‘But there’s something else you need to know,’ announced Tom, determined to fell the tree with one final blow. ‘In one of your letters you spoke of how we would love one another this afternoon.’
‘Yes, Claire, this afternoon we will love one another in the boarding-house over the road, and in your own words it will be the most magical experience of your life.’
Claire’s cheeks flushed bright pink.
‘I can understand why you’re surprised, but imagine how I felt. I was astonished when I read the letter in which you described our lovemaking, because for you it was something we’d already done, but as far as I was concerned it hadn’t happened.’ Tom smiled sweetly. ‘I’ve come from the future to fulfil my destiny, Claire, which is to love you.’
‘But, I—‘ she tried to protest.
‘You still don’t understand, do you? We’ve got to make love, Claire,’ said Tom, ‘because in reality we already have.’
It was the final axe blow. And, like the oak, Claire teetered on her chair and crashed to the floor.
Chapter XXVII
If she had wanted draw everyone’s attention, thought Tom, she couldn’t have found a better way to do so. Claire’s sudden fainting fit, and the din of the shattering china, dragged with the tablecloth on to the floor, had brought to an abrupt standstill the conversations in the tea room, plunging it into stunned silence. From the back of the room, where he had been relegated during the ensuing commotion, Tom watched the bevy of ladies rallying round the girl. Like a rescue team with years of practice, they stretched her out on a couch, placed a pile of cushions under her feet, loosened her corset (that diabolical item of clothing entirely to blame for her fainting fit – it had prevented her breathing in the amount of air necessary for such a charged conversation) and went to fetch smelling salts to bring her round.
Tom watched her come to with a loud gasp. The female staff and customers had formed a sort of matriarchal screen around her to prevent the gentlemen in the room from glimpsing more of her flesh than was seemly. A few minutes later he saw Claire stumble through the human wall, pale as a ghost, and peer confusedly around her. He waved at her awkwardly with the parasol. After a few moments’ hesitation, she staggered towards him through the onlookers. At least she seemed to recognise him as the person with whom she had been taking tea before she had passed out.
‘Are you all right, Miss Haggerty?’ he asked, when she reached him. ‘Perhaps a little fresh air would do you good . . .’
She nodded and settled her hand on Tom’s arm, like a tame falcon landing on its owner’s glove, as though going outside to get some air and escape from all those prying eyes was the best idea he had ever had. Tom led her out, spluttering an apology for having upset her. Once outside, they paused on the pavement, unable to stop themselves glancing up at the boarding-house looming across the road. With a mixture of unease and resignation, Claire, whose cheeks had recovered some of their colour, peered at the place where that afternoon she was fated to give herself to the brave Captain Shackleton, the saviour of the human race, a man not yet born, who was standing next to her, trying to avoid her eyes.
‘And what if I refuse, Captain?’ She spoke as though addressing the air. ‘What if I don’t go up there with you?’
It would be fair to say that the question took Tom by surprise for, in view of the disastrous conclusion to their meeting, he had given up all hope of accomplishing his wicked aim. However, despite her impressive fainting fit, the girl had forgotten nothing of what he had told her, and was clearly still convinced by his story. Tom had improvised on the blank page of the future a chance encounter, a romance that would explain what was going to happen, and even encourage the girl to yield to it without fear or regret, and to her, this was the only possible outcome. A momentary pang of remorse made him consider the possibility of helping her out of her predicament, which she seemed ready to face as though it were an act of contrition. He could tell her the future was not written in stone, that she could choose. But he had invested too much energy in the venture to abandon his prey now she was almost within reach. He remembered one of Gilliam Murray’s pet phrases, and repeated it in a suitably doom-laden voice: ‘I’ve no idea what effect it would have on the fabric of time.’
Claire looked at him rather uneasily as he shrugged his shoulders, absolving himself of responsibility. After all, she could not blame him for anything: he was there because she had asked him to come in her letters. He had travelled through time to perform an act she had told him they had already performed – and with a wealth of detail. He had journeyed across time to set their romance in motion, to trigger off what had already happened but had not yet taken place. She seemed to have reached the same conclusion: what choice did she have – to walk away and carry on with her life, marry one of her admirers? This was her opportunity to experience something she had always dreamed of: a great love that spanned the centuries. Not seizing it would be like having deceived herself all her life.
‘The most magical experience of my life.’ She smiled. ‘Did I really write that?’
‘Yes,’ replied Tom, emphatically. ‘Those were your exact words.’
Claire hesitated. She could not go to bed with a stranger just like that. Except that this was a unique case: she had to give herself to him or the universe would suffer the consequences. She must sacrifice herself to protect the world. But was it really a sacrifice? Did she not love him? Was the flurry of emotions that overwhelmed her whenever she looked at him not love? It had to be. The feeling that made her light up inside and go weak at the knees had to be love, because if that was not, then what was it? Captain Shackleton had told her they would make love that afternoon and then she would write him beautiful letters. Why resist if that was what she really wanted? Ought she to refuse because she was retracing the steps of another Claire, who was, after all, herself? Ought she to refuse because it felt more like an obligation than a genuine desire, a spontaneous gesture? Try as she might, she could find no good reason for not doing what she longed to do with all her heart. Neither Lucy nor any of her other friends would approve of her going to bed with a stranger.
In the end, that was what decided the matter for her. Yes, she would go to bed with him, and she would spend the rest of her life pining for him, writing him long, beautiful letters soaked with her perfume and her tears. She knew she was both passionate and stubborn enough to keep alive the flame of her love, even though she would never again see the person who had set it ablaze. It was her fate, apparently. An exceptional fate, not without a hint of tragedy – far more pleasant to bear than the dreary marriage she might enter into with one of her dull suitors. She set her lips in a determined line.
‘I hope you aren’t exaggerating to avoid a blow to your pride, Captain,’ she joked.
‘I’m afraid there’s only one way to find out,’ Tom parried.
