The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(75)

“If my clumsy silence has caused you to harbor such thoughts, then pray accept my heartfelt apologies, Miss Harlow,” the increasingly bewildered Murray apologized hurriedly. “I assure you I had no intention of giving you such a wrong impression.”

“I see. Am I to understand that I am mistaken, then, and that you simply prefer to enjoy the healthy exercise of walking without any other activity to distract you from the difficult task of placing one foot in front of the other?”

“I . . . well, yes, it is true, I greatly enjoy taking exercise. I’m not a man who likes to be inactive, Miss Harlow. I find walking . . . er, invigorating. And I believe that, as you pointed out . . . it is good for one’s health.”

“Very well, now I know what it is you want, let us continue our stroll plunged into a healthy, invigorating silence.”

Murray opened his mouth as if to speak, then instantly closed it again, unsure of how to respond to her remark. He heaved a sigh, as the dreaded silence descended upon them once more. And so they walked on, Murray still struggling to find a way to initiate a conversation while Emma twirled her parasol in a desultory fashion, aiming an occasional kick at one of the stones strewn across the path, making no attempt to conceal her increasing irritation. Murray made a last desperate attempt.

“May I ask what your hobbies are, Miss Harlow?” he said rather diffidently, fearing the possible consequences of such an innocent question.

“Clearly you aren’t accustomed to speaking to refined young ladies, Mr. Gilmore, or you would have no need to ask. Like any self-respecting young lady, I play music, sing and dance to perfection, and in order to improve my mind and enrich my education I read widely, in my own language as well as in French, which I speak fluently, mon cher petit imbécile. I also regularly attend the theater, the ballet, and the opera, and every day I try to . . . invigorate myself by walking in Central Park. As you see, a life of pure enjoyment.”

“Is that so? I beg your pardon, but you don’t seem to enjoy your life very much, Miss Harlow,” Murray could not help remarking.

“Really?” The girl gave him a puzzled look. “What makes you say that?”

“W-well . . . ,” Murray stammered somewhat nervously. “I still haven’t had the pleasure of hearing . . . your wonderful laugh.”

“Ah, now I understand! In that case, forgive me, dear Mr. Gilmore, for not having made more of an effort to laugh like an idiot for no reason at all, thus depriving you of that pleasure. But don’t confuse not hearing my laugh with my not having one. The fact is, the things that amuse me don’t usually amuse others, and so I am in the habit of laughing by myself or to myself.”

“A lonely sort of laughter . . . ,” Murray murmured.

“Do you really think so?” the girl snapped. “I daresay you’re right. But when the stupidity of others is the only thing that amuses one, then it is only good manners to laugh to oneself, don’t you agree?”

“Am I to infer that you have been laughing to yourself during our entire walk?” Murray jested by way of making peace.

“My good manners prevent me from answering that, Mr. Gilmore, and my principles from telling a lie. Draw your own conclusions.”

“I already have, Miss Harlow,” Murray said in a tone of resignation. “And I’m proud to have been the cause of your amusement. But don’t you ever laugh at anything other than human stupidity? Haven’t you ever laughed for a different reason, or for no reason at all? Simply because it is a lovely day, or the cook has made your favorite dessert—”

“Of course not,” the girl cut across. “I fail to see why everything working out perfectly should be grounds for rejoicing.”

“—or because you have fallen in love.”

Emma raised her eyebrows, astounded.

“Is love a source of hilarity for you?”

“No, but it is a reason to rejoice,” the millionaire parried. “Have you never been in love, Miss Harlow? Have you never felt so alive, so intensely alive that you have to laugh out loud to stop yourself from bursting with joy?”

“I’m afraid your question is too forward, Mr. Gilmore.”

“That could be the reply of a demure young lady, but also of someone afraid to admit she is incapable of falling in love,” replied Murray.

“Are you insinuating that I’m incapable of falling in love simply because I don’t prostrate myself at your feet?” Emma cried.

“My good manners prevent me from answering that, Miss Harlow, and my principles from telling a lie. Draw your own conclusions.” Murray smiled.

“Mr. Gilmore, you can’t woo a refined young lady with such impudent remarks. No self-respecting lady would allow—”

“I don’t care what others would do!” Murray exclaimed, with such passionate vehemence that the young woman could not help pausing, disconcerted, in the middle of the little bridge they were crossing. “I don’t care what is proper and what isn’t. I’m tired of this game! The only thing I care about, Miss Harlow, is knowing what it takes to make you happy. Tell me, what makes you happy? It’s a very simple question that only requires a simple answer.”

“What makes me happy?” Emma almost stammered. “But, I already told you . . .”

“No, you didn’t tell me, Miss Harlow. And more than anything, I need to know what it is you desire,” Murray insisted, with the same determination he displayed when negotiating a contract, tired of this ritual whose absurd rules were alien to him.