Bending his head, he asked, ‘Now, where did you learn to dance like this?’
‘My father taught me. Before he died, ballroom dancing was my parents’ hobby.’
‘I do apologise.’
‘For what?’
‘For daring to breathe the word disco.’
‘Oh, I can disco too,’ she told him cheerfully.
‘A woman of many parts.’
He drew her closer and they enjoyed the rest of the dance before returning to their table.
They had just regained their seats when, with perfect timing, their meal arrived. It proved to be delicious, and for the most part they ate in an appreciative silence.
It wasn’t until they were at the coffee stage that Simon picked up the threads of their earlier conversation by remarking, ‘You said your mother went to live in Australia?’
‘Yes, she married a businessman from Sydney. I was surprised when she agreed to go all that way; she’d always hated the thought of flying.’
Thoughtfully, she added, ‘To be honest, I hadn’t really expected her to remarry. She and Dad were such a devoted couple. As I told you, my father died when I was eighteen.’
‘Any brothers or sisters?’ Simon enquired.
‘No, there was just me. My parents couldn’t have any children. I was adopted.’
‘That’s tough.’
She shook her head. ‘I was one of the lucky ones. My adoptive parents were nice, decent people, and though they brought me up strictly, they loved me and gave me everything I needed.’
‘What age were you when you were adopted?’
‘I was just a baby.’
‘So presumably you don’t remember anything about your natural parents?’
‘Nothing at all. I only know what Mum told me as soon as she thought I was old enough to understand, and what I picked up from the letters and documents she’d kept.’
Responding to his tacit interest, she went on, ‘I know my real mother’s name was Emily Charlotte, and that in 1967, when she was just twenty, she married a man named Stephen Bolton. But some ten years later it seems he left her for another woman. She was working as a secretary when she became involved in an affair with her boss, who was a married man. On discovering that she was pregnant, she appealed to him for help. Apparently he tried to persuade her to have an abortion, and when she flatly refused, he washed his hands of her. Unfortunately she’d lost both her own parents and had no one to turn to.’
‘It must have been a hard time for her. So what year were you born?’
‘1980. It appears to have been a difficult birth that she never fully recovered from, and six months later, weak and depressed, she caught flu and died before anyone realised how ill she was.’
‘So you were Charlotte Bolton before the Christies adopted you?’ Simon observed casually.
‘No. After her husband left her, my mother reverted to her maiden name of Yancey.’
‘An unusual name,’ he commented.
‘Though my grandparents lived in London, a letter written to my grandfather, Paul Yancey, suggested that he might have been born in Georgia.’
‘Any idea where your grandmother originated?’ he asked almost idly.
‘None at all. The only thing I know about her is that her name was Mary.’
With a smile, she added, ‘Unlike the Farringdons, my ancestry is a closed book, and I’m afraid it will have to stay that way.’
‘Who said, if ignorance is bliss it’s folly to be wise? The Farringdons are a pretty unconventional bunch to belong to,’ Simon pointed out with a wry smile.
Then as the orchestra began to play a tango, dismissing the past, he asked, ‘Shall we dance?’
This time she went into his arms without hesitation, as if she belonged there.
The rest of the evening passed, on Charlotte’s part at least, in a haze of excitement and pleasure, while they talked and danced.
Though Simon drank hardly anything, he kept her glass topped up, and when twelve o’clock came and they started for home, she was still on a high and just the slightest bit squiffy.
By that time the traffic had thinned somewhat, and they made good time back to Bayswater through the midnight streets. When they drew up outside the shop, he unfastened his seat belt and turned towards her.
Wondering if he was about to kiss her, she felt every nerve in her body tighten, and her lips parted, half in panic, half in anticipation.
When he just sat and studied her face in the mingled light from the dashboard and street lamp, feeling foolish, she rushed into speech. ‘Thank you, it’s been great fun. What do you want to do about the books? Would you like to take them with you, or shall I send them on?’
‘That’s one of the things I meant to talk to you about, but somehow the time has just flown. Perhaps you’d care to read this?’
He felt in an inner pocket, and, handing her an unsealed envelope, flicked on the interior light.
She withdrew the single sheet of thick cream notepaper, to find it covered with a laboured scrawl, which read:
Dear Miss Christie,
My grandson has informed me that you have succeeded in finding the set of books he contacted you about. I would like the chance to thank you in person, and I would be pleased if you could bring them down yourself and spend the weekend at Farringdon Hall, as my guest.
Nigel Bell-Farringdon.
Completely thrown, she stammered, ‘D-does he mean this weekend?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, but I have to be in the shop tomorrow.’
‘Didn’t you say your assistant will be back by then? Couldn’t she cope for one day?’
‘Well, I suppose so, but…’
‘But what? Simon asked.
‘I’d need to ask her… And it’s such short notice when she’s just come back from her holiday. Perhaps if I made it next weekend?’
‘Next weekend might be too late,’ Simon stated abruptly.
‘Too late?’
‘My grandfather is extremely ill. He could die at any time.’
‘Oh.’ She was nonplussed.
‘So
