London - Edward Rutherfurd [572]
“Yes.” Her mother’s voice was defiant.
“And taken her to a demonstration that could have turned into a riot?”
“It was perfectly peaceful.”
“They have turned into riots before. In any case, a child’s place is in the nursery. You have no business dragging her into such affairs. These things are not for children. She shouldn’t even hear about them.”
“She is only eight, mother,” Henry added quietly.
“Are you telling me I shouldn’t even mention the subject of votes for women to my own daughter?”
“I see no need,” Bull said evenly.
“That’s just because you don’t agree with it.”
“No. She can decide for herself one day. But she is a child. Children should be protected from ideas.”
“It would be wrong to take her to church then. She might hear ideas.”
“That is blasphemous,” Bull said quietly. “You are speaking of our religion. I must tell you, Violet,” he went on steadily, “that if you ever use this child in this disgraceful way again, I shall remove her from you. She can live with me at Bocton.”
“You can’t!”
“I think I can.”
“I’d take you to court, father.”
“And a judge might well agree with me that you are an unfit guardian for a child.”
“This is absurd! Henry, say something.”
“Mother, if such a thing ever happened I should testify against you. I’m sorry. You’re unfit.” And he burst into tears.
Helen shook with terror until a pair of hands seized her from behind and carried her upstairs to the safety of the nursery.
There had not been a morning like it at Tom Brown since anyone could remember. The worst of it was that Lord St James himself was in one of the fitting rooms when it happened. What if he wanted to come out?
A lady had entered the premises.
She was very old. Very respectable, certainly. All in black, walking with an ebony stick. She had asked for Mr Fleming who, as it happened, was due to deliver some trousers that very morning. “Do you suppose we could hide her in another fitting room?” the salesman whispered.
“You will do no such thing,” said Mr Brown calmly. “You will offer her a chair and make sure his lordship is fully dressed before he leaves the fitting room.”
It had not been easy for Esther Silversleeves to decide what to do. She had respected Jenny for her decision to send Percy away, and as the months had passed and the letters from Percy finally ceased, she had sighed to herself and decided that this was fate. She had sent the girl on a week’s holiday to Brighton that summer to cheer her up, which it had seemed to do – until a week ago, when another letter had come and Jenny had been visibly upset.
“It’s Percy,” Jenny said. “Says he’s waited a year before writing, but that he’d like to see me again. Just as a friend. Says he’s been sick, but didn’t say what so I don’t know if it’s serious or not.”
“You could see him, couldn’t you?”
“Oh, madam, I don’t know. I just don’t think I could bear it.” And the tears had welled up.
Esther Silversleeves had been meaning to go down to the West End for some time. Two years before, an American gentleman named Selfridge had opened a huge new department store in Oxford Street. When she was younger, Esther had always liked to go once a year before Christmas to the huge emporium of Harrods in Knightsbridge. Selfridges, she had heard, not only planned to rival it but had so much, including a restaurant, that you could spend the entire day in there. So she had instructed her old coachman to leave her there at ten and return at three; and no sooner had he gone than she had walked rather stiffly along to Regent Street and down to the premises of Tom Brown.
Neither she nor Lord St James knew who the other was when that nobleman emerged from the fitting room, shot her a glance of amusement, and made his way back to the quiet bachelor quarters of Albany, where he now lived, in nearby Piccadilly.
When Percy arrived at half past eleven, he was greatly surprised to encounter Mrs Silversleeves, whom he had never seen before. At her request he escorted her back to Selfridges and took her to the restaurant where she ordered a little cake