The Hands of Time

© 2011 by Irina Shapiro

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the author. 

All characters are fictional.  Any resemblances to actual people (except those who are actual historical figures) are purely coincidental. 

Chapter 1

June 2010

The trip had been Luisa’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 wi
th either of us, but nature was
n
’
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 th
a
n 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 th
a
n 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.

C
hapter 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.  Do
z
ens 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 th
a
n 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 mano
r
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 d
id 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 gr
a
y 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.