The Map of Chaos (Trilogía Victoriana #3)(92)
After the carriage had gone, Murray took a deep breath, and putting on a smile, he turned toward where Emma was waiting for him in the automobile.
She pointed a menacing finger at him. “Stay right there, Mr. Gilmore! You will be traveling in the passenger seat, for I am pleased to inform you that your future wife will be piloting this old wreck to the next port of call.”
“I won’t hear of it, Emma,” protested Murray. “Driving this thing isn’t like steering a little two-horse buggy in the park. It’s difficult to control and very dangerous . . .”
“So you don’t think I’m clever enough to do it? If I put my mind to it, I can do anything just as well as you, if not better.”
“I wouldn’t dream of denying it, my darling. In fact, I’d say it is one of the few certainties in life. But driving, well . . . it’s not ladylike.”
“What do you mean?” Emma retorted, ignoring the implied compliment. “Remember, you were the one who told me, on our way here, that the first long-distance journey in an automobile was made by Bertha Benz, a woman. And if I’m not mistaken, you said that she drove sixty-six miles, stopping off at pharmacies en route to fill the gasoline tank. So . . . why won’t you let me drive?”
“Change places, please, Miss Mournful.”
Emma had opened her mouth to protest but instantly closed it. Monty had addressed her by the nickname they used in private. Each had given the other a secret pet name, which they promised never to pronounce in front of anyone else, for by mutual agreement they had imbued it with the highest power any word could possess. They could spend all day larking about and making little digs at each other, but when one of them called the other by his or her nickname, it meant that the frivolous, delightful game they were playing must wait while something more serious took over. Emma’s nickname had come about the day that she had shown her fiancé a beautiful drawing she had brought with her from New York, a kind of map depicting an imaginary sky filled with wonderful creatures and fantastical marvels. Her great-grandfather had drawn the map especially for his daughter, and it spoke of other worlds where everything was possible. Perhaps that was why it had been such a comfort to her throughout her childhood, when she was a sad, mournful little girl who was convinced nothing would ever make her happy. But that little girl still hadn’t met Montgomery Gilmore, the most infuriating of her future suitors, the one who would assure her that he could make any of her wishes come true, however impossible that might seem.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Impossible?”
Murray contemplated his fiancée, a lump in his throat, trying to commit to memory the light in her eyes, which were, perhaps for the last time, gazing at him with such tenderness. He pursed his lips until he felt he could speak without his voice faltering.
“I don’t want you to drive. There is something I have to tell you that . . . might upset you a little. In fact, I’m sure it will upset you a lot; you might even be angry with me. Although right now I’d give anything if an angry outburst were the only consequence I had to suffer. In any case, I’d better drive.” He opened the door and extended his arm to Emma, who looked at him, wondering whether she should ask him to be more specific about this mysterious subject or change seats obediently. “Please, Emma,” Murray insisted, thrusting his arm more forcefully at her as his eyes began to fill with tears. “Trust me.”
Emma needed no more persuading. She took her fiancé’s hand and stepped out of the automobile, looking uneasily into the glinting eyes of that big man she had never seen weep.
“It’s all right, darling,” she said, stroking his cheek. “I don’t know what it is you have to tell me, but I’m sure it can’t be all that bad. You know I trust you implicitly.”
17
TEN-YEAR-OLD TOMMY DAWKINS PEDALED AS hard as he could down the path from his back garden to the Hexworthy Road as he tried to outrun the wind. He could feel his ears buzzing and his hair blowing, and he was almost sure that right then nothing in the whole world was faster than he and his bike. When Benjamin Barrie saw him ride up to his door on that amazing machine, he would have to eat his words. That idiot was always making fun of him, saying he couldn’t walk without tripping over his own feet. Well, that morning Barrie would discover that walking and tripping over weren’t all he could do. Barrie was about to discover that Tommy Dawkins could fly.
When he saw the junction ahead of him, he began to pedal even harder, getting ready to swerve into the road with one of those sharp turns he had practiced so often toward dawn, before the servants were even up, and unbeknownst to his brother. He felt a pang of anxiety at the thought of the drubbing his brother Jim would give him if he ever found out he had been riding his precious bike without asking and had even gone to the village on it. Luckily, Tommy’s brother had just gone to the war in South Africa, and by the time he came back, if he ever did, Tommy didn’t think he would be upset over something so trivial. Tommy narrowed his eyes and leaned over the handlebars. So lost was he in dreams of glory, and so loud was the wind in his ears, that he didn’t hear the roar of the automobile coming along the road he was about to ride out into, hidden from view behind a bend. And if Tommy had been five seconds slower spreading honey on his toast that morning or tying his shoelaces, then that day would certainly have been his last on earth. But fortunately for him he wasn’t meant to die until fifteen years later in a train crash and so, seconds before Tommy swerved into the road, he was forced to slam on his brakes because of a miracle on wheels that suddenly appeared from round the bend. The bike skidded and came to a halt at the end of the path, so that Tommy could fling one foot to the ground.