Chapter 6
Wednesday, 26 September, 1888
Morning brought mixed blessings. On the plus side, Cynda’s mind seemed fairly clear and her stomach was on the mend. On the negative, the world was still rose-tinged despite two doses of chocolate. And the worst news: TIC was noticeably silent. She’d flipped open the watch first thing, expecting a nudge to see how she was progressing. Nothing.
A shiver zipped through her. Was TIC still in business? Surely, they wouldn’t leave me here?
They would if they could get away with it.
Despite laws against orphaning Time Rovers in the event of a bankruptcy, it was still rumored that folks just disappeared.
Especially the ones who had no family to complain when their loved one didn’t return. Like me.
No, Ralph was her lifeline. He wouldn’t abandon her. He’d get her back home, no matter what it took.
Home? She shook her head. This small boarding house room had more charm than her corporate apartment, though it was a seventh of the size. Annabelle had tried to make it welcoming with a floral pattern pitcher and bowl on the washstand. The curtains, though slightly gray, were lace. A painting hung above the bed, a pastoral scene with a shepherd and his flock. In contrast, Cynda’s apartment was Corporate Modern, as they called it. Corporate Sterile was closer to the truth. Since she lived there at TIC’s whim, personalization wasn’t allowed. She was as permanent as a bandage, her only possessions a book of poems by e.e. cummings and a stuffed, black-footed ferret she’d won at a county fair and smuggled back to ’057. She’d named him Fred. Next to Ralph, he was her best buddy, the furry confidant who knew all her secrets.
Cynda heard the sound of a door closing, then the heavy tromp of footsteps on the stairs. Either Dr. Montrose or the bizarre Mr.
Hix off to breakfast. It was her cue she needed to be out of bed.
Move it, Lassiter, she commanded, rising to her feet. No fireworks erupted. She took that as a good sign. When the washbasin was arachnid-free, that brought more hope. Happy days are here again.
Impatiently, she layered on the clothes—hose, boots and then the bustle and petticoats over the onesie. She never wore a corset if she could get away with it. Finally, the skirt and the bodice.
Today, it was the navy outfit, though through her rose-tinted eyeballs it appeared purple. Buttoning the bodice was tedious, but eventually she looked presentable. The tapered design accented her tiny waist. A proper Victorian silhouette. A glance at her exaggerated rear end did nothing to improve her mood. With a behind the size of Westminster Abbey.
By the time she’d painstakingly negotiated the stairs, the dining room was empty. No need to worry about communing with the locals or enduring another patronizing encounter with the doctor.
Mildred puttered in, issued a good morning and told her to help herself to the food.
Oh, can you do something for me? Cynda asked. She dug the doctor’s handkerchief out of her pocket. This needs to be washed.
It’s Dr. Montrose’s. He loaned it to me the other night.
Mildred took the item, gave her a curious look and then nodded. He’ll be glad to have it back. He’s got seven of them you see, one for each day, and now he’s down to four. He’s rather put out that they’re walking off. I spoke sharply with the washerwoman, but she said she didn’t take any of them.
Cynda loaded her plate like she’d not eaten in weeks, the salty ham included. Maybe he forgets he loans them out.
Might be, was the response.
By the time Mildred returned a half-hour later, the serving dishes were empty. She nodded her approval, as if all women ate like dockworkers.
Burdened by a full stomach and the desire for a long nap, Cynda pointedly ignored the bed’s siren call when she returned to her room. Something else caught her attention; the wardrobe door was open. A quick inventory proved nothing out of place.
Probably Mildred. Cynda extricated more chocolate from her Gladstone and made sure to shut the door tightly.
The journey down the stairs wasn’t as scary this time. When she reached the front door, she’d conjured up a good mood. Once outside, Cynda’s good humor evaporated. Daylight did nothing for the East End’s scenic appeal. Her rose-filtered mind played havoc with the scenery, causing the dull-yellow coal fire smoke to appear orange. In Cynda’s world, a pumpkin-colored haze hung heavy in the air.
Yuck. The debris in the street was recognizable now. Besides the occasional dead rodent, piles of fresh horse droppings and rotting food dotted the ground. Two small children played near a decaying carcass, oblivious to the flies rising from what was once a dog. Cynda sighed. There was a desperate hopelessness at this time in history, as if humankind were caught in quicksand. The more they thrashed, the faster they sank.
My God, she said under her breath.
Depressing, isn’t it? a voice asked. She turned to find Dr. Montrose next to her. She’d been so transfixed she’d not heard him exit the boarding house.
Yes, it is.
And yet, in many ways, it speaks of hope, he said.
She frowned, not understanding. How so?
Any improvement in their lot is a sea change. Something as simple as ensuring they have a safe place to sleep, or one nourishing meal a day makes a world of difference in their lives.
The simplicity of the theory intrigued her. I hadn’t thought of it that way.
To move a mountain, all you need is a shovel and infinite patience.
She studied him with renewed interest. Shoveling away, are you?
He smiled while donning his bowler. In my own way. How are you this morning?
Much better. That didn’t seem adequate, so she added, Thank you for asking.
No visions?
No. Unless you count the fact you’ve been hit by lightning twice while we’ve been talking, and the world looks like a burnt pumpkin pie.
That is good news. He tipped his hat politely and added, Good day, Miss Lassiter.
Good day to you, Dr. Montrose. She knew he didn’t believe a word she’d said.
He descended the stairs and set off at a quick gait. A man with a purpose. Good luck with your mountain, Doctor, she whispered. You’re going to need a lot of shovels.
The Princess Alice was a bust. The next four pubs were nonstarters as well. As for the previous night’s bogus sighting, Cynda chalked that up to time lag. Turner hadn’t been there any more than the spider. The watch was never wrong. Sweating in the heavy garments, she trudged on. After another piece of chocolate, the East End returned to its usual sickly yellow.
The orange was better.
Heading east away from Commercial Street, Cynda struck pay dirt at The Alma. The moment she pushed inside the pub her breast began to vibrate, sending an unnerving pulse into her right nipple. She slid her hand under her mantelet and cautiously tapped the watch, ending the vibration. At the first opportunity, she’d have to reposition the thing.
Professor Turner sat in a far corner, puffing on a pipe just like one of the regulars, with a partially consumed porter in front of him. His eyes constantly scanned the room, surveying each patron with a clinical eye.
Sociologists––the ultimate people watchers.
Cynda skirted a couple of drunks and wound her way to the back of the pub. Without waiting for an invitation, she took a seat opposite her quarry. He assessed her openly.
Miss, I am not inclined toward sexual proclivities, at least not at present. His upper-crust British accent marked him as a native, albeit a century and some change later. However, this evening I might be willing to indulge you. You are far prettier than most.
Cynda leaned forward, delivered a devastatingly pleasant smile and replied in a low voice, I am not a ‘daughter of joy,’
Professor Turner. I’m here to escort your butt home.
A chagrined expression blossomed across his face, as if he’d been caught in flagrante delicto with the Prime Minister’s wife.
Oh. I thought… he stammered.
You thought we’d not bother to find you, right?
He gave a quick nod. His eyes saddened. Turner raised his hand to indicate the empty space around his wrist. I thought since I’d misplaced the band…
How did you lose it? she whispered.
I’m not sure. I stopped to help a young woman. A while later, I noticed it was gone.
Oh, great. Were you wearing it?
An embarrassed look. No, actually, I…ah…stuck it in a pocket. It irritated my wrist.
Cynda kept the groan to herself. While Turner played the chivalrous knight, the woman’s accomplice stole the band. It was a classic distract the mark. Cynda would have to report the loss to TIC. They’d input the band code number and deactivate it. On its own, it wasn’t capable of sending its owner through time. Still, losing one resulted in a ton of paperwork and that burden would fall on her.
Come along, Professor. The omnibus is leaving and you’re on it.
But this is a most extraordinary time. It’s so… He waved a hand to encompass the bar scene. …so rich in detail and human interaction. We couldn’t…come to an arrangement, could we? he asked, leaning forward conspiratorially.
Cynda wasn’t surprised at the offer; a few Time Rovers took cash under the table to extend a tourist’s stay, even if only for a few more hours. The money was useless in ’057, but hard cash bought gems, and those could be smuggled home without much effort. Somehow, TIC always found out. Another one of those infractions that led to immediate dismissal, along with a visit from the tax authorities.
No deal, Professor. The longer you’re here, the more prone you are to… She lowered her voice even more, leaning closer to him, their diseases. So if you’ve been sampling the fruits of Victorian womanhood…for research purposes of course, syphilis is one of the many—
Turner rose, siphoned off the rest of his beer and pointed toward the pub’s entrance. After you, madam.
Cynda kept the triumphant smile to herself. That line always got them right where it hurt.
As she led him out of the pub, one of the patrons called out, Right fine one ya caught there, mate. Worth a poke, I’d say.
Give it to her good, another chimed in.
Turner’s face colored as he opened the door for her. Cynda couldn’t muster any sympathy.
On the way to his boarding house, he waxed at length about the time period and how much research he’d conducted. She kept nodding—anything to keep him moving toward the future. Once they reached his room, she even helped him pack.
A few minutes later, he frowned as she rejected yet another site because of the amount of foot traffic. Why not leave from my room? he asked.
If you disappear from the boarding house, it’ll lead to questions. We had that happen once, and the Rover was charged with murder, even though the cops couldn’t find a body. Made a…mess of things, she said. A helluva mess. The week she’d spent in a Prohibition-Era jail cell taught her that lesson.
Finding the right location proved difficult. Most were full of people conducting some sort of commerce, illicit or otherwise.
Finally, she located one that served their purposes. It was a dead end, with no windows overlooking the street.
Cynda looked around as she pulled the pocket watch from under her mantelet and flipped it open.
Turner offered a handful of Victorian currency. You might as well have this.
Professor, we’ve––