Page 19

“There are no farthingales at all,” she said. “Women wear much simpler dresses, and they usually end at the knee.”

Martha gasped. “Ladies show their legs and ankles?”

Despite the tension in the room, the corners of Miss Crawford’s lips turned upward. “They do. And men wear trousers that go to their ankles, rather than breeches that stop at the knee.”

“Good heavens.” Martha’s hand went to her chest as though this revelation were somehow more shocking than the fact that Miss Crawford had entered a world so far removed from her own.

“Ladies often wear trousers too,” Miss Crawford continued. “I went to the costume shop looking for a pale-blue nightgown, but I was wearing trousers when I walked in.”

Martha, it seemed, was momentarily speechless.

It was probably a good thing because her silence offered Simon an opportunity to interrupt. “Forgive me,” he said. “I do not think choice of wardrobe in the seventeenth century, the twenty-first century, or one’s imagination is the most important issue to discuss at present.”

“No, indeed,” Maidstone said. “Although, I confess, I am not sure quite where to begin.”

“Is there anything you might tell us that would more fully persuade us to believe that you are from the future, Miss Crawford?” Simon asked.

“I . . . I’ve told you about some of the advancements already.”

“You have, but I have no way of knowing if those are fabricated,” he said.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “You want something that you would know, but I would not unless I were from the future.”

Put in that light, his request sounded unreasonable. But despite Maidstone’s request, Simon had yet to come up with another avenue that might offer them clarification. “If possible,” he said.

“It’s been a few years since I studied this time period, and I don’t know what was common knowledge.” Miss Crawford’s brows came together as though she were thinking deeply. She looked at him hesitantly. “When Queen Elizabeth died, her face was caked with Venetian ceruse. She used it to cover the scars on her face caused by smallpox, but doctors think the lead in it may have contributed to her death.”

“Good heavens!” Martha looked from Simon to Maidstone. “Did you know this?”

“The queen’s face was always painted white,” Maidstone said. “It would be a reasonable assumption that she used Venetian ceruse.”

“Did it cause her death?” Martha asked.

“I do not believe any doctor could claim that,” Simon said. “For years before her death, the queen refused to allow anyone to examine her.”

Miss Crawford’s face fell. “Perhaps modern doctors conjectured that diagnosis.”

Or she could have imagined it herself.

For a moment, no one spoke. Maidstone cleared his throat again. “I realize—”

Miss Crawford gasped. “In 1604, King James met with Anglican and Puritan scholars at Hampton Court to discuss the need for a new and definitive version of the Bible.” Her voice rang with a peculiar mixture of desperation and surety. “It will take over seven years to compile, but ultimately the King James version of the Bible will become a standard text around the world.”

Simon glanced at Maidstone. Was he aware of this meeting? Maidstone met his eyes and gave an almost imperceptible nod. He knew of it. Simon did not. Which begged the question, How had Miss Crawford come to hear of it?

“Who told you of that meeting, Miss Crawford?” Maidstone asked.

Her shoulders sagged. “No one. I read about it in a history book.”

“Did it happen, Hugh?” Martha asked.

“It did. Although very few gentlemen outside the king’s privy chamber and the invited religious leaders knew of it.”

Martha’s eyes widened. “Does that prove that Miss Crawford is telling the truth?”

Proof was a very strong word, and if Maidstone’s expression was any indication, he was reluctant to use it.

“Someone in attendance at that small gathering may have shared information that was not meant to be made public,” he said. “I was told of the meeting in confidence by the Lord Chamberlain.”