The Diamond Hunter Page 23

  Will looked perplexed. ‘For what should I be ready?’

  ‘For this.’ She swung open the door and moved aside in invitation.

  Will stepped onto the charcoal and ivory mosaic floor of the reception hall and his face blanched, precisely as Clementine had anticipated.

  She clapped her hands and grinned. ‘Ghastly, isn’t it?’

  He turned slowly, taking in the astonishing medley of styles crammed into the reception alone: from classical Greek alabaster columns with their capitals picked out as birds, to the intricate Roman floor. As his mouth opened in bewilderment, his gaze was dragged helplessly towards the brilliance of the glazed tiles gleaming on the walls, a swirling blue Mediterranean sea. First-time visitors often complained of feeling dizzy, which always amused Clementine, who would quip that it was probably seasickness. They never fully got her jest but it mattered not. This magnificent wall of water, as she liked to think of it, was interrupted by dazzling Byzantine panels in the brilliant blues and crimsons of the Ottomans. And still the assault on the senses continued. A staircase, framed by thick mahogany bannisters, swept to the upper level, giving on to an even more astounding Arabic-themed room. As Will’s gaze lighted upon the carved wooden latticework, she filled him in.

  ‘Apparently seventeenth-century from Damascus, where it was used to separate the women’s quarters. They could look out onto the street or courtyard but not be seen.’ She grinned at his silence, adding, ‘The Turkish tiles are at least a century older.’

  He stammered. ‘Er . . . not ghastly,’ he said at last. ‘Certainly overwhelming.’

  She laughed delightedly. ‘Will, you’re the master of the understatement. I assure you that you cannot offend me, but my grandfather’s taste in decorating this house is so confused and outrageous that many shocked visitors come full circle and begin to enjoy it.’

  ‘You’d need a day in this room alone just to take it in.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. Individually, each element is exquisite and historically important to take care of. But he didn’t know where to put it all.’

  ‘Or how to curate it,’ Will added with a generous smile.

  The housekeeper appeared and Clem nodded to her. ‘We’re ready, thank you.’

  She led him into a drawing room. ‘All this clutter makes you want to cough, doesn’t it? Coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  Mrs Johnson arrived with a pot on a tray and poured.

  ‘You can leave it with me now, Alice. I’ll see you all later this afternoon.’

  The housekeeper nodded graciously and left.

  ‘I made these,’ she said, offering him a sugary-looking delicacy from a plate slick with syrup. ‘They’re called koeksisters.’

  ‘Say it again?’

  She repeated it. ‘They’re a South African treat, but the origins are Dutch. Don’t be scared of them, Will. They’re a pastry, plaited and deep fried and then plunged into cooled sugar syrup.’

  ‘You cooked these?’ he asked, incredulous.

  ‘Is that so odd?’

  ‘In the way of my life, yes. The woman of the household may order the menu but that’s as close to the preparation of food as she’d get.’

  ‘I learned to cook when I was a young child.’

  ‘You are definitely one of a kind, Clementine.’

  She smiled. ‘Well?’

  ‘They look sticky,’ he admitted.

  ‘I promise they are delicious, and I think you will offend me if you won’t at least bite into one. I made them for you.’

  He looked taken aback at how personal that sounded. ‘One bite, then.’

  ‘Go on – I dare you to stick to one,’ she urged him, watching him attempt to sample the delicacy without getting sugary syrup on his lips. As she’d anticipated, he not only failed but his expression as he chewed told her that her recipe had not let her down.

  ‘My goodness,’ he said, his tone filled with admiration. He bit into the pastry again.

  ‘You lose.’

  Will swallowed the last sticky morsel, licking syrup from his fingers, and then looked at her with gratitude as she offered a fingerbowl of warm water she’d had the foresight to arrange. She had to look away from his neatly defined mouth, now shiny with syrup, and had the outrageous thought that it would be pleasant to kiss that sugar away.

  She blinked, disconcerted by her own silliness. She never thought like this about a man. Clem suspected that Will didn’t appreciate his boyish looks. A beard might help to make his appearance less youthful, but she would be sad not to be able to admire the sharp jawline if it was covered by a beard. His nose was firmly angled, and above it his forehead seemed to frown with permanent worry. It relaxed only when he laughed, and so she was determined to see those soulful brown eyes of his reflect laughter; she wanted to ease his concerns, whatever they may be. Those eyes flicked up now and caught her staring.

  ‘What is going through that clever mind?’ he asked.

  She didn’t dare reveal the truth. What she did say surprised her, though. ‘I was thinking that going out with some old school-friends feels like the last activity I want to do today.’

  ‘I thought that was a fib to get down to London.’

  ‘No. But I might beg off.’

  ‘But what shall you do instead?’

  ‘Well, I know you thought we might visit the gallery, but if you’re free, why don’t we spend the day together? Visit the orphanage of which I’m a patron. And then . . .’ She shrugged.

  ‘I can make all of today free. After the orphanage, allow me to take you somewhere. May I use your telephone?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll get ready while you make your telephone call.’

  ‘Take your time. I’ll hail a carriage.’

  Clementine spent a few minutes in her bedroom checking herself in one of her grandfather’s massive Venetian mirrors. She’d always favoured less outrageous colours than the current fashion. Some of the crimsons and purples were nothing short of gaudy, and in her opinion best suited to burlesque or music hall outfits. Her skirt was as slim as she dared take it, and far narrower than fashion dictated. The fabric was a simple, light and luxurious wool with no pattern beyond some looping embroidery in the same green. The obligatory bustle was as small as her seamstress would permit without sighing in despair.

  ‘I don’t want a shelf on my bottom, Mrs Woodrow,’ she’d complained. ‘It’s the most ridiculous contraption. Exactly as I’ve drawn, please. No wiring – a pad instead.’

  ‘Well, it will show off your tiny waist, I’ll give you that, but Miss Grant, this is almost . . .’ The woman swallowed her words.

  ‘Say it,’ she encouraged her.

  ‘Well . . . it’s almost masculine in its appearance.’

  ‘Which man walks out dressed like this, Mrs Woodrow? With a cinched waist and a jacket flaring over hips accentuated by annoying and unnecessary padding? How about all the layers? Does a gentleman’s suit require petticoats? Or is it masculine to you because it doesn’t have a garish pattern or colour?’

  The seamstress took a breath to object but Clem jumped in first. ‘Because I’ll be honest, I detest looking like a pair of curtains.’

  The seamstress looked back at her, shocked, and then they both laughed. Mrs Woodrow had worked for Clementine long enough to expect her to be contrary.

  ‘You are so difficult, Miss Grant. What am I going to do with you? The young women of this region look to you for inspiration.’

  ‘Good! Then I’ll teach them to throw away their stupid bustles, to wear narrow, practical skirts, to get rid of their explosively puffy sleeves, big hats, silly hair pieces —’

  ‘Enough! I’m going to make this up so it fits you like a second skin, but I am going to insist on wide, decorated lapels and – there will be no escaping this, no matter how much you rage at me – you will be getting slightly puffed sleeves, or my reputation will suffer.’ She wagged a thimble-clad finger as Clementine leapt to object. ‘And for beneath it, I wi
ll make a frothy, silken blouse that is all woman! It will not be practical, or suitable for anything other than looking dazzlingly feminine and showing off your beauty.’ She stared Clementine down over her pince-nez spectacles. ‘And that blouse is going to be made from the palest of shell pinks.’

  ‘Mandarin collar, no bows,’ Clem insisted. ‘And positively no train!’

  ‘Just a tiny billow of fabric, then, which will be pleated from here,’ she said, twisting Clem around to touch where a bustle would end.

  Clem stared at her reflection in the long mirror. She wore only undergarments, made of the softest cotton and decorated with tiny rosebuds and ribbons. She sighed. She was not especially tall and she would hardly call herself willowy, yet she knew her body had attractive proportions. Her waist was not too close to her breasts and that length meant clothes hung well from her frame. Her breasts – in her opinion – were neither alluringly full, as those of so many other girls she knew, but they were not inconsequential. They were pert, at least. Her hips were narrow, and her legs had grown strong and lithe from running up and down the hills and glens of Woodingdene Estate.

  ‘Miss Grant, you must trust me. This will look elegant.’

  Clem nodded with resignation.

  Now, with Will waiting and dressed to step out, she turned to admire the silhouette; her dressmaker had been correct to make her final suggestions. There was balance and an elegance she couldn’t deny. The exceptionally feminine blouse was made from a sheer silk, ruched so that it looked like a cloud; it was superbly crafted, with a thin beading of pearls at the base of the mandarin collar.

  ‘You’ll do, Clem,’ she said to her reflection.

  They met on the steps outside the house.

  ‘Clementine, is it permissible for me to take you on this journey unchaperoned?’

  She smiled. ‘I have never been known to stick to the rules, Will. Neither did my mother. We’re ruined beyond all repair.’

  Will aided her into the hackney and waited for her to settle her skirts before he joined her.

  ‘I do sympathise,’ he said, as she got comfortable. ‘I’ve never understood women’s fashion.’ He squeezed onto the remaining bench next to her. ‘Do you mind? I detest being driven backwards.’

  ‘I have the same loathing.’ She grinned before further adjusting herself on the bench. ‘It must have been a man who devised the bustle – surely no woman would dream up such impracticality.’

  ‘At least those ridiculous crinolines have lost their dominance.’

  ‘Ah, now, they had some benefits.’

  He looked at her with aghast amusement. ‘They had to build special corridors in hotels and public places for two women to pass one another.’

  ‘Nevertheless, they were light and airy. Some women these days look like they’re modelling sofa upholstery. All that draping and the tassels and the heavy brocades in rich colours. It’s an enormous weight to carry around.’

  He laughed. ‘Do we blame our queen?’

  ‘We had better not.’

  ‘And yet you make it seem effortless, in your neat ensemble. You look very beautiful.’ He glanced away; clearly he had not meant to be so direct.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said conversationally, as if he’d just said, I’ve brought a spare umbrella – it looks like it might rain.

  As the hackney pulled away to join the traffic, Clementine felt as though she was about to turn a corner – what lay beyond it she couldn’t yet see. It was exciting. And that inner voice of hers, which had always been reliable, warned that around the corner awaited Africa and some truths she was yet to touch.

  20

  ‘Well, that’s left me feeling both hollow and motivated at the same time,’ Will admitted, as they settled into another carriage.

  ‘Good. A mix of guilt and inspiration is ideal for easing donations from people. Have you never visited an orphanage before?’

  He shook his head and looked embarrassed.

  ‘Don’t be ashamed. It’s very easy to overlook that forgotten layer of society when you don’t have to confront it in your daily routine. I include myself in this. I move in carriages and have lots of clothes; I go to the theatre and meet my friends for tea. I take long baths with hot water and I am never thirsty, never so hungry that I feel faint, never so cold I can’t move, or so tired I can barely open my eyes.’

  ‘But at least you’re doing something; you’re actively helping.’

  ‘I am. It’s like a single raindrop, though, onto parched earth. There’s always more each of us can do, but even if we all help just one other person who is poorer, less fortunate, we’re doing something to demonstrate our humanity.’

  ‘Oh, Clementine, I don’t know if we can all live up to that ideal. It’s a lovely thought.’

  ‘I know. I don’t judge, Will. The only reason I’m so involved is because I saw a woman – I think she had been a domestic – who had a son to an English sailor, and the family had not wanted her and her bastard child. The little boy’s hand was so tiny it could barely clasp around the few pennies I pressed into it, and it was at that moment I knew I had to do something meaningful with my time, my energy, my money. We enslaved these people from Africa and irrevocably changed their lives – we use them as soldiers, seamen, servants, but we don’t wish to make them citizens.’ She shook her head with regret. ‘Sometimes I think we treat our animals better. That little boy deserved more from the country that had essentially stolen his life. He kissed my hand and that small hand in mine reminded me of the power I had to change his life. His name is Jacob. He’s now twelve and a fine young lad in service at our stables. His mother works at Woodingdene.’ She nodded. ‘Don’t feel bad, feel driven – take action. There’s always room for more compassion in the world.’

  ‘You inspire me, Clementine.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll look forward to your cheque,’ she said, making him laugh.

  ‘It will come next week. So, beyond your new business project and charitable work, do you have other passions?’

  ‘Plenty,’ she admitted. ‘Jewellery design is a great interest of mine and when I can create more time for myself, I shall follow that interest. I enjoy art, the old masters and contemporary. I’m interested in improving the yield of wool from Woodingdene’s sheep and I share my father’s fascination for the planets.’

  ‘The sky? How intriguing.’

  ‘The stars connect me to Africa, especially to Joseph One-Shoe, because he and I spent many a night worrying about my father. We distracted ourselves by staring into the vast sea of black overhead and its glittering life. He taught me about the stars in Zulu and I taught him our names for the astral bodies.’

  ‘I’m beginning to understand how important this man was in your life.’

  She gave a gentle sigh. ‘Uncle Reggie has looked after my every physical need – he’s become the best sort of father – but Joseph gave me a sort of spiritual love. He lives here,’ she said, a hand covering her heart. ‘Now, enough of all that. Where are we headed?’

  ‘Sorry, we’re off to meet my aunt.’

  ‘I see. I guess you really impress the women in your life with that kind of excursion?’

  He gusted a laugh. ‘I think you’ll enjoy an aspect of where she lives.’

  ‘I’m in your hands this afternoon.’

  ‘That sounds splendid,’ he admitted.

  She covered her thrill with a response delivered dryly. ‘This had better be good, Will. We’ve cancelled the art gallery for this.’

  ‘Better than any old master, I promise.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that. Where is it, by the way?’

  ‘Primrose Hill. I’ve asked the driver to take us via the Strand to avoid some of the congestion.’

  ‘Now, your turn. Tell me about your work.’

  He gave her a potted version of insurance for shipping, during which all the familiar sounds of London seemed to dull and her whole focus was on his voice: gritty, but gentler than those of the men in her l
ife, like a summer shower, light and amused.

  ‘So you’re underwriting insurance for the ship itself, its cargo and the lives on board?’

  ‘Correct. It’s been the lifeblood of Lloyd’s, but the new generation – people like me – well, we’re looking for creative ways to apply what we know. Of course, I didn’t think the daughter of a diamond miner would be a step ahead of me.’

  ‘My father once accused me of thinking like a man. I was seven.’

  ‘Clementine, you don’t seem to act or think like most women of your age.’

  They’d entered the Strand, the iron-clad wheels of their carriage joining the metallic throng of all the other carriages in motion along the vast street, and it was more crowded than Will had anticipated. He sighed, and sat forward to watch as a horse shied and people crossing the road cowered, women shrieking. It seemed someone’s load had spilled, creating havoc, and the smell of dung was overwhelming. The driver made the best decision to get off the famous street and they wended their way up and through Covent Garden, where the number of costermongers intensified.

  As they passed, they could hear snatches of calls for everything from roasted potatoes served in twists of newspaper to the thick ham sandwiches that were so popular with the British worker. And the newly popular meal of fish with potato cut into batons and fried the European way was busy being cooked.

  ‘They smell wonderful, don’t they?’

  She couldn’t deny it. The oily, toasted smell of deep-fried potato made her feel hungry. ‘Oh, look at that pitiful child.’ It was Clem’s turn to point and Will leaned closer. ‘What is she selling in that basket of hers?’

  ‘Watercress, I think. There’s a hierarchy with all these costermongers. Look, see that woman selling flowers from her basket? She was just elbowed out of the way because she got too close to the saveloy stall. They’re ruthless, these men. They’re paying for their spot, and they need a good take for the day – their families’ welfare depends on it. But now, look at this kiosk,’ he continued as they hauled to a stop again. ‘This is a champion pie maker, apparently.’