Chapter Two
Although she wasn't going to let it show, Amy did feel bad for complaining about their trip to nineteenth century England. She had been so thrilled by the sights and sounds of alien worlds that she had forgotten how she could fall in love with her own planet's past.
This old England was beautiful – beautiful and fresh, in a way it never could be in the twenty-first century. Amy threw her head back and breathed it in, holding her arms loftily above her and spinning around. As she twirled, she caught sight of Rory watching her.
"What?" she said, continuing to spin.
"You're going to fall over," he said matter-of-factly.
"No, I'm not!" Amy countered, spinning to a stop and making a face.
"You're swaying," he pointed out.
"Am not!"
"Yes, you are!"
Suddenly, Amy found herself tilting to the right; Rory caught her soundly in his arms. "Okay," she said, breathless, "you win. I am a bit dizzy…"
"Serves you right," he said, setting her on her feet.
Amy looked up at him and for a moment, it seemed like he was going to kiss her, but then he didn't. They were standing in the middle of a country lane than ran parallel to the woods; though it appeared to usually be deserted (Amy doubted that the population of this place was more than two-hundred and fifty), there was the occasional person who trundled up the lane on their own business. Amy wasn't entirely sure about nineteenth century customs, but she was fairly certain that public kissing was frowned upon.
Shame.
Amy glanced over her shoulder and saw a young woman appear out of the woods up ahead. She was carrying something in her hand, which she held up carefully as she jumped the low stone wall that edged the muddy path. She was walking towards them slowly, but seemed far too enraptured in her own little world to take any notice.
"Rory," Amy said, rolling her eyes.
"What?"
"Loser," she teased, kissing him softly. She stepped back and swept the deepest curtsey she could manage. It ended awkwardly when she got tangled up in her long skirt. Rory was looking at her as if it was the worst curtsey ever to be performed in history. He burst out laughing.
Amy straightened and shot him one of her looks. "I don't believe a gentleman would laugh," she said.
Rory apologized with a short bow, but he was still chuckling. "Is that better?" he asked.
"It'll do," Amy said, heaving a dramatic sigh and linking arms with him. "Would Mr Darcy like to accompany me back to the T-A-R-D-I-S?"
"I think, Mrs Darcy, I would," Rory replied. "Though God knows where the Doctor's run off to, it's practically night already—"
"It's okay, he always shows up," Amy said.
They strolled along the lane arm-in-arm as the evening sky blossomed into a deeper pink. They eventually passed the young woman walking towards them; she was completely absorbed in a pile of loose papers she was carrying. She took no notice of them until she accidentally wandered into Amy, bumping her shoulder. The woman looked up, startled out of her thoughts.
"Pardon me!" she exclaimed, stepping back from Amy and Rory. "I was not aware—" She stopped abruptly and stared, gaping at them. Her eyes lingered on Amy's hair – which was loose, wild and looking very red – and her trembling hands clutched at her papers. She blushed to her hairline, bobbed a short curtsey, and rushed away up the lane.
"I'm… sorry?" Amy called after her, but the girl retreated without another word.
Amy exchanged an odd look with Rory, who shrugged.
"We probably just surprised her, that's all."
"That was kind of weird."
"I know, but may that's just how people behave nowadays."
"In nineteenth century England? You've got to be kidding! People didn't stare; that was like death if you stared for too long at someone, and there was some definite staring going on. Or at least I think so."
"I think you're imagining things."
Amy paused and suddenly combed her fingers through her hair. "Is there something wrong with my hair?"
He had forgotten to check the date. He always forgot to check the date – past, present, future (as River Song could most likely attest), he always forgot to check before darting out those doors into the big, wide universe. He was aware that he forgot to check the date; he usually forgot on purpose. The TARDIS habitually got the flight wrong in some respects; it made it more fun to walk out the police box doors and not quite know when – or where – one was. But he had promised Amy and Rory that he would try better to get the flights right and take them exactly where the hat designated.
He was beginning to regret getting that hat. It was making things complicated and boring.
"Euch," he said. "Hats are a no go."
"Begging your pardon, sir?"
"Oh, sorry!" the Doctor looked down and smiled. He was speaking to a short, squat lady with wild brown hair threatening to escape from under her bonnet. He had left Amy and Rory by themselves an hour or two ago, and had wandered to the nearest farm to satiate his desire to know when and where he was – exactly. He could roughly estimate it: they were somewhere in Hampshire, sometime between 1795 and 1801. There was something funny in the air making it very difficult for him to be able to get a better estimate; something very funny indeed. If Time Lord's were allowed to have tingly feelings that went off right before something went terribly wrong, his was most definitely causing a racket.
He just wanted to know whether he should stick around for the party or not.
"Sir?" the lady said again, looking impatient. She was eyeing him oddly; apparently his sense of dress was not to her approval.
"Oh, right," he said. "I wanted to know if you could tell me where I am and what day it happens to be."
"It is the fifteenth of August, the Year of Our Lord 1797," she said irritably.
"Only 1797?" he remarked. "Not the nineteenth century, then… Amy'll go mad—"
"—and you are in Steventon, sir," the woman finished. "Shall I send for a doctor, sir?"
"What?"
"I said, 'Shall I send for a doctor, sir?'" She raised her voice, speaking to him as though he were deaf.
"But I am a doctor," he said quizzically. "No need to shout… Why should I need one when I am one?"
She opened her mouth to respond – angrily, he assumed, from the way she was looking at him – but he acted quickly by pulling a fresh apple out of his pocket and tossing it to her. She caught it between her meaty palms.
"There you go," he said.
She fixed him with a stormy eye.
"An apple a day keeps the doctor away," he said cheerfully. "Thank you for your help," he added, giving her a sweeping bow and strolling away, hands in his pockets.
"Charlatans!" he heard her shout, throwing the apple at the back of his head.
He ducked, chuckling. "Good old folk in Steventon," he said to himself. "Steventon…"
Why did that ring a bell? He paused, trying to think. Steventon, 1797. He was missing something important, something that should be obvious…
He was walking down the lane by the woods, still trying to puzzle it through, when the answer hit him figuratively and literally.
He wasn't sure if he ran into the girl or if the girl ran into him, but either way she ended up knocked to the muddy ground, her papers scattering around her. She scrambled to her feet and rushed around trying to pick them up before they were blown away by the wind. The Doctor, feeling apologetic, helped her.
"There you go," he said, handing her the final paper.
"Thank you, sir," she said, bobbing a curtsey. "Do watch where you're going, that's the second time that's happened today—"
He didn't hear her words; he wasn't listening. He looked at the familiar scrawl on the top page of the papers and then at her very young, but familiar face.
"Jane Austen!" he exclaimed.
"Yes?"
"THE Jane Austen!"
"Excuse me, sir?"
"Novelist from Steventon, probably one of the greatest writers of the yet-to-come nineteenth century!" The Doctor grinned and held out his hand. "That's what I was forgetting!"
Jane gave him an odd look; for the first time, she seemed to have realised what exactly he was wearing and far from shocking her, her expression said she merely found it bizarre. "Is that what you call a cravat?" she said after a long pause.
"It's a bow-tie," he corrected.
"That is the most oddly-shaped cravat I have ever laid eyes on," she said.
"It's a bow-tie," he insisted. "Why does everyone always pick on the bow-tie?"
"How do you know my name?" she asked. "I do not recall ever meeting your acquaintance."
"Oh, you have – but not yet," he said.
"How mysterious," she said. "Explain."
"I'd rather not. It's a tricky business, you see," he added. "But the pleasure is all mine. Good day to you, Miss Austen, and yes, you better take those papers and continue writing and all those good and wonderful things."
Jane stared at him.
He bowed and hurried away down the lane, thanking the TARDIS for getting the flight path just a little bit wrong. He loved it when accidents happened; he met the most interesting people. Long ago, in another time and with another face, he had met Jane Austen, but that was closer to the end of her life, when she was a published author, when she was living in the yet-to-come nineteenth century. It was an entirely different experience to meet the same person when they were young and new and about to set off on life's adventures.
The Doctor hopped over the stone wall that barred the lane from the woods beyond and began the trek back to the TARDIS. Amy and Rory should have found their way back; they both had keys and he wasn't worried about them. It was a shame, though, that they hadn't been there. He had met the young Jane Austen.
"Imagine that," he said aloud, looking up through the leafy canopy above. It was getting quite dark now; storm clouds had blown in, blocking out any twinkling stars. It was going to start raining soon. "I met Jane Austen today—"
He froze. As soon as the words had come out of his mouth, he knew that something was wrong. There was something else here with him, not a human; his hypothetical tingly sense knew it.
"All right, old boy," the Doctor murmured, withdrawing the sonic screwdriver from his pocket. On impulse, he took out a piece of string as well and wrapped it securely around a finger. "Stop hiding in the shadows – some shadows eat people, don't you know? I just want to see you and know what you're up to—"
It moved. It was lightning fast, flickering from tree to tree. The Doctor spun around in a circle and suddenly there was a red hot pain flashing at the back of his neck and he collapsed on the forest floor. The something slithered away, ghostly in the darkness, barely making a sound.
"Oi!"
The Doctor scrambled to his feet, flicking the sonic screwdriver on. The green light at the end lit up. In its faint light, he noticed the piece of string; it had turned from a greyish off-white to a startling shade of bright blue.
"Ah." He looked up in the direction of the something in the woods. "All right, you bozo," the Doctor said. He paused, momentarily thinking about his word choice – it was an effect of meeting a famous author-in-the-making – and then shrugged it off. "Don't knock me out behind my back, that's not playing fair. And trust me, you want to play fair. Don't get on my bad side." He fell silent, listening intently for a response of any kind. He could still hear the slithering, which meant it was still here, resting several feet away.
The Doctor drew a breath and lunged forwards with the sonic screwdriver, its green light flashing at the something in the woods while he shouted.
"JANE AUSTEN!"
With a bang, a floating silhouette of a humanoid person was outlined in green and then the sonic screwdriver was wrenched from his hand and promptly clonked him over the head. The Doctor collapsed on the ground for a second time and the creature rushed away with an ear-splitting howl.
"Oh good," he said, slowly pushing himself up. "Now I know what you are and I know what you want. I knew there was something wrong here. I just need to know how to stop you from doing something detrimental to the history of English literature." He fetched the sonic screwdriver and tapped it lightly in the palm of his opposite hand.
It began to rain.
The Doctor's eyes widened. "AMY! RORY!" he shouted, sprinting through the woods towards the clearing where they had left the TARDIS. Rain began to fall in icy sheets, soaking the forest floor and causing thousands of little streams of mud and twigs to flow downhill.
"WE'VE GOT A PROBLEM!"
He reached the TARDIS faster than he thought; the door was already wide open for him, with Amy and Rory peering out curiously.
"Oh, there you are," Amy said.
"What's wrong?" Rory asked.
The Doctor clapped him on the shoulder. "Get a torch," he said. "We've got company. Bad company. Very bad company." He paused, catching his breath. "Get a bucket of paint while you're at it."