The Looking Glass House by Vanessa Tait Read Free Book Online

counter stood Mr Wilton, his hands resting on top of the glass counter and his fingertips extending towards the perimeter of his universe. Mary saw him before he saw her: his gaze was unswerving and straight ahead.
    Mr Wilton, thought Mary, did look just how men were sup­posed to look, at least in books. His shoulders were broad, his brow was dark. His hair was thick, his eyebrows were uncon­trollable, their tentacles reaching down towards his eyelids.
    But he was out of context. He jarred. He seemed not proud of his nature. His fingertips were crescented not by the mud of a Yorkshire moor but by short clean nails. And the hairs that poured out of his shirtsleeves wore a slick look of shame. He had trussed himself into a rigorous suit and held himself stiffly in it; his collar was punishingly high and Mary could see a red patch on the underside of his chin, even though it was darkened by stubble.
    ‘Good afternoon,’ said Mrs Liddell. ‘I am looking for lace trimmings, and some ribbon, and I dare say some buttons too, mother-of-pearl, and, let me see .  .  .’
    Mr Wilton hurried out from behind the counter. ‘Good after­noon, Mrs Liddell. Miss Prickett.’
    Mary opened her eyes. ‘How do you know my name?’ said Mrs Liddell, looking at him for the first time. ‘Though I dare say everyone does!’
    ‘It is Mr Wilton and I who have met,’ said Mary. Her heart gave a small and surprising twist.
    ‘Ah yes, I remember now. Oxford is a small place, as I always say,’ said Mrs Liddell, pointing at the display behind the glass. ‘That ribbon there, the thick one, how much is that? And the red, that is very pretty, though perhaps blue might go better.’
    Mr Wilton stroked his sideburns. He told Mrs Liddell the price of the ribbons. He seemed mesmerized by her rings, which gleamed right under his nose; her hands, which fluttered with the excitement of purchase. She did have elegant hands, long and tapered and uncalloused.
    ‘I’ll take that one, the blue velvet, six lengths, and some of that cream ribbon too, the narrower of the two. And I need more handkerchiefs; I had better take a dozen, and a half-dozen pairs of gloves, for I am almost run out. And some lace; what would you recommend? It is to run round the hem of a skirt, and the cuffs, and some other ruffles too perhaps.’
    Mr Wilton smoothed his smooth hair and, with a similar motion, spread out all the things Mrs Liddell had asked for on the counter. She bent down to look, circled by shop assistants who had materialized from the rustlings of the shop floor, servile and admiring.
    Mary turned to Mr Wilton. ‘My mother told me you had paid me a call and I am sorry not to have returned it. As you can see .  .  .’ Mary gestured to the children, Edith staying close to her mother’s skirts, Ina running the tip of her finger over a length of white ribbon.
    Only Alice was staring back at them both, her head angled, smiling insolently. Mary thought about castigating her, but to do so would only draw attention to the awkwardness of the whole situation. Better to pretend the child was not staring so rudely – she was only a child, after all, she did not matter! Though in spite of herself Mary felt a flush spreading down her cheeks, towards her neck and her collarbones.
    She turned her body away, as she might have from a too-hot fire, and angled her head to try to deflect Alice’s gaze. Alice’s curiosity impinged upon her as a solid thing, making her unnatural.
    ‘I am glad to see you here looking so well.’
    From the corner of her eye she could see that Alice was smirking. Mary turned away more, forcing Mr Wilton to step to the side to follow her. She started off on a description of her visit to her mother’s house, just to fill up the air between them, with no real purpose. But Mr Wilton didn’t seem to mind. He put his hands behind his back, a gesture that he must have picked up from addressing customers, to solve the problem of his arms