Hyde Park was glorious in the early morning sunlight, so glorious she could almost forget the horror of disease, squalor, and violent death such a short distance east. Because she was not yet “out” socially, none of the gentlemen they had dined with noticed her, but that was all right. It meant Margo had been accepted as a temporal native. She’d passed a difficult test with flying colors, as difficult in its way as that lethal little confrontation in St. Giles.
They spent the afternoon window shopping beneath the glass roof of the Royal Arcade on Old Bond Street, which linked the fashionable Brown Hotel to Bond John trailed along as chaperon. Margo gawked through the windows into Bretell’s at #12 where Queen Victoria herself bestowed her considerable patronage. Margo left the Arcade utterly dazzled.
On their final day, Malcolm took her by train down to Brighton, where they wandered along chilly streets and Malcolm pointed out the myriad differences between the city of 1888 and the city where his family had been caught in the great Flood of 1998. They paused within sight of the waterfront. Malcolm gazed out at the leaden spray crashing against the shingle and went utterly silent. Margo found she couldn’t bear the look in his eyes. She summoned her nerve and took his gloved hand in hers. He glanced down, eyes widening in surprise, then he swallowed hard.
”Thank you, Miss Smythe. I-”
He couldn’t continue.
Margo found herself moving on instinct. She guided him down the street to a warm inn and selected a seat in the corner. When the innkeeper bustled over, she smiled and said, “Stout, please, for my guardian and might I have a cup of hot tea?”