Saving Grace

by Elizabeth Marshall

  The rooms at the top of the stairs were familiar and her mood lightened a bit as she passed the door to what would be Harry’s room, nearly four hundred years from now. Not much would change with the building over the years. Plasterboard would be added to smooth out the walls, a carpet here and there, but essentially the space would remain the same.

  Still shivering, Grace found a pile of roughly woven blankets and wrapped one around her shoulders. It had been kind of Robert’s sister to lend her the gown but it was no more suited to the bitter cold and heavy snow than her jeans and sweatshirt had been. She was going to need a coat if she were to have any chance of surviving the winter.

  Back in the main room of the post house Grace warmed herself in front of the fire whilst Robert moved around the room lighting the oil lamps.

  “Why is there no one staying in the rooms upstairs?”

  “I closed it when I went to Derbyshire two weeks ago. It hasn’t been open since.”

  “Are you expecting it to be busy today?”

  “Yes. Every room in the city is full.”

  “Do you just leave the place at night then and go home?”

  “No. I live here.”

  “Will you be living here tonight?”

  “Yes and so will you.”

  “Where do we sleep then?”

  He nodded to a door off the main building.

  “Through there. The guests will be upstairs.”

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  “No. I’m ready to open the doors now.”

  “Can I help once you open?”

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever you need help with. What about the rooms upstairs? Could I clean them up a bit?”

  “If you wish, but Grace, no fancy tricks with things that look like magic. If you are going to work you do it in the way of my time, not yours.”

  “Fine,” she said, annoyed at him for making reference to the lighter again.

  “There is fresh bedding in the room in which you found the blanket. Feel free to make up beds, but don’t light any fires.”

  “Why?”

  “A waste of fuel and it’s dangerous. They pay for a place to sleep, not warmth.”

  They both turned to the door as the sound of arriving trade gathered outside.

  “Shall I get the doors?”

  “No, I’ll let them in.”

  “I’ll go upstairs and sort the rooms out then,” she said leaving Robert to his customers.

  ********

  Grace pulled herself upright, placing her hands in the small of her back. Making beds the old fashioned way was hard work and it had been a long time since she had put anything like this amount of physical effort into household chores. Having swept and dusted the rooms and made up the beds, Grace was happy with the results. She would have liked to have put some flowers in the rooms. But on further reflection she dismissed the idea, thinking that Robert was unlikely to approve.

  Turning to leave, she gasped in surprise as she noticed a man lazily propped between the doorframes.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I thought the price was extortionate,” he said giving her a long hard stare, “but I don’t so much mind the fee if there’s a little extra on offer.”

  “Mr Hamilton’s prices are fair. There isn’t a room to be had anywhere in the city,” she said defensively.

  “As I said, I don’t mind the fee... now,” he replied sauntering towards her.

  Nervously she stepped backwards, positioning herself behind a chair.

  “I need to be going now,” she stammered.

  He drew closer, his eyes wild and challenging. He kicked the chair to the side and grabbed at her. She stepped back into the bed frame. Trapped between him and the bed, she froze.

  “Playing hard to get?” he said, making another grab for her gown and pulling her hard against him. She fought him wildly, but his grip was too firm. He took a handful of her hair in his free hand and yanked her head backwards.

  “I like them feisty,” he said, tugging harder on her hair.

  Tears welled in her eyes as she tried to lift her foot to kick him, but the weight and sheer volume of the skirts made injuring the man unlikely.

  “Please,” she cried, “let go of me.”

  “Not likely,” he said hooking his right leg behind hers and pushing her backwards onto the bed.

  The full weight of his body fell on top of her. She screamed and lifted her hands to his face, clawing her nails down the length of his cheek. He slapped her hard across her face. For a moment the room went black, her head swam and her ear rang from the force of the blow.

  Suddenly she could breath and the weight of his body was gone. Grace scrambled up to see the man hovering in mid air, his face white with shock. Robert’s eyes blazed dangerously as he deposited the man on his feet. With one swift turn of his head, Robert smacked the edge of his forehead across the bridge of the man’s nose. The stranger dropped to the floor and within seconds was lying in a pool of his own blood. Robert grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him up. The man swayed unsteadily on his feet.

  “No, Robert, leave him,” Grace screamed. Scrambling off the bed she flung herself at Robert, begging him to stop.

  “You’ll kill him, Robert. Please, let him go?”

  Robert stared at the man for a brief moment before flinging him aside.

  “Get out!” he ordered, “Now!”

  The dazed man staggered through the door leaving a trail of blood behind him.

  “Are you alright?” he asked looking across at Grace.

  She shook fiercely and tears streaked her cheeks but she nodded her head.

  “Stay here,” he said turning to leave the room.

  Moments later he returned to find Grace curled up on the bed sobbing. He sat beside her, gently resting his hand on her shoulders.

  “I am sorry,” he whispered.

  She tried to reply, to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that she didn’t blame him, but the words caught in her throat. She clung to him, sobbing like a child as he held her against him and soothed a lifetime’s pain.

  When finally the tears had stopped and her head pounded from the crying, she got to her feet.

  “I’m sorry,” she said rubbing her forehead.

  “Sorry for what? You haven’t done anything wrong.” He paused thoughtfully cupping his hands together. “Don’t ever apologise to me again,” he said turning to leave. “We’re going home.”

  “What about your customers?”

  “There aren’t any. I’ve closed the doors.”

  “Because of me?”

  “No! For you.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said quietly.

  “This is no place for a lady, you don’t belong here.”

  “But this is your livelihood. You can’t just close the doors.”

  “I can and I have.”

  “How will you live, Robert?”

  “That is not your concern.”

  “Please, don’t make me carry the guilt and worry that you will have no money because of me.”

  “This is my decision alone to make and not your burden to carry. However, I can assure you, Grace, that if this house never opens again, I will not starve and nor will you.”

  It all became too much for her; the loss of her daughter, the pain of her loveless marriage, the belief that she was insane, the bizarre notion that she had travelled through time, his kindness and love, this new and terrifying world. Tears welled in her eyes, again threatening to overspill. Her stomach lurched as if she was going to be sick and her hands shook uncontrollably. Confusion and pain surged inside her until the tears broke free and her body and mind fell numb to the world.

  ********

  He turned and walked over to the fireplace. She watched him as he squatted in front of it and lowered a log gently into the flames. He reached for a thick cloth on the hearth and lifted a pot from above the fire. Cautiously he poured boiling water from
the pot into two mugs and returned the cast iron pot to the fire.

  “I’ve grown quite fond of your coffee,” he said handing her a mug and moving to sit on the edge of the bed.

  “Have you ever had coffee before?”

  “Yes, but it tasted nothing like this.”

  “What does it taste like?”

  “Bitter.”

  She blew gently across the rim of the mug. Steam circled off the liquid and threaded up into the cool air of the room.

  “Robert in my time, your post house is owned by one of your brother’s descendents.”

  He clasped his hands and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I have seen him.”

  “I know and he has seen you. His name is Harry.”

  “Harry?” he smiled broadly, “Well I know which brother he’s from.”

  She cocked her head quizzically. “You do?”

  “Yes, I do. It’ll be Harry.”

  Grace smiled and a gentle laugh escaped her throat. “I didn’t think to ask your brother’s names.”

  “No reason why you should.”

  “So your sister is Sarah and your brother is Harry. But you have another brother?”

  “I do, George.”

  “George?” Grace gasped wondering if it could be possible.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “In my time a George owns this house.”

  They sat in a comfortable silence, sipping the warm drink. She closed her eyes and savoured its flavour, wondering ruefully what life was going to be like without her jar of instant coffee. It seemed a bizarre thing to muse over and she sighed at her apparent shallowness. A gust of wind howled down the narrow street between the Minster and the house disturbing their calm. Robert moved towards the fire and added another log of wood to the glowing embers.

  “Will I meet your family?”

  “When you feel ready.”

  “What if they don’t like me?”

  She sounded truly anxious. He hadn’t anticipated her reaction and it threw him momentarily.

  “You care what my family thinks?”

  “Of course I care. They’re your family.”

  He weighed her words, considering carefully his own feelings on the subject. Would it matter to him if his family didn’t accept her? Yes, he concluded, it would matter, but it mattered more what she thought of them.

  He took a deep breath, contemplating the complexities that had become his life. A loyal servant to the king, he had fought as a Cavalier in the civil war, travelled the continent with his master and returned with the restoration. But in all that time he had never considered marriage.

  Of course there had been women. Life with the king, even in exile, had included an almost constant trail of female characters of loose morals and flighty manners. They had come and gone with the movements of the entourage and never had one remained more than briefly in his memory.

  Resting his elbows on his thighs and stretching his arms out in front of him he clasped his hands thoughtfully. His eyes stared at the flames as they danced and leapt around the brickwork of the fireplace. This was how it had all began, he thought. Idle eyes staring dimly at a flame, a blurred image materialising within the flame.

  Had he the slightest belief in sorcery and magic he would almost certainly have killed this woman on sight. But he had never paid attention to the ramblings of the witch hunters. Magic was simply unexplained events and sorcery didn’t exist.

  He mused over the irony of his conviction. In his readiness to dismiss her as a master of evil magic he had allowed her to enchant him.

  As if aware of his musings she shuffled across the bed. She sat cross legged beside him, her hand resting lightly on his thigh.

  “Do people in the future move through time often?”

  She looked startled. “No. Time travel isn’t possible.”

  “Not impossible,” he replied.

  “No, I suppose not, but it’s deemed to be.”

  “Yet you are here.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Do you believe in witches?”

  “No, that’s daft. Witches aren’t real. They exist for the purpose of children’s tales and adult fantasy. They are no more real than magic is.”

  “If magic is isn’t real and witches are fantasy and time travel is impossible, how do you explain how you got here?”

  His words hit her with the force of a physical blow. She stared at his face, the colour draining from hers.

  “I can’t.”

  He watched her, his dark eyes blazed dangerously. She met his look and held it as fear ripped through her. His eyes demanded the truth but she had none to give.

  “I know,” he said eventually. “There’s no reason why I should trust you, but I do.”

  He got up from the bed and moved to close the shutter. The flame from a single candle glowed against the white washed wall behind her bedside table. She watched anxiously as he stoked the fire and the flames grew up around the fresh logs.

  “Did you love your husband?” he asked, replacing the poker on its stand.

  “I thought I did... once.”

  “And now?”

  “No,” she whispered quietly.

  He lifted her back pack and handbag and set them on the bed beside her.

  “Tomorrow we will go through this. These things must be destroyed.”

  “No, Robert you can’t.”

  “I can and I will,” he said sternly. “If you are ever seen using any of these things you will face trial for witchcraft.”

  He was right and Grace understood the risks. But she had no intention of letting him destroy anything she had brought with her.

  Fumbling with the zip she opened the backpack and emptied its content onto the bed.

  He stood on the opposite side of the bed watching her as she reached for a small square box.

  “See these?” she said, holding the box up for him to see.

  He nodded silently.

  “These are called painkillers. They do what their name suggests. They kill pain and fever. Robert, they save lives.”

  “Grace, you were not listening to me. The usefulness of these things is not in question. Your survival is.”

  “We can hide them. No one need ever know.”

  “And where would you have me hide these things?”

  Flustered her eyes flicked frantically around the room, settling on the oak wardrobe that would remain in this room for nearly four hundred years.

  “In the wardrobe,” she said excitedly.

  A loud laugh bellowed from him, breaking the tension of the room.

  “So no one is going to find them in there?”

  “No... no, they won’t. Not if you add a false bottom to it.”

  He pursed his lips, pondered her suggestion for a few minutes.

  “Alright, I’ll do it,” he said suddenly.

  “You will?”

  “I will,” he said, letting a broad smile cross his lips.

  ******

  A soft glow from the embers of the fire lit the room. He reached out and touched her gently with his hand as she turned restlessly away from him. She rolled onto her back and her eyes sprang open. The beamed ceiling glared down on her. Her mind twisted and in fits of confusion, her heart pounded and her stomach churned.

  “I saw her,” she whispered.

  “Saw who?”

  “Jenny.”

  “Your daughter?”

  She sat bolt upright, her hand fumbling for the photograph on her bedside table.

  “Yes,” she breathed, clutching the picture to her breast, “my daughter.”

  “Tell me what happened?”

  She stared at him blankly, her mind fighting to recover the dying images of her dream.

  “She’s in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A knot of fear tightened in her stomach as she replayed the dying moments of her dream to him.

  “Jenny was screami
ng; a desperate terrified cry for help. I tried to get to her but I couldn’t.”

  “Where was she?”

  “I don’t know... but it felt like... I was in water and... the closer I got to her, the thicker the water became until I couldn’t pull myself through the water anymore... and I woke up.”

  “It was just a dream, Grace.”

  “No, it was more than a dream. Jenny needs me and I don’t know how to help her.”

  In desperation she sprung out of bed and grabbed her mobile phone. She flicked madly through her the address book looking for Jenny’s number.

  “I know what to do,” she said, suddenly staring at the phone. “I need the portrait.”

  He came to stand in front of her, his arms moving to encircle her waist. She slipped from his embrace and ran to the fireplace. She turned to him, her eyes pleading.

  “I can’t reach it.”

  In one stride he was beside her, his arms stretched towards the portrait.

  “Grace, why don’t you sit down and we can talk about this,” he said handing the frame to her.

  She shook her head frantically, taking the frame from him.

  “No, there’s no time,” she said dropping to the floor. “Robert, pass me the backpack, please?”

  He did as she asked and then slid to the floor beside her. He watched her as she ripped the bag open and scrambled through its contents.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “The pens, Robert, I’m looking for my bloody ball point pens. Have you got a desk?”

  “I have. Why?”

  “Cut the legs off it. Now,” she screamed.

  “What?”

  “You heard me, get the damn legs off it.”

  “Grace, this is enough. Stop.”

  “I can’t, Robert, there isn’t much time. It might be too late already.”