The awkward feeling of moisture soaking through his trousers snatched Jon’s attention back to the present, where the woman alongside him had finally succeeded in making him wear her drink.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She grabbed a napkin and proceeded to dry his crotch.
That was it, he was up, and used the incident as the perfect excuse to take his leave. ‘I have to depart in any case.’
His hosts all protested, but he thanked them for their hospitality.
‘There is still much to do before the exhibition, you understand.’ Simon stood to aid his escape and Jon was grateful.
‘You stay, I’ll catch a cab.’
Simon was obviously in no hurry to leave. ‘I’ll see you out.’
‘No need. Goodnight.’ Jon was out on the footpath before anyone could argue.
‘Cab, sir?’ queried the valet.
If the weather had not been so frightful he would have walked. Jon felt the need to contemplate; for all he’d learned from the chair, he was still no closer to finding her — or even proving her existence! His terrace was quite a way from here and so he decided,
‘A cab might be best.’
The valet directed him to a waiting cab.
‘Where to?’ The young Indian fellow asked enthusiastically as Jon took a seat in the back and the valet closed the door.
Jon imagined answering ‘Scotland, four hundred years ago’ would not go down well, so he gave his home address.
‘There is a lot traffic in London tonight, and the rain isn’t helping matters,’ the driver said by way of an apology. ‘I trust the rest of your evening has been more pleasant.’
‘Not really,’ Jon was honest. ‘Socialising is not my forte.’
‘You prefer solitude, where you can hear yourself think,’ the driver stated, as if he understood perfectly. ‘A simple concept, yet remarkably hard to achieve.’
Jon nodded to concur as their vehicle continued to nudge forward. ‘I’m living in the wrong place . . . the wrong era.’
‘It is my understanding that we are always in the right place to learn exactly what we need to, in order to achieve what we must.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ Jon appreciated the encouragement. ‘Then I might have a chance of solving this mystery,’ he uttered in an aside to himself.
‘You are a writer?’ the driver made what was a fairly safe assumption.
If Jon was a writer he would have been writing this story down, but as it was? ‘I’m a painter,’ he clarified, while in his mind’s eye he saw his painting of the unknown woman in the centre of a much larger canvas. Around one half of her portrait appeared different scenes, places and people from the two past-life experiences he’d had, yet half of the picture was still blank — did this imply he only had half of the story? All he knew was he couldn’t wait to get home to paint it. ‘You just gave me a brilliant idea.’
‘See?’ The driver was pleased. ‘Always in the right place at the right time.’
With that in mind, Jon became curious about the young man.
‘Were you born here in London?’
‘No sir, I am from Gujarat. That’s in India.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Jon’s heart began beating faster as he recognised the name from his research. ‘One of the twelve Shrines to Lord Shiva is located there.’
‘At Somnath,’ the young man was proud to concur. ‘That is correct.’
‘Have you been there?’ Jon couldn’t believe his luck, maybe this trip out would prove worthwhile after all.
‘Of course!’ The driver turned into a side street and finally escaped the traffic. ‘It is an uplifting experience for the temple is very, very splendid.’
‘Did you ever hear any legends about a cursed treasure being stolen from there, around the tenth century?’ Jon knew how obscure that question must sound.
‘You refer to the Eyes of Karma and the Eye of Wisdom.’
Jon’s heart was beating in his throat now. ‘Yes, do you know anything about that legend?’
‘Whosoever should defy the Eye of Wisdom to misuse or displace the Eyes of Karma, his lifetime shall not exist on earth. He shall be miserable and persecuted etc. etc. . . . yes, I know of it. But the stones have never been found, so I imagine there is still some poor, disembodied soul carrying that curse around with them.’
‘Yes.’ Jon considered Rosalind must be well fed up with that burden by now. ‘Is there more to that verse about the curse? What was the etc. etc. part?’
‘Um?’ The lad searched his memory. ‘It went on to say something about seeing a downward spiral of karma as the curse preys upon others unaware. Until the eyes of Shiva, the great Transformer, again reside in Somnath.’
Perhaps her salvation is tied to ours. Jon realised Rosalind’s end game, and he should have realised it sooner. ‘The stones have to go back whence they came.’
‘So the legend goes,’ his driver agreed.
If Rosalind could get one of the stones into his possession via a chair that was destroyed a thousand years ago, then surely she had the power to get the stones back to India herself? He understood she was using the chair to make him aware of his past and of the unknown woman, so perhaps Rosalind needed the stone to aid him to find the unknown woman; and only once she had undone the damage done to them could the stones be returned.
Does the unknown woman have the other stone? The thought sent shock waves through his being, as it rang true with him. She has the other stone, the other chair, and they are still connected! She is seeing all that I am seeing. That she might actively be searching for him also was an incredibly comforting thought. So she would be aware of the demon pursuing her.
By his reasoning the plan had to be to help them find each other and then return the stones to India and release Rosalind from her limbo. If his vision of his painting of the unknown woman proved correct, he still only had half the story. Once his canvas was full, and the chair had told him all it could, that would be a good time to find a jeweller to take a look at the stone.
‘Here we are, sir.’ His driver pulled the cab up out the front of his terrace.
‘Keep the change.’ Jon handed over the fee and a sizeable tip.
‘Thank you, sir. You are very generous.’ The young man was thrilled.
‘You were the best part of an otherwise pointless evening.’ Jon opened the door. ‘Our meeting was fateful.’ The rain was still teeming down on the footpath as Jon climbed out and closed the cab door.
‘When an inner situation is not made conscious, it appears outside as fate,’ the driver yelled after him, as Jon made a dash for the cover of his porch.
Under shelter, Jon shook off the rain and turned about to see the cabbie wave and drive off, and for a split second he could have sworn the cabbie was Rosalind. He ran back out into the rain to see if he could grab a second look, but the cab was gone. ‘What the—?’ There was no alley, street or driveway that the cab could have turned down. Now, Jon had shivers, and not just because he was soaked to the skin.
Back under the shelter of his front porch, he was already questioning whether or not his mind was playing tricks. Up until now the mystery surrounding the chair had been safely confined to history — glimpsing Rosalind in his current reality was a rude shock!
But regardless of what had just occurred, that cab ride had left Jon more inspired to paint and chase the mystery of the chair than ever before.
* * *
The next morning Simon entered Jon’s studio quietly, noting he was hard at work on a huge canvas. The back of the canvas was to Simon, so he couldn’t see what had the artist so preoccupied.
On the workbench where Simon usually off-loaded his briefcase was the soggy jacket and tie of the suit Jon had been wearing the night before, screwed up in a ball. He picked up the sad, paint-streaked tie and held it out towards Jon. ‘Do you know how much this suit was worth?’
When there came no response from the artist, Simon, curious to see what he was working on, walked over
to find the portrait Jon had been obsessing about had been affixed to the centre of a much larger landscape and scenes were beginning to emerge around the unknown woman. ‘Oh dear lord,’ Simon mumbled, not daring to sound annoyed.
‘We’re expanding.’ Jon glanced at Simon and grinned as he mixed a new colour on his palette. ‘There is so much more to this woman than meets the eye.’ He returned his focus to the canvas.
‘I can see that.’ Simon raised both brows, bewildered. ‘It’s almost like fantasy art.’ Which was really not to his taste, nor to that of Jon’s patrons, Simon feared.
‘Yes, well, this is my fantasy, so don’t start telling me what to do with it.’ Jon shot him a glance of warning, before melting into a smile. ‘Don’t look so worried, I’ve been up all night . . . all the other works are finished over there.’ Jon directed him to the drying stands at the back of the studio. ‘So you can’t complain.’
The relief was palpable as Simon inspected the works. ‘These are perfect genius! Fabulous!’ He exclaimed as each piece he saw outshone the last.
‘I’m pleased you’re satisfied.’ Jon remained focused on his strokes.
‘More than just satisfied, my friend.’ Simon continued to browse, and was ecstatic with the money-making potential he saw.
‘Take them, frame them, display them however you like, but leave me be for the next week or so, I want to concentrate on this.
Fair enough?’
‘Absolutely.’ Simon could not have been happier.
‘No interruptions,’ Jon clarified and Simon shook his head to confirm. ‘No dinners, no parties, just . . . uninterrupted peace.’
‘I get it.’ Simon freely conceded that Jon had done his job, but that didn’t prevent him being concerned about his friend’s obsession with a ghost. ‘So should I be saving wall space for this masterpiece in the exhibition?’ Simon seriously hoped not.
‘Maybe? I don’t know . . . it depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether or not I fi—’ Jon hesitated. ‘Finish it, in time.’
Simon knew he wasn’t getting the whole story. There was something very strange going on and he began to wish that he’d never laid eyes on that damned chair.
* * *
Tonight Sara was sleeping in her bed, she was determined about that. She’d lit a candle and some incense and was propped up on pillows in bed, sipping at a hot cup of cocoa. ‘Ah . . .’ A few sweet sips left her feeling calmer than she had in days.
For all her longing to return to the past, it was now clear that the present was actually far more agreeable; perhaps that was the lesson she was supposed to take away from all this. Was she being down to earth in thinking so, or was she so far in denial that she was too petrified to free herself from the illusion she was living? Either way, she needed rest, or she would never be alert enough to figure it out.
One more sip of cocoa and she felt the first wave of sleep rush over her. She leaned to place her cup aside and was startled to find the chair’s crystal had begun to glow. Cocoa splashed everywhere as she jolted.
‘Oh no.’ She placed the cup on her bedside table and brushed the excess from herself. ‘Not again.’ She was exhausted, and couldn’t take another perilous journey into her past. At least she thought so, until her handsome ghost appeared and held out a hand to her in quiet invitation.
No, I can’t keep doing this to myself. Sara’s resolve hardened. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t go anywhere else with you. I’m getting married in less than a week.’ It sounded rather more like she was trying to convince herself of the fact, as it didn’t seem quite real any more.
In any case her ghostly suitor appeared rather forlorn about her rejection, and her heart broke to disappoint him.
‘Wait a second,’ Sara caught herself being sucked in again. ‘You’re not going to charm me into following you who-knows-where, when it’s very likely we’ll both just end up dead again!’ She paused to reconsider that. ‘Well, I guess that is a foregone conclusion, if these are past lives, in which case the eventuality cannot be deemed your fault.’ She realised she was arguing with her own argument. ‘I really am losing my mind.’
Sara looked to the fading apparition, fearful of him never returning. ‘I have to know more.’ She sprang from her bed and into the chair to be engulfed by the lustre of the lilac light.
PORNIC, FRANCE
The Château de Pornic would be a vast contrast from Isabelle’s convent life and lodgings with the Order of Our Lady de Notre-Dame.
Imagine her surprise, and quiet delight, when her uncle and guardian — Marquis Alexandre de Brie — arrived to collect her from her cloistered education a full six months early! She’d expected her formal education to conclude just prior to Christmas, but here it was barely July. Many of her fellow students had also been given notice of an earlier than planned departure, and naturally Isabelle was curious as to why.
Keen to enter society and experience something of life beyond the convent walls, Isabelle thought it best not to immediately query the matter, for her uncle seemed pushed for time when he came to collect her. The lord was eager to depart Paris for his primary residence on the north shore of the port of Pornic, overlooking the port, the Golfe de Gascogne and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.
Isabelle looked forward to seeing Castle Bluebeard again. This was the local name for the château, as one of the previous owners, Gilles de Rais, had been dubbed the Bluebeard of Nantes. De Rais had been accused and executed for the abuse and murder of hundreds of children; but then it had also been his precarious honour to have been comrade in arms to Joan of Arc. This inclined Isabelle towards doubting the charges laid against the man who had once been Marshal of France and who had spent his life defending their country against the English during the second phase of the Hundred Years War.
She had nothing but fond memories of the year she’d spent at the castle — between the time of her father’s death, seven years ago, and her departure for the convent of the Order of Our Lady at age ten.
When Isabelle had first arrived at Pornic, the place seemed ominous and creepy. That first night, the coast had been lashed by violent storms and she’d never felt so alone and frightened. She would never have imagined that the year that lay before her would prove the most wonderful of her life to date. As her guardian had no noble children staying in his small household he had entrusted Isabelle’s safety and entertainment to his coachman’s boy, Jacques, who’d been only a few years older than herself. The lad had taken the assignment very seriously and had led her on many adventures that summer, the very least of which had been her first and only kiss, the day she had departed. She’d not thought about him in a long time, and had to wonder what kind of a man Jacques Delafonse had grown to become. Was he still in her uncle’s service? She didn’t dare ask.
‘You are obviously not too upset by your early extraction?’
‘Much as a bird set free from a cage, I expect.’ Isabelle realised her smile was beaming, but her uncle appeared appeased by her reply.
‘Are you very disappointed we will not waylay in Paris?’
Isabelle hadn’t failed to notice how the people on the street scowled at their carriage, at her. ‘It does not seem the welcoming, happy place I remember.’ The city stench was at an all-time high — the midsummer sun beating down on the human and animal excrement caking the street only intensified the putrid smell as it vaporised. Personally, she couldn’t wait to reach the countryside, where she could dare to draw a deep breath.
‘Harvests have been poor, and war at home and abroad has taxed our stores,’ her uncle explained, ‘and it isn’t just the peasants who are hurting.’
The lord proceeded, rather uncomfortably, to inform Isabelle that she would not be arriving back to the duchy she had left six years ago. For he had sold off such an amount of fiefs that the area of Retz was now only considered a barony. Subsequently, her uncle had been reduced from a duke to a baron — Lord of Machecoul and Pornic — as these were the on
ly two estates he had yet to sell off, in a bid to further his canal projects for the port of Nantes.
‘Goodness, Uncle,’ Isabelle was devastated for him.
‘Never fear, my dear, it is all part of a much larger, grander scheme.’ He did not sound worried in the slightest. ‘I have just come from Versailles, where I have addressed the king and the assembly of the States General on my observations on French trade. I also set forth a proposal for a premier shopping city in Nantes and a canal linking it to Pornic.’
‘Good gracious!’ It all sounded very exciting to Isabelle, but when she inquired after the king’s response to the plans, the lord’s enthusiasm waned.
‘Our king has much on his mind at present. He is giving the project all due consideration.’
‘That is the best you could hope for.’ Isabelle was so proud of her uncle, petitioning the king for the cause of his region. His canal project would bring much-needed employment to the local labour force, and more trade to the merchants. His devotion to his province had cost him his duchy, but clearly the lord had a vision and was determined to achieve it despite the personal cost to himself.
At the age of forty-one her uncle, a knight, Marquis de Serrant and Erignè, who’d been lieutenant in the regiment of Burgundy, was a handsome man. He kept a wife and daughter at his Machecoul estate, while he lived at Pornic — the bay of which was to be the mouth of his canal project.
‘Shall I be staying with you at the castle?’ She’d been too young to wonder why her uncle had not sent her to live with his wife and daughter last time she had been in his charge. Or why, in that year, she had never made their acquaintance?