jacobite army failed to capture Edinburgh Castle, foiled at the last by stupidity, but we stay hopeful that our monarch, King James, will arrive hitherto with much needed men and arms from France. We are assured a dozen ships are docked at Le-Havre-de-Grâce, loaded with men numbering two thousand and well equipped with weapons ready to sail to Dumbarton
.

‘
Mar’s army is camped at Perth. The highlanders number nearly five thousand. Lord Argyll’s forces are outnumbered sorely, and I am one of those who believe we must take our chances and overpower the English now, for we are scarce of weapons and ammunition for prolonged battle. Our spirits remain high, dear Win, but keeping our men’s minds on the fight and their tinder dry is the challenge. Even you knowest the mindset of the highlander. His attention wanders, and if we do
not keep him amused in fighting and marching, he will become bored and be consumed by other amusements
.’

‘’Tis true,’ Mary agreed.

Winifred turned the page. ‘
The weather is infernal and the terrible roads we travel are scarce more than bridle tracks. I should avoid them like the devil in any other situation. We are frozen most of the time and often so soaked to the skin that nary a fire can dry us, but we are heart-full of optimism, my love. I shall write again soon — my next letter surely from England and more triumphant
.’

Her voice broke slightly as she began the next sentence but steadied swiftly at Cecilia’s soft squeeze of her arm. ‘
Kiss Anne for me, my best to dear Mary and Charles, and I send this with all my love, and my urgings to you to stay cheerful and strong. I do love you with
—’

She blushed and shrugged.

Mary hugged her. ‘Let his sweet words be yours alone, Winifred. Come, Linton, we have work to do.’ Cecilia followed them.

Winifred stood in the front doorway of Traquair House, her hands still chilled but aching, as they had begun to slowly thaw from being indoors. She used the murky sunlight filtering through cloud to read again the letter from her sorely missed husband, especially his declaration of love for her and their son and daughter.

He was unharmed and still optimistic, and these things were all that mattered to Winifred. She cast a prayer, her eyes closed, his letter clasped to her breast. ‘Oh, dear Lord, please let Will live,’ she whispered.

London, December 1978

I
n the taxi Jane could have sworn she heard faint words, as if from a great distance. She accepted that it was probably the echo of her own fervent hope, communing with her in prayer. ‘Please let Will live,’ she repeated in her mind, and snatched away a tear that had just welled up and threatened to spill down her cheek.

She stared at the shops passing her by and realised everything was suddenly irritating her — especially everyone else’s tears, their stolen glances of sympathy, the pity that seemed to permeate the bubble of chaos she walked around in. Even her parents’ whispered mutterings in the taxi were getting on her nerves.

‘Darling?’ her mother said as Jane asked the cabbie to pull over. That word
darling
could mean so much coming from her mum — everything from a question, to an admonishment, to the endearment it normally expressed.

‘I’m going to walk back to the hotel,’ Jane said. She tried to sound affable, but even she heard in her tone a warning for them not to argue.

It didn’t faze Catelyn. ‘It’s miles. Plus it’s raining.’

‘Mum … please. We’re on the Strand. It’s not miles. It’s about ten minutes and it’s always raining in London. I have an umbrella.’

‘You’re sure?’ her dad offered, but only because her mother had glared at him to say something.

Jane reached for an excuse. ‘I just want some air.’

Mercifully, her mother seemed to understand that what her daughter really wanted was to be alone. ‘Don’t get lost, darling.’

‘You need some rest, Jane,’ her father cautioned out of the taxi window. ‘By that I mean sleep. Total switch-off.’

She gave him a sad, tight smile of agreement, saying, ‘I won’t be long,’ and lifted a hand in farewell as the taxi eased back into the traffic. Absently aware of her surroundings, she walked without purpose or direction, wandering in the footsteps of whoever happened to be in front of her. Right now she was following red sneakers, but she had spotted some black heels clicking along; their loud clatter might help keep her focused. Her mind was uncharacteristically empty. She was aware of having no desire to think, or even to look up from the pavement, to which her gaze remained riveted. She switched to the black heels as the red sneakers veered off to beat the lights before they changed and cross the busy Strand.

Just walk
, she told herself.

The rude clangour of a sudden ambulance siren dragged her from the stupor where neither today’s Will nor the world could reach her. She was walking in a haze of memory. Will’s kiss, Will’s love, their laughter, their lovemaking … all rolled into a warm fug in her mind. The screaming siren pulled her from the thin bubble of safe blankness and threw her straight back to days ago in the Tube station. The police were searching for the attackers, and if Will died, a senior officer had explained to her father, they would be looking for men to charge with manslaughter.

But Will was not going to die, and she couldn’t have cared less whether they found the perpetrators or not; revenge was not on her mind. All she wanted was for her life to wind back to that morning when she was kissing Will at the Seven Dials, eating chocolate cake for breakfast, talking about magic and seriously contemplating another day in bed … Why hadn’t they done that? Why had they passed the hotel?

A leaflet was thrust into her hand by someone she barely noticed, and only now did she realise it was one of five she was clutching: ads for a new pizza restaurant, a small show that was running just off Drury Lane, a pub that had introduced its winter menu, a Christmas market that was the new rage in London; and now, this last one, on lilac-coloured paper, inviting people to a session with a clairvoyant. The first five people who visited and carried a leaflet would have their reading provided free.

The address was in Covent Garden. Why not? It would be a good distraction. She could have answered ‘Yes’ to each of those questions. Maybe just listening to a stranger would help. She snapped back to alertness and threw the other leaflets into a nearby litter bin, turning off the busy Strand to make her way back into the market area.

The clairvoyant’s room was at garret level, straddling a Moroccan restaurant and an outdoor clothing shop. It was a tiny room at the top of two tall flights of stairs and as she entered the smell of frying spices wafted up the stairwell.

Jane glanced at the time. Her parents wouldn’t be wondering about her yet; she reckoned an hour at most was all she had, though. She knocked on the thick, gloss paint of the creamy-white door and waited. As she knocked again, the door opened and a man of indeterminate age looked back at her from pale, searching eyes that she thought were blue. His mid-brown hair was trimmed close to his head and his oblong face sported a close-cut, precisely shaped beard, as though from another century.
You’d look perfect with a sword in your hand and a cloak tied at your throat
, she thought, relieved that she could feel
amused by anything. On this first glance, everything about him struck Jane as spare, from his lean frame to his neat, symmetrical features. Surprise must have been reflected in her expression.

‘Expecting an old crone?’ he wondered with a wry glance, his tone playful.

In the heartbeat of her hesitation he smiled, transforming as amusement sparkled in his eyes and fizzed in his voice. Attractive creases appeared in his face and a warmth seemed to radiate from him. She presumed he was gay from his slightly effeminate way of speaking and, while she inwardly fought the stereotyped assumption, his narrow, small stature and precise, well-fitting clothing reinforced her presumption.

‘I
was
expecting a woman,’ she admitted, finally finding a voice.

‘Sorry to disappoint. I do it deliberately, though — I mean not telling people my name is Robin on the flyer. Would it have put you off coming?’

She nodded.

He grinned, and the effect was bright and disarming. ‘You see? I was right to leave it off!’ he teased. ‘Why don’t you come in?’

‘Um …’

‘What’s to lose?’ Robin challenged gently. ‘You wouldn’t have trekked up those stairs if you didn’t have questions. Let’s see if I can guide you to some answers.’ He beamed at her. ‘It’s free, remember? You’re the first of the five. What’s more, I’m very, very good at what I do.’

She smiled at his persuasive manner. ‘Why free?’ she asked, stepping in and allowing him to close the door behind her and take the coat she shrugged off. ‘Wow, it’s lovely and warm in here,’ she remarked before he could answer. She was delighted by the light and airy studio office. ‘I love your windows,’ she said, pointing toward the tall arches with coloured squares of pale glass at the top.

‘They’re mesmerising, I agree,’ he said.

As she went on admiring them, she pulled off her scarf and he took that from her too.

He seemed able to read her thoughts. ‘I know you were probably expecting a gypsy tent with lots of drapes and crystals … perhaps even some incense.’ She hoped she wasn’t blushing as she registered the truth of his words. ‘But I like a clean space to think in,’ he said gently, placing her coat on a wooden hanger and draping her scarf around it with care before putting it on the wall hook. ‘Coffee? It’s real and exceptionally tasty. Here, have a seat and get comfy.’ As he spoke, he moved quietly around a small kitchenette. ‘How do you like it?’

‘Small, strong, but with milk and sugar, please.’

‘Italians would call that “caffè macchiato”.’

Jane blinked. ‘Never heard of that.’

‘It will definitely be your new vice.’

She found Robin warm and charming — a balm for her state of mind. Since she’d set eyes on him, her misery hadn’t once encroached on her ability to talk.

‘My name’s Jane.’ He threw her a smile of welcome. ‘Do you live here?’

‘No. But I don’t live far from here. I like to keep home and work separate.’

Jane couldn’t fathom how a clairvoyant made the kind of money needed to work out of a chic office such as this and live not far from Covent Garden. Perhaps he was extremely wealthy and happened to have a psychic talent. Or maybe he was a trickster who gave the perfect illusions to troubled people searching for answers. ‘How on earth do you make a living?’

‘I have regular clients who pay an awful lot of money for me to tell them exactly what they want to hear. I also have regular clients who pay an equal amount of money to learn the truth.’

Neither of them spoke while she watched him grind the coffee beans before heaping a few spoonfuls of the grounds into
his percolator. Within a minute or two, the giveaway sound of bubbling coffee and the seductive fragrance of the brew had him reaching for a tea towel to lift the jug off his small stove.

‘I bought this in Italy,’ he explained. ‘I prefer it to filtered coffee, which tastes flat to me. You’ll love this,’ he said, placing on the side table a saucer bearing a napkin, a shiny teaspoon and a small, fluted glass.
He has style, that’s for sure
, she thought. She’d only ever drunk coffee out of a glass in Turkey.

‘I’ve warmed the milk too.’

‘Thank you — that looks good,’ she admitted.

‘It is. Better in Italy, of course. Enjoy.’

Jane quietly stirred in her half-teaspoon of sugar from the sachet he’d supplied, and as the rich, liquoricey flavour hit her taste buds, she felt her shoulders relaxing from what had begun to feel like a permanently tensed state.

Robin joined her, sipping and smiling. ‘Tell me that’s not delicious.’

She couldn’t help herself. Her first real smile in days broke out. ‘It’s yummy, thank you.’

‘So if nothing else, I’ve made you smile and given you a coffee you’d gladly pay for,’ he said, once again mysteriously echoing her thoughts.

‘So why, if you have these rich, happy-to-pay clients, do you need to take wanderers like me off the street who give you nothing, but cost you in time and coffee?’

He cocked his head to one side and shrugged. ‘Well, it’s a bit like being a lawyer. I have skills that everyone needs from time to time, but not everyone can afford them. I’ve led a blessed life, but when I walk the streets I see so many unhappy people. At each season’s change I give away five sessions, and if any of those people want to return, I will see them at a fraction of my normal rate for as long as they wish. I think of this consulting in the same way as a lawyer might consider his pro bono work. Important, and one must make time for it.’

‘That’s very … um … community-minded.’

‘It means I have no trouble sleeping,’ he said in answer, reaching for his coffee and swallowing almost a third of the glass neatly in one gulp. He used the small paper napkin to dab his beard free of any milk froth. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Since arriving here.’

Jane was instantly on guard again. ‘Er … fine, thank you.’

He smiled softly and she watched again, marvelling at the infectiousness of his amusement and how it lit up his face.

She looked down. ‘Does it show?’

‘That you’re looking for answers? Or that you are in deep shock?’

Her gaze snapped upward. ‘Both.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes? Yes … what?’

‘I’m answering your question. Both of these elements have formed a dark companion — a shadow that follows your every move. There’s a third element too.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Guilt.’

The word hung between them as she searched Robin’s face, unconcerned by the lengthening silence, whereas normally she would have rushed to fill it.

‘So you don’t need to look at tea leaves, or study my hands —’

‘Or hold your stunning new engagement ring,’ he interjected wryly. ‘No.’

She flinched at the mention. ‘I suppose everyone can see it’s new,’ she said in a sceptical tone.

‘Yes, of course. But would everyone know that the person who gave it to you is gravely injured?’

Jane gasped. She clapped her hands across her mouth to prevent the shriek that sprang to her throat. The treacherous tears that leaked down her cheeks told him he was correct.
But then he sat there in his neat, self-contained manner, with a slightly amused and not fully readable countenance, and it seemed to Jane he believed he already knew everything he needed to know about her.

‘Forgive me. That was my ego getting in the way. I am no charlatan, but many would view me that way. I would very much like to help. How can I help you, Jane? What is it you need to know?’

She didn’t care how or why he knew about Will; that he undeniably did was shocking, but at the same time strangely comforting.

Cooing pigeons suddenly lifted off somewhere above the coloured panes of glass and the battering of wings felt symbolic. Jane allowed her most important question to take flight. ‘Why am I feeling guilty?’

‘Well, only you know the complete truth of that, but I sense your guilt is not cynical. I believe you are questioning the meaning of love.’ Jane swallowed, but hoped she’d disguised it. ‘I sense that you have never been in love before, although you have been associated with enough men not to be called a prude.’ He eyed her and she took a visible breath but said nothing. ‘Now you find yourself at a crossroads in life. This is a man that any single girl of the right persuasion would fall easily in love with.’ She blinked. ‘And you do love to be with him. You love being loved by him. Physically, financially and sexually you’re both highly compatible. Mentally you are curiously well matched too. Although he is something of an academic, he is also a dreamer, while you, Jane, are more realistic, certainly practical, probably the stronger-willed. You balance each other. So, with this compatibility swirling about you and his clearly stated and demonstrated love for you, you are a little scared by the nagging question of whether you’re ready for the commitment he wants … and you certainly don’t trust the compatibility. Your subconscious, I suspect, is telling
you it’s too neat, too perfect, too … easy. Maybe you believe that the love you dream of should be harder to attain, that you need to work for it, earn it,
risk
something for it.’ He stared so intently at her during those final few words that she caught her breath. And then he smiled, again instantly shifting the mood. ‘Crystallising it down,’ he continued in a more light-hearted way, ‘
he
wants you and no other. Meanwhile,
you
would prefer to be together for a while without the ring, the marriage, the fuss, the declarations of undying love.’