Chapter 8

The pilot, unbeknownst to the others, radioed ahead his unexpected passengers. Huttson was diverted to another airfield and met with an armed escort. The uniforms were different from what Phileas was used to, but they were undoubtedly British. Roberta, now unconscious, was rushed away to an infirmary. Fogg and Verne were escorted at gunpoint in a different direction.

Phileas and Jules were led to a detention cell where the base commander treated them to a search and a very hostile interrogation. In the process, their weapons were confiscated as well as Phileas's cane. Their presence just in the nick of time to be of assistance to Miss Fogg had been considered markedly suspicious. The commander challenged every point of their story.

Phileas, who remained perfectly calm through it all, didn't let the interrogation go on for long. He challenged his interrogator, insisting he verify his identity with his relative Loren Fogg. "You will likely find him at the family estate in Derbyshire. Tell Loren his cousin Phileas Fogg is in England. He will vouch for me."

When the commander left the room, Jules looked at Fogg. "Are you sure that was a good idea, Fogg? What if he does call on him?"

"It will be alright, Verne. I will explain later."

Just after Phileas and Jules were bemoaning the loss of both breakfast and dinner, a tall young man entered their small prison with the base commander. Jules had never seen a portrait of Fogg as a young man, but looking at this person, Verne was certain he was seeing it. The hair was black without any traces of gray. It was also longer than Fogg normally wore his, and wavy, feathering back from his brow on one side like a raven's wing. The eyes were the same green and the younger man had the same tall lean frame and self-assured stance that Fogg exhibited. He walked into the room and stood before them in a lazy stance, so like the elder Fogg, Jules could only stare.

"Welcome to England, Phileas," the young man said stepping forward to greet his nineteenth century relation. "It's been about three years, hasn't it?"

"Has it?" Phileas said standing. He accepted the younger man's hand. "How is Roberta?"

"I just saw her at the infirmary," Loren said. "Her leg was broken. She's been given something for the pain. She will have to remain here for several days before the doctor releases her. I will arrange for her homecoming then. Thank you for being there for her."

"It was an accident of fate," Fogg said, dismissing it. "I recognized James when he entered the inn. I had been on my way up to greet him when the soldiers came. Ghastly thing, that. Roberta survived it, and that is a blessing."

"You won't need to return to France anytime soon, will you?" Loren said. "It's been so long since your last visit to England. You should come home with me. My home is yours.

Fogg said, "Thank you. I suspect we should not try to return to France too soon. I would appreciate your hospitality. This is my friend Jules Verne. He is traveling with me."

"Mr. Verne," Loren Fogg said, offering the bearded man his hand. "You are welcome to stay as well."

"If you are willing to vouch for these men, Sir Loren, I will turn them over to your custody." The base commander didn't look happy but accepted. "We can't be too careful these days, you know."

"Of course, sir." Sir Loren said agreeably. He then ushered his guests out of their holding cell.

The three made the journey from the airfield to Shillingworth Magna in Loren Fogg's 38 Morgan four-seater, not speaking until the airfield was well behind them. It was a nice comfortable ride. Both visitors looked on this faster manner of conveyance with full approval. Loren let go of his careful composure and looked over at his great-grandfather in wonder. "Not that I'm not very grateful for your help to Roberta, sir, but what in the world are you doing here?"

"How do you know each other?" Jules said.

Sir Loren Fogg again glanced at his ancestor in the seat beside him. He looked cool and completely unfazed by the situation. The other's question, he assumed, should be answered first as he was out of the loop. "My sister and I were accidentally transported through time to… 1863, was it?"

"Late 1862, actually," Phileas said.

Loren then had to ask, "Your name in Jules Verne? The author, Jules Verne?"

"Phileas sighed. Apparently, Jules has written more than one well received book. "Yes, the very same."

Loren smiled but contained his reaction. "We were only there a short time, sir. That was three years ago."

"Closer to nine for me," Phileas said. "Jules that incident is why we requested your present be placed in a safer place. Couldn't have you accidently disappearing to who knew when.

"I remember that." Jules looked away, recalling Rebecca, showing up without notice, whisking it away from him.

"Our presence here is no accident, Loren," Phileas said more seriously. "An enemy of mine has come to this time. As I am most familiar with him, I must be the one to deal with it. It is all rather complicated. I could not begin to explain it all. I don't fully understand myself. Suffice to say that we will be here until the end of December, whether we are successful or not. If we cannot stop what will happen by then, the damage will be done and there will be no correcting it. By the way, how does a young man of twenty-four come by a knighthood?"

"The hard way," Sir Loren said. "If you came here from nine years after I last saw you, you have earned your spurs, too, I believe."

Phileas smiled at the antiquated term. An elder relative had sent him a set of golden spurs as a present after he had been officially knighted. They had been in the family for who knew how long, handed down generation by generation after the presentation of spurs was dropped from the official ceremony. "Yes, I have them."

"As do I," Sir Loren said.

As they talked, Sir Loren drove into the valley and onto the Shillingworth Magna estate. It was early afternoon. The Derbyshire countryside looked only a little different to Phileas. The roads are better. The area around the family estate was still wooded, but the trees were younger, replaced? The young oaks were presently nude with their branches reaching toward the bright sky. The weather was as cold as it had been in France, but there was no snow. "Huntington's fence is gone from between our properties."

"The apple orchard belongs to us now," Sir Loren said. "A few generations back a Huntington daughter married a Fogg. The lands were joined. Sir Phileas, will you be interested in a full tour? It might be interesting to you to see the contrasts in methods and equipment used now, compared to your time."

"No, thank you," Phileas said, keeping his eyes on the fields. "I think advertising my presence would be a bad idea. And please, there is no need to stand on ceremony with me. Addressing me as Phileas will do."

"Then you may drop the honorific with me as well," Loren said. "I haven't had it for long; makes me look around for my father every time someone uses it."

Phileas gave his ancestral home a careful scan as they drove up the drive to the manor house. It looked just as it always had from the outside, but the inside was a different story. The gas lighting his father spent so much time and money putting in had been removed. Loren explained that they had electric lighting, powered by a private generator. Gone also were the heavy damask and velvet drapes that his mother had hung in the parlor. Passing that room, Phileas found it had a lighter, airier feel to it. The windows sported white lace and deep black curtains pushed to either side. Odd pairing? The furniture was of light maple rather than dark heavy oak. Later, Phileas would discover that the manor sported running water in four modern bathrooms.

Loren led them straight to the study. Phileas's refuge when in the country looked almost untouched. The same glossy paneling and massive oak desk adorned this room. The main difference was that the books were gone from the wall shelves behind the desk. A large collection of family portraits, mementos, trophies, and honors were on display there. In a moment of pure vanity, Phileas scanned the shelves for a sign of himself and then stopped before he could get further than the second shelf from the top. You aren't here to check on your legacy.

Turning his back on the shelves, he addressed his… The four-generation difference is going to play havoc with us. If Loren tries to call me anything but sir or Phileas, there are going to be words between us. Phileas's only child had only been two years old as of his leave taking. He wasn't ready for anyone to refer to him with the prefix of grand and certainly not great grand. For the time being, we should publicly be known as distant cousins.

In the time it took to consider those things, Loren had called his Majordomo into the room and made plans for his guests. "Brian, this is my distant cousin Phileas Fogg, from France. And this is his friend, Jules Verne. They will be our guests for the next few months. I am afraid fleeing France has cost them all but the clothes on their backs. They will need to be outfitted as well as given rooms. Is Anderson still available for service?"

"Yes, Sir Loren," the servant said.

"Excellent! Have him come to handle the details." When the servant left the room and closed the door, Loren asked the men to be seated. "Anderson was my father's valet. He will know just how to set you up. Now, exactly what is it you were sent here to deal with, and what may I ask, did it have to do with Roberta and Uncle James? What is it you plan to keep from happening?"

From his seat across the desk from one Fogg and beside another, Verne saw an odd mirror image. The men had taken about the same poses in their chairs. They were both slouching down a bit, elbows on the armrests with fingers steepled. Jules couldn't help it. He laughed, and then tried to stifle it.

The two men looked at him askance and then caught what they had unconsciously done. They shifted positions self-consciously. There was a moment's embarrassment when Jules tried to apologize but couldn't stop grinning. "I'm too tired to deal with this interview. Your pardon." The younger Fogg called a servant to show Jules to a room. He then settled again.

"You know this is going to be damnably difficult to deal with," Loren said, grinning despite himself. "My grandmother said I favored you, but I didn't expect it to go this far. I didn't notice it being this pronounced when I was in your time. I suspect our resemblance is going to cause as many comments as Lacy and I did as twins."

"At this point in time, it will not be as bad as it could have been had you stayed with me," Phileas said. "Our resemblance was promising to become quite an embarrassment for me. Where is your sister, by the way?"

"At Oxford," Loren said, not missing what the man meant about a twenty-one-year-old set of twins visiting a forty-ish Victorian bachelor out of the blue. "She started her studies the spring we returned. She excelled just as I knew she would. The university has offered her a position as a professor's assistant. I suspect they are out to entice her into graduate studies. From there, she may even be offered a permanent post. If that effort succeeds, I may never see my sister without a stack of books in her hands." Loren grinned. "That is, unless Benj' gets his way and convinces her to marry him."

"And you?" Phileas said.

"I finished my studies last spring and I have no one begging me to marry them. Phileas," Loren said turning serious. "We can reminisce about the past and I can relate to you the present, but I will have an answer. Don't think I am going to let you out of this room until you answer my original questions."

"You will have your answers as soon as I know how to give them to you," Phileas said more defensively than intended. He stood, strode across the room to the family coat of arms on the back wall. Idly, Phileas leaned on his cane and looked over the familiar object and the unfamiliar pictures around it. "I am not overly familiar with the mechanisms and dangers of time travel. According to those who sent me, knowing too much about the future can be hazardous. One becomes tempted to change things to suit one's own wishes. That could set up a chain reaction of changes that can create significant problems."

Phileas turned toward the window beyond the desk. He was again hunting for something solid and familiar. He found it in the view. The garden walk was almost exactly as it had always been at this time of year. In its winter form, the garden held only barren branches and leaf-covered beds.

"If I told you what I know may transpire in the near future, you may do something that will make it impossible for me to succeed at my task." Phileas said, turning back to Loren. "I was sent here with only the most glossing explanations of the climate. I was to concentrate on dealing with a single problem and nothing else. This situation and the lack of information are becoming more pronounced the longer I spend in this time. I do not belong here. I fear this mission is going to be much more difficult than originally supposed."

With that admission, Fogg felt as desolately, empty as the barren garden. The technology he had seen so far was bewildering enough in itself. Add a political climate of open warfare, involving a war that he knew nothing about was maddening. Europe is ever a stew of bad tempers waiting for an excuse to vent. Who had started the fight this time? What was their aim and what did the League of Darkness have to gain in it? Count Gregory's League is certain to be the root of this problem. The time machine we sent him away in should have been irreparable; or so, Jules and Passepartout had said. Perhaps the League built another one? Am I dealing with some devil's protégé?

Considering those things, Phileas remembered the historian he had brought into the past who had helped them. Mrs. Westland had also mentioned a time in his future that would be pivotal. She had used that knowledge to bait Count Gregory into Verne and Passepartout's trap. Is this the time she spoke of?

The last time I transported into the future, I was very lucky to gain a helper whom I could confide in. This time… sharing such confidences might not be wise.