The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(112)

Crouched behind a wall on the opposite pavement, Tom Blunt watched her go back in. Then he emerged from his hiding place and shook his head. Seeing Wells appear had surprised him, although not excessively. The author would likewise not have been surprised to find him there. Apparently, neither of them had been able to resist the temptation to look for the girl’s house, the location of which she had subtly revealed in the hope that if Shackleton came back he could find her.

Tom returned to his lair in Buckeridge Street unsure what to think of Wells. Had the author fallen in love with her? He did not think so. Maybe he had gone there out of simple curiosity. If he were in Wells’s shoes, would he not also have wanted put a face to the girl whom he addressed using words he would probably never utter to his own wife? Tom fell back on the bed feeling completely exhausted, but his anxiety and permanent state of tension prevented him from sleeping more than a couple of hours, and before dawn, he set off once more on the long journey to the writer’s house. These walks were keeping him more fit than the training sessions they were put through by Murray, whose hired assassin had not shown up again to punish his flagrant breaking of the rules. Even so, Tom had no intention of lowering his guard.

Wells was waiting for him on the doorstep. He did not look rested either. His face was crumpled, and his eyes had dark shadows under them, although they were twinkling mysteriously.

Doubtless he had been awake all night writing the letter he now had in his hand. When he saw Tom, he greeted him with a slow nod and held out the missive, avoiding looking him in the eye.

Tom took it from him, and, similarly unwilling to break the silence charged with tacit understanding, turned to go back the way he had come. Then he heard Wells say: “Will you bring her last letter even though it needs no reply?” Tom turned and looked at the author with a profound sense of pity, although he did not know whether he felt sorry for Wells or himself, or possibly for Claire. At length he nodded glumly and left the house. Only when he was at a comfortable distance did he open the envelope and begin to read.

My love, There are no narcissi in my world, nor the least trace of any flower, and yet I swear that when I read your letter I can almost smell their fragrance. Yes, I can envisage myself standing beside you in the garden you speak of, which I imagine carefully tended by your lily-white hands and perhaps lulled by a babbling fountain. In some way, my love, thanks to you, I can smell them from here, from time’s distant shore.

Tom hung his head, imagining how moved the girl would be by these words, and he felt pity for her again, and in the final analysis, an overwhelming sense of self-disgust. The girl did not deserve to be deceived like this. The letters might save her life, but in the end they were only repairing the harm he had so selfishly caused, merely to quench the fire between his legs. He felt unable simply to congratulate himself for preventing her suicide and forget the whole thing, while Claire was ruining her life because of a lie, burying herself alive due to an illusion. The long walk to Harrow helped him gather his thoughts, and he concluded that the only reparation he could make that would ease his conscience would be actually to love her, to make into a reality the love for which she was willing to sacrifice herself, to bring Shackleton back from the year 2000, to make him risk life and limb for her, exactly as Claire was hoping. That was the only thing that would completely atone for his wrongdoing. But it was also the one thing he was powerless to do.

He was reflecting about this when, to his astonishment, he caught sight of the girl under the oak tree. Despite the distance, he recognized her at once. He stopped in his tracks, stunned. Incredible as it seemed, Claire was there, at the foot of the tree, shielding herself from the sun with the parasol he had traveled through time to bring her. He also glimpsed the coach at the bottom of the hill, and coachman nodding off on his perch. He quickly hid behind some bushes before one or other of them sensed his presence. He wondered what was Claire doing there, but the answer was obvious. Yes, she was waiting for him or rather she was waiting for Shackleton to step through a hole in the air from the year 2000. Unable to resign herself to living without him, the girl had decided to act, to defy fate, and what simpler way of doing so than by going to the place where the captain emerged to collect her letters. Desperation had compelled Claire to make a move that infringed the rules of the game. And, watching her from behind the bushes, Tom kicked himself for not having foreseen this possibility, especially as the girl had given him ample proof of her courage and intelligence He remained in hiding almost the entire morning, watching gloomily as she circled the oak tree, until finally she grew tired, climbed into her carriage, and went back to London. Then Tom finally emerged from his hiding place, left the letter under the stone, and made his own way back to the city. As he walked, he remembered the tormented words Wells had used to end his final letter: A terrible sorrow overwhelms me when I realize this is the last letter I am going to write you, my love.

You yourself told me it was, and I believe you are right about that, too. I would love nothing more than for us to go on writing to one another until we meet next May.

However, if there is one thing I have learned from all this, it is that the future is predestined, and you have already experienced it. And so I can only suppose something will happen to stop me from sending you more letters; possibly use of the machine will be banned and my hitherto unsuccessful mission called off. I feel torn, as I am sure you can imagine: On the one hand, I am happy to know that for me this is not a last farewell, for I shall see you again very soon. On the other, my heart breaks when I think that you will never hear from me again. But this does not mean my love for you will die. It will live, Claire, I promise you, for one thing I am sure of is my love for you. I shall carry on loving you from my flowerless world. D.