“You can have all you like,” she said, with a cheeky smirk.
“Come inside—and kindly leave those boots at the door.”
He hoped like hell Lavinia was not at home.
Second Butler Spencer was waiting in the hall. He seemed to have grasped the full implications of the situation as his eyes darted from Donald to the strange young blonde woman.
“Her Decency Lavinia is at home, sir.”
“Oh, that’s splendid! Where is she?”
“In the conservatory, sir.”
“We shall be joining her. Please have tea and biscuits served.”
“Just a dash of milk, no sugar for me,” Sarah-Kelly said, looking up from unlacing her boots. She extracted her feet, which appeared enormous in heavy woollen socks. “I’m only a size seven,” she said defensively, observing Donald’s amusement.
His mind was rushing ahead, configuring the presentation. This was just like preparing a case for court; look at all the angles, think of any wild branches the discussion could pursue. Despite the hassles it might cause, he did not regret inviting her in. It would have been mean and cowardly to send her away. As he led her through the house, she was looking all around, at the moulded ceilings fifteen feet above and the domed skylight over the spiral stairwell.
“Nice place,” she said. “How many rooms?”
“Ten bedrooms.”
“Staff?”
“Do you need to know?”
“I study economics—these are field data.”
“There are twenty-five staff.”
“It’s not exactly running with kids, where are they all?”
“Away,” Donald said. They reached the conservatory. “After you… Good afternoon darling.”
Lavinia was reading, of all things, an erotic novel called Racy Tracy by Titty Titterington. She jumped as Donald opened the conservatory door. When her eyes flickered to Sarah-Kelly she uttered a groan of shock and shoved the book under her backside. Donald lifted her hand and kissed it. Then he kissed her on the side of the neck and the cheek and lightly on the mouth. She smelled of fresh roses and slightly of her breath, which always had an odour. Despite their estrangement, the view down the top of her purple vee-necked sweater thrilled him.
He turned and raised an arm to introduce Sarah-Kelly. She performed a perfect curtsey according to the Krossington style, with the arms horizontal, the crown of the head forward and the feet exactly one behind the other. It was a difficult gesture requiring weeks of practice to become as natural as she made it look.
“I am charmed to be presented, Your Decency,” she said. “My name is Sarah-Kelly Cressida Newman.” She pulled a radiant smile that retained a faint but unquestionable sarcasm. She had a good, wide set of teeth, although the front two were slightly out of alignment.
Lavinia leaned slightly away, still taken aback, looking at Donald and then at Sarah-Kelly and back to Donald. She was completely at a loss—a rare thing for one into whom social unflappability had been drilled from an early age. It was obviously the trousers that intimidated her. Women did not wear trousers in polite society—not ever, not in any class.
“Enchanted!” she finally spluttered.
“Allow me to explain,” Donald said, “that Miss Newman has been seeking to contact me about my brother Lawrence, without being aware I only returned yesterday from a long trip.”
He winked to indicate he wanted the internment kept back from the visitor. He ushered Sarah-Kelly to a seat well to one side away from the cast-iron table to reflect her social lowliness, while he sat with Lavinia and laid his hand on hers. A maid arrived and served the tea and biscuits. She did not serve Sarah-Kelly directly, instead she left a cup and saucer on the table. After she had departed, Donald put a couple of biscuits on the saucer and lifted it across to Sarah-Kelly. It was a bit like feeding a dog.
“Before we go any further, could I see your documents?” Donald said.
Sarah-Kelly was offended—her eyes glistened—but she pulled out her wallet and set it on the table. Donald summoned Spencer and asked him to photograph the contents. “I’m sorry if this seems all very intrusive. We have to establish your credentials beyond doubt.”
“You still haven’t told me who you are. You haven’t shown me any passport. How did you get clearance to enter Bloomsbury?”
“I was born here,” Donald said, mildly. Lavinia was trying to stifle her laughter, without much success. “Could you kindly explain how you found our house?”
“From this.”
Sarah-Kelly pulled a sheet of tradesman’s note paper from her pocket and leaned to pass it over. Donald unfolded the sheet to reveal a neatly-sketched scaled plan showing the route down the boulevard from the Bloomsbury district gates at Euston. Residences within the Central Enclave displayed no numbers or names, since the public commons did not need to know who lived where. Those who needed to know learned either by invitation as guests or during apprenticeship if they were in trade.
“Lawrence did it for me. I did a map for him of my family’s place—nothing like as good as that, obviously, seeing as he was trained in surveying. I think towards the end he suspected something was going to happen.”
Donald folded the sketch and laid it beside him on the table.
“It was your father I wanted to speak to,” Sarah-Kelly said.
“I’m afraid you can’t. Nor can we. He’s dead.”
“Oh my God! That’s really shocking. Lawrence said nothing about that—”
“Father died at the end of July.”
“But he can’t have been very old.”
“He was fifty-seven. He contracted a form of brain cancer called glioblastoma. We didn’t know how ill he was until close to the end.”
“I’m so sorry. Cancer’s a terrible illness. My old man died of it, or at least, we think that’s what it was. It might have been consumption though. He got a terrible cough and just got thinner and thinner until he passed away. I’m really sorry for you.”
Donald was touched by what seemed to be her genuine intensity. Lavinia appeared less impressed. She exhaled a long, stifled sigh. Spencer returned with Sarah-Kelly’s wallet, which he left on the table. Donald stepped
