Evan Hunter - Lizzie

“Well, yes,” Lizzie said.

“She has a marvelous figure; she’ll be the envy of every woman on the Continent,” Alison said. “Just make sure she keeps her pretty mouth tightly shut and shows her breasts to good advantage.”

Lizzie raised her eyebrows.

“Well, surely,” Alison said, “ breasts are a suitable topic of conversation for women, are they not? Morally acceptable, I’m certain, and — at least when hands are clasped over them in prayer — seriously pious.”

“She does have a good figure, yes,” Lizzie said, somewhat curtly.

“And who, after all, is better equipped — if you’ll forgive the pun — to discuss those lovely appendages of which we are the sole possessors? Although, I might add, when considering my own scant equipment, I sincerely and in all serious piety pray that ‘less is more’ may be more than idle supposition. I keep shocking you, Lizzie, I pray your forgiveness. I’m far too outspoken, I know, my worst failing. The Hastings Curse, actually, inherited by both my brother and me. Hastings was my maiden name — Alison Lydia Hastings, to be precise — and my father was quite the most outspoken man alive. I’m sure I’ll never be invited to Buckingham Palace, where our dear mourning monarch much resembles a pouter pigeon in Trafalgar Square. Moreover, I’m sure that if I were invited, I should politely decline. More tea?”

“Yes, thank you,” Lizzie said, and watched as she poured. “You think I’m terribly provincial, don’t you?” she asked, surprised when the words found voice.

“No,” Alison said.

“Then why do you mock me?”

“Mock you? No. But yes, I do admit to my feeble attempts at shocking you, Lord knows why. In the face of my incessant barrage, you’ve remained as unflappable as a cavalry captain. But you see, dear Lizzie, I am sick unto death of idle chatter...”

“If you think...”

“I could, if you prefer, advise you not to miss St. Stephen’s Crypt in Westminster Hall. Or I could offer a critique on The Sign of Four, if Mr. Doyle’s new novel is on your list of morally acceptable books...”

“That’s the mockery I spoke of,” Lizzie said.

“Is it? I’m sorry, it shan’t happen again. But, my dear, would you truly be interested in learning that a statue will be going up on the Thames Embankment this Thursday, in honor of the late Mr. W. E. Forster, and that Lord Cranbrook will do the unveiling? Shall we talk about the Lord Dunlo trial, and the interminably long time he’s been in court petitioning for a divorce from his wife? Shall we babble on about inconsequential matters as proper ladies are supposed to? I should sooner discuss the intensity of my most recent menstrual flow!”

And now Lizzie was shocked. Not only by the mention, from a virtual stranger, of a personal feminine matter best discussed between the closest of friends, but also by the fierceness with which Alison had spoken those last several words, as if the most natural of female occurrences was to her, in fact, abhorrent. Her green eyes were virtually blazing now, alarmingly so. For an instant, Lizzie suspected the woman would never have spoken so feverishly to anyone but a stranger lest a friend might consider her deranged. She decided she would make her apologies and leave. There was no telling what Alison Newbury might say, or do, next. And then, to her surprise, Alison’s green eyes softened so that they resembled jade now more than they did sparkling emerald. Her mouth and her features softened, too, as though a terrible summer storm had passed in an instant, leaving behind it a cascade of sunlight that illuminated her exquisite face. She reached across the table as if to pat Lizzie’s hand again. Instead, her fingers came to rest on Lizzie’s arm. Her voice, when she spoke again, was low and apologetic, almost beseeching.

“I seek your friendship,” she said.

“You shall have it,” Lizzie said. “But surely, Alison...”

“Ah, then we are friends. That’s the first time you’ve said my name.”

“You do have a bad habit of interrupting, you know.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“And, really, if you assumed I might prefer idle chatter...”

“The thought crossed my mind,” Alison said, and smiled. Her hand was still on Lizzie’s arm.

“Wrongly, I’m sure. I do not, in fact, much care for it.”

“I don’t care for it at ally Alison said.

“Then why do you want to hear about a boy I’ve forgotten years ago?”

“Only if you care to tell me,” Alison said, and took her hand from Lizzie’s arm.

“And if I choose not to, you shall accuse me of being as empty-headed as my friend Felicity.”

“The horns of a dilemma, to be sure,” Alison said. She was no longer smiling.

“Your friendship may prove too costly,” Lizzie said, and sighed.

“Most real friendships are,” Alison said.

“What would you know, then?” Lizzie said.

“All, everything, all,” Alison said, and suddenly clapped her hands together like a child. “Who was he, what was his name, how did you meet — all, Lizzie,” and she leaned forward with great anticipation, clasping her hands in her satiny lap now, the long fingers intertwined, her green eyes wide, as though waiting for a cherished older sister or aunt to tell a fantastic story about witches and fairies and golden palaces.

“I shall disappoint you,” Lizzie said. “It’s a dreary tale.”

“I’m certain it’s not,” Alison said.

“Very well,” Lizzie said, and sighed again. “His name was Stephen Carmody... he was a student at Brown, visiting his aunt for the summer.”

“How old were you?” Alison asked.

“Nineteen.”

“A perfect age for a summer romance!”

“You haven’t yet told me how old you are,” Lizzie said.

“Oh, my!” Alison said, and burst out laughing. “And I was the one insisting on honesty!” Her laughter — bubbling from her mouth with such spontaneous mirth, such self -mockery this time — surprised Lizzie as much as had her earlier intensity; she had never met so mercurial a woman in her life.

“Well, how old then?” she insisted.

“Thirty-seven,” Alison said.

“You seem much younger.”

“My compliment returned. Bread upon the waters. Oh, would that I were , Lizzie! But you mustn’t believe for an instant that this aged crone...”

“Crone, indeed!” Lizzie said.

“... can so easily be sidetracked or hoodwinked. Oh, no, my dear. You were about to tell me of your beau...”

“Not precisely a beau...”

“Your young man, then...”

“Yes, young.”

“How old?”

“My own age. Nineteen at the time. Well, about to be twenty. He, I mean. Stephen.”

“Eleven years ago...”

“Yes.”

“In the summertime...”

“And continuing into the fall.”

“And did he love you madly?”

“So he said.”

“Then he was a serious suitor.”

“I believe so.”

“Well, Lizzie, what happened ? You could give Mr. Doyle lessons in suspense, truly!”

“He behaved badly. I was obliged to...”

“Behaved badly how?”

“Well...”

“A stolen kiss in the barn?”

“We do have a barn,” Lizzie said. “But...”

“A barn, how delightful! And was it there that he behaved... badly?” she said, lowering her voice and narrowing her eyes.

“No. Alison, I shall call you to account each and every time I feel you’re mocking me.”