The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(61)

Wells rose from his chair and, eager for life to return to normal, went to find Jane and beg her forgiveness, which she conceded at about midnight. However, although on this occasion Jane appeared to have forgotten Wells’s disappointing way of showing his love for her, or was pretending she had for the sake of keeping the peace, he was unable to. Not because of any grudge he bore, but because Murray was preventing him. In the days that followed, there wasn’t a single newspaper in the land that didn’t contain some sycophantic reference to his extraordinary, marvelous exploit, or a men’s club where his audacity or daring was not the subject of a passionate debate. From the moment Murray made his unusual request for Emma Harlow’s hand on Horsell Common, the couple had become the talk of the town. Hundreds of people with miserable lives contemplated them with adulation, happy that someone could achieve their dreams for them. Wells tried his best to avoid the astonishing display of public devotion toward Murray and succeeded for a while by avoiding newspapers and society gatherings.

But his luck could not last indefinitely, and two months later the two men’s paths crossed at the opera. Wells had taken Jane to see Faust at the Royal Opera House and was comfortably ensconced in his seat, ready to enjoy that moment when all the circumstances seemed to coincide favorably (the chair was comfortable, he was close enough to the stage not to have to strain his eyes, he admired Goethe’s work, the acoustics were excellent . . .), when all at once a disruptive element appeared. There was a general murmur, and people began to turn their opera glasses away from the stage toward one of the boxes, which Montgomery Gilmore had just entered, accompanied by his fiancée and her aunt. Realizing all eyes were upon them, Gilmore gave a magnanimous salute worthy of a Roman emperor, and motioned to Emma to curtsey gracefully, under the disapproving gaze of her aunt, that formidable-looking grande dame. A burst of enthusiastic applause rose from the audience. It couldn’t be denied that happiness seemed to suit the couple down to the ground, and yet Wells refused to join in the noisy ovation. He remained with his arms folded, watching Jane applaud, and in doing so making it very clear that their difference of opinion over the matter would remain forever irreconcilable.

Once the curtain went up, Wells did his best to enjoy the opera; but, as Jane had predicted, the destabilizing factor of Murray’s presence impeded him from doing so. He shifted in his seat, suddenly unable to get comfortable, while an almost visceral loathing for the genre began to take hold of him. He closed his eyes, blacking out the stage where the soprano was trying to decide whether an elegant Faust truly loved her. Wells opened his eyes and was preparing to close them again when Jane noticed the face he was pulling. She placed her hand gently on his, giving him a smile of encouragement, as if to say, Ignore this intrusion, Bertie. Enjoy the performance, and put all other thoughts out of your mind. And Wells let out a sigh. Very well, he would try. He wasn’t going to let Murray’s presence spoil his evening. He attempted to focus on the stage, where Faust, in a plumed hat and tight-fitting purple doublet, was walking in circles around Marguerite. But the sound of whispering a few rows behind immediately distracted him. What a beautiful young woman, he heard someone comment with admiration. Yes, and they say he asked for her hand by reproducing the novel of some chap called Geoffrey Wesley. Wells had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from uttering an oath. How long before that stupid opera finished?

? ? ?

OUTSIDE, ONE OF THOSE drizzles typical of London had set in where most of the water seems suspended in the air, unable to penetrate it. When the operagoers stepped out of the theater, they had the impression of plunging into an enormous fish tank. The footmen, splendid in their red and gold uniforms, strove to bring some kind of order to the chaotic procession of carriages slowly approaching the entrance to the Royal Opera House. The ladies sent their male companions—husbands or beaux—on the heroic mission of rousing their drivers to vie with the other carriages while they sought shelter beneath the portico, forming into selective groups and exchanging pleasantries about the opera, although most of them had given it but a fleeting glance. All anyone wanted was to arrive home as quickly as possible, take off their damp coats, asphyxiating corsets, and excruciating shoes, and put their aching feet up in front of the fire. And yet they all smiled politely, as if they wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. In many ways it made far more interesting viewing than the performance they had seen in the theater.

One of the men exposed to the rain was Wells, who was doing his best to capture the attention of the nearest footman by tapping him gently on the shoulder, but to no avail, as the man was too busy barking at the sleepy coachmen. Tired of being jostled and apologized to by his male companions, Wells decided to return to the portico, where he had left Jane talking to an elderly couple called Stamford. Discreetly concealed behind one of the columns, Wells surveyed the sea of top hats and elaborate bonnets in search of Jane’s modest hat decorated with pale pink roses, scarcely looking up for fear his and Murray’s eyes might cross. Fortunately, there was no sign of his enormous frame protruding from the crowd like a bookmark. Perhaps he was one of the lucky ones who had found a carriage, Wells thought hopefully; or, true to his old habit of taking what did not belong to him, perhaps he had appropriated someone else’s. He glimpsed Jane’s chestnut hair a few yards away and walked over to her with a feeling of relief, but scarcely had he taken a few steps than a huge paw landed on his shoulder, threatening to hammer him into the ground.