Timekeeper (10 page)

That’s my dad!
Michele marveled. Until now, she hadn’t admitted how much of her life she’d spent wishing for her father. She had always longed to know what it felt like to be able to introduce friends to “Dad,” to know that he would be there to pick her up when she fell, to walk her down the aisle when she married.

“I just want to be certain that you know what you’re getting into.” Michele heard Irving’s urgent words and sat up straighter, watching the scene closely.

“Of course I do,” Marion answered firmly. “I don’t need any of this—not the money or the mansion, not any part of this life, if it means I can’t be with you.”

“But Marion,” Irving said hesitantly, “you’re still so young. What if you leave everyone and everything you’ve ever known, only to later discover that you don’t like all you see in me?”

“Not this again!” Marion said, giving him a playful shove. “How many times do I need to tell you? I love you just the way you are. I’ll never want anybody else.”

“Are you sure?” he asked in a low voice. “Because if I had the chance … I would spend every moment of every day with you.”

“That’s all I want too,” Marion said intently, and a smile flickered across her face. “When you start thinking like this, just remember our song.”

“Which one?” Irving grinned. “You’ve only named everything on MTV this year ‘our song.’ ”

“No—our real song,” Marion told him, and she began to sing in her hopeless voice:

“Don’t go changing to try and please me
.

You’ve never let me down before
.…”

Irving laughed and watched adoringly as she jumped up to perform in the middle of the secret passageway. Her unrestrained passion and pitchy singing made a sweet and hilarious combination, and Michele giggled through her tears as she watched her mother belt out off-key:

“I need to know that you will always be

The same old someone that I knew
.

What will it take till you believe in me

The way that I believe in you?”

By the end of the song, Irving was in her arms, the two of them slow-dancing in goofy fashion as they sang the Billy Joel song together.

“I just want someone that I can talk to
.

I want you just the way you are.”

They finished the song in a heap of laughter, Irving kissing her hair as they embraced.

“You’re the best thing that I’ve seen in this world,” he told her fondly. “And believe me, I’ve gone far.”

“Yeah, it’s quite a trek from your place in the Bronx to Manhattan,” Marion joked, flushing happily. Irving didn’t respond, but Michele knew what he had meant. In his time travels across more than a hundred years, Marion Windsor had made the greatest impression of all.

Suddenly, black-and-white dots of static filled the screen. Michele’s face fell as her parents disappeared, the sound of their far-off laughter echoing in her ears. It was a gift to see them together, even if only on videotape—but remembering that both her mother and father were gone, that the three of them could never be a family, brought forth an almost mind-numbing pain. Then Michele thought of the secret passageway in the video and felt a twinge of hope. Her grandparents must not have known about it; otherwise Marion and Irving wouldn’t have risked getting caught there in the middle of the night. What if her parents had unknowingly left more clues behind?

Michele jumped off the couch, grabbing the small flashlight that she kept under the bed, and hurried downstairs to the library. Heart hammering in her chest, she moved toward the glass-enclosed wall of books. She had the sudden fear that her grandparents might have somehow learned about the passageway and sealed it shut.

Please let it still be here
, Michele prayed. Holding her breath,
she pushed against the glass, just as she’d seen Marion do in the video—and it swung open.

Michele clapped her hand over her mouth, watching the dark stone tunnel from the video materialize right in front of her. Her body trembled with nervous anticipation as she slowly climbed inside. She was immediately struck by the scent of a man’s cologne … a classic scent. Something one might have worn in the nineteenth century.

“Dad?” she whispered, daring to hope. “Are you there?”

Proceeding farther through the tunnel, she flicked on the flashlight just before the darkness could envelop her fully. The thin ray of light was far from powerful, and she felt along the brick walls, using her hand to guide her.

“Dad … can you hear me?” she called out desperately, feeling slightly ridiculous. After what seemed like half a mile, Michele realized she had reached the end, marked by a small wooden door. Upon seeing it, she found herself looking up at the sky, breathing in the afternoon air. Holding the door open so she could get back into the passage, she craned her head and saw that she was below the ground of the Windsors’ back lawn.
Who would build a passageway like this?
Michele wondered as she crept back inside. With a heavy heart, she made her way toward the library, feeling lonelier than ever without the animated, affectionate presence of her parents.

Suddenly, her foot caught on something. Michele held on to the walls to stop from falling and shined the flashlight toward the ground. She froze in place.

A box lay at her feet—a box with Marion’s name written in old-fashioned lettering.

Goose bumps covered her entire body as Michele sank to her knees. She knew even before opening the box that it was from her father. With shaking hands, she lifted the lid and found three leather-bound books inside, with a yellowed sheet of handwritten paper at the top. The writing was so old and faded that Michele had to squint and hold the paper up against the glow of her flashlight to read the words.

Dearest Marion
,

I have lain in wait for you for twenty terrible days, from the moment I was forced back to a world that I can no longer stand to inhabit. I’m unable to do anything but stare at the door, expecting to see you run through it, and every moment that you don’t is a moment that I curse myself for the decision I made. I live in fear of a life spent without you
.

I see now that I made a horrible mistake by not confiding in you. I was certain that when you found the key, you would be brought here to me—and now I fear that I was wrong, that I have no way of reaching you. My only hope is you returning here to our secret place and finding the answers I’ve left. I pray every day that you will, and that once you read my story you might forgive me
.

I am withholding nothing from you now. Here you will find out about me what I should have told you from the start. I know it will be a shock, and I apologize … I should have prepared you for this. Please believe me when I say that everything I did
,
whether right or wrong, was to protect you and keep you safe
.

I love you, from here through eternity
,

Irving Henry

By the time she reached the end of the letter, tears had blurred Michele’s vision. Her father must have never guessed that Marion would blame her parents for his disappearance and refuse to return home. She imagined him spending the rest of his life in agony, wondering and waiting for her.
If only Mom had seen this
, Michele thought, her throat tight with anguish.

She set the letter down and reached inside the box. The first item she retrieved was a leather-bound volume with no title on its cover. Michele curiously opened the book to its front page.
The Handbook of the Time Society
.

What in the world is the Time Society?
She flipped to the next page, which was blank save for a sketch of a coronet circling a clock.

At the bottom of the box were two journals with Irving’s name inscribed, the first one dated 1887–1888 and the second dated 1991–1993. Anyone else looking at the two journals would think they were a joke, that they could never belong to the same person. But Michele knew the truth.

1888—that was the last time Irving and Rebecca were ever photographed together
, Michele remembered, quickly retrieving his 1887–1888 journal. She needed to find out everything she could—before it was too late.

6

THE DIARY OF IRVING HENRY
December 24, 1887—New York City

I arrive at Grand Central Depot in the midst of the Christmastime chaos, watching as white-gloved porters swarm the well-to-do ladies and gentlemen in first class, eager to help with their monogrammed trunks and valises. No one pays me any attention, but I’m none too surprised. I’m used to fading into the background. As a butler’s son, I’ve grown up knowing that my role in life is an inconspicuous one.

I find myself whistling “Oh Susanna” as I navigate the terminal, jostling through the crowds of men and women as they hurry onto different train platforms. The ladies’ long skirts trail the floor in front of me, while children in their Christmas best
struggle to keep up, clutching the hands of their nannies. Occasionally I spot a student like myself running to hop a train, and I tip my hat to one wearing a vest stitched with the logo of my university, Cornell.

As I open the doors leading to Forty-Second Street, I brace myself for the cold. Sure enough, there is a biting December wind, and snow flurries fall from the twilit sky. Hansom cabs and horse-drawn jitneys are hitched outside the station, and I jump into the first one available.

“Merry Christmas! Seven hundred ninety Fifth Avenue, please.”

“Are you certain about that address, boy?” the driver asks skeptically.

“Of course I am,” I reply, swallowing the familiar annoyance at the blatant surprise people always express when they learn that I know the Windsors personally.

“If you say so.” The driver cracks the whip, and we’re off! I grab hold of the inside door handle to keep from getting tossed across the carriage seat as the horse clip-clops at a fast trot over the cobblestones.

We make our way uptown, and I can’t help smiling as we pass one brownstone after another with its lights aglow, decorated evergreen and fir trees sparkling from the windows. As we draw closer to Fifth Avenue, the roads become clogged with horse-drawn carts, wagons, and coaches, as well as pedestrians crossing in their holiday finery. At last I spot the majestic Gothic Revival structure of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and I know that we are almost at 790 Fifth. But at that moment my vision blurs. I blink a few times, and then open my eyes wide.

I am looking at an unrecognizable, unfathomable New York. Though I am still in the horse-drawn cab, still gazing out the window at St. Patrick’s, the church now has two magnificent twin spires where none existed a moment earlier! Buildings stretch impossibly high, as if they are reaching for Heaven. The roads are a smooth concrete, no more cobblestone, and the vehicles on them are
self-powered
—no horses pull them, nor do they even need cable or rail tracks to run! These vehicles are unlike anything I have ever imagined. Meanwhile, the residential, exclusive Fifth Avenue has transformed into block upon block of unfamiliar shops and commercial buildings. Most shocking of all are the people, especially the young women. They walk the avenue unchaperoned, and actually wear
trousers
!

I squeeze my eyes shut. When I finally open them, the scene has returned to normal, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

I’ve been plagued by these visions ever since I was a little boy. Instead of simply seeing a town or a city as it is, I can somehow see it as it
will be
. I’ve never told anyone about the visions, not even my father when he was still alive. I was too afraid he would deem me mad. But I must admit there are times when I actually
hope
for the maddening visions to come and show me another glimpse of the future. I feel I am meant to be a discoverer, a scientist, and my most frequent lament is that I was born too early. I exist in too primitive a time period—I can’t stand the thought of being left behind with the other ghosts of the nineteenth century, missing out on all the incredible advances and inventions that I sense are farther around the bend.

Moments later we reach Millionaires’ Row, the stretch of Fifth Avenue where gargantuan estates stand in competition
with one another. I can’t help laughing aloud at a dreadfully ill-conceived few that are a mishmash of architectural styles, clearly built with the sole aim of impressing spectators rather than making comfortable homes. White Elephants, I remember my schoolmate Frederick calling these ostentatious mansions.

But when the hansom cab stops at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Ninth Street in front of a pair of stately wrought-iron gates, I find myself speechless. I can’t think of a single disparaging comment as I catch my first glimpse of the Windsors’ brand-new home, which fills an entire city block! If only Father had lived to see this.

I spot two familiar footmen, wearing baroque eighteenth-century-style liveries and powdered wigs, stationed just inside the gates. Quickly paying my fare, I jump out of the hansom cab to greet them.

“It’s awfully good to see you, boys!” I hurry toward them, beaming.

“Welcome back, Irving!” The older footman, Oliver, smiles with approval as he takes in my appearance. “University must agree with you. You’re looking very healthy and well.”

“Miss Rebecca will be
most
pleased to see you,” teases Lucas, the footman my age who was my closest friend before I went away to school.

I shake my head at them, about to make my retort, when a formal carriage pulls up to the entrance. I glance at the two of them awkwardly. Normally, I would have been outside with them in matching liveries, an extra hand to help greet the guests. But tonight, for the first time, I am a guest, and it gives me an odd, out-of-place feeling.