Black Valentines Read online

  “That isn’t possible.”

  “I have a cane myself, but I am loath to use it. It only calls attention to myself and, like you, I detest having a fuss made on my behalf. I rarely venture out on my own because of it, relying on either my maid or my brother to escort me wherever I need to go. The minute someone hears that tiny tap-tap on the pavement they turn and stare and either look away or nod with sympathy. No, I don’t need to see them to know that’s what they do, for that is how people are. Most people, anyway. Not you, Clive. You would never condescend to look upon me with patronizing sympathy, would you?”

  I swore to her that I would not.

  “But the irony of this vanity, of course – and this proves just how silly a woman such as myself can be—“

  “—please don’t ever call yourself that—”

  “—the irony is that people still know, when they see how I clutch my brother’s elbow, or when they hear my maid whisper ‘two steps down and then a turn to the right,’ they still know, they still stare, and I am left the fool.

  “You are far from a fool, Laura.”

  Her gay laughter was music to my ears. “You’ve only known me a few minutes.”

  “But I am as observant of human nature as you, Laura, and you are the farthest thing from being a fool.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said, the tone in her voice went from carefree to concerned in the blink of an eye. “Here is Lionel now.”

  I looked up and knew him at once, for they looked so much alike. He was obviously in his cups for his body careened off of one poor fellow and then staggered unceremoniously toward us. His tie was undone and his starched shirt front bore a pale red stain. His hair was a wilder, thicker version of Laura’s which had been tied behind his head and now fell loose in a tumble of white-blond curls down the right side of his face. But on closer examination I saw a patch of coarse, rippled skin that stretched from brow to throat and I realized the hair was down intentionally in an attempt to obscure the livid burn mark on his face. I recalled the fire from Laura’s childhood. He had rescued his sister as a child from the fire that took her sight, and ravaged in him an otherwise handsome face.

  “Hallo,” he said, his eyes darting wildly from me to Laura and back to me again. I felt Laura tense and so I did as well, my hand instinctively gripping the knob of my cane. “Getting a bit cozy with my sister, are we?”

  “Lionel, don’t be rude. This is Mr. Dahl. He’s a friend of Mr. Clemmons’.”

  “A doll? What are you, a puppet for my sister’s pleasure?”

  “Lionel, stop it!” I was surprised at the force of Laura’s anger. She seemed so delicate, so fragile, so incapable of standing up to this sort of man, but she admirably stood her ground. “Apologize to Mr. Dahl at once.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  I finally spoke up. “Look. I mean no disrespect to you or to your sister. I’ve been having a bit of pain in my leg and Harry suggested I park myself a bit, and, well, here I am. I was just telling Miss Balfour that, while I know nothing of art, I am thoroughly captivated by your father’s work.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a slight upturn to Laura’s lips and her head tilted, in that way she had, slightly toward me, and I knew that she approved of my diplomacy.

  “Why don’t you sit and talk, Lionel, and let me formally introduce the two of you.”

  “The only man I want to meet right now is the man responsible for the miserable selection of beverages. Everywhere I turn it is champagne, champagne, and more champagne. What sort of crime does a man have to commit to get a decent gin around here? Hell, I’d settle for a cheap tot right about now.”

  Despite his determination, he flung himself into the chair on the opposite side of Laura. He leaned around her and offered me his hand. “Lionel Balfour. There, we’ve formally met. And you are?”

  “Clive Dahl.” I accepted his hand.

  “Dahl, of course. Have you any cigarettes?”

  I did not smoke, but made a pretense of patting my pockets. “I’m sorry. I don’t seem to have brought any with me.”

  Balfour gave me a contemptuous look. His eyes rolled slightly upwards, and crossed. His head lolled on his neck and then snapped upright again, as is the province of the deeply inebriated, when something caught his eye. He shut one eye and squinted — I knew that feeling well – and just as quickly turned his attention back to me, inspecting me head to toe.

  “What’s happened to your leg, Dahl?”

  “I was in the army—”

  “Lionel,” warned Laura.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “And I took a piece of lead in my, well, in my nether regions—”

  “Shot in the arse?”

  I was certain Laura would reprimand him again as I’m sure she must spend her entire life doing, but instead she rolled her eyes.

  “Right in the arse,” I confirmed.

  “Well, at least it wasn’t somewhere else,” he said and with that he stood and slapped me on the shoulder which I took as a sign of no hard feelings and I watched him as he reeled away again in search of that elusive tot of gin.

  Laura was snickering delicately behind her gloved hand. “That,” she said, “was Lionel.”

  “Is he always like this when he drinks?”

  “Certainly not. Usually he is far worse. But you mustn’t judge him too harshly. This is a very emotional evening for both of us. There are so many acquaintances here, so many people who knew my father for years. If I could have avoided coming believe me I would not be talking to you now.”

  “I’m glad that you came.”

  “As I am as well,” she said and lightly touched my hand.

  “How long has it been since your father’s passing?”

  “A little over a year.”

  “You must miss him very much.”

  “You know it’s strange, but I don’t. My father traveled extensively. He had patrons, wealthy ones, I might add, all over the Continent. It was not at all unusual for him to be gone for months at a time while he was away in a chateau somewhere painting some duchess or other.”

  “I had no idea a painting took so long.”

  “A true artist does not simply set up his easel and paint what he sees and then pack up his kit and call it a day. In my father’s case, he preferred to get to know someone, to observe them in their natural habitat. He would discourse with them at length on every subject imaginable, and while he and his subject spoke, he would begin to draw. He would draw, and sketch, and begin basic studies in water color before he at last primed the canvas for the oils.”

  “I had no idea the process was so arduous.”

  “But that is what made my father’s talent so unique, that he was truly able to capture the essence of his subject, if not their soul, on the canvas. And all that is a roundabout way of explaining that I did not know my father nearly as well as I would have liked, not nearly as well as some of his patrons knew him. So you see, it was really Lionel who raised me, and in a sense I suppose he is like a father to me, and naturally very protective.”

  “He must be a good deal older than you.”

  “Only by ten years. And it just wasn’t our father’s prolonged absence that required Lionel to step in to fit the bill. There was the fire when I was young, when Lionel rescued me. He saved my life, that day, and very nearly lost his own. There is an Eastern proverb that goes something to the effect that if one saves another’s life then one is responsible for that person forever.”

  “And your mother?”

  “She died when I was still young. I have no memory of her whatsoever. But all this talk of our domestic drama must be a dreadful bore. What about your family, Clive? Have you any brothers or sisters?”

  “I am an only child.”

  “What a pity for you. There is really nothing quite like the relationship between siblings, especially between a brother and sister. What about your father and mother?”

  “My father was a constable. He was killed in the line
of duty when I was still a lad. My mother remarried to a ruthless businessman with very peculiar ideas about fatherhood. He and I never saw eye to eye. I had always dreamed of following in my father’s footsteps, but I left home at an early age to escape an unbearable situation, and joined the army. I thought perhaps I would rise through the ranks, become an officer, a lieutenant, a general, but I came to learn that I have no ambition, and as my stepfather told me a man with no ambition is no man at all.”

  “What an awful thing to say.”

  “I wrote to my mother when I came home to tell her I was in hospital. She wrote back to wish me well, but her words were so cold, so formal, it nearly broke my heart. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised.”

  Laura gently touched my hand again. “I am so very sorry for you, Clive.”

  “Don’t be. I detest pity.”

  “There is something else we have in common.”

  Harry Clemmons came bursting through the crowd. “I beg your pardon Miss Balfour, I think you’d best come quickly.”

  “What’s wrong?” Laura and I were both on our feet in an instant. Instinctively I offered her the crook of my elbow and her hand slipped inside as if expecting it to be there.

  “There’s been a bit of an accident. No, don’t be alarmed. It’s nothing serious. Lionel fell down the steps outside. He’s putting up quite a ruckus but I took the liberty of summoning a cab.

  “Oh, dear, I was afraid if this.”

  We followed Clemmons through the crowd and found Lionel outside attempting to fight off the men who held him up. If I wasn’t already so fond of Laura I would have found the whole thing disgraceful, but as it was I could only feel sorry for her having such a wretched drunk for a brother. The cab was at the curb and the two men dumped her brother unceremoniously inside. I held onto her as she climbed inside and shut the door, my heart sinking rapidly.

  “Will you be all right?”

  “Yes, of course. Once we arrive home Soames will come out and help carry him inside. I’m sorry we could not have parted ways under pleasanter circumstances.” She touched my hand one final time, and then the cabbie cracked the reins and the horse moved off into the street.

  And there I was left standing on the curb with the image of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen burned forever into my brain. Could it be that our only destiny was that our paths cross for one brief moment of time? I went back into the museum for one final look at the portrait. I don’t know how he did it, what kind of wizardry the man possessed, but Julian Balfour had managed to capture the very essence of his daughter in that single painting.

  It was with heavy heart that I returned home that evening. I thought of Laura Balfour before I went to bed that night, and as I lay in bed awake I said a prayer for her then found that I could not sleep. And the next day while I sat in that crowded office room hunched over the typewriter I had difficulty concentrating for I could think of nothing but her. I suppose I sound like a dramatic school boy frantically smitten, but the truth is I had never been in love, and I wasn’t certain even then that was what the feeling was. All I knew was that in that brief time spent with her I was truly happy and had forgotten all about my pain and loneliness, and there had to be some way, some how, for me to see her again.

  And so I did see her again in the only way that I could. I returned to the Tate Museum on Monday and paid the admission fee, and came again on Tuesday, and by Wednesday I found that I was asking after Harry Clemmons, but as I was only able to visit the museum in the evening and Harry was gone long by the time I arrived, it wasn’t possible that I could see him.

  On Thursday I thought I saw her on the street when I went out for lunch. So convinced was I that it was her that I was transfixed where I stood, the halo of white-blond curls glowing radiantly in the summer sun. Of course it wasn’t her. She walked unaided, though with a male companion, and I even thought she looked directly at me and that for a brief moment our eyes met. That’s when I knew two things. One was that it could not possibly have been her, and the other was that if I was seeing her in my sleep and seeing her on Holborn Street outside my place of employment, I must be going mad with love, and that there was simply nothing I could do but do my best to forget about her.

  One afternoon while I was deeply involved in my work a fellow clerk popped into the room and handed me a letter. I took the envelope from his hand and looked at my name written in some elegant handwriting and smelled the scent of lilac perfume. I tore it open and read:

  “Dear Mr. Dahl: If you would be so kind to do me the honor of joining my brother and I at our home on Crescent Walk in Bloomsbury this Friday at six I can promise you an evening of enchantment. Yours, Laura Balfour,” and beside her name were a pair of initials which I presumed to be her maid or some other young woman who had written on her behalf. I glanced at the date at the top of the sheet. The invitation was nearly a week old. How long had this letter lain on someone’s desk before they decided it was acceptable to deliver it to the person to whom it was addressed?

  My heart fell, but I went upstairs at once and set about composing a letter on the typewriter. I apologized profusely for not having responded sooner, and if the invitation were to be extended at another time I would gladly accept. I sealed it in an envelope and crossed out the return address of Bates and Reed and replaced it with my own.

  The post only took two days to deliver a reply. Yes, of course the invitation was extended yet again, for Friday, which at that time was another five days away.

  The first thing that crossed my mind was that I hadn’t anything presentable to wear. Never mind that it made no difference to Laura. It made a difference to me, and it would make a difference to her brother. Having a new suit tailored was out of my budget and out of the question, so I set about the offices of Bates and Reed, eyeing up men of my size, until I found one fellow willing to lend a suit of his own. On Friday I went round to the barber, stopped for a bouquet of summer flowers, and made my way to the address on Crescent Walk.

  When I saw the place and the butler ushered me formally into the drawing room, I was glad I had gone to such lengths to make myself presentable. I would not have been able to bear the judging eye of the staff had I not.

  Above the fireplace hung a painting in an ornate frame of Laura and her brother together. Lionel looked much the same, though a lad of sixteen years or so in the painting, but Laura, who was probably six at the time, had not developed into the person I knew today. Had it not been for the blond ringlets, the girl in the portrait might have been a different person altogether.

  When she appeared in the doorway to the drawing room, Laura was as beautiful as I remembered her. How my heart skipped a beat when I saw her! I rose and kissed her gently on the cheek. I heard a diminutive bark and looked down to see something white and fluffy peaking out from behind Laura’s skirts.

  “Princess, hush. Mr. Dahl is a friend. Come out and say hello.”

  I reached down and patted the little creature on its head, and then presented Laura with the bouquet I had brought.

  “Thank you for the flowers, Clive. Are they as lovely as they smell?”

  “Quite - white irises and yellow daffodils to match your hair.”

  She smiled and instinctively touched her hair, something I wish I could have done. She rang for a maid to take the flowers and put them in water. I was fascinated how Laura moved so easily about the room with only the occasional outstretched hand to touch the back of a chair, instinctively knowing the number of paces from here to there and the placement of each and every object in the room. When she sat, Princess promptly sat on the empty chair beside her and as we talked Laura’s hand occasionally drifted to stroke the dog’s snow white hair.

  “I want to know everything there is to know about you,” I said.

  She laughed. “There’s nothing more than what I told you when we first met. I grew up in Kent, in a house called Balfour Manor. My mother died when I was young. I was raised by a series of governesses. And I
’m blind.”

  “Then tell me how you spend your days. You seem to be so active and full of life.”

  “That I am. Twice a week I meet with a group of women. We have a sort of charitable organization where we raise money for African children who were left orphaned by the war. I have a dear friend, Ruth, who lives just on the other side of the Square who accompanies me. She is also my reading companion, and the woman who writes letters on my behalf. She has the most wonderful voice and never tires of reading aloud. She has quite an imagination and a knack for voices, especially with the works of Mr. Dickens, whom I adore. I do so love a good tale filled with scandals and secrets and broad coincidences, don’t you? I play piano a little, my own compositions, of course, since I am unable to read music, and did not learn when I was young.”

  “How delightful,” I said. “You must play for me some time.” We chatted for nearly quarter of an hour, until our conversation came to an abrupt halt with the sound of the front door opening and shutting and Lionel Balfour appeared in the drawing room. He dropped his hat and gloves on the nearest chair and looked at me, fists on hips.