“But they are places you associate with your mother.”
“She tried to see everything. You remember the story I told you and your father the night I arrived at the mansion? The one about the torch?” Harrod’s went into the notebook, along with the zoo, the Tate Gallery, St. Paul’s Cathedral, and several other museums and monuments that didn’t require explanation. When I had run out of places, Bill capped his pen, then returned it and the notebook to his pocket.
“We’ll see what we can do,” he said.
I stifled a jaw-cracking yawn. “We may have to wait until tomorrow to start. I can feel jet lag setting in already.”
“This isn’t your first trip overseas?” Bill asked.
“Hardly,” I replied. “But don’t get me started on that. I’ve been known to bore strong men to tears with my hitchhiking stories.”
He pulled a large white handkerchief from his breast pocket and regarded me expectantly.
*
“So this will be my fourth visit to London,” I concluded. “The first was during the summer after my freshman year in college. I spent a week there that time, crashing in my sleeping bag on the floor of a flat belonging to two guys I’d met on the road. The second time was with my former husband. By then I’d had enough of sleeping on floors, so we booked a room at a B & B. It turned out to be an Earl’s Court special, though, complete with an uncloseable window overlooking a train yard, and a mattress that sagged to the floor, so I ended up sleeping on the floor again anyway.”
“You’re joking,” said Bill. “Exaggerating, at least.”
“I am not. I had to hook my leg over the side of the bed to keep from rolling down into the middle. But we learned. The next time we went, we booked a room at a clean and quiet guest house in Sussex Gardens. Even with a bath up the hall, we thought it was heaven.” I rested my head against the back of the seat.
Bill went through the motions of wringing out his handkerchief, then tucked it back into his pocket.
“Where are we staying this time?” I asked, closing my eyes.
“A hotel,” he said. “Father and I stay there when we’re in town. Dimity recommended it to us, in fact. It’s a nice place. Clean. Quiet.”
10
When the liveried doorman trotted out to open the door of our limousine, I began to suspect that Bill had indulged in some serious understatement. When I found myself standing beneath the venerable forest-green awning of the Flamborough Hotel, I knew it, and succumbed to momentary panic. There I was, wearing jeans which, although new, were still jeans, for pity’s sake, about to walk into one of the world’s most genteel hotels. The regular residents would probably strain their eyebrows.
“Clean and quiet, huh?” I said under my breath.
“Private baths, too,” Bill murmured.
“Oh, goody. Now I feel right at home.” I averted my eyes when my decrepit canvas bags were pulled from the limo, and stared when they were followed by an unfamiliar set of royal blue canvas carryalls. Bill saw what had caught my attention.
“Like my new luggage?” he asked as we entered the lobby. “Wonderful stuff, canvas. Durable, lightweight, easy to repair…”
I groaned inwardly. Evidently Bill had changed hats again. The amiable traveling companion was gone, the joker was back, and there was nothing I could do about it—except gird myself to face whatever other surprises he had in store in London.
Bill escorted me to a chair and I sank into its depths, peering timidly at my surroundings as he walked to the front desk. The lobby was all brass and wood, tall ferns and taller doorways, with writing desks tucked discreetly into alcoves, islands of comfortable chairs, and bellboys in spotless dove-gray uniforms. Elderly women sat or stood, draped in ancient fur stoles, pearls at their throats, tiny hats nestled in their silver hair, chatting with equally elderly gentlemen. I felt like a dandelion in a grove of stately oaks, a drooping dandelion at that, and I was relieved when Bill returned; his wrinkled tweed jacket was at least as disreputable as my jeans. He arrived in the company of a dignified, middle-aged woman, and I stood up as they approached, wishing I had a forelock to pull.
“Lori,” said Bill, “this is Miss Kingsley. She takes care of Father and me when we’re staying here.”
“Miss Shepherd, how nice to meet you,” said Miss Kingsley.
I shook her hand and nodded dumbly. She must have wondered if I understood English.
“If you will excuse me,” said Bill, “there are some arrangements I need to make. You take it easy, Lori, and get some sleep. Why don’t we meet here tomorrow morning, at ten o’clock? I’ll see you then.” Bill went back to the desk and I was left alone with Miss Kingsley.
“Shall I show you to your suite, Miss Shepherd?”