“You can do this, Jemima!” she mumbled to herself as she ascended the steps for a sleek trolley and recalled the verbal directions the concierge had given her, accompanying her map.
When she alighted, a pungent mix of fish, garbage, and seaweed tickled her nose. Sure enough, the grand Lake Michigan lapped lazily not far from her. She kept her eyes ahead of her, imagining she was in Toronto, skipping through the Ward with Merinda, guarded from wolf whistles and appreciative glances by her male garb. She moved swiftly, breathing out her insecurity, remembering that there was no surer sign of uncertainty than a person in a strange place consulting a map in broad daylight. She would fit in as best as she could with curls threatening to fall from her cap and cascade down her back and trousers that she had little time to see tailored and that did not disguise the curves of her gender as much as she might have wished.
Any reservations she might have had regarding her wardrobe vanished, however, in the instant she made out a familiar form crossing the street a ways ahead. Shoving the map deep into her pocket, she picked up speed, first in a brisk walk and then into a jog and then into a most unladylike sprint.
While her romantic notions would have had her in a lovely violet dress with lace at the collar and wrist, her task was made simpler without the inhibitions of corset or stays. She flung her arms around Ray and kissed him with a fervor and determination that would have shocked the Jem Watts of a year ago.
It was all very scandalous, of course, yet she pressed her lips to his with such force his hat toppled off. But in that moment, she didn’t care. And as his arms enfolded her and pulled her so tightly she almost left the ground, she deduced that he, too, was far from scandalized.
When they stopped? and he held her at arm’s length, his mouth was a frown but his eyes were bright.
She ran her hand through her free (and quite askew curls), caring little as to the whereabouts of her cap. Her cheeks were reddened by more than the heat, her fingertips tingled, and her knees were jelly, and she wasn’t quite sure where she was. But it didn’t matter now.
“I cannot believe I found you.” She tugged at his hand. “But I did! Can you believe it! Me! In this strange, big city without even Merinda!”
Ray’s frown deepened. “This is very dangerous, and you are being very ridiculous.” But his words sounded like a recitation, for his eyes didn’t just spark… they positively shone.
“You’re crying!” she exclaimed with a delighted laugh.
“I am not crying.” He dabbed at his eye with his shirt sleeve.
“You are! You are crying! You are happy to see me!”
“I am quite… ” He squinted at the sun while searching for a word, which just made his red-rimmed eyes water even more. “I am simply flummoxed that you would take such an unnecessary risk. Indeed, Jemima, when Jasper told me… ”
But Jem was too giddy, too elated, to hear him fluster through a string of frustrations set in his endearingly broken English. So she removed his powers of speech altogether.
* * *
*A Mountie could never hope to afford the Palmer House prices.
?For indeed a woman’s shoes—or even a woman in a man’s shoes—could not hit the pavement with that weight of force.
?There are few inconveniences more irritating than the necessity for air in the midst of a reunion.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
An investigator must attempt to feel immediately at ease no matter where the situation or surrounding. Being in one’s element is a luxury foreign to the art of deduction. Approach every new situation and acquaintance with a confident air.
M.C. Wheaton, Guide to the Criminal and Commonplace
Merinda paced the steps outside Ross’s address, leafing through the pamphlets she’d had printed, for several long minutes before giving up on Jemima altogether.
When she finally pressed her hand to the doorknocker, the face that met her was alive with the same expectation that rewarded him with such a large turnout in Toronto.
“Come in, Merinda Herringford, come in. Where is your lady friend?”
“Last-minute case of cold feet,” Merinda explained, wondering if her fib was true. She hated small talk, but she persisted. “Fancy, we met in Toronto not a full day ago, and here we are again. Might even have been on the same train.”
He offered her tea, which she declined. Then he offered her something stronger, and she declined that as well. She was too occupied looking around his small space, and he had to insist she take a seat.
While he slowly perused one of the pamphlets she handed him—commending her on its balance of Goldman’s philosophy with what were obviously her own personal convictions—she studied the paper-laden table before her. A plate with crumbs. A magnifying glass. A few tomes in Russian.