A man had helped her to her feet—or rather, he hauled her up efficiently—and asked her, quite brusquely, if she was all right. Was she injured?
“Just my dignity, I’m afraid,” she said.
“They took your handbag, and your money with it, I presume.”
“They?”
“There were two of them, women. Allow me to give you a lift somewhere,” he said. “My car’s parked just around the corner in Conduit Street.” He had a supercilious eyebrow that managed to make this simple offer sound cynical.
Ordinarily, Gwendolen would have resisted—accepting a lift from a strange man in a strange city might be regarded as the height of folly—but now that she was on her feet, she had begun to feel woozy—the shock, obviously. And he was right, she had no money for a cab, although her thieves might be disappointed by how little remained in her purse.
The man offering her a lift was smartly dressed, just this side of being a “swank,” although he had one of those moody manners that some—nay, many—women （and particularly the Bront? sisters） seemed to find attractive. Still, it seemed unlikely that a handsome man in a smart car （the adjectives were interchangeable） was planning to shanghai her, so she said, “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.”
His car had indeed been just around the corner. There was a dog on the back seat, a big wolfish Alsatian that regarded her indifferently. Exactly the kind of dog you would expect a man like that to have.
The car itself was a magnificent beast. Gwendolen knew nothing about cars, but she knew a thing of beauty when she saw one and she recognized the stork in flight on the bonnet from the car in The Green Hat. In the novel, Iris Storm’s car was yellow, but this one was the colour of clotted cream. “Hispano-Suiza,” she said, and he said, “I’m impressed. Most women don’t know one make of car from another.” The way he said “most women” bordered on the dismissive.
“My apologies,” she said after a few minutes of driving in silence. “In all the drama I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Gwendolen. Gwendolen Kelling.”
He didn’t reciprocate and she wondered if he wanted to remain anonymous for some reason—was he a famous film star trying to be incognito? Or a criminal, avoiding identification? Or was he just displaying the gruff reticence of the Heathcliff type? She had known a few of those in her time. Gwendolen liked an open-faced, optimistic manner in the opposite sex.
Eventually he answered. “Niven. My name’s Niven.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Niven.”
Her rescuer spoke with a light Scottish burr. A Celtic accent was another attribute that some women were persuaded by. Her friend Cissy used to say she was in danger of marrying any Irishman who spoke to her. Luckily none had. It would take a good deal more than an accent to capture Gwendolen.
Her rescuer took her straight to the Warrender, no shanghaiing, and helped her out of the car. She caught his swift assessment of her, her faded clothes, her poor coiffure. Her hair had been cut off （some might say hacked） by herself with a pair of surgical scissors during the war and she had never really learnt to deal with it since. At least she had not been alone in tiring of the impracticalities involved in being a woman during wartime.
“The Warrender,” he said, reading the name above the door.
He seemed to find amusement in the plaque that announced the hotel to be “For Ladies Only.” “You’re in a convent,” he said, with no little sarcasm.
“Better than a brothel,” she bristled. He gave her a long look. She refused to be discountenanced by him.
“Will you be all right?” he asked.
“A cup of hot sweet tea and I’ll be as right as rain.” God, she sounded like one of those cheery, diary-writing nurses she had derided. She was grateful when she was allowed to escape. She was embarrassed—he had witnessed her weak and undignified, it was not how she liked to be seen.
“Well, thank you very much, Mr. Niven, for all your help,” she said, and turned on her heel and entered the Warrender.
* * *
—
“I tripped on a curb,” Gwendolen said, unwilling to tell Mrs. Bodley about her misfortunes. Mrs. Bodley was the kind who would censure you for the faults of others.
She settled in the hotel lounge with a tea tray in front of her—she really did need the hot, sweet tea. What an extraordinary few hours—from Holloway first thing, to being assaulted and robbed on Regent Street, not to mention being recruited to spy on the notorious Cokers by Frobisher the previous day. The Library could not compete.