Romance/fantasy/time travel
Episode 11: Mary Sue and the Walking Wounded, part one
"The pink or the blue—the pink or the blue—the pink or the blue?" Emily danced around the dressing room, giddy with excitement. It had been a long time since she had felt so happy.
Her aunt said, "The blue is really more in period, Emily. The pink gown was the style about 10 years later. See, the line is more natural--"
"I don't care. It's prettier. I really like the embroidered vines on the sleeves and skirt." Emily pouted. "And it looks better on me."
"Well, that's true. But I thought you wanted to experience the period, and right away you want to be anachronistic!"
"Anachronistic! Aunt Sharon, nobody talks like that!"
"I do—haven't you ever heard of the Society for Creative Anachronism?"
"Well, duh," her niece laughed, holding the pink gown up to herself and gazing raptly in the mirror. "And that's what I'm going to do! Be creatively anachronistic!"
Her aunt sighed, defeated. "I wish I were going with you, Emily. You'll probably get in all sorts of trouble. In a crisis, remember you can use the reset function. No—look. It's right here on the fan, so don't lose it. It will take you right back here five seconds after you leave." Her niece was still making silly faces in the mirror, imitating what she fondly imagined was a grande dame of the 18th century.
Emily put down the dress and hugged her. "I wish you could go, too. It would be so much more fun if we could go together! You should have the dorks work on a capsule for two!"
"Don't call them dorks, Emily!"
"Sorry—the geeks."
Her aunt gave her a reproachful look.
Emily hugged her again. "I'm really sorry. I know that sounds mean. Tell the guys I'm really grateful for this chance. I know I'll have a great time. After all, it's only for an hour. What can happen in an hour? Maybe I'll even want to go back someday!"
She finished getting ready, with her aunt's help, and the two of them left the dressing room and walked down the echoing hall to the Chronomicon. Emily knew she was lucky to have a relative working on the project. Ordinarily, only the rich could afford a Time Adventure.
Her aunt said hello to the tech on duty. "Hi, Fred! Everything OK with it today?"
"Yeah, yeah," the bored engineer replied. "It was kind of glitchy this morning, and She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed raised holy hell because she arrived two hours later that she wanted to."
Sharon looked worried. "Are you sure it's all right?" She hesitated, "Emily, maybe we should try this another day—"
"Oh, Aunt Sharon, lighten up! It's my birthday, and you promised!" That would work perfectly, Emily guiltily realized. Aunt Sharon had taken her in after her parents' accident, and was always trying to make her happy, trying to make things be all right for her. She was ashamed to take advantage of her aunt like this, but Aunt Sharon should know that nobody could fix somebody else's life for them.
It had worked. Aunt Sharon had ceased her objections, and was listening to Fred's assessment of the situation.
He shrugged. "It seems fine now. She can always hit reset if something's wrong." He grinned at Emily. "You look great, kid. You'll knock the relics' socks off—if they wore socks."
Sharon frowned. "Don't call them relics---"
The tech rolled his eyes. "I know, I know—not respectful. Sheesh. Come here, princess." He helped Emily into the metal and fiberglass container. "Have fun!"
Emily smiled, "Thanks!" She called to her aunt, her voice muffled as the doors closed, "And thank you, Aunt Sharon! I'll see you soon!"
----
It was just as disorienting as her aunt had warned her it would be. Utter blackness, devoid of sound. She could feel nothing, smell nothing, see or hear nothing at all. Her body floated in emptiness. She wasn't even sure she still had a body. Sensory deprivation for too long could cause psychosis—and it had, in the early tests. Emily began to be frightened, when she thumped down in the corner of a brightly-lit room.
All right! She thought excitedly. Here I am in Charleston, 1780, just like those other girls. This is going to be great!
The ballroom was splendid—just what she had hoped. People were dressed beautifully. It smelled a little odd. Aunt Sharon had told her enough about hygiene for her to have realistic expectations about that. The chandeliers, lit with scores of candles, were spectacular. Emily noticed that nobody wanted to stand under them for long.
Oh, right, I remember. The wax will drip down and fall on your clothes. Ick.She looked around for a place to sit. She had really done her homework, and knew the names and faces of the people who should be here: Cornwallis, O'Hara, the gorgeous Tavington—and quite a lot about the Tories in attendance as well. She had gone to an immersion workshop where she had learned 18th century manners and dances, so she felt she was ready to rock—so to speak.
She walked past the other attendees, smiling and nodding, listening discreetly to the conversations.
"—Monstrous! Monstrous! Those French have no decency at all!—"
"---But with an embargo, how shall I get French lace? No, I'm not being selfish---"
"---It will never last, mark my words! Their republican notions will soon cause anarchy—"
Emily walked past little groups of ladies and gentlemen, old and young. A little, just a little, she began to worry. She wasn't seeing anyone she recognized. Everyone sounded British. And when she looked carefully, she noticed that her gown fit in quite well with what all the other women were wearing. And why were they talking about the French, and not the Americans?
"---but to arrest their own King!"
Oh, no! I'm in the wrong place! This isn't 1780! It must be later! They're talking about the French Revolution, and I hardly know anything about that! Oh---She found a padded bench by the wall, and sat down heavily. For several minutes, she considered what she ought to do. Should she press the reset button? It was her own fault, probably. The dress was a little "anachronistic," as Aunt Sharon would say, and had probably thrown the Chronomicon off. On the other hand, Aunt Sharon had called in a lot of favors for Emily to have this opportunity. Her boss had agreed to let Emily have an hour, but he had made clear that it was a big deal, and that Aunt Sharon would owe him for this. She'd be so disappointed. Emily didn't want her to feel that it had been for nothing.
No, I won't hit reset. If I do, who knows when I'll ever get another chance to see the past? I'll just stay here, and tell Aunt Sharon what a great time I had.She blew out a breath, and decided to make the best of it. After all, it was a grand ball, and she looked very nice. A pair of young men were looking at her, and they seemed to like what they saw.
Maybe one of them will ask me to dance! She could follow the dancers quite well—they weren't doing anything she couldn't handle.
After awhile, an older gentleman approached her, bowed, and inquired politely, "Your pardon, Madam. I am Charles Pomfret, the Master of Ceremonies. I fear I do not have the honour of knowing your name, and some gentlemen here have expressed the desire of making your acquaintance."
Emily knew enough to curtsey in response. "Emily Norton, sir. How kind of you to take the trouble. This is a delightful ball."
The gentlemen seemed satisfied with her behavior, and Emily gave an inward sigh of relief. The two young men she had noticed giving her the eye came forward, and Mr. Pomfret made the introductions.
The taller, dark-haired one was Henry Elliot. His friend, shorter, blond, and really quite cute, was named Richard Fenwick. He was also a little more aggressive than his friend, and led Emily to the dance first, unobtrusively giving his friend Henry a shove.
Emily could hear their whispered bickering. Henry objected, hissing, "I saw her first, Dick!"
His friend smirked, "'All's fair,' as they say, old fellow." He rushed Emily along, and they found a place in the set. Emily had to concentrate to keep up. It was one thing to dance in class, but this was so much more difficult and distracting, that at first she could not listen to her partner's attempts to be charming.
"Elliot is a decent enough chap, but too dull a dog for a young lady of your sort! I said as much to my friend Lord Throop—do you know him? Oh, well, no matter. Throop's the best of fellows, rich as a Jew! He has famous dinners at his house here in Bath, but nothing like what he comes down with at his country place. I told him myself—"
Emily whirled away with the rest of the ladies, and was spared Mr. Fenwick's admonitions to his lordly friend.
Bath! I'm in Bath. Well, that's interesting, too. It must be--what? The end of the 1780's, or the beginning of the 1790's. Oh, I don't remember! I didn't study this time! Anyway, this dance is fun—The steps of the dance returned her to her partner, who was still talking.
"—And he nearly broke his neck trying to keep up with me! I can tell you, Miss Norton, that not many riders would have hazarded that ditch, but I—"
She flashed him a quick, polite smile, as they wound through the maze of the other dancers. Cute, but a jerk. Conceited, too. Maybe his friend won't yack as much.
"---And who would have thought that poor wretch would show his face at the ball? A glass of the waters and the hot baths are better for that sort—a poor, worn-out old fellow—"
They met once again, and chasséed down the line.
Emily interrupted the monologue. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear the name."
"What name?"
"The name of the man you were talking about. 'The poor wretch.'"
"Oh! Tavington, of course. My family knew his family, back in the days before his father went bankrupt, but we certainly don't claim acquaintance now! Imagine him turning up here. Probably hoping for employment, like all the old soldiers. This contretemps with the Froggies has all the antique war horses champing at the bit. Not for me, I can tell you: I have better things to do with myself than be food for powder! Live and let live is what I always say—"
Tavington!"I'm sorry. Did you say he was here?"
"Who? Tavington? Do you know him?"
"No, but I've heard of him."
"Oh, Lord! Who hasn't! The stories they tell—not someone a gentleman would wish to know--and no money at all! Lives on his half-pay at some dreary place in Queen's Square, with only a single servant. Really too pitiable and ridiculous! When they get old and useless they should just be knocked in the head—" He smirked at her again, "But why should we talk about such a creature? Let's talk about you. When I saw you, I thought you might be Lady Maria Molesworth. She's a splendid girl—quite wild about me—"
Emily tuned him out. What a silly, selfish pig. He sneers at a soldier being useless when he's just about the most useless person himself! I guess he has "other priorities!" She smiled mechanically at the proper intervals, and focused on dancing well. The dance ended, and Fenwick claimed her for the next, a slower allemande that would have been enjoyable if she had liked her partner better. At least he was a very good dancer, and she knew that the two of them were attracting admiring looks. She made another turn, and nearly walked into another girl, when she saw the famous—or infamous—Colonel Tavington, standing quite nearby, watching the dancers. Emily felt guilty, wondering if he had heard what her partner had said about him. He didn't seem upset. There was a faint, scornful smile on his lips, as he surveyed the crowd.
At last it was over. "Well, Miss Norton, shall we go it again?"
"No, thank you. I'm rather tired. I'll sit for awhile." She remembered to curtsey, and walked away without further ceremony. Guys were guys, wherever you went. And some guys were horrible jerks. Besides, she did feel a little hot after the dance, and wanted to find a chair and just fan herself. Maybe that Henry Elliot will come by. Maybe he's not as stupid as his friend.
"Idiot," she muttered, still annoyed.
"I hope you did not mean me, Madam," a man's voice replied.
Emily looked up, startled, and found herself gazing into the ice-blue eyes of none other than Colonel William Tavington himself. She felt herself flush.
"No! Sorry! I didn't mean you! It was—" she broke off in embarrassment.
"Yes." He smiled, reflectively. "The Fenwicks have always been idiots. I believe it is emblazoned on their family arms."
She laughed a little, looking him over. Yes, he was older than she had expected. Well—he would be about ten years older or so than in the days of the American Revolution. He still looked quite nice, though his face was lined, and he seemed much thinner than she had expected. His hair was powdered, so it was impossible to tell if he had gone gray or not.
She still felt badly about her partner's insults. "It's just—I don't want you to think I agree with anything he said, just because I was dancing with him."
"But my dear young lady: nearly everything he said is quite true. My father was a bankrupt; I do live in Queen's Square on my half-pay; I am hoping for employment. Only with the part about needing to be knocked in the head do I disagree."
"It was horrible of him to say that. And he shouldn't talk as if he's proud not to be in the Army!"
Tavington looked away, trying to hide his amusement. "A great pity that more people are not as patriotic as you. My life would be vastly more agreeable."
Emily tried to think of something nice she could do for him. "Would you like to dance?"
He stared at her dumbfounded. "My dear young---are you asking me to dance?"
"Yes—well—why not? I thought maybe you'd like to dance, and I like to dance, and then he'd see that I don't agree with him—"
Tavington laughed helplessly. "Calm yourself, dear young lady. We have not even been introduced—"
Emily curtseyed. "I'm Emily Norton. So—do you want to dance?"
He smiled, more gently, and bowed. "Miss Norton. I am delighted to meet such an original young person. No, I do not care to dance. It causes me some discomfort, but I would be honoured if you would take a turn about the room with me." He ceremoniously offered his arm, and she took it. With her hand thus pressed against his side, she could feel his ribs. He really was too thin. The thought of him, comparatively poor, being sneered at by rich and stupid young creeps, trying to find "employment," upset her. Oh, I understand-- he's looking for an active duty posting in the army.
They made the circuit of the ballroom. Emily enjoyed seeing the beautiful gowns of the ladies, and the splendid and opulent clothes of the men: the plumes, the powder, the lace, the jewels. The large room, lit entirely by candles, glowed mellow and golden. Tavington was warm and supportive beside her, and smelled pleasantly of lavender and sandalwood. They paused, at her request, by the musicians, and Emily admired the instruments, and the music itself. She wished she had not had to give up guitar lessons. Maybe someday---
Groups of men hung about the edges of the ball room, gossiping among themselves and pointing out the prettiest girls to their friends. There was a lot of talk about cards, and money; but whenever Emily and Tavington drew near any of the groups, they fell silent. Some gave Tavington stiff, polite bows: some ignored him completely. Many more stared curiously at Emily. As soon as they passed, she could hear the excited speculation behind her.
The room was getting very stuffy. Emily gratefully settled into a chair, and thanked Tavington when he brought her a glass of watered wine. He sat with her, still watching the throng in his slightly contemptuous way. Emily saw the dark-haired Henry Elliot looking for her, and she slid back into her chair, letting Tavington screen her from his notice.
He saw her stratagem, and laughed again. "Hiding from you admirers? If you want to dance, Elliot is your man—a very well-bred young fellow."
"No," she said firmly. "I'd much rather sit and talk with you."
"Well," he answered with some surprise, "that is very original of you. And it is not every day that a charming young lady expresses a preference for my company, so I cannot cavil at it. But," he added more seriously, "I pray you, do not imagine me some misunderstood and saintly innocent. Whatever the gossip about me, the reality is much worse."
Emily knew that it was, but she could not quite square the dreadful accounts with this attractive, well-spoken man. "It was all a long time ago, anyway."
"True," he sighed. "But not so long ago that I do not suffer the consequences. Only two weeks ago another fragment of bone worked its way out of an old wound. I should not speak of such things with a young lady, but that is the reality of war. Some wounds heal but slowly, and some wounds do not heal at all."
They were silent together for awhile, and watched the dancers. The room was full of music, of colors and patterns, as the gorgeously dressed ladies and gentleman trod the steps of a stately measure. Emily realized that her hour would be over soon, and felt sad. She heard an affected laugh, and saw Richard Fenwick, in a crowd of other men, looking over at her and whispering. The young men looked at each other and sniggered, as boys will at a smutty joke. She lifted her chin and stared back at them challengingly.
"You will be talked about unpleasantly, Miss Norton," Tavington observed.
"I don't care. It doesn't make any difference to me what those stupid boys think about me. I'm having a very good time. Aren't you?"
He leaned back, eyeing her thoughtfully. "Yes, a very good time. You're a most fascinating and refreshing young lady, Miss Norton; and quite lovely. An enchanting gown, I must say."
Emily bounced in her chair. "You like my gown? So do I! My aunt thought I shouldn't wear it, and it did change things, but now I'm so glad I did!" She felt happy, happier than she ever had, happier than she had been since losing her parents, certainly. She felt a warm thrill deep inside her as she sat here with Tavington: excited, pleased, and comfortable all at once. She hated the thought of leaving, but she needed to find a quiet corner and make her escape.
"Colonel," she said, surprising herself with her own idea. "Colonel, I have to leave now, but I'll be seeing you again. You live in Queen's Square, isn't that right?"
He looked at her in surprise, and gave her a puzzled, pleased look. "But you could not call on me, Miss Norton. It is I who must—"
"No." She shook her head. "You wouldn't be able to find me. But I will find you. It will be soon for you, even if it isn't for me." She was thinking rapidly. She could sell the house, and the cars, and she had all the money from the insurance. She would put her name on the list for a return trip, and while she waited—maybe for a year or two—she would learn all she could about this time and place. She would invest in gold, and find other ways to take her money with her. In this time she might have—what?—almost ten thousand pounds. She wouldn't be fabulously rich, but she would have enough to live on decently….
"What is the date?"
He replied in some confusion, "The twelfth of June, but I—"
"And the year?"
He was even more bewildered, and an uneasy smile crossed his lips. "1791. Why do you ask? Is this some sort of fashionable guessing game?"
"Never mind. You'll know some day."
She looked at him again. He thought she was pretty, and nice, and he seemed happy to be with her. She wondered how he would react when she showed up at his door, with all her belongings.
As it happened, it was some time before she found out.
-----
"A lady to see you, Colonel!" It was late afternoon, the day after the ball. Long shadows stretched across the muddy street, and the light provided by the two small, grimy windows in the little sitting room was fading.
Tavington rose from his desk, content to have a break from the drudgery of letter-writing. So far, his campaign to find a command had not gone well. Most old comrades greeted him politely, but told him firmly there was nothing they could do for him. A few, well in with the Whigs, had cut him dead. It was mortifying, but he must bear it and press on. He wrote everyone he thought might have influence: even some men that he had hoped never to have dealings with again. Lord Cornwallis he did not trouble: it was quite impossible to expect any help from that quarter. Lord Moira, however—
Setting such thoughts aside for the time, he straightened his coat, wishing to look presentable for his visitor, wishing he had allowed Parks to queue his hair, which was now only brushed free of powder, and unconfined. A brief, illogical hope flamed up: perhaps that mad and charming young lady he had met last night actually would appear---no: better for her own sake that she have no connection with him--
A woman, well-dressed, and wrapped in a cloak of changeable silk taffeta in hues of blue and lavender, entered his shabby sitting room, as the maid announced: "Miss Norton!"
Pleased and somewhat alarmed, he bowed. He looked up and started.
"Miss Norton?"
"Yes, really. I told you it would be soon for you, but not for me." She turned around and silently dismissed the maid. Tavington was still staring. This woman, though still quite pretty, was at least ten years older!
"How is this possible?"
She seemed very different in other ways: less sure of herself; obviously wondering if he would show her the door. Tired, too, as if she had seen more than she cared to of life.
Abruptly, she said. "I was born November 15, 2025 in Louisville, Kentucky. On the night of September 14, 2046, I was granted a "Time Adventure" trip from the Mitsubishi Maclectronics Corporation. I spent one hour with you. At the end of the hour, I had every intention of returning soon, but Real Life, as they say, intervened. I had trouble liquidating my assets, and then I had trouble getting back on the list for another time trip. And then I had trouble putting my money in a form that would be usable in this time. And then my aunt developed cancer—"
Tavington was able to understand this bit. "I am most sincerely sorry—""—And, of course, even when my turn came for a trip, I couldn't leave while she was sick. She died, and then I put my name on the list again. And waited. And here I am. My things are in the hall. Could I stay here?"
He was speechless.
"Because, you know, I don't know where else to go. I need to invest my money, I know. I wanted to come here first—"
He approached her carefully, as if she were an attractive but potentially lethal wild animal. "My dear Miss Norton. You say you are from the---twenty-first century?"
"Yes, that's right. Could I sit down? I had a rough ride here, and I was afraid I'd end up in the wrong time again."
Hastily, embarrased by his own discourtesy, he ushered her into a chair, and sat down himself.
Her story was incredible, but so detailed and circumstantial, and so beyond imagination that it must be true—or she must be quite mad--possibly a delusional monomaniac. He summoned Parks, his valet, to bring in her luggage from the hall. Inside a bag were guineas and banknotes totaling over fourteen thousand pounds. He felt the greatest concern for her—an unprotected woman walking about with such a fortune! She was able to discuss political events most lucidly, offering insights that seemed eerily prescient. And then, there was the matter of her face. This was not the difference of candlelight and daylight: this woman was most definitely the same woman, grown ten years older in a night.
Parks was sent to wheedle some tea out of his landlady. Miss Norton talked on, telling him of the progress of the French, of their execution of the King and Queen, of their future conquests, of their overreaching hubris, of their ultimate defeat. It was a brief précis, given with the air of one who had learned a lesson well.
She paused, when the tea came, and drank it gratefully, her eyes heavy. Tavington wondered if she would fall asleep in the chair. That would not be a good thing. He cast about, wondering what he could do for her, but curiosity drew a question from him.
"Are you not afraid of changing the past?"
She gave him a tired smile: a ghost of the delightful expression he had seen only the night before.
"No. I'm not afraid. I'll just be one more of the Unreturned."
The word sent a chill through him. "Unreturned?"
She shrugged lightly. "Accidents happen. People travel to the past and don't come back. One has to sign a waiver to go on a Time Adventure. Some say it's because the Chronomicon is faulty. I've come to believe that people simply don't want to return. I certainly don't. Everyone I've ever loved in my own time is gone."
"But if you change history—" The possibilities swirled through his brain: contradictory, perplexing, paradoxical.
"Colonel Tavington, I think all the Unreturneds have changed time. And when they do, they simply live in that time. There is not one universe, but many—the Multiverse, replete with infinite possibilities in infinite combinations. The very act of speaking to you of the future has changed the past. They won't be able to retrieve me now—so I don't need this."
She removed a little blue box from her reticule bag. She passed it to him, saying, "Don't touch the red button. It's the reset—an emergency recall signal. I have no idea what would happen to you if you did. We probably should just throw it in the fire. It might smell, though."
Tavington examined the odd device. Quite suddenly, he realized that he had ceased to doubt her story in the slightest. This was a woman from the future with extraordinary information about his time. She must know--- His mind reeled. She sat there, sipping her tea, looking very weary, and he was filled with pity for her, but utter elation for himself. She must know all sorts of useful, marvelous things!
And she was quite lovely, too. He had thought so, last night, but in a detached way. She was only a young girl—but this woman was a far better match for him. She had now grown mature, reflective: it was infinitely more appropriate. And she had endured ten years to be with him. He felt flattered by that, but also a little wary: it smacked of unhealthy obsession. Still, she was loyal and devoted; and Opportunity, at whose door he had knocked in vain for too many years, had suddenly appeared before him garbed in a handsome silk taffeta cloak. He would be a fool to turn her away.
But the proprieties must be observed, if only to protect her.
He sipped his own tea, thinking the matter through. Finally, he had the outlines of a plan.
"Miss Norton," he began, "I believe you. If you wish to stay, I am at your service. However, I think it would be a good idea for you to lodge at the White Hart Inn until we can make other arrangements." She began to protest, but he interposed gently, "My landlady would simply not tolerate a woman moving into my rooms with me. The White Hart is an excellent establishment, and they will accommodate you comfortably—far more comfortably than I can. I shall be able to visit you there without undue comment."
"That sounds very nice," she agreed.
"As to all of this money—it is very alarming to think of you walking about with it. We must get this safely invested in the five-per-cents for you immediately. It is too late in the day for it, so it must be dealt with early tomorrow. Again, I shall assist you. In fact, I would urge you to leave it here in my care." For that matter, the thought of guarding fourteen thousand pounds in cash overnight was quite nerve-wracking, but not so appalling as letting this vulnerable creature wander through the streets of Bath with it. Though he did not wish to reveal all his thoughts to her, he had already considered the situation and made his decision.
He must marry Emily Norton: and immediately. He would have the banns published, and within a few weeks they could be man and wife. If nothing else, the income from the fourteen thousand pounds, added to his own funds, would make all the difference in his style of life. An income of nearly a thousand pounds per annum was more than comfortable: it was respectable, liberal, and genteel. They could find a decent house here in Bath, or live in the country in an even better place. And then, they could consider what other possibilities his new wife's knowledge might afford him.
The poor girl had obviously had a difficult life: perhaps as difficult in its way as his own. She would not be sorry that she had entrusted her future to him. To have a pretty woman with a fortune throw herself in his way was so serendipitous an event as to render him forever obliged to her. Coming back, wounded and broken in health, from the war in America, he had surrendered any hope of marrying an heiress. And yet, here was an heiress—of a sort—offering herself to him. He could be hard, he could be cruel—and he had been, in his time. With the captivating Emily, however, he would be as uxorious as he liked.
He shrank a little from the contemplation of their more intimate moments. He hoped she would not be repulsed by the remaining traces of his terrible wounds. The whores and trollops who had been his only bedmates since the war had responded in a bewildering variety of ways: some tender and sympathetic, some heartlessly amused, some frankly put off by the thick, long scar tissue along his left shoulder and right side. Those injuries were the worst, but not his only such disfigurements. There was the shallow trough of the bullet wound on his left side, the long pale scar across his breast, the ridges of old slashes on the outer side of his left leg, and the livid marks of bayonet stabs on his right hip and buttock. His face, remarkably, had never been permanently damaged, or at least not by the hand of war. Time, ill health, stress, and public contumely, however, had not withheld their darts. He was, to put it mildly, damaged goods in every sense of the word. Were he were a good man, he would have refused Miss Norton, and sent her back where she belonged.
But he was not, as he had long admitted to himself, anything resembling a good man. He wanted pretty Miss Norton. He wanted her gentle, lovely person; he wanted her money; he wanted a better home than these cramped, shabby rooms; he wanted a companion to ease his loneliness; he wanted a woman who would be his to enjoy in peace, honour, and security; he wanted to taste the affection she so openly and guilelessly offered; and he was intensely curious about the future. There would never be boredom in their marriage, certainly.
All this revolved through his thoughts, while they finished their tea in silence. For her part, Emily was feeling great relief. Tavington believed her story. He was willing to help her. Whether anything more would come of it, she couldn't be sure. Well, she could work on him tomorrow. Clearly, he thought she was still pretty, at least. Maybe that would be enough. She looked him over. He was now dressed casually in a rather shabby green coat, his thick, silver-streaked hair heavy on his shoulders. He should always wear it that way, she thought. She was so tired of her life in the 21st century. She was tired of being alone, and tired of her dead-end job, tired of being afraid of the endless political violence; tired the weird weather; above all, she was tired of the breakneck pace of her so-called life. She just wanted to stay here, with this quiet, thoughtful man, sipping cups of tea in a room where no roar of machinery, no crude, threatening shouts, no ringing telephones demanded her attention.
"I suppose I should go," she said.
"Not alone," he replied. "I shall see you to the inn. Allow me a moment." He rose, and rang again for the valet. Parks appeared, and Tavington and he disappeared into the bedchamber. Emily waited, her mind curiously blank, satisfied to have someone making the decisions for her. After a few minutes the men emerged; and Tavington's hair was neatly arranged in a queue, and his clothes were far less shabby. He picked up the bag of money and locked it in his bedchamber; and directed Parks to carry Miss Norton's other luggage, and follow them to the White Hart, where Tavington would see that she was provided with suitable accommodations.
She leaned on his arm, as exhaustion began to sweep over her in waves. The warmth of him, the smell of him, lavender and sandalwood, made the intervening ten years since last meeting him seem illusory. She hardly saw the buildings around her, as they walked through the filthy streets to the welcoming doors of the inn. Tavington handled the negotiations, while she stood passively, wondering if this could be a dream. He and the innkeeper had come to terms, and a servant was told to show her upstairs to her rooms.
Tavington bowed a polite farewell. "I shall call for you at nine o'clock tomorrow morning," he assured her. "We shall visit a reputable lawyer I know, and have your money safely bestowed."
"Thank you," she answered listlessly. She was so tired, and a little frightened as well. Tavington was the only person on earth she knew, and what if he took the money and disappeared overnight? She was too tired to worry about it. She curtseyed a response to his bow, and followed the deferential servant up the stairs to her current place of residence in the world of the 18th century: a suite of rooms at the White Hart Inn.
----End of Part 1 of 2
Notes: I borrowed the term "Unreturned" from the intriguing Polish science-fiction film Avalon. The term means something rather different in the film, however.
Yes, I am in the process of writing a sequel to The Door Into Time. I needed to write this story first.
Thank you to all my reviewers. Your support means a great deal. And I do heed suggestions.