“When you next reach your birthday,” said Alexander, “How old will you be?”
Sophia frowned. “You know how old.”
“I do. Do you?”
At those words, Sophia felt as though a switch had been flicked in her head, plunging her into darkness. Twenty-three, she thought. Of course I’ll be twenty-three. How could I not be?
“Twenty-three,” she whispered.
“No. You’ll be twenty-three, and three weeks.” He looked at her sadly. “Time travel, Sophia. It doesn’t stop you ageing.”
She stared at him. “I don’t understand. What do you...”
And then she did. She shivered, and passed a hand through her hair. Her eyes opened wide.
“Most times we’ve met,” said Alexander, “You have come through to my house at some normal hour of the evening. Then we’ve spent a night, a day, sometimes more together. But I’ve always brought you back just a few hours after you left. You’ve been gaining time on the real world.”
“Three weeks,” said Sophia. “That’s how long we’ve spent away.”
“Yes, approximately. How long ago, then, did we first start seeing one another?”
“It was early December, the night at the theatre,” said Sophia. Her head was spinning. “That’s four months ago. But with three weeks...”
“It’s closer to five months, yes. For you, at least. For myself, eight or nine.”
“Because you ran.”
He looked at her savagely then, and for a moment she wished she had not said so. His anger, though, swiftly subsided, and he nodded.
“Because I ran.”
They watched as the dancers ended the cotillion. The string quartet made way for a larger ensemble and more guests were appearing. The room and the corridors were full of chattering. Mostly it was above board, but in the corners Sophia could see conspirators: officers whispering and gesturing urgently, their gaiety dropping for a moment into seriousness. It couldn’t quite distract her.
Three weeks. It felt impossible. How could she be three weeks older than she was? Yet it was true. She couldn’t deny it.
“You hardly notice it, do you?” said Alexander.
“No.”
She looked at him; there was sorrow in his eyes.
“But you will,” he said. “Say that we continue seeing one another, just for one day a week; an eighth day in the week.”
Sophia closed her eyes. She almost told him to stop. “Okay.”
“A year passes, to your eyes, and we have seen one another every week. So, for each of the fifty-two weeks in that year, you have lived an extra day with me. Every year, you gain fifty-two days.”
“I get it.”
“Seven years pass. You have gained a whole extra year.”
“I get it, Alex.”
“Say we really do want to make this work, say this is a relationship that will last.” Alexander spoke quickly. “In fifty years, you will have gained seven whole years. You friends will think you seventy, but you will be seventy-seven.”
“I get it, okay!” cried Sophia. “Just stop, please. Please, stop.”
Alexander took her hand in both of his. “And that, Sophia, is if we see one another for one day each week. My God, one day, one day. It’s not enough.”
They sat in silence. The musicians began a slower, stately tune. It was not slow enough for Sophia.
“No,” she said.
“What are we to do then?” said Alexander. “Two days in a week? At that rate, you gain an extra year for every three. How about three days, or four? You age ever faster to your friends and family. Do you see?”
“Of course I do.”
“So what other options do we have? Let us say that we attempt to match our time to your own. If we spend twenty-four hours together, I must bring you back exactly twenty-four hours later. Which raises further problems.”
“I understand.” Sophia felt tired, and rubbed her eyes. “I’d have to explain to everyone why I’m disappearing all the time.”
“I’d have to be the imaginary friend. You could hardly tell them about me.”
“No.”
Alexander sighed. “No. No.”
He spoke with such finality that, for an sorrowful instant, Sophia thought he might be finished with her; that he might take her home this very moment, say his goodbyes, and venture off once more, never to see her again. He wouldn’t do that, said a voice in her head. She wasn’t sure if she trusted it.
“So this point’s finally arrived,” she said.
“What point?”
“The point where the dream ends.” Sophia looked at Alexander and mustered a smile. “It’s been so good. It really has. But ever since we started again after London, I suppose I’ve known this would happen. I kind of hoped it never would. Whatever this is,” she said, gesturing between the two of them, “It can’t be a normal relationship. Can it?”
Alexander looked away. “No.”
A nasty shiver, a short shock up her spine, made her flinch.
“Are you alright?” said Alexander.
“Yeah, yeah,” she replied. “I’ve just never thought of the problems of time travel. Not in such a mathematical way.”
“Time is ruthlessly logical. It might bend for me, but it doesn’t break.”
Sophia watched the dancers. Fifty years, he’d talked about. Was that what he wanted? Was he looking at the long-term? And what, she thought, do I want from him? Carefully, she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. His gaze was fixed on the dancers. Pipers were being introduced to lead a group of Highland infantry in a reel, but the noise didn’t distract her now.
There was something imperious in Alexander’s face then, and something so solemn. He was attractive, that she couldn’t deny – but what did she see in him? It felt strange to interrogate herself, but she felt she had to. Was it just the travel? Was it just the fantasy, the romance, the dream of soaring through time with a man of mystery? Without that, she wondered, would I like him, let alone love, at all? She hoped that she would. She didn’t want to be that shallow.
Something at the back of the room distracted Alexander; he leaned up to peer over the Highlanders.
“Ah,” he said. “And here is the great man.”
Sophia, welcoming the distraction, followed his gaze. A tall, lean man in a uniform sparkling with subtle decoration had just entered the room. Immediately, Sophia sensed the attention of the chamber turning towards him, through the quick glances and whispers of those present.
“Any guesses?” said Alexander.
“I feel like I should know,” said Sophia. “I’ve seen his face somewhere before.”
“Portraits, most likely. That is Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington.”
“Oh.” He wasn’t a Wilde or a Mozart, but Sophia had certainly heard of the Duke. She watched as other officers began to gather around him. “There’s a pub named after him in Crossham.”
Alexander laughed quietly. “Dear me. What would your history teachers say?”
“That I didn’t listen. I know he was a...is, a general. Is tonight important for him?”
“Just slightly. It’s important for everyone in this room. We’ll see that soon, I think.”
The Highlanders finished their reel with a sword dance, expertly manoeuvring their sabres in time to the pipes and drums. Very polite, very British applause followed. The couples’ dances began again. Young women, their mothers hovering at the sidelines, stepped forward to dance with the dashing officers. Sophia saw affection, attraction, and love in almost every look. There were so many sweethearts at the ball that night.
“Poor things,” said Alexander.
Sophia stiffened. “Why?”
He sighed. “You’ll see.”
From that point on, for all the joy on display, everything about the dance saddened and unnerved Sophia. Although the steps of the dance were strictly regimented, unlike any others she’d witnessed, it reminded her very much of the last dance at a school disco – boys and girls embracing, slow-dancing, young love in its prime. If decorum allowed it, she was certain that was what these gentlemen and ladies would be doing. She feared for them.
To her frustration, she began to cry.
“What is it?” said Alexander.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “Everything? All of this? Is that an alright answer?”
He didn’t reply. Instead, he pulled a handkerchief from his top pocket and handed it to her. His eyes were full of concern. She wondered whether it was for her, or for himself. She watched the couples for a while longer, a question brewing in her head. She couldn’t hold it back.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Anything.”
“I...oh god, this is going to sound so needy, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
She looked him in the eye. “Fifty years, you talked about. Fifty, with me. Really?”
He shifted awkwardly in his seat. “Well, I...”
“No, that wasn’t the question. Why do you...” Her lips were stopped; her tongue tied. She took a breath and steeled herself. “Why do you love me?”
Alexander stared at her. She could feel more tears welling up, and for an instant she wondered if he was not feeling the same.
“It’s such an unfair question, I know,” she continued. “But I don’t know why you would. It’s not like a feel inadequate, I’m not some shrinking violet.” A sudden surge of anger, tinged with shame, struck her. “Actually, you know what? I do feel inadequate. Christ, you have all of time to explore, and you fall for me? Seriously? I don’t care what you’ve seen in my future. That’s not me. This is me. What about this compares to, to Thaïs, to Imperia, all those others?”
She couldn’t bear to look at him. She wished that all the dancers would vanish, that they were in a coffee shop like the last time they had really argued, or somewhere at least as manageable. She felt ridiculous.
“I don’t know why,” said a voice.
She looked up; Alexander was looking deep into her eyes. He spoke as if every word had taken a lifetime to weigh up.
“I don’t know,” he repeated. “I know that I do. I know that I’ve met many extraordinary women, and never felt for them what I do for you. I’ve wondered why. Sometimes I think about that first night I saw you, on that stage, as Hero. You really were extraordinary.”
Sophia looked away. “Thanks.”
“You were. Then sometimes I simply look at you, and I find you more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever seen. My god, just look at you!”
He laughed, shaking his head, and Sophia, for all her fears, felt herself blush.
“But then I come to something else,” he said. “Perhaps it’s closest to the truth. It’s this: you’ve been at home everywhere I’ve taken you.”
Sophia peered at him. “What do you mean?”
“Not that you’ve instantly adapted, blended in, not in that sense.” He stuttered, and Sophia realised that this wasn’t something he’d thought of before; it was from the heart. “It’s more that you’ve been so much, so wholly yourself, everywhere we’ve been. You’ve acted the part a little, of course. That’s part of the joy of what we’ve done. But you’ve never become different. I’ve seen it happen with so many of the others. Either they’re bewildered by a new age, or they pretend to be something other than themselves. But not you. You’ve just been you, everywhere, across all time. The woman for all seasons.”
Sophia tried to respond, but she couldn’t. A wave of some singular emotion, like gratitude, desire and relief all at once, rolled over her.
“I’m not at all sure if that made sense,” said Alexander, laughing lightly.
“It did,” she whispered. “It did.”
She looked at him, saw absolute honesty in his eyes, and looked away again. Although she was seated, she had to steady herself by putting a hand on the table. A moment later, she felt his comforting hand take hold of her own. A minute or two passed, as good as an eternity.
She became aware of some commotion in the room. The musicians played on and the dancers kept in time, but attention was being drawn to a cavalryman who was hurrying around the edges of the chamber. He was sweating, his uniform a little unkempt, certainly not the dress uniform of the officers present. She noticed that he was making his way towards the Duke.
“Ah,” said Alexander. “I believe this is the moment.”
“I’m not sure if I want to see it,” said Sophia. “I don’t like this.”
“I’m sorry. But I pray you, stay with me. I need to...it must be like this. It must begin like this.”
She looked over at him. His complexion had lost some of its colour, and he appeared nervous. She felt now that, through their locked hands, she was comforting him, rather than the opposite.
“I’m here for you,” she said. “Whatever you decide to show me.”
She glanced away, and desperately hoped she had spoken truthfully.
*
A strange place for a discussion about a relationship - but Alexander has his reasons. What do you think he's up to? More importantly, they both agree that theirs cannot be a normal relationship - do you agree? Is there a way out of there time-travelling obstacles that will satisfy them both?
The picture is the classic portrait of Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington ('the' Duke of Wellington as far as history's concerned) by Sir Thomas Lawrence. The video comes from the soundtrack to the 1970 movie Waterloo. It has that classic Regency ballroom feel to it - the full story of this particular ball's place in history will be revealed in the next chapter, along with the first taste of Alexander's past.