London Broil (19 page)

Madam, it will be in vain
to deny that I have some value for this piece, since I
dedicate it to you.

Pope had written
the poem at the request of a friend in order to heal a rift
between two English Catholic families, a quarrel that resulted
from the unauthorized snatching of a lustrous curl from Belle
Fermor's pretty head. The critics said that Pope had never met
Arabella Fermor. Re-reading the dedication, Laura found this
difficult to believe. Sighing happily, she checked the volume
off her list. She worked methodically through several more
volumes, searching for marginalia with little luck. Whoever had
owned these books did not write in them, though there was
another book, Eliza Haywood's romantic novel
Love in Excess
, with
"M. Blount" written on the flyleaf. Consulting her watch, she
realized it was already past noon, but she could spare no time
to eat until she had checked all the books. Now she had reached
the least interesting volumes on the list, those published after
the lifetimes of both Pope and "Patty," the name for Martha used
by her family and intimate friends. She opened the next book in
the stack and read the title page:
The Lyricks of Horace,
comprising his odes, epodes, and secular ode, in English verse
with the Latin text revised, and subjoined. London: Printed by
T. Bensley for J. White, 1803
. Some loose pages printed in
a smaller format fell out of the back of the book; they
obviously didn't belong.

Laura stilled,
and her heart began to pound painfully within her chest as she
looked at the beautiful engraving, clearly the work of John
Pine, and the unmistakable, meticulous handwriting on the blank
flyleaf, both recto and verso. Her mouth felt dry. At the top of
the page he had written
Quinti
Horatii Flacci Opera
; after this a series of letters and
numbers was followed by textual notes and corrections. Pope was
a great compiler of indexes and handwritten notes, and other
such examples of notation systems were known from his surviving
books. She spent the next hour carefully copying out everything
he had written, and then fell into a reverie, gazing at the
marks his hand had left.

At half past
three she went to the Red Drawing Room for tea, bringing the
Lyricks,
and shared her
discovery with the Baroness, explaining that the missing pages
from Pine's Horace had somehow been slipped into the Bensley
edition. Angela was delighted. "I wonder if Charles suspected,
or even knew about this," she said. "He loved Pope, and I
remember him reading
The
Rape of the Lock
in the armchair by the fireplace, smoking
his pipe. That poem was a particular favorite of his." Laura
felt ravenous but limited herself to a quick cup of tea and a
half scone. She had to continue her work, as they were to leave
tomorrow morning. She asked permission to take photographs of of
the handwritten pages, to which the Baroness readily agreed.
Around five o'clock, she gradually became aware that James was
standing beside her as she finished up her notes. He was gazing
up at the Waterhouse nymph. "Isn't she beautiful?" said Laura.
"I wish I could hang her in
my
study."

"Angela said I
should ask you what you found," he said, as she stood up to put
her arms around him. "It must be good. I've never seen you smile
like that before."

The banquet was
held in the dining room, which had a long table laid for sixteen
with a white tablecloth, china, and heavy silver candlesticks.
The grouse shooters looked tired but excited, and had dressed in
their best clothes. They were almost all men, though one hardy
wife had joined her spouse on the moor. They made appreciative
oohs and aahs as the plated grouse were brought to table, but
Laura was not impressed. Each bird provided a meager amount of
meat, and it was a greyish brown color, with a not unpleasant
but gamey aroma. She and James sat across from Nolly, who was in
disgrace. It seemed that he and Roddy had unluckily drawn places
beside each other in the shooting line.

"He had the
infernal nerve to call me a dough boy," said Nolly, "so what was
I to do? I responded in kind."

"Nolly was
pulling his punches at that point," said James. "He merely
mouthed the word 'philistine.'"

"But Roddy saw
it, and called me a pervy fat bastard," said Nolly. "Therefore I
was forced to inform him that he is a grunting troglodyte."

"So he is,"
agreed James, nodding his head for emphasis and extending his
glass of claret in Nolly's direction.

"Then he said he
was going to beat me to a miserable jelly."

"Ignoring the
fact that you're already a jelly, though quite a jolly one,"
said James.

Nolly ignored
this witticism. "So I waited until he went off behind our line
toward the road, to spy out some imaginary protesters, and
accidentally discharged my shotgun in his direction," he said,
sounding suspiciously pleased with himself.

"But if it was
an accident," asked Laura, "why did you say you waited until he
was out of range?"

"Oh, he wasn't
completely out of range," replied Nolly. "Haven't you noticed
that the simian junior Speck is absent from our midst?"

"He took a light
dusting of shot in the seat of his trousers," said James,
shaking his head. "Honestly, me friend, I think you went a wee
bit too far."

"I'm a very good
shot," said Nolly, who in spite of his disgrace had bagged more
birds than any except the most experienced shooters. "I knew the
damage would be minimal." He attacked his grouse with gusto.
"Divine! Laura, are you sure you won't break your twenty-year
vow of abstinence and try a morsel of this luscious flesh? I do
assure you, it is the culinary apotheosis of the game bird."

"No, thank you,
Nolly. I'll have to scrape by without that pleasure," she said,
peering dubiously at the stuffed half-eggplant the server had
set before her. At that moment Angela, who had been consulting
with the staff and was on her way back to her seat, stopped
beside Nolly.

"I hope you're
satisfied, you great boob," she said. "How am I to invite you
back if you persist in such behavior?"

"I am heartily
ashamed of myself," avowed Nolly, though he didn't look it. "By
the way, where is Phoebe? I crave a view of her shapely
profile."

"Comforting her
wounded hero, of course," replied Angela crisply. "Or didn't you
consider that when you emptied your shotgun into his arse?"

After dinner,
Laura told James that she wanted to work late that night, and he
didn't object since he was, as he put it, 'knackered' from the
day's shoot and ready to collapse into bed. The next morning she
encountered Phoebe and Roddy in the Red Drawing Room eating
breakfast. She walked up to them and took Phoebe's hand. "You
are a lovely person. I hope you'll be very happy," she said.
Then she turned to Roddy and said sweetly, "It was nice to meet
you, Mister Spick." Her last stop before taking her suitcase out
to the car was the library. She went to the mantel to see if she
could find the artist's signature on the Waterhouse. It was then
that she noticed the small brass plate attached to the gilt
frame. It was engraved with the name Belinda.

23.
Ale and Fistfights

As soon as she
returned to London, she braved the Monday crowds of the West End
shopping district, looking for something to send Angela and
Gerald in thanks for the weekend. She had no luck, and finally
made her way to the Victoria and Albert Museum to see the
miniatures gallery, where she spent considerable time pondering
Nicholas Hilliard's 'Young Man Among Roses,' an exquisite
portrait of a tall and handsome Elizabethan gallant said to be
the Virgin Queen's favorite, the Earl of Essex. According to the
label, Essex had once been so insolent toward Elizabeth that she
cuffed him on the ear, causing him to half-draw his sword on
her. Laura wondered what the wits of the court had made of
that
little episode. Eventually, of course, Essex had been executed
for treason. Wandering out of the museum café, she decided to
try the gift shop, where she found a tiny silver hand-cast
picture frame with a flowery border. Standing among the leaves
on the right side was a figure like a minotaur with an ugly, sad
face. This she bought for the Baroness. Perhaps it would do for
a picture of Roddy. And for the Baron, she found an apple-sized
glass globe containing pink cyclamen blooms among dark green
leaves.

Tuesday evening,
she started dinner while listening to a long playlist of her
favorite music for relaxation: jazz guitar by Bucky Pizzarelli,
ballads enhanced by Chet Baker's trumpet, the flirtatious piano
of George Shearing. A knock at the door surprised her. She
rarely had any visitors except for the occasional neighbor, but
some of these were male, so she paused to consider her attire.
She was wearing a wine-colored stretch velvet dress, a
knee-length teeshirt style that was good for lounging about, and
except for the lack of a bra, she looked presentable. She peered
through the spyhole, her hand on the doorknob. It was James.

She opened the
door. He was wearing one of his suits, in navy, with the tie
already well loosened and a few buttons of the shirt undone. He
had a scraped, raw red area on his left cheekbone, and he didn't
look happy.

"James! Come
in," she said. "I'm just cooking dinner, though it's nothing
special. You're welcome to stay and eat with me if you like."

"I'm sorry to
disturb you. I know you like your uninterrupted time during the
week," he said. He fell silent, bending over to untie his shoes
and putting them by the door. Something wasn't right, but he
must tell her in his own time. Had he been in some kind of
accident?

"It's fine. I
like seeing you. I can give you a glass of wine, or there's some
beer in the refrigerator. Help yourself." As she returned to her
preparations, he opened the door of the fridge, and said in an
outraged voice, "Woman, are you daft? You put Newcastle Ale in
the fridge? That's far too cold."

"I thought it
was a myth that people here drink their beer warm. And you had
Duvel in your fridge!"

"Duvel is meant
to be chilled, but not a brown ale. It should only be as cool as
a dark cellar. Tell me, when you tasted this, did you think it
was good?"

"Not really,"
she admitted. "I thought it was a bit flabby and flavorless."

"That's because
you overchilled it. You should store it at room temperature and
put it in for ten, fifteen minutes before you drink it, no more.
Unless it's a hot day."

"Okay. Have some
of the Pinot Grigio then. It's cheap, but it tastes good cold."
He poured himself a glass and began to pace about the flat.
Belatedly, she realized that she'd had no opportunity to
straighten it, and her books and papers were spread all over the
desk, the floor around the desk, the sofa and the coffee table.
If his previous visit had left James with the impression that
she kept her living space tidy and neat, tonight would
demonstrate otherwise.

James paused
every now and then in his perambulations to observe her work.
She was putting together a crustless vegetable pie, coating the
pie plate with butter and a sprinkle of crispy breadcrumbs. Next
she added florettes of lightly steamed broccoli and all the bits
and pieces of leftover cheese from the fridge. She'd found some
free range, organic eggs at the Islington farmer's market; they
were pricey but had beautiful pale blue shells. She whisked
these together with some thick Greek yogurt, added salt and
pepper, and poured the mixture over the pie plate, then topped
it with grated fontina. Finally, she placed it in the oven and
set the timer for twenty minutes.

All this time,
she'd been aware of James watching her, but he'd said virtually
nothing, and done nothing other than move about restlessly,
taking off his jacket and tie and arranging them over one of the
dining chairs. He looked tired, with a slight bagginess under
his eyes. Now, as she was wiping her hands on a dish towel, he
took her in his arms and brought his mouth down on hers, kissing
her harder than he usually did, and putting one large hand on
the back of her head to press her mouth against his probing lips
and tongue. She responded, feeling surprised at this turn of
events. Usually he was a more tender and considerate lover. Now
his hands were roughly massaging her behind through the velour
of her dress, lifting it up her thighs, and he was pressing his
body against hers and burying his face in her neck. She could
feel his insistent hardness through their clothing, and it drew
an answering rush of heat in her. She breathed in the familiar,
Jamesian scent of him, one part spice, one part maple leaves,
and a hint of tobacco, now mingled with the sweat of what must
have been a long day. For a moment, she became aware of Chet
Baker's gentle, dreamy voice floating through the room.

Don't change a hair for me,

Not if you care for me,

Stay, little Valentine,
stay.

"Take off your
knickers," he said into her ear. She stepped out of them, and he
quickly hoisted her bottom onto the countertop. "Wrap your legs
around me." He carried her into the bedroom, depositing her on
the bed. Then he began to divest himself of his clothes. She lay
there, bemused, with her dress up around her naked hips,
watching him and growing more aroused as his shirt, then his
trousers, then his underwear (light blue cotton boxers this
time) came off. He climbed onto her and she felt his thigh and
knee levering her legs open. Then he paused and propped himself
on his forearms, brushing the hair from her face with one hand.