Page 178 of Feathers in the Wind
Without argument, Alan sat down and I served the spaghetti. Nathaniel stared at the plate and then looked up at me, one eyebrow raised.
‘Spa-ghet-ti.’ I found myself speaking slowly, as if to a small child.
Nathaniel shot me a glance and watching Alan like a hawk, picked up the fork. This piece of equipment itself seemed to cause him some consternation.
‘I have heard tell of these contrivances,’ he commented, turning it over in his hand.
‘They didn’t come into general usage until the Restoration,’ Alan said.
‘The Restoration?’
‘Of Charles the Second.’
Nathaniel laid down the fork and stared at Alan. ‘Master Shepherd, your sister tells me the year is 1995.’
‘That’s right,’ Alan agreed.
‘As I told her, the year, my year, is 1645.’ He ran his hand over his eyes. ‘This is surely a nightmare from which I will wake.’
Alan leaned his elbows on the table, pressing his fingers together, the way he would address a tutorial group on an important point. ‘Nathaniel, this is no nightmare. Jess and I are quite real,’ he paused and glanced at me, ‘and, it would seem, we have to accept that you are Colonel Nathaniel Preston of Heatherhill Hall.’
For the first time Nathaniel smiled, a wide, genuine smile. ‘You believe me?’
Alan regarded him for a moment. ‘I’m not sure. I’m a professor of history, Colonel, and my specialty is seventeenth century, more specifically the English Civil War in Northamptonshire. I know--’ He broke off, his face grave. ‘I know all about you.’
He caught my eye and I read his thoughts. If this man was Colonel Nathaniel Preston of Heatherhill Hall, then Alan did know all about him. Maybe more than this man would wish to know.
Alan cleared his throat. ‘Now, either we are all in the middle of the same delusion or the impossible has happened, and somehow time has defied all the laws of physics. Unlike my sister, who is a scientist and therefore naturally sceptical, I am quite prepared to believe you are exactly who you say. So, shall we proceed on the basis that when you awoke this morning it was the third of June 1645, and this evening it is the third of June 1995?’
Three feet of table and three and hundred and fifty years divided the two men as they stared at each other. Nathaniel moved his gaze to me.
‘And you Mistress. Do you agree?’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know what to believe, Nathaniel.’
‘You still think me mad?’
I shook my head. ‘No, not mad...delusional perhaps.’
‘How can I prove that I speak the truth?’ he asked.
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Alan is the expert on seventeenth century history but I’m sure whatever question he could ask you, can be just as easily discovered from a book.’
Nathaniel picked up the fork and studied it intently for a moment. ‘You say my home still stands?’
‘It does,’ Alan said.
‘Can you take me there? Will this National Trust person let us in?
I stifled a laugh. ‘As long as we pay the right money,’ I said. ‘We can go in the morning.’
I shot my brother a glance and he nodded agreement.
‘Tomorrow then,’ Nathaniel agreed.
He plunged the fork into the food, awkwardly twisting the spaghetti in emulation of Alan. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment before declaring, ‘This spag-etti is truly excellent. Where does it come from?’
‘It originated in Italy,’ I said.
