Evan Hunter - Lizzie

“You sound exactly like your sister,” Lizzie said.

“I take that as a great compliment,” Geoffrey said.

“But I’m not sure I enjoy the way both of you go on about American girls, as though we were a breed of horse to be compared to the Arabian or the...”

“A species of orchid, rather,” Geoffrey said.

“Your sister again,” Lizzie said, smiling.

“A species that needs more light and heat than any other,” Geoffrey said softly.

“Such nonsense,” Lizzie said, but she was still smiling.

“Well, surely, you must have observed for yourself the great difference between American women and our homegrown variety, nowhere more evident than in their behavior before and after marriage. Here, and especially in France, marriage is a license for flirtation of the most provocative sort strictly frowned upon before marriage. And, I might add, oftentimes leading to the fabled quatre à cinq — which is more than idle myth, believe me.”

“And what on earth is a cat that sank?” Lizzie asked.

“Gentleman that I am,” he said, smiling secretly again, “I shall leave that to my sister to explain.”

“No, please do tell me.”

“I shall offend your maidenly ears,” Geoffrey said. “But having been implored so prettily to do so...”

“No, please don’t,” Lizzie said, rolling her eyes as Alison might have. “I regret having asked, truly,” and they both laughed.

The ladies reappeared in that moment, exclaiming excitedly over the fairyland beauty of the lavatory, and the moment they were seated the maître d’hôteI arrived with the dessert cart, and there was much oohing and ahhing and much consultation and more advice from Geoffrey before pastries and fruits were chosen. All that while Geoffrey’s sidelong glances continued to include Lizzie in a sort of — conspiracy, yes, that was the word for it. Oddly she now felt drawn into the secret she previously felt he alone had kept, and the thought of it was warming and curiously exciting.

When at last they all said goodnight outside the Albemarle, she was delighted that he asked if he might call for them again early the next morning, “To show you,” he said, and there was that trace of irony again, “whatever meager sights our paltry city has to offer.”

The ladies laughed and protested, but Geoffrey was adamant. He would stop by in a carriage at ten sharp, he said, and then immediately corrected himself. “That might be a bit early,” he said, and glanced in his sidelong way at Lizzie. “Shall we make it ten-oh-one?”

There was more laughter and handshaking all around, and when finally the ladies entered the hotel, and went to the separate rooms they shared, Lizzie felt a comfortable sense of well-being she could only attribute to Geoffrey’s evening-long efforts to charm.

“Such a bright man,” Rebecca said, slipping out of her dress. “Do help me undo my corset, Lizzie. So witty and quick, I so admire men blessed with a gift for language.”

“Yes,” Lizzie said, smiling, and thought again how very much like Alison he was.

And, oh, how the next four days flew past!

Geoffrey had advised them that there were several choices as concerned the possible routes from London to Paris but that far and away the best and shortest of these was the one via Folkestone to Boulogne. The only advantage of the Dover-Calais route, the second-best alternate, was that — owing to the depth of the water at Dover and Calais — the boats departed and arrived at fixed hours, whereas those plying between Folkestone and Boulogne were at the mercy of the tides.

On the other hand, the hours of departure by the tidal trains were far more convenient than those via Dover, and the Folkestone route was shorter by a full half hour. The time occupied in crossing the Channel from Folkestone to Boulogne, he went on (as he was wont to do, Lizzie thought with a smile), was some ten to fifteen minutes longer than from Dover to Calais. But — and this was an important but — Boulogne was three-quarters of an hour nearer Paris by rail than was Calais, and those few additional minutes on the Channel would be compensated for by the saving of the uninteresting railway journey from Calais to Boulogne. If the ladies would heed his advice, (hen, he would be only too willing to make all the necessary arrangements and to see to it that a four-wheeler (a “growler”, he called it) got them to the railway station in time enough to catch the late Folkestone train on Saturday afternoon.

When Felicity complained that she had hoped to spend their last full night in London, Geoffrey explained that breaking their journey in Folkestone, where there were excellent hotels near the landings, would obviate the need of rising at an inconvenient hour on Sunday to take the early morning train, and would enable them besides to board the steamer before the arrival of the train passengers, thereby enabling them to secure the best positions and to make the necessary preparations for their trip without haste or confusion. Their luggage, he informed them, could be shipped directly to the Hotel Anglo-Français in Paris, to await their arrival there some eight hours later.

“If you so choose, then, I shall contact the...”

“Have you tired of our company so soon then?” Felicity asked, putting on a pouting, hurt expression.

“My dear lady, I assure you I should sooner tire of a glorious Venetian sunset,” Geoffrey said. “I am thinking only of your comfort and convenience. Surely you will not wish to awaken at the crack of dawn, to be driven over our fog-enshrouded and deserted streets to the rail station? In addition, I feel I should warn you that the first Monday in August is what we fondly call a bank holiday and if you attempt to go out of London that Sunday, you will find the experience more curious than pleasing. Every railway is crowded with trains almost touching each other, each one jammed full of excursionists, what we call trippers here. You should be most uncomfortable, and I strongly suggest that you leave London at a convenient hour on Saturday afternoon.”

“He no longer loves us,” Felicity said, pouting.

“Ah, but indeed I do! Just wait and see what I’ve planned to fill our days and nights before your all too imminent departure!”

He took them wherever they wished to go, places Lizzie was certain he had seen a hundred times before — “Places that everyone can see,” she recalled his having said, “but that few have any wish to see.” Except tourists, of course, and he was determined that they should not leave London without having viewed the houses of Parliament or the British Museum or the National Gallery or the Crystal Palace or Christ’s Hospital, which he told them would soon no longer be seen in Newgate Street. He took them to all the parks, and pointed out the charming flower beds on the east side of Hyde Park by Grosvenor Gate, expressing concern that they would not be here on Sunday to hear the debates in Speaker’s Corner, or indeed to visit the Zoological Society’s Gardens on that day, when they would be closed to the public, but for which he might have got an order of admission from a Fellow of the Society. He took them to St. Paul’s, of course, and to the Guildhall and the Clock Museum, and to the Silver Vaults and Dr. Johnson’s house, and the Temple Church and the Nash Terraces, where afterwards they sat in the garden. He took them to the finest restaurants each night for dinner — Blanchard’s in Beak Street, the Café Royal in Regent Street, Frascati’s in Oxford Street — refusing to allow them to pay a farthing for their meals, explaining that they could extend their thanks to his dear, departed father.