“His face was square,” she continued. “He had a high forehead and there was blood on his cheek as if that young man might have struck him.”
“What sort of clothes was he wearing?” I asked.
“A plain coat and trousers, black, with a jumper under.”
I looked over at Brodie with some surprise.
“What age do you think he might be?” I then asked.
This was always more difficult, depending on a person’s circumstances.
“Perhaps forty years of age.”
She was amazingly observant under very difficult circumstances. However, I shouldn’t have been surprised. One of her tutors explained that she had memorized entire passages of text in her studies.
“Don’t ye want to know about the man’s limp?” Lily then asked.
A limp? I think we both must have stared at her in surprise.
“His left leg. When he ran, he sort of hopped across the green.” She described the man, as best she could, considering it was dark and the green behind Marlborough House only lit by streetlights along the perimeter.
Afterward, we ate luncheon at the Public House to Miss Effie’s delight. She had become quite fond of Lily. And we learned that she and Mr. Cavendish were planning a Christmas wedding at All Saint’s Church.
“In the small chapel,” she clarified, giddy as a schoolgirl. “And thanks to you for puttin’ in a word for us with the vicar.”
It was a reminder that I had promised that Brodie and I would stand up for them for the ceremony.
“I’ve been thinking,” I told Brodie as we returned to the office after midday meal. “Linnie is quite good with charcoal and paper. She always sketches out her paintings before she begins apainting. She might be able to create a drawing of the man from Lily’s description.”
“It could be useful,” he agreed.
My sister had moved from the house at St. James’s after her divorce, a sad affair, and I had been concerned she might simply retreat into her paintings and not wed again.
I had introduced her to my publisher, James Warren, after the release of one of my “Emma books.” Then, while off on a recent case with Brodie, my great aunt informed me that there was “something going on there” between them.
“Thick as thieves,” she’d explained. “Whenever I call to invite her to Sussex Square, she is not available. And then one of her servants mentioned Mr. Warren’s name. Scandalous so soon after her divorce,” Aunt Antonia declared with a wicked gleam in her eyes.
They were wed shortly thereafter, and my niece, Catherine, with all that red hair, was born a scant eight months later.
Scandal, scandal!
As if that was the first time something like that had ever happened among the ton of London society.
I was thrilled for my sister. Not only was she in love and now had a family of her own, but James had encouraged her to return to her painting, which she had previously been forced to give up.
We had traveled together for her Paris exhibit shortly before Catherine was born. I emphasize the word “shortly,” as she gave birth to her less than a day after our return to London.
Catherine was now babbling in her own language, crawling all over the place, and asserting that bold, independent red-headed spirit to the point that Linnie had declared that she might be an only child. For his part, my brother-in-law James had announced that he would like a half dozen.
“Of course. I would be happy to assist,” Linnie replied now over the telephone when I put through a call to her.
“And Lily? Marvelous!”
I thought I heard the distinctive sound of something crashing to the floor in the background.
“Oh dear, Cappy…” her father’s nickname for young Catherine.
It seemed that she had just dragged down a vase of flowers and was squealing with delight among the ruins of vase and scattered blossoms.
