Next John took his strop, a long leather strap, which he used to sharpen the already lethal blade of his cutthroat razor. Then, yellowing teeth biting his lower lip in concentration, John attacked his master’s stubble, scraping away at the bristles with expert, rasping strokes until Peter’s face was as smooth and pink as was to be expected of a well-groomed English gentleman. John handed Peter a towel, for he knew he preferred to dry his face himself.
“Will you be requiring me to accompany you to France, sir?”
“No, John,” said Peter, rising from the chair and returning the towel to his servant. “I do not intend to be away upward of four or five nights, and I should prefer you to attend on Miss Dyer in my absence.”
“Very good, sir, I shall pack your trunk directly.”
There was a second knock on Peter’s door. John stepped forward to open it and they saw Mr. Schock standing in his night-shirt holding a handkerchief spotted with blood to his chin.
“I’d like to take you up on your offer, John. I’ve tried but I just can’t manage it. I’d grow a beard but I haven’t seen a single man who isn’t clean-shaven since I arrived here. It doesn’t help that one look at these cutthroat razors and I conjure up pictures of a fountain of blood spurting from my throat….”
Master and servant exchanged glances but remained straight-faced.
“I have been shaving the men of the household for nigh on three decades and most of them have lived to tell the tale, have they not, sir?”
“Indeed, John. In fact I cannot recall the last time we saw a fountain of blood, nor even a stream. A trickle perhaps…”
“Yes, yes, yes. Have your little joke,” Mr. Schock retorted. “But without a bit of help, either I shall be scarred for life or I shall bring shame to the image of the English gentleman abroad….”
“Quite, sir,” said John, guiding Mr. Schock to the chair and lathering his face, “and that would never do.”
Peter watched as the footman took out his strop again and gleefully sharpened the glinting blade with great vigor only an inch or two from Mr. Schock’s face. The latter’s gaze followed the rapid movements of the cutthroat razor with dismay and he craned his neck backward as far as it would go. The footman plucked a coarse gray hair from underneath his powdered wig and let it fall over the cutting edge. Peter’s father gulped as he saw that the single strand of hair had been bisected. The next instant the razor was at his throat and John paused momentarily, adjusting with a flourish the angle at which he held the blade.
“I am pleased to see your hand does not tremble as much as it has of late,” commented Peter.
John held out the cutthroat razor at arm’s length and they all observed the visible tremor.
“Yes, my affliction is much improved, sir.”
The hapless victim gripped the arm of the chair throughout the operation, scarcely daring to breathe as the footman scratched away at him, lopping down the forest of bristles with precise, authoritative strokes. Beads of perspiration appeared on Mr. Schock’s forehead. But presently, to his vast relief, he felt the cool touch of linen against his skin and John was holding up an ebony looking glass for him to admire his handiwork.
“Have I shaved you close enough, sir?”
“Yes, thank you, John, quite close enough!”
Only then did Peter allow himself to burst out laughing and John, holding out his hand which was as steady as a rock, assured Mr. Schock that he had never been in any danger.
John left to help Hannah with the breakfast and Mr. Schock stood up and thumped Peter good-naturedly on the back.
“Far be it from me to resent anyone having some fun at my expense but, be warned, I might have to get my own back one of these days. Just because we twenty-first-century-ites can’t mend an antigravity machine doesn’t mean to say that we’re totally clueless….”
“When we are in France, I shall teach you how to shave with a cutthroat razor. It is easier than you might think.”
“I shall have to show Peter what his old dad has learned to do in the eighteenth century, although he’s unlikely to be impressed. I don’t often come up to scratch as far as my son is concerned. Not that I blame him….”
Peter was surprised and sad to hear his father voicing concern about how his son perceived him but said nothing. Mr. Schock hesitated for an instant, wondering if he could confide in Joshua, and then, deciding that he could, continued: “Do you know the last thing he said to me?”
Peter shook his head but of course he could remember. Their argument in the kitchen of the house on Richmond Green, the argument which had started off this whole calamitous train of events, and which Peter had relived a thousand times over three decades, came flooding back. He could even hear the metallic clang of the pedal bin as his father shoveled overcooked eggs into it, berating him for being a spoiled brat. Then he could remember charging upstairs, so angry with his father because he had gone back on his promise of a birthday treat for the third time that he thought he would explode with the injustice of it. He had turned around at the top of the stairs and shouted at his father loud enough to hurt his throat. And those terrible words which had sprung to his lips had been etched onto his mind as if by acid….
“‘I hate you!’” said Mr. Schock. “That was what he shouted down at me before slamming his bedroom door. ‘I hate you!’ I can hear him still … and I can see the expression on his face.”
“He cannot have meant it…. It was certainly said in the heat of the moment.”
“Peter was angry but I have no doubt that he meant it. I put my work before my son once too often. I should have paid him more attention….”
“No, no, I … In truth … You see, Peter confided in me. He was so very young at the time. You must believe me, Nick, for years your son bitterly regretted what he said and I know he wished with all his heart that he could have turned back the clock and swept those words away.”
“No, Joshua. Thank you for trying to make me feel better about it. But I know my own son.”
Peter looked away. He did not want his father to know who he was and yet his success in concealing his true identity was almost too much bear. He wanted to peel away the years and shout at his father, “Surely you must know who I am?” But he could hardly blame his father for his own deception.
“Joshua?”
“Yes, Nick?”
Mr. Schock put his hand on Peter’s arm.
“You must have been very close to my son. Please, could you tell me about him? What kind of man he was … What he achieved … If he was happy?”
Peter controlled his emotions with difficulty and with clenched jaw stopped himself suggesting the question which his father might ask of him: Would I have been proud of my son? He paused for so long before replying that his father began to look uneasy.
“Was I wrong to ask, Joshua?”
“Upon my word, no…. I shall tell you all about your son and his life in a foreign century, Nick. I’ll tell you everything I know about him. But not now. Let us talk on our way to France. We must set out on our journey and we must make haste if we are to reach Dover by nightfall…. And perhaps … perhaps you could tell me about his mother. Peter talked about her so often…. I should like to learn more of her.”
Kate pushed away her plate of bread and butter and stood up in the sunny morning room, her freckled face creased in consternation.
“Please don’t leave me behind! I want to go.”
“It could be dangerous, Kate—there’s a revolution happening and, believe me, it’s a bloody one. Not to mention that France is at war with Prussia … !”
“Would you like to be left behind? Besides, I’ll be useful, I’ve started to learn French….”
“I lived there for a year,” countered Mr. Schock. “I’m fluent.”
“But I can blur!”
“Precisely! And look what happened to you yesterday. You’re not well—it would be much better if you stayed safely behind in London.”
“I’m not
ill! Something weird happened to me, but I’m not ill! Do you really think it’d be better for me to be stuck here on my own, worrying about whether you’d made it or not? Peter and Gideon kept going off without me, too. I hated it. Is it because I’m a girl?”
Mr. Schock threw up his arms in exasperation.
“I’m only trying to do the right thing! I’m trying to think what your parents would want me to do….”
“I believe we should listen to Kate,” said Peter quietly. “I can understand her fear of being left alone hundreds of years away from anyone she knows….”
“Why thank you, Joshua!” said Kate.
Mr. Schock looked at her intently and then sighed. “All right. It’s against my better judgement, but if that’s what you want … Just don’t go getting yourself into trouble, okay?”
“If Mistress Kate is going to France,” exclaimed Hannah, “then it’s only right and proper that I go too, despite the Revolution and the rich sauces. You gentlemen would defend her to the death, I am sure, but Mistress Kate seems pale and out of sorts and you might not notice if she was tired or needed nourishment or a cheerful song.”
“You misjudge the male sex, my dear Hannah!” Peter protested. “Are we so insensitive to the needs of our companions?”
Neither Kate nor Hannah would deny it and Peter looked offended.
“Trust me, Joshua,” said Mr. Schock, “things don’t get any easier for us menfolk in the twenty-first century—a lot worse, if anything. At least you don’t feel obliged to cultivate your feminine side and then get derided for not being manly enough….”
“For goodness’ sake!” cried Kate in frustration and Peter laughed at his father’s ability to wind Kate up. He was unaware, Peter realized, quite what a talent he had for it.
“Let them believe in their superiority, Joshua,” continued Mr. Schock. “Everyone needs encouragement.”
Kate threw a pellet of bread at him and Mr. Schock ducked, winking at Peter.
“Only kidding, Kate! You’re a clever girl but you’ll have to learn how to take a joke.”
Kate stamped her foot with impotent rage. I can understand why Peter got so fed up with his dad, she thought.
“Well, that’s decided then,” said Peter quickly, smiling at everyone in an effort to smooth the waters. “We shall be a party of four. Two persons of the fairer sex and two of the …”
“… unfairer,” prompted Kate.
They would set sail from Dover to Calais on the first available ship. If they caught the early stagecoach which left from the George Inn in Southwark, they should reach the seaport by the evening. They were already running late because Hannah needed to pack a trunk for Kate and herself and needed reminding that they were going away for a few days only, not a few months. Peter, who had promised the driver of the hackney coach an extra shilling if he got them there in good time, was forever looking at his pocket watch. Alas, their journey across the Thames proved to be neither as straightforward nor as swift as he had hoped.
As they left Lincoln’s Inn Fields, they were enveloped in a mushrooming cloud of dust as the small army of workmen demolishing the innards of number twelve succeeded in knocking a wall down. The driver and John (who was to accompany them as far as the coaching inn to help with the luggage) were sitting on top and had violent coughing fits and were half blinded for a time by the acrid dust in their eyes. The passengers passed up handkerchiefs and a flask of water and then had to wait while the driver was recovered enough to continue.
Hannah tutted. “It was a perfectly nice house to begin with,” she said. “I do not understand why the gentleman must pull it down only to rebuild it again. His cook told me that her employer has a mania for collecting statues and relics and whatnot from his trips abroad and that it takes an eternity to do the dusting.”
“As John Soane is commissioned to build the Bank of England, Hannah, I think we must at least allow him to redesign his house,” said Peter. “He was kind enough to show me his collection not so long ago—statues from Greece and Rome and all manner of fascinating ancient artifacts. However, the next time I see him I shall warn him to think twice before adding to his collection on account of the grave danger of its attracting dust….”
Hannah sniffed haughtily, which made Kate giggle, and Peter glimpsed for the first time since the Golden Square incident a hint of the spirited girl he knew. Hannah was right: Kate did seem pale and out of sorts. Suddenly he shivered, although he was not in the least bit cold, as he was gripped by a strong sense of foreboding.
They set to talking about the Marquis de Montfaron, whom Sir Joseph had assured them was as close to a genius as any man he had met.
“How ludicrous it seems that someone from the eighteenth century, for goodness’ sake, knows more about electricity than me!” commented Mr. Schock.
“We aren’t so ignorant in this century, Mr. Schock, if you pardon me for saying so,” said Hannah, affronted by his implication. “Why, I had an aunt who was treated with electricity at the Middlesex Hospital after she was laid low by an apoplexy. And that was twenty years ago at least!”
Peter laughed out loud. His father really did have a knack for rubbing people the wrong way without meaning to—he wondered why he could never see that it was unintentional as a child.
“I am certain that Mr. Schock did not mean to imply that people in this century are in any way inferior, Hannah.”
“No, I certainly did not, Hannah. I meant no offence….”
“Then none taken, Mr. Schock.”
Peter’s head disappeared out of the window. When it reappeared he said: “This journey is taking an eternity. I cannot understand it.”
They were indeed making slow progress. The traffic was heavy and the coach crawled toward Fleet Street past Temple Bar. Kate stared out of the window and lost herself for a while in the sights of the city. The lively London crowd streamed by on both sides of the carriage, rich and poor, fat and thin, young and old: an ever-moving stage on which an infinite number of stories were constantly being played out. She watched a boisterous bunch of young bucks tossing one of their party into a horse trough, though he did not seem to mind too much, and when he stood up, knee-deep in water and long hair dripping in a curtain over his face, he even made an elegant little bow for the benefit of the rowdy onlookers. And then, where Shoe Lane meets Fleet Street, they had to stop to let a wide load through, and Kate spotted a forlorn young woman in a silk dress the color of autumn leaves. She stood still as a statue on the street corner, clutching her fan, her large, dark eyes full of sadness. A second later they moved off again and the beautiful lady was lost to sight.
The street vendors were out in force that morning. “Who will buy my sweet oranges?” called a pretty orange-seller to her through the window. The muffin man rang his bell at them and the pie man leaned through the window with a steaming steak and oyster pie. Hannah pushed him away good-humoredly, but the smell of rich gravy that lingered in the carriage afterward made everyone’s mouths water. Halfway up Fleet Street, Kate was convinced she recognized the chop house where she and Peter had dined with Parson Ledbury in 1763 and she wondered what had happened to her friend all those years ago. Was he lost or was he dead? And if he was dead, how did he meet his end? She could not bear to think about that and looked fixedly at her lap until the lump had gone from her throat.
Presently the coach stopped moving altogether and the driver called out to a chair-man going in the opposite direction and asked him if he knew what the problem was. Peter got out of the carriage the better to hear the answer. Hannah nudged Kate and pointed to the occupant of the sedan chair as it drew to a halt next to them. One arm and the head of a purple-nosed old gentleman were lolling out of the window, wig askew, and he was snoring noisily, oblivious to everything. When the rear chair-man saw Hannah and Kate laughing, he called out to them, sweat pouring down his face, but refusing to lay his heavy burden down even for a moment.
“Would you ladies have the kindness to push
’im back in for me? He is a sea captain. The old fellow has had one sup o’ rum too many after seeing the pirates that sunk his ship hang at Execution Dock. I fear ’is ’ead will get tangled in a wagon wheel and then we’ll never get our fare and we’ve carried ’im all the way from Wappin’.”
Hannah, who was nearest, obliged and, leaning out of the window, gave the man’s head a hearty shove which failed to wake him up. The chair-man called out his thanks and a moment later the chair-men were off, careering at breathtaking speed down Fleet Street and shouting “By your leave!” at the crowds who fell this way and that out of their way.
It transpired that a heavy wagon carrying barrels of ale had collided with the landau of the Swedish ambassador on London Bridge. Both vehicles had overturned, the barrels causing several more incidents including a concussed donkey. The ensuing chaos meant that traffic bound for the other side of the river was at a standstill and would likely as not remain so for some time to come.
“Driver!” called Peter. “Do you know a route to get us to the watermen? I fear crossing by boat is now our only option.”
The driver maneuvered the hackney coach out of the traffic jam and by dint of some backtracking and taking some short cuts down alleys barely wide enough for the Hackney coach, they arrived at the slimy green banks of the Thames where they were greeted by its distinctive odor.
“Yuk!” said Kate, holding her nose. “I don’t want to sail in a rowing boat on that filthy water. What happens if you fall in?”
They watched a dead cat float past by way of an answer. Peter told them that mostly all you had to do was to stand on the bank and shout “Oars!” and you would immediately be overwhelmed by offers to take you to your destination by dozens of watermen in their distinctive red jackets. Today, though, as Hannah commented, there wasn’t a wherry to be found for love nor money. All of them were already hired, and the stretch of the river close to London Bridge was covered with a flotilla of wooden boats while the watermen rowed furiously, making the most of this unexpected windfall.
Gideon 02 -The Time Thief Page 23
