“I should probably be more of a burden on you,” Titus pointed out. “You are helping me with my wardrobe so much, and I was reflecting, when my new clothes arrive, I won’t be able to put off replying to invitations and going to events anylonger, and I know nobody and have no idea what to do. Perhaps, if you cared to continue helping me, we could do one another a service?”
“Monsieur, say no more. It is of a thoughtfulness, and I accept with gratitude. I shall be delighted to offer all the assistance I may. In fact, this could work superbly. I applaud your ingenuity.”
He smiled, widely, warmly, heart-skippingly. Titus had invited those smiles into his house, to live there. Something squirmed in his stomach. “It’s my pleasure, Comte.”
“Nico, if we are to share lodgings. Or Nicolas if you prefer, but I usually go by Nico.”
“Nico.” It was terribly exotic, somehow, compared to workaday Nick or Nicky. “Thank you. Um, Titus.”
“Titus. Like the Roman emperor?”
“Yes. My brothers were Augustus, Vespasian, Claudius, and Hadrian.”
“I… see. At least there is no Caligula. Or is that your second name?”
“No, that is Caesar. All of us have the middle name Caesar. My father was greatly interested in Roman imperial history,” Titus added. It was a phrase he had used many times in his life.
“Titus—Caesar—Pilcrow. But of course. A pilcrow, it is a bird?”
“No, actually. My father says it comes from a town in Suffolk, but what the word means—it’s a punctuation mark. For paragraphs. To show they’re over.”
“A punctuation mark. Your name is an emperor and a punctuation mark. Ciel, you English.”
“We can’t all be called Valois.”
The Comte—Nico—acknowledged that with a graceful half bow. “But merely the mark to end a paragraph? Non,non. Rather, you should be—long, thin, hesitant—perhaps the dash?”
“At the moment, I feel like a semi-colon,” Pilcrow offered, and couldn’t help beaming at Nico’s yelp of unrestrained laughter.
All in all, Titus was in a good mood when he settled down with the Thorpes for a cup of tea. They always sat in the housekeeper’s pantry. The Thorpes had a sitting room, but that would have made this a formal visit.
Titus was very glad the Thorpes had invited him to continue that tradition and quite understood why Miss Whitecross had liked to join the little family—the butler, the housekeeper, and their very pretty daughter, Alma, who had been lady’s maid elsewhere but had taken something of a step down to return to the house in Carey Street as senior housemaid. Tea with the staff was doubtless inappropriate for a wealthy lady, or gentleman, but it was the sort of society he was used to, nobody would find out, and Miss Whitecross’s rooms—hisrooms—were still very empty despite the clutter of decoration.
Titus had not realised how much he’d miss the jeweller’s family’s noise. He didn’t want to speak to people all the time, but there was something about having them around. He was looking forward to Nico’s company.
He recounted his last couple of days to the Thorpes while flexing his sore feet. They hurt after a day of walking in his thin, cheap shoes; he hoped Hoby’s boots would be comfortable as well as fashionable. Alma was fascinated by his account of shopping: her lustrous green eyes glowed with interest, shebombarded him with questions, and Titus wondered if she was hoping he’d bring home a fashionable mistress.
“So when will all this finery be ready, sir?” Mrs. Thorpe asked with a smile.
“In a few more days, I believe. I’ll use the time to clear my shop out. Then once I am respectably dressed, I suppose I’ll start accepting invitations.” He’d been putting that off, guiltily aware he was glad of the excuse. “I must say, it’s a little odd to be invited to things by so many people I don’t know, and who don’t know me.”
“Well, you might think, sir,” Thorpe said. “The mistress was beset by leeches and hangers-on, out for what they could get. She’d have none of it, of course. She was fooled a few times in her youth, not to mention what that Laxton did to her sister, and it hardened her.”
“She accused me of cheating her often enough,” Titus remarked. “I don’t think shemeantit, exactly…”
“It was her way,” Mrs. Thorpe said. “She wasn’t trusting. Anyone could see why not, but she went too far. She always thought,What does this woman or that fellow want from me?and she let them know it. People don’t like that.”
“Nobody likes being cozened either,” Mr. Thorpe observed. “And I daresay you’ll meet a lot of cozeners, Mr. Pilcrow, people who want to hang on your sleeve, or put you to the touch. You’ll have to be careful. A fool and his money are soon parted.”
“You mind your words, Thorpe,” his wife told him sternly. “Not but what he’s right and the mistress always said as much.”
“Oh, you are both maddening,” Alma said. “What should Mr. Pilcrow do, then, sit inside all day not speaking to anyone? Of course he wants to go out and buy beautiful things and go to parties and meet all the best people and have a wonderful time! Just because the mistress was terrified of anyone gettingher money—and what for? She did nothing all her life while it piled up in the bank, and died worrying about it!”
“Now, Alma,” Mr. Thorpe said.
“It’s true. And if it had made her happy to have a lot of money, that would be one thing, but it didn’t. I think we should all try to be happy when we can.”
Mrs. Thorpe clicked her tongue. “Easily said. But there’s a lot of people who set their hearts on happiness, and make themselves miserable by it.”