10|
This guy really was a tough nut.
Food had been as fantastic as Jareth had promised and their conversation had been animated throughout dinner—she was flirting quite blatantly, he was a little more guarded—and afterwards he had given her a ride home on his motorbike. Riding pillion pressed against his leather-clad back, her arms tightly wrapped around his waist, was as good as it got. What followed was a peck on the cheek for goodbyes and then he had driven off. For søren!
He seemed to like her company, so why was he so reserved? Perhaps he preferred taking it slowly... But with only two months to go before she was due to return to Copenhagen, 'slowly' seemed like an utter waste of time.
He wouldn't have a girlfriend after all, would he? Although, taking her pillion riding would be pretty rich under such circumstances. "Det ved jeg sgu ikke," she muttered at last, shrugging fatalistically.
"Where's Mr Dreamboat?" Louisa called out when she entered their shared kitchen. They were having company; Sebastian and Phil were seated around the table, beers in hand and feet up on an empty chair. They lazily raised their bottles by way of a salute.
"Mr Dreamboat sped off on his motorbike," Meret replied grumpily.
"What make?" Phil asked, only to be shushed by Louisa.
"So, you still didn't...?" She wiggled her eyebrows in question.
"Nope. Nothing. Nada," Meret said, grabbing a beer from the fridge and flopping down on the chair, just about missing two pairs of feet that were hastily pulled away from the seat.
"Oi! Watch out," Sebastian complained. When he received nothing but a smirk in reply, he asked instead, "How's Jackie?"
"Fine," Meret said. Then, more considerately, she added, "She's been a great help with the research... And I like her a lot."
"Why don't you ask her to come to one of our pub nights?"
"Huh?" Meret was momentarily confused. "Why not ask her yourself one of these days?—Isn't she your old school pal?"
"Yeah, well, we were not exactly best chums at school. We just happen to be in the same WhatsApp group for class reunions... You've seen her, haven't you? She's a real stunner—and I'm, like, Mr Boring." He was nervously fiddling with a bottle cap on the table—and dropped it.
"Clumsy, too," Meret teased him. "Right, I'll ask her when I get the chance—"
"So, the end's in sight," Phil said. "Week and a half, and then we'll be done with setting up the test groups. What'll you do next, Louisa?—before the start of term?"
"Finish my paper, obviously," Louisa shrugged. "Still plenty of writing up to do. Go visit friends in London afterwards, if I'm quick... How about you?"
"Same here—except for London, of course—"
"What about you, Sebastian?" Meret asked.
"No time off for me in the first six weeks of the trial therapy. It should be interesting, though—I'm setting great store in Dr Akintola's combined therapy—but afterwards I'm hoping to be able to take some leave."
"Six weeks into the test therapy—that's when I'll quit, too," Meret said. "Is there going to be a replacement for me?"
"Not as such... As there'll be less testing after the initial phase, it wouldn't be worth it. They're going to set up an in-house cooperation with one of the other labs." He frowned at his empty bottle. "Pass me another beer, will ya?"
"Actually, now that you're all here... I've got friends from home coming into town Saturday week," Louisa said. "Four of them. To stay the night." She looked at Meret. "I wonder, would you mind kipping at Phil and Sebastian's for one night?" She smiled apologetically. "Things might get a bit crowded and... well... boisterous."
"Right. And afterwards, just hand me the hazmat suit and high-pressure cleaner," Meret said dryly.
"Past experience?" Phil asked, intrigued.
"You bet," she replied. Then she grinned. "Nah. Just kidding!... 'Couse you're welcome to have your friends stay over, Louisa. And you're free to use my room—if it's okay for you guys to have me, that is?" She looked at Phil and Sebastian, who nodded.
"Ta, pal!" Louisa beamed. "You're a gem."
In the end, Emily had indeed had her chance of visiting Amiens cathedral—in Tom Boucher's company. During a half-day of excursions, prior to setting out for Rouen, they had also gone to see the belfry, including coaxing the sexton into letting them climb the inner staircase all the way up to the giant bell—it had been a quick tour because they had to make sure to be down from the platform again before the bell was to strike the hour. As it had been morning, there was nothing to be done about the circus, but the pleasure of exploring new places with Tom Boucher had quite made up for it. He hadn't travelled much in his life, and so—just like herself—found plenty of reasons to delight in a foreign town even as unassuming as Amiens.
They had found a chocolatier at Place au Fil, and had bought a selection of almond, pistachio, and salted caramels which they ate strolling to the citadel at the northern perimeter of the old town. Licking their sticky fingers while staring at its forbidding bulwark, they had laughingly agreed that the salty variety, although perhaps the most outlandish one, was also the most intriguing one.
Despite being eleven years her senior, Tom Boucher had retained much of his boyish artlessness, and Emily had thoroughly enjoyed their easy camaraderie that morning.
But now she was on the train taking them to Rouen and, as Tom Boucher was travelling third class with the valet and lady's maid, Emily was stuck in a first class compartment with her father and the Hopkinses—and the gentlemen were discussing politics.
"... Gladstone will be lucky just to make it through this one parliamentary term," Sir Thomas remarked.
"I wouldn't know that," Thornton replied. "He's a Liverpudlian. Never underestimate a Northener!—I'm all for giving him a fair chance."
"But, honestly, what can you expect to come from it? Half a year in office and he's already going against the grain of large parts of the Commons."
"He's in for reforms," Thornton reminded him, "And reforms are long overdue... Times—and society—have changed. And with what's happening on the Continent—"
"What do you mean?—Prussia?"
"It's the 'North German Confederation' these days," Thornton said soberly. "And I don't think von Bismarck will stop at the status quo... After going to war with Denmark and Austria, I wonder who's next in line for a provocation. France, perhaps?"
"They wouldn't dare, would they?" Sir Thomas gave a wheezy, incredulous laugh.
"I hope not—but, truth be told, I'm not an optimist by nature—" Thornton perceived the worried glances of both his daughter and Miss Hopkins. "I am sorry," he said. "Politics is a tiresome business... But rest assured; nothing is about to happen in the immediate future. For the time being you may enjoy your travels in peace." Turning to his daughter he added in a low voice, "Switzerland has been neutral territory for centuries in whatever conflicts took place in Europe. It is perfectly safe to go to Lausanne—and to stay there for your education."
Once in Rouen and comfortably installed in their suite at the Hôtel d'Albion on the quay, her father made a point of including Emily in their activities—such as they were.
In the course of their two days' stay she found herself visit a spinning mill north of Rouen near Malaunay, a pleasure Miss Hopkins decided to forego, sit through a meeting with a Marlborough Mills business acquaintance—a broker from Le Havre—and call at a local politician's house where she and Miss Hopkins took disgusting black coffee with the politician's wife while the gentlemen discussed their affairs in the study... amongst a couple of other, shorter engagements, but all of them in the same vein.
Through it all Emily was smiling prettily—and understanding very little—and even though her eyelids occasionally drooped from boredom, she sat erect and tried to give the appropriate answers on such rare occasions when someone addressed her directly. She was determined to do her father proud.
She received no actual praise from him, but she knew that she had succeeded to please him when he told her on their final evening in Rouen that she would accompany them to the restaurant that night.
"It's a place called Heurtevent, nearby in the Petite Provence, which allows for a pleasant stroll along the quay both before and after dinner," Thornton explained. "Evening dress will be in order... I understand, Cousin Edith has seen you fitted out with something appropriate."
"She has indeed!" Emily exclaimed. "How exciting! I wouldn't have thought to have a chance to wear it before Paris... May I call for a hotel maid to assist me, papa?"
"Of course... though perhaps Miss Hopkins may see fit to spare the services of her lady's maid for a short while this evening—"
"I fear that Lucas might prove quite indispensable—" Emily valiantly suppressed a roll of the eyes. "—therefore I'll better make do with hotel staff."
"I gather that Miss Hopkins is not an early riser?"
Emily looked at her father in surprise. "Why would you say so?"
"My Baedeker describes an interesting walk through town that can be accomplished in the course of one morning... Boucher may be inclined to accompany you again before he departs for Le Havre by the afternoon train—unless you insist on keeping Miss Hopkins company it the hotel before lunch."
"Goodness, no!" Emily exclaimed. "I'd much rather see the town... and I'm very well pleased at the prospect of having Tom for company—"
"Then I'm going to ask him... And, Emily—" His voice held a slight note of reproof. "—you ought to stop calling him 'Tom'... He's not a servant and you won't be considered a child for very much longer."
"But... he doesn't care for being called 'Boucher', or 'Mister Boucher'—"
"No excuses, darling. When you'll return from finishing school, you'll be deemed a young lady... It will be for you to offer him due respect—and to do it gracefully—not for him to request it."
"Yes, papa," she said demurely. "I shall bear it in mind."
"Go get changed," he said with a smile, kissing the crown of her head, and then he gently nudged her towards her bedroom door.
In years to come I shall remember this as my 'in-between summer'... Things—relationships, most notably—are either coming to an end or they have not quite started yet. Walter, Sholto, and Tom Boucher... I wonder what else must give way ere autumn is upon us.
(Excerpt from the diary of Emily Thornton)
"Will you be spending much time in London before you're heading north to Milton?" Emily asked.
She was slowly walking along the quay with Tom Boucher after their morning of seeing the local sights; and there had indeed been plenty to see! Baedeker in hand they had followed the proposed tour which took them right across town and back again—with an unplanned detour owed to getting lost in the maze of medieval lanes behind the cathedral. It had been a lengthy walk and Emily felt quite fatigued when the quay and their hotel finally came back in sight.
"Just to stay the night and return your father's papers," Boucher replied. "I'm planning to take the morning train to the North."
"Should you see Grandmamma, please give her my regards and tell her that I'm going to write from Paris. I assume there will be much..." Her voice petered out as she caught sight of a couple walking at a distance.
It was her father, with Miss Hopkins clinging to his arm. They formed an intimate tableau with their heads inclined to each other and they appeared to be quite absorbed in conversation—so much so that they failed to spot Emily and Boucher.
Drawing back behind a group of gentlemen, Emily—flushed and confused—asked her companion to delay for a moment. Following her gaze he saw what had caught her attention.
"Why don't we go bid them a good morning, Miss Emily?" he asked, surprised.
"Oh, I... I wouldn't like to impose myself on them just yet. And, besides, we shall see them at lunch in half an hour," she added more brightly than she actually felt.
In truth, the sight rattled Emily. Not that they actually acted scandalously—on the face of it they were simply walking in a public place and her father had offered his arm—but the thought that her father might, just might, form an attachment to a woman like Miss Hopkins, nauseated her. She had seen too much of Mary Faye Hopkins in the previous few days to doubt her character. But her father? He had only ever seen her public persona, and Emily wondered if he, no matter how level-headed he generally was, would see behind the pretty façade.
It couldn't have been more than a minute before the couple turned and entered the hotel. Once they were out of sight, Emily and Boucher followed them. Hardly inside, she hastily excused herself and, circumnavigating the lobby, rushed up the back stairs, desirous to reach her bedroom before her father arrived at their suite.
Emily gracelessly plumped down on her bed and buried her face in her hands.
She needed to calm down, she told herself.
This was not how she had envisioned the start of her 'grand tour'... But then, who could have foreseen this amount of ennui, frustration—and now—anxiety?
When had it all started to go awry?—with the Channel crossing? No. Even in London there had been an inexplicable tension... something she couldn't quite put her finger on, but it had definitely been there. Earlier then? As early as Milton?
Walter. That's it! If she was to pin down one particular moment when her peace of mind had started so slip away from her, it was with Walter's ill-considered kiss.
Her gaze fell on her carpet bag, already packed and waiting to be taken to the station. She jumped to her feet and, on an impulse, unclasped it and pulled out the book. She stared at it for a moment, taking in its inconspicuous dust jacket of Rossetti poems, and then she rang the bell for a hotel maid.
"Du papier brun et du cordon, s'il vous plaît. Pour emballer un petit colis," she said. It seemed to have been the right request because a few minutes later the maid returned with a sheet of sturdy brown wrapping paper and some string.
Tearing an empty page out of the back of her diary, she quickly wrote a line and slipped it into the book. Then she wrapped it up tightly. A look at her watch told her that she had little more than a quarter of an hour before they were all to meet for lunch.
She quickly changed into her travel costume, stuffed the discarded dress into her trunk, and sneaked outside in search of Boucher. By sheer luck she happened upon him on the back stairs which saved her from the embarrassment of having to go search for his quarters.
"Would you do me a favour, Tom Boucher?" she asked.
"Of course," he said, looking at her questioningly.
"Could you give this to my cousin Walter Watson when you are in Milton? Please give it to him in person." She pressed the parcel into his hands.
"I'll make sure of it. Don't you worry, Miss Emily."
"Thank you so much, Tom. You are taking a weight off my shoulders," she said, and then she stepped forward and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "Thank you also for the last few days... for being my companion—"
Involuntarily, he touched his cheek with his hand. Emily had never done anything like this before, and he seemed bothered by her pertness. "Well... erm... It has been my pleasure," he managed at last.
She put a hand on his sleeve. "In a year from now I shall be a 'fine young lady'—" She scoffed at the expression. "—and etiquette may oblige us to be on a different footing altogether." She gave him a wistful smile. "Please remember that I'll always be you friend."
He smiled back at her and indicated the parcel in his hand. "Would you like me to relay a message along with it?"
"This won't be necessary," Emily replied, already heading down the stairs. "There's a message for Walter inside."
It read, You are not forgiven.