The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(117)
“My aunt!” Emma remembered suddenly. “She’s an old lady . . . We must rescue her! And my maids! My God, we must tell them they can’t trust anyone!”
“Calm yourself, Miss Harlow,” the inspector hastened to reassure her, ignoring Wells’s comments. “Naturally, the very first thing we will do is to send for your venerable aunt and your beloved maids. After that . . . But let’s not waste time chattering, I shall inform you on the way. Now let’s be going!” he cried, clapping loudly and marching ahead, even as he shot Wells an annoyed glance. “Man has a thousand plans, Heaven but one,” he murmured.
Murray and Wells followed behind resignedly. When they reached the main street, they perceived a reddish glow and plumes of smoke rising above the rooftops down toward Chelsea. And as if that were not enough to make plain what was going on, the evening breeze brought the familiar hiss of the Martian rays. Emma clutched Murray’s arm, and he squeezed her hand tight.
“It looks as if they’ve already entered London,” Wells declared solemnly, trying to conceal the fear he felt for Jane’s safety.
XXVIII
EMMA WAITED FOR A FEW MOMENTS, MAKING SURE her face betrayed none of the shame she felt. When she had composed herself sufficiently, she turned toward the three men, who were standing behind her in the middle of the opulent drawing room they had just entered, and gave them a nonchalant smile.
“Well, clearly the house is empty!” she declared with a shrug. “We’ve searched every inch of it, from the servants’ quarters down to the last sitting room. Evidently my aunt Dorothy and her staff, and my maids, have vanished, no doubt to find somewhere more secure.” She pretended to smooth down the cuffs of her dress, struggling to contain her growing anger. “And it seems they’ve done so without any thought of me. Without even leaving so much as a note telling me where they’ve gone.”
“You mustn’t think that, Emma,” Murray hastened to console her. “Perhaps they had to leave in a hurry. Imagine how terrified your aunt must have felt when she learned of the invasion, a frail old lady like her.”
“My aunt is no more a frail old lady than you are a missionary,” the girl objected, finally venting her fury. “She’s a selfish old spinster who has never cared a bit for anything or anyone, least of all her only niece, as you can see.” Emma smiled ruefully as she stared at the three men, then gave a bitter laugh. “Do you know what my mother used to threaten me with when I spurned another of my suitors? ‘You’ll end up like your aunt, old, alone, and embittered!’ she would say. But the prospect never scared me. On the contrary, my mother would despair when I told her I couldn’t imagine a more agreeable fate. Only now . . . now . . .” The girl was surprised to feel her eyes suddenly brim at the memory of her mother. She could picture her sitting in the small sunny music room, peering at her daughter over her gold-rimmed spectacles with her usual look of concern, and it seemed so far away and dreamlike now, that world without Martians, where the worst she could expect was to end up like Aunt Dorothy. “I’d give anything now to take back all the times I made my mother angry,” she said at last, turning her grief-stricken face toward the large drawing room window, through which Southwark Cathedral loomed.
“Don’t fret, Emma,” Murray implored, taking a few hesitant steps toward her. “I promise you will live to infuriate your mother many more times. And even your father. I don’t know how yet, but you will return to New York safe and sound.”
Wells glanced sideways at Clayton, who was rolling his eyes to Heaven, a gesture that only added to the author’s dislike of the young man. Who the devil did that prig take himself for? Much as it pained Wells to admit it, Murray had so far proved himself a much more invaluable companion than the conceited inspector from Scotland Yard’s Special Branch. Indeed, apart from his timely intervention at the farm, Wells had yet to see what they had gained from having ferried the insufferable young man back and forth. Fortunately, the two others did not notice Clayton’s rude gesture, for they were too involved in their own drama.
“Would you care to ask your aunt’s neighbors as to her whereabouts, Miss Harlow?” Wells suggested, taking advantage of the sudden silence. “Perhaps they might know something.”
“We have no time for that, Mr. Wells.” Clayton frowned, his limited patience wearing thin. “Can’t you hear the gunfire coming from Lambeth? I’m sure the tripods are invading London from that side, too. We must leave immediately, or else . . .”
As though to illustrate the inspector’s argument, a couple of blasts in quick succession lit up the horizon through the drawing-room window. They sounded much closer.
“I have no intention of traipsing around London in search of my aunt, gentlemen. I believe I’ve already fulfilled my duty as her niece,” Emma announced boldly. “However, if it’s all the same to you, Inspector Clayton, I’d like to go up to my rooms and change into something more comfortable. I have a riding outfit that is much better suited to fleeing Martians. I’ll only take a few minutes.”
“Go ahead, Miss Harlow,” Clayton conceded, “but I implore you to hurry.”
The girl gave Clayton a little nod and swept out of the room followed by her huge, faithful guardian.
“May I go with you, Miss Harlow?” Murray asked. “Only as far as the door, of course.”