HerOutlandishStranger (23 page)

“Not yet.”

A tiny smile touched her face. “Next time, I hope,” she
murmured.

After the next contraction, he hurriedly washed his hands
again. “May I examine you?”

Pale and sweating, she nodded. He carefully slid his fingers
into her.

He’d just determined that she was about nine centimeters
dilated when an angry voice bellowed, “And just who the devil are you, sir?”

A well-dressed man with silver hair and a neat figure stood
in the doorway, yanking off tan leather gloves. He placed a large leather bag
on the washstand, efficiently slapped the buckle open, pulled a stained leather
apron from the bag and wrapped it around himself.

“You’re Dr. Grace?” Jazz said. “Thank goodness. I think
she’s nearly ready to push.”

“I am Mr. Grace, a surgeon. But my patient! She is in a
disgraceful state.” The surgeon pushed Jazz aside and threw the covers over
her. Then he leaned down to reach under the covers for Eliza who was in the
middle of another contraction.

“Wait until the contraction is over.” Jazz grabbed his arm
and tugged him out from the covers. “And wash yourself, you fool!” He was
horrified by the doctor’s filthy hands. Hell, it looked like dried blood wedged
under his nails.

Mr. Grace turned away from Eliza and eyed Jazz with disdain.
“Release my arm at once, sirrah. I have been in medicine for forty years, you
puppy. I do not need your assistance. I assume you follow Alexander Gordon’s
peculiar theories? Damn upstart Scots.”

“I will not risk you giving this woman fever with your
filthy hands. Out!”

Jazz was more than a head taller and thirty years younger
than Mr. Grace. The older man gave a disgusted grunt and strolled to the other
side of the room.

“I am too devoted to my patient to abandon her entirely. I
shall wait until she has need of me.” He settled himself in a comfortable
chair, then pulled out a pair of spectacles and a newspaper out of his frock
coat pocket. When a maid came in with the basin of hot water, Mr. Grace ordered
a glass and a decanter of brandy.

Jazz tried to ignore the man who occasionally looked up from
the paper, and clucked his tongue disapprovingly when Jazz pulled the covers
back off. Cousin Ann proved to be calm and more than useful. She showed Jazz
where to press against Eliza’s back to relieve some discomfort.

“I have been part of several lying-ins,” Cousin Ann said. “I
might have become a midwife had I not been the daughter of a gentleman.”

During one particularly strong contraction, Eliza gave out a
heartrending cry and Jazz groaned. Ann patted him on the shoulder.

“Myself, I judge it wisest to abandon the covers. Then we
will avoid some of the worst of the, ah, disorder,” she said chattily to Jazz.
“You are much stronger than I so if you could just hold her leg so? I believe
everything is moving along nicely.”

By moving along, Jazz discovered, she meant that the baby
was ready to be born.

Eliza’s face turned scarlet as she gave a cry and a mighty
push. Jazz remembered to reach over to catch the head and to check that the
cord was not wrapped around the baby’s neck. He looked down into the solemn
face of his daughter.

Within seconds after cutting the cord, Jazz had the crying
baby wrapped in a warmed blanket. He held her tight against his chest to warm
her and looked into her shining, round and perfect eyes. He suddenly understood
that he would kill anyone who so much as frightened her.

“Excuse me, Mr., ah, White,” said Cousin Ann, “but I think
dear Eliza would like a chance to hold her baby.”

Jazz carefully handed the baby to Eliza. As he looked down
at Liza’s pale face, he remembered they still had more work to do. He rubbed
Eliza’s belly to help deliver the afterbirth.

Grace gave an approving grunt from his chair. “Never
approved of messing about more than needs be with a lady after a normal birth,”
he commented. Jazz knew this was no normal birth but the most amazing event
ever to occur in history. Since he suspected most people felt that way after
witnessing the birth of their children, he didn’t bother to take up the point.

Ann hustled the men out so she and Molly could clean up.
Jazz protested. “I have to make sure that the bleeding is not excessive.”

He really wanted to hold Eliza, and tell her how wonderful
she was.

“I know what to expect,” Ann said, patting his shoulder
again. “If I see anything out of the ordinary, I shall let you know.” Jazz left
the room reluctantly, though he wondered why he’d ever thought her ineffectual.

He and the surgeon went downstairs and settled into the
drawing room with the brandy bottle Mr. Grace brought down from the bedroom. He
drank and cheerfully argued with Jazz about the causes of common obstetrical
problems.

“Yes, I suppose it would not kill me to wash my hands before
attending a birth,” Mr. Grace admitted. “Though I tell you, sir, I believe this
is piffle.”

For a fleeting moment, Jazz wondered if he’d managed to
mangle history by arguing with Grace. He tried to rouse some concern in himself
for the shifts he might have caused but couldn’t succeed in giving a damn. The
DHU didn’t exist in this world and he did.

The surgeon took his leave an hour later after declaring
that Eliza seemed in no danger of excessive bleeding. Jazz stretched, then
settled onto the too-small sofa.

He awoke at one a.m. when Molly laid a timid hand on his arm
and shook him.

“Cook has left some food in the kitchen for you, sir,” she
mumbled. “Jack-the-groom put your horse out back, sir. Madame would like to see
you if it’s convenient. She says the household is to go to bed, so if you’ll
excuse me, sir.”

He was bounding up the stairs before Molly finished the
message.

The bedroom glowed in the light of a single candle. Cousin
Ann lay asleep on a chaise lounge near the bed, a blanket over her.

“Is everything okay?” he whispered.

“Oh, it suits me beautifully,” she said, beaming into the
bundle in her arms. “I would blow out the candle but I cannot stop admiring
her. She is wonderful.”

“I know,” he said.

“I am calling her Margaret, after your mother,” Eliza said.
“I hope you approve of the name?”

Jazz nodded, too touched to speak. He certainly wasn’t going
to tell Eliza that his mother’s name was simply Mag. “You’re very generous,” he
said at last.

“So are you, to give me a treasure like this,” she said. He
glanced at the sleeping Ann warningly. Eliza laughed. “Ann would sleep through
cannon fire, I believe. Thank you for helping Margaret into the world.”

“It is the best thing I’ve ever done,” he whispered under
his breath. “The best thing I’ll ever do.” He went to the bed and kissed Eliza
and then the sleeping baby.

“You should rest while you can. She’ll wake up soon enough.”

She made a face. “I feel as if all my blood is singing and
I’ll stay awake for weeks. Unlike sleepy Maggie here. I hope you don’t mind
that odious nickname? I can’t help but think she’s a jolly soul and Margaret
seems so formal for someone so small.” She yawned. “Oh I do wish I could
relax.”

He grinned at her. “I know the solution.” He slipped from
the room and sprinted down the stairs to find a book to read to her.

* * * * *

Jazz slipped out the back of the house. He stealthily opened
doors until he found Wimble. He roused the butler.

“I’ll pay you if you bring me daily updates.”

The butler sat up in bed and scowled, a fierce expression
he’d never wear while on duty. Under his wild gray hair, he looked even more
like the infamous member of The Way.

Before he could object, Jazz went on, “I’ll pay you a pound
a day for information, gossip really, that will harm no one. And mind you.”
Jazz shook a finger in his face. “I want to hear if either mother or daughter
experiences a problem the instant you know. Don’t contact Grace right away. I
am first. And if that tall man with the missing fingers appears, send Billy to
me immediately.”

Jazz didn’t want to wander far in case Wimble summoned him,
so he spent his days reading and drinking bad coffee in the common room of the
inn or lying on his bed, fiddling with the CR and having conversations with it.
This is what I did at home
, he thought.
Nearly all I did.
“CR,
why didn’t I notice that my life was a shadow?”

The CR had no good answer, though it submitted a supposition
that Jazz’s words and tonal quality suggested evidence of depression and
suggested 20 mg subdermal insert of Bifexlin.

“Hell, CR, I would if I could.”

* * * * *

The word from Wimble and the bootblack was comforting but
uninformative. Apparently those males didn’t think about supplying details such
as how well the baby was fed or if Eliza was too pale.

He wondered if Eliza was hiring a wet nurse for Maggie and
at that moment had a clear vision of the last time he saw Eliza. She was lying
in bed, still exhausted, but smiling down at the baby at her breast. The image
was almost painful for him to conjure. Could he return to his home when the two
people he cared most about were here?

Absolutely. Of course he could. No question about it.

Even if he managed to escape the clutches of Steele and the
DHU, he wouldn’t be a part of their lives. And any alternative was ludicrous.
He’d be bribing servants for the rest of his life. Eliza and Maggie wouldn’t appreciate
a mournful spectator trying to seize occasional sightings of their activities.
He’d certainly have to flee London when Eliza finally announced her marriage.

But what about when Maggie married? He had to smile as he
imagined himself, the uninvited guest, peeking around a tree trying to catch a
peek of a radiant Maggie on her wedding day. Now there was an image a gothic
writer would love. He’d been reading far too many of those books as he waited
for Wimble, for Steele, for a sign that he should leave.

At least he had a name he could remember. Maggie, Margaret,
Magpie. Eh, would he be allowed to tell his mother she had a grandchild named
after her? A lovely granddaughter who died of old age a couple of hundred years
before her grandmother was born. At least he’d carry home the memory of
Maggie’s tiny nose, round, impossibly bright eyes and her mother’s charming
mouth.

Sickening idea, staying here. He wasn’t going to spend the
rest of his life as a pathetic voyeur, a man without a home.

The time was coming for him to leave, and he knew it. Just a
few more days, he told himself.

He’d wait just until his informants told him Eliza had taken
exercise. Billy reported that Eliza had taken a walk in the garden.

His room had no chair, so he settled onto the bed to play
another game on the CR. Yeah, soon, he’d take off.

First he’d wait until Maggie was less fussy about eating.
Billy said the baby cried less often.

Jazz knew he ran out of reasons to delay his return.

On the twenty-first day, Wimble himself came to deliver the
report. Jazz thanked Wimble for his services, then caused the man to murmur,
“merciful heavens!” at the vast quantity of money Jazz absently shoveled into
his hand. “Give some to Billy too. He needs a new coat.”

After the stunned Wimble left, Jazz sat down and wrote a
note saying goodbye to Eliza and Maggie. He explained that he had been told he
must leave. He added that because of where he was going he would never see them
again, but would miss them every day of his life. And then he threw that
version away.

After several more tries he pared the letter down to winnow
out the parts he thought Eliza might see as attempts to defend his indefensible
behavior. He smiled grimly as he envisioned her brows raised and her mouth
curled in a frown of distaste as she read his feeble reasons for abandoning her
and Maggie forever. Best not to even mention any reasons.

He delivered the note via messenger.

Now he had nothing left to do but await his own return
instructions, not a complicated part of his assignment.

He knew the instructions by heart. A whole departmental
committee was required to approve the start of any extended transport, but only
one person arranged the delivery of the return instructions for a time
traveler—the traveler himself. Actually most agents simply carried their return
instructions with them or in their heads, but Jazz had an extended assignment.
He was told to deliver his instructions the moment he knew he was done.

Jazz had heard the process of return explained, but since it
was full of DHU jargon, he’d tuned out the lecture, except for bits that
contained the steps he must take to get home. Those parts of the directions he
had feverishly recited daily, during training.

Really, his job at the end of his mission-placement was to
do nothing but wait. The letter was delivered after an agent’s return without
the need to involve human transport. Something as simple as a careful pattern
of fingerprints buried on a piece of rock would distinguish the point in time
and place the agent would wait.

The words he memorized made a simple job sound complicated.
Jazz packed his fake leather satchel. He’d be home within two days.

Chapter Eighteen

Jazz spent the whole of the next day inside the small inn
where he’d carefully hidden the small rock with this return. Nothing occurred.
No shifting, shimmering sensations gripped him.

He feared the worst. There were only two ways those
directions would fail to materialize in the future—If the DHUy died or went
native and then went back to destroy the evidence of his return instructions.
Without the careful clues in place, no one at the agency would know which had
taken place—death or rogue.

The day after he was supposed to return, he sat in the
coffee room, first drinking coffee then switching to alcohol as the daylight
waned. Now and then, Marsh the innkeeper sauntered through the coffee room to
build up the fire in the generous fieldstone fireplace.

“Something else, sir?” he asked Jazz.

“Another of whatever that was.” Jazz pointed to the glass
that had contained amber foul-smelling liquid. Brandy or port or something.

After Marsh silently brought Jazz a glass—only half full,
Jazz noticed—the innkeeper took up an offer to join a table of patrons. He
frequently stopped in his duties to gossip with the guests, apparently all
locals since they seemed to know one another.

Jazz occasionally gazed over the other tables. Interesting
how easily the men interacted. He’d begun to understand the appeal of gathering
in groups.

Wallowing in alcohol and black thoughts, Jazz stared into
the dingy, half-filled glass in his hand, and considered the possible reasons
he was still waiting for the letter.

Didn’t make any sense that he’d stay back. He didn’t
actually fear prison for his less-than-circumspect behavior on the assignment.
Eh, they knew they’d sent an almost unwilling amateur into the field.

He must have died somehow in this era. If it wasn’t Steele,
perhaps he’d done it himself. He’d heard that even suicide was hard to arrange
for DHUies. The whole ridiculous to-and-fro passages through time blurred the
mind and sanity so they’d soon learned that suicide was a common problem for
career DHUies and somehow had almost eliminated the possibility.

But of course it was Steele. He wasn’t interested in going
out to confront the man. “Come on Steele,” he mumbled to himself. “Come and get
me.”

He stretched out his legs and again stared at the other
patrons of the inn. He must have been a sight. Even the scruffy farmer in the
corner, who’d been trying to cadge drinks from everyone in the room, avoided
his glance.

Just as well no one came near. Jazz didn’t want company
unless it was Steele to settle the matter, or perhaps explain why he’d been
after him in the first place and then why he abandoned the chase.

No, he didn’t want the loony DHUy company either. Eliza’s
face was the only one he wouldn’t mind seeing across from him now.

He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling as he
tried to examine the mess in which he found himself. But for the life of him,
he couldn’t figure out why he was still here. Trapped in a stinking primitive
world with nothing, without even a networked CR, to distract himself.

He smiled at the inn’s low smoke-stained ceiling with its
thick timber supports. As ceilings went, it was a far more interesting structure
than any he could recall in his own time. He had to admit it wasn’t the world
he despised. Stinking was an apt description, though lately he was amazed to
notice he’d grown to like the busy, noisy, filthy place filled with the
astonishing variety of people.

He tapped the scarred wooden table in front of him and
remembered how impressed he was at the wooden table at the DHU. The whole of
this cheap inn was constructed of wood.

Yes, certainly, the time and place had its points, now that
the scents didn’t constantly leave him floundering for air. The books, the
plays…and the out-of-doors world, the wild spaces were rare at home—they were
more captivating than he’d suspected. A field or woods as seen from the back of
a galloping horse was breathtakingly exhilarating, a slice of freedom he had
grown to treasure—no matter how many disparaging comments Peter made about his
seat.

Perhaps the greatest freedom he enjoyed was walking among
his fellow humans and not feeling the ill-suppressed hatred at the sight of his
uncovered arm.

He had a good life in that other world, he reminded himself.
His space that he had carefully planned, quiet and safe, and filled with his
projects and CRs. Seers, he usually thought of them now, thanks to Eliza. Huh,
nope. At the thought of his home in the future, he felt indifference.

At least there he’d be able to get the treatment he needed
to recover from this whole adventure. Otherwise he was trapped in this stinking
world without Liza and Maggie, and without any way to dull the tooth-sharp pain
of their absence. No possibility he chose to stay behind.

Jazz shook his head hard—like Marsh’s dog after it waded in
the stream running behind the inn. As if a good shake could clear out the
maudlin thoughts.

He rarely indulged in a foray into self pity and now he
remembered why he avoided it. Damn useless state of mind. Alcohol was not a
satisfactory answer, and he should have recalled that from their first landing
on English soil. But perhaps he’d order another glass of something to drink anyway.
Couldn’t a person drink himself to death? He vaguely recalled seeing the
phrase.

He went outside into the cool evening air, trying to ignore
the way the world seemed to sway. He leaned over the stream and splashed cold
water on his face. Just like Spain, he thought.

But the method to reduce tipsiness didn’t work because he
was seeing things. The figure trotting through the break in the hedge next to
the garden looked just like Wimble.

It was Wimble.

Impossible. He’d already paid the man off.

But apparently the butler considered himself still on duty
for Jazz. “Sir. I recall you wished to know when a man of a particular
description visited our household? Missing some fingers? I believe his is with
us now. Friendly enough, but very odd.”

Jazz’s insides congealed. He tried to gulp air that didn’t
seem to fill his lungs.

Wimble leaned closer. “I took the liberty of coming here by
carriage. Would you care to accompany me?”

Jazz waved a hand. “Of course, lead on. Let’s go.”

Wiping his face on his sleeve, he followed Wimble into the
spacious well-sprung carriage belonging to the wealthy young Mrs. Peasnettle.
Jazz closed his eyes, but that didn’t help at all. Damn alcohol.

Come to think of it, why was he riding pell-mell to her
house? He knew Steele wouldn’t hurt her.

No, it occurred to him that Steele wouldn’t hurt the baby.
That was the only certainty or they wouldn’t be here.

He didn’t even know what Steele was doing or if he had the
agency’s best interest in mind. Jazz had no guarantees about anything and no
way to check any of it.

Wimble opened the door silently and Jazz slipped down the
familiar hall behind him. Candles glowed in the parlor. Through a crack in the
door, Jazz saw the footman who stood at attention near the fireplace. Not a
perfect chaperone but better than Eliza alone. Steele sat on one of the more
uncomfortable chairs facing the hall, obviously watching the doorway. He looked
up when Wimble entered the room.

“Will madam require more refreshment?” Wimble asked, only
slightly out of breath. “I beg your pardon for leaving without your permission,
but I hope that Charles provided sufficient service? I have fetched a bottle of
brandy from around the corner.”

Eliza began to speak again…when Steele broke in. “I know you
were gone long enough to get White. Where is he?”

Jazz sobered up, fast. Of course it had been a trap.

“Excuse me, sir?” Wimble was a very good actor.

“Would you dismiss your butler and footman, ma’am? I would
like to continue our conversation. Miss Wickman, you must understand that—”

“Excuse me, sir, I am Mrs. Peasnettle. But if you
insist…Wimble, Charles, you may go.”

Wimble retreated from the room and, of course, left the door
open. Charles the footman followed Wimble as he walked down the hall away from
Jazz without looking back, his head held high. Jazz hoped he wouldn’t sneak
back too soon.

Steele spoke. “Miss Wickman. Please don’t dissemble for my
sake, ma’am. I know the truth.”

“Y-you do?” Too bad Eliza wasn’t a good actor as well.

“Yes, and I will destroy the man. I can’t allow him to
remain alive. Please, ma’am. You must stay seated.”

There was a gasp from Eliza and a thump. She must have tried
to get past Steele.

Jazz moved closer, ready to leap into action, but stopped
when Steele continued speaking, serious, polite and determined. All the reasons
Jazz had liked him during that brief DHU training. “I hope I haven’t hurt you?
Good. I thought to spare you the knowledge but perhaps it’s best you know some
of the details. Before you judge my mission, you should know the damage White
has done. He was directly responsible for the deaths of many people. Thousands
perhaps.”

“Oh. So many.” She gave a soft whimper.

Jazz could picture how she sat, hands clasped in her lap,
trying to hold back her anxiety. What the flip was Steele telling her this for?
The man had a pretty odd idea of protocol and what need-to-know meant. He
wished he could barge in the room.

What the hell. He strolled instead.

“Good evening, Mr. Steele,” he said cheerily. “You are
looking for me? Good evening, Mrs. Peasnettle.”

Without asking for permission from Eliza, he took a chair
near Steele. The baby wasn’t in the room. Good. If only Eliza was closer to the
door he could push her out to safety.

Eliza clasped her hands tight in her lap and looked at Jazz
with a peculiar mix of fear and something else. She gave him a tight smile and
said, “No need for introductions.”

“None.” Steele still watched her and ignored Jazz. “As I
explained earlier, ma’am, I am from the government from the country where Mr.
White is also from and where he committed these crimes. I consider him a
fugitive.”

She gazed at Jazz with steady eyes. “Jas?”

He tried to think of something to say that wasn’t a lie. “I
don’t believe Mr. Steele is here in an official capacity.”

Steele looked at him for the first time. “Why are you so
sure of that, Mr. White?”

“Mr. Allen said something before I left.” He was being
circumspect, using the director’s name, but Steele apparently had lost his
sense of caution.

“The young idiot doesn’t know every covert operation in the
agency, White. I have been dispatched by others. We don’t need your type
returning as a hero.”

“You want to make me a martyr instead?”

Eliza was on her feet. “Enough. You have no right to
threaten my friends, Mr. Steele.”

“Please don’t worry, Mrs. Peasnettle. You are only
interested in me, correct, Mr. Steele?” Jazz stood slowly, so Steele wouldn’t
pounce, and turned to his former teacher. “We should take this discussion
outside.”

Eliza started forward, her eyes widened. “No, no. Stay. I
hope you would explain what on earth you’re talking about. At least I assume
it’s something on this earth.”

Jazz couldn’t help smiling. Oh how he’d miss Eliza. Time to
say goodbye to her, but at least he’d be able to say it in person.

“No, we needn’t trouble you any longer. Your servant,
ma’am.” He wished he could embrace her, but he didn’t want Steele thinking of
their intimacy. More than that, he wanted Steele out and away from Eliza as
soon as possible.

Steele gave an elaborate correct bow to Eliza. “I am sorry
to have disturbed you, but I had to draw White out and reveal the truth to you.
I knew you had a spy in your household. Are you aware that Wimble the butler
has been passing messages to him?”

“Naturally I know.” She put her hands on her hips. “I am not
an idiot, sir.”

She began to move toward Jazz, but he held up a hand, palm
out. “Please, stay here. We need to go outside. Please, Eliza. You need to take
care of Maggie.” That should make her stay put.

Steele nodded, without taking his gaze off Jazz.

Jazz walked past her and down the steps, Steele close
behind. Jazz couldn’t help that last glance over his shoulder. Eliza stood in
the doorway. Steele held a pistol pointed at his lower back. Big surprise.

The two men strolled from the house, as if they were nothing
more than two visitors who’d lingered a trifle longer at a lady’s home than was
strictly polite.

“There.” With his free hand, Steele pointed through the
thickening mist toward the lot near the end of the street shrouded in fog. A
fire had destroyed an old wooden structure and a new brick building was under
construction. The half-finished walls surrounding the worksite blocked the moon
and the curious stares of potential passersby. Someone had dug out a deep pit.
An outhouse? A foundation?

Whatever its purpose, it was the perfect place to hide a
body. Steele would probably have to come back and destroy all traces of Jazz,
but a DHUy like him would know how. Or maybe he wouldn’t because the agent had
always known this was the time and place.

Well, she-yit. What would be the point of those other
attacks? Playing Jazz like a fish. Or maybe baiting the bear. Trying to instill
fear and pain. Didn’t seem like a very professional attitude, Jazz thought. But
he never did understand the DHU and he hated the agency at the moment.

Steele walked at Jazz’s side and clutched his upper arm.
“She will be married soon. She should have met him by now, but you have been
disturbing her thoughts. I think I know, White. About what happened in Spain.”
The moonlight was hazy, but it was strong enough so Jazz could see Steele’s
twisted expression, probably reflecting disgust and hatred. Jazz realized he
didn’t actually care what the man was feeling.