No Time Like the Present

by Ellison Blackburn

  “Thank you,” I say to the coachman, who hands me one of the parcels.

  “Why certainly, sir,” Bailey says, a twinge surprised by my acknowledgment. “It’ll be uh egg an’ green pepper sam-mich in there. Right tasty. I’m sure you’ll like it.”

  “You don’t mind eating out here, do you, Sinclair? We’re rather used to it, and the day’s fine.”

  “Not at all, and thank you as well, for thinking of me. I was hungry, but it slipped my mind for the moment, I guess. You saved us all. My belly is a rude conversationalist.”

  “That’s all, Bailey.” On this cue, the errand-running driver saunters back to the carriage, swinging his arms energetically at his sides. “So, do tell; what is your opinion on ‘society and its many idiotic rules’ or was it infernal rules?” Owen asks in a playful tone, deftly rolling the edges of the paper sack over his sandwich. “I can tell you it is nice not to have to deal with it as much in the U.S. as one has to in England and even nicer escaping from society nearly altogether in India.”

  I nod, my mouth full of egg and green pepper sandwich providing a convenient excuse to study those expressive tiger eyes while also pondering his question. He’s not as guarded as Archer or as reserved as Quinn. This much is obvious. And still, a few new lines on his otherwise youthful face tell of recent grief. I judge him to be in his late thirties. For a minute, I can just imagine what my eldest brother would have been like if the Division had not hardened him. More like Reid. I swallow hard. The sandwich is satisfying if a little bland. “You say poe-tay-toe, I say poe-tah-toe,” I say.

  “Come again?”

  “I was telling Eddy that your world, which, granted is mine now too, is more unfair than idiotic or infernal. So, while I take your point, it makes little difference to me if the rules of society are laxer anywhere else since everywhere is the same when it comes to what matters.”

  Pausing before taking another bite of his lunch, “And what is that?” he asks, amused and at the same time piqued.

  “Acceptance that a brain is a brain, whether it’s housed in a male skull or a female one. Mine is as advanced as yours, for example. Indeed, men and women equally have far more cognitive capacity than a cow, and yet, only women are considered something that rhymes with cattle,” I say, making sure to keep my voice low.

  “Quite.” He smirks. “Though you must admit, not all women are as advanced.”

  “Ah, well, just because you cannot see what a woman thinks or feels, or what you do see and hear lacks appeal doesn’t mean they are incapable, inferior, or deserve to be traded on the open market like livestock. They have been corralled by the norms of their society and history is all.”

  “Hm. I accept your point, though not entirely. You do take it the extreme, Sinclair. I would argue many women are as shallow as they seem. As to that, …” When I open my mouth to argue he adds, “I’ll grant you the same can be said of many men.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think I’m taking it too far. My vantage point affords me an extremely telling view. I see that the mores of society are too ingrained in people for them to behave any differently. Women are trained to be or to appear to be ‘bauble-headed,’ and men have grown accustomed to seeing them as such, and therefore, don’t expect more. On the whole, men, society, women, all accept the imbalance without question.”

  “Let’s say I agree with you, which I do, but again, I would have to say it depends on the woman. I value my aunt opinion immensely, for instance.”

  “See, the operative word there is ‘opinion.’ A sympathetic man like you, sir, would, of course, consider a woman’s point of view, but actually deciding what is just or unjust about anything remains within your domain. And men, generally, do not spare a thought for gender injustice. That’s not a worthy cause, so I’m not even sure it would occur to them.

  “Actually, none of this was even remotely on my radar before I came here. The future is vastly different, equally balanced. Now, …” I chew thoughtfully on my sandwich for a minute and wait for a pair of women and several young children to shuffle by. “I don’t know what that grin of yours means yet, Owen, but I’ve had this conversation with my brothers as well. They too are so used to the unquestioned freedom they’ve had since the beginning of time that they miss my point. I’ve concluded this biased lens must be genetic.”

  “Are you following, Owen? Now, do you understand?”

  “Yes. Sinclair is a philosopher and an undercover suffragette.”

  “Oh no, my dear boy, you are only supporting River’s argument,” she says gently. She gives me a sideways glance, her eyes glinting mischievously. She squeezes his forearm and asks, “What would you call a man vying for male suffrage, nephew?”

  After the briefest hesitation, understanding dawns on Owen’s face. “I see your point; the word doesn’t exist.” Then he asks, “So, you are not a fighter of causes then, Sinclair?”

  “I do believe that’s a roundabout way of asking the same question your aunt asked of me earlier, sir. Why did I choose this disguise?” I ask, crumbling the paper bag in my hand and shoving it into my pocket to dispose of later.

  “I suppose it is.” He removes a handkerchief from his pocket and dusts his lap before wiping his fingers.

  Nonchalantly copying his movements, I say under my breath, “I’d rather not have to live out that aforementioned unfairness day in day out.” Then withdrawing my pocket watch, I glance at the time. “I also don’t care to spend my time making this society, or any really, see things my way. Change is slow, and I don’t have the patience for that sort of thing. I’m an immediate sort of person.”

  “But a coroner is a rather odd choice,” he says, unsmiling. Behind his comment, I see the disgust too. It is unseemly for a woman to concern herself with death but even more so with the anatomy of the human body, specifically the male body.

  “It was an easy decision really once Archer established himself at Wells Street Station. I was more like a medical examiner before too. I would investigate what was wrong, and when possible, extract the harmful agents. I also did implementations, though what I mean by that is a little harder to explain.” I get to my feet, and Owen stands as well, helping his aunt rise. “Although it’s been wonderful chatting with you, I had best return to work now.”

  “We are looking forward to joining you and your brothers for dinner on Friday, my dear.”

  “Me too,” I say over her hand. “And I vow not to go on about myself for another hour and a half. Rather, I have high expectations that you’ll return the favor and entertain me with answers to my twenty questions.”

  “I will own five, and my aunt must then supply the rest.” He doffs his cap at me and holds out an elbow for his aunt. “Until then, Sinclair.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “FI … YOU’RE BACK,” Archer says. At the moment, he is sitting on my metal work stool, his elbows resting on the counter behind him.

  “That’s stating the obvious,” I say, removing my jacket and donning a deeply stained frock coat before realizing my table is empty.

  He grunts, his expression drawn. “Is this how it’s going to be from now on? You snapping at me all the time?”

  I don’t know if I can help it be any other way. Our relationship has taken several backward steps. Neither of us can deny that, but I don’t want to return to tension-town either. It’s a lonely place. So, I say, “Nooo, not if you become slightly more creative with your conversation starters.”

  “Mm.”

  “Have you been waiting long?” I ask, following the question with another, “what is it?”

  “Would you want to take off early by chance? If your lab doesn’t need re-re-sanitizing, that is. I need your advice and would much get it sooner than later.” He looks at me squarely, his blue eyes flat.

  “What about? Tell me that first.” If my brother has anything to say, I will listen, but I’d had my say. I wasn’t about to try to bleed from him anything more than he wasn’t willing to give, like
why he couldn’t find it in himself to care for me more. I admit, there is a part of me that still wants to scream at him.

  To my relief, he says, “Kate.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you out front in a few minutes.”

  I flit my eyes over the room. I had meant to order supplies if a case wasn’t waiting for me when I returned. Now, a thorough inventory is out of the question, but it wouldn’t take me more than ten minutes to jot down the essentials. When I’m done, I clip the requisition form to the board outside the laboratory and hope someone sees it before day’s end.

  Quickly removing my apron, bringing it with me to rehang on the hook in the backroom, I shove my arms into my sleeves and button my coat as I leave out the back door.

  I needn’t have hurried. I’m kicking at the bits of rock and dirt at my feet waiting for Archer in front of the police station for another ten minutes. When his boots scuff the concrete steps, I start walking down the street, my rhythm coinciding with his down the path soon enough. Both of us fix our eyes on the Station’s signage as we pass it. The last line reads, “Reid St. Clair, Medical Examiner.” And at once, my thoughts jump to the fact that Edwina had not corrected my presumption—that she somehow possessed the knowledge that could see us back home. I make no mention of it now.

  “Quinn is still hard at work trying to figure it out,” Archer says matter-of-factly, evidently on the same wavelength. “I don’t have the heart to tell him to stop. That it’s too late.”

  “I don’t think he needs telling,” I remark as flatly. “He’s only doing what he does and staying occupied. He has picked up other projects, which is good. Allen told me Quinn’s working on a door opener for the carriage house.”

  “As well as upgrades to Mrs. Cook’s culinary repertoire, wiring the house with electricity, and mechanizing the dumbwaiter.”

  For another city block, we say nothing more.

  “I’m constantly learning that some things are changeable and others will never be around here. I thought you’d know more about the subject than anyone else.”

  “Specifically?” I crank a sidelong glance at my brother. His hands are in his pockets as he strolls beside me, his pace far more relaxed than mine and looking for all that as though he hasn’t a care in the world. But I know better.

  “Expectations.” He pauses, sucks in a breath, and exhales audibly. “A couple of months ago, I asked Kate what she expected from me.”

  “But you haven’t since asked her to marry you, have you? That’s not what this is about, is it?”

  “No. I didn’t. Because …”

  When he doesn’t finish, I try, “Because you wouldn’t.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Right. So, what did she say?”

  “Basically that she eventually wants me to make an honest woman of her.”

  “Ludicrous,” I mumble. “What exactly has she been dishonest about?”

  “To me, nothing. But she wouldn’t have allowed us to carry on as we’ve been doing this past year if she didn’t think I was the right man for her. No other man would allow her to keep her independence as I’ve done from what I’ve gathered. Kate has suffered a long road to get to where she is. There’s no way I would take that away from her.”

  “I know, you know, and she knows, Archer. That’s why she said what she did.”

  “She’d be forced to hand over everything if we married. And the truly insane part is she’s willing in that case. It’s me who isn’t.” He scratches his stubbled cheek, but I notice he doesn’t tsk. “Hell, I’m not,” he says more vehemently, “for either.”

  He’s quiet for a long time, and finally, I ask, “Was that all?”

  “She also said she wouldn’t remain my mistress forever. … The thing is, River, that’s what everyone thinks she is. My mistress. It never occurred to me; I’m still not used to thinking in those terms.”

  “But why should that matter anymore? It’s not like she’s a kept woman. She doesn’t have to rely on a man for financial support.”

  “Because apparently, it’s common knowledge that our relationship is a temporary arrangement.”

  “So? I still don’t understand what difference it makes what other people think so long as you and Kate have an understanding.”

  “That’s what I thought or let myself think. She informed me that she would no longer have to ward off the advances of other men if I claimed her as my own. Advances she’s not opposed to entirely. Yes, her husband would get her, her wealth, and her independence, but he would provide her with a home, a husband’s protection, and potentially children, which she wants, preferably but not necessarily with me. That was her understanding all along. It’s the way it is, after all.”

  “And do you love her?”

  “In my way.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask softly.

  “It means not enough. It’s different with her, yes. But it isn’t enough.”

  “It’s no wonder. You have a hard time with the word. The word, Archer. Can you even say it?”

  “Not sure,” he says honestly.

  “Damn.” I slant another look at him. I ponder this revelation for a few seconds. “I’ve been watching you, you know.”

  “Of course, you have.”

  “You’ve changed quite a lot. But I have no idea why you still insist on being a hard-ass about everything. I think it’s time you took off that armor of yours.”

  “Is that your advice?” He grins crookedly and nudges my arm with his elbow.

  “You haven’t asked me for any yet. That, right there, was just an observation.”

  “So, what do you think I should do?”

  “I’m not clear on your options. Why don’t you lay them out multiple-choice-like for me?”

  After a moment, he says, “A: ignore the elephant in the room. B: acknowledge the elephant and ask it to have a seat. Or C: shoot the elephant, dispose of the body, and tidy up the place.”

  I grin. “No D: invite the elephant to the wedding and subsequent baby showers?”

  “No D, River, absolutely no D.”

  “Feck. What are we going to do with you?”

  “Feck?”

  “I heard it, I liked it. It’s useful, what can I say,” I remark through my teeth, affecting an underbite like an Italian mafioso in a movie I once saw. Feck and feckin’ are Billy Pasternak’s mom’s contributions to my vocabulary of expressive outrage. “But wait, if you had that conversation a couple of months ago, what’s got your panties in a bunch now?”

  “I just saw Kate, and I gave her Willow’s ring. The one—”

  I shake my head. “Why? Why would you do that if you had no intention of marrying her?”

  “I’ve given her jewelry before,” he says with a defensive twinge to his tone.

  I stop and turn to him, leveling him with my incredulity. “A ring? Your mother’s ring? For feck’s sake, Archer.”

  He shrugs and again shoves his hands in his pockets. “She asked me outright if I was giving her my promise. And like an idiot, I asked, ‘What is it you want me to promise, Kate?’”

  “Boy, when you screw up, you so royally, don’t you? You can’t have forgotten. That’s not possible.” I tap on a spot between my eyebrows. “Or maybe your auxiliary device is faulty, and the short-term input never made it to long-term memory?”

  “I wouldn’t remember the earlier conversation at all then. No, I blocked it out for however long it seemed convenient.”

  “I’m afraid it’s looking like option C.”

  “Kate refused to take it … the ring. Told me to try again when I was clear about what it would mean to me to give it to her and what it should mean to her.” He withdraws a tiny black box and flips the lid open in one move. The ring is gold with a cluster of small mine-cut diamonds surrounding a perfectly round coral stone. “I was going to ask her to dinner on Friday. Thought you could ask Martin.”

  “Now you’re just being stupid. The six of us know the
truth, Kate and Martin would feel out of place, and we would have to playact in our own home. That’s not my idea of a fun social occasion. I was hoping for a break.”

  “Eight.”

  I look down at the ground and then at a vague spot down the street, resuming our walk. “You invited Vale.”

  “I did,” he says unapologetically.

  “And I gather, the eighth is Selene?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m doubly glad you didn’t ask Kate then.”

  “Kate knows nothing about Selene.”

  “You’re daft.”

  “I must be,” he says straight-faced. “We haven’t had eight around our table for over two years. Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Very. What did you think of Owen Carr?” I ask. Archer slows his step ever so slightly, flicking me a side glance. “What?”

  Ignoring me, he says, “Seems nice. I didn’t believe him at first, but after a minute, the resemblance is plain to see. Quinn found his story more exciting than I did. Seems to think he might be able to shed some light on what happened to Francis, Aurelia, and their children. But I don’t think Carr knows anything about it. From what I gathered, he was born shortly after his father married Frank’s sister.”

  “That’s a lot to expect of a newborn. And if I’m doing my math right, Edwina—Owen’s aunt—would have been only twelve years old at the time. She wouldn’t know much, either.”

  Our conversation lulls as we approach home. I don’t think my brother will press me about Vale, but just to be on the safe side, I ask with a teasing grin, “Any new intel on the Avis Day situation? I realize it’s only been a few hours, …”

  Once inside, Archer says, “I know it’s not really a murder case, but your input is always helpful, River. I didn’t ask you to join the debriefing because—”

  “I know. Let’s leave it at that. So, anything new?” I ask again, kicking off my shoes and discarding my hat, coat, and scarf.

  “I’ll fill you in after you get cleaned up. Meet you in the drawing room.”

  I furrow my brows disapprovingly.

  “Fine, the salon.”