The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(83)
“Goodness gracious me . . . ,” murmured Lady Harlow. “I’m afraid, dear girl, that your fiancé has decided to abandon his admirable habit of going through life without wearing a mask.”
Ignoring her aunt, Emma descended the front steps, coming to a halt at what felt like a safe distance from the machine. Gilmore gazed at her, spellbound. She looked so enchanting with that astonished expression in her dark eyes that he could only give thanks once more to whoever had made possible the miracle of a woman such as she being in love with him.
“Emma, my darling! What do you think?” he shouted eagerly as he struggled to open the door so he could run over and fling his arms around her before the magic of the moment faded. But the handle was stuck fast. “I told you I had a surprise for you! It’s a Mercedes, the first modern automobile! It’s only a prototype, so it isn’t even on sale yet. I had to wait while they made a few last minor adjustments in the workshop, that’s why I’m so late. But it was worth it, don’t you think? Just imagine! It can go up to fifty miles an hour almost without shaking! You’ll see how comfortable it is, my love: like drifting on a silent cloud!” Gilmore tried desperately to force the handle, than stood on his seat to clamber over the door. But when he lifted one of his long legs, his shoe became stuck in the steering wheel, and there he stood, as though caught in a trap, his heel pressing on the horn, its deafening blast making Emma recoil. Gilmore fell back onto the seat in an ungainly posture, and the racket continued as he wriggled about trying to free his shoe from the unfortunate snare. Only when he had succeeded did the pitiful wail cease so that Gilmore could leap out of the vehicle. He stood gazing at his fiancé, tongue-tied, his face bright pink, his jacket crumpled, and his goggles askew. Emma raised an eyebrow.
“Did you say a silent cloud?”
The two of them burst out laughing.
Six months later, Lady Harlow would declare on her deathbed that the air around them had sparkled as the couple laughed. But there would be no one there to hear her, for she would die alone, her only companion an impassive nurse who came and went without paying much attention to the dying old woman’s babblings. Yes, Lady Harlow would repeat those words to herself over and over. She had seen it with her own eyes as she stood on the front step: at first, she had thought it was an optical illusion caused by the mist, or possibly the lamps of that monstrous machine, but after the couple had left, and during the weeks that followed, as the now incurable solitude of that empty home gradually poisoned her soul, nourishing the tumor that six months later would deliver her into the arms of grim Death, she became convinced that she had witnessed a true miracle that morning.
“The whole world,” Lady Harlow mumbled with her last breath before the stone-faced nurse, “was no more than the precise length of each moment that separated them.”
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AND JUST AS EMMA clambered aboard her fiancé’s automobile and gave a little gasp of excitement, several miles away, Wells gasped, too, but out of boredom. He had started off feigning a polite interest, but as the carriage rattled toward Dartmoor, Doyle’s tedious descriptions of his latest sporting exploit had increasingly plunged Wells into a slough of despond, finally convincing him that the jaunt wasn’t going to be as enjoyable as they all imagined.
But how could things have gone so awry? In the days leading up to the trip, he had made all the arrangements, convinced that Murray’s idea would not only be a pleasant change for everyone but would also allow him to resolve, at a stroke, the twin problems that had been worrying him lately. The first concerned Murray and Doyle, whose initial encounter at Arnold House hadn’t gone as smoothly as Wells had hoped. Since Murray and Emma were making their own way to Devon, the Wellses had arranged to travel in the same carriage as Doyle. That would give Wells the chance to mollify him before his second encounter with Murray. He didn’t think that would be too difficult, for although Doyle had a fiery nature, which he himself admitted, blaming it freely on his Irish blood, he was also incapable of bearing a grudge. In that sense he differed greatly from Wells, who possessed the dubious ability to protect the smallest seed of hatred against the winds of time. As for Murray . . . well, what could he say about the new, lovesick Murray, who seemed willing to be friends even with the devil himself? Despite having gotten off on the wrong foot, Wells felt sure the two men were destined to get along, for they had more in common than either was prepared to admit. Given a second chance, it would only be a matter of time before they would end up the best of friends, which was precisely what Wells planned to intimate to Doyle on their way to Dartmoor.
The second problem was the one that most concerned Wells. Since both he and Murray had been otherwise engaged, this would be the first time they would meet since that fateful day when Wells had told him he should reveal his true identity to Emma. Wells had begun to fret over the disastrous possible consequences for Murray if he were to follow such foolhardy advice and had inquired about the matter in some of the notes they had exchanged confirming details of the forthcoming trip; but since Murray had warned Wells never to put anything relating to his true identity into writing, he had been forced to use all sorts of euphemisms and innuendos, and he very much doubted that he had correctly interpreted Murray’s equally cryptic replies. However, as the days went by, the absence of any other news had put Wells’s mind at rest. The planned excursion was to take place and, more important, so it seemed was the wedding. And that could only mean one of two things: that Murray had confessed to Emma without any major falling-out, or that he still hadn’t told her. In the first case, Wells would simply undertake to congratulate his friend and rejoice with him over the success of his shrewd piece of advice; in the second case, Wells would have to find the right moment during the trip to take Murray aside and confess his qualms about the recommendation he had made in front of the hibiscus bush, thus absolving himself from any responsibility.