The Passage (5 page)

“Sure, a drink would be lovely,” I replied, hoping it was at a pub rather than at Everly Manor.

“Say, around six at the Richard Onslow?” Max asked as he turned toward the door.

“Yes.  See you there.”

I spent the next few days in a flurry of activity, punctuated by meals and walks with Max.  His easygoing manner made me feel comfortable and for the first time in months, I felt lighter of spirit.  The conversation with Evan actually helped as well; making me feel as if I’d finally reached the end of that chapter in my life and could turn the page without constantly looking back.  I still grieved for the baby, but I was coming to terms with my loss and starting to consider the future.  Eventually, I’d have to start dating again, which was a daunting prospect, but for now, I didn’t have to make any decisions or commitments; I could just take life day by day and see where it took me.  My new resolve was even commented on by Max, who remarked that I seemed happier somehow.  I’d noticed a change in my physical appearance as well.  The haunted look in my eyes had been replaced by a calmer, more purposeful gaze, and my skin and hair seemed to take on a new glow, whether from my improved mental state or the fact that I was spending time away from the smog of London in the fresh country air of Surrey.

I hadn’t had any more strange dreams, but the one I did have, had stayed with me.  I could still feel the anguish of the young woman at the thought of being parted from her child, and wondered if in the psychedelic realm of dreams she represented me, struggling to accept the fact that her baby couldn’t stay with her.  Perhaps my mind was looking for ways to work through the hurt and move on.  I hoped so because I was a happy person by nature, and could no longer bear the crippling sadness I’d felt for the past few months.

Thoughts of Hugo Everly often caught me unawares, making me wonder about what happened to the man every time I passed his portrait in the gallery.  His dark eyes seemed to follow me, a mixture of amusement and arrogance, so deftly captured by the artist, immortalized on the handsome face that would never age.  What had I really seen that day?  I believed that what I saw had been real, but my mind couldn’t accept the fact that I might have gone back in time.  The notion was absurd, not to mention completely implausible.  I did some half-hearted research on time travel and found some theories about ley lines, but nothing concrete, of course, since time travel was scientifically not possible.  Or was it? 

I’d also tried to research the site of the church.  There wasn’t much to be found online, so I decided to ask Vicar Lambert, who was only too happy to oblige.  A brand-new packet of chocolate biscuits had been produced for the occasion, the kettle whistling on the hob as the vicar set out the cups and saucers with great ceremony, practically beaming with the desire to help.  He was under the false impression that the information would be used in the film somehow, and I decided not to disillusion him since the notion gave him such pleasure.  At last the tea was poured, and the vicar settled himself with a cup, leaning back in his chair as he took a dainty bite of the biscuit and surveyed me over the rim of the cup. 

“I don’t mind telling you, Neve dear, that this church was built on an ancient Pagan site of worship. I think I might have mentioned that before. That was often the case in medieval times, partially intended to take advantage of the structure and materials that were already there, and also to bring in the Pagan members of the community to the church.  I personally think that it was also done with the purpose of obliterating the original holy place in order to discourage people from continuing to frequent it.  Some of these ancient beliefs were so deeply rooted that the only way to keep people from continuing to practice them, was to try to wipe them out altogether.”

“Did it work?” I asked, wondering how people reacted to having their place of worship desecrated.

“Not right away, no.  There were still those who adhered to the old ways, but eventually Christianity won out, as it always does,” the vicar added pompously, “and the heathens saw the light of Christ, shining so brightly and burning away their past sins.  The Good Lord would never punish someone for their ignorance.  After all, these poor creatures didn’t know any better, did they, but they knew enough to accept Christ into their hearts, which is all that matters.”

I felt a long sermon coming on and balked at the idea.  Clearly, Vicar Lambert was not packing the church on Sundays, so his eloquent preaching was wasted on precious few who still came.  I wouldn’t be one of them and needed a way to politely change the subject without offending the good vicar.

“Vicar, please tell me more about the crypt,” I asked, hoping that the vicar would warm up to that theme instead.  He did.

“Well, the crypt just happens to be part of the old Pagan structure that was here long before the church was built.  The builders cleverly utilized the stone floor and the walls, but added the columns and the vaulted ceiling before building the church itself.”

“Were any alterations made to the crypt since the church was built?” I asked, trying to find some explanation for my experience.  Why did I go to the seventeenth century if the crypt dated back to Pictish times?  If I tried again, would I end up in the same year?  I didn’t know what year I went to, but Hugo vanished in 1685 around the age of thirty-five, which meant that I saw him within a few years of that date, judging by his appearance.  He couldn’t have been younger than thirty-three or older than thirty-five.

“As a matter of fact,” Vicar Lambert told me confidentially, leaning in and lowering his voice, as if we might be overheard by some Druids who just happened to be hanging around since the Dark Ages and were just waiting for this little tidbit of information, “the crypt had to be reinforced in mid-seventeenth century.  The walls were cracking, from the weight of the church above it, I suppose, so another layer of stone was added on the inside of the crypt, as well as some handsome carvings. I’m sure you’ve seen them.  Before that, the walls were just plain unhewn stone.”

“Were any additional exits put in place then, or any tunnels leading outside?”  No one could accuse me of giving up easily.

“I don’t believe so.  Why do you ask?”  The Vicar’s face suddenly lit up, understanding dawning, although it wasn’t at all what I had meant.  “Is there a scene in the film where someone escapes the church by means of a secret tunnel?”

“Not as far as I know, but if there was a tunnel, it might be written in.  Viewers just love the romance such scenes create,” I improvised, feeling a trifle guilty for misleading the poor vicar. 

“I’ll tell you what; you have another cup of tea, and I will look for the original blueprints of the church.  I’m fairly certain that no secret tunnel exits, but we must make sure mustn't we, for the sake of art.”

I raised my teacup in a toast, “For the sake of art,” I repeated as I reached for another biscuit.

To the vicar’s great disappointment, the blueprints didn’t show any secret passages or forgotten exits leading out of the crypt, but he quickly recovered, asking if I might have had an opportunity to speak to the director about his part.  I had actually asked Lawrence if he might have use of the vicar, but he emphatically declined, saying that’s what actors were for.  I hated to disappoint the jolly old man, but casting really wasn’t up to me.  Vicar Lambert looked crestfallen as I thanked him for the tea and left the church, stepping into the deceptively mild March afternoon.  I was glad that winter was finally over.  I’d always hated winter, and the promise of spring lifted my spirits as I climbed the ridge back to Everly Manor.

I heard it said that once an idea takes root in the mind it’s very difficult to dislodge it, and this particular idea kept growing in mine for over a week before I finally had to act on it.  I needed to know what happened to me that day in the crypt and prove to myself that I hadn’t imagined the whole thing.  I reasoned that as long as I could get back to the present as I had before, I was in no danger.  I had spent the past few weeks researching the seventeenth century for work, so I thought I could easily blend in for an hour or so and see how things stood for myself before I returned to my own time. 

I actually wanted to meet Hugo and talk to him, to know that he was real and not just a figment of my imagination.  The notion that two people from centuries apart could come together for even a fleeting moment in time, and make a connection where none was possible, was more enticing than I would admit even to myself.  I wasn’t looking for validation or glory, and I would tell no one of what I had experienced, but having the ability to do something which no one else had ever done before was too tantalizing to pass up.  I had no idea what I would say, and every dialogue that I invented in my mind sounded false and contrived, but I felt a physical need to meet the man, to be in the same room and hear the sound of his voice, to try to find out what happened to him, and to Jane, if she actually existed outside my overwrought imagination.

On Saturday morning, I told Max that I was going to London for the day.  It was the weekend, so he’d have no reason to expect me to stay at the house, and as far as I knew he had plans of his own, which suited my needs perfectly.  I drove my car to a car park in the village and left it there since I could hardly leave the car at the manor and walk to the church without arousing Max’s suspicions.  The rest was easy enough.  I’d stopped by the museum the day before and selected a seventeenth-century gown, a chemise and stockings, shoes, and a fur-lined cloak of midnight blue velvet from one of the trunks.  I didn’t take one of the elaborate gowns on display, but a simple one of brown damask with an underskirt of the same shade of cream as the slashing in the sleeves.  It was the gown of a lady, but it wasn’t pretentious or expensive, so if it got ruined, I wouldn’t feel too guilty.  The cloak was a bit extravagant, but it was the only thing warm enough for the chilly weather outside, and I made a promise to myself to take good care of it and bring it back in pristine condition.

I took the hold-all out of the boot, locked the car, and walked the short distance to the church.  The morning was sunny but cold, and my breath came out in small white puffs as I hurried along.  I grew more nervous now that the moment was at hand, but my feet carried me along, moving even faster now that I was hesitating. 
Was I mad?
I asked myself as I passed through the lichen-covered gate and made for the church porch.  Would a sane person do what I was about to do?  But my mind demanded answers, and I couldn’t live without learning the truth of what happened to me that day.  I stopped in front of the door and counted to ten to calm my racing heart.  I could still turn back, but if I were honest with myself, I didn’t want to. 

I pushed open the door and entered the church.  Sounds of conversation could be heard from the vestry, Vicar Lambert’s voice clearly audible as he made a comment and then chuckled good-naturedly, but I didn’t hear an answering voice, so perhaps the vicar was on a call.  The church itself was blessedly empty, the morning light filtering through the stained glass windows and filling the church with a rainbow of color.  My footsteps echoed on the stone floor as I made my way down the nave, disrupting the solemn hush of the place.  Why was the quiet of a church so different from any other sound?  You felt as if you were disturbing God himself if you so much as made a sound.  I rushed over to the stairway to the crypt and skipped down before anyone became aware of my presence.  The crypt looked much as it had before, but eerier since I didn’t turn on the light.  The knight kept his silent vigil over the rest of the residents, his hands gripping the hilt of the sword resting against his breastplate. 

“What do you think, Bruce?” I asked him as I quickly changed into my finery.  “Have I completely gone round the bend?  I feel like Alice about to go down the rabbit hole.  I just bet Hugo Mad Hatter Everly is waiting for me at his place, ready to serve tea and banter with His Grace the White Rabbit.”  Somehow I felt even more foolish for talking to an effigy, so I stopped blathering and got on with the task at hand.  I stowed away my modern-day clothes in a bag behind the tomb of the knight, and carefully pushed the button in the flower.  My hand shook with nerves, and I held my breath, almost expecting nothing whatsoever to happen.  Wouldn’t I feel the fool standing there in my seventeenth-century garb in front of a solid stone wall, but the stone began to move, a little quieter this time.  I glanced at the stone steps shrouded in darkness.  “Here goes nothing,” I told the knight and made my way to the wooden door at the top.

Thankfully, the church was empty on this end as well.  I looked around to make sure everything looked as it did the last time.  It did, but before leaving I walked up to the altar and glanced at the registry lying open on the pulpit.  There were lines and lines of marriages, births and deaths, all neatly recorded in the same hand -– the year 1685.  This seemed to jibe with what I’d seen before, so I wrapped the cloak around me and left the church, steeling myself for the walk to the house.  I was shaking like a leaf, more from anxiety than cold, but it was a rather bitter morning with a thin crust of frozen snow covering the ground and making me feel numb within minutes.  Modern clothing was so much warmer and more practical.  A frigid wind blew through the cloak since there were no buttons to keep it closed.  All I had was a tie at the throat, which allowed the cloak to billow around me like a full sail.  The hood kept blowing off my head and wind whistled in my ears as I walked toward Everly Manor, which rose out of the mist stark and proud, not dwarfed by the Victorian mansion which put it out to pasture in the nineteenth century.

I had a speech all prepared in advance, but every last word fled my memory as I got closer, my mind screaming for me to turn back and go back to my own time, my own place.  I barely registered the pounding of hoofbeats behind me until it was too late and I felt the hot breath of a galloping horse inches from my face as the horse knocked me off my feet and sent me flying to the side of the narrow lane, the rider screaming something at me as I fell ass over teakettle and hit my head on the frozen earth, my ankle twisting painfully as I landed.  For a moment, everything went quiet and still as I stared up at the colorless sky and saw a lone raven circling above.  Was it a sign of doom? I wondered dazedly.

The huge horse restlessly stomped its hooves, its nostrils flaring and its round eyes rolling from side to side in panic as the man dismounted and ran to my side.  Hugo Everly’s face appeared above mine, his eyes full of concern as he ran his hands over my limbs to see if anything was broken.  His lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear anything he said over the ringing in my ears and the roar of blood pounding through my veins.  I tried to form words, but nothing came out.  I didn’t think I was seriously hurt, but my thoughts were muddled, and I felt suddenly very dizzy and disoriented.  Oh, God, did I have a concussion?  I closed my eyes, partially to keep my head from spinning, and partially to hide from that dark gaze that was skewering me mercilessly.  Hugo’s curls fluttered in the wind, his hat shadowing the top half of his face and making him appear even more menacing.

Hugo effortlessly lifted me off the ground and carried me toward the house, his features arranged in just the same scowl that was immortalized in his portrait.  His lips moved from time to time, but I still couldn’t hear anything besides the beating of my own heart, which seemed magnified a thousand-fold, obliterating all other sounds.  I closed my eyes in exasperation.  I finally met the man and couldn’t even talk to him.  What a fool I’d been to go off like that.  The past was full of danger, not the least of it being a galloping horse that came out of nowhere. 

The door flew open and Hugo strode past a shocked servant, whose pale round face was dominated by a pouty mouth currently frozen in an O of surprise.  Hugo settled me on a chaise, and turned to pour a drink from a silver decanter.  He sank to his knees and held the cup to my lips until I took a sip.  It was brandy, and very good brandy, if I was any judge.  He continued to help me drink until the glass was empty.  My heart rate began to slow down and the ringing in my ears finally subsided somewhat.  The room was quiet except for my breathing, which still sounded awfully loud to my ears.  Hugo seemed to be holding his breath as he leaned over me. 

“Can you hear me, madam?  Are you badly injured?”  His voice was like the brandy, smooth and calming, and not at all what I expected.

“I... I think I’m all right,” I mumbled as I tried to sit up.  Hugo unceremoniously pushed me right back down as he rose to his feet. 

“Don’t try to get up; you’ll be overcome by vertigo.  Just rest awhile.  Would more brandy help?” 

Under the circumstances, I had no idea what would help, but I nodded, and he poured another inch into the cup.  I accepted the cup from his hand and took small sips between gulps of air while Hugo removed his hat and tossed it onto a nearby chair, followed by his wig.  The simple gesture instantly changed his appearance, making him appear younger and less intimidating.  I’d always wondered how men wore their own hair under those ridiculous wigs and was surprised to see that Hugo’s hair was shorn short, the dark waves only about two inches long. 

Hugo pulled up a straight-backed chair and took a seat next to me, taking my hand gently as he did so.  “Hugo Everly at your service, madam.  Please accept my heartfelt apology for the mishap.  I didn’t see you walking there.  In truth, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in the lane and wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings as I was preoccupied with my own thoughts.  Very careless of me.  I trust you are not badly hurt?” he asked again, searching my face for confirmation that he wasn’t responsible for causing me irreparable harm. 

“I just got the wind knocked out of me, that’s all.  I’ll be quite all right, thank you, Lord Everly,” I mumbled, suddenly very conscious of my absurd position.

“May I know your name?”

“Neve Ashley.”  I was surprised to see Hugo look at me with renewed interest; his eyes narrowed as he studied my features. 

“The niece of Anthony Ashley Cooper, the Earl of Shaftesbury?” he asked, clearly stunned.  “I thought the Christian name was Nell, but I must have been mistaken.”

I was about to deny any relation to the Earl of Shaftesbury, who’d been a fervent supporter of the Duke of Monmouth, but then reconsidered.  If it bought me a little time, then what was the harm?  Not like I was planning to stay and impersonate the lady.

“Ah… yes,” I mumbled as I averted my eyes.  What if he decided to take me home?  I was so busy considering the what ifs that I hardly noticed what Hugo Everly was saying.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” I asked, feeling even more flustered.  Hugo cocked his head to the side, appraising my mental state, which he must have found to be somewhat sound as he sat back and continued his train of thought.

“I was just saying how sorry I was to hear of your recent bereavement,” he said, still watching me like a hawk.  I, of course, had no idea whom he was referring to, so nodded sadly in the hope that he would just change the subject.  He didn’t. 

“I had great respect for your uncle and didn’t believe a word of the accusations of treason against him.  A blatant fabrication.  It’s tragic that he had to die in exile, so far away from the home that he so loved.”

“Yes, it was,” I agreed, hoping I wouldn’t give myself away by making some glaring mistake.  I was saved from further discussion of my ‘uncle’ by the appearance of a boy.  He was twelve or thirteen, still sweet-faced and childish, but with a hint of impending manhood hovering somewhere behind the eyes and in the silky fuzz that darkened his upper lip.  He stopped dead when he saw me on the chaise, but a stern look from Hugo put paid to any speculation he might have had regarding the situation.

“Mistress Ashley, may I present my nephew, Clarence Hiddleston.”  Clarence gave me a stiff bow and averted his eyes in embarrassment.  Clearly, he thought he had walked into some kind of romantic tryst.  Judging by the boy’s shock, they weren’t a regular occurrence.

“Where’s your mother, Clarence?” Hugo asked irritably.  “Is she still abed?”

“You know she is,” Clarence answered sullenly and gave Hugo a look of such disdain that it nearly made me laugh.  Seems teenagers were much the same in any age.  “She rarely stirs before noon.  Shall I get her?”

“Yes, tell her we have a guest, and be quick about it.”  Clarence threw Hugo a defiant look and left the room, walking slowly in hopes of provoking his uncle.  I turned away from Hugo to hide my smile. 

“Are you hungry?  Should I call for some refreshment?” Hugo asked solicitously, suddenly realizing how compromising we looked with me lying down and him leaning over me.  He didn’t wait for me to answer as he pulled a cord to summon a servant.  A young girl of about fourteen appeared a few moments later.  She seemed intimidated by her master, but he was perfectly courteous to her.

“Please ask Cook to send up some refreshments.  We have a guest.”

“Right away, your lordship,” the girl stammered. 

“And more brandy, Harriet,” he called after her as she scampered from the room.