November 1869
She was gone; vanished before his eyes, into the unknown. It was unpleasant for her; he could see the pain in her eyes, hear the fear in her voice. He cried out her name, but it was too late. She was gone.
Nicholas' body was frozen; eyes locked on the painting that took her, hoping that somehow he could conjure her back. But no. He couldn't be selfish. She was safe in her own time, safe from Constable Doyle. And that was all that mattered.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there, and when the small fire in the fireplace had petered out, he felt his way through the darkness to the sofa, sinking into the cushions.
He could feel his own darkness pulling him in, reverting him back to his old frame of mind. It was comfortable, familiar, who he was for fifteen years. It would be so easy. But then her coming back to help him would be all for nothing. That was what Constable Doyle wanted, and he was not going to let him win.
Instead, he focused on the wonderful memories he had with her. The day he found her in his living room eight weeks ago came to mind, and he remembered not being happy about it at the time. But now he can smile about it, convinced she was an angel sent from heaven.
"Oh, Matilda," he whispered, the sound barely leaving his lips.
Closing his eyes, he pictured her smile, her lips, her eyes. He had memorised all her facial features before she left, knowing one day he will never see them again. That time had come too soon, but for now, they will meet in each other's dreams.
~
He was dreaming about her before he was awoken by several loud bangs at the front door. Annoyed by the disturbance, he sat up blinking and glanced around the living room, slowly coming back to reality.
He had fallen asleep on the sofa, and going by the light creeping under the curtains, had slept right through until the next morning.
After standing upright and stretching out his muscles, he headed for the door, wondering who on earth would be coming by at that time of the morning.
"Clay! Open up!" the Irish Constable hollered from outside, followed by more impatient banging.
Nicholas stopped in his tracks. "Doyle," he mumbled to himself.
Memories flooded back to the previous night. Nicholas had gone to ask Mr. Valentine to be his alibi. If anyone were to question Nicholas' whereabouts that night, he was to say he stayed at his house all night. Mr. Valentine agreed, not needing to ask any further questions. Nicholas was like a son to him, and if he was in trouble, Mr. Valentine would do anything to help him.
After waiting for nightfall, Nicholas had ridden from Mr. Valentine's house to the police station, snuck inside and struck Constable Doyle from behind, hard enough to knock him unconscious. After grabbing the holding cell's key, he rescued Matilda and took her to safety to the cottage.
Nicholas was supposed to be at Mr. Valentine's, so Constable Doyle couldn't know he was inside the cottage. He had to stay quiet.
Checking once more that all the curtains were drawn and doors were locked, the banging continued from Constable Doyle, echoing through the silent house.
"Clay! I know you and Fletcher are in there! Open up or else!" He ceased the banging long enough to then rattle the doorknob.
The doors were solid, and the only way Doyle could get in was if he broke the windows. But even then it would be a struggle for a man of his size to squeeze through the frame.
Nicholas was safe inside the cottage, for now.
Constable Doyle was persistent, and after a half an hour of non-stop yelling and pounding on the door, he finally gave up and left Clay's Cottage.
~
It wasn't until the next day Constable Doyle returned.
Nicholas was sitting at a desk in the spare bedroom when he heard the familiar banging start up again on his front door, the noise startling him from his concentration.
He grunted in annoyance knowing exactly who it was, but also because he was in the middle of something important.
Mr. Valentine had found Matilda's journal in the stolen buggy, and returned it to Nicholas when he went to retrieve the cottage painting that night. Nicholas had the idea of writing a poem for her inside her journal in hopes that she would read it in her time. He knew it was a long shot, but it couldn't hurt to try. She had told him the cottage was still standing in her time, fully furnished, everything untouched. So there was a chance the journal would be untouched, too, hidden away safely for her to find.
He was no poet, which explained why it had taken him at least an hour to write a four-sentence long poem, but he was proud of what he had written. Short but sweet.
He was just signing his name when Constable Doyle had rudely interrupted.
Reading over the poem once more, he then closed the journal with care, not wanting to smudge the ink. He carried it over to the wooden chest at the end of the bed, then placed it inside on top of the pile of clothes.
He sighed, knowing what he had to do next. There was no getting out of it this time. It was time to face him.
After leaving the spare room and walking through the foyer, Nicholas abruptly swung open the front door, making it obvious to Constable Doyle he was not happy.
"Doyle! What is all the commotion about?" he grumbled, finding Constable Doyle standing before him like a deer in the headlights, surprised that Nicholas had actually opened the door.
"Where the hell have you been, Clay? I thought you'd skipped town," he replied, stepping forward to enter the cottage, but stopped abruptly when Nicholas stood firm in the doorway.
"What do you want, Doyle? You're interrupting... my painting time."
"Where is she?"
Nicholas stared at him blankly. "Where is who?"
"Don't play dumb with me, Clay. You know exactly who I am talking about."
"Sorry, but I do not," Nicholas replied, shaking his head.
"Fletcher, you idiot. Hand her over."
"Isn't she supposed to be with you? That's where she was when I last saw her."
"Well, obviously not any more, otherwise I wouldn't be here, would I?"
"Are you saying she escaped? How?"
"You know the answer to that. You hit me on the back of the head and knocked me unconscious," he scowled, rubbing the back of his head and wincing at the pain. "I have a bruise the size of Tasmania there." Nicholas tried his hardest not to laugh. "I assume after my assault, you must have grabbed the cell key and let her out."
"You're accusing me of doing this?" Nicholas asked, crossing his arms across his chest.
"Well, who else would want to let the thief out? You two have become inseparable these last couple of months. Of course you'd want to be the hero and save her."
"Matilda and I did not end on the best of terms. You witnessed that. The last you saw of me that day was the last she saw of me. Besides, I returned to the Valentine house afterward and stayed all night. Mr. Valentine can vouch for that. Just ask him."
He grunted. "Yes. So he says."
"So unless you have more evidence to prove I helped Miss Fletcher escape and are going to arrest me, I have work to do. Excuse me, sir." As Nicholas went to close the door, Constable Doyle reached up and stopped it with his hand.
"I'm not leaving until I search the cottage," he demanded.
"You don't believe me?"
"Of course I don't believe you, Clay. Now get out of my way."
Nicholas sighed and stepped aside, allowing Constable Doyle to enter. He waited in the foyer as the Constable searched every room, the sound of determined footsteps echoing down the hall.
Nicholas watched with amusement as the Irishman returned to the foyer with his usual scowl upon his face.
"Well?" Nicholas asked him, casually leaning against the wall.
"This isn't over, Clay," he threatened, pointing an index finger in Nicholas' direction. "I will prove you are responsible for her escape, and I will find her. Expect another visit from me soon."
After he had stormed out of the house and up the path to his horse, Nicholas shut the front door firmly, locking it.
One thing Nicholas was certain of, was that Doyle would never find Matilda. Not unless he could travel 150 years into the future. And Nicholas was sure he had been extra careful that no one was watching when he entered and exited the police station that night.
But if Doyle did somehow prove he was responsible for her escape, he was quite prepared to deal with it and accept the consequences.
He doesn't regret what he did that night. He would do it again in a heartbeat.