were to attend the Wild West Edward woke in good humour, unable to conceal his enthusiasm. The show had opened its rehearsals to reporters and the newspapers had been full of breathless accounts of its wonders: of trick-riding and sharp-shooting, of buffalo-hunting and steer-roping, of the blood-curdling spectacle of a whooping stampede of war-bonneted Indians as they attacked the Deadwood Stage. They raved about the doll-sized Annie Oakley who could shoot the ash off a cigar while standing on her head and whose
coup de maître
was to stand with her back turned to a man holding up a playing card in his fingers which she then shot, a mirror in one hand and her inverted rifle in the other, straight through the centre of the card. As for the cowboys dared with mounting the wild, unbroken horses in the ring, it was plain that Edward would have given anything to have the chance to do just the same himself.
As usual Alice brought the post and fresh tea. Edward glanced at the envelopes, separating their piles. Maribel emptied her teacup and lifted the lid of the pot. It was not yet strong enough. Opposite her Edward frowned, tapping one of the envelopes against his fingertips. Then he set it on the top of her pile and handed it across the table. It had been addressed to Mrs Edward Campbell Lowe, care of the House of Commons. Someone had forwarded it to Cadogan Mansions. The words PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL were printed across the envelope in capital letters.
‘It is one thing to send love letters to a married woman,’ he said with a raised eyebrow. ‘It is quite another to expect his clerk to act as go-between.’
The letter was written on the same heavy stationery as the first, the familiar handwriting once more positioned precisely in the centre of the envelope. Maribel stared at it, her tea forgotten.
Edward went back to his newspaper. Without raising his eyes, he poured milk into his tea and stirred, setting the spoon back in his saucer. Then he lifted the cup and took a sip. Maribel rested her chin on her cupped hands. The sour smell of the marmalade was making her feel sick.
‘How marvellous,’ Edward said. ‘After the Wild West preview the
Times
reporter asked Chief Red Shirt what he had thought of the British Parliament. The Indian pondered for a while and then answered that he had not thought it very magnificent. “Laws,” he said, “could be made much more quickly in my country than in England.”’
Maribel tried to smile. Her face felt stiff. Her mother had written to her at the House of Commons. Whatever it was she had to say it was plain that she intended to say it.
Edward put down his newspaper and wiped his fingers on his napkin.
‘It is time I was going,’ he said, pushing back his chair. ‘I shall pick you up at four.’
‘Don’t go, Red. Not quite yet.’
‘Oh?’
‘There is something I have to talk to you about.’
‘Ah. So it is an admirer.’
‘What is?’
‘The letter. I notice you haven’t opened it yet.’
Maribel clasped her hands together, pressing her knuckles hard against her chin.
‘It’s not from an admirer. I wish it was.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s from my mother.’
Edward stared at her.
‘Your mother? Are you quite sure?’
‘She is coming to London. She wants me to call on her.’
‘And you know all this without opening the envelope? I’m impressed.’
‘Don’t. She wrote before. A week ago, perhaps two. I didn’t tell you. I – I didn’t know how. She knew about us. I wrote years ago, when we were first married. I should have told you then, I know I should, but I was ashamed. It was such a stupid, reckless thing to do. I thought – it was just that I wanted her to know that I was not dead. Or worse. I never thought she would ever write back. I am sorry.’
‘Bo, look at me.’
Maribel sighed. Then slowly she lifted her gaze from the tablecloth.
‘I shan’t see her,’ she said quietly. ‘You needn’t worry about that.’
‘What is it
coup de maître
was to stand with her back turned to a man holding up a playing card in his fingers which she then shot, a mirror in one hand and her inverted rifle in the other, straight through the centre of the card. As for the cowboys dared with mounting the wild, unbroken horses in the ring, it was plain that Edward would have given anything to have the chance to do just the same himself.
As usual Alice brought the post and fresh tea. Edward glanced at the envelopes, separating their piles. Maribel emptied her teacup and lifted the lid of the pot. It was not yet strong enough. Opposite her Edward frowned, tapping one of the envelopes against his fingertips. Then he set it on the top of her pile and handed it across the table. It had been addressed to Mrs Edward Campbell Lowe, care of the House of Commons. Someone had forwarded it to Cadogan Mansions. The words PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL were printed across the envelope in capital letters.
‘It is one thing to send love letters to a married woman,’ he said with a raised eyebrow. ‘It is quite another to expect his clerk to act as go-between.’
The letter was written on the same heavy stationery as the first, the familiar handwriting once more positioned precisely in the centre of the envelope. Maribel stared at it, her tea forgotten.
Edward went back to his newspaper. Without raising his eyes, he poured milk into his tea and stirred, setting the spoon back in his saucer. Then he lifted the cup and took a sip. Maribel rested her chin on her cupped hands. The sour smell of the marmalade was making her feel sick.
‘How marvellous,’ Edward said. ‘After the Wild West preview the
Times
reporter asked Chief Red Shirt what he had thought of the British Parliament. The Indian pondered for a while and then answered that he had not thought it very magnificent. “Laws,” he said, “could be made much more quickly in my country than in England.”’
Maribel tried to smile. Her face felt stiff. Her mother had written to her at the House of Commons. Whatever it was she had to say it was plain that she intended to say it.
Edward put down his newspaper and wiped his fingers on his napkin.
‘It is time I was going,’ he said, pushing back his chair. ‘I shall pick you up at four.’
‘Don’t go, Red. Not quite yet.’
‘Oh?’
‘There is something I have to talk to you about.’
‘Ah. So it is an admirer.’
‘What is?’
‘The letter. I notice you haven’t opened it yet.’
Maribel clasped her hands together, pressing her knuckles hard against her chin.
‘It’s not from an admirer. I wish it was.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s from my mother.’
Edward stared at her.
‘Your mother? Are you quite sure?’
‘She is coming to London. She wants me to call on her.’
‘And you know all this without opening the envelope? I’m impressed.’
‘Don’t. She wrote before. A week ago, perhaps two. I didn’t tell you. I – I didn’t know how. She knew about us. I wrote years ago, when we were first married. I should have told you then, I know I should, but I was ashamed. It was such a stupid, reckless thing to do. I thought – it was just that I wanted her to know that I was not dead. Or worse. I never thought she would ever write back. I am sorry.’
‘Bo, look at me.’
Maribel sighed. Then slowly she lifted her gaze from the tablecloth.
‘I shan’t see her,’ she said quietly. ‘You needn’t worry about that.’
‘What is it
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