By the time Lucy reached Claire, Tom had vanished into the throng, but Lucy asked her dazed friend who the stranger was she had seen her talking to. Claire simply shook her head mysteriously. As she expected, Lucy soon forgot the matter, and dragged her to a flower stall where they could stock up with heliotropes, bringing the aroma of distant jungles into their bedrooms.
While Claire Haggerty was letting herself be led by the arm and thinking that travelling through time was the most gentlemanly thing anyone had ever done for her, Tom Blunt left Covent Garden Market by the opposite exit, elbowing his way through the crowd and trying not to think of poor Perkins.
He slumped onto his bed in the hovel as if he had been shot at point-blank range. Lying there, he cursed his foolhardy behaviour out loud, as he had been doing in the garbled manner of a drunkard all the way home. Had he taken leave of his senses? What did he think he was doing, asking the girl to meet him again? Well, the answer was easy enough. What he wanted was obvious, and it did not involve marvelling at Claire’s beauty for a couple of hours, tortured by the idea that he would never have her. Not on his life: he was going to take advantage of the girl being in love with his other self, the brave Captain Shackleton, to achieve an even greater goal. And he was amazed that for this fleeting pleasure he was prepared to suffer the consequences that such an irresponsible course of action would bring, including his probable demise. Did he really value his life so little? It was sad but true: possessing that beautiful woman was more meaningful to him than anything that might be waiting for him round the corner in his miserable future.
Thinking about it objectively, he had to admit that the logical thing to do was not to turn up at the meeting, and thereby avoid trouble. But this was no guarantee against him bumping into the girl somewhere else, having to explain what he was still doing in the nineteenth century and even invent some excuse for not having come to the tea room. Failure to appear at the appointed hour was not the answer. The only solution he could think of was to go there and find a way to avoid having to explain himself if they bumped into each other again. Some reason why she must not go near him, or even speak to him, he thought excitedly. All things considered, this meeting might even prove beneficial to him in the long run. Yes, this might be a way of solving the problem once and for all.
It was clear that this must be their first and only encounter. He had no choice: he must indulge his desire for the girl on condition that he succeeded in ruling out any possibility of them ever meeting again, nipping in the bud any relationship that might grow up between them. He could not see how they would conceal it from the multitude of spies Murray had posted all over the city, which would put not only him in danger but her, too. This meeting, then, felt like the last meal of the condemned man, and he resolved to enjoy every minute of it.
When it was time to go, he took the parasol, straightened his cap and left the boarding-house. Down in the street, he gave way to an impulse and stopped in front of Mrs Ritter’s stall.
‘Good afternoon, Tom,’ said the old lady.
‘Mrs Ritter,’ he replied, stretching out his hand, ‘I think the time has come for us both to see my future.’
The old woman glanced up at him in surprise, but at once she gripped Tom’s hand and, with a wizened finger, slowly traced the lines on his palm, like someone reading a book.
‘My God, Tom!’ she gasped, gazing up at him with mournful dismay. ‘I see . . . death!’
Grimacing, Tom accepted the terrible prediction with resigned fortitude, and withdrew his hand from the old woman’s clasp. His worst fears had been confirmed. Getting under Claire Haggerty’s skirts would mean death: that was the reward for lust. He said goodbye to the alarmed Mrs Ritter, who doubtless had assumed fate would be kinder to him, then walked down the street towards the tea room where Claire Haggerty would be waiting for him. Yes, there was no doubt about it: he was going to die, but could he call what he had now a life? He quickened his pace.
He had never felt so alive.
Chapter XXVI
When he arrived, Claire was sitting at one of the small tables at the back of the tea room, next to a picture window through which the afternoon light filtered on to her hair. Tom gazed at her with awe from the doorway, savouring the knowledge that it was him who this beautiful young girl was waiting for. Once more, he was struck by her fragile demeanour, which contrasted so delightfully with her lively gestures and fervent gaze, and he felt a pleasant stirring in the barren place where he had thought nothing would ever grow again. At least he was not completely dead inside.
Clutching the parasol in his sweaty palm, he made his way towards her through the tables, determined to do everything in his power to have her in his arms by the end of the afternoon.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ a young woman on her way out waylaid him, ‘might I ask where you acquired those boots?’
Taken aback, Tom followed the woman’s eyes to his feet. He almost jumped out of his skin when he saw he was still sporting Captain Shackleton’s exotic footwear. He stared at the girl, at a loss for what to say. ‘In Paris,’ he replied.
The young woman appeared content with his reply. She nodded, as if to say such footwear could only come from the birthplace of fashion. She thanked him for the information with a friendly smile, and left the tea room. Tom shook his head and continued across the room towards Claire, who had not yet noticed him and was gazing dreamily out of the window.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Haggerty,’ he said.
Claire smiled.
‘I believe this is yours,’ he said, holding out the parasol as if it were a bunch of roses.
‘Oh, thank you, Captain,’ she responded, ‘but, please, take a seat’
Tom sat on the empty chair, while Claire assessed the sorry state of her parasol with slight dismay, then relegated it to the side of the table, as though its role in the story were over. Then she studied Tom with the strange yearning in her eyes he had noticed during their first meeting, and which had nattered him even though he knew it was not directed at him but at the character he was playing.
‘I must compliment you on your disguise, Captain,’ she said. ‘It’s truly amazing. You could be an East End barrow-boy.’
‘Er, thanks.’ Tom forced a smile to cover his pique.
What was he so surprised about? Her comment only confirmed what he already knew: if he was able to enjoy her company for an afternoon it was precisely because she believed he was an intrepid hero of the future. And it was thanks to this misunderstanding that he would be able to teach her a lesson, by obtaining from her something
