“Yes,” Clem agreed. “I’ll take Bea down to the kitchens for her dinner. We won’t be but a half hour at most. She really doesn’t like being away from you.” She stood up, and the dog bounded off the bed and headed for the door at Clem’s heels.
Just outside in the hallway, she ran into Jamison with the tea tray. “Miss Clementine,” she said, “the Marquis of Easterly asks that you join him in the blue sitting room.”
“Reginald! Blast!” she exclaimed, “What does he want?”
Jamison returned a blank stare, but her mouth was clamped shut in a thin, disapproving line.
Clem saw it and cleared her throat uncomfortably. “Sorry, Jamison, I’ll try to mind my manners.”
“It’s not for me to reprimand you, Miss Clem, but his lordship is a fine young man and deserves a civil tongue in your head. Now open the door for me, please.” She nodded at the closed bedroom door, and Clem opened it to let her through. Shutting it quietly behind Jamison, she made her way down to the blue sitting room, wondering all the while what Reginald wanted with her.
She opened the door to the splendor of his eveningwear and a look of angry disbelief on his face. Clem inhaled sharply, a small hand flying to her lips.
“Oh, Reginald, I am sorry!” she exclaimed. “I’d totally forgotten.”
“I can see that, Clementine” he replied tightly, taking in her hospital uniform and general appearance of disarray. “We will be unpardonably late, but I will wait if you can be prompt in your toilette.” He waved an imperious hand as if to dismiss her and settled himself into a chair.
Clem’s hands balled into fists. She had been truly sorry to have forgotten their plans, but his overbearing manner rankled. She walked into the middle of the sitting room, Bea still close on her heels, and said in a carefully modulated tone, “Again, Reginald, I am sorry to have forgotten, but I cannot go to Helena’s birthday party tonight.”
His façade of grown-up boredom and disdain dropped away almost instantaneously. He practically jumped from the chair and strode over to her.
“Really, Clem! This is beyond anything! Cancelling like this at the last moment is very bad ton, I must say!”
“Must you?” she countered, her color up, “I’m sure bad ton is the least I’ve been called by that lot!”
He pulled a little back from her, dismay shadowing his eyes. How could she not have known? Clem was interested in so much and noticed almost everything. It was one of the many things he liked about her. He had believed the snide and ugly remarks had not reached her ears—that her intense curiosity had not extended to what others said about her.
He drew in a deep breath and stood up straighter, saying, “Not by me, I hope you know.”
Unaccountably, a lump rose in Clem’s throat, and the sudden tears that stung the corners of her eyes forced her to look down at the carpet. A large doggy head pushed its way under her limp hand, giving Clem an excuse to bend down and hug the dog tightly until her emotions were under control.
“Where did you get that dog?” Reginald asked a little gruffly.
“This is Beatrix,” she replied, standing back up and looking at him. She hesitated, not sure she should mention Ettie’s presence when a footman materialized at the sitting room door and announced, “The Duke of Westchester.”
This was hardly out of the man’s mouth before Charles Drake swept into the room and, not even glancing at Reginald, said, “Is she awake?”
“Ye… yes,” she hesitated, indicating Reginald with a slight tilt of her head.
Charlie noticed the young man for the first time and nodded in greeting. “Easterly, how’d ya do?”
“Your lordship,” Reginald replied looking from one to the other. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with Miss Lacy.”
“Our acquaintanceship is of a rather recent… through a mutual friend…” his voice trailed off noncommittally, and he stood at somewhat of a loss for words.
“Ah, Lord Westchester, just the man I was looking for.” Aunt Abigail waltzed in, all smiles and graciousness. “Our visitor is awake and asking for you.”
He bowed to the room in general and preceded her out. At the door, Abigail turned and said, “Please don’t blame Clem for upsetting your plans, Reginald. I’m afraid I was the one who kept her running hither and yon until it was quite driven from her mind.”
Left to themselves Reginald looked at Clem who had the goodness to blush at what was obviously a lie.
“Dear Aunt Abigail,” she began, “I really can’t let her take the blame—”
Reginald cut her off with a spurt of laughter. “You needn’t worry about Aunt Abigail. From what I understand, she was always quite capable of taking care of herself.” He sat down heavily in the chair again and put his head into his hands, mumbling, “The Easterly men are notorious for falling for inappropriate women.”
“What on earth can you mean, Reginald?” Her hackles rose in defense of Aunt Abigail. “She is the most beloved of society figures. And your own mother can hardly be thought in any way unsuitable to her position…” she trailed off, thinking of the rigid and upright Lady Easterly.
“There, you are right,” he replied his head still bowed in his hands, elbows resting on his thighs.
“And there is not a happier man in all of the British Empire than Uncle Matthew…”
“Again, right,” he said, looking up, “Although the same cannot be said of my father.”
*
Charles Drake sat on the edge of the bed sipping a cup of excellent tea. Ettie sat facing him, crossed-legged and propped up on numerous pillows. They were alone. Evening crept over the windowsill and settled in around them. Weak electric lights flickered in sconces about the room, and the fire cast flame-shaped shadows against the walls.
“I think you experienced some form of time distortion sickness. Odell was particularly prone to it himself.”
Ettie had been feeling much better, but with this statement experienced again the nauseating disconnect in her brain. “Which Odell would that be,” she sighed, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against a pillow.
Charlie cast a worried eye over her pale face. “I honestly don’t know.”
Ettie’s mind wandered back over the past few days. She ticked off events in a linear fashion. Day one: She walks down the street dressed like a Victorian showgirl. Day two: Odell promises to tell her what is happening. Day two again: Her mother is murdered, and Odell still promises to explain everything. Day three: Odell disappears—
With a gasp, she sat up straight. Ava! Where the devil was Ava?
“What is it?” Charlie asked, eyeing her carefully for any relapse.
She shook her head as if to clear it. “A friend of mine… Ava. She left several texts and messages for me a few days ago about Odell. I thought it was strange at the time. They really don’t know each other. But now, it makes perfect sense…”
He raised his eyebrows, waiting for clarification.
“Ava is a professor of history. She’s been focused for the last couple of years on eighteenth-century feminism, and Odette Swanpoole is kind of her special topic. I can see Odell going to her for information. And if he revealed any of this crazy time travel stuff… well, she could be with him.”
“That’s quite a leap. She may just be busy. It is even possible that in this timeline you are not friends. Or she doesn’t exist.”
Ettie looked sad. “I’d rather think of her with Odell. But whichever it is, I’d like to find her.”
He rubbed his hand along his injured shoulder. It was still sore and stiff, but a few hours sleep and a decent meal had done much to restore his strength. He had made a decision in walking out of that hospital room leaving Arthur Bradley alive. From the jumble of his many dimensional lives, he had identified an ever-present constant: self-interest. Perhaps it was inevitable. Survival was the overriding drive of the little band of feral children in eighteenth-century London. They made alliances, even friendships, but they never lasted. Som
ething always disrupted them: poverty, desperation, the law, sickness, death. He had never known a moment’s rest, a breathing space to examine his path, to choose his own way. Betrayal had always taken him to the same place, no matter who he turned on, whether it was Odette, Odell, or even Sir Archibald.
He didn’t know if he could ever regain Ettie’s trust, but right now they needed each other. Charlie set the teacup down on the floor and said, “I went to the hospital to kill your father. You’ve read Odette’s journal. You know who he was.”
Ettie’s face was as still as stone, but he could see a ripple of terror beneath her skin.
“She ordered me to do it, but I couldn’t.” He stood and walked over to the huge window and sat down on the sill. “He’s not Sir Archibald or even the Arthur Bradley your brother knew. He’s just a harmless man who loves his daughter. I think that is why She wanted him dead.”
Ettie nodded stiffly, her throat dry. That there were such people in the world… people who kill… who talk about killing… who plan to kill.
“Do you know who she is or why she looks like me?” Ettie finally asked.
“No idea,” he replied abruptly, but added, “Her actions are those of… of a woman possessed, and they are directed at you and your family.” He sighed deeply. “She may be somehow tied to Sir Archibald, like me.”
She looked at him expectantly, and he told her in an emotionless voice how he had been plucked from certain death by the King’s spymaster. How he had been trained from the age of seven or eight, he really didn’t know how old he was, for a mission to the future.
Ettie stood up. She wore a pair of men’s flannel pajama pants and silk night shirt. “They’re Matthew’s,” Abigail had explained. “He’s never worn them. Probably never even knew he had them.” Abigail had shaken her head absently with mild disgust. “There is nothing more wasteful than wealth.”
Ettie felt the pants slide down her hips and hitched them up, pulling the drawstring tighter around her waist. She did this automatically, never taking her eyes off Charlie’s face.
Finally, she asked, “Was it very bad?”
He sat back and rubbed his eyes, expression returning to reanimate his face. “You be the judge,” he replied bitterly. “It made me the man I am today, the man you read about in Odette’s journal.” He stood up and shook off his self-pity. “It was a hard life, yes, isolated as I was in a cottage on his estate. I was put through strenuous physical training, at all hours of the day and night. My education was constant. My living arrangements were Spartan, and the food was simple and… meager. I had little rest, but it was vastly better than where I’d come from.”
“Who looked after you?” she asked. “Surely someone cared for you.”
He walked over to the fire, momentarily diverted by the delicate wooden dragonfly that had come to rest on the mantle. He touched with a gentle finger the fine balsa wood body and said, “I had a series of tutors, trainers, and keepers. No one stayed long, only until what they had to teach me was finished. There was a cook once… Jules, an old Frenchman. He stayed longer than most, two years. I liked him. I think he would have stayed longer if Sir Archibald hadn’t caught him sneaking me food afterhours.”
“Good God! He sounds like a monster!”
“He was. And he created one,” he replied, sitting down in the armchair and leaning back with his eyes closed.
Ettie walked into the circle of heat from the fire. She looked down at his face. In repose it was beautiful and serene. His hands lay on the armrests. Ettie had always loved his hands, large and strong. She wanted to believe that he wasn’t by nature a weak or evil man, that abuse and neglect had molded him into the perfect henchman, too emotionally tied to his abuser to ever question his orders.
Except he had. From Odette’s journal and her own experience, Charlie had, at least twice, defied his maker. Once, for his own self-interest, and now… for her? … for love? Trust danced just out of reach. She longed to feel the relaxation that came with its comfortable embrace. Instead, she tightened the muscles of her shoulders and kept any softness from her voice, “I think he may have made more than one… monster, that is.”
He looked over at her and nodded with quick understanding. “Yes, She may be his creature as well.”
“The painting…”
“She loved it. I know it’s sick, but she did.”
“Did she ever tell you anything about it, who painted it? Why?”
“No. She told me nothing about herself.”
“What hold does she have over you?”
“The strongest of all,” Charlie replied, “my life.”
“But how?”
“I don’t know… I don’t know how she found me. I don’t know how she built up her syndicate, or how she is connected with Sir Knightly. But with the machine she can go almost any-when she wants. The fact that I’m still alive only means she hasn’t wanted me dead yet.”
Ettie sat down in the other armchair and stared into the fire. It didn’t make sense to her. “If she could kill anyone at anytime, what does she need you, or anybody, for? No, I don’t believe it. I don’t believe she is all-powerful.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “You may be right.”
“So what happened, Charlie? If you believed she can kill you whenever she likes, why defy her now?
He looked away from her, embarrassed. “She threatened something else.”
“Something more important than your life?”
He looked back at her steadily. “You could say that.”
Twenty
FOR ONCE IN his long and very productive life, Benjamin Franklin was practically bereft of words. It was preposterous! Even if he believed for one second it would work, there was absolutely no way he could convince the others.
“I tell you, the Canadian trip is a failure,” Odell’s voice was suffused with frustration. “They are not prepared to join us in revolution, and the journey will only damage your health.”
Franklin flung a hand in the air in a helpless gesture. “Well, there is no arguing with history, now is there?”
Odell bit back an angry retort. He might react the same if someone showed up from the future knowing how his life had turned out even before he had lived it. A man of Franklin’s genius and disposition was unlikely to relinquish control easily, even if it meant arguing with history.
Odell drew in a deep breath and took a quick, impatient turn about the room. At any other time, he would have been in awe of his surroundings. They met in a small committee room adjacent to the much larger assembly in Independence Hall, or, more accurately at this time, the Pennsylvania State House.
The past two weeks had allowed him little time to sightsee and very few moments for contemplative wonder. Since meeting Jonathon Sinclair on the docks, his efforts had focused wholly on forwarding the only plan he believed could win the war and secure the future. He was joined in this meeting with Franklin by Gabriel, Fancy, and Hugh.
Ava had accompanied them here, but declined to join the meeting, saying, “I put him off.”
He had begun to protest, but she stopped him. “It’s all right. He needs to speak freely, and he won’t in my presence. Gabe said it was fine if I looked around a bit.”
She turned to walk back through the empty assembly room. The long cotton dress with its many petticoats accentuated her graceful movements, and he had stood transfixed by the gentle sway of her hips until she exited the door on the other side.
There was a little corner of Odell’s brain devoted to worrying about Ava. When she was out of his sight, it was host to terrifying speculation. If he didn’t wall it off, it would paralyze him, this fear for her. Although they met every evening when the household was abed to talk over the day’s events, she was often out of his sight as their paths had taken them in different directions.
“What would you have me do?” Franklin finally asked.
It was Franklin’s fallback phrase, “What would you have me do?” He had repeated it al
ready three or four times during this conversation.
“I would have you do what we discussed.”
“Take the delegation, but instead of going to Canada, follow this Sinclair fellow to New York and meet with the Six Nations?”
“Exactly. There is a Mohawk leader sympathetic to our cause, Joseph Louis Cook. Jon can take you to him. The Six Nation Conference is highly decentralized, but you can convince them to unite.” Odell took an almost pleading stance. “Doctor Franklin we can no longer seek merely neutrality from the Indian nations, when we need alliances.”
“How?”
“By offering full participation in our new nation,” Gabriel replied, “and assuring them that their lands will be protected from encroachment.”
“Schuyler did just that in Albany back in August.”
“I know. I was there advising the Indians on English law. But that was for their neutrality. If we want them to fight by our side, they need to be full partners in the revolution,” Gabriel insisted. “We need to guarantee their sovereignty.”
“And the Creek Nation in the south,” Odell added. “If we can convince them—”
“Wait… wait a minute!” Franklin held up his hand to stave off Odell’s flow of words. Looking intently at Gabriel, he asked, “How do we do that? How do we guarantee their sovereignty when you and I both know that the demand for new land is tied up in this revolution and will one day be inexorable?”
“Maybe sovereignty is too strong a word,” Gabriel conceded. “Maybe they become the fourteenth, or fifteenth—or how many tribal lands there are—colonies. Give them representation in the Continental Congress and whatever government forms after the war.”
Benjamin Franklin shook his head with a disbelieving laugh. “You ask the impossible.”
“If we push for the abolition of slavery, which we all know we must,” Gabriel declared, “the southern colonies will fight for the British. We are going to need native allies.”
“If we lose the southern colonies, we could lose Virginia, and that means we lose Washington,” Franklin asserted.
Twin Speex: Time Traitors Book II Page 20
