The Tailor's Girl (31 page)

Madeleine took Edie by the shoulders. ‘This all makes sense in your mind, Eden, because you want it to be the truth.’

‘It’s plausible!’

‘About as plausible as Ben wanting to destroy you and yet marry you.’

Edie felt the sobs lurch in her chest. The darkness was rising again. She’d kept it at bay, even kept away the whispers that had begun nagging at her since talking to Percival Fitch of the tiny coincidences that added up.

‘If Sarah confirms Ben’s actions, will you believe me?’

‘Yes.’

Edie blew her nose on a handkerchief. It was red to match her tie and she remembered the heart she’d cut out from Tom’s handkerchief, which she’d given him on the day he left. She still had the scrap of fabric at home and made a mental note to carry it with her from now on.

‘I can’t confront her, Mads. I promised Ben.’

‘Oh, so now you care about Ben and his feelings?’

‘I care about keeping my promises.’

‘Right,’ Madeleine said, approaching the coat stand and pulling down her cape. ‘
I
shall go and find Sarah and I shall confront her. Let’s put an end to this speculation.’

‘What about Tom?’

‘One drama at a time, Eden. That’s all I can cope with.’

She marched from the salon and Edie was left staring at a red handkerchief. She had so much work to do but her mind was swarming with the possibility that Tom was within her reach. She picked up the phone and asked the operator to put her through to the correct exchange, which then connected her with Anderson & Sheppard. It took several minutes until a voice answered.

‘Oh, good afternoon, this is Miss Eden Valentine from Valentine’s Bridal Salon at Sloane Square.’

‘Hello, Edie. This is Jonathan Elton speaking.’

‘Ah, Jonathan, thank you. I was wondering if Mr Fitch might be available.’

‘Mr Fitch? I’m afraid not. He’s taking annual leave. I believe he’s gone rambling in the Lake District for three weeks.’

‘Oh, I see,’ she said, a wave of disappointment crashing against her hopes.

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Er, you may be able to. I don’t know if you recall but Mr Fitch was telling me about the gentleman who was knocked down in Savile Row a while back . . . one of your clients?’

He hesitated. ‘I do remember, yes.’

She knew it was wrong to ask. ‘Could you give me his name, please?’ She could picture Jonathan’s kind, boyish face twisting with concern. ‘Actually, Jonathan, don’t,’ she countered, deciding in the heartbeat of his indecision that she was behaving without discretion for the man in question, or for Mr Fitch. She knew the code of Savile Row better than most. ‘I know it’s not right in our line of work to be that indiscreet, but perhaps you’d let me put it another way. May I ask, were you aware of the name Tom coming up in relation to that client?’ She was grasping at mist. If she believed this man to be Tom, then he would hardly have mentioned his name and then ignored it. It was ridiculous to ask, but the question was out now. ‘I’m sorry to sound so desperate, Jonathan, but I just have it my mind that I know this gentleman, but I knew him as Tom and he lived at Epping.’

He sounded relieved when he spoke. ‘I can tell you that name was never mentioned and I was there when it all happened, Miss Edie. Definitely no Tom. No mention of Epping, either.’

She nodded, her heart hurting as another door slammed in her face. ‘All right, sorry to disturb you. Thanks, Jonathan, and please give Mr Fitch my best.’

‘I will. Goodbye, Edie.’

‘Bye, Jonathan,’ she said softly, putting down the phone and suddenly feeling vaguely ridiculous. What would she have said to Fitch anyway?
I think one of your clients might be my lost husband? No, I’m sorry, I don’t know his name. I only knew him as Tom.
She winced, knew she was behaving irrationally, and now she’d put Madeleine into the thick of her crazy notions.

The bell rang at the door and she swung around to see Madeleine standing in the doorway with Sarah.

Sarah was blushing and Madeleine looked uncharacteristically nervous. ‘Sarah has something she wishes to tell you,’ she said, gesturing for the cloakroom assistant to move into the salon. ‘Go on, Sarah. Tell Eden what you told me.’

Alex sat behind his desk at Larksfell and stared at his red handkerchief.

Cecily had suggested it. ‘It’s part of letting go, Lex. Get rid of it. Here, give it to me now – I’ll burn it.’

Alex had leapt as if scalded. ‘No. You won’t burn it. But I’ll put it away, I promise.’

‘I hate that handkerchief. If I see it, Lex, I’ll get rid of it. That red rag is holding you back.’

He laughed deliberately, needing to prove that he was not emotionally dependent on it. ‘I said I’d put it away, all right?’

And he had, tucking it right at the back of his desk drawer. But now here it was in his hand.

He had been in the process of signing a cheque to pay for the honeymoon, and now the sight of the handkerchief halted him. The feel of it, however, disturbed all the drawers in his mind where he had neatly folded away thoughts of a lover, a girlfriend . . . even a wife who might be waiting for him somewhere. It had taken every last reserve of willpower to banish this mysterious, invisible woman to concentrate on his fiancée and their forthcoming nuptials. He’d made a pact with himself that he would: he owed it to Pen, to his family, to himself.

And he had been winning that battle in his mind, but a simple glimpse at the handkerchief and all the demons were back, opening up the compartments with glee, shaking out their contents and spilling his guilt with every tormented question that always spiralled down to the same few words:
Who Are You?

‘It’s all moving so fast,’ he murmured.

‘What is, darling?’ his mother said.

He hid the handkerchief in his lap. Cecily Wynter had a penchant for sneaking up on him but in a breezy way that could never be considered stealth. She stood before him now with a plate of food. ‘Alex, if you are going to stand me up for dinner at home, at least promise me you’ll eat,’ she said with affection. ‘Oh, you are cosy in here,’ she added, moving towards the hearth, having placed a plate of sandwiches in front of him. ‘Eat, Alex, or you won’t have strength to give me my first grandchild.’

‘Don’t be vulgar, Mother, it doesn’t become you,’ he said dryly and she chuckled.

‘Is everything all right?’

He reached for a sandwich and made a grateful groaning sound as the taste of still warm and sticky roasted chicken melted in his mouth.

‘Is this Dearie’s own chutney?’

‘From our apples too.’

He nodded, ate hungrily.

‘You see, you’re famished.’

As she turned away, he pushed the handkerchief into his pocket and followed his mother to the fireside, carrying his plate. ‘I forgot the time. I hate the thought of having to leave everything for four weeks.’

‘Nonsense, Lex. Your wedding is still a few moons away, so why you’re worrying about work already is beyond me. I want you to take gorgeous Pen away and make her very, very happy, and also make my grandchild.’

He gave his mother a look of soft despair.

‘Why is it moving too fast for you?’ she asked, ignoring his admonishment and returning to the original conversation that he hoped he’d left behind.

‘Pen’s in such a rush to be married, I can barely catch my breath on all the arrangements. Which society girl planning a wedding doesn’t give herself at least a year for all the histrionics? Pen’s pulling this all together in a matter of a few months. April first will be upon us in a blink.’

‘She’s not pregnant, is she, darling?’

Now he gave her a slit-eyed look of caution.

‘Well, it is April Fool’s Day.’ She shrugged in defence. ‘Are you having second thoughts?’

‘Not second thoughts, just thoughts. Why do we have to be in such a tearing hurry?’

‘Well, she clearly believes she’s waited long enough for you!’

He sighed and it was a sound of resignation. ‘I could do worse.’

‘Oh, Lex. This is the rest of your life, darling!’ Cecily’s exasperation was reflected in a pained gaze at her son.

Alex swallowed the food in his mouth that seemed suddenly tasteless. He turned to stare at the flames and for an instant was reminded of flames in a sitting room . . . an elegant room, but not especially large or fancy. He was aware of an old man . . . but then the recollection danced away from him like a disturbed butterfly.

‘Alex? What’s going on?’

He could smell the orange blossom note of his mother’s perfume, had seen the squat, oval-shaped bottle that held the citrusy cologne, so why was he envisaging a different bottle and a whiff of floral fragrances?

‘I . . . I’m smelling a scent. I had a vague notion of violets.’

She shrugged. ‘There’s a perfume called “April Violets”, I believe. Yardley or something. I've tried it but it gives me a headache.’

‘Yardley,’ he murmured, turning the word over in his mind because it sounded so familiar.

‘It’s on Bond Street, darling,’ she muttered to prompt him.

‘I’m sorry. I seem to be having more frequent flashes of memory.’

She blinked. ‘I suppose it had to occur. And hopefully it brings you relief.’ Despite her positive approach, Cecily looked doubtful.

‘Yes, except there are people in the memories, Mother. Obviously people who can fill in the gap of time that I was missing.’

‘You look so worried.’

‘I am. What if I was . . . well, with someone?’

‘The Yardley perfume-wearer, you mean? It’s the red handkerchief again, isn’t it?’ She eyed him from beneath a peeved expression. ‘You promised.’

‘Someone made that handkerchief with care. The meaning is all too obvious. I’m sorry, Mother, but it seems callous that I disregard it,’ he said, doing his best to ignore her expression of doubt that anyone who wore April Violets and cut hearts into handkerchiefs was the right ‘social’ material for a Wynter.

‘All right, let’s just entertain this notion for a moment, although after this I shall never discuss it again with you. I want this matter closed.’ She took an audible breath. ‘What can you do about it, even if you wanted to know more?’

Alex felt a boost of admiration for his mother, who, if nothing else, was fair.

‘I’ve thought about that a great deal, and I’ve come to the conclusion there is only one place to go. I have to return to where it was found, I suppose. It’s the only starting point I have.’

‘You mean Dr Cavendish?’

‘I mean Fitch and his staff at Savile Row.’

She shook her head. ‘Needle in a haystack, Lex. And plenty of disruption as you plan to marry.’

‘Mother . . . what if I am already married?’

‘Oh, good heavens!’ She looked genuinely shocked.

‘I could be marrying Pen illegally. You surely don’t wish bigamy to be part of the Wynter legacy?’

Cecily’s normally good-humoured expression clouded with worry. ‘No, absolutely not. Until now it hadn’t occurred to me that you might have actually married someone.’

He swallowed. ‘I was away long enough that I might even have children.’

Now Cecily looked back at her son with deep dismay. ‘Oh, Lex,’ she pleaded. ‘Now you’re just teasing. You know how much I want a Wynter grandson . . . and many more grandchildren too.’

He shrugged in guilt at upsetting her. ‘I’m just saying. We don’t know.’

‘Well, I shall speak to Gerald in the morning —’

He stood. ‘No. Let me handle this. If we get Gerald involved, it becomes something much bigger and more serious than it may have to be. I could be fearing the worst unnecessarily. A few well-directed questions might open up the pathway we need.’

‘Very well. I understand your reluctance to send in the cavalry.’

‘Cavendish and Fitch were both present when I recovered consciousness. I will begin there; ask them to remember absolutely everything they can of that day. Maybe I was with someone?’

‘Didn’t you say something about being dressed in an old suit?’

He nodded. ‘It wasn’t old, as I recall. It was torn – presumably in the fall – but the suit itself was very well tailored, quality cloth . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Not my colour, although the truth is, I’d just never thought to wear navy before.’

‘What was in the pockets?’

‘The pockets were empty. The only reason the handkerchief escaped notice was that it was found in an inside private pocket.’

She frowned. ‘Nothing in your pockets. Why? Where was your money?’

‘My theory is that thieves got to me. I’d like to think I put up a fight but if not, why not?’

‘Wait,’ she said. ‘You said the suit was well tailored. So a tailor made it for you, but not Percy Fitch, you say.’

‘Definitely not.’

‘Well, darling . . . which label was in the suit? Surely if you know that, you can track it back to the maker.’

He opened his mouth in wonder and then leapt at his mother, kissing both her cheeks. ‘Oh, you clever thing! Father definitely didn’t marry you just because you were so pretty.’

‘I can assure you of that,’ she replied. ‘Can you remember a name in the suit?’

‘No, but I shall be calling Percival Fitch first thing tomorrow.’

‘What about Penny?’

‘Not a word, Mother. This could go nowhere.’

She nodded, let him help her up to her feet and she gave a soft groan. ‘A word of caution, Lex. I know Penny comes across as a breezy, modern woman but you see she’s never had to face real adversity. The only grandparent she’s known is still hale and hearty, and Penny has never had to yearn for anything but you, darling. She’s not had to shoulder the lesson that working entirely off emotion is dangerous.’

‘Unlike us, you mean?’

Cecily smiled sadly. ‘Let’s just say we’ve learned how to keep our emotions quiet.’

‘It’s not my intention to hurt Penny, but I have to do this.’

‘Then I suppose I shall help you all that I can.’

_______________

After a restless night, Alex appeared at the breakfast table in a fidgety mood to face the simple bowl of porridge with honey and poached winter fruits.

A small jug was placed near his hand. ‘Didn’t sleep well, Master Lex?’

‘Does it show?’

Bramson blinked his answer.

‘I might be going up to London tomorrow, Bramson; I promised to meet Miss Aubrey-Finch in town.’

‘The theatre, Sir? I heard that those American funny men, the Marx Brothers, are performing to happy audiences.’

Alex frowned. ‘I’ll leave all that to my fiancée, Bramson. I fear I’ve been a bit reticent about all the frantic preparations she’s in the midst of. The least I can do is take dear Pen out for dinner after a hectic day of wedding shopping.’

Bramson chuckled. ‘She must be terribly excited, Mr Alex.’

Alex shrugged. ‘What is it with women and weddings, Bramson? Most men just want it over and done with, eh?’

The butler smiled indulgently. ‘Mr Jones is back from his break. I’ll ask him to get the car out. I presume you’ll want to be driven, Sir?’

‘Jones?’ His mind tripped at the mention.

‘You haven’t met him, Master Lex, but he’s one of the Wynter family drivers and has been since 1915. His brother’s been seriously unwell and your mother gave him time to go visit. I’m afraid his brother passed away.’

‘Oh, that’s too bad. A soldier?’

‘Complications from wounds, yes, Sir. Jonesy . . . er, Mr Jones, was close to his brother . . .’

Alex stared at Bramson with a haunted expression.

‘. . . twin, I gather,’ he finished. ‘Master Lex?’

‘What? Sorry.’

‘Oh, you looked as though someone walked upon your grave, Sir. Are you all right?’

‘Fine. Forgive me. I don’t even know what I was thinking. What were you saying?’

‘I was just explaining that Jones is a twin, so perhaps it feels harder to lose his brother. Um, are you sure I can’t ask Mrs Dear to cook you up a full breakfast?’

‘No, this is plenty, thank you,’ Alex said, his mind still reaching after the jolt at hearing the nickname of Jonesy.
Why? What did it mean?
And why was he thinking about a hospital?
He ate his porridge in comfortable silence, barely glancing at the newspaper near his wrist. He wasn’t interested today in anything but the mission he was on. Even the events of the world could wait, he thought, spooning in porridge faster than his mother might think polite, but he felt its warmth and comfort hit his belly and soothe away the demons of the night and his restless dreams . . . none of which he could recall now.

‘I wonder why dreams slip through our minds like quicksand, Bramson?’ he thought aloud. He dabbed his napkin against his mouth and left the table.

‘Indeed, Sir. But I take the attitude that Mother Nature might have designed us to remember them if she wanted us to. Our dreams are the travels of our sleep and meant to remain there, I suspect.’

Alex patted the butler’s arm. ‘Where is Mrs Wynter?’

‘Here, darling,’ she said, appearing around the door in her usual yet always surprisingly well-timed manner.

‘Morning, Mother.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Lots to do, I’m afraid. Enjoy your eggs.’

‘Well, I can see you don’t want your newspaper either, so I am claiming it. I was speaking to your sister last night on the telephone and she told me that Penny’s bridal designer is interviewed today and I’ve promised to pay attention to it. Beautiful young woman, Charlotte assures me. Quite the catch! She joked she hopes you don’t ever meet her – certainly not before the big day, because she’s every inch your sort of girl.’

Their butler cleared his throat.

‘Oh, Bramson. I’m only joking.’

Alex raised a hand in amused farewell and disappeared into his study. Before long he was connected through to Anderson & Sheppard.

‘Oh, good morning, Mr Wynter. How are you, Sir?’

‘Very well, thank you, Elton. Certainly much better than the last time we met.’

They both chuckled.

‘I’m very pleased to hear it, Sir. You had us all worried but extremely relieved that you are returned.’

‘Indeed,’ Alex said. ‘Er, I wonder if Mr Fitch is available?’

‘I’m sorry, Sir. Mr Fitch is on holiday.’

‘Oh?’

‘He likes to go rambling up north. Lake District, Sir.’

‘Good heavens. Aren’t they all snowed in up there?’

‘Probably, Sir.’

‘When is he back, Elton?’

‘Next week, Mr Wynter. Can I help with anything?’