The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(150)

“Every day,” she admitted.

“And what conclusion have you come to?”

Jane sighed.

“That it was probably our instinct as Observers telling us that sooner or later they would be the ones to take over our mission,” she said with resignation.

“That is the same conclusion I reached, my dear.”

Neither of them uttered another word, content to remain silent, embracing each other with what they knew to be the last of their strength, feeling more marooned than ever as the sky darkened through the windowpanes.





29


AND SO, ONE WINDSWEPT AFTERNOON in late February 1900, when Wells was feeling strong enough to be able to walk without feeling dizzy, the Wellses went to Arnold House with the aim of entrusting the book to their twins in that world. Jane was carrying it in a small embroidered silk purse, which she clasped to her chest with one hand, while with the other she held on to her cloak to stop the wind from blowing it away. Standing at the tall entrance gate, they rang the bell several times, but no one came to let them in. Squashing his hat against his skull, Wells let out a curse. The journey by coach had almost pulverized their bones, and all for nothing. Where were their twins? They had stated very clearly in their message the time of their arrival. They were about to go back the way they had come when they saw the couple’s carriage approach.

“Professor Lansbury, Mrs. Lansbury, please forgive the delay!” the young Wells exclaimed as he stepped out of the coach and found them at the gate.

The four of them greeted one another effusively, for they had not met since the twins moved to Sandgate for the sea air, which was more invigorating.

“I’m so sorry we are late. Our excursion to Dartmoor took longer than we had expected, because on the way back we had a bit of a shock,” Wells’s twin explained. “Our friend Montgomery Gilmore and his fiancée had a slight accident when their Mercedes, one of those newfangled automobiles, veered off the road . . . Thank goodness, Gilmore managed to regain control of the fiendish vehicle.”

“I’m so glad to hear it,” replied Jane, somewhat shaken.

The Wellses asked their coachman to wait, with the vague promise of a mug of broth, and the two couples walked down the garden path leading up to the house. On the way, Wells noticed his twin glancing sideways at him and recalled how difficult it had been to befriend him back when he was still his teacher. Each time he tried to engage the lad in conversation, he seemed to shrink into himself, as though afflicted by a sudden colic, and, after exchanging a few pleasantries, he would hurry off under some pretext or other. Perhaps the poor boy had been suffering the effects of meeting himself. Fortunately, over time the inevitable kinship between them had developed into a mutual affection, which had eased the young man’s awkwardness with his eccentric teacher. Now his double was watching him surreptitiously, trying to hide the pity his doddering gait instilled in him. It was clear he was shocked at the dramatic changes that the past six years had wreaked on Wells’s body. But what did he expect? He, too, would grow old one day. His face would be lined with the same furrows he was now contemplating so wistfully, and his erect back would develop the same stoop, until finally he would leave the stage like everyone else, amid boos or applause.

After they entered the house, Jane’s twin went to the kitchen to prepare tea while her husband ushered them into the sitting room. He invited them to take a seat at the table while he lit the fire. Soon, Jane brought in the tea. As she began pouring it briskly, the old lady was filled with melancholy: How long had it been since she went about her chores with that familiar vigor? However, a deafening crash interrupted her musings. They all gave a start.

“How strange, I thought you told me you had fixed that attic window, Bertie,” Jane said, gazing up at the ceiling apprehensively.

“Why, yes, dear. I did it only last week. But clearly I have more of a flair for writing novels than fixing windows,” he jested, but as no one laughed, he quickly went on: “So . . . Professor, what is the urgent matter that brought you here on this inclement afternoon?”

Wells exchanged a meaningful look with Jane before clearing his throat. The moment had come when they must destroy their twins’ peaceful existence.

“Well, it is something we had hoped to keep from you, because we are aware that it will change your lives forever. And for the worse, I am afraid,” he added gravely. “But, alas, we have no choice.”

“You certainly know how to capture the attention of your audience, Professor,” the young Wells remarked wryly. “You would have made an excellent novelist.”

The old man responded to the compliment with a grim look and then sipped his cup of tea to buy a little time. Since he and Jane had resolved to go and see them, he hadn’t stopped thinking about where best to begin their story and had concluded that they must first tell them who they were. If they didn’t believe that, there would be no point in going on, and so he sat up as straight as possible and showed them his best side.

“Look at my face, George, and you, too, Jane. Take a good look. Try to see beneath all these wrinkles and this beard. Look at my eyes, especially, the expression in my eyes. And don’t rule out any possibility.”

Bewildered by his request, the couple leaned forward and peered into the old man’s face, screwing up their eyes exaggeratedly, like a jeweler examining a stone. After a few seconds, Wells’s twin lost his patience.