I sat in silence on the soft velvet sofa, the heat from the fireplace a warm comfort from the icy temperatures last night.
After I was seated, Nicholas had stomped into the kitchen and leant on the bench with both hands, head down between his arms. He breathed heavily and stayed there for a minute or so. I watched him with curiosity, until he eventually looked up and found me staring. He abruptly stood upright, smoothed down his shirt and sauntered back into the living room.
"I shall wait here with you until Constable Doyle arrives," he announced. "I'm not letting you out of my sight."
He plopped himself down on an armchair opposite me and glared at me, literally not letting me out of his sight.
This was the first time I had the chance to study him and I noticed he had sad eyes. I wondered if he had smiled or laughed at all since his parents passing. Although, it probably wouldn't be seen under that beard and moustache, anyway.
So we sat there. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fireplace and the monotonous ticking of a wind-up clock sitting on the mantelpiece. I glanced over at the bare wall where the painting once hung, and sighed. Was it only that particular painting that sent me through time? Why did it not work when Nicholas or Mr. Valentine touched it? Should I try touching one of his other pieces?
I had so many questions.
I turned my head back to Nicholas, whose expressionless face was still staring at me. He was starting to make me feel extremely uncomfortable. How long was he going to just sit there?
My stomach grumbled with hunger and I was feeling light-headed from lack of food. Flopping my head back onto the sofa, I took some deep breaths, closing my eyes to stop the room from spinning.
"Are you well, Miss Fletcher?" I heard him ask.
"Oh, just fine," I answered, sarcastically, refusing to move from my position.
I could feel the throbbing pain of a headache starting and I massaged my temples with my fingertips. I stayed there for a few minutes, zoning out to everything that was happening around me.
"Here." His voice startled me and I jolted upright. Nicholas was standing in front of me, holding out a plate of bread and cheese. I hadn't even heard him get up. "Take it," he insisted. "I'm not going to let you starve. I could hear your stomach from across the room."
I took the plate from him. "Thank you," was all I said before stuffing a piece of cheese in my mouth.
He resumed his position on the armchair and watched me eat, making me feel self conscious and a little annoyed.
"Look," I said, "I don't want to waste any more of your time. Constable Doyle may not be here for hours. Like I said before, this is all just a misunderstanding. I wasn't going to steal anything. I'm not a criminal. Please, don't send me back to that horrible place," I begged.
Still no reaction. Moments passed.
"I thought a night in the cell would be enough punishment for you. Obviously, I was wrong. I certainly didn't expect you to come back the very next day and break into my home a second time."
This was getting old. What felt like the thousandth time in two days, I shouted, "I didn't break into your home!" He looked away, crossing his arms, not wanting to hear what I had to say. Shouting would get me nowhere, so I took a deep breath to calm myself. "The first time you found me I was feeling unwell. Like I told you yesterday, I am passing through town. I wanted to take a look around and familiarise myself with the place, so I went for a walk. But I wandered a little too far and I had no food or water on me. I was dehydrated and starving, and was on the verge of fainting. I had no idea how long I'd been wandering around for before I spotted your cottage in the distance. I desperately needed water, so I forced myself to go that little bit further and before I knew it I was pushing open your front door and stumbling inside. I made it as far as the fireplace and fell to the floor. That must have been when you heard me."
He glanced at me and then promptly looked away again.
"I didn't hear the front door open, but, yes, I did hear a thump. Then I heard the scraping of a chair."
"I bumped into the chair after getting back on my feet."
"It was then I was certain somebody was in my house."
"I didn't mean to cause any trouble. I just needed help." Still looking away, he said, "You could have simply knocked."
"Yes, I realise now that would've been the smarter thing to do."
There was silence for a moment. I could tell he was thinking. Did he actually believe my story?
"You said you were passing through town, yet you have no belongings or money. Why is that?"
"Um... well-"
"I know if I were visiting an unknown town, I would have belongings with me. Were you hoping to find something of interest in my home, hm?"
"No! Of course not. I... I was robbed!" I blurted out. That got his attention. His eyes were large and round like an owl's.
"You were... robbed?"
I nodded. "I went for a walk, like I said. But on that walk..." I paused for suspense. I needed my story to sound convincing, so I tried hard to turn on the waterworks. I was a writer, not an actress.
"Go on," he encouraged me.
"On that walk... two large men approached me. They had filthy mouths, and told me if I didn't give them everything I had on me, they would do unspeakable things to me. I was terrified so I gave them everything. Clothes, money, valuables. They threatened that if I told anyone, they would find me and kill me." I wiped away a non-existent tear. "I ran away as fast as I could and thankfully they didn't follow. I got completely lost and, well, you know the rest." I sniffed, even though my nose wasn't running.
"You should have just told me the truth," he said, his voice finally softening from the usual harshness and abruptness.
"I was afraid," I said, softly, fidgeting with my jumper.
"What about this morning? You told Mr. Valentine you were coming back here to buy a painting. That obviously was a lie since you'd just been robbed. So what was the real reason?" He seemed less angry now, more willing to hear what I had to say.
"I, um... I wanted to come back and thank you, and also apologise for the trouble I caused. If you had allowed Constable Doyle to give me the full punishment for breaking and entering and theft, well, let's just say I wouldn't be here today talking to you."
"Well, I'm not a complete monster, Miss. You did enter my home without permission, but there is no evidence you stole anything. So if all you wanted to do was thank me, why couldn't you have done that at the front door with Mr. Valentine?"
"Oh," I chuckled, nervously. "Yes, I would have, but, I, um, I had second thoughts, and after that warning of you never wanting to see me again, I went and hid around the back."
"And then decided to snoop around inside my house while you were there?" One eyebrow lifted.
I liked how he used the word snoop this time, instead of break in. Improvement.
"Yes," I admitted. He was shocked at my confession. "I saw your painting out the back. It was beautiful. Then I remembered the painting hanging above your fireplace. It was beautiful, too, and I just wanted to take another look at it. I would have loved to have purchased it, but because of the whole mugging thing..." I looked down at my hands, attempting to look as sad and vulnerable as I could, hoping he would feel sorry for me. We were silent for several minutes. "So... thank you... and I'm sorry," I said, breaking the silence.
He nodded. "Constable Doyle will take you back to town." I nearly threw up. I couldn't believe my story and act didn't work. There was no way I was going back with Constable Doyle, no way! The waterworks were real this time, but then he added, "But not back to gaol. He'll be able to help you find someone to safely take you back to Hobart Town. Or wherever you'd like to go."
I heaved a sigh of relief and wiped my eyes. I would've hugged him but I didn't want to risk him accusing me of assault.
Even though I had escaped another night in that freezing cold box, I was still imprisoned in this never-ending nightmare. I couldn't go back to town just yet. My next hurdle was to convince Nicholas to let me stay here a little longer. It was my only chance to get home to my own time.
"I would rather not inconvenience Constable Doyle any more than I already have."
"Oh? Then what do you suggest?" I shrugged. "Constable Doyle will be the best person to help you. I'm sure he will not mind."
"But... the men. If they see me with Constable Doyle, they'll think I told him about the attack. They'll kill me!" I pretended to panic a little.
"Well, until they are caught, perhaps it would be best if I take you into town. When Constable Doyle arrives, we'll explain everything that has happened. Do you remember what the attackers looked like?"
I shook my head vigorously. "No, no, I can't tell him about that. Please, don't make me tell him."
"They can't get away with this. What if they hurt someone else?" I shook my head again. He sighed. "We still have some time before he gets here. At least think about, please?"
I hesitated, then nodded. I felt a little guilty about lying to him. He genuinely seemed upset that I had been attacked. But at least he was no longer angry about finding me in his home.
The bread and cheese had hit the spot and I placed the empty plate onto the mahogany coffee table. "Thanks again for the food," I said, smiling at him. I received no smile in return, instead, just one of his silent nods.
I glanced around the room and noticed a few other paintings hung on the walls. "Did you paint those, too?" I asked him, pointing.
"No. They've been hanging there for as long as I can remember. I actually don't have any of my own work hanging up."
"Really?" I said, a little surprised. "Why not?"
He shrugged. "I tend to only paint commissions. Once they're complete, they go home with their new owner. The only painting I have here at the moment is the work in progress outside."
"Oh." I was disappointed to hear that. I was hoping to touch a few other paintings to see if they could send me home. I doubted a work in progress would work.
I flopped back onto the sofa, sinking into the soft fabric.
"Are you feeling any better, Miss?"
My stomach was no longer trying to eat itself, but I still felt achy and emotionally drained.
"You must be getting tired of asking me that," I joked. No reaction from him. Still no smile. "Um, better, but not a hundred percent. My headache's back."
"Oh, I see." Nicholas promptly stood. "Then perhaps I should send for a doctor."
"No, no, don't. I'll be fine. I just need to rest. Do you mind if I lay down for a while?" I needed some time to think, without him creepily staring at me.
"Ah, no, I suppose you can lay down here." He gestured at the sofa I was sitting on. He seemed a bit nervous, almost as though he didn't want to be caught alone in the house with a woman sprawled out on the sofa.
"Thank you," I said, as I laid down, resting my head on a cushion.
"I'll be outside if you need me." He hesitated, probably wondering if he should leave me alone. But he finally turned and made his way to the back door, purposely leaving it ajar as he went outside.
I yawned in a most unladylike manner and stared into the crackling fireplace. It was mesmerising, and I was so warm and comfortable on the sofa. My eyelids felt heavy and I was tempted to close them, but I had to think of what to do next. Nicholas didn't have any other paintings here, which meant I had to go find the cottage painting. I yawned again. Which meant I had to find out where Mr. Valentine lived.
I couldn't fight my tiredness any longer, so I closed my eyes, and before I knew it I was fast asleep.