“And your young man?”
“Stephen? He’s fine.”
“You must invite him to come by the shop.” Mrs. Foy gathered up the tea things and returned them carefully to the tray. “I’d like to meet him.”
Evelyn didn’t say anything. She stared at the dark spines, the edges of her vision blurring. She wished Mrs. Foy would shut up.
“I said I’d like to meet him, dear.”
“Yes, I heard you.” Evelyn inhaled, held the breath, and forced a smile. “Maybe one day soon. We’ll see.”
She wandered back toward the desk, but Mrs. Foy was already halfway up the stairs, straining under the weight of the tray.
“We’ll see, we’ll see,” she was muttering. “That’s all you young people say, isn’t it, when you can’t make up your minds.”
“I’d like to,” said Evelyn, holding up her palms to Mrs. Foy’s back, almost beseeching. “But it’s not so simple . . .”
“Sometimes I don’t understand you at all, Evelyn. You were given a second chance. Most weren’t so lucky . . .”
Mrs. Foy stopped on the landing. Her cheeks were pink, her calves inside a pair of charcoal-colored tights bulging like prize hams. She had once been a school matron and Evelyn thought her voice, especially at moments like this, still carried some of that prim reproach.
“You shouldn’t leave it too long. I was lucky to meet Mr. Foy when I did, but he was a lot older than me.” She stared past Evelyn to the Indian rug at the foot of the stairs. “That’s where he fell dead. Heart attack. One morning he got up, walked down these stairs, and never came back up them.”
Evelyn had lost count of the times she had heard the story of Mr. Foy’s demise. She stared at his portrait hanging above Mrs. Foy’s head. There were many around the shop, but this was the best. It must have been taken before the first war, because he still possessed the slim languor of youth, a full head of fair hair, and a strong profile, turned away from the lens as had been the fashion, his left thumb hooked inside his waistcoat pocket. It was curious to imagine this man as Mrs. Foy’s husband: it was almost impossible to believe she had ever been young.
As the old woman trundled on up the stairs, Evelyn went to the desk and began filing away the receipts. The ceiling groaned again with Mrs. Foy’s pottering; she spoke to Alix and the crockery clattered in the sink. Evelyn stopped what she was doing and ran a fingertip over the cash register’s metallic keys, an ache of regret in her chest. Mrs. Foy had only ever been kind to her, even when she knew her most shameful secret.
* * *
The morning remained quiet. A gentleman came in at eleven looking for some books on antiquity and eventually bought three of the rarer hardbacks for eight pounds. Afterward, two small boys came in asking for comics, but they left empty-handed, and Evelyn took an early lunch break in the square. She sat alone on the bench, nibbling at her stale sandwich. A chilly wind whipped along the path, skirting around her ankles; it wasn’t at all pleasant outside. The rest of Bloomsbury must have felt the same way: apart from a disheveled-looking woman pushing a wailing child in a pram up and down the path, the gardens were empty.
She wondered if Stephen was nearby. They had met in this very square on a day when the sun had been out for the first time in weeks. Evelyn had been sitting on a different bench, near a rash of tulips, finishing her lunch. A few yards away two gardeners in rolled-up sleeves and waistcoats had been cutting the lawn with scythes, and as she listened to the whoosh of the blades slicing through the grass she had heard a tread on the gravel and found a man standing over her, his hat casting his face in shadow. He’d held up a brown paper bag and a thermos.
“Mind if I share your bench?”
It was only when he sat down that Evelyn saw his smooth face. He was younger than her and had a wispy blond mustache. She studied his careful movement with the sandwich—his long fingers, his delicate wrists—and when she looked up she was surprised to find him watching her, those hazel eyes amused, fine lines at their corners as he smiled.
Now, Evelyn wrapped up her lunch. She would finish it later. The woman with the pram had stopped at one end of the gardens as she tried to shove a bottle into her screaming child’s mouth. Evelyn leaned back on the bench, observing the sparrows foraging about in the crumbs at her feet. They were awfully tame, though she supposed they knew danger when it presented itself. She watched them peck about between the pebbles, then raise their heads to her inquisitively, but when no further food arrived they flew away.
Evelyn peered up at the washed-out sky. It was her birthday next week, she realized. Last year Stephen had taken her on a day trip to Bath. They caught the early service from Paddington. The morning was fine, the air mild and full of the scent of fresh spring flowers. Stephen, who knew Bath, having spent every childhood summer at his grandmother’s house on Wells Road, took her on a tour of the Abbey and the Roman baths, the Assembly Rooms in Bennett Street, and finally Royal Crescent, a sweeping arc of Georgian townhouses built from honey-colored stone, which they admired from an enormous grassy lawn across the street.
They had lunch at Sally Lunn’s, sharing a main course of a chicken and ham hock trencher, with Evelyn trying one of the famous buns with cinnamon butter for dessert. While they ate, Stephen told her stories about his grandmother, who, among other things, had been a governess in Milan and had in later life shared her house on the hill with half a dozen cats. The rest of her family found the old woman difficult, but she had been fond of Stephen, and his visits were an opportunity for her to indulge in their shared passion: literature.
“She’d have great boxes of books waiting for me in my bedroom,” he told Evelyn. “Milton, Dostoevsky, the Brontës, Conrad, Kipling, Austen of course. Once I’d read them we would have long discussions as we walked around town. About the characters and their experiences, but also their different ways of living. Gran was something of an eccentric herself: she had a cane and liked to wear a monocle, which I know some found a bit odd. But she was a rather frustrated person, I think. Very creative, and more free-spirited than she was allowed to be. Not well suited to her times. But never one to judge others, either.”
“I suppose that outlook is handy when you live with six cats,” said Evelyn.
“Yes.” Stephen had laughed, but his eyes were tender. “I do miss the old dear. I should have liked her to meet you.”
After lunch they perused the shops on a stroll over Pulteney Bridge (“It was inspired by the Ponte Vecchio in Florence,” remarked Stephen, “but I think it’s the more beautiful of the two”), then came back down Manvers Street toward the station. Stephen had stopped out the front of the George Bayntun bookshop and bindery.
“I thought we might quickly duck in.” He looked up at the grand arched entrance. “Or is it too much of a busman’s holiday for you . . . ?”
“Of course not,” Evelyn said.
They went inside. While Stephen disappeared to find the bookseller, Evelyn browsed the rare editions in the glass display cabinets—there were a few prayer books, a Dante, and an elegant edition of The House of Life by Rossetti in straight-grained green goatskin. When Stephen returned he had a brown-paper package wrapped in string under his arm, but without further explanation he guided Evelyn from the shop, and they continued on toward the station. When they arrived on the platform, however, he pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his sandy-colored hair. He seemed nervous all of a sudden, tugging at his tie and shuffling his shoes. Eventually he handed Evelyn the package.
“I wondered if the bookshop would have it,” he said, watching as she slowly loosened the string. “You see, it was the last thing Gran and I read together before . . . well . . .” He cleared his throat, his eyes shining. “I thought you might like it.”
It was a copy of John Dryden’s All for Love. It was a fairly recent edition from Stourton Press, no more than twenty years old, with gilt lettering on the spine and deckle edges.
“Gosh,” Evelyn said, careful to keep her tone ligh
t as she turned the book over in her hands. “This is very thoughtful, Stephen. Thank you.”
“It’s only a small gift. But since it’s your birthday . . .”
The London train had pulled into the platform and Stephen helped Evelyn climb aboard. Later, as he dozed in the seat next to her, the flattened land empty apart from the occasional stone cottage and field of barley flashing at the window, Evelyn thought again of the book in her handbag. She was touched by Stephen’s gift and the sentiment attached to it, but it was hard not to feel some disquiet. After all, it contained the story of the final hours of Antony and Cleopatra, an ill-fated couple so tested by war, betrayal, and lies.
* * *
“Ah, Evelyn, you’ve just missed her.”
Mrs. Foy stood behind the desk, flipping through the sales ledger, her eyes rheumy behind a pair of reading glasses.
“Who did I miss?” Evelyn asked, unwinding her scarf and hanging it next to her coat.
It was finally warm in the shop, almost snug. Evelyn smiled at Mrs. Foy, still feeling contrite after her brusqueness earlier; she resolved to make more of an effort with the old woman, starting with an invitation to the pictures. They could go on Friday, even have a late supper. After all, Mrs. Foy had been kinder to her than almost anyone else in London—and for once Evelyn wanted to show her some gratitude.
“She didn’t leave her name. Well-bred lady. Dark hair. Nicely dressed.”
Evelyn’s vision crowded in an instant, and she put a hand against the door, her legs weak. So Julia had come for her.
“What did she want?”
“Hm?” Mrs. Foy was flicking through the ledger again.
“The woman.” Evelyn tugged at her collar, the air in the shop thin. “What did she want?”
“Oh . . . It was about the Baudelaires, I think. Yes, that’s it. She said she spoke to you last week.” Mrs. Foy looked up, her eyes widening. “She’s French, isn’t she?”
Evelyn almost screamed. “You mean Mrs. du Cru?”
“Is that her name?”
“But why didn’t you say?”
“Well, I didn’t . . .” Mrs. Foy whipped off her glasses. “Are you quite all right, dear? You’re as white as a ghost.”
Evelyn had forgotten that the schoolmistress had arranged to collect the volumes of poetry for her pupils. She sagged against the door, almost faint with relief, as Mrs. Foy hurried over, grasping her by the shoulders and steering her around behind the desk. She went to fetch a glass of water and they sat together, Mrs. Foy rubbing Evelyn’s back. After a few minutes like this, Evelyn said she was feeling better, and Mrs. Foy frowned and said, “I don’t know about that!” But when Evelyn insisted, she finally relented, and went upstairs for her afternoon nap.
Evelyn waited a little while longer before she began to clean shelves toward the back of the shop, keeping an eye on the door. No one came in. She could hear the lilt of a violin—Brahms always sent Mrs. Foy to sleep. Alix basked in the small patch of light in the front window, licking one of her dainty silver paws. Eventually Evelyn went to the front door and flicked the sign to Closed. Mrs. Foy wouldn’t mind; the morning sale was more than Evelyn had made all last week. She returned to the desk and picked up the telephone, dialing through to Stephen’s office in Russell Square.
He picked up after a few rings, his mouth full; he must have been eating a late lunch at his desk. Something about this made Evelyn feel teary again.
“Stephen, it’s me.” She swallowed thickly. “It’s Evelyn.”
“Oh. Hello.”
There was a pause as the line crackled.
“How are you?”
“Yes, fine, fine.”
Evelyn heard rustling, the sound of a door closing, and she pressed the phone hard against her ear. She realized she had no idea what his office looked like, or what he might look like in it, and this ignorance panicked her, the past twelve months they had spent together slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.
“I thought . . .”
But what did she think? What on earth did she expect she might say? That she had wanted him to come over to the flat on Saturday? That she needed him? Evelyn had never asked anything of him before; what would he make of this request now? Her hand began to shake.
“I thought you might have telephoned. On the weekend. But you didn’t, so . . .”
Stephen cleared his throat. He sounded very far away. Evelyn thought again of those hazel eyes, how they crinkled with his smile. He smiled so easily—and laughed. He was always laughing, though she never understood what he found so funny. Now she couldn’t believe she had never asked.
“Listen here, Evelyn. I’m quite busy today with this Ovid stuff. If there was nothing else?”
“No,” she said. “Well, I mean, there is . . . But it can wait.”
“What is it?”
Had his voice softened? She couldn’t tell. The telephone receiver grew warm in her grip.
“I wondered if you’d like to come by the flat tonight.” She had lowered her voice to a whisper, worried that Mrs. Foy might hear; she wouldn’t approve of these assignations, no matter her opinion of Evelyn. “I’d like to see you.”
She listened to Stephen’s even breath at the other end of the line. It was unbearable. Why wasn’t he saying anything?
“I have to work late,” he muttered finally. “But I might be able to pop around afterward.”
Evelyn thanked him and rang off. Then she sat there, her head resting against the desk, shivering with raw cold. But amid that feeling was some sense of renewal as she raised her head and looked at the portrait of Mr. Foy, then at the place on the rug where he had died. Perhaps that was what upset Mrs. Foy so much: that her love had been snatched away, while Evelyn kept her heart closed to the man who wanted to share himself with her. She looked into her bag lying beneath the desk. There inside was the copy of the Dryden that Stephen had gifted to her in Bath. He couldn’t know it, but she had carried it around with her ever since, bringing it out to read a passage or two, though always resisting the urge to plow on to the final act. Something about the book, emblematic as it was, meant that Evelyn needed to keep those last pages unread.
But that had all changed, she thought grimly as she turned toward the window where speckled light now filtered through the glass. The time had come for Evelyn to find a new kind of courage. Vincent had been right, after all. Some things did have to be brought up from the ground.
* * *
Evelyn left the shop at five o’clock and caught the train to Green Park. The early spring air had grown almost warm by the afternoon, though the wind still had bite, and a few flecks of rain struck her face as she emerged from the underground and wandered up Clarges Street.
This was the first time she’d been back to Mayfair since the start of the war. She stood out the front of number twenty-nine, eyes fixed on a second-floor window. Curzon Street was quiet and full of long shadows as the sun dropped and the sky lit up in an indigo haze. A taxi rolled by and Evelyn stepped back around the corner, where she waited until the lamp on the front porch came on and Sally Wesley appeared in the doorway. Though it had been nearly eight years since she had last seen her old friend, Evelyn would have recognized her silvery-blond hair anywhere, and the way she tilted her head as though she were always on the verge of asking a question. Sally spoke to someone inside, then closed the front door with a bang. Evelyn shrank back further as Sally marched down the pavement, her fur coat dwarfing her slight frame. She wore a black hat and her hair had been cut short, resting just above her shoulders; it suited her.
When it was safe to do so, Evelyn followed her. On Sally walked for perhaps a quarter of a mile, past South Street, until she stopped at the Grosvenor Chapel, a plain rectangular building with a portico on the west side and a short turquoise-colored spire containing the clock and bell that now struck for the six o’clock Eucharist.
Puzzled, Evelyn watched Sally stride into the chapel. She lingered on the other side of the st
reet, reluctant to venture further—she had always hated the cloisters, the stonework bearing down on her, the hard pews—but she was curious about what she might find in there. After a quick survey of the footpath she strode across the road and in through the great oak doors. The pews were half full, not a bad congregation for a weeknight, and Sally was seated toward the front. Evelyn found a spot at the back and the service began. After some singing and a sermon, the congregation filed up the aisle for their fill of the blood and body of Christ.
Evelyn watched the parishioners. Faith could have found a place in her life once, and she saw the appeal of the sublimation, the submission, the trust in a higher power, especially after everything the world had slowly come to understand about the war. The absolving of responsibility, the abstract explanation for the most unspeakable wrongs . . . that could have suited her very nicely. But it wasn’t an honest way to live—not for her, anyway. Besides, she’d never trusted anyone enough to believe in something she couldn’t see.
When it was Sally’s turn to approach the altar, she kept her eyes on the floor with an air of piety that struck Evelyn as false. She looked thin, almost gaunt, and like Julia she had aged; her face had somehow grown longer, pouchier. Evelyn watched the vicar perform the rest of the sacrament. As she returned to her seat, Sally raised her eyes toward a low-lit chandelier before they settled on Evelyn, and in that brief moment Evelyn felt a blister of pain run along the aisle before she glanced away to her hymnbook. When she looked again Sally had sat down, her attention once more directed toward the vicar. Was that it? After all this time, was there to be no shouting, no clamor, no scuffle? Evelyn waited for a few moments, but Sally just stared resolutely at the altar.
As “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” resounded through the chapel, Evelyn edged out of the pew and slipped outside. She began pacing the block, stamping her feet against the cold. She wondered now if it had been a mistake to come, but still she strode around the perimeter of the Mount Street Gardens at the back of the chapel.
An Unlikely Spy Page 17