Page 24 of Evil at the Essex House
The next time I saw him, I was definitely going to tell him so.
I did a bit of marketing in the middle of the day—visits to Fortnum & Mason and to Twinings, among other things—and then I asked Evans again on my way inside, “Any messages, Evans?”
“I’m afraid not, Miss Darling.”
He made to shut the front door behind me, but hesitated when a Hackney cab swung off the street and made to pull up to the front door.
I hovered too, of course. I’m curious by nature, and besides, what if it was Wolfgang?
It wasn’t. Enough time passed for whoever was inside to pay for the fare, and then the back door opened. A stout gentleman in a pearl gray suit with an enormous gray mustache popped out of the back. He carried a silver-topped cane in one hand, and turned to offer the other to his companion, a lady a few years older than Aunt Roz, short and sturdy with black hair that sported white threads through the front.
The Hackney’s door shut behind the lady, and the black motorcar rolled away. The lady and gentleman turned to Evans. “Howdy,” the gentleman said, in a broad American accent.
I think I knew right then who he was; I didn’t need the next sentence.
“My name is Hiram Schlomsky, and this is my wife Sarah. We’re looking for our daughter Florence.”
ChapterSix
The Schlomskys were notwhat I had expected. I thought they would be like everyone’s—or at least like my—image of the stereotypical American couple. Loud, and brash, and dressed just a degree or two over the top from what was tasteful. A bit like Flossie herself, to be honest, with her indulgence in fluttering pink panels and beads and tassels. But they weren’t. Not even close. Mrs. Schlomsky wore a perfectly plain and boring summer ensemble in navy and white, off the rack instead of haute couture, and without a flutter or a tassel in sight. The skirt was several inches too long to fit with current fashion, and so was the lady’s hair. No bob for Mrs. Schlomsky.
She and her husband were clearly used to people bowing and scraping to them, however. When Evans didn’t jump quickly enough, the millionaire Mr. Schlomsky poked at him with his walking stick.
“My daughter. Where is she?”
“I don’t believe Miss Schlomsky is in the building,” Evans said as he skipped away from the point of the cane.
“Not home?” The parents exchanged a glance.
“I knew we should have sent another telegram,” Mrs. Schlomsky muttered. “The first one probably didn’t make it here. If she’d known we were coming, she’d have been here.”
“If she knew we were coming,” Mr. Schlomsky added, “she would have been at the hotel last night. Or at least first thing this morning.”
I cleared my throat, and they both looked at me as if the vase of flowers on the sideboard had given voice. “Hello,” I said, feeling a bit awkward about it. “My name is Pippa Darling. Flossie and I are… um… friends.”
Or at least Flossie had always been friendly to me, and more than friendly to Christopher and Crispin. Christopher had always been terrified of her, and although Crispin was far more capable of taking care of himself, I still didn’t appreciate her constantly throwing herself at him.
Naturally I didn’t say any of those things to the Schlomskys, who were eyeing me up and down. “Friends?” Mrs. Schlomsky echoed, a bit blankly. “Flossie?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Is there a reason I shouldn’t be friendly with your daughter?”
She didn’t answer immediately, and I added, “She’s my neighbor. We’re around the same age. She’s quite open and welcoming, you know.” A bit too welcoming with certain people, perhaps, but we wouldn’t go into that. “And my flat-mate is the youngest nephew of the Duke of Sutherland,” I added, “so it’s not as if we’re unsuitable company?—”
“No, no,” Mrs. Schlomsky waved me into silence. “You misunderstood me. I’m delighted that Florence has made friends. She was always so quiet and studious at home.”
Quiet and studious?
“The change of scenery must have been good for her,” I said, because quiet and studious were two of the last words I would have used to describe Flossie.
Then again, most parents probably have no idea of what their children get up to when left to their own devices. I didn’t think Uncle Herbert and Aunt Roz knew that Christopher dressed in drag and went to monthly balls under the guise of Kitty Dupree, and Uncle Harold hadn’t had any idea of the excesses Crispin indulged in until Simon Grimsby, the late Duke’s valet, exposed them back in April. And Wiltshire is only a few hours from London, so Uncle Harold, Uncle Herbert, and Aunt Roz had less excuse than the Schlomskys for not knowing what their offspring was up to.
For a second it occurred to me to wonder whether my own parents, had they been alive, would have recognized the person I had become. Would I even be the person I was now had the war not derailed everything in Europe?
Probably not, I had to admit. If I had spent a peaceful life with my parents in Germany, I would be a different person than I was. I had become Pippa Darling instead of Philippa Schatz from leaving home at an early age, and from being integrated into the Astley family from then on, and from Christopher, around whom most of my existence had revolved for the past twelve years.
No, coming to England had changed my life, and had changed me into someone different than I would otherwise have been, and it wasn’t unlikely that the same thing had happened to Flossie, on her own for the first time in a strange country.
“When do you expect our daughter back?” Mrs. Schlomsky inquired of Evans, who looked mildly surprised.
