Sangfroid stepped forward and gave a curt, military bow.
“Splendid.” Hubert shook her hand warmly. “Imagine meeting you here, Sangfroid,” he said as he gave Millicent a sly sideways look. She blushed, and Sangfroid felt she was the object of a joke between them. It immediately put her back on the defensive, and she was annoyed to find all this charming distraction had lulled her off guard. She couldn’t afford to relax. Not even for a nanosecond. These peculiar little people may be strange and engaging, but she had to be careful; they could very well be extremely dangerous.
“Sir. That’s a fine machine you have there.” She indicated the lantern, determined to keep up a friendly facade.
Hubert smiled. “Oh, yes. A beauty,” he said and patted his lantern lovingly. He was a short man, only an inch or two taller than Millicent. His sandy hair was beginning to recede from his forehead and temples, and he carried too much girth around the middle to be a sportsman. Aside from that, he seemed inordinately jovial, and his eyes, the same caramel colour as Millicent’s, twinkled intelligently from behind tiny wire-rimmed spectacles. His clothing was as strangely quaint as the ladies’. He wore plaid trousers and a worsted wool jacket with handkerchiefs, pencils, and protractors poking out of every pocket. “Just look at the workmanship. It’s a Newton, you know,” Hubert said.
Sangfroid nodded as if that meant something to her.
“Let’s set her up, shall we?” Hubert indicated that Sangfroid should accompany him to the front parlour. “Leave the ladies to sort things out here, ’eh?”
Sangfroid got the impression Hubert couldn’t get away fast enough.
“But what about this mess?” Sophia said.
“I told you, I’ll get the brush and clean it up,” Millicent replied curtly.
“And where exactly is the brush, Millicent?” Sophia’s high whine followed them into the front parlour.
“Oh please, you don’t even know where we keep the maid.” The door closed on their conversation with a well-oiled click.
“Good to see you, old chap.” Hubert winked at his little gender joke. “How’s the leg, by the way?” He immediately threw himself into assembling the lantern without waiting for an answer.
“The leg?” Sangfroid was a little taken aback by the warm familiarity of Hubert’s words. She didn’t know what to make of the wink. Her hand dropped towards her tricky knee. “It’s fine.”
“Good. While I do this, move those chairs into rows, will you?”
It took Sangfroid mere minutes to swing the heavy dining chairs into order. “How many ladies are you expecting?” She set out three rows of five chairs apiece.
“Oh, a veritable flock. We’re expecting a muster of ladies this evening. I’m afraid word of your visit has circulated, Sangfroid. My intended is neither discreet nor discerning in matters of this nature. Sophia needs the limelight. And whether it’s by hosting evenings of pretentious twaddle like this one or indulging in inane tittle-tattle, she will have it.” He fussed about, fixing a white cloth screen in front of the chairs. “That is why Millicent is fuming. She hates the attention. Millicent can’t bear to have her actions audited.”
“I don’t understand any of this.” Sangfroid frowned. Actions audited? What did that mean? Though her soldier’s gut told her these people were essentially harmless, she was far from happy with the situation. There was too much subtext she couldn’t decipher. Too many currents wriggling away beneath the surface. She had no idea where she was, who they were, or whom they represented. It was time for answers.
She opened the door to the hallway. Millicent was sweeping the last of the eggshells into a dustpan. She looked heated and dishevelled and muttered angrily to herself. Sophia was nowhere to be seen, which was probably for the best, Sangfroid decided.
“Millicent, would you come in here, please?” Sangfroid liked the sound of Millicent’s name on her tongue; it sounded exotic and intriguing. Millicent looked surprised but complied, shaking the dust from her skirt before joining them.
“I need answers. And now, please,” Sangfroid said, solemnly turning to face them. Standing side by side, the family resemblance was unmistakable, except Millicent had darker hair. Their mannerisms were similar, too. Both seemed anxious, earnest, and unnervingly intelligent.
“Well, yes,” Millicent answered, carefully. “I suppose it’s only fair.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” Hubert sighed, then stepped up to the mark with a direct question. “Tell me, Sangfroid. What year is it?”
Sangfroid’s frown deepened. She wanted to ask the questions, and what was worse, this particular one reverberated somewhere at the back of her mind. What year is it? It had weight and purpose. This question was somehow no stranger to her, and how she answered was important for all of them. Then the crazy notion slipped away as quickly as it had come, leaving her feeling foolish and unfocused. She caught Millicent’s calm but concerned gaze and knew she had witnessed that flashing moment of unease and understood it better than Sangfroid did.
“It’s anno VI in the reign of Hadrian X,” Sangfroid said.
“She can’t go around saying that,” Millicent murmured to Hubert.
“Let me see.” Hubert went slightly walleyed and stared at the ceiling. His lips moved silently.
This went on for several seconds until Sangfroid felt obliged to ask, “Is he praying?”
Millicent laughed. “He’s calculating. He’s absolutely brilliant at mathematics. The best in England. In all of Europe, I’d venture.”
“1957,” Hubert announced. “That’s what it would be in our calendar.” He looked directly at Millicent.
She stared back, alarmed. “1957! That can’t possibly be correct, it’s less than a hundred years away. They can’t have advanced that much in such a short time.”
“I agree. It’s as if there is a rogue branch somewhere in our timeline where something has gotten rather out of place.”
“What has gotten out of place?” Sangfroid asked. She was becoming frustrated with these two and wished she disliked them enough to apply torture or at least a good garrotte. “And what is 1957?” She put an edge to her voice to warn them her patience was wearing thin and that she was a dangerous adversary.
Sombre chimes rang out from the hall. The parlour door flung open, and a harassed Sophia bustled in to join them. She had changed into an aubergine velvet gown with cream lace, and pearl studded cuffs. A monocle hung on a black ribbon pinned to her breast. Her hair was set in a severe fashion and bedecked with black feathers and black velvet bows. Huge ones. The ensemble was intended to give her a sophisticated and scholarly air, but with her gaunt height and aristocratic nose she favoured a plush crow.
“The first of my ladies are arriving.” She waved her hands about. “Where is Edna? We can’t keep them waiting on the doorstep.” The whine was back in her voice. “And they’re early. Everyone is usually terribly late; it’s the fashion.” Sophia sounded vexed at the faux pas. “How maladroit.”
“Maybe it’s a vanguard action,” Hubert said, merrily. “Prepare yourself to be breached.” He gave Sangfroid another conspiratorial wink.
“I hope everything is ready, Hubert?” Sophia asked, though it came out more like a demand.
“Yes, my dear. All is ready.” Hubert’s smile dropped, and he stood at attention by the lantern, a tray of glass slides on the table next to him.
“Best we retire,” Millicent whispered and indicated for Sangfroid to follow her.
“You can’t go now.” Sophia was shrill with anxiety. “People will expect to be introduced to our guest. The ladies know you’ve a visitor, Millicent. It’s all very exciting,” she said in a voice that suggested the opposite. Then taking a good, long, horrified look at Sangfroid, said, “Oh, look at the state of him! I thought you were cleaning him up! Has he no other uniforms? Something less gory, perhaps with epaulets?” She glared
at Sangfroid with supreme dissatisfaction.
Sangfroid gawped at her. Did Sophia really think she was a houseguest? And a man? Sophia wasn’t as bright as the Aberlys, that much was certain. Not that Sangfroid blamed her; there couldn’t be many people as bright as the Aberlys. It occurred to Sangfroid that the true nature of her arrival was being kept secret from Sophia. But why?
Millicent kept a firm hold of her arm. Sangfroid could feel the anxiety pulsing off her and decided to let her take the lead.
“Introductions will have to wait until later, Sophia,” Millicent said. “Decanus Sangfroid would hate to divert attention from the latest riveting news from the paleobotanical world. Meanwhile, I shall search father’s wardrobe for anything with frogs or tassels that may pander to the vacuous foppery you favour so well. Rest assured, we shall return ready and prepared to share tea and proper introductions with your ladies of science.”
Sangfroid spared a glance towards Hubert and, on seeing the suffering in his eyes, edged a little closer to Millicent, determined to retreat with her. Their escape, however, was foiled by Edna’s alacrity. She had already opened the front door to a throng of Sophia’s scientific sorority. Their excited trills and warbles echoed down the hallway.
“At least cover the bloodstains on your chest!” Sophia exclaimed. “Here, carry Millicent’s shawl.” She grabbed a shawl off the piano stool and pressed onto Sangfroid’s chest. Sangfroid grabbed it and held it over the worst stains.
“I have never needed for my shawl to be carried in all my life!” Millicent was outraged. “It’s most presumptive and gives out quite the wrong message.” Her protestations were drowned as a gaggle of ladies massed in the doorway. They stood judiciously halfway in and halfway out, waiting for the flustered Edna to officially announce their arrival. Unfortunately, their excited whispers were clearly audible to those present.
“Is that him?”
“Goodness me, he’s a giant!”
Sangfroid was mortified at being the object of speculation for a half dozen owlish spinsters.
“Hush, Velma; he’ll hear you.”
“Foreign, I should imagine. I understand foreign gentlemen can be very tall.”
“I hear that the men of the Urals are the tallest of all.
There was excited tittering at this.
“Isn’t he handsome? Just look at those regimentals.”
Sangfroid clutched the shawl tighter to her chest. Why were they calling her he?
“My dearest friends, please do enter.” Sophia boomed out a welcome to her guests, and the awkward moment passed. The ladies bustled into the room as if a singular entity. Salutations were dutifully exchanged with both Miss Millicent and Professor Aberly, before the ladies’ unified attention was once more riveted upon Sangfroid.
“Major Sangfroid,” Hubert began the introductions as man of the house. Sangfroid frowned at the deliberate change in her name. What the Hades was a major? “May I introduce Miss Bench, Miss Hove, Miss Surplus, the Misses Thrace-Bartley Holmes, Miss Ogilvy, Miss Fitzpatrick, and Mademoiselle Beaulac,” Hubert announced in a breathless rush then ducked behind his lantern and tried to look preoccupied. “The vanguard,” he muttered for Sangfroid’s ears only. “You’re on your own, now.”
Vanguard my arse; this is an entire heavy armour division. “Good evening, ladies.” Sangfroid swooped into a low ceremonial bow. She wasn’t sure of the exact status of these ladies, but decided to be ultra polite in case they were priestesses of the local cult.
Millicent thankfully inserted herself into the introductions. “Major Sangfroid serves with the First Prussian Dragoons and has kindly come to call on us whilst in London. He is a close friend of Hubert, as you know. It is wonderful to see him again and so unexpectedly.”
Sangfroid was dumbfounded at the blatant lies tripping off Millicent’s tongue. She had even more gall than her brother. Her identity must be a serious issue for the Aberlys to hide it at every turn. And her gender, too? But why?
Excited tittering followed Millicent’s words, and Sangfroid felt the ladies scrutiny increase tenfold. She bowed again and politely smiled. She had no idea what was going on, but her instinct told her to play along. On some intrinsic level, she found herself trusting Millicent and Hubert. The ladies chattered freely now that the courtesy of introduction was over.
“Prussian! I told you he was foreign. Tall. See. It’s all in the colouring.”
“He is very blond.”
“And tall.”
“Yes. Ever so tall.”
“Is Prussia near the Urals?”
“What brings you to London, Major?”
“Is the rest of your battalion here, Major?”
Sangfroid had no idea. An unexpected ache rattled in her chest. She had no battalion. She was a decanus not a major, whatever that was. She’d led a unit of ten centurions. Her soldiers, her friends, had died on the Amoebas. If this place was some strange, lunatic, afterlife, then where were her comrades? Why was she here alone? Her gaze strayed to Millicent certain she held the answers. If only she’d share.
The ladies continued their onslaught.
“You must sit and tell us all about the Urals, Major,” one requested.
“Perhaps we could combine with the ladies of the Geographical society for a specialist talk?” another said.
“Oh, do say yes to a specialist talk, Major Sangfroid.”
Followed by yet another. “You really, really must, Major. The Urals sound fascinating.”
They pressed her to agree. She looked over at Millicent beseechingly, but she looked pale and stiff and equally adrift.
“Ladies, ladies.” Sophia clapped her hands and began to corral her guests. “We need to begin. Hubert has an appointment on the hour and must leave. Millicent and the major will rejoin us for light refreshment later.”
“Millicent and the major. How adorable.” There were spinsterish giggles, and Millicent turned scarlet.
“See how he carries her shawl? He’s so gallant, so romantic,” said another, sotto voce, and Millicent looked as if she might explode.
Sophia ushered the ladies to their seats. The lights were lowered, and Millicent whisked Sangfroid out of the room at lightning speed, still blushing furiously.
“Millicent and the major? The prussian dragoons? And what are urals?” Sangfroid demanded as soon as they reached Millicent’s little study. “What the hell was all that about?”
“Language, please. I will not have the H word used in this house.”
Sangfroid assimilated this and decided to ignore it and carry on, without the H word. “What was all that about?”
Millicent bristled. “What else could I say? You can’t be a decanus here; no one knows the term. There is no military equivalent. I made an informed guess, a presumption, on your rank and came up with major. And the Prussian Dragoons were the closest I could get to Imperial Space Corps Marines in that they both sound exotic and have over-elaborate uniforms.”
“And why does everyone think I’m a man?”
“Well, you’re very tall.” Millicent looked flustered. “And board shouldered. And your short hair doesn’t help.”
“So? You and Hubert get it?”
“Hubert and I already know you. Sophia does not. To her, with your size and bearing, and…and attitude, you are masculine, and she simply can’t perceive you any other way. Neither can the ladies.”
That didn’t make things any clearer to Sangfroid. So what about her hair? Long hair got matted with blood and guts and stuck to your face. She wasn’t particularly tall either; everyone and everything in this world was tiny! Millicent was being ludicrous.
“How do you and Hubert already know me?” That was the issue she should be concentrating on. The answer would be interesting. She accepted there was a strange reverberation when she was around them. There was a link between them s
he had yet to understand.
“It’s a long story, and I do intend to tell you.” Millicent held her hand up to stave off any interruption. “It’s just that we have bigger problems at the moment. You most definitely should not be here.”
“For the last time, where is here!” Her patience evaporated. The tension of the past hour combined with the growing pain in her leg brought her to a standstill. Hesperidean maidens, space squid, drugs, and whatever damnation lay behind this mad house…she was going to find out what it was, once and for all.
Millicent sat upright in the chair nearest the fireplace. “You are in London, England,” she said.
“Londinium?” That did surprise her.
Millicent’s fingers plucked at a loose thread on her needlepoint. “Yes, I suppose it is your Londinium, except that it is also my London.” She wouldn’t look at Sangfroid, instead giving all her attention to the stitches. “And the year is 1862,” she added.
“1862,” Sangfroid repeated slowly. Examining the words for clues. They held none. This was stupid. The woman talked in riddles. Except Sangfroid’s gut roiled in that way it did when something was terribly, terribly wrong. Old soldiers listened to their guts, and hers was currently singing opera. In warfare, the gut tended to assimilate information much quicker than the brain. Especially bad information. “What exactly is 1862?”
“It’s the year in accordance with the Gregorian calendar that we use in this timeline. And that means there is almost one hundred years between the timeline where we are now and the timeline where you come from.”
“One hundred years?” Sangfroid was incredulous. She looked around the room, at the gaslight, the ticking timepiece on the mantel, the open fire. There was no technology here worth spit. “There’s more than a hundred years difference. More like a thousand. This place is primeval.” It was worse than Sparta. “Are you saying I’ve travelled backwards in time?”
“Yes and no. And don’t be so judgmental. I’ll have you know you are in the heart of the British Empire, an advanced industrial society acclaimed worldwide for its engineering and entrepreneurial ingenuity. Why Hubert has—”
The Tea Machine Page 3
