had just stopped, wondering if the sun would ever shine again and if he would ever find suitable gifts for everyone on his list—he had expected London to make for easier shopping than Bristol—when he ran almost headlong into Miss Grainger, who was standing quite still in the middle of the pavement, impeding pedestrian traffic.
“I do beg your pardon,” he said, his hand going to the brim of his hat even before he recognized her. “Ah, Miss Grainger. Your servant.” He made her a slight bow and realized two things. Neither of her parents was with her—but a young man was.
She did not behave with any wisdom. Her eyes grew wide with horror, she opened her mouth and held it open before snapping it shut again. Then she smiledbroadly, though she forgot to adjust her eyes accordingly, and proceeded to chatter.
“Mr. Downes,” she said. “Oh, good morning. Fancy meeting you here. Is it not a beautiful morning? I have come to change my book at the library. Mama could not come with me, but I have brought my maid—you see?” She gestured behind her with one hand to the young person standing a short distance away. “How lovely it is to see you. By a very strange coincidence I have run into another acquaintance, too. Mr. Sperling. May I present you? Mr. Sperling, sir. Jack, this is Mr. Downes. I-I m-mean
Mr. Sperling
, this is Mr. Downes.”
Edgar inclined his head to the slender, good-looking, very young man, who was looking back coldly. “Sperling?” he said.
A few things were clear. This particular spot on Oxford Street was not between the Grainger lodgings and the library. The doorway to a coffee shop that sported high-backed seats and secluded booths was just to their right. The maid was not doing a very good job as watchdog. Jack Sperling was more than a chance acquaintance and the meeting between him and Miss Grainger was no coincidence. Sperling knew who he was and would put a dagger through his heart if he dared—and if he had one about his person. Miss Grainger herself was terrified. And he, Edgar, felt at least a century old.
He would have moved on and left his prospective bride to her clandestine half hour or so—he doubted they would allow themselves longer—with the slight acquaintance she happened to call by his first name. But she forestalled him.
“Jack,” she said. She was still flustered. “I m-mean
Mr. Sperling
, it was pleasant to meet you. G-good morning.”
And Jack Sperling, pale and murderous of countenance, had no choice but to bow, touch the brim of hishat, bid them a good morning, and continue on his way down the street as if he had never so much as heard of coffee shops.
Fanny Grainger smiled dazzlingly at Edgar—with terrified eyes. “Was not that a happy chance?” she said. “He is a neighbor of ours. I have not seen him for years.” Edgar guessed that beneath the rosy glow the cold had whipped into her cheeks she was blushing just as rosily.
“May I offer my escort?” he asked her. “Are you on your way to or from the library?”
“Oh,” she said. “To.” She indicated her maid, who held a book clasped against her bosom. “Y-yes, please, Mr. Downes, if it is not too much trouble.”
He felt like apologizing to her. But of course he could not do so. He should be feeling sternly disapproving. He should be feeling injured proprietorship. He felt—still—a century old. She took his arm.
“Mr. Downes,” she said before he had decided upon a topic of conversation, “p-please, will you—? That is, could I ask you please— Please, sir—”
He wanted to set a reassuring hand over hers. He wanted to pat it. He wanted to tell her that it was nothing to him if she chose to arrange clandestine meetings with her lover. But of course it
was
something to him. There was one month to Christmas and he had every intention—he had thought it through finally just last evening and had come to a firm decision—of inviting her and her parents to Mobley Abbey for the
“I do beg your pardon,” he said, his hand going to the brim of his hat even before he recognized her. “Ah, Miss Grainger. Your servant.” He made her a slight bow and realized two things. Neither of her parents was with her—but a young man was.
She did not behave with any wisdom. Her eyes grew wide with horror, she opened her mouth and held it open before snapping it shut again. Then she smiledbroadly, though she forgot to adjust her eyes accordingly, and proceeded to chatter.
“Mr. Downes,” she said. “Oh, good morning. Fancy meeting you here. Is it not a beautiful morning? I have come to change my book at the library. Mama could not come with me, but I have brought my maid—you see?” She gestured behind her with one hand to the young person standing a short distance away. “How lovely it is to see you. By a very strange coincidence I have run into another acquaintance, too. Mr. Sperling. May I present you? Mr. Sperling, sir. Jack, this is Mr. Downes. I-I m-mean
Mr. Sperling
, this is Mr. Downes.”
Edgar inclined his head to the slender, good-looking, very young man, who was looking back coldly. “Sperling?” he said.
A few things were clear. This particular spot on Oxford Street was not between the Grainger lodgings and the library. The doorway to a coffee shop that sported high-backed seats and secluded booths was just to their right. The maid was not doing a very good job as watchdog. Jack Sperling was more than a chance acquaintance and the meeting between him and Miss Grainger was no coincidence. Sperling knew who he was and would put a dagger through his heart if he dared—and if he had one about his person. Miss Grainger herself was terrified. And he, Edgar, felt at least a century old.
He would have moved on and left his prospective bride to her clandestine half hour or so—he doubted they would allow themselves longer—with the slight acquaintance she happened to call by his first name. But she forestalled him.
“Jack,” she said. She was still flustered. “I m-mean
Mr. Sperling
, it was pleasant to meet you. G-good morning.”
And Jack Sperling, pale and murderous of countenance, had no choice but to bow, touch the brim of hishat, bid them a good morning, and continue on his way down the street as if he had never so much as heard of coffee shops.
Fanny Grainger smiled dazzlingly at Edgar—with terrified eyes. “Was not that a happy chance?” she said. “He is a neighbor of ours. I have not seen him for years.” Edgar guessed that beneath the rosy glow the cold had whipped into her cheeks she was blushing just as rosily.
“May I offer my escort?” he asked her. “Are you on your way to or from the library?”
“Oh,” she said. “To.” She indicated her maid, who held a book clasped against her bosom. “Y-yes, please, Mr. Downes, if it is not too much trouble.”
He felt like apologizing to her. But of course he could not do so. He should be feeling sternly disapproving. He should be feeling injured proprietorship. He felt—still—a century old. She took his arm.
“Mr. Downes,” she said before he had decided upon a topic of conversation, “p-please, will you—? That is, could I ask you please— Please, sir—”
He wanted to set a reassuring hand over hers. He wanted to pat it. He wanted to tell her that it was nothing to him if she chose to arrange clandestine meetings with her lover. But of course it
was
something to him. There was one month to Christmas and he had every intention—he had thought it through finally just last evening and had come to a firm decision—of inviting her and her parents to Mobley Abbey for the
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