Silence whooshed in with the closing of the door. Drake shifted to a more comfortable position, absurdly aware of how weak and unlike himself he was just now. He couldn’t ask her if she’d like anything and actually get up to fetch it if she did. He couldn’t rise and amble to the window to fend off any awkwardness. He couldn’t do anything but sip at his tea and wait for her to speak.
She didn’t.
He cleared his throat and slid the cup back onto the end table. “I suppose I thought you might have more questions for me.”
How could her blink be so powerful? Perhaps because of the way it first hid and then revealed those eyes. “Were you lying when you said you had no evidence to support or dismiss my suspicions?”
How could she sit so still? No movements in her fingers or her legs or anything. Just a spine stiffly aligned and each limb arranged as if she were a doll. “Of course not.”
“Then what good would more questions do me?”
A smile tugged at his lips, though they didn’t seem to curve up evenly. “Well, one never knows what unexpected details one might learn through the right questions. For instance, why have you dismissed the attention of the half-dozen men who have tried to catch your eye this past year?”
He was aiming at a response, and he got one. She jerked as if he’d hit her with a dart. “How do you expect to get any useful information from a question whose very premise is flawed?”
Press his lips together as he might, still the grin slipped through. “Oh, I just got plenty. I learned that the admiral was quite right when he described you as oblivious to the attention, as evidenced by your shocked reaction to my question. And the fact that you think my premise flawed not only corroborates that, it shows that you genuinely think the idea ridiculous. Though I haven’t yet determined why you’d think so.”
She stared at him for a long moment, her mouth a bit agape. Then she shook herself and returned to her previous perfect posture. “Several reasons. First of all, I have no interest in such attachments, so the idea is ridiculous. Secondly, there is no reason for the admiral to have mentioned such a thing. And finally, no one would show such interest anyway.”
Drake lifted a finger. “What is so ridiculous about finding someone to support and encourage you through the ups and downs of life?” He lifted a second finger. “The admiral had reason to mention it in response to my interest.” The third finger joined its friends. “Which goes also to your third point. And why would you think no one would show interest, anyway? You’re intelligent—”
“More intelligent than any young man I’ve ever met. They don’t like that.” She didn’t look apologetic. If anything, the twitching of her lips looked smug.
And why not? Why apologize for one’s strengths? Of course, she no doubt assumed she was smarter than him too. And maybe she was. He didn’t know her well enough to say, but Dot certainly thought so.
His smile didn’t budge. “Plenty of men take no issue with that. Especially given that you’re also beautiful—”
A snort interrupted him this time. “Hardly.”
He lifted his brows. “Are you quite serious?”
She looked at him as though he were daft. “My mother was beautiful. As is my brother.”
Now it was his turn to interrupt with a snort of laughter. “I’m sure your brother greatly appreciates being called that.”
“Oh, he knows he is. And he’s made a living from it.”
“I suppose his musical talent had nothing to do with that?”
She finally leaned back a bit in her chair, and her smile went light and bright. Interesting—speaking of her brother made her relax. “His talent made him a professional violinist. His beauty made him a celebrity.”
He chuckled, since that was probably true. “And you think you bear no resemblance to him?”
“I know I don’t. I take after my father.”
The professor whose work had apparently brought enemies down upon them at the start of the war. He lifted his cup again and saluted her with it. “Well, I’ll have to respectfully disagree on the beauty question, and I daresay many other men do too. But if romance is of no interest to you, then I suppose our opinions don’t matter.”
“Not in the least.” She tilted her head to the side, apparently unaware of how it lengthened her neck and made her jawline look so fetching. “And why are you even saying such things?”
Never in his life had he met anyone quite like Margot De Wilde. Drake took another sip of his tea to give himself time to school his lips. “It’s called flirting.”
She stiffened again. “But . . . why?”
“Because you’re intelligent. And you’re beautiful. And you’re interesting.”
And baffled, apparently. Which only made her all the more interesting. She shook her head. “But to what purpose? Is it meaningless, to pass the time? In which case, I’d rather talk about something else. Or are you angling for a fleeting amorous encounter? Because I’m not the type. And if you’re interested in courtship, you ought to know now that I have no intention of marrying.”
He studied her over the rim of his cup. She looked completely serious. “Ever?”
“Not for the next decade, at the very least. I have plans.”
“Mm.” He ought to call his interest ill-advised and leave it at that, then. He was in no great rush to find a Mrs. Elton, especially while the war dragged on, but he certainly didn’t mean to wait another decade to do so. But still . . . puzzling her out would prove an entertaining distraction while he was laid up. “University, Dot said. What then?”
“A professorship, ideally.”
Drake couldn’t keep his brows from drawing together. “I’ve never known of a female professor.”
“They’re rare. The second in England just attained her status in 1913. And both that I know of are professors of English literature. I am well aware that I will face maddening prejudice if I dare to enter the sciences or mathematics. But I’ll do it anyway.”
“And woe to whoever stands in your way?” He smiled so that she knew he meant it to be encouraging. Mostly. He wasn’t sure why some people always had to be rocking whatever boat they were on, but if it was for a real purpose and not just because they liked the rocking, it was different. And this young lady didn’t seem to subscribe to movement for its own sake, that was for sure. “So university, a doctorate perhaps, and then a professorship. Marriage only when you’ve achieved all that?”
“If then. With marriage comes children—they are one of the purposes of the institution after all—and while I’m a proponent of them in general, I have no interest in procuring my own specifically.” She changed the angle of her head, as if she were listening to something, and then flinched. “My mother hated it when I spoke this way. Once her own children were grown, grandchildren became her raison d’être.”
A woman who had no interest in either marriage or children. He would be intrigued by such, wouldn’t he? Because the chances of winning her heart were all but nonexistent and promised a headache even if he succeeded. He liked a challenge, but this would cross over to the absurd.
She blinked at him again. “You failed to answer my question, Drake, about the purpose of your flirting.”
“So I did.” And he heard the neighbor’s door close, indicating Dot would return in another moment with the potatoes that wouldn’t fit in their own crowded oven, which would effectively end the odd conversation anyway. “You can be sure it’s not with the goal of a dalliance—I’m not the type either. But whether it’s to no purpose or the ultimate purpose . . . I suppose I was testing the waters.”
Brows lifted, she stood. “Are they shark-infested enough to convince you of the futility?”
“I haven’t decided. When I do, I’ll let you know.” His mother would have given him a tongue lashing for even considering courting such a girl. One who was unsure about marriage and wanted no children? Who intended to work outside the home rather than in it, even when war or finances didn’t demand it?
Oh yes, she’d have had a strong opinion on that.
But as he watched Margot move to the door so she could open it for his sister, he knew that her answers hadn’t done a thing to squash his interest. If anything, they’d raised it. Because never in his life had he met anyone like Margot De Wilde. Never would he again, he suspected. But did that mean he ought to pursue her romantically? Would it be worth the certain headache—and likely heartache?
He was none too sure. But he had nothing but time, just now, in which to decide.
15
Why are you going this way? Not that I mind your company for a little longer.”
Margot turned the same corner as Dot, where usually she would continue straight along the street on the shortest route to her flat. They’d walk by the park if they went this way, and she needed to see if Redvers Holmes was waiting. She had the grey scarf in her bag, though today was warm enough that he wouldn’t need it. Who was to guess as to tomorrow, though? It was November, after all.
She touched a hand to the knitted belt of the cardigan Maman had made for her. It could well have been intended as a birthday gift, rather than a Christmas one. Her mother wouldn’t mind her wearing it now. Today. It had seemed like a whisper of assurance when her eighteenth birthday had dawned warm enough that she didn’t need her coat. Just this. A piece of Maman.
No numbers to say It’s all right. She wouldn’t mind. Or Save it until Christmas. No numbers other than those painted onto the thermometers. They had two, because England still used the imperial measure, but Maman couldn’t get used to Fahrenheit and had invested some of their precious funds into a centigrade thermometer too.
There were no numbers for anything these days. None to tell her whether today had been the best day to approach the admiral about her concerns. None when she’d dropped a note to the Duchess of Stafford into the post, requesting that audience to discuss Einstein. None to tell her whether today would be the day that Redvers Holmes would be waiting by the park.
“Margot?”
She darted a glance at Dot and realized she’d yet to answer her friend about her direction. “I asked a new acquaintance to see if he could discover the name of that fellow at the park, and he said he’d meet me there one evening at five-thirty to let me know what he’s discovered.” She didn’t mention that the chap had begged a few coins from her, or that she had a scarf for him in her bag. No numbers told her not to, but even so. Pride she understood without assistance.
Dot shook her head. “You always have to have answers, don’t you?”
Her rebuke wasn’t about the Go player in the park, Margot knew. It was about her determination to discover if Maman had been felled by anthrax. Margot had seen her press her lips together today when she asked DID if she could speak with him.
It was statistically inevitable that she and this new friend of hers would disagree about something. Probable that the something would be important.
But she wished this hadn’t been their first disagreement. This, of all things.
If the numbers hadn’t told her to befriend Dot to begin with, perhaps she’d shrug it off and simply drift away. But the Lord meant for them to be friends. She wouldn’t forget that now, despite the fact that the numbers had gone silent.
And so Margot said quietly, “I realize you don’t think my questions about Maman’s death are worth asking. But I have to ask them. I have to know. I’m sorry if that bothers you.”
Dot touched her arm, then withdrew her fingers. “It doesn’t bother me, Margot. It worries me. Because I don’t want you obsessing over this instead of simply healing.”
Healing? Margot sucked in a long breath and scanned the distance ahead of them. She’d already lost one parent. It wasn’t a wound that healed per se. It was simply one she’d learned to live with. Like Red Holmes’s missing limb. Something that had once supported him, gone forever. He’d learned to walk again, and so would Margot. The flesh could be stitched, a prosthetic attached. It didn’t bleed forever.
But healing meant returning to a state of health, being restored to the original condition. Drake Elton’s gunshot wound would heal. Red Holmes’s amputation would not.
“Death isn’t a gunshot, Dot. It’s an amputation.”
Dot’s pace slowed. “I beg your pardon?”
“It doesn’t heal. We’re never restored fully, whole again, after we lose someone. We just learn to go on with the pieces missing.”
Holmes was there, coming even now from the park with that peculiar gait reserved for those using artificial feet with ankle joints—the ankle that released the foot all at once when he put down the heel, rather than rolling onto and back off the ball. She didn’t know how long he’d had the thing, but it must have been a few months, at least. From what she’d read on the subject, it took a considerable while for patients to adjust to the wearing of such a device, and he seemed to have mastered it as much as it allowed.
She would too. She’d learn how to walk without Maman, as she’d learned without Papa. But it would never be the same. She would never stop missing them.
Dot was frowning into the distance. “Who did you say you’re meeting?”
“I didn’t. But a young man named Redvers—”
“Holmes! Red!” Dot lifted a hand and picked up her pace, leaving Margot behind.
They knew each other? What an odd turn. Margot hurried to keep up, arriving just as Holmes was tipping his hat and bowing a bit at the waist.
“Miss Elton! How do you do? I haven’t seen you for ages.”
Dot held out a hand, beaming. “Not since the war began and you enlisted.” She turned to include Margot in her smile. “Red and Nelson were great friends. And Red worked for my father.”
“What a small world.” She smiled. But she didn’t want to. Not because it wasn’t lovely, that the man she’d decided to trust was indeed trustworthy, an old friend of her new friend. But because she’d done it on her own, on a whim. God hadn’t told her to. He’d given her no indication one way or the other. Her fingers curled into her palm. Was this how it would be from now on? A silent God, leaving her to her own devices?
Holmes still had Dot’s hand pressed between both of his. “I’m so sorry about Nelson. I can’t say how sorry I am.”
“I know. I am too. I still miss him.” She angled a smile toward Margot. “But I’ve learned to go on with the pieces missing.”
He released her hand. “And your brother? How is he? I’ve heard nothing of Elton for several years.”
Dot waved a hand in the general vicinity of her flat. “Home thanks to a gunshot wound, at the moment, but the doctors think he’ll make a full recovery. He’ll be here through Christmas, which is a pleasant change. You ought to come and visit him sometime, I know he’d like that. Oh!” She looked at Margot again, her eyes wide.
Had it been Maman, Margot probably would have been able to read whatever thoughts she was silently shouting. But she didn’t know Dot quite so well yet. She could only lift her brows in response and wait to see what she was thinking.
She didn’t have to wait long. Dot straightened her shoulders and said, “You ought to join us on Saturday. We’re having a small dinner party to celebrate Margot’s birthday. Just us and my brother and her brother and his wife. You’ll give us an even number.”
Six. More even than five, to be sure. It was, Margot supposed, a better number for a dinner party. She saw no particular reason to object.
Aside from the fact that Holmes clearly wasn’t comfortable with it. He glanced down at himself, muttering, “Oh . . . how kind. But I don’t think . . .”
He was wearing the same clothes he had been the other night, and they were none too fine. Not ragged, not yet, but probably also not clean. Certainly not what one wore to a dinner at the home of one’s former employer’s daughter.
Margot pressed her lips together. He was about the same size as Lukas. Half an inch shorter, perhaps, but his shoulders looked to be the same breadth. And her brother had plenty of clothes
. He could lend him a suit of them, and Willa’s sister Rosemary could do any alterations needed. Rosie was brilliant with a needle. They’d be happy to help. They always were.
“Of course you’ll come.” Margot nodded, as if that settled it. It wouldn’t have done so for her, if she were the one resisting. But perhaps Holmes just needed someone to do for him what Maman had always done for her—insist and leave no room for argument. She’d find a way to inform him later of how to go about avoiding embarrassment. For now, she turned a bit toward the park. From this distance, she could just make out a figure sitting at the wrought-iron table. “Did you have any luck playing detective, Mr. Holmes?”
He chuckled and turned as well. “Well, I’m no Sherlock, I daresay. But I did, at that.” He shuffled a step closer to her and pitched his voice to a lower volume. “It was two days before the bloke showed up, and when he did, he wouldn’t talk to me—as you said was likely to happen. But I followed him to his flat that night and got his name from his box. John Williams.”
“Well, that’s easy to remember.” Dot slid to the other side of Margot, smiling in an easy way that proved she had no stakes in this game.
Margot wasn’t quite sure why she did, but the thought of John Williams playing Go in her park just wouldn’t leave her alone. “Thank you, Holmes. I appreciate your finding that for me.”
“Oh, I found more than that.” When he grinned, he didn’t look like a footless soldier who had to beg a few shillings from her. He looked like a friend of Dot’s who knew his way around the city. “Did a bit of asking about. Seems that until the war began, Mr. Williams had been in Japan, part of a diplomatic envoy. Spent a decade there. When hostilities broke out in ’14, he decided to come home and enlist. He was an officer on a minesweeper, the Ariel, that was sunk by a U-boat in August. One of the few survivors. According to my sources”—here he leaned closer, speaking more quietly still—“he hasn’t been right since. In the head, I mean.”
Dot pressed a hand to her chest. “How very sad!”
The Number of Love Page 17