A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [61]
Arriving at the vast Bond Street house, he fancied he could see a change in it already; there were flowerboxes along the windows, fresh coats of bright white paint on the shutters, and on the knocker of the front door a small pink muffler, knitted from wool. The sign of a successful birth. It all looked dazzlingly merry.
Shreve, the funereal but excellent butler who had been Toto’s father’s wedding present, opened the door. He was a dour, unsmiling fellow, and so it surprised Lenox greatly that now he not only was fighting down a grin but holding a stuffed bear.
“Ah!” he said, discomposed. “Excuse me, sir, I expected Mr. McConnell. Please, follow me through to the drawing room, Mr. Lenox.”
In the drawing room was Toto, from the look of her as fizzy and full of spirit as she had been in former times. Lying on a blanket on the ground was George, still plump, still red, dressed in a fetching pale blue gown. From the infant’s face Lenox could see that she had been crying.
“Why on earth would you take her bear, Shreve, you beast?” said Toto happily. “Charles, tell him.”
“It wasn’t sporting of you, was it?” asked Lenox, smiling.
“It was a grave oversight, madam. I apologize.”
Then, apparently not thinking it dignified to get on the floor and wave the bear in George’s face before company, he handed the toy to Toto and withdrew with a bow.
“What a stuffed shirt he is! Before you came he was saying all the silly things we say to George now without a modicum of shame.”
“How is she?”
Toto stood up and gave Lenox a squeeze on his forearm. “You wouldn’t believe how clever she is—really, you can’t imagine. Just think, she knows her name!” She followed this remarkable news by attempting to prove it, calling, “George, George!” over and over again until the baby seemed to tilt her head in their direction. “See!” said Toto triumphantly.
“Remarkable! I know many a grown woman who hasn’t learned that trick.”
“I know you’re teasing me, but I’ll let it pass because I’m so happy. Do you know, I never realized that all babies have blue eyes! Did you know that?”
“I didn’t. Does Thomas have some scientific reason to explain it?”
“Speaking of people who don’t recognize their names—his eyes don’t leave her face when he’s in the room. He won’t get on the floor as I will, or give her a thousand kisses as I do, but lor! How he loves the little speck.”
“I say, I know it’s rude of me, but could I bother you for a bite of food? It would help me admire her better—I’m famished.”
“Oh, yes! In fact, you know, Nurse should take her away; we mustn’t agitate the poor thing with too much attention, she says. So I can join you in lunch.”
“Is Thomas here?”
“I forced him to leave the house. He’s at his club, looking through a newspaper. I doubt he’s actually reading, though—just worrying that I’ve burned the house down in his absence, I imagine, and boasting to anyone he meets as if there weren’t thousands of children born every day, some of them in the middle of fields. Here, find me that bell—there it is—that will get Shreve in.”
Her happiness was infectious. “You look awfully well,” he said.
“Thank you, Charles. All credit for that must go to Jane. She saw me through all the difficult bits.”
“I’m glad.”
Shreve came in, and Toto asked for food. “Will a beefsteak do for you, Charles?”
“Splendidly.”
“Let’s have that, and some potatoes and carrots—and for my part all I have a taste for is bubble and squeak.” This was a cabbage and potato dish. “We need something to drink, too, don’t we. Whatever’s at hand in the cellar for Mr. Lenox, please.”
“Very good, madam,” said Shreve and retreated.
There was a footstep in the hall and a muffled exchange of words between Shreve and another gentleman—and of course it was McConnell.
“There’s the child!” he said. George wriggled happily on the ground. “Lenox, have you seen anything so fine?”
“Indeed not,” he said. A faint pain passed through him; he wondered again whether he would ever experience McConnell’s happiness.
“I asked Shreve to give me a bit of lunch, too.”
Now Lenox