Free Whisper of Jasmine by Deanna Raybourn Page B

say, some of us are trying to study here.”
    Evie sighed and picked up her coat. “I was just leaving.”
    “You will catch your death in this weather. And when you come over with a cold, don’t expect me to take care of you,” Marjorie called after her as she left.
    “Of course not. You’re only studying to be a nurse,” Evie muttered as her coat caught on the door.
    “What did you say?” Marjorie said, her voice sharp with suspicion.
    “I said, I would never expect you to,” Evie said with an effort at brightness. She freed her coat and banged the door closed behind her. Marjorie was right. The weather was filthy, bitterly cold and sleeting heavily, but she couldn’t bear another minute cooped up inside. She had agreed to share with Marjorie on the recommendation of a mutual friend—a friend who had been firmly struck from her Christmas card list after the first fortnight of living with Marjorie. Evie had been cheerfully optimistic about her ability to live with a flatmate. She had been bounced around enough of her relatives’ homes to have honed her skills at accommodation. She had lived with adenoidal spinster aunts and religiously fanatical cousins and uncles who gambled. There had been a great-aunt who drank the cooking sherry and even a sort of second cousin who collected hair as a hobby, but nothing had prepared her for the sheer grimness of living with someone wholly lacking in humour.
    “I can bear anything as long as I can have a bit of a laugh,” she told herself as she hurried down the street. She walked on, drawing in great deep breaths of the crisp, damp air. She walked all the way to Kensington Gardens and turned in to walk beside the Long Water. She hadn’t intended to go there, but whenever she needed to think, she found herself on the west side of the Serpentine in the leafy glade that sheltered the statue of Peter Pan.
    It had appeared overnight on May Day morning of 1912. No warning, no fanfare, just a notice in the Times .
    There is a surprise in store for the children who go to Kensington Gardens to feed the ducks in the Serpentine this morning. Down by the little bay on the southwestern side of the tail of the Serpentine, they will find a Mayday gift by Mr. J.M. Barrie, a figure of Peter Pan blowing his pipe on the stump of a tree with fairies and mice and squirrels all around. It is the work of Sir George Frampton, and the bronze figure of the boy who would never grow up is delightfully conceived.
    Evie had hurried along to the park that May Day morning, as delighted as any child. Peter Pan was her dearest childhood friend, and watching him fly from the stage of the Duke of York’s theatre was her last truly happy memory, the only one unencumbered by the loss of her parents, the endless moving from place to place, from relation to relation as she was passed around like a hand-me-down garment that was nice enough but didn’t quite fit. Peter Pan was the last time she had fit, and whenever she felt low, her steps always carried her back to the little glade in Kensington Gardens where the boy who wouldn’t grow up waited.
    He was alone now. The weather had driven everyone else away from the park, but Evie settled at his feet next to a particularly winsome rabbit. She was sheltered from the worst of the sleet, and the wind had died down a little. If anything, the brisk air invigorated her, and she pulled out Delilah’s invitation to read it over again.
    It was written in a firm, dramatic hand. Delilah did everything with flair. The daughter of a divorcée, Delilah had been a glamourous debutante, the most sophisticated of their Season. Evie had been presented by an ancient aunt and had only agreed to go when the aunt had unearthed her own court presentation gown from sixty years before and promised it wouldn’t cost Evie a penny of her meagre earnings. It had kept the peace for a while, which was the only reason Evie let herself be trussed up like a Christmas turkey and thrust into