Malcolm grinned. "Good show, John. Your Cockney's coming along nicely."
"I been Join' a study on it, sir." John's eyes twinkled. Malcolm had introduced him as a graduate student who planned to stay down time for several months working on his doctoral dissertation on the London underclass. He and Kit had come to an agreement: John would "work" as a manservant for Malcolm and Margo during their week in London, doing whatever was required of him. In return, Kit would front him the money for the initial gate ticket. He'd provided for his own living expenses and gear.
"Where are we?" Margo asked quietly. She stamped her feet to keep them warm.
"In the private garden of a house near Battersea Park at Chelsea Reach."
"Chelsea Reach?"
"A stretch of the Thames. We're across the river from where we shall need to be for most of our stay."
Gas lights illuminated a garden where the tourists now milled excitedly. Time Tours guides dressed as liveried servants organized sixty-some people into a double line, gentlemen escorting ladies, while the porters struggled with heavy trunks. They carried luggage into a three-story, graceful house where gas lights burned warmly. The interior seemed warm and inviting compared with the damp, frigid garden.
"It's cold," Margo complained
"Well, it is late February. We shall have a hard frost tonight or I'm no judge of weather."
She tucked her hands inside the cape. "Now what?"
"First, fetch out your ATLS and log, please." He glanced toward the darkening sky. "We'll need to take readings and start our trip chronometers running. Remember, Miss Smythe, it is essential that you start your trip chronometer running very quickly after passing a gate. And shoot an ATLS and star-fix as soon as possible. And as I suspect we'll have fog soon, do hurry with it. London generally does in the early evenings."
"But we already know exactly when we are," Margo pointed out.
"On a tour, yes. As a scout, you won't. You'll have to determine that as the opportunity arises. Just because your Timecard was togged in for the Britannia Gate, doesn't mean you may skip this ritual. Most gates you'll step through as a scout won't have an encoder available yet, for the simple reason that you'll be the first one stepping through it. And when you come through in broad daylight, you'll have to wait until nightfall to update your exact geo-temporal reading."
Margo dug out her equipment and took the ATLS reading. Malcolm checked her and made a small correction, then showed her how to take a star-fix. She mastered the knack after three tries and proudly entered the readings in her log.
"There! How did I do?"
"Your ATLS reading was off far enough you'd have placed yourself in the Irish Sea, but not too bad for a first attempt under field conditions. We'll take readings each night we're here, to give you the practice."
Malcolm finished entering data into his own log, made certain Margo had properly initiated the chronometer sequence, then put away their equipment.
"Now what?"
The tourists had lined up along a garden path and were filing slowly into the house.
"Time Tours will have made arrangements for cabriolet carriages to take us to various good hotels for the evening."
"I thought carriages were called hansoms."
Malcolm smiled. "Hansom cabs are very popular just now, but they're small, two-wheeled affairs. Hansoms cannot carry any significant amount of luggage. Hence the need for something a bit sturdier."
They joined the line and moved steadily toward the house. Margo wanted to rush forward and explore. She found it increasingly difficult to stand still.
"Patience," Malcolm laughed. "We've an entire week ahead of us."
"When will our cab be here?"
"Our hosts," Malcolm said, glancing a little coldly at the liveried Time Tours guides, "will serve refreshments while carriages are summoned. We'll be departing in small groups at least fifteen minutes apart, to help reduce the chance that anyone will notice the number of people coming and going from this house."
"How did Time Tours get hold of this place?"
Malcolm said quietly, "I'm told the spinster lady who owned it had a fit of the vapors the first time the Britannia Gate opened in her garden. When it happened several weeks in a row, she sold the place cheaply to a scout and retired permanently to Scotland. Time Tours bought it from the scout."
Margo hadn't considered what people down time must think when a gate opened right in front of them.
"Who was the scout?"
Malcolm shrugged. "Your grandfather."
"Oh!"
"I would suggest," Malcolm said as they moved across the threshold into a surprisingly chilly drawing room, "that we refrain from discussing up-time affairs for the week, as far as possible. You are here to learn, certainly, but discussing anything from up time is very dangerous within earshot of people who understand the language you're speaking. If you must ask a question, keep your voice down and try to ask it where others can't hear you. I'll pass along my advice under the same set of strictures."
Again, Margo was trying to get the rhythm of Malcolm's new speech patterns. "Very well, Mal-Mr. Moore."
He patted her hand. "Very good, Miss Smythe. And now, if you would be so kind as to permit me, I will introduce you to London."
He led her toward a warm coal fire and beckoned to a "servant" who brought steaming cups of tea.
"My dear, warm yourself while I see about our luggage and transportation."
He signaled to John, who carried their steamer trunk toward a long front hall where other porters waited. Margo sipped astringent tea, grateful for the warmth; the room's lingering chill surprised her. Other tourists were talking excitedly, admiring the furnishings, the rugs, the draperies, the view out the windows. Margo was a little envious of the women's dresses. One elegantly attired lady smiled and approached her.
"That's a charming costume," she said. "What is it?"
Feeling vastly superior, Margo said, "It's one of the most prestigious school uniforms in London, from the Royal Masonic Institution for Girls." She dredged up Connie Logan's lecture and added, "It was founded in Somers Town, London, by a chevalier in 1788."
"It's delightful. Could I see the whole costume?"
Margo dimpled and set down her teacup, then slipped off the cape and pirouetted.
"Oh, look!" exclaimed another tourist. "It's darling!"
"Where did you get it?"
"Connie Logan, Clothes and Stuff."
"I wish I'd thought to dress Louisa like that," one lady laughed. Her daughter, looking dowdy in a plain grey morning dress, was pouting under a stylish hat decorated rather hideously with dead birds.
"And look at that brooch. What an intriguing design. Is that the school's crest?"
"Yes. It's a badge. All the charity schools issued them to identify their pupils."
"Ladies," Malcolm smiled, bowing slightly, "if I might rescue my ward, our cabriolet is waiting. Here, let me help you on with that cape, my dear. The night is dreadfully chilly and John neglected to bring along our lap rug."
A flutter of excited laughter ran through the room.
"Who is that gentleman?"
"Oh, I wish our guide sounded like that!"
"Or looked like him ..."
"I don't care what Time Tours says, the next time I come here, I'm going to hire him. I don't care what it costs!"
Malcolm smiled, murmured, "A moment, my dear," and handed around business cards with a polite bow and smile to each lady. He then offered Margo his arm. "A moment's attention to business works wonders, don't you agree?"
Margo laughed, waved goodbye to her brief acquaintances, then strolled out into the London night on Malcolms capable arm.