Flora's Secret

by Anita Davison

  ‘I see.’ A reprimand died on her lips. She could hardly chastise Eddy when she had not attended the service herself. ‘I’ll forgive you this once, though you’ll be expected to display more conspicuous devotion once you are at Marlborough.’

  ‘Oh, I will, I promise.’ Eddy’s shoulders slumped in relief.

  Bunny mouthed the words ‘conspicuous devotion’ behind the boy’s back with a mock-horrified expression.

  Flushing, Flora clamped her lips together to prevent herself laughing.

  ‘Did you really find the body, Miss Maguire?’ Ozzy could evidently not hold in the question a second longer.

  ‘I did. However, I trust neither of you have discussed the gentleman’s demise with the other boys. It’s disrespectful.’

  ‘How would he know if we talked about him or not?’ Eddy demanded, with all the straightforwardness of youth. ‘He’s dead.’

  Bunny chortled and Flora sighed.

  ‘Captain Gates told my father that card sharps might be on board.’ Ozzy peered at her myopically. ‘Perhaps Mr Parnell was a professional gambler?’

  ‘It was simply an accident,’ Flora insisted, despite her own convictions on the subject.

  ‘They’ll bury him at sea, you know,’ Ozzy announced with dispassionate authority. ‘Wrap his body in a sail and sew it up like a parcel with the last stitch right through his nose.’

  ‘Really?’ Eddy’s eyes widened as he tugged up a wayward sock. ‘Straight through the bony bit, or just the soft end?’

  ‘Eddy!’ Flora half choked on her mouthful of biscuit.

  Bunny’s shoulders shook with ill-concealed mirth, and Flora threw him a ‘don’t just sit there’ look. He withdrew a dollar note from his wallet and waved it in front of them. ‘How would you boys like an ice cream?’

  ‘Jolly decent of you, Mr Harrington.’ Eddy palmed the note with the speed of an illusionist. ‘See you at luncheon then.’

  They were halfway along the deck before Flora spoke. ‘You do know ice cream on this ship is complimentary?’

  ‘Is it really? I had no idea.’ Bunny’s lips twitched as he dipped his nose into his cup, then immediately held it at arm’s length, grimacing. ‘Dash it, my bouillon has gone cold.’

  *

  Flora spent more time than usual selecting what to wear. Despite her worries about looking out of place with a wardrobe that would not match up to a ship full of wealthy travellers, she had found it reassuring that even society ladies regarded it bad form to wear their best clothes on board. The captain’s dance on the penultimate evening being the rare occasion silk and high fashion was expected and she intended to make an excuse in the unlikely event anyone asked her if she planned to attend.

  She settled on a sage green blouse in soft cotton with pale grey trim over a grey skirt, confident she wouldn’t instantly be recognised as being ‘in service’. A gentle rap came at the door just as she fastened a gold and garnet brooch left to her by her mother.

  Assuming it was the stewardess with clean linen, Flora’s welcoming smile froze in place at the sight of Bunny in a dark blazer and buff slacks, one arm braced above his head against the door frame.

  ‘I came to offer my services as your escort to luncheon.’ His smile betraying he was not totally confident of his welcome.

  ‘That’s most kind of you.’ Her voice came out surprisingly calm, considering how his slow, appraising gaze unsettled her. She pulled the suite door closed and fell into step beside him, throwing him the odd sideways look as they walked. His rimless glasses made him seem less studious than the horn-rimmed ones and the question she had asked herself all morning resurfaced. ‘How many pairs of glasses do you own, exactly?’

  He slid them off his nose, peering at them as if he had never seen them before. ‘Several. They’re an indulgence of mine.’ Replacing them, he reached past her and pushed open the door that led into the staircase lobby. ‘Actually, I have a small confession to make,’ he said as they descended the oak staircase side by side. ‘I ran into young Eddy earlier, who suggested I call and take you to luncheon.’

  ‘I see.’ Her stomach did a tiny dip of disappointment, suspecting Eddy did so to assuage his guilt at preferring Ozzy’s company to hers.

  ‘Although I imagine every unattached man on board will be lining up to be your escort soon,’ he went on. ‘I simply thought to steal a march on them.’

  ‘Well recovered, Mr Harrington,’ she murmured to herself before turning to acknowledge Officer Martin, who stood to one side of the dining room doors as they passed. His benign smile reminding her of something she had meant to ask Bunny.

  ‘When Officer Martin asked about anyone having cross words at last night’s card game,’ Flora began as she settled into her chair, ‘you looked about to say something, but changed your mind.’

  ‘Thought better of it.’ Bunny grimaced. ‘A chap shouldn’t gossip if it’s likely to stir things up for anyone.’

  ‘Stir what up, and for whom exactly?’ Flora asked.

  ‘Max Cavendish. He said something to Parnell, I didn’t hear what, but for a moment I thought Parnell was about to punch him.’

  ‘Why didn’t you mention that to the captain?’

  ‘Don’t know really. Why spoil the man’s honeymoon by suggesting he held a grudge against a dead man?’ His exaggerated shrug was reminiscent of Eddy when caught out in a misdemeanour.

  Flora was about to suggest he had implied exactly that, when a voice sounded at her elbow.

  ‘Miss Maguire.’ Dr Fletcher loomed beside her, his ingratiating smile firmly in place. ‘I’m glad to see you have recovered from our little upset this morning.’

  ‘Not much recovering was necessary,’ she replied, smiling sweetly. His patronising tone immediately set her on edge as she regarded him steadily, experiencing a small triumph when he looked away first. ‘I had never met Mr Parnell.’

  ‘Quite so. Though some of the other ladies on board don’t possess your constitution. I’ve been handing out sedatives all morning.’ He gave a curt nod and then strode in the direction of the captain’s table, pausing to talk to passengers on the way.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Bunny asked, his head tilted toward her.

  ‘That he’s a handsome, but somewhat superior man with good manners. I’m simply not convinced of his professional ability.’

  ‘Because he dismissed your question about the blood on the deck?’

  ‘Lack of blood.’ She glanced across the crowded room to where Monica Gilmore approached with Gerald. She sailed ahead of her husband, ignoring all the bows aimed at her from the crew, while Gerald paused to exchange a word with everyone he met.

  Monica reached their table and greeted both Bunny and Flora like old friends, with planted kisses on cheeks and pressed hands. Having noisily persuaded Gerald to rearrange the seats, her attention shifted past Flora’s shoulder.

  ‘Here’s someone else whom you haven’t yet met, Flora.’ Bunny nudged her gently with his elbow. ‘Mrs Penry-Jones and that odd companion of hers.’ He indicated the angular lady who leaned heavily on a black cane as she limped towards them, an oversized black bag hooked over her other arm.

  Three rows of pearls the size of hazelnuts encased Mrs Penry-Jones’ wrinkled neck above a forest green taffeta gown in the style of some ten years previously.

  ‘Assist me, won’t you, Hester?’ she demanded of the woman who followed close behind. ‘Take my bag and place my cane where I can reach it.’

  The companion who rushed to obey Flora recognized as the same woman who had cut her dead on deck. Her mousy brown hair was scraped back from her round face into a severe chignon which gave her eyes a cat-like tilt.

  On Bunny’s introduction, the old lady pressed the ends of Flora’s fingertips, with a muttered, ‘Adele Penry-Jones,’ in a tone which intimated she should have heard of her. ‘My companion, Hester Smith.’ She directed a backwards wave at the woman beside her without looking at her.

  ‘Flora Maguire,’ she resp
onded, though the lady’s attention had already moved on.

  ‘Maguire,’ Mrs Penry-Jones addressed a space above Flora’s head, turning the word over on her tongue, her lips curled slightly. ‘Irish?’

  ‘Somewhere in my ancestry, I believe,’ Flora replied. ‘Scottish grandfathers notwithstanding.’

  ‘Every hansom driver and waitress we came across in New York was Irish.’ Monica sniffed, making a show of arranging a silk shawl over her shoulders.

  Flora groaned inwardly, anticipating the universal reaction when it was revealed she was a governess, the moment deferred when a heavy-set young man with floppy hair and slightly bulging eyes weaved between the tables towards them, his face brightening when Bunny introduced him to Flora.

  ‘Max Cavendish.’ He pumped her hand with enthusiasm, while his gaze constantly swept the room. ‘I’m travelling with my wife, but she appears somewhat tardy.’

  Flora blinked, having expected the exquisite Cynthia to be married to someone more physically impressive than this well-fed puppy of a man. Bunny’s bulldog description returned and she found herself smiling, though she dared not look at him in case the laugh she fought so hard to supress would burst out of her.

  ‘I run Beaufort’s department store,’ Max said, pausing when Flora hesitated. ‘Ah, I can see you’ve not heard of it. We’ll be opening a branch in Knightsbridge this year.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to pay a visit when I’m next there,’ Flora replied, though she suspected her salary was unlikely to run to such extravagance.

  At that moment, Mr Hersch joined them in company with Miss Ames, both seating themselves opposite Mr Crowe in what Flora surmised was a deliberate move. Crowe seemed not to notice, and took his seat with a scrape of wood and jangle of cutlery, making Flora wonder how such a wiry man could be so clumsy.

  Amongst the ensuing clink of crockery and low hum of conversation, the doors opened again to admit Cynthia, who looked enviably beautiful in powder blue silk that skimmed her gentle curves. She moved with the measured glide of a woman seemingly oblivious of her surroundings but aware she commanded attention. She surveyed the room surreptitiously as she moved, her wide, pigeon wing eyes taking everything in. At the table she bent slowly and dropped a lingering kiss on her husband’s head before taking her seat.

  ‘Steady on, old girl, everyone’s watching.’ Max ducked his head, flushing a deep red.

  ‘Give the busybodies something to talk about.’ Cynthia smoothed his hair into place, her eyes narrowed in response to Mrs Penry-Jones’ loud, critical tut.

  Hester ignored the new arrivals and sat with her shoulders hunched while she nibbled at a bread roll, as if the dining room was the last place she wished to be.

  Flora idly wondered if her red-rimmed eyes were her normal appearance, or maybe harsh treatment at her employer’s hands might be a cause for tears.

  ‘It was the Scotch with us,’ Mrs Penry-Jones drawled, continuing a conversational thread already abandoned. ‘I believe Queen Victoria insists all her servants are Scotch.’

  ‘I think you’ll find the inhabitants of that country are called Scots or Scottish, Mrs Penry-Jones,’ Mr Hersch said slowly. ‘Scotch is whisky.’

  ‘Indeed?’ The old lady sniffed and narrowed her eyes, a response the German accepted with aplomb.

  ‘Has anyone ordered wine?’ Mr Crowe asked as the waiters distributed bowls of ham and pea soup.

  ‘Nothing stopping you doing so, old boy.’ Max’s good-natured grin concealed a criticism.

  ‘Allow me.’ Gerald waylaid a passing waiter and rattled off an order without consulting a list.

  ‘How generous of you.’ Max aimed his widening grin at Crowe, who slurped his soup without reacting, then demanded the salt.

  Flora watched the various reactions to this man, which ranged from mild incredulity to open distaste and lasted until the waiters returned to remove their plates.

  ‘This morning must have been something of an ordeal for you, Mrs Penry-Jones,’ Mr Hersch broke the ensuing silence, his tone casual, though his intense stare told Flora he was keenly interested in her answer.

  ‘Ordeal?’ The old lady’s voice rose to a near screech. ‘Why, pray should you think so?’

  ‘I meant the death of Mr Parnell,’ he persisted, watching from half-closed lids. ‘Violent death is hardly a daily occurrence.’

  ‘Members of the lower classes come to grief all the time. Mainly due to their choices in life.’ She inhaled, narrowing her already thin nostrils. ‘Why should this particular one have affected me?’

  ‘And if that’s not Pooterism, I don’t know what is.’ Gerald snorted, picking bits of wood from his teeth.

  ‘Sorry, what did you say?’ Monica broke off her conversation with Miss Ames. ‘What’s a Pooter-um?’

  ‘It means someone who takes themselves grotesquely seriously,’ Gerald replied in response to a few surprised looks and Flora’s admiring one, though this surprised her too. Gerald always looks bored when Monica and Miss Ames talked about literature, yet he evidently had tastes of his own and perhaps a genuine lack of vanity. She pondered this thought while aware Hester toyed with her food, pushing it round her plate as if there was something wrong with it. Or maybe the companion was not affected by sea air like everyone else and was not hungry?

  ‘From the novel, The Diary of a Nobody,’ Bunny added. ‘I’ve read it.’

  ‘As have I,’ Flora said, determined not to seem unknowledgeable.

  ‘I did so enjoy that story,’ Miss Ames joined the conversation. ‘I sympathise with the poor Charles Pooter.’

  ‘I agree,’ Flora added, relaxing into the company. ‘A vain, pompous man but decent and honest. Sadly misunderstood I feel.’

  ‘Either that or he was the author of his own misfortune,’ Bunny eased back slightly to allow the waiter to slide a plate of lemon sole in lobster sauce in front of Flora. The savoury aroma brought her hunger back in full force. Her loaded fork hovered enticingly an inch below her lips when she became aware of Mrs Penry-Jones peering at her through a lorgnette.

  ‘Didn’t I read in the papers that Lord Vaughn’s eldest girl married one of the Astor boys last month?’ She dabbed her lips with a napkin. ‘You must be one of the sisters.’

  Flora stiffened, laid her fork down again, steadying herself for the moment she had dreaded since boarding. ‘Actually, Viscount Trent is my charge. I’m escorting him home so he can start at Marlborough next term.’

  ‘Charge? You mean you’re his gov-er-ness?’ She gave the word three syllables, her upper lip curled in disdain. ‘How unconventional! When did it become acceptable for such persons to eat in first-class dining rooms?’

  ‘When they have a ticket?’ Flora replied, emboldened by Bunny’s arm pressing against hers.

  ‘Bravo, Miss Maguire,’ Mr Hersch said from behind his napkin, laying it on his lap again to address the table. ‘We’ve entered a new millennium. These are modern times, and we must all learn to adapt.’

  ‘Not to my mind.’ Mrs Penry-Jones’s tone implied she ought to have been consulted on the matter. ‘Being forced to share a table with those of lower class is most galling.’

  ‘Come, Mrs Penry-Jones,’ Mr Hersch adopted a patronising tone. ‘I agree that in a hotel dining room a gentleman without prior acquaintance of a lady would never presume to speak to one who happened to be seated at the same table. However it would be churlish to ignore a fellow diner on board ship simply because the lack of an introduction.’

  ‘I suppose that does make such associations acceptable.’ Mrs Penry-Jones stared back at him down her pointed nose. ‘As long as she confines her new acquaintance to the women on board and not flirt with the gentlemen. That would be most improper.’

  Flora kept her gaze on her plate, not daring to look at Bunny in case the entire table could guess he had spent part of the morning alone in her suite with only a sleeping Eddy next door.

  ‘I quite like it,’ Gerald said. ‘I’ve made some extremely good scrapers o
n board steamships. Besides, one never can be quite sure about people.’ He glared pointedly at his wife, who kept her copy of her passenger list beside her plate, where she scribbled notes and outlined names at intervals. ‘The most gentlemanly passenger may prove to be a confidence trickster. Even men in clerical garb might have an unsavoury reputation ashore.’

  Bunny gave a shocked start beside her, and they exchanged a look. Did Gerald know about the disgruntled blackbird? Or was his purely a throwaway remark?

  ‘Mr Gilmore, what, may I ask, is a “scraper”?’ Miss Ames reached for her notebook that sat beside her plate.

  ‘It’s a term which refers to those one meets aboard ships. People one would be unlikely to associate with in the normal course of life.’ Gerald ignored Mrs Penry-Jones’s sour look. ‘Here, everyone is exactly what they appear to be.’

  ‘Or pretend to be,’ Flora said under her breath, her thoughts still on the late Mr Parnell. Was he playing a part when someone took offence and ended his life?

  ‘Has anyone seen Miss Lane Today?’ Monica asked, giving the room a sweeping glance. ‘She must have been most upset about poor Mr Parnell’s accident. They were friends, weren’t they?’

  Mrs Penry-Jones mumbled something incoherent, while beside her, Hester flushed a deep red. Flora didn’t hear what was said, assuming Hester was being reprimanded.

  Miss Ames leaned forward, her pen still poised. ‘Miss Maguire doesn’t think it was an accident at all. Do you, Miss Maguire?’ Her steady gaze raked each face. ‘As she found the body, she’s in a position to tell us what really happened.’

  Flora stiffened, aware all eyes had turned towards her.

  ‘Really?’ Max’s ever-present smile congealed. The spoonful of custard that halted halfway to his mouth dropped back onto his plate with a splat. ‘What do you think happened then, Miss Maguire?’

  Flora caught Bunny’s ‘you-are-on-your-own’ look and sighed. ‘I didn’t see what happened. I arrived afterwards. Nor do I have any proof, merely an impression that he might not have fallen.’