The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(137)

When his twin went off to London to study at the Normal School of Science, Wells decided it was time to resume his old plan and try to become part of the lives of that Wells and his future wife. Curiously, no matter how hard they concentrated, the minds of these two were the only ones Observer Wells and Observer Jane were unable to inhabit. Although that made some sense: the stage on which their twins were performing must have been a sort of observatory from which to contemplate the other stages in the theater, and perhaps that was why it was more difficult for them to observe it. As a result, the only way for them to discover more about their lives was through the traditional method of spying, watching from a distance their movements, which didn’t seem to differ much from those of their other twins. Thus far, nothing in that couple’s placid existence seemed to justify the urgent need that had driven Wells and Jane to move to Sevenoaks, although, now that Wells’s double had moved to the biggest city in the world, that might all change. With the aim of keeping as close an eye on his twin as possible, Observer Wells requested references from his former dean at Oxford and managed to obtain a teaching post at the Normal School of Science. It was the second time the Wellses had moved since they fell down a rabbit hole into Dodgson’s sitting room, in front of Alice’s startled little eyes, and they couldn’t help wondering whether that change might also herald the beginning of another Dark Era. Having found happiness again, having turned their lives into a prolongation of those golden afternoons by learning to love each other with utter devotion, neither wanted that to end. They did not believe fate could be so cruel.

But it was, as they discovered a week after they moved to London. The couple were sitting in front of the fire, after what for Wells had been a particularly grueling day. He had taught his first lessons at the school, and although he had been quite satisfied with the experience, he came home exhausted. After almost twenty years of not teaching and relating to practically nobody apart from Jane, it had taken a Herculean effort for Wells to control his talents and avoid giving his pupils the impression that he was a madman. Perhaps that was why he had spent longer than usual with his eyes shut, a weary smile on his lips, barely holding on to his forgotten glass, whose contents threatened to slosh onto the carpet. He looked so shattered that Jane decided not to trouble him. There would be no story that night, she said to herself resignedly, standing up to find a book with which to pass the time. Then her husband cried out, opening his eyes abruptly as he clutched his left hand, finally spilling half his drink. He had an expression of genuine bewilderment on his face.

“What’s the matter, Bertie?” asked Jane, alarmed.

Wells allowed reality to settle around him for a few moments before stammering, “I just saw Newton . . . and he . . . he bit my hand.”

“Our dog bit you?”

“Naturally, my dear, I would scarcely be referring to Newton the scientist.”

Jane ignored the retort.

“What do you mean he bit you?”

“Well . . . he didn’t bite me, of course; he bit the Wells whom I was observing,” he explained, rubbing his left hand absentmindedly. “He was a very young Wells, almost a child, out strolling in the countryside, on a lovely, sunny day, when suddenly Newton leapt out of a bush. The dog seemed jumpy. Perhaps because he recognized my scent on that young Wells but at the same time he realized it wasn’t me. I suppose that must have confused him . . . In any case, he sprang at my twin and bit his hand.”

“Are you sure it was our Newton?” asked Jane, still unwilling to believe it.

Wells nodded sadly.

“It was definitely him, my dear. He had that white heart-shaped patch on his head.”

“Oh, God . . . And what did your twin do?”

“Er . . . he kicked him.”

“Bertie, how could you?”

“It wasn’t me, Jane!” protested Wells. Then he cleared his throat before adding: “Newton ran off yelping and . . .”

“And what? For goodness’ sake, Bertie, what happened to—”

Wells clasped her hands in his and gazed at her forlornly.

“I’m awfully sorry, my dear, but a carriage was going past at that moment, and Newton—”

“No!” Jane buried her face in her hands and began to sob loudly.

Wells attempted to console her. “Don’t cry, my dear. At least he had a happy life.”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Jane spluttered.

“Oh, I can,” replied Wells. “After the, er . . . tragedy, a woman came running over and held Newton in her arms.”

“A woman?”

“His mistress. According to what she told my twin, the dog had run off while she was taking him for a walk. When she noticed the boy’s bloody hand she was horrified. She said she couldn’t understand what had come over Bobbie, that he was a docile, affectionate creature who had never bitten anyone in all the years he had been with her family, ever since they found him wandering around a field in Oxford.” Wells stroked his wife’s hair. “My dear, she really seemed to love Newton. I saw for myself how she wept inconsolably and held him tight, as if she thought that warming him with her body might bring him back to life . . . Our puppy immediately found a good home, and he has been very happy all this time.”

But Wells’s words didn’t seem to console his wife, and so he remained silent and let her weep. Not a single day had passed when Jane didn’t think about Newton, hoping that wherever he was he was safe and sound, and if possible in a happy home. But discovering that was the case didn’t diminish her terrible grief over his gruesome death: crushed under the wheels of a carriage after being kicked by the person he had possibly just recognized as his previous owner. When she looked up, her face puffy from crying, she was furious to see her husband staring off into space, without so much as a tear in his eye.