That Summer: A Novel (31 page)

Imogen gently withdrew her hand from Gavin’s and turned her face to the stage.

Gavin cursed under his breath as the master of ceremonies, a red-faced man in a black coat gone green with wear, began his stock patter.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that we ain’t got Jenny Lind for you t’night. Sadly, the nightingale is engaged elsewhere.”

The audience hooted its appreciation. Imogen sat silent beside Gavin, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Damn that blasted bonnet, that hid her face so entirely from his view. Was she seething within, as he was? Burning with words that couldn’t be said?

The master of ceremonies yanked on his suspenders. “But I trust you’ll find what we got just as much to your taste. Now—
Now,
” he bellowed, raising his voice to be heard over the shouted responses from the pit. “You may be asking yourselves why it is we don’t got no carpet on these here boards and no curtain to raise.”

“At yer uncle’s?” shouted a voice from the gallery.

“Pshaw!” interrupted another. “His wife has gone and turned the stuff into ’er petticoat, ain’t she?”

“Make ’er lift it up and show us!” contributed another.

Gavin looked uneasily at Imogen.

“’Old yer ’orses,” retorted the master of ceremonies, with great dignity. “You’ll look your fill, soon enough!”

Under cover of the resulting din, Gavin leaned closer to Imogen. “Are you quite all right?”

The face she turned to him was decidedly green. She smiled with difficulty. “It is just the smell of the tobacco. I am—not accustomed to it.”

It wasn’t just the smell of the tobacco. As he watched, she pressed her handkerchief to her nose and took a deep breath, her entire body seeming to hunch in upon itself.

Gavin made a quick decision. “You’re not well.” He placed a hand beneath her arm and helped her up, feeling her sway on her feet. Her eyes were half-closed. “I’m taking you away. Now.”

“Oy!” complained a woman behind them. “I can’t see!”

Gavin shoved a way through, kicking a boy’s sprawled legs out of the way. “The lady isn’t well.”

“Oh, a
lady,
is it?” The woman nudged the man next to her. “Just listen to that!”

Her companion gave a rough laugh. “They’re all the same in the dark!”

“If she’s a lady, I’m the Queen of Sheba!” shouted someone else.

Various ribald suggestions as to Imogen’s true occupation followed after her and Gavin as they made their way through the tight-packed pit and back down the corridor.

Gavin wasn’t sure that Imogen even heard them. That was a small mercy. All of her attention was concentrated on picking her way, step by step, as if she were afraid her feet might not manage on their own. With his arm around her waist to steady her he could feel each labored breath as though it were his own.

When they were at last outside, Gavin said roughly, “I should never have brought you to that place.”

“It’s not your fault. Or—theirs.” Imogen managed a sickly ghost of a smile. He could see her struggling to control her heaving stomach, every word an effort. “I’m sorry … to have disrupted … the show. Cook isn’t … quite so good … at identifying fresh fish … as she thinks she is.”

Bad fish or stale tobacco, whatever the cause, Imogen looked about ready to keel over. Gavin began to look about for a hansom cab. “We’ll get you back to my studio. You can lie down for a spell. Maybe some whiskey?”

Gavin couldn’t remember if he had spirits in the studio, but Augustus would. Given that this situation was, in Gavin’s opinion, entirely Augustus’s fault, he had very little compunction about helping himself to the man’s liquor.

When Augustus deigned to return to the studio, thought Gavin grimly, they were going to be having a good, long discussion.

“No, really.” The suggestion galvanized her into movement. She shrugged away from his arm. “I—”

She broke off, her face gone chalk white.

“Imogen?” Gavin caught at her arm. “Imogen! What is it? Speak to me.”

“There,” she said.

She lifted a trembling hand and pointed to the other side of the busy street. Following her direction, Gavin caught a glimpse of a man in a heavy overcoat and muffler entering a house across the street. Before he opened the door, he took a quick look about him and Gavin had a fleeing impression of a high-crowned hat pulled low on his brow, the only bit of his face visible a bristle of ginger whiskers.

Imogen’s fingers cut into Gavin’s arm. “It’s Arthur.”

Herne Hill, 2009

Julia was blearily shoveling coffee into the filter when the knob of the kitchen door rattled.

Nick hadn’t made his appearance yet, not entirely surprising considering that it must have been well past four in the morning by the time she had tucked him into bed. And by “tucked” she meant handed him her British Airways travel toothbrush and a spare towel, pointed the way to the bathroom, and waved him in the general direction of the nearest room with a full, working bed frame and reasonably clean sheets.

Nick had tactfully withdrawn into his room until she had finished her hasty ablutions. It wasn’t until her own door was safely closed that she had heard his door squeak open and the the hall floorboards creak. Five minutes later, the process had reversed itself. There had been no late-night visitations or nocturnal ramblings. At least, not that she knew of. When Julia had dragged herself out of bed that morning, determined to be up and sentient before her houseguest, Nick’s door had still been chastely closed.

She couldn’t tell if he was being a gentleman or just plain not interested. Had he taken her reaction to his kiss as a rebuff? It wouldn’t be surprising if he had. Or if he had written her off as a basket case. Although, to be fair, she’d gone all basket case on him before he’d kissed her.

Not that any of it meant anything, Julia reminded herself. Nick wouldn’t be the first guy to kiss someone just because she was there. Usually, there was more alcohol involved, but the general principle remained the same.

Besides, the last thing she needed right now was a romantic entanglement. This was meant to be a task, not a vacation. Sell the house, go back home to New York, find a job.

Dallying with enigmatic Brits was definitely not part of the plan.

The door rattled again, but the bolt Julia had put on the door, with considerable effort and cursing, held it in place.

“Hello?” Julia said sharply.

The rattle changed to a knock. “Julia?” It was a female voice, painfully upbeat. “I was hoping you would be home. It’s Natalie.”

Too late to pretend she wasn’t there. Julia pressed the Brew button on the coffeemaker before crossing the kitchen to unlatch the door.

“Hi,” she said, doing her best to sound enthusiastic. “What brings you here?”

Natalie breezed past her into the kitchen, dropping her large leather bag on the kitchen table. “I happened to be in the area and I just wanted to see how you were getting on.”

At ten on a Saturday morning? Hadn’t the woman heard of the phone? “That’s very sweet of you,” Julia said cautiously. “You really shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, family,” said Natalie airily, peering past Julia into the butler’s pantry and the reaches beyond.

A nasty suspicion arose in Julia’s uncaffeinated mind. Surely not even Natalie would be stalkerish enough to have followed Nick’s car … and sat around all night waiting to see if he came out?

No. It was absurd. And Natalie was far too freshly showered for an all-night surveillance.

“Are you looking for something?” Julia asked. She devoutly hoped that Nick stayed safely snuggled up in bed.

Not that she had anything to hide; it would just be … awkward.

Natalie’s eyes snapped back to Julia. Leaning forward, she said, “Have you found anything interesting?”

Aside from learning that Nick preferred to sleep in boxers …

“More of the same,” Julia said neutrally. “Lots of old magazines and moth-eaten clothes. You know.”

Natalie propped a hip against the kitchen table. “I felt dreadful we weren’t able to stay longer last Saturday. Leaving you with all—”

She broke off as another tread was heard in the hall and a male voice carried down the hallway.

“Julia? I hope you don’t mind, I used your shampoo.”

Nick appeared in the doorway, looking like an advertisement for illicit one-night stands. Last night’s shirt clung damply to his chest and his hair showed the signs of recent and vigorous toweling.

At the sight of Natalie he came to an abrupt halt. A brief
oh, shit
expression crossed his face before he got his features back under control. “Natalie. Hi.”

“Nicholas?” Natalie looked as though someone had just kicked her in the gut. Her face a picture of suspicion and distress, her eyes slid to Julia.

All Julia could think was that they looked like the illustration from a nineteenth-century morality tale, titled “Caught in the Act” or something equally unsubtle. She had clearly been reading too many antiquated magazines.

“Nick was helping me clear out the attic,” Julia said quickly. “Being the expert and all.”

“The attic,” Natalie repeated flatly.

Put like that, it did sound like a rather lame excuse.

“There’s a ton of junk up there,” Julia babbled. “Cubic meters of junk.”

She wasn’t sure why in the hell she felt so guilty, but she did. Maybe it had something to do with the way Natalie was looking at her, as though she’d just stolen all of her stickers and kicked her puppy for good measure.

“Much as I would like to stay,” Nick said smoothly. “I’m afraid I have to take my leave.”

Way to throw her under the bus. “Let me guess,” said Julia, folding her arms across her chest. “You have a lunch.”

Nick’s expression remained entirely bland. “How did you guess? Natalie.” He nodded politely to his best friend’s sister. “Tell Andrew I’ll ring him later. I owe him a round of squash.”

Julia politely refrained from telling Nick what he could do with his squash racket. Or begging him to take her with him.

Natalie nodded mutely, too stricken to speak.

As if matters weren’t bad enough, Nick leaned over and brushed a kiss against Julia’s cheek. “Thanks for everything,” he said in a way that couldn’t help but invite speculation. Julia narrowed her eyes at him. “You’ll be hearing from me.”

“Don’t strain yourself,” said Julia politely, and saw Nick’s lips twitch in amusement.

Somehow, she got the impression that Natalie wasn’t quite so amused by that little performance. The phrase “human shield” came to mind. And she was obviously it.

“I’ll see you out.” Julia took Nick by the arm and propelled him through the door to the butler’s pantry and the corridor beyond. Over her shoulder, to Natalie, she added, “Please help yourself to coffee. There’s milk in the fridge.”

She didn’t wait to see if Natalie took her up on it. She just hoped the other woman didn’t poison the coffee while she was out. Not that she could entirely blame Natalie. It would be devastating to walk in and find the object of your adoration making himself cozily at home in the house of another woman, especially a woman who had been on the scene for all of two minutes.

If Nick wanted to send a message to Natalie, this was a pretty low way to do it.

Julia opened her mouth to express that opinion but instead found herself asking darkly, “Do you really have a lunch?”

“I intend to eat lunch, if that’s what you mean.” Nick dodged the question.

“Coward,” said Julia.

“The better part of valor,” said Nick smoothly as they came to a stop before the front door. The weather seemed to be making up for the previous few days of rain. Sun shone through the fanlight, dappling the old wooden floor with cheerful flecks of gold.

“Wasn’t that meant to be discretion?” said Julia pointedly.

“You can’t deny that there’s a certain amount of overlap between the two,” Nick said wryly. Before Julia could come up with a suitably snarky comment, he added more seriously, “I will be in touch.”

“I appreciate your help,” she said formally, and then, just to be safe, “With the paintings.”

Nick paused with one hand on the door, looking down at her. Through the open door came the smell of sun-warmed greenery and the sound of birdsong. “That painting of your mother’s…” he said diffidently. “I know it’s none of my business, but if you wanted to have it framed, I’d be glad to help. I do know a few people in that line of work.”

“Thanks.” Julia looked up at him, surprised and touched at the thoughtfulness of the gesture. “I’m not sure what I want to do about it yet … but thanks.”

Nick touched a finger to her cheek.

“I’ll ring you,” he said, and slipped away down the front walk. The sunlight made the droplets of water in his hair sparkle like stars.

That had been really sweet of him. Thoughtful. Kind.

Of course, Julia reminded herself, as she closed the door behind him, this was the same man who had left her with an enraged cousin in the kitchen, so maybe she’d better postpone that petition for canonization.

But all the same …

She nearly caught her finger in the door when Natalie said sharply from behind her, “You just couldn’t keep your hands off him, could you?”

NINETEEN

Herne Hill, 2009

Julia turned, slowly, repressing the urge to snap back,
Who asked you?

Natalie stood in the doorway, her bag clamped under her arm. Julia didn’t like to think how much of the conversation with Nick she might have heard. Not that the reference to her mother’s painting would mean anything to Natalie, but it felt like an intrusion all the same.

“You’ve gotten hold of the wrong end of the stick,” Julia said shortly. “If there were even a stick to get hold of, which there isn’t.”

Natalie ignored Julia’s protests. She radiated wounded dignity. “I should never have brought him here. I suppose this is what happens when you try to be nice.”

No, this was what happened when you repeatedly barged into someone else’s house uninvited.

It was all particularly ironic considering that Julia was fairly sure that Natalie had originally invited Nick over not out of any altruistic impulse but in the hopes of impressing him with the grandeur of ye olde family homestead. Not exactly her most cunning plan.