The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(82)
“I’m Claire Haggerty, Captain,” she introduced herself, trying to stop her voice from quaking, “and I’ve come from the nineteenth century to help you rebuild the world.” Captain Shackleton went on staring at her, ashen-faced, through eyes that had seen the destruction of London, raging fires, and piles of dead bodies, eyes that had seen the most atrocious side of life but had no idea how to cope with this delicate, exquisite creature in front of him.
“There you are, Miss Haggerty!” she heard someone cry out behind her.
Taken aback, Claire wheeled round and saw the guide coming down the steep path towards her. Mazursky was shaking his head disapprovingly but was clearly relieved to have found her.
“I thought I told you all to stay together!” he cried shrilly, as he walked up to her and seized her roughly by the arm. “You could have stayed behind forever!” Claire turned towards Shackleton to implore his aid, but to her astonishment the captain had gone, vanished as though he had been nothing but a figment of her imagination. Indeed, his departure had been so abrupt that as Mazursky dragged her towards where the others were waiting for them, Claire wondered in all seriousness whether she had really seen him or if he had been a product of her inflamed imagination. They rejoined the group, and before heading back to the Cronotilus, the guide made them get in a line with the marksmen at the rear, and, visibly irritated, ordered them not to wander off again.
“It’s a good thing I noticed you were missing,” Lucy told her, taking Claire’s arm. “Were you dreadfully afraid?” Claire sighed and let herself be guided by Lucy like a convalescent patient, unable to think of anything except Captain Shackleton’s gentle eyes. But had they looked at her with love? His speechlessness and bewilderment were definite symptoms of infatuation and suggested that he had. In any era they were the typical signs of being smitten. But even if it were true, what good was it to her if Captain Shackleton had fallen in love with her since she was never going to see him again, she thought, as she passively let herself be helped onto the time tram, as if she had no will of her own. Dejected, she leaned back in her seat, and when she felt the violent judder of the steam engine starting up, she had to stop herself from dissolving into a puddle of tears. As the vehicle shunted through the fourth dimension, Claire wondered how she would endure having to go back and live in her own boring time, forever, especially now she was sure that the only man with whom she could be happy would be born long after she was dead.
“We’re on our way home, ladies and gentlemen,” announced Mazursky, unable to conceal his contentment at nearing the end of that eventful journey.
Claire looked at him with annoyance. Yes, they were on their way home, home to the dreary nineteenth century, and they had not jeopardized the fabric of time. Of course Mazursky was pleased; he had prevented a silly young girl from destroying the universe and avoided the telling-off he would have received from Gilliam Murray had he failed. What did it matter if the price had been her happiness? Claire was so infuriated she could have slapped the guide there and then, even though in the end she realized that Mazursky had only been doing his duty. The universe was more important than the fate of any one person, even if she was that person. She gritted her teeth, trying to curb her irritation at the guide’s beaming face. Fortunately, part of her rage evaporated when she looked down and saw that her hands were empty. Mazursky had not done such a perfect job after all, although how far could a mere parasol affect the fabric of time?
23
When the girl and the guide vanished along the steep path, Captain Derek Shackleton left his hiding place and paused for a few moments looking at where the woman had been standing, as though expecting to discover a trace of her perfume or her voice lingering in the empty space, some sign of her presence that would prove she had not been a figment of his imagination. He was still reeling from the meeting. He could scarcely believe it had really happened. He remembered the girl’s name: “I’m Claire Haggerty and I’ve come from the nineteenth century to help you rebuild the world,” she had said, with a charming curtsy. But her name was not the only thing he remembered. He was surprised at how clearly the image of her face was etched in his mind. He could conjure clear as day her pale visage, her slightly wild-looking features, her smooth, shapely mouth, her jet-black hair, her graceful bearing, her voice. And he remembered the look in her eyes. Above all, he remembered the way she had gazed at him, enraptured, almost in awe, with mesmerized joy. No woman had ever looked at him like that before.
Then he noticed the parasol, and he flushed with shame once more as he remembered the reason for the girl dropping it. He went over and carefully picked it up off the ground, as though it were an iron bird fallen from some metallic nest. It was a dainty, elegant parasol that betrayed the moneyed status of its owner.
What was he supposed to do with it? One thing was clear; he could not leave it there.
Parasol in hand, he set off to where the others were waiting for him, taking the opportunity to collect himself as he walked.
To avoid arousing their suspicions, he must hide his agitation at the encounter with the girl. Just then, Solomon leapt from behind a rock, brandishing his sword. Although he had been daydreaming, the brave Captain Shackleton reacted in a flash, striking the automaton with the parasol as it leapt on him, baying for his blood in his booming metallic voice. The blow glanced off Solomon, but it took him by surprise, and he teetered for a few seconds before toppling backwards down a small incline.