‘What do you mean?’
‘Imagine if he goes back to his time, knowing all about the Battle of Naseby and convinces the king not to take the field.’ He shook his head. ‘The whole course of the English Civil War could change. Just think what would have happened if the king had not lost Naseby?’
‘Umm...he would have just gone on to lose some other battle?’ I suggested.
‘Maybe, but maybe not. What if Charles wins the English Civil War all because we meddled with history? There will be no commonwealth and we could still be ruled by a monarch who believes in the divine right of kings.’
‘Now, you’re being ridiculous,’ I said. ‘I just think we have someone in the grip of some sort of delusion.’ I paused. ‘A very convincing delusion... I’m going to bed. You can bunk down in here.’
Alan nodded and I left him sitting at the table no doubt ruminating on how the course of history could be changed. As far as I was concerned, we were in the realms of speculative fiction, but I lay awake for a long time staring at the beams of my precious old cottage and thinking about the man who slept in the room next to mine.
Chapter 2
Confronting the Past
My name is Nathaniel Preston. I am the owner of Heatherhill Hall and the commander of a company of infantry, mostly my own tenants, for His Majesty, King Charles.
My name is Nathaniel Preston...
If I say it to myself often enough then it must be true.
My arm throbs, a reminder of my own mortality and the fact I am not dead and this is not some strange room in heaven in which I now find myself.
I lie in the unfamiliar bed with my eyes closed. I dare not open them for fear the situation in which I have found myself is real.
Fool, I know it is real. Is this not what we planned?
I can hear their voices downstairs. The man, Alan, who I think, believes my tale and the witch, Jessica, who calls herself a doctor. Whatever potion she gave me ensured I slept through the night but now I sense it is daylight and I must arise and confront this strange new world in which I find myself.
I am here because of powerful witchcraft, and what is more, I know the witch. She and I planned this but I never thought...never dreamed...
Alice. I call her name in my mind. Now what do I do?
For answer, she laughs. She will talk to me when she thinks I am ready to hear.
~*~
Alan slipped out early in the morning and returned before breakfast with jeans, a sweater and shoes for my guest. I poured us both a coffee and we sat talking until Nathaniel emerged, looking like any ordinary male--unshaven, groggy and disheveled with his auburn hair sticking up and Mark’s dressing gown loosely belted around his hips. My heart skipped a beat. Even in his tousled state, he looked better than any man I had ever had in my kitchen before.
‘How’s the arm?’ Alan inquired.
‘Passing well.’ He cleared his throat, sat down at the table and looked at me expectantly.
‘Are you hungry?’ I asked.
He smiled, the corners of his mouth turning up in a particularly fetching way. ‘Ravenous.’
Explaining cereal or toast was beyond me so I did something I have done for no man in my life. I cooked my guest a substantial breakfast of bacon and eggs, a largesse on my part, which Alan indulged in as well.
Coffee was apparently a novelty and not one Nathaniel found palatable until I put two teaspoons of sugar in the cup.
Alan’s clothes fitted well but when Nathaniel rubbed at the stubble on his chin, the question of shaving arose. Alan suggested the razor I used for my legs. I glared at him.
‘The unshaven look is fine,’ I said. ‘We can pick up a razor later. Now, what about your hair?’
‘What’s wrong with my hair?’ Nathaniel asked.
The thick dark auburn hair fell to his shoulder. It was the sort of color many a woman in a hairdresser’s would point to with longing. I had a sudden mad urge to run my fingers through it.
‘It’s fine, but let’s tie it back, shall we?’ I suggested.
I found a rubber band and tied Nathaniel’s hair back in a neat pony tail, allowing me to subtly indulge my desire.
‘Very trendy,’ Alan remarked.
Very attractive, I thought. With his hair away from his face, I could see the well chiseled cheek bones and strong jaw line. Nathaniel Preston could have graced the cover of any up-market men’s magazine.
I allowed my gaze to stray across the expanse of his chest, the well defined lines of his musculature straining beneath the plain t-shirt. While talking with Alan the previous night, I had picked up the sword and been surprised by the weight. Who needed expensive gym memberships when you could spend your day riding horses and wielding weighty weapons?
As I backed the car out of the garage I saw Nathaniel reflected in the rearview mirror. He jumped to one side, his hand going to his left hip, where his sword would have hung, had he been wearing it.
When I stopped the car, he approached it as if it were a wild animal, circling it several times, his hand lightly touching the paintwork.
‘Extraordinary. A coach with no horse.’ He leaned in through the window. ‘How do you make it move?’
I held up the key. ‘You turn it on.’
Alan, apparently eager to prove his manhood, lifted the bonnet and the two men inspected the engine. I had never suspected my geeky historian brother had such an intimate knowledge of the workings of cars but, despite his best efforts, even he couldn’t supply the answers to all the questions Nathaniel bombarded him with.
‘Time to get going. You take the front seat,’ I said to Nathaniel.
He folded himself into the front passenger seat and I showed him how to fasten the seat belt.
‘Fascinating,’ he said, running his hand across the dashboard. ‘I have read the writings of Leonardo Da Vinci and he talked of there one day being machines that could propel themselves. He even talked of flying machines. Are there such things?’
‘Yes. There are flying machines,’ I said in a tone heavy with infinite patience.
As I started the ignition, Nathaniel tensed, bracing his hands against the dashboard as the machine came into life beneath him.
As I turned out of the drive into the lane, he yelled, ‘Stop!’
I slammed on the brakes, my heart beating wildly beneath my ribs as I wondered what I had hit.
‘What?’
Nathaniel pointed to old Mrs. Blackett pottering into the village on her bicycle.
‘That is one of Da Vinci’s machines,’ he exclaimed
I ignored the chortle from Alan in the back seat and looked at my passenger.
‘Listen, Nathaniel, you’re going to see many strange things in the short drive to Heatherhill Hall. I’m not going to stop for every single one of them.’
He looked at me and that smile curled the corners of his lips. Damn the man. He may have been three hundred years old, but when he smiled I could forgive him anything.
‘I promise to behave, Mistress Shepherd.’
‘It’s just dangerous, having people yelling in my ear while I’m trying to drive,’ I muttered.
Once we hit the open road and I accelerated to forty miles per hour, he flattened himself against the front seat.
‘This is very fast,’ he murmured.
From the back seat, Alan said, ‘You know, Nathaniel, the motor in this vehicle is equivalent to ninety-four horses.’
‘Ninety-four horses,’ Nathaniel repeated.
I shot him a sideways glance. Men were men of whatever age and, although the knuckles of his hand clutching the seat belt were white, his eyes glittered at the speed and power of my Fiat Punto.
~*~
Heatherhill Hall stood, as it had for over six hundred years, nestled in a sprawl of ancient gardens, orchards and woodland, unspoiled by the threat of urbanization creeping from the town which now crowded the park walls.
I turned the car in through the fine eighteenth-century gates and p
ast a neat gatehouse.
‘That was not there...’ Nathaniel murmured more to himself than to me. He turned to look at me. ‘You said yesterday the house is now owned by the National Trust. What or who is that?’
‘After the war, these sorts of homes became too hard for private families to maintain,’ Alan said from the back seat. ‘Your descendant, I suppose, sold it to the nation. It has a fine Inigo Jones dining chamber and Grinling Gibbons carvings on the hall staircase.’
Nathaniel frowned. ‘What war...’ he began but stopped. ‘No, that can wait. My father commissioned Jones. I remember him well, but who is this Gibbons person?’
‘After your time,’ Alan said.
There were hardly any cars in the visitors’ car park. I stopped the car and as Nathaniel unfolded himself from the front seat, he looked around.
‘It’s quite different. The dog kennels were here and over yonder--the barn has gone.’
I frowned and said, ‘Good try, but it proves nothing. I’m sure you could find those details in any history of the place.’
The gravel crunched beneath our feet as we walked up the path toward the house. An elderly woman in a pink cardigan opened the door to our knock.
‘My, you are early.’ She pointedly checked her tiny wrist watch and looked us up and down. She gave Nathaniel a curious look. ‘Come in. That will be three pounds. Do you want a guidebook?’
‘Three pounds...but...’ Nathaniel expostulated, only to be silenced by a dig in the ribs from Alan.
The woman handed us the explanatory self-guided tour leaflets. Nathaniel took the paper and turned it over several times. He squinted at the floor plan of the house.
‘Where is the west wing?’ he asked.
The woman looked surprised. ‘The west wing? Oh, that was lost in a fire in the mid-eighteenth century and never rebuilt. You must have a good knowledge of the house to know that, young man.’
Nat glanced at me and opened his mouth but I took his arm and led him away before he could say anything
‘Okay, I will pay you the west wing,’ I murmured. ‘Shall we start?’
The tour took us into the large room described on the plan as ‘The Great Hall’. Nathaniel went straight to a portrait of a man dressed in the extravagant clothes of the mid-seventeenth century. Long auburn hair tumbled over a wide lace collar that topped a green velvet suit. Every bit the seventeenth-century cavalier, he stood behind a seated woman, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder.
My heart jolted. I had been in this room many times before but never paid much heed to the portraits. Now two thoughts raced together. Even allowing for artistic license, the resemblance between the man and the portrait could not be denied. If he was not the seventeenth-century Nathaniel Preston then he must be a close descendant.
My second thought came from a distinctly female reaction to the inscription below the painting Nl Preston, Esq. and wife, school of Van Dyck.
And wife...? He was married?
As Alan read the inscription aloud, Nathaniel frowned.
‘School of Van Dyck? It was the artist himself. I paid a fortune for that piece of vanity.’
‘When was it painted?’ I asked.
‘The spring of ‘42. Just before the war. My wife and I had spent the winter with the court and I had it painted for her birthday.’
‘Your wife?’ I enquired, an unexpected feeling of disappointment lodging in the pit of my stomach.
He nodded, looking at the portrait with his head on one side as if seeing it for the first time. ‘Anne.’
‘She’s probably wondering where you are,’ Alan remarked.
He shook his head. ‘She was taken from me in childbirth just over two years past.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Even as I spoke, it struck me absurd to be commiserating over a recent bereavement that had happened three hundred and fifty years ago. I cleared my throat. ‘And the child?’
He straightened. ‘Two sons, Christian and Nathaniel.’
‘Twins?’
He nodded and his expression softened. ‘They are my delight.’
I thought about poor, dead Anne. No wonder the poor woman had died. The mortality rate for first time mothers at that time was horrendous, particularly in multiple births.
‘Stay still,’ I commanded and wrenched the rubber band from Nathaniel’s hair.
The rough cut auburn hair tumbled around his face just as the woman in the pink cardigan bustled into the room holding a feather duster.
She stopped and gaped at Nathaniel.
‘My word. Forgive me saying this, young man, but there is quite a striking likeness. That portrait is of Nathaniel Preston. He was killed during the Civil War.’
Her words were met with a blank silence from Nathaniel. I cast a sideways glance at Alan as the woman prattled on, ‘Oh yes. Now let me think. His memorial is in the chapel. You could see for yourself. His son’s portrait is there.’
She pointed at the far wall and we all turned to look at a fine portrait of a restoration nobleman. He wore a full-bottomed wig and a pleased expression. On close inspection the inscription read Nathaniel Preston c. 1675.
Nathaniel’s expression betrayed no emotion as he studied the portrait of his son. The woman prattled on, apparently oblivious to the tension between the three of us.
‘You see that?’ She pointed to a glass case near the portrait, containing a blackened sword together with some rusting armor and a moth-eaten leather coat. ‘That was Colonel Preston’s sword and armor.’
‘Can I see it out of the case?’ Alan asked. ‘I am a professor of history at the university,’ he added for good measure.
‘Oh no, dear. I couldn’t possibly open the case. The conservator would eat me for dinner. You will need to write to him. Enjoy the rest of your visit.’ She smiled and flicked her feather duster in the vague direction of the woodwork, leaving us alone in the cold hall.
I looked around at the portraits and weaponry and frayed moth-eaten banners and shivered.
Alan had his nose pressed against the glass of the display case. ‘It looks like the same weapon,’ he said. ‘Nathaniel? What do you think?’
Nathaniel dragged himself away from his portrait and turned his attention to the glass case. ‘That’s my helmet and breast plate and, yes, that is my sword.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘It has a nick in the blade about three inches from the hilt and my initials are woven into the basket. I had it made in Germany and it cost me a small fortune.’
‘Between the portrait and the sword, you must have had a small fortune to begin with,’ I remarked.
He looked at me and smiled. ‘My grandfather was one of Elizabeth’s merchant seamen. We profited well from his encounters with the Spanish.’ He looked up at the beams of the Great Hall. ‘So very familiar and yet so different.’ He took a breath and gave us both a rueful smile. ‘I’ve seen enough for the moment.’
‘Let’s get some fresh air,’ I said.
Outside on the neatly manicured lawn, Nathaniel sank to the ground and lowered his head onto his bent knees. We sat beside him, grateful for the warm sun after the cold hall.
‘Are you sure that is the same sword?’ I said at last.
‘Without a doubt,’ Alan said. He frowned. ‘Hang on. You must go back at some point or else how can you be...’
‘Killed?’ Nathaniel supplied the missing word. He rose to his feet in one swift movement and looked at Alan.
‘If you are indeed a student of my times, you will be able to tell me how...how...’ He swallowed and without looking at either of us he said in a low voice, ‘Perhaps I should see where I lie.’
‘Are you sure?’ Alan asked. Nathaniel nodded.
On the path through the woods to the little chapel, indicated on the ground plan, we passed an elderly gentleman in a tweed sports coat coming from the direction of the chapel. He inclined his head and wished us all a good morning.
The sign by the door announced that Holy Commun
ion would be held at 9 AM. I glanced at my watch. It was now ten. Alan slowly pushed open the ancient oak door, but the service must have concluded. The building basked in silence. We slipped inside and stood at the door, allowing our eyes to adjust to the gloom. The walls and floors were covered in memorials. Fresh flowers graced the altar, neat stacks of prayer and hymn books and a notice board scattered with notes about the church embroidery group and the fellowship evening were evidence the building was still used.
‘Can I help you?’ A middle-aged man in a clerical collar came in from the vestry.
‘Yes, I hope you can,’ Alan said. ‘We’re looking for the tomb of Nathaniel Preston.’
‘Which particular Nathaniel Preston? There are several of them. One in each generation of Prestons, I believe.’
‘The one killed in the Civil War.’
‘Oh yes, his memorial is over by the chancel.’ The priest led the way, chatting to us as he went. ‘The writing is fairly worn but I think you can still make it out. Oh dear, someone has put a chair over it. Let me move it.’ He pushed the offending chair to one side. ‘There you are.’
The three of us stared at the memorial stone set low on the wall. The vicar was right, the inscription was worn and the seventeenth-century script difficult to read. Alan knelt and traced the letters with his fingers.
‘In memoriam Colonel Nathaniel Preston of Heatherhill. Born fourteenth November in the year of our Lord 1615. Died at the battle of Chesham Bridge, twelfth June in the year of our Lord 1645.’
‘The story is that his body was never recovered,’ the vicar said. ‘That’s why it is only a memorial stone and not a tomb. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I must tidy up and be on my way. I only do one service a month here. You were lucky to catch me.’
We thanked him and stood in a semi circle looking down at the memorial stone.
‘So you really are a Colonel?’ I struggled to keep lightness in my tone.
‘Of course. It was my regiment,’ Nathaniel snapped. ‘What else would I be?’
Secrets in Time: Time Travel Romance Page 3