‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I feared that might happen. Indeed that was the very reason I wished to speak to him.’
I looked up. ‘Whatever it is you have to say to him, you can tell me.’
He paused. ‘I know who your Nathaniel Preston is.’
The breath stopped in my chest and I just stared at him before blurting out, ‘What do you mean?’
A little smile played at the corners of the Colonel’s lips. ‘My dear, if I were to tell you that he is my great grandfather, you would think me a little mad.’ He paused and his shrewd eyes narrowed. ‘Or perhaps not.’
‘Who do you think he is?’ I asked suspiciously
‘He is Colonel Nathaniel Preston who reportedly died at the battle of Chesham Bridge, is he not?’
‘Maybe…’
The Colonel’s moustache twitched and one eyebrow rose. ‘Good, then we can stop dancing around the edges of this conversation. Of course Nathaniel has no identity because you and I both know he was not born in this century.’
I said nothing for a long, long moment.
‘It’s all very well us knowing that, Colonel, but it doesn’t help him...or his son.’
‘Ah, his son. That would be Christian?’
I nodded. ‘What do you know about Christian?’
‘According to the family records, he was sent to London for medical treatment and never returned. Many years later his brother went in search of some trace of his twin but with no success. It was assumed he had died. Records were not well kept.’
I cleared my throat.
‘Christian’s in Northampton hospital, having just undergone major heart surgery and Nat is in jail.’ My voice quivered. ‘I don’t know what to do…’
The Colonel patted my hand. ‘Now, now young lady. I agree that complicates matters somewhat but I think I have a solution to our friend’s problem, if you will permit me to assist?’
Chapter 12
The keeping of records in Bechuanaland
‘Papa!’
At the sound of my son’s voice I sit bolt upright, my heart beating in my chest.
‘Papa...’ His cry is plaintive, desperate. A cry of pain.
I run my hands through my hair, grinding my teeth in frustration. There is nothing I can do for him. Four gray walls covered in strange symbols and crude drawings and one locked door stand between us.
‘Hush!’ I tell him. ‘I cannot come to you now. There are kind people looking after you but I will come as soon as I can.’
Through his tears I hear the words ‘home’ and ‘Natty’ and my heart constricts. The price for his life has been a heavy one.
I rise to my feet and bang on the iron door. The man in the blue uniform opens the trap door. He looks irritated by my disturbing him at this hour.
‘My son is in the hospital,’ I tell him. ‘I need to know he is all right.’
‘Listen, mate, its two o’clock in the morning. There’s nothing I can do.’
He begins to close the trap. ‘Wait,’ I say urgently. ‘Do you have children?’
He hesitates. I know he does.
I press the advantage. ‘My boy is two years old and has a problem with his heart. He has just had major surgery. I...’ Here I hesitate, unsure how to put my fear into words he will understand. ‘I have a bad feeling and I need to know he is all right.’
The man’s lips tighten. ‘What’s his name?’
I give him the details he needs to know and the trap closes with a clang. I return to the hard bench that passes for a bed and wait until I hear his footsteps returning. This time the door opens.
‘Listen, mate,’ the man says and I can see the concern in his face. ‘Your hunch was right. He’s taken a turn for the worse and he’s back in surgery.’
I sink back on the bench, my head in my hands and am surprised to feel his hand on my shoulder.
‘I’ll make you a cup of tea and ring again in an hour. Hopefully in the morning that lawyer of yours can get you out of here.’
I nod, helpless to do anything else but agree… and pray.
~*~
As they led Nat into the meeting room where we’d assembled--our lawyer, the Colonel, Ms. Smith, another official from the Department of Immigration and me--my first thought was that he looked exhausted. A night in a police cell could do that to anyone, but there was more than just his unshaven chin and dark circles under his eyes. An air of desperation hung over him.
He caught my eye and ignoring everyone else in the room, asked, ‘How is he?’
I didn’t question how he knew that Christian’s condition had worsened during the night.
Mark had rung me to ask me to come in and I had sat in on the operation. I detected remorse in Mark’s attitude. With the realization that in punishing the boy’s father, he had also punished an innocent child, the fight had gone from him
‘Holding his own,’ I said. ‘We’re confident he’ll come through okay.’
Nat’s shoulders sagged and he rubbed a hand across his eyes as he sat on the chair beside our lawyer.
Ms. Smith looked from me to the lawyer. ‘Well?’
‘There has been a misunderstanding,’ the lawyer said. ‘Mr. Preston has been quite wrongly detained. He is a British citizen.’
‘With no birth certificate,’ Ms. Smith said with a curl of her lip.
I held Nat’s gaze, silently pleading with him to go along with what would follow.
‘Ah, but you’re wrong,’ the Colonel said. ‘Nathaniel Preston is my son, and here is his original birth certificate.’
He opened his wallet and produced a much folded piece of paper, which he handed to Ms. Smith, who carefully unfolded it, glanced at the paper and handed it to her assistant.
‘You will find it quite properly records the birth of my son, Nathaniel Edward Preston on the eighteenth of January, in 1964 in Bechuanaland,’ The Colonel said
Ms. Smith retrieved the paper and sat staring at it.
‘If you doubt my bona fides,’ the Colonel continued, ‘I am willing to submit to a DNA test that will prove our relationship. Now, release the boy immediately and let’s not have any more of this nonsense.’
Ms. Smith frowned. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand. If indeed Mr. Preston is your son, how is it there are no other records?’
The Colonel sighed. ‘My wife and I were estranged when Nathaniel was young. My wife took up with hippies after she left me so it is not surprising there are no other records of Nathaniel’s life. I cannot answer as to where she took him or what life he has led. However, he contacted me not long ago and we have been in communication.’ He glanced at Nat. ‘However, we had not as yet met. This is the first time I have seen him in nearly thirty years.’
Ms. Smith turned to Nat. ‘Well, Mr. Preston, can you fill in how you have spent the last thirty years?’
Nat would have had no idea about hippies, but he was no fool. I could see from his face that he was trying to piece together a plausible explanation for his last thirty years of life.
I interposed. ‘I doubt he can. The reason Colonel Preston and his son did not affect a reunion before now is, somewhere on his way to meet with his father he was in an accident and is suffering amnesia. He has no recollection of anything beyond three weeks ago when I came across him and his son, and took them both in.’
‘Oh, really.’ Ms. Smith looked disgusted. ‘Do you expect me to believe that?’ I didn’t.
Even to my ears it sounded trite. The convenient amnesia story? Couldn’t I have come up with something better?
I gave her the benefit of a small, professional smile. ‘I’m a doctor. Do you want a dissertation on amnesia? You have his birth certificate, you have Colonel Preston’s word and the offer of a DNA test. You can choose to believe us or not. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction, Ms. Smith.’
The immigration official closed her folder with a snap and stood. ‘Hmmm,’ she said in a tone that indicated that she was not entirely convince. ‘It seems I have no alternative. You are fre
e to go, Mr. Preston.’
‘An apology wouldn’t be too much to ask?’ the lawyer inquired with a smile. Ms. Smith cast him a disparaging look, and with her assistant trailing behind her, swept from the room.
‘You don’t need me anymore.’ Our lawyer shuffled his papers, stuffing them into his briefcase as he stood up. He looked at Nat and held out his hand.
‘Good luck, Mr. Preston.’
As the door shut behind the man, Nat looked from the Colonel to me. ‘What fanciful story have you concocted? I’m not your son,’ he said.
‘Of course not. I know exactly who you are,’ the Colonel said. ‘I knew from the minute I saw you in the woods near the chapel. You are my...let me see...great grandfather by six generations.’ He waved his hand at the door. ‘The DNA test will prove the familial link.’
Nat looked up at me. ‘What is a--’
I didn’t let him finish. An explanation on genetics would take more time than we had.
‘But the birth certificate?’ I asked. ‘That is surely genuine?’
The Colonel stiffened. His face did not betray a whisker of emotion as he said, ‘Quite genuine. My son and my wife were killed in a car accident in Namibia, when young Nathaniel was only three years old. His death is not recorded in England and record keeping in Bechuanaland was never the best. Of course, the truth can be found out by someone determined enough, but I hope that won’t happen. I’m sure Ms. Smith has better things to do with her time.’
‘I’m sorry about your wife and son,’ Nathaniel laid a hand on the Colonel’s shoulder.
The Colonel stiffened beneath the unfamiliar touch of another human being.
‘I am the last of the line, Nathaniel. So, you see, there are no awkward relatives who are likely to turn up and dispute your claim.’
‘My claim to what?’ Nat asked.
‘If you are officially my son, then you are now officially my heir.’
Nat ran a hand over his eyes. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Who does? It is an incredible story. I can scarcely believe it myself, but here we are so it must be true,’ the Colonel said
Nat looked up at his savior. ‘But you believe it? How--’
The Colonel shook his head but his eyes glinted with amusement. ‘It is a good story but it can wait. You need to go home, have a bath and some sleep and see to your son. When you are ready, come and see me and I will explain why it is I know who you are.’
Chapter 13
Leonardo flies
I watch my son sleeping. It is a miracle to see color in his face and, when he is awake, his eyes bright with life and mischief. I wish I could take him back to be with his brother and grow up at Heatherhill, strong and happy, but that door is closed to us now. We must make our way in this new world.
Jessica the Witch and I take one day at a time. We do not speak about tomorrow or what the future holds. There will be time enough for talk.
~*~
We stood on the doorstep to the gatehouse of Heatherhill Hall. Nat’s fingers brushed mine but he didn’t take my hand. I gave him a reassuring smile and he raised the door knocker on the neat, green painted door.
The Colonel himself answered our knock, wearing an apron incongruously emblazoned “Kiss the Cook”.
‘Come in, come in.’ He waved a hand in the direction of the living room. ‘Make yourselves comfortable and I’ll just throw the vegetables on. Then we can talk.’
Nat followed me, still limping from his wound. Every inch of wall space and the available surfaces were covered with books, paintings and knickknacks, probably salvaged from the house before it went to the National Trust. The effect should have made it look like an antique shop but it just seemed homely and pleasant.
I chose a comfortable Victorian armchair but Nat remained standing at the window, looking over the driveway toward the house that had once been his home.
The Colonel reappeared, without his apron. He poured us both gin and tonics.
‘Do take a seat.’ The Colonel gestured to Nat. ‘You may need it.’
The three of us sat, staring at each other in awkward silence for what seemed an age.
Nat and I spoke together. ‘How did you-- ’
‘How did I know?’ The Colonel smiled. I suspected he enjoyed the mystery and intended to play it out for as long as he could. ‘Let us start with family legends and the tale of the witch who appeared on the eve of the Battle of Chesham and spirited the good Colonel away.’
He looked at me. I looked at the floor.
‘There is more to it than that. The Prestons are an old, well-established family and I am in possession not only of your sister Mary’s diary, but also an interesting heirloom, which I shall show you later.’
‘You have my sister’s diary?’ Nat swirled his glass so the ice chinked against the side. His casual attitude did not fool me. The fingers of his other hand clenched so hard that the knuckles showed white.
‘Indeed I do, and it makes an interesting read.’
The Colonel crossed to a desk and began rummaging through the drawers. Nat looked at me, his mouth framing a question he did not have time to utter as the Colonel turned holding a small, leather bound book. He resumed his seat and flicked through the pages.
‘You’re probably better at reading her writing, old chap.’
Nat took the book from him and traced the embossing on the cover with his fingers. ‘I gave her this book. I bought it in Italy on my travels.’ He looked up at the Colonel. ‘What became of my sister?’
‘Ah...’ The Colonel stroked his moustache. ‘I’d like to be able to tell you that she married and died an old woman with a brood of grandchildren but I’m afraid she died of a fever at the age of thirty-three, unmarried and still living at Heatherhill. The man to whom she had been betrothed was killed at Naseby.’
‘Oh, poor Mary,’ I said, thinking of that unhappy woman, caught between her beloved Robert and her family.
Nat looked at the book in his hand turned to the page the Colonel had marked with a piece of torn newspaper.
He took a breath and began to read, ‘My brother is returned to us today, hale and well. He had with him a woman, who calls herself Jessica Shepherd. I fear she is a witch and that my beloved Nathaniel has somehow been enchanted by this woman but Grandam tells me this is not so. This is Grandam’s doing but what it is she knows and fears she will not tell me...’
He skipped over a couple of pages.
‘The witch has taken my beloved Christian. Grandam says that she is a healer of great power who will take the child to London and make him well but I fear she will sacrifice him to the devil and grind his bones to powder for her evil purposes...’
‘I knew she didn’t like me,’ I blurted out.
Nat looked up with an amused smile and continued.
‘My direst fears are realized. Nathaniel’s men have returned this morning with tales of a battle at Chesham Bridge. Nathaniel, my dearest brother, cannot be found and the men tell me he can only be dead. All they had of him was his sword. He had set charges to blow the bridge and it would seem he did not make it to safety before the bridge collapsed, he with it. It is the work of the witch. Not content with snatching dear Christian, she has taken Nathaniel from us. I gave orders for every house in Chesham to be searched but no trace of her could be found and none questioned knew of her.’
The Colonel cleared his throat. ‘I, on the other hand, had no difficulty in finding Jessica Shepherd, conveniently living in Chesham. That was the first part of the puzzle solved but there is one other thing.’ He fumbled in his pocket and produced a small wooden box, which he handed to me. ‘If you doubt its authenticity, you will see there is a note enclosed with it that I am certain any scholar worth their salt will validate as genuine.’
I opened the box, and resting on a red velvet cushioned interior was a single one pence piece, tarnished with age. I picked it up and squinted at the date--1994. I unfolded the paper that had been pushed into the lid and
read the note aloud.
‘Found under the floor boards in a bed chamber in the West Wing during demolition following fire. Sep 13 Anno Domini 1765.’
I handed the box and the note to Nathaniel. ‘It must have fallen out of my handbag.’ My hand rose to my mouth and I stared at Nat. ‘This is what Alan meant when he talked about the dangers of affecting history.’
‘Well, fortunately the course of history was not fundamentally destroyed by a one pence piece,’ the Colonel remarked. ‘But you can see now why I had been expecting you. I didn’t know, of course, whether the time shift would be in 1994 or later. I went to the river bank last year but, of course, nothing happened. When I saw you on the path to the chapel that day, Nathaniel, I knew for certain. Of course this year is the three hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the battle, if you like round numbers. It made much more sense.’
He smiled and sat back, his fingers laced across his stomach while we absorbed what he was telling us.
Nat spoke first. ‘What do we do?’
The Colonel shook his head. ‘You need do nothing. I am happy to swear to the world you are my long lost son.’ He glanced at me and all humour drained from his face. ‘The truth is, Nathaniel, if I may call you that, I am dying. Cancer. The doctors tell me I have six months at the most. I am the last of the Prestons, or I should have been. If for no other reason than to humor an old man, I would like to think of you as my lost son and Christian as my grandson.’
I gasped aloud as the understanding of what the Colonel was offering Nathaniel came clear to me. With Nathaniel and Christian, the Preston line would not die out. A sort of reincarnation would occur.
‘Nat,’ I whispered. ‘He is giving you a place in this time.’
The Colonel looked around the room. ‘I’ve not much to offer you. The family fortune is well and truly gone but there is this house and the few bits and pieces I was able to keep.’ He gestured at the room. ‘All yours by right.’
Nat’s gaze hadn’t moved from the Colonel’s face.
He nodded. ‘Thank you. I would be honored and I will do what is in my power to be that son to you. No one should die alone.’
Secrets in Time: Time Travel Romance Page 13