Nightingale (33 page)

‘Absolutely – there is only one coat to wear with this dress.'

As if by magic, a new garment materialised from the shadows of the salon, carried by the assistant and placed in Jemima's hands. She eased Claire into the sleeves before reverently pulling the coat onto her shoulders. ‘There we are . . . perfect, don't you think?'

Claire loved it on sight and as she pushed her hands into the sleeves, she refused to regret a single pound she was about to invest in the outfit. In direct contrast to her dress, the coat was ultramarine blue – the colour she remembered from Egypt, with a belt that clasped loosely at the small of her back and a neat but eye-catching collar of floral blue and that same buttermilk colour. It fastened asymmetrically across her left breast.

‘The designer's name is Eden Valentine,' Miss Dove said. ‘She only makes a few pieces to please herself.'

Claire nodded.

‘I've urged her to open her own salon and do you know, there was something about her smile and the way she shook her head so modestly that leads me to believe she just might. Now, you look absolutely beautiful. And when you remove your coat in the Palm Court, Claire, he will not be able to mistake your intent.'

They both smiled. Claire's was tinged with sadness. If only Jemima Dove knew that Claire's handsome date was likely a ghost, alive only in her thoughts. Instead, she grinned. ‘I do love it.'

And so she'd bought it all, including a tiny new ruched ivory handbag. Not at all suitable for winter's still stubborn hold, but irresistibly pretty all the same.

Claire prayed that Saint Valentine, so keenly associated with romantic love, was somehow imbued in the Eden Valentine outfit and that the love of her life was winging his way towards her.

There had been a snowfall in London but the momentary collective delight of the soft flutter of flakes had quickly darkened to a bleak mood. It had only taken overnight for the city to turn glistening, crystalline snow to a sad grey sludge that had been swept into small drifts against buildings. People slipped and cursed while drivers took it slowly with their carriages for fear of the animals creating havoc if they fell prey to the icy conditions. It had been both the wettest spring for years and arguably the coldest, with no sign of the harsh weather letting up. Forecasters were predicting that the snow would keep falling through April, and Claire began to wonder how much more punishment the world could take after war, influenza, and now a bitter winter that should be thawing by now.

She shivered as she left the Oxford Circus Underground Station, pouring out with fellow commuters from the stale, fuggy warmth below surface to exit and brave the inclement British skies. Claire looked up. The sky was a void of blizzard white but mercifully inactive. She pulled her new coat's collar closer to her neck.

Dodging horses and buses, she set off up the wide street, heedless of the sounds of traffic, people or the smell of roasting chestnuts, with her mind focused on guiding the man she loved to her.

________

Jamie accepted help from another soldier to alight onto the Paddington Station platform from the train, which had suffered serious delays due to the snow. The queue for a hackney cab was so long and the London Underground couldn't lure him – despite its speed – after too many years spent in the trenches. Wishing for the luxury of being able to stick his hands deep in his overcoat pockets, he ignored the strange nervous signals from an arm no longer there and the protestations of the other one leaning on a crutch. He had worked hard to strengthen that side but it would take a year at least, the doctors had warned, before he was fully adept and strong enough. A scarf wrapped around his mouth helped to keep the wind chill down as he approached one of the hackney cab drivers.

‘Afternoon, sir?'

He manoeuvred his chin free of the scarf and his breath billowed in front of him; he was already wearied from exertion. ‘Can you tell me the way to the Langham Hotel, please?'

‘I could, yes. But I have to chuckle first if you plan to walk.'

Jamie could see the man had wanted to say
if you plan to limp
. ‘I do, mate. I can't wait in this long queue. There's a woman I have to meet and all the trains were delayed today so I'm running late. I made a promise. I can't risk missing her.'

The driver grinned. ‘There's always a girl behind every drama. Where did you fight?'

‘Gallipoli, Palestine, all through the Jordan region. Australian Light Horse.'

‘Thought you had a funny accent but I'll forgive yer because you lads were brave. I didn't think any of your lot survived.'

Jamie nodded sadly and leaned down harder on the crutch. ‘Most of us didn't. Near enough a generation of fine blokes gone, left behind in the scrub of southern Turkey, but you lost just as many.'

The man nodded. ‘Two of my sons are buried in France.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that.'

The fellow grunted, shifted the burning cigarette that clung to the corner of his mouth and pointed. ‘Head down 'ere and stay north. You're making for Hyde Park, all right?'

Jamie nodded.

‘Get onto the Edgeware Road and before you reach Marble Arch, turn left onto Seymour and at the top of that road as soon as you see Regent Street loomin', you turn left onto it – the hotel is right there, opposite All Souls Church in Langham Place. If I tell you any more you'll get confused. It's more than two miles away even if you don't get lost. My advice is 'op on a bus if you can.' He grinned at his unintentional jest and coughed. ‘Or flag down a ride. But anywhere is easier than 'ere.'

‘Thanks, mate. I'll find it.' Jamie turned back into the biting cold. His dexterity with the crutch meant his speed had improved even if his strength was wanting, but the snow would hinder him. He was going to be late, no matter how fast he tried to get there.

‘Women,' the hackney cab driver muttered as he flicked his cigarette butt away, lifted the reins and clicked at the horse to move on into traffic beyond the forecourt of busy Paddington Station.

________

Rifki Shahin prided himself on his ordered mind that fed into an ordered life; within its safe cocoon was protection from most emotional impact. Being forced to give up Sehr when love made it feel as though nothing else mattered had cooled his approach to life, as did having to marry a woman he shared no connection with. Her shrewish ways had taught him how to bury his romantic nature and hide in his chilled world of numbers, money, ambition. Losing his only son had seemed predictable, given the way his life had moved from the hot-blooded years of his teens to the slow decline into his seemingly cold-hearted acceptance of the misery of a life without romantic love.

Until the golden presence of Claire Nightingale had arrived to warm up his existence, Rifki Shahin had not imagined his pulse would ever quicken again. The depth of his loss when she departed left his emotions in tatters. He would find himself trembling in the bathrooms of his university mid-tutorial, or weeping silently in his large, lonely house. He had taken to lying down in Açar's bed with his son's prayer book clutched to his chest, dry sobs his only companion as he drifted into unhappy sleep. And it was Claire who had haunted those fitful hours of the night . . . her touch against his cheek, her wry smile, teasing words. That sad farewell he relived over in his mind repeatedly. If only he had kissed her. If only he had made her understand that she had unlocked the door to his desire. If only he had held on to her somehow . . .

In a different world
, she had said. Claire had as good as admitted that he had ignited a longing in her too. When the invitation had come through for a sabbatical at King's College, London – no doubt promoted strongly by Professor Leavers – he had surprised himself by accepting immediately: no time to consider or calculate. It was the teenage Rifki, spontaneous and driven by his heart. It would put him closer to Claire. Perhaps her world could be different?

He would know soon enough, for today was the day that Claire hoped to be reunited with Wren. If the Australian was indeed dead, then maybe Claire, in time, would consider him. Rifki needed to know if the Australian soldier turned up – and if he didn't, then he might make another approach to the woman consuming his thoughts. If the soldier kept their long-promised date, then Rifki would not trouble the couple again. He was ashamed to acknowledge that he had silently cast out his desire, clutching his son's precious prayer book, that James Wren did not make it to the arranged rendezvous.

It was a bitter English afternoon and Rifki, dressed in the preferred dark suit of Londoners, had replaced the increasingly defunct fez for a homburg and regarded himself in the mirror of the main foyer of his university building. He checked his watch. He planned to arrive by two-thirty. It was one-fifty now and that gave him plenty of time to walk from the university to the Langham.

Shahin stepped out of the neo-classical, grey-stoned building of the embankment entrance of King's College that overlooked the Thames, and with an optimistic set to his features he began a brisk walk towards Drury Lane, heading north towards Oxford Street, Regent Street and the rendezvous in Portland Place.

________

Claire once again stood with her back to the Church of All Souls and faced the towering prospect of the golden-coloured stone of the Langham Hotel that today in the dreary weather appeared a dull bronze. She took a slow, deep breath to steady herself before adjusting her coat so it sat absolutely perfectly over her angular shoulders and glided across the road, avoiding the ice. She skipped up the shallow marble stairs and smiled at the doorman rising from a polite bow.

‘Good afternoon, miss.'

‘Afternoon.'

He reached to open the door. ‘Let's get you in from the chill.'

‘Thank you.' She smiled again, and tiptoed up the six marble steps to the grand foyer she recalled from her childhood and remembered her aunt explaining that the vast, white-tiled corridors were built wide enough to take a horse and carriage.

Mind you, darling, in terms of its practicality, what that really meant is that two ladies in voluminous crinolines could pass each other in the corridor without getting trapped.

The notion had amused her as a child and she remembered now how she had spluttered over her elderberry cordial when her aunt had recalled that snippet. But Claire was too nervous, too churned up, to be amused now. She slipped back her sleeve to look at her watch. Unbeknownst to her, one of her admirers had already arrived early, the other running late. Her timing was immaculate as always. It was nearing ten to three.

‘Twelve minutes,' she muttered.

‘Pardon, miss, can I help you?' one of the pageboys offered. He was dressed in the distinctive maroon uniform with polished brass buttons and somewhere at the back of her mind a thought bubbled and burst to consciousness that she was glad this sweet-faced youth had not been sent to war. If he'd been born just a year earlier she may well have attended to him in Europe or Turkey.

‘I . . . er, I'm going to the Palm Court,' she replied.

He smiled, nodding to where she should head. ‘Straight fru, miss.'

She already knew where it was but she smiled politely at where he pointed. ‘Thank you, I might sit in the lobby a while and wait for my friend.'

‘Of course,' he said and gestured to a dark velvet sofa positioned against the rich cream walls, which were gilded, and beneath an enormous silk hanging against exquisite hand-painted wallpaper. A chandelier featuring pale-pink glass shades sent a soft rose light upon her from beneath the tall ceiling with its massive detailed architraves. Exquisite plasterwork of wreaths and trailing roses danced beneath the architraves and framed decorative archways, beyond which stood Corinthian-style columns, which made her think instantly of the Column of the Goths and, of course, Rifki Shahin. She banished that memory although she knew she must walk past those columns shortly if she was going to meet Jamie at the appointed place.

No less than fifteen-thousand yards of Persian carpet has been laid in this glorious building
 . . . She could hear the echo of her aunt's words and had to admit that, looking at this vestibule alone, she could imagine that every floor would be palatial throughout the hotel, its tiles softened by exotic carpets. She felt as though people were watching her too closely when another page asked if he could fetch her anything.

She declined with a smile, removing herself to a quieter wing of the hotel known as the Fernery. She didn't want to go into the Palm Court too early and then be seated alone for long. Although she couldn't see Jamie arrive from this vantage, she could kill off some minutes and hope that he magically appeared and found his way to the Palm Court in the interim. She sat straight-backed in the conservatory on a plush couch, trying not to count off the minutes, the toes of her shoes just touching the panel of deep-red carpet that ran the length of this light-filled glass space. It was much cooler here but the bright green of the ferns gave it a jolly atmosphere and she was at last alone with her thoughts.

Not for long, though. She tried not to sigh when a voice interrupted her quiet.

‘Are you all right, Miss . . .?'

‘Nightingale,' she answered as a man drifted up. He was dressed formally but not in a uniform.

‘I am the desk manager,' he said. ‘Can I assist in any way? We do have a glorious drawing room if you would like to make yourself comfortable? It is rather cool and lonely in here at this time of year.'

She explained that she was simply waiting to meet a friend. ‘I'm finding it rather entrancing waiting here, if that is permitted.'

‘Oh my word, yes. Yes, of course,' he said. ‘It's certainly a spot to take a fine aspect of the comings and goings of our grand hotel, as was the, er . . . lobby. Um, have you visited previously?'

‘As a child, yes.'

‘Well, although I wouldn't for a moment suggest you are much older, Miss Nightingale,' he charmed, his moustache twitching with enjoyment of his perceived flair for flirtation, ‘we have made many changes to the hotel in the last decade or so.'

She smiled, not at all interested in anything this man had to say to her, but he seemed determined to keep her company. They blinked at each other as he finally finished his soliloquy. Claire had nothing to say to his meanderings; for all of his grandiose sentiments, her impression was that the hotel looked as though it had languished through the war years, which was understandable, and now appeared in need of refreshment. She didn't think she'd like to open that discussion with him, though, and instead broke the awkward pause by glancing at her watch again. She had played this scene over in her mind so many times. Claire wanted to walk into the Palm Court and feel that electrifying moment when their gazes met across the room. She didn't want to spoil that daydream – which she was sure had kept her alive at times – from being tarnished or changed. She wanted it to unfold as she'd envisaged. There were just another two minutes to go before she could let it play out and she would know whether Jamie was alive and her life complete. However, the thought crossed her mind that the manager might think she was an undesirable escort. And it now occurred that he might attribute any number of meanings to her words that she was waiting for a friend. Anxiety trilled through her.

‘Perhaps I should take my table in the Palm Court. My guest,' she was careful to say, ‘should be arriving any moment now.'