The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(93)
“I understand,” she said finally. “You made those journeys prior to this one, even though you showed up here days afterwards.” “Exactly,” he exclaimed, and encouraged by how much sense this gibberish was apparently making to her, he added: “although from your point of view this would seem to be my first visit, actually it isn’t. I’ve made at least half a dozen other forays into your time before this one. What’s more, this journey, which for you is my first, is also my last, because use of the machine has been prohibited.” “Prohibited?” asked Claire, her fascination growing.
Tom cleared his throat with a gulp of tea, and, emboldened by the mesmerizing effect his words were having on the girl, went on: “Yes, Claire. The machine was built halfway through the war, but when the mission failed, the inventors forgot about their utopian idea of preventing the war before it broke out and concentrated their efforts instead on trying to win it, and invented weapons that could cut through the automatons” reinforced armor,” the girl nodded, probably recalling the soldiers” impressive guns. “The machine was left to rot, though it was placed under guard to prevent anyone traveling illegally into the past and tampering with anything they felt like. Still, I was able to use it secretly, but I only managed to open the tunnel for ten hours, and I have three hours left before it closes. That’s all the time I have, Claire. After that I have to go back to my own world. If I stay here, hero or no hero, they’ll find me and execute me for traveling illegally in time. That means, in three hours from now … I’ll be gone forever.” With these words, he pressed Claire’s hand very tenderly, while inwardly applauding his own performance. To his amazement, not only had he solved the problem of possible chance meetings in the future, but had managed to tell her they only had three hours left together before saying good-bye forever. Only three. No more.
“You risked your life to bring me my parasol,” she said slowly, as though summing up, as though suddenly she had understood the real dangers Tom had braved.
“Well, the parasol was only an excuse,” he replied, leaning over the table and gazing passionately into her eyes.
The moment had come, he said to himself. It was now or never.
“I risked my life to see you again because I love you, Claire,” he lied in the softest voice he could muster.
He had said it. Now she must say the same thing to him. Now she must confess she loved him, too, that is, that she loved the brave Captain Shackleton.
“How can you love me, you don’t even know me,” the girl teased, smiling sweetly.
This was not the response Tom had been hoping for. He disguised his dismay with another gulp of tea. Did she not realize they had no time for anything except giving themselves to one another? He only had three blasted hours! Had he not been clear enough? He replaced the cup in its saucer and glanced out of the window at the boardinghouse opposite, its beds waiting with their clean sheets, ever further out of reach. The girl was right, he did not know her, and she did not know him. And as long as they remained strangers, there was no possibility of them ever ending up in bed. He was fighting a losing battle. But what if they did know each other, he suddenly thought? Did he not come from the future? What was there to stop him claiming that from his point of view they already knew each other? Between this meeting and their encounter in the year 2000, he could make up any number of events it would be impossible for her to refute, he told himself, believing he had finally discovered the perfect strategy for leading her to the boardinghouse, meek as a lamb.
“This time you’re wrong, Claire. I know you far better than you think,” he confessed solemnly, clasping her hand in both of his, as though it were a wounded sparrow. “I know who you are, your dreams, your desires, the way you see the world. I know everything about you, and you know everything about me. And I love you, Claire. I fell in love with you in a time that doesn’t exist yet.” She looked at him, astonished.
“But if we’re never to meet again,” she mused, “how will we get to know each other? How will you fall in love with me?” Breaking out in a sudden sweat, Tom realized he had fallen into his own trap. He stifled a curse and, playing for time, gazed at the street outside. What could he say to her now? He watched the carriages go by, indifferent to his distress, making their way through the vendors” barrows. Then his eye fell on the red pillar box on the corner, solid and steadfast, sporting the insignia Victoria Regina on the front.
“I fell in love with you through your letters,” he blurted out.
“What letters? What are you talking about?” exclaimed the girl, startled.
“The love letters we’ve been sending one another all these years.” The young girl stared at him, aghast. And Tom understood that what he said next had to be credible, for it would determine whether the girl surrendered to him forever or slapped him angrily in the face. He closed his eyes and smiled weakly, pretending he was evoking some memory, while he desperately tried to think.
“It happened during my first exploratory journey to your time,” he said finally. “I came out on the hill I told you about.
From there I walked to London, where I was able to verify that the machine was completely reliable when it came to opening the hole at the specified date: I had traveled from the year 2000 to November 8, 1896.” “November 8?” “Yes, Claire, November 8, that’s to say, the day after tomorrow,” Tom confirmed. “That was my first foray into your century. But I scarcely had time to do anything else, because I had to get back to the hill before the hole closed up again. So I hurried as fast as I could, and I was about to enter the tunnel that would return me to the year 2000, when I saw something I hadn’t noticed before.” “What?” she asked, burning with curiosity.