Amberlough(24)

“Textiles?” asked Cyril.

“If only,” said Van der Joost, casting his pale eyes around the richness of the room. “No, we’re in the same chapter of the One State Party.”

“Oh, Konrad, let’s not get into it just yet. We’ve got a month or so to get our friend to open up his wallet. Have a brandy first, Seb, and let’s hear about Ibet. I’ll wager the slopes were fine, this time of year, and the schoolgirls finer. They all go up to the mountains for mid-quarter break, from the university. I studied for a few years there, back in my halcyon days.”

Cyril admitted the skiing had been excellent, but kept mum on the condition of the students. He’d read the letters; Landseer was cautious at first, socially. Even with a few years’ worth of correspondence, this was his first meeting with Rotherhite in person, and he’d never spoken to Van der Joost. Crass remarks could wait until Landseer was more comfortable.

They chatted for an hour or so, and lunched on bass and plovers’ eggs. Cyril let himself be talked into a glass of the scarlet digestif, which turned out to be tart cherry bounce—a Nuesklend specialty. Conversation was trivial. When Rotherhite checked his watch over brandy and declared it was time for his next appointment, Cyril shook his hand and accepted an invitation to dine at his home later in the week.

“I’ll have some of the others round,” he said, “Keeler and her girls, and maybe old Berhooven. I’m sure they’d love to see you in the flesh. The young misses Keeler especially.” His wink was theatrical, almost flirtatious, but not in the way Aristide’s would have been. Cyril had a pang, and ignored it.

Van der Joost lingered after Rotherhite had gone. Cyril smoked and swirled his brandy, waiting for the other man to make some conversation. When it came, it made him catch his breath.

“You know, you’re not at all what I expected.” Van der Joost was busy slicing the end of a cigar, and didn’t see Cyril flinch. “From Rotherhite’s description of your letters.”

“Really?” He steadied himself with a sip of brandy. Not blown, not yet. “You thought I’d be … what? Older? Less charming?”

Van der Joost smiled around his cigar, puffing against the wick of an elaborate table lighter. “I can’t say I’m sorry you defied my expectations.”

“Well, Mr. Van der Joost,” said Cyril, grinding out his straight, “I’ll endeavor to go on defying them. Good day.”

Van der Joost’s handshake was cold and a little clammy. When Cyril was safely out of the room, he wiped his palm clean on his jacket. The fine dark wool wouldn’t show the sweat.

*

Cyril’s walk in the rain caught up with him; he contracted a nasty head cold for the next few days, rereading the Landseer letters and quizzing himself on his four main correspondents. Rotherhite he’d met—a widower, but a bit of a man about town. Then there was Pollerdam, a sober man with keen business skills, not apt to stray far from his factories. Berhooven was full of stories of rowdy weekends and big losses at the gambling table, but he could probably afford to lose.

Keeler was the most interesting. A widow, and Rotherhite said she had children, though she’d never mentioned them in her letters. Acherby hadn’t been too shy when it came to his opinions on working women—he was a raving Hearther evangelist—so Keeler must be supporting the unionists for purely financial reasons. Nuesklend’s mills would profit from lower shipping tariffs.

The night of Rotherhite’s dinner, Cyril’s cab switchbacked up the cliffs, crested the rise, and began a descent toward the interior. The houses lining the road drew farther and farther back until the driver pulled into a cul-de-sac surrounded by low stone walls and iron fences. Warm lamps lit the pavement, but not the sweep of gardens that separated each grand house from its neighbors and the street. The neighborhood was far enough from the edge of the sea cliffs that wind stirred the trees but didn’t threaten Cyril’s hat. He paid his fare and the cabbie left him standing at the apex of the cul-de-sac, staring down a long front walk lined in privet.

When the footman opened the door, light from the foyer spread in a golden fan across the path and the hedges. Cyril blinked in the sudden brightness.

“Mr. Landseer?” The footman bowed him in and took his coat. “The others are in the drawing room.”

Upstairs, Rotherhite held court at an upright piano, singing some sort of rowdy folk song. A fat man with a wide nose and wind-burned cheeks sang along. Berhooven, most likely. Van der Joost leaned on the side of the upright, holding a glass and half-smiling.

A young woman in a green silk bolero sat on the sofa. She had a strong jaw and straight nose. Her hair, cropped into a wavy shingle, shone the warm maple-brown of buckwheat honey. She tapped thin fingers on her knee, mostly matching the beat of the music.

A patrician older lady—by appearance, the mother of the seated girl—welcomed Cyril from her place at the sideboard. She had the same long neck as her daughter, and the same set jaw. Citrine earrings threw spots of gold onto the papery skin of her throat. “You must be the long-awaited Mr. Landseer.” She poured two aperitifs and brought them to where he stood. “I don’t suppose I have to tell you, but we’re all inordinately pleased you could finally make it to Gedda.” She offered him a glass. “I’m Minna Keeler. Please, have a seat.”

He took the chair at a right angle to the sofa, but not before shaking the hand of the striking woman seated there.