Tangled in Time 2 Page 11

  “I like the candy cane one,” Marisol said.

  “Oh good. That’s pretty easy.”

  Fifteen minutes later Marisol held out her hands with her striped nails. “This is so nice. I want to try painting yours, Rose. You choose a pattern.”

  Rose looked at the various styles shown on the small piece of paper that came with the kit.

  “Ooh, that’s neat—the star of Bethlehem one.”

  “That’s going to be hard,” Susan said.

  “Can I try?” Marisol asked.

  “Okay, here’s the tiniest brush in the kit.”

  “That’s good, but I’m going to need a pin. Rose, can you get me one of your straight pins from sewing?”

  “Sure.”

  Marisol began painting Rose’s nails. Ten minutes later she had almost completed one hand.

  “Wow, you’re really good, Marisol,” Susan said.

  “She’s great.” Rose looked up. “If you think this is good, Susan, you should see her watercolors.”

  “Using the pin works perfectly for the snowflakes around the star,” Susan said.

  “Sí, I mean, yes. And look how the star moves from east to west on each nail. Very correct. Right?”

  “Right,” Rose and Susan both replied.

  “Maybe I do your grandmother’s. You think she’d like it?”

  “I’m sure,” Rose said.

  “I’ll leave the kit with you,” Susan offered.

  “Gracias. I mean, thank you.”

  Sappy Christmas music began oozing from the radio. “Have yourself a merry little Christmas . . .” Rose and Marisol both exchanged looks of sheer horror. This was the song that had kept blasting from the mechanical snowman when Rose had found Marisol half frozen on the sidewalk.

  “We CANNOT listen to that song!” Rose shouted.

  Susan whipped out her phone and hit the Music app. Naturally it was BYB, Boyz Will Be Boyz.

  What’s a boy to do? I miss you, I want to kiss you. I can’t hear the beat without you, I can’t feel the song . . . it’s all so wrong. So wrong without you . . . girl. A dreamy look had swept across Susan’s face.

  “OMG, I forgot to tell you!” Susan’s eyes were blinking rapidly. Blinking beauty, Rose thought. For there were still a couple of drops of melted snowflake water caught in Susan’s long lashes.

  “What?”

  “Yuu Park.”

  “Who’s Yuu Park?” Marisol asked.

  “The lead singer of BWB,” Rose answered. “Susan has a huge crush on him.”

  “He might be part Jewish!” Susan exclaimed.

  “What? He’s Korean. How can he be part Jewish?”

  “I found out that his mom’s name is Beatrice Silverman.”

  “So?” said Marisol.

  “Silverman is a Jewish name. Have you ever met a Silverman who wasn’t Jewish?”

  “I’m not sure if I’ve ever met someone named Silverman,” Rose said.

  “Me neither.” Marisol shook her head.

  “But don’t you understand? Being Jewish comes down through the mother. Fathers who aren’t Jewish—that doesn’t matter. It all comes through the mother. So Bea is probably Jewish.”

  “You’re already calling her Bea?” Rose said. “And what’s the point if he is Jewish or not?”

  “The point is, maybe he could sing at my bat mitzvah? I mean, you know, maybe he’d sing for me. Since he’s Jewish too.”

  “Well, maybe,” Rose said.

  “I think I’m going to write Bea.”

  “Okay.” Rose and Marisol both nodded.

  “And oh, I was also thinking of what to wear to your Christmas dinner. I’m thinking of my bat mitzvah skirt, the one that you cut down from the dress I bought at Old Souls vintage. Because I have two blouses now to go with it. You saw one but not the other, and I can’t decide.”

  “I’ll help you. Bring them both over.”

  “Just one problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you think it’s appropriate that I wear a bat mitzvah outfit for Christmas dinner?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s universal. You know—kind of ecumenical.” And then a second later, Rose shouted, “Bonus points!”

  “Oh yeah, ‘ecumenical’ was on the word list Mr. Ross gave us.”

  “Word list?” Marisol asked, perplexed.

  “Oh, Mr. Ross sent it out on email that last day we had school,” Susan said. “You didn’t get it?”

  “I . . . I don’t have a computer.”

  “Jeez, that’s . . . that’s something,” Susan murmured.

  Marisol just shrugged. “More important things. You think, Susan, your dad is getting those papers for me?”

  “Oh yeah, definitely. He’s trying to speed things up. My dad’s real good at that kind of stuff. He can do just about anything.”

  My dad’s real good at that kind of stuff. He can do just about anything. The words lingered in Rose’s head.

  Chapter 19

  The Gift

  He can do just about anything. The words still lingered in her mind the next morning, Christmas Eve. Rose yearned more than ever to see her father. She wanted to give him a gift, a special gift. She had the bow tie, but that just didn’t seem special enough. She had thought of making a very small album with pictures of herself and her mom. But that would be too dangerous. Not with Queen Mary wearing that locket on a chain around her neck. Nevertheless, Rose wanted to bring her dad some sort of Christmas gift when she went back. But who knew if it would be Christmas? The century was always the same—but the day, the month, the hour was anybody’s guess.

  Rose then suddenly remembered her mom’s favorite sweater. It was cashmere, with a timeless design of flowers entangled on a rich brown background. Obviously too small for her dad. But could she turn it into something else? She went to her closet and took the sweater off the hanger. Pressing it against her cheek, she was overwhelmed with a smell, a scent that was uniquely her mom’s. There were layers of scent. First, there were the lilies of the valley that grew in the backyard of their house outside Philadelphia. And then she smelled the fragrance of a pasture dotted with wildflowers where they used to fly their kites. This was mingled with the salty breeze of the beach and the tang of sunblock. Then another scent—the velvet petals of roses, damask roses. All these scents flowed through her. She buried her face in the sweater. Like souls of something lost, they came back to her. But then she had a terrible thought. What if cashmere violated the sumptuary laws that governed what people could wear? What if cashmere was outlawed? Her dad could be arrested. Had cashmere been invented by the sixteenth century? She raced to her computer and googled it. Her heart sank when she read on Wikipedia that cashmere had been produced thousands of years ago in Mongolia, India, and Kashmir (naturally). Had anybody over four centuries ago known about those places? Marco Polo, the explorer, might have. Princess Elizabeth was very smart. She read history all the time. However, she had never mentioned Marco Polo. Two seconds later Rose nearly yelped with joy. In 1811, William-Louis Ternaux, the leading woolens manufacturer in France under Napoleon, began to manufacture cashmere from a herd of goats he had acquired. Too late for the sumptuary laws of the sixteenth century. “Hallelujah!” She immediately reached for her sewing scissors and had just begun cutting the sweater when Marisol came in.

  “What are you doing cutting that beautiful sweater?”

  “It was my mom’s. Doesn’t fit me. So I’m repurposing it.”

  “Repurposing?”

  “Making it into something else. I do it all the time. I once repurposed a sweater of my mom’s into a skirt for me.” She looked up at Marisol. She hoped she believed her. It would get complicated if she had to explain it was for her dad, in another time. “Where have you been?”

  “Giving manicures to your grandmother, then Betty, then cook Shirley. They all wanted them.”

  “Oh, that’s nice of you.”

  “I have to start wrapping my other presents no
w.”

  “Me too. Soon as I get this one done.”

  That evening, Christmas Eve, Rose, Marisol, and Rose’s grandmother had dinner in the library at the round table. The fire glowed in the fireplace. The Christmas tree sparkled. Everything was suffused with the amber light of this beautiful room with its walnut paneling. After dinner Marisol excused herself and went upstairs to finish her Christmas wrapping. Rose and her grandmother sat on the couch across from the fireplace. As Marisol left, Rosalinda’s eyes followed her.

  “Now, what’s her name again?”

  “Marisol, Gran.” Rose suppressed a sigh. It was always so sad when her grandmother experienced these brief lapses.

  “Oh, silly me. Why can’t I remember her name?”

  When Rose first came to live with her, Rosalinda would often turn to Betty and ask, “Now, who’s that strange girl? What’s her name?” Rose supposed it would continue. Her grandmother’s memory was a bit frayed.

  “I feel for her. She must miss her mother, especially tonight.”

  “I miss mine too,” Rose said. “And my dad.” It just slipped out. She hadn’t meant to say it.

  “Oh, dear girl!” Her gran gave her a squeeze.

  A sob burst inside Rose. She dropped her head onto her grandmother’s shoulder and began to cry. Rosalinda patted her and softly said, “There . . . there.” The sound of her gran’s words was in a sense like a cat purring.

  Rose had never really mentioned her father, except once. She had asked Gran if she had known her father, and Rosalinda said no. But then her gran admitted that he might have come from “that time.” “That time” was what her grandmother called those long-ago centuries where Rosalinda herself had once gone. Rose now lifted her head and sniffled.

  “You see, Gran, I actually met my dad.”

  “Really? You finally met him?”

  Rose nodded and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

  “And what is his name?”

  “Nicholas Oliver.”

  “Ah, the goldsmith.”

  “You know him?”

  “No, but his father was the court goldsmith before him, and everyone said that Nicholas would even exceed his father, William, in his talents.”

  “Well, I made a Christmas present for my dad.”‘

  “Lovely, dear. So why don’t you go give it to him?”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. Why not go now?” There was a sly twinkle in her eye. “I’m sure you’ll be back in time for Christmas dinner.”

  At that moment the clock on the mantelpiece began striking nine.

  “But it might not be Christmas there. You know you can’t ever predict what month you’ll land in.”

  “What difference does it make? A gift is a gift. He’ll love it no matter what day it is—Christmas Smishmas. Just go and give a gift of love.”

  “You’re right, Gran.”

  She gave her grandmother a kiss good night. “Merry Christmas, Gran. You’re the best.”

  Rose ran upstairs to get her present. Marisol was on her knees again, whispering her prayers in Spanish. She looked up at Rose.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Be back in three.”

  “Three what?”

  “Three minutes. That’s all it will take.”

  “Feliz Navidad, Rose.”

  “Gracias, Marisol.”

  Chapter 20

  A Message

  Rose stopped briefly at the graftling, with the present tucked under her arm. Had it perhaps grown a quarter of an inch? Rose bent down, drawing her face close the stem.

  And then she was back! Still crouched down, then shoving the present under the mattress of her tiny room in Whitehall Palace. She heard a soft tap on her door.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s just me, Sara.” There was a pause. “With the latest news!” She had forgotten that she now had a room all of her own. A servant had left and not been replaced. So Sara had taken the empty room for now.

  Rose rolled her eyes. Sara was absolutely obsessed with the queen’s possible engagement to the Spanish prince.

  “Yes, yes, come in. Do tell all.” Rose feigned enthusiasm. There was the sound of the paper crinkling under her, and she began to cough to camouflage it. Sara opened the door and came in, her eyes gleaming.

  “Well, do you want my personal opinion on the engagement?”

  “Of course. Do you think I can just waltz up and ask the queen her opinion on the engagement?”

  Sara burst out laughing, and actually slapped her knee. “Oh, Rose, you have the oddest way of putting things. Waltz? What is a waltz?”

  “Oh, just an old country dance from West Ditch. But what is the gossip about the queen?”

  “Well.” Sara was a rather thin girl and appeared to almost swell up before Rose’s eyes, ready to burst with gossip. “As you know, the lord chancellor has been working mightily on the marriage contract. Just before Christmas they almost had one with Felipe. Actually it seems that it’s mostly Felipe’s father they have to please. And of course they got so close to settling the contract, which would have made Felipe king of England, at least as long as Mary lived. But you’ll recall the horrible violence, the rebellion led by Mr. Wyatt. The Protestants hated the idea of the queen marrying a Spanish prince who someday might be king.”

  “Yes, yes,” Rose answered softly. She had read online about the rebellion. It had led to many being locked up in the Tower and several beheadings.

  “Well, nothing has been settled. Not at all. They are no closer than when the rebellion happened, and that was months ago. It’s even worse. Prince Felipe’s visit has been postponed again. Lord knows when they will ever meet. And the lovely dress for the meeting still hangs unworn in the wardrobe. But the queen is now consulting with Waldegrave about some gilded brocade she wants for the wedding dress.”

  “So they aren’t close with the contract.”

  “Not at all. That’s my point. Felipe’s father, the king of Spain, wants support from our queen for his army. This is NOT ever going to happen. Yet the order has gone through for the wedding dress fabric. What’s that expression you use sometimes about chickens?”

  “Counting your chickens before they hatch?”

  “Exactly. They are as far from a wedding contract as can be and yet she’s planning her wedding dress! And the court goldsmith has been summoned.”

  “What?” It was as if an electrical current had flashed through Rose. She sat up straight. She heard a tiny crinkle of wrapping paper from under the mattress where the present was hidden.

  “Yes, Nicholas Oliver.”

  “To do what?”

  “Create medals, of course.”

  “For what?”

  “To commemorate the occasion of her marriage. It’s the custom, you know.” She paused a moment. “Oh, maybe you don’t, as you weren’t here back in those days when her father, King Henry, kept getting married. They say it made Nicholas Oliver a rich man. Every wedding, or at least the last three, he was making medals and of course wedding rings. I was serving for the last two weddings. Anyhow, you see what I mean. Queen Mary is counting her chicks before they hatch.”

  “So, when might the goldsmith be coming?” Rose tried with all her might to ask this as casually as possible.

  “Soon, I think. Tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow! Tomorrow! The word exploded silently in Rose’s head. She shifted and heard another crackle of the wrapping paper.

  Rose could hardly sleep that night. Then it seemed as if she had been asleep for all of two minutes when she heard a slightly scratchy sound. Oh, she hoped it wasn’t mice. These old palaces had immense populations of rodents running around all over. Poor fools knew nothing about hygiene. Although they were quite good in hunting down large animals with their bows and arrows, they had not scaled down to anything quite as small as a mouse. She always had to shake out her French hood to rid it of mouse poop. There were some super-icky parts of Rose’s life here, but if it meant she co
uld reunite with her father, what was a little bit of mouse poop? She got out of bed to explore the source of the skittering and saw a paper had been slipped under her door. She picked it up, opened the door, and saw the shadow of her friend slide around a corner. Bettina was one of the few servants who could read and write.

  Dawn. Privy garden by the lion statue. Destroy this note.

  This was not the first time that Bettina had delivered a message to her from her father. He was arriving and wanted to meet with her! Rose ran to her window and pushed the shutter open. The moon had slid away, perhaps hours before. She wasn’t sure. The blackness of the night was beginning to fray. In another hour or less it would be dawn. Rose heard the chimes of the courtyard clock marking the half hour. She’d go now.

  She slipped into her “neathies,” which was what servant girls called their undergarments, and put on her chemise, a kind of lightweight fabric dress, and finally her kirtle. She shook the mouse poop out of her hood and put it on, with all her hair tucked under. She took the present from its hiding place under her mattress. Then she grabbed a heavy shawl and wrapped it around her. The clattering rain had ceased, leaving a gauzy mist that hung over the palace grounds.

  She exited the east tower of the palace’s servants’ wing into the laundry courtyard. Then she followed a path from the courtyard that took her between the tennis green and the tiltyard, both of which had not seen much use since King Henry had died. Neither Henry’s late son, King Edward, nor the present queen were athletically inclined. Of course, females never tilted. Rose always thought this was too bad, as poking an opponent off a horse with a jousting stick looked like fun. She herself had become a very good rider since moving to her grandmother’s. Her gran had leased a wonderful pony for her, Ivy. But she didn’t like to think of Ivy getting hurt. Apparently King Henry had lost more than one horse in tilting matches.

  The ground fog seemed to thicken as she reached the end of the path, clutching the present to her chest. Soon she could barely see her feet. She was overwhelmed by a strange sensation. It was as if she were dissolving into this mist a few inches at a time, beginning at her ankles. Maybe she was like the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland who periodically faded away, leaving only its grin.