The Seventh Miss Hatfield (17 page)

What incredible coincidence was this? Was old Mr Beauford even crazier than I’d thought?

I moved the candle closer, trying to make out more of what was written, but watery splotches on the page made it difficult to decipher more than one word out of every few. I stuck a finger in the diary to mark the page Mr Beauford had it open to and flipped through the rest.

The handwriting grew more and more erratic, eventually devolving into illegible scribbles. I continued to flip through the diary and noticed the writer didn’t finish it. After a while, even the incomprehensible scrawls gave way to blank pages.

Confused, I flipped back to the last page with legible writing on it. There were two sentences, written surprisingly clearly.

I have told James everything. They are going to come for me.

I felt a jolt run through me, and with trembling fingers I flipped to the first page of the diary.

Property of Miss Rebecca Hatfield.

I jumped as I heard footsteps in the corridor outside. Hurriedly, I flipped the pages of the diary back to the entry Mr Beauford had been reading and opened the door closest to me: a large cabinet that stood against one of the walls. Thankfully, there was just enough space within for me to squeeze inside and pull the door shut behind me. I kept the door cracked open just a sliver, as I wondered who else sought entry to the study this night.

It was Henley. He distractedly looked around the room for something, eventually glancing down at the diary and the entry I’d just read. I saw him read it for himself; whereas my reaction had been one of shock, his was to snort with derision. Obviously he thought his father slightly mad. He stopped and stared at the candle, and I could just make out enough of the look on his face to know he was wondering how that candle had come to be lit. A sudden knock at the study door drew his attention from the diary. It was Mr Lawrence.

‘I say, Henley, did you find any of those excellent cigars of your father’s?’ his tutor asked.

‘Afraid not, old boy. All that’s in evidence here are the writings of an old man who’s slipping out of touch with reality, it would appear.’ He sighed and left the room with Mr Lawrence. Amazingly, he’d forgotten the lit candle on the table, so I could hopefully make my getaway without knocking anything else over. There was no way I could continue with my plan this evening, however. I was far too panicked; my heart felt as though it would pound right out of my chest, and my resolve had been weakened by my close call.

I slipped out of the cabinet, and when I turned to close its doors, I noticed a rack of small vials on the top shelf, just above where my head had been moments before. They all bore strange labels with unpronounceable names that were unfamiliar to me. All save one, that is: ‘Islamorada’.

It couldn’t be, yet there it was, staring back at me. I slammed the wardrobe door shut, and it sounded as though one of the vials went crashing to the floor inside. I didn’t have time to investigate. I had to get out of there. But what did it mean, and what should I do about it? I blew the candle out, hoping to leave my confusion and dread behind in the dark. I ran wildly out of the room, pulling the study door closed behind me, and fairly flew up the stairs to my bedroom, but the feeling of utter fear was still with me when I slammed the door behind me.

Once I was safely inside the sanctuary of my quiet room, I leaned back against the closed door and slid slowly to the floor, allowing my heart to slow down and my breathing to return to normal. What I’d discovered this evening put everything in an even more precarious light. I closed my eyes and imagined Miss Hatfield standing in front of me. Silently, I asked her what I should do. I swear, it was as if she pointed to my little writing table, and I knew I had to write her a note, to bring her up to speed on everything I’d learned, and then wait for her advice. I dared not risk taking the painting just yet. There was more afoot here that she might need me to investigate before I could leave the Beauford Estate. I’d just have to be much more cautious around Mr Beauford now. He had appeared to be such an innocent, rather dotty old man. But I knew now that he was closing in on the dangerous secret that had altered my life.

I crossed to the writing table and sat down, gathering my thoughts. Dipping my pen in the inkwell, I carefully began to write. ‘Dear Miss Hatfield, You won’t believe what I have just discovered …’

I posted the letter first thing the next morning. Later that day, Mr Beauford returned from town, looking a little older and more stooped than the last time I’d seen him. Though he did not mention it, I knew Henley had noticed his father’s frailty. Clearly, his father was no longer the man he’d been in his prime and was in no condition to receive difficult news. Henley was well aware that his decision not to take over the family business would break his father’s heart, and feared that his father’s illness made this the worst possible time to tell him. Seeing Mr Beauford for myself, I agreed with him, and we mutually decided it wasn’t the right time to let him know.

I realized Mr Beauford was fading rather quickly now, and I felt sorry for him. I wondered how many years he’d chased the dream of immortality. He had to feel so very discouraged, and yet he’d come so incredibly close, even obtaining a vial of the Islamorada water! He must not have known what it was capable of doing, however, or he certainly wouldn’t be in failing health. I couldn’t dwell on it too much, as all my thinking did nothing but create one vicious circle after another, and a part of me feared I should go mad if I didn’t find other activities.

I waited, none too patiently, for a response from Miss Hatfield. In handing my letter to Wilchester to post for me, I’d garnered Henley’s attention. I remembered how he’d paused, looking up from his books, which he appeared to be studying without any obvious enjoyment or interest.

‘A letter to your family?’ he asked. ‘Or maybe to a close family friend?’

‘A family friend,’ I was quick to reply, scrawling on the envelope the address Miss Hatfield had made me repeat dozens of times in case an emergency arose.

I remember seeing Henley’s curious gaze as I handed my letter to Wilchester, but soon Mr Lawrence reminded him to focus on his studies, and so he turned away from me to resume his reading.

In an effort to distract myself, I began riding the horses every day, a bit further each time, and always in a different direction. These extended rides made me feel more alive, more in the moment. They also helped me keep my distance from Mr Beauford, and from his son. I could feel Henley looking at me with curiosity during our shared meals, but I pretended not to notice and chatted away merrily about some small-talk subject or another. That was unlike me, and I was aware that Henley knew that, but I thought it preferable to sitting there silently, which would have forced him into cornering me to ask what was wrong. I always made my way up to my room just a few minutes before he and his father were quite done with their meal. They always stood politely as I exited the dining room, but I could feel Henley’s eyes following me.

Late on the fourth day, upon my return from a brisk ride, I was surprised to find a letter waiting for me in my room. My eyes fell upon the address. ‘To Miss Margaret Beauford, in the care of Charles Beauford …’ I made a mental note to thank Nellie for putting it in my room.

When I picked up the letter, I noticed my hands were trembling. I willed them to stop, but it was as if they belonged to someone else.

Hoping a walk would calm my nerves, I found myself in the stables again. I sucked in a breath and opened the letter.

Dear Rebecca, it began, Thank you so much for sharing the details of your discovery. This confirms one of my most serious fears—

The letter was snatched out of my hands.

‘You’re looking awfully grave …’ Henley trailed off as he began to read the letter.

‘Give it back!’ I grabbed the letter from him. In his shock, I was able to easily pluck it out of his hands, but my fingers didn’t appear to be working properly and the letter drifted to the ground between us.

‘What do you care?’ Henley snapped. ‘You’ve virtually ignored my existence these past few days. You thwart my every attempt to engage you in anything other than trivial small talk.’ He exhaled, exasperated. ‘And now this.’

‘Yes.’ My voice was no louder than a whisper.

I wondered how much he’d read. How much had Miss Hatfield said? What if the letter said something important? What if Henley now knew everything?

‘Who is it from?’

‘I–I can’t tell you that.’

Henley turned abruptly from me, as if trying to compose himself before speaking.

‘Henley, I can explain—’

He turned back with his eyes narrowed into slits.

‘Oh, can you?’ he sneered. ‘This should be rich. I bare my thoughts to you … my feelings, and yet you can’t even bring yourself to share your real name with me. You use my cousin’s name and refuse to tell me what’s going on.’ He picked up the letter and flicked it with his forefinger. ‘All right, then, “Cousin” –’ the word dripped with sarcasm for the first time ‘– please do. Explain to your heart’s content. I’m listening.’

‘I … it’s just that I …’ My voice faltered into silence as I realized there was no way I could really explain without him thinking me stark raving mad. I turned away from him, trying desperately to think what to say next.

Undaunted, he was determined to have his say. ‘Well, Miss Rebecca, or whatever your real name is, I’m not a man who enjoys being deceived. I know you have secrets, I’ve always known that. I was holding on to the tiniest modicum of hope that you might one day reveal at least a few of those secrets to me. You gained my trust. You made it easy for me to talk to you, and yet you withhold from me something I have the right to know …’ He grabbed my arm and spun me around like a rag doll, dropping the letter in the process. ‘Who the hell are you?’

He was breathing hard, and I felt a sob trapped in my throat. I couldn’t speak and show him how frightened I was, nor how much I truly cared for him, for what point would there be, in the end? We could never be together – not really. I would outlive him and his – our – descendants. How in the world could I convey that strange fact to him? But then again, I didn’t really have to leave. I could stay, but could I stand watching him grow old before my eyes? It would only be a few wrinkles around his eyes at first, but then his forehead would become lined, engraved with testaments to time that couldn’t touch me. Maybe I could stand all that and stay by his side, but when the eyes with which he viewed me grew cloudy and blurred … Could he still love me? As much as I tried to lie to myself, I knew the answer to that question, so I just looked at the ground silently, knowing he would eventually leave me standing there. I could feel his eyes upon me for a few more moments, then he sighed heavily, turned on his heel and stalked off.

I stood for a moment, trying to collect the different parts of myself until I could function again. I picked up the letter from the ground and slowly walked over to an old bench that leaned against Bessie’s stall. I sank down onto it and paused before opening the letter again.

… Mr Beauford has accumulated more than just the painting, and has more than a mere passing curiosity regarding immortality. I must tell you more about the painting, information I wasn’t aware you might need before I received your letter.

The painting wasn’t truly stolen from me; rather, Mr Beauford outbid me for it at an auction a short while before you and I met. The subject of the portrait is Juana Ruiz, and Ponce de León’s diaries are what make it significant, along with some of the other artefacts Mr Beauford has accumulated. I wanted to retrieve the portrait before he could gain more insight into my secret, which is now your secret as well.

I paused. The intrigue that was interwoven throughout my very existence took my breath away. It all felt so incredibly surreal, and I couldn’t understand the smallest part of it. I didn’t even know who I was any more. I closed my eyes and breathed deeply until I felt my head was clear enough to continue.

Miss Hatfield went on to instruct me that I had to destroy all the records, diaries, vials – even the painting itself – everything I’d found in Mr Beauford’s study that pertained to immortality. At all costs, I had to do this in order to protect both her and myself. However, she went on to warn me that I’d already stayed in this time for too long. She begged me to hurry, telling me that I’d be in danger if someone found out, or noticed something strange about me. She also said that our bodies couldn’t remain in one time for long. My body wouldn’t be comfortable staying put in the current time and place, and very soon I’d have to time-travel once again. I wouldn’t feel pain, rather a queasy, almost nervous sensation that would make me feel strange and uneasy. Hearing Miss Hatfield’s descriptions of the sensation, I realized the process had already begun. But Miss Hatfield warned that it would soon escalate if I ignored it and remained in the same time. I’d be driven to insanity before long.

Reading her words, I knew I had to accomplish what I’d been sent here to do before the uneasy feeling of displacement and unbelonging consumed me. Remember, you are a visitor in all of time, her letter said.

When I read that last sentence, I realized what was causing the gnawing feeling I’d been experiencing. Some part of me had started drifting away already. Now my mentor in time travel and immortality was telling me I’d experience this uncomfortable feeling even more acutely as the days went by. ‘Perfect,’ I said with a sigh. But I knew I had no choice but to do as she directed.