The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(89)

It was then he found himself face to face with the only person in the whole of London he had never wanted to see again, and the world suddenly felt like a tiny, mysterious place, like a magician’s hat which could hold everything.

“Captain Shackleton, what are you doing in my time?” asked Claire Haggerty, completely bewildered.

Only inches away from her, Tom received the full impact of the look of devotion that his mere presence triggered in her. He was even able to glimpse the blue of her eyes, a deep, intense blue he knew he would never find anywhere else in the world, however many oceans or skies he saw—a fierce, pure blue, which was probably on the Creator’s palette when he colored heaven, and of which her eyes were now the sole custodians.

Only when he had managed to break free from her enchanted gaze did Tom realize that this chance encounter could cost him his life. He glanced around to make sure no one was eyeing them suspiciously, but was too dazed to take in what he saw.

He fixed his eyes once more on the girl, who was still staring at him overwhelmed with disbelief and emotion, waiting for him to explain his presence there. But what could he tell her without giving away the truth, which would be tantamount to signing his own death warrant? “I traveled back in time to bring you your parasol,” he blurted out.

He immediately bit his lip. It sounded absurd, but it was the first thing that had occurred to him. He watched Claire’s eyes grow even wider, and prepared for the worst.

“Oh, thank you, you’re so kind,” she replied, scarcely able to disguise her joy. “But you shouldn’t have taken the trouble.

As you can see, I have another,” and she showed him a parasol almost identical to the one he had hidden in his chest of drawers. “However, as you’ve journeyed through time in order to bring it to me, I’ll gladly take it back, and I promise I’ll get rid of this one.” Now it was Tom’s turn to conceal his astonishment at what the girl was saying: she had swallowed his lie completely! Yet wasn’t it logical? Murray’s pantomime was too convincing for a girl as young as her to question it; Claire believed she had traveled to the year 2000, she truly believed it, and her certainty gave him legitimacy as a time traveler. It was that simple. When he managed to recover from his surprise, he realized she was staring at his empty hands, wondering perhaps why they were not clasping the parasol that had compelled him to journey across an entire century with the sole aim of returning it to her.

“I don’t have it with me,” he apologized, shrugging foolishly.

She waited, expectantly, for him to come up with a solution to this, and in that sudden silence enclosing them amid the hustle and bustle, Tom glimpsed the girl’s slim, graceful body beneath her robe, and felt painfully aware of how long it had been since he was with a woman. After burying Megan, he had only received the phony tenderness of whores, and had recently forgone even that, considering himself tough enough to do without those bartered caresses. Or so he thought. Now he had in front of him a beautiful, elegant woman, a woman a fellow such as he could never hope to possess, and yet she was gazing at him like no other woman ever had. Would that gaze be the tunnel that could lead to him storming the impregnable fortress? Men had risked their lives for much less since the beginning of time. And so, responding to the atavistic desire of his species echoing inside him, Tom did what his reason least advised: “But I can give it to you this afternoon,” he ventured, “if you’d be kind enough to take tea with me at the Aerated Bread Company near Charing Cross Underground station.” Claire’s face lit up.

“Of course, Captain,” she replied, excited. “I’ll be there.” Tom nodded, gave her a smile purged of all lust, and tried hard to mask his shock, both at her for accepting as much as at himself for having proposed a meeting with the very woman he should flee if he valued his life. Clearly it did not mean that much to him if he was prepared to risk it for a roll in the hay with this vision of loveliness. Just then, someone cried out Claire’s name and they turned as one. A fair-haired girl was making her way towards them through the crowd.

“It’s my friend Lucy,” said Claire, with amused irritation, “she won’t let me out of her sight for a second.” “Please, don’t tell her I’ve come here from the future,” Tom warned quickly, regaining some of his composure, “I’m traveling incognito. If anyone found out, I’d get into a lot of trouble.” Claire looked at him a little uneasily.

“I’ll be waiting for you at the tearooms at four o’clock,” Tom said brusquely, taking his leave. “But, please promise me you’ll come alone.” As he thought, Claire promised without demur. Although, owing to his circumstances, Tom had never been to the ABC tearooms himself, he was aware they had been all the rage since the day they opened. For they were the only place two young people could meet without the bothersome presence of a chaperone.

He had heard they were airy, pleasant, and warm, and offered tea and buns at an affordable price. Thus, they soon became the perfect alternative to walks in the cold or meetings in family reception rooms spied upon by the young lady’s mother to which young suitors had hitherto been condemned. True, they would be seen, but Tom could think of no better place to meet her— not one where she would have agreed to go unaccompanied.

By the time Lucy reached Claire, Tom had vanished into the crowd. But she still asked her dazed friend who the stranger was she had seen her talking to from a distance. Claire simply shook her head mysteriously. As she expected, Lucy immediately soon forgot the matter and dragged her over to a flower stall, where they could stock up with heliotropes, bringing the aroma of distant jungles into their bedrooms. And while Claire Haggerty was letting herself be led by the arm and thinking that traveling through time was the most gentlemanly thing anyone had ever done for her, Tom Blunt quickly left Covent Garden Market by the opposite exit, elbowing his way through the crowd and trying not to think of poor Perkins.