“I’m not lazy. I just haven’t really found my direction yet, I suppose. It was so clear, once upon a time, when I knew I wanted to be on the stage, to act, whatever my parents thought of that ambition. But, lately, it’s been rather blurred. I just thought moving elsewhere might, well, sharpen things a little.”
Clara reached across and rested a hand on her arm. “You know, Jos, you don’t need to actively search it out. I know that’s what everyone in London’s doing now, tearing about on a madcap treasure hunt for happiness and passion and something so bright it eclipses everything that went before it. But that’s not you, my dear. Be yourself and happiness might just find you.”
“I’ve been trying though, Clara, these seven years at least,” Jos protested. “A fresh start somewhere is starting to seem appealing.”
“Well, you’re stuck here while the pantomime’s on. I know you won’t leave a job half-done—you’re too reliable for that,” Courtney said. “So my words of wisdom are that you should stop worrying about it until then. In the new year, see how the land lies. If you think leaving London is the right thing to do, we’ll surely support you. But be open to other options. Don’t try too hard. See what comes along.”
“Nothing good ever comes along,” Jos said sullenly, aware that she was beginning to sound sulky.
“And don’t you dare start feeling sorry for yourself like that,” Clara said with a firm tone. “We simply won’t allow it. In fact, we’re heading to the Orchid tonight. Come with us. You can see Vernon, hear some fine jazz, and drown your sorrows in a far brighter place than this. Plus, all the prettiest girls flock there…”
Jos rolled her eyes but acquiesced silently. An evening with Clara and Courtney in her brother’s club was better than a night alone. She was, however, determined to ignore all the women, pretty or not, since that was a complication she really did not want or need right now.
Chapter Four
The hallway of Lilian Grainger’s house was as elegant as the exterior. The black and white tiled floor swept towards a mahogany staircase. Doors opened from the hallway in several directions, all the same deep, rich mahogany as the staircase. The walls were pale yellow below a decorative white-moulded coving. Evelyn looked at her new surroundings briefly, but kept her attention on Lilian. She did not want to show her naiveté by appearing astonished by the relative opulence of the house. This was Lilian’s world and she suspected that Lilian, who did not seem pretentious, saw nothing extraordinary about it at all.
“We’ll go into the sitting room. Would you like tea?” Lilian gestured towards one of the doors.
“Yes, I would, please.” Evelyn had not eaten or drunk anything all day and she suddenly realised how tired she felt as a result.
“Then you go and take a seat, and I’ll find Grace and ask her for some tea.”
It took Evelyn a moment to register that Lilian must be referring to a servant. As she followed Lilian’s directions and wandered slowly through the door into the sitting room, she pondered the notion that, had she been born in London she would more likely have been in Grace’s place than Lilian’s. The idea brought the tension back to the pit of her stomach.
The interior of the sitting room was more comfortable than Evelyn expected, after her first impression of the house. There was a fire in the grate, flickering gently, surrounded by a large white fireplace. The walls were papered in light leafy green patterns. The armchairs and sofa were large and comfortable, all upholstered dark green but a little worn on the seats and armrests. There was a patterned carpet on the floor, showing similar signs of wear. After a moment’s indecision, Evelyn chose a chair close to the hearth and sat to wait for Lilian. The nerves increased with every passing moment. To be here, in this woman’s house, with a letter of such significance, was extraordinary enough. That she was here, in London, because she had left home without a word, was still difficult to accept and understand. The outcome of her adventure would depend, to a great extent, on Lilian. It felt like a precarious position to be in.
Lilian returned bearing a tea tray herself, pushing the door open with her foot and closing it with a shove from her hips. “Here we go, then. I brought cake as well, it’s ginger, I hope that’s all right with you?”
“Lovely.” Evelyn felt her stomach’s approval at the idea of food, any food. “Can I help you with the tray?”
“No, no. I told Grace I’d bring it myself. I don’t treat her as a servant, you see. I need the help in the house, but she’s no skivvy. I think I can manage to carry a tea tray myself.”
Lilian placed the tray on the table in the centre of the room. A large teapot sat between two cups and saucers, all of them painted in the most surprising tones of orange, blue, and black. It was so different from the family tea service her mother so treasured, with its delicate pink roses. Apparently nothing was the same in London, not even a teapot. Two slices of a ginger loaf cake tempted from their side plates.
“Milk and sugar?” Lilian asked, reaching for one of the cups.
“Just milk, thank you.” Evelyn watched as Lilian poured the milk, adding three cubes of sugar to her own cup, before filling them with tea
