Beyond Time
Page 8
CHAPTER 6
Grace stirred as a gust of wind lashed the window. She nestled into his embrace, resting her head in the curve of his shoulder. A shiver rose up her body and his arm tightened protectively around her, cupping her small hand in his palm. He was instantly awake.
“Are you cold?”
“A little,” she said, lifting her left hand to check her watch.
“It’s nearly six o’clock.”
“What of it?”
“Nothing, it’s just that I’m used to getting up now.”
“Then we shall rise,” he said, removing his hand from hers and sliding out of bed.
She shivered as his movement produced a cold draft of air in the bed.
“Stay there.”
“What are you doing?”
“Putting some logs on the fire.”
“I could have done that.”
“I’ve no doubt you could.”
Sliding out the bed she lifted the top blanket and wrapped it around herself. Still shivering, she made her way to where Robert crouched in front of the fire.
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked.
“No.”
“But you’ve only got a pair of trousers... err, sorry, breeches on.”
He turned his head from the fire and smiled up at her.
“What am I going to do with you?”
Offended, she shot him an accusing look.
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean, Grace, is that it’s going to be the devil’s own work keeping you out of trouble.”
“What, just because I slipped up and called your breeches trousers?”
“Yes.”
Flames hissed and danced around each other as another log was dropped into the fire, casting flickering shadows on the white washed walls of the room. Grace moved closer, holding her hands out to the flames. Robert sprung to her side, gently moving her away from the fire.
“What’s wrong now?”
“If you stand that close to a fire with a blanket trailing on the hearth, it will catch fire.”
She lowered her head to her feet and realized he was right. The edges of the woolen blanket hung wide and loose, trailing dangerously close to the flames.
“I’m sorry,” she said, softly.
“You have done nothing wrong.”
“I nearly set fire to your house.”
A loud rumbling sound bellowed from his throat as he threw his head back and laughed.
“What?” she said, startled by his laughter. When he didn’t answer she tried again. “What’s so funny?”
He breathed deeply, choking on a final laugh before reaching out and drawing her into his arms.
“I do not care one tiny ounce for this building.”
“But... you just said...”
“That I didn’t want you to catch fire,” he said, interrupting her mid-sentence.
“Oh,” she replied, feeling rather silly, “I just assumed you meant the house.”
“I know,” he said, brushing his lips lightly over the top of her head. “Would you like something to eat?”
“Not really, but I would love a cup of coffee,” she said, reaching for her backpack.
He watched her intently as she unzipped it and emptied the contents onto the bed. Triumphantly she held up the coffee, creamer and sugar.
“Robert Hamilton, you are about to taste heaven.”
The side of his mouth quirked in a gentle smile.
“I already have. But I would be more than happy to taste it again.”
Grace reached for a pillow and threw it at him. He caught it and threw it back at her.
“I meant this, you Muppet,” she said, laughing and holding up the jar of coffee. “Do you have any boiled water?”
“No, but I can arrange some.”
“Not from the river.”
His eyebrows raised in question.
“Is there any particular reason why the water can’t be from the river?”
“There is.”
“Well, do you care to share the reason with me?”
“Only if you promise not to laugh at me.”
“Alright, I promise.”
“The water in the river is vile.”
“You haven’t seen the rivers.”
“No, I don’t need to. The water in those rivers is dangerous and capable of killing us both, boiled or not. There is a well at the back of your posting house. Use that water.”
He frowned down at her, confusion veiling his eyes.
“How do you know about my posting house and the well?”
“I told you, I did a history degree.”
“And this degree qualified you in the ownership of buildings and location of city wells, did it?”
“No, I made it my business to find out.”
“So you deem the water in my well safe to drink?”
“If it’s boiled, yes.”
Nodding, he pulled a cotton shirt over his head and moved toward the bedroom door.
“As it happens, there is a pail of well water downstairs. Coming?” he said, opening the door.
Grace followed him down the familiar stairs and into what would be the reception area of the hotel. She pulled the blanket tighter as the air pierced its weave. Through the thick window panes she could see a curtain of snow and fog. The wind still howled through the street and deep drifts had appeared against the buildings.
“It’s so cold in here, Robert.”
“It won’t be once I get this going,” he said, crouching down on his haunches in front of the empty fireplace.
“Robert what am I going to do for clothes?” she said, clutching the woolen blanket under her chin.
Striking the flint over the straw, the kindling burst into flames and a gentle warming glow filled the room.
“I will get you some.”
“But it takes months to make a single gown and I don’t have any money to pay for one. I can’t leave the house in jeans and a sweatshirt, so even if I did have the money to pay for one, I could hardly go in search of a seamstress.”
“I have a sister. She can spare a gown until a new one can be made for you.”
“I can’t just ask your sister to lend me a dress.”
“No, you can’t. So I will ask her.”
“You don’t think she will take offence?”
“No, I don’t, or I wouldn’t ask her.”
“I have nothing to give her in return.”
“She won’t want anything,” he said, lifting a long black coat off the back of a wooden chair.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to get you a gown. The water is through there,” he replied, pointing to a door.
As Robert opened the front door a gust of wind and snow howled into the room.
“Don’t open this again until I return. Not for anyone, Grace.”
She took his meaning well enough.
Without further comment he was gone. She cast her eyes around the room, so familiar yet so foreign. She pictured the elderly hotel owner, George, in the corner of the room, sitting behind the reception desk, his face nearly always hidden by the cover of a book. She thought of Harry and wished she could tell him he had been right. In truth, she still wasn’t convinced. It was still entirely possible that her mind had created this entire scenario, or that she was in a dream or even dead. Time-travelling four hundred years into the past seemed the least plausible explanation. Her head hurt from trying to understand it all and just at that moment she didn’t much care what had brought her to this place. She was happy, and despite all the uncertainty, Grace felt safe and with this thought she set about making her first cup of coffee in her new life.
An icy blast of air signaled Robert’s return. White with snow, his hair limply framed the square line of his jaw. Carefully he draped the gown over the back of a chair and proceeded to remove his dripping coat.
“By God it’s a foul wind that blows today. The streets are knee deep with lying snow. Much m
ore of this and the city will be cut off for sure.”
“Here, drink this,” she said, handing him a mug of steaming hot coffee.
He cupped his hands around the mug, sniffing thoughtfully at its content.
“Smells good. Is this the coffee you were so eager to make?”
“It is,” she said, with pride. “Go on, Robert, try it. Only don’t go getting addicted to it, because I can’t exactly pop back and fetch another jar when this is one is finished.”
He laughed, bringing the mug up to his lips and taking a generous swig of the liquid. A contented sigh followed as he placed the mug on a table and opened a cabinet. Moments later he extracted a bottle from the cabinet and using his teeth, pulled a cork from the bottle. A liberal measure of its content was poured into the mug before he once more took a hearty swig of the coffee.
“Now that is a good drink,” he said, smiling broadly at Grace as she stood staring open mouthed at him.
“How did you know to add whisky to the coffee?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well it’s just something that people do in my time and I didn’t expect you to know to do it.”
“The people in your time have good taste.”
“Perhaps, but how did you know to add whisky to your coffee?”
“You make too much of it, Grace. It tastes good, no?”
“Well I don’t like it in coffee but then I don’t like whisky, but thousands of other people do, so I guess it must.”
“Then the reason for doing it isn’t important. Sarah said you could have this gown and I’ve got a cobbler coming around later to make a start on some boots for you.”
“I hadn’t thought about shoes, but I guess I can’t exactly go around in trainers.”
“Trainers?”
“That’s the name of the shoes I was wearing. They are probably ruined from the snow anyway.”
“Yes, I’m afraid your shoes didn’t look like they were going to be much use to you anymore. Odd leather they use in your time.”
“It’s not leather. They call it plastic. It’s kinda complicated but basically plastic is a material which is made from oil and oil is extracted from the ground. Odd concept, huh?”
“Not so odd a concept but I do think the shoes are ugly.”
Grace laughed. “You know the castle?”
He nodded, “What of it?”
“In my time, it’s a museum... a place where people can go and see things from the past. Anyway, there are a couple of displays there dedicated to you.
“To me?” he said, surprised.
Grace nodded, “Yes, to you, Robert. Yesterday I saw a pair of shoes there that you have made for your wife.”
Robert frowned in confusion. “I don’t have a wife.”
“Not yet you don’t.”
“What does that mean?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have started this conversation. I’m sorry. Please don’t press me on it. I can’t tell you.”
“Will you tell me one day?”
“Perhaps.”
“Robert what did you tell your sister about me?” she said, changing the subject.
“I told her that you are my wife.”
“Your wife? But won’t she wonder why you didn’t tell her you married? Or why I have nothing to wear?”
“Grace, sit down,” he said, pausing to allow her to do as he had asked. “Sarah is deliriously happy for me and hasn’t questioned a thing I have told her. As far as she and the rest of this city are concerned, you are from Derbyshire and I married you two weeks ago at St Mary’s church in Chesterfield.”
“Did you just say St Mary’s church in Chesterfield?”
“I did?”
“Do you know Chesterfield then?”
“Well I know it in this time. I’m afraid I can’t offer much of an opinion on what it is like in your time. Grace, you need to know what I have told Sarah,” he said, bringing her back to their original conversation. “We married in Chesterfield, two weeks ago. I sent a private coach to transport you to York and last night, just outside the city, your coach overturned in the snow and you were robbed by highway men.”
“You’re not just a very handsome man are you?”
“No?”
“No, you’re smart as well,” she said, dropping the blanket from her shoulders and moving to stand in front of him.
His eyes travelled from her face down the length of her body, lingering where the cotton shirt swelled over the rise of her breasts. One dark brow lifted.
“And you are a beautiful woman who is going to teach me many things,” he whispered, in a deep and husky rumble. A faint smile touched his lips. “But first you need to take that shirt off. The cobbler will be here soon. Here,” he said, lifting the gown from the back of the chair, “go and put this on... oh and, Grace, remove that bracelet from your wrist.”
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