“Yes, it’s my new quest, to try each new London hotel in turn. This one has been open for six months and is quite spectacular—a telephone in every room, no less. I might well cease my exploration here and now. I’m quite enjoying this, a perfect way to end a day during which I’ve had to bang heads together. Not literally, you understand, though if I’d had five minutes with them on their own. . . .”
Maisie looked at her watch. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I just have to complete a couple of tasks here at the office, and I must nip home and change. Shall I see you at half-past six?”
“Lovely. You do that and I’ll go and complete the task of languishing in a hot bath to ward off the desire for a slug of mother’s ruin.”
“See you then.”
Maisie hurriedly finished her work and was about to leave the office when a postcard arrived via special delivery It was from Billy.
Maisie tapped the card against the palm of her left hand.
WHENEVER MAISIE WENT anywhere to meet Priscilla, she only had to find a knot of people to locate her friend’s exact whereabouts. It wasn’t that Priscilla invited conversation, or even knew those around her, but people gravitated toward her, perhaps standing close while speaking with a colleague or waiting for a guest. This evening was no exception, with Priscilla seated in the bar sipping a cocktail and a clutch of guests close to her, each one stealing an occasional glance in her direction.
Priscilla was wearing evening dress, a garment possibly more suited to an al fresco dinner at her home in France. A cream tunic with a wide sash at the hip drew attention to her fashionably tanned skin, and wide navy blue silk trousers with turned-up cuffs enhanced a slender figure. She wore navy shoes of the softest leather and a long white scarf edged with navy around her neck. Though the late summer weather supported lighter clothing, Priscilla was the only guest who would have looked at home on a ship in tropical climes.
“Good Lord, Maisie, darling, you look like Christmas. I don’t think I have ever seen you in a color—well, not unless it’s something I’ve insisted you wear. A red dress? I must say, it rather suits you.” She was effusive in her affection for Maisie, whom she loved dearly, and was loved in return, though such regard did not prevent Priscilla from giving advice without her counsel being sought. “Now all you need is a black hat with a red band, some daring red shoes, and—if I were you—a black belt to enhance your waist. Waists, Maisie, are coming back in, despite what you see before you.”
Maisie rolled her eyes. “I suit myself, Pris. It’s so lovely to see you. Please don’t start trying to sort out my wardrobe.”
“What wardrobe? I don’t know how you manage with such a meager collection. By the way, did you dye that yourself?”
Maisie blushed. “Frankly, I couldn’t justify a new dress, so, yes, I simply dyed an old one—I’ve learned how to do it.”
“Hmmm, thought I’d seen that cut before. You’ve made a good job of it, you know.”
A waiter approached and Maisie requested a cream sherry, while Priscilla ordered another gin and tonic.
“Tell me about the boys. Which school did you settle on? In your last letter, you said it was St. Anselm’s—did you change your mind?”
“No, I didn’t change my mind, but I may yet. We’ll have to see how they get on.” She sipped her cocktail and shook her head as she placed her glass on the low table alongside them. “Three boys—triple trouble. Mind you, I’d take those toads over three girls any day. My parents had three boys, and one girl, and they always said I caused more angst than my brothers put together.”
Maisie smiled. There was a time when Priscilla could not speak of her brothers, for they were all lost to the Great War. Priscilla, like Maisie, had also served, though she had been an ambulance driver. That role, along with her loss, had marked her for years.
“As you know, we—Douglas and I both—dragged our feet when it came to the boys’ education. They’ve been so happy in Biarritz; you saw yourself. School in the morning and the beach in the afternoon. It made for all manner of adventures and more than a little freedom. Of course, they mind their manners and can be perfect gentlemen, but any academic or intellectual gifts they may be harboring are definitely still hidden.” She reached for her drink again, swirling a single cube of ice around in the cool liquid without lifting the glass to her lips. “Part of it was me wanting them to have the education and upbringing that my brothers had. You know, the rough-and-tumble world of little men, coming home to the country at weekends, lots of friends over for big old-fashioned bread-and-jam nursery teas. But since last week’s little fiasco—”
“What happened?”
Priscilla sighed. “They are very much the new boys. Plus, even though they live with two rather English parents and a Welsh nanny—yes, we still have Elinor, though she’s in Brecon with her family at the moment—they do have these quasi-French accents, and they are apt to speak in French when they’re telling each other secrets, as if they have their own exclusive club. Needless to say, this hasn’t gone down terribly well with the other boys, and there’s been more than a bit of bullying.” She paused to sip her drink. “Now, I’ll concede that having to chart the waters of ill feeling can be character building; however, there’s a limit. Tarquin Patrick was subjected to a pasting after shooting to the top of the class in French conversation. He was pushed, he ignored it, pushed again, ignored it, then once more, at which point he blacked the other boy’s eye—his left hook comes courtesy of some behind-the-scenes training from Elinor’s ex, a Basque stevedore and occasional pugilist. Three of the tykes had pounced on him, calling him a filthy frog, a yellow-bellied Frenchie, when along came Timothy Peter, who is equally gifted thanks to the Basque chappie. On the one hand, just as well—big brothers can be handy when you’re being beaten—on the other, three boys are now in the sick bay, one with a broken snout.”
Maisie nodded. She had come to know the boys well and was always so touched when she heard Priscilla call her boys by both their first and middle names, for each son was also named for one of her brothers. But she was alarmed at the nature of their exploits.
“What will you do?”
