by Jane Feather
Max rose to his feet as the waiter pulled back her chair and she extricated herself with a graceful twitch of her skirts. Max watched her as she moved through the dining room towards the ladies' retiring room, pausing at a number of tables en route. He couldn't decide whether the evening had been a success or not. He'd discovered what he wanted to know, but he didn't think he'd succeeded too well in disarming the lady. She showed no inclination to respond to either flattery or overt seduction. And for his part, while she was a lovely woman and a stimulating companion, he found her passionate wrongheadedness and her constant sparring utterly exasperating. But perhaps it was a way to hold him at bay. If it was, it succeeded all too well.
And now his interest was truly piqued. He would topple the castle one way or another. There had to be a woman beneath the intellectual shell. It was all very well to be possessed by the passions of the mind, and he was more than happy to pay all due respect to her mental prowess, but there were other passions that even such a single-minded woman could learn to respect and enjoy.
Constance emerged from the retiring room, having discreetly left a copy of The Mayfair Lady in the basket of linen towels, out of sight of the attendant. She wasn't sure what she'd accomplished this evening. A few details about Miss Westcott, but nothing significant, and the possibility that the government was at least examining the women's suffrage issue. It wasn't much to take away. And she didn't think she'd made a dent in Max Ensor's Neanderthal views on a woman's place. Power behind the throne, indeed. But she had an entire weekend ahead of her. A weekend under her own roof. If she couldn't make some headway with the man, she wasn't the woman she believed herself to be.
Max was on his feet as she approached the table. She wore a little half smile, a secretive and rather complacent Mona Lisa smile, and a certain gleam in her eye that fascinated him even as it put him on his guard. What had she been up to in the ordinarily innocuous confines of the ladies' retiring room? He said only, “The cab's waiting.”
Constance became aware of her smile as she caught his slightly speculative look. She realized that she had been smiling for the entire walk across the dining room and now hastily composed her features and murmured the correct pleasantries.
They sat in silence in the darkened interior of the hackney, but it was a suspenseful silence. Constance wondered if he would make a move, and wondered how, if he did, she should respond. It wouldn't be unusual at the end of such an evening for her escort to offer a discreet if not hesitant kiss. She waited, but not for long. Max laid a hand gently on her knee. She did not react. She let the warm pressure soak through the thin silk. He turned on the leather bench and with his other hand cupped her chin, turning her face towards his. She could see his eyes in the gloom, glowing and yet dark, the shape of his nose, the full sensual curve of his mouth. She remained still and silent, still unsure as to how she wanted to react.
Max ran a finger over her lips, wondering how to interpret her silence, her immobility that was neither rejection nor resistance. Then she parted her lips and lightly touched his finger with the tip of her tongue. The bold assurance of her gesture surprised him even as he realized that it was time he ceased to be surprised by Constance Duncan. He bent his head and kissed her. Her response told him clearly that she was no tyro in these matters. So much the better, he thought. Her mouth opened beneath his, her hands moved to encircle his neck, and as his tongue moved deep within her mouth she met him thrust for thrust. He had thought to offer nothing more than a chaste peck, but she had taken matters into her own hands. Perversely, he wasn't entirely sure that it pleased him.
The coach drew to a halt. “Manchester Square, guv.” The cabby's lilting call broke the silence and they drew apart. Constance brushed her lips with her fingertips, smoothed her hair. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Max.”
“The pleasure was all mine, Constance.” His teeth gleamed white as he returned her formal farewell and the very polite smile. He stepped out to the pavement and gave her his hand to help her alight. He walked her to the top of the steps, pulled the bell rope, and raised her hand to his lips. “À bientôt.”
“Friday, Waterloo, at noon,” Constance responded.
“I look forward to it.”
Constance raised a hand in a gesture of farewell and turned away as Jenkins opened the door for her. “You had a pleasant dinner, miss?” he inquired.
“I'm not entirely sure,” she responded. “Are my sisters in bed?”
“I hardly think so, Miss Con,” Jenkins said with a knowing smile. “I believe you'll find them in the parlor upstairs.”
“Then I'll bid you good night.” Constance gave him a wave and hurried up the stairs, holding her skirts clear of her feet. She couldn't avoid this tête-à-tête with her sisters, who would be eagerly awaiting her return, and she wouldn't want to anyway, but she wasn't sure how much she was prepared to reveal about the carriage ride home. She had intended to offer a light and playful good night kiss that would merely tease him. Somehow that was not what had happened. Not at all what had happened. She opened the parlor door.
Prue and Chastity were playing backgammon but they jumped up as she came in. “So, tell us all,” Chastity demanded. “Did you squabble all evening, or did it become wonderfully romantic?”
“Oh, you are impossible, Chas.” Constance drew off her gloves. “As it happens we squabbled almost nonstop and the only romantic moment was when he kissed me good night in the cab.”
“A good kiss?” Prudence asked with raised eyebrows.
“I'm still trying to decide.” She flung herself inelegantly into the depths of the chesterfield and kicked off her shoes. Her sisters were gazing at her with all the fixed attention of lions waiting to be thrown their food.
“On a scale of one to ten,” Prudence demanded.
Constance pretended to consider the matter. She stretched out her hands and examined her nails. “Bold,” she said thoughtfully. “Strong . . . warm . . . lips and tongue well plied . . . Since I don't think it's possible to give a ten because you never know what else you might experience, I'll say an eight.”
“Pretty high praise,” Prudence judged.
“Sounds a little forward for a first kiss,” Chastity observed, beginning to gather up the backgammon pieces.
“I suppose it was,” Constance agreed. “But it wasn't entirely his fault.”
“Oh, really?” Her sisters regarded her intently. Then Chastity asked simply, “Was it at all like with Douglas?”
Constance didn't immediately reply. “I don't know,” she said after a minute. “It's awful, but I can't really remember anymore what it was like with Douglas. It's hard enough to see his features clearly in my mind. But when I think of him buried under some South African kopje I want to tear my hair out, scream and hiss and spit at the whole damned injustice of it all.” She stared down at the carpet, but her eyes were unfocused. “I'm over it, of course I am, but I'm in no hurry to bury his memory in some new passion.”
“So Max Ensor isn't getting under your skin,” Prudence stated.
“No,” Constance said definitely. “His opinions are. He's positively Neanderthal. But I very much like the idea of working on him.” She looked up, her expression once more relaxed, the shadows gone from her eyes. “I intend to give Max Ensor a radical education, and before I'm done with him he'll be wearing the colors of the WSPU.”
“And he's definitely coming to Romsey for the weekend?”
Constance nodded. “Yes. He'll meet us at Waterloo.”
“And you've already made some plans for him?”
“They're in embryo at present but they're coming together.” A grin flashed across her countenance. “I'll tell you when I've sorted them out properly. Oh, by the way, he wanted us to drive down but I managed to dissuade him. I told him father's eyesight was bad but he still wanted to get a motor and we didn't want to encourage him.”
“Nicely saved.” Prudence yawned involuntarily. “Anything useful about Miss Westcott?”
>
“Not really. She's not some ingenue, that much I did discover. Past the age of discretion is how Max put it. She's managed to stick it out at the Grahams for longer than any other governess, so the child likes her. That's about it.”
“Oh, well, it's something. I wonder what it is that's so delicate about her situation.” Chastity went to the door.
“No doubt we shall find out.” Constance extinguished the lights and followed her sisters up to bed.
Amelia Westcott hurried across Park Lane from Hyde Park, clutching the hand of her protesting charge, and entered the Park Lane Post Office just as a shower of rain gusted across the street.
“My hat is wet,” Pammy complained. “It's my new straw hat. Mama just bought it, and now it's wet and spoiled.”
“It will dry, Pammy,” Amelia said. “See, we're out of the rain now.” She let the door bang behind her. “Let's have a race with the raindrops on the window.” She encouraged the girl over to the glass and pointed out two drops trickling slowly from the top. “The one on the left is mine.” She indicated with her finger.
“I want that one.”
“Very well. Then I'll have the one on the right.” Suppressing a sigh, Amelia went to the counter, where the clerk gave her a sympathetic smile.
“Mornin', Miss Westcott. Got a letter for you . . . arrived in the morning post.” He turned to the wall of pigeonholes behind him and took out a long envelope.
“Mine won! Mine won!” Pamela danced over to the counter. “See, Miss Westcott. Mine won!” She grabbed her governess's hand, tugging her back to the window. Amelia pocketed her letter, smiled her thanks to the clerk, and allowed herself to be dragged to view the triumph of the anonymous raindrop.
“See!” Pamela jabbed at the bottom of the window. “That was mine. Let's do it again. I want to do it again.” Her voice rose slightly as if she was anticipating argument.
“Which one is yours?” Amelia said quickly.
“That one!” The child pointed. “And that one's yours.”
Amelia reconciled herself to a tedious quarter hour playing this game. The letter itched in her pocket but nothing would be gained by rousing the devil in Pamela. She thought wearily that she had always liked children. She had told herself that becoming a governess wasn't the worst fate to befall an educated woman without means. Now, regarding this spoiled and rather sad child, she thought that a life on the streets might be considerably more congenial.
Finally, however, Pamela tired of the game and the rain stopped. They walked back to Albermarle Street, the child in great good humor, having secured herself a win in every raindrop contest. She prattled nonstop, skipping through puddles, heedless of the splashes to her smocked pinafore and white stockings. Nanny Baxter would grumble from the comfort of her armchair all afternoon, Amelia reflected. But this afternoon it wouldn't trouble her. She had a few short hours of liberty and a letter in her pocket.
In the day nursery she installed her charge at the lunch table under the supervision of the nursery maid, and went to her own bedroom conveniently situated next to the night nursery, in case Miss Pammy awoke with a nightmare. She withdrew the envelope from her coat pocket and slit it with a fingernail. She took out the single sheet and sat slowly on the narrow bed. The handwriting was feminine and the core of the message made her heart leap. Lyons Corner House. Marble Arch, at four o'clock this afternoon. Whoever or whatever constituted the Go-Between, she or they were prepared to help if they could.
Amelia lay back on her bed, still in her damp coat and hat. When she'd seen the advertisement in The Mayfair Lady it had seemed like the answer to a prayer. Her situation was impossible; it had no feasible solution; and yet it would inevitably be resolved one way or the other. She had no one to turn to. And then the advertisement. The service had to be offered by women; no man would advertise in The Mayfair Lady. For the first time she saw a smidgeon of hope on the bleak horizon. And now, as she read the response a second time and her eyes dwelled on each feminine stroke of the pen, she felt a strange but sure comfort. The only women friends she had known had been in her school in Bath. When she left there, sufficiently educated for a life as a governess, she had known only her employers, and there were no cozy female relationships to be developed there. Letitia Graham was about the worst Amelia had encountered.
“Miss Westcott? Your lunch is getting cold.”
“I'm coming right away,” she called back to the nursemaid, who'd accompanied her call with an imperative rap at the door. She discarded coat and hat, combed her hair, and returned to the day nursery to eat macaroni pudding with her charge.
Three o'clock came at last. Pamela went off with her mother and Amelia left the house. She walked quickly to Marble Arch. Gusty showers swept leaves from the trees and dampened the pavements and pedestrians scurried under umbrellas, sheltering in doorways or under awnings whenever they became particularly threatening. Amelia was unperturbed.
The Lyons Corner House was on the corner of Marble Arch, its glass windows steamed up with the rain outside and the warmth within. She went in, glancing at her watch. She was half an hour early. She selected a table in the window and took a seat facing the door so that she would have a clear view. She set her copy of The Mayfair Lady on the table in plain view and ordered tea. The letter had said that the Go-Between would be carrying a copy of the newspaper; it made sense to Amelia that she should do the same.
Her tea arrived, with a hot buttered crumpet. She took her time, enjoying every bite. Apart from her late-night supper, which was always cold meat of some description and sliced tomato or beetroot, she ate every meal with her charge, and Pamela's tastes were monotonous. She kept her eye on the door and precisely at four o'clock, three women walked in. They wore hats with delicate little veils that covered only their eyes—neat hats—and subdued clothes that nevertheless shouted both money and elegance. Amelia felt her optimism fade. Then she saw the distinctive badge—purple, white, and green—that the tallest of the women wore; and she saw the copy of The Mayfair Lady that she carried. Her spirits lifted. This woman was a member of the WSPU.
The three women paused, looked around the restaurant, and Amelia hesitantly lifted her copy of the newspaper. They came towards her, putting back their veils as they did so.
“Miss Westcott.” The woman wearing the WSPU badge held out her hand. “I'm Constance. Let me introduce my sisters. This is Prudence . . . and Chastity.” She indicated her companions, who shook Amelia's hand and sat down.
“So how can we help you, Miss Westcott?”
Chapter 7
I need to find a husband,” Amelia Westcott stated.
“Well, that's to the point,” Constance observed, taking off her gloves and putting them in her handbag.
“It is what your service offers?” Amelia said, her heart fluttering, her gray eyes expressing uncertainty and anxiety.
“Certainly it is,” Prudence said. “Let us order tea.”
“Those crumpets look delicious,” Chastity declared. “We shall have a plate of those and four cream slices.” She smiled at the elderly waitress in her starched cap and apron.
The waitress made a note on her pad and went away with the weary flat-footed tread of one who spent far too many hours on her feet.
“So what kind of husband did you have in mind?” Constance asked.
“Well, I don't know exactly. I assumed you'd have a list . . . a register or something . . . of men looking for wives.”
The sisters glanced at one another and Amelia's anxiety increased. The return of the waitress with tea prevented further discussion but once she had gone and the thick china cups were filled, crumpets passed, Prudence took off her glasses, rubbed them with her handkerchief, and carefully replaced them on her nose.
“That is what we hope to achieve, Miss Westcott,” she said. “But as of this moment we don't exactly have a register.” She blinked once behind her glasses. “You see, you happen to be our first client.”
“Oh.” Amelia l
ooked as confused as she felt. “How . . . how could that be?”
“Well, there has to be a first,” Chastity pointed out, spooning sugar into her tea.
“Yes, we've . . . or rather, The Mayfair Lady has just started offering the Go-Between service,” Constance explained, cutting a crumpet into neat quarters. “But I'm certain we can help you. You said something about a delicate situation. If you could tell us something about yourself and your position, we could make a start.”
Amelia regarded the three sisters doubtfully. She had nerved herself to confide her wretched situation with a businesslike and efficient agency. She had not expected to take tea with three society ladies and discuss the matter as if it were mere social chitchat.
Constance saw her hesitation and said, “Miss Westcott, we understand something of your situation. It can't be pleasant to be subject to Lady Graham.”
Amelia flushed. “How could you possibly know . . . ?”
“This is awkward,” Prudence said. “We know Letitia. And we happened to discover that her daughter's governess was a Miss Westcott.” She shrugged a little defensively. “It's inevitable in our position.” She shrugged again.
Amelia reached for her gloves on the table beside her. “I cannot see how you could help me. I had assumed this would be a businesslike arrangement; I could not possibly confide my situation to people who would be in a position to betray my trust.” Her hands shook as she struggled with her buttoned gloves.
There was a moment of silence, then Chastity leaned forward and laid a hand over Amelia's quivering fingers. “Listen for a minute, Amelia. We would not under any circumstances betray your confidence to anyone. We have a pledge of utter discretion. What we know of Letitia simply makes us all the more anxious to help you. You need a husband to escape her service. Is that the situation?”
There was such sincerity and sympathy in her voice that Amelia felt some of her earlier hope trickle back. She looked at the three women and read the compassion in their eyes. There was compassion but there was also strength and determination in all three faces that somehow imparted confidence.