From Fitzroy's Private Diary (Extract 147)

Emilia Fitzgerald is back. I don’t like this, and I don’t like her.

I was taking a rather nervous Hope for high tea. Her mother decided she was old enough to travel alone to London on the train, provided she was in first class and was met at the station. Hope, at the end of the journey, was inclined to disagree. She’d been in a compartment with a couple who were politely disagreeing with one another, and she detected incipient violence in the man. Of course, most children would have been blind to such things, but Hope is different.

I entered the tea rooms of an excellent hotel I’d chosen with a slightly anxious child, and me feeling annoyed that someone had potentially spoiled a long promised treat.

In an attempt to cheer up the child, who knew she had to catch a train home later, I ordered the very best, most fulsome tea, and even forbore having champagne myself so she didn’t feel left out (if the room had been less crowded, I might have persuaded the staff to give her a half glass).

Hope and I were both trying to convince each other we were having an excellent time when I heard the unmistakable tones of that Fitzgerald woman. Her accent, although having a glass cut edge, remained wrong. You’d need to be a linguist to understand, but Hope said to me quietly, what’s wrong with that lady, godfather? I asked her what she meant, and she said that the lady’s voice wasn’t right. She’s fake, added the child.

I was pleased and impressed. I told her this was a lady who’d appeared from nowhere directly into high society. When I mentioned her name, Hope asked if the woman was copying me. I asked for clarification, and she explained that I often mix among different classes under an assumed persona in order to fit in.

If I hadn’t been with Hope, I might have blagged my way onto her table. Hope picked up on this and way her eyes flicked between the lady and myself, I rather thought she was egging me on to do so, but I don’t involve children in any of my games.

We continued our tea and Hope said that she didn’t trust this woman, proclaiming that she didn’t deserve to be a ‘Fitz’. Unfortunately, she caught me mid-macaron and I choked as I stifled a laugh. For a few moments I thought my time on this Earth was at an end. My goddaughter really is the most amusing little thing.

In the end, I placed another mental marker against Fitzgerald’s name as an enigma to be investigated later on. Hope wondered if the lady was trying to get my attention. I honestly don’t know, but if she keeps cropping up at places I go to, I might have second thoughts on that.

I walked Hope back to the train station and climbed into the carriage with her. I always leave some things at White Orchards, so I had no need for luggage. The smile on Hope’s face when she realised that I was accompanying her was reward enough, but on the off chance that Hope was right, and Fitzgerald is trying to get my attention, my disappearing from London for a week or two might throw her.

Besides, I’d remembered a rather nice Burgundy I’d given Bertram, and I rather fancied having it that night.