I liked the antiques in Aunt Bill’s house. I liked the carved wooden bookcases, covered in flowers and mermaids, their tails curled like vines. I liked the old grandfather clock that ticked comfortably, and chimed every hour. I liked the way the stairs creaked when you walked up them. There was an old upright piano in the corner of the sitting room, and, as I’d taken piano lessons as a child, my aunt had often asked me to play when I wasthere, and we’d sing our favourites together: ‘Let It Be’, ‘The Long and Winding Road’, ‘Piano Man’, among others. Aunt Bill was a Beatles fan. At Christmas, I had fond memories of sitting at the piano in my fleecy pyjamas and bathrobe, with thick socks on my feet and a half-drunk hot chocolate singing ‘God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen’ and ‘Jingle Bells’.
Now, things were more spartan than in Aunt Bill’s time, and different again from when I had visited the cottage in 1755. Then, the pellar Annie Willcock had bunches of herbs hanging from the ceiling, drying. There had been a plain wooden table and matching chairs. A cabinet stacked with dishes stood in the corner, and the air had been smoky.
Today, the air was clearer. The inglenook fireplace was still lit, but I guessed that the chimney had been cleaned, and now, the log fire sat behind an ornate cast iron grate. There were fresh flowers in a pretty green glass vase on top of a round wood table with matching seats. Unlike the rough wood of the pellar’s chairs in 1755, these were upholstered in burgundy velvet. A plain, navy-blue rug stretched from one side of the room to the other, but it was good quality, and the place was warm. There was a wooden upright piano in her sitting room, oddly similar to Aunt Bill’s. It brought back a rush of memories of our impromptu singalongs, and our carols at Christmas.
‘Who are you?’ I turned to her. I almost didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be home, safe, as I had planned.
‘My name is Nancy Willcock,’ she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
‘Nancy…?’ If she was a Willcock, and she lived here, she was most likely related to Annie Willcock and her daughter, who I had known as Betty. Betty had been my maid at Trevarron House. I had been a lady’s maid there, or at least, I had pretended to be when I’d found myself thrust through the gates of time and back in 1755.
‘What year is this?’ I asked, looking around me.
‘’Tis interestin’ you should ask.’ Nancy Willcock looked keenlyat me. ‘You are not the first to arrive on the doorstep, bedraggled, not knowin’ the time o’ day or the year. ’Tis 1867.’ She gestured to a wooden chair by the door. ‘Sit down, maid.’
I sat. I was exhausted; the time portal that existed in Trevarron House seemed to have some kind of strange effect on me. I felt dreamy and distracted, but my head was pounding. I didn’t remember feeling that before, when I had gone through the first time.
‘Will you tell me your name?’ Nancy asked, watching me. It was good of her to let me in at all, but then, if she was a pellar, she was used to receiving visits at all hours from the people in the village and likely beyond.
‘My name is Tegan Penrose,’ I said, slowly. ‘I was born in 1999. I am twenty-six years old, and I have just travelled here from 1755.’ I looked up to meet Nancy Willcock’s eyes. They were steady. ‘I grew up visiting my aunt in this house. Her name was Wilhemina Penrose. I think I need your help.’
THREE
‘’Ere we are.’ Nancy reached into a cherry wood box on a shelf near to the hearth and took out a glass ball and a large square of black velvet. She gestured at me to sit opposite her at the round table.
I had told Nancy everything. I felt that I didn’t have a choice but to tell her, having turned up at her door and asking for her help. And, if I could trust anyone, I thought I could trust one of the Willcock women. Annie Willcock, who had lived in this cottage in 1755, had entrusted me with her ancestor Evelyn’s journal in which she’d collected all of her wisdom about the strange lines of power she believed ran through this cottage and Trevarron House.
Evelyn’s journal had helped me cross the timelines, and had given me some knowledge about whatever arcane mystery allowed me to be here. I owed a lot to the Willcock family.
Nancy seemed unperturbed, hearing my story.
‘Why do you believe me?’ I asked her. I watched as she took a small earthenware bowl, upturned it and placed it on the table. She covered it with the velvet and then sat the glass ball on the top.
‘Because of what I said – you aren’t the first traveller that has come ’ere, maid.’ She gave me a deep look. ‘My mother told me the secrets. I know what this cottage is, an’ I know what you are.’
‘What am I?’ I asked, as she polished the glass ball.
‘Some might say, gifted. Some might say, cursed.’ She shrugged. ‘I couldn’t say. But some of us, what has lived on the line of power, some of us are able to slip through time. An’ some of us do, an’ some of us choose not to.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I chose not to. But I ’elp the ones that do. The Willcock pellars are sworn to ’elp those that need it, whatever time they are from,’ she added.
‘I’m very grateful. I can’t tell you… I can’t say what a relief it is to have someone who understands.’ I let out a long sigh. ‘I know that my story sounds crazy. But I need help. I’m desperate to know what happened to William. I… I need to know he was all right. Whatever happened… I…’ I broke off, not knowing how to express the grief that was expanding in my belly and my heart. William had been torn from me; he should have been here, now, in Nancy’s little cottage. I had the overriding feeling that we were supposed to be together, though I still didn’t entirely know why. With William it was almost chemical, molecular, even: a sense that wherever he was, I should be, too.
‘That is why we will look into the glass,’ Nancy said, simply.
‘What is that?’ I looked at the ball curiously. It wasn’t a crystal ball; it was made of a light green glass and looked like it was hollow.
‘Fishin’ float.’ Nancy smoothed the ball with her hand. ‘Pellars’ve used them for a long time for seein’.’ She closed her eyes for a moment and rested her hands on the velvet.
‘A fishing float?’ I looked at the ball again; now, I realised it looked familiar. I sometimes saw balls like this in antique shops in some of the Cornish fishing villages, or used as décor in pubs and museums. I hadn’t ever exactly known what they were.
‘Aye. Blown glass. Fishermen tie ’em to ropes, crab cages, an’ the like.’
‘And you use them to… see the future?’ I asked.
‘My mother an’ her mother an’ most o’ the Willcocks were pellars. I keep my ’and in.’ She opened her eyes and looked at me. ‘The black velvet helps keep the eyes focused. A blank canvas, if you like. You want to know what happened to your Lord William.’
‘Yes. Please…’ I replied, wanting to get up and pace around; I was panicky as a startled horse. ‘He was…’ I gulped, hating the memory. ‘He was being… restrained by the police when I left. I want to know that he’s all right. Please tell me he’s all right…’ I trailed off, my heart in my mouth.
‘But, maid. You ’ave to know that… if your Lord William didn’t come through the slip in time wi’ you, then ’ee ’as to be… ’ee’s passed, now. Long ago,’ Nancy said, as kindly as she could. ‘You do understand that?’
