34. Chapter 34
Chapter 34
W hen Will returned to his room from lunch the next day, a folded piece of paper greeted him on the floor, pushed under the door. He quickly recognized the faint lines of a telegraph note.
Stinky business with R. Come see me when you’re back in Boston (ice cream). E
Will squinted at the letters. He got half of it, but what did ice cream mean? Maybe whoever transcribed the telegraph made a mistake because they didn’t understand English that well. Or Emily was playing one of her jokes.
In any case, he was glad to receive an answer, and he knew what to do now. He headed for the reception desk to announce his plans for departure and almost ran into a black-garbed figure at the top of the staircase.
“Will.”
He squinted again. “Sylvia?”
She pulled up a long, semi-transparent black veil. A few locks of her fiery hair shone bright amidst the darkness: black frills and lace on layers and layers of black crepe, with a black cameo brooch at the neck, and a black hat bordered entirely by the veil.
“Mama took me shopping,” she said. “It was somewhat less exciting than my previous trips.”
In an eerie way, she looked good in those clothes. Like a ghost ready to haunt him.
“We’re going back to England tomorrow. We must take Sir Richard’s body to his family.”
“I see.” Will crumpled the telegraph in his hand. “I’m leaving, too. I received word from Emily.”
“Bad?”
“Not too bad, I think. We’ll probably just need to wrap a few things up.” He clenched his teeth and released them. “Nothing you should be worried about.”
“Will …”
“So now I’m not ‘Mr. Marshall’ anymore,” he bit off.
“Surely you realize I could not call you that in front of Mama. She doesn’t know—”
“And why doesn’t she know?” He stalked toward her. “Why haven’t you told her the truth about your husband?”
“He’s dead. What use is besmirching his reputation now?”
“I don’t know, because he tried to kill you?”
“And what will come of that?” Sylvia’s voice rose in pitch. “I’m lucky enough he’s gone. Now I have to put this behind me and move on.”
“To England.”
She gave a curt nod.
“Well, it is what you wanted. To be free. To go home.”
“I am going,” she said, quieter now, “but I’m anything but free. ”
As the little flames burned out inside him, Will understood the reasoning behind her behavior. She was lucky—that her husband died in an apparent accident, and there would be no scandal. For Sylvia, keeping quiet was not the cowardly way out. It was the logical one.
And even though the realization spliced his chest in half with a burning knife, he had to admit—he did always like logic.
“Will.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “I came to say … I’m beyond grateful for what you’ve done for me. And I’m grateful for Paris. All of it. The day at the exhibition was …”
“I know.”
She stepped closer still, her black-clad body almost melding into his. Will released a tortured moan and leaned his forehead on hers. They stayed like that as long seconds dragged by. If only he could stop time forever. If only Sylvia were like him, and they could zip off to another time, another place, where they’d be beholden to no one.
Sylvia shifted—not enough to break their embrace, just to pull something out of the folds of her skirt. She brought it up to her chest and pressed it into his hands. A crumpled but still recognizable fabric strip in a tiny floral pattern of blue, purple, and pink.
“It should’ve been you,” she whispered. “Goodbye, Will.” And then she was gone, and he stood at the top of the stairs like an idiot, clutching the fabric.
Will hadn’t used his watch since the time in Richling Creek when he traveled to try to warn Emily. Now, he pulled it out and sat beside the half-packed suitcase on his bed. The sounds of another song starting below wafted through the open window. One more night, and Sylvia and he would leave for separate sides of the world. With a strange yearning, he wished to be back at the start of their journey in Boston, or maybe on the road. And he wished he had someone to talk to.
He would not time travel back to the journey—he knew better than to evoke old memories for the sake of nostalgia, especially when his fauxmonite barrels were expendable.
But he could still travel to somewhere else.
With a few calculations and turns of the watch, Will found himself staring at the dark, starry sky on the fringes of Hartford. Emily was beside him, leaning on the wall at the back of the Joneses’ house.
“Yeah, yeah, Gramps.” She patted him on the shoulder.
“Emily.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Will? You’re not present-Will, are you?”
“No.”
“Future-Will?”
Of course, he couldn’t fool her. “Emily … you can’t tell this to me. I mean, present-day me. Do you understand?”
“Keeping your secrets from yourself. Okay …” She raised her eyebrows.
Her pulse picked up. “I need to ask you something.” He waited for a response.
“Well, go on, Gramps.”
Was he really going to do this?
Time travel isn’t evil. It was a tool—to be used however he wanted. And right now, he desperately needed to know.
“Remember when we first met, you showed me our family tree.”
“And you were like, ‘aah, spoilers!’”—she frantically waved her hands—“and turned away?”
He smiled at her dramatic reenactment. “I didn’t see much. But I saw a name. Sylvia. ”
Emily sobered. “Well, shit.”
“Is it her? You have to tell me. Is Sylvia my wife?”
“Are you married?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Then I guess she’s not.”
“You know what I’m asking. This is not the time for jokes. Please?”
Emily pouted and rhythmically tapped her fingers on the wall. “No.”
An unexpected surge of sadness filled Will’s chest, contracting his heart. “She’s not?”
“I mean ‘no’ as in, I’m not telling you.” Emily crossed her arms and gave him the best strict look of a Southern Mama. “You’re real hypocritical, you know? Preaching me about not using time travel for discoveries like this, and then you come and want me to tell you all about your life so you don’t have to worry about it.” Her tone was still light, indicating she was not really cross with him.
“I don’t want to know everything —”
“But this is mighty important for you, isn’t it?”
He stayed silent.
“You’re doing the Gum Chair all over again,” she said. “Pinning time travel changes on me. Well, not this time, Gramps. You’ll have to figure this one out on your own.”
They stood in silence.
“That was very well done of you,” he said quietly.
“Was it a test?”
“No.” He’d have given anything for an answer. Anything, except travel to the future himself. How right Emily was. “But you did the right thing. ”
“I don’t have anyone to tell me my future,” Emily said. “Except if I travel there. But I’m afraid in that regard, I’m just as much of a coward as you are.”
“We’re not cowards.”
“No.” She smiled briefly. “I guess we’re not. But that’s why I use time travel in all other regards.” She shrugged. “It’s what I have. It’s who I am.”
“I know.”
The crickets chirped from out of the darkness.
“When you came back,” Emily started, “I had such ideas for us. Time-traveling duo. I could see the slogan. Solving your problems, anytime, anywhere.” She weighed her head. “Maybe it needs a bit of work.”
“I think it’s quite good.”
“Irrelevant, though. There won’t be no time traveling duo. We’re headed different ways. You always belonged to your time, and I to mine. You use time travel sparingly and only prefer to tinker, I’ll use a freeze just to stop the water from boiling over while I run from the living room to the kitchen. But none of the uses is wrong. It’s just different. Like we are.”
Will gazed upon her with admiration. When did she become so wise?
“We may be,” he said. “But I’ll always be a part of your life. As you’ll be of mine.”
She didn’t turn that into a joke about a crime-fighting time-traveling duo, so he assumed she understood the meaning. In a sense, she was right. They both knew their lives had separate directions.
“Now …” Emily raised an eyebrow. “Would you mind giving me present-Will back?”
“Of course.”
“Take care, Gramps.” She clasped his shoulder. “And for god’s sake, do something.”
** *
Sylvia stood by the cab as the driver hauled her mother’s excessive luggage onto the roof.
“So hot, too.” Her mother fanned herself. “I can’t wait to be back home. I still don’t quite understand what you and Sir Richard were doing in Paris. Poor man. God rest his soul. I said nothing good could ever come of going to France.”
The driver muttered something under his breath.
Sylvia forced herself to keep calm. Her mother was upset—once they were back home and the shock was over, she’d behave better.
And Sylvia could settle down into two years of mourning someone who did not deserve it in the least. She didn’t much mind the dress etiquette, although she would miss her gowns. But the ritual also prescribed she stay at home in seclusion, so it was not like anyone would see those gowns, anyway.
And it was not like Sylvia particularly wished for the company of anyone in London. England, for that matter.
“Well, in you go, darling.” Mama shooed her inside the carriage. Sylvia settled in the corner and brushed her veil aside enough to have an undarkened view of her surroundings. If only she’d have seen more of Paris. Or Provence, that Will had spoken of. It sounded magical.
“Do stop sighing like this. It’s unbecoming,” her mother chided her, wiggling on the opposite seat to get the best position. “And you’d better not sigh about him .”
“I’m sorry? ”
“Yes, I hope you are. You know who I’m talking about.” Mama shook her head. “Son of a clockmaker and a Frenchwoman. Pah! And given that he was here with you”—she fixed Sylvia with a determined gaze—“I seriously hope you had not done anything indecent behind your husband’s back.”
“Mama!”
“Who filled your head with such ideas? James? What did he say?”
Nothing. But Sylvia remembered how Molly had dragged that one gentleman upstairs in the saloon, and the heated expressions on their faces, and she remembered how James had looked at Emily sometimes, and she couldn’t deny that in one of her daydreams, Will had been the one to lead her into a room—perhaps the very room in the hotel—and she didn’t know what they’d do, but it would be glorious and magnificent and—
“Good God. You’re blushing.”
Sylvia quickly covered her face with the veil.
“And your freckles are not any better.” Her mother’s voice showed a hint of gentleness. “That cream isn’t working?”
“I stopped using it.”
“Well, that just about settles it. I’m not letting you travel anywhere ever again.”
Not that she could, anyway. A widow fresh in mourning.
“What is that driver doing? Shouldn’t we be off already?” Mama knocked on the wall. The driver opened the little window and explained something about crowded streets. “I hate Paris.”
I love it.
“If only you and Sir Richard had never left. He’d still be alive. Such a beautiful couple. You’d be a shining example in the London society.”
Stop .
“Good men always die young. And so unjustly.”
Please stop.
“And the worst thing is, you don’t look at all affected—”
“Because I’m not!” Sylvia burst out.
Mama jumped back on the bench and pressed a hand to her chest.
“Stop singing him praises, Mama. He does not deserve them. He wasn’t a good man.”
“Sylvia!”
“He tried to murder me! Multiple times! The day he died—he fell off the Eiffel Tower because we were scuffling. Because he had a gun pointed at my head!”
Her mother’s eyes grew wider.
“And don’t you dare say another bad word about Mr. Marshall. He’d been nothing but kind, generous, helpful—and a complete gentleman! If it weren’t for him, you might’ve been taking me home in a coffin instead of Sir Richard.”
Her mother’s jaw dropped.
“And do not say another bad thing about his family, or acquaintances, or our hotel in Paris, or my journeys—”
“What has come over you?”
Sylvia threw her arms in the air. “Did you even hear a word of what I said? Sir Richard. Was. A killer.”
“B-b-but—”
“I had to escape to James to try to find some peace. Without him, Mr. Marshall, and his cousin, I’d not have made it here.”
Her mother only stared at her .
“But you know what? I needed them in the past, but I don’t need them anymore. I have myself now.” She scooted over to the door and yanked it open.
“Sylvia!” Mama came to her senses—though only the hearing and speaking ones.
Sylvia rushed out, ignoring her mother’s continuing cries, snatched the veil off her head, and took a deep breath of not-too-fresh but still wonderful air.
In the next second, panic began to set in as she turned in a circle, people bumping into her left and right. What had she been thinking? What was she to do?
I’ll figure it out. I can do it.
She had no one here, barely any money—
“Sylvia!” Her mother hissed from the open door of the carriage. “Get back here before you make a scene!”
A scene. A scandal. Another one … No, stop. You can do it.
“Sylvia!” This time, the voice wasn’t her mother’s. A tall, dark-clad figure was running straight toward her.
***
Will stared at the thick puffs of smoke from the oncoming train that temporarily clouded the station’s glass roof. The whistling stopped, and a dark mass of people flooded the platform.
Ten minutes until his train.
Had Sylvia left already ?
A few hours more, and she’d be back in England, what she’d always wanted. Two years, and then her mother would likely put another oh-so-eligible suitor under her nose. A proper, titled, rich Englishman. Someone of their status. And Sylvia … would she go along with it? Will liked to think no, not after what had happened with Ross; but he also knew how concerned Sylvia was about her family. And that, he could understand. There wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t do for his parents.
It just seemed so damn unfair.
A neat line of people had gathered to board the train. On the other track, another one approached; his train. Five more minutes for the passengers to disembark, and he could board. Everything on schedule. Working perfectly, planned perfectly.
What if he had done any of this differently? How much would that have affected the world? His life?
If he’d never seen the family tree.
If he didn’t insist on his principles.
If he hadn’t spoken to Emily last night.
He grabbed his suitcase and started pacing toward a street lamp.
What if he’d told Lady Haverston the truth?
He turned at the lamp and paced in the other direction.
What if yesterday, he’d grabbed Sylvia and begged her not to leave?
He turned again.
What if…
Turn.
What if, what if, what if…
Turn. Stop .
What if destiny was just like science? It cared nothing for him or his plans. It didn’t exist to tease him, thwart him, torture him. It didn’t write the future and direct his life. It simply was.
And it was up to him to use it however he wished.
The train whistled, and the conductor leaned out to beckon the people to board.
Will turned and ran in the other direction. Outside the station, he hailed a fiacre, shouted a “ H?tel Continental ” at the driver, and bumped into the seat. He tapped his thighs nervously as the fiacre began to move. Faster, faster. The neatly lined, uniformly high apartment buildings of Boulevard Haussman whizzed by. They made a half-circle around the long, column-lined exterior of La Madeleine, and then … the fiacre stopped.
Will leaned out the window. “What is it?”
“Omnibus accident. Down the road.”
Will gripped the edge of the window. The street ahead was packed with vehicles, the drivers yelling, the horses neighing, an occasional stroller using the blockage to cross the otherwise busy, wide road.
Far ahead, the obelisk at Place de la Concorde rose into the pale blue sky like a thin needle. With the fiacre, he’d been so close. They’d be there in minutes. With the roadblock, it would be better to walk.
Even run.
His mind made up in a flash, Will jumped out of the fiacre, tossed some money to the driver, told him he’d be back—it wasn’t as if he’d move far—and broke into a run. Between carriages, through groups of people, pushing aside the chairs of outdoor restaurants; he ran, and wheezed, and ran some more, the obelisk drawing ever nearer, until he was at the street corner and the long arches covering the sidewalk of Rue de Rivoli spread in front of him .
The entrance to the Continental was just down the block.
Will took short, deep breaths, collected himself, and took off running again.
What if she’d left already? Knowing her mother, they might have even left yesterday. A seed of doubt punctured his lungs. Too late, too late …
A few people milled around the hotel’s entrance. Will scanned the crowd, his vision shaking from the run. Then two men moved aside and revealed a petite, black-clad female form, her uncovered red hair shining like a beacon.
“Sylvia,” he wheezed. He stopped, enough to catch his breath for a better try. “Sylvia!” And he resumed running.
By the time she’d turned, he was nearly to her.
“Will?”
He stopped in front of her and put his hands on his knees. “Don’t leave. I mean, leave, but …” He took another few rapid breaths. “You must go. And I must go, too, but it doesn’t have to be the end.”
“I don’t understand.”
He forced himself to stand upright. “I can wait. For as long as you need me to. Your mourning period, my business—they don’t matter. Whatever it is, we can make it work.”
A tear glistened in her eyes as she stepped closer.
“I love you,” he said. “Not because you have the right name. But because you’re you.”
“I don’t know what you mean”—Sylvia waved a hand in front of her face—“but I love you too.”
What was left of the air in his lungs turned into pure, floating happiness.
There you have it, destiny.
He lowered to the pavement .
“Oh, Will, don’t kneel, the ground is dirty—”
“I don’t care,” he said. “Sylvia, will you marry me?”