“Then have the rest of mine, too,” Helene offered. “I took more than I have appetite for.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Millicent is considering the Tennis Club,” Catherine told Jane.
“Indeed?”
“Please . . .” Millicent smiled at the faces turned to her. “Will you pay me the honor of calling me Milly?”
Five
In London, Sarah spent the morning of the twenty-fifth of October at the Cannon Street offices of Blake Shipping, looking over ledgers with Mr. Mitchell and his son, Harold, formerly the senior accountant and now his father’s aide. Sarah visited the company two or three times weekly, but she had no interest in spending most of her time at the office, nor did William wish to leave his position at the Commission. Thus she left the day-to-day running of the company to the Mitchells but still made the major decisions herself, after poring over research and seeking the counsel of the two men.
She referred to them as “the younger Mr. Mitchell” and “the elder Mr. Mitchell,” unless speaking directly to one or the other, in which case “Mr. Mitchell” applied to both. The younger, Harold Mitchell, at thirty years of age, was actually six years Sarah’s senior. Back in his accounting days, he proved himself to be of sterling character and brought to the company an appreciation for new innovations to balance out his more conservative father. Steel-hulled ships was the topic of their discussion today.
“ . . . double hull, and a dozen transverse bulkheads,” Harold declared, having spent six weeks in Liverpool observing construction of the Cunard Line’s S.S. Servia. “I tell you, steel will be the wave of the future.” He smiled. “Forgive the play on words.”
“What about the cost?” Sarah asked.
“Eighteen percent higher than iron. But with the reduced weight, Cunard will save that and more on fuel.”
“We should wait to see how the Servia proves herself next year” was his father’s advice. “Profits remain healthy, so there is no call to rush into change.”
Sarah agreed with the cautious route. To soften Harold’s disappointment, and because it made good business sense, she said, “If you’d care to investigate further, we’ll put you on the Servia when she makes her maiden voyage.”
“You’re right to make him keep his feet on the ground,” the elder Mr. Mitchell said as he accompanied Sarah downstairs. His shoulders were still broad and straight, but the grey hair, cane, and limp gave evidence of his almost sixty years.
“But we’re a shipping company,” she reminded him with a smile. “And so we can’t afford to keep our feet on the ground all the time, can we?”
He chuckled. “Well said, Mrs. Doyle. I’ll try to be more patient with him.”
In the entrance hall, she spoke with him again of the plans to move from Mayfair. They had made the decision with such haste that second thoughts were beginning to plague her. Mr. Mitchell had known Mrs. Blake longer than anyone still living. Sarah hoped he could put her misgivings to rest.
“Why do I feel so disloyal?” she asked.
Switching his cane to his left hand, he took hers in a fatherly gesture. “Because you loved her. But if Mrs. Blake could speak to us today, she would remind you that you once had to talk her out of leaving Mayfair because of her physical frailties.”
Sarah’s eyes clouded at the memory. “She was willing to make that sacrifice for me. There is so much of her in that house.”
“There is more of her in your memories. You’ll be taking those with you.” He let go of her hand and touched her cheek. “Don’t you think your happiness would be more important to her than the notion of hanging on to a piece of property? After all, she’s in a place where material things down here are of no interest to her.”
It was what she needed to hear. She raised herself on tiptoe to kiss his bearded cheek. “You’re such a comfort.”
“It’s only the truth,” he told her, smiling. He also promised to keep his ears open for any quality Hampstead houses for sale. A brisk northwestern wind rushed in when the doorman swung open the door. Mr. Mitchell escorted her out to Cannon Street, where Comet and Daisy stood hitched to the coach.
“Where is your driver?” asked the solicitor.
“Perhaps he went for coffee,” Sarah said, raising her voice over the wind.
“Didn’t you tell me he has a newborn?”
“Why, yes.”
Mr. Mitchell smiled. “Look at the windows.”
Sarah looked. They were silvery with condensation.
“He must have ducked out of the wind and fallen asleep,” Mr. Mitchell said, reaching for the coach’s door handle. “I almost hate to wake—”
“Then don’t, please.” Sarah touched his sleeve. “I wanted to stop by Loft’s on the way home.”
“Shall I flag you a hansom?”
“It’s only a block. The walk will be refreshing.” She touched the brim of her ecru felt hat with burgundy trimming. “And Marie put in extra pins.”
With a wave she set out down the busy pavement. Just a decade ago she would have been an oddity, an unescorted woman walking in the heart of London’s business section. But those of her gender were finding more and more places in the work force as secretaries, shop assistants, and operators at the one-year-old Telephone Exchange on nearby Coleman Street.
Aromas of leather bindings and paneling wax and pipe tobacco greeted her inside Loft’s Booksellers, an old establishment that boasted Prime Minister Gladstone as a frequent patron. She moved among the oak shelves and was delighted to find for her father a copy of Ben Hur, A Tale of the Christ, by the American writer Lew Wallace, and for Bethia, the latest adventure of The Parker Twins. She was looking through a collection of poetry by new author Cecil Talbot when a man’s voice cut through her concentration.
“Judging by your smile, Mrs. Doyle, that’s either very good or very bad poetry.”
Sarah looked up into a pair of sharp blue eyes. “Lord . . . Holt,” she said.
She hoped awkwardness wasn’t evident upon her face. She had made the man’s acquaintance five years ago while viewing the diving bell exhibition at the Polytechnic Institution with Naomi and William. He had seemed pleasant enough that evening, even gallant. But when he suggested visiting her at Berkeley Square, William threatened to reveal his licentious past. That was not a memory she enjoyed revisiting, not with the man standing there staring down at her.
Neither was it pleasant to recall how she had sent his card back downstairs on two occasions when he attempted to pay calls after Grandmother’s death—though she did not regret doing so.
He was straight-backed and consciously elegant, with wavy auburn hair and brows that arched in a slightly quizzical manner. A pencil-thin mustache ran along his full lips, and a dimple was centered in his chin. His six-foot frame was clothed in a finely cut double-breasted jacket of mist-grey wool and striped trousers. She would have thought him exceedingly handsome had William not informed her—after they were married—of his misdeeds at Oxford.
But no matter what thoughts ran through her mind, she could not bring herself to be discourteous. Fortunately, logistics would not allow her to extend her gloved hand, which was required to balance the open book resting between her left wrist and its fingerless left hand, while Ben Hur and The Parker Twins at the Circus were anchored in the crook of her arm.
“How do you do?” she said.
“Very well, thank you,” he replied with a polite little inclination of his head. He nodded toward the book she held. “May I?”
“Yes, of course.” Robbed of her right hand’s excuse, she caught up the other two books into her arms as if they were in danger of falling. Lord Holt seemed not to notice her discomfort, or else he was a very good actor.
“Catechism of Nature,” he read from the black clothbound cover, then began turning pages with careless ease. A ring, made of a large diamond set into a gold claw, flashed reflected light with every movement.
“I was only curious,” Catherine told h
im. “I’m not familiar with Mr. Talbot’s work.”
“Hmm. And neither will be most of England, I predict.”
Even the clearing of his throat sounded elegant. Softly he read:
“O thou Aspen on the village green,
so lovely to the unjaded eye,
with whispered songs of love abandoned
yet mine own despair gives thine the lie.
For every breeze, thy leaves do quiver
yet my trembling brings thine own to shame
mine very heart is made to shiver
by the sound of but her name.”
He winced as if swallowing quinine. “Mine very stomach is made to retch, if you’ll forgive my ungentlemanly language.”
In spite of herself, Sarah smiled. People can change, she thought, drowning out the warnings in her head. Indeed, there seemed no trace of arrogance about him. “Perhaps that wasn’t his best work.”
“One would hope not,” he replied, blue eyes merry. He closed the book and offered it to her.
“I was just about to replace it,” she said with a glance at the gap between books on the shelf. If she freed her right hand, she would have to shake his. And she still wasn’t certain about that. “Would you . . . ?”
“But of course,” he said, shelving the book. “And might I suggest that you try Matthew Arnold, if you’re fond of poetry?”
“Thank you. And I pray you have a pleasant—”
“That’s a Parker book, isn’t it?” he said with a glance toward the two books remaining in her arms.
“Why, yes.” Moving The Parker Twins at the Circus with its distinctive sky-blue cloth cover to the top, she said, “How did you know?”
“My mother happens to be the author.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “Your mother is Harriet Godfrey?”
Smiling at her puzzlement, he said, “Formerly Lady Holt. She remarried some years after my father passed on.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Not that she remarried, but . . .”
He waved an elegant hand. “I understand your meaning. And we’re all very proud of her.”
Tempting as it was to mention that her father also wrote books, Sarah said, “My sister has every one of the stories.” She glanced at the one in her arms and smiled. “Or at least she will very shortly.”
“Mother will be pleased to hear that.”
While the subject of conversation interested her, Sarah had not expected to stand under the gaze of those blue eyes for so long. Awkwardness pushed words out of her mouth almost as fast as she could form them. “I’ve read The Parker Twins at Hadrian’s Wall to her a dozen times. It’s good for children to develop an appreciation for reading early, my father says.”
“Absolutely,” he agreed. “I’ve told Mother I wish she had started writing them when I was a boy. But even at my age, I’ve read every one, just because . . .” He shrugged self-consciously. “Well, you know.”
It was very sweet, the notion of a grown man reading children’s books because his mother wrote them. This time Sarah shifted the books willingly and offered her hand. “It was a pleasure to chat with you, Lord Holt,” she said with some truth, for he had been nothing but courteous. “But I must beg your leave now. I’m expected home for lunch.”
“I’m rather hungry myself.” His hand closed over hers. “Have you a telephone at Berkeley Square?”
“Why, yes,” she replied, and then wished she hadn’t spoken so quickly. The box telephone attached to the sitting room wall for the past two months was the marvel of the household. But if he was planning to suggest any further contact, she would have to demur. Whether or not Lord Holt had mended his ways, William would not be willing to socialize with him. Some past acquaintances were better left in the past.
The pressure of his hand increased slightly, so that she could not pull hers away without jerking it. “Lambert’s is just up the street,” he said with a little smile. “Very cozy private dining salons. And the chef is ten times the artist of our nature poet Mr. Talbot.”
He’s inviting me to lunch, Sarah realized, while cold clamminess spread up her neck.
But he had addressed her as Mrs. Doyle, meaning he was aware of her marital status. And his countenance was as benign as if he had commented on the weather. Surely he was only paying a courtesy by suggesting she might care to sample Lambert’s cuisine instead of hurrying home. And an unaccompanied woman alone would naturally desire a private salon, for eyebrows would be raised should she enter a main dining room.
“My husband and I must visit there sometime,” she replied. Just in case.
“Do sample the Saumon Fumé et Roti.” While he released her hand as soon as she eased it back, there was a hint of knowing in his blue eyes. Or was she imagining it?
****
You sadistic rake! Sidney, Lord Holt told himself. Still, he could not help but smile at the sight of Mrs. Doyle hurrying past the bow window outside. She reminded him of a fox fleeing the hounds.
One of the wealthiest foxes in Britain, he thought. And it didn’t hurt that she was beautiful. Had he thought for a minute that there was the possibility of a liaison with Sarah Doyle, he would have bade his time and never been so transparent. But women such as she were tediously faithful to their husbands.
Which was why he had extended the not-quite-subtle invitation to Lambert’s. Five years ago William Doyle, former stable boy and college servant, had dared to insult him at the Polytechnic Institution. While Sidney was too practical to allow the memory of such an affront to smolder in his chest and sap his intellect for five years, he could not pass up the opportunity to cause Mr. Doyle some discomfort. He’ll be livid when she tells him. Which she would, of course.
“La vengeance est un plat qui se mange froid, Mrs. Doyle,” he said softly, quoting French author de la Clos’, century-old sentiment. Revenge was indeed a dish best served cold. Yes, the portion he had served William Doyle was relatively small, but still enough to lodge in his throat.
Smiling again, he reached for the copy of Catechism of Nature, with all its purple prose. He would give it to Leona as a lark.
“Thank you, Sir,” said the proprietor, a wizened old man, as he closed bony fingers over the half crown dropped into his palm.
Sidney nodded and left the shop, tucking the book into his coat pocket so he could hold his bowler hat against the wind. His coachman, Jerry, hopped down to open the door. Even though Sidney had just an easy walk up the street, the rig might as well wait in front of Lambert’s as in front of the bookshop. As the team of Welsh Cobs eased into traffic, he mused idly over what he would have done had Mrs. Doyle taken him up on his invitation. A comedy of errors, he thought with a glance at his watch. For a familiar crested coach was probably already waiting outside the restaurant with its stunning—and highly jealous—passenger.
****
“Why, that snake!” William exclaimed, pounding a fist into his hand. “If only I had been—”
“Sh-h-h,” Sarah warned with a glance at the terrace door. Fearing that very reaction, she had suggested they sit outside, for sounds flowed more freely through a house bedded down for the night. “I’m not entirely positive he was suggesting I go there with him.”
“Sarah . . .” He shook his head. “Then why did he mention the private salons?”
That was a point she had not considered. Private salons were standard in most elegant restaurants, so pointing out that Lambert’s had them was as unnecessary as mentioning that they had tablecloths. Unless that fact was wrapped around a subtle hint. She could still feel the pressure of Lord Holt’s hand clasping the one she had so foolishly offered.
“You’re right,” she whispered. “He’s a snake.”
William shot up from the wicker chair. “Surely he’s in the directory.”
“William!” This time she forgot to whisper. Rising, she clutched his arm and lowered her voice. “You can’t go to his home!”
“I’m not. At least not tonight. But I’m going to teleph
one His Lordship and arrange to meet—”
“Please! Don’t!”
Anger showed clearly in his face, even in the feeble light of a half-moon. “Sarah, he treated you like a common—”
“And what if I’m mistaken?”
Now that she thought about it, the pressure of Lord Holt’s hand was no more intense than when Mr. Mitchell, who was never less than a gentleman, had held her hand earlier. “He never suggested accompanying me.”
Uncertainty and helplessness mingled with the anger in William’s expression. He looked at the door, then back at her.
“Please, William,” she said. She could feel the muscle knotted under his sleeve, the tenseness of his posture. “He’s not worth this. And how often do our paths cross with his?”
Her husband blew out his cheeks. “What I don’t understand is why you allowed him to chat with you in the first place.”
The accusation in his tone stung. “I didn’t realize . . .”
“Sarah . . . are you crying?”
“No.” Just because one’s eyes burned a little didn’t mean one was on the verge of sobbing. But when his fingertips brushed her wet cheeks, she could not hold back a sniff.
“He caught me by surprise,” she said thickly.
“Now, now.” William pulled her close, resting her head upon his shoulder. Her arms automatically went around him. “Forgive me, Precious,” he murmured into her hair. “I know it’s not within you to be rude. Even to such a blackguard.”
“He could have mended his ways, for all I knew,” she said, still needing to defend herself. “Like Ethan.”
They corresponded regularly with Ethan Knight, a former curate sent to work in a leprosy mission after being caught stealing from the tithes. Married now to an Indian nurse, Ethan had recently founded a mission in the Rajasthan Desert, where William shipped crates of purified Gynocardia oils to aid in treatment.
“Yes, he could have,” William agreed.
“And he was extremely polite. He even spoke highly of his mother.”
“Well, no wonder you were deceived. Bad men aren’t allowed to speak highly of their—”
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