The Map of Chaos (34 page)

“Well, George?” Murray asked in response to his lengthy silence.

“You should tell her,” replied Wells, who might just as well have said the opposite.

“Do you really think so?”

“Definitely.”

“Why?” Murray asked wretchedly.

Wells had to stifle a shrug.

“Because otherwise your happiness will be built on a lie,” he improvised. “Is that what Emma deserves? I don't think so. She trusts you, Monty. It would never occur to her that you had secrets, much less that you are the Master of Time. If one day she discovered the truth, wouldn't she feel betrayed by the only person in the world from whom she would never expect a betrayal? And does her not being able to discover it make you any less of a traitor? You claim you love her. If that's true, how can you allow your love to be anything but completely honest?”

Murray reflected on what Wells had said, while for his part Wells mulled over how common it was for people to seek advice from others, to allow somebody else to decide for them, somebody who could examine the problem objectively, theoretically, safe from any ramifications.

“I suppose you are right, George,” Murray said at last. “I take pride in loving her, and yet my love is flawed. It contains an impurity, a stain I must expunge. Emma doesn't deserve a love that isn't completely truthful. I shall tell her, George. I shall be brave and I'll do it. Before the wedding.”

After making that promise, Murray flung his arms around Wells, who felt as if a grizzly bear were embracing him. The pair of them went back inside the cottage and took up their respective places at the table. No one asked about the biscuits. For a time, Doyle went on talking of seals, and oceans bristling with icebergs, while Murray was content to nod occasionally, visibly distracted. It was clear he was mulling over what Wells had just said to him, but Wells knew that no matter how intent Murray was upon following his advice, as always, the days would go by and he would fail to confess his true identity to Emma. Finally, even Doyle's adventures proved not to be inexhaustible, and after he ended his monologue with the usual moral he had drawn from the story, the conversation languished without anyone making any effort to stimulate it. It was already late, and the journey back was a long one, and so they decided to bid one another good-bye, setting a date for their excursion to Dartmoor the following week. However, judging from the look of determination on Murray's face, Wells had the sudden suspicion that on this occasion time might fail to weaken his resolve. It was quite possible that when they next met, Murray would have confessed to Emma that she was about to marry the Master of Time.

That night, Wells found it hard to fall asleep. He was fretting about what consequences his advice might bring if this time Murray was bold enough to follow it. Emma struck him as both sufficiently intelligent and in love for Murray's confession only to strengthen their bond. But what if it didn't? What if Emma was incapable of forgiving him and abandoned him? Should he feel guilty? Was it possible that in a part of his brain he rarely visited, the flame of his old hatred toward Murray was still burning and that the advice he had given him was designed to destroy his happiness, that dazzling, hypnotic happiness he perhaps secretly envied? No, Wells was certain that no remnants of his old animosity had survived. Otherwise he would never have gone to talk to Inspector Clayton two years before.

Wells only knew the inspector briefly from their excursion to Horsell Common on the morning the Martian cylinder had appeared, but something told him that this arrogant, meticulous fellow's determination to unmask Montgomery Gilmore would never wane, no matter how much money the millionaire threw at the situation. And so, one morning Wells had turned up at Clayton's office and supplied the answers he was looking for: after all, it was only a matter of time before the inspector discovered them for himself. He did so secretly, hoping that the inspector's need for truth outweighed his desire for glory, and once he had confirmed this to be the case, he used all his rhetorical skill to try to persuade the inspector to abandon the case: assuring him that this man was nothing like his former self, that everyone deserved a second chance, and much more besides. Sadly, none of his arguments succeeded in swaying Clayton. Finally, out of desperation, he had even appealed to the love story between Murray and Emma, which was the toast of all England, which had begun with the appearance of the Martian cylinder, and which Clayton had no right to destroy, even though it might pin another medal on his chest. If he made public everything he knew about Murray, Emma would probably abandon him and they would never be together again. Do you think you can persuade me with an argument like that? Clayton had exclaimed with a sardonic smile, to which Wells, cringing at his own words, had replied that he didn't, because to have done so, the inspector would have had to have known the torment of being condemned to go on living after hurting the person he loved most. The inspector had remained silent for a few moments, after which he asked Wells politely to leave his office, which he did, cursing his lamentable performance. Because of Murray, he had championed love, only to make himself look ridiculous in front of that stuck-up young man. However, during the following weeks, Murray made no more mention of Inspector Clayton, and Wells gradually realized that whilst he considered it an overrated emotion, love was a sentiment many others valued, and so when they came across it would step respectfully around it, as they might a flowerbed.

And so, in brief, Wells had prevented Emma from discovering her fiancé's secret. Then why the devil had he just advised Murray to tell her, when he could have done the exact opposite? In order to discover the answer to that, Wells would have to delve too deeply into his soul, and so he preferred to let it slide.

And yet Wells was struck by the parallels between that scene and the afternoon when Murray went to his house to ask his opinion about his shoddy little novel. Then, also, Wells could have chosen between two options. He had held the dreams of that complete stranger in his hands while Murray awaited his verdict pathetically ensconced in the armchair in his living room. And this afternoon someone had arranged the pieces in exactly the same way beside the hibiscus bush, so that Wells had the same feeling as five years ago of being able to set Murray's life on the course he chose, no matter that he was now Wells's best friend.

With a shudder, Wells wondered what Murray might find at the end of the path he had chosen for him this time.

D
ESPITE FINDING HERSELF ON HER
aunt's front step, sheltered from an overcast sky, Emma Harlow gave a sigh, opened her parasol, and began twirling it above her head. It was the day of the trip to Dartmoor, and Monty was already half an hour late. He had promised her the day before that he would be on time. On the dot! he had said solemnly, as though reciting a family motto. He had even asked her to start waiting on the front step a few minutes early, because he had a surprise he wanted to show her, something to do with the way they would travel to Dartmoor, which was worth beholding in all its splendor. And Emma had deigned to accept, concealing a delighted smile, for secretly there was nothing she liked more than the theatricality with which her fiancé celebrated every occasion, which made her feel like a little girl who had stumbled into a great magician's secret lair. But after standing there for half an hour, bored and cold, she was beginning to regret having indulged him. Narrowing her eyes, Emma surveyed the driveway that crossed the gardens of her aunt's town house, then looked up at the leaden sky, unable to rule out the possibility that Monty might emerge from the clouds sitting on some preposterous flying machine.

“Goodness me! Are you still here?”

Emma wheeled round angrily, preparing to take out her frustration on her aunt, but seeing the old lady planted in the doorway, bundled up in various shawls, some of her irritation vanished.

“Yes, Aunt Dorothy,” she sighed. “As you have so cleverly perceived, I am still here.”

“I told you so,” the old lady muttered, ignoring her niece's irony. “There was no need to go out so early to wait for him. I don't know why you still haven't realized that punctuality is not your fiancé's strong point. Although, heaven forgive me for offering my unsolicited opinion, I would be hard-pressed to say what his other strong points might be.”

“Please, Auntie . . . not now.”

“Oh, don't worry, I didn't come outside in this infernal weather to talk about your beloved Gilmore. I have little or nothing more to say about him. Quite frankly, for the past two years the subject bores me. I only came out to implore you to step inside, my girl. It is freezing out here! The servants will inform you when he arrives.”

“No, Auntie. Monty specifically asked me to wait on the front step. Apparently, he has a surprise for me, and—”

“He can give it to you when he gets here!” her aunt interrupted. “It's far too damp out here. You'll catch your death! I can't imagine what would happen if you fell ill weeks before your wedding. It would be a complete disaster! What would I say to your wretched parents, who will arrive any day now? After their shock at your unusual engagement and your subsequent refusal to have the wedding in New York, not to mention the recriminations I have had to endure because of it all . . .”

“Come, now, Auntie, nobody who knows me—and I assure you my parents know me very well—could possibly hold you responsible for my actions.”

“Well, they do! And your mother, my
beloved
sister-in-law, has made it her business to tell me as much in all her delightful letters, in that subtle, insinuating way of hers. I'm sure they think I didn't protect you enough when, two years ago, they placed you in my care so that you could enjoy a nice, safe holiday on the old continent. But how could I have suspected such contempt for the rules of etiquette in a young lady of your upbringing? Anyway, for better or for worse,” she went on with the resigned tone of a martyr, “you will be Mrs. Gilmore in a few weeks' time and will no longer be my responsibility. But there is one last thing I will say, dear niece: notwithstanding my horror at the idea of a distinguished Harlow marrying an adventurer of uncertain origin, who made his fortune as a common merchant, I confess that after living with you for two years I can't imagine any other man who would put up with you.”

“And I, dear Auntie, couldn't agree with you more. In fact, before I met Monty, I had decided not to get married at all, for I doubted any man was capable of making me happy.”

The old lady sighed.

“Happiness is utterly overrated, my dear girl, and obviously it isn't something that should be entrusted to incompetent men. A woman has to find her own happiness and as far as possible avoid involving her husband in the search.”

“Is that why you never married, Auntie?” Emma asked softly. “So that no man would ever spoil your happiness?”

“I didn't marry because I didn't want to! But if I had, I wouldn't have chosen an amiable buffoon for a husband. Breeding and money are the two most important things in a man, for they frame a woman's beauty and intelligence. A frame can embellish a painting, but if the frame is vulgar, then the painting is better without one. Anyway, at least it reassures me that with your future husband's fortune and your dowry you won't be short of money. But tell me, are you planning on spoiling everything by catching pneumonia? Would you like me to meet your parents off the boat bearing the tragic news that they have crossed the ocean to bid you farewell on your deathbed?”

Emma rolled her eyes.

“Don't be so dramatic, Auntie. I assure you a bit of cold air isn't going to leave me on any deathbed, and besides,” Emma said, smiling inwardly, “I have sufficient reason to suspect that my future life with Monty will be anything but conventional. We share such an intense fear of boredom that I am sure neither of us will die in a mere bed. I daresay we shall meet our end in the jaws of a plesiosaurus at the center of the Earth, or fighting off a Martian invasion . . .”

“Young lady!” the old woman exclaimed. “Don't make fun of Death. Everyone knows Death has no sense of humor.”

“Let me remind you that you started it.” Emma grinned, softening her tone as she noticed the old lady's pallor. “But don't worry, Auntie. I've never felt better. Besides, I'm all wrapped up. And I'm sure Monty will arrive any moment . . . ,” she added, scanning the driveway without much conviction.

After sensing her niece's doubts with the eagerness of a bloodhound, Lady Harlow returned to the subject of what she considered to be Montgomery Gilmore's faults—starting, of course, with his apparent fondness for being late. Emma knew the old lady's refrain by heart, after hearing it endlessly repeated for two years, and I have to confess, dear reader, that she agreed with every word: her fiancé possessed each of those exasperating, unfortunate, wearisome faults, and several others that her aunt had overlooked. But taken together they created a whole that was so stimulating and dynamic that anyone who came into contact with it had no choice but to be crushed or to reinvent herself. Two years ago, Montgomery Gilmore had entered her life like a train passing through a glass station, leaving her little choice but to climb aboard or spend the rest of her life on a platform smashed to smithereens. And Emma had jumped aboard without a second thought. Just as she had jumped aboard the hot-air balloon, where, to Monty's horror, she had laughed so much she had almost made the basket capsize. She would even climb on the back of an orange-plumed heron and fly to the stars if he asked her.

With a sense of joy, Emma realized that the more she listened to her aunt's diatribe, the less annoyed she felt about her fiancé's lateness. After all, he was bound to appear sooner or later. She had no doubt about that. She knew she could count on him the way she had never been able to count on anyone. And nothing else mattered to her. Monty would arrive inventing the most hilarious excuse, tying himself up in such knots with his apologies that instead of justifying himself, he would condemn himself hopelessly, and she would have no choice but to burst out laughing. Emma gave her aunt a sidelong, almost affectionate glance. She surprised herself thinking she would miss her, a little, and the old lady would doubtless miss her, too, when she left her all alone again, when she went to settle in her new house after the wedding. She promised herself that, amid all her happiness, she wouldn't forget her aunt and resolved to visit her as often as her duties as a newlywed would allow. A newlywed . . . the idea gave her butterflies in her stomach, a feeling that spread through the rest of her body.