A Mother's Life - Chapter Seven
1 June 1891 (Old Earth Date)
London, England
Samara wondered just how women handled wearing the fashions of this time period. They were bulky, confining, and it would have been extremely hard for her to defend herself if she needed to.
The dress that River had found for her was a very complimentary blue, however. The skirt and short jacket were the same colour, the same shade as the Boeshane sky at dusk, and the crisp white blouse worked very well with the high-waisted skirt and black belt. The collar, though, had a lot to be desired, as it was itchy, and the tiny buttons on the blouse had been difficult to work with.
And she wasn’t about to get started on the highly impractical hat that was perched on top of the precariously shaped hair style.
Rhys, though…he looked as if he’d worn a suit like that all of the time. It was black, and looked incredibly formal, but it was perfect for him. The waistcoat was form-fitting, which made him seem a bit bulkier than she was used to seeing, and it was as if Samara was really noticing him for the first time.
She wanted his hat, though. She was going to steal it when this was over and wear it back home.
They were both seated at a small café outside what River had pinpointed as the offices for Warehouse 12. It was a nondescript building, much like all the other ones on the street, the brick façade stained with soot, giving it a dingy aspect. Steps led up to a large stoop, with two gas lamps on either side of the wooden door, skinny windows with black wrought iron bars keeping anyone from getting into the building through them. Another pair of lamps stood on tall posts at the bottom of the steps, their glass stained from the flames that would be lit when it became closer to dusk.
The air smelled funny, like eggs that had gone off. Samara had to take into consideration that pollution levels at this time had been extremely high, with the most popular way of heating homes being coal and other fossil fuels. The skinny trees that someone had decided would have been a good idea to plant at equidistant sections of the sidewalk drooped under the weight of the heavy air, and Samara had to wonder just what she’d be coughing up once they got back home.
Horses clopped along the cobbles of the street, carriages rattling their way along. It was noisy, and to be honest it was giving Samara a bit of a headache. It was mid-afternoon, and it wasn’t even all that busy yet. It would be later on, when people left their jobs and headed home. However, there were enough pedestrians on the sidewalks that it made people-watching easy.
“How did people live like this?” Rhys murmured. They’d both ordered tea - using money that River had provided - and it was fairly good, although not on par with Ianto’s coffee. The small cakes that had come along with the teapot were a bit too sweet for Samara’s taste, and she was afraid to find out what ingredients had gone into them. She wasn’t about to pretend she knew anything about this time period, especially the nutritional values of certain foods, but she did know that these early human beings hadn’t been afraid to practically poison themselves with certain things.
Rhys seemed to be enjoying them, however. He’d also dosed up his tea with cream and the white cubes that he’d explained were also sugar, but Samara had refrained.
They’d been sitting in the café - or tea room, as Rhys had called it - for a good two hours without a sign of the woman they were looking for. It had been a gamble to stake out the Warehouse; they had no real guarantee that Helena Wells was even inside. For all Samara knew, her ancestor could have been at home, having a day off, or had only been part-time with Warehouse 12. The records of this time were spotty to say the least; not even Torchwood had a lot on the Warehouses in their files, which was a surprise to Samara. There were some handwritten notes, but they’d been added after the fact, as it were, and were apocryphal at best and downright wrong at worst.
Still, River had been as thorough as possible in digging up what Samara had needed. Now, she could only hope she had the right lever in which to move Helena Wells into helping them get those eggs from the Warehouse. Her hand strayed to the pocket of her jacket, making certain her last resort was still there.
To say that Rhys had been shocked that the author, HG Wells, had actually been a woman would have been an understatement, but once that was out of the way he’d said he could certainly understand why she’d hidden it. At this period in Earth history, women were no more than second-class citizens, and Helena hiding behind her brother’s rather public face in order to write her novels had made sense to him.
Samara knew that, somewhere, out there, her son was working for Torchwood was an uncontracted agent, pressed into service against his will as he waited for the Doctor to arrive, hopefully to take Jack away and explain to him just how he’d become immortal.
Also, Ianto was living at Ddraig Llyn, hiding away from a world that had been responsible for the destruction of his race.
Her boys were out there, and she couldn’t even go and look for them.
“We’re going to have leave soon,” Rhys pointed out. “We’ve really been here too long as it is. We’re gonna start drawing attention to ourselves.”
“Well,” a voice drawled from behind Samara, “more attention than you already have.”
Samara twisted in the uncomfortable chair. Standing just behind her was a very familiar woman.
Helena Wells was dark-haired and dark-eyed, the opposite of Samara herself. Generations had wiped away any family resemblance between the two of them. Their quarry was dressed in men’s’ clothing: dark trousers and long coat, with an embroidered waistcoat underneath. Her collar was open, revealing a large locket, one that Samara had seen every day of her life. While the photograph it had once contained was long worn away by her time, the locket itself had survived.
Helena’s knowing eyes were laughing at them, even though she looked serious. “You both are rubbish at surveillance,” she commented, taking a chair from an empty table and sitting herself down with them.
Rhys rolled his eyes. “Well, it’s been a while since I’ve had to be sneaky, so I think I could be forgiven for it.”
“You’re Welsh,” Helena said, cocking her head, examining Rhys from head to his waist, where the table cut off any further exploration. Probably checking to see if he had any weapons, Samara realised.
“Born and bred in Cardiff,” Rhys confirmed. “My companion, though, is from somewhere else entirely.” He held out a hand. “Rhys Williams. This is Samara Jonasson.” It was Franklin’s surname, and Samara had thought it was safer than going by either Wells, or Harkness. She knew Jack had been on Earth in this time period, and didn’t want anything traced back to him, not knowing if Harkness was an unusual name. Williams, of course, was fairly common, so Rhys was safe using it. “And, believe it or not, we’ve actually been waiting for you, Miss Wells.”
Helena hesitated, but then accepted Rhys’ handshake. Samara also offered to shake; Helena’s hand was warm, with some interesting calluses. Her grip was strong, and Samara met that strength with her own.
She could tell that Helena was impressed. “Well, you’ve found me…or, should I say, I’ve found you,” she answered as she took her hand back.
“Tea?” Rhys offered, lifting the pot.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Helena waved toward one of the girls on the floor, who brought over a fine china teacup and saucer.
She seemed surprised when Rhys did the pouring, but didn’t comment. Instead, she added cream and sugar to her cup, stirring almost daintily with a silver spoon.
Rhys topped off Samara’s cup, and she thanked her friend for it. Helena must have caught her accent, because one eyebrow went up and she enquired, “American?”
Samara recalled from their research that America had been a major world power in this time period. In fact, her accent was Boeshane, but apparently it was close enough to pass for an American one. “You could say that,” she demurred, taking a sip.
Helena accepted that. “So, if you were looking for me, there must be something you want.”
“There is, actually.” Rhys put another cake onto his plate, but didn’t eat it. “We’re hoping you can help us with something.”
One side of Helena’s mouth went up in a slight smirk. “It depends on what you need help with.”
To be honest, Samara was somewhat intimidated, now that she was face-to-face with her ancestor. Helena Wells was so much more than how the stories had painted her, and Samara didn’t feel as if she measured up in some way. HG Wells had become a legend, with her novels - the majority of historical texts now acknowledged that the famous author had actually been a woman. Samara was a highly-trained scientist, but nothing on the scope of the woman sharing tea with them.
Still, she had to convince her to get those eggs for them. Samara hoped she was up to the task.
Rhys caught her eye, giving her a small nod of encouragement. He was with her, to support her, and to make certain she got through this.
It was time for her to take the lead in their mission.