Silver (21 page)

“
You like to watch do you? How about you give me something in return for my troubles?”

       
For a moment, Avery had thought his disguise had been rumbled. The man’s face was glazed with want. He had seen the same face come across Bateman or Goodwin and Connie’s punters. It was a face he fancied that even he possessed. The evening was drawing in and, although the sky was still shot with blue, the light was fading fast. He had glanced up the road and seen only a few solitary gentlemen some distance away.

“
It’s alright, I know a place we can go. We won’t be seen. Come on, sir,” the man had continued.

       
Sir? So the man wanted Avery as he was. He was about to respond when he noticed the man reach into the front of his own trousers and withdraw his member. The flesh colour against the dark of his trousers was stark and Avery could not help but stare and the man took this as a sign that Avery was game.

“Come on, take a hold.”

        There was not time enough for Avery to register his surprise at being approached in this way, and by another man too! It would be later when he could process the absurdity of the situation.  A man in want of another man only to find that man was not quite what he had in mind! At the time, Avery was too shocked to consider the danger he could be in and could only laugh and walk away.

“
Oi! You can’t do that!” The man’s voice was loud. Too loud and one of the distant figures turned to see what the commotion was. It was growing too gloomy to see what was happening but it was enough to disperse the man quickly and Avery had walked briskly home.

       
Now, as he took a seat beside Elizabeth, he watched only Cribbs hurrying across the vast green towards the pavilion where refreshments could be purchased.

“
You have until she returns to change my mind back again Mr. Silver. It would be a great shame if you cannot. I was beginning to think we could be friends.”

       
Avery cast about in his memory trying to remember exactly what Bateman had said to him. At the moment, Elizabeth was in danger of believing that he and Bateman were complicit in some way. To win her attention? To share her, even?

“
Miss Greenwood, I fear that you may be much mistaken by what you may have overheard.”

“
Do you think me a “
backstreet whore
” Mr. Silver?”

       
The phrase Bateman has used came thundering back and Silver responded immediately.

“
Good God no! Miss Greenwood, how could you think such a thing? I can assure you that you are indeed mistaken.”

“
So you do not think me a whore Mr. Silver but do you intend to share me like one?”

       
Avery snorted with incredulity. “Of course not! I would sooner eat my own head than share you.” The words had come out wrong but the sentiment was entirely genuine.

“
Good,” praised Elizabeth. “Then at such a rate you shouldn’t have to. I much prefer your company to Bateman’s.”

       
As she delivered this, she squeezed his thigh before standing to turn and greet the returning Cribbs.

“
Good girl, Cribbs. What took you so long? Oh don’t say you didn’t bring any sugar? Oh be a sweetheart and fetch us some, won’t you? You would like some sugar wouldn’t you Mr. Silver?”

       
Cribbs looked as if she would sooner strangle her mistress than do her bidding but she made no sound as she turned on her heel and skulked back across the grass. Elizabeth turned and lowered her gaze at Avery Silver.

“
I wonder if you could change my mind back again before the next time she returns?”

       
She sat down again beside him but this time a fraction closer. Their thighs touched and she pressed her knees towards him, her hand once more upon his thigh. Silver leaned back against the bench, his arms outstretched across the back of the bars and discretely placed a finger in between her shoulder blades and firmly drew a line up to the nape of her neck where the curl of her hair lay tightly coiled. The sensation it invoked within Elizabeth caused her to once again squeeze Avery’s thigh and the two felt a concordant shiver of desire pass between them.

“
Have you changed your mind Miss Greenwood?”

“
Oh yes,” she replied, her eyes shut tight.

The afternoon of Mrs. Evesham and Mrs. Doone’s visit were, thankfully, devoid of any further unexpected visitors allowing me some small respite in which to quietly grieve and to try and order the many disordered thoughts that buffeted inside my mind. It was the third day following my father’s death and a note had been delivered from the undertakers requesting a set of clothes in which to dress my father for burial. The coroner had concluded his examinations and had released the body for the funeral three days hence. I was grateful of the task as I had been putting off a return to Hamble Gardens fearing what I would unearth there; nevertheless, I found I was relieved of the excuse to go. John had already set Heston about clearing the house ready for sale and I wanted to see the place before the desiccation was complete.  I knew Heston well enough to know that he would keep safe such personal effects of my father’s as he would have wanted and I looked ahead with trepidation at the task. Such proximity might bring me closer to understanding this mystery but, at the same time, reveal more than I was willing to learn.

       
The city had conjured up a cold, so sharp, that I thought my lungs were being ripped apart as I made my way by cab across London. I was raw by the time we reached my father’s house and grateful to step inside the warmth. The door was opened by a young parlour maid whom I did not recognise but, so glad was I to be out from the bitter cold, I forgot to raise the matter immediately. I had been so mindful of staying warm in the cab that I had not had time to think on the journey about how I might feel being back inside that house.

       
The moment the door closed, the familiar warm smells of floor wax and oak, sandalwood and oil coiled their way into my mind releasing powerful feelings of comfort and happiness. As the young girl took my hat and gloves, I noticed that the roses on the console table had been refreshed. They were my mother’s favourite flowers and my father had always insisted that there be fresh roses every week even since she had passed away. She had believed that roses were not so much a romantic but an optimistic flower; their many layers of petals opening daily to reveal a new face even when they began to die and shed their bounty, she collected the fallen petals and had them to dried to demonstrate their eternity. Before I had time to soak up the familiar feeling of home, I was struck by the changes that had occurred in just three days. The long-case clock had been covered by a white sheet and, even from under its shroud, I could hear that it had not been wound. Many of the paintings which my father had collected were now removed from the wall, squares of pale wallpaper indicating where once they had hung.

       
Heston appeared in the hall from my father’s study and his countenance lifted from one of great heaviness as he took in the sight of me. I smiled and inclined my head towards him.

“
Madam,” he self-consciously indicated to the bare walls. “As per your husband’s wishes, I have begun compiling an inventory of the house. The paintings have been collected in the parlour where Messrs.’ Webster and Round have started to catalogue them.”

       
He looked at me in a wretched manner which told me he was loathed to undertake this dismantling of his master’s home, his own home. I could imagine his disgust at having the auctioneers inside the house, picking over the collections of my parents in both a detached manner but also barely disguising their appetite for the sensation that occurred under this very roof. There was an unfamiliar air about Heston which put me at unease as if he wanted to discuss something with me but his sense of propriety forbade it. If my own uneasiness had abated, I would probably have tried to wrestle it from him but the strangeness of the house looking so bare stirred up a sense of dread and I was trying only to concentrate on not weeping or ranting.

“
Thank you Heston. I am come for some paperwork and to collect a suit for my father.”

“
I will see to it madam.” He stepped aside and I walked directly to the study. He followed me to the door.

“
I will get Lottie to bring you some tea Madam.”

“
Lottie?” I called to mind the face of the young girl who had let me in a short while ago and remembered that I did not recognise her. “What happened to Florence?”

“
She was dismissed, Ma’am.” Heston said simply, his face utterly neutral.

“
Dismissed?” I repeated. “Why?”

“
Mr. Bancroft understood that the press was informed as a result of a leak within this house Madam.”

       
I understood perfectly. Neither Heston nor Mrs. Rooksmith would have spoken to a soul about what went on under this roof. They were of a different generation of domestic staff believing the upper echelons of society had a right to behave differently than theirs. What limited gossip must have occurred between the staff of one house or another was little more than worthless prattle. Such a revelation as my father being a woman, quite aside from shocking them to silence, would have certainly been kept confidential. Florence, a young girl of twenty or so, of the new generation would certainly have weighed up a good reference from our family as having little currency in light of the revelations and would therefore throw her lot in with the press without so much hesitation. The news depressed me a little, as I once again doubted who I could trust. I looked at the smart form of Heston stood waiting for a dismissal or an order and I felt a small glow of affection for him in his steadfastness. Could I rely upon him as I once had my father or could he also be concealing something from me?

“
Very good. Thank you Heston.”

       
Heston nodded and left me in my father’s study.  As he drew the door closed behind him, I realised I had never been alone in this room before and a curiosity awoke inside me. From my earliest childhood memories this room had held a charm that only forbidden places can. My father would emerge from hours inside its confines, doing I could not imagine what, to earn our modest fortune. My father had been a keen investor and had selected wisely a number of trades and had profited greatly from their success. He advised others on their own finances and portfolios and was rather well regarded at it. As a result, he spent many hours in this room with many clients and acquaintances discussing business and, by all accounts, not one of them ever guessed his secret. I was surprised to feel a small swell of pride at the idea that my father had been so clever. I shook my head and rolled my eyes. It was an absurd feeling but the warmness it brought to my heart gave me the first feeling of tenderness and I was not ready to feel thus so.

       
Slowly, I walked to the large desk upon which the police inspector had been sat when I had last been in the room and, upon which, there still lay the volume of poetry that he had been perusing. I ignored it and continued around to my father’s side of the desk and took a seat in the captains’ chair which sat before it. The wood creaked and the leather sighed; the noises instantly sending me back to another time when it had been my father eliciting those same sounds. I looked across the desk, the room unfamiliar from this angle and I could see myself stood in the centre of the rug which covered the floor. I must have been eight or nine; my hair was tucked behind my ears and I am looking at my feet. From what I can see of my face, I am burning bright red and I can feel the heat of the memory as I cast my mind back.

“
What have you got to say for yourself, Imogen?” My father’s voice is low and expresses only disappointment. There is no hint of anger; there is no space left in the room for any after my mother’s outburst. She stands behind him, her back to the room, looking out of the tall window. She has one hand to her mouth clasping her lips between thumb and forefinger as if sealing them from uttering anything further.

“
Well?” he says, after it is clear I will add nothing to the shame filled silence.

       
His voice is distant and I know that I have grieved him far greater than my mother’s harsh words could ever have allowed me to realise.

“
I’m sorry,” I manage to mumble.

       
I can hardly remember how the whole incident had come about. My parents had kissed me goodnight as usual and I had insisted on keeping a light with which to read by. Nanny Owen usually extinguished it, a while late,r when I was weary and nodding. As soon as my bedroom door had closed, I had taken it in mind that the long shadows being cast by the candle light were more sinister than usual and I had taken up the candlestick and set it closer to me. I knew it was wrong but I was a sensible and careful child and I didn’t expect any accidents. The closer I drew the candle towards me, the darker the corners of the room seemed and I eventually managed to prop the candlestick deep in between my pillows. Of course this had been a stupid plan and I am lucky to be alive at all. Needless to say, the light bobbed and caught the edge of my bed linen. I was so shocked by the ferocity of the blaze that I was momentarily struck dumb. Afraid of the fire but also knowing that it was my fault, I tried ineffectually to solve the problem. I had tried in vain to blow out the fire but this only served to further ignite the blaze and, leaping from my bed, I had let out a scream. The scenes that followed would be rather comical had it not been for the seriousness of them. In my own head they seem to be recalled only in double speed, rather like the spinning optical wheels where the movements are jerky. Nanny Owen appeared and screamed. She flapped and lunged for me, pulling me to her. My father rushed in to the room, his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and he was not wearing a tie. It was the least clothed I would ever see my father alive. He shouted and grabbed for my ewer on the nightstand, he snatched it up and threw the water over the flames. A younger Heston ran into the room, carrying some container or other of water which he also threw at my bed. I remember the grotesque, spectral flames licking and curling through the cloud of jet black smoke. My father pushed me out of the room into my mother’s arms.  Heston returned with dripping wet linen and he and my father re-entered to wrestle with the flames to bring them under control. It is over in my head in a few minutes. I told my mother what happened and she was instantly thrown into a temper. She thrust me from her, screamed out in fury and marched me downstairs to the study. Two plump teardrops blossom at the corner of my eyes and one falls across my cheek and I bite my lip. “I’m really sorry,” I say again quietly.

“
There is no-one sorrier than we are, Imogen. Tonight we have all had rather a shock, the greatest of all being that we came so close to losing you.”

       
My mother turns from the window and tears are streaming down her pale face and I notice for the first time that she is shaking, not from anger or chill, but from fear.

       
At the time, the scene seemed so horridly unfair and their response such an overreaction but as I sat thinking about that night I considered how I should feel if Sebastian or Thomas had ever been so near death and a cold, sharper than the bitter air outside, swept through me and I shuddered. Yet, though I am brought closer to them by the memory, I find myself wondering again whether they could feel the same way for me if neither of them were my real parents. A knock at the door brings me back to the present and I am surprised to see the face of Lottie as she brought in a tea tray to the study.

“Over here ma’am?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“
Can I fetch you anything else ma’am?”

“
No,..er yes. Actually, can you ask Mrs. Rooksmith to come and see me in half an hour please?”

“
Certainly ma’am.”

       
She curtsied and left me alone once more. I made a start on the desk drawers. Half of them were full of well labeled envelopes, receipts and dockets relating to the finances of the house. There was a drawer full of keys, all labeled with meticulous care.
Clock, hall. Clock, mantel (parlour), Pantry
etc
.
There was an order to these drawers which I found comforting. I don’t know what I was looking for but after a few moments of searching, I found nothing. There was a knock at the door again and I jumped.

“
Ah yes, Mrs. Rooksmith,” I gestured to the chair. “Won’t you have seat?”

       
The old woman smiled at me and sat awkwardly in the seat opposite my own. The desk between us seemed suddenly to be wider than the Thames and I felt quite distant to the old woman.

“
It’s good to see you, Miss Imogen,” she started. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Your father was a good man.”

       
There was conviction in her sentiment but her voice tailed off as I looked away uncomfortably. I was not yet ready to discuss the matter and denial seemed far more appealing.

“
Heston will have told you the plans for the house and that we shall have to let you all go at the end of next month. Of course, you shall all have the most excellent of references. John and I have always regarded your services very highly and my father would want me to reward your loyalty. Accordingly, I have made arrangements for three months extra salary to be added to your final pay.”

       
There was a loud snort and I glanced across at Mrs. Rooksmith to note that she was blowing her nose, her eyes were red. The desk between us grew even wider as I felt the gap in our emotions. She was a woman grieving for her employer in abundance whilst there I sat, numb to her tears and still quite unable to shed a tear for my own father.  I felt strangely outside of myself as I watched this woman, whom I had known for many years, compose herself. I was unable to offer any comfort but instead I remained seated behind my father’s desk, my face impassive and my hands still. I was saved any further discomfort by a knock at the door.