Whisper of Jasmine (5 page)

Dear Aunt Dove,

I can’t thank you enough for your sweet note—you are such a dear! I was afraid the news of our elopement would come as a shock to you, but I ought to have known better. (Speaking of shocks, your remarks about the Danish ambassador were most unexpected. One always thinks of the French as being the most passionate of races, but I did initiate the experience you suggested and I can only say it is equally effective upon Englishmen. Gabriel was terribly appreciative and afterwards asked me to convey his kind regards to you. At least I think that’s what he said. He was very sleepy and couldn’t manage more than a mumble.) In any event, I ought to have known you would be delighted for us.

The wedding itself was quiet—as all elopements are—but utterly perfect. The weather in Scotland was cold and clear and the snow on the ground whitened everything like the most beautiful storybook imaginable. I bought a creamy white frock to match the snow, utterly impractical but it was so lovely and Gabriel insisted I have something new to wear. While I was busy kitting myself out for married life, he found a jeweller and handed over a slender little band he always wore with his signet ring. He had it engraved with a Latin phrase that translates to “Now and forever” and put it on my finger during the short ceremony, so I even have a proper wedding ring! There’s a photograph, as well, or there will be when it arrives in the post. There was a funny little tourist who happened to be snapping pictures when we came out into the street, and Gabriel paid him a tragic amount of money to take ours as he swooped me up into his arms. I was laughing, so I will no doubt have my mouth open and look something like a monkey, but I simply can’t help it—Gabriel makes me laugh more than anyone I’ve ever known. I suppose that’s why I love him. There’s just something magical about him that makes my whole life until now seem so very small, as if I’ve been waiting all along for this. I keep thinking of the scene in Peter Pan when the children take Peter’s hand and fly out the window, leaving for Neverland the first time. Until then they’ve only known the safety and security of the nursery, never dreaming of what wondrous things lie just out of reach. But as soon as he touches them, they can fly. It’s like that.

Of course, marriage, as I have already discovered is not all smooth sailing—or flying? The money Gabriel gave the tourist for the photograph was almost all of what he had on hand, so we’ve been putting up in the nastiest little lodgings on our way south. I never imagined there could be such foul hotels anywhere in England, but there are, and I am becoming quite the expert on them. Perhaps I should write a guide? Loathsome Lodgings? Or what about Horrible Hostelries? And there seems to be some trouble with Gabriel’s next expedition. He intended to return to China to attempt something in the Karakorams, but he’s had a wire from London that seems to have scuppered that. He burnt the wire as soon as it came, but he hurried off to send a flurry of replies, and I’m sure he will have it all sorted soon. There’s no one more determined than Gabriel when he puts his mind to something, and I know how desperately he wants this to work. He even dreams about it. He doesn’t snore, thank heaven, but he does occasionally talk in his sleep. He was muttering last night about China, so I know it weighs on his mind, but then he talked about wasps, too, so there’s no knowing what all is stewing in that brain of his! I simply cannot wait for you to meet him. He is too marvelous for words, darling—so much that sometimes I wonder if I’ve dreamt it all! Silly, I know. I’ve read too many fairy stories of the wee folk getting their revenge on humans who dare to be too happy. We’ll show them! I mean to go on being just as happy as we are now.

All my love,
Mrs. Gabriel Starke
(Evie)

P.S. I enclose the copy you sent of Practical Applications in Lovemaking for the Newly Married. It was a kind thought but not needed. At all.

P.P.S. I also enclose the green pendant you loaned me for the party. I fear the ribbon is a little the worse for wear, but the stone itself is perfectly fine. I scrubbed it with a toothbrush and the shine came up nicely.

* * *

Dear Marjorie (Margery?),

Enclosed please find the three shillings still owing from last week’s rent. I am married now and will not be returning to the flat. My Aunt Dove will be collecting my things, so please make certain my green jumper is amongst them.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Gabriel Starke
(Evangeline)

P.S. You snore.

Dear Delilah,

Sorry about the motor, but I’m sure you understand. You’ll be happy to know it is in perfect condition, just as I found it, although there was a bit of a misunderstanding with a sheep and I’m afraid the front grille is not entirely square anymore. Also, I never did manage to get the cover up, and the upholstery is a bit soggy from a downpour in the Lakes, but I’m sure it will dry out right as rain.

We should be back next week and Evie means to invite you to dine with us. I don’t know if she can cook, but she seems to think so. You might want to eat a little something before you come, just in case.

I happened to hear from a friend in the forces that Johnny arrived safely in France. He wasn’t allowed to tell me where, but I thought you’d like to know.

Warmest regards,
G.

P.S. Since you were responsible for matchmaking us, we’ve decided to name our first child Delilah. Shame if it’s a boy; he won’t much like that.

P.P.S. I can’t imagine it matters, but no, I didn’t drink any of your punch that night. I feel our friendship is stout enough to withstand the truth—your punch is poisonous stuff. Evie liked it well enough. She wants me to ask you for the recipe, but if you’re any friend of mine, you won’t give it to her.

* * *

Wretched Gabriel,

What do you mean the grille isn’t entirely square anymore? And precisely how soggy is my upholstery? Never mind. I’d rather not know. Just dry it off and send it back when you’re finished. Without the sheep!

All my love to you both (in spite of your misbehaving),
Delilah

P.S. Of course Evie can’t cook. Didn’t you ask her that before you married her?

P.P.S. The punch recipe is included.

Delilah nearly added another postscript—this one explaining that she had never made the match between them. She had intended Gabriel for her Nordic blonde friend who modelled nude and Evie had been intended for Quentin Harkness. But Quentin had gone off to drown his sorrows with that dull, grey fellow, Tarquin, and the statuesque Norse model had left on Jack’s arm—Granny Miette’s May Water had failed to work its magic this time. Evie and Gabriel had found each other entirely by chance. Some random alchemy had brought them together. A bit of fairy dust or enchanted moonlight had done the trick, and she couldn’t take credit for it. But Granny Miette had always warned her that magic could be funny like that. Sometimes the merest whisper on the wind was enough to change your fate, and sometimes the thing you wanted so badly your heart burnt cold was simply not to be.

She left the letter as it was and sealed it with a kiss for the newlyweds. She had another letter to write. She wrote every week to Johnny. She never asked him about where he was or what he did. Instead, she gave him London. She walked the streets he loved, gathering up the bits and pieces of his favourite city for him to assemble far away in the muddy fields of France. She wrote to him about fishmongers and cloistered abbeys and barristers with woolly wigs. She wrote about Buckingham Palace and glasses of stout and steak-and-kidney pies, all the things he missed so terribly she gave him in every letter. She walked the places he walked, and she used his words to describe them. Just that morning she had walked to Kensington Gardens and sat under the statue of Peter Pan. She had never seen it before, but like any London child, Johnny had awakened to magic when he had first seen the play, convinced Peter and the children were flying, convinced fairies were real and crocodiles could hold grudges. So she walked to the statue and held hands with the child he had once been. She sketched the little rabbit and a nanny with a pram who walked sedately down the path by the Serpentine. As she sat by the statue, she saw a tiny glimmer of green at the base—a bit of clover, pushing its way to the sun. It shouldn’t have been there, not in the cold and gloom of January. But there it was, green and bright and trying.

She plucked it and put it into her pocket. The news from France was not good. The newspapers were full of things she would not let herself read. But she had done some good, whether accidentally or not. She was responsible for Gabriel and Evie’s happiness, and that must count for something. She turned for home, for a warm cup of tea and hot buttered toast, and the hope that in the post a letter from Johnny would be waiting.

* * *

In his office in London, Tarquin March studied the wire in his hand. It was the fifth Gabriel had sent since his elopement, each more forceful than the last. He wasn’t going without a fight, and Tarquin respected that. Quentin had pushed for putting Gabriel out of things altogether. Insubordination must be punished, he’d insisted.

But Tarquin knew how useful initiative and instinct could be. He dropped the wire and picked up a photograph. It had been taken hastily, by one of his own fellows posing as a tourist. He had sent a copy to Gabriel, but the other had come directly to Tarquin, along with a few others—all of Gabriel and the girl. There was a file on her, as well, now. Evangeline Merryweather. A girl with scarcely any past, and perhaps not much of a future if she meant to spend it with Gabriel Starke. Tarquin studied the faces, feeling a thousand years old. His work had aged him, but he could not remember ever being quite that young. Or ever that happy. In the photograph Gabriel had scooped up his bride and she was laughing up into his face, her expression adoring. Gabriel was smiling down, but even in that moment, there was a new hardness to his jaw, a tension at the corner of his mouth that told Tarquin he was struggling with his decision.

Tarquin dropped the photograph. The file holding all of Gabriel’s information and his previous four wires was still sitting upon his desk. At his elbow sat two rubber stamps. Active and Inactive.

He took off his spectacles, polishing them thoughtfully, then pushed a button, ringing a bell outside his office. Within seconds, his secretary slipped in, as discreet and silent as a shadow.

“You rang?”

“How is Jack doing? Will he be suitable?”

The shadowy secretary shrugged. “Possibly. He’s undisciplined, of course. They all are. But they all have potential.”

Tarquin replaced his spectacles and considered the stack of files on his desk. Each was tabbed with a name, and he flicked through them, skimming swiftly. “Jack, Sebastian, Stephen,” he murmured. There were others, and he flicked through these, as well. Gabriel’s file landed on the top.

He looked up at his secretary. “Quentin thinks I should let him go over this elopement business.”

The secretary shrugged. “Quentin Harkness lacks imagination. Of course, in my experience, most men do.”

A small smile touched Tarquin’s lips. “Hence the charade that you’re merely my secretary.”

The secretary shrugged again. “We’ve been over this a thousand times, Tarquin. This office is an ivory tower. Whoever sits in that chair is removed from what really goes on in this place. If I am out there, amongst the typists and the delivery boys, I can keep my finger on the pulse of everything that happens.”

“I know. It’s just bloody awkward.”

“Not for me. The other secretaries think you’re simply too mean to employ a man and hired your sister to avoid spending a penny more than you had to on a secretary.”

Tarquin smiled, and anyone who knew him from the office would have been astonished at the change it made. Gone was the solemn grey bureaucrat and in his place was a serious man with handsome features and green eyes bright with mischief. It was a side to him no one saw anymore—save for his sister.

She crossed the room and put a hand to the file on the top of the stack. “We’re going to give him another chance, Tarq. It’s the right thing to do. He’s impetuous and rash, just like Jack, but we’ve got some good steady souls in there to help them along. They’ll find their way.”

He reached out his hand for the file and gave it to her. She rolled the rubber stamp onto a pad of red ink and pressed it to the file. Active.

“This one’s on you if it goes wrong,” he warned her.

She smiled the cool, confident smile of a woman entirely in control. “The Vespiary is my responsibility now. I know what I’m doing, Tarquin.”

“I certainly hope so, Perdita.”

She handed back the file with a steady hand, determined not to show Tarquin her doubts. Everything he said was true. Gabriel was rash and impetuous, and marrying in haste only demonstrated that he still had much to learn. But the Vespiary was the best place for him to learn. And time would be the best teacher of all.

She gave her brother a small smile. “Don’t fret, Tarq. I won’t let him back in without paying a price for this. He’s broken the rules and he must do penance for it. He’ll have to earn his way back, and he will start at the bottom.”

Tarquin nodded slowly. “Yes. It wouldn’t be good for his character if we just let him walk through the door. What did you have in mind?”

Perdita cocked her head, thinking. She went to the map pinned to the wall, tracing a thoughtful finger across the sea until she came to China. She took up a pin and thrust it directly into the heart of Shanghai.

“I know exactly where to send him. And once he’s there, he’ll have to make a choice. It’s us or her.”

Tarquin picked up the photograph again and shook his head. “Shame, really. Looks as if they really believed in happily ever after.”

Perdita’s eyes were pitying. “There’s a war on, Tarquin. There’s no such thing as happily ever after.” She smoothed her skirts. “I’ll type up the orders, shall I?”

Tarquin nodded. “I’ll sign them when you’ve finished.”

Perdita left as silently as she had come, and Tarquin slipped the photograph into Gabriel’s file.

“The choice is yours now, Starke,” he murmured. “I hope to God you make the right one.”