A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [42]
Lenox was holding the book halfway out, and Hilary took it gingerly. “I’ll read it.”
Lenox stood up. “Thank you. Meanwhile I’ll speak to a few of the Members I know. This is a worthy cause, you’ll see.”
“Well—I’m quite sure. But Charles, don’t speak to too many people—let this move slowly.”
The detective nodded, though he had no intention of adhering to the advice. He ran out of the Athenaeum with a dozen ideas swirling through his mind—to talk to this person, to write that one, to ask that gentleman to dinner and another gentleman’s wife who could speak to Jane. Underlying these plans was the thrilling notion, barely formed in all the hustle of the last hour, that he had found the purpose and motivation in his new career that had seemed so elusive only the day before.
Chapter Twenty
Though he now had a dozen things to do, he decided it was important to stop in for a visit at the McConnells’.
Jane was still spending nearly all of her time there. He didn’t wonder at her devotion—he knew better perhaps than anyone else in the world the strength of her friendship—but did ask himself whether it took a toll on her. She would be happy for Toto, that was a given. But would she be sorry for herself?
She had been a very young widow. It was the one subject they never discussed, the sudden death of her first husband just a year into their marriage. Lenox tried to think back to Jane as she was then, at a time when he could be friendly but dispassionate in his analysis of her character. He remembered that she had been a very happy bride, and a very brave widow. What had she planned for herself, in the idle moments during the weeks before that first wedding? How many children? What names had she bestowed upon them?
It made his chest feel hollow, his lower stomach roiled. It was awful.
Still, he managed to put on a cheerful face for Thomas and spent half an hour closeted with him, drinking a dram of whisky with the new father, who paced back and forth, an unshakable grin upon his face. It was the happiest, quite literally the happiest, that Lenox had ever seen him.
Jane came downstairs, brushed a kiss on his cheek, said a few quick words—amiable enough, loving enough—and went back to be with Toto, who was apparently still rather weak.
“Another sip of Scotch?” asked McConnell when she had gone.
“Thanks, yes.”
McConnell poured two from his sideboard and handed one to Lenox. “To George!”
“With all my heart.”
They drank. “I think all my toasts from now on will be to her,” said McConnell thoughtfully, looking out of his window at the soft pink and white fall of evening, buildings half lit, homeward-headed people scattered over the cool streets. “Whether we toast the Queen or a newly married couple, in my own mind I’ll know who my toast is really for. Little George McConnell.”
Lenox smiled. “What’s it like?” he asked quietly.
“What is it like? It’s…it’s like being given your own life to start over. I don’t think I’ve ever thought for a moment about what I ate or what I drank or whether I hit my head. I don’t think I ever thought for a moment about my education, not really.”
“Oh?” Lenox felt slightly crestfallen—not envious, but sad that the brilliant, shimmering happiness of McConnell’s face would never show on his own.
“Other parents said I would care more about her than myself, and I see now that’s what they meant. All of the choices that are quick and painless for my own old bones seem so important when they’re for her. Where will she go to school, I wonder?” In a private reverie he fingered a book on the shelf next to him. “What will she learn there?” He looked at Lenox. “It’s the most wonderful thing you can imagine.”
“Is Toto holding up well?” asked Lenox after a silent moment.
“Oh, she’s making jokes again. And between us all is well.” This was an unusually intimate thing for