Gideon 02 -The Time Thief

by Linda Buckley-Archer

  “And if we don’t find him?”

  “In which case, I hope you will find something of interest in it…. I used to love Gideon’s stories. He would sit me under the oak tree at Hawthorn Cottage and transport me to places I would never see, nor would I want to. And, as time went on, as you will see, I became a part of those stories.”

  Kate took the precious parcel and held it in her hand.

  “You asked me if there was any advice that I could give to him. I have written it down in a letter which he will find within the pages of the book. God bless you, Kate. I wish you every happiness that life can afford.”

  Kate’s throat felt too constricted for her to say even another word. She nodded vigorously. Kate watched him walk away, but suddenly he turned round again.

  “I’m still the same, you know—on the inside. But you’ll find out. Perhaps, in another life, I might have found out with you.”

  In her hand, along with the book, Kate clutched the miniature frame which displayed a silhouette, black on white, of Peter’s profile, cut by Queen Charlotte herself. It would be a permanent reminder of Peter’s nose and the proof of his ancestry.

  Meanwhile the Marquis de Montfaron stood silent and respectful, close by, his arms behind his back, surveying the pale sky streaked with pink. Inwardly he was ablaze with excitement at what he knew would be the most important journey of his life.

  Peter and his father now stood looking at the antigravity machine, an incongruous object in this beautiful garden. “And you’re not afraid of what will happen to you if we find your younger self?” asked Mr. Schock.

  “A little. I asked Montfaron for his opinion, now that his fate is tied up with mine. He believes that nothing in the universe is ever lost. A life lived, surely cannot be unlived. He said that he does not profess to understand how Nature will contrive to accommodate the consequences of time travel, but contrive it she will….”

  “I hope he’s right….”

  “When the powers of the intellect prove insufficient, blind faith is, I believe, our only alternative. If I cease to exist, at least I shall not be aware of it!”

  Peter laughed. His father did not. He put an arm around his father’s shoulder. “Much good has come out of our brief time together, has it not? I shall grieve, but I shall also rejoice. It is strange that by traveling into the past, you have seen a vision of the future. You came in search of the child and found the man he may become.”

  “Look at me,” said Mr. Schock, wiping his eyes, “a pathetic, quivering wreck. While my own son stands next to me, a rock, with more strength and self-restraint and wisdom than I suspect I shall ever have. I shall tell your mother how proud she would be of you. How I wish that—”

  “It was not to be, Father,” interrupted Peter. “I knew from the start that it was not to be … and yet, I feel blessed, for you have shown in your actions that you are proud of who I have become, and in that knowledge I feel at peace. Child of the future, I now accept with all my heart that it is this century which has made me and that I shall never leave it. No longer will I forever be looking over my shoulder to see if my history has caught up with me.”

  The two men, one blond, one dark, stood in silence together, close and distant at the same time and more aware of the hand of fate than they ever had been before in their lives.

  “I am so thankful,” said Mr. Schock finally, “that ‘I hate you’ will no longer be the last thing which my son said to me. Those three words have eaten into me like acid for so long….”

  “I think it must surely be clear to you that your son loves you and always did,” said Peter.

  There was nothing left to say.

  With no witnesses other than the blackbirds and thrushes and chaffinches that chirruped and twittered in the branches, the antigravity machine liquefied in the bright morning light and vanished into another century. Peter and Hannah joined Sir Joseph and Queen Charlotte at her cottage, and they stood watching the kangaroos hopping between the trees, and the Queen talked about the carpet of bluebells which in the future, she now knew, would be visited each year by crowds of Londoners, grateful to be welcoming in the spring.

  “My Lord!” called the Tar Man in the darkness. “I have come to request your help.”

  Lord Luxon groaned and heaved himself up onto his elbows to peer at his ex-henchman at the bottom of his bed. He blinked and tried to focus on his insubstantial form.

  “Blueskin?”

  “You told me that if I were to find the machine, I could change history. Of late your words have given me much cause for thought and I have come to a decision. Fate has not been kind to me in my life. I have a mind to go back in time to tip the scales in my favor. I want to start my life afresh.”

  “Blueskin! You intrigue me! Indeed, you astonish me! Has life in the twenty-first century lost its flavor? Do you already tire of wealth and luxury?”

  The Tar Man shook his head.

  “To speak plainly, Lord Luxon, time is of the essence and this is not the moment for idle conversation. I have hired spies to keep watch on the policeman and the scientists. They have ingenious devices. I can hear their conversations as if I myself were in the room! I have this very hour learned of the location of the machine. It is in a valley in Derbyshire. But I have also learned that the scientists fear the consequences of time travel and plan to destroy the machine as soon as they are able.”

  “Destroy it!” exclaimed Lord Luxon. “Are they mad?”

  “As you say. I plan to bring it back to 1763 where they cannot touch it. But I also know that the journey will render me as helpless as a newborn babe. It will be some hours before I am myself again. I need an accomplice whom I can trust. I would ask of you, my Lord, that you meet me at an agreed place to stand guard over my person and the machine…. I shall, of course, make it worth your while. I may even take you to visit the future which so holds you in its thrall….”

  Lord Luxon’s eyes shone. “Blueskin, to be able to go some way to make amends for my disservice to you in the past will be payment enough. Where should I meet you?”

  The Tar Man threw down a map onto the bed. “You will need to set off directly and travel through the night, for there is no time to lose. I have marked the precise spot. Wait for me there, by the stream, under cover of the trees.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THE HARVEST BALL

  In which Peter attempts eighteenth-century dancing and Gideon finds that someone has been sleeping in his bed

  Twelve-year-old Peter Schock awoke with a start when one of the carriage wheels dropped abruptly into a deep rut. He was propped up between Gideon Seymour and Parson Ledbury, and found that he was slumped, cheek creased, and dribbling ever so slightly, against the Parson’s solid shoulder. As they bumped over the rough track that led to Hawthorn Cottage, Peter’s nose rubbed up and down the Parson’s sleeve. It smelled of port and snuff and hair powder. Peter blinked until the world came back into focus and breathed in the pure, cool air. He was content for a while to watch Bess, the Parson’s bay mare, trot calmly along, pulling the chaise through the fragrant night. The fiddler’s tune continued to play in his head and lines of girls still formed and re-formed, swirling in front of his eyes in their skirts of billowing pastel silks. Peter had barely been able to follow, let alone imitate, the intricacy of the steps which seemed second nature to the rest of the room. A small shoal of Byng girls had continually swum around him at the Harvest Ball, alternately demonstrating the dance steps and collapsing on each other’s shoulders in fits of giggles at his ineptitude. Their elder brother, the Honorable Sidney Byng, who had been surprisingly kind to Peter since Kate’s departure, was forever shooing the “gels” away and had made it clear to Peter that if he did not care to dance, he should not feel obliged to do so.

  The small glass of punch pressed on him by the Parson, whose special recipe it was, had immediately caused his head to spin, and Peter had retreated to a corner of the ballroom at Baslow Hall where he had stood, swaying in tim
e to the music, a vacant smile flickering over his face. After a while, a tinge of the sadness and loneliness—which this evening’s festivities had eased for the first time in a month—returned. He had hoped to have been rescued by now and the uncertainty of his situation was hard to bear. If Kate had been there with him, this would have been such a different evening. He would not even have minded if she had laughed at him—which doubtless, knowing Kate, she would have done. Not, he suspected, that she would have fared any better.

  From the dance floor, Gideon had flashed him an encouraging smile and had signaled for Peter to come and join the throng. But Peter had shaken his head. With a slight shrug of his shoulders Gideon had continued to swing his partner energetically around in time to the music which soon swept the pair back up the room. His current partner was Hannah, whose sparkling eyes and pink cheeks were the picture of gaiety, for she loved nothing better than dancing and she had found a partner whose steps were as light as her own. As the Honorable Mrs. Byng’s new estate manager, Gideon had been in great demand at the ball, and he had barely sat out a dance during the entire evening. He had been the object of much curiosity, as newcomers to that part of Derbyshire were few and far between, but Gideon had swiftly secured a favorable verdict and he was pronounced to be both handsome and personable by one and all.

  Mesmerized by the interweaving rows of dancers, Peter had started when Mrs. Byng spoke into his ear.

  “I am pleased that Mr. Seymour finally persuaded you to come, Master Schock. It is a merry occasion, is it not? And, see, I am wearing the necklace which family tradition dictates I wear to the Harvest Ball and which you and Mr. Seymour did so much to protect from thieving hands.”

  “Yes, thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Byng, I’m … er … having a great time….”

  Mrs. Byng permitted herself to put an arm around his shoulder.

  “I want you to know, Peter, that you will always receive a warm welcome at Baslow Hall, and I hope that until your—predicament—is resolved, you will undertake to visit us very often. We have all grown most attached to you.”

  The warmth in Mrs. Byng’s voice, the Parson’s punch, and the unbearably sweet strains of a violin all conspired to break Peter’s resolve never to cry about his situation. He stared fixedly at the precious necklace which adorned Mrs. Byng’s neck while he struggled to rein in his emotions, but the glittering diamonds grew misty and began to sparkle in all colors of the rainbow. Peter turned his face as far away from Mrs. Byng as he could.

  “Peter,” she said. “There is no shame in grieving for what has befallen you—and you are among friends. Come, the hour is late and you are grown pale with fatigue—I shall ask my cousin to take you to your bed.”

  Several of the ladies had looked more than a little disappointed as Gideon escorted Peter out of the ballroom alongside a perspiring Parson Ledbury, who dabbed at his brow and bid his farewells in a booming voice over the clamor of the crowd.

  Now Gideon, Parson Ledbury, and Peter rode under the infinite dome of the night sky toward Hawthorn Cottage, which would be, for who knew how long, Peter’s home. Peter sat up and stretched.

  “Ah-ha! The young master awakes!” said Gideon. “I feared I would have to carry you to your bed. I am glad of it, for my feet are sore with so much dancing.”

  “You dance well, Gideon, but as for you, young Master Schock, I think it fair to say that you are the worst dancer I ever clapped eyes on! Indeed, I’ll warrant folk would pay to see your attempts, for you would be certain to put smiles on their faces.”

  “Do not heed the good Parson,” laughed Gideon. “If the tables were turned, Parson Ledbury’s mastery of twenty-first-century dancing might also be the cause for merriment. What say you, Peter?”

  A grin appeared on Peter’s face as he pictured Parson Ledbury gyrating in a disco. “You have no idea!” he said.

  As they turned a bend in the dirt track, they saw moonlight reflected on the slates of Hawthorn Cottage above the trees. “Whoa!” called Parson Ledbury, pulling sharply on the reins.

  The chaise rolled to a slow halt in front of the gate and Gideon prepared to jump down. “My thanks to you, Parson. You have saved us a long walk home.”

  “I am happy to oblige—”

  Gideon interrupted him.

  “But see! There is a light within!”

  He slid down from the chaise, quietly opened the gate, and hurried up the path. Peter and Parson Ledbury looked at each other in consternation and followed him. The door was slightly ajar and Gideon pushed it with his finger, causing it to creak open, and then stepped inside the dark hall. Peter and the Parson tiptoed behind him. There was no one to be seen, but a candle burned brightly on the table, illuminating the journal which Gideon had been writing before they set off for the ball. In front of the fireplace, however, stood a large metal object, the same height as Gideon, and cuboid in shape.

  “Oh!” whispered Peter in amazement. “It looks like an antigravity machine! They’ve come back!”

  Gideon ran into the kitchen but when he found no one there he sprinted upstairs, three steps at a time. Peter hurried after him and pushed him to one side in order to see what he was staring at. The Parson peeped over Gideon’s shoulder. No one spoke. The sound of slow, rhythmic snoring came from Gideon’s bedchamber. Peter laughed out loud. There lay Dr. Dyer, flat on his back and mouth open, and beside him was Molly, one paw over her nose.

  Gideon cleared his throat noisily and the unconscious figure stirred.

  “Greetings, Dr. Dyer,” said Gideon. “What an unexpected pleasure it is to see you!”

  “Yes, indeed, welcome back, sir!” said the Parson.

  Kate’s father sat up with a start and clasped his hand to his head as if he were in pain. Then Molly shot up and started to growl until, a moment later, she caught Peter’s scent and then Gideon’s and the Parson’s, and she started to jump up at them excitedly and lick their faces.

  “Molly! Down, girl!” chuckled Peter, wiping his wet cheek on his sleeve.

  “Where am I?” Dr. Dyer cried. “Gideon? Is that you? And Parson Ledbury?”

  “Hello!” said Peter.

  “And Peter! Oh, thank the Lord! Is Kate here?”

  “No,” said Peter doubtfully. “Did you expect her to be?”

  Dr. Dyer’s face fell. “I was rather hoping that she might….”

  “Oh,” Peter replied. “Did you get separated? And why have you come with a new machine?”

  “We had to build a replica. Kate and your father, shall we say, ran off with the other one….”

  “What!” exclaimed Peter. “Kate and my dad! Dad’s here?”

  His heart leaped. His own dad had come to rescue him!

  “Yes. They returned to 1763 only a couple of days after Kate arrived back home. Unfortunately, their antigravity machine will have materialized in Middle Harpenden, a small village in Hertfordshire.”

  “Why on earth did they choose to go there?” asked Peter.

  Dr. Dyer rubbed his eyes. “That’s a long story…. But I was convinced that they would have made their way here by now. I’m guessing that Kate and your dad will have reasoned, like I did, that Gideon would head for Derbyshire, and if they found Gideon, they’d find you….”

  “Your reasoning is correct,” said the Parson, “although, mercifully, our friends are no longer fugitives. No sooner had the beneficiary of the news fled for his life along with Peter than—with impeccable timing—the confounded messenger arrived with the King’s pardon! Sir Richard and I raced up to Derbyshire to bring the good tidings, but this pair dawdled all the way home and we beat them to Baslow Hall by three days!”

  “But where are they?” Peter asked anxiously. “Even in the eighteenth century it doesn’t take that long to get up to Derbyshire!”

  “I would guess that there are but two possibilities,” said the Parson. “Either they never arrived in Middle Harpenden or something has befallen them on their way to Derbyshire—as we know to our cost, these ar
e dangerous times.”

  The Parson was right, Peter thought, though he wished he had not put it quite so bluntly. Images of Ned Porter, the highwayman, and the gang of footpads flashed through his mind. How on earth would his dad cope with eighteenth-century villains, not to mention less perilous inconveniences such as weevils and the lack of flushing toilets? And his dad hadn’t even been a boy scout—he was hopeless at anything practical. Peter looked downcast. “We’ve got to look for them!” he said.

  “I’m afraid I think we must,” said Dr. Dyer. “Even though, now that I’ve found you, Peter, I wonder if I didn’t ought to take you back to your mother straightaway.”

  “No!” said Peter. “We can’t go back without them! I know what it feels like to be stranded!”

  It was a full week before Peter, Dr. Dyer, and Gideon returned from Hertfordshire. As harvesting was finished, Mrs. Byng had spared Gideon from his duties, and Parson Ledbury had lent them his coach and four. It took them three days to find Middle Harpenden, relying on a poor map and even poorer directions from innkeepers on their way. Finally, Dr. Dyer recognized the village green and the pond, although the pond was smaller and there were fewer trees. The cottage, which in the twenty-first century would become a post office, had recently been built. Behind it, on the exact spot where the garage would stand and the antigravity machine must have materialized, there were several rows of cabbages. They spoke to a certain Reverend Austen, a shy young man, who was the new vicar of the parish. He offered them tea and seed cake in the vicarage and was very kind to Molly; he could not, however, recall anything of note happening in the village recently—other than the doctor’s wife giving birth to triplets and a curious, warm wind that brought with it clouds of fine sand although they were a hundred miles from the sea. Certainly he would have remembered if any of his parishioners had come across a strange girl with red hair and a forty-year-old man, both dressed in unusual attire….