Evan Hunter - Lizzie

“A person who employed such a staff would be considered very wealthy in America,” Lizzie said.

“Oh, we’re not half so wealthy as Albert would wish us to be,” Alison said, and again laughed. “There are families here in London — high society, don’t you know — who keep a staff of twenty or more, scurrying about underfoot. I should expect it costs them a quarter of their income annually — Lizzie dear, you must forgive me! We British haven’t the slightest qualm about discussing personal finance. In ten minutes’ time, a British stranger will ask you how large your fortune is. And, moreover, he’ll expect a reply. There’s nothing rude about it; it’s merely a national trait, our obsession with money. How large is your fortune?” she asked, and unexpectedly winked. “I don’t expect an answer, I’m pulling your leg. I’m so enjoying this, Lizzie, aren’t you? Have you tried the clotted cream? You haven’t touched a bite!”

“Clotted?”

“The most sinful concoction ever devised by man. Or woman, as I’m sure the case actually was. Try it with the berries. Spread it on one of the scones. It’s from Devon, and my dairyman assures me it came into London fresh this morning.”

“I shall become fat as a horse,” Lizzie said.

“In which case, you’d be perfectly in fashion,” Alison said. “Here, let me help you.”

“I’m far too plump as it is,” Lizzie said.

“Plump? No, no,” Alison said. “You’re what my mother might have called wollüstig.”

“Is that German?”

“Yes.”

“Is your mother German?”

“Was. She’s been dead for quite some time now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lizzie said.

She watched in silence as Alison sliced one of the scones in half and then spread each half first with cream as thick as butter and next spooned onto them the tiniest strawberries Lizzie had ever seen.

“Thank you,” Lizzie said, accepting the plate. “What does it mean? The German word you used?”

“Wollüstig? Well, I suppose it would translate as ‘voluptuous’.”

“Oh, my,” Lizzie said. “Voluptuous, indeed!”

“Have your read The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night?” Alison asked.

“I wouldn’t read that, no,” Lizzie said.

“Why not?”

“It would not be in keeping with serious piety.”

“Are you seriously pious then?”

“I should hope so.”

“And you would consider that book improper? Morally unacceptable?”

“From what I’ve heard of it, yes.”

“What have you heard of it?”

“Only that the Persian monarch has many wives...”

“And you disapprove?”

“It’s beyond my ken. And that one of them...”

“Scheherazade, yes.”

“... tells stories that are bawdy.”

“Have you read The Golden Bough?”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“It’s only recently been published. I was wondering if you might consider that morally acceptable.”

“I have no way of knowing.”

“Are you familiar with the work of Krafft-Ebing?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“He hasn’t been translated into English yet,” Alison said. “I found a copy of his book on our last visit to Germany.” She hesitated, and then said, “ Psychopathia Sexualis.”

“Oh, my,” Lizzie said.

“You should look for it when it comes to America. I’m sure it’ll be widely translated. Or does the title frighten you?”

“If it means what I think it does,” Lizzie said.

“What do you think it means?”

“I’m not sure it would be polite for me to say.”

“It deals with sexual aberration,” Alison said.

“Which is what I imagined.”

“Now I’ve shocked you.”

“I do not shock easily,” Lizzie said.

“You’re blushing to your toes,” Alison said, and smiled. There was an uncomfortable silence.

“This cream is sinful, you’re right,” Lizzie said.

“I warned you,” Alison said.

The silence lengthened.

“When you’re with your friends,” Alison said, “do you talk about anything more intimate than cooking or sewing, or books and plays ... do you enjoy theater, by the way?”

“Yes, I do. Whenever I’m in Boston, I try to see what’s on.”

“I shall have to give you a list of things to see here in London.”

“Rebecca is trying for The Gondoliers.”

“Bless D’Oyly Carte. He built the Savoy, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“She seems a clever sort, your Rebecca.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Your Felicity is a twit, though, isn’t she? Quite lovely, but oh, my!”

Lizzie said nothing.

“Now I’ve offended you,” Alison said.

“She is a friend,” Lizzie said.

“Forgive me, how rude of me. Do you ever discuss more meaningful things with her then?”

“More meaningful than what?”

“Sewing or cooking or...”

“Well, not with Felicity, no.”

“With some of your other friends then?”

“Yes, I would say we’re quite open and honest with each other.”

“As good friends should be,” Alison said.

“Yes,” Lizzie said.

“So I’m sure you discuss marriage and...”

“No, I don’t think I shall ever be married,” Lizzie said.

“Which, I assure you, is no great loss,” Alison said, and smiled. “Men are fun to discuss, but it becomes awfully tiresome when one has to live with them. Him, I should say. Singular rather than plural. Albert certainly is singular,” she said, and rolled her eyes. “You do discuss men, don’t you? With your close friends?”

“Hardly ever. We’re much beyond the age when such talk would seem appropriate.”

“Ah? Was it appropriate at one time?”

“When I was a girl, certainly. Oh, my, we discussed boys day and night.”

“Ah, didn’t we all?” Alison said, and again smiled. “What sort of talk, Lizzie?”

“The usual nonsense,” Lizzie said. “Gossip about beaux...”

“Have you had many beaux?”

“Not very many. And none for a long time now.”

“This gossip...”

“Oh, the usual sort. We talked about — mind you, this was when I was much younger...”

“Yes?”

“... their good looks or their homeliness... whether they were conceited or not... when they planned their next visit to Fall River... whether or not a suitor was serious or merely...”

“Were any of them serious?”

“One. That is...”

“Yes?”

“I’m not sure we should be discussing this.”

“Why not?”

“Well, we scarcely know each other, for one thing. And for another...”

“I feel I know you very well,” Alison said.

“Well, I do, too, of course. Feel I know you. But...”

“But you just said otherwise.”

“I meant... on such short acquaintance...”

“I had hoped we might become good friends, Lizzie.”

“I would hope so, too. But...”

“Then can’t you be as open and as honest with me as you are with your other good friends?”

“I’ve been nothing but, believe me,” Lizzie said. “I only meant to say that... well, surely you know this... talking about past romances is a matter more suitable for discussion by someone like Felicity.”

“Ah, then you do agree with me!” Alison said.

“Well, she is something of a twit, I suppose,” Lizzie said, and smiled.

“How old is she?” Alison asked.

“Twenty-four. Just twenty-four, I believe.”

“A lovely age,” Alison said. “And so beautiful. But, oh, so empty-headed.”