by Reid, Penny
Sometimes it felt nice, and sometimes it felt antiquated and annoying. I couldn’t entirely explain why, not even to myself, but his stringent display of gentlemanly manners made me feel like a hypocrite, which then pissed me off.
When, in western civilization, women were the weaker sex, when they needed protection, the ladies first rule of etiquette made sense. It was an acknowledgement of our place; by placing us first, it was really the patriarchal society’s way of telling women they were fragile and incapable, and that men, through good manners, recognized our feebleness of abilities and were displaying honor by allowing us to precede them.
It’s polite to hold the door for a child or the elderly. It’s good manners to give up your seat on public transportation to someone who is physically disabled. It’s honorable to assist those in need.
Weakest first.
By allowing Quinn to hold my doors and take my hand and help me in and out of my jacket, wasn’t I passively admitting that I was weaker in the relationship? Wasn’t I ceding power every time he displayed chivalrous deportment?
But, dammit, I liked it most of the time. I liked it so much that I let him do it, and I’d never talked to him about my cognitive dissonance on the subject. Hence my constant self-directed irritation and feeling like a hypocrite.
Ruminations running rampant were interrupted by a very pleasing female voice.
“Hello, and welcome to the Tower. You must be the Sullivan party.” The owner of the voice was a very cheerful looking woman in her mid to late fifties. She was dressed in a black and red tour guide costume, complete with a funny looking hat and a red appliqué crown at the chest. Her eyes were a bright blue, and she wore her brown hair pulled away from her face.
We’d walked all the way to the entrance, me tucked under Quinn’s arm and against his chest while I stewed in my feminist guilt. But her voice and expression were so pleasant, I immediately forgot about the inner turmoil.
Quinn nodded to her and I reached out my hand. Her engaging smile made me smile as she gave me a firm shake. “I’m Emma,” she said. “Pleased to meet you both. Is this your first time with us?”
“Yes,” Quinn said.
I added, “I’m Janie; it’s lovely to meet you, and I’m really looking forward to seeing the ancient torture device room as well as where Anne Boleyn was executed.”
Her smile widened and she released my hand. “That’s excellent. You know, however, that most of the executions did not take place within the Tower itself.”
I nodded, licking my lips as a precursor to my enthusiasm. “Yes. Historians agree that there were only seven deaths at the Tower itself, and only for those who might incite a riot if executed publicly. The majority of the executions took place on Tower Hill.”
Emma giggled at my recitation, and I liked her even more. “You’ll pardon me, but most young ladies are more interested in seeing the Jewel House than the torture device room.”
“Ah, I’d forgotten that the Crown Jewels are also here.” It definitely had slipped my mind. I wasn’t opposed to seeing the Jewel House, but it wasn’t the highest on my list of priorities.
Quinn fit his hand in mine and gave it a squeeze as he addressed our guide. “I trust all the preparations have been made?”
Emma responded, “Of course, sir, just as you instructed.”
I only half listened to this interaction as I was distracted by the remains of the Lion Tower drawbridge pit.
Emma turned toward the Tower, waved us forward, and called over her shoulder, “Let’s get out of the cold. It looks a bit like rain, doesn’t it? Come on. We’ve a lot to see and only a few hours to see it.”
* * *
Quinn wasn’t irritated, and he wasn’t upset. However, all of his earlier aloof detachment was back, and I was trying not to notice.
Presently we were in the Jewel house standing on a people mover that wasn’t currently moving. During the day, Emma had explained earlier, tourists would stand on the conveyor belt and gaze at the glittering jewels within the thick glass cases.
They’d added the people movers for a few reasons, not the least of which was to encourage people to keep moving rather than crowd around a single case.
I wasn’t sure, but my attempts to draw Quinn out with facts about the different towers, who built them and when, appeared to be falling on deaf ears. As a last ditch effort, I’d pointed out that the Beauchamp Tower marked the first large scale use of brick as a building material in Britain since the Romans departed in the fifth century.
He’d only nodded.
I stood in front of the third jewel case and stared into it unseeingly. Part of the problem might have been that it was so completely full of shiny objects that my mind had difficulty focusing on just one.
“What do you think?”
I pulled my gaze away from the case and found him watching me. “What do I think?”
“Yeah. See anything you like?” He tilted his head toward the glass.
I lifted a single eyebrow at his ridiculous question and at the fact that he was finally speaking. We’d been through half the tour already and he’d barely uttered a word. Now, here we were in the Jewel House—an afterthought as far as I was concerned—and he was suddenly interested in our surroundings.
I shrugged. “Not really. It all looks scratchy and heavy.”
“Nothing?”
I glanced back at the case. Within it was an ornate crown laden with multi-carat diamonds and an obscenely large amethyst at the center. A giant sapphire was at the top surrounded by four equilateral triangles of white gold and diamonds.
It was too much. It was like covering a perfectly good cake with a hundred pounds of frosting.
I twisted my mouth to the side and wrinkled my nose. “You know the diamond trade encourages exploitation in Africa—of the people and their resources—and it fuels much of the heinous crimes against humanity on that continent.”
I slipped my eyes to the side to gauge his reaction to my calmly spoken tirade and I found him grinning.
“I’ve heard that before.” He threaded his fingers through mine and tugged me to the next case. I followed and glanced at my watch. I wasn’t sure how much longer we had for the tour, but we hadn’t yet made it to the ancient torture devices room. This made me feel a little antsy.
“What about this case?” Again he indicated his head toward the case, but his eyes were on me.
I studied the contents at his insistence and recognized a crown inset with the famous Koh-i-Noor diamond from India. “That diamond is over one hundred carats,” I commented. “It was presented to Queen Victoria by the British colonial governor-general at the time. Some people believe it was basically stolen from India and should be returned to atone for the Brits’ past poor behavior.”
“Do you think it should be returned?” Quinn asked.
I turned back to Quinn and found him looking interested for the first time since we’d started the tour. I considered the question for a long moment, glanced at the ceiling as I quickly debated the merits and ramifications of both positions.
“I don’t know if I can give you a simple yes or no to that question. Restitution is not a rare concept, but it’s not always—or even frequently—applied in cases where, I think, it would be obvious to do so. In this specific example, the Koh-i-Noor diamond has become part of world history and British history especially. On the other hand, history tells us that it was stolen from India. Then again, that was almost two hundred years ago. The fact that we’d still be debating ownership says more about the perceived value of an object and less about the actual wrong committed.”
“Then let me rephrase the question.” He shifted a step closer to me. “Do you think offering an item of great value would do any good in atoning for past wrongs?”
I studied him for a beat before responding. “Sometimes an apology is enough, especially if it’s heartfelt.”
“But not always.”
“No. Not always,” I allowed, but then I was gripped with an u
rge to clarify. “Between countries, a heartfelt apology is usually not enough. Between corporations and employees, more than an apology is typically necessary. But between individuals, especially people who love each other, restitution feels like a dirty word.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes moving over my features as though memorizing them. As usual, I lost myself a little under the luxury of his gaze, and tangentially my brain told me that his eyes were more beautiful and precious to me than a hundred-carat flawless diamond could ever be.
“Let’s look at the last case.” His words brought me back to the present and I followed where he led.
To my surprise, the last case was full of rings. This struck me as more than a little odd as the others contained crowns, scepters, and giant gemstones.
I smiled a little as I took in all the rings. Some were quite old, I could tell right away, as the metalwork was heavy and thick and perfectly imperfect. But all the inset gems were flawless; they shone as though new or just polished.
“Oh, they’re lovely!” I leaned against the rail and toward the box to garner a better look. Almost immediately, a gold ring with a red stone caught my eye and I gasped a little. I lifted my hand to point at it and had to catch myself before I actually touched the outside of the case. “Look at that one.”
Quinn wrapped his arm around my waist and leaned beside me. “Which one?”
“The oval one—the garnet—with the thick rose gold band.” Foil work held the gemstone in place, which likely dated the piece to pre-Victorian. In truth, they were all lovely. I noted that only one or two of the twenty or so rings were diamonds. The rest were emerald, sapphire or tanzanite, ruby, or garnet.
Quinn offered a non-committal “hmm.”
My eyes were drawn back to the red stone ring, and I marveled at the rose gold band, how it was sturdy and thick but detailed with delicate scrollwork.
“I don’t know as much as I’d like about antique jewelry, but—if I had to guess—that one looks to be Georgian or maybe older. Do you think that’s a ruby or a garnet? I’m thinking it’s a garnet and not paste jewelry. Rubies from that time were usually more fuchsia than red. True red rubies were exceptionally rare, especially the size and cut of that one—faceted like a diamond rather than smooth and polished. Wow….”
“Wow?”
I nodded, my eyes still on the ring. “Yeah. Wow. Think about all the history behind that single item. I wonder who the original owner was. It’s just, if rings could talk.”
I felt rather than saw his smile, and I answered it with a shy one of my own. “Seriously, if that ring could talk, I wonder what it could tell us about its life.” I turned my face to his and found I was correct about the curve of his mouth. “Maybe even intrigue—a ring like that must’ve been present during more than one important discussion. Maybe the owner even wore it while planning someone’s torture and murder.”
“Or maybe it was locked away in a dowry box for hundreds of years, just recently discovered, and placed here on special exhibition.”
I frowned at the thought, glanced back at the case, and sighed. “You’re a killjoy.”
He rubbed my back. “Fine, you’re right. It was worn to plot murders and the overthrowing of governments.”
“That’s right.” I nodded once. “No one could forget about such a ring let alone lock it away for hundreds of years. You have an overactive imagination, but with boring ideas.”
This last statement earned me a laugh, and I found it infectious. Quinn laughed so rarely even though I considered him a funny guy. He liked to tell me jokes deadpan without giving me any warning; I often didn’t know it was a joke until the punch line.
As an example, one morning over coffee while he was reading the newspaper and without looking up, we had the following interaction:
Quinn: “The Chicago sewer department called for you.”
Me: “Oh, really? What about?”
Quinn: “They said they’re tired of taking your shit.”
It took me about seven seconds to realize and understand the joke.
Usually my resulting laugh would garner a smile from him. If I laughed so hard I snorted, he’d usually chuckle. But very rarely did he laugh out loud; maybe once a week if I were lucky.
Therefore, when he did, I always felt a heated supernova explosion of a star formation in my chest and abdomen.
Quinn’s hand stilled on my hip and squeezed. “Come on. We should get going.”
I gave the ring one last glance then allowed Quinn to guide me from the non-moving people mover. We sauntered to where Emma was standing at attention in a room full of what appeared to be solid gold serving dishes.
“What do you think of our treasures, Janie?” She asked me with a smile.
“They are…numerous.” I finally settled on the word numerous, because it felt like the most accurate description for the treasures as a whole.
Her smile widened at my response and she turned her attention to Quinn. “I’m afraid you’ve received a call, Sir. Your cell phone won’t have reception down here, so if you’ll follow George,” she motioned to a gentleman in a business suit standing just inside a doorway marked Staff Only; “He’ll take you to the Tower office.”
I barely got a glance of George before Quinn gave me a quick kiss on my cheek and whispered against my ear, “I’ll catch up with you.” Then he left me standing with Emma in the middle of the room as he rushed through the open door. I didn’t have even one second to object and my body gave a surprised flinch when it shut with a thud.
Emma nudged my elbow to draw my attention away from where he’d departed and I blinked down at her softly smiling face.
“Come dear, I’ll show you the ancient torture devices room you’ve been asking about.” She sounded apologetic.
I dutifully followed Emma, though my heart sunk a little as I reflected on the past days in London. Certainly, I was a solitary creature, but I’d seen Quinn less since we’d arrived in the UK than I usually did in Chicago.
I wished that Quinn had told me before we left that I’d be spending most of my time without him. If I’d known what to expect, calibrated my expectations as we often referred to it, I might have asked one of my friends to come along to share the new sights and experiences.
Discovering a new place was one of the few exceptions to my preference for solitude. It’s always nice to have someone with which to compare notes and thoughts, point out items of interest, and discuss the day. I made a mental note to create a survey; I would require him to complete it prior to future business trips if I were invited to attend.
I could score the survey, assigning a point value to each of his answers to determine whether to accompany him and, furthermore, whether to bring a companion.
I began making a list of the questions that would comprise the survey, and this seemed to lighten my mood. Though the fog of melancholy hadn’t abated entirely, not even when we arrived at the torture room, I was feeling less despondent about my current state of aloneness now that I had an actionable plan.
“I’ll go find your man.” Emma waved me toward the room. “You have a peek inside, and feel free to touch the instruments. Just be careful, as they are quite old and, you know, were used for torture.”
“Thanks, Emma.” My previously sunk heart gave a little leap when I entered the room and I beheld the wonder of the gruesome devices.
I forced myself to take my time to study each of the implements with detailed scrutiny. I wasn’t a sadist or a masochist, but I felt a certain amount of both reverence and repugnance for them. They were, in essence, devices of influence, the muscle with which a great deal of power was flexed. They were each terrible and beautiful—a product of early engineering and disturbed minds.
I recognize an instrument called The Scavenger’s Daughter, which compressed a person into a ball and was known to have crushed bones as it was tightened—a truly awful way to die.
I noted the manacles, giant iron handcuffs, affixed along one of the
walls. Prisoners were hung from their wrists, suspended in the air. I suppressed a little shiver down my spine as I imagined myself so completely vulnerable. It was a disorienting, dizzying sensation.
Peripherally, I was aware of footsteps approaching and turned toward the door just as Quinn and Emma entered.
“Having fun?” Emma’s cheerful tone felt jarring given the surroundings.
However, I was having fun, so I said, “Yes. This is all quite incredible.”
Quinn gave me a once over with his assessing gaze. I was disappointed to find him again stone faced and aloof.
Regardless, I affixed a half smile on my face and lifted my eyebrows in question. “Everything okay?”
He nodded once, his eyes darting around the room; he seemed to be cataloguing each detail with his typical rapid efficiency.
I motioned to the manacles behind me. “Being hung in manacles was like being crucified. It actually kills a person by collapsing their lungs. The lungs can’t inflate properly against the weight of the suspended human body.”
I saw Quinn’s jaw tick. His voice was devoid of inflection when he said, “That sounds awful.”
“It was.” I nodded.
“Not at all romantic.”
“No.” I frowned at his comment. “Of course it’s not romantic. It’s death by crucifixion and suffocation. Nothing remotely romantic about that.”
He closed his eyes, inhaled through his nose then sighed. “You’re killing me here, Janie.”
A wooden apparatus just behind Quinn caught my attention and distracted my thoughts. It had been previously overlooked in my slow perusal of the space, and I sucked in a startled breath. “That’s a rack!”
Quinn glanced over his shoulder then away, back to the room. “Yep.” His response was distracted, a little sarcastic, and maybe a touch frustrated.
I walked past him, crossed to it with swift steps and reached out, catching myself before I touched it. I glanced at our guide. “Can I?”
Emma nodded, looking every inch British politeness. “Yes, of course. Take your time. I’ll return at half past to collect you.”
