Brock inserted the jack into Beresford's boot and began to lever it off.
'There's little choice,' replied Oxford. 'I'm at the event in triplicate now, and on each occasion I seem a little more displaced; pushed away both geographically and chronologically, as the suit prevents me from meeting myself.'
'So, as I say, perhaps you should abandon that side of it,' suggested Beresford. He gave a sigh as his boot came off and Brock got to work on the other one.
'What do you suggest?'
'Leave history to run its course. Perhaps what matters is not the shape and order of events, but that you, ultimately, are in them. If you can ensure that the right girl has a child with an Oxford, you'll reestablish your ancestry. Who gives a damn that, without Victoria, history might unwind a little differently? At least there'll be a 2202 with an Edward Oxford in it! You'll be able to go home, man!'
The time traveller stared at his hands thoughtfully.
'It's true,' he muttered, 'the Original did-I mean, does have brothers. Even if I can identify the girl, though, which won't be easy, I don't see how I can force them together.'
The marquess gave a roar of laughter and, as his second boot came off, waved Brock away. The valet bowed and left the room with the footgear in his hand.
'By heavens, for a man from the future you can be mighty slow-witted!' Beresford cried drunkenly. 'You bloody well do it, man!' He slapped his knee mirthfully. 'You do it! Find the little trollop and have her!'
Oxford looked at his host in shock. 'You surely aren't suggesting that I rape my own ancestor!' he said, slowly.
'Of course! Exactly that! Fuck yourself into existence, Oxford! What other option have you?'
PREPARATION
It's all fate and chance.
Three days later, the idea didn't seem quite so disturbing. This wasn't because it was making more sense; it was because Oxford was making less. He felt horribly detached from his environment and, whenever Beresford or Brock spoke to him, it seemed extremely well acted, but not real. It simply wasn't real.
On Saturday evening, as they ate dinner, he raised what had now become his main problem with the scheme. It wasn't the crime of rape, it was how to find the victim.
'I know barely a thing about her,' he told the marquess.
'You know she had a birthmark on her chest.'
'Yes.'
'And you know that she was considerably younger than the Original.'
'Yes.'
'And you know that he was acquainted with her parents and grandparents before he went to Australia.'
'Yes.'
'And you know that he was incarcerated in Bedlam and Broadmoor from mid-1840 until he sailed, which means he must have known them before the time of the assassination.'
'Attempted assassination,' corrected Oxford.
'Quite so. And you know that he worked first in the Hat and Feathers, then in the Hog in the Pound.'
'That's correct.'
'So there you have your starting points.'
'You can't expect me to go strolling into public houses, Beresford! I can barely stand even the seclusion of Darkening Towers with just you and your staff for company!'
'No offence taken, old chap,' countered the marquess, with a wry smile. 'And I'm suggesting nothing of the sort.'
'Then what?'
'Simply this: I will hunt down your young lady during the course of the next two and a half years, and I will meet you back here every six months to report on my progress.'
'Every six months?'
'Yes! Finish your dinner, drink up, leap ahead! I'll meet you here on January 1, 1838!'
Six months later, Henry de La Poet Beresford, 3rd Marquess of Waterford, looked shabbier; his mansion more decrepit.
As usual, he was in his cups.
'By James, I was beginning to think you were some sort of delusion,' he slurred after Oxford appeared outside the veranda doors. 'Come in out of the rain, my friend.'
They walked into the ballroom, through it, and on to the morning room.
Oxford took off his helmet and boots. The helmet felt too hot and he had to smother a flame that burned around the dent made by the sentry's bullet in 1877.
'What news?' he asked.
'Will you take wine with me?
'I had some at dinner. You forget, just minutes have passed for me since we last spoke. Have you found the girl?'
'No. The yammering idiot is still living with his mother and sister. Last June he was thrown out of the Red Lion after having some sort of fit. I suppose it was after you pounced on him. Anyway, he was off work for two months then started at the Ratcatcher. I've been drinking there, in a wig and beard, calling myself Mr. A. W. Smith. It's a squalid little hole and I'm the most regular of its regulars. I can assure you that the rest are an unprepossessing lot, just a gaggle of toothless old bastards and a smattering of poxy dollymops. I doubt our girl will spring from the loins of any of 'em. As for the Original, he's a friendless, cretinous dolt. Good behind the bar, though. Efficient. I'll keep my eye on him, of course.'
Oxford held out his hand and, a little surprised, Beresford took it. They shook.
'I've never really thanked you properly, Beresford,' said Oxford.
'Thank you, Edward, but it works both ways-you've given me much food for thought in our time together. I view my world in a new light. Perhaps it's time someone encouraged people to break free from its bondage; to say what they want, when they want; to freely express their sexuality; to wear whatever they wish; to be whomever they desire to be. Perhaps one day I'll make a stand, who knows?' He hiccupped.
'A fine speech, Beresford.' Oxford smiled. 'If a little slurred. You should lay off the alcohol-it's bad for you.'
The marquess grinned. 'Why don't you bugger off to July 1, 1838,' he said.
'No sooner said than done,' came the reply, and the time traveller departed.
Half a year later they were together again.
Beresford had aged.
'I'm sorry, Edward, but there's absolutely nothing to report but the fact that he lost his job, due to his odd behaviour, and now works at Minton's Tavern. Beyond that, it's the same story: he lives with his mother, no friends, no potential among the regulars.'
'Thank you, Henry. I'll see you at the end of the year.'
'You'll not stay? I haven't seen you for ages! Stay and talk.'
'I can't. I have to get this settled as soon as possible. I want to go home, Henry.'
The marquess sighed. 'Then go, my friend, but mark you, I'll not be satisfied with such fleeting visits. Next time, you'll remain and socialise a while!'
The next time was January 1, 1839.
'He handed in his resignation just before Christmas. Good news, Edward, we are entering rather more
