Signs for Lost Children Sarah Moss (best way to read books .TXT) 📖

her bedroom, in the window, and placed her, as newly-married guest of honour, on his right, where she can watch the hills and water darken towards the monochrome as the boats begin to prickle with light. As the soup is removed by a maid in white frills, outside the tide turns and the ships swing in the dark. Despite Tom’s explanations, the turning of the tide still seems mysterious to Ally, and until she arrived here she had not known that it would be so plain. Yesterday, she saw the moment of pause at low water and then the first rivulet of the incoming tide trickling upstream. Seeing the turn of the tide is as definite as watching a patient’s return to consciousness.

‘Mrs. Cavendish?’

She meets Tom’s eyes.

‘Forgive me, Mr. De Rivers. I was distracted by your beautiful view.’

He smiles. He is the sort of man who cannot smile without resembling a crocodile. ‘I dare say our little town is quite fascinating to one accustomed to London. And—Manchester, was it? I have not been there, and I cannot say I wish to return to London. I lived there, you know, as a young man.’

Ally sips her wine. Excellent wine, as good as anything in Uncle James’s cellar. ‘Manchester is an interesting city. In some ways it is in the vanguard of a social change that may take many years to reach more secluded parts of the country. And London was not my choice, but the only place in Britain where it was possible for me to train. I was happy there.’

His face tightens a little, as if she has mentioned something unmentionable, but the smile remains. ‘As I hope you will be happy here, my dear.’

Tom puts down his fork. ‘My wife will be working at the Truro Asylum. She takes a special interest in nervous cases.’

Mr. De Rivers coughs. If he chokes, she thinks, he will be glad enough of her training. He takes water.

‘In the asylum? Your wife? Cavendish, what are you thinking?’

Tom smiles. He can smile at anyone. ‘Dr. Moberley Cavendish is thinking that there is a great need for women mad-doctors. That, as we know, the majority of patients are female, and many of their troubles begin in exactly those crises of life where it is most desirable that women should be attended by women. Do I summarise correctly, Ally?’

She nods. They still do not know why this invitation has been issued, but Mr. De Rivers is a powerful man who appears to take an interest in Tom. It is not necessary that he should sympathise with her cause.

‘But I will not begin my work until Tom leaves. I wish to spend as much time as I can with him, and having no acquaintance here, naturally I will need occupation in his absence. Tell me, Mr. De Rivers, what was your profession in London?’

Mr. De Rivers’ shirt front puffs out over his waistcoat. ‘I would have thought that under such circumstances a young lady would return to her father’s house, but I see you have a mind of your own. My father thought it best that I should spend some time in an exporter’s office. The markets for much of our tin are overseas and he wanted me to understand that side of the business. I was glad enough to return to Cornwall, I must say.’

Ally nods. ‘I can understand that. And that is when you found your beautiful house?’

She can do this, now. Mamma never understood the power of courtesy, or that not every battle needs to be fought every time. Feminine wiles, Mamma would say, the cowardly tactics of those who fear the judgements of fools and care more for worldliness than salvation. Did the Son of God depend on toadying and sweet words? Did he fear to offend the moneylenders in the temple?

He stands as the ladies leave, one of those gentleman’s tricks learnt late. Ally’s gaze is dropped, demure. The coils of her hair have softened and a strand trails on the pale curve of her neck. Miss De Rivers draws back to allow Ally to precede her into the drawing room, where the flock of hummingbirds, the tiger-skin rug, and the moose’s head await them in the twilight. He cannot imagine what they will find to talk about.

Mr. De Rivers keeps silence, sipping the last of his Burgundy, until the door closes behind the women. The maid removes two plates, leaving the dessert to accompany the port which Mr. De Winter takes from the sideboard behind him.

‘Care for a cigar, Cavendish?’

Ally dislikes the smell. ‘I won’t, thank you. But another of these walnuts.’

De Rivers passes him the basket. ‘Grow them myself, you know. And I’ve a fine fig tree. Doesn’t fruit every year, mind.’

‘It is a very gentle climate. I find it hard, sometimes, to believe myself in England when I see the palm trees and jumping jacks.’

‘Ah. Not what you grew up with. Yorkshire, isn’t it?’ He pours port, generously. ‘Never been there. Right, Cavendish, shall we talk business?’

‘I thought you had something to say to me, Mr. De Rivers.’

He wants Tom to bring him silks from Japan. Kimonos, yes, those too, perhaps one for Miss De Rivers, but he has seen a particularly fine hanging in James Poldoon’s house, a mixture of applique and embroidery of a sort he believes to be previously unseen in Europe. Poldoon got his from a London dealer but he wants the real thing. Go to the workshops, young man. Watch the needles flash, see the dyes put on with your own eyes. Can’t be too hard, can it, to watch those Oriental girls at work? He’s heard a thing or two about Japanese women . . . Anyway, he’ll make it worth Tom’s while. Bring him something really fine, something to cover a whole wall and make Poldoon’s eyes pop, and Tom might be able to leave Ally on Florence Terrace instead of in that damp little cottage next time he goes to