becoming like the Heirs, greedy for more power. So we take pride in our difference.”
She knew something of pride. “There are only three of you,” she noted.
“There are more of our numbers. Not as many as the Heirs, but enough to make a go of it.” He nodded toward the window, where the countryside sped past. “They’re gathering in Southampton now.”
“Where I’ll be held captive,” Gemma added.
“Only for your protection,” he clarified. As if that made it better.
“Until when?”
“Until it is safe.”
“When might that be?” she pressed.
His eyes fixed on her before sliding away. “I don’t know.”
Taking risks was something she did as if by biological compulsion. As a child, she alone out of three sisters and four brothers dared to go inside the abandoned house on their street. Later, at the age of eighteen, after giving her virginity to Robby Egan, instead of accepting his offer of marriage, Gemma left home and moved into aboardinghouse close to the
Tribune
offices, determined to become a journalist and not a young wife. She once followed a fire engine on horseback when several huge warehouses went up in flames so she might report on the destruction firsthand. She disguised herself as a charwoman to observe the late-night dealings in a local politician’s office.
Hell, she even trekked out to the Northwest Territories in search of a story, and then journeyed alone all the way across the continent and the Atlantic Ocean. She could no more stop herself from taking a risk than most people could keep from sneezing. It was a necessity.
Yet when Catullus insisted that she must go to and remain at the Blades’ Southampton headquarters, she knew better than to try to evade his escort. Only someone pickle-brained would attempt to slip away. The Heirs were aware of her. She had already seen a minuscule portion of what they were capable of. Gemma had no desire to be confined in Southampton, but she had even less desire to be dead.
So, when she announced that she was heading to the dining car for a bite to eat, and Catullus insisted that he join her, she didn’t take umbrage. In fact, she was glad for the company.
For
his
company, in particular.
They sat at a neat little table spread with a white cloth, and, at Catullus’s direction, plates of cold sandwiches and cups of hot tea were brought by a solicitous attendant. Gemma watched with badly concealed amazement as the attendant eagerly jumped to accommodate Catullus’s wishes.
“You seem shocked by something, Miss Murphy,” he remarked.
“Gemma,” she corrected.
“Gemma,” he said, and gave a little smile at her name.
She felt herself dissolve like a sugar cube in tea. Then shook herself to awareness. “It’s very different here in England than it is at home.”
“How is that?”
No way to be delicate about it. “You wouldn’t have been seated in a dining car on an American train.”
Yet he did not look angry or surprised by her blunt comment. He tipped a small silver pitcher of milk into his tea, and it looked like a child’s toy in his large hand. Yet, for all that, he had a precise, polished way of moving.
Still, when he spoke, his voice was reserved, almost cool. “And you prefer the American policy.”
“God, no!” Gemma stared, horrified. “I find it …” She couldn’t find a word strong enough. “Disgusting.” That barely covered the depth of her feelings. “What damned difference does it make what the color of someone’s skin is?”
A man and a woman, seated nearby, gasped at her coarse language and vehemence.
She ignored them. Other people’s opinions didn’t matter. But
his
did.
Relief, then, to see his gaze thaw. And restrained approbation take the place of coldness.
“I’m glad you don’t share your countrymen’s views,” he said.
She felt compelled to defend her home. “Not
all
Americans are like that. But,” she conceded, “some are. And their intolerance disappoints me.”
“I
She knew something of pride. “There are only three of you,” she noted.
“There are more of our numbers. Not as many as the Heirs, but enough to make a go of it.” He nodded toward the window, where the countryside sped past. “They’re gathering in Southampton now.”
“Where I’ll be held captive,” Gemma added.
“Only for your protection,” he clarified. As if that made it better.
“Until when?”
“Until it is safe.”
“When might that be?” she pressed.
His eyes fixed on her before sliding away. “I don’t know.”
Taking risks was something she did as if by biological compulsion. As a child, she alone out of three sisters and four brothers dared to go inside the abandoned house on their street. Later, at the age of eighteen, after giving her virginity to Robby Egan, instead of accepting his offer of marriage, Gemma left home and moved into aboardinghouse close to the
Tribune
offices, determined to become a journalist and not a young wife. She once followed a fire engine on horseback when several huge warehouses went up in flames so she might report on the destruction firsthand. She disguised herself as a charwoman to observe the late-night dealings in a local politician’s office.
Hell, she even trekked out to the Northwest Territories in search of a story, and then journeyed alone all the way across the continent and the Atlantic Ocean. She could no more stop herself from taking a risk than most people could keep from sneezing. It was a necessity.
Yet when Catullus insisted that she must go to and remain at the Blades’ Southampton headquarters, she knew better than to try to evade his escort. Only someone pickle-brained would attempt to slip away. The Heirs were aware of her. She had already seen a minuscule portion of what they were capable of. Gemma had no desire to be confined in Southampton, but she had even less desire to be dead.
So, when she announced that she was heading to the dining car for a bite to eat, and Catullus insisted that he join her, she didn’t take umbrage. In fact, she was glad for the company.
For
his
company, in particular.
They sat at a neat little table spread with a white cloth, and, at Catullus’s direction, plates of cold sandwiches and cups of hot tea were brought by a solicitous attendant. Gemma watched with badly concealed amazement as the attendant eagerly jumped to accommodate Catullus’s wishes.
“You seem shocked by something, Miss Murphy,” he remarked.
“Gemma,” she corrected.
“Gemma,” he said, and gave a little smile at her name.
She felt herself dissolve like a sugar cube in tea. Then shook herself to awareness. “It’s very different here in England than it is at home.”
“How is that?”
No way to be delicate about it. “You wouldn’t have been seated in a dining car on an American train.”
Yet he did not look angry or surprised by her blunt comment. He tipped a small silver pitcher of milk into his tea, and it looked like a child’s toy in his large hand. Yet, for all that, he had a precise, polished way of moving.
Still, when he spoke, his voice was reserved, almost cool. “And you prefer the American policy.”
“God, no!” Gemma stared, horrified. “I find it …” She couldn’t find a word strong enough. “Disgusting.” That barely covered the depth of her feelings. “What damned difference does it make what the color of someone’s skin is?”
A man and a woman, seated nearby, gasped at her coarse language and vehemence.
She ignored them. Other people’s opinions didn’t matter. But
his
did.
Relief, then, to see his gaze thaw. And restrained approbation take the place of coldness.
“I’m glad you don’t share your countrymen’s views,” he said.
She felt compelled to defend her home. “Not
all
Americans are like that. But,” she conceded, “some are. And their intolerance disappoints me.”
“I
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