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“They’re tattoos,” Niamh said by way of explanation.

Lizzie flushed. “I shouldn’t stare,” she stammered. “I apologize.”

Niamh laughed. “Lord bless you. If I minded, I wouldn’t be displaying them to all and sundry, now would I? I’m a contortionist too, as well as a tattooed lady.”

At that moment, the entrance to the tent swept open and a very dapper little man in a green tweed suit with a little pointed beard appeared. “She comes!” he announced dramatically in heavily accented English. Lizzie thought he must be Swiss, like a visiting pastor she had once met, though she was not sure. “My sister, she arrives!”

Turning back, he held the entrance open as a tall, substantial figure came sailing into the tent in an extremely expensive outfit of yellow silk trimmed lavishly with swansdown. She had a simply breathtaking face, rather like a Botticelli painting.

“I am come!” the radiant vision announced, sweeping a white muff wide as she beamed on everyone present. “Indeed, have no fear for I am now come, dear Mrs. Brown!”

“About time too,” Connie muttered under her breath. “How was your night at the inn, Salome?” she asked aloud, coming down the steps to exchange greetings. The little man frowned to hear his sister addressed thus, but the amiable smile on the newcomer’s face did not waver. The two women kissed the air in the vicinity of each other’s cheeks.

“Oh, such a quaint little inn!” Salome responded delightedly, clasping her hands to her bosom. “They could not do enough for me. The landlord, how he fussed to have a guest from the continent! Is that not so, Jakob?”

Jakob grimaced. “The chimney smoked in our rooms,” he said fretfully.

“Ah, nonsense!” his sister boomed. “Always you must make some complaint, Jakob!” she regarded him fondly. “It is a most charming inn. Most quaint and we will enjoy our stay there very much. The way they serve the roast mutton with the mustard and the roasted potatoes is most delicious and to be commended.” She broke off her ruminations as she noticed Lizzie in her sober garb. “But who is this?” she asked turning reproachfully to Connie. “You are allowing in my public already? I am not yet ready!”

“No, no,” Connie assured her. “This is Mrs. Toomes who is to be our new chaperone,” she said with emphasis on the word. “I could not help but be aware the crowds were not respectful of the rope barrier yesterday and pressed rather close. I could not have my star attraction being breathed on by the common masses.”

Salome’s eyes grew wide as her brother interrupted. “This is good, very good. Yes, my dear Mrs. Brown, I am most glad to hear you take my dear Ada’s safety to heart.”

Salome, or should it be Ada, Lizzie wondered, gave a gusty laugh. “And how will this little female hold back my public?” she asked genially. “She looks as though a gust of wind would blow her away – poof!”

“I assure you, I am not so insubstantial,” Lizzie piped up.

Salome’s pale blue gaze passed over her, and she gave an expressive shrug, effectively dismissing the subject. “And now I must undress,” she proclaimed. “Ah, you have anticipated me, I see, my good Mrs., Brown.”

Lizzie turned and saw that Niamh and the twins – she really must learn their given names, had combined their screens to cordon off an area substantial enough for Salome’s ample figure to undress.

“Jakob,” she said turning to him and passed him the large white muff and her delicate gloves. “Mrs. Brown, you will help me now to disrobe.”

Connie’s eyes rolled but she followed Salome’s lead and disappeared behind the screens.

“It will be too draughty,” Jakob fussed. “My poor sister will be taking the chill.”

“Fat chance of that,” Niamh said sotto voce. The twins giggled.

Jakob glared at them and turned to Lizzie. “You, woman,” he said. “You will be most assiduous to your duties, I trust. My sister must be protected at all costs. She is not used to such … ” he broke off, his lip curling, “surroundings.”

Lizzie gazed back at him impassively. “My name is Mrs. Toomes,” she replied coolly. “And you may rest assured that I always do my duty, Mr. … ?”

He drew himself up to his full height. “Wurtzel,” he rapped out.

Lizzie nodded. “Mr. Wurtzel.” She walked past him and stalked over to where Niamh and the twins stood. It seemed to her that there was an invisible line drawn between the inhabitants of the tent. Those that the Wurtzels knew the names of and those they did not.

“Good for you,” Niamh whispered, nudging her in the waist.

11

Benedict felt unaccountably annoyed. He regarded Lizzie over the top of his teacup and decided he should have elected to go for a beer. God alone knew why he had felt the need to please her by returning to a bloody tea tent. His selfless action was wholly unappreciated, he thought listening to her rattle on about her new blasted job.

“ – and only fancy,” she leaned forward confidingly. “Niamh said she does not believe that Mr. Wurtzel is Salome’s brother at all!” She sat back in her seat, her face flushed. She really did look surprisingly pretty with a bit of color to her face. For the first time he noticed that the bonnet framing it was not her own. “In point of fact, her name is not really Salome either. That’s just her stage name. Apparently, Connie has had three Salome’s in the past twelve months, but none of them have drawn a crowd like Miss Wurtzel.”

“What’s that on your head?” he grunted, cutting through her excited chatter.

“Oh,” she reached up and touched the faded trim. “I quite forgot to change it. It’s awful isn’t it? But you see,” her eyes gleamed, “it’s part of my costume. I have a parasol too, but I left that in the tent. No one would steal it for it’s simply the ugliest old thing.”