Oxford nodded, reddening.
Beresford laid a hand on his arm. "I shall have my man bring you a basin of hot water and some soap, towels, and fresh clothing. You look to be about my size, a little taller, perhaps. I shall also instruct the cook to prepare you something. Will that be satisfactory?"
"Very much so," replied Oxford, suddenly realising that he was famished.
"Good. I shall leave you to your ablutions. Please join me in the dining room when you are ready."
He stood and walked toward the door.
"Incidentally," he said, pausing, "your accent is unfamiliar-where are you from?"
"I was born and raised in Aldershot."
The marquess grunted. "No, that's not a Hampshire accent."
He opened the door to leave.
"What news of the queen?" Oxford blurted.
Beresford turned, with a puzzled expression. "Queen? Do you mean young Victoria? She's not quite the queen yet, my friend, though His Majesty is said to be on his deathbed."
Oxford frowned. "What date is it?"
"The fifteenth of June."
"Still June!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"What year?"
"The year? Why, 1837, of course!" Beresford looked at his guest curiously. "Are you having problems with your memory, Mr. Oxford?"
"I-yes-a little."
"Perhaps you'll remember more once you have some food inside you. I'll see you downstairs."
He left the room and moments later his valet, a thin and stiffly mannered gentleman, sidled in carrying a large porcelain basin, two towels, and a bar of soap. The valet departed then returned with a full set of clothes. For a third time, he went away and came back, this time with a bucket of steaming water, which he poured into the basin.
Finally, he spoke: "Will you require anything else, sir?"
"No, thank you. What's your name?"
"Brock, sir. May I offer you a shave?"
"I'll do it myself, if you don't mind."
"Very good, sir. There is a bellpull beside the bed, here. Summon me when you're ready, and I'll escort you down to the dining room. May I take your, er, costume to be laundered?"
"The costume, no, Brock; I'd rather take care of that myself, if you don't mind. However, I have a suit on underneath and I'd be very grateful if you'd arrange for it to be washed. I'm afraid it's in rather a state."
Brock nodded.
Oxford sat up, removed the control panel from his chest, and slid his finger down the time suit's front seal. Brock's eyebrows rose slightly but his face remained impassive as the strange material fell open and Oxford shrugged out of it.
The suit beneath followed and was handed to the valet, along with the soiled underclothes.
Wordlessly, Brock departed.
Oxford washed, shaved awkwardly with the cutthroat razor, and put on the clothes Beresford had loaned him. They felt rough and irritating against his skin.
He turned the time suit inside-out and wiped the inner surface clean. The fish scales held no charge and, he guessed, had been flat for the past few days. A few minutes beneath the open sky would revitalise them. The control panel was severely damaged. Until it was repaired, he would be unable to travel. The most pressing problem, though, was that it was no longer able to transfer power from the suit's batteries to the helmet, which meant he had to somehow survive without augmented reality. Here, inside the house, with just a few people present, that wouldn't be a major issue. However, wider exposure to this time period might result in culture shock, which, in theory, could be intense enough to threaten his sanity.
He rang the bell and Brock reappeared.
"This way, sir," said the valet.
Oxford followed him out onto a broad landing and down an ornate staircase. As he descended, he noticed that the house was in an extreme state of disrepair. Its onetime opulence had sunk into a lazy decadence; the moulded trim around the edges of the ceilings, once painted in bright colours, was now flaked and faded; the wood-panelled walls were warped and split; the rugs, hangings, and curtains were threadbare; plaster had cracked; dust and cobwebs had gathered.
They reached the foot of the stairs and passed along a corridor, turned into another, and another.
"What a house to get lost in!" muttered Oxford.
"Darkening Towers is a very old mansion, sir," commented Brock. "The man who built it was somewhat eccentric and it has been added to many times over the years. The master purchased the estate less than a month ago and has not yet had the opportunity to effect repairs."
"It's a veritable maze!"
"The dining room, sir," said Brock, opening a door.
Oxford passed through into a long, shadow-filled room. It was hung all around with portraits of stern-looking elders. A chandelier was suspended over a banqueting table. Beresford rose as he entered.
"Ah, my dear Mr. Oxford, you appear much refreshed. I trust the clothes fit you?"
"Yes, thank you," replied the time traveller, though in truth they were a little tight.
Brock ushered him to the opposite end of the table and pulled out the chair for him.
He sat.
The valet bowed toward Beresford and left the room. His place was taken by a butler, who stepped to the table and poured red wine for the two men. A couple of maids hurried back and forth, bringing plates of meat and vegetables. The various odours seemed thick and cloying to Oxford; too rich and intense, as if the meal had been marinating in butters and fats before it was cooked. He eyed the food uncomfortably, noting the rivulets of grease on its surface, but, nevertheless, his stomach rumbled.
Beresford emptied his glass in a single gulp, was served another, and said loudly, "So how's the memory, my friend? Has anything come back to you?"
Oxford hesitated.
He made a decision.
"My Lord Marquess-"
"Henry, please."
"Henry. I have decided to tell you everything because, the truth is, I desperately require help. Do you mind if we eat first, though? I'm half starved!"
"Not at all! Not at all! Pray settle my mind, though-you are not from a circus, are you?"
"No, I'm not."
"And your costume is something more than it seems?"
"You are very perceptive, Henry."
"Eat, Mr. Oxford. We shall talk afterwards."
An hour later, the time traveller, feeling bloated and a little sick, accepted a brandy, refused a cigar, and told his host almost everything. He omitted the queen's assassination and, instead, claimed that he'd travelled back through time simply to meet his ancestor.
They had moved to the morning room after the meal and were sitting in big wooden armchairs beside a crackling fire.
Beresford was drunk.
He was also incredulous.
And he was laughing.
"Great heavens above!" he roared. "You're as fine a storyteller as that Dickens fellow! Have you read Pickwick?"
"Of course I have. This isn't a fiction, Henry."
"Balderdash! What can be more fictive than a man from the future being propelled into the past by a suit of clothes?"
"Yet I maintain that that's what happened."
"You're a strange one, I'll admit," declared the marquess. "Your speech is rather too direct for an Englishman, your manner too casual by half. I have you down as a foreigner, my friend!"
"I told you-I was born and raised in Aldershot."
"In the year 2162, you say. What's that? Some three hundred and twenty-five years from now?"