Tangled in Time Read online

  There were always new things to do in the greenhouse. New seeds to plant—some of which had to be soaked overnight to give them a good start—and trays to be fertilized. Plants that had grown too big needed to be transplanted into larger pots. It was Rose’s task to prepare the new pots with a mixture of peat and the granular stuff called vermiculite. She used Rosalinda’s formulas, all neatly written in a book.

  Rosalinda’s attitude about homework was rather casual. She told Rose that she would learn much more from working beside her in the greenhouse. And one evening when Rose brought her laptop down to look up some plant information on the internet, Rosalinda was captivated. “Such treasures!” she exclaimed. For indeed Rose found a solution for controlling the bugs that wreaked havoc on her grandmother’s tiny ruby-red carrots, and then five minutes later discovered a special kind of bonemeal as a nutrient for stunted toad lilies. From that point on, Rosalinda insisted that Rose bring her laptop with her every evening. Dinner continued to be served in the greenhouse. As the days began to grow shorter, the night fell earlier, turning the glass house into a starry empyrean, a timeless place of simultaneous seasons and the endless blossoming of flowers. Yet never during their evenings had the cupolas dissolved or the aisles transformed themselves into woodland pathways as they had before. It had been a dream, surely just a dream. Rose had almost convinced herself.

  On this particular evening, her grandmother had just gone up to bed and so Rose, as had become her habit, stayed a bit longer and ascended the spiraling staircase to one of the cupolas. Rosalinda had started some winter violets from cuttings, and Rose herself had sown a flat of violets that afternoon that needed to be elevated into the cupola. As she carried the tray, for it was too large for the pulley lift, she heard the ping of a text message—most likely it was Joe, who’d gotten into the habit of texting her with questions about homework. But she didn’t reach into her pocket now—not until she had put the plant tray down safely.

  She was in the largest of the cupolas, where they kept the orchids. Orchids were brought down only for brief periods—mostly on holidays to decorate the house. There was also a myriad of lilies, bromeliads, and hibiscus up here, all of which thrived in the warm, moist air in the upper levels of the greenhouse. Rose felt as if she had been transported to a rain forest. She set the rootling violets down and took out her cell. The green text bubble floated up on the screen: I don’t exactly hate you, but if you were on fire and I had water, I’d drink it. She didn’t recognize the number it came from, but it wasn’t hard to guess that it was one of the Mean Queens. Well, she supposed this was bound to happen. Had she really expected them not to bother her once they had her number? She should have changed it.

  There was another ping and another bubble. This time, Rose gasped. Nausea swept through her. There was a screenshot of the front page of a newspaper and a photograph of a car on fire—the inferno her mother had died in. She felt herself growing dizzy. A strange sensation of powerlessness flooded through her. She grabbed the railing tightly and watched her knuckles turn white. She shut her eyes. Don’t fall, don’t! You’ll die if you fall! But then the strong fragrance of the jasmine swirled through the air and filled her senses. She opened her eyes as the vines grew before her, stretching all the way to the floor. Shakily she began walking down the staircase. It was happening again! She no longer felt nauseous. Not even frightened. By the time she was on the bottom step, the concrete floor of the greenhouse had become a grassy path, and she felt something soft brush across her leg. “September!” she gasped. It was the cat. She did not sprint off but turned around and peered at Rose as if to say “Come along.”

  She began pressing through thick foliage, the streak of gold just before her like a light in the green leaves, or a maverick autumn leaf. The foliage soon gave way to an expansive lawn, and she was now on a wide drive that curved around the edge. Then September disappeared into some brush.

  A voice behind her suddenly spoke.

  “Come along, girl. I can’t do this on my own. Two pails we have to get up to the palace. I could certainly use some help.” Rose turned around slowly, hardly daring to breathe. A small scrap of a girl stood before her, leaning on a crutch and carrying a pail. She had white-blond hair and a scattering of freckles that stretched across her nose and cheeks. Her eyes were an astonishing blue—blue as any sky, blue as any sea, blue as the bluest flower that ever bloomed. Rose was unsure why she used a crutch. Her skirt was long, but it seemed as if her left foot turned inward. This was a girl just about her own age.

  What had happened to her?

  “Who are you?”

  The girl did not answer immediately but squinted at her as if she was trying to place her face.

  “Franny,” she replied slowly. “I work in the dairy. And if you’d go back over there”—she pointed to a low, thatched building—“I left another pail of milk right by the door. You could save me a trip if you’d bring it.” She nodded at her crutch. “The crutch robs me, you see, leaving me with only one working hand to carry.”

  “Yes, of course.” But Rose did not move. She continued to stare at the girl. Franny.

  “God’s kneecaps, what are you waiting for, girl?”

  “Uh . . . don’t you want to know my name?” Rose asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Franny replied somewhat indifferently.

  “I’m Rose—Rose Ashley.”

  “Oh, one of the Ashleys.”

  “You know my grandmother, Rosalinda?”

  “I don’t know any of them. They’ve been serving Her Highness—and the family—for a long time here at Hatfield. Since before she was born. Makes sense you coming. They’re fiercely shorthanded up there. They’ll hire you soon as they set eyes on you. Very thin on staff to serve her.”

  “Who’s ‘her’? Who’s ‘she’ exactly?”

  “Blimey! Are you daft? She is the royal princess.”

  “Royal princess?”

  “Elizabeth, daughter of Henry! Henry the Eighth and the late and cursed Anne Boleyn.” Rose noticed that she almost couldn’t say the name Boleyn. “Now, Rose Ashley, have you had the skittles knocked out yer head?” She laughed warmly.

  Skittles! Somehow Rose sensed she was not talking about the candy that was in her pocket. She reached for her pocket, but there was no pocket. There was no jacket. Gone too were her jeans. She was wearing a long voluminous skirt of a coarse brown fabric. Instead of a T-shirt, she wore a loose blouse tucked in, with generous sleeves. There were little tucks around the wrists of the sleeves. Nicely made! Rose thought. Hand stitched. A machine could never do such work, not even the Millennium Falcon.

  “Go on, Rose, fetch the milk pail. I’ll try to show you as much as I can. Course, I’m a tad lower than scullery, and I think I heard they were looking for someone to serve upstairs in the princess’s chambers. You should do.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “They say that the princess thought she saw someone t’other day who she felt might suit.”

  Then it hadn’t been a dream, Rose realized. The girl she had seen with the blue dress and the pointy red shoes had been the Royal Princess Elizabeth and they had each seen the other. But that princess, all those people, had lived almost five hundred years ago! How could this be? How had she jumped backward in time nearly five centuries?

  “Now run along and get that milk.” Franny said this merrily, as if she were inviting her to join a game.

  Rose walked off in a daze. The pail of milk was right where Franny had said it would be. She picked it up and walked back to where Franny was waiting.

  “Thank you. It’ll make it so much easier for me. You know, my leg. Well, I guess you can only see my foot.” She smiled, and a dimple flashed in her cheek.

  “What happened to your leg?”

  “Got the fever when I was a baby. I don’t always need my crutch, but the weather’s been bothering it lately. Then I took a tumble yesterday and that didn’t help any.”

  “What kind of fever did you have?
”

  “The midwife called it infant apoplexy. Your muscles seize up. Lots of children die from it. But it just twisted up my leg and weakened it. So I can’t complain.”

  Franny struck Rose as having an unusually sunny disposition. She liked her a lot, but she could still not begin to understand what had happened and how she had arrived in this place, walking with this girl, Franny. One moment she had been looking at that horrible newspaper picture of her mother’s fatal car crash, and the next she was here in this new place. Hatfield, Franny had called it. And where was September?

  “You know, Franny, I can carry both pails. It’s not a problem for me.”

  “Oh, that would be very good, because then we could stop at the henhouse and I could collect some eggs for Cook. Saves me another walk.”

  “I’m happy to help you.”

  Rose paused a moment. “Have you seen a cat around here?”

  “I thought I saw one the other day. And you know, it’s funny, but I think Princess Elizabeth saw the cat too. She sent out a guard looking for it.”

  “Really? Was it by any chance orange?”

  “Yes. Rather like a maple leaf. And thank you for helping with the pails.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing.”

  Franny stopped and looked at her. “But it is something, Rose. You’ll probably be a house servant. That’s way above me. I can’t think of one house servant, and there are almost fifty, who would pick up a milk pail, let alone go to the henhouse. You will go to the henhouse with me, won’t you?”

  “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I don’t know. You’re a bit odd, Rose.”

  Rose was tempted to say, “So are you,” but refrained. They continued on the path.

  Rose scanned the countryside. If she just looked at the gently sloping hills, the grand old trees that swept green expanses, it might have been any fancy country estate in the America of her time, or like the country club where her mom often played golf with a friend of hers who belonged. But this was no country club. No golf courses visible. Rose knew she was not in her time. She was not going to come across a putting green or a reenactment of some episode in history where twenty-first-century people were dressed up in old-fashioned clothes to give a lesson on how life was in those olden times. This was the real deal!

  She glanced discreetly at Franny. Her stockings were torn. The clogs she wore were wooden, good for mud. In fact, they looked as if they had animal poop stuck to them. Not dog poop either. Cowpats, undoubtedly, as there were some pieces of straw mixed in. Her skirt hadn’t been washed in a long time. There were stains on it. And then of course there was Franny’s odd way of speaking, not simply her accent but these outlandish expressions—God’s kneecaps! The most fun swear ever, Rose thought. She pictured God sitting on a throne of cumulous clouds. His flowing celestial garments hiked up a bit, exposing knobby old knees crowning skinny, slightly hairy legs. Maybe God would be groaning a bit—“Oh, lamentations! My arthritis is kicking up again.” To the left of the wide drive they were walking on was a vast lawn. A wonderful scent of freshly mowed grass swirled through the air, and beneath an oak tree was the hunched figure of a girl. Rose couldn’t see her clearly, as her face was buried in her hands, and her shoulders shook.

  “That girl over there. She’s crying. Who is she?”

  “That’s her, poor thing.” Franny sighed.

  “Her? You mean the . . .”

  “Yes, Her Royal Highness. Princess Elizabeth.”

  “Of course,” Rose whispered, because it made sense to her now that everything she thought to be true could change in an instant. Her mom’s life had ended in an instant. Her own life had changed in that same instant. So why should anything surprise Rose now? And though nothing seemed quite real to her, she kept looking to test reality, scouring this scene for certain touchstones of reality like the stains on Franny’s skirts or the poop on the clogs. But nevertheless, she was surprised. And now she had been told that the weeping girl beneath the tree was royal. She could hardly ask to see her blue blood. Wasn’t that the color that flowed through royal veins? And what proof could she offer them, offer to Franny or possibly this princess, of her own identity? Would they believe that she, Rose Ashley, had slipped from her grandmother Rosalinda’s greenhouse in Indianapolis in the twenty-first century, and now she was here in England in what must be the sixteenth century?

  “If they take you on, Rose, it’s a fine job. I think she’ll like you.”

  Rose was only half listening, as she had spotted September peeking around the immense trunk of the oak tree. Her tilting green eyes were fastened on the princess.

  “I . . . I . . . hope so . . . but why is the princess crying?”

  “Banished.”

  “Banished?”

  “Banished from court by her father.”

  “Her own father banished her?”

  “Well, he’s king, you know. He can do that.”

  “But she’s his daughter!”

  “He’s not just any king. He’s King Henry the Eighth. He can do whatever he wants. He chopped off her mother’s head.”

  Rose gasped. She knew this, of course, from history books, from televisions shows, from movies. But now she knew this because she was actually here. Had she slipped through some crack in time? She wavered a bit and set down the pail.

  “Are you all right, Rose?”

  “Yes . . . just takes a little getting used to.”

  Franny nodded. “I understand. First day on the job and all. I was a bit skittish my first day at the dairy.”

  “But tell me,” Rose asked, “why was the princess banished? Did she do something bad?”

  “Oh no, not at all! You see, every time the king remarries, he has a tendency to banish Elizabeth and often her half sister, Princess Mary. I suppose in a sense he wants to wipe the slate clean . . . you know, for his new bride.”

  “How many times has he married now?”

  Franny paused and tapped her chin. “Let’s see, first there was the Spanish queen. Catherine of Aragon, Princess Mary’s mum. Then there was Anne Boleyn, Elizabeth’s mum. Then Jane Seymour, Prince Edward’s mum, before Anne of Cleves. Oh, nearly forgot Catherine Howard. He chopped her head off too. So, what are we up to?”

  “Five.”

  “And now this queen, also named Catherine, the third Catherine, Catherine Parr.”

  Rose blinked. “A lot of Catherines.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Funny that they all spell it the same way, too, isn’t it?”

  Franny blushed. “I . . . I’m not sure. I haven’t really learned my letters and scriving all that well. No time, you know.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .”

  Franny cut her off. “Oh, don’t apologize. But do you know scriving?”

  “You mean how to write?”

  “Yes.” Franny nodded. A wonderful smile began to steal across her face. Another dimple appeared. Her eyes twinkled like blue stars in a white night. “Of course you do! I should have known. You must be related to John Ashley. He’s courting Princess Elizabeth’s tutor, Kat Champernowne, or so it is rumored. The Ashleys are very bright.”

  In that instance, Rose realized she had a part to play and not simply a job attending a princess. “Yes, yes, Franny. A very distant cousin, I believe. Never met him.” She of course had no idea who these Ashleys were. It was a pretty common name. There were two in the suburb of Philadelphia where she had lived and they were always getting each other’s mail. But they were not related in any way. Could she be related to these more distant Ashleys?

  “Course not, as you’re probably from East Ditch near Letty Green.”

  “Exactly, and they’re from West Ditch,” Rose replied.

  “Yes, West Ditch over by Tyttenhanger,” Franny filled in. This was going well, Rose thought.

  “I say, Rose,” Franny said suddenly, “might you teach me some scriving?”

  “Well, I suppose so. I mean, if there is time
with my new job.”

  “Oh, that is so nice of you.” Franny grabbed her hand. “I think you’ll do well serving the princess. She’s sad. But you’ll make her feel better. Just as you have me. You’ll be my friend, won’t you?” A smile crinkled her face. “I mean, you can hardly be my servant.” She giggled. “I don’t need a servant; nor do you, I suppose. Just a friend.” She stepped closer to Rose now. “So funny. I feel as if I have met you before. You remind me of someone.”

  “I don’t know who that could be, but yes. I’ll be your friend.” She paused. “I only know your first name, Franny. What’s your last name?” The color drained from Franny’s face. She mumbled something.

  “What?”

  “Corey.” She paused. “Franny Corey,” she said in a stronger voice.

  “Franny, this is such a nice summer day, isn’t it?” She looked around to drink in the joys of the weather and the clear sky.

  “Yes, summer. July is always the best month here, I think.”

  “What date is it exactly?”

  “Not sure. But at least two more months until Michaelmas.”

  Michaelmas? When was that? And dare she ask the year?

  Chapter 5

  “You Are Mine”

  They had arrived at the palace. Rose followed Franny around to the kitchen yard, where they delivered the milk and the eggs.

  “Follow me. We’ll go to the entrance for the inside palace servants. Normally I’m not allowed. But they’re all in a dither, being short staffed these days.”

  Franny went to a door, lifted the clapper, and knocked loudly. They heard a bustling, then the sound of a bolt sliding. A plump, red-faced woman with her hair tucked under a flouncy cap opened the door.

  “Don’t tell me no eggs this morning.”

  “No, plenty of eggs, Mrs. Belson.”

  “And who be this?” The woman ran her eyes up and down Rose.