Paying Guests (41 page)

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I had suspected you had some anxiety, for I have been watching you and you are like – well – a person struggling to remain still while sitting on an ant hill!’

She managed to smile at that. ‘Well, it is not perhaps surprising since it is hard to know where to begin this matter.’ She set down her coffee cup, almost regretting now that she had even begun. Perhaps it would be better after all to work this out alone. But she looked up and saw the glint in his eyes and knew that he would not rest until she had spoken of whatever it was; he could be very stubborn, she found herself thinking.

‘The beginning is often the best,’ he said.

She sighed. ‘Very well. Sophie – you know she has been known to me for many years?’

‘Indeed. She calls you aunt.’

‘Yes. She is not, of course, related. But her mother –’ She swallowed and then shook her head. ‘I must tell you something of my own history, I think.’ And she did, leaving out nothing, finding it easier and easier as the words came out of her. He sat there quietly listening, never taking his gaze from her face, as the counters and dice clicked and rattled around them, and the coffee in their cups cooled.

She told him of her tyrannical father and frightened mother who had shut herself away with her sherry and gin and left him to the wiles of the housekeeper, Mrs Leander. How Dorcas had herself married and run away, and how and why Tilly had gone in search
of her, long afterwards, and brought her back to Quentin’s. About her own marriages, and why they had caused her so much pain; she left out nothing, except for Jem Leland. For some reason she could not herself understand she felt the need to hide that sad little history from Silas, sitting there looking so handsome and elegant. He could never understand, she was sure, that a lady such as she could accept the attentions of a man who was a very ordinary sort of tradesman. She could imagine how shocked he would be if he thought she had, say, planned to marry Charlie Harrod. And Jem, whom she had almost wed, had been Charlie’s dearest friend. Still was, in fact. No, she could not speak of Jem, not because she was in any sense ashamed of him, but because he was important to her, her good friend – or had been.

But everything else she told him, including the way Dorcas had behaved to her over the matter of her second marriage, and how in spite of her, Tilly had inherited the house next door to her father’s original home and had had them joined to make what was now Quentin’s.

‘And now I discover that she has come out of prison and still managed to maintain control over some property. She had bought the next house along the line that lies now to our left and – and –’ she swallowed. ‘She intends to make it into a place that will earn her sufficient to ensure she is, as she says, never worried about money ever again.’

‘What sort of a place?’ Silas asked sharply.

‘She is not quite certain,’ Tilly said miserably. ‘But because she was sent to prison for – for running a bawdy house, and though she assured me that she did not, that her then partner so arranged matters that she would be blamed for what he was doing, she thinks she will run one now. She says that there are ways and means of dealing with – with the law that such establishments can be set up and be left in peace and not prosecuted. And since she has the name, she may as well have the game.

‘Oh, Silas!’ she said then and her face was twisted with worry. ‘What shall I do if she does that? How can that not lead to the complete destruction of all that I have worked for here at Quentin’s?
For who would come to live as a paying guest next door to a house of ill repute? Would you? Only the most disagreeable sort of people would come – I really don’t know what to do!’

TILLY SLEPT BADLY, waking early to come down to breakfast with shadows under her eyes, a headache and no appetite. But she was very thirsty and sat and drank her way through three cups of tea, grateful that she was so early that none of her guests had yet put in an appearance.

She had done her best to take Silas’s advice. ‘There is no point in getting yourself excessively anxious before you know precisely what there is to be anxious about,’ he had said soothingly. ‘And I cannot believe that it would be so easy for her to flout the law in these matters anyway. She may say to you that it is merely a matter of bribes and so forth, but I am sure that if you have actual proof that the sort of house she speaks of – that it is being maintained, that is – then the law would have to act to relieve you of the resulting nuisance. So please, Tilly –’

‘But that could be so – so laborious and so public!’ Tilly had almost cried out, only remembering just in time to keep her voice down so that the games players around her in the drawing room would not hear. ‘And would probably take so long that by the time it was settled all my guests would have melted away and I should be hard put to re-establish a reputation it has taken me so many years to build –’

‘I do not think so,’ Silas said stoutly. ‘I shall be your eyes and ears, my dear Tilly, and will ensure that whatever happens in that house you shall know of it. Forewarned, remember, is forearmed – yes, forearmed.’ He had looked as pleased with himself as if he had
said something of great originality and for a moment Tilly was irritated by the hint of pomposity but then had to agree that he was right. She had been warned and that was better than having something happen to her out of nowhere, as might have been the case had Eliza not seen Dorcas from the dining-room window.

Now sitting staring sightlessly out of that same dining-room window at the pouring rain – for it was as grey and disagreeable a December day as it could possibly be – she once more tried to push her anxieties to the back of her mind. There was much to be done; Christmas was barely a fortnight away and though Eliza was well in hand with her puddings and her cakes and various pickles and other seasonal delights, Tilly herself had to see to it that her geese were chosen from the flock in the yard behind Mr Spurgeon’s shop, that the baron of beef she had ordered was being properly hung and that the hams that were being pickled in their tubs of brine in the back scullery were coming along properly. There was also the matter of the spruce tree she was to decorate in the manner that Prince Albert had introduced for the royal family at Windsor, which she had thought would amuse her guests if she used it as an exemplar. She really had too much to do, she thought, rattling her cup back into its saucer, to waste time worrying about Dorcas.

She got to her feet and went over to the sideboard to check that the chafing dishes were all as hot as they should be and that the food beneath the covers was properly presented, and moved along the row, lifting one heavy silver dome after another. Grilled bacon, well crimped; sausages from Mr Spurgeon, plump and glistening with their own fat; kidneys neatly arranged with slices of baked tomato between them; and shirred eggs with mushrooms. Silas would like that, she thought as she replaced the dome quietly and turned to go, and then noticed that the lowest drawer of the sideboard was partly open. She tried to close it, only to find it resisted her push and she pulled it wider to find what had obstructed it. And there, at the back, she found a soft roll of leather that had curled open and tucked itself into the drawer’s runners, and drew it out.

She took it to the table and sat down, and slowly unrolled the
bundle. She knew what it was of course; she had obtained the services of the saddler in Brompton Road, near Charlie’s shop, to make it for her when the contents had been so wonderfully restored to her over a dozen years ago, after she had been sure she had lost them for ever.

Her mother’s wedding spoons. Beautiful, silver, the bowls covered with the most delicately executed enamel in jewel colours, deepest amethyst and delicate rose, throbbing crimson and burnt orange, irridescent green and burning blue.

She sat with the unrolled bundle before her, looking down on the spoons and remembering. So many years of sadness before the happy ones that had been her lot this past dozen years. Turmoil, fear and loneliness had been succeeded by prosperity and tranquillity. Two distinct segments of her life had been punctuated by those spoons.

That is a silly thought, she scolded herself; of course the spoons had nothing to do with the improvement in her life. It had been sheer chance that she had lost them to Dorcas and equally so that they had come back when they did, and equally a matter of chance that her attention had been drawn to them this morning. But she could not convince herself that there was not some omen meant in finding the spoons as she had. They lived in that drawer and she did not fetch them out from one year to the next; it was enough to know they were there. Yet this morning, when she had been so worried, there they were to reassure her; her spirits lifted absurdly and she wrapped up the spoons again and restored them to their hiding place at the back of the drawer, closed it tidily and went cheerfully down to the kitchen to speak to Eliza.

She was making porridge, very carefully adding quantities of cream and brown sugar to it, and the kitchen steamed agreeably with the nutty scent of it, mixed with coffee and the grilling of herrings. Mr Grayling, thought Tilly. He must have asked Eliza especially to provide them this morning, for he was dearly partial to a herring, and she, dear creature, never forgot anything. Where would I be without her? And Tilly smiled widely at her across the kitchen.

‘You’re looking better this morning, Mum,’ Eliza said approvingly as she heaved the great iron pot on to the table and began to ladle its contents into a chafing dish ready to go up to the dining room. Behind her the herrings sizzled contentedly before the fire and the kettle steamed ready to make the second pot of coffee that would be needed to replace the one that Rosie was waiting to take up to the dining room together with the porridge. Lucy was busy, too, making toast, and the whole kitchen had an air of quiet purposefulness that was very comforting. Tilly breathed it in deeply, feeling better by the moment. She had been worrying for no purpose. There was nothing Dorcas could possibly do to upset the happy rhythm of Quentin’s. It was as secure as it possibly could be.

‘I am indeed feeling well,’ she said, and sniffed appreciatively. ‘I thought I was not hungry and wanted only tea, but you know, I think perhaps I shall return to the dining room and take breakfast with the guests. That porridge looks very good –’

‘It is, Mum,’ Eliza said and held out her ladle so that Tilly could taste it and she did, relishing the sweet nutty flavour and the richness of the cream which had given it a much more agreeable tawny colour than its usual grey.

‘Mmm,’ Tilly said. ‘I shall indeed have a plateful upstairs, Eliza. I wanted to tell you –’ She hesitated and glanced at Rosie and Lucy. ‘That matter we discussed last night – I have considered it further and I am convinced we have no need for anxiety.’

Eliza cocked a sharp eye at her. ‘Is that so, Mum? Well, I’m glad to hear you think so. Me, I’m not so certain –’

‘Well, I have thought a great deal, and there are reasons why I will not worry further,’ Tilly said firmly. ‘I shall speak to you later this morning. I must see Spurgeon about the geese and, of course, the beef. Is there anything else I must talk to him about?’

‘Yes, please, Mum,’ Eliza said. ‘I want to make a liver paste in the French manner and I need extra goose liver for that. If he can contrive to find some – for not every cook wants ‘em, more fool they – I’ll be greatly obliged, tell him.’

‘I will,’ Tilly promised, and went back upstairs to eat porridge with her guests who were now arriving, hungry for their breakfast.

The first post had already been delivered and Tilly glanced at the pile of envelopes beside her plate and was disappointed not to see Duff’s familiar handwriting and then chided herself. Absurd! He had written to her only yesterday – there could not be another from him yet. And she thought of the letter she had sent to Sophie and wondered how long it would take her to respond. Quickly, she hoped. As long as it was the right response, of course.

The table talk was surprisingly sprightly. On most mornings people ate quietly or read a newspaper as they did so, but this morning they all seemed in a festive sort of mood, perhaps because of the approach of Christmas, and chattered busily. The only silent one was Silas and he waited till most of the others had drifted away about the day’s business before he spoke quietly to Tilly.

‘I have been thinking of our conversation last night,’ he said. ‘Trying to think of how I might reassure you that –’

She smiled brilliantly. ‘Oh, I know now that I was worried for no reason,’ she said. ‘Or for very little. In the clear light of day, I feel much more calm about it all, and beg your pardon for so tediously occupying your mind with a minor matter.’

‘It was neither tedious nor minor. No conversation with you could ever be so described,’ he said and grinned as she blushed and glanced at Mr Gee, who was seated at the far end of the table absorbed in the
Morning Post
while he ate the last of a great deal of toast and boiled ham.