Voices pulled me from my slumber, and my eyes scanned the room, remembering where I was. Not wanting to attract attention to myself, I stayed still, but listened to the murmuring voices of two men somewhere behind me.
They must have been standing in the foyer, and I could just make out what they were saying.
"You can't be serious." I'd recognise that Irish accent anywhere. "This woman has broken into your house twice, and you want to let her go? No, I won't allow it."
"She's explained everything to me, Doyle. I believe her."
Constable Doyle scoffed. "Come on, Clay. I've known you long enough to know you don't let things go this easily. You're usually as stubborn as I am. I always thought you'd make a good Constable."
This time Nicholas scoffed. "I could never do what you do, Doyle."
"Apparently. Are you starting to go soft on me? Or is it only because a pretty lady is involved, huh?"
Nicholas responded loudly, "That has nothing to do with it!" He lowered his voice again. "I just don't believe in punishing someone for something they didn't do."
"Ha. No one cared about that thirty years ago. Seven years transportation I got."
"Exactly. Why would you want someone else to go through what you went through?"
"I'm not transporting her, Clay. She hasn't actually stolen anything... yet... so I'll probably just keep her locked up for a week or so. She'll be sharing a cell with the local drunks. She won't be tempted to break into any more houses after that."
My eyes widened.
"I really don't think that will be necessary, sir," Nicholas said, firmly. "I realise now it was just a misunderstanding. One night in the cell was enough. No further punishment is necessary."
I heard Constable Doyle grunt in annoyance, no longer trying to be quiet. "You made me come all the way out here, Clay. For nothing! The next time someone breaks into your house, don't bother calling for me." I heard him stomp towards the front door, open it and slam it shut. I stirred. There was no pretending to be asleep now.
"Oh, you're awake," the voice said behind me.
I sat up and stretched my upper body. "Was that Constable Doyle leaving?" I asked, pretending like I hadn't just heard the whole conversation. I twisted around to face him.
"Yes, it was," he said, walking into the living room.
"Why did he slam the door?"
"He wanted to take you back to town but I wouldn't allow it."
"Oh. Why would he get so upset about that?"
"Because he wanted you to spend a week in the cell."
"What?" I acted shocked.
"Yes, he can be a bit harsh sometimes. He has... issues. Are you sure you do not wish to tell Constable Doyle what happened to you? If he knew, he might not be so hard on you." I shook my head no. "Very well. I'll go get the buggy ready," he said, as he turned to leave.
"Wait!" I promptly stood. "You're taking me now?"
He turned back around to face me. "Well, yes. I have things to do, Miss. Paintings don't paint themselves."
Why did I fall asleep? I haven't thought of my next plan.
"Could you paint me something? I'd love to take one of your pieces back with me to Hobart."
He actually laughed, but I knew he was only laughing at my stupidity.
"It takes weeks to finish a painting!"
"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.
"What are you doing?" I heard the stern voice of Nicholas say. I spun around to find Nicholas standing halfway across the room. Heart racing, I placed my left hand over my chest, still clutching onto his mother with the right.
"Nicholas! You scared me. I get anxious in storms, too, just like your horse," I giggled.
"Put that down," he demanded, staring at my right hand.
I looked down, and had forgotten I was even holding onto the small frame. "Oh, I was just admiring it. Is she your mother?" I asked, holding up the frame.
"I asked you to put it down," he demanded again, stepping forward.
I promptly placed it back onto the mantelpiece and stepped away from the fireplace. "I-I'm sorry," I stuttered. "I was just looking at it."
"You were touching it." He moved towards the fireplace and adjusted his mother to sit closer to his father, as it was before I touched it. "Do not touch things that don't belong to you, Miss Fletcher. Don't make me regret not sending you back with Constable Doyle." Clearly not happy with me, he stomped off into a bedroom and shut the door firmly behind him.
I huffed, wondering if he treated all his guests like this. There was no need to speak to me that way. I wasn't a child!Why were men so infuriating, I thought to myself, plopping back down on the sofa.
So I simply sat for the rest of the afternoon, moping, with my arms crossed, staring into the fire. The storm had eventually petered out, but the light sound of rain could still be heard on the roof. Nicholas had stayed in his room the whole time, doing who knows what, and honestly, I didn't care.
I was, however, getting hungry. It was four o'clock and I wondered when Nicholas usually had dinner.
As though reading my mind, the door to the bedroom opened up, and out came the jerk.
We both ignored each other, and he strode into the kitchen, opening cupboard doors and pulling out pots and pans, making a racket in the process.
"I placed clean towels in the bathroom earlier if you wish to wash up before dinner," he informed me, not looking up from his task in the kitchen. "Middle door on the right."
A soak in the tub sounded amazing, so I promptly stood, made my way to the middle door on the right and found a very small bathroom. A wooden stool sat beside a cast iron bath, which was filled a third of the way with clean water. On the stool was a neatly folded bath towel and what looked like a nightdress, topped with a new bar of soap.
Okay, so I might have forgiven him a little for yelling at me.
The bath looked like heaven and I couldn't wait to dive into the hot water and soak my aching muscles. I dipped my hand in to feel the warmth- Oh. The water was cold. I sighed. Of course he wouldn't want to waste hot water on someone like me.
There was no way I could get into that freezing bath, so after I undressed, I stood beside it and splashed water up my arms, on my face and chest. The soap smelt like lavender and wondered if it was made using the lavender from the garden.
Even though I couldn't have a proper bath, I felt and smelt cleaner, which I was thankful for.
I reached over and picked up the nightdress. It was a simple design, off-white cotton, ankle length with short sleeves. I got a whiff of soap, so I knew it had been cleaned recently, but I wondered who it belonged to, seeing as there were no females living in the house. Actually, I'd rather not know. I slipped it over my head, then bent down to pick up my own clothes. I wished I could wash them. I plopped them onto the stool and made my way out of the bathroom.
I stopped abruptly, suddenly feeling very exposed. Should I walk around Nicholas' house in a thin nightdress? He didn't leave a dressing gown for me. Should I ask for one? No, he'd just yell at me again.
Without a second thought, I snatched my jumper from the stool and put it on.
As I entered the living room, Nicholas didn't even acknowledge my presence. He was busy in the kitchen, chopping food and adding it to a steaming pot on the stove. The smell was to die for. Chicken and roast vegetables; there was no doubt about it. Smelt just like my mum's roasts when I used to live at home. A wave of homesickness washed over me and I wished it was my mum standing in that kitchen, not some surly stranger.
I didn't know what to do next. Do I sit down? Offer to help in the kitchen? Make conversation? Nicholas was getting good at reading my mind, and said, "Dinner will be ready shortly. You can sit." He waved his left hand in the general direction of the dining table, whilst his right hand vigorously continued to stir a liquid in a smaller pot. Gravy?
I walked over to the table and chairs, and sat down at one end. He had placed two glasses of water at opposite ends of the table, making it obvious that he wasn't planning any pleasant dinner conversation.
I sat and waited in silence. The sun had set outside and the candles were filling the main rooms with a warm, orange glow. Shadows danced on the walls from the flicker of the fireplace. It felt cosy, romantic. But no romance was going to happen here tonight, that's for sure.
I watched Nicholas work in the kitchen. He was absorbed in the task, paying no attention of what was happening around him. His eyebrows were furrowed in concentration. He was quite attractive, even with the beard. Shame about his personality, though, otherwise he'd be quite the catch.
After what felt like forever of patiently sitting through the awkward silence, dinner was finally ready. I was ravenous.
He placed a dinner plate in front of me and another at his end of the table. The meal was steaming hot; chicken, countless vegetables, and gravy. Delicious gravy. As much as I wanted to inhale the food in an instant, I waited for him. I thought it would be rude as the guest, and unladylike, to start eating before the host.
He unhurriedly settled into his chair, placed his napkin on his lap, took a sip of water, then a century later finally picked up his knife and fork and started eating.
As soon as the food hit his lips, I dug in and didn't stop for several minutes. The food was amazing. I glanced up at Nicholas and he was casually chewing away, taking his time, savouring every bite. I looked down at my plate and I had devoured half of my meal already. I thought I'd better slow down, so I sipped my water.
"This tastes absolutely amazing," I said, hoping for some sort of reaction.
"Thank you," was all I received in return.
I took another sip of water. "Do you cook a lot?" I asked.
"Yes. I live alone."
"Did you grow these vegetables yourself?"
"Yes." I gave up after that and continued my meal. I finished well before him and sat there awkwardly waiting. He finally swallowed the last bite, wiped his mouth with the napkin, and placed it on top of his plate. I stood up and gathered my plate and glass, and was about to take his when he stopped me. "I'll do that. I have prepared the bed in the spare room on the right. Make sure to get a good night's sleep. I will be taking you back to town at first light in the morning." He stood up with his plate, snatched mine out of my hands, and escaped into the kitchen.
I slowly walked towards the spare room and stopped before I reached the door. I looked back at Nicholas in the kitchen and called out, "Thank you for believing me," then continued into the room.