No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [102]
“Half and half sounds good.”
“It is. All fresh. Tucky Nunn brought it in this morning,” she agreed. She hesitated, as if to add something but uncertain if she should.
He waited.
“Did you say St. John’s, sir?” There was a faint color in her cheeks, and her soft face was suddenly a little tighter.
“Yes.”
“Did . . .” She swallowed. “Did you know Sebastian Allard?”
“Yes, quite well.” What could she know of him? “You did, too?” he asked.
She nodded, her eyes flooding with tears.
“I think I’ll have my meal outside,” he said. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to bring it to me?”
“Yes, sir, course Oi’ll do that,” and she turned away quickly, hiding her face.
He walked out into the sun again and found a table set for two. Less than five minutes later the barmaid came with a tray and put it down in front of him. The bread was thick-cut with sharp crusts, cracked where they had broken under the knife. The butter was cut in small chunks off the yard, with a bright sprig of parsley on it, the cheese rich and fresh. The pickle was not one he had seen before, but the pieces were large and the juice of it a dark, ripe color.
“Thank you,” he said, taking a moment to appreciate it before he looked up and met her eyes. She was still troubled, hesitant.
“Have they—do they know what happened yet?” she asked.
“No.” He gestured to the other chair. “I’m sure the men inside will manage without you for a few minutes. Sit and talk to me. I liked Sebastian very much, but I think I may not have known him as well as I imagined. Did he come along here often?”
She lowered her eyes for a moment before looking up at him with startling candor. “Yes, this summer.” She did not add that it was to see her; it was unnecessary. It needed no explaining, for any young man might well have. He wondered with a coldness that still hurt, in spite of his growing acceptance of the facts, if Sebastian had used her completely selfishly, without her having any idea of his engagement to Regina Coopersmith. But surely this charming barmaid could never have imagined she could marry Sebastian Allard. Or could she? Was it possible she had no real idea of the world he came from?
“I am Joseph Reavley,” he introduced himself. “I lecture at St. John’s in biblical languages.”
She smiled shyly. “Oi thought that was who you must be. Sebastian talked about you a lot. He said you made the people o’ the past and their ideas and dreams into a whole life that really happened, not like just a lot of words on paper. He said you made it matter. You joined up the past and the present so we’re all one, and that makes the future more important, too.” She blushed a little self-consciously, aware of using someone else’s words, although she obviously understood and believed them herself. “He told me you showed him how beauty lasts, real beauty, the sort of thing that’s inside you.” She took a ragged breath, controlling herself with difficulty. “And it really matters what you leave behind. He said as it’s your thanks to the past, your love of the present, and your gift to the future.”
He was surprised, and far more pleased than he wanted to be, because it awoke all the old emotions of friendship, the trust and the hope in Sebastian’s integrity that he feared now was slipping out of his hands.
“My name’s Flora Whickham,” she went on, suddenly aware of not having introduced herself.
“How do you do, Miss Whickham,” he replied graciously.
Her face became somber as she returned to the subject. “Do you think it was summink to do with the war?” she asked.
He was mystified. “War?”
“He was terribly scared there was going to be a war in Europe,” she explained. “He said everyone was on the edge of it. O’ course they still are, only it’s worse now since those people were shot in Serbia. But Sebastian said as it would come anyway. The Russians and the Germans want it, and