The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(91)
“I must compliment you on your disguise, Captain,” the girl said, after looking him up and down, “it’s truly amazing. You could be an East End barrow boy.” “Er, thanks,” Tom stammered, forcing a smile to disguise his pique at her remark.
What was he so surprised about in fact? Her comment only confirmed what he already knew: if he was able to enjoy the company of this stuck-up young woman for an afternoon, it was precisely because she believed he was an intrepid hero of the future.
And it was precisely thanks to this misunderstanding that he would be able to teach her a lesson, by obtaining from her something which under other circumstances she would never have conceded. He disguised the joy the thought gave him by glancing around the room, taking the opportunity to try to spot one of Gilliam Murray’s possible spies among the chattering customers, but he saw no one who struck him as suspicious.
“I can’t be too careful,” he remarked, turning back to face Claire. “Like I said, I mustn’t draw attention to myself, and that would be impossible if I wore my armor. That’s why I must also ask you not to call me Captain.” “Very well,” said the girl, and then, unable to control her excitement at being privy to a secret no one else knew about, added: “I can’t believe you’re really Captain Derek Shackleton!” Startled, Tom begged her to be quiet.
“Oh, forgive me,” she apologized, her face flushing, “only I’m so excited. I still can’t believe I’m having tea with the savior of—” Luckily, the girl broke off when she saw the waitress coming over. They ordered tea for two and an assortment of cakes and buns. When she had left to fetch their order, they stared at each other in silence for a few moments, grinning foolishly. Tom watched the girl attempt to regain her composure, while he thought of how to steer the conversation onto a more personal footing that would assist his plans. He had chosen the tearoom because there was an inexpensive but clean-looking boardinghouse opposite that had seemed like the perfect venue for their union.
Now all he needed to do was employ his powers of seduction, if he had any, to try to get her there. He knew this would be no easy feat: evidently a young lady like Claire, who probably still had her virtue intact, would not agree to go to bed with a man she had only just met, even if she did think he was Capitan Shackleton.
“How did you get here?” asked Claire, oblivious to his machinations. “Did you stow away on the Cronotilus?” Tom had to stifle a grimace of irritation at her question: the last thing he wanted while attempting to spin a credible yarn that would enable him to have his way with this lovely creature was to have to justify his earlier fabrication. However, he could scarcely tell her he had traveled back in time in order to return her parasol and expect her simply to accept it, as though it were most natural thing in the world for people to run back and forth between centuries on unimportant errands. Luckily, the sudden appearance of the waitress bringing their order gave him time to think up an answer that would satisfy Claire.
“The Cronotilus?” he asked, pretending he knew nothing of the time tram’s existence, for if he had used it to travel back to this century, he would have no choice but to stay there until the next expedition to the year 2000. That was almost a month away, which meant this meeting need not be their last.
“It’s the steam tram we traveled to your century in, across that dreadful place called the fourth dimension,” Claire explained to him. Then she paused for a few moments before adding: “But if you didn’t come here on the Cronotilus, then how did you get here? Is there some other means of time travel?” “Of course, there’s another means, Miss Haggerty,” Tom assured her, assuming that if the girl was taken in by Gilliam’s hoax, that is to say, if she believed time travel was possible, then the chances were that he could make up any method he liked and she would believe it. “Our scientists have invented a machine that travels through time instantly, without the need for tiresome journeys through the fourth dimension.” “And can this machine travel to any era?” the girl demanded, mesmerized.
“Any time, any time at all,” replied Tom casually, as though he were fed up of traveling across the centuries and the creation and destruction of civilizations bored him to tears.
He reached for a bun and munched on it cheerfully, as if to show her that despite all he had seen, he could still enjoy the simplest pleasures of life, such as English baking.
Claire asked: “Do you have it with you? Can you show it to me?” “Show you what?” “The time machine you used to travel here.” Tom almost choked on his bun.
“No, no,” he declared hastily, “that’s out of the question, entirely out of the question.” She responded in a manner that took Tom by surprise, pouting rather childishly and folding her arms stiffly.
“I can’t show it to you because … it’s not something you can see,” he improvised, trying to mollify her anger before it set in.
“You mean it’s invisible?” the girl looked at him suspiciously.
“I mean, it’s not a carriage with wings that flies through time,” he explained.
“What is it then?” Tom stifled a sigh of despair. What was it, indeed, and why could he not show it to her? “It’s an object that doesn’t move physically through the time continuum. It’s fixed in the future and from there it, well … it makes holes we can travel through to other eras. Like a drill, only instead of making holes in rocks … it digs tunnels through the fabric of time. That’s why I can’t show it to you, although I’d like nothing better.” The girl was silent.