The Map of Time (Trilogía Victoriana #1)(95)
“Are you all right, Miss Haggerty?” he asked when she had succeeded in making her way over to him. “Perhaps a little fresh air would do you good …” The girl nodded and settled her hand on Tom’s arm like a tame falcon landing on its owner’s glove, as though going outside to get some air and escape from all those prying eyes was the best idea he had ever had. Tom led her out of the tearoom, spluttering an apology for having upset her in that manner.
Once outside, they paused on the pavement, unable to help glancing up at the boardinghouse looming across the road. With a mixture of unease and resignation, Claire, whose cheeks had recovered some of their color out in the cold air, studied the place where that afternoon she was fated to give herself to the brave Captain Shackleton, the savior of the human race, a man not yet born, and yet who was standing next to her, as if by magic, trying to avoid her eyes.
“And what if I refuse, Captain?” she spoke as though addressing the air. “What if I don’t go up there with you?” It would be fair to say that the question took Tom by surprise, for, in view of the disastrous conclusion to their meeting, he had given up all hope of accomplishing his wicked aims. However, despite her impressive fainting fit, the girl had forgotten nothing of what he had told her and was clearly still convinced by his story. Tom had improvised on the blank page of the future a chance encounter, a romance that would explain what was going to happen, and even encourage the girl to yield to it without fear or regret, and to her, this was the only possible outcome.
A momentary pang of remorse made him consider the possibility of helping the girl out of this predicament which she seemed ready to face as though it were an act of contrition. He could tell her the future was not written in stone, that she could choose.
But he had invested too much energy in this venture to abandon his prey now she was almost within reach. He remembered one of Gilliam Murray’s pet phrases, and repeated it in a suitably doom-laden voice: “I’ve no idea what effect it would have on the fabric of time.” Claire looked at him rather uneasily as he shrugged his shoulders, absolving himself of all responsibility. After all, she could not blame him for anything: he was there because she had told him to come in her letters. He had traveled through time to perform an act Claire had told him they had already performed, and with a wealth of detail, moreover. He had journeyed across time to set their romance in motion, to trigger off what had already happened but had not yet taken place. The girl seemed to have reached the same conclusion: what other choice did she have, to walk away and carry on with her life, marry one of her admirers? This was her opportunity to experience something she had always dreamt of: a great love, a love that spanned the centuries. Not seizing it would be like having deceiving herself all her life.
“The most magical experience of my life.” She smiled. “Did I really write that?” “Yes,” replied Tom emphatically. “Those were your exact words.” The girl looked at him, still hesitating. She could not go to bed with a stranger just like that. Except that this was a unique case: she had to give herself to him or the universe would suffer the consequences. She must sacrifice herself to protect the world. “But was it really a sacrifice?” she wondered. Did she not love him? Was the flurry of emotions that overwhelmed her soul whenever she looked at him not love? It had to be. The feeling that made her light up inside and go weak at the knees had to be love, because if that was not love, then what was? Captain Shackleton had told her they would make love that afternoon and then she would write him beautiful letters; why resist if that was what she really wanted? Ought she to refuse simply because she was retracing the steps of another Claire who was, after all, she herself? Ought she to refuse because it felt more like an obligation than a genuine desire, a spontaneous gesture? Try as she might, she could find no good reason for not doing what she longed to do with all her heart. Neither Lucy nor any of her other friends would approve of her going to bed with a stranger.
In the end, this was precisely what decided the matter for her.
Yes, she would go to bed with him, and she would spend the rest of her life pining for him, writing him long beautiful letters soaked with her perfume and her tears. She knew she was both passionate and stubborn enough to keep the flame of her love alive, even though she would never again see the person who had set it ablaze. It was her fate, apparently. An exceptional fate, not without a hint of tragedy, far more pleasant to bear than the dreary marriage she might enter into with one of her dull suitors.
She set her lips in a determined line.
“I hope you aren’t exaggerating to avoid a blow to your pride, Captain,” she joked.
“I’m afraid there’s only one way to find out,” Tom parried.
The girl’s determination to deal with the situation in such a good-natured way was a huge relief to Tom, who no longer felt so bad about having his way with her. He was preparing to enjoy her body by means of a despicable ploy before vanishing from her life forever, and although he considered the conceited young woman was only getting what she deserved, his own under-handed behavior made him feel surprisingly uneasy. He deduced from his sense of disquiet that he still had some scruples after all.
But he felt decidedly less guilty now that the girl also seemed set on deriving unequivocal enjoyment from offering her body to Captain Shackleton, the courageous hero who whispered her name amid the ruins of the future.
Compared to some of the places Tom was used to sleeping in, the boardinghouse was clean, even cozy. The girl might think it drab, unfit for someone of her social class, but at least there was nothing to make her flee in horror. While he was asking about a room, Tom watched the girl out of the corner of his eye as she casually surveyed the pictures decorating the modest hallway.