Circles of Time by Phillip Rock Page A

painting out of Paris since nineteen six.”
    â€œAnd a short letter from Martin,” she said. “He’s been having trouble reaching us on the telephone. I thought the damage to the cable had been fixed.”
    The earl snorted loudly. “Oh, it’s been fixed, all right! I ask for a number in the city and get connected to a fishmonger in Clerkenwell! Of course it’s just like the Irish, isn’t it? Sinn Feiners go through all that bloody trouble and risk only to slash a cable serving Marylebone and Regent’s Park! Hardly a devastating blow against the crown, I must say.”
    â€œOdd he should write. I was thinking of him last night. I came across a snapshot in my dresser drawer.”
    â€œOf Martin?”
    â€œNo. A snap Alex sent us from France. She and Ivy Thaxton in front of a hospital tent. They’re both in uniform and smart as paint. Ivy was such a pretty girl.”
    â€œYes,” he murmured. “Quite so.” Ivy Thaxton. He recalled her vaguely—but then, he had only known her when she had been one of the many housemaids at the Pryory before the war. He had never seen her again after she had left his service to become a nurse, except in a photograph or two that Alex had enclosed in letters. Never had the chance to know her in a different light. His daughter’s servant in Abingdon, her best friend in France. Martin’s wife. All of those events taking place in another world—the brief and tragic democracy of the battle zone. “What does Martin have to say?”
    â€œOh, nothing very much. He apologizes for having been too busy with his new job to call on us. Would like to drop by this Sunday if we’re home. I’ll tell him to come for dinner.”
    â€œI might go down to the house on Friday.”
    â€œBut you’d be back by Sunday noon, surely.” Her tone implied that she expected him no later than that.
    C OATSWORTH REMEMBERED HIM—BUT then, the old butler remembered every face he had ever seen.
    â€œIt’s good to see you again, Mr. Rilke.”
    â€œAs it is to see you, Coatsworth. It’s been a few years.”
    â€œNineteen seventeen, if I’m not mistaken, sir. At the Park Lane house.”
    â€œYou have a good memory.”
    The butler smiled as he took Martin’s panama hat and placed it on the side table in the hall. “My memory is about the only thing that functions properly these days.”
    â€œYou look just fine to me.”
    â€œAppearances are deceiving, I’m sorry to say.” He shuffled toward the finely etched glass doors that separated the marble-walled foyer from the main hallway. “His Lordship is expecting you in the study.”
    Martin found the earl measuring gin and French vermouth into a crystal and silver cocktail shaker. A small book lay open beside him on the oak sideboard.
    â€œHello, Martin,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as Martin came into the room. “I hope I have this right. Three parts gin to one part French …” He peered down at the book. “Stir well with plenty of ice … serve in chilled glasses … add twist of lemon peel, and garnish with an olive before serving. An olive? Whatever for? It’s an American recipe, of course. Rather heavy-handed with ice, vegetables, and things.”
    He stirred the mixture with a long-handled silver spoon and then poured some into two small glasses, handing one to Martin.
    â€œThe new martini cocktail, the book says. Just good old gin and French as far as I can see, except heavier on the gin.” He took a sip. “Not bad. Quite smooth, in fact. I can’t for the life of me see how a chunk of ice would improve it. But if you’d prefer …”
    â€œOh, no,” Martin said, raising his glass. “This is fine.” He suppressed a smile as he thought of what the bartender at the American Bar in Paris would have said about lukewarm gin and