The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(66)
However, Lucy had not organized any séances that evening.
She had a far more thrilling proposal, she explained to her friend, smiling excitedly and leading her by the hand to her room, where she told her to sit down on a small armchair and be patient. Then she began riffling through her desk drawer. Open on a lectern on top of the desk lay a copy of Darwin’s The Voyage of the Beagle.
The page showed an illustration of a kiwi bird, an extraordinary-looking creature that her friend was copying onto a piece of paper, perhaps because tracing its simple, rounded forms required no artistic ability. Claire could not helping wondering whether, besides looking at the pictures, her friend had troubled to read the book that had become a favorite amongst the middle classes.
Once she had found what she was looking for, Lucy shut the drawer and turned to her friend with an ecstatic smile. “What could Lucy possibly find more exciting than communicating with dead people?” Claire wondered. She discovered the answer on reading the leaflet her friend thrust into her hand: communicating with people who had not yet been born. The flier advertised a company called Murray’s Time Travel which offered journeys through time, to the year 2000, to be precise, to witness the battle between automatons and humans that would decide the fate of humanity. Still stunned, Claire reread the leaflet, then studied the crude illustrations that apparently depicted the aforementioned battle. Amid ruined buildings, automatons and humans battled for the future of the world with strange-looking weapons.
The figure leading the human army caught her eye. The artist had drawn him in a more heroic pose than the others, and, according to the caption below, the picture was meant to represent the brave Captain Derek Shackleton.
Without giving Claire time to collect herself, Lucy explained she had visited the premises of Murray’s Time Travel that very morning. They had informed her that seats were still available for the second expedition, organized after the success of the first, and she had not hesitated to sign both of them up for it. Claire looked a little put out, but Lucy did not even bother to apologize for not having asked her friend’s permission and went on to explain how they would go about traveling to the future without their respective parents finding out, because she knew that if they did they would doubtless forbid them to go, or worse insist on going with them, and Lucy wanted to enjoy the year 2000 without the bore of being chaperoned. She had it all worked out: money would be no object, as she had persuaded her wealthy grandmother Margaret to give her the amount they needed to cover the cost of both tickets—naturally without telling her what it was for. She had even enlisted her friend Florence Burnett’s help. For “a small fee,” the greedy Florence was willing to send them a pretend invitation to spend the following Thursday at her country house at Kirkby.
And so, if Claire was in agreement, on that day the two of them would travel to the year 2000 and be back in time for tea without anybody being any the wiser. After Lucy had finished her gabbled speech, she looked at her friend expectantly.
“Well?” she said, “Will you go with me?” And Claire could not, would not, did not know how to refuse.
The next four days had sped by in a whirl of excitement about the impending trip and the enjoyment of having to prepare for it in secret. And now, Claire and Lucy found themselves outside the picturesque premises of Murray’s Time Travel, wrinkling their noses at the stench exuding from the entrance. On noticing them, one of the employees, who was cleaning off what looked like excrement on the front of the building, hastened to apologize for the unpleasant smell and assured them if they ventured across the threshold with a handkerchief or scarf for protection, or holding their breath, they would be attended to in a manner befitting two such lovely ladies. Lucy dismissed the man with a desultory wave of the hand, annoyed that anyone should draw attention to an inconvenience she preferred to ignore so that nothing would detract from the thrill of the moment. She seized her friend’s arm, and Claire was unsure whether Lucy’s gesture was meant to bolster her courage or infect her with enthusiasm as she propelled her through the doors to the future. As they entered the building, out of the corner of her eye Claire glimpsed Lucy’s rapt expression, and smiled to herself. She knew the reason for her friend’s nervous impatience: Lucy was already anxious to come back and describe the future to her friends and family, who, whether out of fear or indifference, or because they had been unable to secure a seat, had stayed behind in the insipid present. Yes, for Lucy this was simply another adventure with which to regale people—like a picnic ruined by a cloudburst or an unexpectedly eventful crossing in a boat. Claire had agreed to accompany her friend on this trip, but for very different reasons. Lucy planned to visit the year 2000 in the same way she would go to a new store and be home in time for tea. Claire, on the other hand, had absolutely no intention of ever coming back.
A snooty assistant guided them to the hall where the thirty other privileged travelers to the year 2000 were chattering excitedly. There she told them a glass of punch would be served before Mr. Murray welcomed them, explained the itinerary of their trip to the future and the historic moment they were about to witness. When she had finished, she curtsied abruptly and left them to their own devices in the spacious room, which to judge by the boxes at the sides and the stage at one end had once been the stalls of the theater. Without the rows of seats and with only a few small tables and uncomfortable-looking couches, the room looked overly big. This impression was strengthened by the high ceilings, suspended from which were dozens of oil lamps. Seen from underneath, these lamps resembled a colony of sinister spiders living oblivious to the world below. Apart from a few octogenarians, who had difficulty standing because of their brittle bones, no one appeared to want to sit on the couches, perhaps because they found it easier to contain their excitement in an upright position. The only other pieces of furniture were a few tables where a couple of diligent serving girls had begun doling out punch, a wooden pulpit on the stage, and, of course, the imposing statue of Captain Shackleton beside the doorway, welcoming them as they walked in.