The River of No Return

shall simply have to find husbands with neighboring estates. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”
    They walked on in silence for a moment. Physical distance hadn’t been what Julia meant when she said she’d missed Bella. Neighboring estates wouldn’t mend the rift that now yawned between them. They could talk about men and sex and prostitutes until the cows came home. But time, and Grandfather, and the problem of being the Talisman . . . the problem of Blackdown and the Russian and the mysterious tribe they were hunting . . .
    Pretend, Grandfather had said. Tell no one.
    Julia felt the warmth of her friend’s arm tucked against her side. The arm felt sturdy, and her friend was true. But Bella, London, this day . . . it was all light and shadow. She could trust no one.
    As they came again to the corner graced by the Falcott town house, Bella spoke. “I shall have to introduce you to a friend of mine. I met her on one of my walks. She showed me what I showed you today.”
    “Is she a prostitute?”
    Bella dropped her voice. “Of course not. But she believes in education. Of all kinds.”
    “I am beginning to believe in education myself,” Julia said. She looked into Bella’s eyes and wished her friend could read her mind. “Thank you,” she said. “You have taught me something today.”
    “You are most welcome,” Bella replied. “Now—shall we go home to Mother?”

CHAPTER TWENTY
    N ick had indeed been with the Duke of Kirklaw the previous night. The butler had delivered a note at midday; “White’s tonight—Kirklaw.” Nick had groaned, crumpled the note, and tossed it back onto the silver salver. Back in America, his friends were ambivalent at best about their high school reunions, and now Nick knew why. The thought of going to his father’s club and strolling down memory lane with three dozen Georgian Tories—he would rather eat ground glass. But like his American friends, who once a decade found themselves traveling to their hometowns in order to compare weight gain and hair loss with people they had never intended to see again, Nick realized around dinnertime that his steps were carrying him toward the grand building in Mayfair.
    Before he even mounted the stairs he was hailed by the bow-window set, including Beau Brummell, who saluted him through the glass. Nick nodded to the prince of dandies, took a deep breath, and prepared to greet many of the men he had known in his old life.
    The doors opened onto warmth, light, and a low roar of welcome. Nick’s apprehensions lifted from him as easily as the greatcoat that was removed from his shoulders by a servant. A glass was pressed into his hand, a toast was raised. Bonhomie flowed like wine, and the wine tasted like nectar. Nick was passed through a crowd of men ranging in age from eighteen to eighty, their hands grasping his, their pale faces shining with benevolence. The sound of their laughter was like a tune he had once loved but had forgotten. The weight of an arm over his shoulder, the gentle humor of a lewd joke, the good wishes passed on from someone who couldn’t be there. The smells soothed: beeswax, tobacco, leather, booze, musk, and cologne. The sounds delighted: bass, baritone, and tenor voices; glasses clinking; cards shuffling; dice clicking; fire crackling. This was the very perfection of good living, good drinking, good feeling. Nick found himself casting about for the river, its pull, its depth all around him, but it simply wasn’t there. It was like he was suspended in warm honey, and he wondered if this place was some paradisiacal twin of Tyburn, a scar, a place where time and feeling turn in upon themselves. He made his slow way through the crowd, guided by smiles and halloos and fragments of fraternal conversation.
    At dinner, Nick shared a table with nine bachelors of his own generation, each as genial as the next. Steak had never tasted so good; it was perfectly aged, with a sensuous chew and a yielding, buttery taste. Nick found himself raising his glass and calling out in a loud voice, “Beef and liberty!” This was his only error; it was the rallying cry of the Sublime Society of Beef Steaks, a Whig club, and White’s was firmly Tory. For a moment he felt a vibration of doubt move through the room. But approval was strong for Nick tonight, the miraculously returned hero. He was forgiven his gaffe almost before the words were out of his mouth, and the drop of uneasy feeling dissipated without a trace