Beyond Time (Highland Secret Series) (5 page)

“Harry, thank you for our lovely chat, but I am so tired and think that perhaps I have had a tiny bit too much wine. Will you let Kate know that I have gone back to the hotel, oh, and would you give this to her please? Just tell her it’s for Lisa.” Grace reached inside her bag and put the wrapped book on the table.

“Of course I will. Can I see you back to your hotel, Grace?”

“No... no... really, I will be fine. A bit of fresh air and a good night’s sleep is all I need. Thanks again for a great chat, Harry. It is very nice to know you.”

“And it is very nice to know you, young Grace. I hope you will come back and see me again. I have something I would like to show you.”

There were no dreams for Grace that night, just deep and peaceful sleep and Saturday morning arrived with all the promise of a beautiful winter’s day.

She chose to have her breakfast in a quaint little cafe, just around the corner from the hotel. The city was a bustle of weekend tourists and shoppers. Resolved to spend a quiet day alone, Grace headed away from the hustle and toward the art gallery. A water fountain stood in front of the building. Mesmerized by the jets of water, she sat down on a bench and just watched as people came and went around her. The Kings Manor House stood to the side of the art gallery and, fascinated by the building, she made her way slowly over to it.

How easy it would be to accept Harry’s theory, she thought, as she studied the ancient brickwork. It was almost possible to feel the history oozing from the building. There was an almost magnetic tension around the place that held her transfixed. The whole city was much the same. Every square inch of the place was soaked in history: traumatic, violent and bloody history. If only these walls could talk, she thought.

The sun was setting by the time she found herself back in the inner city. Most of the weekend shoppers had left and the number of tourists was starting to dwindle. A peaceful calm settled around the Minster as Grace headed back to the hotel. She couldn’t make up her mind whether to grab a sandwich and take it back to her room for dinner or make her way up to one of the pubs. She didn’t much fancy the idea of bumping into Harry again. Despite the fact she liked him – he seemed a nice man with a very friendly way about him – she hadn’t yet decided what to think about his theory. It all seemed too bizarre for words, yet when she thought about it there were some things that made sense. Logic told her it was all rubbish, just the ramblings of an aging man. Yet he seemed so grounded, so sensible. Grace’s mind swam with it all. The man in her dreams, the portrait, the man on Stonegate. If it weren’t for Harry and Kate, Grace would have put it all down to neurosis. Jack had always maintained she was mad. She needed time, time to get her head straight and time to think. It had been a traumatic week, the most traumatic she had ever known, and now here she was trying to reason whether ghosts were real or imagined.

Having bought herself a sandwich filled with warm roast pork and apple sauce she found a bench in St Helen’s Square, outside the Swarovski shop, and sat quietly reading and eating her dinner until the air became too cold and the light too dim to continue. Sliding her book neatly back into her bag, she headed home to her hotel room.

Flicking the switch on the kettle, she dropped two lumps of sugar, a spoon of coffee and two spoons of creamer into a cup. She could feel his eyes upon her as she made her coffee. But she refused to meet his look. Her resolve was firmly set. No more talking to portraits, no more confused dreams and definitely no more late night chats, with anyone or anything about ghosts.

Leaving the kettle to boil, Grace prepared for bed. She draped her fleecy pajamas over the warm radiator in the room and headed for the shower. She was tired and looked forward to snuggling into bed with her book. She had closed the book in St Helen’s Square just as Amber, the heroine of the story, had discovered that she was pregnant. The young girl was desperately hoping that Bruce, the hero, would finally ask her to marry him. Grace hoped that Bruce would do the honorable thing, but she doubted he would. Nonetheless, she was looking forward to finding out what was to become of Amber and her baby.

The warm pajamas felt soft against her skin as she slid onto the cool cotton sheet and pulled the fluffy duvet up to her chin. I could do with a hot water bottle, she thought, shivering despite the warmth of the pajamas. She took a sip of the coffee and opened the book. Her eyes blurred and she rubbed them in an attempt to clear the haze.

Unable to focus on the words she closed the book. Setting it on the bedside table beside a picture of her daughter - pain suddenly tore at her heart. She longed so much to hold her child and to share the bond that a mother should have with her daughter. With trembling fingers she lifted the photograph to her lips, holding the image of her daughter firmly in her mind. The bright red hair, so much like her father, the curls that proved she was her mother’s. Jack’s slim build on her own short frame. The joining of two people in one little girl who meant more to her than life itself. “Keep safe my darling Jenny,” she breathed so quietly that even her own ears missed the sound.

Her eyes strayed to the portrait in front of her.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she whispered to him as her eyes filled with tears and, tired of holding them back, she relented to their flow.

******

CHAPTER 3

She smelled the sweet smokiness of burning wood and heard the gentle crackle of flames in the distance of her dream. The room was in complete darkness but she knew he was there, beside her. She reached out to touch him and felt the curve of his shoulders. He turned and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer. Tiny bubbles bounced in the pit of her stomach as she nestled into him, her back curved against his chest, her body pressed against the entire length of him. He reached for her hand and enclosed his large palm over it. His lips brushed against her head lightly as he rested his cheek against the top of her head. Cocooned in his embrace, secure in his bed, her heart safe in his hands, she smiled into darkness.

“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.”