The Thornless Rose (14 page)

The future seemed clear, so horribly predictable. Even if her plan about a message in the Bible worked and her grandmother learned she was safe, she would probably never see her again, never find a way back to her family, to her life.

She hugged herself and gently rocked, days of pent-up tears spilling down her cheeks, her loss overwhelming.

…

Brandon leaned against the hospital door, thankful for the cooling breeze on his face. In the space of a few minutes, the life he’d made for himself had been turned upside down. Catherine was forever lost to him, all hope gone in that regard. And yet, in parting, and for the love they once shared, she’d charged him with a mission. Closing his eyes, he knew he was duty-bound to honor Catherine’s request.

The queen had charged him with Anne Howard’s protection, and now Catherine had, too. In this era, the only way he could legally ensure Anne’s safety was through marriage.

He glanced at the sky, willing his thoughts forward, hoping to send them through time
. I do this for you, Catherine
, his mind called out.
I do this because I no longer have any hope of getting home.

It is my gift…my last gift to you, and I will abide by your wishes and take care of your granddaughter. Dearest Catherine, on my honor I will watch over her
.

He thought of their last kiss outside the Bishop’s Crook, and how Catherine had sighed, filled with such sweet desire, just before she strolled away with little Duffy in her arms.

His eyes misted over, but then he squared his shoulders and entered the hospital.

…

Sometime later, Mary’s voice cut in to Anne’s bleak reveries, “C’mon, then, dearie.”

Quickly mopping her face, Anne tucked the Marmite and photo away and looked up.

“We’ll no’ sup ’til seven o’ the clock, so we’ve plenty o’ time t’ fix thee up right in a room o’ thine own...’til the nuptials, that is.”

Nuptials?
Anne was stunned. How had Mary heard about the doctor’s so-called impertinent fiction? Shaking her head, she decided Mary must have been listening to some fairgoers’ gossip.

“Aye,” Mary went on as Anne followed her across the courtyard to the hospital. “There’s some as want t’ get right t’ the business o’ the thing—test the waters, so t’ speak—an’ others as want t’ stay laced up tight, right t’ the moment the preacher hath his coin an’ left fer home.

“But whichever way they choose, ’tis the country girls,” Mary nodded with a knowing smile, “as seem t’ handle it most natural when the time comes, seein’ it as they do, with the ruttin’ o’ the beasts as surrounds them day an’ night.”

Anne’s mind swirled with provocative images, her emotions a jumble.
Marriage? How?
Dr. Brandon had said that only to get them out of a tight spot, and, besides, he loved her grandmother, that was plain enough to see. Handsome as he was—
oh God, those eyes!
—she really had no desire to jump into
that
quagmire.

An unbidden heat infused Anne’s body, and she tried to suppress her thoughts by focusing on the stream of words still pouring out of Mary’s mouth.

“Aye, worry not, Mistress Anne. Thou shalt understand the mystery o’ the marriage bed soon enough.”

Shaking her head, Anne hurried after the chattering housekeeper, through the hospital’s great room, down a hallway and up a narrow flight of stairs, finally halting before a thick oak door.

Taking a ring of keys from her pocket, Mary unlocked it. “’Tis not grand, I know, but it should do well enough ’til the nuptials.” She looked to Anne for approval, then busied herself about the room. “The doctor’ll be moving t’ the Lady Chapel tomorrow, if all stays quiet at St. Bart’s.”

Mary pulled open the heavy, floor-length curtain covering a deep-set window. “The good doctor told me of the kidnapping, mayhap by the same villainous puttock as stabbed the bishop, an’ that thou lost everything but what’s on thy back. I’ve sent out already fer some new togs, that thou might be set up proper at the evening meal, but the feller’s slow an’ won’t be back fer a couple o’ hours. So, rest up for a spell. I’m sure thou hast earned it.”

“Thank you, Mistress Prentice. I appreciate all the effort.”

“Nay t’ mention it, dearie,” Mary replied, turning down the bed covers. “I wast glad enough t’ know thou werna fulsome filth, nor one t’ hurt our good bishop.” Waving absently, she stepped to the door and made ready to close it behind her. “Take a wee kip, then, an’ be sure t’ call me Mary when thou taketh the evenin’ repast.”

The door closed with a
thump
, and Anne could hear the woman’s footsteps fade down the hallway. Looking around her, she realized this room hardly varied from the one at the inn, or even the brothel. There was a three-panel screen where she could change, but, beyond that, the only real difference lay in the degree of cleanliness, not the appointments. Thankfully, this one was very clean.

Anne removed her crumpled cape from her bag and tossed it across the foot of the bed. She wondered if the condition of the room reflected Brandon’s policies, those of Mary, or both. She decided she didn’t care and allowed herself to sink gratefully onto the mattress, pulling the covers up.

Just a short nap and she’d feel better.

Anne’s mind drifted, wandering between sleep and reality.
Too much to think about. Too much to absorb...

The pleasant numbing of sleep crept over her.

Boom!
A grimy fist connected hard with Anne’s jaw. Her body jolted awake at the flashback. She lay there with her eyes wide, breathing hard.
Norfolk is looking for me. What can he possibly want? Jonathan. Jonathan can help
, she thought, willing her body to relax again.

Then she saw Catherine sitting at the desk in the library, tenderly fingering the Brighton engagement photograph.

Grandma, help me. Please! I’m so lost.

Anne tossed in her bed for what seemed like hours, before finally dropping off into a fitful sleep.

Chapter Fifteen

Loud pounding woke Anne with a start. Heart in her throat, she tumbled out of bed and was on her feet before she had truly awakened.

“Mistress Anne, ’tis hours past cock crow, an’ the doctor says ’tis time t’ be up,” Mary called out. She knocked again, but this time the sound did not seem nearly so threatening.

“Yes, Mary. I’m up. Thank you,” Anne replied, still trying to get her bearings.

Another knock. Mary pushed the door open and poked her head inside. “You’ll no’ mind the intrusion, then. I’ve a thing or two fer thee, as the doctor ordered.”

The housekeeper looked over to Anne’s bedside table and clucked her tongue. “Aye, I’d a brought thy new togs up last evenin’, but thou were sleepin’ so sound we all thought it best t’ let thee lie. I brought in some victuals, just in case thee woke with hunger pains, but I can see thee dinna need ’em.”

Anne looked over and realized for the first time that there was a platter of food next to her bed. “Wow. I didn’t realize...”

“Wow?” Mary frowned.

“I only meant...”

“Never mind, dearie. Thou hast survived an ordeal and a fright, and needed the rest.” Mary set a large bundle down on the bed and tore at the wrapping. “Here are the togs I mentioned last night. Try ’em on quick-like t’ make sure the tailor remembered what we told him t’ do.”

Out spilled two skirts, one a butternut hue and the other a deep brown, as well as three smocks in ivory, pale blue, and old rose, each with beautifully wrought stitchery about the neckline and cuffs. There were several pair of wool stockings, some underwear that looked like bloomers, three vests—also in varying shades of brown—two pair of sturdy-looking, rather shapeless leather shoes, one creamy yellow, hooped farthingale, along with a few slips, two linen corsets, and a pair of cloth bags sewn to a ribbon.

“What’s this?” Anne asked, holding up the bags. “Is this all for me?”

“Aye, the good doctor dinna want t’ see thee wearin’ those ratty things o’ yourn. Exceptin’ thy vest an’ this lovely cloak, which I’ll put a good brush to.” Mary focused on the bags. “Those are thy pockets, o’ course, as tie ’neath thy kirtle. As for the other things, we might wash ’em out and make ’em presentable still, I suppose.”

Anne shook her head. “Thank you. The cape is mine. But the rest—I’ll wash them out. They belong to someone else, and I need to get them back to her.”

“All right, then, but
I’ll
do the washin’. Thou shalt break the fast wi’ Dr. Brandon just as soon as thou comes downstairs t’ join him. Thou doth know where the doctor takes his meals?”

“I assume it’s in the great room with the big table. We passed by it last night on the way here.”

“Aye. ’Tis the spot.” Mary gathered up the cape, then hesitated. “Whatever am I feelin’?”

Anne noticed Mary working the cloth.
Oh, no! The switchblade!
“Here, Mary. Let me have that. It’s just something from my grandmother.”

Reaching into the pocket, she quickly removed the knife. Mary shrugged and picked up the platter.

Anne stuffed the switchblade into her leather bag and rummaged through her new things. Choosing the butternut skirt, she was surprised when a pile of plain, white strips of cloth tumbled to the floor. “What’s this?”

“What’s that?” Mary frowned. “Dr. Brandon said thou lost everything, so I assumed that meant
everything
. Will thou no’ be wantin’ a new set of rags, then?”

“Rags?” Anne asked dumbly.

Mary tilted her head to one side as she studied Anne, obviously having a hard time figuring her out. “Surely thou hast experienced thy monthlies?”

Oh my God, rags!
Anne immediately thought of a few more things she would love to have stuffed into that damned bag of hers. “Yes, uh, but...” She gaped at the rags. It was going to be gross figuring out how to use them effectively.

Mary narrowed her eyes and huffed. “I shalt speak plainly, mistress, and forgive me for bein’ crass, but thou dost strike me as flummoxed beyond measure. I dinna think thou wast the type t’ no’ wear rags an’ drip on the ground. Thou seems t’ be bred from finer stock, a cut above the lumpen an’ their scurvy ways. I can no’ abide peasants—’tis God’s truth, and forgive me fer sayin’ it. If thou hast never used rags, thou must needs start.”

Holy crap
. Despite studying history, Anne had never read anything about this. “No, I’m not a peasant,” she said, “but, er, never mind all of this. It’s just too much to explain.”

Mary stared at her for a moment longer, then, rolling her eyes, she turned and left the room.

I might as well be on the Moon. Holy crap in spades.

After all that, Anne was anxious to get dressed and go downstairs, to find Brandon. Despite the gap in years between their birth eras, he had an inkling of her world
.

She gathered up her new clothes and walked to the changing screen. She draped the different articles over the top of the screen and then dressed, carefully tying the beribboned pocket-bags at her waist before pulling on her skirt.

Everything fit quite well, with the exception of the shoes, which were much too small. Anne glanced at her leather pair. Even if they didn’t fit in with the prevailing styles, she could use them for the time being.

After splashing water on her face and attacking her filmy teeth with the towel, as she’d done at the inn, she reached into her bag and got another breath mint. She wondered how long they would last, again wishing she’d brought a toothbrush.

Then something occurred to Anne. She glanced at the door, recalling how her students loved the seventeenth century toothbrush they’d seen on display at Jamestown. But did they have toothbrushes now? Some fifty years earlier?

She studied the door again. She’d have to ask Dr. Brandon what he used.

Looking around to make sure everything was neat, Anne spotted the pile of rags. She gathered them into a bundle and shoved them into the washstand drawer.

About to leave for breakfast, she suddenly remembered the jar of Marmite. With a smile, she placed it in her skirt pocket and headed for the door.

…

Brandon stood before his mirror, absently daubing his jaw with shaving lather. He’d awakened that morning to the painful remembrance of Catherine’s letter, but decided he’d go mad if he tried to comprehend why her granddaughter had traveled back in time to find him. Just like his inexplicable experience, Anne’s appearance here made no sense. Time travel was a mystery for both of them.

He imagined what she must be feeling and then recalled how she wept after hearing her grandmother’s letter. Her eyes looked so green when flooded with tears. How it tore out his heart to see her in agony! The memory of Anne’s beauty, tinged as it was with such fragility, could not be ignored, and had shaken him to his core. Since then, he’d tried to dismiss his feelings as the result of a dearth of intimacy. That had to be it. He was lonely and vulnerable.

Staring at his scar, his thoughts were transported back to the vivacious, blond nurse who’d cared for him after he’d been injured, several months before he’d met Catherine. Despite his mood, a smile crept across his face. Audrey Lister’s healing hands had tended to more than his war wounds.

Good Lord, that was 1944.
He hadn’t made love for ages.

Brandon began to shave. He’d not been inclined to seek out female companionship since his arrival; perhaps because he’d had to live by his wits at first, barely surviving until Bishop Wright took him in and gave him a room and a job at St. Bart’s. After that, he’d found the women of this era didn’t appeal to him anyway. Their lack of modern hygiene, as well as the strong probability of catching some venereal disease, had encouraged his celibacy, and, more importantly, he had been deeply mourning Catherine.

Losing her was reason enough to live as a monk. Damned moral codes, rigid rules had kept him from making love to her. She was an exemplary young woman of good family, waiting for her wedding night. They’d shared kisses, but nothing more. He wondered if she had divulged this to her granddaughter.

Would it make a difference to Anne? They were going to wed, but it would be a marriage in name only. Wouldn’t it? He hadn’t anticipated the effect this beautiful young woman had on him. He wouldn’t force himself on Anne—he couldn’t. Besides, would she want him, especially with his and Catherine’s shared, albeit chaste, history?

He recalled how Anne had looked at him in the royal box, when their hands had touched for the first time. Was it his imagination? Had she felt something, too? Could it be? Would he and Anne Howard...?

Bollocks!
He looked at the drop of blood welling up from his nicked face.

“Catherine,” he muttered to the mirror, “how am I supposed to resist her if she’s willing? She’s breathtaking—and I’m only human.”

…

Anne surveyed the great room at St. Bart’s. Benches flanked a long oak table, while wooden armchairs commanded either end. An oak sideboard held jars and bowls of brown glazeware. A stone fireplace stood on the opposite wall, surrounded by a pair of lovely high back chairs upholstered in plush crimson velvet. So far, they were the only touches of luxury Anne had seen at the hospital.

She walked to the table, simply set with two wooden platters, a pair of brown mugs, several pewter knives and spoons, and blue linen napkins.

Anne sat on a bench, fingering a napkin. Did the Elizabethans actually use them? She didn’t have a clue. Could they have been Dr. Brandon’s idea?

Moments later, Mary came in carrying a tray laden with more of the glazeware—several bowls, small crocks, two egg cups, and a pitcher—which she placed on the table.

“May I help bring anything in, Mary?” Anne asked, rising to her feet.

“Heavens, no, Mistress Anne! I’ve only a bit more t’ bring, an’ ’tis no’ thy place anyway, though ta for asking, jes the same.”

“Okay. Well then,” Anne said, fumbling with her reply, “call me Anne, at least, since I’m to call you Mary.”

“Mistress!” Mary huffed. “Thou hast a deal t’ learn about the city, I can see. Whatever goes on in the up country, we canna go about as though a body dinna know her rightful place in this world.” She clucked her tongue and headed toward the kitchen, talking over her shoulder. “Thou must call me Mary because that’s me name, and I’ll call thee mistress because thou art the betrothed o’ the good doctor, and that’s thy station. I’d no’ pretend t’ make presumptions upon those wha’ are better than me. Why, if we all did that the city would be in an uproar like I canna imagine.”

The voice faded to a grumble. Shaking her head, Anne turned to study the breakfast. “I feel as if I’ve jumped right into a history book,” she muttered.

“It will feel that way for quite some time, I’m afraid.”

The musical baritone startled and pleased her, and she greeted Brandon with a smile. He was wearing a white shirt and black doublet, which set off his dark hair to perfection.

“I’ve added a few innovations and recipes,” he went on, “but I haven’t insisted on changing Mary’s habits regarding the table. Although, I dare say I have been sorely tempted to ask her to purchase some forks. They’re available, you know, recently introduced from the Continent.”

Anne’s smile deepened. “Good morning, Doctor.”

“We settled on Jonathan, I believe.” His tone seemed carefully regulated, neither warm, sad, nor too distant.

“Jonathan, sorry.” She noticed the shaving cut on his face, which was still bleeding slightly, but did not comment, not wanting to seem too forward.

She opened her mouth, ready to ask him about the toothbrush, when he broke into her thoughts, “So, after all of that, what have we for breakfast?”

“I don’t know, Jon...Jonathan. I was just looking things over.”

“That was a joke, actually. The meals don’t vary much. There’s always the coarse bread.” He pointed to each bowl or crock, in turn. “That is a pâté of duck, and these are kippers. Over there, soft-boiled eggs and a wedge of Somerset cheese—cheddar to us—and that is salt bacon. I’ve taught Cook how to make bread pudding laced with raisins—that crock over there and rather good, I might add. These last are frumenty.”

Anne wrinkled her nose. “Fermenty?”

“No,
fru
menty. It’s a type of porridge.” He indicated the remaining crocks. “These are honey, strawberry jam, and butter.”

“And Marmite.” Anne reached into her pocket and placed the jar on the table.

Their eyes met and held.

“Thank you, Anne. I overlooked that yesterday, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did.”

With a wary gaze, he glanced at the door. “We’d better hide it from Mary,” he said, covering the Marmite with a napkin.

Nodding, Anne studied the frumenty. “Looks a lot like Cream of Wheat, er, what you Brits call semolina. I think I’ll stick with that and the bread pudding and jam, if you don’t mind. I love strawberries.”

“Jolly good. There’s a garden up at Ely House, right next to St. Etheldreda’s. It’s famous for its strawberries. I’ve had the good fortune to treat members of the family from time to time, and they reward me with some of their bounty.”

“Thank goodness for small miracles.” Anne cast a skeptical eye at the kippers. Thirsty, she sniffed the contents of the pitcher, wrinkled her nose, and turned away. “Phew! The milk is sour.”

“Quite right. Without refrigeration, especially in summer, milk goes sour after a few hours, but it hasn’t gone bad. It’s only in modern times that people commonly have had sweet milk. During the war, we had to make do with such milk, too—when we were fortunate enough to get it, at any rate—so I’m quite used to it. It’s good, actually, and it won’t make you sick, for I’ve told Cook to boil all milk served here.”

“Maybe I’ll pass.”

“Go on, pour a bit into your bowl and dunk your bread in it, then eat it with a bit of cheese or
pâté.
You’ll find it delightful.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Believe me, Anne. I wouldn’t lead you astray.”

She looked up at him, and they stood still, gazes locked, trying to read each other’s thoughts, trying to understand.