The Map of Chaos (28 page)

“Emma, my dear,” Murray hurriedly intervened, “I'm sure that George and his charming wife must have a very good reason not to—”

“You're no doubt right, dear. But, as you must know by now, a good reason is something your future wife cannot help objecting to,” replied the girl, smiling at the couple with the easy charm of someone used to getting her own way. “You see, Mr. Wells, as I'm sure you know, your latest novel played a pivotal, dare I say decisive, role in our romance,” she declared, grinning at Murray. “Besides, Monty professes a boundless admiration for you. And as if that weren't enough, I am aware that the two of you enjoy a degree of friendship, about which, incidentally, my unforthcoming fiancé has told me next to nothing. Not that this worries me, for I feel sure I shall obtain more information from your charming wife. And so, as you can see, Mr. Wells, you and Mrs. Wells absolutely have to come to our ball.”

Emma's beaming smile faded somewhat when she saw that Wells was no longer listening to her but was absorbed in contemplating something behind her. The young lady's exquisite manners prevented her from turning round, so she couldn't discover what it was the author was observing so intently. However, I can, and I have no qualms about telling you: Wells was staring at the back of one of the gentlemen who, having separated himself discreetly from his group, was almost propped against Murray's broad back, as if he were trying to listen in on their conversation. And the sight of those slightly sloping shoulders had aroused in Wells a strange feeling of unease, a profound melancholy that was as familiar as it was disturbing. Emma gave her fiancé a sidelong glance, to which he responded with a shrug.

“Miss Harlow,” said Jane, who, despite the distress her husband's odd behavior was causing her, managed to sound quite calm, “George and I are very grateful for your kind interest, and I assure you we will do our utmost to comply with your wish—”

“I'm sorry, my dear, but I don't think we can do so,” Wells cut in. Due to his malaise, his words sounded too abrupt to him, and, looking straight at the astonished young woman, he added in a more civil tone: “Please accept our apologies, Miss Harlow.”

“Your carriage is waiting, sir,” one of the footmen informed Wells. “Please follow me.”

“Marvelous, marvelous!” declared Murray, visibly relieved. “What luck, George, there's your carriage. At last you can take the weight off those feet of yours. That's what I call a proper coachman. They don't make them like that anymore. You must give me the name of the agency he comes from, but not that of your shoemaker. You can't imagine the trouble I'm having with coachmen at the moment! My current one is a half-witted drunkard who spends all day boozing. And judging by the time he's taking, I'll wager he's at it again this evening. I can't even see the accursed carriage at the back of the queue. Well, it won't be the first time he leaves me high and dry, but by Jove it'll be the last! I shall dismiss him this very night. But hurry, George, get your skates on; don't make your charming wife stand around in this awful drizzle.” Murray took Jane's hand and in his agitation kissed it repeatedly. Then he shook his hands at the couple, like an affectionate parent urging them on. “Don't stand on ceremony; get into your carriage. It's been a pleasure seeing you, George, as always.” He made as if to clap Wells on the back but appeared to think better of it, and his hand made a vague gesture in the air. “Ah, and don't worry about the reception, you are excused. Emma and I understand that a famous author like you must have a hundred pressing engagements, isn't that right, darling?”

But before Emma had a chance to protest, various strange events began to occur in rapid succession: the carriage in which the stout old lady with the diminutive Pekinese was traveling pulled up short before leaving the rank, and its horses began prancing and snorting as they grew increasingly jumpy; almost at once, the strange anxiety that had taken hold of Wells vanished as if by magic, and he instinctively looked about for the gentleman who had been shielded by Murray's back. He caught sight of him scuttling round the corner of the building with the unsteady gait of an elderly man. Then the Pekinese began to bark uncontrollably, and, seemingly infected by the commotion, all the horses in the rank started to whinny and buck violently as the coachmen struggled unsuccessfully to calm them. All at once, before anyone could understand what was happening, the little dog leapt out of the carriage window and, seized by the folly that typifies that breed in moments of panic, went straight for the horses' legs, yapping ferociously and trying to bite anything that came near it. The dog's owner, her head poking out of the window, called it with strident little cries as she tried to open the door, but her attempts were thwarted by the sharp jolts the horses were giving the carriage. Then, seeing the distraught Pekinese venture into the deadly labyrinth of horses' legs, Jane tried to catch it before it was trampled.

Just then several people saw an incredibly tall man, wrapped in a long dark cloak and wearing a broad-brimmed hat, emerge from the shadows at the far end of the street. The mysterious figure stood still for a moment in the pool of light cast by one of the streetlamps before hurtling toward the portico. Those who had seen the figure would later describe to their friends how terrifying the image was, for the giant had been running impossibly fast, his cloak billowing menacingly behind him, and he was carrying a peculiar cane whose handle bore an eight-pointed star that shimmered like a magic charm. His feet, shod in heavy, studded black boots, made the ground reverberate at his approach. However, our friends, busy trying to rescue the Pekinese, did not notice the stranger until he passed through them like a whirlwind. Wells received a blow that sent him reeling. When he finally managed to regain his footing, still slightly giddy from the encounter, he glimpsed the figure as it disappeared round the same corner where the old man had fled moments before. All at once, a horrified uproar made him turn back toward the crowd. There, seemingly suspended in the streetlamp's amber glow, a ghastly tableau presented itself to his astonished eyes: Emma's face was twisted in a grimace of horror, the stout lady was gripping the rim of the carriage window with her fat fingers as she leaned out, the horses had reared up on their hind legs like majestic statues, and below them, at the mercy of their hooves, Jane, his Jane, lay sprawled on the ground. For what seemed like an eternal moment, Wells contemplated his wife lying there about to be trampled, as if he were studying the work of some heartless painter, feeling as if he might spend the rest of his life examining its gruesome details. Then a wave of fear sucked the air from his lungs and his soul from his body, and time breathed life back into the scene. Before Wells could move, a bulky figure swept past him and scooped Jane up like a force of Nature, snatching her from beneath the animals' hooves only seconds before they pounded the cobblestones.

When Wells finally managed to make his legs obey him, he ran over to his wife, with Emma close behind. Jane was still on the ground, protected by Murray's huge frame. Several men had grabbed the reins and were trying to steer the horses away from them, although the animals appeared to have calmed down miraculously, as had the Pekinese, which, after its display of bravura, had returned to its mistress's soft bosom. Wells and Emma knelt beside their respective companions, still shocked by what they had witnessed. Murray raised his head, and only when he was sure they were completely safe did he move away from Jane, freeing her from the makeshift shield of his body. The young woman's eyes were tight shut.

“Mrs. Wells, Jane . . . ,” he whispered gently. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, slightly dazed, and then glanced about for her husband's face.

“Oh, B-Bertie, I was so afraid,” she stammered. “The horses reared up, that man in the cloak pushed me, I lost my balance and fell right under . . . Oh, God, I thought they were going to—”

“Don't think about it, dear. You're safe now. It's all over.”

They embraced tearfully while, next to them, Murray and Emma did the same, and the crowd that had gathered around them applauded excitedly. Jane's cheeks were wet with tears, and through her disheveled locks Wells's eyes met Murray's. Murray smiled.

“You damned fool,” muttered Wells, “I don't know how you always succeed in stealing the limelight.”

Murray gave a hearty laugh, beaming with happiness. And slowly the four of them, still shaking, rose to their feet, aided by the now solicitous footmen. As they brushed off their clothes, listening to the crowd congratulating Murray, Wells noticed Jane gesturing to him discreetly. No more than a slight bob of the head and a fleeting look, but he understood. He nodded with a sigh and turned toward Murray.

“Well, er . . . I don't think even I can find the suitable words to thank you for what you did this evening, so at least allow me to offer you and your fiancée a ride in our carriage, since your coachman seems to have left you high and dry, which in my opinion shows good judgment . . .” A discreet nudge in the ribs from Jane dissuaded Wells from continuing that line of thought. “Er, yes, allow us to accompany you to your respective residences. I am sure that some words of thanks will come to me on the way . . .”

The offer was graciously accepted, and the four of them walked toward Wells's carriage, the two men receiving the odd clap on the shoulder from the crowd. They located Emma's aunt, who had devoted the past half hour to the pleasurable pastime of criticizing her niece's insufferable fiancé to her friends, completely oblivious to what had been happening behind her back. The old lady screwed up her face as she climbed into the carriage, like someone entering a pigsty. Only when the three ladies had sat down did the men prepare to climb aboard as well. Murray smiled politely and stepped aside to let Wells pass.

“You first, George.”

Wells smiled back sardonically and, stepping aside, replied, “No, please, you first. I'd rather not turn my back on you . . . Monty.”

I
S ONE OBLIGED TO BECOME
the friend of someone who saves the life of your spouse? What if that person is your fiercest enemy? These questions tormented Wells for weeks after that night at the opera, which he was having difficulty describing because of the changes in mood he had experienced that night. Jane kept insisting he thank Murray—Monty, as she called him—for saving her life. Shouldn't courtesy transcend resentment? Wells nodded glumly, like a child attempting to digest some grown-up truth, but was content to remain stubbornly silent until Jane stopped nagging him, and he assumed his passive resistance had finally won out over his wife's eagerness to be courteous. But again he was mistaken, because one morning, without any warning, he heard Jane say from the kitchen that Monty and his fiancée were coming to lunch that day.

The Wellses had moved to Sandgate, where the fresh air would be more beneficial to Wells's fragile health, and had rented Beach Cottage, which was proving less permanent than they had hoped, for it was too close to the sea and in stormy weather the waves would break over the roof. Nonetheless, at noon on that day, a coach with a pompous “G” on the door drew up at that cottage. Murray's new coachman, an old fellow who moved slowly, opened the carriage door, and Murray and his fiancée emerged, radiant and smiling, anticipating a pleasant day in the company of their new friends, the Wellses. Needless to say, the reception they got from Wells was rather frosty, but Jane, who had no intention of allowing her husband to spoil the lunch she had so lovingly prepared behind his back, took the couple by the arm and led them into the garden and began pointing out the virtues of the place. Disgruntled, Wells stayed behind with the coachman, who gave him an incongruously meaningful smile. Suddenly, Wells felt an overwhelming desire to cry—not to shed a few quiet tears, but to fill the oceans, because a deep melancholy had begun gnawing at his insides. Taken aback by that violent unhappiness, which not even Murray's presence could explain, Wells went back inside the house, afraid he would end up weeping on the coachman's shoulder. Once in the dining room, he thought it opportune to spend a few moments mulling over the sporadic attacks of melancholy he had been experiencing lately, but he had no time because at that very instant he heard the voices of Jane and their guests.

The guided tour of the garden and cottage, forcibly brief, ended in the dining room, where Wells was waiting for them with the brooding expression of a cornered rat. Murray promptly described the room as “cozy,” making Jane glow with pride, since that morning she had filled the room with roses in an attempt to make it look less bleak. Wells, on the other hand, instantly made it clear that he had no intention of making his guests feel at home there. On the contrary, the first thing he did when they sat down to lunch was make a sarcastic remark about the “exuberant youth” of Murray's new coachman. However, ignoring his impertinence, Murray simply observed that the fellow was a careful driver and didn't drink, and that was all he asked. He was clearly much too happy to engage in a duel of words, and Wells's truculence soon proved as futile as it was inappropriate amid the festive mood that had settled over the table. Emma and Jane soon behaved with the ease of those who have known each other since childhood, and Murray, content to see his beloved having a good time, spoke casually about this and that, laughing at anything and everything, praising Jane's cooking and her and Emma's beauty, and, at every opportunity, lavishing his affection on Wells, who responded with growing irritation at the turn the lunch was taking. At one point, Murray slipped a great paw inside his jacket and conjured out of nowhere an invitation to his engagement ceremony. Jane insisted they would attend, but Wells merely made a vague gesture that could have been taken to mean anything, hurriedly slipping the invitation into his jacket pocket in the vain hope that everyone would forget it had ever been there. Later, when Jane whisked Emma away to show her the hibiscus bush adorning the back wall of the garden and the men sat down in front of the fire to smoke, Murray informed Wells, as if there could be any doubt, that he was the happiest man alive and that all that happiness he owed to the advice Wells had given him in his letter. It mattered little that for the umpteenth time Wells denied having written it: Murray was delighted by Wells's stubborn refusal to confess to that splendid gesture.