Eva Ibbotson

R.P.V.B. Romain Paul Verney Brandon. How often had she seen those initials entwined with her own! Not carved in the bark of trees—Rom allowed no one to despoil his beloved trees—but he had drawn them for her on the clear, fawn sand when they spent a day by the sea; sown them in cress seeds on a bed of earth while the old gardener scratched his head and muttered at the foolishness of the young. If Rom had wanted to forget Stavely—forget her and the Brandons—what more likely than that he had simply dropped his last name—too careless, too arrogant perhaps, to make a more fundamental change?

“Wait here,” she said to Henry. “I won’t be long. Don’t move and don’t speak to anyone.”

“Yes,” said Henry.

There was nothing to be afraid of, Henry told himself as his mother pushed open the door of the shop which was labeled “Truscott and Musgrave”: and had windows which were covered up so that one couldn’t see inside.

He knew she wouldn’t forget him; she wouldn’t go out through another door and leave him on the pavement. But nevertheless he began to feel that awful churning in his stomach which meant that soon he was going to be very afraid indeed, which was ridiculous if he wanted to be an explorer. It was more than two years ago when she had told him to wait on a black leather chair in the bank at Harrods, and had gone to meet a friend and left by another door and forgotten him, and it hadn’t really been so bad. When after an hour he had begun to cry—which was silly, but he had been younger then—an old lady had come, and then someone from the shop, and they had fetched a policeman and taken him back to the hotel. And his mother had been very upset and sorry and bought him some marzipan.

Only of course he would rather not be forgotten than have marzipan…

I’ll count up to a hundred, thought Henry, and then another hundred and another and then she’ll come. Sinclair of the Scouts, in the Boy’s Own paper—he wouldn’t have made a fuss because he had to stand and wait for his mother in the street… and anyway they were going to the dentist. She might forget him but she would not forget the dentist …

Inside the shop Isobel had made an entirely hypothetical inquiry about laundering the damask for Stavely, receiving from the gray-haired and serious Mr. Truscott a courteous and considered reply, and taken down some notes. If Mr. Truscott was surprised that a woman of quality should attend to these matters herself rather than send her housekeeper, he kept this to himself. Then, as she was putting on her gloves, she said almost casually, “I noticed your men bringing in a basket just now and it seemed to me that I knew the name. Verney was a family name of my husband’s and he had a distant cousin named Paul.”

“It might well be, Mrs. Brandon. I have never met Mr. Verney myself, but we have dealt with his linen for eight years now. An excellent customer, always very prompt with his payment.”

“He lives in London, then?”

“London? Oh dear me, no! Far from it.” Mr. Truscott smiled, for the legend of Mr. Verney’s washing did much to brighten the monotony of life in the shop. He paused, enjoying himself, and said, “He lives in Brazil. In Manaus, one thousand miles up the River Amazon.”

“The Amazon!” Isobel’s heart began to pound, but the implications of what she had just heard were too extraordinary. “But he cannot send his washing home from the Amazon! He cannot!”

“Well, that’s exactly what he does do, Madam. Beautiful linen, quite outstanding workmanship. Every three weeks when the liner docks at Manaus, his servants put a basket on the ship. Then at Liverpool they put it on the train and we send our cart to Euston and return the clean linen. Oh yes, it’s quite an event when Mr. Verney’s linen basket comes!”

“But it must cost a fortune!”

“Well, not a fortune, Madam, but certainly a fair sum. However, I imagine Mr. Verney would have no regard to that. All the gentlemen out there live like princes and he is one of the richest, they say. It’s the rubber, you see.”

He launched into a description of the rubber trade to which Isobel listened absently, her mind racing.

“And Mrs. Verney—does she send her washing home too?”

“I have not heard of there being a Mrs. Verney, Madam. Certainly we don’t get her linen. But of course, we are more of a gentlemen’s service on the whole.”