No Time Like the Present

by Ellison Blackburn

  “Because Quinn never sticks his nose in where it doesn’t belong. He knows better and is very aware of his limitations when it comes to other people.”

  Archer growls, and I summarize for Selene. “It turns out Vale was not a traitor to Clarion. His supposed betrayal was a necessary ruse for a sensitive case.”

  “Having to do with his hijacking,” Quinn supplies.

  “Oh. And how is it that he ended up here?” Selene ventures.

  “He was in the house with Marlowe that day. He got caught up in the time warp too, just like you did when you were meeting with Archer.”

  Selene casts another glance at Archer and blushes before tucking in her chin into her chest to smooth the ribbon around her waist. She then checks one side of her skirt and the other, avoiding accidental eye contact with me for a little longer. My brother studiously looks toward the empty doorway, his jaw tightened in concentration.

  Christ. This whole time, I have understood two things: that Selene’s feelings for Archer had been unrequited and that my brother had done nothing whatsoever to contribute to her besotted confusion. Knowing my commitment-phobe brother, my first assumption is probably accurate. The second, however, I had obviously misunderstood.

  Another thought occurs to me. When Selene discovers Archer and Kathryn Leigh Foster are no more, her suffering will be renewed. She’ll hope again. Damn. I glare at Archer until he turns to look at me. He shrugs almost imperceptibly and looks down at the top of Selene’s golden head with a thin smile as if to say, “What? Look at her.”

  The doorbell rings, and I scurry behind my brothers.

  “Mr. Owen Kingsley Carr. Miss Edwina Agnes Carr,” the footman announces.

  Clearing his throat, “And Dr. Henry Flynn Ennis,” Allen announces behind the footman, for the footman’s sake.

  Owen says, “Thank you, Calvin. You’re off now. Unless—” Allen leans in and quietly informs him that the borrowed footman is indeed excused until the Carrs are ready to return home. At once stepping into the room, Owen’s gaze falls on Selene, their awareness of each other palpable. I watch from my wedge of a view between Quinn and Archer. I knew it. Archer makes the introductions. Selene and then Vale. “Did the butler not announce you as Dr. Ennis, sir?” Owen asks, proffering his hand but glancing down at the tiny figure of his aunt beside him who seems to urge him on.

  “Like my sister, Vale has adopted a different persona since arriving,” Archer explains.

  Allen is still hovering with the footman in the foyer, so I stay hidden. Once the coast is clear, I step out from behind Quinn. Avoiding Vale for as long as possible, I bid Edwina Carr and her nephew, “Hello, and welcome.”

  “Amazing,” Owen remarks. “I must say, Sinclair, your usual disguise is quite impressive now that I see you like this. You are far more lovely than I suspected, and your voice is astonishing. I might be tempted to pick you up, put you in my pocket, and take you home.” He pats the left side of his breast and winks.

  “What? Like a boutonniere or a pressed flower? I’ll take just the compliments thank you very much,” I say, knowing my blush is apparent without the waxy foundation to mask it. I much prefer the attention I get for my intellect over shallow compliments, but it’s been a while since a man noticed me for my looks—a long while. There are more women like Selene than like me in the twenty-second century.

  His amazement is not over. His gold eyes skim me from head to foot. “Wouldn’t you agree, aunt?”

  “Ah, but I could have told you she’s quite pretty, Owen. I have seen her before without her costume, after all.”

  “Have you?” Selene interjects.

  While further half-explanations take place, I gird myself to face my ex-love. I had practically spent the whole day dwelling on this moment, this and the seating arrangements for dinner. My preoccupations had been for naught. The color drains from my cheeks as soon as he and I set eyes on one another and then rises up my throat again. My hands are suddenly clammy, and I rub them on my thighs before even thinking about it. Eddy notes my discomfort, I see, but it doesn’t bother me half as much as the same awareness in Vale’s eyes does.

  “River,” he says softly, intimately. He doesn’t say anything else, but I can see the confident warmth shining through his sea-green eyes, feel it emanating from him.

  My heart hammers in my chest, and my cheeks, neck, shoulders, and arms down to my fingertips tingle as my integumentary system soaks up his heat. “Vale.”

  Allen sidles up next to me. “River, can I get you something to drink?” he asks close to my ear.

  “Yes, please.”

  “I’ll take ownership of the drinks, Allen. What can I get you?” Archer says, moving to his right around Quinn. “River? Vale?” He leans over and says to the others, “What’ll you all have to drink?”

  “Uh …” Allen mutters. “Whatever you’re having, Archer.” Owen’s brows lift at the informality between master and servant.

  “I’ll help,” I say, grateful for the escape.

  “A sherry, please,” Eddy says.

  “And me,” Selene says.

  “A London gin,” Vale says.

  “I’ll have the same,” Owen replies. When we turn away, he adds, “Quinn? In our eagerness, we’ve drowned you out, man. What will you have?”

  “On occasion, I will have four ounces of wine with dinner or the occasional beer, but otherwise I don’t drink much. Alcohol, in particular, does not harmonize well with my system. Let’s sit, and you can tell me what kind of machinery is involved in the farming of tea.”

  Within minutes everyone is seated with their drinks in hand. Owen and Quinn are already knee-deep in a discussion about the mechanics of the Carr family business in India. Allen, Selene, and Vale are listening raptly to Edwina account her and her nephew’s newfound connection to the St. Clairs. And although I am more interested in Edwina’s story, I situate myself next to Quinn and insert myself into the conversation.

  “You agreed to let me interrogate—eh-hem, question—you, Owen.”

  “By all means, ask what you will. I prostrate myself before you.”

  “What fun,” I say, rubbing my hands together. “Let’s start with this one. Did the Carrs originate in America? Your aunt’s speech contains a hint of an accent, but yours doesn’t—though your speech is singular.”

  “Easy. Like Francis and Aurelia’s children, I was born in Chicago. My aunt was born in London.”

  “And how did your parents meet?”

  “Some social event of the season no doubt. Then at a later time, they became engaged following the same event that first brought Francis and his wife together, a ball in honor of the proposed canal construction, I understand. My parents were married in ’35, two years before the panic of ’37. And the ball I refer to took place in the new year.”

  “Interesting. So, Francis Sinclair and Aurelia Herring-Bolt actually met in Chicago,” Quinn confirms.

  “Just so. Although my parents’ particular reason for coming here has never been verified, my aunt believes it had to do with the canal project as well. She was only eleven years old then but seems to recall my grandfather often speaking of foreign investments. And my father, my aunt’s senior by twelve years, was ever by my grandfather’s side.”

  “And how came your family to be plantation farmers then?” I ask.

  “My grandfather, Oliver Meriwether Carr, was an avid follower of the expeditions of Lewis and Clark as well as explorations of more exotic regions—the Orient and India. He chose to concentrate his own efforts in the latter. So, as soon as he was able, he purchased his first small plantation in Darjeeling. My father was born there.”

  “But Eddy was born in England?”

  “Yes. My grandmother Henrietta, Aggie’s mother, was suffering from an unknown affliction of disposition at the time, and the Indian climate can be trying, especially so for expectant mothers. Thus my grandparents thought it best to return to England. And still, my aunt will tell you India is in her bloo
d. She does not see as much or as clearly when she is away from it.” The last statement is provided somewhat cryptically with a skewed grin.

  “Hm.” I squint at him. “I’ll have to come back to that in a moment. Where … oh, sorry, you said only you and your aunt remain of your family.”

  “Quite. My grandmother passed on from an uncertain cause a few years later after my aunt was born. And my grandfather did not live much longer, less than a year. He adored her, you see,” Owen says with a matter-of-factness that seems to belie the romantic comment. “Neither Jules nor I ever knew them.” An almost imperceptible wince wrinkles the corners of his eyes at the mention of his brother.

  “And my parents, oddly enough, died in much the same way, although only a few hours apart. Jules and I discovered them holding hands as they lay side by side in their bed one morning … seven years ago now. My mother had had a weak constitution for years. We believe they simply decided it was time they surrendered their lives over to God.”

  I study Owen Carr. He has not made one vain remark or commandeered any conversation to suit himself that I can recall. Nor has he made one openly deprecating comment about another person. The “poor twits” and “bauble-heads” remain oblivious of his opinion. He’s incisive and thoughtful. And I’m surprised to find that I’ve changed my mind about him. But why the cynicism in the first place? I wonder. I know better than anyone not to judge the proverbial book by its cover. Having dubbed him as a conceited scoundrel from the moment we met, I’m a tad embarrassed of myself. The flush on my cheeks provokes a keen look and then a smileless wink from the object of my scrutiny.

  Just then Allen rises, pulls back his shoulders, and folds his hands behind his back. “Everyone can make their way into the dining room now.”

  Owen and his aunt turn to me, and I turn to Allen. “Uh, I take it I’m supposed to do something?” I ask through the side of my mouth.

  “The hostess typically provides guidance to her male guests as to who they should escort into supper.”

  “What a load of shite,” I say under my breath.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” he whispers. “Ladies, gentlemen, seating cards have been placed at the table. Archer, uh, inspector, if you would escort Miss Carr. Mr. Carr, please escort my … Miss Bryce, and Mr. Hennessy, please see miss … Dr. St. Clair to her seat.”

  Ignoring Allen’s pomposity, several of us leisurely cross the foyer toward the lavishly set table, either by way of the drawing room or from the hall. I am disappointed with the seating plan and chastise myself for not having played interference. Ugh. This house. These people. They do tend to make bad decisions without my input.

  Archer leans toward Allen and murmurs something about “not what I had in mind” to which Allen shakes his head and glances from Selene to Owen.

  “The host and hostess at opposite ends, or the male heads of the family, alternating male and females when possible after that,” he says quietly, “and I wanted to be nearest the kitchen.” As a result, Archer is at the head of the table with Edwina on his left, then Quinn, then Selene, Owen at the other end with Vale to his left, then me, then Allen. Turning toward me, he eyes Vale over my head and asks, “Will you be all right with this? I never realized dinner parties could be so complicated.”

  “It’s fine. When do we sit?”

  “For a reason which I don’t believe needs explanation, our dinner this evening will be buffet style,” Archer states. I shrug and grin sheepishly as I’m that reason.

  “Ladies first, I think,” Allen murmurs.

  “Right,” I say, plopping down into my seat. Edwina smiles at me and lowers herself more genteelly to her seat.

  While Allen lights the two candelabras in the center of the table, I note for the first time how lovely everything looks. The glow of the crystal chandelier above dimly plays off the sheen of white wainscoting all the way around the room and the gold of the wallpaper while the ornate black velveteen design in the paper seems to recede. The pristine white of the tablecloth sets off the flow-blue flatware, silver cutlery, and crystal glassware to perfection. The sideboard is laden with various wines, sauces, and extra stemware as well as an enormous bouquet of white peonies and roses. Every person around the table appears equally beautiful, the men and me in our black dinner suits and Selene and Edwina in sumptuous gowns.

  Dinners in our future were never so dazzling, not even with Marlowe’s penchant for historical reenactments. Vale reaches over for the wine bottle and fills my glass. His shoulder brushes mine, and without thinking, I turn to look at him, his face so close I can smell the clean crispness of him. He angles his face toward me and smiles.

  He has been so quiet thus far. Why is he being so damned quiet?

  Owen and Selene are lost in conversation about her charge, Elmer Chattoway, and his sister Elvira Granville, and Allen keeps getting up. Quinn and Archer are enraptured by Eddy.

  “River?”

  “Hm?” I hum over my wine glass, I think louder than I intended. Edwina’s eyes skip from me to Vale. Archer follows her gaze and asks something to reengage her attention.

  “I know what you said, but can’t it just be over?” Vale says in a painfully soft tone.

  “Of course, Vale, your wish is my command,” I huff childishly, “Consider us over.”

  He leans maddeningly close and whispers in my ear, “That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it.”

  “What are you asking then, Vale?” I ask, trying very hard not to lean one way or the other.

  “Won’t you just let what happened be behind us? It doesn’t have to be so hard to be around one another. And there is nothing we can do but move forward now, anyway.”

  I nod and release the breath I’ve been holding captive. It’s already so hard just avoiding him. What would I do if he and Archer stayed friends or became closer still? I set my glass down as though it might shatter were I to do it less mindfully. “How are you feeling these days?” I ask with a weak smile. “You look better. I mean, you look happier.”

  “I am. It was crazy at first. Difficult and crazy. Now it’s, it’s … I can’t even explain it, River, not even to myself. You know I’ve never believed in an all-powerful entity, but for the first time in my life, I feel blessed. I’m grateful, and I can’t figure out who or what to be grateful to.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Truly. I guess I didn’t really understand what it meant for you. Outside of your sessions with him, Dr. Mayhew advised that you concentrate on anything but your condition.”

  “Mm-hmm. And it’s fantastic that I can now, without fear. Hijacking leaves you with the oddest feeling. You feel mentally caged, and all the while, you’re trying to find the damn key to unlock it. It’s your cage after all, but you’re also ever cognizant that someone else has the very key you’re looking for, and they’re never giving it back if that makes any sense.”

  “And you have to learn to accept what you can’t possibly accept: That you will never again have control of what should be rightfully yours and the nightmare will never end. Christ, Vale, to think that someday you’ll lose all hope … that’s just …” I bite down on a fold of flesh inside my lower lip until it stings.

  “A miserable realization,” he finishes for me. “It’s the worst kind of torture and gives new meaning to losing your mind. I would sometimes think that paralysis would have been better. By the time we decided something had to be done, I was walking the corridors of the facility without cause or reason to be there. My motor skills were being manipulated.”

  Before two days ago, I had only spared an infrequent and passing thought for Seeley Roth. I neither loved him for giving me life nor hated him for his part in my mother’s death. Since Archer and Vale’s confession, however, I’ve allowed myself to seethe with a burning revulsion for the man and his utter lack of humanity. Until this moment. He would get nothing more from me. He is nothing, I think. And Vale is alive and grateful if not happy. I stare at him in horrified wonder. “I’m sorry
he did this to you.”

  “Don’t be, River. Please, don’t be. I’m free. It doesn’t matter anymore, and it never will again.” When my belly emits a low mew, he says, “Let’s not keep your stomach waiting any longer. You’re liable to get sloshed on half a glass of wine. Oh, and your earlier thimble of sherry.”

  “I’ve acquired a tolerance.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  I scoot back my chair, and this single action is followed by a sudden flurry of communal sliding of chairs and rustling of clothing. Once we are all settled down again—our plates laden with sampling portions of chicken fricassee, pork medallions, red snapper fillets, broccoli florets and kidney beans, potato fritters, stewed mushrooms, macaroni, and roasted pigeon—a few appreciative comments about the fare are followed by a lull in the conversation, the air instead punctuated with the clatter and scrape of cutlery against dishware.

  Archer says with the tiniest grin, “River, did Edwina mention to you that she thought you were a boy initially?”

  “No. But what a surprise,” I say, smoothing my thumbs down and under my lapels as though they are suspenders.

  “In my first sights of you, you were bounding up your staircase.”

  “Which she still does,” Allen and Archer say in unison.

  “Then you were sitting Indian style in the middle of your bed. Later you were sitting on the lawn. Then again, you were climbing up an iron stairwell. In every scene, you were barefoot, in short pants and a jacket, like a young boy’s uniform. Your hair—it was quite as short as well. And while I should not judge, diminutive as I am, you are very slight of build, my dear. Together with your attire, physical attributes, countenance, and carriage—all uncharacteristic of any woman of my acquaintance—well, I concluded wrong. I hope you will excuse my mistake and not take offense.”

  “Of course, I don’t, Eddy. I understand the confusion, knowing as I do now. It is a subject particularly intriguing to me. But isn’t it strange that a person should be defined by what she chooses to wear or how she styles her hair?”