“What did he tell you, exactly?”
“That you, and he, using a miraculous sort of engine, had traveled here from the future. I doubted, as you may imagine, but then he told me things about my current novel that I have not even written yet. That were only in my mind, that I had told not a soul. Not even Cassandra.”
“And this persuaded you of the truth of his words?” I felt a stab of both envy and admiration. Why hadn’t I thought to try this?
“In part.”
“And what else, then?”
“There was always something odd about you two. In your manners; in how you appeared at this decisive moment to Henry; seemed without connection to anyone or anything. It is a most irregular explanation, yet I am inclined to accept it, for nothing else makes sense either. He is very persuasive, your—But I keep forgetting, he is not your brother.” She stopped and put her bronzed hand on mine. “You are husband and wife?” She looked concerned, as well she might if this were true. “I did not have time to ask everything I wished to, because Henry and Cassandra walked in.”
“We are colleagues.”
“Colleagues? But how could you travel together—and live in such proximity, a gentleman and a lady? It seems a situation where impropriety would naturally arise—he is not, I am sure—Yet appearances must be against it—” She stopped.
I was amused. “Our age does not place such limits on the freedom of women as yours does. For us, there is no—That is, it is not improper.” But I felt myself blush, thinking of the impropriety that had naturally arisen.
She studied me. “He told me you are a physician. Remarkable, yet not surprising.”
“What is surprising is how calmly you are accepting all this.”
“Is it?” She was still staring at me, her eyes bright. “Perhaps you fail to credit my imagination sufficiently. There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio—but tell me, what are your names? What sorts of names do people of the future have?”
“Rachel.” I said it hesitantly, remembering a letter to her niece Anna Lefroy, the novel-writing one with the stormy romantic history. Jane and Anna had an ongoing joke about names; they collected funny ones, from fiction or real life, to share. In the letter, Jane had written, in an aside on a novel they were discussing, And the name “Rachael” is more than I can bear. She’d not made it clear why; did she think it ugly, or melodramatic? “Rachel Katzman.”
“Rachael,” she repeated, beaming. “Cats-man? A man who looks after cats; how singular. Is it an English name?”
“It is not.”
“Where are your people from?”
“I was born in the city of New York, in America.” To forestall further discussion of my people, I added, “And Liam is from Ireland. That is his name. Mr. Finucane.”
“Another extraordinary name. Yet it suits him, does it not?” She was still regarding me thoughtfully. “Are such journeys undertaken often? How did it fall out that you came here, to me?”
“Oh, my dearest Jane.” I could not resist; I leaned over and hugged her, making her go rigid with surprise. “I do not think even your imagination can grasp how famous you are. But the shortest answer is, we came for ‘The Watsons.’” She stared in undisguised astonishment as I told her how only its first few chapters had survived, passed down through the family. Split up in the twentieth century, one part ending up in the Morgan Library in America and another in the Bodleian—
“At Oxford!” she interrupted. “My manuscript! Why would they want it?”
“I keep trying to explain, you are immortal. So, everyone thought those first few chapters were all there was. Then came the accidental discovery of a letter, long-lost and unknown to scholars, which you had written to Anne Sharpe. Finding any new letter from you would be amazing, so few survived, but this one stated clearly that the novel had, in fact, been finished.”
I stopped and waited for her to absorb this, curious what she would find the most amazing. Telling the truth to Jane felt wonderful, a mix of pleasure and relief from unbearable tension, not unlike the first time I’d had sex with Liam.
“Do you mean to say that people in the future read my letters?” I realized I’d made a mistake. “My personal, private letters? What gave them the right?” I stared at the ground. “So that was why you were in Cassandra’s box? You were reading them?”
“No. We have a device that can capture the images on the paper.” I refrained from pointing out the obvious: that someone in the future would read them. That once you are dead, you no longer have any privacy. “You must understand, they are one of the most important sources of biographical information about you. Because you were not famous in your lifetime, your life was not well documented. Therefore—”
“Why was I not famous in my lifetime?” she demanded. “If you claim I am so marvelous and such a giantess of English letters? This defies reason.”
“Fame is fickle,” I began, wishing Liam were here; I’d let this conversation get away from me. “Perhaps your genius was not properly appreciated—”
“What you mean is, I died too early,” she interrupted. “When do I die? If you are from the future, you know that. Tell me.”
For a moment I could not speak. “Ask yourself if this is something you truly want to know,” I finally managed. “Once you know, you can never not know.”
“I do not fear the truth.” Her eyes bored into mine for a painful moment, and then her gaze softened. “Ah, but you do. It must be very bad indeed, then. I surely finished the book about the Elliots, for your—Dr. Ravenswood—Mr. Finucane—was able to cite it. But perhaps there was not another one after that. Is that right, Rachael Cats-man?”
We stared at each other.
At last I said: “If you give us ‘The Watsons,’ we will take it back with us, and then there will be another. No one who ever knew you will ever read it. I think that was what you feared, that it revealed too much of yourself?” As soon as my words were out, I regretted them. She was facing the prospect of her imminent death, and I was angling for a manuscript. Could I possibly have been more tactless?
But Jane, looking off into the distance, for a long time made no answer other than a heavy sigh.
“I am not ready to die. I do not fear death—as a Christian, why should I? But I must own to you, I am not resigned. Not yet. And that, I know, makes my faith imperfect.” She paused. “Take me with you.”
“What?”
“If you can take a manuscript, you can take me. Perhaps they can cure my ailment, and I can return. An age of miracles like yours should have no trouble with so trifling a request.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” I said sadly. “I wish I could, and let you see our world. I doubt you would like it, but you would find it full of surprises.”