The Time Baroness (The Time Mistress Series) (22 page)

“Still,” he continued, “we must not do anything that might be construed as improper while this trial is underway, or it could hurt James even more. We must continue to seem like friends only…or mostly.” He kissed her again.

“You are right.” she said, “perhaps we should go. I am exhausted, and I want to get up tomorrow and go back to see James. I do not want him to be lonely.”

“I will be there with you as much as I can,” he said and squeezed her hand.

In the enclosed carriage, Ben attacked Cassandra with kisses. His affection was a comfort to her, but her resolve to get to the portal exit took precedence over all other thoughts. After dropping Ben at his townhouse, she instructed the driver to go around to Covent Garden so she could take a look down the alley where the portal resided. The street was dark; the street lamps provided little light. As the carriage rattled past the alleyway, dim lights from the thick windows of the buildings on either side were enough for her to make out the shapes of people huddled in the dark. Between the shapes, she could see a tiny fire glowing. It would not do. She could not confront vagrants on her own. Perhaps if she tried to go in the daytime.

The next morning at the prison, she, James, and Ben were informed by the head barrister that the trial was set for two weeks from that day, which was a Tuesday. James assured his mother that he was reasonably comfortable, though bored, and Cassandra vowed to be there every day to keep him company. He seemed calm; Cassandra thought he trusted that the lawyers would be successful. She did not tell him what she was planning.

She left just after noon, complaining of a headache and sore throat. Ben stayed, his violin in tow, to keep James company and help pass the hours.

When she arrived at the hotel, the clerk peeked at her from the top of a newspaper he was reading. The headline screamed: AMERICAN ALCHEMIST TERRIFIES HAMPSHIRE RESIDENTS. Cassandra stopped in her tracks and approached the clerk.

“Could I borrow that paper?” she asked with as much superiority as she could muster. The clerk mutely nodded and handed it over, pulling back his hand abruptly when it accidentally touched hers.

She took the paper and hurried to her suite to read it. The article claimed that a strange object was found on the perpetrator, which conjured music out of thin air with the purpose of driving mad anyone who touched it.

James Franklin, student at Harvard University in Massachusetts, allegedly attempted to bewitch the daughter of prominent Parliament member, Sir Robert Charles, last week during an outing near Bath.

The victim’s mother commented: ‘We were shocked, I tell you, absolutely shocked, that this young man, who seemed so polite and good-natured, would in fact be harboring evil in the form of this horrible thing, which poured a terrible kind of hideous fairy music into my daughter’s lovely head. He practically admitted that he was trying to enchant her to come away with him to America, where he was planning to ensconce her in his sorcerer’s lair, never to return her to England or her family. I know how overpowering the spell was. He forced the music into my head as well, and I was almost overcome—almost permanently driven mad, as was his intention—but fortunately, I have a strong will and was able to fight it off.”

The mother of the accused, a Mrs. Cassandra Franklin currently residing in Hampshire, our sources tell us, was unavailable for comment.

“How do they know whether I’m unavailable for comment?” Cassandra threw the paper down in disgust. This was terrible, she thought despondently with her head in her hands. If this was the kind of thing that Lady Charles was planning to say in court, they were lost. Even worse, if the beautiful Elizabeth agreed to give her version of the story, however warped that might be, the judge would not be able to resist her. Add to that Sir Robert’s connection, and whatever clout he might carry (regardless of Ben’s indications otherwise), and there would simply be no defense. She and James were nobodies in England, especially compared to the Charles family. Not to mention the fact that the prosecution would definitely produce the object for evidence. The public would be terrified. She had to act now.

She threw on her cloak and hurried down the marble staircase of the hotel to the lobby. As she approached the first floor, she heard someone mention her name.

“I am sorry, sir,” the desk clerk was saying, “I am not at liberty to divulge that information.”

Both the clerk and the man he was speaking to glanced up to see her descend the last few stairs.

“Mr. Stockard!” she cried.

“Mrs. Franklin!” he replied. “You are just the person I was looking for!”

“I am? Why, how did you know where to find me?”

“I, um—” he glanced at the clerk. “It is a long story. But you will be glad to know that this fine gentleman would not be persuaded to admit that you were staying here.”

“It is my job to protect the privacy of our guests, sir,” the man said defensively, “even if—”

“And a fine job you did,” Mr. Stockard said, cutting him off with a wan smile. “You should be commended.”

Mr. Stockard turned to Cassandra. “I have a carriage waiting outside. Would you care to accompany me back to my shop? I have something pressing to speak to you about.”

Cassandra was baffled. What pressing business could the man possibly have with her? Something concerning sheet music? No, it must be about James, or perhaps Ben. Her heart began to pound. She opened her mouth to speak.

“It would be better,” Mr. Stockard said, “if we could speak privately.”

“Very well then, let us go.”

They stepped into the coach. “Mr. Stockard,” Cassandra began, “I do not understand. Why were you looking for me?”

The coach lurched and began to traverse the ten or so blocks to the music shop.

“It concerns this business in the papers about you and your son.”

“And what have you to do with it?” she said. She wondered if she should ask the coachman to stop. She didn’t need this man prying into her affairs.

“Nothing. I only want to talk to you.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Because of the article. I knew you were here in London, so I went to the White Hart and asked if you were staying there, and they said you were not. I simply tried the better hotels, inquiring after you in each one. I said I was your brother, and it was a family emergency. It did not take me long.”

“I still do not understand why you were looking for me.”

He hesitated, looking into her eyes for a moment. “I only thought that maybe I could help you.”

The coach stopped in front of the music store, and the driver came around to open the door.

Cassandra and Mr. Stockard stepped out, and he unlocked the door of the shop. Cassandra took a deep breath as she walked inside. There was that same familiar and welcoming smell, that enveloping calm.

“Come,” he said to her, “sit down.” He motioned to one of the well-worn chairs that were scattered about the shop. “Let me get you some tea. Please, relax a minute.” She started to object, but he was already gone to the back of the shop and in a moment returned with tea and pastries. She realized she was hungry, so she sat down impatiently and bit into a scone. He pulled up a chair and gazed at her intently. After a moment, he said, “The audio link, is it an R-10 model?”

Her jaw dropped in astonishment, and, struggling not to choke on her scone, quickly grabbed for her tea, knocking it to the floor.

Just as quickly, her host casually tossed a napkin over the spill. “Nicholas Stockard, time traveler,” he said, holding out his hand to her and smiling mischievously.

She swallowed. “What? But—” She numbly shook his hand and stared at him in disbelief. “But, who is your team? When did you come here?”

“I am independently funded, you might say.”

“Why have I not ever heard of you?”

“Our organization is private. We do not publish our work. We were just within reach of the breakthrough, back in 2090, when Carver beat us to it. We were disappointed, but we kept at it and accomplished it a year later.”

“I did not know anyone else was traveling,” she said. “Professor Carver owns all the rights to the invention.”

“That is why we did it in secret,” he said, but hurriedly added, “besides, our process is slightly different, so we are not technically infringing on his patents. Anyway, my team is now defunct. There is no competition with Carver anymore, at least as far as I know.”

 “But wait a minute,” she said suddenly. “Why are you here—with this shop?”

“I came back to this time to live.”

“Your team does not maintain a portal exit for you?”

“No. I told you, there is no team anymore.”

“But, did you not ever plan to leave?”

“No,” he answered, shifting in his chair. “I had my reasons for wanting to stay. My whole life I have been in love with the nineteenth century. I chose the pre-Victorian era to avoid getting caught up in the industrial revolution. I am set here. I have a house in the country where I go periodically, as well as one in town. I have been happy, mostly.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Ten years.”

“You are joking!”

“No, I thought I was in it for life. But the day you came into my shop, I realized that another traveler had arrived, and I started thinking about hitching a ride home. I just did not know how I would find you again, until Johnston wrote me and mentioned your name. I could not believe the coincidence, and I was determined to get down to Hampshire to see you.”

“But how did you know I was a time traveler?”

“When I saw you back in January, I thought you looked familiar. Of course I had seen pictures of you in the scientific publications with Carver’s team, and was familiar with the members’ names. Then you said your name was Cassandra, and you used your husband, Franklin Reilly’s, first name as your last. I remember reading about his work. What did he think of you and your son making this trip, by the way?”

“He passed away more than five years ago.”

“I am sorry. I had no idea.”

“Do not worry yourself.”

There was a pause. He pressed on. “A couple of other clues gave you away. Your white teeth, your accent, and… your mention of Schubert.”

“Yes, I remember that blunder.”

“Well, no harm done.”

“You must think we are a bunch of idiots, James bringing that damned thing, and then exposing it! He was not even supposed to be here; he came to check on me, so he said. He really just wanted in on the action.”

“But what possessed him to show the music player to someone?”

“He was trying to impress a girl,” said Cassandra glumly.

Mr. Stockard laughed. “That figures.”

 “I did not know what to make of you when you suddenly dropped in on Mr. Johnston, and we dined together that day at Gatewick House. I felt like there was something strange about you, Nicholas. May I call you Nicholas?”

“Nick.”

“Nick, the timing is perfect. You are here and I need your help.”

“I will do anything I can.”

“James is going to trial in two weeks. The defense is almost nonexistent. The lawyers have no idea what to do or say, and there are of course witnesses—I am afraid he will be sentenced to that place forever!”

“They will most likely send him to Australia,” stated Nick.

 “Oh my God!” she cried.

“Yes, it is their new system. They only keep prisoners around for three months or so after sentencing; then they send them off as indentured servants. Eventually, they can work off their debt to society and become free men. Not the truly violent, of course, but anyone else who is sentenced for a very long term, which your son may be.”

“Dear God, what will we do?” she exclaimed, now truly in a panic. “I was just on my way to my portal exit, when I saw you at the hotel. If it is clear, I will go back through and try to and get some help.”

“You have an exit nearby?”

“Yes, just a few blocks away.”

 “Then there is only one thing to do. We must get the device and get your son out of prison and to the exit, right away.”

“How?”

“Getting James out will be tough, but getting the device will be tougher. You do need to go back to 2120 and get some help from your team. They will have ideas and the tools to implement them. However, James’ life takes precedence over getting the player back. If we have to leave it, we will, though it would best not to.”

“I should say.”

“All right, we must get you through the exit. Are you ready?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Good. Now let me see, what kinds of things would be helpful for James’ escape?” he asked himself. “I am thinking of a laser saw, the smaller the better, and whatever else you think of that may be of help, but only if it can be well hidden or disguised. You may have to be gone overnight, but no longer.”

She suddenly thought of Ben. “Um, Mr. Johnston may be looking for me tonight,” she said with a blush.