and intelligence which had uncovered the truth, and that truth had ruined Eleanor, made her a widow and an outcast where before her husband had been honored and she had been respected and liked.
Now she had sold their big house in Belgravia and retired to a small set of rooms in Marylebone, her income gone and her name only whispered in society, with awe and pity. There were no invitations, and precious few calls. Drummond was not responsible. No part of the crime or the tragedy which had overcome Sholto Byam had been his doing, and yet he felt the very sight of him must bring back to her only painful thoughts and comparisons.
Yet he found himself walking towards Milton Street, and unconsciously lengthening his stride.
It was late afternoon and the lamplighters were lifting their long poles to turn on the gas and bring the sudden glow of warmth along the darkening street when he came to Eleanor’s rooms. If he stopped to think now his courage would fail him. He walked straight up to the door and pulled the bell. It was a very ordinary house, curtains drawn in grim respectability, small garden neat, bright with a few late daisies and golden leaves.
A middle-aged maid with a suspicious face opened the door.
“Yes sir?” The “sir” was an afterthought on seeing the quality of his coat and the silver head to his stick.
“Good evening,” he said, lifting his hat a fraction. “I would like to see Mrs. Byam, if she is at home.” He fished in his pocket and brought out a card. “My name is Drummond—Micah Drummond.”
“Is she expecting yer, Mr. Drummond?”
“No. But”—he stretched the truth a little—“we are old friends and I was in the neighborhood. Will you please ask her if she will see me?”
“I’ll take the message,” she said less than generously. “But I can’t do no more’n that. I work for Mrs. Stokes as owns the ’ouse, not for the ladies wot ’as the rooms.” And without waiting for a reply she left Drummond on the step and went to discharge her errand.
Drummond looked around him, oppressed by the change from the old circumstances. Such a short while ago, Eleanor had been mistress of a rich and spacious house in the best part of London, with a full staff of servants. Now she had a few rooms in someone else’s building, and her door was answered by someone else’s servant who it seemed owed her no allegiance, and precious little courtesy. What permanent staff she had he did not know. He had only seen one ladies’ maid on his previous visit shortly after she had come.
The maid returned, her face pinched with disapproval.
“Mrs. Byam will see you, sir, if you come this way.” And without waiting to see if he followed, she turned on her heel and marched along the passage towards the back of the house. She knocked sharply on a glass partition door.
It was opened by Eleanor herself. She looked very different from her days in Belgravia. Her hair was still dressed in the same manner, sweeping back from her forehead, jet-black with a peppering of gray which was broader now at the temples, almost a streak. Her face was still the same with olive skin and wide gray eyes. But there was a tiredness in it; the certainty and the composure had slipped away, leaving her vulnerable. She wore no jewelry at all, and her gown was very simple dark blue. It was well cut, but devoid of lace or embroidery. To Drummond she looked younger than before and, in spite of all that lay between them, more immediate, more warmly real.
“Good evening, Micah,” she said, pulling the door wide. “How pleasant of you to call. Please come in. You look well.” She turned to the maid, who was standing in the center of the hallway and was filled with curiosity. “Thank you, Myrtle, that will be all.”
With a sniff Myrtle retreated.
Eleanor smiled as Drummond came in. “Not the most appealing creature,” she said wryly, taking his hat and stick and setting them in the stand. “Please come into the sitting room.” She led the way, offering him a seat in the small, modestly furnished parlor. He had never been farther than this, and guessed there was probably no more than a bedroom, maid’s room, kitchen and possibly a bathroom or dressing room of some sort beyond.
She did not ask him why he had come, but he had to offer some sort of explanation. One did not simply arrive on people’s doorsteps. And he could hardly tell her the truth—that he desired above all things merely to see her again, to be near her.
“I was—” He nearly said “passing.” That was absurd, an insult she did not deserve. It would be idiotic to pretend the visit was chance. They both knew better than that. He should have thought what to say before he came this far. But then he would not have come at all had he stopped and weighed it. He tried again. “I have had a long and trying day.” He smiled and saw the color creep up her cheeks. “I wanted to do something totally pleasing. I thought of chrysanthemums in the rain, and the smell of wet earth, and leaves and blue woodsmoke, and I knew of no one else I could share them with.”
She looked away and blinked several times. It was a moment before he realized there were tears in her eyes. He had no idea whether he should apologize or be tactful and pretend not to have noticed. Or if he did that, would she find him unbearably cold? Or if he remarked it, would that be offensively intrusive? He was in an agony of indecision and felt his face burn.
“You could not have said anything kinder.” Her voice was gentle and a little husky. She swallowed hard, and then again. “I am sorry your day was trying. Have you a difficult case? I suppose it is confidential?”
“No—not really, but it is most unpleasant.”
“I’m sorry. I imagine most of them are.”
He wanted to ask her about herself, how she felt, what she did with her days, if she was all right, if there was anything he could do for her. But it would unquestionably have been intrusive, and worse than that, it might seem as if it were based in pity, as if his entire visit were one of a sense of obligation and compassion, and she would hate that.
She was sitting looking at him, waiting, her face quick with interest. Between them the low fire burned with just sufficient coal to keep it alight.
He found he was talking about himself, and that was not what he had wanted to do, apart from the ill manners of it. It was she he cared about, not himself, but he had to fill the silence and he was so afraid of appearing to condescend. He wanted to talk about music, or walking in the rain, the smell of wet leaves, the evening light across the sky, but then she would find him too pressing—too forward when she was so vulnerable.
So he told her about Judge Stafford, and what Aubrey Winton had told him of the Blaine/Godman case.
