Essie stood underneath the awning at Fortnum & Mason, pressing close to the windows to avoid mud being splashed onto her skirts. An endless parade of motor cars and open-topped buses advertising Dewar’s whisky and The Evening News honked and crawled around the fountain at the heart of Piccadilly Circus.
The chaos and confusion at the junction was matched by the churning in her stomach.
I have to see you …
Edward’s words were tucked in her pocket, and she traced the outline of the envelope. He longed to see Essie as much as she did him.
Meet me outside Fortnum & Mason at 6.30 p.m.
The tight strokes of his penmanship were urgent. Fierce and passionate. He wrote with the same sure hand that had unbuttoned her bodice and guided her onto the table. Strong hands that steadied the oars when they went boating on the Serpentine.
Hands that had enveloped her own as she grieved in the week after the twins died.
She shivered as the icy evening breeze picked up and stung her cheeks and ears. Tried to slow her beating heart by imagining Edward pressing his cheek against hers as he greeted her, his sweet breath warming her neck.
Impatient, she turned her back to the wind and studied the fountain at the heart of Piccadilly. Normally, Essie would not permit herself a glimpse of the naked statue of Eros set to stride across London. But this evening Essie studied the Greek god of love and remembered blushing when reading Greek myths late into the night by candlelight when Gertie had borrowed some books from Miss Barnes.
The stories had created the same stirring and tickling sensation along her limbs that she felt this very evening as she took in the line of the statue’s arms, the tensed muscle in his bronze legs as he stood poised to leap, bow and arrow tipped to fire.
Eros had Essie in his sights.
Essie’s head swam with emotion. Edward obviously had something urgent to tell her—to ask her.
I wish to discuss the arrangements in person …
Edward had apologised in the same note for the lack of contact, explaining it had been impossible to find a moment to write since his return from Boston. The flurry of new building works across Westminster and London were keeping Edward fully occupied. Also, Ma had been watching Essie like a hawk, sending Gertie or Freddie with her on errands as simple as fetching a bottle of peppermint oil.
It didn’t matter: Edward was on his way right now to meet her. Alone.
Dusk fell and the electric streetlights flickered awake.
Essie glanced back at Fortnum & Mason. Inside, wicker hampers overflowing with boxes of tea, cheese, chocolates and sweets were arranged between vases of pink and white lilies. Essie wondered if these were the same type of hampers the shop had famously sent to the suffragettes in prison who’d smashed these very windows a couple of years back. It had been all over the newspaper front pages at the time.
Evening started to fall, and she wandered from the window to stand beneath a lamp-post. Her feet were sore from the walk across the bridge, but she needed to shake the nerves—and excitement—from her legs, otherwise she’d be twitching at the table all evening.
Out of the evening mist an image of her twins appeared. Two smiling faces dimpled and filthy. One slightly fuller in the cheeks than the other.
She sighed and her chest tightened. She would give anything for a swift kick in the shins from Maggie as her skinny little legs twitched under the kitchen table while she mopped up her bread and dripping. Closing her eyes, she imagined leaning over Flora and pressing her nose into her curls smelling of sarsaparilla and soap as she sectioned the child’s wayward hair into plaits.
A sharp honk from a passing car startled Essie from her daydream. The giggling twins faded into the mist, leaving Essie’s heart cleaved and aching.
She never knew when grief would show its hand—or if grief would ever leave. Even in moments of happiness, sadness always seemed to lurk in the shadows just a couple of paces away. Essie closed her eyes, taking the damp London air deep into her lungs. With each breath, her chest loosened a little and her breathing eased.
Edward would be here soon and all would be well.
Better than well: it would be perfect.
Hearing a brisk footfall behind her she turned, and couldn’t help breaking into a smile when she saw that it was Edward striding towards her.
He was wearing a new three-piece suit and a bowler hat, but underneath a dark curl had escaped and was stuck to his forehead. He pulled up abruptly two paces short of Essie, and clicked his heels together. His shoes were glossy with nary a scuff.
Had he worn this new suit to impress her? She wasn’t one whose head was turned by a new outfit. All the same, she felt flattered by the gesture.
‘Edward.’ She nodded with what she hoped was a demure smile. She lifted her gaze from his new shoes to his dark eyes. But the brim of his hat cast a shadow over his face. Her eyes searched for his in vain.
Edward tipped his hat back and looked her up and down, pausing for a beat, before shifting his weight and straightening his shoulders.
‘Hello. Essie, I …’
He took a nervous step towards her and she could almost hear the thud of his heartbeat. His shoulders were pulled tight and Essie felt her stomach flip when she thought of the smooth skin underneath his shirt, the strong contours of his back. How safe she had felt when wrapped in his arms.
A familiar stirring started along her limbs, but she shook it off, not wanting to appear distracted.
Edward’s face was flushed.
She glanced inside the tearooms, glowing with warmth, and wondered why they hadn’t gone straight inside. But Edward made no move to thread her arm through his—or even to kiss her or take her hand.
‘Thank you for meeting me at such short notice,’ he said.
Essie beamed up at his tanned face, too embarrassed to admit she had waited daily for the note that signalled he was home from Boston, until she could wait no more and wrote herself.
‘I—I have something for you.’ Edward thrust his hand into his waistcoat.
She took a step towards him and held her breath.
‘Can you … can you hold out your hand?’ he mumbled, a little shyer now.
Essie removed Mrs Yarwood’s silk glove then produced her left hand. Her pale skin looked golden under the lamplight. She felt too shy to speak.
Beads of sweat dotted Edward’s brow as he said awkwardly, ‘This … this is for you.’
Edward grabbed Essie’s hand and flipped it over. Her hand shook as he dropped something hard and cool into her palm.
She closed her hands around the object, not trusting herself to look. The curve pressed into the fleshy part of her palm and her fingers traced the gemstone.
A ring.
Essie hardly dared to breathe.
Slowly, she held up her hand up to the lamplight and unfurled her fingers one by one. Using her right hand, she lifted the ring from the palm of her left. It was painted white on the outside with a string of dainty black flowers and sprigs that danced their way up to a large square clear stone that glinted in the light.
‘A diamond!’ she whispered, and she looked at Edward, her heart full.
It was happening: Edward was proposing. All the tension drained from her body as she realised his gruffness had been nothing more than nervous jitters—the same as her.
Ma was wrong. Essie wasn’t making a mistake. Edward wasn’t a bit like other men.