Major Ramsey, but he was nowhere to be seen. That was all right, I supposed, for I would be better at this particular job anyway.
I set down the glass of champagne Sir Nigel had given me. Then I sauntered in a leisurely way to where Mr. Winthrop stood at the edge of the room, his back to the wall. He had the appearance of someone who was here against his will, and I knew it wasn’t unlikely he would make a break for it at the earliest opportunity. I needed to act quickly.
Despite his gloomy air, I was confident I could warm him up. We McDonnells had never been short on charm.
“Hello,” I said when I reached him.
He glanced at me dismissively, but then decided to take a second look. It appeared he didn’t entirely dislike what he saw.
“Hello,” he answered, his frown letting up ever so slightly.
“Are you enjoying the party?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose.”
I extended my hand to him. “I’m Elizabeth Donaldson.”
He took my hand. “Matthew Winthrop.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Winthrop. I don’t know many people here, and, when I saw you standing against the wall, I thought it looked like a nice out-of-the-way place.”
“I’m not much of one for large gatherings.”
“Neither am I,” I said. “Did you come alone?”
“Yes.” He looked at me with growing interest. “Did you?”
I sighed. “No. I came with someone, but he’s wandered off.”
“That was remiss of him,” he said with a faint smile, something slightly friendlier in his tone. There. We were making progress.
I nodded. “He thought I might be interested in looking at the porcelain. His uncle collects the stuff, I think. I don’t know much about it. Are you a collector?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
I gave him a teasing smile. “You don’t have the look of a man who’s interested in ancient porcelain.”
He was warming to me. I could tell. He had turned his body toward me, and there was now something very close to a smile hovering on his lips. “What sort of look do I have?”
I pretended to look him over and consider even as I remembered what the major had said about his being an aspiring poet. “You look as though you would write poetry,” I said at last.
He gave a little laugh. “I do write poetry.”
“Do you?” I tried to sound delighted. “How wonderful!”
“Do you like poetry?”
At least this I could answer honestly. “I like it very much. It’s always seemed like magic to me, the way poets can put into words thoughts and feelings that seem almost impossible to express.”
He nodded. “It’s what makes poetry such a challenge, but there’s nothing like the satisfaction of when it turns out the right way.”
“I can imagine. Is it very difficult to write poems?”
“Sometimes it’s a Herculean task. Sometimes it’s the easiest thing in the world.” There was a slightly dreamy quality to his voice now; it was like I had turned a key and a door had slid open before me.
“Fascinating,” I said. “How often do you write poems?”
“The muses are erratic, I’m afraid. There is no telling when they might strike, but it’s often at the most inconvenient times.”
“Is that what you were doing standing here all alone when I interrupted you? Thinking about poetry?”
“I … ah, yes.” He was a bad liar. That was noteworthy.
“Do you just make up the lines in your head?”
I didn’t miss the enthusiasm that flashed in his eyes at my questions. It was the same look Uncle Mick got when he was going to start talking about locks. “As a matter of fact, I keep a notebook on me at all times.”
“Oh, really? Do read some of it to me! I’m fascinated with the creative process.” It was an effort to keep myself from rolling my eyes at my own malarkey. The last thing I wanted to do was hear this young fascist’s poems. It seemed he was buying what I was selling, however, for a flush had spread across his cheeks.
“It’s really just a bunch of rough lines. I write the poems themselves on a typewriter.”
“Perhaps you can recite something from memory.” I hoped the government appreciated the service I was doing them.
“I’m not much accustomed to reciting aloud. I mostly put together collections to be read.”
“Couldn’t you make an exception?” I stepped closer, brazenly placing a hand on his arm and leaning in closer. He didn’t seem to mind.
“Well, I suppose … I have one called ‘Lark’s Song in the Evening.’ It’s…”
“Excuse me.” I