Dubois said with a twinkle in his eye. He surveyed the front of the store as if he knew what she had been doing in there.
Alkmene started to walk away from it as fast as she could. ‘My father needed a few new buttons.’
‘I heard he is in India.’
‘Yes, but he is very specific about his buttons. He wants them shipped out to him from here.’
‘By the time those buttons reach him he must be on his way back here,’ Dubois mused, walking by her side with his hands folded on his back. He wore a grey suit this time, as if he wanted to blend in with the city surroundings.
Perhaps he was out stalking someone? She had heard reporters did that sometimes to get a story.
Alkmene cursed the coincidence that had made him pass the very instant she came from that store, but tried to appear calm. ‘I have no idea when he will be back. If he hears about some hitherto unknown valley, he will put together an expedition on the spot to travel there and find new plants. My father is eccentric that way.’
‘I suppose he can afford to waste his money.’
Alkmene adjusted her shoulder bag and glanced up at him. ‘Perhaps you think this tinge of bitterness is fashionable, Mr Dubois?’
‘Is it not true? Has your father really worked one single day in his life? I mean, has he driven a cart, chopped wood, gotten coal out of a mine? Has he delivered beer or vegetables, shown people to their seats, swept pavements or cleaned chimneys?’
‘Should he have?’ Alkmene retorted. She was familiar with the prejudice against her class and usually it didn’t bother her, as she supposed those people were merely jealous of something they wanted to have themselves and had not. But there seemed to be more to Mr Dubois’s quiet questioning.
Dubois tilted his head. ‘I think it is very good for any person, man or woman, to work with their hands to make a living. It shows you how tough life can be when you have none of those privileges given at birth, simply passed on with a last name, without being deserved, or earned.’
His words hit a sore spot as she had asked herself on occasion what of her wealth and reputation was earned, by her own endeavours, and not merely a nice gift handed out at her birth. It did seem important to feel accomplished. To do meaningful things in life.
But she merely said, sharply, ‘You are an anarchist.’
Dubois laughed softly, a warm throaty sound. ‘No, I suppose that one does need government and a monarch is just as well as any other form. They all cost money, you know. I am talking about the peerage. All those men who have titles because that is just the way it is. Their children…’ He glanced at her pointedly.
Alkmene wanted to open her mouth to say that she was not some overprivileged snob who didn’t know what to do with her hands, but her recent laundry disaster made her reconsider. It was true that if the servants left her to herself, in that big house, there would probably be more ruined things than one fine handkerchief.
She stared ahead with an angry frown.
Dubois laughed again. ‘Not even a sharp retort, Lady Alkmene? Simply ignoring the poor peasant who doesn’t understand your position?’
‘I hardly think you are a peasant. That is just the point. You understand the system better than people who say everybody should have the same, and flock to those farms where you are supposed to share everything.’
Dubois chuckled. ‘What is wrong with sharing?’
Alkmene looked at him. ‘Sharing implies a choice. I share of my own free will. When I am forced to share, it’s not sharing any more.’
Dubois didn’t laugh this time. ‘I agree. The peerage should see for themselves that they ought to share what they hold back from the people. But they don’t wish to see it. So maybe somebody should make them.’
‘Those kinds of ideas led to the French revolution, and aside from a couple of people losing their heads it didn’t solve a whole lot.’
Dubois studied her from the side. ‘Are you always employing that sharp tongue of yours or just when I am around?’
‘I’m afraid you are not that special.’ It was the truth, as most people who knew her well could testify, and still she was trying to make her point a little harder than she would otherwise. In fact, she could not remember any recent occasion where it had mattered to her much what another being thought of her.
Raised by an unconventional father, judged by society as the ‘sad girl without a mother’ or ‘the wild child who doesn’t know any rules’ Alkmene had learned at a young age to close her ears to other people’s opinions of her, and usually she was fine with whatever anybody said or thought about her.
It often even amused her to see how ignorant people were or what they thought of people with privilege while they had no idea about that kind of life.
But Dubois was for some reason different. His bitterness, she guessed, stemmed from experiences. Experiences that she was curious about, but couldn’t ask about right now.
Their brief acquaintance didn’t allow for any personal questions, and she doubted a man like him would want to talk about the past.
He had probably fled it all to start over, in a new city, a new country even.
Why else leave the glittering lights of beautiful Paris where he had even been writing for several papers? True, with the Olympics drawing to an end, the interest in the accomplishments there died down quickly, but she bet there were other engaging stories to take their place. Why come to London in the first place?
‘So what story are you after today?’ she asked. ‘Is it another undertaker smuggling prisoners?’
‘One thing you learn in journalism early on,’ Dubois said, ‘is that people do not like to hear the same story twice. You have to come up with new things all of the time.’
That made sense. ‘So what is new today? I suppose you could try and interview Ms Steinbeck about her uncle’s art collection. After all, it is hers now. Perhaps she is not suspicious of strangers and will let you see some of the rarer pieces. You were so interested in it before; you can’t just have given up on it now.’
When Dubois didn’t reply, she looked at him sideways.
Dubois stared ahead of them with that focused look that betrayed he was in tracking mode and losing attention for anything but the object of his interest. She found it kind of annoying to be ignored, like she was just dissolving into thin air while she was still walking beside him.
On the other hand it was also fascinating. He had the bloodhound instinct needed to succeed in his job, and she might learn something worthwhile from him if she just handled it right.
What exactly did he see ahead of them? She spied nothing special. Just the usual telegram delivery boy hurrying along, pushing past gentlemen in deep discussion.
‘Come with me,’ Dubois said suddenly, taking her arm and slipping it through his. Now they were walking like an engaged couple.
Alkmene was about to shake him off and give him a piece of her mind, when he made a sharp turn left and took her through double doors into the theatre.
The foyer was mostly empty. A man in a dust jacket swept something into a corner. He looked up and blinked at them from behind his heavily rimmed glasses. He was obviously not used to people just walking in there when there was no performance scheduled.
Dubois approached him with a ready smile. ‘Lady Alkmene here was at an opera last week and she lost an earring in the box. Would you mind terribly if we had a look around to see if it is still there?’
‘The floors have been swept,’ the man said. ‘I am sure that…’
‘It was small and might have vanished into the padding of the seats. I will look; you need not bother. Please do