Tom helps me into the carriage and the driver pulls away from the great, sprawling lady that is Victoria Station, clip-clopping toward the heart of London. The air is gloomy, alive with the smoke from the gaslights that line London's streets. The foggy grayness makes it seem like dusk, though it's only four o'clock in the afternoon. Anything could creep up behind you on such shadowy streets. I don't know why I think of this, but I do, and I immediately push the thought away.
The needle-thin spires of Parliament peek up over the dusky outlines of chimneys. In the streets, several sweat-drenched men dig deep trenches in the cobblestones.
"What are they doing?"
"Putting in lines for electric lights," Tom answers, coughing into a white handkerchief with his initials stitched on a corner in a distinguished black script. "Soon, this choking gaslight will be a thing of the past."
On the streets, vendors hawk their wares from carts, each with his own distinctive cry knives sharpened, fish to buy, get your apples apples here ! Milkmaids deliver the last of the day's milk. In a strange way, it all reminds me of India. There are tempting storefronts offering everything one can imaginetea, linens, china, and beautiful dresses copied from the best fashions of Paris. A sign hanging from a second-story window announces that there are offices to let, inquire within. Bicycles whiz past the many hansom cabs on the streets. I brace myself in case the horse spooks to see them, but the mare pulling us seems completely uninterested. She's seen it all before, even if I haven't.
An omnibus crowded with passengers sails past us, drawn by a team of magnificent horses. A cluster of ladies sits perched in the seats above the omnibus, their parasols open to shield them from the elements. A long strip of wood advertising Pears' soap ingeniously hides their ankles from view, for modesty's sake. It's an extraordinary sight and I can't help wishing we could just keep riding through London's streets, breathing in the dust of history that I've only seen in photographs. Men in dark suits and bowler hats step out of offices, marching confidently home after a day's work. I can see the white dome of St. Paul's Cathedral rising above the sooty rooftops. A posted bill promises a production of Macbeth starring the American actress Lily Trimble. She's ravishing, with her auburn hair loose and wild, a red gown cut daringly low on her bosom. I wonder if the girls at Spence will be as lovely and sophisticated.
"Lily Trimble is quite beautiful, isn't she?" I say by way of trying to make pleasant small talk with Tom, a seemingly impossible task.
"An actress," Tom sneers. "What sort of way is that for a woman to live, without a solid home, husband, children? Running about like she's her own lord and master. She'll certainly never be accepted in society as a proper lady."
And that's what comes of small talk.
Part of me wants to give Tom a swift kick for his arrogance. I'm afraid to say that another part of me is dying to know what men look for in a woman. My brother might be pompous, but he knows certain things that could prove useful to me.
"I see," I say in an offhand way as if I want to know what makes a nice garden. I am controlled. Courteous. Ladylike. "And what does make a proper lady?" He looks as if he should have a pipe in his mouth as he says, "A man wants a woman who will make life easy for him. She should be attractive, well groomed, knowledgeable in music, painting, and running a house, but above all, she should keep his name above scandal and never call attention to herself."
He must be joking. Give him a minute, and he'll laugh, say it was just a lark, but his smug smile stays firmly in place. I am not about to take this insult in stride. "Mother was Father's equal," I say coolly. "He didn't expect her to walk behind him like some pining imbecile."
Tom's smile falls away. "Exactly. And look where it's gotten us." It's quiet again. Outside the cab's windows, London rolls by and Tom turns his head toward it. For the first rime,
I can see his pain, see it in the way he runs his fingers through his hair, over and over, and I understand what it costs him to hide it all. But I don't know how to build a bridge across this awkward silence, so we ride on, watching everything, seeing little, saying nothing.
"Gemma" Tom's voice breaks and he stops for a moment. He's fighting whatever it is that's boiling up inside him. "That day with Mother why the devil did you run away? What were you thinking?"
My voice is a whisper. "I don't know." For the truth, it's very little comfort.
"The illogic of women."
