the eastern side of the Banbury Road in Norham Gardens.
He was a fine-looking man, she thought, as Mr Strong continued to scrutinise the exterior of his house from the pavement. Self-assured, but in no way arrogant. A little taciturn, perhaps, but that was preferable to a loquacious nitwit. She had noted the absence of a wedding ring last night and while she was all too aware that people today didn’t necessarily marry their life partners, or indeed wear a ring to display their marital status, it had not slipped her notice that at no stage did Mr Strong telephone anyone to say he’d be late home, which left her with the conclusion that he very likely lived alone.
Just as Floriana Day did. Which was why Esme was so concerned about her. She couldn’t get it out of her head that the poor girl didn’t have someone on hand to turn to, and while she herself was not one to succumb to self-pity, she knew how it felt to be unwell and alone and how vulnerable it made one feel.
Out on the street, Mr Strong’s attention had been diverted: he was now staring at Trinity House and even though she was hidden behind the net curtain, Esme hastily moved away from the window, not wanting his opinion of her to plummet yet further, to be dismissed as a common curtain-twitcher.
At the disturbance, Euridice sprang from her lap and landed on the floor with a startled meow. She gave herself a little shake, followed by a stretch, then stood and looked at Esme as if to say, ‘Now what?’
For answer, there was a vigorous knock at the front door.
‘It seems we have a visitor,’ Esme said, glancing quickly at her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace and smoothing back her hair. ‘And taking into consideration who it is, I think we should both be on our best behaviour, don’t you?’
The cat meowed again and scampered off to hide behind an armchair; she was always wary of company.
Once again, Adam was being offered something to drink. This time it was tea, which he politely declined. He hadn’t planned to cross the threshold, his intention solely to relay a message, and to apologise for being offhand last night. But in the same way that Floriana had pointed out it was too cold to talk on the doorstep, he had agreed to come in for a few minutes.
Before stepping into the hallway with its ornate coving and dado rail and faded runner on the tiled floor, he had half expected to enter a gloomy netherworld of Miss Havisham meets Miss Doily-Kitsch, fragranced with eau de mothballs and musty old age. He couldn’t have been more wrong. The gracefully proportioned, high-ceilinged room Miss Silcox had led him to – cobweb-free as far as he could see – was comfortably furnished with polished antique furniture, pieces of china, shelves of books, and a conspicuous quantity of paintings. Delicate watercolours rubbed shoulders with large oils, along with what looked like experimental acrylics. There were landscapes, still lifes and portraits, some of them good, some of them extremely good. One large painting in particular caught his eye; it was of a strikingly attractive young blonde girl sitting in the dappled shade of a tree. She had a book in her hands, but she wasn’t looking at it, her gaze was engaged directly with whoever had painted the picture.
‘You’re an art lover, I see,’ he commented, when he had been invited to sit in a comfortable leather armchair and she had taken a more upright wing chair. ‘Or are you the artist?’
‘Are the two mutually exclusive?’ she asked with a raised eyebrow.
He immediately apologised. ‘Sorry, that was clumsy of me.’
‘My father was the artist,’ she said, ‘I’m merely the custodian. Now tell me about Floriana. How is she really ? And do you think there’s anything more we can do to help?’
He shared with her what little he’d picked up on during his visit and finished by saying, ‘I’m sure she’d like it if you were to call round.’ He had no way of knowing if this was
He was a fine-looking man, she thought, as Mr Strong continued to scrutinise the exterior of his house from the pavement. Self-assured, but in no way arrogant. A little taciturn, perhaps, but that was preferable to a loquacious nitwit. She had noted the absence of a wedding ring last night and while she was all too aware that people today didn’t necessarily marry their life partners, or indeed wear a ring to display their marital status, it had not slipped her notice that at no stage did Mr Strong telephone anyone to say he’d be late home, which left her with the conclusion that he very likely lived alone.
Just as Floriana Day did. Which was why Esme was so concerned about her. She couldn’t get it out of her head that the poor girl didn’t have someone on hand to turn to, and while she herself was not one to succumb to self-pity, she knew how it felt to be unwell and alone and how vulnerable it made one feel.
Out on the street, Mr Strong’s attention had been diverted: he was now staring at Trinity House and even though she was hidden behind the net curtain, Esme hastily moved away from the window, not wanting his opinion of her to plummet yet further, to be dismissed as a common curtain-twitcher.
At the disturbance, Euridice sprang from her lap and landed on the floor with a startled meow. She gave herself a little shake, followed by a stretch, then stood and looked at Esme as if to say, ‘Now what?’
For answer, there was a vigorous knock at the front door.
‘It seems we have a visitor,’ Esme said, glancing quickly at her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace and smoothing back her hair. ‘And taking into consideration who it is, I think we should both be on our best behaviour, don’t you?’
The cat meowed again and scampered off to hide behind an armchair; she was always wary of company.
Once again, Adam was being offered something to drink. This time it was tea, which he politely declined. He hadn’t planned to cross the threshold, his intention solely to relay a message, and to apologise for being offhand last night. But in the same way that Floriana had pointed out it was too cold to talk on the doorstep, he had agreed to come in for a few minutes.
Before stepping into the hallway with its ornate coving and dado rail and faded runner on the tiled floor, he had half expected to enter a gloomy netherworld of Miss Havisham meets Miss Doily-Kitsch, fragranced with eau de mothballs and musty old age. He couldn’t have been more wrong. The gracefully proportioned, high-ceilinged room Miss Silcox had led him to – cobweb-free as far as he could see – was comfortably furnished with polished antique furniture, pieces of china, shelves of books, and a conspicuous quantity of paintings. Delicate watercolours rubbed shoulders with large oils, along with what looked like experimental acrylics. There were landscapes, still lifes and portraits, some of them good, some of them extremely good. One large painting in particular caught his eye; it was of a strikingly attractive young blonde girl sitting in the dappled shade of a tree. She had a book in her hands, but she wasn’t looking at it, her gaze was engaged directly with whoever had painted the picture.
‘You’re an art lover, I see,’ he commented, when he had been invited to sit in a comfortable leather armchair and she had taken a more upright wing chair. ‘Or are you the artist?’
‘Are the two mutually exclusive?’ she asked with a raised eyebrow.
He immediately apologised. ‘Sorry, that was clumsy of me.’
‘My father was the artist,’ she said, ‘I’m merely the custodian. Now tell me about Floriana. How is she really ? And do you think there’s anything more we can do to help?’
He shared with her what little he’d picked up on during his visit and finished by saying, ‘I’m sure she’d like it if you were to call round.’ He had no way of knowing if this was
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