Prelude to Eternity: A Romance of the First Time Machine

by Brian Stableford

  “Couldn’t agree more, young fellow,” Lord Langstrade agreed. “All that nonsense over lunch gave me indigestion. A few games of billiards settled my stomach, though. I’ll play you next, if you like—these fellows are no good at all.”

  “I’m sure that I’m even worse, Milord,” Michael assured him.

  “Nonsense!” Langstrade proclaimed. “You’re an artist—bound to have a good eye and a steady hand. With a little practice, you’re sure to become a master of the art and tactics of the game.”

  “I’ll be glad to play if you wish, Milord,” Michael said, judiciously, not bothering to own up to the fact that when he did not have a paintbrush in his hand he tended to be rather clumsy, “but I’m afraid you’ll beat me very easily—even more easily than you seem to be beating Mr. Hope.”

  Hope shot him a mildly resentful glance, but Lord Langstrade laughed merrily. “When it comes to cannons, he’s no Tom Digges,” he said. Fortunately, Michael was able to see the joke. Thomas Digges was not an expert billiard player but a sixteenth-century mathematician. He had been a member of John Dee’s famous “secret college”, along with his father Leonard, Walter Raleigh and such young hopefuls as Francis Bacon and Cornelius Drebbel. The college, whose secrets had long since been disclosed, had laid the foundations of the Academy, whose President was nowadays reckoned to be the most influential member of the Great Triumvirate, even though the First Sea Lord remained the Commonwealth’s nominal head of state. Michael was a little vague as to what Tom Digges’ particular contribution to England’s swift technological advancement had been, but he knew that it had to do with ballistics, and hence with the artistry of cannon fire. He had no idea at all why scoring shots in billiards were known as “cannons” but he did know how such shots were made, at least in theory.

  “How’s the painting coming along?” Escott asked.

  “Tolerably well,” Michael conceded.

  “Will we get to see it this evening?”

  “Certainly not,” Michael said. “I’ll be back at work first thing tomorrow morning, so I suppose you can sneak a look at it then, if you insist—provided that Marlstone doesn’t ban you all from the Maze again.”

  “Marlstone will have to find his way out if he’s going to join us for dinner,” Hope observed. “Perhaps you ought to send Cecilia to show him the way, Langstrade.”

  That casual remark sent a stab of panic into Michael’s heart, even though he had no reason to think that Cecilia had anything to fear from a stroll through the maze. “He found his way in this morning, with the aid of Lady Langstrade’s map,” Michael pointed out. “He doesn’t need a guide.”

  “He’s a better man than me, then,” Escott remarked. “It might be a good idea to send young Jack out there when the sun sets, though, just to make sure—if Marlstone lingers too long, the darkness might confuse him.”

  “Jack’s a dab hand at finding his way through the maze,” Langstrade admitted, with the air of a man damning with faint praise. “If only he showed some inclination toward more suitable achievements than killing rabbits with that damn catapult of his…but I have to admit that it puts him one up on me. I don’t know why I’ve never got the hang of the damned thing—the map’s been hanging on the drawing-room wall ever since the Hall was rebuilt, but I’ve never been able to figure out its twists and turns.”

  “We all have our different talents,” Escott said, adding a hint of irony to the platitude, although it was not obvious what it was supposed to signify. “What’s your sport, Laurel? Shooting, fishing, fencing or hunting rabbits with a catapult?”

  Michael blushed. “I’ve never handled a gun, a rod or a sword,” he admitted. He had handled a catapult more than once, during his childhood, but to mention that would have dignified Escott’s feeble joke.

  “Definitely a city boy,” Escott said. “Hope and I have shot everything, in our time: grouse, pheasant, partridge, duck.…”

  “It would be more accurate, on Escott’s part,” Hope put in, “to say that we’ve shot at everything in our time—including each other. Fortunately—at least in the last instance—we’ve always missed.”

  “Why did you shoot at each other?” Michael asked.

  “Oh, we haven’t always been the urbane and amiable individuals we are now,” Escott said. “We were quite hot-headed in our youth. Fortunately, I had the choice of weapons when Hope called me out, so I plumped for a pair of single-shot pistols, like the ones you see over the fireplace. Had Hope had his way, we’d have used swords like those”—he pointed to the épées—“and our incompetence would probably have led to one or both of us bleeding to death. Instead, we escaped without a scratch between us. We were lucky that we never picked a quarrel with Langstrade back then—he can shoot and fence as well as play billiards, you know.”

  “Don’t you believe it, Mr. Laurel,” Langstrade said. “The only member of the household who ever fires a gun these days is Jefferies—he has custody of the two that are missing from the cabinet—and he’s a far better shot than I ever was. Father did hire a fencing-master for me once, when he was playing the part of Lord of the Manor to the full, but I only learned the basic moves. I never took part in a competition, let alone a duel.”

  “I’ll wager that you played at being Harold Longstride on the site of the Keep, though,” Hope suggested, slyly. “A boy, a fencing-foil and an imagination adds up to that sort of caper as inevitably as one, two and three adding up to six.”

  “I spent a lot more time fishing in Cribden Tarn,” Langstrade replied, gruffly, having colored slightly as the gibe struck home. “Father acquired the fishing rights when he bought the Manor—it was just about the only privilege worth having that he got for his money. Langstrade was a rich estate when it was presented to one of Henry VIII’s cronies, thanks to the plunder of Cribden Abbey, but it was subject to centuries of attrition thereafter. Apart from the Old Hall and the grounds—which were in a terrible state until Jefferies got a grip on them—the only land left was a handful of meadows where the local farmers graze sheep.”

  “If the Abbey and the village were both called Cribden,” Michael asked, “why was the manor that replaced the Abbey called Langstrade?”

  “The village had been known as Langstrade, or Longstride, long before the Abbey was built,” the Earl explained. “The monks changed its name when they consolidated its tenancies with their own domain. Our family obviously took its name from the old village, but by the time the manor reverted to its former title after the abolition of the abbey, the Langstrades had been scattered far and wide.”

  “Expelled from their homeland by Norman scum after the Conquest,” Escott put in.

  “Or by Anglo-Saxon scum beforehand,” Hope supplied.

  “Or perhaps by Roman scum even before that,” Escott added. “History is overfull of scum, alas.”

  “You can mock,” Langstrade said, not uncheerfully, “but the glorious heritage of the Celtic Longstrides is back where it belongs now, in the hands of their legitimate heirs—along with the fishing-rights to Cribden Tarn, and a talent for billiards that neither of you will ever be able to match.”

  The final remark was occasioned by the fact that Hope had just gone down to ignominious defeat, yet again. The optimist handed his cue to Michael, with a florid bow, and the painter stepped forward to take his turn as a metaphorical lamb to the slaughter.

  Michael had not yet put a point on the board when Hope and Escott abandoned him to his fate, excusing themselves on the grounds that they had to dress for dinner, even though there was still nearly an hour before the meal was due to be served. Michael was not entirely displeased to be left alone with the man whose daughter he hoped to marry, although he knew that the billiard game was bound to be an ordeal even worse than negotiating the mysteriously-charged maze. It was something he had to do, though; he had been ordered to make a good impression
, and he was obliged do his best.

  His expectation that he would turn out to be a complete duffer at billiards was fulfilled in no uncertain terms, but Lord Langstrade did not seem to mind that. Indeed, Lord Langstrade seemed to have such a great fondness for winning that he was prepared to forgive any amount of clumsiness in his opponents, generously distributing such comments as “Bad luck!” and “Next time!” as Michael fluffed shot after shot. Michael soon caught on to the fact that a willingness to be beaten with a good grace would not do his cause any harm, and began lavishing compliments upon his opponent’s shots with such enthusiasm that Langstrade was soon basking smugly in a continuous glow of warm praise.

  “My skill is merely a testament of the long hours I waste in here,” the Earl observed, with conspicuously false modesty. “I’m not like Father, let alone that dour fellow Arkwright. He built his stately home on a hill overlooking his mills, you know, and still insists on working an eighteen-hour day, even though he’s as rich as Croesus. I’ve always had other interests—cultural interests—and I like to think that I’m a man who knows when enough is enough, when it comes to hard work. I’ve done my fair share, you know, but there comes a time in a sane man’s life when he wants to enjoy his hard-earned leisure.”

  “The greatest wisdom of all, Milord, is to be satisfied with sufficiency,” Michael assured him, but then could not resist the impulse to break his own injunction by adding: “I think it’s rather bold as well as very generous of you to give Marlstone another chance to demonstrate his machine, and to lend him your beloved Keep for that purpose.”

  Lord Langstrade blushed again at that—but not, for once, with pleasure. “To tell the truth,” he said, “the damn thing doesn’t have any other purpose—although you do get a fine view from the battlements, of Cribden, the Tarn and the moors on one side and Bancroft Scar on the other. When Marlstone told me that it was exactly the right height to try his machine, and that he was certain that its unique internal design would permit him to succeed where he had previously failed, I was actually quite glad to hear that someone thought the edifice good for something. Hope and Escott call it ‘Langstrade’s Folly’, you know, behind my back—they think I don’t know, but I do. Father designed it, of course, and I didn’t have to build it…but it seemed like an appropriate gesture of gratitude, for all that he’s done for Emily and me. I suppose its special suitability might be something akin to the acoustics of concert halls, since this business of breaking through the barriers of time seems to have something musical about it. Perhaps I should have shown it to Monticarlo, in case he wants to play his violin there rather than in the large drawing-room.”

  “I think Signor Monticarlo would prefer the drawing-room,” Michael assured him. “It will be more comfortable for the audience, I’m sure.”

  “True,” admitted the Earl. “Same goes for Carp, I dare say. Do you happen to know why he and that girl are at loggerheads?”

  “I couldn’t say, Milord,” Michael said, choosing his words judiciously.

  “Damn nuisance, whatever it is. They’re discreet enough to keep the actual argument to their rooms, but there’s a definite tension in the air. That sort of thing can ruin a house-party, according to Emily—especially a select gathering like this one, which became even more select when old Chatham cried off. Nothing upsets Hope and Escott, of course, but Signor Monticarlo and his daughter are sensitive, artistic types…as you are yourself, of course.”

  “I can assure you that I’m not in the least discomfited by any tension between Dr. Carp and his somniloquist,” Michael said, still sticking to the letter of the truth. “I’m sure that they’ll be able to resolve their difficulties before tonight’s magnetization. Signor Monticarlo’s violin recital will soothe the atmosphere in advance.” While Michael was delivering this speech, Lord Langstrade accumulated enough points to win yet another frame by a crushing margin, so the painter tacked on a “Well played, Milord” to the end of it.

  Lord Langstrade replaced his cue in the rack, a trifle reluctantly. “Well, I suppose we’d better go and dress for dinner,” he said. “Emily doesn’t like it when I’m late, and she’s certain to put the blame on me if you’re late too. You really do show promise, you know, Laurel—a little more practice, and you’d be able to take on Hope or Escott with a fair chance of success.”

  “It’s very kind of you to say so, Milord,” Michael said, humbly. “If it will help me to beat Mr. Hope, I’ll be more than glad to play with you again.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE CAPRICCI PERFORMED

  The seating arrangements for dinner had evidently been carefully planned by the present Lady Langstrade, with the aid of judicious suggestions from her daughter. Michael found himself seated between Cecilia and Augustus Carp, directly opposite the empty chair that was reserved for Gregory Marlstone—who had apparently been delayed in the Keep for an indefinite time. Michael was, in consequence, well out of conversational range of Carmela Monticarlo and Quentin Hope, who had been seated together, bracketed by the two dowagers.

  Escott, too, had been separated from his long-time sparring partner, set between Marlstone’s chair and Signor Monticarlo’s. How different the occasion might have been, Michael thought, idly, if Hope had had the choice of weapons in their duel.

  Dr. Carp was subdued, like a man desperately attempting to conceal some secret misery, no more inclined to talk to Michael than he was to converse with his neighbor on the other side, the elder Lady Langstrade, although he was given no choice in the latter instance. The Mesmerist’s diversion gave Cecilia a virtual license to monopolize Michael, of which she seemed determine to take full advantage. She chattered to him about art, music, books and society, evidently having stored up a great many views on all these topics, which she had kept in reserve for a suitable occasion.

  Michael bathed in the torrent of opinion like a hot and thirsty traveler in the pure water of a mountain spring, agreeing with every judgment and relaxing luxuriously in the freedom from the necessity to devise any of his own. It was an easy metaphor to conceive, because the dining-room was, indeed, very hot and stuffy, and the male diners, clad in formal dinner-jackets, were suffering somewhat, although the ladies’ evening gowns were much less oppressive. At any rate, Michael’s slightly one-sided conversation with Cecilia made a striking contrast to his slightly one-sided conversations with Hope and Escott, or his slightly less one-sided conversation with Gregory Marlstone. He had never been happier in his life. Whenever he caught an oblique glance of James Escott’s cadaverous face—which wore an expression even gloomier than usual, perhaps because Escott was slowly stifling in his dinner-jacket or because Hope was out of bantering range—Michael beamed munificently, as if he hoped to dispel that other man’s deep-seated pessimism by the sheer force of his own example.

  Such was the emotional delirium of the situation that Michael hardly noticed what he was eating, although he was certain that the pheasant and asparagus soup was excellent, the braised roe-deer venison with leeks and turnips exquisite, and the peach and raspberry meringue roulade divine. Given that he had the nectar of Cecilia’s words and the ambrosia of her expression on which to nourish his soul, the mundane alimentation of his flesh seemed to be an exceedingly trivial matter. Had there been a thousand alternative selves competing for the imperium of his brain while time was knotted in confusion, they would all have been singing Cecilia’s praises in perfect harmony, as sweetly as any Celestial Choir celebrating the Coronation of the Queen of Heaven.

  The time to repair to the drawing-room for coffee, liqueurs and Signor Monticarlo’s recital arrived far too quickly for Michael’s liking, but that did not prevent him from racing upstairs to remove his dinner-jacket, replacing it with the waistcoat he had worn under his smock while painting. Most of the other male guests did the same, although Lord Langstrade was obliged to retain formal dress because he was the soirée’s host, and
Signor Monticarlo because he had to perform on the violin. Augustus Carp did not have to follow suit because Mesmerism was so modern a pursuit that it was not subject to the awful weight of tradition. Like Michael, he came downstairs again wearing a sober grey waistcoat over his dress shirt—the same one that he had been wearing earlier in the day. Hope and Escott, inevitably, had put on fresh waistcoats; Hope’s was salmon-pink, while Escott’s was royal blue.

  Cecilia had obviously had a hand in the seating arrangements for the concert and the séance as well as the dinner-table, for Michael found himself sitting on the extreme left of the second row, next to the empty fireplace and directly beneath the diagram of the Maze, with Cecilia to his right and Jack Langstrade between Cecilia and the aisle. On the further side of the aisle the empty chair reserved for Gregory Marlstone was set next to Lord Langstrade’s chair, with Carmela Monticarlo on the far right.

  The seats in the front row had been placed so that none was directly in front of any of those behind, so Jeanne Evredon, who was at the left-hand extremity of that row, was positioned at such an angle that Michael could see her in profil perdu. Augustus Carp was sitting next to her, with the elder Lady Langstrade to his right, while Lady Phythian, James Escott and Quentin Hope were on the far side of the aisle, in that order. As hostess, the younger Lady Langstrade had a chair positioned in advance of the front row, almost level with the musician’s music-stand, so that she could make the formal introductions.

  Michael’s knowledge of music was limited, and his knowledge of violin music was even more restricted. He had often opined in the past that a man could only refine one of the five senses at some expense to the others, and that his assiduous development of a painter’s eye had left his ears a trifle undeveloped, especially with respect to music—and most especially of all with respect to the music of stringed instruments unameliorated by a piano accompaniment. The closed grand piano pushed back into the corner behind the music-stand seemed rather sad to Michael’s sympathetic eye, especially in juxtaposition with the thick bandage wrapped around Carmela Monticarlo’s wrist.