The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(63)

Confident as she was, she never suspected that this feared lack of harmony would issue from her own belly. And yet it did. From the moment Emma was born, she made clear her dissatisfaction with the world and its inhabitants, for if one of them leaned over her cradle to contemplate the innocence concentrated in that tiny creature, he or she was surprised to find a pair of fiery eyes threatening to scorch them. Her face purple with rage, the girl would cry if her food was colder or hotter than usual, if she was left alone for too long, or if she was cradled halfheartedly. There seemed to be no pleasing her. And on the few occasions when she did not cry, it was even worse, for she would gaze about her with unnerving solemnity. Emma relaxed only when she fell asleep, and during that brief respite her mother would watch over her, admiring the delicate, exotic beauty of a daughter who had become the first inconvenience in her life she could not turn her back on.

When Emma was ten, Catherine passed the Map of the Sky down to her daughter, as her own mother had done before her. She secretly hoped the drawing would have some effect upon Emma, preferably reconciling her to the world she lived in. Clearly nothing around her, nothing she could see or possess, was capable of satisfying her, but perhaps that map with its wonders and miracles would show her that the universe was far more perfect and beautiful than her disappointing surroundings might suggest. And the fact is, at first it seemed to work, for Emma would not only spend hours gazing excitedly at the map but would not be parted from it either: she would put it on the table at mealtimes, take it with her when she went to the park with her governess, hide it under her pillow when she went to sleep.

As Emma grew older, she began to understand the hushed conversations for which she had hitherto assumed adults used a special language. She was just twelve when she found out about Great-Grandfather Locke’s hoax. One evening, when a headache prevented her from sleeping, she wandered down to the sitting room and through a crack in the door overheard her mother reminiscing about it to her father. She almost fainted with shock and had to prop herself up against the wall as she listened to the tale of how the tall, distinguished gentleman whose portrait stood at the top of the stairs had deceived a whole country with his invention of a Moon inhabited by unicorns, beavers, bison, and even bat men soaring majestically through its skies, a Moon that had proved completely false in the face of the disappointing reality. When the conversation was over, Emma returned to her room, where she picked up the map and, giving it one last bitter glance, eyes brimming with tears, buried it at the bottom of a drawer. She knew now that the map was false, that the universe was no more idyllic than the Moon had been. It was all a lie, another fabrication by her great-grandfather. Through her affection for him as the author of the map, Emma had become aware of a hint of mischief in his eyes that belied his apparent severity, but now she had discovered he was laughing at her, just as he had at her mother and her grandmother and at the whole country. She curled up in bed like a gazelle pierced by an arrow. She could expect nothing more from life now apart from disappointment. The world around her was so dreadfully dull, crude, and imperfect, and there was nothing beyond that could redeem it.

As time went by, she began to look upon New York as a dirty, noisy city full of injustices and ugliness. It was too hot in summer, and its harsh winters were unbearable. She despised the poor, crammed together in their tiny hovels, brutalized by hardship, yet she also hated her own class, their lives constricted by silly, rigid social customs. She found artists vain and selfish, and intellectuals bored her. She had no female friends worthy of that name, for she could not tolerate tedious discussions about dresses, balls, and suitors, and she thought men were the simplest, easiest to manipulate creatures on the planet. She was bored with staying at home and bored with strolling in Central Park. She despised hypocrisy, could not stand sentimentality, and felt constricted by her corsets. Nothing was to her liking. Her life was an absurd pretense. Still, a person can grow accustomed to anything, and Emma was no exception. And as the years passed, she gradually resigned herself to this humdrum reality, and like a fairy-tale princess in her lofty tower, she awaited some extraordinary miracle that would at last bring joy to her lifeless soul, or simply someone who would make her laugh. In the meantime, oblivious to her woes, nature took its course, and the promise of her youthful beauty flowered dramatically, undiminished by the permanent grimace of distaste on her lips. However, it will scarcely surprise you that by the age of twenty-one, when many of her peers were either betrothed or wed, Emma had still not met the man capable of convincing her that the Creator’s mind was not on other things during the six days it took Him to make the world. And there were times when she could not help remembering with sadness the years when the Map of the Sky had given her a comforting glimmer of hope. That was no longer possible since she had discovered her great-grandfather’s hoax. Still, to her surprise, Emma was unable to think badly of him. On the contrary, as she grew older her admiration for him increased, with the predictable result that during the tumultuous years of her adolescence, Great-Grandfather Locke became the only type of man for whom she could feel anything at all. Someone audacious, imaginative, and intelligent, who was so superior to all others he could dupe them, and enjoy himself in the process. Encouraged by the inexorable optimism of youth, Emma would imagine her great-grandfather’s stern face dissolving into laughter each time one of his hilarious reports shook the world, and that thought would in turn soften her demeanor by making her smile. However, the fact is Emma did not know any man equal to him, and as the dust of the years settled over her heart, the Map of the Sky lay discarded at the bottom of a drawer.