The strains of “When Hearts Were Young” filled the air of the Blue Moon Club as I circled the dance floor in Jasper’s arms. “Enjoying yourself tonight, old bean?” Jasper asked as he swept us into a turn.
“I’m having a lovely time.” Jasper was an excellent dancer. We floated along, swirling through the throng.
“Your Christmas shopping expedition was successful?”
“Very. Gwen and I spent hours in Harrods. My shopping is done. How was your day?”
“Nothing nearly as pleasant as that. The same as usual.”
Since I’d spent the morning following him, I knew he was speaking the truth. Before I met Gwen at Harrods, I’d shadowed Jasper as he went to his tailor, then his club. A guilty feeling curled through me, but I pushed it down. I merely wanted to know if Jasper was keeping something from me. Surely a girl had a right to know that about her sweetheart? “What are your plans for Christmas?” I asked. “Will you go up to Haverhill?”
“Yes, I’ll look in on the pater on my way to Parkview.”
“And have you found a gift for him?”
“No. Father prefers not to indulge in festivities.”
“What do you mean?”
“We don’t exchange gifts.”
I was so surprised that I forgot to move with the music and came to a halt. “No presents?”
Jasper swung us back into the dance. “No. And no tree or Christmas dinner.”
“Whyever not?”
He focused his gaze across the dance floor. “No idea. Father has always been like that. He sees no need for it, he says.”
“No need to celebrate one of the most important Christian holidays of the year?”
Jasper lifted a shoulder. “He’s not one to have his edicts questioned.” He smiled suddenly. “You can imagine how wonderful my first Christmas at Parkview was. Quite a revelation for a small boy.”
“One’s mind truly boggles.” Being the daughter of a former vicar, my life had been steeped in religious holidays as well as all the secular trappings, including everything from Christmas trees to crackers.
“It was like a storybook come to life—and not one of those horrible dark fairy tales. This story was full of mulled wine, caroling, sledding, and presents.”
“As the holidays should be.” A spark of anger flared inside me at Jasper’s father. Why deprive a boy of the joys of Christmas? “I’m awfully glad Peter invited you to spend the school holidays with him at Parkview.”
“I am too.” His gaze locked with mine, and that spark of anger shifted, blooming into a warm feeling toward Jasper. He pulled me closer and rested his chin against my hair. We didn’t say anything else for the rest of the dance.
The music ended, and we pulled apart reluctantly. As I led the way through the couples leaving the dance floor, a petite woman with dark hair rushed up to me. “Olive!”
“Gigi, I didn’t know you were in town.”
“Christmas shopping, darling. Only here for a day. Hello, Jasper. Topping to see you.” She linked her arm through mine and walked with us back to our tiny linen-draped table at the edge of the dance floor. “You must come and see Bascomb Hall. I’m being frightfully domestic there—actually supervising the renovations. I’m leaving at a horribly uncivilized hour tomorrow morning—the first train, if you can believe it—because I must be there to direct the new workmen who are arriving to see to the plumbing.”
Jasper signaled for another chair. “And how are the renovations going?”
“Swimmingly. I know, I’m shocked too. Who would have thought I’d enjoy it? It’s simply fascinating to tear things out. You never know what you’ll find.”
“Are you doing any of this removal?” I asked.
“Don’t be silly. I’m supervising, darling. But the wallpaper! Layers and layers of it. Some of it’s so ghastly that I find it rather fascinating. Anyway, do say you’ll come see it, Olive. I suppose you’re going to Parkview for Christmas?” She didn’t give me time to answer. “Do drop in on your way there. Stop by and have tea. It’s on your way—well, practically. You can see Mr. Quigley’s new home. The conservatory is the single place in the whole house that doesn’t require a renovation. He’s quite enjoying it.”
“I’d love to.”
“Brilliant.” She glanced over my shoulder. “I must fly. Cheerio, darlings.”
The waiter arrived with another chair, but Jasper waved him off. “No need now. Sorry, old chap.”
I took a seat as Jasper held my chair. “Gigi always is a whirlwind.”
“More like a typhoon. Well, old bean, what’s it to be? Another drink? Another club? Or are you ready to toddle on home?”
“It’s been a lovely evening, but I still have quite a few things to do tomorrow. I’m ready to return to my little flat.”
In the taxi, Jasper ran his arm along the back of the seat behind my shoulders. “Perhaps we should have tea tomorrow at the Savoy for a change?”
I snuggled into his shoulder, inhaling his citrus aftershave. “I look forward to it.”
At South Regent Mansions, he told the driver to wait while he escorted me inside. We paused under the lobby’s crystal chandelier. He kissed my hand and gave me a look that said he would like to do more but wouldn’t since the hall porter sat at his desk in the little alcove watching us.
I took the lift to my flat and let myself in. I drew the curtains over the big window in the sitting room, lit the fire, and made a cup of tea. I changed into a dressing gown, then settled into the club chair in the sitting room, kicked off my shoes, and tucked my feet up under me.
I picked up a book I’d purchased at Harrods, but I couldn’t get lost in the story. My thoughts kept wandering back to what Jasper had said about his father’s attitude toward Christmas. Jasper hardly ever spoke of his family.
I only knew that his father had been a civil servant in India. Jasper had been born there, and his mother had died when he was young. He’d been sent back to England for school, and Jasper had never returned to India. His father had stayed there until his retirement, then he’d returned to England and now lived at Haverhill Hall. Jasper visited his father occasionally, but he was always extremely reticent on the subject. He’d told me tonight more than he ever had, small amount that it was. I could practically hear Gwen’s voice in my head counseling patience. Perhaps she was right. If I waited, Jasper would eventually share more with me.
I finished my tea and prepared for bed, resolved to be less nosy and more patient.
22 December 1923
Habit is a hard beast to shake. I awoke the next morning, prepared for the day, then left my flat, and my feet moved automatically to the tea shop that had been my recent morning haunt. It wasn’t that far from South Regent Mansions, and it afforded an excellent view of the building where Jasper had rooms. On the first frigid December morning I’d decided to watch Jasper, I’d taken up my vigil outside his building, but my fingers and toes were numb within a quarter-hour. I’d taken refuge inside the tea shop and discovered they served a delicious Chelsea bun.
I’d just popped the last warm bite of the bread dotted with currants, sprinkled with cinnamon, and layered in a light glaze into my mouth when Jasper emerged from his building and trotted down the stairs. I swallowed the bite and checked my watch. This was the earliest I’d ever seen him appear. Instead of turning right at the foot of the stairs, which was his usual routine, he turned left and came toward me. I ducked my head as if I were reading the folded newspaper that lay on the table, open to an article about two lawn tennis stars who were engaged. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jasper pass the tea shop, his pace a notch faster than his usual leisurely stroll.
He moved out of my sight, and I sat for a moment, my finger tapping away on the rim of my teacup. Patience, I mentally lectured myself. Wait and see.
I made it another half a minute, then I couldn’t stand it any longer. Patience had never been a virtue I excelled in. I put coins down on the table and hurried out the door.
A chilly wind whipped along the street. The day was sparkling bright, the sunlight glinting on windowpanes and highlighting every bare tree branch that danced in the wind. I pulled the lapels of my coat closer and angled my head down as I paced into the breeze, glad I’d used two hatpins to anchor my cloche today. I stayed well back. Jasper’s tall form with his wavy fair hair showing under his fedora was easy to keep in sight.
When he paused at a street corner and glanced around as he waited, I became immersed in studying the wares at a grocer’s stand. I hoped I looked like a woman who was debating which potatoes were the best to select. I was wearing my warmest coat along with the plainest hat I owned. It was a drab brown color, and I’d contemplated handing it over to the rag and bone man, but my days of scrimping to make ends meet weren’t that far in the past. I couldn’t bring myself to give away a useful item, no matter how unfashionable. I hoped my unremarkable ensemble meant that Jasper’s gaze would pass over me without stopping.
I dodged along after him in fits and starts, skirting around Hyde Park to South Kensington. Finally, Jasper crossed the street and disappeared into the Gloucester Road tube station. This was the third time he’d gone to this particular tube station. Each time I’d followed him, he’d taken a different route through London’s streets, but every time he’d gone to the station at Gloucester Road.
Two women, probably housewives intent on completing their holiday shopping, were heading for the entrance. I fell into step behind them. When I reached the platform, I stayed near the women, making sure they were between Jasper and me. As before, Jasper waited at the far end of the platform. He looked out across the tracks, one hand braced on his silver-topped walking stick.
A draft of air stirred his heavy gray overcoat as the train swept into the station. I went up on my tiptoes so I could see over the women’s hats. The doors opened, and people flooded onto the platform. A man who was familiar to me from my other jaunts of trailing along after Jasper left the train. He wore a black overcoat and trilby and had a fan-shaped mustache. He paused beside Jasper, seemingly caught up in the bottleneck as the two currents of people, one moving out of the train and the other moving into it, met and swirled together, then separated.
I couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t look as if the two men spoke to each other. Just as they’d done during the previous times, Jasper shifted with the throng on the platform and merged with the group heading for the tube’s exit. The other times I’d followed Jasper, he’d always left the station and taken a meandering route back across London to his flat. This time I kept an eye on the man with the mustache. He walked along the platform and reboarded the train.
I made a snap decision and stepped into the compartment moments before it departed. I moved away from the man to the opposite end of the carriage. He’d taken out a newspaper. The image of the slender, golden-haired actress Bebe Ravenna smiled out from the page. The photographer had caught her as she waved to the crowd before entering a London theater. I wondered if Jasper knew she was in town. In the past, he’d often been her escort, and I’d seen plenty of gossip column photos of the two of them together.
The carriage swayed, and I reached out to steady myself as the tube eased to a halt at the next station. The man with the mustache left the train. I hung back and let several people exit before I followed him. I kept his trilby in sight as he moved out to South Kensington. I thought he was headed for the Victoria and Albert or the Natural History Museum, but he turned and made his way up Cromwell Road.
I tucked my chin and trudged along after him. If we kept walking in this direction, we’d arrive back at the Gloucester Road station. Was the man simply moving in a circle? If he were out for a stroll—a mad idea on such a cold, windy day—then I might as well leave off and return home. But then he jogged up the stairs and went inside a building with a black door and no nameplate.
As I lingered, the cold air surging around me, another man approached the black door. Dressed in a tailored wool overcoat and bowler hat, he appeared to be a businessman. He used his walking stick as he climbed the steps more slowly, then he went inside without using a key. So it must be a business of some sort. I gave the man a lead of a few minutes, then followed.
The door opened into a small empty foyer. A staircase with a worn runner faced the door. A metal plate with slots for businesses to insert cards bearing their names was fastened to the wall by the stairs. Most of the slots were empty. Those that had paper were of such an antique look that I decided the board probably wasn’t an accurate reflection of the current tenants. It was a rather large building. I couldn’t knock at every door asking if a gentleman with a mustache who wore a black trilby was employed there. And what would I say if I should track him down? Why have you been on the train platform at the same time as Jasper Rimington on several occasions? I sighed and left.
I arrived back at South Regent Mansions weighted down with wrapping paper and ribbon. I’d decided to finish my last Christmas errands on my way back to my flat. The hall porter took my packages and handed me an envelope. “This arrived for you a half-hour ago, Miss Belgrave.”
“Thank you.” I recognized Jasper’s neat handwriting. Upstairs in my flat, I had the porter deposit my shopping on the sofa. As soon as he’d left, I tore open the letter.
Dear Olive,
I’m terribly sorry, but I won’t be able to escort you to the Savoy for tea today. An urgent matter has come up, and I must depart London immediately.
I hope to have it sorted quickly. I look forward to seeing you at Parkview on Christmas Eve—where I hope Gwen has decked the halls with an abundance of mistletoe. Until then . . .
Very sincerely yours,
Jasper