by Sophia Tobin
‘Because I am not a stranger,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how, or why, but I am not a stranger.’ He did not advance towards her any further. What he felt was dangerous.
She did not advance either. She wrung her hands, and looked at him. All the words that came to her mind, she discarded. There was only one thing which she needed to say.
‘I love you.’
He looked at her with astonishment: her dark hair, elaborately plaited, her pale face, still with the line of the bonnet across her brow, and those full eyes. ‘And I, you,’ he said. ‘But I cannot ruin your marriage. I cannot injure you in that way – I cannot injure your husband, either.’
Charlotte felt her lacings then; knew she was short of breath. ‘Of course,’ she said. She turned frantically; he had not seen her move so before. ‘You will leave, and your life will continue. The building of the Club, I suppose, is more important than this. That building is your mistress, as the diamond is my husband’s.’
‘Do not say such a thing.’
She shook her head, and walked to the window. He could see she was trying to regain her composure. ‘It is not a slight. I have been too indolent, all these years. This has overexercised my sluggish brain. You are free. You have other things to turn to. More than one place, more than one role.’ She wrapped her arms around herself.
‘Even so,’ Henry said, ‘I have imagined our life together. What it would have been.’
When she turned, she saw that his eyes were full of tears. And at the sight, her bitterness dissolved. ‘My dear,’ she said.
He covered his eyes with one hand. She saw then that he too required her to be strong; that he would be strong if she would. She thought carefully, in that silence, the only sound the ticking of the clock.
‘You say you wish to make me happy,’ she said after a moment. ‘The truth is, my happiness is dependent on yours. If I can know that you are happy in London, building the Club, thinking of the future, then I will be content. But I will have you make the choice for yourself alone. Do not speak of injuring my husband. My loss would mean nothing to him – not in his heart. Husband and wife – what does that even mean, in a moment such as this? What lies between me and Ashton is complicated and difficult, but at no point does it involve the kind of warmth I feel for you.’
‘He must love you. How could he do anything else?’
‘He is a good man, of sorts. He believes in charity, yes, he believes in civic society and helping those he does not see. But as for the secrets of the individual’s heart – of my heart – he knows nothing of them. They are indecipherable to him. When my first child died, he stopped me from taking so much as a lock of hair from her head. He said I had an unhealthy attachment to her. So do nothing for his sake. If you go, and never return, then let it be because that is the best course for your happiness.’
Henry stared at her, sweat on his brow in the infernal heat. He wiped the warm tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, hoping she had not seen them. ‘I have wronged you,’ he said. ‘I should never have come.’
‘You have made everything real,’ Charlotte said. ‘But now it must return to being a dream.’ She walked to him, swiftly, put her hands on his chest, and kissed him. He breathed the scent of her: the lily of the valley. He did not release her from the kiss; it maddened him. He kissed her back, and pushed her against the bureau, one hand at her waist, and one in her hair, the shape of her head against his hand. She did not struggle; she pulled him closer. Leaned back, and – intentionally, he was sure of it – swept the contents of one of the small tables onto the floor: a small wooden figure, and a porcelain figurine which shattered against the stone.
The door opened.
They released each other in that moment, and Henry saw that although Ashton led the way, he was turned back, talking to Peregrine. But Peregrine had seen everything, the blood draining from his face. Ashton read something there, and turned.
They all stood, staring at each other.
Then Charlotte stepped forwards. ‘Mr Kinsburg,’ she said. ‘The commedia dell’arte figure is broken. Forgive me, I thought I was going to faint, and I knocked it. Mr Dale-Collingwood caught me.’
Ashton blinked. He stared at the fragments on the floor for a long moment. Henry turned away, trying to gather his composure. ‘Beyond saving,’ Ashton said. ‘Ring the bell for a servant to clear it. And why is there no servant in here? Charlotte?’
‘Janet was in here,’ said Charlotte. ‘I sent her to Barbara.’
Peregrine yanked on the bell pull. Charlotte sat down, visibly trembling. When the door opened, it was Janet.
‘Clear that up.’ Ashton spoke with a new harshness. ‘And where have you been?’
Henry held his breath as the girl looked at her mistress. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said eventually. ‘I was asked to attend to something. I only meant to be a minute.’
‘Very well,’ said Ashton, turning away from the debris. ‘Just clear it up. Clear it up now.’
Peregrine came to Henry’s side. Henry saw the fury in his eyes, the doubt and displeasure. What on earth? said his gaze.
‘Save it for the journey,’ Henry said, under his breath. And he turned to look at the gardens again, in their untouchable perfection, as Ashton walked to his wife, and dropped a kiss onto her dark head.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
1941
COMMITTEE ROOM, THE MIRRORMAKERS’ CLUB
‘And I thought I was the mad one,’ Livy said.
She, Christian and Peggy stood, drinking tea, staring at the fragments of plaster on the floor, all that remained of the cherub’s face. It was Christian who had taken the hammer from Jonathan’s hands, as Livy called for Peggy. It was Christian who had guided him down the ladder. Jonathan had walked away without another word; they had heard the door to the backstairs bang.
‘If he finds the diamond, he’d better pay for the moulding to be repaired,’ said Peggy. Her servitude had slipped fully from her, thought Livy: the building was what counted now.
‘It can’t be repaired,’ said Christian. ‘Not as it was.’
He had brought the archive box in from the Red Parlour, and was looking through it. He unfolded a piece of paper onto the Committee Room table. Scored deep with its folds, it was a plan of the basement as Henry had drawn it. He heard the chink of a cup in its saucer, and looked up to see Livy approaching him. As she leaned over his shoulder to look at it, he took a breath.
‘We haven’t been able to search that part because of the bomb damage,’ she said. ‘But Mr Whitewood didn’t think the diamond would be stowed away in that part of the building anyway.’
‘Where does he expect it to be?’ said Christian. ‘In a golden box in full view, under a shaft of light?’ He traced the plan with his finger. ‘The skeleton is in this area.’ He pointed. ‘There’s a passageway running around the building in the basement. Henry labelled it as the moat. It’s an early form of damp-proof course. I took another look today, on my way in, and noticed something. The bones are in a coffin: you can just see the outline of it. The bombing sheered the end off it, which is why we saw the skull.’
Livy stared at him. ‘What does that mean? I just assumed it was a body that had been buried hastily.’
‘As did I,’ he said. ‘But apparently not.’
‘But if the moat runs around the building, surely the coffin would have been seen a long time ago?’ said Livy. ‘That area must be checked regularly.’
‘Exactly,’ said Christian. ‘Some alteration must have been made in order to create a space for the coffin. It must have been intentionally hidden in some way.’
Bill appeared. He was carrying a large cauliflower. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Mr Whitewood took a hammer to the cherub,’ said Peggy, pointing up. Her husband glanced over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows. Gently, he placed the cauliflower on the Committee Room table.
‘That’s a fine vegetable, Bill,’ said Christian.
‘Lou
ie Robinson gave it to me. He’s grown a few in his garden. All above board.’
‘Of course – I didn’t mean to imply you were in possession of a clandestine cauliflower.’
Bill gave a little smile and a nod; Livy wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him so cheerful. ‘We’re talking about the body, Bill,’ she said. ‘The skeleton in the foundations. Have you been out and about talking to people? How will they investigate?’
Bill shrugged, in familiar fashion. ‘I hardly know they will. We have higher priorities. It’s more imperative that they put the scaffolding up,’ he said. Livy got the sense he rather liked the word imperative. ‘Whatever’s happened down there – and I’m not saying it isn’t creepy – we have to care about the living.’
‘Yes and no,’ said Christian. He smiled again, brightly. ‘Let’s say we care about both, but the living most of all.’ Carefully, he folded up the plan again, and put it back in the box.
‘Hello?’ It was Jonathan. He had padded up silently, and was standing in the doorway of the Committee Room, holding something. Livy recognized the jewellery box he had unpacked from the trunk.
‘Mr Whitewood!’ said Peggy, as Bill choked on the cup of tea he was pouring down his neck. ‘Would you like some tea? I made it specially for you.’
‘No, thank you,’ he said. His eyes sought out Livy, who was standing towards the back of the room, next to Christian.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry for vandalizing the place like that. I don’t know what came over me. May I have a word with Miss Baker?’
Reluctantly, Livy put her teacup down and went to him, walking past the plaster pieces with a wince, without looking at the others. She followed him a few steps out into the anteroom. They only went a short way: the rooms were so big they swallowed up sound.
‘How can I help?’ She found that she couldn’t look at him, and the coldness of her own voice surprised her. He swallowed hard, and opened the box outwards. Inside, there was a jumble of jewellery of different vintages. She stopped herself from reaching in and rooting through.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve found the diamond there,’ she said.
Jonathan shook his head. ‘I have to sell the contents,’ he said.
‘I’m very sorry for you,’ she said.
She saw the tightening of his expression. ‘I have to go to Bond Street. Will you come with me?’
She looked into his eyes with surprise; into that cool face, which had remained so stealthy even as he had apologized. Her expression was enough to show her surprise and misgiving.
‘It would be a favour to me,’ he said. ‘I don’t feel quite myself. Tomorrow, I will go. Please, come with me.’
Livy hadn’t left the Club for weeks, other than to view the skeleton. To think of even going past the end of the road seemed impossible. She could manage while she stayed here. But beyond the end of the road, the world was continuing, and she could not bear to face it.
‘Let us see how you feel in the morning,’ she said. ‘You don’t need me. I’d be a hindrance, if anything.’
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Please, Livy.’
*
Christian watched Livy walk back into the room. He had been barely listening to Bill and Peggy as they had discussed how to eke out the cheese ration, and the bare minimum needed to bring cauliflower cheese up to scratch. Beyond the doorway, he caught sight of Whitewood slipping away, his head bowed in a way that was uncharacteristic. He knew Livy to be kind; he knew her kindness would put her in danger with such a man; and he also knew that what felt like his certain knowledge of her being in danger was based on his own jealousy. That he had to let her be free, when he had never wanted to hold onto her as tightly as he did now.
She came near to Christian, whispered to him as Bill and Peggy continued to talk.
‘He wants me to go to Bond Street with him on an errand. He looks unwell.’
Christian stared into the final mouthful of tea in his cup; a trace of leaves. He swilled it around, and knocked it back.
‘I think you should go with him,’ he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
1941
BASEMENT VAULTS, THE MIRRORMAKERS’ CLUB
Like a voyager to unknown shores, Livy prepared for her journey with misgiving. She put on her fuchsia rayon day dress, the one chosen months ago by Miss Hardaker for its brightness. Its vivid colour suited her pale skin. Her coat was of the same vintage, the one she had walked to the Club in: a grey woollen swagger coat, its line falling outwards from her shoulders, giving her a broader silhouette. It had holes under the arms that she had mended in the days when she was orderly, and this evidence of her past efficiency cheered her. She brushed her hair, powdered her face, put lipstick on, and squandered more perfume than she would normally wear in a week. After lunch, she put her grey hat on, and borrowed a small brooch from Peggy, pinning it to her coat.
It turned out to be surprisingly easy for her to leave the Club. In the end, all one had to do was put one foot in front of the other. At the end of the road she had the uneven medieval street plan to thank for the fact that when she turned back, she could not see the Club. It had already dissolved into the London landscape.
Her anxiety sat in the pit of her stomach, so that she jumped at loud noises, but other than that she was proud to think that she looked quite normal. They took two buses, both of which were on diversion, and then they walked. On Bond Street they passed cracked windows and what seemed to be an eruption in the pavement – Livy wondered if it was a gas main. They walked with a distance between them; once, passing close by another couple, they were forced together, and Jonathan took her elbow to steer her.
He smoked continuously, and she realized that he was nervous. The fingers that held the cigarette seemed suddenly frail and fidgety. Every now and then he patted the breast pocket of his jacket, a regular checking pattern. She supposed he thought he was subtle about it, but his agitation was obvious.
She knew she looked for Hamptons constantly, her eyes darting here and there, her shoulders straight but tense. A fine pair they must have made, the pair of them, she thought, in their agitation, giving out whole constellations of movements and gestures, bright signals of anxiety.
For, goodness, how long this road seemed. Far less picturesque than its illustrious name might have suggested. Had people trod for centuries all this dirt, and rush, to seek a little glitter, to buy a jewel from the right shop? Was this what stood for glamour and luxury? She had thought remnants of it might remain here. But she realized she was longing for clean air. To be standing on the roof of the Club, looking at a sky free of planes.
‘Are you worried?’ he said suddenly.
‘Not as worried as you.’ She had meant to make him smile, but he caught her arm and spun her to him.
‘I say, if you don’t want to – that is – I have delicate business here.’
She sighed. ‘You asked me to come. I won’t be an embarrassment.’
He reddened; a touch of grace. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be . . .’
‘None of us means to be.’
‘It’s just, they’re the most powerful antique dealers in London.’ He was tired, and she saw the strain in the shadows beneath his eyes.
‘Don’t worry.’
‘Forgive me,’ he said, at length: said it to the air in front of him, without turning to her. She let her hand brush his, and he gave her a small, worried smile.
Hamptons looked as though it had stood in the mid-point of Old Bond Street for time immemorial, when really it had just been a hundred years and fifteen more. There were gold letters on its glass windows, and a fine wire mesh had been put over the irregular old glass to protect it from bomb damage. There was not much in the window, as though they thought it vulgar to display too much in wartime: that was how they played it, at least. Jonathan thought that they were more afraid of theft than of accusations of extravagance, the latter being the cornerstone of their reputation.
�
�I’m not sure I want to go in,’ said Livy, as they paused on the chessboard tiles outside the curtained door, a heavy in a bowler hat peering over.
‘Just smile,’ said Jonathan, and nodded sharply and imperiously at the doorman.
The door swung open with a violent jangle of the bell. Walking ahead of Jonathan, Livy found herself in a different world: hushed, deeply carpeted, surrounded by reflections from precious things, and eyes watching her. A long mahogany-framed glazed counter stretched the length of the first room. The walls facing it held cabinets with shelves, and the room was dotted with vitrines. The pieces within – jewellery, enamelled boxes – were not, it seemed at first glance, arranged by theme. Colours clashed, small jewels lay in boxes next to vast, trembling, diamond-set corsages. When she moved closer, though, Livy caught sight of a tiny slice of white card with the words ‘eighteenth century’ written on it in beautiful black handwriting.
Livy turned around and saw that behind the counter there were four men dressed in suits; men with neatly cut hair and one with a finely trimmed moustache. To her left there was a green velvet curtain, swept back to reveal a further showroom, and an office beyond, its occupant’s name, Mr Hampton, gilded on the glass.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ the moustached man said to Jonathan, and Livy was surprised to hear that his voice was deeply unpleasant. He spoke with a self-conscious precision, but there was an unidentifiable twang to his voice which she couldn’t pin down, and which was the more unpleasant for the fact that he did not own it, but tried to chase the twang away with the force of his enunciation.
Standing beside Jonathan, she realized that the man had automatically assumed a certain relationship between them and was playing to it. Unleashing a ghastly smile, he unlocked the counter and drew out a sapphire brooch, rather old-fashioned, bordered with diamonds in a swirling gold mount and with a pearl drop. The kind of thing, she thought, which would have been in fashion when Jonathan was young: and it was not a serious thing, such as an engagement ring, but an expensive trifle for a mistress. Older man, younger mistress, he wants a nostalgic present for her. The girl would want something angular, deco, diamond-set; the man would waver, but come back to this thing, which suited his fond memories rather than his troubled present.
