“Hey!” I said, stepping out of the cover of the tree and into his way. “What a surprise! They told me you were in Chawton—and now here?”
Perhaps three feet away, he froze, eyes widening. His astonished expression would have been funny if I’d been in a mood to be amused. Yet even as I was thinking this, it vanished; his features smoothed out into bland agreeableness, the face of someone used to being looked at.
“Rachel,” he said, calm and formal, stepping forward for a cautious handshake. “What brings you to Leatherhead?”
But I could not answer, undone by the strength and coolness of his grip, by the fingers that had known every inch of me. I dropped his hand in dismay.
Finally I managed: “Oh, you know, a little sightseeing, before I head to the institute.” The physicality of him, after all the video, was so overwhelming that I couldn’t stop staring. He was inconspicuously dressed in black, his hair as short as when we’d landed in 1815. His eyes were bluer than I remembered, and sadder. There was a little scar near his left eye I’d always meant to ask the story of and never had; seeing it stabbed me with regret. “What about you?”
Liam, gazing sideways toward the ground, did not answer. “Are you going to stay on there?” I went on after a long moment: “I don’t know how committed I am to time travel, but I thought I’d keep my options open.” He said nothing, while I fought the urge to move nearer, take his hand again, bury my head in his chest. “What about you? Probably not, right? Your career’s really taken off in this version—that’s fantastic.” His silence was making me fill the void with random chatter. “Aren’t you writing a book about your experiences in the past? I got that impression from something I watched you on.” Admitting I watched him on things probably wasn’t a great idea.
“No.”
There was another pause as I admired his breadth of shoulder and the delicate whorls of the ear I could see. I said desperately: “Have you been enjoying the new Jane Austen novels? Quite a surprise, when we got back—seventeen! Crazy, right?”
He was still staring at the ground at our feet. “Oh, indeed.”
Another silence fell. This was how it ended, then: not in drama and recrimination, but in awkwardness. I was preparing to say what a pleasant surprise running into him had been, and to flee, when he looked up and met my eyes. “It’s like a thought experiment. What would you give up, for seventeen additional novels by Jane Austen? Would you give up your life?”
The hair stood up on the back of my neck. Why did his voice have to be like that, so rough-edged and low, so musical? “Too late to ask. We did.”
“We did.” His gaze was on me, steady and cool.
“But the life you have now is great, I think.” I could speak; his words had broken some spell. “I’m so glad for you. Everything you ever wanted, right?” I was trying hard to be glad.
“Oh, everything.”
His tone left me no traction; was he being ironic? “That’s terrific.”
“Do you think so?” For a moment he seemed to be seriously considering my anodyne remark, then I felt the sting of his sarcasm. “Is that the word you’d use?”
“Well, I don’t see what you have to complain about.”
“Indeed.” He glowered at me, and I realized I’d been speaking as if nothing had changed—but he was famous now, and important. Perhaps I seemed insufficiently awed; maybe I was wasting his valuable time. “I suppose you think I’ve no right to complain, so.”
“I don’t see how what I think has any bearing—”
“That I ought to be extremely grateful.”
I had no answer to this, and he did not wait for one, but went on with unmistakable hostility: “I’m glad we got a chance to say goodbye, at least. I’m going back to the institute, but only to complete my exit interviews. And to be rectified.”
I had thought I wanted this; only at that instant did I realize how wrong I had been. “Oh.” I put one hand on a gravestone and leaned against it for support. “Oh. I suppose that makes sense.” He had folded his arms across his chest and was still looking at me, expression unencouraging.”Your variance was high, right?” I made myself ask calmly. I was not going to fall apart. At least, not in front of him.
“The highest they’d seen.” He no longer sounded so angry, but bored, as if this were something he was tired of thinking about. Or, maybe sad. I imagined him waking up, as I had, in our present time in a hospital bed and realizing, as I had, that everything was different.
Why hadn’t I gone to see him; what had I been thinking?
“I’d have supposed they’d want to do it right away then, not wait.”
“Oh, they did.”
“But you refused?” He was silent. “So what changed your mind?” I asked, realizing the relief of nothing left to lose. My mother was dead, my world was gone, I’d blown my chances with the one man I’d ever loved and he was about to erase me from memory. What more could possibly go wrong? “What changed your heart, Liam?” I liked the shape of his name in my mouth; I’d missed saying it. It struck me there was no harm in sleeping with him one last time, since he would forget his infidelity and I would never tell. Maybe that would give me the strength I would need to endure the rest of my life without him. My room at the Swan: nice symmetry. I pictured him, next to me and naked, so vividly that my knees buckled and only the gravestone kept me upright.
But the mournful look he turned on me was a strong clue I wouldn’t be seeing any action. “Have you not considered it yourself?”
I hesitated. “Can I tell you the truth? I’m pretty sure nothing in my life will ever compare. So why would I want to forget?”
My words hung in the air for a long moment as we stood there. A faint wind stirred the yew tree; I could hear the far-off rasp of a crow.
“I don’t know,” he said at last, looking sad. “I can only guess.”
Why hadn’t I visited him in the hospital; what had I been thinking? Could I have come between him and Sabina when our memories of 1816 were still warm—or at least, have tried? But some things you can’t travel back and fix.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.” At this, he looked sadder than before, if that was possible. “I should have come to see you. I was—you know, I was—”
“It’s understandable,” he said in his chilliest tone. “When you realized—”
“Yes,” I managed to say. “Exactly.”
Another long silence, the wind and the crow. The sense I’d had before—of the secret sacredness that conceals itself in plain view—came back, stronger now, and then I felt a faint jolt of hope. Was it possible, even after everything, that we’d misunderstood each other?
“I mean, naturally I was intimidated. You’re famous now, you realize that, right?” He stared at me. “I’m joking! Of course you do. But I was . . .” I paused. This was hard, and he wasn’t helping; he was looking at me like I’d gone crazy. “. . . intimidated.”