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Henry rose and walked across to the drinks table, poured cognac into two balloons and carried them back to the fireside. ‘Here you are, Falconer, a bit of good old Napoleon. I want to make a toast to the new arcade in Hull.’
James was not a big drinker, but he took the brandy balloon and clinked his glass to Mr Malvern’s. ‘To the new Malvern arcade.’
‘In the City of Gaiety,’ Henry added, and took a swallow of the brandy. ‘And to all of our other projects,’ he added.
James smiled, took a sip of the drink and felt a slight burning in the back of his throat. ‘I suppose you are going to spend what’s left of tonight with your parents,’ Henry murmured, cutting into James’s thoughts.
‘Yes, I am, sir, when I leave here. I enjoy being at home with my family.’
A fleeting smile crossed Henry’s face and was gone. ‘I wish I could say the same,’ he said in a wistful voice. ‘Anyway, Bolland will drive you to Camden Town.’
Paying attention to him and listening to him carefully, James felt a sudden twinge of sadness for Henry Malvern, who was undoubtedly rather lonely. And then it turned into a surge of genuine anger about Alexis, who was being unkind to her father, strange in her behaviour towards him. It was as if she were unaware of his existence these days.
Finally he said, ‘Thank you for offering the carriage, sir. I’m grateful for your kindness.’
Although he arrived late, Rossi was so happy to see her brother, she hugged him tightly for a good few minutes, before standing away and staring at him. ‘You get better and better,’ she said, laughing, holding onto his arm. ‘You look like … a shiny new penny, James Lionel Falconer, and I’m proud to be your sister.’
‘Adoring sister,’ Eddie corrected her, grinning at his older brother. ‘And I agree with her – you gleam, Jimmy, but maybe more like a brass button than a penny.’
James couldn’t help laughing at Eddie’s comment. After squeezing his younger brother’s shoulder affectionately, he walked forward into the cosy kitchen. He stood with his back to the fireplace, enjoying the warmth of the fire blazing up the chimney.
He glanced around, loving everything about this room in which he had grown up: the copper pots, pans and moulds hanging on a wall, gleaming brightly in the light from the gas lamps. The long oak table under the window was set for supper, with ten chairs squeezed around it; closer to him were the big armchairs facing the fire. One of the old leather chairs was his father’s favourite; it was where he sat and read the newspaper, enjoyed a glass of beer, finally relaxing after being on his feet all day in the Malvern market. It was Eddie who helped him on the stalls these days.
He smiled to himself, remembering the many times he had sat at that long table, reading a book, or helping Eddie with his reading and writing.
He never had to help his sister, who was quite the scholar. When it came to history, English, writing essays and stories, no one could surpass her. Rossi’s sewing was even better in a certain sense. The shawls she made were intricately put together so that they looked like works of art. In fact, he thought they were Art with a capital ‘A’.
James loved Rossi very much, and admired her talent. Over the last few years she had developed into a really good designer. His mother worked with her and, in the past year, he had convinced Rossi to hire some of the local women to help out with shawls, scarves, and capes. Sewing was a national hobby. Every woman in England sewed; the women Rossi had selected from the area of Camden were good at what they did, and Rossi was thriving.
Glancing across at Rossi now, James said in a warm and loving tone, ‘The last few shawls you made were so beautiful, Rossi. The way you place various fabrics at angles … sort of like a patchwork, but somehow better.’
‘Thank you, James,’ Rossi responded with a quick, pleased smile.
She walked over to the cupboard and took out the rest of the glasses and plates. James joined her, and they placed them at each setting, to finish the table.
Eddie left his own special little corner to one side of the fireplace, where he kept his easel and paintbrushes. He always had a canvas he was at work on, painting being his passion.
‘I’m glad Grandma and Grandpa are here tonight,’ Eddie said, coming to stand next to his brother, smiling up at him.
‘So am I,’ James replied. ‘How lucky we are that the Honourable Mister and Lady Agatha are in Europe for two months, which means our grandparents are free to join us on Saturdays. I’m just sorry I’m so late.’
Rossi nodded. ‘It’s like a gift, having them here. Uncle George and Uncle Harry have also arrived. They’re in the front room. With Father.’
‘So Uncle Harry isn’t making the supper tonight?’ James asked, surprise echoing in his voice.
‘No, we did it,’ Eddie announced.
‘Mother has been supervising us,’ Rossi explained. ‘She’s just changing her frock. She’ll be down in a few minutes.’
‘You should have told me that the other day,’ James said. ‘Forewarned is forearmed.’
‘I made a lamb stew this morning and cooked it with carrots, parsnips and chopped onions, plus a few herbs. Now that you’re here I’ll put it back in the oven.’
‘I’ll go and greet everyone,’ James smiled at her. ‘But come and get me if you need me.’
When the entire Falconer family came together for their Saturday night suppers, it was always a joyous occasion. Tonight was no exception: they loved each other and were proud of their endeavours and achievements, and revelled in being with each other. They hadn’t seen Philip and Esther since the supper at the Montague London house, and everyone was relieved to see that their grandfather was moving around freely on crutches now.
Philip, still with a cast on his leg, was full of praise for Matthew’s stalls, for James and his success at the Malvern Company and Eddie for his artistic efforts. He also complimented his two other sons, remarking on George’s latest story for The Chronicle and pointing out, with pride in his voice, that Harry was about to open a fully fledged restaurant at last. He added that he was happy Harry was keeping the name Rendezvous, which was what his café was also called.
‘Because everyone has loved the café, they’ll recognize the name and come rushing over. You will be flooded with customers.’
Everyone laughed. Picking up his glass of red wine, which he always chose over the beer the other men drank, Philip toasted the women present. His wife Esther, his daughter-in-law Maude, and his granddaughter Rossi. The men joined in, full of smiles.
The stew had been relished, called the best they’d ever eaten, and seconds were served. Later, it was Maude and Esther who cut slices of apple pie and covered them with Bird’s custard. The finishing touch was a cup of coffee for those who enjoyed it.
Surveying the table at one moment, looking at each and every member of his family, James Lionel Falconer understood how lucky he was to be part of this clan. In their different ways, they were all quite wonderful. And very special. He loved them and they loved him, and that was all that mattered. Whatever was unfolding in his work, they would support him. If he chose not to take up the extraordinary chance Henry Malvern had offered him, the chance to move on from working the market to being in business, he knew his family would champion him, however risky it might seem. And as for Alexis Malvern? His eyes rested on his parents, Matthew and Maude. The love they had was what he yearned for some day – a love that was kind and true. And nothing about Alexis Malvern made him believe he would find it with her.
PART TWO (#ulink_a0316c7e-a2f1-50fb-bf18-3b4c6f701049)
EIGHT (#ulink_5b547ac4-65c6-5095-84a9-8ff4b98501aa)
James Falconer stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom, giving himself the once-over. He nodded and decided he looked correct, finally admitted he liked his new dark navy-blue suit after all. It had been an investment he’d felt he needed to make, but he’d had to save hard for it.
Straightening his dark navy cravat, he turned away from the mirror and left the bedroom, taking out his pocket watch as he did so. It was exactly five minutes to five. He realized he might as well go down to the street. His colleague and friend Peter Keller was picking him up in a carriage in a few minutes.
He locked the door of the small flat behind him and ran down the stairs. It was a lovely June afternoon. The sun was still shining in a clear blue sky above the tall thin Georgian houses that lined their street, many of them given over to lodgings and apartments like his uncle’s. As he stood on the front steps of their building, he suddenly grinned at the sight of Uncle George walking towards him.
‘Well, well, well, don’t you look the toff,’ George said, also grinning. ‘And where are you off to, all dressed up and fit to kill?’ Then he frowned. ‘Must be somewhere special, you’re usually working till midnight.’
‘I’m going to a supper for Natalya Parkinson – Natalie, as we call her outside the office – who works at Malvern’s, as you know. Her aunt is Mrs Lorne, the well-known philanthropist. She’s giving a little celebration because Mr Malvern has put Natalie on the Hull team.’ James winked. ‘At my suggestion. She’s going to work with me on the building of the new arcade, as my assistant.’
‘Good for you, I feel pleased you know how to delegate. You got Keller promoted. I know that.’
James nodded. ‘The Wine Division needed someone to take over. And he deserved it. Look, here he comes now. At least I think he’s in this carriage coming down the street. We’re going together.’
When the carriage came to a stop, the window came down, and Peter Keller looked out at them.
‘Good evening,’ he said, opening the door. To James he murmured, ‘I didn’t know your uncle was coming.’
‘He’s not. He’s just arrived back from the newspaper.’ James squeezed George’s arm and said, ‘See you later, Uncle George.’
‘Have a good time, lads. Nice to see you, Keller,’ George answered and went into the building.
Climbing into the carriage, James sat down opposite Peter Keller and pulled the door closed. Settling against the seatback, he said, ‘I’m very glad you agreed to come. You seemed a bit hesitant at first.’
‘I think I was. I don’t know any of the other guests. Only Miss Parkinson.’ He gave James a sheepish look, and added, ‘Whom I like a lot, actually.’
James smiled. ‘I know you do, and I suspect Natalie likes you too.’
‘How do you know? Did she tell you?’
‘In not so many words, but I picked up on it. Trust me.’
‘I do. Implicitly.’ Keller leant forward, frowning a little. ‘Can you tell me something about the other guests? Of course, I know who her aunt is – Mrs Lorne, who does a great deal of charity work. I believe she gives a lot of time and money to good causes.’
‘That’s true. She’s married to an American banker, who is of like mind. Also, they’re both hospitable. But I think he’s in New York at the moment. Irina is Natalie’s younger sister. I know she designs evening gowns, and their brother is a scenic designer for the theatre. His name’s Alexander, but they call him Sandro. The last guest I know of is Aubrey Williamson. He’s a barrister.’
‘So you can help me through,’ Keller remarked. He sat back against the seat and explained, ‘I’m always a bit shy socially, especially when I’m meeting new people.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t really know why, unless it’s because I was an only child and we didn’t socialize very much.’
‘That’s probably the reason. But you’ll be fine this evening. Just stick close to me. We’ll circulate, do the best we can.’
‘That I will,’ Keller told him.
James simply smiled and glanced out of the window. The carriage was going in the direction of Chelsea, where the Lorne house was located. He had only been there a few times. He was glad to have the company of Peter. Over the past year, they had become close friends, often had supper together, and went to the theatre or the variety shows. They lived in an overwhelmingly man’s world, one in which men socialized together, and travelled abroad or in England, supporting each other, enjoying large or small get-togethers.
He himself missed his cousin, William Venables, who still lived in Hull and rarely came to London. He smiled inwardly. Now that the Hull arcade was under way, he would see more of William, he hoped.
Keller had had a sad life as a child, James knew that. His parents had been killed in an accident in India, and he had been brought back to England by his nanny. The two of them had lived with his maternal grandmother. She had loved him, looked after him well, but he had been a lonely boy. For all that, he was quietly friendly and was one of the best-informed people James knew. Keller was a voracious reader, devoured books, and was always seeking knowledge. He had told James there had been a truly nice teacher at Rugby, who had mentored him, been a big influence on him in those years. ‘Mr Parsons helped me to open up,’ he had told him once. ‘He gave me self-confidence and told me to value myself, to have the belief that I could do anything if I really tried.’
James was convinced that that teacher at Rugby had put Peter Keller on the right path and that was why he had done so well at Malvern’s. Certainly he had got the Wine Division back on track this past year, for which James was grateful. Peter was twenty-three and would soon be twenty-four, but at times he seemed older than that. Perhaps because of his childhood years. Shorter than James, he had dark hair and a serious face.
How lucky I am, James suddenly thought. I have a big family around me, who have always been there for me, had my back, and given me the greatest start in life. Last month, at the end of May, they had celebrated his twentieth birthday with love and generosity.
‘I believe we’ve arrived,’ Peter Keller announced as the carriage came to a stop.
Pulling himself out of his reverie, James agreed. ‘Indeed we have,’ he said. ‘So, brace yourself Keller! Let’s go inside and knock ’em dead!’
Francesca Lorne paused under the arched entrance to the drawing room, catching her breath in surprise and pleasure. The late afternoon sun was slowly fading, its last rays filling the room with sudden brilliant light, giving it a burnished look. Everything gleamed.
It occurred to her that the room looked different this evening and, of course, it did. Irina, her niece, had been at work. She had filled it with numerous vases of flowers, rearranged certain objects of art, and put new cushions on the sofas and chairs; done one of her ‘fix-ups’, as she called them. Irina could do wonders with quite ordinary things, bringing new life to any room in this house.
Francesca loved Irina and her sister Natalya, as if they were her own daughters. And, in a sense, they were. She and her husband Michael were childless and had brought them up for the past eleven years and had helped to make them who they were today.
When Francesca’s brother, Maurice, and his Russian wife, Kat, had decided to move to Shanghai, the girls had not wanted to go. They had begged their parents to let them stay in London with their aunt and uncle.
Francesca and Michael were genuinely happy to become their guardians and to bring them into their home to live with them. Maurice and Kat had been relieved and touched by this generous offer, and the girls had been well educated and looked after with great care and affection. Natalie, at twenty-five the elder of the two, had sometimes mothered Irina to a certain extent. But it was to Aunt Francesca that they usually turned for advice. Now grown-up young women, they were lovely to look at and a joy to be around. They still lived at the Chelsea house with their aunt and uncle.
The sound of a carriage coming to a stop outside made Francesca turn around. She saw Violet, the housekeeper, hurrying across the hall to the front door. Natalie and Irina were coming down the staircase, as usual well dressed and perfectly groomed, Natalie wearing a fashionably cut dress in palest yellow silk and Irina a gown made from a pretty cream silk with tiny green sprigs.
The two of them were smiling broadly as they stopped next to Aunt Cheska, as they called her. At the same moment, Violet opened the front door to admit James Falconer and Peter Keller.
After introductions had been made, Francesca ushered them all into the drawing room. ‘Let us wait in here for the other guests to arrive … I’m so pleased you are punctual. It always upsets Cook when we have latecomers – she doesn’t like to have her best dishes ruined.’
Keller, wanting to join in and be sociable immediately, said, ‘I understand how Cook feels. After all the great effort she must put in, it would be such a disappointment for her.’
Francesca smiled at him warmly. ‘I like thoughtful young men. Now come along, Mr Keller, and tell me all about yourself. Let’s sit over there by the French doors.’
James quickly glanced around the drawing room. He had seen great beauty and stylishness but had not yet had any time to take in the details. Primrose-yellow walls, touches of pinks and greens, a marvellous airiness and pale colours which were uplifting. He had never seen a room quite like this before, and unexpectedly he felt a sudden lightness of spirit. He was always aware of his surroundings. He preferred beautiful places, which soothed him.
Aware of someone beside him, he turned around swiftly. Irina Parkinson stood next to him. He stared at her, seeing her properly for the first time. She was tall and svelte, and her abundant brown hair was swept up into a mass of silky curls on top of her head. Her eyes were remarkable: very dark, framed by thick lashes. While she was not a great beauty in the current fashion, Irina had lovely features, and her dark eyes and high cheekbones gave her an exotic look that he found fascinating. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude … I’m afraid I got caught up with this room. It’s lovely, Miss Parkinson.’
‘I’m glad you like it, Mr Falconer, and you weren’t rude, not at all.’
‘So many flowers, so many unique objects.’ He glanced at a mahogany table and asked, ‘What are these objects here? I’ve never seen anything like them, not even at the estate sales I used to go to in the country with my father years ago.’
Irina stepped closer to the table and beckoned to him. ‘They are icons,’ she explained. ‘Pictures of a sacred or sanctified person. They are traditional to the Eastern Christian church, especially the Russian church.’
‘They are so beautifully painted, every detail perfect and in such rich colours. As for the frames, they are works of art in themselves,’ James said, peering at the icons. ‘And there are so many. Obviously your aunt collects them,’ he finished, straightening, looking at her.
‘No, she doesn’t, actually. These icons belong to me and Natalie. They were given to us by our mother. She uses the name Kat, but she was christened Ekaterina. You see, she is descended from the Shuvalovs, as are we. We are half-Russian through our mother’s side of the family.’
James nodded. ‘Of course. Now I remember! Your sister did once make a remark to me about being from an old Russian family, but she never told me anything more, nor alluded to it again. It was something said in passing, and it never came up later.’
He felt a sudden pull to her, wanting to know her better.
Realizing he was staring at her, he went on quickly. ‘So how did an old Russian family come to live in London?’
She was silent for a moment or two, gazing at him.
James said, ‘I do apologize. I must sound very nosy and rude. It’s just that—’
She interrupted him with a small, quiet laugh and shook her head. ‘No, not in the slightest. I am happy to tell you the whole story. And I’d better make it quick before the other guests arrive.
‘It was my great-grandfather, Konstantin Shuvalov, who first came here. He was a courtier in the Romanov court, and was posted here in 1850 as the Russian ambassador to London. My great-grandmother was called Zenia and they had one son, my grandfather, Nicholas Shuvalov. My great-grandfather had been educated at Eton and so he sent his son there too, ensuring he spoke excellent English. Nicholas was the father of my mother Kat and her sister Olga, who now lives in Russia.’
Irina broke off as she heard voices echoing in the hall and noticed her aunt hurrying across the room.
‘Excuse me, Mr Falconer, but I have to go and greet the new arrivals. I’ll tell you more about the Shuvalovs later.’
‘I’ll hold you to that!’ James exclaimed.
Irina turned around and smiled at him. It was a lovely smile that filled her face with radiance.
James smiled back and felt his heart lifting, something he had not experienced for a few years.
After the three women went out into the entrance hall, Keller joined James, who had remained standing next to the mahogany table where the icons were displayed. Keller was immediately interested in them. After studying them for a moment, he said, ‘What a splendid collection of icons! Many of them must be very old, I think, and highly valuable.’
‘I didn’t even know what they were,’ James admitted, pursing his mouth, shaking his head. ‘You are truly amazing, Keller. Your knowledge is extraordinary.’
‘Mrs Lorne must enjoy collecting them,’ Keller answered, as usual low-key.
‘Oh, they’re not hers, actually,’ James informed him. ‘I thought the same as you, but Irina told me they belong to her and Natalie. Their mother gave the icons to them. You see, through their mother’s side of the family, they are descended from the Shuvalovs, apparently a well-known and ancient Russian family. Their great-grandfather was the Russian ambassador to London in the 1850s.’
‘How interesting – so he was here during the Crimean War. He was probably glad to be well away from the area, just as many Russian intellectuals are now – fleeing the censorship that has been imposed by Alexander III.’
Impressed by his friend’s knowledge, James fell silent as their hostess returned with her nieces, ushering three other people into the drawing room. Her nephew Sandro, the elder brother of her nieces at twenty-eight, was followed by a good-looking couple. James felt certain they were Aubrey and Rebecca Williamson.
After greetings and introductions had been made, Francesca Lorne led the Williamsons down to the far end of the room, opening the French doors which revealed the garden. They went outside together.
