Storm and Silence (Storm and Silence 1)

But amazingly, my aunt seemed to swallow the story. She stopped trying to come in, and, after a time, went off grumbling.

Five minutes later I was completely dressed, styled and mentally prepared. Ella had even lavished her skills on me and provided me with a hasty yet luscious hairdo, to give at least a little bit of credence to her story. She squeezed my hand in silent encouragement. Finally, I took a deep breath, unbolted the door, plastered a bright smile on my face and stepped out into enemy territory.

My aunt was waiting for me on the landing, her thin arms folded in front of her chest, the glower of her narrow eyes directed at me like that of the ancient Roman god Jupiter at some poor wrongdoer he was just about to smite with a thunderbolt. All she was missing was the toga and the long white beard.

‘Where were you?’ she demanded, the beady little eyes in her vulture-like face narrowing with suspicion. ‘And be warned - I will brook no evasions this time!’

‘Oh, me?’ I said brightly. ‘I was at Patsy’s and stayed the night. Just came back, in fact. Don’t you remember? I told you the day before yesterday that I would stay at her place.’

Keep it simple. Don’t say anything else. Just keep it simple and for God’s sake, don’t blink.

My aunt’s glower flickered. I waited, holding my breath. I had gambled on her nature: my dear aunt was suspicious to the bone, but she also didn’t actually care tuppence about how I spent my time, as long as it didn’t threaten her social standing or the contents of her purse. If I had gotten myself killed last night she wouldn’t have cared, if I had done it in a nice, quiet manner. I saw the suspicion gradually lift from her bony face to be replaced by her usual expression of mild distaste. ‘Um… err… yes, now that you mention it I do recall something of the kind,’ she said slowly. ‘The day before yesterday, you say?’

‘Exactly,’ I confirmed, letting my smile grow even more bright and confident. ‘Where did you think I was? Did you think I spent the night in prison?’

Her mouth thinned. ‘Lillian! Don’t even joke about such a thing! It is unbecoming of a lady!’

‘Of course. I am sorry.’

Behind me, I heard Ella carefully step out of the room. She had obviously listened and knew that the danger of actual bloodshed was passed.

‘Shall we go down to breakfast?’ I suggested. ‘I am hungry after my walk.’

Nodding, and still frowning slightly, my aunt turned and led the way down the stairs. Behind her, I let out a deep breath. Thank the Lord for uncaring relatives.

*~*~**~*~*

Breakfast. The most important meal of the day, it is said. And, in many families under the glorious rule of Her

Majesty Queen Victoria, an occasion for the entire household to gather around the table and make polite small talk about their plans for the day, while consuming luscious delicacies. I had read once, when for some reason I had peeked into a cookbook, that in the usual upper middle-class family, the following was brought to the table, for one breakfast:

• fresh sausages

• boiled eggs

• a cold ham

• porridge with fresh cream & butter

• kippers

• a pheasant pie

• fresh curds and whey

• corn muffins

• fresh bread

• marmalade

• honey

• coffee

• tea

The cookbook had also suggested that a red and white chequered tablecloth should be avoided since it could have adverse effects on the digestion.