Page 54

“Why is Allsop in the attics and not this floor?” Clem asked abruptly.

“Oh, he does not require four large rooms. He prefers the attic as it is a smaller space to heat, and he can practice his music up there undisturbed, especially as there is no one inhabiting the floor below.”

Clem shrugged. “It still seems a strange setup to me.”

Dora seemed a little reluctant to lead him up the rickety steps to the attic, but she did so all the same and he gazed around at Harold Allsop’s province. Sloped ceilings, a single narrow bed, a table covered in piles of sheet music, and a proliferation of musical instruments seemed to be the sum of Allsop’s possessions.

It was scrupulously neat and tidy, and Clem could not say why several barbed comments rose to his tongue. He had to struggle not to voice any of them, but he managed to contain himself, with effort, and Dora led him back down the steps.

“I want to write that letter to Mrs. Cherwell,” she said. “Shall I meet you downstairs in the parlor afterward?”

Clem frowned. “Where are you writing your letter?” he asked.

“At my desk.”

His frown cleared. “I’ll come with you. I need to hang up my suits,” he added at her quizzical look.

“Oh, of course! I need to make you some room in my wardrobe.”

So large was the wardrobe that this simply consisted of her sweeping her clothes along the rail to the one side and then turning to beam at him. “Enough room?” she asked. “If not, I can move some of my things into the sewing room. In truth, there are a couple of things that I wanted to alter and update in any case.”

“Let me see how I get on,” he answered. It should be ample room, but Clem knew he had a lot. He liked clothes and dressing to impress. Maybe he should have a clear-out at some point? He had never had to share a bedroom before.

“Meanwhile, I’ll empty you out some drawers,” Dora said, hurrying over to a large chest of drawers. She made short work of this, transferring a bunch of uninteresting white cotton garments from the bottom two of the drawers into the top, along with a bunch of lavender sachets. He noticed she struggled a bit closing them afterward. “Will two drawers suffice?” she asked anxiously.

Clem thought of his many shirts and neckcloths. “Yes,” he lied. They would need more drawers and possibly even another wardrobe. Maybe her sister’s room could become a dressing room at some point.

Of course, their cohabitation was not a permanent thing. He had always viewed it in the light of a temporary arrangement of about six months until their marriage was both established and accepted. Then other more suitable long-term arrangements could be made.

Clem had always seen himself in rooms somewhere a bit more central and not so solidly middle class. Juniper Row had an air of heavy respectability that Clem felt no affinity for. He liked nice things and didn’t mind paying for them, but his taste did not run to stuffed birds and waxed fruit.

For now, though, he would get himself settled and see how best they could muddle along together. In truth, he thought, glancing back over his shoulder at Dora, he did not think it would prove so terrible an ordeal, though it was a bloody cold house to rattle around in.

“You can have the entire surface space on top of this chest of drawers for your brushes and colognes and things,” she offered helpfully. “Shall I put away your handkerchiefs and socks?”

“No, you get on with your letter,” Clem recommended. He guessed he would have to leave a good deal of his things in the cases, for now. He knew what he would need in the next week or so. “I’ll be quicker about it if I do it myself.”

Dora nodded, but before seating herself at her desk, she sat on the edge of her bed and removed her ankle boots. Clem watched her covertly as she pulled on at least three pairs of woolen socks one over the top of the other and then wedged her feet into a pair of shapeless, faded house slippers.

Next, she drew on a pair of fingerless mittens and a lumpy knitted shawl. Only once she had bundled herself against the frigid air, did she make for her desk and start unscrewing ink pots and rustling paper. Clem glanced at the tiny fireplace. It did not look like it had been lit in years.

“Where does your letter need delivering?” he asked idly as he opened a drawer and tossed a handful of socks in there. Unlike Dora’s, his were of a fine knitted silk and in a variety of bright colors. Considering her outlandish taste in dress, he was surprised she surrounded herself with such muted colors.

All of her socks had been gray, black, or green. Her shawl was a grayish blue. The bolts of fabric in her sewing room had been of brown, a muddy maroon, and a mossy green. Not the sort of colors he would have thought would attract Dora at all. Not now that he knew her. He would have pictured her in bright, lively colors.

“The Cherwells live on Montague Street,” she answered interrupting his reflections. Her pen nib scratched busily over the surface of the paper. She tugged open a desk drawer and withdrew a book, consulting its pages. “Number 16b.”

Clem nodded. “So, Whitechapel, then,” he murmured. “What did you say her husband does?”

“Well, Mr. Cherwell was a meat packer in a warehouse, but he was injured last year in an accident and has been out of work ever since. Poor Mrs. Cherwell has been at her wit’s end.”

“She’s likely at the end of your savings by now too,” Clem pointed out.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Dora concurred. “There was precious little of them to begin with.”

“Maybe you should write to your other friend while you’re at it.”

“Lil?” Dora asked, turning her head. “You mean to tell her of our marriage?” She sounded nervous.