John said to Tobias, “You saw it, didn’t you?”
“Flirting? A small amount, perhaps.” Tobias considered Betsey, his affection evident. “A pleasant amount. Not an improper amount, I would say, but then, I am not British. Did it seem so to you?”
John shifted under their expectant gazes. Any answer seemed dangerous and he was sorry he’d said anything.
“A great deal of good it did me,” Betsey said. “He called me a trained monkey. Your trained monkey.”
“A compliment, it was.”
“To you!”
She turned her face aside, watching the trees clip by. She’d been roundly licked, she believed, but John knew better. That trained monkey remark revealed fear on Sir Alton’s part, some acknowledgement that his position was not as sound as he’d believed. Somehow, Betsey had made him listen. Those slim fingers of hers sliding over the paper, for one. But not all. A good mind, too, the tongue to share it.
The rig swayed, and with it, Betsey Dobson’s knees, more defined beneath her skirts than other women’s. The plainness of her gray tweed, perhaps, or what she wore under it. In her lap, her books slipped back and forth across her skirts. John watched her agitation play out in her thumb, tracing back and forth over the top corner of her ledger. Beneath her glove, her knuckles rippled.
“How long must I wait to make new bookings?” she asked.
“A little more than a fortnight until the next board meeting.”
Her thumb and knuckles stilled. She splayed her hand across the book cover and pulled the volumes close. Her face was still turned aside, watching the sea now that it had come into view. He wondered, suddenly, about her canary, whether the mending she had done to the cage with string and newspaper had held.
She was calculating, he guessed. How many bookings could she have made in a fortnight? The weeks left to the season. Commissions lost. The wages of other jobs she might get in Idensea. The cost of a move back to London.
His chest felt peculiar. Blown to smithereens. Was she sorry she’d come? Had he been wrong, persuading her to leave everything behind? Y ferch a wnaeth wayw yn f’ais, an old Welsh lyric began. Girl who struck this pang in my side. He remembered it now, remembered his young brother Owen, too, for trying to say goodbye to that child was the last time he’d felt his chest blow apart.
To both himself and Tobias, Betsey said, “I was awaiting a few confirmations. If they come, they wouldn’t really be new bookings, would they?”
“No reasonable person, in my opinion, could consider them so,” Tobias answered.
John nodded his agreement. Neither of them would promise Sir Alton to be reasonable, but they would back her if necessary. “And you need to plan on that board meeting, prepare yourself to speak as you did today.”
“I? Address the board?”
Tobias asked, “Would you prefer the question framed to the members by Sir Alton alone?”
She exhaled. The word hell might have escaped. “Certainly not. But won’t they—I’m only—”
“Speak as you did today, girl. I know it’s in you.”
Her blushes. When they rose, he wondered if he’d ever seen a girl truly wear one before.
Here was the Kursaal already. But in a few hours, when he went for his music lesson, he would see her.
He needed to practice; he needed to settle things with Lillian. His impatience for proficiency, for the days before Friday to pass, was on him again, a burst like a breaking balloon.
• • •
“He works hard. A great many ambitions.” Mr. Seiler spoke quietly. “The right steps, he may realize them.”
Betsey was watching Mr. Jones stride back to work, thinking, He will come for his lesson tonight. “I expect so.”
“Miss Gilbey has much girlishness in her yet, but she will mature into her natural gifts. But you have not met her, I think?”
She suspected he meant to protect her as much as John. The wound was the same. “I have met Miss Gilbey, actually,” she replied, and because his reminder had served its purpose, and her ability to feed and house herself was a more pressing concern, she changed the topic.
“I shall begin preparing my address to the board right away. But what else? Sir Alton has stripped me of a good portion of my duties for the next fortnight, but I cannot sit in the office and twiddle my thumbs.”
“It may be for more than a fortnight. Die Schlägerei . . .” He shook his head. “What happened at the pavilion Saturday could sway the directors to Sir Alton’s side. Even if it does not, what they decide for this season may not hold true for the next, or the next. Are you prepared for those possibilities, Miss Dobson?”
The mere words planted a choking vine of panic in her throat. But that was not for Mr. Seiler to know. She smiled at him. “Not in the least. I am only prepared to do whatever necessary to keep those possibilities from coming to pass.”
“I little doubt that, my dear Miss Dobson.” He discreetly consulted his pocket watch. “Until then, the submanagers and I examine the complaint books each afternoon at half-two. As we rarely have enough hands to carry out the resolutions, join us when your duties permit, and let the others in the office know you are available to assist them with correspondence and such. You will find yourself relieved of vacant time soon enough, and shall find it valuable education, in any event.”
In any event. One such being the permanent suspension of the excursions scheme.
She couldn’t let it happen, that was all. And why couldn’t she persuade the board? It was the simple difference of less money or more, after all, and she didn’t know a more persuasive argument than that.
Sir Alton notwithstanding.
As in music so in type-writing; it is the repeated practice of the same thing that brings improvement.
—How to Become Expert in Type-writing
Truly, Lillian disliked bullying her mother. The lady was so reticent and sweet that during parties like this, Lillian was resigned to allowing her to inhabit some far corner and have extended, sincere, and thoroughly unpartylike conversations with those who cared to seek her out. Lillian’s father had recognized early his daughter possessed the talent for circulation his wife lacked, and since then, Lillian had served as the auxiliary hostess for the Gilbeys’ functions, removing the burdens of warm wit and innocuous gossip from her mother.
So Mama owed her, didn’t she? And it was not as if she’d been asked to give a speech before everyone or to be the belle of the ball. One conversation with one person she liked anyway, merely the communication of one piece—a snippet, really—of bad, or more accurately, just somewhat unfortunate and otherwise insignificant news.
It had to be done, that was all, and her mother was the only one who could do it.
From her place alongside one of the columns in the salon, Lillian watched for some sign her mother had delivered the message. Mrs. Gilbey had already been successful in drawing aside John Jones for a tête-à-tête, but that was no surprise. She and John had ever got on well; John always able to put her at ease. They occupied the same settee and appeared quite as cordial as they had a few minutes ago, when Lillian had turned away to speak to some of her guests.
Bother. If her mother failed in her duty, Lillian would be forced to tell John herself, which wouldn’t do. She couldn’t have John associating her with unpleasantness.
“Pray tell, who’s the quarry?”
The voice was low, playful, and next to her ear. Noel Dunning. “Quarry, sir?”
“This is obviously a spy mission. Now who—ah! Mister—”
Their faces nearly brushed together as she turned to him. He straightened quickly, but it flustered her, almost as much as his accusation. “Spying! Don’t be absurd, Mr. Dunning.”
But Mr. Dunning was too good to question her. “A thousand pardons, then.” He lifted a cup of lemonade, offering it. “It’s hot,” he cautioned as she sipped. “I asked that it be warmed for you.”
Lillian licked the inside of her lips. “Honey?”
“For your voice.”
Their duet would close the festivities tonight. The lemonade might have been best offered nearer that performance, but she didn’t mind. “How very thoughtful you are, Noel.” She smiled at him, sincerely pleased, though she itched to steal another glance at her mother and John. “You appear quite untouched by nerves. You don’t mind, then, that I put you first on the program? I meant it as a compliment.”
“Honored, of course. Though I admit, surprised.”
“What better way to introduce you?”
“And John—” Mr. Dunning held up between two fingers the printed program, on which John’s name did not appear. “Is he not to be introduced?”
“Mm.” She sipped her lemonade to suppress the urge to look over her shoulder. “He changed his mind. I suppose he thought it best to give way to . . . trained performers.”
Mr. Dunning looked baffled, and Lillian could tell by the way his gaze shifted that John was still on the settee with her mother.
She wished she could snatch back her lie. It would be found out as soon as Mr. Dunning and John spoke.
“But I thought he’d been practicing, at least here and there, a bit.”
“Well, perhaps,” she murmured, now fearing Mr. Dunning’s disapproval as much as John’s.
“May I say, Miss Gilbey . . .”
“Lillian.” She’d been thinking of this all week. “Once in a while. It could do no harm.”
“How especially lovely you are tonight, Lillian. It’s provoked this phrase in my head . . .” He hummed. The shine in his eyes shimmered along with a smooth, pretty ribbon of notes.
“A recent composition?”
“Exceedingly so.”
“And the next part?”
“I’ve no idea, I’m afraid.”
“I cannot but think it would be worth finishing.”
Across the room from them, the piano bounced out “Syd, Syd, Sydenham,” a preposterous tune one of the society members had composed as a call-to-order for their meetings. Lillian took Mr. Dunning’s arm and felt a swell of satisfaction as they moved toward the performance area. Everyone looked so merry, gathering around the low platform she’d had installed for the evening, chatting and joking. Behind the platform, all five pairs of French doors were flung open to the terrace, and Chinese lanterns bobbed on lines of wire from the garden right into the salon as though the difference between indoors and out bore no significance.
She had gone to a great deal of trouble to achieve a careless, unfussy effect, eschewing the usual rows of straight-backed chairs and instead instructing the servants to bring a thoughtfully mismatched assortment of furniture from all corners of the house and directing the placement of each piece into a spontaneous-looking arrangement. Even the rugs were askew and overlapping. Some of the more bohemian amongst the guests might be enticed to sit right on the floor, and wouldn’t that be a thrilling effect?
The sight of John coming in from the drawing room with her mother disrupted her happy appraisal of the scene. It was no effort to smile at John. He looked dashing in his evening clothes, though she recognized his coat and saw her hint about having the lapels freshened had been too subtle. She disengaged from Mr. Dunning and claimed John from her mother.
Chatting, a bright, tumbling stream of chatting. Was John so quiet because she could not stop? She settled him in a prime seat—not beside her, nor within whispering distance, but where they could share sight lines, to facilitate the furtive flirtation of exchanging glances.
Clark Winters, the current society president, made his opening comments, relying heavily on the notes Lillian had provided him. He introduced Lillian as tonight’s hostess, who in turn introduced Noel Dunning, a bright young talent certain to exceed the accomplishments of his famous father.
She’d promised Mr. Dunning not to mention Sir Alton. But how could she not? She ought have prepared him for it, though; the audible interest that rippled through the crowd as he approached the piano seemed to rattle him, and he fumbled the opening.
He came to a full stop, jested about the strain of performing in front of so esteemed a group as the Sydenham Music Society, and began again. The audience forgave him; they wanted him to do well.
Lillian tried to enjoy the piece as she had Sunday, but she could not help worrying that John had finally perused that volume of Tennyson. Her friend Roberta elbowed her throughout; she knew “Marian’s” proper name.
But the song’s sensational effect on the audience could not be denied. As she applauded, she remembered to glance in John’s direction. She couldn’t catch his eye just then and knew precisely why: John couldn’t possibly feel anything but relieved that she had rescued him—and herself—from certain humiliation.
• • •
During the interlude, Lillian let John walk her out to the terrace. When she realized he was watching her twist a finger into the pearls circling her neck, she dropped her hand immediately. It was bad for the pearls.
“I’m turning to nerves,” she sighed brightly, “this performance waiting for me at the end of the night.”
His brow crooked.
“I am! Mr. Dunning’s quite accomplished, and I—I don’t know that I am equal to the challenge.”
His gaze took a leisurely survey of the salon, where, as groups gathered to chat, the liveliness of the party was returning. Clark Winters, who would sing German lieder no matter the theme that had been set, had been the final performer before the interlude and had rather depressed the mood despite all her strategizing.
John turned his back on the scene. “I’ll eat my tie and your fan if there was ever a thing you didn’t believe yourself at least equal to, Lillian Gilbey.”
Leave it to John to deliver the most inelegant, bordering-on-insulting, yet truly wonderful compliment. Then he touched her, trailing his fingers along the inside of her arm, the bare space above her elbow-length glove, making the beads suspended from her narrow sleeve tickle her skin.
“Let’s go to Idensea, Lillian.”
She was holding her breath, reminding herself he would not kiss her tonight. They stood somewhat catercorner to each other, she looking into the light and bustle of the salon, he to the dark garden. This touch of her arm was discreet enough, and all she would allow tonight. No more kissing.
His fingers drifted down to twine within hers. He leaned toward her ear. “Pack up the whole party, right now, put them on a train to Idensea.”
The warmth of his breath. She felt dazed. No kissing. Inside, Mr. Dunning, who had been moving toward the terrace, was persuaded to the piano. Roberta shared the bench with him; that flirt Lynette Ramsey stood on his other side.
“There’s half the program yet. There’s supper—”
“Pack it up. A picnic on the train. Finish the program in the Swan’s music salon. And in the wee hours of the morning, I’ll rouse one of the engineers and take everyone on the Sultan’s Road before it opens to the public.”
Ah. His little railway project. “You are quite mad,” she said, though taken in by something in his voice. She could see the romance and gaiety in the scheme. It might have been a fine idea if only he had thought of it sooner. February, say.
At the piano, Mr. Dunning punctuated a comment with a playful run of notes that elicited whoops of delight.
“See me to my seat?” she asked.
But he did not offer his arm. He forced her to say, “Absolutely not. I’m sorry, John, but no, it won’t do,” and she had to return to her own party ruffled and disconcerted and still feeling guilty for having scratched him from the program.
So upsetting she found it, she was of a mind to make him wait until August to apologize to her. Especially since he left early, before her duet with Mr. Dunning.
Which was a triumph, thank you.
• • •
Betsey’s buttons had waited inside the biscuit tin since the night she’d snipped them off in her pique, but as she needed her uniform tomorrow, they had to be put on
again. Even so, it was late on Friday before she began—Sarah Elliot had declared a covert sweet-making session after Dora Pink had gone to bed and couldn’t scold her for her sugar consumption, and Betsey and Charlie joined her, which left Charlie wide awake past midnight. He begged to use her window to get out to the roof while she did her mending—John had the same room when he had stayed here and took him out there, oh, all the time, as Charlie told it. At last, with a warning it would not become a habit, Betsey consented.
It was here, as she was finishing off the first button, chatting in hushed tones of tomorrow’s opening of the pleasure railway, that Charlie leaned over and kissed her.
The kiss landed on her jaw, almost on her earlobe. A miscalculation, a swift peck that made tears, instant and mysterious tears, bite at her lower eyelids and alongside her nose. She worked hard at the needle between her thumb and forefinger, wiggling it to bring it through the wool before she spoke.
“Now, Charlie, what’s that for, eh?”
In the night, the thread made several noisy passes through the fabric, too many for a single button, a waste of thread.
“Because I think you’re nice, Betsey.”
She almost dismissed him, almost said pooh and set him straight, but fresh stings beneath her eyes kept her from speaking right away. “You’re so awfully nice to think so, did you know that?”
He didn’t answer right away. Then, “I don’t know.”
“Well, you are. So thanks, Charlie.” She tied off the thread, wrapped her fingers in the surplus, and yanked. The thread didn’t break.
“You’re—you’re welcome, then.”
Betsey, button and thread at her teeth, glanced at him.
“I s’pose,” he added, and shrugged.
They both smothered laughter then, Betsey for his poor confusion and Charlie, she guessed, with relief to have the moment done. He lifted his shoulder and scratched his cheek against it, hiding his face from her. A mistake, giving in to him. But to send him away now would only add salt to his wound.
Another moment of determined gnawing, and the thread came loose. “This will take all night if I don’t fetch my scissors.”
The Typewriter Girl Page 15