Code Redhead - A Serial Novel

by Sharon Kleve

  “It can make it here and back to the workshop on a single wind. Thank God.”

  “You’re sure? I can…”

  “Get inside quickly. If we’re caught…”

  “Yes, all right.”

  They crowded into the unit, a tight fit with all five of them. Bridgetta spared a thought for the three women hurrying away in the new dawn, knowing they’d never see their children again. A babe in each arm, she reached for the controls.

  “Let me,” Stephen said. “The green switch first, yes? And then the transfer button.” He hesitated, one finger above the switch. “You’re sure it will take us where we want to go?”

  “It will take us to the workshop. It always has before.”

  Leaning into her so hard she could feel his heartbeat, he pressed the button.

  ****

  “What do you do with them now?” Stephen glanced down at the child—Misha—still in his arms. The boy had made barely a sound throughout the journey though he held Stephen’s shirtfront in an iron grip. This must be a horrific experience for these children—like some mad dream.

  Bridgetta Maguire looked shattered. Her red hair stood out around her face—energized by their passage perhaps—and she had lost all calm.

  “I have a place to take them. Getting out of this workshop is the hard bit.”

  “How—?”

  “I’ve been taking them out the way I get in—you saw?—and up over the roof. There’s a way into the building farther along and we go down from there. With three of them, though…” She gulped. “Without you there, I don’t think I could have brought all three. Yet how could I refuse?”

  A tear trickled down her cheek. Stephen fought the desire to brush it away. “Well, you won’t have to go out the window this morning. I’ll lock up after us.”

  “Will you? And you’ll keep silent? You see what’s at stake.”

  “I think I see. You’ll need to explain the rest of it. Here—let me wind the unit before we go.”

  It had touched down very nearly in the same spot it stood before. Or had it truly moved at all? Must have, for Stephen remembered it standing in the rubble-filled yard, the whirl of the gears above his head. “Come on,” he said softly. “I won’t allow you to do this alone.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Fog shrouded the morning when they stepped outside, providing welcome cover. Not that two people with several ragged children made an unusual sight in 1882 London, as Bridgetta had discovered. And not that her charges looked particularly ragged. For this journey their parents invariably dressed them in their best and tended to tuck things into their pockets—small toys, carefully hoarded morsels of food. Most touching of all were the notes and letters written both to prospective caregivers and the children themselves, treasures against an unknown future.

  Bridgetta glanced at the man beside her. He’d proved a revelation so far, game for the mission, compassionate and strong. Did she err in trusting him? Despite their short acquaintance, she didn’t think so.

  “Here,” she stopped abruptly in front of the building. “It’s actually a refuge for unwanted babies, mostly born to prostitutes. But they’ll take these three mites without many questions and place them in good homes.”

  “How did you find this place, you being from…”

  “The future? The first night I came back in the time machine—I’d already gone from 1962 to 1942, you understand and spent a full day there, trapped in that yard—I brought back a single child, an infant. I met her mother while trying to work my way out through the wall; she wept and begged me. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, taking that babe in my arms. But then a patrol came; I could hear them in the street right through that collapsed building. They questioned the bairn’s mother, pistol-whipped her I think. Then…shot her.

  “We hadn’t finished blocking the opening. I could hear the guards calling to one another and knew if they looked through the slot and saw anything more than an empty yard, I’d be dead and the child with me.”

  “I see.” Stephen swallowed hard. “So you…”

  “Did the only thing I could, punched the buttons in the same order I had before. The machine brought us to the workshop. When it grew light I went looking for a place for the infant and found this. Madelyn—the woman who operates the refuge—knows the truth. I had to tell her. Once I’d placed the first babe with her I knew I had to go back in case…”

  “There were other desperate mothers.”

  “Yes. And there were. Each time. The next two weren’t babes but I brought them here anyway, poured the whole mad story into Madelyn’s ears. I can trust her.”

  Bridgetta gazed into Stephen’s dark eyes. “Can I trust you?”

  ****

  Half an hour later, they sat in a busy tea shop with the clatter of china and the voices of other patrons all around them. Outside, carriages rumbled past and children called to one another—an ordinary London morning, though Stephen found nothing ordinary in it.

  Across the table from him, Bridgetta played with her tea cup and drank little. Bridie, the woman at the children’s home had called her, and he liked it. She looked distracted, desperate and so beautiful it made him feel breathless.

  “To answer my question,” she said tensely, “can I trust you, Mr. Longstreet? Can those children?”

  Stephen studied her while his mind raced. A lot to take in even after he’d experienced part of it. “How many have you saved?”

  “Including the three today? Eleven. I’ve made eight trips. What gave me away?”

  “Anthony found the machine unwound. Plus,” he smiled wryly, “you left behind a few clues in the form of incriminating red tresses.”

  “Oh. I couldn’t take time to wind the machine, with my arms full of child.”

  “I quite understand.”

  “What are you going to tell your uncle?”

  Yes, there lay the question. By now Anthony would be at the workshop, eager to learn what Stephen had discovered last night. Dared Stephen tell him? He trusted Anthony, but…

  When he failed to speak, Bridgetta jiggled her cup against the saucer nervously. “If you tell him the truth, he’ll put a stop to the trips.”

  Would he? Quite possibly. But one couldn’t always predict Anthony’s actions.

  Stephen smiled. “He’d be glad to hear how well the machine works. We hadn’t yet given it a trial run.”

  Bridgetta’s lips parted. “Then however did it get there—in that yard, I mean, in my time?”

  “Precisely what I wondered. And why did it transport to the same location in 1942, and thence to the workshop? Did you reset it?”

  She shook her head. “I touched only those two buttons. I’m not even sure why—it was a mad thing to do. I just felt this overpowering urge.” She raised her eyes to his. “Do you know how to set the machine?”

  “In theory, yes. Uncle Anthony explained it to me as when he built the system. It has a default but as far as I know it’s never been set to any particular target.”

  “Very odd. Mr. Longstreet, if I don’t go back again…”

  “Might be for the best, you know.” Avoiding her gaze, he took a gulp of tea. “It’s a dangerous game. From all you’ve told me about the world of 1942—and an horrific tale it is—your life won’t be worth a shilling if you get caught. And each trip you make increases your risk.”

  “That’s true. After the first time, I was so terrified I couldn’t imagine doing it again. But it began to haunt me, all of it. The plight of those people, the look in the eyes of that mother. How desperate she was to give up her child, knowing she’d never see her again.

  “And,” abandoning her cup she twisted her fingers together, “I know what will happen to many of the people there.”

  “The death camps you described.” Stephen shook his head. Difficult to comprehend while sitting here in the middle of a bustling morning. It seemed like a tale spun by some lunatic.

  Bridgetta’s eyes flooded with tears. “I can sa
ve so few. Not enough. But if I don’t go back…”

  “Here, please don’t cry.” Stephen captured her hands in his. They felt icy cold and he chaffed them gently. A wide gulf divided them—not only of eighty years but of understanding. She recalled these events; to him they represented the wildest postulation.

  “Those children,” she said so softly he could barely catch the words. “It won’t be easy for them being foundlings. But at least they’ll know how much they were loved.” Her gaze, still swimming in tears, met Stephen’s. “I was a foundling myself in Dublin, surrendered during the war. I’ve always wondered if my father died in combat, if my mother couldn’t face raising me alone.”

  Stephen squeezed her fingers. “It’s why you work with children, isn’t it?”

  She nodded and visibly struggled to gather her emotions. “At least these little ones will have their pieces of paper telling them how much they were cherished.”

  She drew her hands from Stephen’s grasp. “So, Mr. Longstreet, what do you intend to do?”

  “Call me Stephen, please.” He searched his heart one last time, making sure of his decision. “I’ll not tell my uncle the truth for now. But, Bridgetta Maguire, if you insist on returning to 1942, you won’t be going alone.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I’m very sorry, Uncle. I’m afraid I fell asleep halfway through my watch. But you can see the unit’s still fully wound and I trust there’s no further incriminating evidence.”

  At least he hoped not. He’d done an admittedly rushed inspection after they returned from 1942. Both Anthony and Caroline had been in the workshop when he reached it this morning after escorting Bridgetta to his flat.

  Would she be there still when he returned? His heart sped up at the thought. He must be mad to involve himself in her mission.

  Mad, or in love.

  That thought crept into his mind like warmth into chilled bones. Ah, he couldn’t fall so swiftly for a woman he barely knew. Yet her courage and compassion—to say nothing of her beauty—touched him deeply.

  He ached to confide in his uncle, to impart news of the future events Bridgetta had recounted. A Europe made unrecognizable from the perspective of 1882.

  Caroline’s presence silenced him. She gave him a suspicious look and walked to the time machine where she made a cursory inspection. “I suggest we henceforth scribe marks on the floor, pinpointing the exact positions of the feet as an additional safeguard.”

  “Are you intimating this machine winked out of here last night and I missed it?” Stephen strolled up to her.

  “You admitted falling asleep. Perhaps tonight I should stay on watch also.”

  Dismay suffused Stephen. “I do not think you would be very comfortable. There are rodents.”

  “This isn’t about comfort and I’m not afraid of mice. Master Anthony, did you not include a gauge to measure travel?”

  “I did not, though in light of our present dilemma, perhaps I should have done. It is difficult to measure, or indeed quantify, travel that has nothing to do with distance.”

  “Yet presumably our red-headed thief moved the unit not only through time, but space.”

  Quickly, Stephen said, “Not necessarily. He—or she—might have transported to this same physical location a year—or ten—from now.”

  Caroline fixed him with a clear blue stare. “What would be the point?”

  “To see if the unit works.”

  “Then presumably the thief’s next intent would be to transport physically. All the more reason for us to keep watch. Master Anthony, have you examined the controls to determine when the machine has been?” Caroline bent inside the machine and reached for the dials.

  “Don’t touch that!” Stephen barked. Both Caroline and Anthony stared at him.

  “Why ever not?” Caroline demanded.

  Stephen swallowed hard. “I merely want to afford Uncle Anthony a chance to see where it’s been before it gets readjusted.”

  He brushed past her and insinuated himself into the chamber, quickly scanning the settings. Indeed, he should have done this when they returned but the room had been too dark and, admittedly, he’d been too overwhelmed.

  But whatever else happened, he needed to be able to find that yard in Warsaw again.

  ****

  “Here, pass me those bundles. Will they fit? I can’t believe I never thought of this before. Stephen, you’re brilliant.”

  Bridgetta cast a look at the man who leaned into the compartment beside her so close she could feel the heat from his body and catch his scent—bay rum and pure male. Funny, how swiftly she’d become comfortable with him, as if she’d known him for years. And strange how reassuring it felt having him by her side.

  He said nothing, busy examining the controls, but Bridgetta sensed his uneasiness.

  “Is something amiss?”

  He lifted grave, dark eyes to her. “A thousand things. Uncle Anthony was all over this unit today. I think I’ve reset it to take us back to the yard but I’ve come to realize the slightest miscalculation could have catastrophic effects. You see this wheel here with all the gradients? Those are years and they’re virtually infinite. We could go back, or indeed forward, so far we wouldn’t recognize our world.”

  Bridgetta shivered. She had entirely enough responsibility being entrusted with their precious cargo—what if she, Stephen and a couple children ended up at some uncharted time?

  “So far, it’s only traveled back and forth to the two times and the one place,” she said.

  “Yes, but Uncle Anthony adjusted a number of settings this afternoon, attempting to measure the machine’s activity. As I say, I hope I’ve reset it correctly but, Miss Maguire, if you’d rather not make this attempt, now’s the time to say so.”

  Bridgetta’s heart sank. “But…the women will be waiting, hoping for just one more miracle. And we have all this food with us.”

  Stephen’s gaze held hers. “I’m game if you are.”

  She eased in more closely against him, her shoulder beneath his. “Then let’s go. The risk we’re taking is nothing compared to that faced by those poor women.”

  ****

  Stephen didn’t want to explain to Bridgetta just how risky a chance they took or how many things could go wrong. Thus far, she’d been blessed, making so many successful trips on her own.

  He’d half expected the suspicious Caroline to turn up at the workshop this night. He’d fretted over resetting the dials and whether they could return the machine to the now-chalked resting place. But he grasped in full what was at stake and refused to let this woman—or those waiting in 1942—down.

  The gears began to turn and spin around them. No moonlight this night—London lay shrouded in fog. But he could feel the oscillations of the machine—of time itself—like a second heartbeat.

  Tick-tock.

  Tick-tock.

  Tick-tock…

  Nothing happened. Stephen felt Bridgetta tense impossibly beside him. She turned her face toward him and began to speak.

  Tick…

  Disorientation swamped him. Bridgetta’s hand slid into his and he held on tight. Whatever else happened, he wouldn’t let go of her. His stomach turned over inside him and …

  All motion ceased. The gears wound down and his stomach tried to find its level. He opened his eyes though he didn’t recall having closed them.

  “Bridgetta? Are you all right?”

  She didn’t answer and panic seized him by the throat. He felt her stir suddenly, heard her gasp. “I think so. Lord!”

  Dark surrounded them, deep as velvet. He blinked repeatedly but it didn’t help.

  “Where are we?” His heart sank. “God, this doesn’t seem right.”

  She moved away from him and clambered from the machine. Abandoning the bundles, he followed as swiftly as he could.

  Still straining to see, he looked around. No rubble—no enclosing walls. A low building stood on their left. He caught the faint glint of light off window panes
.

  “Oh, damnation,” Bridgetta breathed.

  “This isn’t the yard?” he hazarded.

  “It is, but in my own time. I’m back in 1962.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  “A slight miscalculation,” Stephen said. “The dial progresses by decades. I’ll make the adjustment and we’ll go back.”

  Bridgetta bit her lip, torn by indecision. Her own time. She could return to the hotel where she and the other members of her team had been billeted. They must be wondering where she was—she’d been gone well over a week. Yet she couldn’t turn up with a man from eighty years in the past.

  “How can you see to adjust anything?” The present-day yard lay dark as the bottom of a velvet bag.

  “That may be a problem. We should have brought a candle.”

  “The last thing we wanted in 1942 was a light.”

  “But we’re not in 1942. I admit, Miss Maguire, I wouldn’t mind catching a glimpse of your world. Beyond this yard, I mean.”

  Bridgetta hesitated. She understood his curiosity but feared discovery of the machine here, almost as much as in Nazi Warsaw.

  She held out her hand and his fingers closed around it, warm and strong. “Come on.”

  The depth of night probably wasn’t the best time to discover 1960s Poland. Present-day Warsaw lacked many of the amenities found in New York or even London, which had recovered more swiftly from the war. But streetlights burned on the corners and a yellow glow spilled from a shop half way down the block. No desperate mothers lingered here with children clutched in their arms and unaccountably, Bridgetta’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Here, Mr. Longstreet, you see a world that’s come out the other side of hell. Which proves there’s always hope.”

  “My God, what’s that?”

  A car rounded the corner, its headlamps scoring twin beams through the inky night. Stephen shrank toward Bridgetta before stiffening in excitement.

  “A motorcar—first developed at the beginning of this century. Rare enough here in Warsaw, but common in London. I’m sure you’ll live long enough to see them. How old are you in 1882?”