The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(74)
Dear Miss Harlow,
As I have no idea which hat you would choose, I am sending you the shop’s entire stock. And I take the opportunity to declare that you would make me the happiest man in the world if you allowed me to get to know you well enough to send you a single hat next time.
Montgomery Gilmore, the blameless owner of a churlish hound
The same afternoon she sent a card in return, thanking him for his gifts:
I am most grateful for the thirty-seven hats, Mr. Gilmore. I must confess it is a very effective way of making me unafraid of another dog eating my hat in future. My mother and I would both be delighted to have the opportunity to thank you in person if you would kindly accept our invitation to tea tomorrow afternoon.
Emma Harlow
The girl’s drily humorous tone pleased Murray even more than her invitation. True, there was nothing spontaneous in the message that might indicate her desire: Emma had simply observed the rules of etiquette, no doubt at the instigation of her mother, who would not wish her daughter’s name to appear in the little black book of civilized New York society as the girl who did not know how to express her thanks for a gift. Murray called at their house at teatime, prepared to make the most of the situation. Although he knew nothing about wooing young ladies, he assumed it was similar to clinching a good deal. He turned the mother’s head with the sheer size of his fortune and investments, to the point where the good lady must have fancied he owned the planet as well as part of the universe, so that before they had finished off the cakes, she had already given him permission, if he so wished, to pursue her daughter. Emma’s mother’s approval made Murray deliriously happy, until he discovered that in order to woo Emma he must join a long list of other suitors. That band of lithe, self-assured contenders made him miserable. For a moment he even considered throwing in the towel but then thought better of it. Giving up was not in his nature; he would challenge those whelps and win, by Jove he would. He could hire someone to bump them off one by one. But, while swift and easy, such a method would arouse suspicion sooner or later and could end up incriminating him, the only one of her suitors left alive. The police were no fools, although they might seem so at times. Besides, he preferred to beat them in a fair fight. It was really a question of using his ingenuity, which he possessed in abundance.
Thus, Murray arrived at their second meeting brimming with optimism, although unfortunately that did not prevent it from turning into a disaster. He was able to charm Emma’s mother, and even Mr. Harlow, who, despite showing no interest in meeting his contrary daughter’s suitors, turned up in the drawing room for tea that afternoon, intrigued by his wife’s rapturous descriptions of Murray. Indeed, he was so captivated by Murray’s conversation and investments that he even arrived late for shooting practice for the first time in his life. In short, Murray enchanted Emma’s parents, but as soon as he was alone with Emma, he became tongue-tied. During the stroll in Central Park that Emma’s mother had suggested they take to round off the visit, he remained silent most of the time, simply giving her adoring sidelong glances as she walked beside him with dainty steps, shading herself with her parasol. The more he observed her, the more he discovered her hidden charms. He saw that her eyes contained a flush of innocence combined with a glint of cruelty, as though she had some panther in her, and he fancied that beneath her arrogance a stream of kindness flowed, as from an underground spring. Her supercilious exterior no doubt owed itself to that faintly exotic beauty that set her so apart from the other young girls. Yet while Murray was observing all that, absorbed in his own euphoria, he failed to notice how tedious their stroll must seem for Emma. She made him aware of it by giving a yawn as exaggerated as it was contrived before posing a question, the reply to which was undoubtedly of no great interest to her.
“So, Mr. Gilmore,” he heard her say, in a resolutely disdainful tone. “How do you like America? I imagine that, accustomed as you are to the old country, you must consider us little better than savages.”
“Indeed,” Murray replied hastily.
Emma gazed at him in surprise.
The millionaire tried to correct himself: “No, I didn’t mean that . . . What I mean is that I like America. I like it very much. America is a great nation! And of course I don’t consider Americans savages, least of all you.”
“Am I to understand, then, that you think my mother more of a savage than I?” the girl chided him gently as she twirled her parasol, the shadows playing on her face.
“Oh, certainly not, Miss Harlow. Nor are you more of one than she . . . I mean to say . . .” Murray became flustered, stumbling over his words, perfectly aware the girl was mocking him. “Neither you nor your mother deserve such an epithet. That of savages, I mean. Nor does any member of your illustrious family, naturally . . . nor any of your neighbors or friends . . .”
Murray’s convoluted explanation caused a fresh silence to fall between them. Fearful lest it prove fatally long, he tried to think up another topic of conversation, one her many other suitors would broach with ease. But once more it was Emma who broke the silence.
“I imagine that a busy man like you, who spends his time carrying out mergers that increase his wealth, must have little time for ordinary amusements . . . You probably consider them frivolous, or even beneath you. I’m sure this very instant you are far away, lost in thoughts of your innumerable business deals, while trying to hide the fact that you consider this stroll an obvious waste of time.”