Page 48 of A Convenient Fiction

“How did you know—?”

“Common sense. Henrietta summoned you, and when you didn’t respond…” He shrugged. “I assumed you’d be here. Either that or gone to London to speak with that new solicitor of yours.”

“He hasn’t replied to my letter yet.”

“No?”

“I’m going to write him again when I get home.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “I thought Henrietta wouldn’t expect me until this afternoon. Was she very upset?”

“In a bit of a state. She’s made plans for an outing and was anxious to tell you about it.”

“What sort of an outing?”

Alex saw no reason to keep it secret. “A trip to Margate.”

Laura’s eyes widened. She sat up straighter, fully awake now. “The seaside? Are you joking?”

“It’s no joke. She’s planned two days at the beach. And she means to invite your brother and aunt, as well. You’ll be guests of her and her father at the York Hotel.”

“When?”

“They leave on Friday and return on Sunday.”

“This Friday? My goodness.”

“Will you go?”

Laura’s expression turned wistful. “I’d like to. So very much. Though I shall have to speak with my aunt—and with Teddy. The beach won’t be compatible with his chair.”

“Let me worry about your brother.”

She looked at him with a start. “You’re going, too?”

“I think I must.”

“Because of Henrietta.” She studied his face. “But you don’t even like the sea.”

“No, indeed. But there’s nothing to say I must go into the water.”

“You’ll be there, around it. Will that not be upsetting to you?”

“The mere sight of it? I’ve seen the sea before, you know. Crossed it during the journey from France, rowed over it a time or two as well. As long as I’m not obliged to go into it, I’ll be fine.”

“I wonder…” She reached into her basket, withdrawing her tortoiseshell comb and a handful of hairpins. “Does the friend you rescued as a boy have the same fear of the sea that you do?”

Alex had a sudden image of Neville Cross. He’d been a handsome, fair-haired lad. Always kind, despite the cruelty all around him. His head had been bleeding when Alex pulled him from the water. He’d been unconscious. Had looked as if he were dead.

“Do something!” Alex had cried, coughing and sputtering as he collapsed on the beach. “He’s still alive!”

Tom Finchley had stood there, white-faced. So had Justin Thornhill, his clothing soaked through. It was Justin who’d gone in after Neville first. Always the hero. Always doing the exact right thing.

It had made no difference in the end.

“I don’t know,” Alex said. “I haven’t seen him in twenty years or more.”

Laura gave her hair a cursory comb before twisting it into a thick roll at her nape and securing it with several pins. It was the practiced, no-nonsense action of a lady who was used to looking after herself. “Why not?”

Another shrug. “One grows up.”