The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(90)

He slumped back wards onto his bed in the hovel as if he had been shot point-blank. Lying there, he carried on cursing his foolhardy behavior out loud, as he had been doing in the garbled manner of a drunkard all the way home. Had he taken leave of his senses? What the hell did he think he was doing asking the girl to meet him again? Well, the answer was easy enough.

What he wanted was obvious, and it did not involve marveling at Claire’s beauty for a couple of hours, like someone admiring an unattainable object in a shop window, tortured by the idea he would never have her. Not on his life: he was going to take advantage of the girl being in love with his other self, the brave Captain Shackleton, to achieve an even greater goal. And he was amazed that for this fleeting pleasure he was prepared to suffer the consequences such an irresponsible course of action would bring, including his probable demise. “Did he really value his life so little?” he asked himself yet again. Yes, it was sad but true: possessing that beautiful woman was more meaningful to him than anything that might be waiting for him round the corner in his miserable future.

Thinking about it objectively he had to admit that the logical thing to do was not to turn up at the meeting and to avoid trouble. But this was no guarantee against him bumping into the girl again somewhere else and having to explain what he was still doing in the nineteenth century, and even invent some excuse for not showing up at the tearoom. Not going was not the answer, apparently. On the contrary, the only solution he could think of was to go there and cook up a way of avoiding having to explain himself if they bumped into each other again in the future. Some reason why she must not go near him, or even speak to him, he thought to himself, excitedly, as though that were his main reason for seeing her again and not another more vulgar one. All things considered, this meeting might even prove beneficial to him in the long run. Yes, this might be a way of solving the problem once and for all. For it was clear this must be their first and only encounter. He had no choice: he must indulge his desire for the girl on condition that he succeeded in ruling out any possibility of them ever meeting again, nipping any relationship that might grow up between them in the bud. For he could not see how they would keep it secret, conceal it from the multitude of spies Murray had posted all over the city, which would put not only him in danger but her, too. This meeting, then, felt like the last meal of the condemned man, and he resolved to enjoy every minute of it.

When it was time to go, he took the parasol, straightened his cap, and left the boardinghouse. Down in the street, he gave way to an impulse and stopped in front of Mrs. Ritter’s stall.

“Good afternoon, Tom,” said the old lady.

“Mrs. Ritter,” he replied, stretching out his hand, “I think the time has come for us both to see my future.” The old woman glanced up at him in surprise, but at once she gripped Tom’s hand and with a wizened finger slowly traced the lines on his palm, like someone reading a book.

“My God, Tom!” she gasped, gazing up at him with mournful dismay. “I see … death!” With a grimace of resigned fortitude, Tom accepted the terrible prediction and withdrew his hand gently from the old woman’s clasp. His worst fears had been confirmed. Getting under this woman’s skirts would mean death: that was the reward for lust. He shrugged and said good-bye to the alarmed Mrs. Ritter, who doubtless had assumed fate would be kinder to him, then walked down the street towards the tearoom where Claire Haggerty was waiting for him. Yes, there was no doubt about it, he was going to die, but could he call what he had now a life? He smiled and quickened his pace.

He had never felt so alive.





24


When he arrived, Claire was already sitting at one of the small tables at the back of the tearoom, next to a picture window through which the afternoon light filtered onto her hair. Tom gazed at her with awe from the doorway, savoring the knowledge that it was him who this beautiful young girl was waiting for. Once more, he was struck by her fragile demeanor, which contrasted so delightfully with her lively gestures and fervent gaze, and he felt a pleasant stirring inside, in that barren place where he thought nothing would ever grow again. At least he was not completely dead inside, he could still experience emotion. Clutching the parasol in his sweaty palm, he began making his way towards her through the tables, determined to do everything in his power to have her in his arms by the end of the afternoon.

“Excuse me, sir,” a young woman on her way out of the tearooms waylaid him, “might I ask where you acquired those boots?” Taken aback, Tom followed the woman’s eyes down to his feet.

He almost jumped out of his skin when he saw he was wearing Captain Shackleton’s exotic footwear. He stared at the girl, at a loss what to say.

“In Paris,” he replied.

The young woman appeared content with his reply. She nodded, as if to say such footwear could only come from the birthplace of fashion. She thanked him for the information with a friendly smile and left the tearoom. Tom shook his head and, clearing his throat like a baritone about to walk out on stage, continued across the room towards Claire, who had not yet noticed him and was gazing dreamily out of the window.

“Good afternoon, Miss Haggerty,” he said.

Claire smiled when she saw him.

“I believe this is yours,” he said, holding out the parasol as if it were a bunch of roses.

“Oh, thank you, Captain,” the girl responded, “but, please, take a seat, take a seat.” Tom sat down on the empty chair, while Claire assessed the sorry state of her parasol with slight dismay. After the speedy examination, Claire relegated the object to the side of the table, as though its role in the story were over. She began studying Tom with that strange yearning in her eyes he had noticed during their first meeting, and which had flattered him even though he knew it was not directed at him but at the character he was playing.