The Time Traveller's Servant

The Time Traveller's Servant

Author's Note

HG Wells's story "The Time Machine" was published in 1895 - a tale about an erudite inventor who builds a device to travel in time. My work is based on that: in fact, it puts the heroine of my tale - Daisy Potter - into the beginning of HG Well's original story. To do so I pinched the start of his story in terms of the description of his device and some of the characters to whom he demonstrates it. I fully acknowledge the genius of HG Wells and his work, and apologise to any who might be offended by my tinkering.

Around this central core, however, the work is all mine. It expands on the character of the inventor, explains his theories in my words, and it superimposes Daisy into the story to the point where she becomes the major character in her quest to right a tragedy.

This work is not erotic - if you want that, please look elsewhere! It is a love story: of the tragedy of a love snatched away before its time, and the yearnings of a simple girl who discovers something of herself and others in an attempt to bring it back.

I hope you enjoy it.

Hot_Sister. November 2011.

Prologue - England, March 1893

Daisy Potter sat beside her husband on the high seat of the carriage, dressed in her finest clothes and brimming with excitement at what the day would bring. It was Wednesday, and they were heading into the market. Rory Potter sat tall and straight beside her, his hair slicked down and his stiff collar white against his skin, and his blue eyes sparkled as he turned and looked at her.

'What were you thinking of buying, Daisy?'

She smiled up at him, happy that he was so ebullient. This outing was a rare treat indeed, for Wednesday was normally a working day and there was scant money for luxuries - but her employer had asked them to go into the market, and she had emptied coins from their little clay piggy-bank and found there was enough for a new frock and perhaps some material as well. Rory, who was the head Syce for the estate, had asked the foreman if he could exercise the chestnut mare, and so here they were, heading into town on a beautiful spring morning, the paintwork of the little carriage shining and the traces on the harness jingling like tambourines.

'I don't really know, Rory. I was thinking of something with bright colours, perhaps, with the Spring dance coming up.'

He nodded, his eyes on her face. 'I think that would suit you nicely, Daisy - it would set off the colour of your hair.' He glanced at the thick tresses set that escaped from under her bonnet to curl over her collar, dark brown and glossy in the morning sun, and he smiled as he remembered rising from her bed this morning, gazing down at her as she slept, her lashes dark against the rosy dusk of her skin. He remembered last night, too, and he laughed with the sheer exuberance of being so lucky in love.

They were passing the Fotheringale's farm, the neat white buildings set back from the road, almost hidden from view by the tall hedge of yew and honeysuckle. Beyond it was Hunter's Hill, the winding road disappearing from their view before meandering down the other side of the crest and thence into the township. The hedgerows were full of life - the bright splashes of primroses and daffodils and the sparkle of dew in the early morning sun. The horse's hooves rang on the road's surface, a steady beat that was comforting with its dependability, and she could feel the warmth of Rory's hand on her sleeve, even though the material of her coat. She felt him grip her arm, his voice animated as he spoke.

'Hello, what do we have here?'

Daisy looked ahead to see what had captured his interest. It was a Brewer's Dray, a huge cart loaded with barrels of ale, and it was stuck on one side of the road. It was canted over at an angle and Daisy could see that the two wheels on one side had run off the hard surface and sunk into the soft earth, close to the edge of an embankment that fell away steeply from the side of the road. The whole thing was in danger of tilting over, which would have been disastrous for the two beautiful Clydesdale horses still in harness. The driver was using his whip on them, and they were straining to pull the heavy load forward, its wheels slipping and skidding on the steep surface, dragging a furrow in the soft mud of the verge.

Rory brought the buggy alongside and reigned in the chestnut with a hearty 'Whoa, girl!' There was a lather of sweat on the Clydesdale's coats, steaming in the fresh morning air, and the froth bubbled around their mouths. They stood with their heads down, and Rory could see that they were almost blown.

He handed the carriage traces to Daisy. 'Just move on a bit, love,' he said, 'and I'll hop down here and see if I can help.'

He went up to the two horses, touching their velvet muzzles, calming them a little. There was a young man on the driver's bench, and Rory called up to him 'I'd not be hitting them any more, son,' he said. 'They're just about knackered.'

The driver was petulant, his voice high and reedy and his lips soft and wet. 'I have to get this load to market.'

'You'll go nowhere if you keep using the whip.' Rory stared up at him. 'Hold off a moment, and I'll look to see what can be done.' He patted the nearest horse and then moved down the side of the Dray, his feet slipping and sliding. The mud coated the two nearside wheels, thick and black and glutinous, and it clung to Rory's shoes and brushed against his clean trousers. He could see Daisy a little way beyond, the traces gathered in her slim hand, staring back at him with concern. He held onto a spoke of one of the massive wheels and peered underneath. The whole cart was twisted, the two bogged wheels at different levels, and he could hear the great oak trusses that supported the iron axles creaking under the strain. He glanced forward, observing the fall of the embankment ahead and how it dipped slightly before flattening out, and he thought that if they could drive through the dip there was a chance of pulling the front wheel back onto the road.

He climbed back onto the road and spoke to Daisy. 'I need you to take the reigns on the Dray,' he explained, 'and to ease the horses forward when I call.'

She nodded, climbing down as he took off his coat and laid it on the carriage's seat. 'Don't let them jerk,' he said, 'move them nice and steady. I'll get the driver to hold the traces and guide them up away from the bank.'

She regarded him, her face worried. 'Where will you be, Rory?'

'I'll ease the back wheel a little, as best I can. It's important that it doesn't slip further down the bank.' He smiled. 'I'm afraid I'll get a bit muddy.'

She shook her head in dismissal. 'No matter...but you be careful, y'hear?'

He nodded and reached forward to touch her on the shoulder. Later she was to remember that moment of intimacy - the white of his teeth against the dark lustre of his skin; the marvelous blue of his eyes and the web of laugher lines at their corners, and the curl of his blonde hair against his collar as he bent to kiss her on the mouth, his lips warm and soft; and then he laughed with the joy of being alive on such a glorious day, and he went forward to speak to the driver.

Daisy flicked the reigns, and saw the muscles in the two great backs in front of her bunching as they took the strain. The driver was on the road, guiding the horses away from the bank, and she could hear Rory's shouts of encouragement from somewhere behind her. For a moment nothing happened, then the Dray began to move, still canted over but gradually correcting, the wooden structure squealing under the strain. The front wheel entered the dip and was pulled up out of it, towards the road's surface, and the cart began to move a little faster. She was urging the horses on, flicking the reigns and shouting encouragement, and she felt the rear wheel tilting further as it entered the dip. Only a few feet more and they would be clear, and she shouted again, her voice shrill. 'Gettup, there! Ha! Ha!'

And in that moment the horses reared up, spooked by something, and the cart rolled backwards sharply. The rear axle supports parted like a gunshot, the sound loud and clear in the crisp morning air, and the wheel collapsed. The back of the Dray titled violently as its underside fell onto the soft earth beneath, and the wheel was flung clear, twisting upwards as it moved. Its steel-shod rim struck Rory just under his knees, shattering both shins, and he was flung ten feet down the bank to land on his back with his arms outstretched like a crucifix. The impact knocked his breath from his body and he lay there for a moment in astonishment before the pain from his shattered legs reached his brain. He could see the blue of the sky above him, and the great wooden body of the Dray canted towards him, massive from this low perspective; and he could see Daisy turning to see what had happened, her face white with shock and her mouth open, her lips moving without any sound.

For a moment all was still, and then he saw the great barrels of ale break free from their straps and tumble out of the tray, cartwheeling towards him in slow motion. The first missed him by inches, the rush of wind from its passing swirling his hair, but the second struck him squarely in the chest. For just a second he retained awareness - hearing the brittle crack of his ribs and then feeling the enormous weight of the cask, a sense of overwhelming force driving him deep into the rank, muddy earth. There was a sudden spurt of blood in his mouth, and then just a moment of agonized awareness, of overwhelming regret at leaving her thus. His blue eyes blinked twice and then opened widely, staring upwards at the bright spring sky, their light and vitality dulled forever by the dark swirling envelope of death.

February 1895.

Daisy Potter stood before the big oak desk and looked at the man behind it. He was tall and his hair was slightly unkempt, curling over the collar of his shirt, and his clothes could have done with pressing. The hands on the polished wood surface had long, sensitive fingers stained by nicotine or perhaps some other substance, and the arms on which they were suspended were thin. His face was broad, the forehead slightly bulging, and his lips were finely sculptured under the thin grey moustache. But it was his eyes that drew her attention - they were gunmetal grey, as clear as water in a mountain stream and sparkling with interest and intelligence as they regarded her.

'Won't you sit down, Miss Potter.' The voice was soft and measured. She could not imagine it ever being raised in anger.

She settled into the proffered chair and looked around. The room was clearly his study and was desperately untidy, with every surface covered with books and papers piled high on one another. The long mustard coloured drapes on the windows behind the desk were stained, hanging limply like old laundry, and the glass behind them was smeared and indistinct. To her left a log fire crackled in the grate, giving the room a cheery outlook despite its untidiness, and one or two pictures hung unevenly on the walls.

She turned her gaze back to the man to find him regarding her keenly, his eyes full of amusement at her presumption. 'What do you see?' he asked her.

'I beg your pardon, Sir?'

He smiled at her. 'I saw you looking around, Miss Potter...tell me what you deduce. I'm interested in your perceptions.'

She gathered her thoughts. 'Well, Sir, I can see that this is your study. I would say you are a learning man.' She paused, glancing at his face to see if she was offending, but he only nodded. 'You have many books, but only refer to a few of them as the dust on their shelves is undisturbed. You spend many hours in here, for there are three oil lamps to give light. You mostly spend time behind your desk, not in other parts of the room -'

'How do you know that?'

'Because the carpet is threadbare between your desk and the door, and the chair you sit on is very worn.'

He smiled again. 'Exactly right. What else do you see?'

She shrugged slightly, looking around the room to elicit more clues: the ashtray and the empty balloon glass, and the sagging chair before the fireplace, the only one not occupied by books. 'You smoke cigars lightly and have an occasional glass of brandy, I would say, Sir, and sometimes you sit before the fire and consider things.'

He nodded again. 'Can you tell my line of work?'

'The books are weighty, and there are many papers here that suggest that you read extensively, and that keeping up with matters is important. I see no medical models, nor pictures of anatomy though. I would say that you are...' she pondered a moment, '...a Researcher, perhaps?'

He laughed, his teeth white and even. 'Almost right. I am a Scientist, and I have spent all my life researching.' He regarded her with interest. 'And you are seeking a position as a housekeeper, Miss Potter, and yet you have a keen eye and bright intelligence. Tell me a little about yourself.'

Daisy cleared her throat and regarded him. 'Well, Sir. My mother was a housemaid for many years - that is, before the rheumatism put her at home, Sir - and I helped out a bit where I could. I worked as under-housemaid in Lord Envoy's employment for a while, before he passed away, and then -'

'Yes, yes, I can see all that from your references. But what of schooling, and education?'

'Very little, Sir, I'm afraid. My father passed away when we were little, and my mother had three children to raise. We all worked from very young.' She looked down at her lap for a moment. 'I love to read, when I can.'

'What do you read?'

She smiled again. 'Almost anything. I love to read stories of great people...of what they have done, but I'll read anything else, too.'

The man regarded her. She was a pretty girl, of that there was no doubt, of average height - that is to say, about five foot eight, and of slim build. Her face was perfectly symmetrical and of oval shape, with brown eyes that seemed bigger than they should be. Her nose was slightly upturned and her lips could only be described as rosebud, full and luscious and slightly curved at the corners to give her a sense of laughter and fun. Her hair was tied back under her bonnet, dark brown and shining with health, and her sombre dress could not hide her youthful figure that curved its way down to her slim and shapely ankles. He wondered why she was not married, or perhaps engaged.

'May I ask if you have an attachment, Miss Potter?'

He could see the colour rising in her cheeks, a dusty rose hue that darkened the smooth lustre of her cheeks. She thought of Rory, with his blue eyes and sense of fun, staring up at her as the life ebbed out of him. She shook her head - the past was the past, and nothing could bring it back. 'No, Sir,' she said softly. 'There was someone, but he was taken from me a year or two back.'

'I see - I'm very sorry.' He swiveled his chair around and looked out of the grimy windows for a few moments, his broad head in silhouette, and then he turned back.

'The employers you have worked for all had large households, Miss Potter. I don't have that luxury. It would just be you and the cook, you see. I need someone to help her, and to do the cleaning and perhaps wait at the table a bit when I have guests. Can you do that?'

She smiled down at him, a dimple appearing each side of her mouth and her face lighting up. 'Why, yes Sir, of course I could.'

'And when could you start?'

'Now, if you wanted.'

He nodded. 'Very well. Why don't we try you out? A month on probation, say, on seven shillings a week and your board. You may have two afternoons a week off, as well as Sunday. We'll talk again after the month to see what is to be done then. Does that suit you?'

She nodded, her eyes shining. 'Yes, Sir. Thank you very much.'

He smiled at her enthusiasm. 'That's good, then. Well, let's go and see cook, and she can explain your duties.' He rose to his feet, coming out from behind the desk and moving lightly across the floor. 'There is one thing, Daisy...if I might call you that. I don't just do research, I...invent things. I have a laboratory, which is through that door opposite.' He indicated a green door off to one side of the hallway, the paint dull with age and the handle tarnished from many hands. 'You are expressly forbidden to go in there unless I am with you - do I make myself clear?'

'Yes, Sir.' She wondered what was behind the door that was so important to him.

'Very well. Now, come and meet cook.'

And so it was that Daisy Potter came to work for the Professor, as she came to call him. The month of her probation passed in a flash and she was hired on a full time basis as they suited each other admirably, which was odd considering their different temperaments. He was absent minded, untidy, unpunctual and sometimes obscure in his speech - whilst she was none of those things: but she loved the informality in the work, and the feeling that everything she did was not only appreciated, but actually needed as well.

Daisy felt empowered for the first time in her life. Born into a poor working class family, economic reality and social stigma would have condemned her to a life of labour. Her early years in service had been a torment: a relentless routine of cleaning and fetching, of mindless chores and long hours. It would have been hard for even those of limited intelligence, but for Daisy it was especially difficult as it constrained her so much. Her marriage to Rory had been the one light in her life, as he was a bright and ambitious man and together they may have climbed out of the spiral of poverty: but even that chance was snatched away.

Now here was the opportunity for learning, and she seized it with both hands. Slowly at first, and then with growing confidence, she soaked in learning and knowledge. The Professor's library became hers, and she began to catalogue it so that its contents were known. And she read books: a few autobiographies - mainly of scientific people, and then journals and papers that scientists had published, extolling theories or reporting on results. Much of the jargon was difficult at first, but the Professor was always willing to explain something and in time she could follow some of the logic and marvel at the fecundity of those that wrote them. She would dust the many displays in his laboratory - always with the Professor present - and would learn their names and their purpose, and she would help him with his experiments from time to time and carefully record each result in her neat round handwriting.

Her mind, unfettered by much previous learning, expanded rapidly. She had a natural curiosity that caused her to ask why things were as they were, and often she found the answers unsatisfactory. She and the Professor would sometimes spend an hour or two in the evenings together, discussing a new paper or perhaps working together in the laboratory, their minds teasing out a problem. His mind was methodical and ordered, with logic as his weapon of choice - but hers was as free as a bird flitting from one branch to another, asking questions that she thought were obvious but which often got right to the heart of an issue to question its very validity.

And so, with time, she became more than just a housemaid - she was his sounding board, his research assistant and, although he would not have admitted it, his companion to share thoughts and ideas in the evenings after the day's work was done.

One evening she was sitting with the Professor in his study. He had offered her a little sherry and she had accepted, in deference to his habit of taking a small glass of brandy with his cigar. They sat in companionable silence for some moments, the crackle of the fire loud in the room and the smoke from his cigar swirling upwards to the yellowed cornice above their heads.