"A fine speech, Beresford." Oxford smiled. "If a little slurred. You should lay off the alcohol-it's bad for you."
The marquess grinned. "Why don't you bugger off to July 1, 1838," he said.
"No sooner said than done," came the reply, and the time traveller departed.
Half a year later they were together again.
Beresford had aged.
"I'm sorry, Edward, but there's absolutely nothing to report but the fact that he lost his job, due to his odd behaviour, and now works at Minton's Tavern. Beyond that, it's the same story: he lives with his mother, no friends, no potential among the regulars."
"Thank you, Henry. I'll see you at the end of the year."
"You'll not stay? I haven't seen you for ages! Stay and talk."
"I can't. I have to get this settled as soon as possible. I want to go home, Henry."
The marquess sighed. "Then go, my friend, but mark you, I'll not be satisfied with such fleeting visits. Next time, you'll remain and socialise a while!"
The next time was January 1, 1839.
"He handed in his resignation just before Christmas. Good news, Edward, we are entering rather more familiar territory. In a fortnight he'll start work in the Hat and Feathers. He told me so himself. You'll tarry a few hours, at least?"
"Next time."
The months passed.
To Henry de la Poet Beresford, whose riotous lifestyle was gradually adopting a surprisingly philosophical motive, the world was the world. However, had he possessed Edward Oxford's knowledge, he would have recognised that it was no longer the world of the history books. Something had diverted it from its course and it was accelerating in a different direction.
That something was the marquess himself.
He had spoken rather too carelessly to Isambard Kingdom Brunel back in 1837, and had inadvertently planted the seed of the Technologist movement in the famous engineer, just as, thanks to Edward Oxford, he himself carried the seed of the Libertines.
The man from the future was oblivious to this state of affairs when he appeared on July 1, 1839.
"I've missed you, my friend," said Beresford.
"Hello, Henry. I haven't missed you. I was just with you! Remember New Year's Day? Help me off with my helmet, would you? Is it still burning?"
"More so than ever. And that thing on your chest is spitting fire too."
"I'll have to stay here a while to make repairs, if you don't mind."
"Good! You'll be welcome. I've missed our talks. Here, wrap this dust sheet around your head; I'll pull the helmet off."
Once the suit was removed, the two men settled in the morning room, which, by the middle of '39, was one of the few comfortable chambers left in the mouldering mansion.
"Wine?"
Oxford laughed. "You've forgotten again! I'm still digesting our dinner of two years ago!"
"By James, this takes some getting used to!"
"How are things, Beresford?"
"My reputation has spread far and wide, my friend. Do you know what they call me now?"
"What?"
"The `Mad Marquess'! And do you know why?"
"Because you're a hopeless drunkard?"
Beresford laughed. "Well, partly. But mostly because I've been breaking through those social conventions which you claim so suppress us `Victorians.' In fact, Edward, I have it in mind to start a movement to demolish the whole edifice of mannered behaviour. You have convinced me that man is capable of far more once he's free."
"Ambitious! And what of the boy?"
"Ah, the esteemed Original! He's been at the Hat and Feathers since January. 'Mr. A. W. Smith' from the Ratcatcher has followed and the young lad is most flattered to learn that the aforesaid gentleman considers him the best potboy in all of London! Ha ha! I don't know, though, Edward; it's a small tavern and I haven't seen him making any particular friends there. For a while, I thought I'd found our quarry in one Lucy Scales, an eighteen-yearold. She can't be the one he marries in Australia, of course, but she's the right age to become that girl's mother."
"Why her?" asked Oxford, his eyes glinting with interest.
"Because in February she was attacked around the corner from the tavern and his reaction to it was extreme. I wasn't there at the time but apparently he flew into a fit of hysteria and had what amounted to a mental breakdown. He recovered a couple of weeks later and went back to work."
"So you think he might have a particular attachment to this girl?"
"It crossed my mind, but on closer examination I found that he'd never met her, or her parents, or anyone who had anything to do with her."
Oxford pondered this news for a few moments, then asked, "Anything else?"
"Yes-some cunning preparations on my part! The Original is obsessed with making a name for himself; he wants-and I quote-`to live on through history. "'
"What a fool I was to approach him in my time suit," interrupted Oxford. "It scared him out of his wits, what little he has of them. He picked up on my words and twisted them to bolster his delusions of grandeur."
"Those delusions are working in our favour now," offered Beresford. "I have initiated him into a secret society of my-or, rather, of A. W. Smith'sown invention. It's named `Young England' and has twenty-five members."
Oxford slapped his hand down on the arm of his chair. "Please tell me you're joking! You're getting twenty-five people involved?"
"Of course not! They're all entirely fictitious, just like the organisation itself! "
"So what's the point?"
"The point is this: Young England intends to overthrow the country's aristocracy-the likes of me!-and replace them with what you might call the `purebred worker.' I won't go into details, Edward, because it's all nonsense. I've been spinning words and sending the poor young fellow dizzy with it. But the upshot is that each member of the organisation must find for himself a wife who embodies all the best qualities of a working girl. She must be assiduous in her duties, virtuous and demure in manner, honest and loyal, and-well, the usual idiotic drivel.
"The Original is now on the lookout for such an impossible maiden. He's been primed to investigate the background of every girl he encounters. He will even hand to me a written report for each!"
Edward Oxford laughed; a brittle, edgy sound.
"You're a sly dog, my Lord Marquess, that's for sure! I must admit, though, I'm impressed with your resourcefulness."
"I'm happy to help. I'll leave you to work on your repairs now, but a little later, I insist that you'll sit and take wine with me. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
Oxford spent the evening with his host, slept, then, in the morning, jumped into the air and didn't come down until January 1, 1840.
"Six months to go before the queen gets it, and things are hotting up!" announced Beresford.
"Really?" rasped Oxford. His eyes seemed to be focused elsewhere. "Tell me."
"Our man is now working in the Hog in the Pound on Oxford Street. As his most faithful customer, A. W. Smith, I followed him there. My fellow drinkers don't realise that I'm the famed Mad Marquess!"
"You're famous now?"
"Yes, Edward; though I suppose `infamous' would be more accurate. I have quite a following of young bloods! Anyway, that's beside the point. As I was saying, the Original is now at the Hog in the Pound. The tavern is owned by a chap named Joseph Robinson, who lives in Battersea. Every week, he ships a group of families there from his borough for a knees-up. They call themselves the Battersea Brigade, and are supposedly a protest group opposed to the building of the power station."