“I love you Grace.”
“I love you too,” she whispered.
“Please don’t leave me again,” she cried as the dream slipped from her clutches and dawn crushed the magic of the night.
Her eyes flew open and she turned immediately to face the place beside her where he had been. A sick feeling grew inside her as she was reminded that she was alone. Of course she was alone. She lived alone. That had been her choice. Sitting up, her eyes once more filled with tears as she looked at the portrait.
“If you can’t be with me, why are you doing this to me? Please, just go away and let me live my life.”
Grace jumped as a cold blast of wind howled at the window. It slammed against the frame and then the window burst open as another icy blast blew in. Shivering, she slid out of bed and closed the latch on the window.
“Damn thing, you scared me half to death. How did you get open?”
Glancing down at the radiator below the window, she bent and turned the thermostat up. The room was cold and she had seen a forecast in yesterday’s paper suggesting that the city was in for a severe cold spell.
A thin dressing gown lay on the end of the bed; hardly practical for winter use but had been all she could fit in her suitcase at the time. Wrapping it around her she made the decision to spend the day clothes shopping. She wasn’t going to be much use to anyone if she caught her death of cold.
The memory of her dream filled her mind as she recalled the glorious warmth and happiness she had felt with the protective arms of Robert Hamilton around her.
“How beautiful it must be to feel loved,” she whispered to the portrait. “You were a lucky man to have had real love in your life, and your wife was a lucky lady to have you.”
Sliding the photograph of her daughter into her purse and her book into her bag she wandered out of the hotel and into the cold winter wind and small flakes of snow falling gently from a miserable grey sky.
Making the decision to buy some warm clothes had been a sensible one. It was still early and most of the shops hadn’t yet opened so Grace went in search of some breakfast.
It was Sunday morning and wandering down Low Petergate, the sound of church bells drew her down an alley to the Thirteenth Century Holy Trinity churchyard. It seemed a morbid pastime but inscriptions on gravestones had always fascinated her. She wandered along the paths scanning the words on the stone slabs that marked the life and death of each body below.
Her mind toyed with Harry’s theory. It was an odd one alright and she wondered why no one had ever come up with it before. Then again, she wasn’t exactly schooled in all things ghostly, so it was perfectly possible the idea was a popular one amongst enthusiasts.
The words on the gravestone were faded and unclear but Grace was sure she had found it, what she had been subconsciously looking for – the headstone of Robert Hamilton. She could only make out the first two numbers of his year of death, ‘seventeen’... but that was definitely his name. The birth date was as clear as the day it had been carved, ‘In the year of Our Lord 1626’. A perfect match to what she already knew of him.
“You lived a long life, Mr. Hamilton,” she said, scanning her eyes over the rest of the inscription.
“Here lies Robert Hamilton, beloved husband of... ” Grace read it out loud but she stopped short as his wife’s name was unclear. She crouched down to get a better look but time had erased the words from the stone. A pang of sadness for the lady who lay beside her husband knotted in the pit of her stomach. How very tragic it seemed that this couple should have found love in life only to have its memory worn away with the passing of time.
She ran her fingers gently over his name, wondering as she did what his life had been like. There was little doubt that he had loved his wife and she guessed that his wife must have loved him too. There was no denying it; Robert Hamilton had been a handsome man. The portrait in her room was testimony to that, but everything else she had been told about him was mostly conjecture. Yes, there were a few scant facts: that he had been a Cavalier, that he had been richly rewarded for his loyalty and that he had owned an inn and a post house in York. But what Grace really wanted to know was what the man was like. Not what sort of career he had.
She mulled the idea of going to see Harry over in her mind. Finally, she decided that it couldn’t do any harm. Her enquiring mind had set itself on a path and it was unlikely to be easily swayed. The shopping, she concluded could wait despite the cold weather.
Rapping lightly on the large black door set in the twisted oak frame of the entrance to the pub, Grace wondered if anyone would be awake at this time of the morning. Her question was quickly answered when a creak announced that someone was pulling the door open. A knowing smile filled his face when he saw her.
“I thought you might come back, Grace. Come in girl, it’s cold out there,” he said, ushering her inside.
The unpleasant aroma of smoke and smoldering cinders from the fire mixed with the heady smell of stale alcohol greeted her as she followed Harry into the main section of the building. Dirty glasses and empty plates and beer bottles littered the bar. It looked for all the world as if Harry had just walked out and left his customers to it.
“Sorry about the mess. I don’t usually bother clearing up on a Saturday night. Try and get into bed a bit earlier and sleep in on a Sunday.”
“Oh, Harry, I am so sorry, I hope I haven’t got you out of bed.”
“Good gracious, no girl. I’ve been up a while.”
“Can I give you a hand to clear this lot up?”
“No, I’ll get to it later. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I’d love one, thanks, but if you tell me where everything is I’ll make it,” Grace offered.
“So, what brought you back then?” he asked.
“I found his grave and I was curious, I guess. I’d like to know more about him. You seem to know so much about his life, I thought you might be able to tell me a few things.”
“Now that is an interesting concept. I hoped the same from you.”
“You did?”
“Yes Grace, I did.”
“What could I possibly tell you about Robert Hamilton? I’ve only just come across the man. You and Kate are the ones that seem to know all about him.”
“Well you could start by telling me where you’re from?”
“Harry I don’t get you. One minute we’re talking about a dead man and the next you’re asking where I’m from.”
“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.”