Harry marched up the steps and banged firmly with the heavy brass knocker. As he waited for the door to be answered, he could hear Emma remonstrating with him – Don’t mock, child.
The door opened and a butler wearing a tailcoat, who was clearly expecting him, said, ‘Good evening, Mr Clifton. Mrs Stuart is waiting for you in the drawing room. Would you care to follow me?’
‘Good evening, Parker,’ Harry replied, although he’d never seen the man before. Harry thought he detected the flicker of a smile as the butler led him down the corridor to an open lift. Once he’d stepped inside, Parker closed the grille, pressed a button and didn’t speak again until they reached the third floor. He pulled open the gate, preceded Harry into the drawing room and announced, ‘Mr Harry Clifton, madam.’
A tall, elegantly dressed woman was standing in the middle of the room, chatting to a man Harry assumed must be her son.
Great-aunt Phyllis immediately broke away, walked across to Harry and, without a word, gave him a bear hug that would have impressed an American linebacker. When she finally released him, she introduced her son Alistair, who shook Harry warmly by the hand.
‘It’s an honour to meet the man who ended Sefton Jelks’s career,’ said Harry.
Alistair offered a slight bow.
‘I also played a small part in that man’s downfall,’ sniffed Phyllis, as Parker handed her guest a glass of sherry. ‘But don’t get me started on Jelks,’ she added, as she ushered Harry towards a comfortable chair by the fire, ‘because I’m far more interested to hear about Emma, and what she’s been up to.’
Harry took some time bringing Great-aunt Phyllis up to date on everything Emma had done since she’d left New York, not least because she and Alistair kept interrupting him with questions. It wasn’t until the butler returned to announce dinner was served that they moved on to a different subject.
‘So how are you enjoying your visit?’ asked Alistair as they took their seats round the dining table.
‘I think I preferred being arrested for murder,’ said Harry. ‘Far easier to deal with.’
‘That bad?’
‘Worse in some ways. You see, I’m not much good at selling myself,’ admitted Harry as a maid placed a bowl of Scotch broth in front of him. ‘I’d rather hoped the book might speak for itself.’
‘Think again,’ said Great-aunt Phyllis. ‘Just remember, New York isn’t an offshoot of Bloomsbury. Forget refinement, understatement and irony. However much it’s against your better nature, you’ll have to learn to sell your wares like an East End barrow boy.’
‘I’m proud to be England’s most successful author,’ said Alistair, raising his voice.
‘But I’m not,’ said Harry, ‘by a long chalk.’
‘I’ve been overwhelmed by the American people’s reaction to Nothing Ventured,’ said Phyllis, joining in the charade.
‘That’s only because no one’s read it,’ protested Harry, between mouthfuls.
‘Like Dickens, Conan Doyle and Wilde, I’m confident the United States will turn out to be my biggest market,’ added Alistair.
‘I sell more books in Market Harborough than I do in New York,’ Harry said as his soup bowl was whisked away. ‘It’s patently obvious that Aunt Phyllis ought to take my place on the book tour, and I should be sent back to England.’
‘I would be only too delighted to do so,’ said Phyllis. ‘It’s just a pity I don’t have your talent,’ she added wistfully.
Harry helped himself to a slice of roast beef and far too many potatoes, and it wasn’t long before he began to relax as Phyllis and Alistair regaled him with tales of Emma’s exploits when she’d turned up in New York in search of him. It amused him to hear their version of what had taken place, and only served to remind him just how lucky he’d been to end up sleeping in the next bed to Giles Barrington when he first went to St Bede’s. And if he hadn’t been invited to tea at the Manor House to celebrate Giles’s birthday, he might never have met Emma. Not that he’d even glanced at her at the time.
‘You do realize you’ll never be good enough for her,’ said Phyllis as she lit a cheroot.
Harry nodded, appreciating for the first time why this indomitable lady had turned out to be Emma’s Old Jack. If they had sent her off to war, he thought, Great-aunt Phyllis would surely have come home with the Silver Star.
When the clock struck eleven, Harry, who might have had one brandy too many, rose