She looked at her watch and found it was almost nine o’clock. Then she slid her hand absently into the pocket of her sweater. She’d forgotten about the jam jar with the lavender acne cream. The jar was perfect. It could have come from any century, really. She had made a little label on it and written Spotless! She thought the script looked slightly old-timey. She hoped the mixture worked for the princess, although she didn’t know why she should bring Elizabeth anything when the spoiled girl had stolen her pendant. She touched the place just below the hollow at the base of her neck where the locket had rested. She imagined the deep luster of the gold petals of the rose, the outer petals much darker, the center ones almost white gold. And beneath it the picture of the man in the ruff, the man who truly could be her father. She felt a twinge of pain, as if a stitch had ripped in her heart.

A soft summer breeze stirred her hair. As she pushed back a curl that had fallen across her forehead, she was vaguely aware of transferring reins from one hand to another. There was the pleasant sound of hooves and the creak of wagon wheels. I’m back! Just a touch in time!

Chapter 16

A Pocket in Time

Rose was posting, posting sidesaddle. It came quite naturally to her, as if she had been doing this all her life.

What a natural! Peter at the Hunter Valley Riding Academy had said during her first lesson as she and Ivy began to trot. I’m not even going to have to teach you to post. You’re doing it already. She wanted to shout out, “Look at me now, Peter! Sidesaddle no less!”

The road was unfurling before them. Along the way, farm folk and villagers, the local gentry, came out to wave at the procession.

“Let the good king smack those Frenchies to kingdom come!” one fellow shouted.

“Tell Harry to send them to the devil.”

“Harry?” Rose wondered aloud as Andrew, the boy from the saddlery, rode up. “Who’s Harry?”

Now several voices were calling out the name.

“You don’t know?” Andrew laughed.

“No idea,” Rose replied.

“Harry’s a nickname for King Henry.”

“Oh.” She was quiet a minute. Mrs. Dobkins had ridden up.

“Andrew, do you think we’ll make it to Greenwich by sunset?” she asked.

“Oh yes, Mrs. Dobkins. Long before.”

“Good. Those monasteries are not what they used to be. That little room they put us in last night was filthy. That straw pallet was so thin that I might as well have slept on the floor. My back will never recover.” So, thought Rose, we slept in a monastery last night. She must pretend she recalled all this.

“Yes, Mrs. Dobkins, my back hurts too.”

“Nonsense, child. You were asleep the second your head hit the straw. Slept like a baby.”