3. Chapter 3
The ringing stopped.
Odette paused, her fingertip hovering between maladies and mercury in the index of her Home Encyclopaedia. She tilted her head and shook it, as if the sound were a physical thing she could dislodge, not an annoyance that came and went without notice.
Morning light filled the garden outside her villa, and muted strands clung golden to the arched frames of the library windows.
Two robins flitted back and forth between the elms outside, and the twigs shook with their weight whenever they landed.
As they skated between branches, Odette remained still, unsure whether she wanted the noise to return just to be certain she hadn’t imagined it.
Or was it better that it had vanished—perhaps for good?
‘Nonsense,’ she muttered, then slammed the heavy tome closed.
Nothing. The hum did not have to be a malady.
It could be so many different things. A herald of summer.
A warning of good or bad luck. Spirits whispering to her, or invisible imps playing games.
She ought to leave out some crumbs and coins or shiny buttons to placate them. That’s what her babcia would have done.
Odette was too busy to worry about some silly little buzzing that could easily have been a fly.
Rehearsals for her next opera began the day after tomorrow, the respite between shows unusually narrow, even for her.
During the break, she had to review her offers for next year’s tour and decide which theatres she would commit to for any extended runs.
While she adored Karl, her career could not be tied solely to the Constellation.
Always, she needed to remember her exercises—for her body, her voice, and her mind.
She also needed to review the papers that Iris sent across each week to keep her abreast of what was happening at Spencer and Co.
Travel, the joint investment she held with her neighbours on Honeysuckle Street.
So many papers simply to manage one small travel company!
But mostly, she needed a distraction. Something to occupy her mind while she waited for the composer to deliver the score for her next opera, a world premiere. Not just any new opera. This one had been written for her voice and would forever be linked to her name.
Odette rose from her seat. She abandoned the low-ceilinged warmth of her library and private sitting room at the southern end of the house.
She moved along the hallway and past her bedroom suite.
Past the southern parlour, the staircase to the kitchens, the staircase to the conservatory, through the dining room and across the gallery, the dome room and the breakfast room, emerging, at last, into the antechamber.
Here, she paused to tug on her gloves while Daniel, the head of household, held the door open for her.
A clock chimed the quarter hour as she crossed the threshold, then lingered on the portico to feel the spring air.
A breeze blew across her face, light and delicate, full of the scent of cherry blossoms from the park and thick with the promise of warm days ahead.
Beyond the wide drop of the stairs, London lazed in a low fog that muddled her view, but the veil soon parted as she descended the steps, dissolving into transparency when she reached the street.
The breeze had collected some petals and scattered them over her path as she wandered along the main thoroughfare, then turned the corner onto the secluded, paved length of Honeysuckle Street.
In all of London, there wasn’t a street as pretty as the one Odette called home.
Her Palladian villa flanked one side of the little through street, a lane so inconsequential that no one bothered to spell out its entire name on a map.
The building’s main facade looked out over the busier high street, which wound around the park and extended beyond the green space towards the church.
But if Odette took the left staircase, she could avoid most of the hustle, land right on the corner, and leave the public behind her with a few swift steps to surround herself with friends and neighbours instead.
Honeysuckle Street was not anywhere in particular, nor was it on the way to anywhere of note, so it was generally only used by the people who lived there or by postmen, coalmen, or delivery boys.
Everyone knew everyone, and even on busy days, it felt tranquil and safe.
The endless supply of Hempel children raced scooters and home-made carts over the smooth pavers.
Petunia Hartright dragged her singing troupe from her home to the park every winter for carols.
Across the street, the long row of identical white-stucco townhouses, each rising five stories tall and distinguishable only by their bright front doors, loomed over them.
The row had replaced two old workers’ cottages some seven years prior, and at the time, the new construction had felt like a glaring intrusion towering over the low lines of the other buildings.
But now, Odette knew the people who lived behind each coloured front door—blue for the Babbages, red for the Hempels, pink for the Hartrights, and green for her friend Benton at the far end—she could barely recall the street as it had been before.
Although she could do without Mrs Crofts, who occupied Number 5, the centre townhouse in the row.
She was likely peeking out from behind the lace curtains of her first-floor drawing room this very second, looking for anything to take offence at.
Or maybe she was peering through the peephole of her black front door.
Perhaps Benton Hunter, currently lounging on the stone steps of Number 4 as if they were his private chaise longue, would give Mrs Crofts someone new to focus her ire on.
Beside him, the old grey tom Spencer, a street cat owned by no one and everyone, climbed the stairs and arched his back.
He knocked his head against Benton’s elbow, who rewarded him with a scratch.
‘You look pleased with yourself.’ Odette leant down to stroke the soft spot between the cat’s ears. ‘What mischief have you been up to?’
‘Spencer does not get up to mischief. He’s a perfect gentleman.’ Benton tickled the cat’s chin.
‘I was speaking to you,’ Odette said. ‘And why are you here? You are never awake before noon. Not becoming an investor, are you? No, you’d have to stop burning through your income first and have something to invest.’
‘Elise has asked for my advice. I am consulting.’
Odette stiffened and dropped her voice. ‘You leave Elise be. She’s been through enough. She’s finally moving on with her life. She doesn’t need a… distraction. And definitely not one shaped like you.’
‘A distraction is precisely what she needs, but one shaped like me, no. I still remember her with pigtails, for heaven’s sake. And do you think I’m enough of a fool to piss in my own pond?’ A shred of actual hurt crept into his voice. ‘I value the tranquillity of this street as much as you do.’
‘Sorry,’ she offered. ‘But someone needs to remind you to behave.’
Benton tipped his head back to laugh. ‘Liar. The last thing you want me to do is behave.’ He pushed himself to standing and jogged up the stairs.
‘Come along. I’m desperate to know what these infamous meetings are all about.
’ He rapped the door knocker with a sharp tap.
Odette climbed the stairs, then waited beside her friend.
Tall, dark-haired, and with light brown skin, Benton was far too handsome for his own good.
Although he was possibly the most tactless diplomat in the world, he was also one of the few people Odette gravitated towards who did not belong to the theatre.
When fame had found her, she’d learnt to choose her friends with care, and for the most part, the people who respected her privacy were the ones who had secrets of their own.
Benton, however, was different. He thrived on walking the fine line between keeping secrets and dodging scandal.
His flamboyance made him an excellent diplomat, as no one suspected his real intentions.
If only he could learn to keep some thoughts to himself, especially when it came to his opinions about those more senior to him in rank.
He was consistently overlooked for prestigious appointments and had been blocked for promotion more than once.
Anyone with influence had some grievance with him, as he’d either offended them with a tactless comment or bedded their wives—or, occasionally, done both.
Even then, Odette wasn’t certain if he felt disappointed about his career stalling, or secretly pleased that he’d settled into mediocrity because it limited his obligations to the world.
He’d arrived on the street with the new townhouses, a loud, brash addition that the neighbourhood forgot about while abroad on assignment, but that unsettled everyone the moment he returned home.
He had a knack for languages and was one of the few people who spoke Italian and French better than Odette sang them, along with a smattering of other tongues that granted him access to the world.
He didn’t know who his parents had been, or even where they had come from, as he’d been adopted by a retired diplomat and his wife when he was too young to remember.
He obscured the mystery of his parentage with a swathe of invented stories, and while others tutted at the lies, Odette delighted in his mischief and took every opportunity to play along.
Benton was both a child of the Empire and one of its outcasts—drawn from it, but also never fully accepted and never fitting in.
Gena, Number 4’s housekeeper, opened the door. ‘Miss Delaney,’ she said. ‘Mr Hunter. Lovely to see you.’ Although she stepped back to let them in, there was little cheer or warmth in her tone.
‘Odette,’ a familiar voice called from upstairs. It sounded strained. ‘Shut the door. If you don’t mind.’
As Odette gently closed the door behind herself and Benton, the stairs ahead of them creaked.
A pair of feet emerged from the low light, followed by the rest of Jonah Worthington, half draped in shadows as he descended the steps.
He was carrying Albert Abberton, the cords in his neck taut with the effort.
Her friend and neighbour lay curled against him like a child, hands tucked against his body and head resting on Jonah’s chest.
Mason, the household butler, held the wheeled chair steady and helped Jonah ease Albert into the cane seat when he reached the landing.
Odette took a blanket from Gena, shook it out, and tucked it around her old friend.
His eyes followed her, slowly tracking the movement.
In moments like this, she could never tell if he remembered her, or if she was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.
She looked up at Jonah, who now stood beside her. ‘I was reading an article about a new method—’
‘We’ve been over this,’ Jonah interrupted, his voice weary. ‘There are no miracles.’
‘How can you give up hope?’ she countered.
Jonah checked the blanket. ‘If I focus on hope, I’ll miss what I have.
’ He crouched before his friend, his companion, his lifelong, secret love—the grey shadow of what had once been a great man.
Albert tipped slightly, as if he were leaning into Jonah’s touch.
Something still lingered there. Some faint glow. If only they could reach him.
The stairs creaked again, and Iris, Albert’s adopted daughter, joined them, a stack of folders wedged into the crook of her arm. She passed them to her husband, Hamish, who’d just entered the hall from the drawing room.
‘You forget what he was,’ Iris said, smoothing the hair away from her father’s forehead.
‘He never did business with anyone peddling miracle cures. Never wanted to trade or sell pink pills or magical health machines, no matter the profits. He wasn’t a fool.
If he wanted no part of them then, he wouldn’t want them now. ’
Muttered voices drifted through the wood behind them.
Jonah rose to his feet, grabbed a hold of the chair, and pushed it down the hall.
Mason opened the front door, and the voices spilled in, mingling and tangling, ricocheting off one another so fast that Odette couldn’t tell who owned which outraged grumble.
‘Just one season. One month where we don’t have to dodge…’
‘I’m sure there’s an explanation—’
‘It’s all right there!’
‘Maybe it will blow over?’
Lawrence Hempel scuffed his feet against the doormat, then stepped inside, shaking his coat and his head.
His daughter Rosanna and her husband Phineas followed.
Rosanna was rocking their daughter Betty against her chest, but passed the child to Phineas to remove her coat.
The baby promptly wailed and only stopped when Rosanna scooped it back into her arms. The child snuffled, then settled.
‘First these two’—Lawrence waved a newspaper from Iris to Hamish and back again—‘then Arley. Then you two. Businesses don’t have to work like this, putting out fires and avoiding scandals and debacles. They can just do business.’
‘We did not cause a scandal,’ Phineas said, tight and indignant. ‘I made sure of it.’
‘Johannes?’ The light drained from Iris’s face as her fingers tightened around the folders.
‘He hasn’t done something he shouldn’t have, has he?
I told Elise it was a risk to let him go travelling with Florence.
Were they spotted doing something… indecent?
Something that would reflect badly on his work or the business or… or…’
‘Not Johannes,’ Rosanna said. ‘Miss Delaney has made the papers.’
‘I am always in the papers,’ Odette snapped, even though dread curled in her stomach, so cold it robbed her of all breath.
‘Not like this.’ Phineas tugged the newspaper from Lawrence’s grasp. It was already folded open to an article.
After so many years onstage, Odette’s fingers no longer trembled with fear.
Her heart, however, struck up an uneven pace, thumping fast and hard against her ribs.
Her eyes focused and unfocused on the bold print, skimming over the smaller serifs beneath.
Then the words slipped from her fingers as Iris drew the paper away, and her small, pained gasp broke the silence.
Darling Iris, whom she’d known for so many years.
And now her eyes were glazed with worry as one more arrow pierced the very heart of her dream. The dream of running her own company, a public venture where the reputation of all its investors meant so much.
Hamish, Benton, Lawrence, Rosanna, and Phineas stared at Odette. Even baby Betty’s eyes were fixed on her, wide and unmoving.
‘They will not do this to me,’ Odette said, stiffening with resolve. ‘I will fix this. I promise.’