The Map of Chaos (35 page)

“I hope that foolish smile doesn't mean you are laughing at me, Emma. And will you stop twirling that umbrella! You're making me dizzy.”

The girl blinked a couple of times before realizing that her aunt had, for the moment anyway, stopped her ruthless dissection of her fiancé and was addressing her.

“Forgive me, Auntie. I was . . . remembering something funny that happened to me the other day.”

“Something funny? I can't think what that might be. Perhaps the sight of Gilmore trying to eat properly with a knife and fork.”

And then, to her own amazement, Emma lost her temper.

“That's enough, Auntie! That's enough! Can't you see I love him!” Emma paused, confronted with her aunt's wounded expression as she gaped at her openmouthed, and she fumbled around for a less clichéd way of telling her aunt how she felt. If only there were some magic formula to describe exactly what someone would see pulsating inside her if right then she were stretched out on a table and sliced open. But there wasn't. “I love him . . .” She gave in and simply repeated the same three words again very slowly: “I love him . . . I don't care how he holds a knife and fork. I don't care if he made his money by selling shoelaces or cleaning sewers. I don't care if he always arrives late, if he talks too loudly or always treads on my toes when we dance. Before I met him, I didn't know how to laugh . . . I never knew how, not even when I was small. I had the most absurd, pathetic childhood in the world: an unhappy little girl who didn't know how to laugh!”

“I always thought you were a most interesting child,” the old lady protested. “I could never understand how my weak-willed sister-in-law managed to give birth to such a precocious little devil. I was convinced you would grow up free from all the frivolities of love and sentimentality, and I felt proud. At last, a Harlow woman with grit! I confess you even reminded me a little of myself when I was young. And now here you are, prattling on to me about true love! If you wanted to laugh, you could have gone to a zoo. Monkeys are very funny. They always made me laugh, but I never eloped with one.”

Emma sighed and bit her lip impatiently: How could she make her aunt see why she loved Gilmore? How could she explain to her why she couldn't help loving him? How could she sum it up in one sentence, a few words? Suddenly, she knew.

“Monty is genuine.”

“ ‘Genuine'?” her aunt repeated.

“Yes, genuine,” Emma insisted. “He is genuine. Look around you. All of us go through life wearing a mask. But not Monty. He doesn't hide beneath a mask. He is real, not two-faced. You can take him or leave him. But if you take him . . .” Emma smiled, her eyes moist with tears. “Oh, if you take him, then you can be sure he won't deceive you, that what he offers is all there is. I don't know whether Monty is the most marvelous man in the world, but I do know that he's the only man who would never lie to me to
pretend
that he is. And that is exactly what makes him so mar—”

“Stop right there, my dear,” the old lady interrupted brusquely. “I can't abide romantic drivel. In my opinion, novelists who write that sort of twaddle should be shot at dawn. Of course, next you'll tell me you don't want to live in a world without him in it, or some such nonsense . . .”

Emma took a deep breath. She had nothing more to say, she knew she had found the right words, and all of a sudden she realized she no longer cared whether she had managed to convince her aunt or not.

“A world without him in it . . . ,” she murmured with a faint smile. “Auntie dear, the whole world is nothing more than the precise length of each moment that separates us.”

Just then, a distant rumble, which had been audible for a couple of minutes, but to which Emma and her aunt had not paid much attention, began to grow louder, suggesting that whatever was causing it was approaching the house at speed. Vaguely alarmed, the two women glanced at the wall separating the garden from the road, beyond which the din resounded as it approached the front gates. All of a sudden, there was a wail like a ship's siren, and an instant later a strange-looking horseless carriage burst into the driveway amid a cacophony of clatters and bangs, leaving a trail of thick smoke behind it. At a speed that could only be described as breakneck, the vehicle rolled up outside the front steps, where the two astonished women watched it come to a halt, gasping like a dying animal. Emma had never seen an automobile like that before. She had glimpsed a few illustrations of those early carriages that had substituted engine power for horsepower, but they hadn't looked very different from the ordinary horse-drawn ones. In addition, according to what she had read, the new automobiles barely reached speeds of twelve miles an hour, which any cyclist with strong legs could easily equal. Yet the impressive machine wheezing before her had sped through the front gates like greased lightning, covered the fifty yards between them, and pulled up outside the front steps in the time it took to draw breath. Moreover, the shape of it was unlike anything she had ever seen: the bodywork, which was cream colored and trimmed in gold, was long and sleek, and it was so low that the space between the ground and running boards was easily surmounted; the front was shaped like a big metal box with a grille, to either side of which two ostentatious lamps were attached, like a pair of elaborate horns; the back wheels were slightly bigger than the front ones, and above them was a roof, which at present was folded like an accordion; underneath the automobile, a mass of cranks and cogs was visible, seemingly operated by a tall lever to the right of the seat, which looked like a double throne; in front of the seat was the short shaft supporting the enormous steering wheel, which was adorned with a horn that was curled like a pig's tail. And plumb in the middle of that extraordinary carriage, sitting bolt upright and clutching the wheel as if he were afraid that at any moment the machine might start moving of its own accord, was Montgomery Gilmore. He was wearing a pair of huge goggles that covered half his face and a leather cap with flaps down over his ears, giving him the look of a giant insect. In spite of this, Gilmore managed to smile radiantly at Emma.

“Goodness gracious me . . . ,” murmured Lady Harlow. “I'm afraid, dear girl, that your fiancé has decided to abandon his admirable habit of going through life without wearing a mask.”

Ignoring her aunt, Emma descended the front steps, coming to a halt at what felt like a safe distance from the machine. Gilmore gazed at her, spellbound. She looked so enchanting with that astonished expression in her dark eyes that he could only give thanks once more to whoever had made possible the miracle of a woman such as she being in love with him.

“Emma, my darling! What do you think?” he shouted eagerly as he struggled to open the door so he could run over and fling his arms around her before the magic of the moment faded. But the handle was stuck fast. “I told you I had a surprise for you! It's a Mercedes, the first modern automobile! It's only a prototype, so it isn't even on sale yet. I had to wait while they made a few last minor adjustments in the workshop, that's why I'm so late. But it was worth it, don't you think? Just imagine! It can go up to fifty miles an hour almost without shaking! You'll see how comfortable it is, my love: like drifting on a silent cloud!” Gilmore tried desperately to force the handle, than stood on his seat to clamber over the door. But when he lifted one of his long legs, his shoe became stuck in the steering wheel, and there he stood, as though caught in a trap, his heel pressing on the horn, its deafening blast making Emma recoil. Gilmore fell back onto the seat in an ungainly posture, and the racket continued as he wriggled about trying to free his shoe from the unfortunate snare. Only when he had succeeded did the pitiful wail cease so that Gilmore could leap out of the vehicle. He stood gazing at his fiancé, tongue-tied, his face bright pink, his jacket crumpled, and his goggles askew. Emma raised an eyebrow.

“Did you say a silent cloud?”

The two of them burst out laughing.

Six months later, Lady Harlow would declare on her deathbed that the air around them had sparkled as the couple laughed. But there would be no one there to hear her, for she would die alone, her only companion an impassive nurse who came and went without paying much attention to the dying old woman's babblings. Yes, Lady Harlow would repeat those words to herself over and over. She had seen it with her own eyes as she stood on the front step: at first, she had thought it was an optical illusion caused by the mist, or possibly the lamps of that monstrous machine, but after the couple had left, and during the weeks that followed, as the now incurable solitude of that empty home gradually poisoned her soul, nourishing the tumor that six months later would deliver her into the arms of grim Death, she became convinced that she had witnessed a true miracle that morning.

“The whole world,” Lady Harlow mumbled with her last breath before the stone-faced nurse, “was no more than the precise length of each moment that separated them.”

•  •  •

A
ND JUST AS
E
MMA
clambered aboard her fiancé's automobile and gave a little gasp of excitement, several miles away, Wells gasped, too, but out of boredom. He had started off feigning a polite interest, but as the carriage rattled toward Dartmoor, Doyle's tedious descriptions of his latest sporting exploit had increasingly plunged Wells into a slough of despond, finally convincing him that the jaunt wasn't going to be as enjoyable as they all imagined.

But how could things have gone so awry? In the days leading up to the trip, he had made all the arrangements, convinced that Murray's idea would not only be a pleasant change for everyone but would also allow him to resolve, at a stroke, the twin problems that had been worrying him lately. The first concerned Murray and Doyle, whose initial encounter at Arnold House hadn't gone as smoothly as Wells had hoped. Since Murray and Emma were making their own way to Devon, the Wellses had arranged to travel in the same carriage as Doyle. That would give Wells the chance to mollify him before his second encounter with Murray. He didn't think that would be too difficult, for although Doyle had a fiery nature, which he himself admitted, blaming it freely on his Irish blood, he was also incapable of bearing a grudge. In that sense he differed greatly from Wells, who possessed the dubious ability to protect the smallest seed of hatred against the winds of time. As for Murray . . . well, what could he say about the new, lovesick Murray, who seemed willing to be friends even with the devil himself? Despite having gotten off on the wrong foot, Wells felt sure the two men were destined to get along, for they had more in common than either was prepared to admit. Given a second chance, it would only be a matter of time before they would end up the best of friends, which was precisely what Wells planned to intimate to Doyle on their way to Dartmoor.

The second problem was the one that most concerned Wells. Since both he and Murray had been otherwise engaged, this would be the first time they would meet since that fateful day when Wells had told him he should reveal his true identity to Emma. Wells had begun to fret over the disastrous possible consequences for Murray if he were to follow such foolhardy advice and had inquired about the matter in some of the notes they had exchanged confirming details of the forthcoming trip; but since Murray had warned Wells never to put anything relating to his true identity into writing, he had been forced to use all sorts of euphemisms and innuendos, and he very much doubted that he had correctly interpreted Murray's equally cryptic replies. However, as the days went by, the absence of any other news had put Wells's mind at rest. The planned excursion was to take place and, more important, so it seemed was the wedding. And that could only mean one of two things: that Murray had confessed to Emma without any major falling-out, or that he still hadn't told her. In the first case, Wells would simply undertake to congratulate his friend and rejoice with him over the success of his shrewd piece of advice; in the second case, Wells would have to find the right moment during the trip to take Murray aside and confess his qualms about the recommendation he had made in front of the hibiscus bush, thus absolving himself from any responsibility.

The idea of settling both issues had made Wells await the excursion with impatience, even though in the end they had to make the journey in Murray's carriage (for different reasons neither Doyle nor Wells had the use of their respective carriages that day), thus exposing themselves to the eccentric interrogations of Murray's coachman. Still, it was a small price to pay for the happy prospect of the trip, and Wells had been in an excellent frame of mind when he awoke that day. He had gone down to the kitchen to enjoy a cup of tea and browse through the newspaper while he waited for Murray's coach, which was stopping off on the way to pick up Doyle, unaware that his festive spirit would soon be crushed.

The first shock came from the newspaper itself: “The Invisible Man Is Coming!” the headline proclaimed. Wells had to blink several times, as if he had gotten lemon juice in his eyes. It seemed that the person responsible for the news item, one of many journalists reporting on the series of paranormal occurrences on Dartmoor, had thought it would be funny to use as his title the warning cry Wells's characters uttered as they fled in terror from the Invisible Man in his eponymous novel. As you may imagine, dear reader, Wells was not amused, for he did not like people appropriating his ideas. His aim when writing those words had been to shock the reader, dredging up his most primeval fears—the horror of what can be imagined but not seen—and so it vexed him that this disrespectful hack should use his words to make his readers laugh. But the article itself he found even less amusing, because after the
original
title, the second-rate reporter went on to describe disdainfully the recent spate of strange phenomena that had occurred on Dartmoor. It seemed as if the place had become the favorite haunt of spirits—although, perhaps, Wells speculated sarcastically, it was there that the Invisible Man had met the woman of his dreams, a creature as ethereal as he, and the two of them had given birth to a large ghost family that had infiltrated the local population of “visibles” and was trying to take over the county by instigating a reign of terror. Why not? he had concluded with an airy shrug: judging from the numerous chairs that moved by their own volition and plates that suddenly flew through the air in that sinister place, any explanation could be as or more compelling than the absurd notion that half of England's ghosts had chosen that barren area as a holiday destination.