Lord Livingston spent the majority of it in London, holed up in his flat there. He told Mr. Beardsley that business had detained him, but I worried it was something else, something serious. On a rainy Tuesday morning, he phoned from London, and I overheard Mr. Beardsley speaking to him in the drawing room. “Your Lordship,” Mr. Beardsley said into the phone, “it’s so good to hear from you. . . . Yes, yes, the children are fine. . . . Yes, Miss Lewis too. . . . Oh? I’m very sorry to hear that. . . . Is there anything that can be done? . . . Very well, yes, of course. . . . Oh, is that so? . . . Lord Desmond, sir? You don’t say. . . . Well, it’s just that I had no idea, my Lord. None of us did. . . . Yes, yes of course.” “Excuse me, sir,” I said from the doorway once Mr. Beardsley had hung up the phone. “Yes,” Mr. Beardsley replied, straightening his jacket. “That was Lord Livingston.
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