That was the moment, naturally, in which James and the professor entered the chapel, one after the other.
The shock alone might’ve killed Simon. The heads of their dozen guests turned to the door. There were murmurs, but the vicar registered his surprise with a double blink, before gamely continuing to recite:
“I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgement when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it.”
Simon ought to have looked at Sarah, then. That was what he wanted to do. But he glanced at the professor and James instead. Their faces remained impassive.
Only when he realised that they weren’t there to stop the marriage, apparently, did he exhale and dare to look at his bride.
Ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgement when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not be lawfully joined together in Matrimony, ye do now confess it.
What would she do, if he confessed the secrets of his heart? The secrets of his life? She thought him twenty years younger, and Simon had been as careful as he could to conceal his true age, but someone, someday, would surely notice, wouldn’t they? What would she think then? What would she do?
The vicar was speaking to Simon directly, now. “Wilt thou have this Woman to thy wedded Wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour, and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
Simon looked at Sarah, only Sarah, as he spoke the words, “I will.”
It was Sarah’s turn, then, and her bouquet of lilies trembled a bit as her bare shoulders shook—from nerves, or an attempt not to cry—as the vicar asked her the same question, and she gave the same answer.
“Who giveth this Woman to be married to this Man?”
Sarah’s father joyfully performed his role, and Simon took the opportunity to glance, again, at James and the professor, still sitting in the back pew of the elaborate chapel.
Why were they there? What did they want?
The vicar cleared his throat, bringing Simon back into the moment. He exhaled slowly, before saying, “I, Simon Henry Shaw, take thee, Sarah Elizabeth Hargrove, to my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward—”
For how much longer, though?
“For better, for worse—”
What if they were worse?
“For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health—”
Sickness. Simon had to force himself not to let his eyes stray from Sarah’s.
“To love and to cherish, till death us do part—”
But when? When?
“According to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”
Simon was surely sweating through his waistcoat by the time he was finished. He relaxed only slightly as Sarah repeated her vows, taking his right hand with hers.
The words seemed to come so easily for her; her smile never wavered, her voice never faltered. What on God’s Earth did she see in him?
The vicar took the ring from its resting place and handed it to Simon, who took Sarah’s left hand in his, and placed the ring on her finger.
“With this Ring I thee wed, with my Body I thee worship, and with all my worldly Goods I thee endow: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
“Amen,” everyone said in response, as the vicar directed Simon and Sarah to kneel.
“Let us pray,” he said.
Simon’s relief was overwhelming. The prayers went on for years; Simon’s knees ached, but surely that was normal, wasn’t it? He could feel the tiled floor through his breeches.
The next words that issued from the vicar’s lips recaptured his attention: “God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Ghost, bless, preserve, and keep you; the Lord mercifully with his favour look upon you; and so fill you with all spiritual benediction and grace, that ye may so live together in this life, that in the world to come ye may have life everlasting. Amen.”
Life everlasting.
James and the professor both looked the same, exactly the same, as they had decades ago, and Simon was quite sure they were not young men then, either.
What was their secret?
After the ceremony, and the prayers, and the signing of the register, congratulations were exchanged and all of the assembled guests began filing out of the chapel and back toward the manor for the wedding breakfast. All save two.
On his way out, Simon managed to manoeuvre his way toward the men.
“Congratulations,” the professor said to him. “I come bearing gifts.”
Simon swallowed hard. “What is it?” he asked with dread.
“Lord Simon!” Sarah’s mother approached, and gave the professor and James an appraising look. “I would be so honoured if you would introduce us?”
“Certainly,” Simon said, a frozen smile on his lips. “Professor, may I introduce you to Mrs. Hargrove.”
Mrs. Hargrove’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Professor . . .”
“Lenaurd,” he lied.
“How exotic!” she said. “And is this your . . .”
“This extraordinary gentleman is James,” Simon added quickly, because that was the only name he’d known the man by, and such an introduction was sure to be less offensive than whatever Mrs. Hargrove was about to utter.
“Mr. James,” Mrs. Hargrove said. “How is it that you’ve come to know our Lord Simon?”
“We are colleagues.”
“Oh! You work for the Company as well?”
“Not at all,” the professor said. Simon took that opportunity to add, “The East India Company brings together many distinguished gentlemen from all over the world. I am incredibly fortunate to have made the acquaintance of men of their caliber.”
That seemed to satisfy Mrs. Hargrove, for the moment. “Well, I very much look forward to hearing all about your adventures abroad, Professor Lenaurd and Mr. James. I expect you’ll be joining us for the breakfast?”
“Unfortunately not,” the professor said. “We have some business nearby that we must attend to, but we wanted to offer our congratulations in person.” The professor said to Simon, “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”
The men departed without another word, before Simon could ask them when he would be seeing them, and why, and how they looked the way they looked whilst others aged and faded and died.
He tried not to think about them as he sat next to his wife, in the home they now shared, surrounded by her family. He tried not to think about them for the rest of that day and night. He was only successful that night.
Simon awoke the following morning feeling like a new man, truly. His worrying had been for naught. He was in perfect health. He had a beautiful new wife. He was the most fortunate man alive.
He dressed for his morning ride and had the groom lead his favourite horse from the stable, a grey mare named Shadow. The horse reared after seeing a lady’s hat tossed into the wind, and she threw Simon from the saddle.
The fall broke his neck. He had eighteen minutes to live.
James and the professor arrived in five.
29
A NEW INVENTION
Before
SIMON ENCOUNTERED THE PROFESSOR TWICE more in his inordinately long life. One visit preceded a bout with tuberculosis. After the other, a carriage accident left him nearly dead.
Nearly.
The incidents themselves were always hazy, shrouded in shadows, as were his miraculous recoveries, but they left dread in their wake, and it was dread Simon felt upon seeing the professor at one of the doors to the servants’ quarters at his Yorkshire estate. Dread, but not fear. The years had replaced it with anger. Envy.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
Simon murmured.
“Curious choice of words.”
Simon’s eyes slit to half-mast.
“That’s not happiness to see me,” the professor said. “Won’t you invite me in?”
“Come in,” said Simon, holding the door open, flicking a nervous glance over his shoulder. The professor stepped inside, his shoulder-length hair in loose curls, wearing a dark suit. Just as before.
“Well, how long has it been?” the professor asked cheerily.
“You know exactly how long,” said Simon, picking up the candlestick again. “You could count the days if I asked you to.”
“I have counted them, Simon. The days and the years,” the professor said without pause. “I’m afraid there won’t be another,” he added. “But you knew that already, didn’t you.”
Simon looked away, to the floor. His shoulders stooped. “I feel it. The time.”
“Yours is coming to an end,” the professor said, and a look of fear ignited Simon’s eyes. He stepped back, the candlestick still in hand. He was scarcely dressed, still in his night robe, which hung loosely from his frame.
“The time you were given was temporary,” the professor said, advancing. “You have lived a longer life than you were meant to.”
“It’s not enough,” Simon muttered.
“It never is,” the professor said.
Simon rounded on him, held the candles up to illuminate the professor’s eerily ageless face.
“And yet here you stand.”
“We’re not the same,” the professor said. “You know that.”
“You told me—”
“I said that you had a gift, Simon. And you do—the gift of a great name. The gift of noble birth. The gift of privilege. You wield an enormous amount of influence, which I needed, and which you agreed to use in exchange for—”
“More time,” Simon said, his voice hollow and desperate.
“A bargain well struck, don’t you think?”
“How much do I have left?”
“No more than a year, if that.”
Anger flashed on Simon’s face. “Intolerable. My wife, my children—”
“Your wife is a young woman. You are a man with one foot in the grave, Simon.”
Simon blanched. “And what are you? Not a man at all, I venture.”
The professor raises his eyebrows. “I am very much a man. A different breed, though, if you will.”
“Are you calling me a mongrel?”
“No, I am calling you ordinary,” the professor said. “But you have lived an extraordinary life, my friend.”
“Is that what I am? Your friend?”
The professor smiled.
“The man . . .” Simon’s voice trailed off as he thought, searched his memory. “What was his name?” It lurked somewhere in the shadows of his mind, infuriatingly out of reach.
The professor merely arched an eyebrow at all this.
“The African,” Simon said eagerly, hopefully, now that he remembered that detail at least. “Is he still alive?”
The professor inclined his head. “His name is James. And yes.”
“That’s it, then.” Simon nodded to himself. “I will go to him at once, as you’ve come to me before. Where can I find him?”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
Simon set the candlestick down on a tall chest. “Why ever not?”
“Even if he were . . . available—which he isn’t,” the professor said, his voice clipped, “those years—your years—came from somewhere. Someone.” The professor adjusted the cuffs of his suit, then looked at Simon evenly. “There must be balance, my friend. Death is inevitable, for all of us.”
“Some of us earlier than others, though,” Simon huffed.
The professor’s expression remained placid.
Simon’s temper got the better of him, finally, and he whipped around to face the professor, and his fate, with bitterness. “And what have you been doing with the gifts I’ve given you?”
“Making arrangements.” The professor stepped farther into the hall, looking around. “The Raj will collapse,” he said casually. “Most of the colonies will fall, as they should.”
Simon looked stricken. “What? When?”
“Divest yourself of the East India Company,” the professor said. “Reinvest in yourself.”
After all the professor had him do? After all these years? “That is madness! Do you know the lengths I went to help—” Simon shook his head, disbelieving. “The lords would have me murdered if I withdrew my support.”
“The Company’s power is waning. You may yet still consolidate yours.” The professor looked at Simon Shaw directly. “And in doing so, it is possible you may find the time you desire.”
This stopped Simon. He went silent for a moment, before asked, “How?”
“Asking the wrong questions will yield the wrong answers,” the professor said maddeningly. “You ought to be asking where.”
“Why ask when you’re about to tell me,” Simon growled. “That’s why you’re here, in the middle of the damned night, scratching at the back door like one of the hounds, is it not?”
The professor was unfazed by the insults. He might even have expected them. “There is a child in India rumoured to have the gifts you wish to possess.”
“Why not go yourself?” Simon asked, his tone wary, but keen.
“I shall join you there, after a time, but I am only one man, and I am needed elsewhere, first.”
The bitterness returned. “I’m needed here, with my family.”
“Your wife still has so much life ahead of her, yet.”
“No.”
“She can marry again.”
“No!” He slammed his fist against the wall.
“The Company, the Crown and Empire need you.”
“Blast them,” Simon swore. “Surely you don’t mean me to inform them of this scheme?”
“No,” the professor said, unperturbed. “They are not yet prepared for this . . . development. It would put many at risk.”
Simon’s eyes narrow. “Many . . . of you?” The professor did not reply. “How many others are there?” Simon asked, too greedily. “What gifts do they possess?”
The professor seemed to grow taller before Simon as he spoke. “Before you withdraw your investment in the Company, you will tell the lords and officers that there has been a discovery of a most secretive nature just off the Bengali coast. You yourself will lead an expedition, so as not to diminish the royal forces.”
“They will want their officers along.”
“They will not have enough to spare,” the professor said. “Trust me.”
“Then what need is there to inform them at all?”
“If you return—”
“If?”
“If you return, it will be with even greater wealth. You cannot afford any accusations. Besides, your wife will worry.”
“You’ve thought this all through, I see.”
“I always do.”
Simon’s tired body sagged against the wood panelling on the walls. “I do feel it,” he whispered. “My wife insists I’m going mad, but my bones . . . they’re turning to dust inside my body. My beard grows in grey.”
“Is that why you’ve shaved?”
Simon looked away, embarrassed.
“Vanity,” the professor said in a low voice. “All is vanity.”
It hardly took more than a moment for Simon to recover. “It’ll take months to arrange,” he said, as if he’d won a small victory.
“You don’t have months.”
“But the winds, the weather—I doubt we’ll make port before the monsoons begin.”
“All the more reason to leave quickly.”
The fear was back, but he couldn’t show it. “This will come at great personal risk, you realise.”
“I do. But think of it this way—you may die before you get there. You may die whilst you are there. But you will definitely die if you stay here.�
��
A sigh escaped Simon’s mouth. But something the professor had said . . . “The child has the gift?” he asked the professor with hooded eyes. “Immortality? Like you?”
The professor weighed his words. “I am not immortal. But yes. The child is like me.”
“And where am I to find him?”
“You will write to me at every stage of your journey,” the professor said, “and I will make arrangements for some of my trusted associates to join your expedition and track the child.”
“How old is he?”
“I do not know his age, or sex.”
Simon’s jaw set. “Is he without a family? Am I to pry him from his mother’s arms?”
“Perhaps,” the professor said, his eyes flickering with amusement. “Would you find that objectionable?”
“What do you take me for? A monster?”
The professor lifted his brows. “Even if that child would give you the time you desire? You and your loved ones?”
“Even then,” said Simon, but his voice betrayed him. Then, quietly, “What am I to do with him?”
“Raise him as your own.”
Simon looked on, blinking in astonishment.
“The child must take your name,” the professor said. “Of that, I am certain.”
Simon paused at this. Considering. “My wife,” he said, his voice quieter now. “I will need to prepare.” Then, “You could have given me more warning,” he snapped.
“If I had known, I would have.”
“I thought you knew everything.”
For the first time, the professor looked unsure of himself. “Not quite. Not yet.”
Simon lifted his chin. “Then how are you certain of my future?”
“Men are defined as often by what they are not as by what they are. It is what we don’t have that drives us,” the professor said. “Learn what a person wants, and you can map his future.”
Part V
After
North Yorkshire, England
Face the facts of being what you are, for that is what changes what you are.
—Søren Kierkegaard
The Reckoning of Noah Shaw Page 14
