Two Loves

Chapter 21

ISAAC

The door shuts behind Cymbeline only a couple of hours later. Multiple times, she assured me that she would waive her rendez-vous to stay with me, but I refused until I nearly shoved her out of the door.

Now I am alone and preparing myself for what I'll expect to be a tour de force. We chose the apparel together, carefully, and now I think that I look exactly how I should do: monochrome, too ordinary to be of interest, but elegant enough to blend in. The hair is of course hopeless, but what shall I do.

Out of nervousness, I have put on the whole attire long before I have to go, which means that I have now been nervously roaming the apartment fully dressed for hours. Maybe I shouldn't go. That would prevent me from embarrassing myself and disappointing Atticus, making a bad impression on his parent, making the whole upper class hate me and, and --- and besides, I could say that I have a fever - it would only be half a lie, or do I just imagine that my forehead feels hot? But then maybe Atticus thinks that I don't want to see him - and I could meet some new clients - and surely, Cym is right, if I hide myself in my apartment the morning after one of my past affairs is facing imprisonment would seem suspicious -- oh, this is hopeless. Why the hell do I have to feel so ashamed of myself?

I should go, I think and walk up to the door. The rain is pouring outside, and a thunder-storm will come in the night. Great conditions for a fancy dinner party.

Or shouldn't I go? I think and stop at the door. No; I'll rather turn around. It would be so much easier to just hide in my bed and never go out again, and I really really don't want to go -- wait, what time is it?
I pull out my pocket watch and curse loudly. Good, great, I'll make a fool of myself and I'll start it with being late.

Did I put out all lights? Good, alright, then I throw on my coat and hat and storm out of the door - only in the staircase, I remember that I, in fact, forgot a handkerchief.

For a second, I, cursing, am tried to just run back up and fetch one, but the ticking of the clock reminds me of the time.

It surely won't be that bad, I think, and promptly sneeze.

To my great surprise, a cab is already waiting for me when I open the door.

"Are ye Mr Haywood?" the driver shouts through the drumming rain. Water is running from his over-coat and the black horses' back. He looks like an imagine from a novel by Stoker. I pull my coat closer around me to avoid the rain from dripping into the collar.

"Yes. Who sends you?"

"You're the Miss Haywoods brother, aren't ye?" he asks in his thick accent and shows me a piratically grin. "Get in, lad, don't worry. She sends me."

Someday, she will have to explain her weird connection to the London cab service, I think as I enter the carriage. Inside, I am at least safe from the rain.

Nevertheless, I already feel cold and weary when we start driving. The whole thing is rattling over the rough cobblestone streets, and it doesn't help that the coachman is seemingly spurring his horses to the utmost speed to get me to my destination. Drops of water are running down the window. I follow their traces with my finger to distract myself from how nervousI still am. The minutes pass too slow and too fast at the same time. And I am getting a headache. My head feels swollen and damp, but now it is too late to withdraw. Another wobble in the street causes a pang in my head that runs from the brow to the top of my head. Ouch.

"Hey!" I shout over the drumming rain and get up on the shaking ground. "Could we go a little more slo -- ooh!"

Before I finish the sentence, the coachman already follows my wish - the cab stops abruptly, and I am thrown forward and hit me head on the opposite wall. The door opens and the bearded driver looks inside.