Page 227 of Feathers in the Wind
The three of us sat, staring at each other in awkward silence for what seemed an age.
Nat and I spoke together. ‘How did you— ’
‘How did I know?’ The Colonel smiled. I suspected he enjoyed the mystery and intended to play it out for as long as he could. ‘Let us start with family legends and the tale of the witch who appeared on the eve of the Battle of Chesham and spirited the good Colonel away.’
He looked at me. I looked at the floor.
‘There is more to it than that. The Prestons are an old, well-established family and I am in possession not only of your sister Mary’s diary, Nathaniel, but also an interesting heirloom, which I shall show you later.’
‘You have my sister’s diary?’ Nat swirled his glass so the ice chinked against the side. His casual attitude did not fool me. The fingers of his other hand clenched so hard that the knuckles showed white.
‘Indeed I do, and it makes an interesting read.’
The Colonel crossed to a desk and began rummaging through the drawers. Nat looked at me, his mouth framing a question he did not have time to utter as the Colonel turned holding a small, leather bound book. He resumed his seat and flicked through the pages.
‘You’re probably better at reading her writing, old chap.’
Nat took the book from him and traced the embossing on the cover with his fingers. ‘I gave her this book. I bought it in Italy on my travels.’ He looked up at the Colonel. ‘What became of my sister?’
‘Ah...’ The Colonel stroked his moustache. ‘I’d like to be able to tell you that she married and died an old woman with a brood of grandchildren but I’m afraid she died of a fever at the age of thirty-three, unmarried and still living at Heatherhill. The man to whom she had been betrothed was killed at Naseby.’
‘Oh, poor Mary,’ I said, thinking of that unhappy woman, caught between her beloved Robert and her family.
Nat looked at the book in his hand turned to the page the Colonel had marked with a piece of torn newspaper.
He took a breath and began to read, ‘My brother is returned to us today, hale and well. He had with him a woman, who calls herself Jessica Shepherd. I fear she is a witch and that my beloved Nathaniel has somehow been enchanted by this woman but Grandam tells me this is not so. This is Grandam’s doing but what it is she knows and fears she will not tell me...’
He skipped over a couple of pages.
‘The witch has taken my beloved Christian. Grandam says that she is a healer of great power who will take the child to London and make him well but I fear she will sacrifice him to the devil and grind his bones to powder for her evil purposes...’
‘I knew she didn’t like me,’ I blurted out.
Nat looked up with an amused smile and continued.
‘My direst fears are realized. Nathaniel’s men have returned this morning with tales of a battle at Chesham Bridge. Nathaniel, my dearest brother, cannot be found and the men tell me he can only be dead. All they had of him was his sword. He had set charges to blow the bridge and it would seem he did not make it to safety before the bridge collapsed, he with it. It is the work of the witch. Not content with snatching dear Christian, she has taken Nathaniel from us. I gave orders for every house in Chesham to be searched but no trace of her could be found and none questioned knew of her.’
The Colonel cleared his throat. ‘I, on the other hand, had no difficulty in finding Jessica Shepherd, conveniently living in Chesham. That was the first part of the puzzle solved but there is one other thing.’ He fumbled in his pocket and produced a small wooden box, which he handed to me. ‘If you doubt its authenticity, you will see there is a note enclosed with it that I am certain any scholar worth their salt will validate as genuine.’
I opened the box, and resting on a red velvet cushioned interior was a single one pence piece, tarnished with age. I picked it up and squinted at the date--1994. I unfolded the paper that had been pushed into the lid and read the note aloud.
‘Found under the floor boards in a bed chamber in the West Wing during demolition following fire. Sep 13 Anno Domini 1765.’
I handed the box and the note to Nathaniel. ‘It must have fallen out of my handbag.’ My hand rose to my mouth and I stared at Nat. ‘This is what Alan meant when he talked about the dangers of affecting history.’
‘Well, fortunately the course of history was not fundamentally destroyed by a one pence piece,’ the Colonel remarked. ‘But you can see now why I had been expecting you. I didn’t know, of course, whether the time shift would be in 1994 or later. I went to the river bank last year but, of course, nothing happened. When I saw you on the path to the chapel that day, Nathaniel, I knew for certain. Of course this year is the three hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the battle, if you like round numbers. It made much more sense.’
He smiled and sat back, his fingers laced across his stomach while we absorbed what he was telling us.
Nat spoke first. ‘What do we do?’
The Colonel shook his head. ‘You need do nothing. I am happy to swear to the world you are my long lost son.’ He glanced at me and all humour drained from his face. ‘The truth is, Nathaniel, if I may call you that, I am dying. Cancer. The doctors tell me I have six months at the most. I am the last of the Prestons, or I should have been. If for no other reason than to humor an old man, I would like to think of you as my lost son and Christian as my grandson.’
I gasped aloud as the understanding of what the Colonel was offering Nathaniel came clear to me. With Nathaniel and Christian, the Preston line would not die out. A sort of reincarnation would occur.
‘Nat,’ I whispered. ‘He is giving you a place in this time.’
The Colonel looked around the room. ‘I’ve not much to offer you. The family fortune is well and truly gone but there is this house and the few bits and pieces I was able to keep.’ He gestured at the room. ‘All yours by right.’
