The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(138)

“Charles, I think everyone here will agree that there is a fine line between impudence and downright ill manners, and tonight you seem intent on stepping over that line,” I heard my wife say. Clearly, whilst considering our argument too important to dispel with a tender embrace, she did not mind breaking our silence with a reproach.

“My dear, it is impossible not to take an interest in another person’s life without being ill-mannered. If not, one risks falling into mendacity,” I said, turning to her. “You better than anyone ought to know that, or do you intend to put me in the awkward position of reminding you in front of everyone that yours was one of the sharpest tongues when commenting on the matter behind your dear friend’s back?”

I admit that my comment was too much of a poisoned dart, but one cannot always judge these things properly. Victoria bit her lip, suppressing her rage, and I confess I felt a pang of remorse, even though in those days I was convinced that remorse was a luxury I could ill afford.

“You pride yourself on your exquisite manners, Mr. Winslow,” Peachey intervened, at last forgoing his wife’s protection and stepping valiantly into the fray, “yet you don’t seem to know how to treat your wife, much less to make her happy, as I do mine.”

I wheeled round, ready to fend off his attack, but the accuracy of his blow caught me off guard, and, just as even the finest swordsman can make a false move, I mistakenly answered him with a question.

“And how did your sharp mind arrive at that conclusion, Mr. Peachey?”

Peachey used my slip to better advantage than I could have imagined, mirroring my smirk to perfection.

“Because, as we all noticed, you left her here alone, while you went out to attend to apparently more pressing matters.”

I had to clench my fists so as not to reveal the pain his answer caused me, and I confess, when I replied, I was hard put to maintain my habitual composure.

“I don’t think you are best placed to judge the urgency of my affairs, Mr. Peachey. But at least I decide what I do or don’t do in the light of the affection I feel for my wife, and not for fear of upsetting the person to whom I owe my position.”

Peachey pursed his lips once more.

“Do you dare question my love for Mrs. Peachey?” he demanded, no longer bothering to conceal his anger.

I grinned: the time had come to administer the killer punch.

“My dear Mr. Peachey, I couldn’t possibly do such a thing without belittling one of society’s most beautiful and interesting young ladies. But, make no mistake, if I were to dare to question your love for our adorable Claire, attributing it to something other than her myriad qualities, what I would actually be calling into question would be your manhood.”

Peachey clenched his jaw, trying hard to contain his rage. This he managed by snorting a little, the way some animals do.

“Charles, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” Claire protested behind me.

“My dear Claire, you women are very good at believing whatever suits you,” I replied, turning toward her, while out of the corner of my eye I observed Peachey remove his spectacles, close them, and place them in his jacket pocket very carefully, like someone officiating at a church service.

“Don’t speak to my wife like that, Mr. Winslow,” he said calmly, making sure his spectacles were properly protected.

The fact that he did not deign to look at me enraged me more than what he said.

“Is that an order, John?” I said, grinning at his veiled threat and spreading my arms in front of him, as if to convey my bewilderment.

“I trust I expressed myself clearly enough for you to be in no doubt, my dear, ill-mannered fellow,” he retorted.

And what followed happened so quickly I’m unable to describe it as precisely as I’d like. All I remember is Peachey grabbing my wrist with an impossibly swift movement and finding myself with my right arm twisted behind my back. Then, a foot kicked my leg out from under me, and before I knew what had hit me, the room tilted sideways, and, like a listing vessel, I ended up with my face pressed into the carpet. Peachey was on top of me, effectively immobilizing me under the weight of one of his legs. Each time I tried to move, I felt a pain shoot down my arm, almost preventing me from breathing.

“That’s enough, John,” I heard Claire say in a clear, steady voice.

Like a panther suddenly pacified by a maiden’s dulcet tones, Peachey released his quarry. I felt him stand up, while I remained where I was, my face half buried in the carpet, hiding a humiliating grimace of pain caused by the ache in my arm.

“Charles . . .” Claire spoke to me once more in a gentle, almost motherly tone. “I’m going to agree with you about one of the things you said: Captain Shackleton is indeed a hero, an exceptional man who is capable of saving our planet from the automatons—”

“Claire, please . . . ,” I heard her husband implore, while he shifted awkwardly on his feet, inches from my face.

“No, John,” his wife interrupted, “Mr. Winslow is an old friend and must be made aware of his mistakes so that he has the opportunity to apologize, as I have no doubt his honor as a gentleman will dictate.”

“But . . . ,” her husband replied timidly.

“However, Charles,” I heard Claire resume. I still didn’t turn around, keeping my face pressed to the floor, sensing that no matter what she said, there was nothing I could say to redeem myself. “There’s something else you should know about Captain Shackleton. Derek Shackleton isn’t just a great hero. He is also a man who is capable of renouncing glory for the woman he loves, of traveling back in time to be by her side, even if this means having to conceal his true identity behind the guise of a simple bank director.”