As we jolted along in the box on wheels, the blinding afternoon sun descended closer towards the mountainous horizon.
Having neither a watch nor a phone to check the time, I estimated we had been sitting in awkward silence for about twenty minutes.
Needing a distraction from my aching back, and curious about the 19th century man sitting alongside me, I attempted to make conversation.
"So, how long does it take to get to town in this contraption?"
Without taking his eyes off the road, he answered, "Thirty minutes, Miss."
I nodded, thinking of another question. "Does your horse go any faster?"
"Yes. But it would be unsafe to do so on this road."
Come on, Tilly, I thought to myself. No more stupid questions. If there was even the slightest chance that I had been whisked back to the 1800s, I needed to know how to get back again.
"So, um, do you have any other interests besides painting?" Witchcraft or magic, I thought.
"Painting is my occupation, Miss Fletcher. I spend most of my time working on my projects. But I do like to read."
"When was the cottage built?"
"The construction was completed in 1842."
"I see. And is this the first time someone has suddenly dropped in unannounced in your living room?"
This time he glanced at me, one eyebrow raised, then faced the front again.
He sighed, losing patience with me. "It most certainly is."
I decided to stay quiet for a while, not getting the answers I needed, anyway. If he suspected something odd about the cottage, it's unlikely he would tell me about it. If I flat out asked him about time travel, he would send me straight to an asylum, for sure.
For the first time since we'd left the cottage, we met another horse and buggy travelling in the opposite direction. Nicholas nodded once at the man and the stranger returned the nod, leaving a cloud of road dust in his wake. The sudden intrusion of dust up my nose and in my mouth made me cough, silently cursing Nicholas for not having an enclosed buggy.
A thought struck me. I realised I had no idea what year I had been swept back to. It had to be around mid to late 1800s, going by when the cottage was built and when Nicholas' parents passed away.
I glanced over at my travelling companion. He sat upright, shoulders back, eyes focused intently on the road. I looked down at my lap and started fidgeting with the hem of my jumper. I sighed.
"What is it you would like to ask me, Miss Fletcher?"
I jumped at the sound of his voice. Was he also a mindreader?
"Oh, nothing," I said, dismissing the question with a flick of my hand. He already thought I was crazy, so it couldn't hurt to ask. "Well, actually, I'm still feeling a little light headed from my fall," I lied. "And, well, this is going to sound silly, but I was just wondering if you could tell me what year it is?" I let out a small, nervous laugh.
His eyes briefly flicked over to me and back again, keeping his head forward. He waited at least five seconds before he answered me. It felt like five years.
"The year is 1869."
My stomach did a cartwheel. 1869. 150 years before my time. No cars, no electricity, no phones. Just great.
I was pulled from my thoughts when we came to the town's intersection, Nicholas guiding the horse and buggy right, into the town's main street.
It looked very much the same; the only major difference was the dirt road instead of bitumen. Of course, the town was still small and quiet. A handful of sandstone buildings, most of them shops, stood on either side of the road, simple rectangle designs with timber awnings protruding from the shopfront. The stores were selling necessary items such as food, clothes and tools. There was even a post office, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafting out of the bakery window was to die for. I realised all I had pretty much eaten all day was a smoothie and half a scone. I smiled to myself when I saw the sign above the door: Hogg's Bakery. It had to be a relative of Hettie's, for sure.
In the distance, I recognised the stunning church that I had passed in my own time. Also made from sandstone, it had an iron gabled roof, with a square tower and needle spire. I had always been fascinated with church architecture and was still interested in walking up there, either in this time or my time, to take a closer look.
There were other horse and buggies parked outside the shops, and men and women went to and fro carrying baskets and crates. I felt out of place wearing my modern clothes, compared to the women wearing their long-sleeved blouses with high necklines and full length skirts. The men were wearing similar clothes to Nicholas; trousers with white long-sleeved shirts with coats worn over the top.
We pulled up outside one of the buildings; simple, no awning, a tiny window on either side of the front door. It looked kind of depressing. Is this where I was going to stay tonight? I had no right to complain, at least I'd have a roof over my head and a warm bed.
Nicholas hopped out of the buggy and promptly came around to my side. He held out his hand and helped me down. It was much easier to get out of the buggy than it was to get in.
"Is this where I'll be staying tonight?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied, grasping my arm and tugging on it gently, guiding me towards the building. I was taken aback at his action, knowing I was perfectly capable to walk on my own.
As we got closer, I noticed a wooden sign above the door. Carved out of the wood was the word POLICE. I stopped abruptly, trying to free myself from his hold. I suddenly realised why he had grabbed my arm in the first place; he was afraid I would run.
"Whoa, hold on. What is going on?"
He tugged on my arm again and I refused to move.
"Come, Miss. You broke into my house. It's my duty to report you to the Constable."
"You brought me all this way just to dob me into the police? How could you?" My voice was getting louder. I was sure it was attracting attention, but I didn't care.
"Miss, please. Don't make this harder than it has to be." He kept calm, obviously not wanting to make a scene.
"And stop calling me Miss!" I tried to free my arm from him but his grip tightened.
"Miss Fletcher, you are not well in the head. You need help. These people can help you."
"Excuse me? You're the one who is sick in the head. You're handing me into the police for no reason!"
He was starting to lose patience now. "You broke into my home. Either to steal something or murder me."
"What? Murder-"
"Then you accused me of living illegally in my own home and wanted me to leave. Then you raved on about some invisible objects named a car and phone and then claimed you have time travelled!" He realised he had said that last bit a little too loud and promptly composed himself.
We were so engrossed in our argument that we didn't even hear the door to the police station swing open.
"What is going on here?" a stern, male voice with an Irish accent interrupted.
We turned towards the voice, and standing before us was a police Constable, hands on his hips, down-turned mouth giving the impression of either annoyance or disappointment. It was hard to guess his age; he was probably younger than he looked, but he would've been in his late fifties or early sixties. His seemingly permanent frown and narrowed eyes caused deep lines on his forehead, conveying a life of hard work and discontent.
He was dressed in a blue, single breasted cloth frock coat with standing collar and black buttons, blue cloth trousers with a black leather belt and Wellington boots.
"I would like to hand this lady in," Nicholas piped up, still having a firm grip on my arm. "I found her snooping around my home."
The Constable eyed me up and down with disapproval. "My goodness, woman, what on earth are you wearing?" Without waiting for an answer, he looked back at Nicholas and said, "You'd both better come inside then."
He turned and went back inside the depressing building. Nicholas pulled on my arm, prompting me to follow.
Inside was a dark, open room lit only by a small stream of sunlight entering through the tiny windows. A wall sconce lit up a mysterious door hidden at the back of the room. One lonely timber desk sat in the centre of the room, accompanied by three chairs. It was unusual to not see computers, phones or coffee machines, but instead there was only a small pile of papers, an inkwell and a pitcher of water.
The Constable gestured towards the two chairs on one side of the desk, and sat himself down on the remaining chair on the opposite side. "Take a seat," he said abruptly. We did as we were told, Nicholas finally letting go of my arm. "My name's Constable Edward Doyle. I know every single person in this town. But you, Miss, I don't know." He examined me with a clear dislike of me.
I took a deep breath. No need to panic. Just answer his questions. "My name is Matilda Fletcher, sir."
He grunted, sounding somewhat disapproving of my name. "Are you new in town, Miss Fletcher?"
"Yes, sir. I'm just passing through, actually." I had my hands squeezed so tightly together I was sure I was cutting off the blood circulation to my fingers.
"Mr. Clay, you say you found Miss Fletcher in your home?" He shifted his focus to Nicholas.
They had either already been acquainted previously, or as he said, he knew everybody in this town.
"Yes, sir. I came out to find her in my living room. She was dazed, confused and rambling incoherently."
"What?" I exclaimed. "I was not!"
"Quiet, Miss Fletcher!" Constable Doyle yelled at me.
Nicholas continued, "I didn't know if she was there to rob me or murder me." My mouth dropped open. "I was afraid for my life, sir."
"I was not-" I started, then stopped abruptly when I saw the death stare Constable Doyle was giving me.
Nicholas ignored me, determined to finish his over exaggerated story. "Then she ran away. But she had a fainting spell outside, so I used my charm to lure her onto my buggy so I could bring her into town to you."
"You tricked me here?" I asked him in a quiet voice. He refused to look at me. "I genuinely thought you were being a nice guy. You weren't really bringing me to your friend's place, you were bringing me here." I could've cried. I suddenly felt so alone.
"Well, actually, Miss, Constable Doyle is a friend, so it wasn't a complete lie."
"Miss Fletcher, do you admit to breaking into Mr. Clay's house?" Constable Doyle asked.
"It was... accidental. I meant no harm, I swear."
He sat there thinking for a while before he spoke, tapping his index finger on the table. "You'll stay here tonight in our holding cell until I decide what to do with you." He rose abruptly from his chair, the legs scraping along the hard floor.
"What? No, wait!" I jumped up from my chair and stepped back.
Constable Doyle came around the desk and approached me cautiously. "Miss Fletcher, calm down."
I backed away from him. "No, please, I didn't do anything wrong. It's all just a misunderstanding. Nicholas, please." Nicholas sat there, ignoring everything that was going on around him.
"Miss Fletcher, stop. You need to calm down." He continued to approach me, arms outstretched, afraid of what I might do.
Tears rose to the surface, then overflowed, trickling down my cheeks. "I don't want to go to gaol. I just want to go home. Please, let me go home." Collapsing into a sobbing heap on the filthy floor, I hugged my legs tight, burying my head in my knees. "Wake up. I need to wake up," I mumbled into my jeans, rocking back and forth.
The jingle of keys and the ear-piercing screech of a door being opened bounced off the walls of the small room.
Footsteps approached me, then after feeling a hand on my back, then an arm under my knees, I was heaved off of the floor, carried by who I assumed was Constable Doyle. I kept my eyes clenched shut, knowing exactly where he was taking me. He carried me a short distance and placed me onto what felt like a hard, wooden bench. Resuming my foetal position, the monotone footsteps leaved the room, the deafening screech of the cell door closing, the jingle of keys and a final metal clunk. Locked.
I finally pried opened my eyes. Blurry from crying, and with the room so dark, it took a while to adjust. I lifted my head and looked around. It was a tiny cell. About six feet wide and eight feet long. There was a small rectangular gap in the stone, high on the back wall, which allowed a tiny stream of light in. The wooden bench I was laying on was attached to the back wall with metal and bolts. There was a rusty metal bucket in the corner, which I assumed was to do my business. No toilet paper. Yuck. No blankets or pillows, either.
Sniffling, I plopped my head back down onto my knees. I had calmed down now, although I was shivering, either from the cold or this whole ordeal. I tucked my legs as close to my body as I could, the only comfort I had in this unending nightmare.
I closed my eyes and thought of home. Me and Anna sprawled out on the couch in our living room, binge watching TV shows, stuffing our faces with potato chips and chocolate. My mum and dad, Bradley's stupid jokes. What I would give to hear one of those right now.
There was nothing I could do but cry myself to sleep.