The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(70)
His unease made Emma vaguely uncomfortable, but she had not gone there to be overwhelmed by pity.
“I see: you are not the reckless type driven by passion like a leaf borne on the wind,” she persisted. “I suppose that if I rejected your love, you would prefer to think of me with the fatalistic indifference of the romantic hero. And, having overcome your brief sorrow, you would transfer your affections to some other young woman.”
Gilmore looked at her, suddenly solemn.
“You are wrong, Emma,” he said with ridiculous earnestness. “I would go on loving you for the rest of my life in the hope that one day you might change your mind.”
Emma pretended not to notice he had called her by her Christian name.
“You would sacrifice your life for such a slender hope?” she said, unsure whether to feel flattered or appalled. “Would you never marry, for example?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” he replied in the same solemn tone. “I would simply wait, removing any obstacle in my life that might stand in the way of my love for you, should you one day return. I would do no more than stay alive.”
“But why?” Emma asked, trying to conceal the strange agitation Gilmore’s words were beginning to cause her. “New York is full of young women every bit as beautiful as I, if not more so. Any one of them might—”
“I could spend the rest of eternity traveling the world,” Gilmore interrupted, “admiring all the paintings and sculptures in the great museums, and nature’s most magnificent landscapes, but I would never find a greater beauty, or anyone who could move me as much as you, Emma.”
Emma remained silent, taken aback by Gilmore’s reply. That didn’t sound like an experienced ladies’ man making a calculated speech, but like someone saying what he truly believed. A man, in short, who has fallen in love for the first time and is incapable of expressing his overwhelming emotions in anything other than grandiloquent, ridiculous, and na?ve phrases. Gilmore had not used such language during their two other meetings. However, the man in front of Emma now had nothing in common with the clumsy, boastful companion whom she had left in Central Park. Her host possessed a quality she could not comprehend, for she had never encountered it in any of her other young suitors. Gilmore looked at her with passionate sincerity. He wanted to lay at her feet a love so generous that he would give his life for her without expecting anything in return, except the hope that she might one day love him. But was she painting a true picture of Gilmore, or was she in the presence of an inveterate charlatan? And why should she care either way, since she could never love him?
“I confess you have a way with words, Mr. Gilmore,” she said. “You could convince anyone of anything.”
He smiled modestly.
“You exaggerate, Emma: I can’t convince you to marry me, for example.”
“That’s because I’m not seduced by words that dissolve in the air as soon as they are uttered,” she retorted. “The way to win my heart is through action.”
Because actions do not lie, she almost added, but halted herself. Gilmore played with his teaspoon for a few moments, before venturing:
“And what if I fulfilled your wish; would you marry me then?”
Emma pondered her response. She wouldn’t marry a man like Gilmore for all the tea in China, but what she intended to ask him for even he was incapable of achieving.
“Yes,” she replied, with absolute conviction.
“Do you give me your word?”
“Yes, Mr. Gilmore,” said Emma. “I give you my word.”
“Mmm . . . that can mean only one of two things: either you are certain I cannot possibly achieve what you want, or you want it so badly you are willing to pay any price, however high,” Gilmore reflected with an amused grin. “Or is there a third possibility I have overlooked?”
“No, this time there is no other possibility,” Emma replied coldly.
“Good,” said Gilmore impatiently, “then let us unveil the mystery once and for all: what is this wish I cannot fulfill?”
Emma cleared her throat. It was time for her to put the man in his place. Gilmore was expecting her to ask him for some priceless jewel, a horse that never lost a race, or a house that could float on a river, or in the air, held aloft by a flock of birds. But she wasn’t going to ask him for anything like that. She was going to ask him for something he could not possibly do. Something only one exceptional man had achieved, a man whose blood also ran in her veins. She was going to ask him to make the whole world dream. And Gilmore could not even make her dream.
“Sixty-three years ago, in 1835,” she began, “an editor on the Sun convinced everyone that the Moon was inhabited by unicorns, beavers, and bat men. Did you ever hear about that?”
“Of course. Who hasn’t heard about one of the biggest journalistic hoaxes of the century?” Gilmore replied, intrigued.
“Well, that man was Richard Locke, and he was my great-grandfather.”
“Your great-grandfather?” Gilmore said, startled.
Emma nodded.
“Then you will also know that even after the whole thing had been proved a fraud, many people went on believing his descriptions were genuine.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, Miss Harlow; people have a desperate need to believe in something,” said Gilmore. “But surely you’re not asking me to repeat that stunt? Now we know for a fact that the Moon is uninhabited; no one would believe the contrary. Today’s telescopes—”