The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(59)
He moved away from the throng, visibly annoyed, and went in search of a carriage that would take him back to Worcester Park, to the novel he was currently working on, and to that cup of tea abandoned on the kitchen table. To that ordinary, everyday life of his, so distant from the romantic nonsense Murray was accustomed to indulging in. Wells shook his head. He wished the couple all the luck in the world, he thought with disdain. The girl would certainly need it if she ended up married to that fellow. She couldn’t be very intelligent, after all, if she believed a sense of humor was a sound enough basis for a relationship, he told himself as a voice in his head asked him how long it was since he had last made Jane laugh like that.
In any event, the couple’s happiness would be short-lived, because the intrepid Inspector Clayton was intent on reopening the investigation into Murray’s Time Travel. Finally someone was going to do what he himself had so long been hoping for. He gave a weary sigh, eager to get home as soon as possible and tell Jane everything that had happened so she could work her magic, bring her commonsense irony to bear on the matter, play down its importance, and invite him to view things in perspective, enabling him finally to store it somewhere in his head where it wouldn’t importune him.
Wells looked toward the hill where the carriages were parked, trying to work out how far he had to walk, when all of a sudden a distant figure caught his attention. His crooked posture suggested an elderly gentleman, and although he was too far away for Wells to see his face, he had the impression that the stranger was observing him with equal interest. Suddenly, an intense feeling of unease overwhelmed him, and he had to stop and double over, as though he were about to be sick. His stomach was churning, and his heart felt heavy with grief. He hadn’t experienced that feeling for so long . . . why now? All at once, the sensation vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving behind only a vague, lingering melancholy, and no answers. When he looked up toward the hill again, he saw that the figure of the old man had also disappeared.
11
WHEN WELLS ARRIVED HOME, IRRITATED and exhausted, Jane had just returned from London, where she had been lunching with the Garfields. He immediately launched into an account of the shameful spectacle he had been forced to witness on Horsell Common, describing to Jane each of the surprises that had emerged from the cylinder, in a tone of voice that made it obvious how farcical he had found the whole thing. And yet, as he spoke, Jane’s face began to light up more and more, until, to his astonishment, he realized that Murray’s amorous gesture thrilled his wife the way few things ever had. She opined that it was the most romantic thing a man could do for a woman, and this unreserved approval, rather than fueling his jealousy, depressed Wells, because it implied that his small acts of love were trifling in comparison. He hadn’t stepped out of a hot-air balloon in order to win her heart. No, he hadn’t. But what merit or effort did that entail, besides the logistics? Wells had won Jane’s heart on their long walks to Charing Cross station, when he had charmed her with words, simply with who he was, without the need to employ fakirs and acrobats or wear a steaming hat. He had chosen the more arduous route, using only his amusing, enveloping oratory. In other words, he hadn’t resorted to trickery. But Jane clearly didn’t see it that way. In her eyes, not only had Murray organized that whole extravaganza down to the very last detail, but he had risked public ridicule to win that woman’s heart. Would Wells have been capable of doing as much for her? Of course not, so he should start ridding himself of those old resentments, because he was building up so much hatred he scarcely had anyplace left for happiness, or even the simplest pleasures in life.
With that, she marched out of the little room and slammed the door behind her, leaving Wells by himself, high and dry. He hated it when Jane cut short their disagreements by going off in a huff to some other part of the house, not so much because it left him in mid-sentence, but because it prevented them from resolving things there and then, obliging him to argue in installments. He slumped into a chair, not yet in the mood to chase her around from room to room. Forget your old resentments, she had said, the same as when he showed her Murray’s letter. Wells hadn’t brought the subject up again since that fateful day, and as his wife hadn’t either, he assumed she had ended up forgetting about it. But perhaps Jane hadn’t forgotten about it at all, perhaps she was only pretending in order to keep the peace, and, like the corpse one thinks one has disposed of at the bottom of a lake, the matter had unexpectedly risen to the surface. Wells gave a sigh. Jane never ceased to surprise him. And yet he held no mystery for her, or so she never tired of telling him. It was as if he were transparent, his heart, digestive tract, liver, and other vital organs exposed to her scrutiny. In fact, his wife took advantage of any situation to come up with fresh theories about the workings of what she affectionately referred to as “the Wells specimen.”
Only last week, she had shared another of these revelations with him. It could happen anywhere; Wells had no way of knowing. On that occasion, they were dining at a restaurant in Holborn, and for almost ten minutes Wells had been extolling the virtues of the wine they were drinking, without being able to persuade Jane to agree with him. She had been content to smile every now and then as she listened to her husband’s rhapsody, more attentive to the ambience of the place than to his praise. And so Wells, who couldn’t bear his wife to keep her opinions to herself, much less about something he had deemed excellent, was obliged to ask her directly if she disagreed with his opinion. Jane sighed, contemplating her husband for a few moments, as though considering whether to tell him what she thought or let it pass. At last, she shrugged, and entrusted herself to fate.