Page 16 of A Conspiracy in Belgravia
“Was there a rapport in place between father and son?”
“I do not believe so. But he did send a letter not long after we arrived in London for the Season.”
Sir Henry had happened to be away that day. Livia and Charlotte had a standing appointment to ransack his study and read all his letters whenever they had a suitable window of time. Sir Henry and Lady Holmes often chose not to tell their children, or each other, the truth of any given situation. Their two youngest daughters snooped so as not to be kept in the dark.
“In his letter, Mr. Finch expressed gratitude for the support my father had given him over the years. He stated that he was now in the accountancy profession in London, living in quarters befitting a gentleman, with prospects of greater success in the future. He begged for no intimacy and gave no hint that he wished to call on my father or vice versa. But that he’d written at all was shocking, especially to my sister, who did not consider it to be either discreet or seemly.
“I came away with the sense that Mr. Finch was not at all averse to some kind of cordial relationship with my father. And that was the reason I didn’t go to him, other than not wanting to burden himand not wanting to burden myself with a possibly meddlesome brother.”
Mrs. Watson furrowed her brow—then quickly undid the motion. Charlotte smiled to herself. Mrs. Watson was in no hurry to add to her wrinkle count, even though her husband was long dead and she needed no longer fret about appearing too old next to an eleven-years-younger man.
“Are you worried for him, your brother?” she asked.
Charlotte hesitated. Was she worried? She hadn’t thought so, yet the question felt unexpectedly weighty.
“As Lady Ingram said, it’s far more likely that he no longer wishes to see her than that he has fallen victim to mishap or misfortune,” she answered. “So no, I am not apprehensive on his behalf. But I am beginning to be curious. Very curious.”
The de Bloises were a pair of students Penelope had met in medical school. The elder one, Madame de Blois, had been widowed by the time she was twenty-one. Instead of setting her sight on remarriage, she decided to seek an education. The other, Mademoiselle de Blois, was Madame de Blois’s late husband’s cousin. Inspired by Madame de Blois’s example, she’d followed the former to medical school.
They were elegant, opinionated, and very French. Mrs. Watson enjoyed meeting them, but it was obvious that the young people wished to enjoy their own company. Madame de Blois promised to act as a stern chaperone and return Penelope home at a most appropriate hour; Mrs. Watson and Miss Holmes bade them good evening and walked out of the hotel.
Mrs. Watson was about to climb into her waiting carriage when Miss Holmes said, “I know a place ’round the corner, a lovely tea shop that I couldn’t afford to go into the last time I was in the area.”
Mrs. Watson glanced at her in surprise. But it was only half pastsix, the sun still high in the sky, and they had no other pressing business. “Then let us take our patronage there.”
She and Miss Holmes had first met at a tea shop near the General Post Office, an unpretentious place for harried clerks to wolf down a plate of scrambled eggs before they headed home. This St. James’s tea shop was a far more sophisticated establishment, reminding Mrs. Watson of the sleek, mirror-walled Parisian patisseries where she and Penelope had indulged in café au lait and slices of apple tart when she’d visited the dear girl the previous autumn.
And it must have a French pastry chef on the premise, for they had similar offerings in large glass cases. Mrs. Watson ordered a small pear tart; Miss Holmes took an entire plate of miniature concoctions.
“Lord Ingram’s godfather used to have a patissier in his employ,” said Mrs. Watson. “Imagine that. What luxury.”
“Oh, I have imagined it many times, ma’am.”
Miss Holmes had asked for black tea, for once—to better set off the taste of the pastries, perhaps. Or perhaps because one must pay the penance for all those Parisiandélicesby forgoing any additional sugar and cream.
“Anyway,” she continued, “Mr. Finch lives in a residential hotel on this street.”
Mrs. Watson started—and was forcefully reminded that although Miss Holmes might sometimes have her stomach first and foremost on her mind, one should never assume, not even for a second, that it was ever theonlything on her mind.
“Did we pass it?”
The area was rich with snuggeries suitable for bachelors with a decent income. Some of those establishments sat cheek by jowl with family hotels such as the one on Jermyn Street that hosted the deBloises; others were situated on quieter streets, indistinguishable at first glance from private dwellings.
“No, it’s at the other end of the street. Black front door, white window trims, white stone and stucco exterior—identical to its neighbors. I’ll point it out when we leave.”
Their waitress arrived with tea and temptation. “Anything else for you, mum, miss?”
“Thank you for the prompt service,” said Miss Holmes, unobtrusively sliding a coin into the waitress’s hand. “Have you a minute?”
“Of course, miss.”
“We are from Dartmouth and we don’t know much about London. But my brother is an architect and says that for a man of his profession, there is no place to be but London. So we are here to look for a nice place for him, with good people nearby, in the hope that he won’t fall in with the wrong crowd.”
“Ah, you’ll want Mrs. Woods’s place then,” said their waitress. “It’s right down the street. I’ve never been inside, me, but Mrs. Woods—she looks after them there and she’s mighty proud of her gentlemen. Old Dr. Vickery comes here from time to time for a bite to eat. Lovely man, he is. He’s had first-floor rooms there for years, ever since his wife died. They do your plain cooking and your washing—much easier for a man that way.”
“Just down the street, you say?”
“Second from last if you go out that way, on the north side. But you wouldn’t know to look at it, that’s the kind of superior place it is.”
