Page 46 of Not Quite a Lady
He shook his head. He knew what was wrong withhim– love, a guilty conscience, wounded pride, worry and the sick after-effects of losing his temper, which was normally on a very tight rein indeed. Oh yes, and probably the most painful case of unrequited desire he could ever remember.
But Lily – what had led her to make that astounding offer? Marriage! It was as perverse an idea as he could imagine. Had she had him investigated and now knew more about him than he had told her?
No, surely not, she would hardly have had time for one thing, and for another, he did not think that Lily France was the woman to hold back if she discovered she had been deceived.
The room behind him was still silent. Jack got to his feet and opened the door on to emptiness. There was the scent of rosewater in the air, a crumpled handkerchief on the floor, two long red hairs on his pillow. The sheets were tangled, the blankets were on the floor. He added the hairs to the one alreadyin his pocketbook and folded the handkerchief in with his own, pulled on a clean shirt, straightened the bed and rang for Percy. Then he sat down at the table and began to write.
St Martin-le-Grand was almost solid with traffic as the hackney carriage dropped Jack off outside the Bull and Mouth.
A great wagon, its hoops bare, looking more like the rib cage of a huge dead beast than anything else, blocked the centre of the road, while all around smaller vehicles jostled for position. The noise was immense, bludgeoning his brain which already seemed bruised with thinking.
Jack wondered how any of the stages ever got out of the Bull and Mouth, let alone the mails from the General Post Office, just along the street.
He paid the driver his shilling and a tip, glancing up as he did so at the great dome of St Paul’s, dominating the skyline at the end of the street as though a gargantuan hot air balloon was rising into the air.
A pot boy came to take his bags and, with a last glance at the looming cathedral, Jack followed him into the yard of the inn.
When he had arrived in London it had been late evening and he had been too tired to stand and gaze at the famous yard, the three tiers of galleries rising up, with all manner of folk hanging over the rails to watch the scene in the yard below. As good as a play any day of the week, he had heard it said about the yard of the Bull and Mouth
‘You wanting ticket for the stage, guv’nor?’ The pot boy was standing impatiently, loaded with bags.
‘No, I have a ticket for tomorrow evening. I need a room for tonight.’
‘Right you are, guv’nor, follow me.’
The lad led the way in through a door marked Coffee Room, threading through the noisy mass of people drinking coffee,demanding ale, snatching a bite of pie or pasty, talking at the top of their voices and creating chaos with their bags and umbrellas.
Jack almost tripped over a parrot cage, was sworn at by its occupant and glared at by the elderly lady it belonged to. He spared a fleeting thought for the occupants of the coach on which they were travelling and caught up with the boy.
‘Here you are, guv’nor.’ The lad dumped Jack’s bags unceremoniously at a hatch in the wall, took the proffered coin with a grin of thanks and wriggled back into the crowd.
As he had not booked, Jack had expected to find himself in a garret, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that, although he was up on the third floor, the room was clean and comfortable enough and the noise less than he had feared.
He would have settled for the attics to get away from Chandler Street and the constant comings and goings in the yard below were at least a colourful distraction. He leaned his elbows on the rail outside his room and watched, unwilling to go back into relative silence where he would have no escape from his thoughts.
Lily. Lily my love.
What would Mrs Herrick make of his carefully-penned apology for leaving without thanking her in person? And what would Lily make of his even more carefully composed note to her? He had taken pains to ensure that it was so innocuous that she could screw it up and throw it into the wastepaper basket.
Dear Miss France, please accept my thanks for the hospitality you have shown me and the care of your staff. Circumstances compel my return home as a matter of urgency and prevent my taking my personal leave of you and expressing my feelings as I would wish. I remain, your humble servant etc etc
‘Etcetera,’ he murmured to himself.
‘I beg your pardon, sir – did you address me?’
The young woman who had paused beside him, one hand resting daintily on the rail, opened blue eyes wide and smiled.
Jack straightened and removed his hat. Inside, something very basic responded to the invitation in that mock-innocent gaze and to the complete contrast with the last young woman he had been this close to. There was no need to wonder just what this female‘s occupation was, and little doubt that she was most accomplished at it.
Behind her the door to his room stood ajar. She moved her head coquettishly, the blonde curls peeping from under her bonnet flirting with the movement.
What she offered was a straightforward monetary transaction, and suddenly that seemed a refreshingly straightforward answer to a gnawing need both to slake the ache that still possessed him and to banish the vision of a pair of wide green eyes, dark with hurt.
‘A dreadful crush, is it not? Might I offer you some refreshment?’ He gestured towards the door.
‘Oh, I am sure you can, sir.’ She just touched the tip of her tongue to her lower lip as she spoke and turned towards his chamber with a practised, inviting, swing of her hips.
Lily sat at her dressing table, the contents of her jewellery case spread out before her, her aching eyes dazzled with the reflection in the glass. Diamonds dripped from her ears and caressed her neck in a waterfall of light.
