Beyond Time (Highland Secret Series) (6 page)

“Strange, huh?” he replied with a shrug.

“You talk in riddles. I’m not going to even pretend to understand what you are going on about.”

Grace followed him into the kitchen. Spotting two mugs in the sink she rinsed them and reached for a seemingly clean drying up cloth on the side of the counter.

“How do you like your coffee?”

“As it comes, coffee is coffee to me.”

Grace smiled to herself. If someone had asked her a few minutes ago how Harry liked his coffee she would have guessed that he didn’t much care. She had always thought you could tell a lot about a person by the coffee they drink.

“Harry, what do you know about Robert’s wife?”

“Probably less than you do.”

“So you don’t know who she was then?”

“Oh, I know who she is alright.”

“Well then I would say you know a whole lot more than I do about her.”

“What do you want to know about Robert’s wife then?”

“Well anything really. What her name was, how old she was when she married him, …that sort of thing.”

“Grace, put your cup down. I have something to show you.”

“That sounds very cryptic, Harry. What have you got?”

“It’s a portrait of Robert and his wife.”

“You’re kidding. That’s amazing. I’d love to see it. How on earth did you get hold of it?”

“It was here in the attic. I came across it about twenty years ago.”

“Did you find anything else besides the portrait?”

“No, just the portrait.”

“It’s odd you didn’t find anything else. I wonder why no one ever spotted it before?”

“Time will tell you, Grace, you’ll work it out.”

“Work what out, Harry?”

“All of it Grace. It took me many years to understand.”

“But you do now?” asked Grace, her mind racing with excitement as the natural historian in her took over.

“Yes, I do.”

“Can I see it? The portrait, I mean?”

“Of course,” he said, solemnly. “It hangs in the hallway, just before the ladies toilets. I put it there so that it wouldn’t be missed if the lady... err... oh, forget it, just come with me and I’ll show it to you.”

Grace followed him out of the kitchen and through the main section of the building. He swiped a half-finished bottle of whisky off the bar as they moved past it and on toward the hall.

It was a narrow dark space with uneven plastered walls but she could see the frame of the picture as they approached. An excited bubble grew in her stomach as the canvas came into view. It was him, Robert Hamilton, his eyes sparkling, a broad smile on his face and beside him... was his wife.

Grace’s knees buckled and her legs gave way as the room swam around her. “It’s alright, girl, I’ve got you,” he whispered aching to end her pain.

Harry instinctively raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross praying as he did that his Jessie had been right. He, Harry Hamilton, had given up too much to fail at this stage because of a lack of faith. He had to see this through, no matter what the cost.

Limp in his arms, Grace tried to speak but her throat was too tight, her pulse raced and tiny beads of sweat formed on her face. Harry lowered her to the ground and sank down beside her on the carpeted floor of the hallway.

“You have got to be... kidding! Is... this... some sort of joke?” she stammered turning white faced to the man beside her.

“No, Grace, this isn’t a joke. That portrait is as genuine as you and me. Have it checked out yourself, if you want. Any expert will tell you.”

She was no expert but had seen her fair share of genuine seventeenth century portraits and Harry was right. This was either a damn good forgery or the real thing. She breathed deeply, trying to calm her rising panic. It didn’t work. She shook fiercely, her head swam and the room around her swayed as she lifted her knees and dropped her head onto them. She felt him rest his hand gently on her shoulder.

“It’s OK, Grace,” he whispered reassuringly, “I’m here.”

“Tell me, Harry, how did this happen?” she wailed hysterically.

“I don’t... I’m sorry... I...don’t know,” he lied.

“You must know! You must!”

Terror clung to her soul as she stared at the portrait.

“How did you know, Harry?”

“How did I know what?”

“That his wife wasn’t from his time?”

The ageing man lifted the bottle of whisky and spun the metal lid off the glass top. She could smell the heady fumes of liquor as he lifted the open bottle to his mouth.

“Look closely at the portrait, Grace. Look at her wrist.”

She scanned the image, fighting the rising panic inside her.

“It’s my watch,” she whispered.

Harry put out his arm and dangled the bottle in front of her.

“Here, have some of this.”

Grace shook her head, wrinkling her nose at the smell.

“I don’t drink spirits.”

“It’s time you started then girl,” he said, lifting the bottle to his mouth again and taking a large sip.

“Harry, I don’t understand. How could I have come to be in this portrait?”

“That is the mystery we must solve.”

“That portrait must be almost four hundred years old. That’s not a mystery in my book. It’s beyond possible.”

He nodded, taking another sip from the bottle.

“Can’t argue with you there, girl.”

“What am I going to do, Harry?”

“Well you’re not going to panic, for starters.”

“How can I not panic? I’m sitting here on the floor of a pub, in a city I’ve only been in a week, looking at a portrait of me that was painted nearly four hundred years ago.”

“I can’t tell you how this painting came into being, but Grace, you can’t deny its existence.”

She reached out and took the bottle of whisky from him. She ran her fingers absently over the label on the glass.

“What if it’s just a relative? That would make sense,” she said, turning to face Harry with hopeful eyes. The elderly man shook his head.

“No, Grace.”

“Why? It happens. Genetics are a funny thing. There are people whose looks can throw back hundreds of years.”

“And the watch?”

“OK, so that is weird. Someone could have painted it on. It wouldn’t be the first time a genuine painting has been tampered with.”

“I found this twenty years ago. The watch was there then and no one has touched it since.”

“Twenty years ago I didn’t have this watch. I was only a young girl.”

“But your future self four hundred years ago did.”

Grace lifted the bottle to her mouth and took a tentative sip, gasping and coughing as the fiery liquid slipped down the back of her throat. Harry laughed and took the bottle from her.

“You were right, girl. Stick to wine,” he said, helping himself to another swig from the bottle.

Grace smiled and rested her hand on Harry’s knee.

“You have been a good friend to me, Harry.”

“Careful, you’ll have me blushing,” he replied, patting her hand gently.

“Would you mind taking that portrait down?”

“I think that would be a good idea. Now that you are here, we don’t want anyone else putting two and two together. Especially Kate. She has a bit of a fixation with your future husband.”

“Don’t call him that.”

“Sorry. That was crass of me. But it’s your fate and you will have to come to terms with it at some point.”

“How am I supposed to reply to that? It’s a ridiculous notion. No one travels in time. Einstein’s theory of relativity? Can’t be done, Harry, it can’t be done.”

“But what if he was wrong? What if neutrons could break the speed of light? Just because scientists haven’t seen it done doesn’t mean it hasn’t been done.”

“That would turn the world of physics on its head.”

“It would, but you can’t discount something’s possibility just because it will upset school curriculums.”

“I need a coffee,” Grace said, pushing herself up from the floor. Harry nodded and spun the cap back onto the whisky bottle.

“Bad habit,” he mumbled to himself as his stiff body rose to stand beside Grace.

“You OK, Harry?”

“I’m an old man. Sipping whisky at this time on a Sunday morning isn’t a good way to start the day.”

“Have you eaten anything yet?”

“Never have breakfast. Messes with my system.”

Grace laughed, slipping her hand into his.

“And whisky doesn’t?”

“Oh yes, whisky does but it’s a far more pleasant way to mess up your system.”

“Come on you, I’m gonna make us both something to eat. If you keep drinking that stuff on an empty stomach you’ll never be fit to open this pub today.”

Smiling to herself she set about clearing up the kitchen and making some toast. He was still a nice man, even if he had just scared the life out of her.

******

CHAPTER 4

Back in her room at the ‘Cavalier Hotel’, Grace stood at the window and stared out at the street below her. What had happened that morning in Harry’s pub had frightened her beyond anything she could ever have imagined. She turned and looked at the portrait of Robert Hamilton. A dark shadow appeared to have crossed his face. His lips looked thinner and the muscles of his wide jaw appeared to have tensed. None of this made any sense to Grace. She rubbed her forehead thoughtfully. Was she in the middle of some terrible nightmare? It all felt real enough.

She cast her mind back to the day she had arrived in York. Less than a week ago, she had stood on the platform at York station wondering what her new life would hold. Now she had a job, a comfortable hotel room and at least two new friends - both of whom believed in the ghost of Robert Hamilton. Did she believe in it? Grace still couldn’t be sure. She had certainly grown to know the man, more intimately than she should, thanks in no small part to her recent dreams. In truth she was falling hopelessly in love with him. Real or imagined, Robert Hamilton was stealing her heart and there wasn’t a damn thing Grace could do about it.

A sense of urgency fell over her as she went about her final preparations for bed and the next morning. She glanced curiously over at the portrait.

“Will you fill my dreams tonight, Mr. Hamilton?”

A tiny flutter of expectation ran through her but sanity prevailed and the feeling was quashed. The dreams were idyllic, beautiful and in them she felt loved and safe. But, she reminded herself, they were only dreams. Her emotions were still too raw, her heart too tender to meddle in this nonsense. This man was not real. He was dead. Grace had seen his grave and it was as real as the snow that fell outside her bedroom window.

Sleep beckoned but she refused to give in to it in case he should come to her again. She screamed with the need for him but, in the same breath, was beyond terrified of him.

His presence once more filled the room as sleep claimed her mind. Dare she trust him? Her heart leapt at the thought. She sensed him behind her, moments before she felt his strong arms wrap around her waist. His chest was rising and falling against her back, his breath warm and soft against her ear. She gasped as pleasure rippled through her body at the feel of his touch.

“Why do you haunt me, Robert?” she whispered, to the darkness.

“You are the one that haunts my dreams.”

“I’m frightened, Robert. I don’t understand.”

“No my love, nor do I.”

She had to resist, had to stop this. She fought to end the dream. Her mind clawed to break free, pulling at a thin thread of light that broke through the darkness. But he held her, trembling against him until the light of dawn rose around them.