The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(104)

Wells fell asleep thinking of Jane.

? ? ?

WHEN HE AWOKE, HE sat up slowly, his muscles aching, and glanced at his pocket watch. He had been asleep for nearly three hours, although he did not feel as rested as he had hoped, no doubt because he had not managed to drift into a pleasant slumber but rather a kind of half sleep that he could only describe as fitful. His recent experiences had seeped into his dreams, turning them into a merry-go-round of disturbing images. He could not recall any of them, and yet his mind was still darkened by a terrifying, familiar sensation of falling. One thing he did remember hearing was Inspector Clayton’s voice, urging him to wake up. This was why he found it so odd that the young man was still asleep alongside him. He looked at Clayton with a mixture of pity and annoyance, wondering whether they would have to cart him around for much longer. He even considered forcibly waking him up but then decided this was unwise. If the inspector’s sleeping fits were an illness, it might not be a good idea to interfere. He left Clayton on the bed, smoothed down his unruly locks in front of the grimy mirror, and walked out into the corridor.

The doors to the other rooms were open, so that Wells could see they were empty. He went downstairs in search of his companions, but they were not in the sitting room either. Embarrassed about having slept the longest, something that gossips like Murray might attribute to his lack of concern about the grave events unfurling around them, Wells approached the kitchen, which was also deserted. Suddenly, it occurred to him that the damned millionaire might have managed to persuade the girl to leave him and Clayton behind. But this fear was soon erased from his suggestible mind when he glimpsed Murray’s carriage through the window, standing exactly where they had left it. Unless they had decided to travel on foot, his companions must still be around somewhere. Wells reproached himself for his suspicions: though the millionaire was petty-minded and untrustworthy, he appeared willing to set aside their differences given the circumstances. They were a team, now, whether he liked it or not. Baffled as to their whereabouts, the author left the house and surveyed the balmy morning that had spread over the world. The day was as calm as any other, save for the distant rumble of cannon fire from the southeast, telling him that somewhere the British artillery was doing battle with a tripod. In the other direction, a thick plume of smoke was rising beyond the distant hills that hid Epsom from view. Wells wondered how many tripods were positioned around London. Clayton had told him that other cylinders besides the one at Horsell had appeared on a golf course in Byfleet and near to Sevenoaks. However, if this was a proper invasion, there would certainly be more.

Suddenly, Wells heard his companions’ voices coming from the barn. As he headed for the door, Wells heard Emma exclaim in a frustrated voice, “This is much harder than I thought!”

“I believe rhythm is the key, Miss Harlow,” Murray replied to her calmly. “Try using short, sharp movements.”

Wells stopped in his tracks, disconcerted by the conversation.

“Are you sure?” Emma asked. “Won’t it hurt?”

“Such delicate hands as yours would be incapable of causing any pain, Miss Harlow,” was the millionaire’s reply.

“Very well, I shall try doing as you say,” the girl said resolutely.

A silence followed lasting several seconds, during which Wells stood motionless.

“Well?” he heard Murray ask.

“That doesn’t seem to work either,” the girl replied, somewhat dismayed.

“Maybe you’re pulling too hard,” Murray hazarded.

“Is that so?” Emma bridled. “Why don’t you do it yourself, then, instead of telling me what to do!”

“I didn’t mean to, Miss Harlow, I was merely suggesting—” Murray began apologizing, stopping in midsentence, as though the remaining words had stuck in his throat.

A fresh silence followed. Wells stood rooted to the spot, wondering whether or not to go in. They couldn’t possibly be . . .

“Perhaps we ought to tell Mr. Wells?” he heard Emma suggest. “He might be more experienced than us.”

Hearing his name, Wells blushed. Tell him?

“I doubt it somehow, Miss Harlow,” Murray replied hurriedly.

It piqued Wells that the millionaire should be so convinced of his lack of experience, even though he was unsure in what.

“Why not try placing your hand farther up,” he heard Murray propose.

“That’s it, I’ve had enough!” Emma flared. “Do it yourself!”

“All right, all right.” Murray tried to calm her. “But please don’t be upset, Miss Harlow. I only let you do it because I thought you liked trying new things.”

There followed another, lengthier silence. Wells resolved once and for all to go into the barn as he had originally planned. Uncertain what he might stumble upon, he approached the half-open door almost on tiptoe. When he reached it, he peeped inside apprehensively. The scene taking place inside came as a great relief. His two companions had their backs to the door and so were unaware of his presence. Murray was sitting on a milking stool, hunched forward, while a very large cow grudgingly allowed him to grope its teats with his big paws. The girl stood beside him, arms folded, viewing with a critical eye his feeble attempts to squeeze a few drops of milk from the creature.

“Well, Mr. Murray?” the author heard her say in a sarcastic voice. “Are you getting anywhere? Perhaps you should try using short, sharp movements?”