A simple life on the outskirts of civilization: it sounded exotic and blissful to Aurelie, who was accustomed to moving through echoing rooms or promenading, well chaperoned, through manicured parks.
“I grew up in the country, Mr. Bellingham,” Mr. Hawkes said, “and I understand your joy. I’m in London on business as well, and while my stay here wasn’t precisely on my itinerary, I find I cannot resent it.”
A roomful of smiles were aimed at him again. Aurelie suspected this happened to him a good deal.
Mr. Hawkes turned to her. “Mrs. Gallagher, you mentioned you were going to visit your brother. Has he a country cottage as well?”
Aurelie hesitated, but she’d already told everyone in the room what her plans were. Surely it was silly now to equivocate. “He is in America, Mr. Hawkes, in Boston. I hope to sail there from Dover, after I conclude my business in London. I do not think Boston is considered the country anymore.”
“And you’re doing this alone, Mrs. Gallagher?”
Was it her conscience, or were his eyes particularly searching?
She didn’t care for the reminder that the notion of a woman doing anything alone was inadvisable.
“I should like to find a suitable traveling companion while in London,” she said. Which was true. She’d hoped Mr. Erasmus Monroe could recommend or help her to find one.
“Have you ever before crossed an ocean? Or perhaps the Channel?”
She noted the word “an.” As if he’d gone and crossed all of them. As if they were all different, requiring different skills and expectations, and while she was hardly ignorant of geography, this nuanced possibility had simply never occurred to her. The Atlantic Ocean was merely the great expanse between where she was and where she needed to be and she would do whatever she needed to do in order to close it. She had no illusions about it being easy, or pleasant, or comfortable. Shesimply did not want to think about any of these things, because it made that belt of tension tighten around her ribs again.
“This will be my first ocean crossing,” she said. “I am very much looking forward to it.”
This was not, in its essence, untrue.
She sensed that Mr. Hawkes was now tempted to say a number of things, and was perhaps merely deciding which one to say first.
Her heartbeat accelerated and her palms went a trifle damp.
“If you find it a challenge to get passage from Dover when your business here in London is concluded, Mrs. Gallagher, I took a packet to Boston from Falmouth some years ago, when I was just out of university,” Mr. Bellingham told them. “A few days journey from here on the mail coach. It was a gift from my uncle, the trip. I enjoyed my visit very much and Americans are the most bracingly interesting sort of people. I suspect you’ll be happy there, Mrs. Gallagher.”
It was a very kind thing to say, and it felt a little like a benediction, coming from anactualvicar. “Thank you, Mr. Bellingham. My brother is indeed happy there.”
“Is this your first trip to the city of London, Mrs. Gallagher?” Mr. Hawkes asked pleasantly. “I shouldn’t like to presume, but you sound as though you may hail from France, and every person I’ve met in life to date named ‘Gallagher’ has been Irish.”
She was aware, suddenly, of a room full of bright, friendly, interested eyes upon her. Damn him. She had so far dodged more searching questions, for which she was grateful. She hadn’t much practice with lying and she didn’t know whether she’d be able to keep track of a fictitious cast of characters once she began inventing them.
“Oh, yes, my dear late husband, Thomas, was Irish,” she said.
Then cast her eyes down to her lap.
She had done this, rather guiltily, several times before and it seemed to end whatever line of questioning was underway.
A little respectful sympathetic silence ensued.
When she finally looked up again she found Mr. Hawkes regarding her with the faintest of frowns. And then his expression shifted into pensiveness again.
She looked away, and back down at her folded hands. Her face was hot.
And there was a little lull in the room.
“I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to muster the courage to mention something. It’s something a little embarrassing, I fear,” Mr. Bellingham said suddenly.
“The smoking room is where we go to do embarrassing things, Mr. Bellingham,” Mr. Delacorte told him crisply, as though giving a guided tour of a museum. He moved his knight on the chessboard.
“Thank you, Mr. Delacorte,” Mr. Bellingham said graciously. “I shall take that under advisement. This is more after the fashion of... well, it’s about a... well a... predilection I have. Or rather, a pastime I might have in mind. Harmless I think, but I wondered if... if anyone shared it?”
Most of the expressions in the room were now decidedly wary.