Free Birdcage Walk by Kate Riordan Page A

at Cissy broadly, wondering at her stricken face.
    Turning to the last page with markings on, about halfway through the scuffed book, Charlotte became very still, her smile fading. It was another face, less roughly incomplete than the one of herself, and of an entirely different person. These eyes were round and the hair framing the face was plainly looped in an old-fashioned style over the ears, rendering them invisible. The mouth was small and neat beneath a snub nose. Charlotte turned to the image on the previous page and absorbed the likeness of a house she had never seen, and which was certainly not on any street she knew.
    Still standing, with the two spots of pink on her cheeks darkening to crimson, she closed the book with a snap and then, quite deliberately, threw it down hard. Both girls looked down at the splaying pages, which came to rest open at the picture of the strange girl. Charlotte stared at it for a long moment and then walked out of the room, her steps on the stairs leaden, with none of their customary fleetness and grace.

Chapter Nine

    George’s walk back from Holloway Road to the large white house on Aberdeen Park was over frustratingly quickly. Mrs. Drew had asked George about his family and expressed sorrow when he told her about his mother’s death. Clemency had kept quiet during this careful conversation between the older lady and the working man, preferring to observe George. He was quite unlike any person she’d ever met, but not because he was poorer, though that was certainly the case. The difference was something less tangible; a certain strain he seemed to be under when he answered her mother’s polite questions and the absolute rigidity with which he held himself, his narrow shoulders pulled right back. She realised now that all the young men she had met—usually the sons of her father’s associates—were entirely comfortable in their own skin, their own expensive clothes. Those men, even the ones who were barely older than herself, always knew what to say, and made fresh enquiries of her before she had fully considered their last question.
    George was thankfully unaware that he was being watched, his concentration taken up by Mrs. Drew’s questions and his replies, which he knew mustn’t be muttered or in slang, or, most dreadful of all, include a swear word. Like the previous occasion, he could only give the lovely house a cursory glance as the trio went up the path, occupied as he was with telling Mrs. Drew about his mother’s work at Freeman’s cigar factory before she fell ill. He resolved to stand and absorb the house after he left from the opposite pavement; committing it to solid memory so he could later improve on his sketch at home.
    The surly maid who had slammed the front door in his face the last time he had visited was already holding it back before they had scaled the steps. Against the heavy slab of painted oak she looked tiny, though no less fierce.
    “Ah, Milly, thank you,” said Mrs. Drew. “We have an unexpected visitor, so will you please prepare some tea and perhaps a few sandwiches. It’s been hours since breakfast and luncheon seems a great way off. Use something light though, some cucumber and a little of the tongue.”
    She plucked off her hat and gloves as she issued her instructions, while Milly stared insolently at George with the same eyebrow raised as before. George cleared his throat and quickly snatched his cap off, holding it sheepishly in front of him. Mrs. Drew turned to smile benevolently at him.
    “George here has come to help me bring down that steamer trunk from the attic. I want it to be ship-shape up there for Captain Drew when he comes home for Christmas.”
    “I could have helped you with that, Mrs. Drew,” said Milly icily, still glaring at George, who was now engaged in smoothing down an awkward lick of hair so he didn’t have to look at her.
    “Don’t be silly, of course you couldn’t have,” replied Mrs. Drew smartly.