The Map of the Sky (30 page)

“Sir, Miss Harlow has arrived!” the footman announced quite unnecessarily, causing his master to jump.

“Thank you, Elmer, you may go now. I shall pour the tea myself,” Gilmore replied, glancing anxiously at the maid.

Without taking her eyes off her host, who was now staring at his shoes, Emma said, “Daisy, go with Elmer to the servants’ quarters and wait for me there until I call you.”

“Yes, miss,” Daisy whispered awkwardly.

Once both servants had withdrawn, the host, still visibly ill at ease, looked up from his shoes and went over to greet Emma.

“Thank you for accepting my invitation, Miss Harlow,” said Gilmore, who apparently dared not call her by her first name except at a distance.

Out of politeness, Emma offered her hand to the millionaire, who leaned forward awkwardly and planted a hesitant kiss on it. Then, unsettled by her proximity, he asked if she would have a seat.

Once she had done so, Emma gave him a polite but defiant smile and declared, “Surely you didn’t imagine your presumptuous proposal would frighten me off?”

“Of course not,” he exclaimed, pausing briefly before adding with a mischievous grin, “even though it can mean only one thing: that you don’t consider me a danger.”

Emma did not acknowledge the jest but silently contemplated the awkward suitor Fate had decided to impose on her, trying her best to find something attractive about him. But she could find nothing: his cheeks were too chubby and rosy, his nose too small in proportion to his eyes and ears, while the sparse tufts of his blond whiskers and beard seemed to her a ridiculous adornment.

“There’s another possibility that you have overlooked, Mr. Gilmore,” she replied coldly.

“And what might that be?” he said with interest, trying to steady his hand as he poured her cup of tea.

“That I’m quite able to defend myself against anything that might happen between these walls.”

Gilmore set the teapot down on the table with an amused grin, pleased by the astuteness of her remark.

“I don’t doubt it, Miss Harlow, I don’t doubt it. But have no fear, for as you can see we are all perfectly harmless in this house.” At which he gestured toward his dog, asleep in the corner beneath a stream of light filtering in through the window. “My dog is too old and, far from being fierce, responds to everything with complete indifference.” Then he gestured toward the door through which the footman and the maid had left the room moments before. “And what can I say of my faithful footman, Elmer? He takes his mission in life far too seriously to deviate from the proper behavior expected of a manservant.” Finally, after pausing for effect, Gilmore looked straight at Emma and said, “Besides, I am in love with you and could never do anything to harm you.”

Emma had to mask her astonishment at Gilmore’s verbal acrobatics, which ended in such a passionate and startling declaration. Had he been rehearsing all this time? He, on the other hand, was incapable of concealing his excitement, and during the awkward silence that followed, he watched her expectantly, hoping for a response. Emma took a sip of tea to buy some time.

“So, you would never do anything to harm me,” she repeated in an amused voice. “Not even if I were to tell you I could never return your love?”

He gazed at her in amazement.

“How would you respond then, Mr. Gilmore?” Emma went on. “Aren’t crimes of passion committed for that very reason, because one is unable to win another’s heart and decides no one else should have it?”

“I guess so . . . ,” Gilmore admitted, at a loss.

“Consequently, you could quite easily hurl yourself at me right now and try to throttle me with those strong hands of yours,” she said with a dreamy voluptuousness, “and I would have nothing but my poor little parasol with which to defend myself.”

Emma had scarcely finished her sentence when she chided herself for her attempt at flirtation. Why torment the poor man like that when she had gone there with the intention of freeing herself from him? She felt a pang of compassion as she saw Gilmore’s bewildered face darken. Despite his apparently relaxed demeanor, it was obvious he was stifling a desperate urge to leap up and satisfy his desire without wasting any more time talking. She imagined him clasping her in his thick arms and, in keeping with his outlandish wooing methods, covering her arms with kisses like an eager puppy.

“Oh no, Miss Harlow,” Gilmore replied, his voice faintly shrill, “I assure you I would never behave in such a manner.”

His unease made Emma vaguely uncomfortable, but she had not gone there to be overwhelmed by pity.

“I see: you are not the reckless type driven by passion like a leaf borne on the wind,” she persisted. “I suppose that if I rejected your love, you would prefer to think of me with the fatalistic indifference of the romantic hero. And, having overcome your brief sorrow, you would transfer your affections to some other young woman.”

Gilmore looked at her, suddenly solemn.

“You are wrong, Emma,” he said with ridiculous earnestness. “I
would go on loving you for the rest of my life in the hope that one day you might change your mind.”

Emma pretended not to notice he had called her by her Christian name.

“You would sacrifice your life for such a slender hope?” she said, unsure whether to feel flattered or appalled. “Would you never marry, for example?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” he replied in the same solemn tone. “I would simply wait, removing any obstacle in my life that might stand in the way of my love for you, should you one day return. I would do no more than stay alive.”

“But why?” Emma asked, trying to conceal the strange agitation Gilmore’s words were beginning to cause her. “New York is full of young women every bit as beautiful as I, if not more so. Any one of them might—”

“I could spend the rest of eternity traveling the world,” Gilmore interrupted, “admiring all the paintings and sculptures in the great museums, and nature’s most magnificent landscapes, but I would never find a greater beauty, or anyone who could move me as much as you, Emma.”

Emma remained silent, taken aback by Gilmore’s reply. That didn’t sound like an experienced ladies’ man making a calculated speech, but like someone saying what he truly believed. A man, in short, who has fallen in love for the first time and is incapable of expressing his overwhelming emotions in anything other than grandiloquent, ridiculous, and naïve phrases. Gilmore had not used such language during their two other meetings. However, the man in front of Emma now had nothing in common with the clumsy, boastful companion whom she had left in Central Park. Her host possessed a quality she could not comprehend, for she had never encountered it in any of her other young suitors. Gilmore looked at her with passionate sincerity. He wanted to lay at her feet a love so generous that he would give his life for her without expecting anything in return, except the hope that she might one day love
him. But was she painting a true picture of Gilmore, or was she in the presence of an inveterate charlatan? And why should she care either way, since she could never love him?

“I confess you have a way with words, Mr. Gilmore,” she said. “You could convince anyone of anything.”

He smiled modestly.

“You exaggerate, Emma: I can’t convince you to marry me, for example.”

“That’s because I’m not seduced by words that dissolve in the air as soon as they are uttered,” she retorted. “The way to win my heart is through action.”

Because actions do not lie, she almost added, but halted herself. Gilmore played with his teaspoon for a few moments, before venturing:

“And what if I fulfilled your wish; would you marry me then?”

Emma pondered her response. She wouldn’t marry a man like Gilmore for all the tea in China, but what she intended to ask him for even he was incapable of achieving.

“Yes,” she replied, with absolute conviction.

“Do you give me your word?”

“Yes, Mr. Gilmore,” said Emma. “I give you my word.”

“Mmm . . . that can mean only one of two things: either you are certain I cannot possibly achieve what you want, or you want it so badly you are willing to pay any price, however high,” Gilmore reflected with an amused grin. “Or is there a third possibility I have overlooked?”

“No, this time there is no other possibility,” Emma replied coldly.

“Good,” said Gilmore impatiently, “then let us unveil the mystery once and for all: what is this wish I cannot fulfill?”

Emma cleared her throat. It was time for her to put the man in his place. Gilmore was expecting her to ask him for some priceless jewel, a horse that never lost a race, or a house that could float on a river, or in the air, held aloft by a flock of birds. But she wasn’t going to ask him for anything like that. She was going to ask him for something he could
not possibly do. Something only one exceptional man had achieved, a man whose blood also ran in her veins. She was going to ask him to make the whole world dream. And Gilmore could not even make her dream.

“Sixty-three years ago, in 1835,” she began, “an editor on the
Sun
convinced everyone that the Moon was inhabited by unicorns, beavers, and bat men. Did you ever hear about that?”

“Of course. Who hasn’t heard about one of the biggest journalistic hoaxes of the century?” Gilmore replied, intrigued.

“Well, that man was Richard Locke, and he was my great-grandfather.”

“Your great-grandfather?” Gilmore said, startled.

Emma nodded.

“Then you will also know that even after the whole thing had been proved a fraud, many people went on believing his descriptions were genuine.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, Miss Harlow; people have a desperate need to believe in something,” said Gilmore. “But surely you’re not asking me to repeat that stunt? Now we know for a fact that the Moon is uninhabited; no one would believe the contrary. Today’s telescopes—”

“Of course no one would, Mr. Gilmore,” Emma said, cutting him short. “But many people believe there is life on Mars.”

“On Mars?”

“Yes, on Mars. Have you heard about the canals? Some scientists believe they prove there is intelligent life on our neighboring planet.”

“I have read something about it, yes,” said Gilmore, visibly ill at ease. “In that case, you want me to . . . ?”

Emma interrupted him once more, sliding across the table a volume that looked familiar to him.

“Do you know this, Mr. Gilmore?” she asked, gesturing toward the book she had placed next to the teacups. It was a novel with a light brown cover, published by Heinemann.

Gilmore took it gingerly in his huge hands and read aloud the title:

“
The War of the Worlds
 . . . H. G. Wells.”

“A well-known English author wrote it,” Emma said. “It’s a story about Martians invading the Earth.”

“H. G. Wells . . . ,” Gilmore said under his breath.

“The Martians land on our planet in giant cylinders fired from Mars. The first of them appears one morning on Horsell Common, not far from London. In the crater made by the impact, the Martians build a flying machine in the shape of a stingray, in which they then advance on the nearby capital. In less than a fortnight, the Martians conquer London.” She paused, then chuckled. “I want you to reproduce that invasion.”

Gilmore raised his eyes from the book and looked at her, openmouthed.

“What are you saying?”

“You heard me: I want you to make everyone believe that Martians are invading the Earth.”

“Have you gone mad?” Gilmore exclaimed.

“You don’t have to reproduce the whole invasion, of course,” she explained. “The first stage would suffice.”

“The first stage? But, Miss Harlow, that’s—”

“Impossible?”

“That isn’t w-what I was going to say . . . ,” Gilmore stammered.

“Just as well, Mr. Gilmore; then you will have no problem carrying it out. If you succeed in making an alien cylinder appear on Horsell Common and have a Martian emerge from it and if the following day every newspaper in the world runs a headline about an invasion by our interplanetary neighbors, then I shall agree to become your wife.”

“A Martian invasion . . . ,” Gilmore spluttered, “you’re asking me to re-create a Martian invasion . . .”

“Yes, that’s what I desire,” confirmed Emma. “Think of it as a tribute to my great-grandfather, who made everyone believe the Moon was inhabited by unicorns and bat men.”

Gilmore sat back in his chair and contemplated the book for a few moments, shaking his head in disbelief.

“If you think you aren’t up to it, Mr. Gilmore, then I suggest you accept defeat,” said Emma. “And please, stop sending me those ridiculous messages assuring me you can attain the impossible.”

Gilmore gazed at her and laughed defiantly.

“The Martians will come to Horsell, Miss Harlow, I can promise you that,” Gilmore said, in the solemn tone of someone declaring his love. “They will come all the way from Mars so that I can marry you.”

“When?” she declared boldly.

Gilmore appeared to reflect.

“When? Mmm . . . let me see. It is May now. I could arrange to leave for England in a week’s time, and the journey would take the better part of a fortnight. After that I would need at least a couple of months to carry out your request . . . that will take us up to August. Yes, that should give me enough time . . . All right, Miss Harlow, do you think August first is a good day for the Martians to invade Earth?”

Emma nodded, smiling. “Perfect, Mr. Gilmore. And I promise to be on Horsell Common to see it,” she said, rising to her feet and stretching out her hand. “Until then, Mr. Gilmore.”

Surprised by her sudden departure, Gilmore leapt to his feet, hurriedly pulling the service bell before kissing her hand.

“Until then, Miss Harlow,” he repeated.

Emma nodded politely, then headed for the library door. As the footman escorted her once more to the main entrance, she reflected about how well the meeting had gone.

But let us leave the endless succession of rooms and return to the little patio. For our true concern is not what Emma might be thinking at that moment, still less the footman or for that matter the maid Daisy, who was waiting in the spacious hallway for her mistress to appear. Our true concern is what was going on inside the head of Montgomery Gilmore, who was completely baffled. Having said good-bye to Miss Harlow, he was seated once more, caressing the volume she had left behind, a pensive expression on his face. He ran his plump fingers
over the author’s name in embossed letters below the title and shook his head in amused disbelief at life’s strange twists and turns.