by Лорен Уиллиг
With my plastic basket hanging from the crook of my arm, I stared through blurry eyes at the array of preprepared foods. Instead of Lancashire hotpot and chicken tikka masala, I saw the weeks spreading out before me in an endless row of fruitless research and dinners for one. Same old library, same old dinners, same old rainy gray sky. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, world without end, amen, with only the occasional outing with Pammy to enliven the gloom, and no chance of home till Christmas.
Only the buzz of the phone in my pocket stopped me from dropping my head into the frozen foods section and bawling.
Resting the edge of my basket on the shelf, I dug into the pocket of my quilted jacket, where I had stuck the phone for easy access during my incessant phone-checking stage. It would probably be Pammy again, I thought listlessly, tugging the phone clear of a fold in the lining. If it was, I'd have to hit ignore and pretend to have left my phone at home. I'd been avoiding Pammy, who tended to regard relations with men as though she were Napoleon and they an opposing army. She mustered her artillery, chose her position, and attacked. Over the past week, we had proceeded from "I don't see why you don't just call him already," to "You could find out where he lives and just buzz and see if he's home," to "If you're not going to call him, I will."
"No, you won't," I informed the buzzing phone.
Only, it wasn't Pammy's number on the screen. In my confusion, my grip loosened, and I had to do a little juggling act with the phone to keep it from plummeting into a pile of prawn sandwiches. It wasn't a London number at all, which ruled out Pammy, nor was it an American number, which ruled out my parents, my siblings, college roommates, and, of course, Grandma.
My withered spirits flamed to life with a surge that sent the blood rushing clear down to the tips of my fingers and up to my hairline. Sussex! I didn't know what the area code for Sussex was, but this was an English area code, and one that decidedly wasn't London.
I jammed down on the receive button so hard that I nearly broke a nail.
"Hello?" I demanded breathlessly.
"Hello, Eloise?" It was a male voice on the other end, but not the male voice I'd been hoping for. It was a nice enough voice, deep and wellmodulated, but it wasn't Colin's. Even across the uncertain cell connection—my cell wasn't terribly fond of the Whiteley's shopping center—his accent was decidedly American.
"Hello?" the voice repeated, as I stood there, disappointment seeping through me along with the chill of the freezer case.
"Oh, hi. Yes, this is Eloise," I replied belatedly, getting a grip on my emotions and my phone. If it was an American calling from somewhere in England, it had to be someone I knew. He certainly seemed to know me, if he was calling and asking for me by my first name. Maybe that Duke grad student I had met at the Institute of Historical Research? "How are you doing?" I gushed, to cover my confusion.
"I'm fine." The voice at the other end of the line sounded mildly perplexed, but game. "How are you?"
"Um, I'm okay. Just on my way home from the library," I provided cheerfully and unnecessarily, playing for time. It was no use. I was still drawing a complete blank in my attempt to determine the caller's identity. I gave up. "Who is this?"
"This is Jay."
"Jay!" I enthused, desperately digging about in my memory for any Jays I might know. There had been one in college, but that had been a very long time ago, and I had heard he preferred to go by James these days, anyway, now that he had become a serious proponent of postmodern literary criticism. "Hi!"
Damn, I'd said that already, hadn't I?
I was about to go for another round of "So, how are you?" or maybe a leading "So, what are you up to these days?" when the unidentified Jay stepped in, his voice turned to gravel by the uncertain reception of my cell phone. "You have no idea who I am, do you?"
"None," I admitted, scooting out of the way of a very large woman with a basket filled entirely with cat food.
There was a pause on the other end, and an exhalation that might have been a sigh, a breath, or simply interference on the line. The voice returned. "Sorry, I should have explained. Your grandmother gave me your number."
"Oh!" I stopped dead in the middle of the aisle. "Of course! She did tell me. I just…well, forgot."
Between midnight elopements, rebellion in Ireland, and disappearing Englishmen (by which I meant Colin, although I supposed it applied to Geoffrey Pinchingdale-Snipe, as well), grandparental setups had been low on my list of priorities. Besides, I never thought he would call.
"And you didn't think I'd call," supplied Jay.
"It's not nice to read the mind of someone you haven't even met yet," I said, leaning back against a tower of biscuit tins.
"It wasn't mind-reading," clarified the voice from Birmingham, "just common sense. I probably wouldn't have called—"
Should I be offended by that? I wondered, quickly shifting my weight back onto my own two feet as the biscuit tins started to wobble. Of course, I wouldn't have called someone Grandma was trying to set me up with either, but that was beside the point.
"—but it turns out we have a friend in common."
"Who?" I asked, deciding to abandon righteous indignation in favor of curiosity.
"Alex Coughlin."
"You know Alex?" I exclaimed, pressing myself back against the biscuit tins as a mother holding a small child's hand went by.
Just to be clear, Alex is not an Alexander but an Alexa. She is also my best friend. We had gone to school together from kindergarten until twelfth grade, parted with the utmost reluctance for different colleges, and maintained a voluminous e-mail correspondence ever since. We'd spoken and written less of late, due to a combination of the transcontinental time difference and Alex's grueling schedule as a second-year associate in the litigation department of one of the bigger New York law firms, but it was the sort of friendship that was too deeply rooted to be shaken by absence. Pammy might be on-the-spot, but Alex was a soul mate.
There was the sound of tapping in the background and a pause before Jay answered, in a preoccupied way, "She's dating my college roommate."
"Oh," I said. "Wow, small world."
"Hey," said Jay abruptly. "I'm going to be in London next Tuesday on business. Are you free for dinner?"
"Tuesday…" I stalled. "Um…"
It would make Grandma way too happy if I went. She might start giving my number out to yet more men. Probably unfortunate ones without all their own hair, into which category Jay might fall, for all I knew. And his mother was named Muffin. Or Mitten. Or something like that. And Alex's Sean was a nice guy, but wasn't there just a little something too incestuous about going out with his roommate?
And what if Colin called?
I looked down into my basket at the lonely little pack of chicken strips, the sparse array of yogurts, and the tiny carton of milk. Tonight, I would sit at the little round table in my subterranean flat, with a book propped up on the plastic flowered tablecloth scarred with the burn marks of a former inhabitant. After my solitary dinner, I would take my solitary plate to the sink, and fix myself an equally solitary cup of cocoa. If I wanted to be truly festive, I might even let myself have a marshmallow in it.
"Dinner would be lovely," I said firmly.
"Cool. Listen, I have to run, but I'll call you Tuesday and we can work out the details."
"Looking forward to it!" I trilled, and then winced at how eager I sounded. Like a pathetic, desperate spinster, delighted at any date. But it was too late to rectify it with a qualifying "Always nice to meet a friend of Sean's," or "It will be good to hear an American accent," or "Too bad my boyfriend is out of town for the week, or you could meet him, too." Jay had already rung off.
It was just dinner, I reminded myself, as I headed for the checkout. A casual, friendly dinner with a friend of a friend. Nothing to get all stressy about. Anything had to be better than another night staying in and watching reruns of Frasier. Not that I object to Frasier, per se, but there's something deeply depressing a
bout having nothing better to do in a foreign country than watch American television.
And Colin wasn't going to call. Ever.
Alex was getting a phone call within the next day. Alex, I remembered guiltily, had left a "Hey, something just happened—give me a call!" message on my voice mail yesterday, but I'd been too preoccupied to call back. I would wager the entire collection of yogurts in my basket that the message had something to do with her boyfriend informing her that his college roommate was being set up with her best friend. I tried to imagine how that conversation must have gone, in boy-speak.
JAY: "Some crazy old biddy is trying to set me up with her pathetic granddaughter."
* * *
SEAN: "Bummer. Pass the chips."
* * *
Sean had gone to Stanford, and thus, like many New Englanders who had sojourned briefly on the West Coast, liberally flung around expressions like "bummer" and "dude" that real Californians would blush to employ.
I considered and substituted the sound of crunching chips for passing chips, since Sean was in New York and Jay in England, thus ruling out chip-passing, game-watching, beer-spilling, and those other rituals of male communication. My name would have been offered up, chips would have been spilled on Sean's end, and Alex would have called over to the phone to provide enthusiastic bona fides, along the lines of "She's my best friend in the whole world! You have to call her!"
* * *
JAY: "But her grandmother…"
* * *
ALEX: "No, really, she's fabulous. What a weird coincidence."
* * *
Unless, of course, Alex didn't want to encourage him to call me, in which case the hypothetical conversation would have been played in much the same words, minus the "You-have-to-callher" bit, but in a tone of cagey wariness. Or did I mean wary caginess?
Tuesday with Jay. It sounded like the title of a Neil Simon play. It even rhymed. But at least pumping Alex for information and planning my wardrobe should get my mind off Colin.
I shoved my last yogurt into a plastic bag, firmly resolved. I would have dinner with Jay, delve into the intricacies of the Pink Carnation's escapades without any more help from the Selwicks, and generally forge ahead on an independent, Colin-free course. If the Alsdale lead didn't pan out, I could always try searching under likely aliases for Jane and Miss Gwen, or go at the problem sideways by researching Emmet's rebellion, on which there was a wealth of scholarship, looking for names or facts that just didn't fit the established narrative. Any one of those anomalies might lead me straight to the Pink Carnation—and, while I was at it, the Black Tulip.
I heaved my bag of groceries off the counter and strode boldly out into the mall, buoyed by my new-formed resolutions. And, unbidden, one last little mischievous thought crept across my mind.
Wouldn't it be wonderful if it made Colin jealous?
Chapter Nine
"Didn't I tell you it would be a splendid crush?" demanded Emily.
Letty wasn't quite sure "splendid" was the word she would have applied. Peering into the drawing room of the narrow red brick house on Cuffe Street, she was tempted to turn around and go straight back to her recently acquired lodgings. But going back to her lodgings meant being alone. Being alone meant thinking. As for thinking…It had become a very dangerous pastime.
Back in London, her thoughts had run along straightforward lines, organized into compartments such as "servants' wages," "placating parents," and "preventing sister from eloping." Ever since she had woken up on the Dublin packet, an entirely new category had monopolized her thoughts: Lord Pinchingdale. Late at night, long after Emily was fast asleep, Letty lay awake, rehearsing endless scenarios in her head. It hadn't escaped her notice that she grew more eloquent, and Lord Pinchingdale more easily convinced, in each successive daydream. By the time the boat had docked, delayed by a slight squall a mere day out of Dublin, Lord Pinchingdale was brushing a strand of hair off her cheek, gazing meaningfully into her eyes, and declaring soulfully that he had never truly seen her before.
Naturally, that was what would happen. Right after she was crowned Queen of France.
Reluctantly, Letty retrieved the remnants of her common sense. Soulful glances might not be terribly likely, but the more Letty thought about it, the more optimistic she was about her impromptu journey—at least, once the initial headache faded, and her mouth stopped feeling like a well-worn camel path. Thanks to Henrietta's revelations, she at least understood why Lord Pinchingdale had been treating her like the more disgusting sort of leper. Aside from that slight aberration, he had always struck Letty as a kind and reasonable man. Once she convinced him that she hadn't deliberately set out to ruin his life, they could both apologize to each other, and go on from there.
It all made excellent sense. Or, at least, it had while she was still on the boat.
Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow she would seek out her husband in his Dublin lodgings.
As for tonight…well, Emily would have been very disappointed if Letty hadn't accompanied her to Mrs. Lanergan's party, Letty rationalized to herself. Emily had kept up a constant monologue on the boat about all the wonderful things she wanted to do—and darling Mrs. Alsdale to do with her—once they got to Dublin. While shopping figured prominently, Mrs. Lanergan's annual party headed the list. Emily had planned her toilette, fretted over the ship's delay, and chattered about how many beaux she planned to attach.
"How do I look?" Emily demanded, swishing her pale pink skirts.
"Lovely," answered Letty, submitting to being towed into the drawing room, where women in pale gowns mingled with redcoated officers and dandies in gaudily colored frock coats. For such a butterfly creature, Emily had a surprisingly strong grip. "Really."
"Mere physical appearance," announced Emily's guardian, Mr. Throtwottle, repressively, stalking over the threshold behind them, "is a matter of extreme indifference to those who devote their lives to the cultivation of the mind."
Anyone could see that Mr. Throtwottle practiced what he preached in terms of dress. His clothes were a rusty black, his frock coat outmoded, his linen decidedly musty. The buckles on his shoes were so old that whatever paste jewels might have originally resided within the frames had long since fallen out, leaving only empty prongs in their place. Letty couldn't imagine a more inappropriate guardian for the flibbertigibbet Emily. Neither, apparently, could Mr. Throtwottle, who had gratefully handed Emily off to Letty for the duration of the voyage. By the time they had reached Irish shores, Letty's head rang with exclamation marks and swam with superlatives. Next to Emily's determined girlishness, Letty felt about a hundred years old.
Letty reached to straighten one of the pink flowers Emily had twined into a chaplet on top of her curls. "The flowers are a nice touch."
"Oh, thank you!" Emily beamed. "I wore them in honor of the Pink Carnation. He's so dreadfully romantic, don't you think?"
Letty had to confess that she had never given the matter serious thought. She found the whole topic of spies vaguely silly, at least the sort of spies who had their exploits written up in the illustrated papers and were dubbed romantic by empty-headed girls. Really, some of them were no better than highwaymen, constantly attention-seeking. One would think that a good spy would do his best to remain inconspicuous, rather than indulge in needless dramatics with black cloaks and mocking notes.
"I've read everything there is to read about him," said Emily dreamily, illustrating Letty's point admirably. "They say that he's a dispossessed French nobleman, flung out into the world. But I think he must be English, don't you, Mrs. Alsdale?"
"I haven't the slightest notion," said Letty, who was saved from replying further by the appearance of a middle-aged woman wearing a gown far too young for her years. The white contrasted unfortunately with the high color in her cheeks, and the soft muslin clung unforgivingly to her ample form.
Introducing herself as their hostess, she said eagerly, "I do hope you are enjoying my little party."
"It is as the poet says: 'And to Arcadia I go,'" intoned Mr. Throtwottle solemnly.
"Don't you mean 'et in Arcadia ego'?" Letty asked. Her father had a habit of trotting out Latin aphorisms, largely because it drove her mother, who couldn't understand a word of it, utterly mad.
"Of course." Mr. Throtwottle's arched nostrils quivered briefly in her direction. "Isn't that what I just said? I translate from the Latin, of course," he added, for the benefit of the unenlightened, in which group he generously included Letty.
Mrs. Lanergan clasped her beringed hands to her bosom. "Such a joy it is to have a man of learning by one's side! Mr. Throtwottle, you simply must visit again."
"I certainly shall, my good woman. But now, if I may, I will seek out the solitude of your library."
Mrs. Lanergan's brow furrowed. "There is the colonel's book room…."
"Would it be too much to hope that you possess a copy of the Consolations of Eusebius?"
"Boethius," muttered Letty, who had alphabetized her father's library no fewer than three times before finally giving up.
"Bless you," said Mr. Throtwottle, offering her his handkerchief.
Mr. Throtwottle departed for quieter regions, while Mrs. Lanergan chattered on beside her, pointing out other guests to an enthralled Emily. Et in Arcadia ego seemed an inopportune sort of phrase with which to begin an evening of revelry, signifying, as it did, the presence of death and decay even in the midst of life's pleasures, like the snake twining through the apple-laden leaves in the Garden of Eden. Perhaps, thought Letty, Mr. Throtwottle was tonight's snake in the garden, a grim figure in his rusty black as he stalked among the party guests in their gauzy gowns and bright regimentals. Put a scythe in his hand, and he would look just like the picture of avenging Death in an allegorical woodcut.
The frivolous young couple just in front of him rounded out the morality tale beautifully, decided Letty. Aside from their more modern costume, they looked exactly like a Renaissance painter's image of an amorous shepherd and his lass in the classic pose of seducer and seduced, her head tilted up toward him, his hand on the back of her chair as he leaned to whisper in her ear behind the fragile screen of her fan, his dark head bent close to her fair one.
