The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(137)
“Ah, you appear to know a great deal about the future, Mr. Peachey!” I interjected, with that perfect mixture of sarcasm and civility that only a man of breeding knows how to carry off. “Have you ever visited the year 2000? I have, and I assure you it all seemed very tangible to me. But I don’t recall seeing you there. Which expedition did you go on?”
Peachey looked at me for a few moments in silence, as though unsure how to respond to my exquisite ambiguity.
“No . . . I’ve never visited the future . . . ,” he confessed awkwardly.
“Never? Oh, what a shame, my dear Mr. Peachey. Then I suppose you’ll agree with me when I say that he who pronounces on what he has not seen runs the risk, far too costly in my view, of making a blunder and looking foolish in front of others,” I said, smiling amiably at him. “Consequently, before you continue down that path, allow me to inform you, and Claire will doubtless back me up, that the future does exist. Yes, somewhere in time that future is happening at this very moment, and it is no less real than this instant in which we are conversing. And, unlike you, I can vouch for this, for I have been to the year 2000. A year in which the human race finds itself on the verge of extinction due to the evil automatons, not the Martians, even if thanks to a man named Derek Shackleton we will succeed in defeating them.”
“I wish Captain Shackleton were here now,” Harold murmured behind me.
Peachey glanced at him with sudden interest.
“I don’t think one man could do much,” he said dryly, shrugging his shoulders.
The banker’s second comment nettled me even more than his first. Not only did this man appear impervious to my disdain, choosing to ignore my last remark and responding to that of the vulgar coachman instead, he also dared to comment on what Shackleton could or could not do.
“Captain Shackleton isn’t just anyone, Mr. Peachey,” I said, trying not to show my annoyance. “Captain Shackleton is a hero. A hero, do you understand?”
“Even so, I doubt very much whether in this situation he could—”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Peachey, I couldn’t disagree with you more,” I interrupted him once again, with deliberate contempt. “However, this is no time to become embroiled in what has the makings of a fascinating discussion, and which under other circumstances would have given me great pleasure, for there is nothing I like more than an exchange of opinions as clever as they are frivolous. I shall simply point out to you that if you had traveled to the future, you would know what a true hero is and what he can achieve.” After smiling at him politely, I could not help offering a final barbed remark: “How rude of me, Mr. Peachey; why, I’ve only just realized that, not having enjoyed as comfortable a position two years ago as you do now, the price of a ticket was doubtless beyond your means.”
I watched Peachey purse his lips to stop himself from saying something that might have spoiled his outward show of refinement. Then, having stifled this urge, he tilted his head to one side, searching his mind for a more appropriate but equally stinging retort, and I realized that without meaning to we had entered into a verbal sparring match. While the banker was busy trying to think up a reply, I took the opportunity to glance quickly about the room. Everyone had stopped talking and was looking at us: the servants had taken a backseat, no doubt incapable of following the discussion, excepting Harold, who was sitting closer to Lucy, Madeleine, and my wife. They had risen from their chairs, alarmed by the dangerous direction our conversation was taking, while a step away from us, tense as the strings on a violin, stood Claire and Andrew. I grinned at Peachey, my excitement doubled by having such a large audience. The gramophone’s lively melody cut through the silence.
“What do you know about my life two years ago?” my adversary said at last, barely able to contain his agitation.
I shook my head slowly, disappointed at Peachey’s response. He had made the classic beginner’s error: even a child knows that answering with a question forcibly exposes one to the wit of the person who must respond to it.
“As much as I need to know, Mr. Peachey,” I retorted calmly, swirling my glass. “That you appeared quite literally out of nowhere, with no name and no money, only to marry the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in London.”
“What are you insinuating, Charles?” Claire chimed in.
I turned toward her with a movement as theatrical as it was graceful.
“Insinuating? Oh, God forbid I should insinuate anything, Claire!” I said, giving her my most dazzling smile. “Insinuations rarely satisfy the one who makes them, for they force those who are blameless to defend themselves, whilst the guilty can simply ignore them without arousing anyone’s suspicions. That’s why I have always preferred being labeled impudent rather than a hypocrite, my dear, not because I care about other people’s opinion of me, but because I like everyone to know mine.”
“Oh we all know perfectly well how you love giving your opinion, Charles. But allow me to remind you that in this instance you are referring to someone about whom you know nothing,” Claire retorted, visibly upset. “And as you yourself warned John a few moments ago, he who pronounces on things he knows nothing about runs the risk, far too costly in your view, of looking foolish in front of others.”
I positively beamed.
“But I’m the first to admit my ignorance, Claire!” I exclaimed, spreading my arms and glancing around me with a look of innocence. “And I’d like nothing more than to remedy it. My dear Claire, speculating about where your mysterious husband sprang from has been the favorite pastime of all London for the past two years! I’m not exaggerating when I say that since the tragic death of Mr. Murray it has been the most popular topic of discussion in the clubs and salons.”