When Frobisher arrived home, it was to find that the fire he had made had gone out. He raked through the ashes and patiently brought it back to life with kindling and small pieces of coal until the flames were bright and lively once more. He dropped off to sleep in his armchair and when he woke he found the fire had gone out again. It was like his history with Lottie, he thought, but he was too tired for the challenge of making a metaphor from his marriage. Instead he made his weary way up the stairs to bed.
Afternoon Tea at the Goring
The following morning, the first post brought something for Nellie, yet the envelope with her name on it remained unopened on the dining table in front of her. It was unusual for Nellie to receive post in Hanover Terrace, she preferred everything to go to the Amethyst, away from prying eyes. （“Ma loves to keep secrets,” Shirley said. “Even when she doesn’t have any,” Betty said. “Especially then,” Shirley said.）
Nellie was sitting at the table with Betty, trying to teach her the principles of accounting. With the exception of Kitty, Nellie found Betty to be the most frivolous of her children, but also, with the exception of Edith, the most amenable to tuition.
“Money in, money out, that’s all you really need to know, isn’t it?” Betty said.
“Well, not quite,” Nellie said, drawing on her always limited reserves of patience. “Balancing the books isn’t just about balancing the books. It’s more subtle than that.”
“Subtle? How can accounts be subtle?—Oh, I get it! It’s about fraud, isn’t it? Légerdemain with numbers. Avoiding the tax inspector and all that stuff. Why didn’t you say? But Edith does all that, why do I have to learn it?”
Because I’m not always going to be around, Nellie thought. There was no point in saying that to Betty, Nellie knew that her children thought her incapable of dying. She was too monumental. But if she handed over the reins to Edith, then Edith would need a lieutenant of her own, a Coker who was willing to do anything necessary to preserve the legacy of the business. Betty might be shallow, but she had depths of ruthlessness not shared by Shirley and Ramsay.
“If you look at the left-hand column of the ledger,” Nellie persisted, “you’ll see—”
“Are you going to open that?”
Nellie regarded the envelope suspiciously.
“It’s not a bomb,” Betty said.
“Might be,” Nellie said.
In lieu of a letter opener, Betty offered her little penknife and Nellie sighed her resignation and slit open the envelope, gingerly removing the contents—one sheet of heavy-weave paper on which someone had written in black ink in a spiky, foreign hand.
“Is it a billet-doux?” an amused Betty asked.
“No,” Nellie said. But it was.
* * *
—
An invitation. Nellie feathered up for the occasion—draping her plum-pudding figure in a matinée coat borrowed from Shirley that was trimmed with ostrich plumage （“Taken, not borrowed,” Shirley complained） and wearing a strange little hat made by a milliner Nellie knew in Ingestre Place. It gave the impression that a blackbird had landed on her head and died there. It would do very well for a funeral, Nellie thought. Not that there were any coming up that she knew about. But there would be, as sure as autumn follows summer.
* * *
—
“Mr. Azzopardi is already here,” the manager murmured, as if he were imparting a precious secret. He led her to the table.
“You look charming,” Azzopardi said, standing up to greet her.
As the waitress poured the tea into their cups, he said, “I love hotels. In fact, I adore them.”
Nellie had never taken afternoon tea at the Goring before. Very nice china, everything elegant. “I have a sweet tooth,” she said, ignoring the sandwiches and going straight to an éclair.
“So I’ve heard,” Azzopardi said. “And yet you are sweet enough as it is.”
Buttering her up, she thought. Nellie was strangely disappointed, she had expected more villainy and less cliché from this courtship. The éclair was excellent though.
He used to live in London, he said, but left during the war, moving abroad for a while. Nellie guessed that meant prison. It usually did. Yes, he freely admitted—a prison hulk anchored off Gibraltar. When he returned, he said, it was to Scotland. “Your country, I believe?”
“Just a small part of it,” Nellie said, unwilling to claim the whole of Scotland for herself. “It’s very uplifting. The scenery and so on.”