Secrets in Time: Time Travel Romance

by Alison Stuart

  ~*~

  I lay curled in Nat’s arms on my sofa, watching the embers of the fire I had lit on an unseasonably cold evening. An empty bottle of wine stood on the coffee table in front of us. We had been celebrating. Tomorrow Christian would be coming home.

  I had thrown myself into redecorating the spare bedroom, turning it into a room suitable for a small boy. A hitherto unknown maternal instinct had sprung up in me and I had filled the room with toys and furniture--even if he clung to Horsey as his most precious toy.

  I adored the child, and in his stay in hospital, he had won the hearts of the staff.

  Even Mark unbent enough to present the child with a toy car. To his credit, Mark only billed me for the bare minimum, and while he didn’t exactly apologize to Nat, we took his actions as apology enough.

  As I stared at the fire, the long forgotten conversation with Dame Alice crept into my memory. For the last few weeks, every fiber of my being had been centered on getting Christian well again. Now as I looked at my hearthstone, I remembered.

  I sat up. ‘We need Alan.’

  Nat looked up at me with hazy eyes. ‘Now?’

  I felt excitement welling inside me. ‘Yes, now. This has waited three hundred and fifty years. It can’t wait any longer.’

  I rang Alan and dragged Nat out to the garage, where we gathered the tools we would need. By the time Alan arrived, we had pushed the sofa back and rolled up the rug, and Nat and I sat on either side of the hearthstone, a crowbar, sacking and a spade neatly piled in front of us.

  Alan looked from the hearthstone to me. ‘What are you doing?’

  Nat shrugged and gave Alan the sort of sympathetic glance that only two men faced with the incomprehensible whims of women can manage. ‘She will not tell me. Some strange female fancy?’

  I glared at him. ‘We need to raise the hearthstone.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Alan.

  My courage began to fail. ‘It could be utter foolishness, but I need to know what’s underneath it.’

  ~*~

  ‘Dirt,’ the men concluded in chorus as they stopped from their labors, sweating and panting and a full two feet down into the earth.

  If the hearthstone had ever been moved since the day it had been laid, then it had been many, many years. Exasperated, I picked up the spade and dug into the dirt. Nothing.

  ‘Keep going,’ I said with false cheerfulness.

  We took it in turns to excavate and I had all but given hope, when the spade hit something solid a good four feet below the surface. I gasped and looked up at the two men.

  ‘It’s here! You take over. This needs proper excavation.’

  I handed the spade to Alan. As part of his studies, Alan had played around with a bit of archaeology and I didn’t want to break anything important.

  It seemed to take forever as Alan crouched in the hole carefully digging around the object, flicking dirt all over my living room with a trowel. He finally revealed a square object wrapped in what had once been a heavy, oiled cloth of some type. It took both men to extricate the object from the hole. They laid it on a sack on the floor.

  ‘Well?’ I said, breaking the reverential silence and addressing Nat. ‘It’s yours. You get to do the honors.’

  ‘What do you mean, mine?’

  ‘Unwrap it and see.’ I could hardly contain my own excitement. No Christmas present could have been more mysterious.

  The cloth wrapping disintegrated to the touch, revealing a metal bound box of some antiquity. Nat recoiled from the box as if he had been burned.

  ‘You recognize it?’ I found it hard to keep the triumph from my voice. I too had seen this box before--in the study of Heatherhill in June, 1645.

  He nodded and knelt beside it, ran his hands over the familiar surface. He touched the ornate padlock. ‘We don’t have the key.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to break the lock,’ Alan said, hefting the crowbar in a helpful manner.

  ‘No.’ Nat shook his head. ‘No need. I know where the key is.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  He gestured at my cabinet of treasures. ‘It’s in there.’

  He crossed to the cabinet and opened the glass door.

  He lifted out a small, rusty, ornate key with the decorative fretwork and held it up. ‘I recognized it on the first day and wondered about it. Now I know why it is here. Where did you find it?’

  ‘One of the builders found it tucked behind a loose brick in the chimney,’ I said. ‘I just added it to the collection.’

  Of course, a rusty key in a rusty lock did not turn, and Alan had to go in search of the can of lubricant. He liberally sprayed both key and lock, and after much cursing and grunting the lock yielded.

  Alan and I stood back. This moment belonged to Nat.

  With infinite care, Nat put his hands on the lid and lifted it to reveal the contents.

  I had been expecting it to contain one particular package but he lifted out two rectangular objects wrapped in soft leather cloths. He carried them to the table and unwrapped the first to reveal Dame Alice’s receipt book. He looked at me with a quizzical expression and a raised eyebrow. I shrugged.

  We all held our breath as the second wrapping came away and Nat lifted up the book of Leonardo’s drawings. He closed his eyes, as if breathing in the smell of the leather.

  ‘I never thought to see this again,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not for you to keep,’ I said. ‘Nat, this book is worth millions of pounds. It has been left to provide you and Christian with the money you need to live in this world.’

  Alan sputtered. ‘It’s an original?’

  I nodded.

  Nat set the book on the table and laid his hand on it for a long moment before he looked at me. ‘Did you and my grandmother dream this up?’

  ‘She asked me how best to provide for you and I told her it was this book.’

  ‘But surely gold or silver--’

  ‘No, Nathaniel, your future is in that book.’ ‘But who would purchase it?’

  ‘Museums, collectors. You have no idea what it is worth.’ ‘And how do we sell it?’ Alan added.

  ‘Easily. Its provenance is there in the flyleaf.’ I opened the book to reveal the Preston coat of arms and the words Property of Nathaniel Preston, Esq of Heatherhill Hall. Oct 1631.

  I looked from one to the other. ‘It will have to be verified by experts but it clearly forms part of the Preston family estate. I suggest we ask the Colonel to put it up for auction.’

  ‘Millions of pounds?’ Nat looked at me, as if the concept had only just occurred to him. ‘This book is worth that much?’

  ‘More than enough for you and Christian to live comfortably.’

  He ran a hand across his eyes before looking up at us. I felt a thrill of apprehension run down my spine. In my mind, I had planned a life with Nat and Christian. I earned enough to keep us while Nat did some sort of study that would enable him to get a job. Now the dynamic had changed. Nat could afford a home for himself and Christian, and live their lives--a life that did not rely on me.

  Nat’s gaze met mine and I wondered if my fear could be read on my face.

  ‘It’s real?’ Alan’s expression was a picture of disbelief as he crossed to the table. His eyes bulged and his mouth hung open as he turned the pages.

  ‘This is amazing, and I must have a good look but I’ve got lectures tomorrow so I have to go.’

  He drew himself away with such obvious reluctance that I flung my arms around him and hugged him tight. My delightful, scholar of a brother.

  We saw him to the door and watched as he drove away.

  Nat closed the door and drew me into his arms.

  He brushed a smudge of dirt from my face and kissed me.

  ‘It changes nothing,’ he said, answering my unspoken question. ‘My life is here now, with you but I would like to do one thing.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘I would like to marry you. The Colonel’s days are numb
ered and I would that he sees us wed before he dies.’ He paused. ‘No, I would see us wed, Jessica my witch, for no other reason than I love you.’ He lifted my hand and gently kissed it.

  ‘You’re very old fashioned.’ I smiled, trying to conceal my girlish excitement at finally receiving a marriage proposal beneath a veil of twentieth-century cynicism.

  ‘Very,’ he agreed. ‘Well? Do you have an answer for me?’

  I bit my lip to stop the tears but nonetheless, my voice trembled as I gave him the answer, ‘Colonel Nathaniel Preston, there is nothing I would like more than to wed you, if for no other reason than I love you too.’

  He pulled me into the circle of his arms and bent his head, kissing me, not with the passion of first love but with the long, lingering caress of deep and abiding love that transcended time itself.

  ‘Now, Mistress Shepherd,’ he whispered, ‘Let us adjourn this conversation to the bed chamber and I will demonstrate just how old fashioned I am.’

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  We may have snow tonight. Through the window I can see the clouds hanging dark and gray and there is a stillness in the air that presages snowfall. Snow comes rarely to this country now and when it does, Christian runs outside and throws himself in it as if it is the most magical thing in the world. He would not think so if he had stayed in our time. There the snow is a misery and a maker of lean times.

  The fire in the grate is only for decoration. There are heating systems through the whole house, which means it can be warm from attic to basement. The Colonel, for it is his house we now live in, spared no expense and we live comfortably.

  The sale of my book brought us even greater riches than I could imagine and while there is no need for either Jessica or I to work, Jessica is too dedicated a doctor and loves her work too much. I would not expect otherwise of her.

  Even though I can lead a life of leisure, there is much I want to know about this world so I have returned to learning and Alan wishes me to study history at his university. That amuses me. I would rather learn what they now call, science. In the meantime, I occupy myself working as a gardener and a guide at the Hall. I earn no money but I feel close to my family.

  It has interested me to learn of the fate of my descendants. My son, Nathaniel, served his master Charles the Second as I served my king. He was blessed with many children and assured the continuance of the line.

  Of all my descendants, it is the Colonel, who gave me my life in this time and to whom I owe a debt I can never now repay, who holds my heart. As a soldier he fought with gallantry. I found his medals after his death and with Alan’s help, I traced his history. He lived his life as a man of honor and integrity and I grieved at his death as I would have my father.

  As his son, I was made a trustee of Heatherhill Hall, and at my persuasion, the trustees had my portrait reassessed and confirmed as a genuine Van Dyck. Too valuable to hang in public any more, the trustees made a copy for the Hall and one for me. It hangs above our fireplace, a reminder of my old life. I am permitted a little vanity.

  Alan took Alice’s book and made a modern translation of many of the receipts within it, which we published and sell in the gift shop at the Hall. Alice would be amused.

  Jessica the Witch lies on the sofa, her stockinged feet beating time to the music that plays on her little music machine. Yes, I know it is called a Walkman but there are some things in this world that still defy my logic, despite the classes I take. Three hundred and fifty years of civilization means there is much to learn, but I love the knowledge it brings me.

  Jessica will not permit me to learn to drive a motor carriage. She says I have no sense of its power. Instead I have what we call the ‘Leonardo machine,’ a bright green bicycle. I also keep two horses in the field that forms part of the gatehouse land and Jessica and I ride together. Or we did...

  Her hand rests on the swell of her belly and she taps out the rhythm of the tune with her fingers to our child, who will be born in the spring.

  She gasps and her eyes open.

  ‘Oh. She kicked,’ Jessica says.

  Our daughter, for we know the child is a girl. No prescience this time, just the magic of machines that see beyond the skin.

  Christian looks up from his game. A collection of farm animals is spread across the hearthrug, the little wooden horse he brought with him looming over them.

  Jessica looks across at him. ‘Quick, Christian,’ she says. ‘Come and meet your sister.’

  He runs to her side and leans his head against her stomach. He giggles when the baby kicks.

  ‘Natty says he wants a brother,’ Christian says.

  Jessica glances at me as she lays her hand on his head. ‘Do you talk to Natty?’ she asks.

  He nods. ‘All the time.’

  She, like me, has heard Christian chattering to himself. Now we know, somewhere through the threads of time, the special bond that ties twins to each other still holds fast.

  I join my family, sitting next to Jessica and lay my hand on her stomach, thinking of the child who will be born in the new year. We are agreed she will be named Alice.

  I wonder if the blood of Nimue will flow in her veins?

  Author’s Notes

  The village of Chesham, the Battle of Chesham Bridge and Heatherhill Hall are all figments of the writer’s imagination. However the Battle of Naseby was fought on June 14, 1645. It proved to be the last great battle of the English Civil War and a comprehensive defeat of the Royalist army.

  A couple of notes on dates:

  The year 1995 was chosen deliberately to predate the events of 2001 that led to the tightening of the anti-terrorism laws in Britain. It was also the three hundred and fiftieth anniversary of Naseby. The writer likes round numbers.

  In 1752, England changed from the Julian calendar to the Gregorian calendar, which meant eleven days were lost from that year--they went from September second to September fourteenth. This would mean that the third of June, 1995, would have been, in fact, May twenty-fourth, 1645. The writer felt this was probably too confusing for readers so the dates have been equalized.

  On the subject of money, three pounds in 1645 was the monetary equivalent of over four hundred pounds in modern terms, a hefty entry fee to a National Trust property.

  Finally, the writer apologizes sincerely to any military re-enactors who read this book and hastens to assure them she loves military re-enactors and is sure they are not all hirsute and overweight but fine, dashing men and women. Secretly, she would love to join a re-enactment group but is geographically inconvenienced. To protect the innocent, the Civil War Association and Mortlock’s Regiment are fictional and are intended to bear no relationship to any society of re-enactors, past or present.

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  About the Author

  Alison Stuart has a passion for the English Civil War that began at her father’s knee— literally--when he read ‘The King’s General’ by Daphne Du Maurier aloud to her. The romance of dashing cavaliers and surly roundheads fired her imagination and every night she dreamed of somehow being transported back in time. In the morning she would find herself still firmly stuck in modern times and now it is her imagination that takes her back in time with two full length published novels set in this fascinating period--The King’s Man and the award winning By the Sword

  An academic study of seventeenth century history at university almost managed to kill any interest in the period but she rose above it and loves nothing more than to visit England and search out the small details for her stories. Her long suffering husband and sons have been dragged around the major battlefields of the English Civil War, with no less than two trips to Naseby.

  With Secrets in Time Alison’s girlish dream of time travelling to the seventeenth century has finally been realized without any major inconvenience to herself.

  Connect with Alison online at:

  Alison Stuart - Writer

  Smashwords Author Page

  Face
book

  Goodreads

  Twitter: @AlisonStuart14

  OTHER TITLES by Alison Stuart

  Historical Romance

  Her Rebel Heart

  Lord Somerton’s Heir

  The Guardians of the Crown Series

  By The Sword (Book 1)

  The King’s Man (Book 2)

  Exiles’ Return (Book 3)

  Paranormal Historical Romance

  Gather The Bones

  Secrets In Time

  If you enjoyed SECRETS IN TIME why not pick up one of Alison’s historical romances, HER REBEL HEART….

  HER REBEL HEART

  Chapter 1

  Kinton Lacey Castle, Herefordshire

  July 25, 1643

  Startled out of an uneasy doze by the crackle of musket fire, Deliverance sent books and papers flying as she rummaged through the detritus on the table in her search for the flint. As the candle sputtered into life, the door opened and her steward, Melchior Blakelocke, stood outlined in the doorway, holding a covered lantern.

  “Are we being attacked?” Deliverance asked.

  “I don't think so,” Melchior replied. “In fact, I think it is our besiegers who are being attacked.”

  Hope sprang in Deliverance’s heart. “Is it Father? Has he come to relieve us?”

  She reached for the elegant French Wheelock musket her father used for hunting, running her hand over the well-polished wood of the stock. It had a kick that threatened to dislocate her shoulder every time she used it, but she took pride in her mastery of the weapon.

  Outside, the entire garrison of Kinton Lacey Castle had deployed along the walls, but to her relief, the firing and shouts came from beyond the crumbling walls of the old castle. She took her now accustomed vantage point on the northern tower of the bastion gate and squinted into the darkness and confusion.