experienced it when I was in America.” He took two meticulous spoonfuls of sugar and stirred them into his tea. She could watch his beautiful table manners for hours. “Not only on trains, but in hotels, restaurants. And I had to book passage on a British ship to come home. Almost all the American companies wanted me to travel third class or steerage.”
“I’m … sorry.” She reddened, embarrassed by her countrymen’s bigotry.
“It stunned and upset me, at first,” he admitted. “I’m not used to that kind of outright prejudice.”
“It hasn’t been that long since the War.” Ten years, though that didn’t make it right.
“Yes, but this was in the civilized North,” he said, but there wasn’t any rebuke for her in his voice.
“I do love my country,” Gemma said, looking out at the passing English landscape, a rush of green and gray so unlike the wide cornfields of Illinois. “And it also embarrasses the hell out of me, sometimes.”
He raised his teacup and smiled over its rim. “I know a little about conflicted feelings for one’s homeland.” His expression darkened. “We’re on a train speeding toward a battle with men who claim to uphold Britain’s finest virtues. The Heirs say they want the advancement of our nation—but the cost is too high. The world may pay the price. Soon. Within days. If the Blades cannot stop them.”
She shuddered, thinking of how close everything was to disaster. Days. And yet she and Catullus sat on a train, passing towns and farms that had no idea what war brewed. Her family in Chicago—they were wholly unaware that their lives could be completely torn apart. But Gemma knew, and she felt the weight of responsibility begin to settle on her shoulders.
“Do the Heirs truly want everything to become English?” “To them, the height of civilization is England. And I don’t believe that this country should serve as the world’s model.”
“So there isn’t perfect equality in England?”
A rueful laugh, and then a sip of tea. Despite the many turbulent thoughts filling her mind, she could not help but watch his mouth upon the delicate porcelain. He closed his eyes for a moment, the clean angles of his face lit with sensuous pleasure. The sight entranced Gemma, made her imagine things she had no business imagining. To distract herself, she took a bite of her sandwich. How did they get the ham so incredibly thin?
“Ah, even on a train,” he sighed, opening his eyes, “one can’t get a finer cup of tea than in England.” “I like coffee better,” she said.
He shook his head over her barbarism. “No wonder our nations made war against each other. Twice. But, to answer your question, there is no perfect equality. Even here. It’s not as overt as in America, but, trust me “—and here his expression sharpened again—” skin color
does
make a difference. I’m judged before I speak, before I act.”
“I know a little about being prejudged,” she said, echoing his earlier words.
He fixed her with an inquisitive look. “Female journalists are so uncommon?”
“Not so rare if they want to write about
feminine
things—clothes, food, babies.” She felt her mouth twist, though she fought against bitterness. Gemma had no quarrel with clothes, food, or babies, but she didn’t want to write about them. So many other things snared her interest. Richard hadn’t understood that. Hadn’t understood her, despite his claims to the contrary.
“And if they write about the Northwest Territories?”
“There is no ‘they.’ There’s only me. So far, I’m the only one.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice as if letting him in on a secret. “Most people think I’m a bit crazy.”
Catullus leaned forward as well, velvety eyes dancing as he whispered back, “Me too.”
They shared a smile, something for the two of them alone. They remained like that for a small while, warming themselves with this unforeseen gift. The ever-present threat faded
“I’m … sorry.” She reddened, embarrassed by her countrymen’s bigotry.
“It stunned and upset me, at first,” he admitted. “I’m not used to that kind of outright prejudice.”
“It hasn’t been that long since the War.” Ten years, though that didn’t make it right.
“Yes, but this was in the civilized North,” he said, but there wasn’t any rebuke for her in his voice.
“I do love my country,” Gemma said, looking out at the passing English landscape, a rush of green and gray so unlike the wide cornfields of Illinois. “And it also embarrasses the hell out of me, sometimes.”
He raised his teacup and smiled over its rim. “I know a little about conflicted feelings for one’s homeland.” His expression darkened. “We’re on a train speeding toward a battle with men who claim to uphold Britain’s finest virtues. The Heirs say they want the advancement of our nation—but the cost is too high. The world may pay the price. Soon. Within days. If the Blades cannot stop them.”
She shuddered, thinking of how close everything was to disaster. Days. And yet she and Catullus sat on a train, passing towns and farms that had no idea what war brewed. Her family in Chicago—they were wholly unaware that their lives could be completely torn apart. But Gemma knew, and she felt the weight of responsibility begin to settle on her shoulders.
“Do the Heirs truly want everything to become English?” “To them, the height of civilization is England. And I don’t believe that this country should serve as the world’s model.”
“So there isn’t perfect equality in England?”
A rueful laugh, and then a sip of tea. Despite the many turbulent thoughts filling her mind, she could not help but watch his mouth upon the delicate porcelain. He closed his eyes for a moment, the clean angles of his face lit with sensuous pleasure. The sight entranced Gemma, made her imagine things she had no business imagining. To distract herself, she took a bite of her sandwich. How did they get the ham so incredibly thin?
“Ah, even on a train,” he sighed, opening his eyes, “one can’t get a finer cup of tea than in England.” “I like coffee better,” she said.
He shook his head over her barbarism. “No wonder our nations made war against each other. Twice. But, to answer your question, there is no perfect equality. Even here. It’s not as overt as in America, but, trust me “—and here his expression sharpened again—” skin color
does
make a difference. I’m judged before I speak, before I act.”
“I know a little about being prejudged,” she said, echoing his earlier words.
He fixed her with an inquisitive look. “Female journalists are so uncommon?”
“Not so rare if they want to write about
feminine
things—clothes, food, babies.” She felt her mouth twist, though she fought against bitterness. Gemma had no quarrel with clothes, food, or babies, but she didn’t want to write about them. So many other things snared her interest. Richard hadn’t understood that. Hadn’t understood her, despite his claims to the contrary.
“And if they write about the Northwest Territories?”
“There is no ‘they.’ There’s only me. So far, I’m the only one.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice as if letting him in on a secret. “Most people think I’m a bit crazy.”
Catullus leaned forward as well, velvety eyes dancing as he whispered back, “Me too.”
They shared a smile, something for the two of them alone. They remained like that for a small while, warming themselves with this unforeseen gift. The ever-present threat faded
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