Yesterday she would have thought Brighton’s ability to transport her would be limited to the sea it perched on. And that would have been enough. She’d had an almost religious experience, standing at the edge of so much blue.
But here she was, again, transported.
She wasn’t sure how much more her heart could take.
Tracking down Effie was beginning to feel beside the point.
She had set out to see the Pavilion this morning because she’d known the architectural marvel was the main draw for her friend, but as with the sea yesterday, she’d forgotten Euphemia as she gazed at such a vision. She’d forgottenherself, and it turned out that sometimes, forgetting oneself waswonderful. It achieved almost the same sensation as trying to visualize the flame. One became not an individualized person so much as a part of a larger whole.
“Julianna?”
And just like that, she was an individualized person again.
She glanced around to try to discover who had spoken her name. The gardens were full of people strolling, but no one here would know her.
Unless . . .
No, the voice had been distinctly masculine.
She shook her head. She must be imagining things. Perhaps she was having a religious experience. She had read about people being transported by the Holy Spirit. She didn’t care for the notion.
Time to go back to the hotel. She was hungry. Lunch would exorcise the phantasmagoric voice in her head.
She hitched her reticule higher on her wrist and set off.
There was a gentleman ten or so yards off the path she was walking. Well, there were three gentlemen ten or so yards off, but two of them were looking at the Pavilion. One of them, the one in the middle, was looking at her.
A flock of seagulls went screeching through her head, flapping against the back of her eyeballs with sinewy wings.
Effie?
No. Of course not. She shook the gulls loose, sending them back into the sky where they belonged. She had, for a moment, gone mad.
But then she heard the gentleman say, “Yes.” Or perhaps she didn’thearhim, perhaps she onlysawhim, saw his orchid lips form the word.
With what was he agreeing, though? She had not uttered his name aloud—she’d thought—so there was no reason for him to be saying, “Yes.”
Yet she saw the word on his lips again:yes.
Julianna thought of herself as level-headed. Unflappable, even. Right then, though, nothing felt level. Not her head, not the ground beneath her feet. And there was much flapping, the head-gulls making another cacophonous fly-by. She closed her eyes for a long moment, took a breath, and tried to see the flame. Tried to stabilize herself, to quiet the birds.
When she opened her eyes, she was able to consider the gentleman with a degree of detachment. The first relevant fact was that he was agentleman. So whatever she thought had been happening before, she’d been confused. The fact of his gentleman-ness, of his sex, would allow her to study him impartially. Perhaps she knew him. Perhaps he had written for her, years ago, or for Father. She had quite the roster of correspondents, contemporaneous and historic.
The gentleman had long, lustrous dark hair. It was not pulled back into a queue but loose around his shoulders, making him look utterly striking, if a bit old-fashioned.
She dropped her gaze to his feet. He was wearing Hessians. They were made of fine brown leather but were otherwise unremarkable. His breeches were a similarly unexceptional buff, the color of tea with too much milk in it.
But as her assessment moved upward, she noticed, peeking out from beneath his coat, a waistcoat of brilliant blue silk shot through with black thread, as if he were harboring a peacock against his chest.
I confess a weakness for fine fabrics. I used to favor black, but lately I have been finding myself drawn to vibrant colors. The other day in a shop window, I admired a bolt of brilliant blue silk shot through with black thread. It looked as if someone had taken peacock feathers and transmuted them into silk. My first thought was, Julianna would think this a silly fabric indeed. But I questioned myself. For wasn’t it you who told me, when you ever so kindly rejected my last poem, that “silly” and “beautiful” need not be mutually exclusive?
They were suspended, Julianna and this peacock man, both of them frozen in place as surely as butterflies pinned in mounting cases. Well, this man, in his finery, was a butterfly. He was an Adonis blue, its azure wings edged in black. Julianna was a moth. A gray dagger, drably mottled with a tendency to blend into its surroundings.
She shook her head. It was impossible.
Wasn’t it?
With great effort, she unpinned herself from her mounting case. She took a step toward him, then another. He took a step back, then another, as if he’d been instructed by some higher being—the spirit who had visited her previously, perhaps—to keep a consistent distance between them.
