Clay's Cottage (Book 1)

Chapter Eight

"I really loved Mr. Valentine's painting. Do you think he would sell it to me? I could go ask him. Where does he live?"

"Mr. Valentine has sentimental attachment to that painting. There is not enough money in the world to convince him to sell it."

I sighed, plonking back down on the sofa.

"Don't pout, Miss Fletcher. Maybe at some point I'll be able paint you something. When you're settled back in your home in Hobart Town. I have a few to do before I get to you, unfortunately. Now, if you'll excuse me." As he left through the back door, I stayed seated, feeling deflated. What was I to do now?

The first thing I had to be certain of, was that the cottage painting was definitely what sent me through time. Without hesitation, I jumped up and stomped over to the fireplace. It was lit, so I had to be careful, but I outstretched my arm and touched the mantelpiece. Nothing happened. I then reached up and touched the wall where the painting once hung. Nothing. I glanced around the floor, not entirely sure what I was looking for. A latch attached to a hidden door that led to a secret passage? I jumped up and down, boots making a hell of a racket on the timber floor. It was solid.

My last chance was the unfinished painting outside. I made my way outside onto the verandah where the painting and easel stood. I glanced around for Nicholas and I spotted him in the far distance near the barn door.

Slowly but surely, I reached for the canvas, fingers touching the outside, avoiding the paint. The last thing I needed was to get yelled at for smudging his artwork.

I waited but nothing happened. I released a breath I didn't realise I was holding and could still see Nicholas. He was making his way up towards the house, so I abruptly let go of the painting and crossed my arms.

He was gazing up at the sky as he walked, and that's when I noticed the menacing dark clouds in the distance.

"Storm coming?" I asked. He seemed surprised to see me there as he came onto the verandah.

"Yes. It's moving fast, too. I won't be able to take you to town today. My horse gets spooked in storms and he's already acting nervous."

"Oh. So what now?"

"It looks like you're staying here tonight, Miss Fletcher." I couldn't tell if he was happy about that or not. Without another word, he grabbed the canvas and disappeared inside.

I didn't follow him in straight away; I was enjoying the cool, fresh air too much. The temperature had dropped significantly and the wind was increasing due to the impending storm. A rumble of thunder was heard in the distance and I shivered, feeling a sudden sense of deja vu.

It reminded me of that Friday afternoon when Anna first told me of this cottage. Then, it was only two days ago. Now, it was 150 years in the future.

I wondered what they were going through, to have arrived at the cottage and not found me there. Anna would be hysterical. I assumed the police would be involved now. Was I on the news?

Or did they walk into the cottage and find me unconscious on the floor. Was I now laying in a hospital bed in a coma?

A flash of lightning and a louder rumble of thunder interrupted my thoughts, and I hurried inside.

Nicholas was nowhere to been seen, so I wandered back into the living room where it was the warmest.

It was a cosy room; well-furnished, and it almost looked the same as it did in the 21st century. A bookcase full of books caught my eye, so I wandered over to take a look. In my time, they would be classed as vintage, but now, these editions were practically new. I pulled out a random book. Charles Dickens' Oliver Twist. Huh, Charles Dickens was most likely still alive in this time, I thought to myself. I returned the book to its place and continued to scan the room. As I approached the fireplace, I noticed two portraits in matching elegant gold frames standing on the mantelpiece. They were oil paintings of a man and a woman, and the man looked just like Nicholas, maybe a few years older. I guessed they were Nicholas' mother and father, painted by Nicholas himself. I picked up the portrait of his mother, admiring her beauty.