Timebound

Chapter 1London, November 7, 1848 Track One The letter arrived on a day when nothing much else was occupying Maxwell’s attention—no evening entertainment to prepare for, no headache from a previous evening’s entertainment to recover from, no tailor appointments, nothing but a visit to a boxing salon or a drive in the park to occupy a gentleman of independent means until the gaming-hells opened. Or the paying of calls, but Maxwell avoided those whenever he could. To the oft-stated envy of his friends, he had no mother or sister—or aunt, any longer—to compel him to so much as make a pretense of interest in the Season’s young ladies. Most of Maxwell’s set stood upon the threshold of thirty, an age when one’s youthful foibles tended to prompt exasperation rather than indulgence on the part of one’s parents. But Maxwell had no parents. Nor did he have any other compelling reason to marry—no title or estate for which he must procure an heir, no debts to be settled. The inheritance he had received upon the attainment of his majority, combined with some skill in the Exchange, was more than sufficient for his wants. He therefore had no reason to peruse the marriage-mart. The day was rainy, ill-suited for the grays. The papers contained nothing of interest—with Wellington’s monsters ferociously keeping the peace in all corners of the Empire, there were few suspenseful military conflicts to follow. Maxwell had nearly decided that the hours before dinner would be best spent at the boxing salon when the library door opened. His manservant entered, bearing a letter and his customary distant expression. From what Maxwell could see at this short distance, there was nothing particularly unusual about the letter—except its presence, for he did not cultivate the sort of friendships that prompted letter-writing. Indeed, those of his set who might, for lack of a better word, be termed friends—those boon companions with whom he drank and diced and hunted—were not the sort who ever willingly picked up a pen. And letters from his solicitors or other men of business would surely have been delivered first thing, by the morning post. A prick of curiosity managed to reach his skin through the indifference that customarily swathed him from the outside world. He reached out and took the letter. It was addressed in a prim, feminine hand, an occurrence sufficiently rare that a spark of alarm collapsed his indifference altogether. He ran a quick mental reckoning of his after-hours entertainments in the past three months. Surely none of them could be writing to make a claim upon him? He had so far been careful to not litter his life with encumbrances. He tore open the envelope. “Dear Cousin Maxwell,” the letter began, and Maxwell, over the sharp flood of relief, cursed himself for a fool. His cousin’s wife. Of course. No doubt, as the rest of his set married and settled down, he would have to become accustomed to receiving dinner or Christmas invitations from their wives. A circumstance that would need to be carefully managed, as no doubt many of those wives would have sisters on the hunt for husbands. “Dear Cousin Maxwell,” Priscilla had written, “I hope this letter finds you in good health. It was such a pleasure to meet you in August, though of course regrettable that it had to be under such sad circumstances. A thousand pities that your busy schedule did not allow you to make the journey for our wedding.” Maxwell pursed his lips. It seemed his cousin by marriage was a mistress of the art of delicate disapproval, like her mother-in-law before her. Maxwell had attended his aunt’s funeral, and more recently his uncle’s, being not quite willing to endure the round social condemnation that would surely occur if he did otherwise. But he had not felt himself similarly compelled to attend Georgie’s wedding, and it seemed Georgie’s wife intended to punish him for the slight. She had been full of sugar-coated barbs at his uncle’s funeral, and apparently her quiver was not yet empty. “George and I are finding the Hartwich estate quite comfortable. A great many alterations will be necessary, of course…” Maxwell’s eyes skipped a sentence, then two, then a paragraph. He avoided social functions and family obligations in order to avoid being bored by this sort of nonsense; was it now his fate to have it follow him by letter? He flipped to the second sheet. “…which brings me to my reason for writing.” Finally. “Whilst supervising a thorough cleaning of the garret, I discovered a trunk embossed with your father’s initials. By its weight, it appears to contain a great deal of memorabilia, perhaps from his Army days. Unfortunately, the key is long since lost. The clasp could be forced, of course, but George is unwilling to do so, as the trunk, though residing in our garret, is not properly speaking our property. He instructed me to write and inquire whether you might wish to come to Hartwich and sort through its contents for yourself, or whether you would prefer we take on the chore of disposal.” She signed herself his “affectionate cousin.” It was like missing a step in the dark, like lowering one’s guard and receiving a punch to the gut at the boxing salon. William Carrington’s memorabilia. Likely from his Army days. In other words, from the days before he fled to the Continent in disgrace, taking his wife but abandoning his infant son. Maxwell stood still, then calmly put the letter on his desk and calmly walked to the sideboard to pour himself a brandy. “Will there be any reply, sir?” his manservant murmured tonelessly. “No—” All at once Maxwell changed his mind. “Yes. Send a telegram to my cousin George in Hartwich. ‘Arrive tomorrow afternoon. MC.’ Then pack my valise.” “Not bad news, I hope, sir?” “No.” Maxwell tossed back the brandy. “A matter of business, nothing more.” When he had left the Hartwich estate at the age of twenty-one, it had been with the firm intention of never returning. Such a pledge had been impossible entirely to keep, as it had been necessary to return for his aunt’s funeral and then for his uncle’s. Each time the place had seemed to loom over him as the coachman drew up before the front doors. It loomed now as he disembarked. His cousin’s wife was stiffly and correctly welcoming. She was displeased, Maxwell inferred, and after a moment’s thought identified why. Perhaps there might have been more courteous ways to phrase the telegram than announcing his imminent arrival. Well, too late now. “Is Georgie not about?” he asked her. “George had business to see to on the estate,” Priscilla answered, managing to impart the flavor of correction into her tone without actually over-emphasizing her husband’s name—neatly done, Maxwell had to admit. He grinned a little to himself behind her back. George Carrington the younger had been “George” to all and sundry for years before his father’s death. Only Maxwell persisted in using the diminutive. One took one’s revenge wherever possible. It was not as though Georgie had the advantage of height, weight, or training any longer. “He will join us at dinner,” Priscilla added. “Fashionable hours or country hours?” Maxwell asked, for the fun of seeing her bristle. She did not disappoint. “We dine,” she said frostily, “at seven.” “In that case, there is plenty of time for me to get through my business here,” Maxwell said. “If you could have the chest brought to my room, I’ll force the lock with a fireplace-poker and sort through the contents at once. I’ll be out from under your feet before breakfast.” He fancied he saw her thaw a degree or two. Well, and why wouldn’t she be pleased to be rid of the interloper? He had been an interloper in this house since the moment he had arrived as an infant. “I asked George which was your old room, and directed the maids to make it up for you,” Priscilla added. She turned to ring the bell, giving Maxwell a chance to set his jaw. “How delightful,” he said. “Very considerate of you.” “I’ll have the footmen bring your valise and the trunk. Is there anything else you might require? Tea, or other refreshment?” “A decanter of brandy wouldn’t go amiss,” Maxwell said. “Very wet out there today.” The chamber had been so thoroughly redecorated that it provoked no memories, unpleasant or otherwise. Which was something, at least. Maxwell sat before the fire, nursing Georgie’s excellent brandy and eying the broken chest at his feet, its lock still intact and its hinges forced open. There was surely nothing inside for him to care about. A matter of business, no more. Sort the papers, give instructions for disposing of whatever else was in there, endure Georgie’s conversation for one meal, make tracks back to his life first thing in the morning. No mysteries were about to be solved by the opening of this chest. But for some reason it felt as though the universe was holding its breath as he reached for the lid. The universe must have exhaled in disappointment, for there was nothing within worth the anticipation. A leather-bound tome whose gold embossing proved it to be volume three of David Hume’s History of England. Two cloth-bound books of the sort typically used to keep journals and household accounts. A red velveteen bag, its drawstring pulled loosely closed. And atop them all, a letter. Addressed to him. By his full name, which he never used, in a hand he had never before seen. A confession? Some mysteries were preferable unsolved. If one did not break the seal, one did not have to know precisely what scandal had prompted one’s father to flee to the Continent. One did not have to know for certain whether one’s mother had abandoned her child to run away with her husband—or whether she had left her baby behind to run off with some other man altogether. He knew the latter was a possibility; his cousins had taken care that he know it. She’d been of easy virtue enough to climb down bedsheets once in her life, fleeing to Gretna Green with his father before she was of age to marry under English law—and if once, why not twice? But if one did not break the seal, one did not have to know, and the fire crackled invitingly against the November damp. A flick of the wrist would send the letter into the flames, set it burning like the rubbish it was. Maxwell sighed. If he meant to do that, he would have done better to save himself the train fare. And this was nothing but a matter of business. He picked up the letter. Or he attempted to, but the wax sealing it closed had melted and re-hardened over the twenty-nine summers and winters the chest had sat unremembered in the Carringtons’ garret. The paper now adhered firmly to the red velveteen bag. Exasperated, Maxwell picked up letter and bag together, and the loose drawstring mouth opened, dumping the contents literally into his lap. He had time to think, The last damned thing I want is my father’s watch— Then he got a good look at it. And nothing was ever the same again. One could not be indifferent when one held in one’s hands an object that could not possibly exist. Instead of one face, it had four, two crowded on one side and two on another. One of these looked like it might actually tell time, though it was not doing so at present. The second had both an inner and outer dial, with numbers running all around it. The third was even more complicated, comprised of eight dials nesting within each other. These had numbers as well, ones significant enough that they immediately jumped to his attention: 0, 2, 1, 1, 1, 8, 1, 9. The second of November, 1819. The day his parents had vanished. And the fourth face simply could not exist. The fourth face displayed moving images. Tiny ones, but perfectly distinct, a scene aboard a sailing ship that lurched over waves even as he watched it. And then dissolved, to be replaced by knights in plate mail competing in a joust. The dry and logical voice he kept within had no chance to offer any opinions about coincidence, or to speculate with what Georgie might be lacing his brandy. The situation was too real, too immediate, to be considered sardonically at one remove. Maxwell’s heart beat fast and his palms sweated as he held the timepiece. With his other hand he fumbled to pick up the second object the red velvet bag had deposited into his lap. A locket. Of the sort a man rather than a woman would wear, and so the contents came as no particular surprise. This was William Carrington’s memorabilia, after all. Of course he had a locket containing a picture of Elizabeth Barton. Maxwell had only ever seen one portrait of her, the one painted on her sixteenth birthday, a year before she had run off to Gretna Green and her family had disowned her. It had hung in a disused bedchamber in the house of his Barton grandparents, but he had managed to carve out a little time to creep away and stare at it upon each childhood visit. She looked to be a few years older in this little locket miniature, or perhaps it was only the matron’s cap confining her curls that granted the illusion. The letter. The letter would explain all this. He had never in his life opened a letter so eagerly. My dear son, it began. We need your help. And for the second time in two days, Maxwell felt as though he had been punched in the gut.