Page 26 of Restored

She’d been leaning over Minnie. To this day, that picture was burned in Kit’s memory. It had been too dark to see her expression, but the defeated rounding of her shoulders in shadow had told its own story, as had her rumpled dress and disordered hair. He remembered her profile, hovering over Minnie’s slight, still form.

That stillness.

Kit had understood—profoundly understood—in that moment that his mother’s spirit had gone. He hadn’t seen any evidence of it leaving her body—he hadn’t been able to see anything of his mother at all in the shadowy room beyond the outline of her slender form. But he had known, somehow, the instant she was gone.

Mabel had made a sound, then, one that Kit had never heard before or since. It was a cracking, terrible sound that he felt sure was what a heart breaking sounded like.

She’d bent and kissed Minnie. Kissed her on the mouth. Kissed her with a passionate grief that Kit had never witnessed before. It had been so raw, so intimate, he’d had to look away.

Mabel had never explained to Kit why her grief had been so terrible or what Minnie had meant to her. Prior to his mother’s last days, he had never seen them share any particular physical affection. Even then, other than that final kiss, he had only ever seen them hold hands occasionally, as friends sometimes did.

Perhaps that was all they were: friends. Although, in that case, to say they wereonlyfriends would be to miss the point entirely. Perhaps, for them, being friends was everything. Friends who loved one another. Friends who wereinlove.

Or perhaps they were more, and Kit had never seen it.

He doubted he’d ever know for sure.

As Kit strolled towards Covent Garden, where Mabel now lived, he wondered if she might talk about his mother today. Lately, she’d been mentioning Minnie more often. But it was always just little things—impressions of what she’d been like. No real clue as to what they had been to one another.

“She sang like a nightingale.”

“She was the prettiest girl any of us ever saw.”

“Well, of course,allthe gentleman wanted her.”

The door to Mabel’s small but comfortable house was answered by her companion, Gracie, a quiet, faded woman of indeterminate years who had materialised out of nowhere one day and was sometimes vaguely referred to as a “distant cousin”.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Redford,” she said, smiling politely. “Mrs. Butcher will be pleased to see you.”

“I brought cakes,” Kit said, handing over one of the boxes Jean-Jacques had brought the day before.

“Lovely,” Gracie said, taking it from him. “I’ll fetch some tea. You go on into the parlour.”

“Is that you, Kit?” Mabel called out before he even reached the parlour door.

“It is,” he said as he walked inside. “How are you today?”

“Tolerable well,” she said, beckoning him over to her chair and offering him a cheek to kiss—she was becoming downright affectionate in her dotage.

“You look lovely,” he said, brushing her dry cheek with his lips. She was always nicely dressed, was Mabel. Today she wore a blue-grey gown with a high-necked, ruffled collar, and an intricate paisley shawl of deep rose pink, ivory, and blue. A dark-blue velvet turban covered her hair, which had begun to thin quite badly over the last few years.

“Well, thank you, kind sir,” she said, winking at him. “I does me best to please.”

Kit glanced over at the domed cage in the corner of the room and was pleased to see that Nell Gwyn, Mabel’s parrot, appeared to be asleep.

“Is Gracie making tea?” Mabel asked.

“Yes, I brought some of those of little cakes you liked last time.Financiers,they’re called.”

Mabel frowned, thinking. Then her brow cleared. “Oh, them little sponge cakes?” she said. “They was quite nice, I must admit.”

Kit grinned—getting a compliment out of Mabel was like getting blood out of a stone. This was high praise from her.

“Jean-Jacques brought me them,” he said. “Everything Evie makes is delicious.”

“Hmmm,” Mabel replied. She’d never quite forgiven Evie for luring Jean-Jacques away from her.

“Is that a new gown?” Kit asked, as he settled himself down on Mabel’s too-hard horsehair sofa as best he could. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before. It’s not your usual style.”