Barbara Erskine: Sands of Time

For a long time she stood without moving, trying to understand what had happened. Her body ached; her clothes were ripped. She had his brooch. And yet this man was, as far as she knew, four thousand miles away in America. It had been a dream. But how could it have been?

She tried to force herself to confront what had happened. He had been there. In her room.

He must have been.

She shuddered. No. It wasn’t possible

‘We leave for Edinburgh this morning, Louisa my dear.’ David Fielding smiled at her as she appeared at last in the breakfast room. ‘And Katherine was wondering if you would like to accompany us. If Sarah could spare you for a few days I am sure you would enjoy it.’

Louisa found herself giving a deep exhausted sigh. Until last night this place had been a haven; a retreat from her dreams and nightmares. But now everything had changed. Even the thought of spending time with Venetia might be better than living with a dream like last night’s. She turned from the sideboard with her bowl of porridge to take her place at the table, her mind almost made up to accept, but Sarah was already speaking.

‘Bless you, David, for the thought, but I have already planned to take Louisa to Edinburgh later in the month. I’m afraid I can’t possibly spare her now. We have so much planned. So many things to do.’

‘I was right to say that, wasn’t I?’ she said to Louisa later. ‘I could see you and Venetia do not get on. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise. I had thought we were all friends. But at least I could spare you the long journey in her company.’ She paused. ‘Are you all right, Louisa? You look a little feverish.’

Louisa and she had watched the Fieldings depart an hour earlier with their nurses and their children and were now seated on the bench in the shade of one of the great cedars on the lawn behind the house. Sarah had brought her embroidery outside with her, Louisa a sketchbook and a box of watercolours and the latest letters from her two sons. All lay untouched on the seat beside her. How could she tell her hostess she would rather have driven on with the others even if that meant tolerating the company of the odious Venetia; that she dreaded another night under this roof because of her dreams. If they were dreams. She pictured again the brooch, now hidden in her own jewel box, and the man who had been wearing it.

As though reading her thoughts Sarah went on, ‘We haven’t talked about our visit to Carstairs Castle. What did you think of the place?’

Louisa was staring down across the grass towards the distant hills. ‘Very impressive.’

‘Do I gather Venetia has a fondness for his lordship?’

‘She has always found him attractive, I believe.’ Louisa smiled grimly.

‘Oh, but he is. Devilishly attractive!’ Sarah giggled. ‘If I were a little younger I might have set my cap at him myself.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘You are still young enough to ensnare him, Louisa. How would you like a title and a fortune? It is such a long time since your husband died. Think what fun you could have. A man with a certain reputation!’ She was setting her stitches with care, not looking at Louisa’s face.

‘He is in America, Sarah.’ Louisa’s voice was so taut that Sarah at last glanced up. Her guest’s face was as white as a sheet. Their eyes met. ‘He is in America.’ Louisa repeated. ‘Isn’t he?’

‘Yes, my dear. Of course he is.’ Sarah put down her sewing. ‘What is it? You look frightened.’

‘I dreamed about him last night.’ Louisa bit her lip. ‘It was so real. I -’ She hesitated, shaking her head. ‘It was so real I found it hard to believe it was a dream.’

The brooch was not a dream. Nor were the bruises on her body.

Sarah was still studying her face, her embroidery lying discarded on her knee. ‘And it was not a pleasant experience, if I read your expression aright.’

Louisa blushed scarlet. ‘No.’

Yes. The treacherous word hung between them, unspoken.

For a moment Sarah continued her silent scrutiny. ‘Were you – that is, did he pursue you when you were all in Egypt, my dear?’ She leaned forward and put a gentle hand over Louisa’s.

Louisa nodded.

‘But you didn’t encourage him.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Ah, I see the source of Venetia’s jealousy.’ Sarah sighed. ‘Was he very persistent?’

Louisa nodded. ‘He would not take no for an answer -’ Her voice broke. The memories were too powerful, too painful to bear.

For a moment both women sat without speaking. It was Louisa who broke the silence. She turned to her friend, her face tense with anxiety. ‘Do you believe in magic? High magic, where people can put others under their spell and force them to do things they don’t want to do. To have them in their power.’

Sarah stared at her. ‘You think Roger Carstairs has put a spell on you?’

Louisa saw the conflict in the other woman’s face. Disbelief. Amusement. And then finally horror. She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It sounds crazy. Such strange things happened in Egypt. Evil things. Even now I don’t know if they were coincidence or -’ Her voice trailed away. She sat silently for a few more minutes, then she turned back to Sarah. ‘If we could be sure he is in America I would like to go back to that museum of his.’ She gave a tight smile. ‘To lay a ghost.’

Sarah gave a nervous shiver. ‘I am sure we have only to ask Mr Dunglass.’

‘And you would come with me?’

Sarah nodded. ‘Just try and stop me.’

Their excuse was that Louisa would like to sketch the great feathered head-dress which was the centre of Lord Carstairs’s collection and it was arranged that the two ladies ride over early next day escorted by one of the Douglas’s grooms.

Before that Louisa had to live through another night.

Kirsty had removed the torn nightdress without comment and replaced it with a fresh one from Louisa’s trunk. It was lying ready on the bed when at last she came up to her bedroom that night. She had delayed her hosts for hours, begging Sarah to play the piano, asking James to tell stories of his time in India, and again when briefly he was member of parliament for the county. They both looked exhausted when at last they bade their guest goodnight at the top of the main staircase and headed towards their own bedrooms leaving her alone.

The lamp by her bed was turned low, the water in the ewer already cold. She had told Kirsty not to wait up for her; she could undress herself.

The windows were closed; the curtains drawn tightly together. Standing quite still she looked around the room, listening intently. There wasn’t a sound.

The lamplight barely reached the corners of the room. Carefully, holding her breath, she searched every inch; the huge wardrobe, the alcove near the fireplace, the dark shadows behind the cheval glass, under the high bed, behind the curtains. The room was empty. Only then did she turn the key in the door, undress quickly and put on her nightgown then her dressing gown, pulling the sash tightly round her and knotting it securely. Outside, the night was velvet soft beneath the moon. Inside, the room was hot and stuffy and she longed to open the window; to step out onto the balcony. She could feel the perspiration running down between her breasts as she climbed into the bed and sat, her arms around her knees, staring towards the windows she couldn’t see behind their heavy drapes.

After a while she began to doze.

She was awakened by a sharp rapping on the window pane. She was hunched up against the pillows, still wearing her dressing gown, the sheets pulled up over her. Remaining quite still she lay staring round, her heart beating very fast, unsure what had awakened her; she had no idea how long she had been asleep.