“It was nice of you to bring me a fresh shirt,” said Mister Trower as he knotted his tie.
“My mother used to tell me, ‘Always leave prison in a clean shirt,’” said Iris.
“She never did,” said Gwen.
“I was very young at the time,” admitted Iris. “I may have the actual words wrong.”
“How did you get into Mrs. Dowd’s house to retrieve it?” asked Trower. “Isn’t it a crime scene? Did one of your policeman friends let you in?”
“Not exactly,” said Iris.
Gwen hid a smile.
“I still can’t believe Mrs. Dowd did this,” he said, brushing off his jacket. “It’s hard to picture her as a killer. She’s always been so good to me.”
“She wanted something in return,” said Gwen. “And when she didn’t get it, she—she’s not a well woman, Mister Trower.”
“If only I had known.”
“If you had known, what would you have done?” asked Iris. “Returned her affections?”
“Goodness, no. I would have moved out immediately. It would have been a very awkward situation.”
“You might not have made it to the front door,” commented Iris.
He put on the jacket, then turned to face them.
“How do I look?”
“Very handsome,” said Iris.
“Let me be motherly for a moment,” said Gwen, licking her fingers and smoothing down some errant strands of hair. “There. Better. Are you ready to face the reporters?”
“I’ve never been in a press conference before,” he said.
“You’ve been in combat?” asked Iris.
“Yes.”
“It’s worse. Keep smiling. Don’t worry, we’ll be with you.”
The jail had set up a temporary platform outside the entrance. The warden himself escorted the three of them out. The flashes went off furiously, and the newsreel cameramen in the back swiveled their cameras and adjusted their lenses as Dickie Trower stepped up to the bank of microphones.
“Thank you,” he said, then he cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming. It is a great relief to be a free man. These past several days have been a nightmare, one that I did not expect and did not deserve. It would have continued—indeed, it might have become far worse—had it not been for the remarkable efforts made on my behalf by Miss Iris Sparks and Mrs. Gwendolyn Bainbridge of the Right Sort Marriage Bureau. I had no idea when I plunked down my fee that they would not only be my Cupids, but my protectors as well. To have such fearless advocacy on such short acquaintance speaks of the greatness of their hearts.”
“Well said!” shouted a spectator as Sparks and Bainbridge beamed proudly.
“I would like to extend my condolences to the family of Miss La Salle,” he continued. “I never had the good fortune to meet her, but from what I heard, she was a lovely woman. May she rest in peace, and may the arrest of my—of Mrs. Dowd give them the justice that they deserve. Thank you.”
“Mister Trower, what was it like in there?” called the man from the Telegraph.
“Unpleasant,” he said. “But, in retrospect, safer than the house I had been living in.”
That drew some guffaws from the reporters.
“How was the food?”
“Better than what the Army fed us, but the company was worse.”
“Mister Trower, did you ever lose hope?” called a woman from Woman’s Own.
“Never,” he said firmly. “Not once I knew the Right Sort was on my side.”
He reached out and grabbed the two women by the hand, then raised their arms triumphantly together. The flashes went off ecstatically.
He took a few more questions, then it was over. A few reporters made appointments with them for followup articles. Then the three walked away from Brixton Prison.
“What now, Mister Trower?” asked Gwen as they came to Brixton Hill.
“First, I am going to take a proper bath. Feed Herbert. Call my job, let them know I’m coming back. Look for a new place to live. Try and start my life up again. It won’t be the same.”
“But at least you’ll have one.”
“At least I will,” he said. He took a deep breath and looked up at the sky. “God, it feels different. Same air, same sky as when you’re in the yard, but no walls looming over you, no guards. Miss Sparks, Mrs. Bainbridge—I owe you a debt that I can never repay.”
“We owe you one as well, Mister Trower,” said Iris.
“How so?”
“We still owe you a wife. Let us know your new address and telephone when you have it.”
“I will,” he promised. “Find me a good one.”
He flagged down a cab and sped off towards Croydon.
“He’s a natural,” said Iris. “He should stand for Parliament. He could run on the Reprieved Party ticket.”
“I’d vote for him,” said Gwen.
She turned and looked back at the prison for what she hoped would be the last time in her life. A cab pulled up in front of it.
“Look,” said Gwen, tugging on Iris’s arm.
A man got out of the cab, looked at the press platform which was now being disassembled, then trudged disconsolately back to the cab.
“That was Gareth Pontefract of the Mirror, wasn’t it?” observed Gwen.
“It was,” said Iris, smiling happily. “And that makes the day complete.”
Gwen strode into the library without knocking. Lady Carolyne looked up at her askance.
“I wanted to let you know that I’m going to be in the papers again,” said Gwen.
“Not the Mirror,” sighed Lady Carolyne.
“Maybe not the Mirror this time. But all the rest. And the newsreels.”
“What? What did you do?”
“We solved the murder. We proved it was someone other than Dickie Trower. We walked him out of Brixton Prison today into a full field of reporters. Our company’s name has been restored. More important, an innocent man has been exonerated and freed, and we were the ones who made that happen. Most important of all—I was right.”
Lady Carolyne gaped at her, which gave Gwen immense satisfaction. She turned crisply on her heel and walked out.
There were more reporters gathered in front of their building when Iris and Gwen arrived the next morning. Mister MacPherson stood in the entrance, watching them warily. After graciously answering a multitude of questions and posing for photographs, the two women escaped to the safety of their office.
“I’m not paid to be a bouncer!” MacPherson called up after them.
“We’ve been meaning to speak to you about the security here,” replied Iris, peering down at him over the railing. “We have some concerns. Drop by later, if you don’t mind.”
The telephone was already ringing when they went into the Right Sort. Iris plucked the receiver from its cradle before she even reached her chair.
“The Right Sort Marriage Bureau, Iris Sparks here.”
“Oh, Miss Sparks!” cried a woman’s voice. “I just saw the Telegraph! How marvelous!”
“Yes, isn’t it?” agreed Iris. “To whom am I speaking?”
“It’s Miss Sedgewick. I am so sorry about my little overreaction the other morning. Can you forgive me?”
“You are forgiven,” said Iris, rolling her eyes at Gwen. “It was certainly understandable.”
“Tell me,” continued Miss Sedgewick. “Is Mister Trower still your client?”
“He is.”
“Is he still available?”
“He’s been in solitary confinement for a week, so I expect so.”
“Good. You must set us up immediately.”
“Are you certain? Only a few days ago, you suspected him of murder.”
“I know! Isn’t it exciting? Let me know the moment he accepts! Bye!”
She hung up without waiting for Iris’s reply.
“Who was that?” asked Gwen.
“Bitsy Sedgewick. She wants an introduction to Mister Trower. Just when I thought there would be no more surprises this week.”
The telephone rang again.
“Right Sort—oh, hello, Miss Blake. Yes? Dickie Trower? I’m afraid that there is one person already ahead of you, but I can—yes, I will add you to the list. Will do. Good-bye.”
She hung up, then grabbed her pad and started writing. The telephone rang again. This time, a gentleman sought to make an appointment to sign up.
The morning proved to be quite busy. They passed the telephone back and forth between desks, taking shifts answering. By lunchtime, they were exhausted and extremely happy, and the list of women interested in Dickie Trower had grown to seven names.
“We need a secretary,” said Gwen thoughtfully. “And more space.”
“I think you’re right,” said Iris.
“Well, don’t ask me,” said Sally, standing in the doorway.
“How do you move so silently?” asked Gwen.
“Practice, practice, practice,” he said. “Catlike tread and all that.”
“Are you sure you don’t want the job?” asked Iris. “You already have experience and training.”
“It was fine when this was a failing business,” he said, coming in. “But now that you’re such booming successes, the position sounds like it’s going to require actual work, and I’m not cut out for that. I shall continue to be on call for collections and the odd consultation.”
“Thank you, Sally,” said Iris. “You’ve been a lifesaver. Quite literally in my case.”
“I have come to bring you these,” he said, depositing a pile of newspapers on her desk. “I think that’s all of them. Some are worth framing. And if I may offer my own meager accomplishment in the midst of basking in your twinned radiances—I have finished my play!”
“Bravo!” applauded Gwen. “When may we see it?”
“Well, I need to have an informal reading next,” he said. “A gathering of voices in my parlour so that I may hear it out loud. I’d like to ask the two of you to participate.”
“I’d love to,” said Iris. “Strictly a reading, though. I won’t be enacting any love scenes this time.”
“More’s the pity,” he said. “Mrs. Bainbridge?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Gwen hesitantly. “I’m no actress.”
“That ain’t so, and you know it, Sophie,” said Iris.
“It’s not in front of an audience,” said Sally. “Only a few select friends. Please say that you will.”
“All right,” said Gwen. “Don’t hold me to the high standards of you two.”
“You’ll be wonderful,” he promised. “Ta ta, detectives.”
He vanished soundlessly out of the hall.
“He must have been fearsome behind the lines,” said Gwen.
“Yes.”
“You calling me Sophie reminded me. I need to make a call.”
The telephone rang again as she reached for it. She answered, then handed it over to Iris.
“It’s a gentleman,” she said. “He would not state his name.”
“Curious,” said Iris. “Hello. Sparks, here.”
“’Allo, Mary Elizabeth McTague,” said Archie.
Iris clutched the receiver in a spasm of surprise and fear.
“Hello,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you to call.”
“Well, I find myself in an unexpectedly peculiar position, given what I’ve been reading in the papers the past two days.”
“What position is that?”
“I am still at liberty. Completely unarrested. And given that a couple of people very well known to me are not, I am puzzled by that. I am also puzzled that my newest employee, Mary Elizabeth McTague, ’asn’t turned snitch when she was never legit to start with.”
“I had no interest in seeing you go to jail if you didn’t kill Tillie. You asked for my loyalty when I worked for you. I gave it. And I hear that the Yard and the Ministry of Finance want to keep the prosecution of Pilcher hush-hush, given how embarrassing it is that their prize man went rogue. Anything he can say against you is automatically suspect. They’ll settle for him and the recovery of the stolen plates.”
“How were you sure it wasn’t me who killed Tillie? Even I’d suspect me, and I like me.”
“A small detail. She was stabbed in the heart. It didn’t sound like your style. You said you prefer to slit throats.”
“Oh, that’s rich,” he said, laughing. “So, we’re good, you and me?”
“We’re good. But I would like to take this opportunity to tender my resignation from your organization, Boss. It was fun to be a spiv for a day, but I have my own business to run.”
“I might ’ave some work for you.”
“I told you—”
“It’s me nephew. Bernie’s not in the game, ’as a proper upbringing and education, and wants to be a school teacher. We don’t know any girls decent enough for ’im, and he trips over his tongue ’alf the time when ’e meets them on ’is own. So, I thought I’d send ’im your way.”
“By all means.”
“And I’m sending a couple of boxes with him in my appreciation for what you’ve done, one for you, one for Sophie.”
“I’m not sure that we should—”
“Stockings, Miss Sparks. Ten pairs for each of you.”
“Well, it would be churlish to turn them down under the circumstances. How did you know Gwen’s size?”
“I ’ave a knack for these things.”
“You should become a hosier when you grow up.”
“Always thought that would be an enjoyable profession, me being a leg man and all. Speaking of which—seeing as you and Rog ain’t a thing, ’ow about you and me step out some night? I know a place with a good dance floor and a decent band.”
“Legal?”
“Not completely. Interested?”
“All right, Archie.”
“Friday night?”
“It’s a date. I’ll see you then.”
She hung up. Gwen was staring at her.
“Did you just accept a date with Archie?” she asked.
“I thought it might be fun.”
Gwen shook her head in disbelief, then wrote something on her notepad.
“I’m usually the craziest person in the room at any given moment,” she said, tearing the sheet off and handing it to Iris. “The exception seems to be when I’m alone with you. This is my psychiatrist’s name and number. Do the world a favour and call him.”
“Why? I feel fine.”
“You, my friend, like to put yourself at risk. Now, I have been right there with you these past several days, but that’s over and done with. Yet here you are, agreeing to date a gangster who could turn on you in a second if he suspects you of being an informant.”
“I don’t think he will,” said Iris. “And I’ve dated worse.”
“Please. For my sake.”
“Very well, since you said please. We should have our appointments back-to-back. We could make a date of it—therapy, then drinks after.”
“That does sound like fun,” said Gwen. “Let’s do that.”
“You said you wanted to make a call?”
“Oh, yes,” said Gwen. “Pass me the telephone, would you?”
It was evening when she walked into the Town of Ramsgate pub on Wapping High Street. She looked around expectantly as the roar of voices subsided while the male patrons checked her out. Then she saw him, sitting in a corner. He met her eye, but gave no other sign of welcome.
She walked up to him.
“Hello, Des,” she said softly.
“You called,” he said. “I didn’t think you would.”
“I said that I would take a walk with you.”
“Sophie said that,” he said. “You’re not Sophie.”
“No. My name is Gwen Bainbridge.”
“I know. I read the story. And you’re not a ladies’ maid. You’re an actual lady.”
“I never gained the title. My husband was killed before inheriting it.”
“So the dead ’usband was true.”
“Most of what I said was true.”
“Makes the lie work better, right?”
“Des, could we take that walk, please?”
“Are you serious?”
“I am. I’d rather talk while we’re walking.”
“I doubt a lady’s shoes are right for walking around—”
She stood back where he could see her feet.
“I brought my wellies this time,” she said. “They don’t flatter my legs, but you said we could see the Tower Bridge.”
“Come on,” he said, taking her by the arm.
They walked out the back exit. There was a stair next to the pub going down to the river.
“This is an old stair,” he said as he led her down it. “It goes back centuries. They say girls useter kiss their sailor lads good-bye ’ere and swear to be true until they returned.”
“And were they true? Did the sailors come back?”
“Who knows?” he said with a shrug. “It’s a nice story. Gets an occasional kiss out of a girl if a lad brings ’er to the stairs.”
They reached the banks of the Thames. He led her to the edge.
“You can’t see the entire bridge, but there it is,” he said.
She could see half of the bridge. One of the towers, the one further from the City of London, partly blocked the setting sun.
“Shall we walk a little farther?” she asked.
“What are we doing?” he replied. “What is there to talk about? You made a bloody fool out of me.”
“I didn’t mean to. We didn’t mean to. We weren’t trying to hurt anyone.”
“No, but you weren’t exactly trying not to ’urt anyone, were you?”
“There was an innocent man in prison. We were trying to save him.”
“And it turned out to ’ave nothing to do with any of us, did it?” he said.
“No. But we didn’t know that when we began.”
“What about me? I was never one of your suspects. I poured my ’eart out to you, and you were only pumping me for information. I liked you. Or I liked Sophie. I don’t know anymore.”
“You’re a decent, kind man, Des, and I’m sorry if I left you with the impression that there could be anything between us.”
“Because I’m not good enough for the likes of you.”
“Des, you may very well be too good for the likes of me,” she said. “I have a son.”
He took a deep breath.
“You do.”
“Yes.”
“And what’s ’is title?”
“He is a future lord, which doesn’t matter to me one jot, but it matters to my husband’s parents. They have legal custody of him, and I am about to go to war in the courts to get him back. I am outfinanced, outgunned, and outnumbered, and I cannot do anything that will jeopardize my already tenuous position. Which means as much as I would like to, I can’t have—I can’t get involved with anyone right now.”
He looked across the water.
“How old is ’e?”
“Six. He is the light of my life, and I won’t lose him.”
“I’ve always wanted a boy,” said Des. “Someone to teach the trade to, like my dad taught me.”
“I know you’ll be a wonderful father, Des,” said Gwen. “I mean that, I truly do.”
“Can’t do it alone,” he said.
“You know that Fanny adores you,” said Gwen.
“Of course, I know that Fanny adores me,” he said angrily. “If I wanted Fanny, I would be with Fanny, not wasting time on some posh—”
“If it wasn’t for Ronnie, I would be saying yes to the next date, Des,” said Gwen.
“You almost sound like you mean it,” he said, finally looking at her.
“If you knew me better, you would have no doubt of it.”
“Will it take long?” he asked. “This court battle?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t want you to pin your hopes on me, Des. Find someone else.”
“Then that’s it,” he said heavily. “Let me walk you back to the station.”
They turned away from the river and walked to the foot of the stairs.
“Might I kiss you?” he asked.
“I’m afraid that would only make this worse,” she said.
“I suppose it would.”
“So let’s make it worse,” said Gwen.
He wasn’t like Ronnie. He felt different pressed against her. He held her differently, and his scent was one of sweat and traces of oak and pine and others she couldn’t identify. And his mouth—he was slow and questing and questioning, and she found herself turning the aggressor, craving him, seizing him, and pulling him to her, wanting it to go on and on until the river rose around them, carrying them both away from this wretched, terrible city.
She could not have said after how long it lasted, only that it lasted, and then it ended, it had to end whether they wanted it to or not. She rested her head against his shoulder, clinging to him, trembling.
“I can’t say anything,” she said. “Any words now will only be polite or stupid or completely inadequate.”
“You don’t need to say anything,” he said. “I’ll take you to the station.”
She walked up the steps ahead of him. There was a moment where she stumbled on the wet stone and he caught her by the waist and steadied her, but that was all there was.
She took care to reapply her lipstick before she returned to Kensington Court.
Dinner had passed. She had no appetite for it. She went up to find Ronnie. He was in his playroom, drawing. She plopped herself down on the floor next to him.
“I have a son who is very topsy-turvy, for he plays in the drawing room and draws in his playroom,” she said, giving him a kiss. “How go the exciting adventures of Sir Oswald, the heroic narwhal?”
“He’s fighting a Nazi U-boat,” said Ronnie. “He’s poking holes in it with his tusk. It’s very difficult, because he has to dodge torpedoes at the same time.”
“I’m certain that he’ll win in the end,” said Gwen.
“Mummy? Did the playroom look like this when Daddy was a boy?”
“I don’t know,” said Gwen. “You would have to ask some of the older servants.”
“Or Grandmother,” said Ronnie. “But she’s been in a bad mood. Is it because Grandfather has been away in Africa for so long?”
“That could be it,” said Gwen. “I’m sure that you would be the best one to cheer her up. Will you remember to do that tomorrow?”
“Yes, Mummy.”
“You are a wonderful boy. Now, you may draw until it’s time for bed, but don’t give Agnes any difficulties when she comes to get you ready.”
“Will you come give me a kiss good-night?”
“Of course, my darling.”
She left him to his work.
It was strange to think of the playroom as being her husband’s twenty odd years ago. She had seen photographs of him at that age, but they were all formal poses in exquisite velvet suits. Her Ronnie had a mischievous side—there must have been much galloping about and play-fighting in that room, but he never mentioned it. Only his secret place in the attic.
He had brought her up to see it once after putting her through an over-complicated and very solemn oath of secrecy.
It’s always been mine, you see, he had explained to her. The only place in the world that’s completely mine. So you understand how momentous it is that I am sharing it with you.
I do, she said.
He had brought her up the steep, narrow steps to the trapdoor that allowed access to it, then tiptoed across the dusty floorboards, beckoning to her to do the same. Around them, steamer trunks and hatboxes were stacked to the roof-beams, old worn-out bureaus that were nevertheless too much part of the family history to discard were shoved into corners, and the entire mess was lit by a row of bare lightbulbs hanging from the apex of the roof.
Ronnie came to an armoire that must have dated back to the beginning of the previous century and carefully slid between it and the wall.
So much easier when I was young and spry, he said.
You’re a pathetic wreck at twenty-two, she agreed, turning sideways and following him.
A small space, maybe six feet by four, had been cleared in front of a dormer window, which lit the area nicely. A bookcase stood by it, filled with adventure novels. There was an easel with an unfinished water colour of a biplane, and a tiny table with a pair of stools on either side.
On the table was a small box.
Oh, dear, said Gwen when she saw it. Is that what I think it is?
Well, now that you’ve seen my innermost sanctum, I’m afraid I have no other choice, he said, picking it up and kneeling before her. Marry me, Gwen.
She hadn’t been up there since he had left the last time. She wondered if it was still intact.
She wondered if his spirit forgave her for kissing another man today.
An impulse drew her up the flights of stairs until she reached the trapdoor. It gave before her without creaking. She climbed into the attic and felt for the thin chain that turned on the lights.
She couldn’t remember the layout of the trunks. There seemed to be fewer—whether it was due to Lord Bainbridge’s travels or the conflation of her memories, she couldn’t say.
But there was the armoire, still in place. She walked—no, she tiptoed, honouring that long-ago oath, until she reached it, then slid through the gap. Not as easily as one once had, she thought, but one has had a baby since then, and there are changes as a result.
It was all there. The book case. The easel, empty now. The table.
There was an envelope on the table.
Her hand trembling, she picked it up and held it to the light.
It had her name on it.
She didn’t want to tear it open and destroy any part of it. She eased her way back into the main part of the attic, then carefully tiptoed back to the stairs, pausing to turn off the lights before she descended.
Once down, she ran the rest of the way to her room and dug a letter opener out of the desk. She slit the edge of the envelope with the care of a surgeon. Inside was a letter, and another, smaller envelope with For Ronnie, my son written on it.
She opened the letter and began to read.
My dearest Gwen,
I’ve always taken illicit pride in the fact that, unlike so many of our married friends, we never gave each other obnoxiously cute pet names. I would hate to have you crying at my funeral ‘Moopsy! My beloved Moopsy’ or some equally ghastly sobriquet. Gwen and Ronnie, Ronnie and Gwen—the pairing suits me fine.
If you are reading this, then I have either bought the farm or have come home and completely forgotten to destroy it. If the latter, bring it to me in a rage and devise whatever punishment you deem appropriate, and I shall humbly beg your forgiveness, and you shall sweetly forgive.
There is a will, and you and Little Ronnie will be provided for. I write this for the things that don’t belong in a will. Call them wishes.
I wish that you will mourn me to the hilt, out-Niobe Niobe with your tears, and wear a stunning black dress that will be so much the envy of our female friends that they will secretly yearn for the deaths of their husbands so that they may give you a run for the money in their widow’s weeds.
And then remarry, Gwen. Don’t waste time wanting me alive. You’re too young, too vibrant a lass to abandon the world to placate my ghost. I promise not to haunt anyone, apart from the occasional benevolent look down (I may be presumptuous as to the direction) to reassure myself that you and Ronnie are happy.
As for our son, the most important wish I have is this: DO NOT LET THEM SEND HIM TO ST. FRIDESWIDE’S! They will bully you. They will invoke family tradition. They may even stoop so low as to say that I would have wanted it. I do not. It was a miserable, cold, sadistic place, and I want our son to be joyous above all things. Keep him in London, where he can go to the museums and the zoo and the parks and have real friends, not be in some aristocratic chain-gang.
Tell him stories about me, Gwen, and not just the good ones. I don’t want him to put me on a pedestal. Let him know that, all in all, I was only human, although I tried my best to be a good one. I left him a letter. Don’t give it to him until he’s old enough to understand. Twelve would be the right age, I think. Don’t give it to him on his birthday—I’d hate to spoil it. Wait until a week or two after.
It occurs to me that I write this not knowing the outcome of this stupid war. I am maintaining my optimism. My last wish for Ronnie is an alternative. If England prevails, tell him to grow into a man who will find a way to keep others from dying in battle.
But if England falls, Gwen, tell him to join the Resistance. And if there isn’t one to join, to start his own.
I have left this in our place, what was once my place. Let our son share it when he can safely sneak up those steps.
Until we meet in Heaven, I remain yours,
Ronnie
She reread it five times, laughing through her tears. Then she walked out of her room and down the hallway until she came to her mother-in-law’s room. She knocked softly.
“Who is it?” asked Lady Carolyne.
“It’s Gwen. I need to show you something.”
“Can’t it wait until morning?”
“It’s something that you’ll want to see. Please, Carolyne.”
She heard a soft padding, then the door opened and Lady Carolyne peered up at her over her reading glasses.
Without makeup and with her hair down, she looked more human than Gwen had ever seen her. For the first time, she saw features that Ronnie had inherited. That Little Ronnie had now.
“Well?” asked Lady Carolyne.
“I found a letter,” said Gwen. “From Ronnie.”
“Little Ronnie wrote—”
“Our Ronnie. My husband. Your son.”
She held it up so that Lady Carolyne could see the writing.
“Where was it?”
“In a place known to him and me that I haven’t looked at in a very long time.”
“May I read it?”
“That is why I’m here.”
“Come in.”
She took the letter over to her desk and turned on the lamp. She read it slowly, then read it again. When she was done, she folded it carefully and handed it back to Gwen.
“He never said anything about hating St. Frideswide’s,” she said. “Not once in the eight years that he was there.”
“It’s hard for a child to tell his parents that he hates something they gave him,” said Gwen. “He would have felt that he had failed you.”
“I had no idea,” said Lady Carolyne. “And now, it’s too late to tell him that I’m sorry.”
“You can make it up to him by keeping your grandson here.”
“Harold won’t like it.”
“There are two of us. And we have the letter.”
“Do you consider us allies now?” Lady Carolyne asked.
“In this matter, yes,” said Gwen. “I do intend to regain legal custody of my son. Will you be my adversary in that? I think that I have proved myself worthy, capable, and sane enough.”
“Will you take us to court if we do not agree?”
“In a heartbeat.”
Lady Carolyne smiled.
“We shall speak more on that when Harold returns,” she said. “I make no promises. But until then, I shall look into local schools.”
“Do not put him in one without consulting me,” Gwen warned her.
“Good night, Gwendolyn.”
“Good night, Lady Carolyne.”
Iris looked up as Gwen came into the office.
“You’re late,” she said. “You’ve never been late before. Is everything all right?”
“I took a long route to get here,” said Gwen. “I’m strategizing.”
“Without me?”
“I may ask your advice.”
“That’s fine. How was your date with Des?”
“It wasn’t a date. It was an apology.”
“Will there be another apology later this week?”
“No. I told him that I couldn’t get involved.”
“Why? He seems like a decent catch.”
“I’m not fishing at the moment. Not until my son is mine again.”
“And then you’ll call Des?”
“Iris, there are so many differences between our lives.”
“Because he’s a carpenter? May I remind you that Jesus was a carpenter?”
“Jesus didn’t date.”
“Yes, bad example, I see that, now. But why not pursue Des some more?”
“Look, say you didn’t know either of us, and had interviewed both him and me and reduced us to a pair of index cards in those boxes. Would you then have matched us up?”
“No,” said Iris. “But it’s not a perfect system.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” said Gwen. “Our livelihood depends on people believing that it works.”