Saving
Grace
Elizabeth Marshall
In the writing of this book the author seeks to tell a tale; a story of fantasy, mystery and intrigue. For the purpose of the tale, which is set in a real world at a real point in time, it has been necessary to include some historical facts and bias. However, it was never the author’s intent to write a book of historical fact or to reflect personal or political opinion in any way.
This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead is entirely coincidental.
The Right of Deborah-Ann Brown to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
First Published 2011
Copyright © 2011 Deborah-Ann Brown
All rights reserved.
ISBN:10: 1466375051
ISBN-13: 978-1466375055
DEDICATION
I dedicate this short story with all my love to my precious family, Andy, Sean, Kel, Ste, Rose, Dave, George and Emma - a tiny reminder of the many exciting adventures we have had over the years in the ancient city of York.
And to Eva Coppersmith! My friend, I have run out of ways to thank you. You are the best friend a girl could wish for. This past year has not been an easy one for either of us. May this story take you to a place of happy fantasy!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Andy I could not and would not have written anything without you beside me. You are my world and I love you with all my heart! For all the wonderful times we have snuck away to York together and the adventures that planted the seed of this plot, I thank you my love. For all the precious memories we have created together in York over the years – you put magic back into my life.
Oh, and you’re a pretty damn good editor and manager as well. Love you darling, so much. x
Kel and Ste for your patience, love and support, I thank you with all my heart. How you two put up with me, I will never know? Yet again you have stood with me and made this happen. You really are my guardian angels. To the two best proof readers and cover designers in the world, I love you both so much, thank you. x
Sean, where would I be without your guidance on plot and dialogue? Oh, yes, of course, everyone would sound like they’d just stepped out of a finishing school. Love you big lad so much and thank you for rescuing me. x
David, George and Emma – my little support team. Couldn’t do any of this without you. Love you all and thank you. x
Noreen Muller and Kim Bennett for being brave enough and kind enough to test drive this plot on its first draft. You are both absolute stars, thank you, so very much. x
Diane Castiglione for believing that I could write a ghost story and giving me the push I needed to do it. You are a lovely lady and a precious friend. x
Paul Anthony (author of ‘Bushfire’), Sonia Rumzi (who wrote ‘Caring For Eleanor’) and Zoe Saadia (author of The Cahokian) what would I do without you all? I value and cherish your friendship, support and kindness greatly. x
SAVING GRACE
“I’ve been haunting you? You’ve got to be bloody joking,” Grace said sitting bolt upright in the bed. Realising too late that she had nothing on, Grace grabbed for the blanket and pulled it up underneath her chin. “Where the hell are my clothes?”
He raised his brows, casting his eyes lazily towards the wrought iron bedstead where Grace’s clothes hung neatly.
“They were wet,” he replied simply.
“So you just decided to take them off?”
“You were catching your death.”
She stared at him, her mind replaying what he had just said.
“Wet? You just said my clothes were wet?”
He nodded solemnly, a slight frown creasing his brow.
“I found you, face down in the snow.”
Colour drained from her face, her eyes frantically scanned the dimly lit room around her.
“Am I dead?”
“No.”
A surge of panic ripped through her.
“Then I’m dreaming... which means I’m probably still lying face down in the snow,” she said, panic causing her voice to quiver. “I’ve got to wake up. Help me Robert! Help me wake up!”
“You aren’t dreaming.”
“I am! You’ve got to help me or I’m going to die.”
“You are not going to die.”
“I am! No one will find me. The snow is too heavy.”
Her heart pounded and her head throbbed as she tried desperately to work out how to wake herself.
He rose from the chair and stood beside the bed taking her shoulders in his large hands and holding her firmly.
“You are not going to die and you are not dreaming. Do you hear me?”
She could feel his warm breath on her face and a shiver passed through her at the touch of his hands on her bare shoulders.
“If I’m not dreaming and I’m not dead, what am I?”
Gently he let go of her and perched himself on the edge of the bed.
“That’s what I would like to know,” he whispered.
“Where am I?” she asked softly.
“In my bed.”
“That’s not terribly helpful,” she said growing irritated with his curt replies.
“Why don’t you start by telling me what you were doing out in that snow storm?” he asked.
“Why don’t you start by telling me what you are doing here when you’re supposed to be dead?” she snapped.
“And what makes you think I should be dead?”
“You died four hundred years ago.”
“Did I?” he said raising his brows in mock surprise.
“Yes, you did.”
“Well then, you are probably right. I should be dead.”
“But you’re not?”
“Very observant of you, Grace.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I don’t know. But I could ask the same of you.”
“I know your damn name because of that portrait,” she said, pointing to the picture above the mantle.
He turned slowly to look at the portrait.
“You have seen this portrait before?”
“Yes, I have seen your portrait and to tell you the truth I am growing quite sick of it. It has brought me nothing but grief since I first laid eyes on it.”
“I am very interested to know where you have seen this portrait, considering it has never left this room.”
“It’s true,” she whispered with horror as her mind rationalised fantasy into probable reality.
“What is true?”
“All this,” she said pointing around the room. “I don’t belong here. I’m not where I should be.”
“Where should you be, Grace?”
“At home... I don’t know,” she replied pathetically, realising mid-sentence that she had no idea where home was anymore.
He shifted off the bed and moved towards a trunk in the corner of the room. Opening it, he removed a cream cotton shirt.
“Here, put this on,” he said handing her the shirt and turning his back to her.
Grateful for the offer, Grace wasted no time slipping the shirt over her head. Getting out of bed she moved to stand in front of the fire.
Robert came to stand beside her.
“Here, drink this,” he said, holding a pewter mug out for her.
“What is it?”
“Whisky.”
“Oh, not again. It must be hereditary,” she sighed, waving the mug cautiously under her nose.
“You don’t like whisky?”
“No, but I’ll drink it.”
He laughed softly. “I have no
doubt you will.”
Grace lifted her head and raised her eyes to look at the portrait.
“I’m not a witch,” she said suddenly.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“But you must be thinking it.”
“I don’t believe in witches.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I don’t.”
“I thought everyone believed in witches in the 17 century.”
“It seems you believed wrong,” he said, turning to face her, “You’re not from this time are you?”
“No.”
“Did you intend to come here?”
“No... no, I didn’t intend to come here.”
“Do you know how you got here?”
Slowly she turned from the fire to face the man standing beside her.
“No, but I did know I was coming.”
“I don’t suppose you would care to share what you know with me,” he asked.
“You won’t believe it.”
“Try me, Grace,” he said, his voice so low she could hardly hear him.
She lifted the mug to her mouth and swallowed the content. He slapped her on the back as she gasped and choked on the fumes from the liquid.
“Sorry,” she said, still trying to catch her breath.
The corner of his lips quirked in a gentle smile that reached his eyes.
“Another?”
She shook her head fervently.
“I didn’t think so,” he said, pouring himself another.
Grace sat on the rug in front of the fire, playing nervously with the oversized sleeves of the cotton shirt.
Robert sank to the floor beside her, and propped himself up on his elbow, his mug resting on his bent knee. He stared at her for a while, his eyes searching intently.
“What do you know, Grace?”
She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with much needed air.
“I was born and grew up in Derbyshire about four hundred years from now. I married a man called Jack Evans and we have a daughter. My husband is a cruel and evil man, or he will be... I left him a little over a week ago and moved to York,” she paused, taking her eyes off the flames of the fire and turned to face Robert.
“You won’t understand any of this. In your time a man can do as he wishes with a woman. Things are different in my time. Women have a voice.”
He raised his brows and lifted the mug of whisky to his mouth.
“I have great respect for the women in my family,” he said, pausing as the liquid slid down his throat. “I don’t believe they are capable of fighting wars or chopping wood. But then there are many roles they perform which I cannot. I would no more ignore my mother’s voice than I would my father’s. Don’t presume to judge me, Grace.”
“I’m sorry. I just assumed you wouldn’t understand.”
“If I don’t understand you, I will say so.”
“Ok,” she said, nodding slowly.
“So you fled to York a week ago?” he said, prompting her to continue.
“Yes, I fled to York and when I got there I was lonely and frightened. It was getting dark when I got off the train...”
“Train?” he interrupted her.
“It’s a way of travelling... like a large carriage,” she said.
“So you used this train to get you to York?”
She nodded. “I was at the bottom of the steps of the Minster when I spotted the Cavalier.”
“You have Cavaliers still?”
Grace laughed and her mood immediately lightened.
“The Cavalier is an hotel, Robert. It’s this place four hundred years in the future.”
“So you took a room in my house?”
“I did and what’s more, I stayed in this room.”
“My room?”
“Yes, Robert, your room, and your portrait is still there. But the fireplace has been boarded up.”
“They boarded up the fireplace?”
“Yes, Robert they have. There is no need for them.”
“Do they not have cold winters anymore?”
“Oh yes, the winters are just as cold but they have different ways to heat rooms. They pump warm water into metal panels. The panels get hot and that heat works just as well as a fire does today, even better in most cases.”
“I think I will keep my fire,” he said sceptically.
She watched his eyes as they sparkled in the gentle light of the flames. A frown of confusion veiled them and the hint of something else, something she couldn’t identify, hid in their depths.
“So you have been sleeping in my room?”
“Well not exactly sleeping, thanks to that portrait... and you,” she said rising from the floor and looking up at the portrait.
“Me? How, Grace? How have I disturbed your sleep?” he said, standing and moving closer to her. They stared at each other, his eyes glistening in the firelight.
Holding her gaze, he placed his mug firmly on the mantle.
“Tell me, Grace? How can a man you have never met disturb your sleep?”
His face was so close that she could smell the whisky on his breath; his lips hovered inches from hers. His hand cupped her cheek and then his long, strong finger trailed the line of her jaw coming to rest beneath her chin. His finger tilted her face and she swayed slightly. He put his hands around her waist and pulled her gently against him. She could feel the taut muscles of his chest against her, the racing of his heart, the warmth of his body and the strength of his arms around her.
“I... don’t know.”
“You don’t know, or you don’t understand?”
“I don’t understand,” she whispered breathlessly.
“Then perhaps we can come to understand?”
“Yes... perhaps, we can.”
“But first Grace, I am going to kiss you,” he said suddenly, pulling her hard against him. She gasped, tasting the smoky tang of his lips as they crushed down over hers, searching, desperate and yearning.
Then he released her gently, as if nothing had happened.
“Now,” he said, “we may find understanding.”
Her head felt light and dizzy as she sank back to the comfort of the rug on the floor. If history was right then she was going to marry this man. A man she barely knew but who, with just one kiss had filled the empty space that had been her shattered heart.
He crouched in front of the fire, dropping more wood into the flames. It cracked and popped as he dug the poker into the glowing embers. She noticed the hard contours of his body as he idly lifted the logs, the wide expanse of his shoulders, his broad back which tapered to a thin waist. She had no doubt that this man had been a fighter and she shuddered at the thought of what that meant. How many men had he killed? She cast her eyes away from him and stared at the rug. Panic tightened in her stomach as the realisation of where she was and with whom began to dawn.
“Why did you kiss me?”
He rose from the fire and lifted his mug off the mantle.
“Did you not like it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“If you didn’t dislike it then why question it?”
“Because I want to know what made you kiss me.”
“You, Grace. You are what made me kiss you.”
“Why won’t you answer my question?”
“I just did.”
“No, you didn’t. You avoided my question.”
He sank to the floor beside her on the rug, stretching his long legs out towards the fire and leaning back on his hands.
“Alright, Grace. I will answer your question. I kissed you because I wanted to make sure you were real.”
“Oh, so you do think I’m a witch?”
“No. I have told you I don’t believe in witches.”
“So if you don’t think I’m a witch what could possibly make you question whether I’m real or not?”
“Because you have haunted me, Grace. Day in and day out you are there. I close my eyes to sleep and you fill my dr
eams and now you are here and I will be dammed if I know what to do with you.”
“Well if I’m so much trouble I’ll just get my things and go,” she said, making to rise from the rug.
He grabbed her arm and pulled her down.
“Firstly, I didn’t say you were trouble and secondly you wouldn’t survive long enough to get to the steps of the Minster. You have not the faintest idea where you are and despite what you think, you know nothing of the time you are in. You’re not going anywhere.”
She tried to pull away from him but he still had her arm in the firm grasp of his hand.
“I said you’re not going anywhere. Now just sit down,”
“I did a history degree. I know more than you think I do about this time,” she said, regretting them as soon as the words had left her mouth.
The sides of his mouth curled in a smile as he let go of her arm.
“Just sit down, Grace, please?”
Tears filled her eyes as she realised he was right. She was trapped in a time she didn’t understand, with a man she didn’t know and she had less idea than he did what she should do.
“Tell me what to do, Robert,” she said, as tears broke free and ran freely down her cheek.
He moved towards her and brushed the tears from her face.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you. You are safe here, Grace.”
“But you don’t want me here, how can I accept your help?”
“I never said I didn’t want you here.”
“You haven’t exactly said you do either.”
“Alright, then I shall say it. I want you here, Grace.”
“Out of obligation and duty?”
“Why should I feel obliged or duty bound?”
“I don’t know; because you found me, because you are an honest man and because you know I have nowhere else to go.”
“Grace,” he said raising his finger to her lips, “stop. I want you here because I have longed to have you here. For nights I dreamt of you, held you in my arms and loved you.”
Their eyes locked and she knew he told the truth, for she had dreamt the same.