I half closed my eyes, replaying the scenes in my mind, trying to focus on the clothes that people were wearing, the style of their hair, the furniture in the house ...
'No.' I shook my head. "The plague I'm thinking of was later than that.'
'There was a big one in the mid-seventeenth century, then, just before the Great Fire.'
'That's the one.' I wasn't sure how or why I knew, but I knew.
'What would you like to know about it?'
'Everything.' I lifted my shoulders expansively. 'I don't know much about the history of that period. And that's the time in which Mariana lived, I'm sure of it. Her mother died of the plague.'
'Well, I'm rather rusty on the seventeenth century myself. I remember the Civil War bit well enough, and the beheading of Charles the First, and Cromwell, of course, but when it comes to the plague ... Hang on,' he interjected, brightening. 'I've got a copy of Pepys's diary lying about somewhere. He kept a fairly good account of the plague year, I think. Let me see if I can find it for you.'
He rose from his seat a second time and made a close examination of the overstuffed bookshelves on the far side of the room. After a long hunt, he extracted a wedged volume and flipped open the cover. 'Here it is. Quite a nice copy, actually. I picked it up at a book sale in Oxford.' He handed it to me, a small book that nestled comfortably in my open hand, and turning to the title page, I read aloud:
'The Diary of Samuel Pepys, Esquire, F.R.S. What does the "ER.S." stand for?'
'Fellow of the Royal Society,' Tom supplied. 'He worked in the Admiralty office, and kept a diary from 1659 to '69, when his eyesight started going. It runs to several volumes, in its original state. Mine's the edited version, I'm afraid, with all the racy bits taken out, but it's still very interesting reading.'
'Thanks.' I closed the book, holding it tightly.
Tom eyed me thoughtfully. 'You're welcome to stay a few days, you know,' he told me. 'That is, if you want—-'
'Thanks. I'll wait and see how I feel.'
Mrs. Pearce materialized in the doorway. 'I've made up the bed in the blue guest bedroom,' she said matter-of-factly, as though it were a normal thing for the vicar's sister to drop round before breakfast and sleep through the day. 'Do you need to use the bath, before I start in there?'
'No, thank you.' I smiled. 'Bed sounds heavenly.'
'Marvelous woman,' Tom said, as the cleaner departed. He looked at me and grinned. 'I'll bet even the lord of Exbury manor doesn't get treatment like that from his staff.'
'Oh, Lord!' I sprang to my feet. 'What time is it?'
'Just past noon. Why?'
'Can I use your telephone?'
It took several minutes for the operator to locate the number for Crofton Hall, another few minutes for her to make the connection for me, and eight long rings for someone at the other end to answer the telephone.
'Hello?'
'Hello. Is that Geoff?'
There was a small pause. 'No, I'm sorry,' the voice said carefully, with an unmistakable Scottish accent. 'He's not at home right now. Can I take a message?'
'Iain,' I said, 'it's Julia Beckett. Could you please tell Geoff I won't be able to take the tour this afternoon? He'll know what I mean. There's been a ... minor family emergency, and I've had to come to my brother's place in Hampshire.'
'Nothing serious, I hope?'
He sounded concerned, and I felt guilty about the lie.
'Oh, no,' I responded. 'I should be home tomorrow morning.'
'Right. I'll pass the message along, then.' 'Thanks.' I rang off feeling somewhat easier in my mind, and turned to find my brother watching me.
'Everything all right?' he asked.
'Fine.'
'Then let's get you settled in,' he said. 'You look like you're about to fall over.'
In a remarkably short space of time I found myself neatly tucked between the cool, sweet-smelling sheets of the wide brass bed in the blue guest bedroom upstairs, wearing one of my brother's roomy nightshirts with the sleeves rolled above my elbows.
Mrs. Pearce had drawn the blinds down to darken the room for sleeping, but there was still enough light for reading.
I sighed, comfortably drowsy, and reached with a languid hand for the small book I'd left on the bedside table. Opening the diary of Samuel Pepys to a random page, I read the entry for 6 April 1665:
Great tale of a new Comet, he had written, and it is certain do appear as bright as the late one at the best; but I have not seen it myself. Two comets ...
I shifted involuntarily against the pillows, and the back of my neck tingled as though an icy hand had brushed across it. All weariness forgotten, I grasped the book more tightly and began to read.
Ten
I had expected to feel any number of emotions as I made the drive back to Exbury the next morning. Apprehension, certainly, and fear, or even excitement. But I was unprepared for the feeling of complete serenity that settled over me like a comforting blanket, almost before the spire of my brother's church had been swallowed up by the trees in my rearview mirror. It was a strong feeling, strong and calming and pervasive. And entirely illogical, given the disturbing events of the day before.
I let my eyes follow the erratic movements of my fellow motorists as they maneuvered themselves through the rush-hour shuffle, while my mind drifted idly back to the previous morning.