The Jewel Box Read online

  “But I didn’t…” She was about to protest that she hadn’t asked Margaret to lie for her, but swallowed the words. “Thank you. You’re a true friend, and I haven’t appreciated you properly. Did you say we catch a bus?”

  A nod, as the tea was poured and passed across. “Are you all right, Grace? I mean, about what happened with you and O’Connell?”

  “Yes. It ran its course. I knew, from early on, that it would burn brightly and burn out. It was exciting while it lasted, but it was all surface, all sensation. No real substance.” She sipped her tea and tried to order her thoughts. “For a while I wanted it to be otherwise. He told me he loved me, and it made my head spin so that I couldn’t see what was what.”

  “Do you think he did love you?”

  “I think he lives and loves only in the moment. He’s the most handsome, charming, clever cad that I’ve ever met. But he is a cad, and he always will be. I’d rather not see him again. I’ll be glad when he’s left London.”

  “Well, you don’t have long to wait.” Margaret took off her glasses and polished them up on her tweed skirt. When she replaced them, her face was all ill-concealed excitement. “We set off for New York in a couple of weeks.”

  Eight

  On arriving at work with Margaret, Grace succeeded in changing out of the party dress and into her spare clothes without anyone noticing what she was up to. She settled down quickly and by late morning was making good progress with some copy for Baker’s. And nobody had spoken a word about her weeklong absence from the office. All of this lulled her into a false sense of security. It was then, of course, that the Pearsons sent for her.

  It was Mr. Henry who issued the summons, but when Grace saw that Mr. Aubrey was with him in his office, she knew she was in trouble. It was Mr. Henry who did the talking. Soft-voiced, bushy-sideburned Mr. Henry, his habitually twinkly eyes devoid, today, of the slightest twink.

  “I’ve been your champion, Miss Rutherford,” he was saying. “Because you have potential—sparkle—whatever you choose to call it. You’re a clever young lady and you could have gone far at Pearson’s…”

  Could have…He was already using the past tense about her, even as she sat there in front of him. All the while Mr. Henry spoke, his brother stood by the window, gazing out at the street, perhaps too angry even to look at her.

  “You did an excellent job with Baker’s Lights,” said Mr. Henry. “Your ideas for Potter’s Wonderlunch were positively visionary.”

  It was as though she were listening to her own obituary. There had to be something she could do…

  “It doesn’t have to end there, sir. I can come up with more visionary ideas; I know I can.”

  “Not here, you can’t. Not after what you’ve done.” Mr. Aubrey’s back was firmly turned and the sun through the window reflected off his bald patch. As he stood, hands behind his back, he rocked a little, heel to toe, heel to toe. Probably didn’t know he was doing it.

  Mr. Henry’s neck was red. “What would happen if everyone behaved as you do, Miss Rutherford? You seem barely to understand that rules exist, let alone observe the need to follow them. You appear to have no sense of common decency.”

  “But what have I done?” She was cringing even as she asked the question. The fact was, she’d committed so many misdemeanors of late that she wasn’t even sure which one had tipped her over the edge.

  “You were seen, miss!” Mr. Aubrey spun around to face Grace and banged his fist down on the table. “You and your gentleman friend. Though clearly the man is no gentleman.”

  “There was a cleaner working in the building that night, Miss Rutherford.” Mr. Henry fiddled with the papers in front of him, avoiding meeting her gaze. “The poor girl was quite distraught when she told Mr. Cato-Ferguson. I’d be grateful if you’d clear your office and be out of here by lunchtime. We’ll make your wages up to the end of the week. In the circumstances, I consider this to be more than generous.”

  “If you were a man—” Mr. Aubrey was biting his knuckles in anger.

  “You were our first lady copywriter,” said Mr. Henry. “I can’t see that we shall be hiring another in a hurry.”

  In the silence that followed, Grace realized they were waiting for her to say something. Eventually, she managed, “Thank you, sir.” She got to her feet and was about to go, but couldn’t quite stop herself from having the last word. “All women aren’t the same. Don’t use me as an excuse not to give some of the others a chance. If you fail to see what women copywriters can contribute to this firm, you’ll be forever stuck in the nineteenth century while your competitors go racing ahead into the modern world.”

  “Enough!” Mr. Henry held up his hands as though to blot her out.

  On her way out of the building for the last time, carrying her box of odds and ends, Grace saw that Cato’s office door was wide open—perhaps so that he’d have a good view of her departure. Glancing up, she caught his eye and he waved cheerily.

  Setting down her box on the carpet, Grace wandered over. Cato was lounging in his chair, feet on desk, talking on the telephone, and he didn’t break his conversation as she stepped into his room. His smile wavered though, just a little. It wavered again as she picked up the vase of fresh flowers that sat on his desk. White, impersonal flowers with a vaguely geometrical appearance. Raising them to her face, she took a good whiff. Scentless. Lifting them out of the vase, she reached over and poured the water over his head.

  The receiver dropped from his hand.

  “You…You…” But that was as far as he got.

  “You never could find the right words, could you?” And Grace turned and left the room.

  Outside, a cheer went up from the typists. Grace casually distributed the flowers among them, before retrieving her box and strolling out of the building.

  Out on the street, she didn’t feel so casual. The big doors swung closed behind her in a very final way, and there she was, in the dazzle of the morning sunshine, clutching her box, a waif and stray. What should she do now?

  She ought to go home, of course. But the thought of tea and sympathy with Nancy was not an appealing prospect in her current mood. And anyway, Nancy would be busy looking after Cramer, fretting and fussing over him, helping him to get back on the proverbial wagon. As for Mummy—well, Grace didn’t feel strong enough to face all that maternal disappointment and disapproval, not this morning.

  For want of a better plan, she decided to take her own advice, and made her way to the Lyons Corner House on Piccadilly to cheer herself up with ice cream—one scoop of vanilla and one of lemon, served in a glass dish. She ate like a child who wants to savor a treat and draw it out as long as possible, taking the tiniest mouthfuls. Then she ordered a pot of tea and sat so long with the full cup in front of her that it turned cold and acquired an oily gray sheen.

  Nancy and I sat here on her twenty-fourth birthday, she thought to herself. Here at this table. That was the day I ended it with George.

  The realization didn’t upset her. Why should it? It was just a table in a café. In fact, she and Nancy had had a rather nice afternoon on that day, but for the invisible wall between them. No, it simply made her reflect on the way we revisit moments of our own history. Here she was again at that table—and here once again, in her head, trying to work out how to draw a line under recent events and move on. Last time, she’d broken with George but had remained at home with the family, deciding that they must come first—that they would always come first. This time, she wondered whether perhaps it would be better for all concerned if she did the opposite—she could move out, go somewhere far away and start afresh.

  Tempted to order another pot of tea, Grace found she couldn’t meet the eyes of her waitress. She knew, if she did, she’d find there that look of irritation bestowed by waiting staff on those who sit too long. Instead, she asked for the bill. And it was as she groped about in her purse for some change to tip the waitress (she intended to leave a large tip, perhaps to prove she wasn’t on
e of those “sit too long” people) that she remembered something. She did have somewhere to go this morning.

  It was one of those large, white, clean-looking Georgian houses in a smart square just along from the Victoria and Albert Museum. Grace generally considered South Kensington to be a place of flat bright sunshine and cheerful prosperity. Hampstead, on the other hand, was a steep, mossy green patch of London, a place for brooding melancholy and deep thought.

  She’d been to the Hamilton-Shapcotts’ family home many times when she, Nancy and Sheridan were children, but hadn’t been back since they’d grown up. Both of Sheridan’s parents had died since her last visit, and under his ownership the house had acquired some distinctive Egyptian additions. His gateposts were topped with black and gold sphinxes with languid, sensual eyes. His knocker was a brass jackal head. The very number on his door—8—was a curled snake with its tail in its mouth, seemingly attempting to eat itself.

  A squat man in butler’s livery answered the door, relieved her of her box, and led her through a hallway with walls decorated in gold-painted hieroglyphics (rather like those on the business card) into a room that was more museum space than lounge. Glass cases contained ancient chipped ceramics, evil-looking daggers, jewels so opulent that it was hard to believe they could be real. The walls were book lined and hung with scrolls and tapestries, the ceiling painted with a mural showing the building of the pyramids.

  “Mr. Hamilton-Shapcott will be with you directly.” The butler gestured to one of two crimson chaise longues. “Do please recline. Would you take tea and biscuits?”

  “Gwace, my darling! Sheridan was sporting a white cotton shirt of a billowy romantic sort, and gray flannel trousers. Without his usual makeup he looked refreshingly unremarkable. “I’m so glad you’ve come.” He stood to one side to let the butler past. “And, I confess, a twifle surpwised. I thought you’d forget all about our little awangement.”

  “Not a bit of it. My, but this room has changed. I seem to remember passementerie and big English oil paintings. Gainsborough—that sort of stuff.”

  “That’s wight. And bla bla.” He rolled his eyes, kicked off his slippers and flopped down on one of the chaise longues.

  She took the other, removing her shoes and setting them on the rug in front of her.

  “I thought that if I twansformed the house utterly, it would become twuly mine and stop being my father’s.”

  “And you’ve succeeded.”

  He shook his head. “It may not be his style anymore, but it’s more his house than ever. He’s there under all the gold paint and objets d’art, cwiticizing my foolish ways and fwippewy. I have a big Egyptian coffin upstairs—I’ll have to show you later. Sometimes I dweam of Father jumping out of it, all wapped in bandages like a mummy.”

  Grace had to laugh.

  “The other pwoblem is Cecile.” He turned onto his back, gazing up at the ceiling, his hands knotted behind his head. “Did you ever meet my wife, Cecile? Ex-wife, I should say. I wanted tewwibly to impwess her. So much of what I’ve done here was for her. Now she’s gone, it all seems wather pointless.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s my own stupid fault.” The butler arrived with a tray of tea and biscuits. “Jenkins, you’re splendid. Do the honors, would you? There’s a good chap.”

  Jenkins, white-gloved and silent, poured, nodded and retreated.

  “How are you, Gwace? You look a little peaky this morning. Too many of the old whatsits at the party? Jenkins has a marvelous wemedy, if you’re intewested. Something he learned fwom his mother, appawently.”

  “No, thank you. I shall be fine directly.”

  The eyebrows were raised, disbelievingly.

  “Look, if you really want to know, I’ve gotten myself in a pickle over a man. Two men.”

  “My, but you’ve been busy!”

  “What’s more, I’ve just lost my job. I’ve behaved rather badly. I’d rather not get into it, if you don’t mind, but frankly I could do with getting away from the family for a bit. Mother’s disapproval and Nancy’s…Well, it’s all a bit much at the moment.”

  “How intwiguing. Well, you can always come and stay with me. I’d be glad of the company.” And as she opened her mouth to protest. “I mean it, Gwacie. We’re family, you and me.”

  “Thank you.” The emotion welled up in her throat so that she couldn’t say anything further. Just sat with her tea staring at the artifacts in the glass case.

  Sheridan followed her gaze. “You must think my Egyptian collection is widiculous—an expensive hobby for a spoiled wich boy.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t blame you if you did.” He got up, crossed the room to a tall bookcase and took down a heavy-looking photograph album. “Take a look at this.” He opened the album, flipped over a couple of pages and handed it across.

  One photograph showed a line of men leaning on spades, picks and other tools. They were all in short trousers with heavy boots and wide-brimmed hats. They all looked happy. It was difficult to make sense of the other photographs. They showed a dark space with various indiscernible objects scattered about.

  “It’s the tomb of a nobleman—we think it was possibly a mayor of Luxor. I was there when they opened it up. I was the vewwy first person to step inside. Look at this one.”

  He turned the page for her. Another photograph showed some black, charred-looking objects.

  “Those are the internal organs of a queen. They would have wemoved them fwom the body after death. I bwought them back here and donated them to the Bwitish Museum. At the moment they’re just sitting in a vault there. I think the museum people are afwaid that if they poke them about too much, they’ll simply disintegwate. It’s a miwacle, weally, that they still exist. But my hope is that one day we’ll have machines or devices that will help us to analyze them more conclusively—to find out exactly what the queen ate, how she died, how old she was. I long to weally know her and I think one day we will. She’s waited a long time for us to decipher her—I expect she’ll wait a little longer. I only hope I’m still here by then.”

  Grace looked again at the smiling lineup of men before the nobleman’s tomb.

  “The Egyptian nobility take all their favowite things with them for their journey to the afterlife,” said Sheridan. “The tomb of this mayor was more intimate, somehow, more wevealing than many of the more gwand tombs. The walls were all painted with pictures of parties: people making music and chasing each other about. There was a large portwait of a beautiful woman—his wife, no doubt—in a long, white dwess. Lots of gwapes, too, all over the place, and wine.”

  “I think I know one or two people who’d want to take those sort of memories with them to the Great Hereafter,” said Grace.

  He put the photo album away. “My mother has vanished fwom the world as completely as those Egyptians. Perhaps more completely, in some ways. The things she told me when she was dying—just fwagments, weally, but they gave me a glimpse of a totally diffewent woman than the one I’d thought she was. And actually, a new perspective on myself, too.”

  “How so?” Grace drained her teacup.

  “Well, this is going to sound ludicwous, but I’ve never understood myself—not when considered in context. If an archaeologist dug up my family, he’d immediately think something was wong. Consider: my mother all gentle and wefined and my father a wough northern industwialist. A man who bwewed bad beer for people who don’t know any better than to dwink it. Yes, it’s pwetty bad, the family tipple, but don’t tell! You do see the discwepancy, don’t you? How did two such people ever fit together? And what about me, their fweakish son?”

  “But surely no family would make sense if you considered it in that way,” said Grace. “People fall in love for the oddest reasons. And when it comes to the children—well, nobody can ever guess how they’re going to turn out.”

  “Perhaps you’re wight.” He poured more tea. “Maybe I developed my whole personality
as a weaction against Daddy.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far…”

  “I don’t suppose you would, but then your father was a perfectly lovely man, so far as I wemember him. A man of culture and intellect—a Darwinist. Must have been stwange for our mothers—two close school chums getting together with two men who were pwactically polar opposites. How surpwised they must have been when the husbands hit it off. And how lovely for the two families to be so tight-knit for so long.”

  “It was lovely,” said Grace. Then, testing the water, “What do you suppose happened to make them suddenly sever all contact? It must have been quite a falling-out, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Do you wemember that Iwish nanny of mine making us all eat twipe?” asked Sheridan, somewhat randomly. “What about the day when you and Nancy made me wear that Bo Peep bonnet?” He looked up with sad doe eyes. She could see him now, in that bonnet, his face framed with lace. “I was always vewy jealous of you and Nancy.”

  “Were you? Why?”

  “You had each other. There was only one of me. It was worse after the falling-out, of course. It was awful to lose you both.”

  Grace steeled herself. “Sheridan, why did you visit my mother the other day? You didn’t just sit about reminiscing over those photographs, did you? You had something in particular that you wanted to talk to her about.”

  A shake of the head. “Oh, Gwace. This is vewy difficult. I wanted so much to speak to you, but Cathewine made me pwomise not to say anything.”

  “Funny, that. She did the same with me.” Grace bit her lip.

  Sheridan eyed her. “Thing is, my mother—well, as you know, she wasn’t the most diwect and forthcoming of people, but she got wather a lot off her chest on that deathbed of hers.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “She talked about the past, and bla bla. Something happened, Gwace. Between our pawents…”