“Doing really well,” Juliet replied, her attention still focused on the vase. “I might need to take on another assistant soon… Maybe one of your girls, Connie?”
She could not have said anything more guaranteed to please her daughter. The “establishment,” so much more than a brothel, was a safe haven for the girls Constance rescued from the streets or from particularly brutal houses of ill repute. The girls were fed and clothed and given the offer of training in some occupation. Those who preferred to stick with prostitution were given a safe place to do so with clients vetted by Constance herself, who came as much for the social gatherings as for the more private entertainments. It was run as a co-operative. Everyone contributed and everyone shared the proceeds. Many of Constance’s girls were now in domestic service, or working in shops, offices, or factories; some were even teachers and bookkeepers.
“Let me know,” Constance said, “and I’ll see whom I can find.”
Juliet glanced at her and lowered the vase into her lap. “Decent wages. I can afford it.”
A smile flickered on Constance’s lips. “Good.” She turned to Solomon. “Do you suppose David is coming?”
Solomon was beginning to wonder the same thing himself. His brother was a troubled soul, currently living in Solomon’s former home behind the Strand. A couple of letters from him had reached Solomon in Venice, but there had been no time today to visit him in person.
“Can we give him another five minutes?”
“Of course,” Constance said.
In fact, he arrived in four, wearing one of the suits Solomon had given him, though he spoiled the effect by tugging frequently at the collar. A wave of unease hit Solomon as soon as his brother entered. Their first meeting after his ten-weekabsence should have been less formal and probably in private, but it was too late now.
Fortunately, Constance and her mother were both skilled in covering awkward social moments. The sherry Solomon gave him was gone in two mouthfuls. While Constance placed the wrapped present in his lap, Solomon quietly refilled his glass and Juliet told an amusing tale of blocked traffic in Covent Garden behind a cart that had shed its load all over the street. The subsequent quarrels, retrieval, and disentangling of horses and vehicles—including a full omnibus—had led to fantastically brisk business in her shop.
Solomon listened with half an ear and smiled. Most of his attention was on David as he unwrapped the oil painting by the Venetian artist Domenico Rossi. His heart lifted at the expression of awe and delight that filled David’s face—only to vanish into a sort of desperate misery quickly hidden in a smile.
“This is wonderful,” David said, placing it carefully face down in its wrappings. “Now I long to go there myself.”
Lottie appeared at the door. “Dinner is served, ma’am.”
“So tell us all about Venice,” Juliet said cozily as they sat down to a delicious-smelling clear soup. “Didn’t you find it wonderful just to leave off snooping for a while?”
Solomon and Constance exchanged glances.
Juliet laid down her spoon. “Oh, no! Not on your honeymoon! What is the matter with you two?”
Surprisingly, Constance laughed. “Pax, Juliet, we didn’t really have a choice. Not after I was kidnapped and poisoned and we were both suspected of murder.” She broke off at the genuine expression of anguish that briefly flooded Juliet’s face and vanished. “It was fine in the end, and never as bad as I’ve made up to entertain you.”
Between them, she and Solomon told an edited version of their Venice adventures, which eventually included the name of the mysterious British diplomat Sebastian Kellar.
Juliet did not quite drop her spoon, but her fingers tightened on it and her gaze was fixed unblinkingly on her soup.
“Oh, he asked to be remembered to you, Mother,” Constance said carelessly. “Apparently he knew you in your youth.”
“Did he?” Juliet said. “I knew so many people then.”
Constance did not push further but continued to the end of the tale, leaving out her own danger, though mentioning Kellar’s timely arrival and the bravery of the servants.
She turned to David. “Have you been painting?”
He shrugged. “Off and on. I’ve spent some time at galleries and exhibitions of various schools and styles. I’m not sure it’s for me.”
“Liking London, love?” Juliet asked cheerfully.
“Of course. One is never bored here.”
It was too pat, too rehearsed. And yet Solomon’s brother looked well, better nourished, fit and healthy. After the first course, there wasn’t even any awkwardness in his table manners, as if he were recalling childhood in Jamaica. He had probably enjoyed no formal meals since then. Even now that he had a little money, Solomon suspected that if David ate out, he did so at pubs and cheap eating houses.
“Well, Mother,” Constance said at the end of the meal, “shall we pretend to be civilized and leave the gentlemen to their port?”
“Only if you’ve got some in your drawing room,” Juliet said, dropping her napkin on the table and rising to her feet. “Take me there.”
After the ladies departed, Solomon fetched the decanters and the glasses and sat back down. “You’ll forgive us playing at houses,” he said deprecatingly.
