by Sharon Kleve
“Twenty-four.”
“That would make you a hundred and four now.”
“Not too likely I’ll survive into your time.” Sadness colored his voice, a reflection of what Bridgetta felt.
“You never know.”
They gazed into one another’s eyes by the glow of the yellow streetlight and emotion closed Bridgetta’s throat. “A terrible shame, Stephen Longstreet, if I’d never met you.”
“I agree.” He leaned forward slowly and bent his head. Bridgetta tipped her face up to him; her hands rose to his shoulders.
The kiss began on a rush of sweetness, a caress in its purest form and quickly kindled into something warmer, as vital as time itself. For a moment apart from the world they tasted each other and their souls rose and mingled, reaching and twining.
“My God,” Stephen breathed when it ended. He drew her close against him, wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her hair.
Bridgetta’s spirit took wing. After a lifetime of questing and searching for a place to belong, she finally knew what she wanted.
And it seemed impossible.
“Bridgetta,” he began.
“Call me Bridie. Those I love call me that.”
“Bridie.” The warmth in his voice embraced her. He kissed her again and for an instant she forgot about her mission and all its dangers.
Yet the world rushed back upon them all too soon. Stephen ducked and drew away from her. “What the hell’s that?”
“Airplane. Another sound with which Londoners will one day become all too familiar. We can’t stay here. Come on!”
Hand in hand, they ran.
****
Stephen rewound the machine before they left 1962, reasoning they’d want a clear and speedy getaway after transporting back to occupied Poland. He reset the dial in the near dark, praying all the while; another miscalculation could prove disastrous. His head spun with possibility and longing. He wanted Bridie Maguire in his life—not for a few peril-filled nights but for good. How could he make that happen?
As far as he could see, he couldn’t. When Bridgetta completed her mission of mercy, she’d want to return to her own time. Wouldn’t she?
She huddled close to him in the compartment; he wrapped an arm around her before punching the buttons. He braced himself for that other scene, the rabble-filled yard in a world almost too dangerous to comprehend and closed his eyes against the hypnotic flashing of time. When he opened them again, the machine once more rested in its original berth—Uncle Anthony’s workshop—and Caroline stood staring at them.
****
“Caroline, I can explain.” Stephen extricated himself from his place at Bridgetta’s side and climbed from the machine. She realized that they’d once more missed their slot in time—and been caught out. “This isn’t what it seems.”
The young woman Stephen addressed looked furious. Every lamp in the large chamber blazed and Bridgetta could see her clearly.
She followed Stephen from the machine slowly and stood at his side.
“Oh, I think it’s precisely what it appears.” The woman—Caroline—switched her hard gaze to Bridgetta. “This is presumably our thief. No, don’t try to deny it.”
Stephen sounded angry when he replied. “I wasn’t going to. Caroline, if you’ll let me relate…”
Who was she? Stephen’s wife? Had he neglected to mention her existence while stealing kisses in 1962? Had those kisses meant nothing?
“You’ve been lying to your uncle, Stephen. How long?”
Stephen glanced at Bridgetta; his fine dark eyes asked a question. “Only these past few days, and it isn’t my secret to tell.”
“I see. Then let me ask the thief herself.” Caroline approached Bridgetta, adding fiercely, “And don’t bother to deny that you’re the thief.” Fastidiously, she reached out and plucked one long, red hair from the front of Stephen’s jacket. “I believe this evidence speaks for itself.”
Stephen blanched. “Now see here, Caroline. I understand you may harbor…well, feelings for me…”
Caroline laughed in surprise. “Is that what you supposed? You fool! It isn’t your handsome face that’s kept me hanging about the workshop. It’s Anthony. I’ve been in love with him ever since we met—and him too blind to see.”
All the breath left Bridgetta on a rush of relief. She jostled Stephen’s arm. “Can we trust her?”
“Ah—I believe so.”
“Then I think we’ve no choice but to tell her everything.”
****
“It’s mad,” Caroline marveled a short while later. The three of them sat huddled together on wooden stools beside the time machine—the workroom offered little in comfort. Stephen had watched Caroline’s expression change from suspicion to disbelief to wonder as Bridgetta told her tale.
Now she looked to him for confirmation. “You saw all this?”
“Some of it.”
“A world torn apart by war and these atrocities you describe…I can barely grasp it.”
“There will be two world wars. Both of you will live to see the first—quite possibly the second also.”
“And you…” Caroline couldn’t complete the thought.
“I haven’t been born yet.” Bridgetta made a rueful face. “In fact I won’t be born till 1938. I was—will be—orphaned by the war so I know how it feels to be a foundling. That’s why I do the work I do.”
Caroline looked at Stephen. “And you’ve seen these children with your own eyes?”
He sighed. “I’ve seen. You’ve no idea, Caroline, how vital it is for us to go back—at least once more.”
“And you expect me to stand by and let you use the machine again? Without telling Anthony. I have a duty to protect his interests.”
“Tell him if you must.” Stephen took Bridgetta’s hand. “But we’ve food to deliver and children to rescue. We’re going back tonight.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Darkness and absolute silence cloaked their landing place, hampering orientation. Bridgetta opened her eyes and struggled to force breath through her throat. It had taken far too long for them to convince Caroline to let them carry on with their mission. Despite the darkness dawn couldn’t be far off—if any mothers still waited with their children, they’d been lingering a long while and were in danger.
Beside her, Stephen drew a breath. “We’re at the right place.”
“How can you tell?”
“Look there.”
The chink in the wall had already been opened. Bridgetta imagined the women peering in anxiously, seeing little or nothing for the dark.
She scrambled from the machine and hurried to the opening. She could see little either, just more gloom.
“Is anyone there?” she asked in Polish, barely above a whisper. Something stirred, a mere shadow.
“Miss?”
“I am sorry we’re late. Have you a child?”
“There are two of us who waited. The others…they ran off. There are patrols…”
The woman’s voice broke. “Here, take him. Hurry! His name is Jan Zyman.”
Bridgetta reached trembling hands to accept the child. “How old?”
“Six months. Oh God, please give him a good life. You take my heart!”
Tears flooded Bridgetta’s eyes and trickled down her face as she passed the infant to Stephen’s waiting arms.
“Where’s the other?” she called through the aperture. “Are you there?”
Any existent light blotted out as a second child appeared in the opening. “Rachel Gisberg,” her mother whispered. “Eleven months. Go quickly. There have been more transports. And the German guards are on alert tonight, looking for something. Usually they stay out…”
The woman broke off nervously.
“We’ll go at once. Oh wait. We have packages for you—food. Distribute it as best you can. Stephen?”
He began passing her the bundles one handed. She’d pushed no more than three through before shouting came
through the aperture.
In German.
The woman on the other side of the wall froze. Bridgetta heard running footsteps and the intensity of the shouting increased.
Oh God, oh God…
Before panic could fully grip Bridgetta, the woman was pushed aside. She got one single glimpse of an enraged, helmeted face before the business end of a Karabiner came at her through the aperture.
She had no time to move before the guard unleashed a spate of German. When Bridgetta did not immediately answer, he switched to Polish. “Who are you? How did you get there? The yard is sealed.”
“Go!” cried the woman and threw herself at the guard. The rifle went off, the bullet barely missing Bridgetta and the child in her arms.
“Down!” Stephen pulled at her violently. All four of them fell and rolled toward the time machine. From outside the wall came a crack and a cry. The guard—or guards, for Bridgetta could now hear many voices—had struck the woman.
Had she given her life for the sake of her child? If so, Bridgetta and Stephen couldn’t linger.
Couldn’t waste the gift.
More shouting came through the opening, followed by a number of shots. Bridgetta heard one strike the largest gear—the one that rose high over their heads—and her heart cramped in her chest.
What if the machine, damaged, failed to work? Already, she could hear the Germans pulling the wall apart.
“Mama,” said little Rachel, in her arms.
She half fell into the compartment as Stephen tugged at her desperately.
“Hit the button. Hit it!” she urged. “What if it doesn’t work?”
“Then we’re dead—all of us.”
Two more bullets hit the machine. Stephen gave a grunt before his thumb compressed the checkered switch.
Nothing happened. Bridgetta’s heart fluttered in her chest like a trapped bird. The child in her arms clutched at her and began to wail softly.
“What is it?” she asked Stephen. “What’s wrong?”
He thrust Jan into her arms and scrambled back out of the compartment. The Germans had now made a sizeable opening in the wall; light came through as well as the muzzles of several more rifles. And Bridgetta realized the sky had begun to turn from black to gray as dawn approached.
By the dirty light she saw Stephen stretch up and tug at the largest gear on the machine—the one caught by a bullet—urging it to turn. It moved with a jerk and the flickering began.
Tick-tock.
Tick…
In a panic, Bridgetta lunged for Stephen’s hand. “Don’t let it leave without—”
More bullets zinged around them. Stephen fell on her and the children, but not before she saw the spreading stain of red at the front of his shirt.
“Oh God, have you been hit?”
He made no reply. The flicker of time had now grown bright all around them. The air shuddered—or maybe that was the machine itself. Bridgetta saw angry faces staring through the opening in the wall just before reality winked out.
****
“Stephen! Stephen, Stephen!”
Hot pain scorched through him and wetness suffused his shoulder, making it hard to breathe. But he knew that voice—Bridie’s—and recognized the note of panic it contained. Not a woman to succumb to panic readily, Bridie Maguire. Things must be very bad indeed.
At least they’d made it away from the yard in Warsaw—hadn’t they? He couldn’t be sure, needed to open his eyes.
“Stephen, I don’t know when we are.”
One of the children began to cry, a thin wail of distress. Stephen succeeded in opening his eyes.
Dawn slanted across the landscape like something seen in a lurid dream. Wide and nearly empty, it contained little beyond what looked like mud flats and a broad, meandering river.
The time machine perched drunkenly atop a small rise and fog drifted away in banks, chased by yellow light. In the distance along the river stood a cluster of small buildings, nothing more.
Stephen’s heart struggled within him. He didn’t know this place and he very much feared he’d been…
“You’ve been shot.” Bridie supplied the word he didn’t want to articulate. “Oh, God help us!”
He struggled to sit up in the limited space. Bridie took both children into her arms, little Rachel still crying in that terrible, weak fashion. Tiny Jan stared, his eyes much too big.
Bridie climbed from the machine, which gave Stephen room to drag himself up.
“How bad is it?” Bridie asked. She pushed open his jacket and sucked in a breath. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“No time.” The hit had felt like a hard blow to his shoulder. “Not important now.”
“Not important?” She stared at him, her lovely face contorted. “How can you say that?”
“We need to figure out where—and when—we are.” He let his gaze move over the landscape. He’d never seen a place like this, nor imagined one. Past? Future? Where had the damaged machine deposited them?
A low, damp place with the river looping away—trees in the distance and that cluster of what looked like huts. Something niggled at the back of his mind. Had he seen an illustration like this? Why did it seem strange yet at the same time vaguely familiar?
“What are we to do?” Bridie juggled both children. Little Rachel clung to her neck and Jan pressed her face against her shoulder.
“As soon as it gets light enough I’ll examine those dials, try to determine where—and when—we are. If we’re marooned here at least we still have several bundles of food. It could be worse.”
“Worse?” Bridie’s eyes flooded with tears. “Stranded—and you wounded—how could it be worse?”
He told her honestly, “We could still be in Warsaw.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“There, do you think that will hold?” Bridie tied the sleeve of her blouse—now a bandage—over Stephen’s shoulder and eyed him worriedly. She had been quick to assure him she’d taken a course in first aid before embarking on her mission to Poland. But he suspected his wound—high up on his right shoulder—must be unlike any she’d encountered so far.
“I think so,” Stephen replied. He sat in the mud with his back propped against Uncle Anthony’s machine, the two children close beside him.
“The bullet went straight through but there’s a lot of blood.” And no hope of finding a surgeon. In the hour or so they’d been there, Stephen had determined that much. In the distance, among the huts fronting the river, he’d seen figures moving. No wheeled conveyances. From the look of things he suspected they’d slipped into the past—the far past.
He struggled to his feet. “I think it’s light enough for me to examine those dials, see if I can’t grasp the method of calibration.”
“Calibration may not be the problem.” Bridie gathered little Jan up into her arms. “Look at this.” She indicated the largest of the gears at the rear of the machine. “Here, see? There’s a bullet embedded in the wood. And does it look slightly askew?”
It did. Stephen turned the wheel gently; it wobbled out of round.
Damn.
“Do you understand how the machine works?” Bridie asked, reaching for Rachel’s hand.
“Only on the most rudimentary level. My uncle, who’s a genius, says the spinning of the gears sets up electromagnetic fields that counteract one another, allowing matter to slip through the spaces in time. This large gear creates the initial field and is vitally important.”
“Are you saying we may be stuck here?”
“No. But given the variance created by that wobble, it may prove difficult to set the dials and obtain a reliable result.”
“You mean we may just bounce around various centuries never landing where we wish to be?”
“When, not where.” A terrible suspicion had begun filtering through Stephen’s brain. They’d expected the machine to convey them back to the workshop.
Maybe it had.
In 1882, the warehouse which Anth
ony had transformed into his workspace stood some blocks south of the Thames. He looked again at his surroundings, trying to imagine the land crowded with buildings, coursed by winding streets, filled with hansom cabs, match sellers and urchins.
London.
But in what century?
With some difficulty he climbed back into the machine and scrutinized the dials. They rested at their default settings, which should have taken them back to the workshop. Yet if the large gear created a variance while spinning…
How would they ever get home?
****
“I’m going to walk down there. You stay with the children and the machine.”
Bridie seized Stephen’s arm. “No, it may not be safe. You’re already injured.” She gazed into his eyes. “If you go, we all go.”
“Not a good idea.”
“Nor is us staying here alone. What if someone comes while you’re gone? What if they decide to damage the machine?” She drew a breath. “Maybe it’s best just to transport out of here.”
“Ordinarily I’d agree. But so far the machine’s proved true for location. The only places it’s been are the workshop and the site of that yard in Warsaw. I’m terrified we may transport back into a scene filled with guards.”
He needed to protect the children and Bridie, though he doubted she’d admit to being concerned with her own safety.
She gazed away toward the river. “So this is London?”
“Or its forerunner. Before the Romans. Certainly before written history.”
“Those people down there might incline towards violence.”
“Which is why I intend to take this.” He hoisted one of the remaining bundles. “Food—the most ancient coin of barter.”
“What do you hope to find out? We likely won’t be able to communicate with them.”
“I need some grasp of how much time has passed if I’m to have any hope of readjusting that dial.”
“All right, but we’re coming with you. They may be less inclined to attack a family.”
Stephen glanced at the machine. “You do realize this is our only ticket home.”
She leaned forward and kissed him softly. “I’m not parting ways with you, Stephen Longstreet. You’d better just accept it.”