‘I’ll see you home —’
‘No. I’ll be fine. I’ve got a couple of things to do before I leave anyway. You get going.’
He frowned. ‘Edie, promise me you won’t speak with Sarah. The repercussions could be embarrassing.’
Yes, but for whom? she wondered, schooling her features to betray nothing of her new, disturbing notion. ‘I promise.’
_______________
Later in the salon, she told Madeleine that she’d agreed to start proceedings for the legal dissolution of her marriage.
‘I’m pleased for you,’ Madeleine replied. ‘I think.’
‘Are you? I don’t feel anything but empty. Tom’s out there, I know it. He just doesn’t know how to find me.’
‘Ben thinks you could love him.’
Edie groaned. ‘Do I love him like I loved Tom? No. Never. Not even close.’
‘Don’t lead Ben on. He deserves better. He’s a good man.’
‘Is he?’ Edie questioned, finally allowing herself to confront the potentially deeply damaging notion that had nagged at her since Ben’s outburst.
‘Isn’t he?’
She pushed a hand through her hair nervously. ‘I have to tell you something. I have no proof, so it’s just speculation.’
Madeleine’s expression clouded.
‘That night, when I lost the sketches, Ben barely looked at the girl serving me in the cloakroom. He was really offhand. Ever since he made partner in the law firm Ben’s developed an attitude towards anyone who serves him. He’s filled with his own importance; apart from his family, he’s frozen out a lot of his old friends since becoming a member at Swithin’s Club in the city. I think for Ben it’s vital he looks every bit the successful city lawyer.’ She shrugged. ‘He’s moving into his own house, finally . . . in Chelsea. And now he needs a wife and children. He’s prepared to swallow his pride and try again with me, but he struggles with the fact that I run a business.’
‘What does any of this have to do with your missing sketches?’
‘Well, because of his attitude he paid the cloakroom attendant who handled my sketches with barely a scrap of attention.’
‘And?’
‘During our argument in the street he named her; he called her Sarah. And I happen to know that’s her name because she told me, but Ben wasn’t with me at the time.’
Madeleine stared at her with trepidation.
Edie moved towards the mannequin that Madeleine had set up. She reached for a bolt of crepe de Chine and threw it open on the workbench. She began to drape the fabric on the model, losing herself momentarily in the familiar, safe ritual of noticing its weight, shine, how it fell.
‘Ben collected my folder that night,’ she said. ‘But I saw his anxiety just now. He desperately did not want me to confront Sarah or the management.’
‘You honestly now believe that Ben, the man who claims to love you, stole your designs and gave them to the opposition?’
‘I think he had the opportunity, is all I’m saying.’
‘And his motive?’
‘Crushing my dream.’ She leapt as she poked herself with a pin. A bead of blood bloomed on her finger. ‘Damn!’ She stepped back. ‘He never wanted me to have this.’
‘Eden —’
‘No, hear me out. I think he is capable of this deception, Mads, because I hurt him. I hurt him very deeply in choosing Tom and the manner in which it all happened. He’d know how damaging the theft would be. He had the opportunity, he had the knowledge of who to take my designs to for the maximum effect . . . and all the while he could play the hero, helping me.’ Edie sucked her finger as she pulled the pin-cushion off her wrist.
‘Eden, stop! It doesn’t make sense.’
‘It does all suddenly make bleak sense to me.’ She swung around to face Madeleine. ‘Ben doesn’t want me going to Paris or New York . . . he doesn’t want me searching out new raw silks from China or dyed silks from Italy. He doesn’t want me tripping across to Belgium for lace. He wants me in his house in Chelsea like a trapped bird, taking coffee at home with friends he would probably help me choose, with an infant balanced across my belly and another on the way. He always used to joke about us having an army of children. He wants me to be the ideal he has in his mind of what the perfect “Jewish woman” is. The first and only time I ever defied my father was in bringing Tom into our lives. And then our lives were never the same,’ she said, remembering with a soft ache their passionate first kiss in the alleyway. Her eyes became wide and her expression haunted. ‘I have to find him.’
‘Eden . . . we’ve —’
‘No, listen to me,’ she said, rushing to take Madeleine’s hands. ‘If this is a day to get all my crazy thoughts out of my head, then let me say it all.’
‘All? What else is there?’
‘Just some nagging thoughts that won’t go away.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Do you remember Percival Fitch at Savile Row?’
‘I do.’
‘He told us of a man who had an accident . . . run down by a taxi.’
‘Yes, I recall the story. Dazed, tore his suit and they had one from pre-war days that fitted like a glove,’ she reeled off. ‘Really, Eden. I do pay attention, you know.’
Edie licked her lips. ‘But what about the fact that he was a returned officer – he was one of Mr Fitch’s regular clients and then they didn’t see him for years?’
‘He’d gone to war!’
‘Mads, that’s three years since the war ended.’
‘Oh, you poor child. You think the man could be Tom.’
‘Is Tom. Yes, for several reasons. The timing sounds right. The fact that he was a returned officer who had been away for so long and then turns up without an appointment. Tom was in Green Park – a skip away from Savile Row. Perhaps he found himself there, got knocked down as Mr Fitch told us, came back to his senses and the knowledge of his past, knew who he was.’
‘But had forgotten he was Tom?’ Edie nodded. ‘Listen to yourself, Eden. This is crazier than thinking Ben is trying to bring down your business.’
‘Not bring it down. Just scuttle it,’ she said, irritation in her voice, not even bothering to explain to her friend what the latter word meant.
Madeleine regarded her in soft annoyance.
‘Mads,’ she appealed, ‘the man Fitch was talking about was wearing a navy suit.’
‘And you’re going to tell me that Tom wore a navy suit that day, aren’t you?’
Edie nodded, eyes glistening with tears.
‘Eden,’ Madeleine began, raising a long, narrow finger so close that Edie could see the shine of her manicured nail. ‘This is dangerous thinking.’
‘Abba and I always thought Tom spoke with a cultured voice, I just didn’t want to accept it,’ she wept. ‘I’m sure it’s why I led him away from London to our quiet, isolated cottage in Epping where few people would notice or question him. They just saw a nice, young, educated couple. I told everyone Tom had been injured in the war and let their imaginations do the rest. Oh, Mads, don’t you see? Tom could be that man from Savile Row and now he’s returned to his former life, wherever that is. I’ve slipped through the crack in his life . . . me, his child, our life . . . it’s disappeared.’
Madeleine took Edie by the shoulders. ‘This all makes sense in your mind, Eden, because you want it to be the truth.’
‘It’s plausible!’
‘About as plausible as Ben wanting to destroy you and yet marry you.’
Edie felt the sobs lurch in her chest. The darkness was rising again. She’d kept it at bay, even kept away the whispers that had begun nagging at her since talking to Percival Fitch of the tiny coincidences that added up.
‘If Sarah confirms Ben’s actions, will you believe me?’
‘Yes.’
Edie blew her nose on a handkerchief. It was red to match her tie and she remembered the heart she’d cut out from Tom’s handkerchief, which she’d given him on the da
y he left. She still had the scrap of fabric at home and made a mental note to carry it with her from now on.
‘I can’t confront her, Mads. I promised Ben.’
‘Oh, so now you care about Ben and his feelings?’
‘I care about keeping my promises.’
‘Right,’ Madeleine said, approaching the coat stand and pulling down her cape. ‘I shall go and find Sarah and I shall confront her. Let’s put an end to this speculation.’
‘What about Tom?’
‘One drama at a time, Eden. That’s all I can cope with.’
She marched from the salon and Edie was left staring at a red handkerchief. She had so much work to do but her mind was swarming with the possibility that Tom was within her reach. She picked up the phone and asked the operator to put her through to the correct exchange, which then connected her with Anderson & Sheppard. It took several minutes until a voice answered.
‘Oh, good afternoon, this is Miss Eden Valentine from Valentine’s Bridal Salon at Sloane Square.’
‘Hello, Edie. This is Jonathan Elton speaking.’
‘Ah, Jonathan, thank you. I was wondering if Mr Fitch might be available.’
‘Mr Fitch? I’m afraid not. He’s taking annual leave. I believe he’s gone rambling in the Lake District for three weeks.’
‘Oh, I see,’ she said, a wave of disappointment crashing against her hopes.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Er, you may be able to. I don’t know if you recall but Mr Fitch was telling me about the gentleman who was knocked down in Savile Row a while back . . . one of your clients?’
He hesitated. ‘I do remember, yes.’
She knew it was wrong to ask. ‘Could you give me his name, please?’ She could picture Jonathan’s kind, boyish face twisting with concern. ‘Actually, Jonathan, don’t,’ she countered, deciding in the heartbeat of his indecision that she was behaving without discretion for the man in question, or for Mr Fitch. She knew the code of Savile Row better than most. ‘I know it’s not right in our line of work to be that indiscreet, but perhaps you’d let me put it another way. May I ask, were you aware of the name Tom coming up in relation to that client?’ She was grasping at mist. If she believed this man to be Tom, then he would hardly have mentioned his name and then ignored it. It was ridiculous to ask, but the question was out now. ‘I’m sorry to sound so desperate, Jonathan, but I just have it my mind that I know this gentleman, but I knew him as Tom and he lived at Epping.’
He sounded relieved when he spoke. ‘I can tell you that name was never mentioned and I was there when it all happened, Miss Edie. Definitely no Tom. No mention of Epping, either.’
She nodded, her heart hurting as another door slammed in her face. ‘All right, sorry to disturb you. Thanks, Jonathan, and please give Mr Fitch my best.’
‘I will. Goodbye, Edie.’
‘Bye, Jonathan,’ she said softly, putting down the phone and suddenly feeling vaguely ridiculous. What would she have said to Fitch anyway? I think one of your clients might be my lost husband? No, I’m sorry, I don’t know his name. I only knew him as Tom. She winced, knew she was behaving irrationally, and now she’d put Madeleine into the thick of her crazy notions.
The bell rang at the door and she swung around to see Madeleine standing in the doorway with Sarah.
Sarah was blushing and Madeleine looked uncharacteristically nervous. ‘Sarah has something she wishes to tell you,’ she said, gesturing for the cloakroom assistant to move into the salon. ‘Go on, Sarah. Tell Eden what you told me.’
24
Alex sat behind his desk at Larksfell and stared at his red handkerchief.
Cecily had suggested it. ‘It’s part of letting go, Lex. Get rid of it. Here, give it to me now – I’ll burn it.’
Alex had leapt as if scalded. ‘No. You won’t burn it. But I’ll put it away, I promise.’
‘I hate that handkerchief. If I see it, Lex, I’ll get rid of it. That red rag is holding you back.’
He laughed deliberately, needing to prove that he was not emotionally dependent on it. ‘I said I’d put it away, all right?’
And he had, tucking it right at the back of his desk drawer. But now here it was in his hand.
He had been in the process of signing a cheque to pay for the honeymoon, and now the sight of the handkerchief halted him. The feel of it, however, disturbed all the drawers in his mind where he had neatly folded away thoughts of a lover, a girlfriend . . . even a wife who might be waiting for him somewhere. It had taken every last reserve of willpower to banish this mysterious, invisible woman to concentrate on his fiancée and their forthcoming nuptials. He’d made a pact with himself that he would: he owed it to Pen, to his family, to himself.
And he had been winning that battle in his mind, but a simple glimpse at the handkerchief and all the demons were back, opening up the compartments with glee, shaking out their contents and spilling his guilt with every tormented question that always spiralled down to the same few words: Who Are You?
‘It’s all moving so fast,’ he murmured.
‘What is, darling?’ his mother said.
He hid the handkerchief in his lap. Cecily Wynter had a penchant for sneaking up on him but in a breezy way that could never be considered stealth. She stood before him now with a plate of food. ‘Alex, if you are going to stand me up for dinner at home, at least promise me you’ll eat,’ she said with affection. ‘Oh, you are cosy in here,’ she added, moving towards the hearth, having placed a plate of sandwiches in front of him. ‘Eat, Alex, or you won’t have strength to give me my first grandchild.’
‘Don’t be vulgar, Mother, it doesn’t become you,’ he said dryly and she chuckled.
‘Is everything all right?’
He reached for a sandwich and made a grateful groaning sound as the taste of still warm and sticky roasted chicken melted in his mouth.
‘Is this Dearie’s own chutney?’
‘From our apples too.’
He nodded, ate hungrily.
‘You see, you’re famished.’
As she turned away, he pushed the handkerchief into his pocket and followed his mother to the fireside, carrying his plate. ‘I forgot the time. I hate the thought of having to leave everything for four weeks.’
‘Nonsense, Lex. Your wedding is still a few moons away, so why you’re worrying about work already is beyond me. I want you to take gorgeous Pen away and make her very, very happy, and also make my grandchild.’
He gave his mother a look of soft despair.
‘Why is it moving too fast for you?’ she asked, ignoring his admonishment and returning to the original conversation that he hoped he’d left behind.
‘Pen’s in such a rush to be married, I can barely catch my breath on all the arrangements. Which society girl planning a wedding doesn’t give herself at least a year for all the histrionics? Pen’s pulling this all together in a matter of a few months. April first will be upon us in a blink.’
‘She’s not pregnant, is she, darling?’
Now he gave her a slit-eyed look of caution.
‘Well, it is April Fool’s Day.’ She shrugged in defence. ‘Are you having second thoughts?’
‘Not second thoughts, just thoughts. Why do we have to be in such a tearing hurry?’
‘Well, she clearly believes she’s waited long enough for you!’
He sighed and it was a sound of resignation. ‘I could do worse.’
‘Oh, Lex. This is the rest of your life, darling!’ Cecily’s exasperation was reflected in a pained gaze at her son.
Alex swallowed the food in his mouth that seemed suddenly tasteless. He turned to stare at the flames and for an instant was reminded of flames in a sitting room . . . an elegant room, but not especially large or fancy. He was aware of an old man . . . but then the recollection danced away from him like a disturbed butterfly.
‘Alex? What’s going on?’
He could smell the orange blossom note of his m
other’s perfume, had seen the squat, oval-shaped bottle that held the citrusy cologne, so why was he envisaging a different bottle and a whiff of floral fragrances?
‘I . . . I’m smelling a scent. I had a vague notion of violets.’
She shrugged. ‘There’s a perfume called “April Violets”, I believe. Yardley or something. I've tried it but it gives me a headache.’
‘Yardley,’ he murmured, turning the word over in his mind because it sounded so familiar.
‘It’s on Bond Street, darling,’ she muttered to prompt him.
‘I’m sorry. I seem to be having more frequent flashes of memory.’
She blinked. ‘I suppose it had to occur. And hopefully it brings you relief.’ Despite her positive approach, Cecily looked doubtful.
‘Yes, except there are people in the memories, Mother. Obviously people who can fill in the gap of time that I was missing.’
‘You look so worried.’
‘I am. What if I was . . . well, with someone?’
‘The Yardley perfume-wearer, you mean? It’s the red handkerchief again, isn’t it?’ She eyed him from beneath a peeved expression. ‘You promised.’
‘Someone made that handkerchief with care. The meaning is all too obvious. I’m sorry, Mother, but it seems callous that I disregard it,’ he said, doing his best to ignore her expression of doubt that anyone who wore April Violets and cut hearts into handkerchiefs was the right ‘social’ material for a Wynter.
‘All right, let’s just entertain this notion for a moment, although after this I shall never discuss it again with you. I want this matter closed.’ She took an audible breath. ‘What can you do about it, even if you wanted to know more?’
Alex felt a boost of admiration for his mother, who, if nothing else, was fair.
‘I’ve thought about that a great deal, and I’ve come to the conclusion there is only one place to go. I have to return to where it was found, I suppose. It’s the only starting point I have.’
‘You mean Dr Cavendish?’
‘I mean Fitch and his staff at Savile Row.’
She shook her head. ‘Needle in a haystack, Lex. And plenty of disruption as you plan to marry.’
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