“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 briefly as they discovered unexpected similarities linking them, a connection neither of them could have predicted. Outwardly, they had nothing in common, nothing bridging the sizable gap between them. Yet Gemma learned well from her journalist’s work that most things of value did not dwell on the surface, but took a careful eye and patience to uncover.
Here, then. This man—inventor, adventurer, his skin a different color than her own—he spoke to her and of her work without judgment, as though they truly were equals.
Suddenly, Catullus pulled back, glowering. Gemma thought that his forbidding expression was for her, until she saw his gaze fixed behind her. She turned slightly in her seat to see what angered and alarmed him.
Two men were coming into the dining car. Gemma quickly assessed them. One was of average height, a bit stout, with a neatly trimmed moustache. The other was taller, dark haired. Both had the pale skin of the upper ranks, with the snooty demeanor to prove it. Even on the steamship, none of the other passengers belonged to this class. This was her first time ever seeing the British gentry. They moved into the dining car as if it, and everything they saw, were their possessions.
Gemma, democratic, disliked them on sight.
An attendant approached them, gesturing toward an empty table. They began to pepper the man with questions, which the attendant stammered to answer.
She turned back to Catullus, and now he looked downright dangerous. He tore his gaze from the men and forced himself to look out the window, as if the view fascinated him. “Get up slowly,” he said between gritted teeth. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. Make for the other exit and head straight to our compartment.”
Gemma’s heart kicked. “It’s them, isn’t it? The Heirs.”
“Yes, now go. While the attendant has their attention. And don’t look at them.”
She rose up from her seat as casually as she could, all the while aware of the men behind her. Catullus followed suit, and set a handful of coins on the table. Gemma almost smiled. They were trying to evade the deadly Heirs of Albion, and he was still leaving tips. A true gentleman.
She and Catullus had just reached the door at the other end of the car when a man’s voice hissed loudly, “It’s Graves and that woman!”
Neither Gemma nor Catullus wasted any time. He threw open the door, pulled her through to the next car, then slammed the door. Through the glass, she saw the men running toward them.
“Blast,” Catullus growled. “Can’t lock the door. Run.”
Gemma went as fast as she could, plunging down the aisle of the second-class car as confused passengers watched from their seats. She heard Catullus close at her heels.
Through another carriage, and another. At her back came the sounds of the adjoining doors opening and slamming shut, men’s footsteps hurrying toward her and Catullus. She glanced quickly at some of the passengers watching the spectacle. Couldn’t someone help?
She reached another door. Two cars down was their compartment. Once they reached it, she wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but reach it they must. At the least, Astrid and Lesperance could lend a hand. Four against two offered better odds.
Gemma pulled open another door and started up the aisle, but turned when she did not hear Catullus behind her. He stood on an empty seat beside the door, bending to keep from knocking against the luggage rack overhead. She saw at once what he meant to do. His position kept him hidden from the advancing Heirs.
The men entered the carriage, and Catullus leapt. He slammed a fist into the jaw of the stout man, who stumbled back and into the path of his companion. The two Heirs tangled for a moment, lurching.
“What the devil?” cried a middle-aged passenger, observing. “No brawling on the train!”
“My apologies,” Catullus said, sprinting toward Gemma. He took her hand, and they both ran together.
Within a moment, they arrived at their private compartment. Astrid and Lesperance, huddled close, hands interlaced and speaking in low, intimate tones, broke apart at the entrance of Gemma and Catullus.
Lesperance