Re: Vauxhall Gardens
"Poland." She says it as if it were a poem, Keats upon the tongue, and perhaps it is a little. Travel is something denied her. Africa was her father's love, and he'd never cared for his family so much as he cared for the adventure distant soil provided. She'd never longed for it herself, and she'd only wanted it in the way Peter had, as a way to earn the love of a man who only gave it far afield. Her intended, he'd promised her distant lands, his military post requiring it, and her thinking it would be ballrooms merely draped in different satins and silks. "Is it beautiful?" she asks, the simplicity of someone untraveled in the assuming that anything foreign must be.
She realizes they're different, but she assumes it all birth and upbringing, which isn't nearly so judgmental as it ought to be. Too, she likes that he's forbidden. She's developed a taste for things disallowed by her gender and her station, and going back to being good Mina Murray is difficult for her, though she remembers only vague and blurry images of her expansion of self.
"He was very forthright." Moving again. "He spoke freely, modernly. He asked things we wouldn't ask, private things." She looks at him. "We were in a church for a service, but I didn't recognize him. I spoke to Mr. Frankenstein, and he says he experienced no such thing." Curiosity drew itself across her pale and quiet features. "Will you tell me of your dream? Have you spoken to anyone who shared your dream with you?"
She's standing still now, and close, entirely too close for propriety and transfixed by the possibility that he will have a similar shared experienced to recount.