Then Malcolm high-signed John, who joined them and set the trunk down with a sigh. “ ‘at’s good, Mister Moore, sir.”
Malcolm grinned. “Good show, John. Your Cockney’s coming along nicely.”
”I been Join’ a study on it, sir.” John’s eyes twinkled. Malcolm had introduced him as a graduate student who planned to stay down time for several months working on his doctoral dissertation on the London underclass. He and Kit had come to an agreement: John would “work” as a manservant for Malcolm and Margo during their week in London, doing whatever was required of him. In return, Kit would front him the money for the initial gate ticket. He’d provided for his own living expenses and gear.
”Where are we?” Margo asked quietly. She stamped her feet to keep them warm.
”In the private garden of a house near Battersea Park at Chelsea Reach.”
”Chelsea Reach?”
”A stretch of the Thames. We’re across the river from where we shall need to be for most of our stay.”
Gas lights illuminated a garden where the tourists now milled excitedly. Time Tours guides dressed as liveried servants organized sixty-some people into a double line, gentlemen escorting ladies, while the porters struggled with heavy trunks. They carried luggage into a three-story, graceful house where gas lights burned warmly. The interior seemed warm and inviting compared with the damp, frigid garden.
”It’s cold,” Margo complained
”Well, it is late February. We shall have a hard frost tonight or I’m no judge of weather.”
She tucked her hands inside the cape. “Now what?”