Cox’s Tearoom was just as I recalled it when we pulled up before its door, and by the time I had paid the driver, both the wind and my stomach bit sharply. A liveried gentleman led me to a table, where I was soon equipped with Darjeeling and a tower of sandwiches. After a few sips and bites, however, I thought I should be more comfortable with a newspaper; I visited the rack and selected a late-morning edition, glancing at the headlines as I returned to my table. Nearly colliding with a waiter, I looked up, murmuring an apology.
I stopped dead, staring in astonishment.
Rebecca Clarke sat at a table by the window, shafts of illumination waltzing through the golden corkscrews of her pinned-up hair.
TWENTY-EIGHT
But I ought to forgive you, for you knew not what you did: while rending my heart-strings, you thought you were only up-rooting my bad propensities.
My heart, so egregiously taxed of late, rung in my breast like a great gong—I thought it must have been audible, so painfully glad was I to see my schoolmate, my companion, nay, my sister, again after so long a time.
Once the initial shock had worn off, I ceased marvelling and allowed happiness to spread like a virus through my chest. We had shared the same tastes once, Clarke and I, moved in twin orbits like binary stars. It was not very surprising, therefore, that in this labyrinth of a town I should stumble upon my lost great friend, particularly considering I had sought the place out because it reminded me of her.
Clarke was twenty-one years old, and where once she had been thin and ethereal, now she was beautiful—as freckled as ever, with the tiny mouth of an inquisitive porcelain doll. So many times had I pictured her starving that the sight of her hale was a gift, the unlooked-for sort which pierce deeper than the expected. Her clothing was fine but eccentric: a long bronze skirt, a close-fitted ivory waistcoat, a dark copper jacket with tails and lapels to it, a golden cravat. This elegant but oddly mannish ensemble was completed by a miniature top hat, and she peered through a pair of half-moon pince-nez at the afternoon edition of the Times.
My feet had carried me farther than I realised during this reconnaissance, and I found myself before her, my eager shadow brushing the hem of her skirt.
“Just put it on my account, if you—oh!” Clarke exclaimed, her cup clattering into its saucer as she glanced up.
Say something, I thought.
Nothing emerged.
I’ve missed you terribly and deeply regret the fact you learnt I am a homicidal maniac.
I hesitated.
Not that.
“It’s good to . . .” I swallowed, for Clarke had turned as pale as the milk brought for her coffee. “That is—we needn’t speak, only I saw you, and . . .” I battled the urge to prove myself the pinnacle of urbanity by throwing myself in her lap and sobbing. “You look well, and I’m glad.”
At this juncture, I considered that a sound from Clarke—any sound—would be taken as a boon. Instead, she stared at me with wide green eyes, her hands vibrating hummingbird-fast.
“I’m upsetting you.” The admission stung. “I can’t tell you what it meant to see you again. I’ll just—”
“No.” Clarke trapped my wrist with the strength of a steel manacle. “Sit down.” She blinked, hard. “I mean, won’t you sit down?”
Slowly, she released me.
I sat down.
Clarke folded the newspaper with care; then she took a long breath and sat back, nodding at the silver coffeepot. “Would you like a cup?”
“Please.”
A waiter came with an additional service and poured, a civilised piece of pageantry which enabled us both to pretend we were friends meeting for coffee to discuss our summering plans, rather than friends meeting for coffee to discuss whatever we were going to discuss. My teapot and sandwiches appeared, and I gestured for her to help herself; Clarke shook her head, eyes wide under pale lashes, and I looked away.
“You look well too,” said she.
“Hmm?” I had been studying my coffee with more interest than that beverage had ever previously inspired.
Clarke smiled—the indulgent one which meant I had journeyed too far into the wilderness of my head. “You look very smart. I’m happy over that, your clearly having plentiful coin. So often I wondered whether—”
“Me too, every single day,” I blurted.
When she blushed, she looked more herself again, for her previous pallor had been alarming. Clarke had never blushed often, however, and never lacking a sound purpose, so