Time Slipping

By Jeanne McElvaney

Elizabeth dreamed of slipping away for a short retreat so she could get to know who she was beyond her routines, relationships, and responsibilities. Then she dared to do it. She couldn’t know her desire for solitude would be cracked open by a mysterious muse, two young lads, and a most unusual friend. In a journey of the unexpected, this unlikely heroine is reunited with her personal spirit. The end becomes the beginning.

A heartfelt adventure and delightful guide, this novel opens the door for every reader to embrace and explore their own personal spirit.


Other Books by Jeanne McElvaney

Old Maggie’s Spirit Whispers
Spirit Unbroken: Abby’s Story
Harrietta’s Happenstance

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 23, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468580273

Jeanne McElvaney

Jeanne McElvaney is all about the beauty of personal spirit and the power of energy. For the past 40 years, she has been celebrating, exploring, and writing about the wonder of these forces. A master of language and feelings, her fiction is often a journey of insight. Warmed by family connections and rich friendships, Jeanne is a muse to many and learns some of life’s greatest lessons from her grandchildren. Her awesomely supportive husband and delightfully distracting dog share life with her in California where they live in possibilities. GoToSpirit.com Facebook / Go To Spirit

Book preview

Contents

~ One ~

~ Two ~

~ Three ~

~ Four ~

~ Five ~

~ Six ~

~ Seven ~

~ Eight ~

~ Nine ~

~ Ten ~

~ Eleven ~

~ Twelve ~

~ Thirteen ~

~ Fourteen ~

~ Fifteen ~

~ Sixteen ~

~ Seventeen ~

~ Eighteen ~

~ Nineteen ~

~ Twenty ~

~ Twenty-one ~

~ Twenty-two ~

~ Twenty-three ~

~ Twenty-four ~

~ Twenty-five ~

~ Twenty-six ~

~ Twenty-seven ~

~ Twenty-eight ~

~ Twenty-nine ~

~ Thirty ~

~ Thirty-one ~

~ Thirty-two ~

~ Thirty-three ~

~ Thirty-four ~

~ Thirty-five ~

~ Thirty-six ~

~ Thirty-seven ~

~ Thirty-eight ~

~ Thirty-nine ~

~ Forty ~

~ Forty-one ~

~ Forty-two ~

~ Forty-three ~

~ Forty-four ~

~ Forty-five ~

~ Forty-six ~

~ Forty-seven ~

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Paddington Cove

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Personal spirit

is the undiluted,

authentic you.

It holds the blueprint

of your life purpose.

It celebrates

your inner wisdom.

Guiding you outside time

and kissed by

Universal knowledge,

this internal compass

is always for you.

I hope this book becomes

your good friend,

wearing the stains of

tea, chocolate,

and tears of joyful

connection

to your personal spirit ~

Jeanne.

From Chapter Twenty-four ~

The muse said, "Our intuition guides. It brings those who are uncertain into the company of those who have learned to heed their inner voice.

"This instinct lights the path leading each woman to her spirit realm. It opens one’s eyes to a destination of purpose and creativity.

Intuition is our knight in white, shining armor, there to help us claim our kingdom in the bold time of life.

Elizabeth reached through all the wisdom she was hearing and took a deep breath as she grabbed the first thing that came to mind. How will I find my kingdom if I do not know it by appearance or location?

Old Maggie did not move or even blink as she said, Your journey is creating your kingdom.

Neither woman hurried past this moment.

The hands on the clock paused to listen.

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Old Maggie’s Everyday Expressions

Abracadabrant ~ marvelous or stunning

Aflunters ~ in a state of disorder

Allemang ~ mixed together

Cabobble ~ mystify, puzzle, confuse

Chatter-broth ~ tea

Deepmusing ~ lost in thought, contemplating

Falling-weather ~ rain

Flutter-byes ~ butterflies

Foredays ~ previously

Glad-warbled ~ walking joyfully

Gloppened ~ surprised

Heart-quakes ~ trembling of the heart

Infradig ~ below one’s dignity or position

Mirknight ~ midnight

Pipers news ~ news everyone has heard

Podware ~ peas

Powfagged ~ tired from overwork

Queachy ~ shaking, quivering

Queen’s weather ~ a fine day

Quockerwodger ~ toy with limbs animated by strings

Rambastical ~ noisy

Ramfeezled ~ wore oneself out

Rejumbled ~ rose up in the stomach

Scrutineer ~ inquirer, searcher, examiner

Sheeps-eyes ~ the look of lovers

Sithcundman ~ one who knows what happened long ago

Snoutfair ~ handsome

Somewhen ~ at sometime or another

Town-of-trees ~ grove near a dwelling

Unlicked ~ unpolished youth

Wordify ~ put into words

Most of these words came from The Word Museum by Jeffrey Kacirk

Time Slipping

This story is dedicated to everyone discovering

the rich, joyful power of their personal spirit.

~ One ~ 

1812

Most storms are an inconvenience, something to be ignored or managed. For Elizabeth, this particular raging deluge marked the beginning. The countess had finally arrived. Like a ginger snap poached from a cookie jar, a long-held dream was hers.

This was the moment she had imagined many times, and the dark day greeted her with promise. Rain beat the cottage. It bounced off the fence, inviting her to watch its secret life. Drops were destroyed as they hit the terrace with splattering force; their remains gathering into streams before diving into the cracks of the flagstone terrace. The drenching downpour pulled itself like a cape across her view, shrouding her new yard in mystery. Precipitation pounded the rocks, roof, and nearby river in a rhythm so ancient one must suppose faeries were dancing, their heads thrown back in joy.

All this wonder revealed itself in spite of the crates waiting impatiently to be unpacked. Only the silk bed sheets, two wool blankets, a faithful quilt, and three pillows had been removed from the largest of the six containers.

In the bedchamber, a trunk sat with its lid open, yawning from the three-day journey. Elizabeth’s wardrobe within would soon belie the careful packing by her personal maid, but the countess resisted each niggling temptation to be efficient. She was determined to leave the gowns folded, her small clothes tucked, and each shawl rolled up until such time as they were decidedly wrinkled.

Tapping the warm, smooth cup cradled in her hands, Lady Elizabeth Compton relied on old friends to get her through the anxiety of having time: licorice tea and dark chocolate truffles had been easily located in the crate sitting in the kitchen. Cook had also been so kind as to include a set of Elizabeth’s favorite Wedgwood cups and saucers. Whether they had been packed because there would be no scullery maid or because her servant imagined her mistress having visitors was not certain.

It mattered not what the staff conjured or discussed, thought Elizabeth. She ruthlessly directed her attention away from the busy days leading to her arrival.

Staring through the rain-spattered panes to seek the solace from the scene before her, she looked at the gnarled oak trees. Some stood guard over the thatched-roof cottage. Several made an irregular sentry across the lawn and down to the gentle river. They would allow sunlight when the late spring clouds parted and, if she was not mistaken, a view of the setting moon.

That had been one of the vital criteria when her man of business had searched for her property. She wanted to bid the moon goodbye while a crackling fire and whistling teapot whispered between themselves. It appeared everything was in order.

Elizabeth was inclined to be enchanted. She was ready to venture toward the very thoughts she had set aside in the past. It was time to let her itches and urges take her to the truths so readily buried in the relentless rhythms of responsibilities. Though her mind had argued forcefully, inner wisdom had whispered promises. Cajoled. Triumphed.

But Lady Compton was not one to easily sit still. The two truffles were gone in a trice. Her tea was not yet cool. Still there were no shocking insights or earth-shattering revelations.

I am afraid I will be a dismal failure at this, she thought as she rose to make herself a second cup of tea.

Back at Compton Court, Elizabeth had been convinced she need only arrive to begin reflection. She had thought it was simply a matter of having time. A very personal, deep, inner connection that had been devoured by commitments and caught in the clamor of life seemed possible in the embrace of silence.

Pouring the hot water over the finely ground licorice roots, Elizabeth’s agitation grew.

Her son’s admonition sounded in her head. I am not the least concerned about your fanciful flight for I know you will soon be back at the Court. An endeavor with no specific purpose or measure of outcome will not hold your attention, I am sure.

He had kissed her forehead as he did for his niece when the toddler would rail against society’s restrictions.

Convinced her peace of mind would take nothing more than another truffle, Lady Compton untied the cord for the second time that morning. She eyed the treats. If taking only one, it must, of course, be the largest of the lot.

Grabbing the fluffy, white quilt covering her bed, Elizabeth settled once more in the soft burgundy chair she had pulled directly in front of the bay window.

This time the truffle did not slip past her teeth in two bites. Rather, the countess nibbled this edge, then another side. She felt the chocolate coat her tongue. It covered the roof of her mouth where it invited her full attention. Not once in the extended adventure of sensation was she inclined to wash the taste and texture away with a sip of tea. When the delight of licorice eventually called, she found her tea quite cool but it did not matter. The fire continued providing warmth.

Elizabeth had built a strong blaze in the large fireplace covering half the back wall. She was proud of her effort. The countess had done something as amazing and scandalous as racing her horse through Hyde Park at the height of society’s afternoon promenade. She was convinced not one of her acquaintances would think her capable of building a fire, though she had watched the task any number of times in the past four decades.

Observation provides a vast array of information, mused Elizabeth. So too can schoolrooms, books, and experience bring knowledge, but I sense there is also wisdom that comes from within, and I have become restless enough, daring enough, to listen. For this, I need the uncommon quiet at the edge of life.

The challenge, of course, is to stay awake in the solitude we seek. The countess did not meet this test. She woke up to the continued rapping rain and a tapping at the back of the house.

Boogiemen, pirates, and ogres roared out of childhood. They filled the shadowed parlor. Elizabeth was not used to braving unseen noises on her own. Before she had become a young widow, there had been her husband. Footmen and butlers had been at her beck and call her entire life.

Her senses sharpening, Elizabeth became aware of the chattering cup and saucer still sitting in her hands though she had napped. She held them firmly, the better to hear the unnerving tapping somewhere behind her. She hung on so she would not be alone. She burrowed deeper under the quilt. It was her only defense should the sound move around the house and look squarely into the window before her.

The commotion ceased almost immediately, but the candles were getting low and the fire had lost is glow before Lady Compton dared come out of her quilted fortress. She was inclined to berate herself now that the rain was no more than a gentle sprinkle and yellow light was replacing the gray.

She thought, at first, she had not done well. But stretching her legs gave her a new perspective. Perhaps, her tingling toes announced, it was enough that she had braved such a challenge and was still determined to continue her solitary quest. She did not need to proceed by some plan, after all.

With these encouraging thoughts, Elizabeth went to the waning fire and began stoking it. She would bring heat and light back to the room. She would make everything feel cheery and homey. She might watch the rain until it no longer danced on the river. Then, sometime soon, she would go to the kitchen at the back of the house.

After all, the unnerving noise had most likely been a dog or cat avoiding the uncomfortable wetness. Yes. It was most likely a local pet needing respite, pleased to find someone home after the cottage had sat empty these past weeks.

Thank heavens for hunger. It spurs us forward when we would are inclined to stay snuggled in comfort.

It was in the middle of the afternoon when a piece of cheese, a slice of ham, and Cook’s soft, chewy bread encouraged Elizabeth to look through the doorway and down the short hallway to the kitchen. There would be no sun this day to make the trek merrier. Elizabeth was sure of that. It would take a candle to light the way.

She took a taper. She took her time. In the future, she would keep the sconces burning in the kitchen as well as the parlour. One was not encouraged to be at ease with shadows lurking in unfamiliar corners or flowing along walls and across objects as movement took candlelight from one place to the next.

But, when we choose to take one step after another, we are sure to reach our destination, regardless of our hesitations along the way.

Elizabeth arrived in the kitchen more hungry than nervous. Everything looked quite normal. The noise that had yanked her out of soothing sleep seemed a trifling as she used her candle to light those on the wall. Setting the taper on the shelf above the barely warm stove, she realized there would be no tea with her meal if she did not immediately tend the dwindling fire.

Feeling more like Robinson Crusoe than Cinderella, Elizabeth dug into the coal bin next to the stove. It took very little encouragement before the kitchen resumed its cozy warmth, and she embraced that success. Though her island was a cozy cottage in the pastoral countryside of Paddington Cove rather than an island off Trinidad, perhaps she would also do well on her own.

Seeking the well-wrapped bread in the two crates before her, Elizabeth began unpacking. Though the cottage had come completely furnished, the cook at Compton Court had sent along items she felt her mistress would find convenient or necessary for comfort. Elizabeth began placing these items on the shelves between the essentials left by the previous owner.

It seemed no time at all until the work table had been cleared enough for Elizabeth to lay out her meal. She peeled away the many layers of burlap and removed the still-cool cheese and ham. She sliced two pieces of bread, letting an embroidered napkin serve as her plate while she continued unpacking between bites, making mental notes of supplies she would need to purchase.

Once again, Elizabeth could feel the energy of her adventure. Though daunting in many ways, the magnitude of change was exciting. Allowing time to unfold at a leisurely pace was enticing. Here she could do as she pleased. No one would have a question, a request, an unexpressed need, or expectation.

With the kitchen not exactly organized but unpacked and ready to use, the countess grabbed her candle. She walked down the hall to the second bedchamber across the way from her own. It was a small room, but adequate for storing the crates.

It took half an hour to pull, push, tug, and maneuver the two kitchen crates down the hall so Elizabeth could place them against the chamber wall. She decided her reward would be a walk around her still sopping-wet yard though the price would be her traveling slippers. They were not designed for wading across tall, wet grass, but she was not inclined to search for her half boots before setting out.

There was not much daylight left as Elizabeth tossed her traveling cape across her shoulders. She found the backdoor key hanging on a hook next to the cupboard in the kitchen. It opened with a creak. That was when Elizabeth saw the bundle of lichen-covered branches on the porch. Twine was wrapped around them several times and knotted with a simple bow.

~ Two ~

The morning sun peeked in around the curtains, urging the countess out of her dream. She felt herself hovering in pleasant sensations, but the promise of the day held sway in spite of yesterday’s unnerving mystery.

Elizabeth anticipated exploring the village that would be her home in the weeks to come. She hoped to find a woman to provide a few simple meals each week, and she would certainly need a laundress. It was one thing to dress herself, quite another to maintain her wardrobe. The trick, Elizabeth knew, would be to make inquiries while keeping her privacy intact. If Paddington Cove was anything like her own village, a new face would generate curiosity as well as unwelcome invitations.

Breakfast was a cup of hot peppermint tea with the remains of the previous evening meal.

Lady Compton was not one to need an extravagant sideboard, but she was used to the variety available from a large, productive estate. The countess wondered what she would find in the village to fill out her current pantry. She was determined to be optimistic. She could, of course, send back to Compton Court, but Elizabeth knew she would not. That would be like making a kite, taking it to an open field, and then standing still in the breeze rather than learning how to let it soar.

Espying the dwindling bundle of chocolate truffles with a slight pang, the countess finished her breakfast while watching the sun push through the curling branches of the oak trees.

In the time it took her to dig out her half boots, locate the serviceable cape she had brought with her, and don a subdued bonnet, the countess was ready to walk into the village. There would be no carriages. She had insisted on keeping things simple, and the walk would be no longer than a mile.

Though I did not consider muddy, rutted roads when I determined to live without my usual conveniences, Elizabeth acknowledged with a valiant smile as she opened the gate and looked down the country lane forming the northern boundary of her small yard.

It was sloppy, slow-going to the small, stone bridge not far from her cottage. Once there, the arched overpass crossing an active stream provided a respite.

Elizabeth stood in the middle of the bridge, looking at the water flowing through the beautiful, bucolic view. One could imagine frogs making their homes under the fallen logs and other slippery things finding shelter in the scattered brush gathered in calm corners. Surely deer were a common sight.

Elizabeth moved to the rail and leaned over, inviting a quiet moment, but instead she heard the rumble of a carriage coming her way.

Knowing there was not room for both her and the conveyance; she quickly gave up her inclination to meditate and moved to the far side of the bridge. She had reached the road when the intrusive carriage came into view. Rounding the corner from the direction of the village, it was driven without haste, making its way deliberately along the short straight stretch before moving under the heavy oak limb that spanned the lane just before the bridge.

Elizabeth was not at all pleased to note the ever-slowing pace as the carriage approached. A lady alone on a country road could not wish for any notice by a male, yet here she stood, captive in the muddy conditions, new to the neighborhood. Looking down was the usual, best option, but Elizabeth did not come to her retreat to shy away from uncomfortable moments. Lifting her chin, she forced bland indifference across her face and watched the driver approach.

What, he wondered, do we have here? Restraint, posture, and style shouted this stranger was a well-born lady. Lord Dunmore was inclined to assume she was in distress for he could think of no other reason to find her alone at the side of the road in mud an inch thick.

Yet, she appeared to be waiting for him to pass. Could she be out on a walk? It was highly unlikely.

Slowly, with caution for both her garments and sensibility, he maneuvered his horse forward. In the one moment of eye contact, he rightly judged her disinclined to have him stop. It only occurred to Lord Dunmore moments later, as he drove by Widow Marshall’s cottage, he might have just passed the new occupant of the property he had wished to purchase. If so, time would tell him more about the petite blonde with an abundance of dignity.

Elizabeth was relieved he had not been forward, this man who would interrupt her walk into the village. There are some moments we are so convinced we know what is best for ourselves, we fail to recognize the myriad ways life is contriving to introduce what serves our spirit. Elizabeth completed her walk in complete agreement with herself that she wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

To her complete satisfaction, there were few people attending the village so early in the day, and Paddington Cove was more substantial than Elizabeth had surmised when passing through it two days earlier. An adequate coaching inn commanded the edge of town where she stood. It faced a pleasing community green. From there a short, cobbled street curved toward the right with small shops standing at attention on both sides. Some were ivy-covered. Most were quite small. All appeared tidy and prosperous.

Though not inclined to spend her time being practical, Elizabeth found the local bank first. She knew she could buy her goods on credit, as the Countess of Compton, but she wanted to pay as she purchased in the local businesses. In this way she could use an assumed name, Lady Lymann, to encourage the obscurity she sought. She could only hope the banker would honor her request for privacy and not hie home to give his wife the news of a peer in residence.

It appeared her wish would be granted. The local notes were easily obtained with assurances of privacy. Elizabeth set out to explore the rest of the village feeling pleased.

The greengrocery and dry goods were under one roof. The shopkeeper was helpful without the kind of curiosity that was inclined to ask questions or spread the word.

The countess felt free to take her time. Her eyes slowly passed over the merchandise while she made a mental note of what was available. Like a housekeeper set adrift in society’s grandest ball, Lady Compton was feeling a bit lost and unsure. She had never purchased her own food. She did not know her way around this unknown sea of shelves.

One never knew what challenges a spirit adventure would bring. What was a common task to one person could be a call to explore for another. It might be an opportunity to recognize aspects of ourselves that have been dormant.

By the time Elizabeth had placed an order to be delivered, the lady of the manor felt more like a child racing the wind. She smiled at the shopkeeper, Mr. Hawkins, when he directed her to his own cottage with the red roses climbing all over it just down the road, on the other side of town. Here Elizabeth would find the lady of the house more than happy to provide both the cooking and laundry services she required; Mrs. Hawkins came highly recommended by her husband.

On the way to see Mrs. Hawkins, Elizabeth wandered into Stape’s Confectionary and Bakery. Here she bought a loaf of bread to accompany her cheese, a dozen cookies for courage, and several scones for her afternoon tea.

Next door, the small circulating library proved adequate for her needs. Elizabeth paid the annual fee before picking out two books to add to the collection she had brought with her.

The cobbled street ended just before her destination. Here two cottages sat side by side. One had two window boxes boasting healthy violets, deep, green ivy and a faded sign hanging at the side of the door; the other was covered in roses, as promised. It seemed Paddington Cove had a Seamstress of long standing.

Mrs. Hawkins was just what Elizabeth had imaged might be possible. She was full of energy, clean, and glad for extra pocket money. Her son, Ned, would deliver three meals a week, toting the laundry back and forth as well. Over a cup of welcomed tea, Elizabeth assured Mrs. Hawkins she wanted the same meals the busy mother would be feeding her own family.

Late that evening, when Mr. Hawkins came home, his wife beamed as she showed him her bank notes.

That Lady Lymann insisted on paying for the ingredients and soap beforehand, she announced with satisfaction.

She seemed a right nice one. Paid for everything she ordered right up front, confirmed Mr. Hawkins before informing his wife the lady had bought Widow Marshall’s place.

Wonder how long she will be staying?

Seems like a person buying a piece of property plans to stick around, Mr. Hawkins answered.

Mrs. Hawkins nodded, but it seemed to her a person planning to stay would be looking for a cook and maid-of-all-work.

There comes a telling time in every adventure of spirit. It is the moment after you have taken care of all the details that distract with such soothing familiarity. Then, like footsteps following you in a nightmare, you feel the pressure of having nothing more to hold you to your everyday routines. The chasm of possibilities stretches before you.

Elizabeth found herself in this most uncomfortable place after she returned to her cottage. Her packages were put away. Even her wardrobe trunk was emptied. She had eaten early because that is always an excellent way to postpone.

As the sun set, Elizabeth stood watching the tea kettle. She could hear the water within starting to boil. It was enough to divert her relentless, restless thoughts. She spoke to the stove, who was now her warm companion.

I cannot remember why I am here. What in heaven’s name am I doing?

The kettle responded with a whistle. It soothed Elizabeth’s agitation, even if it did not provide an answer. Pouring the steaming water over the peppermint leaves; she looked into the brewing cup and shared her thoughts.

I do believe I would begin packing my belongings if I had not employed Mrs. Hawkins. I cannot disappoint her.

Nor do I care to disappoint myself, she thought as she took her cup and saucer to the kitchen table and sat on the stool. Surely I knew this time would