Once they were through Brentford, its busy high street clogged with buses, the traffic thinned out and the buildings gave way to a more rural landscape. Open fields stretched out in front of them, pale with frost tinged pink by the early-morning sun. Matthew, hatless and grinning, his hair whipped back by the wind, beamed at her.
She had never experienced anything like this before. The world was unfolding before them, promising the unknown. Every mile they drove made the ache in her chest recede further. She was not Cordelia Herondale, who had just lost her father, who loved a man who would never love her. She was someone free and nameless, flying like a bird above the road that blurred beneath their wheels.
As the countryside hurtled by, the green hills mottled with melting patches of snow, the little villages with smoke drifting from chimneys, Cordelia imagined what it must be like to be Matthew—living on his own, able to go wherever he liked, whenever he liked. Always keeping some part of himself separate, slipping in and out of events and parties, never committing to being anywhere, disappointing hosts by not showing up, or arriving late to the undimmed delight of everyone who knew him. She wasn’t sure anyone had a true hold on Matthew, save James.
Of course Matthew would be the one among all of them to take up motoring, she thought. He diligently sought out exactly the feeling it provided, of nothing under your feet, of speed and purpose, of noise too loud to think. For perhaps the first time she realized that a small part of her sought it too.
She kept the little map on her lap and checked off the towns and villages as they passed through them. Hounslow, Colnbrook, Slough, Maidenhead. At Maidenhead they stopped briefly for a cup of tea in a hotel beside the Thames, next to the pretty seven-arched stone bridge. The decor and the atmosphere was rather Victorian; a pair of breakfasting old ladies stared disapprovingly at their somewhat disheveled motoring outfits. Matthew deployed the Smile at them, causing them to flutter like alarmed sparrows.
Back in the car, the villages whirled past like stage sets. Twyford, Theale, Woolhampton, Thatcham, Lambourn. There was an inn at Lambourn, in the village’s tiny market square. It was called the George, and it had a place to leave the car and a dim, cozy interior of which Cordelia—freezing by now—noticed nothing at all apart from a huge fireplace with a beautiful, roaring fire and two armchairs at a table beside it, which were wonderfully vacant. Cordelia suspected that not many travelers passed by this part of the Downs in deep winter.
A young woman in a sprigged cotton dress and white apron hurried to serve them. She was pretty, with auburn hair and a lush figure. Cordelia didn’t miss the way the girl looked at Matthew, who was handsome indeed in his leather coat, his goggles pushed up into his tousled blond hair.
Matthew didn’t miss the glance either. He ordered ale for himself and ginger beer for Cordelia, then inquired—with a rather shocking wink—what was good to eat. The girl flirted back as though Cordelia wasn’t there, but she didn’t mind; she was enjoying watching the other patrons, mostly farmers and tradesmen. She wasn’t accustomed to seeing Londoners drinking in the middle of the day, but she suspected these men had been working since well before dawn.
When the barmaid went off to the kitchen to see to their steak pies, Matthew turned his charming smile on Cordelia. But she was having none of it.
“Goodness,” she said. “You’re an awful flirt.”
Matthew looked offended. “Not at all,” he said. “I’m a diabolically excellent flirt. I’ve learned from the best.”
Cordelia couldn’t help but smile. “Anna?”
“And Oscar Wilde. The playwright, that is, not my retriever.”
The barmaid returned with their drinks and a sparkle in her eye. She set them down before scampering off behind the bar. Cordelia took a sip of her ginger beer: it was spicy-hot on her tongue. “Do you know anything of Anna and Ariadne? There is clearly a story there, history between the two of them, but I have always felt awkward inquiring. Anna is so private.”
“It was some years ago. Anna was in love with Ariadne—very much so, I gather—but Ariadne did not return the feeling. It seems the tables may have turned, but…” Matthew shrugged. “It took quite a bit of asking for me to learn that much. Anna has mastered being entirely open without ever revealing anything significant about herself to anyone. It is why she is an excellent shoulder to cry on.”
“And have you made use of it?” She studied him: his dark green eyes, a faint scar on his cheek, the wisps of blond hair that curled at his temples. It was rare he stayed still enough for her to really look at him. “Anna said you had a habit of getting your heart broken.”