Love through Time

Love through Time
By Lucy Felthouse

Emily received some strange looks and frowns from the people she passed as she walked across the graveled drive toward the front entrance of Westbury Hall. She could appreciate their confusion. It was closing time for the stately home, and the last of the visitors were being politely ushered out of the building, yet she was heading inside. She'd been invited. She had a job to do.

An elderly lady stood in the porch, smiling and nodding as she held the door open for those departing the hall. Most of them seemed in no hurry to leave, stopping to make comments to the woman at the door, thanking her for a lovely visit and so on. Emily waited patiently to the side, allowing the patrons to leave before attempting to enter. When the staff member—most likely a volunteer, Emily thought—caught sight of her, she gave her a polite nod of acknowledgment.

Finally, the last of Westbury Hall's visitors moved out, leaving Emily free to enter. Climbing the single, stone step to the threshold, she took the hand already offered her.

Shaking Emily's hand with a surprising firmness, the woman said, "You must be Miss Stone." Her smart appearance and the intelligence in her eyes indicated that despite her age, she was far from past it. "I'm Mrs. Thompson, house supervisor."

"I am," Emily replied, dropping her hand back to her side, "but please, call me Emily. It's lovely to meet you. So, house supervisor? Do you live on site?"

Indicating Emily should step inside the entrance hall, Mrs. Thompson proceeded to close and lock the porch and front doors of the house, securing them in.

"I do," the older woman said, turning back to face Emily, "I have rooms in a separate building just off the back of this one. So you needn't worry about me disturbing you."

"Oh no," Emily said, worried she'd inadvertently rubbed Mrs. Thompson the wrong way. "I didn't mean that. I was just curious. You're more than welcome to see me at work, Mrs. Thompson; although, I'm afraid you won't see anything terribly exciting."

Mrs. Thompson smiled now, the warmth reaching her eyes. Emily sighed silently with relief. She'd yet to see the extent of the work she had to do, but she'd been told it was no easy task, so she could be here for some time. The last thing she needed was to upset any of the staff.

"Oh, you'd be surprised, my dear. This is a fascinating old place. Of course, all these old houses have history, but Westbury Hall's is particularly rich."

Emily smiled. The woman's enthusiasm was infectious. "Well then," she replied, "I can't wait to learn more about it. I hope you'll feed me full of historical tidbits while I'm here?"

Mrs. Thompson gave an enigmatic smile. Then, startling Emily somewhat, she turned smartly on her heel and walked deeper into the house. "Come, my dear, I won't hold you up any longer. I'll show you to the library, where you'll soon start uncovering Westbury's illustrious history for yourself."

Walking quickly to keep up with the deceptively sprightly Mrs. Thompson, Emily looked at her surroundings as she dashed past them. She hoped she'd be able to enjoy the property in a more leisurely manner at some point, but for now, she was actually glad of the old woman's haste. It was time to see her new project.

As they reached the library at the end of a long and creaky-wooden corridor, Mrs. Thompson grasped the doorknobs and flung the double doors wide. The move was somewhat theatrical, and Emily had to bite her bottom lip in order to suppress a smile. As she followed Mrs. Thompson into the room, however, she quickly forgot her mirth, and her mouth dropped open in wonder.

Forgetting the old woman's presence entirely, Emily moved into the center of the room and looked around her. She spun a full three hundred and sixty degrees, taking in as much as she could in the beautiful room, feeling like a small child at Christmas.

The place was incredible. As a book conservator, naturally, Emily's work carried her all over the U.K.—and sometimes beyond—into hundreds of libraries, but in the last decade or so that she'd been doing the job, she'd never seen anything quite like this.

Mrs. Thompson cleared her throat loudly, yanking Emily from her reverie. "I can see you're rather taken with the place already." Without giving her a chance to reply, she continued, "I'll be retiring to my rooms soon. Can I get you anything before I go . . . to set you up for the evening?"

Emily floundered for a minute, her fascination with her surroundings and eagerness to explore having thoroughly commandeered her brain. "Um . . . yes please. Could I get a pot of tea? I have drinks and food with me, but a hot drink would be wonderful."

"Of course," Mrs. Thompson replied, moving toward the door. "I'll leave you to get acquainted with your new workplace."

And she was gone.

Work. Yes, of course. Emily had almost forgotten why she was here. She hadn't even touched a book yet, and somehow, this room had gotten under her skin. Looking around her once more, Emily decided not to be too hard on herself. After all, this was a book lover's ultimate dream library.

High ceilings made the already huge room seem bigger. Other than the area allotted for the marble fireplace, and two large bay windows at either end of the room, every inch of wall space was taken up by books. Hundreds and hundreds of books.

Now Emily knew what the office had meant when they'd said this would be no easy task. She walked around the edge of the room, examining the great oak bookshelves and the precious tomes housed within them. Up to about waist height, the shelves were more like cabinets, protruding farther into the room and fixed with wire fronts designed to protect the contents. This resulted in there being a shelf running around the perimeter of the room, interrupted only by the door, windows and fireplace. In true stately home style, the space was cluttered with various items, including framed photographs, ornaments, and a particularly attractive clock.

Having done a full circuit of the room, Emily turned her attention to the rest of the vast space. The nooks at each end, with their large windows, were perfect for reading. Emily guessed this was intentional in the design of the place, and the previous owners had certainly taken advantage of that fact, placing comfortable-looking sofas in each one. Had she not been there to work, Emily would have loved to curl up in one of them and read.

Toward one end of the room, with its back to the nook farthest the door, was a beautiful desk. It was large and solidly built, and Emily realised that this was the only suitable surface in the room on which she could work. She'd have to get permission from Mrs. Thompson, of course, but she was sure it would be okay. Working at this big, impressive desk would be much nicer than the usual fold up tables she usually got lumbered with. Though, truth be told, when Emily became engrossed in what she was doing, she could be in the middle of an earthquake and she wouldn't notice, so her work surface wasn't really all that important.

Just then, Mrs. Thompson returned with a tea tray in her hands. She broke into a smile when she saw Emily standing by the desk and walked toward her.

"Should I clear a space, Mrs. Thompson?" Emily asked. "I mean, is it okay to move some of these things to make room . . . and I was hoping I'd be able to work here, too."

"Of course, my dear. I know you'll be careful; you wouldn't very well be doing the job you do if you weren't, would you?"

Emily smiled at the elderly woman, then set about gently removing things from the desk. This included the usual sheaves of paper, letter tray, and inkwell, as well as an ornate clock and some small statues. She cleared a space on one of the shelves at the edge of the room and placed everything there. She'd just have to remember to put everything back before she left, ready for when the house re-opened to visitors in the morning.

She moved as quickly as she could, aware Mrs. Thompson was still standing holding the tray. Once the desk was clear, she made to put the tray down, but Emily stopped her. "Just a second, Mrs. Thompson. Let me just put my coverings down. I'll be as quick as I can."

Dashing across the room to where she'd dumped her bags by the door, Emily grabbed them and moved them to the floor by the desk. Within seconds, she'd pulled out a surface cover and protected the desk. Mrs. Thompson put the tray down with a smile. "You are a perfectionist, child. My very favourite kind of person."

Then, winking at Emily, she made to take her leave. "The night guard works from seven until seven, so he'll be here to let you out. He knows you're coming, so no need to worry about him pouncing on you. His name is George. Knowing him, he'll pop in just to say hello, but he won't bother you for long. He'll be off on his rounds, keeping his eye out for the many criminals and cat burglars we get lurking in our grounds."

Seeing Emily's dumbfounded look, Mrs. Thompson laughed. The resulting expression on her face made her look like the sweet old lady Emily was sure she was once you got to know her. "I'm just pulling your leg, my dear. Not about George, of course, but about the cat burglars. We don't get any trouble around here. Anyway, I'll leave you to get on. If you should need anything urgently, please come and find me. I'm in the cottage on the other side of the kitchen gardens."

Walking to the door, she turned just inside the frame. "Good night. If I do not see you before, I shall see you when you arrive tomorrow."

"Good night, Mrs. Thompson. And thank you."