HAUNTING
GRACE
Elizabeth Marshall
In the writing of this book the author seeks to tell a tale; a story of fantasy, mystery and intrigue. For the purpose of the tale, which is set in a real world at a real point in time, it has been necessary to include some historical facts and bias. However, it was never the author’s intent to write a book of historical fact or to reflect personal or political opinion in any way.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead is entirely coincidental.
The Right of Deborah-Ann Brown to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
First Published 2011
Copyright © 2011 Deborah-Ann Brown
All rights reserved.
ISBN:10: 1466375051
ISBN-13: 978-1466375055
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
FOREWORD
HAUNTING GRACE – Book One of the ‘Beyond Time’ Series
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEDICATION
I dedicate this short story with all my love to my precious family, Andy, Sean, Kel, Ste, Rose, Dave, George and Emma - a tiny reminder of the many exciting adventures we have had over the years in the ancient city of York.
And to Eva Coppersmith! My friend, I have run out of ways to thank you. You are the best friend a girl could wish for. This past year has not been an easy one for either of us. May this story take you to a place of happy fantasy!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Andy I could not and would not have written anything without you beside me. You are my world and I love you with all my heart! For all the wonderful times we have snuck away to York together and the adventures that planted the seed of this plot, I thank you my love. For all the precious memories we have created together in York over the years – you put magic back into my life.
Oh, and you’re a pretty damn good editor and manager as well. Love you darling, so much. x
Kel and Ste for your patience, love and support, I thank you with all my heart. How you two put up with me, I will never know? Yet again you have stood with me and made this happen. You really are my guardian angels. To the two best proof readers and cover designers in the world, I love you both so much, thank you. x
Sean, where would I be without your guidance on plot and dialogue? Oh, yes, of course, everyone would sound like they’d just stepped out of a finishing school. Love you big lad so much and thank you for rescuing me. x
David, George and Emma – my little support team. Couldn’t do any of this without you. Love you all and thank you. x
Noreen Muller and Kim Bennett for being brave enough and kind enough to test drive this plot on its first draft. You are both absolute stars, thank you, so very much. x
Diane Castiglione for believing that I could write a ghost story and giving me the push I needed to do it. You are a lovely lady and a precious friend. x
Paul Anthony (author of ‘Bushfire’) and Sonia Rumzi (who wrote ‘Caring For Eleanor’) what would I do without you both? I value and cherish your friendship, support and kindness greatly. x
Foreword
Haunted York!
Sit back, relax and prepare yourself to meet some famous residents of York - the most haunted city in Britain!
The dark streets are overcrowded, noisy and foul smelling. The air is heavy and wet. The smell of rancid waste fills your nostrils and hits the back of your throat. Lowering your eyes to the ground, anxious to avoid stepping in the sludge of filth that carpets the street, you notice an old man stumble and fall heavily in front of you. His death is not your concern.
You turn and guide your horse off the main path of the street and onto the cobbled courtyard of a posting house. A stable lad is grooming a fine black stallion as you emerge into the yard.
“Any chance of a drink for my horse?” you ask, noticing a trough of water to the side of the yard. The lad nods in the direction of the trough.
It is 1680 and you are watering your horse at what is now known as ‘The Olde Starre Inne’ - York’s oldest licensed public house.
The air around you fills with the desperate cries of wounded and dying men and the unmistakable smell of blood and death hangs in the air.
Fear grips your soul as the sound grows louder and closer - but there is no one there, except you... and the stable lad.
The lad shrugs, “Ignore it! It is nought but the cries from the surgeon’s blade. Before my time, you know... back in ‘44, after Marston Moor. They brought their injured and dying here, used it as a bloody billet hospital and morgue.
“It is said the landlord was none too happy, him being a Royalist and all. Don’t suppose he had much choice, them Roundheads haven taken the city from Charles. Mind it wasn’t long after that they took his head as well.”
So, if you are ever in York, I dare you to take a wander up Stonegate. Look for the banner stretched across the street and take the entrance below. Go hear for yourself the cries of the dead as you lift your mug of ale and sup to King Charles and his head.
Not brave enough for the ‘The Olde Starre Inne’, well... why not try the ‘Cock and Bottle’? Ladies be warned however, of a man wearing a richly embroidered coat and tight fitting breeches, with dashingly handsome features and long, black, wavy hair.
George Villiers, the second Duke of Buckingham, born in London in 1628, was a close friend of Charles the second. He was a womaniser with an extraordinary talent for charming pretty ladies into his bed. So infamous was his character and reputation that his way with the ladies and his downfall from parliament in 1673 was immortalised in the nursery rhyme ‘Georgie Porgie’.
It is believed that on his retirement George bought a house on Skeldergate on exactly the same site as today’s ‘Cock and Bottle’ public house.
Apparently Mr Villiers is still there! His saucy ghost has been caught spying on young ladies in the shower, following them to the toilet and fondling and stroking pretty customers of the ‘Cock and Bottle’ pub.
Shall I continue?
Ok, but we only have time for one more, so grab a cup of tea and enjoy this, my last haunted tale for now!
HAUNTING GRACE
Grace stood on the platform and watched as the train pulled out. She rearranged her handbag, bending slightly to grab the handle of her suitcase. Ten thousand pounds and a poxy suitcase on wheels was all she had to show for fifteen years of marriage. Well, that and her beautiful daughter. Jenny was fifteen, she needed her mother, but Jack had terminated the bond between Jenny and her mother many years ago. He was an influential man, a minister of their local church but what most didn’t know was that Jack was cruel, vindictive and jealous. Women loved him, parishioners loved him, Jenny loved him, Grace had loved him, once, but over the years he had sought to destroy that love.
Jack had left early that morning. A meeting in London required his attendance, missionary business, or so he said. More like missionary position than business. She gagged on the bile that rose in the back of her throat. He honestly thought she didn’t know what he was up to. That was all part of the excitement for him, thinking that he was doing something she wasn’t aware of. But this time she had confronted him, bravely calling his bluff. Jack had lost his temper putting his fist through a door, screaming and shaking as if on the verge of a fit, he had branded her mentally insane and irrational. Even her daughter believed she was deranged. How could she think any different? The child adored her father; he could do no wrong.
For years she had hoarded money. The odd ten p
ound note here and there, carefully tucked away. Two months ago she had found the courage to open a bank account in her own name. Now she had escaped his tyranny, she was free. Clutching her handbag she nervously scanned the platform.
With the knowledge that she wasn’t going to starve any time soon, Grace made her way from the station and onto the busy streets of York. She had her freedom; all she had to do was figure out what to do with it.
********
She lifted her hand to her cheek as the familiar sting of winter hit her face. An air of urgency and purpose had come over the city. The light began to dim and Grace realised that nightfall was fast approaching. Tiny flakes of snow drifted from a heavily laden sky. She fixed her eyes on the orange glow of a street light and watched the snow as it floated to the ground. A knot of fear and loneliness tightened in her stomach as she scanned a narrow street to the side of the Minster.
Solitude had become her sanctuary, but just at the moment, Grace’s heart weighed heavily and her thoughts strayed to home. She wondered when her absence would be noticed or whether anyone would actually care. She doubted they would. Her own mother and father believed she was neurotic, spoilt and tottering on the edge of a fashionable nervous break-down. Jenny thought her the devil itself and as for Jack, she was quite convinced the only thing he would miss was his verbal punch-bag. Oh, and perhaps his housekeeper and cook, but he could hire one of those just as easily. She understood all this, yet still she missed the familiarity of home. But she reminded herself, she was free and no amount of stomach churning and homesickness was going to drive her back to that man. Filling her lungs with much needed air, she headed for the door, above which hung a sign advertising ‘The Cavalier Hotel’.
As with most buildings in the inner-city of York, this modernised townhouse lay in the shadows of the Minster. In fact it stood rather dwarfed beside the Minster. It was comfortable, clean and not too expensive. Her room had a small en-suite bathroom, a television, a double bed, a single free-standing wooden wardrobe and a small desk on which stood a kettle and two cups.
“This will do very nicely,” she whispered to the generic, nameless portrait on the wall as she set her suitcase in the corner by the window. Turning to face the portrait, she studied it silently.
“Who were you?” she said, addressing the portrait once more. “Your eyes tell me you were a kind man, but not one I would like to be on the wrong side of either. Well, I guess we are kinda stuck with each other, at least until I can find some real people to talk to. So, what do you say, shall we have a coffee?” Grace lifted the lid of the kettle and made her way into the en-suite.
“How do you like your coffee?” she called to the portrait as she rinsed the kettle and filled it with clean water. “Always better to rinse these things out, you never know how long they have been left standing.”
Returning the kettle to its base she flicked the switch.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch what you said. Was that... ” she stopped and stared at the portrait, “... you look like a black coffee type of man to me. So shall we call it black, no sugar? Of course you don’t want sugar. You’ve probably never heard of sugar.”
Shaken from her thoughts by the sound of boiling water, Grace reached for the switch and flicked it up.
“I really have got to get myself a life. What am I like? Standing here talking to a portrait and offering it coffee. Dear, dear, me... And you can stop looking at me as well,” she said, addressing the picture again. “Those damn eyes of yours! They make me feel as though you are as curious about me as I am about you. Right, I’m not doing this; I’m really not talking to a damn picture.”
First thing in the morning she planned to register with every employment agency in the city; to change her address with the bank and buy herself a new mobile phone. Grace ran her fingers over the ridged buttons of her Blackberry. She had switched it off when she boarded the train, vowing never to use it again. The idea of dropping it in a bin at the station had crossed her mind. But then the thought that it may be found and used to trace her had made her slide it back into the pocket of her jeans. Feeling lonely and lost she clutched the phone tightly to her chest. Her eyes closed and she saw her daughter’s disapproving frown, the hatred etched in her eyes by her father. A single sob escaped her as she realised she was crying.
The sun hadn’t risen when Grace finally gave up her bid for sleep. Her stomach growled, as she pulled on her jeans, a timely reminder that she hadn’t eaten in over twenty four hours. Grabbing her handbag, she quietly pulled the door to her room open and ventured into the hall.
The homely smell of freshly brewed coffee drifted past her as she pushed her way into McDonalds. A daily newspaper lay on one of the tables. She wondered if Jack would be reading his paper. It was one of his daily rituals to read the Daily Mail at breakfast. He was a creature of habit, a man who could not function without the structure of repetition. At precisely half past six every morning he would seat himself at the long dining room table, unfold his newspaper and reach for a cup of coffee. At precisely quarter to seven, Grace would serve him two six minute boiled eggs with two slices of toast. At seven o’clock, Jack would rise from the table and make his way to the front door where he would collect his leather sling bag and car keys and would disappear through the front door. A shudder rippled through her as she pulled her eyes from the newspaper.
“Hello, can I get you something?” he called.
“Oh, sorry... err... can I get a white coffee, two sugars and a bacon roll, please?”
“Is that a meal?”
“A meal?” she asked confused.
“With a hashbrown or without?” he sighed in irritation.
“Without, please?”
“Fine. Is that to eat in or take out?”
“Eat in, I think.”
“Take a seat and I’ll bring it over to you,” he said in a sing song voice that hid neither his boredom with his job or irritation at her.
Blowing gently over the top of the coffee cup, Grace scanned the tourist map she had found on her way out of the hotel. It was difficult to make out where the employment agents were or indeed if there were any in the city. The map wasn’t directed at single thirty something’s looking for their first proper job and a new life. She picked at the roll, eventually dropping it back into the small brown paper bag in which it had come. The coffee she finished, before collecting her rubbish and disposing it in the purpose built waste bin next to her table.
Time to face the big wide world, she thought to herself as she buttoned her coat and braced herself for the bitter air.
Nine o’clock on the dot, Grace found herself outside what looked to be a respectable little employment agent. A card in the window advertised a temporary administrative and reception role. The only skills required for the job were the ability to type and a nice telephone manner. Grace had no idea if she had a nice telephone manner or not. But she knew that typing wasn’t going to be a problem. Fifteen years as a Vicar’s wife and a typing course, funded by the Vicar himself had trained her well in the use of a keyboard.
A woman about the same age as Grace, with masses of flaming red curls, bustled up to the door and hastily pushed a key into the lock. Grace followed her through the door and waited patiently whilst the woman pulled a chair out and sat down behind a desk.
“Sorry, to keep you waiting, been one of those mornings and we are a bit short staffed here at the moment. Now what can I do for you?”
“I was just enquiring about the job you have advertised in the window, the one looking for temporary administrator and receptionist.”
“Do you have any qualifications?”
“Well, I have a degree in history and a certificate which says I can type.”
“What was your last job?”
“I worked for fifteen years as a Vicar’s wife. The role was mainly administrative and fronting up social events for the church.”
“Right, when can you start?”
“Now?” Grace replie
d more in question than statement.
“Excellent! I’m Kate and you are?”
“Err... Grace, my name is Grace.”
“Nice to know you, Grace, now see that desk over there? That is yours. The password to the laptop is ‘happy’. Log on and you can get started. We can deal with the formalities later; right now I have a mass of clients and contractors waiting for contracts.”
Grace made her way nervously towards the desk, pulling the chair slowly from under the polished wooden desk. She couldn’t help but notice how out of place the laptop looked on the ancient piece of furniture or how low the desk appeared. As she sat in the chair and lifted her hands to the keyboard she smiled realising that for the first time ever she was sitting at a desk that felt comfortable.
As her fingers glided swiftly over the keys and her eyes stared at the sheet of paper to her right, she noticed her reflection in the shiny surface of the desk. Her eyes blurred as the shape began to cloud and the reflection became the face of the man in her portrait. Fighting to drag her eyes from the image she willed her mind back to the work she was supposed to be doing.
“What are you doing? This is silly, get out of my head,” she whispered to the image.
“Grace, did you say something?”
“No, sorry, Kate, I was just reading through this document, making sure I haven’t missed anything.”
Haunting Grace Page 1