Fragments (Out of Time)

by Monique Martin

  Elizabeth took his hand. “That’s all right. Better a comedy than a tragedy. At least that way, we get a happy ending, right?”

  How he hoped so.

  Simon opened the large doors and let Elizabeth precede him inside. The butler hurried toward them, apologized needlessly and took their coats. Simon had always appreciated the servants as a boy. He’d spent more time with most of them than he had with his own family. However, the faces had changed through the years and they were strangers to him now.

  Simon guided Elizabeth further inside. “This is the Great Hall.”

  “Wow.”

  It was an impressive, if not oppressive, room. An enormous gold chandelier hung down from between the large dark beams and decorative white plasterwork panels of the coffered ceiling and hovered over the intricate wooden parquet floor. Vases and painfully tasteful flower arrangements covered polished tables. Louis XIV chairs sat like thrones on either side of a ridiculously over-sized flower arrangement. Gilded clocks perched on enormous mantles. Porcelain and silver posed in small alcoves of deep mahogany. Every inch of it served to remind the visitor of the owner’s wealth and power.

  “It’s beautiful. You know, if you like that sort of thing,” Elizabeth said as she sat down in one of the chairs.

  “That is William the IV’s Coronation chair,” Simon said.

  Elizabeth sprang out of it with an eep.

  Simon laughed and it echoed through the Great Hall. “Don’t let it intimidate you. A chair is just a chair.”

  “If you say so.” She nodded toward a row of portraits on the far wall. “Are you in here anywhere?”

  “No. Not here. There is one very unfortunate Gainsborough-esque portrait of me as a child complete with blue silks and stockings around here somewhere unless they’ve burned it.”

  “They wouldn’t do that.”

  “If there’s a God—” Simon started, but was interrupted by the sound of voices and footsteps from above.

  “I am not in the habit of repeating myself,” Aunt Victoria said as she appeared through the doorway of the minstrels’ gallery at the far end of the Great Hall. With that one sentence, all of the air left the room.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The workman who trailed along behind her bobbed his head with vigorous agreement.

  Simon looked up at the gallery. She hadn’t changed at all. A bit older, a bit greyer and, if possible, a little harder.

  “There is a crack, just there, in the plaster. If you cannot see it please provide me with someone whose vision hasn’t been compromised with drink or incompetence.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good.”

  “Fasten your seatbelt,” Simon said quietly before calling out to the woman on the minstrels’ gallery. “Aunt Victoria.”

  “Oh,” Aunt Victoria said, somehow managing to infuse disappointment, disinterest and distaste into the single syllable. She looked down at Simon before her glance flicked to Elizabeth. “You’re here.”

  Simon gritted his teeth. Even though he was the master here, she always made him feel like a small and unwanted child. “It’s good to see you too, Aunt Victoria.”

  “You should have had one of the servants let me know that you’d arrived,” she said. “Quite rude.”

  With one last glare down at them, Aunt Victoria spun around and left the balcony.

  “That was chilly,” Elizabeth muttered under her breath.

  “I think she has ice for blood.” His Aunt appeared in the doorway to the great hall and Simon plastered a tight smile onto his face.

  Aunt Victoria tilted her head back and narrowed her eyes as she gave Elizabeth an appraising look. Apparently, she didn’t like what she found and sniffed in disapproval before turning away and ignoring her completely. Simon felt his blood pressure rise.

  “Simon. It’s been too long,” she said with forced politeness.

  “Has it?” Simon said. “Aunt Victoria, this is Elizabeth West. Elizabeth, this is my aunt.”

  Aunt Victoria’s expression soured.

  Elizabeth ignored it and smiled politely. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Yes,” Aunt Victoria said. “I’m sure it is.” She turned her attention back to Simon. “How long will you be staying?”

  “We haven’t decided yet.” He had intended to spend at least one night here, but now he wasn’t sure that was wise. Elizabeth was too good for this place.

  Aunt Victoria made a small sound signaling her disapproval. She preferred everything to be planned, predictable, and controllable, preferably by her. It was one of the reasons she so disliked his grandfather Sebastian, her uncle, and one of the very reasons Simon loved him so.

  “As you wish,” Aunt Victoria said, conceding the battle, but not the war. “Tea is served in the drawing room at four. Please try not to be late.”

  Simon had a riposte ready, but felt Elizabeth’s hand squeeze his.

  Aunt Victoria took his silence as assent and glowed in victory. She smiled tightly at Elizabeth. “Welcome to Grey Hall.”

  ~~~

  After their frosty reception, Simon gave Elizabeth a tour of the estate. She peppered him with questions about every garden and outbuilding. He played the knowledgeable tour guide, but he knew she could tell he was counting the hours until they could leave. After he’d shown her the portrait gallery, including the abomination of him as child where Elizabeth had tried to keep a straight face and failed miserably, he led her to a small, rather unimpressive parlor no one ever used. It was his favorite room in the house.

  “I used to come here as a boy.”

  “It’s nice,” she said, clearly not seeing the attraction.

  Simon held up a finger and grinned. He hadn’t shared this secret with anyone. Ever. “Not everything is as it seems. This is my favorite spot in the whole of Grey Hall. “

  Lifting up the seat in the bay window, he folded it back like the lid of a trunk. He reached under the edge of the seat and undid a hidden bolt. He pulled the bottom of the cabinet up to reveal a spiral staircase chiseled out of the stone.

  Elizabeth’s face lit up with delight. “Oh, a secret passage!”

  “It’s a priest hole,” he said as he swung open the front panel to make it easier to enter. “In the 16th century, Queen Elizabeth persecuted Catholics, including passing laws with severe punishments for anyone practicing the faith.”

  “Recusants.”

  “Exactly. Many refused to give up their faith and worshipped in secret. Priest holes were hiding places for traveling priests or even used as small chapels. Ours is a bit of both.”

  Elizabeth leaned forward and tried to see into the darkness.

  “It’s a wonderful place for hiding things. Very secret,” Simon said.

  “Did you hide things down there when you were little?”

  “Just myself.”

  Her face fell and he could tell she was probably imagining him suffering through some sort of horribly Dickensian childhood. Growing up in Grey Hall had been far from ideal, but it was hardly the life of Oliver Twist either. “Every boy needs his own secret kingdom to rule over.”

  “Can we go in?” she asked.

  “It’s a bit dusty and cramped.”

  “I live for dusty and cramped,” she said as she started down the stairs.

  “Careful,” he said grabbing on to her arm. “Let me get a light.”

  He rummaged around in a drawer and pulled out a flashlight. He checked the batteries. The light was faint. He thumped it on his palm and the light brightened.

  “Better let me go first,” he said. “Stay close.”

  The passageway down was narrow and rough. His flashlight danced along the rough-hewn walls as they descended down into the cold, darkness. A very small chamber had been carved at the foot of the stairs. Simon shined his light down a low, arched tunnel that had been chiseled by hand.

  Simon felt oddly at home in the bleak little cavern. The boy he had been still lived inside the man.

  “Amazing,” E
lizabeth whispered, gently touching the stone walls. “Imagine how much work went into this, how much they risked to do it.”

  Most people would have been frightened in a dark, enclosed space like this, but not Elizabeth. She saw it with the same wonder, the same fascination she saw the rest of life.

  Simon shined his light toward the far end of the tunnel.

  “What’s down there?” she asked.

  “Dead end.” He tried to keep the melancholia from his voice, but failed miserably. Being in Grey Hall again brought back feelings he thought he’d long buried in the past — his guilt over leaving and turning his back on history and heritage, and his anger at himself for feeling guilty at all. He’d run away from this life, but he’d never really been free of it.

  Elizabeth stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his waist. “Maybe we can sneak down with spoons and keep digging.”

  Simon laughed and the sound of it echoed in the small chamber.

  “I wonder what these walls have heard?”

  “I don’t think they’re giving up their secrets.”

  Elizabeth tilted the flashlight up. “Are you?”

  Simon shifted uncomfortably. “What do you mean?”

  She leaned closer, trying to see his face in the dim light. “You’ve been acting weird for the last few weeks. What’s your secret, Mr. Cross?”

  The words he’d been carrying in his heart for the last few weeks almost came out of their own volition, but this wasn’t the place. He’d asked her to come to England to show her his past, but more importantly, to ask her to be part of his future. He wanted it to be perfect. She deserved perfect.

  His eyes caressed her face and drifted to her cheek. “You’ve got a little…” He brushed the pad of his thumb against her cheek to wipe away a bit of dirt.

  “Better?” Elizabeth said turning her head for inspection.

  He nodded and ran his hands down Elizabeth’s arms; they were cool to the touch. “You’re cold.”

  He started to rub some warmth into them, but Elizabeth stopped him. She tilted her head up and grew serious. “We don’t have to stay here. In Grey Hall I mean. You don’t have to stay here.”

  Simon’s chest tightened. Of course, she’d understand. “I thought you wanted to see it.”

  “I did and I have. But when your favorite place in all of glorious Grey Hall is a musty old hole in the ground; that tells me all I need to know about it.”

  “So many ghosts here,” Simon said.

  “Maybe it’s time to put them to rest?”

  “Yes,” he said and felt a weight begin to lift. He pulled Elizabeth toward him and held on. Had it been so simple all along? Had all he needed to do was to let go? Or was all he needed was something else to hold on to?

  ~~~

  Elizabeth rolled over and felt something poke her cheek. She reached up a still half-asleep hand and rubbed the side of her face. Nothing was there. She opened her eyes and it took her a moment to remember where she was. Little lace curtains fluttered in the breeze through the slightly opened window. She pushed herself up onto her elbow and felt the prickling again. A small feather had escaped from her down pillow. She pulled it out the rest of the way and blew it off her finger. It joined the dust motes as they danced in a shaft of sunlight.

  Sebastian’s house — Rosewood Cottage.

  Yesterday, they’d left Grey Hall and traveled to Hastings. Simon had even spoken with Aunt Victoria before they left. He described it as a very tentative truce, which could mean anything, but it was a step.

  Elizabeth stretched and worked out the kinks in her neck. The iron and brass bed gave a protesting creak as she got up. After she dressed, she found the bath just down the hall, splashed cold water on her face and set off to find him.

  The house was big, by her standards if not Cross standards, but it felt familiar. She found her way downstairs. A few of the steps of the old wooden staircase squeaked under her feet. Fading, 1930s wallpaper with a small flower motif lined the walls of the hall and an old oriental runner showed the way along the corridor.

  “In here,” came Simon’s voice from down the hall.

  Elizabeth found a room with a door slightly ajar and pushed it open the rest of the way. Inside was the absolute, perfect study. The walls were dark wood, but there was plenty of light. An oversized window sat behind a heavy teak desk and tufted leather chair. Brass lamps, bronze statues and rich leather made the room feel warm and solid. The oriental rugs were well worn with tread paths where Sebastian must have paced hour upon hour.

  Sitting behind the desk, looking much as she’d imagined Sebastian had at his age, Simon looked up at her from a thick old ledger. “Good morning,” he said with a smile. He stood, came around the desk and kissed her. “Sleep well?”

  “I did,” she said and squinted up at him. “You’re in a suspiciously good mood.”

  “It’s this place, I think. It always makes me feel whole again. Even though not every memory here is a good one, this is home.”

  She knew he was talking about the night his grandfather died. It had been the first secret he’d shared with her, her first glimpse beyond the armor. The pain from his grandfather’s death would never be gone, but it didn’t define him anymore.

  Simon slipped his arms around her waist. “That and the company I keep. And this,” he said, stepping away and waving expansively. “This is part of what I’ve wanted to show you.”

  It was hard to imagine Simon as a little boy in Grey Hall. It was hard to imagine any little boy in Grey Hall. Sebastian’s home was another story entirely. Even though it hadn’t been lived in for years, it still echoed with life.

  “I used to spend nearly all my time here.” Simon pointed to a small secretary’s desk and chair off to one side. “ That was mine. We’d work here together. He’d give me some sort of task. I doubt I was any real help at all, but he always made me feel part of it. Essential.”

  Elizabeth had never met Sebastian Cross. Even when they’d both been in 1929 New York, she’d been otherwise occupied as a prisoner on King’s yacht. She couldn’t imagine how difficult all of it must have been for Simon. She pushed away the memory.

  She could see the emotion in his eyes as he nodded and cleared his throat. “Now,” he said in control again. “Knowing you, you’re in desperate need of coffee.”

  “That I am.”

  “The service was supposed to have brought a few basic supplies to the house. Let’s see if they did. Kitchen’s just down this hall.”

  After a quick breakfast, Simon showed her around the estate. It was something out of a fairy tale. An arched entrance with a huge old wrought iron gate led into the most charming courtyard she’d ever seen. The gravel road gave way to a circular cobblestone drive lined with box hedges and wild rose bushes. A small group of outbuildings with thatched roofs cozied up to the larger main house and its ivy covered brick walls. Flowerbeds and deep green hedges led to the short path to the front door.

  “Beautiful,” she said.

  “There’s quite a bit more to see. And there’s something I’d like to show you.”

  She nodded and he disappeared inside one of the outbuildings. A few moments later she heard a car engine and one of the large barnlike doors flipped open. Simon revved the engine and pulled out into the sunlight. It was the most adorable vintage sports car she’d ever seen — a small silver coupe with large open-mouth grill. An Aston Martin DB5 from the early sixties. Elizabeth whistled in appreciation.

  Simon grinned at her from behind the wheel looking more than a little Cary Grantish. “Well, come on.”

  With a grin to match his, Elizabeth hurried around to the passenger side and slid onto the leather seat, and they drove off down the road. They meandered down winding country lanes, until they crossed an old rutted path with a small cottage at the end. Simon stopped the car.

  “That was my great aunt’s. She and grandfather were very close. She lived there until she was killed.”

  “What hap
pened?”

  “The Blitz. She joined the Women’s Voluntary Service during the war and was killed in a bombing raid in London. He always regretted being overseas at the time and helped fund a small war museum in town in her memory. I think someone comes in to keep the forest from overrunning, but he kept it just as she left it.”

  They drove for a few more minutes before Simon pulled into a small gravel parking lot near the cliffs above the sea. The early afternoon sun was warm against her skin and she could just barely smell a hint of the ocean on the breeze.

  Simon walked her to a group of rocks near the edge of a seaside cliff. Small bits of greenery forced their way out of the rough sandstone and the English Channel stretched beyond the rocky beach below as far as the eye could see. Somewhere in the distance, through the haze, was France, but she couldn’t see it.

  “Not too close. The rocks give way easily.”

  Elizabeth didn’t have to be told twice. She’d had her fill of rocky cliffs in San Francisco. Simon leaned back against a group of large white rocks.

  “I used to come here often as a boy. Most of it’s a public park now, but then it was my private playground,” he added with a smile. “From here everything seemed possible. I could be anything. Anyone.”

  “Who did you want to be?”

  “A pirate.”

  The image of little Simon with a striped black and white shirt, red bandana tied over his head and makeshift eye-patch made her smile.

  “There used to be quite a few pirates off the coast here.”

  “Seriously?”

  “In the eighteenth century these waters would have been filled with privateers and buccaneers smuggling God knows what.”

  If she squinted just so, she could just see the tips of tall masts and white sails in the distant whitecaps.

  Simon came up behind her and wrapped one arm around her. She leaned back into him.

  “Hastings has quite a bit of interesting history. There,” Simon said, pointing down the coast, “are the remnants of Hastings Castle built by William of Normandy. And the castle was built on Roman ruins that predate that by another thousand years.”

  “And I thought the Alamo was old.” Elizabeth turned around to face him. “Can we see it? The castle, I mean.”