CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT
‘Here Comes the Bride’
‘Ah, here she comes,’ Charlotte said, looking in the direction of the approaching conveyance. ‘For one minute I thought— Oh well, never mind what I thought,’ she added after a moment’s consideration.
Frances watched her cousin with probing eyes. ‘What is it, Charlotte? What’s wrong?’
‘It doesn’t matter, Franny, honestly,’ Charlotte replied hurriedly. ‘I had no right to say anything.’ She kept her eyes fixed to the Wentworth family carriage. ‘I say,’ Charlotte said, hastily changing the subject, ‘I thought it very odd that Agnes should not include you in the wedding ceremony. I felt sure that she would make you one of the bridesmaids.’
‘Why would you think that? I’m the last person in the world Agnes would ever think to ask.’
‘Perhaps she thought that you would upstage her.’
‘Now we both know that is not true, but my dear Charlotte, it was good of you to say it.’ She took one of her cousin’s hands and squeezed it affectionately.
‘I meant it,’ Charlotte answered earnestly. ‘You surpass Agnes with all your qualities and beauty. It was abominably rude of my sister to leave you out of the proceedings.’
‘You speak about being a bridesmaid as though it was something important. Really, I have better things to do with my time than trailing after Agnes Wentworth. What’s more, I’m just a humble servant in your family’s eyes. Your mother, especially, keeps reminding me of it.’
‘Don’t say that,’ Charlotte said solemnly. ‘You’re more than a servant, and you know it. You’re a governess at a very respectable establishment.’
‘The Ballards only took me because no-one would take the position. There is a difference.’
‘Why do you always put yourself down, Frances? It pains me to hear you speak so. You have a respectable position, where you’re doing something meaningful with your time. Best of all, you’re financially independent. Surely that’s something to be proud of.’
Frances was baffled. ‘My dear cousin, since when have you valued financial independence? I thought you scorned it, like Agnes and your mother.’
‘I admit I never used to, but since my marriage, I don’t know. I somehow feel redundant. I sometimes sit there in the house and wonder whether there is something more I should be doing with my life. It all seems like such a waste.’
Frances tightened her grip on her cousin’s hand. ‘Then why don’t you do something about it? I know. Why don’t you come to university with me next year?’
Charlotte’s eyes widened. ‘You’re going to university? But what will you do about Mrs Ballard? What about your work?’
‘Do you think I would continue to work at Riverview if I had a choice? Not at all. That job is a means to an end. As soon as I have enough money saved up, I’ll leave Riverview and enrol at the university.’
Charlotte shook her head in bemusement. ‘Oh, Frances, where do you get your ideas? If Mama could hear you now!’
‘Your mother already knows of my plans. I announced them to her last week when I was at dinner. She declared herself to be very upset, so upset in fact that she threatened to cable my mother in Melbourne.’
‘And how is your dear mother? I trust everything is well with her? How is your soon-to-be step-father?’
Frances was taken aback. ‘My step-father?’ she cried. ‘How did you know about that?’
‘I sent your mother a Christmas card, as I usually do, and in reply I got a card signed by Aunt Lucy, and soon-to-be ‘Uncle’ Herbert. Oh Frances, why did you not tell anyone about him? Are you not happy with your mother’s choice?’
‘I’d rather not discuss this now, if you don’t mind,’ Frances returned rather pointedly. ‘We have another more immediate wedding to concern ourselves with.’
Charlotte looked in the direction of the road. The carriage had just drawn to a halt, and Louisa and several Wentworth family friends were surging towards it, no doubt eager to catch a glimpse of the blushing bride.
‘Oh heavens,’ Frances breathed. ‘It seems the moment has come.’ She looked about the church-yard and spotted Michael leaning against a headstone. He too was glancing in the direction of the stationary carriage. Her heart lurched. ‘I, I think we should join your mother,’ she added. ‘I don’t want us to be accused of being apathetic.’ She relinquished her grip on Charlotte’s hand, and made a move to leave, but Charlotte, it appeared, hadn’t finished talking with her, and she urged Frances to wait a moment longer.
‘Please say nothing more about my mother, Charlotte. It is too painful to discuss. I will try and resolve matters in my own good time.’
‘I’ve no doubt that you will, but we need to talk about Agnes.’
‘If it’s about this bridesmaid business, then don’t worry. I’m not offended that she didn’t ask me.’
All animation on Charlotte’s face disappeared. ‘Then you should be. She owes you something, some sort of favour after what you did for her.’
Frances studied her cousin’s stern face with growing apprehension. ‘What do you mean? What are you talking about?’
‘I may not say a great deal, Frances, but what I lack in conversation, I make up for with my eyes.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I know what really happened on New Year’s Eve. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do.’ She took Frances’s hand again. ‘I want to thank you for the sacrifice you made for my sister.’ Before Frances could protest, Charlotte went ahead. ‘I know your feelings for Michael Brearly, and I am well aware that by leaving Wintersleigh, you put my sister’s happiness, and the wishes of my family, before your own. I can never thank you enough for it.’
Frances’s eyes widened. ‘Good heavens, Charlotte. Doctor Brearly and I are just good friends.’ She quickly turned away. ‘My goodness, how on earth could you come to such an absurd conclusion?’
Charlotte watched her cousin’s discomposure with a knowing smile. ‘Please forgive me for having the impertinence to meddle in your affairs. It certainly gives me no pleasure to do it, but really, there is no need to be quite so defensive. I know that you’re in love with him.’
Frances gasped. ‘I’m not!’ she declared, rather impulsively. ‘I’m not!’ she said again, this time less convincingly.
Charlotte studied Frances’s face closely, and noticed that tears were welling in her cousin’s eyes. ‘I thought so,’ Charlotte whispered. She handed Frances a handkerchief, and watched her dab ineffectually at her eyes. ‘I thought so.’
Frances bit her lip in annoyance. Her cousin’s perceptiveness had indeed alarmed her, but not as much as the proceedings that followed soon after. Before Frances could reply to Charlotte’s assertion, she heard her aunt calling out her name. The cousins exchanged looks of curiosity, and linking arms, they set off towards the foreground of the gleaming carriage, where Louisa Wentworth was standing. Around her, a crowd of women, shrouded by a motley assortment of parasols, was huddled together, deep in conversation. As the two cousins approached the conveyance, they knew that something was terribly wrong.
Louisa greeted the two young women with a grave face. ‘Get in,’ she instructed in a toneless voice. ‘Get in the carriage now.’
‘What is it, Mama?’ Charlotte queried. ‘What is the matter?’
‘Just get inside and I will tell you everything.’
Frances and Charlotte instinctively peered in through the window of the carriage, expecting to see the bride-to-be and her bridesmaids enshrouded by mists of white satin, ferns and orange blossoms. To their surprise, however, there were just two occupants in the carriage: Reverend Cyril Beckett sitting stony-faced in the corner of the carriage, and Michael Brearly sitting opposite him, looking equally severe. An envelope sat conspicuously on Cyril’s lap.
At the sight of him and the envelope, Charlotte gasped. ‘Oh, Cyril, my love! Where is Agnes? Where are the bridesmaids?’
Cyril Beckett said nothing, but motioned his young wife to sit beside him. She promptly did as she
was bid. Frances too, took a seat on the opposite side, near the door of the carriage, and in the next moment, the carriage door opened again to admit Louisa. The vehicle shuddered as Louisa moved about, but after sitting down beside her daughter, the conveyance became unusually still. For some time no-one spoke.
‘Frances,’ Louisa said at length, ‘you were speaking to George earlier on, were you not?’
Frances looked anxiously about her. ‘Yes I was, briefly.’
‘And what did he say to you?’
‘Nothing of any consequence.’
‘I’m afraid you must be more explicit, Miss Norwood,’ Cyril urged, ‘for everyone’s sake.’
Frances trembled under his scrutiny. ‘Ah, um,’ she began, ‘he, he was talking about returning to Melbourne after the wedding—’
‘And?’ Louisa interjected, ‘what else?’
‘And something about a present, a wedding present for Doctor Brearly and Agnes.’
Michael seized upon her words. ‘What sort of present?’
Frances smiled uncertainly. ‘Well I can hardly tell you that, can I?’ she said, turning slightly towards him. ‘It will ruin his surprise.’
‘Never mind about that, Frances,’ Louisa barked, ‘just tell us what the present is.’
Frances began picking at her gloves. ‘Well to be honest with you, Aunt, I don’t know. George said that his brother wouldn’t like it at first, but he was convinced that the doctor would recognise its value later on.’
‘Oh, you dreadful girl!’ Louisa suddenly thundered. ‘Why did you not tell us about this?’
Frances was confounded. ‘What have I done now?’
‘Nothing!’ Louisa screeched. ‘That is what you have done! If only you had told us about this earlier, we might have been able to stop them!’ She rummaged around in her purse for a clean handkerchief. ‘Dear, oh dear,’ Louisa moaned, ‘dear, oh dear!’ She slumped back in her seat.
‘How can this be my fault?’ Frances retaliated. ‘I don’t even know what’s happened.’ She looked across the carriage to her cousin. Charlotte’s eyes were downcast.
‘Agnes is missing,’ Cyril abruptly announced, ‘as is George and the child.’
‘Jack?’ Frances cried. ‘Jack Maycroft?’
Cyril nodded solemnly. ‘They left a note for Michael in the carriage.’
‘And what was in the note?’ Frances probed.
‘There’s no easy way to put this, Miss Norwood,’ he resumed in his most sermon-like tone, ‘so I’ll be blunt.’ He paused briefly. ‘Your cousin Agnes and George have taken the Maycroft boy from under our noses, and have run away together.’
Breakfast at Midnight Page 48