Page 50 of Mirrors of the Past

But she had Elsie’s wedding to look forward to! And Christmas gifts to buy and cards to write and deliver, and the excitement of going to Pearl’s for Christmas. With all of those children, it sure would be magical. She was especially looking forward to helping decorate the Christmas tree on the twenty-fourth and had already started adding holly, mistletoe, yew and laurel to their own house in Bloomsbury. Sam pretended to be horrified every time he discovered a new piece of decoration, but she knew he was as excited as she was about the season.

And it made it even more exciting that today, her hands cosily hidden inside a warm hand muff, she was trudging through the snow to Elsie’s house to see this mysterious wedding gown. She didn’t really know why Elsie had requested her presence. Surely one of her sisters would have been the natural choice, but perhaps because she was there, in London, and they were in Cornwall, it was just a second opinion she was after.

Still, what woman would not want to look at a wedding dress, and she understood the seamstress would be there today and Elsie had drawn out the design herself. How utterly exciting! She’d already met one of the seamstresses from Lucile Ltd, the highly regarded fashion house Elsie had chosen to make the gowns. Viola was, after all, getting a beautiful gown of her own to wear for the day — an adult version of Marigold’s little red dress, only in green satin, to go with the Christmas theme. She shivered delightedly and smiled to herself.

It was as she was contemplating the dresses, how excited Marigold had been to show off her little gown, and, especially, what Elsie’s might be like, that she rounded the corner to Brunswick Square and slipped on a patch of ice. Her hands were still trapped within her hand muff, but before she overbalanced and landed on her bottom, a hand grabbed her elbow and steadied her. Woodsmoke and tobacco and leather . . . Oh, God. That scent. She knew who it was already.

‘Can’t you ever keep your balance? If it’s not puddles you’re falling into, it’s staircases you’re falling down.’

She recognised the gruff voice, which compounded the identification of course, and stiffened. ‘Laurie,’ she said. ‘How fortunate you were there.’ But, even though she tried to make her voice ironic, bizarrely, she liked the feel of his hand on her elbow. He released her rather quickly and she didn’t know how she felt about that. She looked up at him, saw the snowflakes that were settling in his dark hair and the touch of pink on the tip of his nose and on his cheekbones. ‘Are you going to Elsie’s as well?’ she asked, in a not-so-ironic voice.

He must have noticed the change in register as something akin to a smile lifted the corners of his lips before it fled again. ‘Yes. I am.’ He pulled a face. ‘Something about looking at a dress.’

‘Snap.’

‘I’m not very au faitwith women’s fashion,’ he said. ‘But I assume it’s because I’m here and the girls are in Cornwall.’

‘I wondered the same. Why she asked me, I mean.’

‘Who knows with El?’ Laurie shrugged. Viola noted that it was possibly the longest, most rational conversation they’d had. ‘It’s not so icy here,’ he said as they approached Elsie’s front door. ‘You should be able to keep your footing from here on, I hope.’

‘I should imagine so. Um, thank you for — Halloween — by the way. For not letting me kill myself on the staircase.’ Inwardly she cringed. How would he take that? Would he be all superior and arrogant and I-told-you-so?

‘Would have been too much mess for the family to clean up.’

She darted a look at him. He didn’t seem arrogant. In fact, maybe there was a little amusement there. A joke, perhaps? ‘Agreed,’ she said.

And that was it — she’d thanked him. Maybe time had dulled the embarrassment, the way it had healed the bruises on her face. Or maybe she was just ready to give up fighting with the man. Temporarily, at least. They were, apparently, escorting Marigold down the aisle at St George’s, Bloomsbury, in two weeks or so. They should really try to get along with one another — or at least not scream at one another — even if the truce just lasted the length of the ceremony.

‘Please,’ said Laurie, indicating the door. ‘You can knock. Announce our presence. I’ll be pleased to get into the warmth.’

Viola extracted her hand from the hand muff and rapped the door knocker. Within moments, it was opened by a young maid who smiled at them. ‘Lady Elsie said she was expecting you,’ she said. Obviously, she recognised both Laurie and Viola. ‘Please come this way.’ It was odd, though, to hear Elsie referred to as “Lady Elsie”, when Viola knew her just as Elsie, her sister’s friend.

The maid led them into Elsie’s familiar reception room, but there was no sign of their hostess. ‘I think she’s upstairs,’ said the maid. ‘I’ll go and check.’ She went off, closing the door behind her, and Viola and Laurie were left standing together in Elsie’s drawing room, standing far too close together for Viola’s liking. It felt odd, and somehow forbidden, yet weirdly exciting to be trapped with Laurie in a room accompanied only by the ticking of a clock.

‘Well now,’ Viola said.

‘Quite,’ Laurie said.

They said nothing else and the silence grew and thickened between them, Viola not exactly sure what should be happening. She felt quite tongue-tied, but also as if she wanted to start talking to Laurie and have a conversation, a conversation that would address the elephant in the room. A conversation that would go something like: “What exactly are we doing? Why can’t either of us properly back down and actually, you know, be friends and be able to have proper conversations with one another?”

Viola looked around the room, as if it was suddenly the most important and interesting room she’d ever experienced. She noticed, from the corner of her eye, that Laurie was doing the same thing, his hands crossed behind his back, rocking forwards and backwards on the balls of his feet. He looked as awkward as she felt, but, when she studied him, the realisation took her breath away like a punch to her stomach. He was just a man, for goodness’ sake. A man no worse than any other man she’d ever encountered. A man who was, it had to be said, a lot more handsome than many men she’d encountered. A man who might be gruff and quiet and not sugarcoat his words, a man who spoke to her in the way she spoke to him — which wasn’t always polite, she acknowledged shamefully — but did she really have any respect for a man who did sugarcoat everything? She shuddered, remembering the rather slimy, greasy personage of Richard Bedford and his gossipy discussions about Pearl and Elsie, said in such a nice, polite voice . . .

‘This is ridiculous,’ Viola said suddenly. ‘Laurie, we need to—’

But then the door flung open and the maid was there again. ‘Lady Elsie says if you wouldn’t mind coming upstairs, she would be delighted to receive you there. Could I take your coats?’

‘No, thank you,’ said Viola quickly, hoping that Laurie would forget she had actually tried to start a conversation. ‘I’m fine.’ And as she was nearest the door, she was first out of the room, leaving Laurie to follow behind. A thing she was pleased about, because then he might not see how red her cheeks were.

And it was nothing to do with the heat in the house.