Enter Pale Death(68)
Annoyingly, Lily couldn’t make out the contents when the wrapper was discarded. It appeared to be a pair of items … earrings, perhaps? She caught a flash of gold. The girl was holding the objects, one in each hand, looking with astonishment from one to the other. Fitzwilliam drew his chair closer to hers until their heads were touching, slipped an arm around her waist and leaned into her shoulder talking quietly in her ear. What he had to say stunned and moved the girl. Lily could have sworn there were tears in her eyes as she looked down at the gift, looked back at him with some tenderness, then shook her head and spoke slowly in reply.
“Whatever he’s suggesting, she’s turning him down,” Phyl murmured. “Silly cow!”
His response to the show of emotion was to take the girl’s hands in his and speak even more urgently.
She seemed suddenly to crumble under the pressure and got to her feet, picked up her bag, made hasty excuses and set off across the room heading towards the ladies’ cloakroom.
Lily leaned towards Phyl. “Do you still carry a sewing kit around with you? Good. May I?”
She took the offered box and slipped it inside her own bag and, after half a minute, set off in the wake of the fleeing girl.
Entering the magnolia-scented washroom tucked away down a short flight of stairs, Lily first greeted the attendant in charge. A whispered, “I’d like a few minutes in private with my daughter if you wouldn’t mind, Miss …” and a half crown slipped into the ready hand removed the audience.
The girl was standing, holding onto a washbasin, staring at her image in the mirror above and not much liking what she saw, Lily guessed. Sadness? Despair? Disgust? She took the rose from her dress and carefully inserted it into the small bouquet decorating the counter.
“Ah! Caught you!” Lily sang out. “I couldn’t help noticing as you swept past that you’ve put a heel through the hem of your dress.” She sank to her knees and lifted up the hem, sliding a determined thumb nail along the stitching until there was indeed a four inch tear in the fabric. “There it is! It’s your lucky day! I’m an expert seamstress if I do say it myself. I always carry the necessary about with me. Black and white thread always at the ready.” She produced the sewing kit with a flourish and selected the black-threaded needle. “Just as well you’re not wearing yellow. This will do very well on navy.”
The girl was irritated and anxious and clearly this intervention was the last thing she wanted at that moment but her good manners took over. She murmured her thanks and seemed prepared to suffer in silence until the old nuisance had finished.
Lily took off the distorting spectacles and began to stitch swiftly and neatly. “There, that’s done. You’ll be wanting to get back to your young man. My dear! What an elegant and handsome fellow! My friend and I were just saying what a wonderful pair you make.”
A sudden rush of tears and a stifled howl of pain greeted this comment. Lily was taken aback by the grief she appeared to have caused and instinctively flung an arm around the shaking shoulders, offering a lace-edged handkerchief from her pocket and clucking sympathy. “Oh, no! I’m always putting my foot in it! Have I got it completely wrong? Look here, my dear, if the fellow’s making demands you feel uncomfortable with, I can help you out of here, call you a taxi home. No girl has to suffer unwanted advances. I know a way out that doesn’t take you back through the dining room. Do you live in London?”
She stifled her sobs and sniffled into the handkerchief. She managed a smile and stared at Lily as though seeing her for the first time. With the strangest of expressions she asked, “Who are you? Did Joe send you?”
Lily didn’t need to simulate her surprise. “Joe? Joe?… No indeed. No one’s sent me here. I’m having dinner with my publisher. I’m a romantic novelist and I have to confess we were beginning to weave quite a story in which you and that handsome rogue upstairs were featuring. Never guessed it would end in tears. I shall have to rewrite my ending now,” she finished with a teasing rebuke. She took a chance and added, “Who’s Joe?”
“My guardian angel. I’m sorry. I thought when you took off your specs to do the sewing that was a very strange thing to do. I can’t help noticing inconsistent pieces of behaviour. It’s what I’m trained to do,” she said apologetically. “And women don’t usually offer to do up my hems … they’d rather tread on them,” she added unguardedly. “I say, are you in disguise? Has someone sent you here to keep an eye on me? To keep me out of trouble? It’s just the sort of kind-hearted but sneaky thing Joe would arrange. He’s a powerful man and he has a lot of people to do his bidding in London.”