The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(187)
Wells looked at her, puzzled.
“Why do you say that?
“Because it would be terrible if our narrator called our firstborn Marmaduke or Wilhelmina, don’t you think?”
So saying, she gently patted her belly. Wells leapt to his feet.
“Do you mean that . . . ? But how? Since when have you known?”
“I wouldn’t have expected a biologist to ask how. As for your second, far more sensible question: I have known for a few days, but I didn’t tell you because, well . . . I didn’t want to worry you, what with the end of the world being just round the corner and everything.”
“You didn’t want to . . .”
Wells looked at her in astonishment, as if he were seeing her for the first time. This was the woman he loved, crouched on a dusty step, embracing her knees in an attempt to cover her legs with her thin white nightie, her chestnut hair falling over her eyes, eyes that had seen inconceivable horrors, tiny and fragile like a china figurine, and yet equally capable of plunging a hairpin into the eye of the most fearful Villain as she was of consoling her husband after some critic demolished one of his novels.
“My dear . . . ,” he said with a lump in his throat, kneeling down beside her. “To think that you kept that secret to yourself all those days we were waiting for the Invisible Man to come. That you have you listened to me holding forth about Clayton, the book, the end of the world, the blasted ambush, and that you didn’t tell me anything so as not to worry me. To think that you have endured the horror of the past few hours knowing that . . . Good heavens . . . You are the bravest woman in the world! And I am a . . . boor.” He cupped Jane’s face in his hands. “We are going to have a baby!” he exclaimed, as if he had only just realized, and she nodded, tears in her eyes. “This is the most wonderful thing that could happen to us; it is fantastic, incredible; it is . . .” Wells shook his head, at a loss for words. “You see? And besides being a boor, I am a dreadful writer. I can’t even think of the proper adjective to describe this miracle . . .”
She grinned happily, abandoning herself to her husband’s embraces. “Well, don’t give it another thought, Bertie. Perhaps it is just one of those things that happen simply because they can happen.”
41
STROLLING THROUGH THE GARDEN OF her parents’ home during the first days of autumn made Emma feel doubly sad. The trees were turning a tragically bright orange, fallen leaves blurred the contours of the paths, the ponds reflected leaden skies, and a cold breeze surprised her round every corner like a capricious child. Still, even though they only made her gloomier, Emma refused to give up her walks: it was the only way of airing out her soul, now that apathy had prompted her to reduce the world to her parents’ house. She had no desire to walk in Central Park or go to the theater or opera, or pursue any activity that involved meeting people. She didn’t want them looking at her pityingly, assessing her strength or fragility. Nor did she wish to receive the spurious condolences of those who had criticized her when she had announced her betrothal to the millionaire Montgomery Gilmore. New York had never interested her, and now the entire world and all its inhabitants didn’t interest her either, because he was no longer among them. But at least she had the garden, which with all its secret corners was big enough for her to wander around, fleeing her mother’s kindly gaze. It was her second refuge.
Her first was her dreams. Those curious, often-recurring dreams. When she awoke, she couldn’t remember all the details, yet she felt a tiny spark ignite in her frozen heart, a sensation that lasted almost the entire day. And she had no doubt that this pleasant warmth was because she had spoken with him. The dream was always the same: she was in her room, doing something, when he called to her from the mirror. She would go over to the glass where he was reflected, pale and gaunt, his hair disheveled, as if he were trapped in the kingdom of the dead. After smiling at each other for a long time, they would try to hold hands through the mirror, but they never could, and he would end up beating his fists against the glass in despair, furious that they were so close and yet so far away. When at last he calmed down, she would ask him to forgive her for having insisted that she drive, because if she hadn’t he would still be alive, and he would shake his head and say it didn’t matter, and, between sobs, he would promise to come back, to find the way to reach her world. Emma did not know what those dreams meant, but they were so vivid that the following day she could not help peering into all the mirrors in the house with a mixture of foreboding and anticipation, as though expecting to find something reflected there other than what was in front of them. On those days when the imprint of his voice warmed her heart, it felt as if he were less dead.
Lost in her thoughts, Emma walked down one of the paths leading to the pond. She studied her reflection in the grey water: a figure in mourning, a black, quivering teardrop. She breathed a sigh, folding her arms around herself, and rocking gently. She closed her eyes, trying to grasp the sensations the dreams aroused in her, that warm, pleasurable memory that made her glow inside.
“I’ll come for you,” he would tell her in her dreams. “I promise. I will find the way to reach your world. The word ‘impossible’ doesn’t exist in my vocabulary!”
And she believed him, just as she had always done. Yes, he would find a way to reach her, to bridge the abyss separating them. How could she not believe in a man who had asked for her hand by planting a Martian cylinder on Horsell Common, who had created a world within a world only for her, who knew how to make her laugh? How could she not believe that this man, who alone had achieved the miracle of making her fall in love, would not come for her? That was why, whenever she was in the garden, she would make herself forget he had died, pretending he was simply keeping her waiting interminably the way he used to, and that she was putting up with it because she knew that sooner or later he would arrive. He would arrive inventing the most hilarious excuse, tying himself up in such knots with his apologies that, instead of justifying himself, he would condemn himself hopelessly. But he would arrive. She had never had the slightest doubt about that, so why should she doubt his promise now? Because he had only made it in her dreams? Because the man who had promised he would come back lay six feet under the ground?