The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(67)
On the afternoon they were to meet, Wells arrived at Ascot with his lips set in an expression of dignified defeat. Murray, who wore an elegant grey frock coat with matching waistcoat, was in high spirits as he welcomed them and guided them to his box, thanking them effusively all the while for having come. On the way, they were forced to pass through a sea of people, who glided from one side to the other like languorous ballet dancers, gauging each of their gestures to appear as dignified as possible. All the other gentlemen were dressed like Murray, in immaculate grey frock coats, with white flowers in their buttonholes. The tips of their mustaches were waxed, and around their necks hung the obligatory binoculars. For their part, the ladies showed off their beautiful gowns, many with long trains it was difficult not to step on, strings of pearls, lace parasols, and huge, preposterous hats. Emma was waiting for them in the box. She had on a tight-fitting white dress with a black stripe down each side that enveloped her curvaceous figure from neck to toe. In keeping with the Ascot custom, Emma, too, wore a flamboyant hat with a large black-and-white-striped ribbon, a spray of white gauze, and two bright red blooms, which, like an oyster, seemed to enfold the beautiful pearl of her head. When Wells saw how warmly the two women greeted each other, and how Murray reveled in their company, he thought it best once and for all to cast off the role of resentful sarcastic fellow he had insisted on playing and to enjoy that splendid afternoon at the races along with everyone else. If he went on swimming against the tide, he told himself, he would only end up drowning. And so he pretended to blend in with those wealthy, stylish creatures, and he and Murray soon found themselves making fun of the mannered gestures of the gentlemen in the neighboring boxes and looking for comparisons among the ladies’ impossible headwear.
“That one is shaped like a bell,” said Murray.
“And that one resembles a shark’s fin,” Wells parried.
“And the one over there a toadstool.”
“And that of her friend a bird’s nest,” Wells said, and then, before Murray had a chance to point out another, he quickly cut in, flaunting his superior inventiveness: “And the one that girl is wearing looks like a bowl of fruit.”
Murray looked at the woman Wells was referring to and nodded silently, grinning to himself.
“Well, can you come up with a better comparison?”
“Oh, no, George, as always you have hit the nail right on the head. I was only smiling because I know that girl. And I assure you she is capable of far more fanciful acts than sporting such a hat.” Wells looked at the young woman, intrigued. “Her name is Claire Haggerty, and the gentleman beside her is her husband, the son of a rich shipping magnate called Fairbank. We met them at a party last week. She didn’t recognize me, of course, but I could never forget her.”
“And why is that?” asked Wells, imagining some kind of romantic entanglement.
“Because she was one of the group who went on the second expedition I organized to the future,” replied Murray. “And when I saw her climb aboard the Cronotilus, I swear I would never have imagined that bubbling away inside her little head was the mad idea of separating from the group and hiding in the ruins in order to stay behind in the year 2000. Luckily, we found her before she was able to get very far. I hate to imagine what might have happened if we hadn’t discovered her in time.”
“And why would anyone want to live in a ruined world?” Wells murmured, incredulous.
“I think she fell in love with Captain Shackleton.” Murray smiled good-humoredly. Wells raised his eyebrows. “I assure you she wasn’t the only one, George. You can’t imagine the extent of some young girls’ fantasies.”
“Well, she seems to have found her hero without having to travel to the future,” Wells said, noticing how the young woman doted on her affluent husband.
Murray nodded and, looking away from the couple, began rummaging through his pockets.
“Incidentally, George, I brought you something.”
“Another invitation to travel to the year 2000 to add to my collection?”
Murray’s loud guffaw almost made the box quake.
“You should have accepted one of them, George,” he said. “I guarantee you would have enjoyed the trip. But no, I’m afraid it’s something else.”
With a solemn gesture, he placed in Wells’s hands the letter he denied having written. Wells opened it and at last was able to read the advice someone else had given Murray, to forget about reproducing a Martian invasion and simply make Emma laugh.
“Well, what have you to say now, George?”
A triumphant smile appeared on Wells’s lips.
“This isn’t my handwriting, I assure you,” he told Murray, passing the letter back to him, “and I can prove it to you whenever you wish. As I told you, this was written by an imitator.”
Murray folded the letter again and slipped it back into his pocket with great care. Then he studied Wells with an amused grin.
“Don’t you think an imitator would try to reproduce your handwriting? Besides, how do you explain a stranger replying to a letter only you and I know exists?”
Wells shrugged. For a moment he imagined Jane replying secretly to the letter he hadn’t wanted to answer but instantly ruled that out. Jane would never do anything behind his back. Besides, that wasn’t her handwriting either.