by Jane Feather
“The ones who go to Mayfair soirées, you mean,” Prudence responded with a judicious nod of her head. “I'm sure the more euphemistic opera singers are very much in his style.”
Chastity raised an eyebrow at this caustic comment. “He is what he is,” she said pacifically.
“Who is?” This from Constance, who had just returned with the curling iron. “Oh, you mean Father.”
“Prue was accusing him of dancing attendance on opera singers.”
“I'm sure he does. Mother wouldn't begrudge it, he's been a widower for three years.” She set the curling iron onto the trivet over the small fire in the grate, lit for just this purpose, although it also helped to keep at bay the residual dampness in the air from the afternoon's downpour.
“I don't begrudge him anything but what it costs,” Prudence said with the same acidity. “We go without new gowns while some opera singer or whatever she is wears the latest fashions and is all hung about with jewelry.”
“Oh, come on, Prue. You don't know that,” Chastity chided.
“Oh, don't I?” her sister said darkly. “There was a bill from Penhaligon's the other morning for a bottle of perfume from the House of Worth, and I don't smell it on any of us.”
“Ask him about it at dinner, if he's in,” Constance suggested. “See what he says.”
“Oh, no, not I.” Prudence shook her head vigorously. “I'm not risking one of his tantrums. You know how he resents any suggestion that I might be looking over his bills.”
“I don't mind the shouting so much.” Chastity took up the now hot iron and twisted her sister's ringlets around it. The smell of singeing hair rose momentarily. “I can't bear it when he looks sad and reproachful, and starts talking about your dear mother, and how she never would have dreamed of questioning his actions let alone his expenses.” She set down the curling iron.
“Quite,” Prudence agreed. “You can ask him if you like, Con, but don't expect me to back you up. It's all right for me to manage the household accounts, but to pry into his own personal business? Oh, no!”
“I shall be silent as the grave,” Constance assured. “Are we ready?” She went to the door.
As they descended the wide curving staircase to the marble-floored hall the stately figure of Jenkins the butler emerged from the shadows as if he'd been waiting for them. “Miss Prue, may I have a word?” He stepped back into the gloom beneath the curve of the stairs.
“Yes, of course.” They moved towards him into the shadows. “Trouble, Jenkins?” asked Constance.
“His lordship, miss. It's the wine for tonight.”
Jenkins pulled at his long, pointed chin. He was a tall, very thin man with a rather spectral appearance enhanced by his pale face, his black garments, and the shadows in which he stood. “Lord Duncan ordered two bottles of the '94 Saint-Estèphe to be brought up for dinner tonight.”
“And of course there's none in the cellar,” Constance said with a sigh.
“Exactly, Miss Con. We ran out some months ago and Lord Duncan instructed me to order replacements . . .” He spread out his hands palms up in a gesture of helplessness. “The price of a case is astronomical now, miss. When Lord Duncan bought the original to lay down it was quite inexpensive, but now that it's drinkable it's quite another matter.” He shook his head mournfully. “I didn't even attempt to put in an order to Harpers. I hoped his lordship would forget about it.”
“A fond hope,” Constance said. “Father has the memory of an elephant.”
“Couldn't you substitute another wine? Decant it so he can't see the label,” Chastity suggested, and then answered her own question. “No, of course not. He'd recognize it right away.”
“Why don't we tell him that Harpers didn't have any more of that vintage but you forgot to mention it earlier?” Prudence suggested. “What could you substitute for tonight that would console him?”
“I brought up two bottles of a '98 claret that would go particularly well with Mrs. Hudson's chicken fricassee,” Jenkins said. “But I didn't want to mention it to his lordship until I'd discussed it with you.”
“Forewarned is forearmed,” Constance said with a grimace. “We'll tell him ourselves. We can say that you mentioned it to us.”
“Thank you, Miss Con.” Jenkins looked visibly relieved. “I believe his lordship is already in the drawing room. I'll bring in the sherry.”
The sisters moved out of the shadows and crossed the hall to the great double doors that led into the drawing room at the rear of the house. It was a delightful room, its elegance only faintly diminished by the worn carpets on the oak floor, the shabby chintz of the furniture, and the shiny patches on the heavy velvet curtains.
The long windows stood open onto a wide terrace with a low stone parapet that ran the width of the house and looked over a small, neat flower garden, glistening now with the afternoon's raindrops. The redbrick wall that enclosed the garden glowed rosy and warm beneath the last rays of the evening sun. Beyond the wall the hum of the city buzzed gently.
Lord Duncan stood before the marble-pillared fireplace, his hands clasped at his back. His evening dress was as always immaculate, his white waistcoat gleaming, the edges of his stiffened shirtfront exquisitely pleated, the high starched collar lifting his rather heavy chin over the white tie. He greeted his daughters with a smile and a courteous bow of his head.
“Good evening, my dears. I thought I would dine in tonight. Shall we take our sherry on the terrace? It's a lovely evening after the rain this afternoon.”
“Yes, I got caught in it,” Constance said, kissing her father's cheek before stepping aside so that her sisters could perform the same greeting. “I was drenched when I got to Fortnum's.”
“Did you have tea?” Arthur Duncan inquired with another benign smile. “Cream cakes, I'm sure.”
“Oh, Chas had the cream cakes,” Constance said.
“And Prue,” Chastity exclaimed. “I wasn't alone in indulgence.”
“Well, you all look quite handsome tonight,” their father observed, moving towards the open windows just as the butler entered the room. Jenkins raised an inquiring eyebrow at Constance.
“Oh, we ran into Jenkins in the hall,” she said swiftly. “He was concerned because he'd forgotten to mention that Harpers has no more supplies of the wine you wanted him to bring up for tonight.”
Prudence stepped out onto the terrace beside her father. “He's suggesting a '98 claret,” she said to him. “Mrs. Hudson's chicken fricassee will go very well with it.”
A pained look crossed Lord Duncan's well-bred countenance. “What a nuisance. It was a particularly fine St. Estephe.” He turned to Jenkins, who was following him with a silver tray bearing decanter and glasses. “I hope you told Harpers to let us have whatever they can lay hands on as soon as possible, Jenkins.”
“Indeed, my lord, but they were doubtful of finding another supply. It was a small vintage, as I understand it.”
Lord Duncan took a glass from the tray. He frowned down into a stone urn on the parapet planted with brightly colored petunias. There was a short silence in which everyone but his lordship held their breath. Then he raised his glass to his lips, muttered, “Ah, well, these things are sent to try us, no doubt. So what are you girls planning for this evening?”
The crisis had been averted. Jenkins moved back into the house and Lord Duncan's daughters breathed again. “We're going to the Beekmans' musical evening,” Chastity informed him. “There's to be an opera singer.”
“I don't imagine you'll want to escort us, Father?” Constance asked with a touch of mischief.
“Good God, no! Not my kind of thing at all!” Lord Duncan drained his glass. “No, no, I shall go to my club as usual. Play some bridge . . .” He regarded his daughters with a suddenly irritated frown that indicated he was still put out by the loss of his St.-Estèphe. “Can't think why none of you is married yet,” he said. “Nothing wrong with you that I can see.”
“Perhaps the problem lies with
potential suitors,” Constance said with a sweet smile. “Perhaps there is something wrong with them.”
There was something in that smile and her tone that caused her father's frown to deepen. He remembered Lord Douglas Spender's untimely death. He didn't care to be reminded of unpleasant things, and Constance had rarely exhibited an excess of emotion over the loss of her fiancé . . . at least not in front of him. But he was astute enough to realize that with this oblique reminder she was taking him to task for his thoughtless comment.
He cleared his throat. “I'm sure it's only your business,” he said gruffly. “Let us go in to dinner.”
Dinner passed without further incident. Lord Duncan drank his claret without complaint and made only a fleeting reference to the rather limited selection of cheeses presented before dessert.
“Jenkins, would you ask Cobham to bring the carriage around in half an hour?” Constance asked as she rose with her sisters to withdraw from the dining room and leave their father to his port and cigar.
“Certainly, Miss Constance.” Jenkins poured port for his lordship.
“Ah, I meant to tell you. I have it in mind to purchase a motorcar,” Lord Duncan announced. “No more of this horse-and-carriage business. We can be at Romsey Manor from the city in less than four hours with a motorcar. Just think of that.”
“A motor!” exclaimed Prue. “Father, you can't be serious.”
“And why can't I?” he demanded. “Keep up with the times, my dear Prudence. Everyone will have one in a few years.”
“But the cost . . .” Her voice faded as she saw a dull flush creep over her father's countenance.
“What is that to you, miss?”
“Why, nothing at all,” Prudence said with an airy wave. “How should it be?” She brushed past her sisters as she left the dining room, her mouth set.
“He is impossible!” she said in a fierce undertone once they were in the hall. “He knows there's no money.”
“I don't know whether he really does know,” Chastity said. “He's denied every fact of life since Mother's death.”
“Well, there's nothing we can do about it at present,” Constance said. “It always takes him a long time actually to do something, so let's wait and see.” She hurried to the stairs. “Come on, we don't want to miss the opera singer.”
Prudence followed her upstairs with a glum expression that did not lighten while they collected their evening cloaks and returned downstairs, where Jenkins waited by the open front door. A barouche stood at the bottom of the shallow flight of steps that led down to the pavement. An elderly coachman stood on the pavement beside the carriage, whistling idly through his teeth.
“Evening, Cobham.” Chastity smiled at him as he handed her up into the carriage. “We're going to the Beekmans' on Grosvenor Square.”
“Right you are, Miss Chas. Evening, ladies.” He touched his cap to Constance and Prudence as they climbed in beside Chastity.
“Did you hear that Lord Duncan is talking of getting a motorcar?” Constance asked him when he had climbed somewhat creakily onto the driver's box.
“Aye, miss, he said something to me the other morning when I was taking him to his club. Reckon I'd make a poor chauffeur. I'm too old to learn new tricks . . . no time for those newfangled machines. What's going to happen to all the horses if there's no call for 'em? Are we going to put 'em all out to grass? Put me out to pasture, that's for sure,” he added in a low grumble.
“Well, if he mentions it again try to persuade him that it's a very bad idea,” Prudence said.
Cobham nodded his head as he flicked the whip across the horses' flanks. “Expensive business, motors.”
The Beekmans' house on Grosvenor Square was brilliantly lit both within and without. A footman stood on the pavement directing the traffic and a trio of underfootmen held up lanterns to light the guests' way up the steps and into the house.
“Ah, if it isn't the Honorable Misses Duncan,” a familiar smooth voice declared from the steps behind them as they went up. “How pleasant to meet you again.”
Constance was the first to turn and the first to realize that she had responded to the greeting with more than ordinary alacrity. She disguised this beneath a cool smile and offered a small bow of her head. “Mr. Ensor. A pleasure.” She turned unusually enthusiastic attention to his sister beside him. “Letitia, you look wonderful. Such an elegant gown; is it Paquin? The gold trimming has her look. We haven't seen you for several weeks. Were you in the country?”
“Oh, yes, Bertie insisted we fetch Pamela from Kent ourselves. She spent a few weeks in the country but she gets bored so quickly. Children do.” Lady Graham smiled fondly. “Her governess gets quite distracted trying to keep her occupied.”
Constance inclined her head in acknowledgment but she couldn't help the slightly disparaging lift of her mobile eyebrows that frequently betrayed her true responses. It was an involuntary reaction she thought she had inherited from her mother. She smiled in an effort to counteract the effect of the eyebrows and continued up the steps.
“May I help you with your cloak, Miss Duncan?” Max Ensor moved behind her when they reached the majestic pillared hall and with a calm and seemingly innate confidence reached around her neck to unclasp her silk cloak.
“Thank you.” She was taken aback. Men did not in general presume to offer her such attentions unasked. She saw that Letitia was in animated conversation with Prudence and Chastity and clearly no longer in need of her brother's escort.
Max smiled and folded the cloak over his arm, turning to find a servant to take it from him. “I have a feeling you disapproved of my niece's inattention to her governess,” he observed once he'd divested himself of his own black silk opera cloak, its crimson silk lining a jaunty flash of color against the black and white of his evening attire.
“My wretched eyebrows,” she said with a mock sigh, and he laughed.
“They do seem rather eloquent.”
Constance shrugged. “I have very strong feelings on the education of women. I see no reason why girls should not be expected to learn as well as boys.” She noticed a twinkle in Max Ensor's blue eyes as she spoke that disconcerted her. Was he laughing at her? Mocking her opinion?
She felt her hackles rise and continued with an edge to her voice, “I can only assume your niece has a poor governess. Either she's incapable of making her lessons interesting, or she's incapable of making her charge pay attention.”
“The fault I fear lies with Pamela's mother,” Max said, and while his eyes still contained that glint of humor his tone was now all seriousness. He offered Constance his arm to ascend the wide sweep of stairs leading to the gallery above, from whence the strains of a Chopin waltz drifted down. “She will not have the child subjected to any form of structure or discipline. What Pammy doesn't like, Pammy doesn't do.”
Constance looked up at him. His mouth had now acquired a rather severe twist and the amusement in his eyes had been replaced by a distinctly critical expression. “You don't care for your niece?”
“Oh, yes, I care for her a great deal. It's not her fault that she's so spoiled. But she's only six, so I have hopes she'll grow out of it.”
He was speaking with the level certainty of experience. Her antagonism died under a surge of curiosity. “Do you have children of your own, Mr. Ensor?”
He shook his head vigorously as if the question was absurd. “No, I don't even have a wife, Miss Duncan.”
“I see.” How old was he? Constance wondered. She cast him a quick upward glance as they stood together in the doorway to the large and brightly lit salon waiting for the butler to announce them.
He looked to be in his late thirties, perhaps early forties. Either way, a little old to be beginning a parliamentary career, and certainly of an age where one would expect a wife by the fireside and a nursery full of children. Perhaps he had had a wife once. Or some grand illicit passion that had ended in disaster and disappointment. She dismissed the thought as pure romantic n
onsense. Not something she indulged in as a rule.
“The Honorable Miss Duncan . . . the Right Honorable Mr. Max Ensor,” the butler intoned.
They stepped forward to greet their hostess, who regarded Max Ensor with sharp, assessing eyes. She had two marriageable daughters and every single male newcomer was possible husband material. To Constance, whose own unmarried status made her a possible rival, she merely nodded. She then began to question Max Ensor with artful ease.
Constance, who knew Arabella Beekman's tactics all too well, smiled politely and moved on to greet other friends and acquaintances. She took a glass of champagne from a passing tray, then found herself watching Max Ensor. To her amazement, he managed to extricate himself within five minutes from his hostess's formidable investigative curiosity. Something of a record in these circumstances.
He paused, looked around, and made a beeline for Constance. Constance, embarrassed that he had probably sensed her own interested gaze, turned away, and began to address a lanky youth whose spotty complexion and hesitant manner generally kept him on the social sidelines at such functions.
“I feel as if I've been subjected to the third degree,” Max Ensor declared as he came up to her. “Oh, you've finished your champagne.” He took the glass from her suddenly inert fingers and handed it with a firm smile to the young man. “You should always make sure that your companion has everything she needs, you know. Fetch Miss Duncan another glass of champagne.”
Constance was about to protest but the youth stammered an apology and almost ran away with her glass. “I have no need of another glass,” she said, not troubling to hide her annoyance.
“Oh, nonsense,” he said carelessly. “Of course you do. Anyway, how else was I to relieve you of your companion?”
“It didn't occur to you that perhaps I didn't wish to be relieved?” she said tartly.
He raised his arched black eyebrows in incredulity. “Oh, come now, Miss Duncan.”
And despite her very real annoyance, Constance could not help but laugh. “The poor boy is so shy it's only charitable to engage him in conversation. Did you realize that Arabella Beekman was sizing you up for one of her daughters?”