When Shadows Fall (28 page)

“That’s Kensington Palace,” James told her. “A royal residence. Queen Victoria grew up there. She was only eighteen when they awoke her in the middle of the night and told her she’d become the new queen of England.”

“The Great White Mother.” Tara smiled. “When I was in school, we learned that the African tribesmen used to call her that.”

“Well, the friendly ones did.” James chuckled. “But enough history lessons. I’m impatient to see our rooms. Come on.”

Electric lamps lit the lobby. A length of cream carpet bisected a floor of burnished oak. James strode to the reception desk.

“Should I not do this?” Tara asked. “I’m the secretary, after all.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “You’re in London for the first time. Let me sort the formalities. Tell you what, why don’t you go into the lounge and order us a pot of tea? You’ve had a bit of a shock this morning.”

They drank Earl Grey laden with sugar, and it helped Tara to recover some of her composure. The sound of gunfire echoing around the station was still in her ears, the panicked cries of the passengers. But now, in the warmth of this splendid hotel, she was beginning to feel better.

Her room was small but ornately furnished, complete with a pine wardrobe and an enamel washbasin. It overlooked the landscaped grounds of the park, and a leaflet on her dressing table told her that a two-penny ticket allowed her the use of a chair for the day in Hyde Park or Kensington Gardens, while boating could be enjoyed for one shilling six pence per hour (boathouse on north side, near the Humane Society’s receiving house).

She sat, slightly self-conscious, on the thick eiderdown that poured off the bed onto the soft carpet. Such grandeur was intimidating. Her childhood bed, in Wicklow, had been stuffed with straw, the room itself constantly hounded by wicked draughts, mischievous offsprings of the gales that howled down from the mountains.

Again she thought of him.

Alone in the world, an Irish gunman, with London on his heels as he desperately sought shelter.

Two images, and yet the same. The wild gunman, and her idyllic, simple upbringing amongst her family in Wicklow. Gunshots in both images. Chaos.

I hope they hang him.

James stripped off his shirt and trousers then carefully removed his wristwatch, laying it on the edge of the bed. The wrist-worn watch for men had become fashionable after the war, even though such “wristlets” had been used by women ever since the early part of the century. A watch on the wrist, instead of the pocket version on a fob, was considered too feminine until recent years. Certain gentlemen had declared that they would as soon wear a skirt as a wristwatch. And yet now, in 1920, any dapper fellow couldn’t be seen without one.

After a quick bath in the tub, he filled the washbasin, worked up a lather, and applied the straight razor to his cheeks. Watching himself in the mirror, he clipped his moustache and waxed the tips, subtly so, seeking the look of a young General Haig rather than a bellicose Lord Cardigan. Lastly he ran pomade through his hair—sleek and golden, he knew it was his best feature.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come,” he allowed.

The door was pushed open, and through the wash-screen he heard a timid female voice say, “Begging your pardon, sir, but I have the shirts and slacks you wanted pressed.”

“Oh, that was jolly fast.” He towelled off his face and under his armpits. “Leave them on the bed, please. And there is a young lady staying in room sixty-four down the corridor––will you enquire as to anything she might need?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Once the maid had left, he slapped cologne around his face and neck, tamed a few stray locks of hair, and belted the beige trousers round his waist. Bare chested, he went to the window and opened the curtains fully.

London.

The heart of the empire. Her very pulse resounded beneath his feet.

He gazed awhile at the serene parkland scene, the palace and the bandstand and the fine carriages of the aristocracy riding up
Route du Roi
, or “Rotten Row” as it had since been corrupted by more unappreciative Londoners. He remembered childhood outings here. His mother’s picnics where his father sat awkwardly on the grass, gruffly denouncing passing youths as dandies.

Near Apsley House, James had seen a statue by Westmacott of the Duke of Wellington and his brave companions in arms. An Irishman, the Duke of Wellington. But the hero of Britannia. A sorely reluctant Irishman, he’d once said that
being born in a stable does not make a man a horse
.

Ireland. James wanted to forget that place right now. But yet Ireland had produced wonders besides Wellington.

His mind moved once more to her.

His family would love Tara, he had no doubt. Even his snobbish sisters, wives of doctors and lawyers. Even his cantankerous old father.

Sure, Tara was common Irish born. Sure, she was a Catholic. But she was of sweet and strong disposition, the kind of character that every decent Englishwoman should be made of. And she was brave. She had weathered tragedy; she had turned herself away from the destruction of her Irish brethren in the hope that she might better her country. Brave beyond her years.

Once again James knew, as he had always known, that not all the Irish were bad.

If only she could understand how I feel.

He checked his watch. Half-past twelve. Lunch soon. He’d give her another few minutes then walk down the hallway and politely knock.

London.

She will have happy memories of this place,
he vowed.
Of me. Of us. Memories we will recall years from now.

Far too Edwardian, no doubt.

Tara’s skirt was long, covering her ankles, and the shirtwaist had a high buttoned border with a lace collar. The fashionable ladies of London would probably titter in scorn once they saw her.

Yet she was a secretary, attending luncheon with her superior, and sensibility was the order of the day. Sensible or not, the outfit of soft white cotton nonetheless gave her some secret pleasure with its neat silhouette fitting, emphasising her narrow waist and generous bosom, and she complemented it with jade gypsy earrings and a silver pendant round her neck. Two pounds five shillings the lot had cost at a huckster’s stall when she’d initially arrived in Dublin, a lost and traumatised country girl. And she liked her clothes. The London ladies could sneer all they wanted.

He knocked again, the third time now.

“I’m coming,” she called, for the third time.

Her camisole and drawers were new, and almost comfortable. She had to fidget a moment, kneading everything out. Then she glanced in the mirror and smiled.

Mother, you should see me now. I wish you could.

A fourth knock, louder this time. Tara undid the bolt. “Mr. Bryant, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“It was worth it.” His face creased into a smile. “My goodness, you look . . . ”

Hopefully that was a compliment. She felt a little less awkward. “Thank you. Um, where are we going?”

“Lunch, I told you.”

“I know, but after—should I bring writing material for the meetings?”

He laughed. “Tara, goodness, no meetings today. Just London. And you won’t be attending the meetings anyway. That’s my job.”

“It is?” She was confused. “But why am I here? I thought you said I was to be your secretary.”

“And you will. The clerk’s notes of the meetings will be given to you, and you’ll transcribe and correlate them for me, for Dublin. Something of a housekeeper, only without any dirty linen.” He laughed again. “So, shall we go?”

A cab arrived to collect them. The Cockney driver had something of a piratical gleam in his eye, and he gave Tara a bold compliment as he handed her into the car, much to James’s chagrin. While steering a route through Park Lane to the Marble Arch, he informed them that he’d become a father again only last night, for the sixth time.

James sighed in disinterest. “That’s very impressive. Boy or girl?”

“A boy, guv’nor.”

“Congratulations are in order, then.”

“Thanks, guv’nor. I only hope my wife doesn’t find out.” He let out a throaty guffaw, and the car veered to the left.

“Lunch will be getting cold, my man,” James growled. “And I hope you haven’t been drinking.”

“Not whilst I’ve been driving you, guv’nor.”

The
Maison Lyons
was a splendidly broad and ornate restaurant at the corner of Oxford Street. When James led her inside, Tara felt a thrill of delight at the confectionary selection to the right of the oak staircase. Over the counter were trays and baskets of every sugary delight imaginable, coated almonds and warm fudge nuggets, jelly candies and
dodol
. With a giddy flap of her hands, she forgot herself.

“Oh, James, could I try one of those?”

James was giving orders to a hostess on which table he’d like. “My, quite the sweet tooth, aren’t we? But afterwards, Tara dear. You’ll enjoy it all the more.”

Beyond the confectionary counter were wines, cheeses, tropical fruits, and other imported splendours of the empire. There was a hairdressing salon as well as a telephone booth and a theatre booking desk. Everything was gleaming and utterly sophisticated. The building had several floors with a different style of restaurant on each, and the hostess showed them to one which was as big as a ballroom, well lit and heady with the scent of fresh flowers.

They were given a table next to a pillar decorated with Elizabethan woodcuts, and the hostess took their coats as a liveried waiter approached, stiff backed and thin as a beanpole. He lifted his upper lip ever so slightly in what was presumably a smile, then pulled back Tara’s chair and bowed to James.

“If sir permits, may I present the menus?”

“Sir indeed permits.” James adjusted his cuffs and moved the flower vase out of his face. The waiter snapped his fingers and another youth came forward and produced the menus with a flourish, then both waiters withdrew. Then a third one approached and enquired if they would like an aperitif before dinner.

“Two sherries, my good man,” James told him, “and perhaps a plate of
foie gras
canapés if your trusty chef can rustle them up. Is it Nicolas today?”

“Nicolas is indeed head chef today, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Once they were alone, Tara nervously scanned the menu.

“Goodness, Mr. Bryant, I don’t even know where to begin. What on earth does
daube de boeuf
—”

“Beef stew.” He smiled reasonably. “Don’t worry about the French names. That’s a lot of twaddle to make it sound more European, as if we haven’t heard enough of the place already. But the beef is as British as it comes, and thank the Lord for that.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” She lifted her head from the menu and looked at him. “I’ve never felt so out of place.”

“Tara, tut, tut.” He touched her hand briefly. “You’re exactly where you belong.”

When the food was served, she decided it was the most exquisite she’d ever tasted. Surely this must be what the English kings and queens ate too? Every dish was a work of art, each single taste on her tongue as though it had been individually conceived and nurtured by a team of genius chefs for the sole purpose of her palate.

And just as she was savouring the magnificence of the place, spooning in the last segment of coffee fudge gateaux, it was suddenly all over.

James had checked his watch and was signalling to the waiter that he would like to pay the bill. He caught Tara’s eye. “Apologies, my dear. But it’s heading for four o’clock.”

“Oh. Not at all.” She wiped her mouth guiltily. “I understand. You have meetings tomorrow and you’ll want to rest.”

“Rest?” He chuckled. “Tara, my little Irish delight, you misunderstand. There’s no resting just yet. We’re in London. Give me a minute to pay these chaps, and I’ll show you a treat before nightfall.”

Awhile later, inside a large, very dark and smoky room on Coventry Street, Tara witnessed the most spectacular sight of her young life.

The Mark of Zorro
had been produced by Douglas Fairbanks’s company, and it brought film to a whole new swashbuckling height. Fairbanks himself was Don Diego Vega, heroically defending the hearth and kin of the poor peasants of Spanish California, and along the way winning the hand of the beautiful Lolita Pulido. Tara was enthralled.