by Jane Feather
Amelia made up her mind. What did she have to lose, after all?
“It's not as simple as that,” she said, a dull flush creeping over her cheeks. “If it were, I would simply find another situation.”
She had their complete attention. Tea cooled in cups, butter pooled beneath crumpets. “Two months ago I was in the country with Pamela. Lord and Lady Graham wanted her to spend the summer out of London in their country house in Kent.”
The three sisters nodded. Amelia toyed with the spoon in her saucer, her eyes on the white linen tablecloth. “There were to be no formal lessons since it was a holiday, but I was to take her for instructional walks, supervise her riding lessons . . .” She paused and the flush on her cheeks deepened. “And supervise her music lessons. Pamela is always very reluctant to practice on the pianoforte. She is, I'm afraid, an impatient pupil in most areas.”
“Her mother is not an advocate of education for women,” Constance said.
Amelia gave a short laugh. “Indeed not. But it's hard to blame Lady Graham since her own education was so sadly lacking. Indeed, I believe she considers it to be a disadvantage in a woman.”
“I'm sure she does,” Prudence said, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a forefinger. Her eyes were shrewd as they rested upon Amelia Westcott. “The music teacher . . .” she prompted.
Amelia took a deep breath. “Henry Franklin,” she stated on a swift exhalation. “The youngest son of Justice Franklin, the local magistrate and owner of the local brickworks. Henry's a musician; his father does not approve. He wants him to do the accounting at the brickworks. His two brothers work there and Mr. Franklin expects Henry to join them.”
“And Henry refuses.” Chastity took a cream slice from the plate and thoughtfully licked a dab of raspberry jam from her finger.
“Not exactly . . . he . . .” Amelia shrugged helplessly. “He goes into the office and tries to do what his father wants but it's killing his soul. His father said that if he could make a living at teaching music then he would cease his objections, but Mr. Franklin knows perfectly well that Henry couldn't survive as a musician without his support, and in exchange for that support he must do as his father says.”
Constance thought that this Henry Franklin lacked strength of character if not conviction but she kept her mouth shut. She had the sense that this was only the beginning of Amelia Westcott's problem.
“I'm getting the impression that you and Henry Franklin developed an understanding while you were in Kent,” Chastity said delicately, breaking off a piece of flaky pastry from her cake.
Amelia finally raised her eyes from the tablecloth. “Yes,” she said bluntly. “Rather more than an understanding.” She met their gaze without flinching. “As a result I now find myself in a delicate situation.”
“Oh,” Prudence said. “That's very awkward.”
“A husband is the only solution,” Amelia said. “Once my condition is known to Lady Graham she'll cast me out without a reference, and I'll never be able to find another situation. No self-respecting house would employ a fallen woman.” She met their eyes again. “Would they?”
“No,” Constance agreed. “You'd be blackballed.”
“And besides, you'll have a baby to care for,” Chastity said, frowning. “Even if you boarded the baby—”
“Which I would never do!”
“No, of course not,” Chastity said quickly. “I wasn't really suggesting it as a possibility.”
“So I need a compliant husband,” Amelia stated. “I was hoping you might have one on your books. A widower, perhaps . . . someone who'd be willing to give me the protection of his name in exchange for everything else. Child care, housekeeping . . . whatever was necessary.”
“That seems like exchanging one form of servitude for another,” Constance said.
“What choice do I have?” Amelia laid her hands palms open on the tablecloth. “I am not a woman of independent means.” There was a bitter note in her voice that drew the comparison between an impoverished governess and her present companions.
“Oddly, neither are we,” Prudence said. “We're trying to keep our father out of debtors' prison and ourselves off the streets.”
“Hence our venture with The Mayfair Lady and the Go-Between,” Chastity said.
Amelia was silent for a minute. Then she said in a flat voice, “But none of you is pregnant.”
“That is certainly true,” Constance agreed. “So let's look at your options here. Have one of these before Chas eats them all.” She offered the plate of cakes to Amelia.
“I've developed the most dreadful passion for sugary food,” Amelia confided, taking one of the creamy confections. “Fortunately Pammy is kept well supplied with such things.” She took a healthy bite, aware that she was feeling stronger, almost lighthearted. These three women had somehow managed to take the desperation out of her situation. She had no idea how, since they didn't appear to offer the salvation she had hoped for.
“It seems to me that Henry would be the best candidate,” Chastity suggested somewhat tentatively. It was such an obvious solution she assumed there was a problem that Amelia had not divulged.
“Unless he's already married?” Prudence ventured.
Amelia shook her head and dabbed pastry crumbs from the corner of her mouth. “No, he's not. He can't afford to marry without his father's consent, and Justice Franklin would not consent to his marrying an impoverished governess. Even though my family is every bit as good as the Franklins,” she added with a flash of fire.
“But what if Henry earned his living independently of his father,” Constance mused. “Could he get a job in a school as a music teacher? I believe some of the better prep schools even provide housing for their teaching staff.”
“I could suggest it if I could get in touch with him,” Amelia said, and now her voice lost its vibrancy. “I've written to him several times, although I couldn't tell him the situation. I couldn't risk writing something like that. Lady Graham probably reads my blotter in a mirror.”
“I doubt she's clever enough,” Constance said acidly.
A wryly appreciative smile touched Amelia's lips but her expression instantly returned to gloom. “I haven't heard a word from Henry. He's not answered a single one of my letters. He must have received them; the post is perfectly reliable. I can only assume he doesn't want to hear from me.”
“There could be other explanations,” Chastity said. “Perhaps he's not at the address anymore.”
“In that case why wouldn't he write and give me his new address?”
“There you have me.” Constance drummed her fingers on the table. “I suggest we find out.”
“How?”
“Pay him a visit.”
“But I could never get even a day's free time.”
“Not you, Amelia, us.”
“Yes, we'll go and make a reconnaissance,” Prudence said. “We won't necessarily tell him anything specific; we'll just see what the situation is.”
“It's a start, at any rate.” Chastity touched Amelia's hand again. “Don't worry. We have plenty of time to sort this out. When do you think the baby's due?”
“Oh, not for another seven months.” Amelia smiled, clearly making an effort to respond to Chastity's optimism.
“Then you won't start to show for another two or three months,” Prudence stated. “And you can always loosen your gowns. You'll be able to cover it for quite a while.”
Amelia nodded. “But I must make provision. I can't wait until the last minute.”
“No, and we won't,” Constance said firmly. “We'll start with Henry, and if that proves a dead end, then we'll find another solution.”
Amelia glanced at the clock on the wall and gave a little cry of alarm. “I must get back, it's almost five-thirty. I must be back by six when Pammy gets back with her mother.” She began to fumble in her handbag. “What do I owe you for the consultation?”
“Nothing,” the sisters said in unison.<
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“And you won't owe us anything ever,” Chastity declared, ignoring a slight twitch from Prudence.
“Oh, but I must pay you. You're providing a service for hire. It says so.” Amelia tapped the copy of the newspaper on the table.
“It's all right,” Constance said with blithe exaggeration. “We have the possibility of paying clients already. They can afford to pay a little extra.”
Amelia couldn't help a wan smile. She laid a shilling on the table. “At least let me pay for my tea.”
“If you insist.” Prudence laid their own share on the table beside Amelia's. Her sisters' reckless generosity was all very well, but a shilling was a shilling.
“I see you're a member of the WSPU.” Amelia gestured to the badge Constance wore on her lapel.
“Yes, but I don't make it public.” Constance unpinned the badge. “Because of The Mayfair Lady. I write a lot of political articles and we're lobbying for women's suffrage. I don't want people to guess that I might have anything to do with the newspaper. I wore the badge this afternoon to reassure you, since I'm guessing you sympathize with the Union.”
“It did reassure me,” Amelia declared, getting to her feet. “I have to keep my affiliation a secret too. I can rarely get to meetings.”
“That will change,” Constance stated. “One of these days that will change.”
“Yes, Con's working on a Member of Parliament,” Chastity said mischievously. “We have high hopes that the Right Honorable—” She broke off in confusion as Prudence trod hard on her foot and she realized what she had been about to reveal.
Fortunately, Amelia was too anxious to be on her way to pay much attention. She scribbled the address she had for Henry Franklin in the margin of The Mayfair Lady and Constance promised that they would pay their visit to Kent at the beginning of the following week.
“Meet us here next Thursday afternoon at the same time,” Prudence said, giving Amelia her hand. “We'll have some news for you then.”
Amelia nodded, seemed about to say something, then shook her head in a brief hurried gesture and left the Corner House.
“I'm sorry.” Chastity said as soon as the door had shut with a definitive ring of its bell on the departing client. “I can't think what made me forget she would know Max Ensor. She lives under the same roof as the man, for heaven's sake.” She shook her head in self-disgust.
“Have another cake,” Prudence said. “There was no harm done.”
Chastity gave Constance a contrite smile. “Forgive me?”
“Sweetheart, there's nothing to forgive.” Constance returned the smile. “Besides, it's true. You know I intend to work on him.”
“I shouldn't have gabbed about your personal life,” Chastity said.
“Forget it, Chas. My personal life in this instance is entirely bound up with my political life, and as such is hardly personal at all.”
Prudence gathered up her belongings. “Either way, it should enliven the weekend somewhat. More than tennis anyway.”
Constance was more than happy to take her sister's cue and let the subject drop. “I'm not sure I'm going to approve of this Henry Franklin,” she said as they went out. She clapped her hand to her hat as a particularly energetic gust of wind whistled around the corner of Marylebone Street.
“We don't have to approve of him,” Prudence pointed out. “Just bring him up to the mark. Shall we take a cab?”
“Only if we can afford it, Prue dear,” Constance teased.
“Well, I'm not sure that we can,” Prudence retorted. “With you and Chas insisting on forgoing our fees. How are we to make ends meet when we don't charge the clients?”
“We have to haul in the rich ones,” Constance said. “I couldn't bring myself to take that poor woman's money, and neither could you.”
“No,” Prudence agreed. “We'll call the experience payment enough.”
“A happy solution.” Constance hailed a hackney. “I have a feeling we're going to need all the experience we can get to make Go-Between a success. How on earth are we to compile a list of eligible bachelors? And we have to find a suitable country mouse for Anonymous. At least he's prepared to pay.”
“Oh, that's simple.” Chas climbed into the hackney. “Just take a look around at our next At Home. We'll find eligible bachelors and eligible maidens aplenty.”
“And we compile our own registry,” Constance said. “So simple, and yet so brilliant.” She applauded her sister.
“I can think of a country mouse or two already. How about Millicent Hardcastle? I know she's no spring chicken but she's definitely on the market and she hates London, she always says so.” Prudence leaned out of the window. “Ten Manchester Square, cabby.”
Max Ensor stood beneath the clock in the center of Waterloo Station, a calm of presence amid the chattering, rushing throng beneath the cavernous vaulted roof of the concourse. On the platforms behind him trains puffed and blew shrill steam. Max stepped aside as a sweating porter raced past him pushing a trolley laden with baggage. A woman on very high heels that threatened to trip her at any moment clung to the arm of a red-faced man as they half ran behind the porter.
It was eleven-thirty on Friday morning and Max assumed the Duncan party would arrive with time to spare. He couldn't imagine any of the sisters in panicked haste. His valet had taken his valise and tennis rackets to the platform and was already stationed at the point where the first-class compartments would stop when the train came in.
He saw the sisters arriving through the central doors—as he expected, strolling in leisurely fashion, two porters carrying their bags. Lord Duncan was not with them, which surprised Max. It had seemed clear that the sisters were expecting their father to join them for the house party.
Constance greeted him with a wave and extended her hand as she came up with him. “Ah, Max, you're here nice and early.”
He took the hand and lightly kissed her cheek as if they were old friends, before turning to shake hands with Chastity and Prudence.
“Where's your bag, Mr. Ensor . . . oh, no, that's ridiculous. If Con calls you Max, we can hardly persist in this formality. Max it shall be. Where's your bag, Max?” Chastity asked from beneath the floppy brim of a most fetching bonnet with tulle ribbons. Little did Max suspect that the bonnet was in its fourth reincarnation.
“Marcel has it on the platform. I hope it's all right if my manservant accompanies me. I can perfectly well do without him, if space is a problem.”
“Oh, no, it's perfectly all right. David Lucan never goes anywhere without his valet. He's his mother's spy, you see. Poor David can't take a step without him,” Chastity told him with her sweet smile.
“Platform Twelve, madam,” one of the porters stated pointedly, shifting the weight of the bags from one hand to another. “Train'll be in by now.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Let's go.” Constance followed the porters across the concourse, her stride long and easy. Max kept pace beside her.
“Your father's not accompanying you?”
“Oh, yes . . . no . . . it's so vexing,” she said. “I'll tell you when we're installed. And you have every right to be annoyed.”
He looked askance but said nothing until the four of them were ensconced in a first-class carriage, their luggage safely stowed, the porters tipped, and Marcel sent off to his seat in third class.
“It's all the earl of Barclay's fault,” Chastity said, unpinning her bonnet. She stood up to set it on the luggage rack. “He's an old friend of Father's and he's just acquired a motor. And, of course, he had to offer to drive Father down to Romsey in it.”
“And, of course, Father had to accept,” Constance said. “It puts me in such an awkward position, Max. You were so understanding about our little problem and it was all for naught.”
“Oh, quite the opposite,” he said with a gallant bow. “Now I have the company of all three Duncan sisters.”
“Instead of just me,” Constance said with a mock sigh. “I'm sure I would have been
sad company.”
She was poking fun at him, at the suave and automatic little compliment he'd paid them, just as she had accused him of being insincere during their dinner the previous evening. It exasperated him that she would object to a formal courtesy, even if it was an empty compliment.
“Yes,” he agreed. “People who don't know how to accept a compliment with grace do tend to be poor company.”
Constance's eyes widened. She had not expected a comeback and she had never been accused of gracelessness before. For the moment she was silenced.
She inclined her head in acknowledgment and offered a half smile that held a hint of rueful apology. Her mother had often warned her about the dangers of her too-smart tongue, of how it could come back to bite her. And she remembered how Douglas too in his quiet way would offer a smiling reproach when she hadn't been able to resist the pointed witticism that had a sting in its tail. He had told her that she shouldn't make a habit of employing her wit to put others at a disadvantage. Not a very attractive quality, he had said once. She could hear his voice now, so gently and earnestly reproachful, and suddenly bit her lip, turning to gaze out of the window at the passing countryside until the lump in her throat had dissolved. Maybe she would have been a much nicer person if Douglas had lived. But he hadn't. So she would just have to watch herself and her tongue a little more carefully. And certainly with Max Ensor. She was developing a healthy respect for him as an opponent.
Max rose to pull down the window. He looked along the platform. “Are you expecting any of your other guests on this train?”
It was Prudence who responded. “I hope not. We usually take the early one so that we're there ahead of people. Most people take the two o'clock and arrive in time for tea.”
The compartment door opened and a gentleman in the frock-coated uniform of a headwaiter bowed to them. “Will you be taking luncheon with us today, ladies . . . sir?”
“Oh, yes,” Constance said, recovering her poise.
“The dining car will open at twelve-thirty. Will it be a table for four?”