though he had some
dust in his eye which he was trying unsuccessfully to clear. It was
very off-putting to look at him directly for any length of time
whilst engaged in conversation.
Without fail,
he attended all of Mr Charles Dicksen’s readings, unlike Mr Corbie
who had been unable to attend the last twenty-three because of
impecunious circumstances, however, the bookseller was thrilled to
be able to purchase a ticket at the last minute for tonight’s
performance, especially since he had heard a rumour that Mr Dicksen
would be treating the audience to the opening chapter of his next
novel. The theatre-goers must have heard the same rumour for there
was a palpable buzz in the air, as if the very oxygen they shared
had been electrically charged using a new-fangled dynamo.
Just before
the doors were flung open they were joined by a breathless and
agitated young woman of ethereal attractiveness wearing a tailored
dress of blue and white striped wool of the finest quality over
which was artfully draped a large paisley shawl in a striking swirl
of complimentary bluish hues. She had long blond hair, coiled and
up-pinned, held in place by an exquisite jewelled ornament from
which fanned a delicate array of blue and white feathers. Reverend
Finchley introduced her as Miss Flyte.
She smiled
prettily, revealing a row of perfectly milky baby teeth, as she
collected her breath and composed herself, explaining in dulcet
tones that she had had to fight her way through the burgeoning
crowd to avoid arriving late, making it sound like a fate worse
than death. The deacon nodded sympathetically before steering her
into the theatre with a gentlemanly hand in the small of her
back.
The Countess’s
curiosity was piqued and she turned to Mr Corbie.
“I presume
that was neither Reverend Finchley’s daughter - he is too young -
nor his fiancé - she wears no engagement ring and did not receive a
kiss - so she must have been his niece?”
Mr Corbie
coughed to clear his throat. “Not exactly,” he gurgled with
embarrassment. “She is, er, how shall I put it? She is Mr Dicksen’s
er…”
“Amoureuse?”
“Yes,”
confirmed the bookseller, nodding gratefully at being spared words
such as lover, mistress or inamorata. “That explains it rather
well. I like a word that explains itself.”
“How old is
she?” enquired the doctor somewhat bluntly.
“I believe she
will turn seventeen next month,” replied Mr Corbie.
“And how old
is Dicksen?” the doctor hammered with blunt force.
“I believe he
is in his fifties.”
“That’s
outrageous!’ slammed the doctor censoriously. “I realize Miss Flyte
is over the age of consent but for a man of his respectable public
standing to take up with a woman young enough to be his
grand-daughter is wrong on every level – chronological, social,
emotional, ethical, moral, and that new field of study gaining
credence - psychological. It smacks of paedophilia in every
instance except the legal. There should be a word for it!”
“Perhaps
paedosavvy sums it up?” offered Mr Corbie, who preferred words that
sounded like what they meant. “A mix of paedophile and savoir.”
“Capital!”
trumpeted the doctor. “That sums it up very neatly indeed!”
“Unfortunately, it is men of Mr Dicksen’s standing who can afford
to take up with lovely young women,” reminded the Countess dryly.
“Let’s go inside and find the person who will usher us to our free seats.”
The doctor
ignored her shabby attempt to placate him. “Is Mr Dicksen a married
man?”
“Yes he is,”
replied Mr Corbie, checking his ticket for the seat number. “It has
been a pleasure speaking to you. Au revoir , for now.”
The doctor had
a chance to cool his indignant heels in the foyer while the crowd
thinned. After a few minutes, a young woman, plainly but not drably
dressed, with auburn hair neatly but not severely tied back in a
bun, came across to them.
“I’m Miss
Carterett,” she said in a clear
dust in his eye which he was trying unsuccessfully to clear. It was
very off-putting to look at him directly for any length of time
whilst engaged in conversation.
Without fail,
he attended all of Mr Charles Dicksen’s readings, unlike Mr Corbie
who had been unable to attend the last twenty-three because of
impecunious circumstances, however, the bookseller was thrilled to
be able to purchase a ticket at the last minute for tonight’s
performance, especially since he had heard a rumour that Mr Dicksen
would be treating the audience to the opening chapter of his next
novel. The theatre-goers must have heard the same rumour for there
was a palpable buzz in the air, as if the very oxygen they shared
had been electrically charged using a new-fangled dynamo.
Just before
the doors were flung open they were joined by a breathless and
agitated young woman of ethereal attractiveness wearing a tailored
dress of blue and white striped wool of the finest quality over
which was artfully draped a large paisley shawl in a striking swirl
of complimentary bluish hues. She had long blond hair, coiled and
up-pinned, held in place by an exquisite jewelled ornament from
which fanned a delicate array of blue and white feathers. Reverend
Finchley introduced her as Miss Flyte.
She smiled
prettily, revealing a row of perfectly milky baby teeth, as she
collected her breath and composed herself, explaining in dulcet
tones that she had had to fight her way through the burgeoning
crowd to avoid arriving late, making it sound like a fate worse
than death. The deacon nodded sympathetically before steering her
into the theatre with a gentlemanly hand in the small of her
back.
The Countess’s
curiosity was piqued and she turned to Mr Corbie.
“I presume
that was neither Reverend Finchley’s daughter - he is too young -
nor his fiancé - she wears no engagement ring and did not receive a
kiss - so she must have been his niece?”
Mr Corbie
coughed to clear his throat. “Not exactly,” he gurgled with
embarrassment. “She is, er, how shall I put it? She is Mr Dicksen’s
er…”
“Amoureuse?”
“Yes,”
confirmed the bookseller, nodding gratefully at being spared words
such as lover, mistress or inamorata. “That explains it rather
well. I like a word that explains itself.”
“How old is
she?” enquired the doctor somewhat bluntly.
“I believe she
will turn seventeen next month,” replied Mr Corbie.
“And how old
is Dicksen?” the doctor hammered with blunt force.
“I believe he
is in his fifties.”
“That’s
outrageous!’ slammed the doctor censoriously. “I realize Miss Flyte
is over the age of consent but for a man of his respectable public
standing to take up with a woman young enough to be his
grand-daughter is wrong on every level – chronological, social,
emotional, ethical, moral, and that new field of study gaining
credence - psychological. It smacks of paedophilia in every
instance except the legal. There should be a word for it!”
“Perhaps
paedosavvy sums it up?” offered Mr Corbie, who preferred words that
sounded like what they meant. “A mix of paedophile and savoir.”
“Capital!”
trumpeted the doctor. “That sums it up very neatly indeed!”
“Unfortunately, it is men of Mr Dicksen’s standing who can afford
to take up with lovely young women,” reminded the Countess dryly.
“Let’s go inside and find the person who will usher us to our free seats.”
The doctor
ignored her shabby attempt to placate him. “Is Mr Dicksen a married
man?”
“Yes he is,”
replied Mr Corbie, checking his ticket for the seat number. “It has
been a pleasure speaking to you. Au revoir , for now.”
The doctor had
a chance to cool his indignant heels in the foyer while the crowd
thinned. After a few minutes, a young woman, plainly but not drably
dressed, with auburn hair neatly but not severely tied back in a
bun, came across to them.
“I’m Miss
Carterett,” she said in a clear
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