Seacliff

Chapter thirty-three: New Town friends

1919

The cab dropped them off by a Georgian townhouse at the other end of New Town, on an arched street hosting a neat, black-fenced row of such buildings.

"Wait here," James instructed Saoirse, setting the trunks down at the bottom of the front steps.

She smiled to acquiesce and expected him to walk up to the door. Instead, he strode to the end of the house, opened the little forged-iron gate and climbed the steps down to the service entrance. He knocked on the door, then took off his hat as he chatted with whoever had welcomed him. Soon, he disappeared inside.

Had he brought her to the molly house? Saoirse covered her mouth to hide a giggle. The place looked inconspicuous enough, but then again, so it should. It would have been long shut down otherwise.

Her arms crossed over her chest to preserve warmth. The evening was growing deeper and colder. Molly house or not, she wished James would hurry up. Ten more minutes passed. The sky slowly cleared, foreshadowing a freezing night. The moon hung solitary among strips of clouds drifting past.

It reminded her of the night she'd rescued Sorley and she wondered what the sea might look like in that moment. She closed her eyes to picture it. Heard it heave and crash on the shore. Felt it tickle her toes, saw it glitter and smelled its salt...

A slamming door. Saoirse started.

"No, you bastard, wait – "

Her head turned. "James?"

Steps bounded down the stone stairs and Saoirse came fully to as a stranger loudly greeted her with, "Mrs Mortimer! What an honour!"

The stranger, an Asian man with ageless features, offered her his arm and she took it, glancing at James, who stood in the door.

"My sincerest felicitations, mademoiselle," the man continued, "or... oh, it should be madame now, shouldn't it?" He walked her up the stairs and showed her inside. "James, would you be a darling and fetch the lady's luggage?"

James complied, albeit with a groan.

"Tea, Madame Mortimér? Or is it too late? A nightcap, perhaps?"

"Tea would be lovely, thank you. It never is too late for tea."

He smiled and proceeded to help her out of her coat.

"Much obliged, kind sir," Saoirse said, imitating his playful deference. "If I may... to whom do I owe the pleasure?"

"Natsume Smith, at your service."

He bent at the waist into an elaborate bow, which culminated in a kiss on the back of her hand. Saoirse curtseyed in return, unperturbed. His unkempt plait had toppled over his shoulder earlier, and now hung across his rumpled shirt, along the brace clipped to his breeches. On his feet he wore strange slippers with socks, a strap separating each big toe from the rest of the fingers.

"Trés impressive," Natsume told James, who had re-joined them. "She didn't even blink!" He led the way into a spacious sitting room, adjacent to the front hall.

"Oh, I've seen plenty of Chinese folk in France, Mr Smith," Saoirse said.

"I am Japanese, madame."

"Oh, apologies."

"Pas de probléme, I couldn't tell, either, that you were Irish, from your face alone."

She took the proffered seat on a long, red sofa.

"I shall be back shortly." Natsume bowed again and left.