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The Hands of Time (The Hands of Time: Book 1)

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  And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free romance excerpt:

Chapter 1

June 2010

The trip had been Louisa’s idea. She thought it would be best to be away when it happened, and I didn’t bother to argue. What did it matter where I was? Either way, things would never be the same, and I would have to deal with the knowledge that whether I was in England with her, or on the couch in my lonely apartment looking at the clock, the love of my life was marrying his pregnant girlfriend at that precise moment. I still thought of him as my husband, despite the fact that the divorce came through two months ago.

Michael and I had been high school sweethearts and got married at twenty, when most of our friends were just beginning to experiment with relationships. We always knew we wanted to be together forever and there seemed no point in waiting. Our marriage was easy, fun and full of love, as marriage should be when you’re married to your lover and best friend. We had a plan. We would finish college, find good jobs that would allow us to buy a house in the suburbs within a few years and then start a family. It seemed simple enough. Millions of people do it every day, but it wasn’t meant for us. We did finish college and get the jobs. We even bought our dream house in Connecticut and allocated the nicest bedroom with a view of the meadow for a nursery. Now all we had to do was fill it with a baby, who would make our happiness complete.

I threw away the birth control pills, and we began to try officially. We even told our parents and siblings, preparing them for their new roles. When nothing happened the first few months, we weren’t overly concerned. It was normal, everyone said. These things take time. We were young and healthy and had plenty of time. Nothing to worry about. By the time we’d been trying for a year, various tests were mentioned, appointments had been scheduled, and doctors had been consulted.

Another year had gone by and still I wasn’t pregnant. None of the tests showed anything wrong with either of us, but nature wasn’t on our side. By the time we’d been trying for three years, options were put forward and discussed. We could do in-vitro and if that didn’t work, we could always adopt.

We started the process. I was taking hormone shots; Michael was filling plastic cups with his specimen, we became tense and anxious, and increasingly strapped for cash, but still nothing happened. The embryos never took hold, and after five attempts, it was either sell the house or stop trying until we could afford another round. We began to gather information on adoption, but I knew Michael’s heart wasn’t in it. He wanted his own baby, a child who would be a combination of us; one who might have my eyes or his smile, or inherit his aptitude for numbers or my love of art.

He didn’t want a stranger’s child who would never remind him of himself at that age, or hold the promise of everything we had to offer encoded in its DNA.

We argued bitterly for months. I wanted a baby — any baby. I had a lot of love to give, and if I couldn’t have a child of my own, I was happy to give it to a child who needed me, but Michael didn’t feel the same. Our house became filled with resentful silences and angry pauses, and the future nursery began to function as Mike’s office. What was the point of wasting a perfectly good room, after all? We still slept in the same bed, but nothing much happened. We didn’t make love because we didn’t feel love, and there was no chance of getting pregnant, so why bother?

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that Mike was having an affair when he began to come home later and later claiming work overload. It was all so cliché. I wanted to confront him, but I was afraid of where the confrontation would lead. I wasn’t ready to let go of the life I’d been planning since high school, and I was still holding on to the dream that we could work things out, and maybe find our way to adopting a baby, which would ultimately bring us closer together.

Mike found his way to a baby long before I did. His girlfriend became pregnant a few months into the relationship, and my husband informed me that he was filing for divorce. She could give him something I couldn’t, and he wouldn’t pass up on a chance to be a father to his own child. He was sorry, of course, remorseful and sad, but firm in his resolve. He offered to buy out my share of the house, and I gladly sold it to him. I didn’t want any part of that house if he wasn’t in it with me. The divorce was finalized a lot quicker than I expected since Mike didn’t contest anything, and two months ago I became a divorcee at twenty-six. Some of my friends hadn’t even gotten around to getting married yet, and I was already divorced. I rented an apartment in my sister’s building, since one became miraculously available, and spent most of my time at Lou’s crying on her shoulder and watching sappy movies.

I might have gone on like that much longer, except that Lou was offered an opportunity to travel to England to value an art collection at an old manor house near Plymouth as part of her job as restorer at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She would be away right around the time of the dreaded wedding, and begged me to come along. I suspect that she would much rather have gone alone than drag me with her and deal with my grief, but Lou wouldn’t dream of it. She was going to get me through this, and if she couldn’t do it on the Upper West Side, she would do it in England. I was conveniently off for the summer from my job as an art teacher at an elementary school, she argued, and had no good reason not to join her, so I did. Lou booked us rooms at a charming old inn in a village outside of Plymouth, which would be close to Compton Hall where she would be doing her work, and so here I was, running away from my misery.

Chapter 2

I had to admit that the village of Newton Ferrers was charming. Situated just ten miles outside of Plymouth, it was a perfect example of a picturesque fishing village that hadn’t changed too much over time; with most of the buildings clinging to the sides of Main Street and the heart of Main Street, being the Dolphin Inn and Pub. All life spread out from there. Dozens of quaint shops catered to the locals as well as to the tourists, and the narrow, winding streets all led either to the river or to the center of town. The Bradford Inn, where we would be staying for the next several weeks, was located on the outskirts of the village and could have easily passed for an eighteenth century house if one chose not to notice the modern light fixtures or the desk with a computer on it in the parlor boasting Wi-Fi. There were no TV’s in the rooms and the décor was strictly authentic, with sturdy four-poster beds and elegant wooden dressers and tables in mahogany and walnut.

Our rooms were wallpapered in old-fashioned patterns, and clashed hideously with the bedspreads and matching drapes so lovingly picked out by Mrs. Bradford, who claimed to have had them replaced just last year. She was a sweet old lady who provided a full English breakfast in the mornings and supper, only if ordered no later than noon. She needed time to prepare. Lou and I ate breakfast at the inn, dinner at the Dolphin and lunch wherever. She was working at the manor most afternoons, and I spent time exploring the village and trying not to think of Michael. I had to admit that coming had been a good idea. I felt strangely removed from reality, and the charm of my surroundings helped to cushion me from the acute pain I felt when in the vicinity of my former husband. Lou congratulated herself on being right, and we did our best to enjoy the trip.

My room was directly across the hall from Louisa’s and faced the rear of the building. It was decorated in shades of mauve, and was actually rather cozy if one ignored the multitude of colors and patterns crammed into one small space. I liked to leave the windows uncurtained at night so I could see the ruin of the castle rising mournfully on the hill in the distance. It was just a husk of a tower jutting against the sky, but it fueled my fantasies and helped me get to sleep.

I woke up early one morning and watched the sun rising behind the crumbling edifice, the empty windows momentarily flooded with a blaze of crimson light, turning the gray stones to just a black outline against the rising sun. I decided to ask Mrs. Bradford about it. My guidebook didn’t say anything, and I was curious as to the history of the place. I came downstairs and poured myself a cup of tea, since the coffee Mrs. Bradford made was virtually undrinkable. She erupted from the kitchen with a tray of bacon and eggs and a rack of toast already smothered with butter.

“You’re up early today, lovey. Is your sister still asleep then?” She deposited my cholesterol-fest on the table and stood with her head to one side, clearly expecting a nice chat.

“She’s still sleeping, I think. Mrs. Bradford, I was wondering about that castle on the hill. Who did it belong to?”

“Oh, that. It belonged to a local family called Whitfield, I believe. They were quite wealthy, but not titled. Made their money in trade. Not much is known about them, except that one of them was a traitor and met with a gruesome end. No one has lived there since the seventeenth century and the castle fell to ruin.”

“Can I go explore?” I loved ruins and the prospect of wandering around an old castle perched on a hill overlooking the vista of village, river and the Celtic Sea held great appeal.

Mrs. Bradford gave me a disapproving look. “I wouldn’t recommend it, dear. That place is not safe.”

“You mean it’s a hazard because it’s crumbling?” I was curious to see it and wouldn’t be easily dissuaded.

“No. The stones are not going anywhere. It’s the kids. They hang about the ruins after school, drinking and doing Lord only knows what. The place is full of syringes and worse. Those hooligans like to pick on tourists too, give them a fright, if you know what I mean. Stay away. If you long to see a nice castle, take a day trip to Windsor or Leeds. They’re lovely, with furnished rooms and gift shops. Perfect for Americans.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bradford, I’ll certainly mention that to my sister. I’m sure she’d love to take a little trip on the weekend. May I have more tea?” Mrs. Bradford waddled back into the kitchen to make another pot of tea, and I tucked into my breakfast disappointed. I wanted to see the castle, but not if I were stepping on syringes and looking over my shoulder for hoodlums waiting to give me a scare. I would have to find something else to do today since Lou would be gone for most of the day. I would certainly mention the idea of going to see the places Mrs. Bradford suggested. I would really enjoy that, and anything that would take my mind off my problems would be a welcome distraction. I would just take a walk down Main Street today and look for some souvenirs for mom and dad.

I was just turning the corner to reach my room when Louisa burst out of her room looking flustered and annoyed.

“Totally overslept. Can you believe it? Why didn’t you wake me?” She gave me that accusing older sister look and swept past me down the hall. “Meet me at the Dolphin at 6pm,” she called over her shoulder as I heard her feet thundering down the carpeted wooden stairs, the front door slamming behind her.

“Will do,” I mumbled to myself and entered my room. I looked around until I spotted my sketch pad and a box of charcoal. I wouldn’t go explore the castle, but no one said I couldn’t draw it. I hadn’t drawn anything in months due to lack of inspiration and desire, but at this moment my fingers were itching to hold a piece of charcoal and capture the sinister beauty of the jutting walls of the ruin, outlined against the pristine background of a cloudless June sky. I took my supplies and left by the back door, finding a nice, shady spot in the garden where I had an unobstructed view of my subject. I sat down on a comfortable wicker chair, positioned my pad in my lap and began to sketch. My fingers flew over the page, first outlining the ruin and then filling in the texture of the stone, the narrow slits in the tower that offered glimpses of the sky, and the jagged chunks of what remained of the wall.

I made several different drawings, one in charcoal and two in pastels, trying to capture the desolate, yet mysterious aura of the place. I liked the charcoal drawing better. It was more dramatic, and made the castle look more sinister than the colored drawings. Satisfied with my efforts, I went back to my room and deposited the drawings on the dresser, before putting away the charcoal and pastels and getting ready to leave. I’d grab a light lunch at the café by the wharf and then stop into a few shops along Main Street in search of the perfect gift for my parents. I’d spotted an antique shop tucked away on a narrow side street, and would stop there along the way. My mom would love some Victorian trinket, and dad would probably appreciate something on the history of smuggling in the area. He was always fascinated by anything that had to do with getting over on the tax man.

As I walked toward the river, I tried not to think about Michael’s wedding tomorrow. I knew that some of our friends were attending, and felt an irrational resentment toward them for accepting the invitation. Of course, they had no reason to decline. It wasn’t them he left. I had no right to ask them to choose between us, but I knew they would choose anyway. A few of my friends had remained loyal and steadfast, but some of the couples that we associated with were already choosing to invite Michael and Kimberly and leave me off the list. I was no longer part of a couple, and therefore, not a desirable guest at a gathering where everyone was conveniently paired off. Soon they would be throwing Kimberly a baby shower and giving her advice on nannies and nursery schools, forgetting that it was supposed to be me that they did those things for.

“Stop that right now, Valerie,” I admonished myself. “You’re becoming bitter and angry, and I don’t like you that way.” With that, I put Michael out of my mind and walked into the café. I took a table on the wooden patio overlooking the wharf and ordered a bowl of soup. I loved watching the boats moored by the piers, their wooden hulls rocking gently on the ever-shifting surface of the sparkling river that wound like a ribbon through the hills in the distance. The seagulls screamed to each other and fought over the crumbs left by careless patrons, while fishermen who came back early unloaded their catch, calling out greetings to each other and bragging about their haul. It was a peaceful scene and I stayed longer than I intended, just enjoying the feeling of being a tourist.

Finally, I picked up my bag and left the café heading toward Main Street. I walked slowly down the cobblestone street, looking into shop windows and admiring their wares, as the gentle sunshine of the late afternoon bathed everything in its golden haze. I purchased a few postcards with pictures of the marina and a magnet for my fridge, before coming to the shop I’d been looking for. It was small and dim, cluttered with tiffany lamps, end tables with spindly legs and inlaid surfaces and lacquer boxes depicting oriental scenes of snow-covered pagodas and parasol shaded geishas. I wandered around, careful not to touch anything.

Just as I was getting ready to leave, I caught a glimpse of a china figurine on a shelf in the far corner. My mom always mentioned a Dresden shepherdess her grandmother used to have that she loved as a little girl, and this reminded me of it. I stopped in front of the shelf and picked up the statuette. It was made in Dresden as I suspected, but two fingers of the smiling, rose-cheeked shepherdess were chipped off.   I put the statue back disappointed. It would have been the perfect thing to get for mom. On a shelf above the statuette, I noticed an ormolu clock tucked between a carved jewelry box and a pair of large brass binoculars.   The sheer gaudiness of it caught my eye, and I took it down to examine it more closely.

The clock was heavier than I expected, made of brass, with porcelain panels painted with pink and blue flowers around the base. The round face of the clock had a pattern of the same flowers encircling the spindly hands, which pointed to golden roman numerals that were so large they barely left any space for the minutes in-between. The “best” part of the clock was the hugely fat cupid perched on top, holding a loaded bow ready to shoot some unsuspecting victim in desperate need of romance. The clock was ticking loudly, but was set to 8:10, which was almost four hours ahead of time. I’m not sure what possessed me to do it, but I opened the glass panel covering the face of the clock and carefully moved the hands to the correct time, which was 4:05pm. Suddenly, it’s as if all the air had been sucked out of the shop, and I felt like a fish that finds itself out of water, breathing but not drawing in any air. I’d just enough time to put the clock back on the shelf as all sounds faded into silence and I felt momentarily dizzy before everything in front of my eyes went dark.

Chapter 3

I heard the sounds of birdsong and the chirping of crickets before I actually opened my eyes. A light breeze was caressing my face and I felt the warm rays of the sun through my closed eyelids, blades of grass beneath my fingers and the smell of earth and pine filling my nostrils. I slowly opened my eyes and looked up at the cloudless blue sky above the treetops. I was lying in tall grass, dotted with wildflowers and warm from the summer sun. I just lay there for a few moments enjoying the peaceful feeling of floating, before suddenly realizing that this was somehow all wrong.

I sat up and looked around puzzled. There was no sign of the shop I’d been in or even the village. Sparse trees surrounded the meadow I was lying in, and I could see the river flowing to my left through the gap in the trees.   There were two fishing boats tied up to posts rising out of the muddy bank, but no sign of the marina or the shops that were there just a few moments ago. I turned to my right, and my blood ran cold. I could see the castle perched on the hill above me, except it was no longer a sinister relic of another time. The castle stood intact and proud, the honey-colored stones warmed by the sun, and its leaded windows reflecting the afternoon light. The wall encircling the castle rose high and impregnable, broken only by the arched wooden doors studded with iron nails and partially opened. I could hear distant voices, and the barking of dogs carried on the wind.

What was going on? One minute I was in the shop looking at the cupid clock, and now I was lying in a meadow not too far from the castle; that up until five minutes ago was just a sad ruin. I looked at my watch. It was 4:10pm. Only five minutes had passed since I turned the hands on the ormolu clock. How did I get here? I looked around again. In relation to the river and the castle, I was sitting in about the spot where the shop would have been, except there was no shop and no street. I could see some fishermen’s huts off in the distance, where there were holiday cottages just a few minutes ago. I closed my eyes, shook my head and opened them again. I was still in the same spot. Reluctantly, I got to my feet and looked around again.

There didn’t seem anywhere to go except in the direction of the castle. I had no idea what I would do when I got there, but at least it was something to do. My purse was nowhere in sight, so I just dusted myself off and began to walk up the hill, my mind spinning out of control. I had no idea what to think, and try as I might, I couldn’t find a logical explanation for what just happened. People didn’t just faint and wake up in a different place and a different time, if that’s what it was. Maybe I was still asleep and I was dreaming all of this. I pinched myself hard and yelped, acknowledging my state of wakefulness. Not asleep then.

As I got closer to the castle I became more and more anxious. What was I to do once I got there? What could I say to whoever was there? What if they turned me away? Where would I go then? There seemed nothing in the vicinity except a few derelict huts and two fishing boats. I took a deep breath and pushed open the heavy, studded door walking into the yard. I was immediately spotted by two large dogs, who bounded over to me and started barking madly, nipping at my feet. I stepped back involuntarily, and found myself bumping into a man who I didn’t realize had come up just behind me. He caught me by the arms and steadied me before yelling at the dogs.

“Shut ye traps, ye fiends. Can’t ye see it’s a lady come to call? Away with ye, then.” The dogs seemed to accept this command and slinked off, leaving me with the man. He was wearing a leather doublet in a muddy shade of brown that could use a good cleaning as it was covered with dust and bits of straw, and his dark pants were tucked into boots covered with muck. The man’s hair was pulled back into a messy tail, and an old hat perched on his head. He looked like something out of a period movie, and I suddenly realized that he was just as curious about my attire as I was about his. I was wearing a sleeveless summer dress in the lightest shade of lilac with a pair of tan leather sandals. The man gaped at me and turned away embarrassed.

“Are ye here to see the Master?” he asked without really looking at me.

“I guess so.” I answered his back as he walked toward the castle implying that I should follow.

The man opened a wooden door and led me up a flight of stairs to the second floor, where he called out for someone named Betty. A plump young woman dressed in a long dress with an apron over it and a cap over her dark, curly hair came out of a room and froze at the sight of me, her mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

“This young lady is here to see the Master. Will ye inform him he has a visitor?” The girl mutely nodded and disappeared through another door leaving me with the man.

“I am John Dobbs, the overseer,” he informed me, tipping his hat before turning on his heel and leaving me to await the Master, whoever he was. I tried to take deep breaths in order to calm myself, but found myself shaking like a leaf by the time Betty came back into the hall and gave me a little curtsey.

“If ye would follow me, Miss. The Master will see ye in the library.” She led me through a few well-appointed rooms, before opening the door to what must have been the library and motioning me inside. She didn’t go in after me, and I walked in toward the man sitting in an armchair with his feet propped up on the empty grate and a book in his hands. He turned at the sound of my footsteps and rose, putting down the book on top of the mantel of the unlit marble fireplace. He was tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in dark pants tucked into a pair of riding boots, a white linen shirt and a velvet doublet in rich brown. His coat was slung over a nearby chair, and he reached for it as I walked in, about to put in on, but became distracted by my appearance. He let the coat fall back onto the back of the chair and looked me up and down discreetly.

“Alexander Whitfield at your service, Madame.” He gave a slight bow of his head and looked at me expectantly.

“Valerie Crane,” I said simply. We stood in silence for a few moments just taking stock of each other. If I wasn’t so scared, I would have noticed that he was very handsome, in a period movie kind of way, with dark hair that fell to his shoulders and eyes the color of caramel, accentuated by his long lashes. His full lips stretched into something resembling a welcoming smile.

“How can I help you, Mistress Crane?”

I was about to say something as a way of explanation, but I suddenly burst into tears, overcome by my fear and confusion. The man instantly sprang into action, leading me to a comfortable chair, pouring me brandy from a crystal decanter and offering me his handkerchief.

“I am terribly sorry. I did not mean to upset you. Are you all right?”

I nodded miserably, taking a large gulp of the brandy, and letting it warm its way down my gullet before trying to speak again.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Whitfield. I have no idea how I got here. I found myself in the meadow at the bottom of the hill and saw your home. I thought I’d come here and ask for help.” I realized at that moment that pretending I had no idea what happened would probably be safer, not that I actually did have any idea. All I could do was hope that he was a gentleman and wouldn’t just turn me away.

He looked at me, and I could see a hundred questions racing through his mind, but he didn’t ask any of them. “I will do everything in my power to assist you. You can stay here for as long as you like. I will ask Betty to find you a suitable gown and show you to your room. I think you can do with a rest.” He looked at me waiting for me to agree and then called out to Betty, who appeared about half a second later confirming my suspicions that she had been listening at the door.

“Betty, please find a gown for Mistress Crane, I think one of Rose’s will do nicely, and show her to the yellow room. Mistress Crane would like to rest. And bring her some refreshment,” he added as an afterthought and turned to me, giving me an encouraging smile. “I am afraid I am expecting a dinner guest tonight for a private meeting,” he informed me apologetically, “Have some rest and we will talk more tomorrow. Please let Betty know if there is anything you require.” I thanked him and followed Betty out of the library toward the stairs to the upper floor. I could see that she was burning with curiosity, but she didn’t ask anything, just led me up the stairs and down the carpeted hallway to a door at the very end. She opened the door for me to enter and turned to leave.

“I will be back shortly, Miss, with some garments, and I will bring hot water should ye wish to wash.” She curtsied again and left me alone in the room. I sat down on the four-poster bed and took in my surroundings. The room was done in shades of saffron and cream with a matching coverlet, bed hangings and drapes at the two windows. Being a corner room, one window looked out over the yard and the road leading to the castle, and the other over woods and the distant river, sparkling in the late afternoon sun. There was a painting of a beautiful woman with eyes the same color as Alexander Whitfield, her arms around a pink-cheeked young boy, hanging over the dresser, but otherwise there were no personal objects in the room. It must have been reserved for guests.

There was a quick knock at the door before Betty came in, a gown slung over her arm and a pitcher of water in her right hand. She set the pitcher on a table by the bed next to the painted ewer, then lay the gown on the bed along with some other garments.

“I do hope ye like these,” she said showing me what she brought. “Here is a chemise, a petticoat and I thought this gown might suit ye. There is also a nightdress.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and drew out a handful of pins. “I brought these so ye can dress yer hair. Do ye require help dressing?”

“Thank you, Betty, I think I can manage.”

“All right, then. I will ask Cook to send up a tray for ye at supper time. If ye need me, just pull this rope.” She showed me the thick cord by the bed and turned to leave, but couldn’t stop herself from asking at least one question. “Were ye accosted on the road, Miss?” she whispered looking at my summer dress. She assumed that someone had torn off my gown and left me in my underclothes.

“I can’t recall.” Betty nodded her head as if I confirmed her worst suspicions. She believed that I must have been through some terrible trauma to show up in a state of undress, and with no recollection of what happened, and gave me a sympathetic look, closing the door behind her.

I decided to try and concentrate on more practical things rather than dwelling on my predicament, and poured some water into the ewer, washing my face and hands before trying to figure out how to put on the gown. I took off my dress, but defiantly left my bra and underwear on, before pulling the chemise over my head. It felt soft and light against my skin and I picked up the petticoat. I assumed it went on under the skirt, so I put it on and looked in the mirror. I was beginning to resemble the Dresden shepherdess I saw in the shop. I carefully put on the gown over my head and tied the laces of the bodice. The dress was the color of bluebells and brought out the color of my eyes. I picked up my hair and held it up, examining my image in the oval cheval glass. I looked like a completely different person. Maybe I was. I let down my hair and sat back down on the bed feeling lonelier than I ever had, even after Michael left me. What was I supposed to do now?

The Hands of Time (The Hands of Time: Book 1)

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