The Tailor's Girl

by Fiona McIntosh

  She frowned. ‘Hmm, let me think. It was a very cold few days, as I recall, and I’d given my word to Matron I’d have you shaved . . . so it had to be around then – November. You had agreed to put on a suit for it and I’d brought one in for you, as it happens.’

  ‘Had you?’

  She nodded and swallowed another forkful of rock bun. ‘And you had a favourite green jumper that one of the volunteer corps had knitted.’

  A vague recollection bubbled up but before he could latch on to it, it burst and disappeared.

  Nan frowned. ‘I mentioned your posh accent and you said you may have been an actor, but I reckoned you were more likely a banker or solicitor.’

  ‘Go on. Then what?’

  ‘Then, nothing. We talked about the Spanish Flu, and probably the weather. That was it. The next day was much the same except you were determined to go and sit out in the cold like a grump.’

  He thought about the maze at Larksfell that had helped him to recall a sense of his past. ‘Was there a privet hedge at all?’

  She nodded. ‘It’s still there. You liked sitting near it. You could watch your friend, the robin, and you told me you distantly overheard people passing. The children’s higher, louder voices were easier to distinguish, you said.’

  ‘I had a little bird. Its name was Enza. I opened the window. And in-flu-Enza,’ he chanted softly, amazed by the memory coming back so easily.

  ‘Where did you get that from?’ she asked, checking the time on her upside-down fob watch. That action helped him to cement Nancy into his mind. He did remember her now, not so clearly that he would have picked her out in a line of women, but there was much that was familiar, from her playful touches to that habitual glancing at her watch. ‘I have to go, I’m afraid,’ she said.

  The rhyme was singing distantly around his mind, echoing on repeat.

  ‘Nancy, might I call you if I remember anything that needs clarification?’

  ‘If that means, would I like to go out with you sometime, the answer’s yes!’

  They both laughed. ‘I may just have a question or two.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, standing, and he followed suit. ‘I’m glad to see you looking so very well.’

  ‘You’re the best, Nancy,’ he said, and held out a hand. It seemed far too perfunctory, and given that he knew they had an audience, Alex leaned in across the table and kissed her cheek softly, holding her hand longer than necessary. ‘Thank you for looking after me so well.’

  She tittered, glanced around sheepishly. ‘That should see them through a few shifts!’

  ‘Well, I’ll walk you out. Let’s see if we can’t start those tongues wagging immediately.’

  It occurred to him to ask if he could see the old ward and speak to Sister Bolton but he’d already imposed on Nancy and didn’t want to push his luck. He could always make a return trip.

  Once back in the car, he was keen to dismantle everything he’d learned and see if he couldn’t put it back together into some semblance that was meaningful.

  ‘Where to, Sir?’

  ‘White’s Club, please, Jonesy . . . St James’s.’

  ‘Right you are, Mr Wynter. Will you be overnighting at White’s, Sir?’

  ‘I shall,’ he said, distractedly. ‘But you should head back to Sussex this evening. I won’t need the car.’

  Jones nodded. ‘And did you get what you came looking for, Sir?’

  ‘Not quite, but I believe I’m a lot closer,’ he admitted, as a random memory dislodged itself from the pile of information gathered today and began to shout at him from the rim of his mind to notice it.

  26

  Swithin’s Club, known affectionately and perhaps a little pretentiously by Benjamin Levi as ‘Swines’, was located in the city of London, not far from the medieval Anglican church of St Swithin. It was currently cloaked in a typical London fog that was yet to clear. Edie knew she’d find the man she was looking for during a busy breakfast seating; Ben took all his midday meals here, and enjoyed breakfast on a Wednesday because ‘they did a mean haddock’ and a cream of wheat that was apparently so much better than ‘plain old lumpy porridge’.

  It made her angry just standing across the street and looking at the building – a bastion of male domination that Ben was utterly seduced by. But nothing could reach the depths of her disappointment to ease the pain of what she’d learned. She was sure she didn’t have all the facts and so she tempered her rising fury by taking deep breaths of the chilled London air and giving Ben his chance to explain it. However, she wasn’t going to give him the opportunity to turn all lawyerly on her and have the time to build his argument.

  Edie blew out her last deep breath and skipped across the road, preparing for her ambush.

  _______________

  Bartholomew Hudson had been concierge at Swithin’s Club since its inception just before the turn of the previous century. He’d survived the war, Spanish flu, the arrival of the jazz age, coal rationing due to the mining strike and even the unthinkable admission of a woman into the club for the first time. But he’d consoled himself that Ivy Williams could be forgiven for trampling into such male territory because she came from a pedigree of fine lawyers, herself a quite brilliant lawyer and one of the first women to be admitted to the inns of court. Plus, her barrister brother, a member of Swithin’s, gave his life fighting for his country.

  However, he’d not for a moment believed it might set a trend and that women would wish to cross the threshold of Swithin’s regularly, so it was with dismay that he watched the striking woman skitter across Cannon Street with intent. He’d been watching her for a few minutes; she was hard to miss in that plum-coloured coat and fur hat amongst the river of black suits that flowed around her. Hudson had assumed she was simply admiring the building, but now he doubted that. She clearly had designs to enter.

  It was fiercely cold, though, despite the fog, and a gossamer mist made the dark-haired beauty approaching seem all the more ethereal as she emerged into full view and was now just steps away. He realised it would be churlish to forbid her entry into the lobby and he leapt for the brass door handle that he’d made sure was polished to a gleam daily.

  ‘Er, good morning, Miss,’ he said, as she eased quickly through the opening. Cold air rushed in with her slipstream. ‘I’m sorry. I think perhaps you may be in the wrong building,’ he tried.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said and disarmed him with not only an attractively husky voice but a smile to warm anyone’s bones. ‘This is Swithin’s Club, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ he replied. ‘Um . . . a gentleman’s club, Miss . . . er?’

  ‘Eden Valentine,’ she said, holding out a hand gloved in black suede.

  It would have been rude not to shake her hand but now he found himself unnerved by her confident intrusion.

  ‘Bartholomew Hudson. I’m the Chief Concierge, Miss Valentine. Do you need directions to somewhere?’

  She seemed to pay no attention to his attempt at deflecting her back out into the cold. ‘I do. Thank you, Mr Hudson. I need directions to your breakfast room, please.’

  He stared back at her, disarmed.

  ‘From the smell of bacon, I’m presuming it’s upstairs,’ she said, pointing towards the thickly carpeted flight that swept up from the central back of the lobby.

  Members passed and threw glances of confusion their way. His heart sank as he noticed two eminent barristers drifting down the stairs.

  ‘Miss Valentine. Forgive me, but women are not seen at Swithin’s Club.’

  ‘I am well aware of that, Mr Hudson. Men are also not seen wearing my gowns but that doesn’t mean I forbid them from entering my salon.’

  While he blustered to find the right response, she moved quickly, and within a couple of heartbeats he saw her finely turned ankles hurrying over the fleur-de-lis carpet and disappearing up the stairs. Hudson felt alarm grip him and initially he tried to dash after her, but the swarm of men now descending the stai
rs obstructed him as the first breakfast sitting ended. He decided to use the telephone instead.

  He rang the dining room’s extension three times before it was answered but by then it was already too late.

  _______________

  Feeling herself to be swimming upstream like a salmon, she dodged around burly shoulders and ignored the looks of alarm and the buzz that rippled through the diners as they emerged from double doors at the end of a corridor.

  ‘I say, young lady. Are you meant to be here?’

  ‘I need to find a Mr Benjamin Levi.’

  The older man looked perplexed.

  ‘Is Mr Levi in the dining room?’ she pushed.

  ‘I saw him in there, yes,’ said a younger man who winked at her. ‘Gosh, are we letting in women members now?’

  She dodged away again before poor old Hudson could catch up with her.

  Edie burst into the room and scanned the wide chamber for Ben. Her sharp gaze was quick to pick up on style and elegance and registered only opulence. She noted gilt and chandeliers, carpet that deadened sounds so the tap of forks and knives were unobtrusive and conversation muted. She smelled leather and sweet tobacco conflicting with haddock and boiled eggs. Tall Georgian windows, looming out of vermilion flock-wallpapered walls, were like giant picture frames giving her a view down onto the city. White tablecloths dazzled, silver glinted and crystal winked at her; she couldn’t imagine how bright it would all appear on a sunny day. Perhaps they drew those heavy, emerald velvet drapes, she wondered absently, as her gaze finally fell upon a familiar shape.

  Ben was reading the morning paper, his back to her and yet to pick up the sounds of discomfort as men began to clear their throats, flap their newspapers with distress and clink a knife against crystal glasses to win attention.

  She waited, fending off urgent and sometimes beseeching enquiries from waiters, and ignored the blinking, clearly confounded arrival of a tall gentleman in a dark suit with a withering glare. ‘Madam,’ he said, as though it was a word never to be uttered between these walls. ‘I really must ask you to follow me . . .’ She waited, determined for Ben to pay attention, her anger rising with each second that ticked in the back of her mind.

  Finally, his awareness was pricked by the lack of all sound that had stilled to an awkward hush. He turned and blanched at the sight of her.

  ‘Hello, Ben.’

  ‘Mr Levi, forgive me for this intrusion,’ the man began, his tone and expression one of mortification.

  ‘Unhand Miss Valentine, Sir!’ Ben snapped in his shock and the head waiter dropped her arm as if scalded. Ben stood, reaching for a napkin to dab his lips. ‘She is my fiancée and would only come here in an emergency.’ His shifting glance at Edie begged that this was the case. ‘Are you all right, Edie, my dear?’

  It was a pity that she only now realised – in this uncomfortable silence, with a few dozen pairs of eyes fixed on her – how handsome Ben Levi was. She’d never been able to see it. As he stood there, tall and outfitted in a fine high-buttoning dark suit with his new affectation of a bow tie, his forehead puckered with a concerned frown, his luxurious black hair slicked back to frame his still boyish dark features that included an infectious grin, Edie appreciated that Ben had become a handsome man. Looking at him objectively, he would have made a good partner for her, physically, financially, religiously, but certainly not spiritually or emotionally.

  He had never called her ‘my dear’; it sounded so patronising that Edie sighed and in that moment the fight she was sure she’d come here to have stepped away like a shadow parting from her. Her shoulders relaxed as the pent fury expelled in that sigh and Edie made yet another important decision. It was as instinctive as the first time she’d made it.

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude, Ben, but yes, it is important . . . and urgent,’ she admitted, glancing at the men who now ringed her, ready to bundle her out of the dining room.

  ‘Step away please, thank you, Mr Barnsley,’ Ben warned. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ he said to the room, showing no signs of the embarrassment she knew she was causing him. ‘Dearest, perhaps we could step outside?’

  His entreaty was too polite for her to spit it right back in his face and she gave a small incline of her head in agreement. In doing so she felt the tension surrounding her relax. Men melted back to their stations, and the head waiter cleared his throat and turned crisply on his heels as Ben took Edie’s arm.

  ‘There’s a private room just next door.’ He said no more until he’d escorted her into a small salon and closed the door behind them. He let out a long breath. ‘Edie, whatever are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here to tell you that I cannot marry you, Ben.’

  She had expected anger, at least irritation, but his chuckle surprised her into momentary silence.

  ‘Again? You’re doing it to me again?’

  ‘It was a mistake to agree to marry you the first time. I don’t know what I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘Edie,’ he said, sounding vaguely exasperated as he looked at the watch hanging from his waistcoat. ‘Less than . . .’ He paused to calculate. ‘Er, fourteen hours ago, we were discussing a date for our nuptials. What on earth has prompted this curious behaviour? Nerves, perhaps? Perfectly understandable.’

  She admired how reasonable he sounded. But Ben rarely argued.

  ‘I came here today filled with a sort of righteous rage and I wanted to cause a scene. I wanted to pick a very public fight with you.’

  His puzzlement deepened. ‘You did cause a scene. I’m sure it will be the conversational highlight of the club.’ She heard mocking amusement.

  ‘You’ve got broad shoulders,’ she said by way of apology.

  ‘I’ll enjoy the fame it brings me,’ he soothed. ‘Tell me what’s wrong? What’s happened?’

  ‘Sarah happened,’ she said, holding his gaze with defiance but speaking softly.

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Don’t, Ben. I deserve your respect.’

  He looked lost. Either it was a fine performance, or Sarah had lied. Edie couldn’t doubt herself now; she decided he was playing with her, using the time to rapidly think through the situation.

  ‘Sarah,’ she continued, forcing her tone to sound even, ‘is the former cloakroom assistant at the restaurant you took me to on the evening my sketches were stolen.’

  He shrugged, looked baffled. ‘What has this to do with me?’

  She looked away, helplessly disappointed, having hoped, just in that heartbeat, that he might be truthful with her. ‘You’ve always been my best friend. Remember our pact that day we went with all your cousins to the fair and we rode the Ferris wheel?’

  ‘I promised I’d marry you and always love you,’ he said, before she could continue. ‘And I wanted you to say it back to me.’

  ‘That’s my point, Ben. We also made a promise that we’d never lie. I couldn’t lie to you then and give my word I’d marry you. But I know you are lying to me now.’

  She wasn’t ready for how quickly he moved to clasp the tops of her arms. ‘What is it? What do you believe?’

  Clever. It was his legal brain taking over. Rational, calm, cunning; throw the responsibility back onto her.

  She took a breath. ‘I am led to believe that Sarah is wrongly accused of stealing my sketches. That it was you who took them, gave them to my rivals. That it was you who humiliated me, tried to crush my dreams before they’d had a chance to take flight. And it was you who set out to undermine my business.’

  She saw anger flash in his eyes. ‘And how do you come by this information, Edie? I thought I expressly forbade —’

  ‘Oh, Ben, you forbid me nothing!’ she snapped, shaking herself free of his touch. ‘You don’t own me!’

  He looked around as though worried their voices might carry.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said, running a shaking hand, she noticed, through his neatly combed hair. ‘That came out wrong. I did ask you not to stir this up.’

  ‘And now I un
derstand why.’

  ‘How can you possibly take the word of a common thief against mine? I don’t blame that girl, of course,’ he condescended. ‘She probably doesn’t know how to pay her rent.’

  She shook her head, holding his gaze. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t believe you, and that means I don’t trust you.’

  ‘Edie, please.’ He reached for her arm but she shrank from his touch.

  ‘I admired you for being able to put aside how I must have wounded you last time. You made me trust that true friendship can overcome all hurts. I do thank you for that, Ben. But, you see, I think you have been the cynical one here and whichever way I look at it, it makes me dislike you. I think you did decide to teach me a lesson but you went about it clandestinely. Either that, or you were determined to take a woman back to a darker age of servility to her husband. That was why I loved Tom so very much.’ Her eyes watered to be mentioning him again. She hated having to raise his name to defend her position. ‘Tom never treated me as anything but an equal. In truth, he put me on a pedestal and fuelled my dream, helped me make it come true, while you have done the opposite. Sarah told me that she never opened the folder and that no one but you touched it from the moment I gave it into her care. She said she watched you open it, take out some of the pages, fold them and put them into your pocket. And I believe her, Ben.’

  ‘I cannot credit what you are accusing me of,’ he sniped.

  ‘What is done cannot be undone and I shall waste no further energy on the lost designs. I trust Sarah’s explanation because she had the wherewithal to know where to sell them, the knowledge and flair for fashion.’

  Ben gave a look of disdain. ‘The case rests, surely?’

  ‘Does it? For someone with this keen know-how comes a desire to wear that sort of fashion.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll use the proceeds unwisely then and not pay her rent but buy herself some fancy new clothes.’

  ‘Indeed, that’s what most would think, myself included. So why, if Sarah is such a cunning opportunist with an unexpected windfall and a nose for style, would she still be walking around in old, unfashionable shoes, carrying a battered bag and a darned skirt?’