‘Goodness, now that would be a disaster,’ she agreed, trying to suppress a smile.
‘I’ll put a little rose cream on each of your cheeks to give them some colour, and you’ll be ready to go down when you’re called. You just sit quietly with one of your books and Miss Draper will be up for you when they’re ready.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Good luck, miss.’
Flora frowned as Barny left the room, wondering why on earth she needed ‘luck’ to drink a cup of tea with this mystery guest, whom she heard arriving ten minutes later. To while away the time, Flora went to her writing bureau and took out her journal to continue documenting the dreadful conversation with Archie. Even writing it brought her close to tears. Eventually, there was a knock on her door and Miss Draper appeared.
‘Mrs Keppel would like you to join her in the parlour now.’
‘Very well.’
Flora followed Miss Draper downstairs and felt the tense hush of the house that heralded the presence of Mrs Keppel’s special guest.
‘Ready?’ Miss Draper asked her.
‘Yes.’
‘Very good.’ She raised her hand to tap on the parlour door and Flora noticed it shook slightly.
‘Come,’ came Mrs Keppel’s voice from within.
‘And for pity’s sake, don’t forget to curtsey when she introduces you,’ Miss Draper hissed as she grasped the door handle and opened it.
‘Flora, my dear.’ Mrs Keppel came towards her. ‘How lovely you look today, doesn’t she, Bertie?’ She took Flora’s hand and led her to a grey-bearded gentleman, whose enormous bulk took up the entire two-seater sofa.
Flora felt a pair of gimlet eyes appraising her as Mrs Keppel drew her closer until she stood only a foot from him. The room was filled with a cloud of cigar smoke and the gentleman took another puff as he continued to observe her. Flora gave a start as something moved by the gentleman’s leg, and she saw that it was a white fox terrier with brown ears that had perked up at her entrance and was now coming to greet her.
‘Hello.’ Flora smiled down at the little dog and instinctively reached to pet it.
‘Flora, this is my dearest friend, Bertie. Bertie, may I present Miss Flora MacNichol.’
As she had been told to do, Flora gave a deep – and she hoped – graceful curtsey. As she rose as elegantly as she could, she realised this gentleman was very familiar. In the ensuing silence, as the eyes continued to stare at her in a most disturbing manner, Flora finally made the connection. And her knees went weak.
‘Didn’t I tell you she was a beauty?’ Mrs Keppel broke the silence. ‘Come, Flora, sit down by me.’
She followed Mrs Keppel to the chaise longue placed opposite the man who was apparently called ‘Bertie’. Flora was only grateful she could sit down or she might have fallen to the floor in shock.
Still, the man did not speak, just continued to stare at her.
‘I shall ring for some tea. I am sure we could all do with a fresh cup.’ As Mrs Keppel pressed a bell to the side of the fireplace, Flora could see that even her sponsor’s fabled calm seemed disturbed by the silence. Eventually, Bertie took up his cigar once more, relit it and puffed on it.
‘How are you finding London, Miss MacNichol?’ he asked her.
‘I am enjoying it very much, thank you . . .’ Her voice trailed off as she realised she was not sure how to address him.
‘Please, while we are in private, you may call me “Bertie”, as dear Mrs George does. We are all friends here. And perhaps you are a little mature to address me as “Kingy”, like Violet and Sonia.’ He smiled approvingly then, his blue eyes merry, and the tension in the room lifted a little.
‘So,’ he said, taking another puff on his cigar, ‘how is your dear mama?’
‘I . . . she is well, thank you. Or at least, I believe she is, as I haven’t seen her since she left for Scotland.’
‘Remember, Bertie, that I told you Flora’s parents have moved from their house in the Lakes up to the Highlands?’ Mrs Keppel prompted.
‘Ah, yes, and a damned fine choice they made. Scotland is without a doubt my favourite part of the British Isles. Especially Balmoral. Have you visited the Highlands, Miss MacNichol?’
‘When I was much younger, I went to visit my paternal grandparents and I remember it being very beautiful.’ Flora struggled to calm herself enough to form coherent sentences. She was surprised by the sound of his voice, his words having an almost Teutonic timbre to them, making him sound rather foreign.
Miss Draper and the footman arrived with tea and a trolley full of sandwiches, cakes and pastries. A black shadow raced by Miss Draper’s feet, and the terrier, who had been remarkably calm until now, launched himself towards it with a series of ear-splitting barks. Without thinking, Flora leapt to her feet and scooped the hissing and spitting cat into her arms.
The terrier’s barks were punctuated by a booming laugh. ‘Caesar, heel!’ he commanded, and the dog slunk back to sit down by his master. ‘Now, who might that be, Miss MacNichol?’
‘This is Panther,’ Flora said, trying to soothe the shuddering cat.
‘What a splendid fellow,’ Bertie said. ‘How did you come by him?’
‘I rescued him from a tarn when he was a kitten, back home in the Lakes.’
‘Flora, please take Panther outside,’ Mrs Keppel said.
‘No need on my account, Mrs George. I love animals, as you know.’
Flora duly released Panther into the corridor and firmly shut the door, then sat back down. As Mrs Keppel poured the tea, she knew she would not be able to touch it for fear her hand would shake so violently that she’d spill it all over her fine dress.
‘Miss MacNichol, it strikes me that you have a very cunning and clever comrade-in-arms in Mrs George here. For’ – Bertie took a puff on his cigar, smiling fondly at Mrs Keppel – ‘I can tell you truthfully that I never thought I’d see the day that—’
What the day was, Flora would never know, because inhaling the cigar smoke prompted an enormous bout of coughing and choking. His already ruddy complexion became beetroot-red, his eyes streaming as his chest struggled to take in enough breath. Mrs Keppel poured a glass of water and squeezed next to him on the sofa as she put the glass to his lips, forcing him to sip it.
‘Damn you, woman! I don’t need water, I need brandy!’ He pulled a large paisley handkerchief from his topcoat and, pushing the water away so it spilt all over Mrs Keppel’s skirts, proceeded to blow his nose loudly.
‘Bertie, you really are going to have to give up the cigars,’ Mrs Keppel chided as she rose and crossed to the decanter sitting on the sideboard. ‘You know that every doctor you see says the same. Those things will be the death of you, they truly will.’ She handed him the brandy, which he drank in one gulp before holding the glass out for another.
‘Nonsense! It’s simply the damned British weather, with its interminable damp. Remember how well I was at Biarritz?’