Secrets in Time: Time Travel Romance

by Alison Stuart

  He gave me a disarming smile. ‘No one, mistress. Just do what you need to do and then we must talk.’

  The muscles in Nathaniel’s jaw tightened as I sutured the wound but to his credit he did not flinch. I followed up with tetanus and penicillin injections, which he bore without complaint.

  ‘Well, I will hand it to you, Nathaniel Preston, you’re pretty tough.’

  He let out a deep breath. ‘I’ve been hurt before.’

  ‘So I see.’ My gaze dropped to the jagged scar below his ribs. ‘I didn’t realize the Civil War Association could be quite that authentic.’

  ‘What is this Civil War Association of which you speak?’

  I looked into his puzzled eyes and shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. You can talk about it with Alan.’

  He spread his fingers on the table and looked down at them. ‘Mistress Shepherd, is what you say true? Is this the year 1995?’

  I nodded. ‘1995.’

  He straightened his arm and grimaced. Recognizing the pinched look around his eyes and mouth, I stood up. ‘Nathaniel. That arm must be hurting like hell. I will give you something for the pain.’

  I went to the tap in the kitchen and turned it on. Behind me, the chair scraped, and Nathaniel joined me at the basin.

  He ran his hand under the flow of water and as I turned the tap off, he shook his head and said with what sounded like wonder in his voice, ‘Do that again.’

  I complied. He put his hand on the tap, turning it on and off. Before I could stop him, he’d turned the hot water tap on hard. Scalding water shot from the tap and he drew his hand back.

  ‘Incredible,’ he marveled, shaking his hand with a grimace. ‘Hot water on command. Do you have a servant to heat it for you?’ He looked around the room as if he expected a secreted servant to be hiding in the cupboards.

  ‘No,’ I replied, instinctively grabbing his hand and holding it under the cold water. ‘I am all out of servants. The gas board does it quite adequately. Let me look at that hand.’ He held out his hand but apart from being a little red, there didn’t appear to be any damage.

  I looked up at him. ‘Do you really need me to tell you the red dot means hot water?’

  ‘Red dot...hot water...I will remember,’ he mumbled.

  He took the pain killers and a glass of water I held out for him, weighing the little pills in his hand. ‘What do I do with these?’

  ‘Swallow them.’

  The mesmerizing gray-green eyes narrowed. ‘Is this poison?’

  I shook my head. ‘I promise it’s not poison and it will take the pain away.’

  He swallowed the pills, washing them down with the water, making a face at the bitter aftertaste.

  He straightened and picked up my right hand. ‘Thank you for your care of me, Mistress Shepherd.’

  Before I could react, he kissed my hand. The touch of his lips on my skin had been no more than a butterfly touch, but it sent a lightning bolt through me as if it had ignited a touch paper that could not be extinguished. I withdrew it as if I had been scalded.

  His eyes met mine, holding my gaze. ‘Jessica Shepherd, are you a good doctor?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  He took a breath and leaned against the draining board, running a hand over his eyes.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Just a little dizzy.’

  ‘You’re still looking rather pale. I think you should rest for a little before you go home. Would you like a bath?’

  He frowned. ‘A bath? Why? I had a bath last month.’

  I wrinkled my nose. While not entirely unpleasant, a long run in heavy clothes on a hot day left a lingering scent of unwashed male.

  ‘Without wishing to be offensive, Nathaniel, I would prefer if you did have a bath before lying down on my spare bed. Follow me.’

  I threw open the door to the bathroom. ‘I will run the bath and that is...’ I indicated the toilet, groping for a word he might recognize in his confused state, ‘...the privy.’ I demonstrated its flushing properties. ‘Now, towels are here and in the bottle is soap for your hair. You can use this dressing gown.’

  I pulled out the large, white, fluffy toweling gown left by Mark, and no doubt “borrowed” from one of the many expensive hotels Mark frequented on his holidays.

  My guest seemed more interested in the toilet. He kept pressing the flush button. ‘Give it a chance to refill,’ I said with infinite patience. ‘There, your bath is run. I’ll leave you to it.’

  As I closed the door on him, I added, ‘Try not to get the bandage wet.’ I had used a waterproof dressing but knowing men, thought it worth pointing out.

  He swept me a low bow. ‘Mistress Shepherd, I am indebted to you.’

  ‘I will put some supper on while you have a bath.’

  It had been a long time since I had cooked anything more than baked beans on toast and I rather enjoyed the challenge of throwing together a simple meal of spaghetti Bolognese.

  As I sliced the onion, tears starting in my eyes, Alan knocked at the kitchen window, nearly causing me to slice my finger.

  ‘So where is your mystery man?’ he asked as I let him in.

  ‘Having a bath,’ I sniveled.

  ‘It’s a bit of a risk inviting strange men into your house, Jess. Why didn’t you call the police?’

  That was a question I couldn’t answer. ‘I don’t feel threatened by him and there’s something about his story that... I don’t know--promise me you won’t laugh--has a ring of truth to it.’

  Alan picked up Nathaniel’s torn and stained jacket and shirt from the back the kitchen chair.

  He let out a low whistle and I looked up blinking through my streaming eyes.

  Alan turned to me, holding the shirt in his hand. ‘Jess. This stuff is genuine.’

  ‘What do you mean ‘genuine’?’

  ‘The cloth, the hand stitching, the lace. It’s all authentic seventeenth century.

  ‘Nonsense. If it was genuine it would be antique, hardly the stuff to wear while you go scrambling over someone’s wall or playing your silly war games, come to that.’

  ‘Jessie, I’m telling you, I know all the makers of reproduction clothing, and there is no way they would ever get this degree of accuracy just in the choice of fabric. Look at the blackwork embroidery on the shirt...unless it was purloined from some museum...’

  He frowned and screwed his nose. ‘But even then it couldn’t possibly be in such good condition, bloodstains aside.’

  ‘What do you know about blackwork embroidery?’ I scoffed, wiping my eyes on the tea towel.

  ‘More than you,’ he countered and turned his attention to the sword, drawing it from its scabbard. He turned the blade over, weighing it in his hand. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘A Wilkinson sword?’ I grinned at the avaricious glint in his eye.

  ‘Hardly. Jess, this is a genuine seventeenth century sword.’ His eyes widened, and he gave a low whistle. ‘And if I’m not mistaken, that is genuine seventeenth century blood.’

  I glanced at the darkening substance on the sword and recoiled. ‘Oh my God, he’s killed someone. I’m harboring a mad serial killer.’

  ‘Or he is exactly who he says he is,’ Alan responded, his expression grave. ‘What does he call himself?’

  I reached for a tissue to wipe my nose and said, ‘You’ll laugh. He says he is Nathaniel Preston of Heatherhill Hall.’

  ‘There was a Colonel Nathaniel Preston living at Heatherhill Hall at the time of the Civil War,’ Alan said.

  ‘Are you telling me there is a chance my friend in the bathroom is who he says he is?’ I could hardly keep the sarcasm out of my tone.

  Alan shrugged. ‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,’ he quoted.

  ‘Oh, come on, Alan. You’re telling me that while I’m minding my own business in my back garden in June, 1995, a man from the seventeenth century comes over my garden wall?’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s logical. I’m just saying strange things can
happen.’

  I thrust the onions into the pan where they crackled in the hot oil. ‘Look, Alan, he’s one of your re-enactors who has got himself spaced out on something chemical and thinks he is genuinely from 1645. You were right first time, he probably needs a psych assessment but hey, that’s just my professional opinion. Feel free to ignore me.’

  ‘So who is he then?’ Alan countered.

  ‘As I told Mistress Shepherd, my name is Nathaniel Preston.’ The voice came from the door.

  We both started and turned to the doorway, where Nathaniel Preston stood clad only in Mark’s purloined dressing gown. I wondered how much of the conversation he had heard.

  From the worried look on his face, most of it.

  ‘I assure you both, I am not a...’ he looked straight at me, ‘...mad killer, Mistress Shepherd, or whatever it was you called me. When I awoke this morning it was the third day of June in the year of our lord, 1645. After I broke my fast I set off for Oxford to meet with the king’s advisors. It was my misfortune to come upon a forward patrol of Fairfax’s men. It is only by God’s grace that I made good my escape, but not before I had scored several hits.’ He indicated the sword. ‘The hurt to my arm was a pistol ball. You may choose to believe me or not. I do not wish to bother you further but I need my clothes.’ He pointed at his shirt, still clutched in Alan’s hand. ‘Then I will be gone.’

  ‘Where to?’ I blurted out, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Home,’ he said, but his voice had lost its certainty.

  ‘Your clothes need cleaning and mending, Nathaniel. I have some other clothes here.’ I indicated a neat pile of clothing on the chair, more forgotten items from Mark’s time that I’d dredged from the back of the wardrobe where I’d thrown them. ‘They may be a little big for you but they’ll do for now.’

  He picked up the t-shirt from the top of the pile, and turned it around frowning. ‘Mistress, I’m no fool but I would appreciate it if you could explain what this is and how I wear it?’

  I looked at Alan but Alan wore a button-through shirt. ‘Just pull it over your head, and the tracksuit pants...’ I mimed, ‘...you just pull on.’

  ‘And these?’ Nathaniel held up the jockey shorts.

  I turned to the pan on the stove to hide my laughter. If this was no more than playacting, he was very good.

  Mercifully, Alan took charge. ‘Mr. Preston, Nathaniel. I’m Jessie’s brother, Alan. How about you come with me and we will work this out.’

  I heard the wariness in his voice as he said, ‘Mistress Shepherd said you are with

  Mortlock’s Regiment? Can I trust you?’

  Alan cleared his throat. ‘In the circumstances, Colonel Preston, you can consider me a friend.’

  I whirled around, wooden spoon in hand.

  Nathaniel straightened. ‘You called me Colonel Preston.’

  ‘That is your title, isn’t it?’

  Nathaniel glanced at me. ‘Yes, but I’ve not mentioned it.’

  ‘Like I said.’ Alan put a hand on the man’s uninjured shoulder. ‘Consider me a friend.’

  ~*~

  I had never thought it possible for a man to look uncomfortable in tracksuit pants and a t-shirt, but Nathaniel Preston did. He moved as if the very feel of the clothing was alien to him, the way I had seen Alan’s re-enactors moving in the unfamiliar boots and heavy clothing of the seventeenth century.

  ‘How’s the arm?’ I inquired.

  He shrugged. ‘It will mend. I don’t know what was in those objects you made me swallow but I can scarce feel a thing. Thank you for the bath, Mistress Shepherd. If you wish me to empty the tub, I will fetch the bucket.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll do it myself.’ I did not feel inclined to explain that he only needed to pull the plug. ‘Are you hungry?’

  Nathaniel’s face brightened. ‘I could eat an ox.’

  ‘Good. Well, pull up a seat and I’ll serve. Alan, you’re staying.’ I made it a statement not a question.

  Without argument, Alan sat down and I served the spaghetti. Nathaniel stared at the plate and then looked up at me, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘Spa-ghet-ti.’ I found myself speaking slowly, as if to a small child.

  Nathaniel shot me a glance and watching Alan like a hawk, picked up the fork. This piece of equipment itself seemed to cause him some consternation.

  ‘I have heard tell of these contrivances,’ he commented, turning it over in his hand.

  ‘They didn’t come into general usage until the Restoration,’ Alan said.

  ‘The Restoration?’

  ‘Of Charles the Second.’

  Nathaniel laid down the fork and stared at Alan. ‘Master Shepherd, your sister tells me the year is 1995.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Alan agreed.

  ‘As I told her, the year--my year--is 1645.’ He ran his hand over his eyes. ‘This is surely a nightmare from which I will wake.’

  Alan leaned his elbows on the table, pressing his fingers together, the way he would address a tutorial group on an important point. ‘Nathaniel, this is no nightmare. Jess and I are quite real,’ he paused and glanced at me, ‘and, it would seem, we have to accept that you are Colonel Nathaniel Preston of Heatherhill Hall.’

  For the first time Nathaniel smiled, a wide, genuine smile. ‘You believe me?’

  Alan regarded him for a moment. ‘I’m not sure. I’m a professor of history, Colonel, and my specialty is seventeenth century, more specifically the English Civil War in Northamptonshire. I know--’ He broke off, his face grave. ‘I know all about you.’

  He caught my eye and I read his thoughts. If this man was Colonel Nathaniel Preston of Heatherhill Hall, then Alan did know all about him. More than this man should wish to know.

  Alan cleared his throat. ‘Now, either we are all in the middle of the same delusion or the impossible has happened, and somehow time has defied all the laws of physics. Unlike my sister, who is a scientist and therefore naturally sceptical, I am quite prepared to believe you are exactly who you say. So, shall we proceed on the basis that when you awoke this morning it was the third of June 1645, and this evening it is the third of June 1995?’

  Three feet of table and three and hundred and fifty years divided the two men as they stared at each other. Nathaniel moved his gaze to me.

  ‘And you Mistress. Do you agree?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know what to believe, Nathaniel.’

  ‘You still think me mad?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, not mad...delusional perhaps.’

  ‘How can I prove that I speak the truth?’ he asked.

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Alan is the expert on seventeenth century history but I’m sure whatever question he could ask you, can be just as easily discovered from a book.’

  Nathaniel picked up the fork and studied it intently for a moment. ‘You say my home still stands?’

  ‘It does,’ Alan said.

  ‘Can you take me there? Will this National Trust person let us in?

  I stifled a laugh. ‘As long as we pay the right money,’ I said. ‘We can go in the morning.’

  I shot my brother a glance and he nodded agreement.

  ‘Tomorrow then,’ Nathaniel agreed.

  He plunged the fork into the food, awkwardly twisting the spaghetti in emulation of Alan. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment before declaring, ‘This spag-etti is truly excellent. Where does it come from?’

  ‘It originated in Italy,’ I said.

  ‘Ah yes, I’ve been to Italy and I recall eating something similar in Naples. My uncle was not fond of what he called foreign food but I--’ He looked around the table and smiled. ‘I like to learn new things.’

  ~*~

  The pain killer, a couple of glasses of wine and the effect of what appeared to be a trying day, told on my visitor and after eating, he excused himself. I showed him to the spare bedroom. He collapsed fully clothed into the bed and appeared to be asleep before I closed the door.


  Like a pair of spies from MI5, Alan and I went through his clothing but found nothing that gave any indication of his identity, either in this century or the seventeenth. The only hint was the finely wrought initials NP in the guard of his sword.

  ‘NP, Nathaniel Preston,’ Alan said with a shrug.

  I gave my brother a narrow eyed glance. ‘So, he has a sword with initials that match the name he gave us. That doesn’t prove anything.’ I traced the intricate fretwork on the hilt of the sword with my finger. ‘What do you know about the seventeenth century Nathaniel Preston?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Alan replied with a wry smile. I pulled a face at him and Alan shrugged. ‘At the start of the war he formed his own local regiment and declared for the king. He fought at Edgehill but spent most of the rest of the war in local defense of this area. A few days before Naseby, he was instrumental in deflecting the parliamentary advance at the battle of Chesham Bridge.’

  ‘When was the battle of Naseby?’ I asked.

  ‘The fourteenth of June 1645, just two days after Chesham Bridge.’

  ‘That’s in a couple of weeks.’

  All humour drained from Alan’s face. ‘I am not sure going to Heatherhill Hall is such a great idea.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he may not like what he finds out.’ Alan looked into the depths of his coffee mug.

  ‘Like what? That he’s dead? I think even he may have worked that out.’

  Alan looked up at me. ‘That he died at the battle of Chesham Bridge.’

  ‘Oh.’ A cold shiver ran down my spine. What it would be like to know the exact date of your death?

  I busied myself loading the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. The domestic action gave me time to think. The date of the battle of Chesham Bridge was engraved in the stone of the very bridge itself —Twelfth of June, 1645. Its anniversary would be in nine days time and Alan’s re-enactors would be out in force.

  ‘I can’t believe you give his story any credence,’ I said, slamming the dishwasher shut.

  ‘Sorry, Jess, you may think me mad but I am absolutely convinced he is who he says,’ Alan said.

  I turned and, seeing the deadly serious look on his face, laughed and rolled my eyes. ‘Alan!’

  ‘You don’t understand, Jessie. Listen to me and just keep an open mind. If the improbable has happened, and there is some slip in time that has sent Nathaniel Preston from 1645 to 1995, we are going to have to be careful to make sure we don’t change history.’