The Rose Garden

And the kitchen itself was a much different room. There were no fitted cupboards, no worktops, no stove, just the fireplace and stone hearth and iron hooks hung with a motley collection of pans and utensils, the purpose of most of which I didn’t know.

But the table, although it was smaller and rougher, was in the same spot, pushed up under the window. And sitting there having a breakfast of dark ale and bread felt familiar enough that it calmed me a little.

Fergal had calmed a bit, too, though his face betrayed his open incredulity at what he’d just been told. He filled his tankard for a second time and said, ‘So you’re telling me, then, that you’ve come from the future.’

‘That’s right.’ I didn’t care if he believed me. My only defence was the truth.

He was looking at me strangely. He shifted his attention to the man in brown beside me, who’d been sitting back in silence while I’d talked. ‘And you believe this?’

‘I have seen it.’ With his booted legs stretched out beneath the table and his folded arms across his chest, he said, ‘I’ve seen her pass between the worlds. ’Tis not a trick.’

‘It might be witchcraft.’ But he said it without any true conviction.

‘Other men than you and I believe in witches,’ said the man in brown, and Fergal gave another nod.

‘Ay. But if not witchcraft, what then?’

‘Why not truth?’

‘Because the two of us both know it is impossible.’

‘And men once thought the sea had limits that could not be sailed beyond for fear of dragons,’ was his friend’s reply. He turned his head to look at me, his clear eyes thoughtful on my face. ‘I would submit that she is her own proof that it is possible.’

Fergal set his tankard on the table. ‘See now, all that this is doing is to make my head ache like the devil has a hammer to it, so if you’ll both excuse me I have work I should be seeing to.’ With a scrape he pushed his chair back and went out, and left us sitting there together by the window.

It was open, and the morning winds from off the sea were coming in by gentle gusts that crossed the sill and brushed my hands, a reassuring touch. Unseen within the tangled branches of the nearest apple tree a songbird had begun to trill, a carefree sound that seemed in contrast to my troubles.

At my side the man in brown said, ‘Fergal is a good man. But he does not lightly give his trust.’

‘I’ve noticed.’ I gave my arm an absent rub, remembering.

‘I give you my apologies if you were roughly handled.’

‘That’s all right. He thought I was a thief. Besides, he’s more than made it up to me, coming up with that story for your constable.’

He gave a shrug, acknowledging the truth of that, and as he turned his head away the silence started settling between us once again.

I said, ‘I didn’t know your name.’

His eyes came back to me. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘That’s why Fergal thought I was a thief,’ I said. ‘Because I didn’t know your name.’

A moment passed, and then with the suggestion of amusement in his voice he tossed my own words from our meeting in the bedroom last night back at me. ‘You never asked me.’

Two could play that game, I thought. I met his gaze with one as steady. ‘Do you have one?’

No denying the amusement now. It briefly lit his eyes inside as he said, ‘Daniel Butler. At your service, mistress.’

‘Thank you, Mr Butler.’

With a gallant nod he pushed his own chair back and stood and stretched and said, ‘Now, by your leave, I have some work myself I must attend to. I’d advise you keep within the house, but you may have the freedom of it.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Oh, and Eva?’

‘Yes?’

He’d stopped within the doorway. ‘I should think a woman who had slept in my own bed might properly presume to call me Daniel.’ With the smile still in his eyes he left, before I’d had the time to form a suitable reply.

It felt so strange to walk the rooms I knew so well and find them different.

The furniture was more austere and harder in its lines, though I could sense a woman’s hand had tried to soften the décor a little, likely the woman whose gown I was wearing. There were cushions on a few chairs, and woven rush seats on some others, and long hanging curtains in calico prints at the sides of the windows. The downstairs hall hadn’t yet been plastered over and the rich wood panelling made everything seem darker, but the rooms themselves were brightened by their carpets and their picture frames with lively prints of country life hung all round on the walls, and everywhere I looked were candles, set in sconces on the walls or shielded by glass chimneys on a table or a mantelpiece, all waiting to be lit against the darkness come the evening.

Some downstairs rooms were used for other purposes – the dining room from my own time was used here as a sitting room – but in the big front room I’d always known as the library there were still shelves, and books, and in the place of the piano was a cabinet full of china cups and plates and curiosities that trembled with a tinkling sound in rhythm with my footsteps on the wide-planked floor.

Intrigued, I took a closer look.

The cups and plates and saucers were a delicate design of whorls and rosebuds on an ivory background, carefully lined up in proud display. And on the shelf below were seashells, gorgeous things of varied shapes and colours. Some I recognised from my collecting days: a knobbled murex, pink and white, the iridescent rainbow lining of an abalone, and the broad flat fan of a Japanese scallop. And set in their midst was a little glass box, hinged and shaped like a scallop-shell too, and inside was a tightly wound curl of dark hair tied with blue ribbon.