by Mark Hodder
“Brock!” yelled Beresford. “Where are you, man? These blasted boots are killing me!” He shook his head at Oxford. “We’re well on our way to such circumstances anyway, Edward; I don’t see how the snooty tart can possibly influence the country’s advancement one way or the other.”
“She’s a figurehead.”
“Figurehead be damned! Disposable, Edward! Disposable! Bollocks to the queen, that’s what I say! Ah, Brock, at last! Get these blessed things off me, would you, you doddering old goat!”
The stony-faced valet pulled over a small three-legged stool, sat on it, lifted Beresford’s right leg, placed it on his knee, and began unbuttoning the long riding boot.
“No, Edward,” continued the marquess, “if you ask me, you’ve been placing too much emphasis on the events of that day in 1840. We should concentrate our efforts elsewhere.”
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.
—ARAB PROVERB
hree 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 familiar territory. In a fortnight he’ll start work in the Hat and Feathers. He told me so himself.
You’ll tarry a few hours, at least?”
“Next time.”
The months passed.
To Henry de la Poet Beresford, whose riotous lifestyle was gradually adopting a surprisingly philosophical motive, the world was the world. However, had he possessed Edward Oxford’s knowledge, he would have recognised that it was no longer the world of the history books. Something had diverted it from its course and it was accelerating in a different direction.
That something was the marquess himself.
He had spoken rather too carelessly to Isambard Kingdom Brunel back in 1837, and had inadvertently planted the seed of the Technologist movement in the famous engineer, just as, thanks to Edward Oxford, he himself carried the seed of the Libertines.
The man from the future was oblivious to this state of affairs when he appeared on July 1, 1839.
“I’ve missed you, my friend,” said Beresford.
“Hello, Henry. I haven’t missed you. I was just with you! Remember New Year’s Day? Help me off with my helmet, would you? Is it still burning?”
“More so than ever. And that thing on your chest is spitting fire too.”
“I’ll have to stay here a while to make repairs, if you don’t mind.”
“Good! You’ll be welcome. I’ve missed our talks. Here, wrap this dust sheet around your head; I’ll pull the helmet off.”
Once the suit was removed, the two men settled in the morning room, which, by the middle of ‘39, was one of the few comfortable chambers left in the mouldering mansion.
“Wine?”
Oxford laughed. “You’ve forgotten again! I’m still digesting our dinner of two years ago!”
“By James, this takes some getting used to!”
“How are things, Beresford?”
“My reputation has spread far and wide, my friend. Do you know what they call me now?”
“What?”
“The ‘Mad Marquess’! And do you know why?”
“Because you’re a hopeless drunkard?”
Beresford laughed. “Well, partly. But mostly because I’ve been breaking through those social conventions which you claim so suppress us ‘Victorians.’ In fact, Edward, I have it in mind to start a movement to demolish the whole edifice of mannered behaviour. You have convinced me that man is capable of far more once he’s free.”
“Ambitious! And what of the boy?”
“Ah, the esteemed Original! He’s been at the Hat and Feathers since January. ‘Mr. A. W. Smith’ from the Ratcatcher has followed and the young lad is most flattered to learn that the aforesaid gentleman considers him the best potboy in all of London! Ha ha! I don’t know, though, Edward; it’s a small tavern and I haven’t seen him making any particular friends there. For a while, I thought I’d found our quarry in one Lucy Scales, an eighteen-year-old. She can’t be the one he marries in Australia, of course, but she’s the right age to become that girl’s mother.”
“Why her?” asked Oxford, his eyes glinting with interest.
“Because in February she was attacked around the corner from the tavern and his reaction to it was extreme. I wasn’t there at the time but apparently he flew into a fit of hysteria and had what amounted to a mental breakdown. He recovered a couple of weeks later and went back to work.”
“So you think he might have a particular attachment to this girl?”
“It crossed my mind, but on closer examination I found that he’d never met her, or her parents, or anyone who had anything to do with her.”
Oxford pondered this news for a few moments, then asked, “Anything else?”
“Yes—some cunning preparations on my part! The Original is obsessed with making a name for himself; he wants—and I quote—‘to live on through history. ”’
“What a fool I was to approach him in my time suit,” interrupted Oxford. “It scared him out of his wits, what little he has of them. He picked up on my words and twisted them to bolster his delusions of grandeur.”
“Those delusions are working in our favour now,” offered Beresford. “I have initiated him into a secret society of my—or, rather, of A. W. Smith’s own invention. It’s named ‘Young England’ and has twenty-five members.”
Oxford slapped his hand down on the arm of his chair. “Please tell me you’re joking! You’re getting twenty-five people involved?”
“Of course not! They’re all entirely fictitious, just like the organisation itself! “
“So what’s the point?”
“The point is this: Young England intends to overthrow the country’s aristocracy—the likes of me!—and replace them with what you might call the ‘purebred worker.’ I won’t go into details, Edward, because it’s all nonsense. I’ve been spinning words and sending the poor young fellow dizzy with it. But the upshot is that each member of the organisation must find for himself a wife who embodies all the best qualities of a working girl. She must be assiduous in her duties, virtuous and demure in manner, honest and loyal, and—well, the usual idiotic drivel.
“The Original is now on the lookout for such an impossible maiden. He’s been primed to investigate the background of every girl he encounters. He will even hand to me a written report for each!”
Edward Oxford laughed; a brittle, edgy sound.
“You’re a sly dog, my Lord Marquess, that’s for sure! I must admit, though, I’m impressed with your resourcefulness.”
“I’m happy to help. I’ll leave you to work on your repairs now, but a little later, I insist that you’ll sit and take wine with me. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Oxford spent the evening with his host, slept, then, in the morning, jumped into the air and didn’t come down until January 1, 1840.
“Six months to go before the queen gets it, and things are hotting up!” announced Beresford.
“Really?” rasped Oxford. His eyes seemed to be focused elsewhere. “Tell me.”
“Our man is now working in the Hog in the Pound on Oxford Street. As his most faithful customer, A. W. Smith, I followed him there. My fellow drinkers don’t realise that I’m the famed Mad Marquess!”
“You’re famous now?”
“Yes, Edward; though I suppose ‘infamous’ would be more accurate. I have quite a following of young bloods! Anyway, that’s beside the point. As I was saying, the Original is now at the Hog in the Pound. The tavern is owned by a chap named Joseph Robinson, who lives in Battersea. Every week, he ships a group of families there from his borough for a knees-up. They call themselves the Battersea Brigade, and are supposedly a protest group opposed to the building of the power station.”
“What power station?”
“The Battersea Power Station; one of Brunel’s rather more controversial projects.”
“That makes no sense at all,” objected the time traveller. “Construction of the Battersea Power Station didn’t begin until the 1920s—and it had nothing to do with Brunel!”
“Um. I may be to blame for that.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve told me a great many things about the future, Edward, and I promised to keep my mouth shut. I’m afraid, however, that there was a night back in ‘37 when I was rather the worse for wear at the Athenaeum Club. The engineer, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, was there—”
“I remember that night,” put in Oxford.
“Well, I’m sorry to say that I blabbed rather,” said Beresford. “I told Brunel about the way your people extract power from the ground. I even remembered the phrase you used to describe it: ‘geothermal energy.’ He was absolutely besotted by the idea, and before the year was out, he’d proposed the Battersea Experimental Power Station.”
“Damn you, Henry! It’s bad enough that I’ll return to a future without Victoria; now you’ve made it one where geothermal energy has existed three hundred years ahead of its time. Don’t you realise the only thing that can prevent me from totally unravelling is to return to an environment which is at least in some way familiar?”
“I’m
sorry. It was a slip.”
“A bad one! But tell me about this protest group—why are they significant?”
“Because the moment the Original joined the staff, he and the Brigade hit it off like nobody’s business! They love the little bugger!”
“You mean he finally has friends!”
“Yes! And seven of them have daughters, all the right age to qualify as the possible mother of the Original’s wife. Any one of them could have the ‘Oxford birthmark’ on her chest!”
“Not necessarily. It doesn’t appear in every generation.”
“But if it’s there, finding it would be a distinct advantage; instead of having to follow all seven of the daughters until one of them gives birth to your ancestor, you’ll just need to follow the one.”
Oxford nodded slowly, chewed his lip, then became very still and expressionless. His face went slack.
“Edward?” prompted the marquess. “Are you still with me?”
“Yes,” Oxford mumbled, blinking suddenly. “Get me times and places where I can find the girls. I want this over and done with. I’ll see you in six months.”
He left.
January, February, March, April, May, June passed.
July came.
Queen Victoria was shot dead.
Her assassin died a few moments later.
Ten days after, outside the veranda doors, Beresford greeted his visitor and said: “I took my followers to the Hog in the Pound a couple of days after Victoria was killed. I’ve abandoned the A. W. Smith disguise.”
“So you’re not hiding that you’re the Marquess of Waterford?”
“No!” Beresford laughed. “I’ve been doing quite the opposite!”
“Funny. I thought your new moustache was part of a disguise. When did you grow—God!”
“What is it?”
“I recognise you! You were there! Watching! With a smile on your face!”
“Of course I was there, old chap! Best spectator sport ever! How could I possibly resist seeing you in action, witnessing all you’ve told me about? Watching the snooty cow die?”