The Bachelor List

by Jane Feather

  “Let's ask the stationmaster.”

  Constance went into the small station house. A grizzled man gave her a nod and told her that while there were no traps for hire she could walk into the center of town in fifteen minutes and would find West Street running off the market square. Franklin Construction was the gray building halfway down on the left.

  Constance thanked him and returned to her sisters. “Looks like it's shank's pony.”

  Prudence glanced up at the overcast sky. “Let's hope it doesn't rain.”

  Franklin Construction turned out to be a substantial building occupying the center block of West Street. Constance looked up at the sign over the door. “I get the impression that Franklin Senior has a thriving concern here.”

  “More than enough to support a musically talented son,” Chastity agreed.

  “Mmm.” Prudence nodded thoughtfully. “Well, let's see what we can discover.” She walked boldly to the door and turned the knob. A bell jangled as it opened onto a neat office, with three desks and a wall of filing cabinets.

  A man with a drooping moustache and pale sad eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles looked up from a stack of inventories as they entered. He offered a hesitant and somewhat puzzled smile and rose to his feet. “What can I do for you, ladies?”

  “We're looking for Henry Franklin,” Constance said, deciding that the direct approach was the best. “Do you happen to know where we could find him?”

  “Well, right here, madam. I am Henry Franklin.” He gazed at them in frank bewilderment. There were ink stains on the white cuffs of his shirt showing beneath the slightly short sleeves of his coat. His appearance was untidy, careless, as if it mattered not a whit to him, and his hair was too long. But his hands were long and white, the nails meticulously manicured. A pianist's hands, Constance thought. It was hard to guess at his age but he looked so worn and dispirited that she thought he was probably younger than he appeared.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked again.

  Constance looked around the office. She could hear voices from behind a door in the far wall. “Are you in a position to leave here for a few minutes and talk privately with us?”

  “But what is it about?” He glanced nervously to the door as the voices rose; one in particular was loud and peremptory.

  Papa Franklin. The sisters exchanged a quick glance.

  “Amelia.” Chastity spoke in a soft and gentle whisper, coming over to him, regarding him intently from beneath the upturned brim of her crushed-velvet hat as she laid a hand on his arm. “Where can we go to talk?”

  He looked at her like a panic-stricken deer. “Has something happened to her? Is she all right?”

  Constance glanced at Prudence and received a faint nod of agreement. “Yes to the first, and no to the second,” Constance stated, her voice as low as Chastity's but nowhere near as sympathetic. “You need to talk with us, Mr. Franklin.” She glanced to the door behind him. “We would not wish to involve anyone else.”

  His complexion was now ashen. “In the Copper Kettle, on Market Street. I sometimes take my lunch there. I will meet you in fifteen minutes.”

  “Then we will see you in fifteen minutes,” Chastity said in the same gentle tones. “Please don't worry, Mr. Franklin. We mean you no harm.” She followed her sisters outside, casting him a further encouraging glance as she went through the door. He did not look encouraged.

  “Will he come, d'you think?” Prudence asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Constance declared. “He'll come. Out of fear. He probably thinks we're going to blackmail him.”

  “Well, we are, after a fashion,” Prudence said.

  Constance regarded her in surprise for a second and then laughed. “If it comes down to it, Prue, of course we are. We're discovering any number of dubious talents that we never knew we possessed.”

  The Copper Kettle was a small chintzy tea shop. The sisters examined the menu.

  “The Welsh rarebit is very good, madam,” the waitress told them, pointing with her pen to the item. “We gets lots of compliments on the rarebit.”

  “What about the veal and ham pie?” Prudence asked.

  The woman shook her head. “Wouldn't go for it myself, madam. That jelly stuff's not so fresh . . . Cod 'n' chips is good, though.”

  Prudence grimaced. “I have enough cod in my life. What do you think, Con?”

  “Welsh rarebit,” Constance replied. “And a pot of tea.” She added sotto voce to Prudence, “I don't trust the coffee here.”

  “Three rarebits it is, then, and a pot of tea for three.” The woman scribbled on her pad.

  “We are expecting someone else to join us,” Chastity said. “Mr. Henry Franklin.”

  “Oh, Mr. Henry always has sardines on toast,” the waitress said cheerfully. “Every day . . . rain or shine, it's sardines on toast.” She gave them a curious look. “New to town, aren't you? Friends of Mr. Henry, are you?”

  “Yes,” Prudence agreed with a smile.

  The waitress hesitated, her expression hungry for more information, but something about the calmly smiling impassivity of the three women before her shut off her curiosity like a closed tap. “Well, I'll put in Mr. Henry's sardines on toast, then, and bring another cup.” She took her pad and went off.

  Henry Franklin came into the café a few minutes later. He looked around with an air of anxious suspicion, then approached the table, unwinding his muffler. An unnecessary garment given the humidity of the overcast day, the sisters reflected as they smiled and gestured to the fourth chair at the table. But perhaps he had a throat condition.

  “The waitress says you always eat sardines on toast, so we ordered them for you,” Chastity said with a reassuring smile. “We're all having the Welsh rarebit.”

  “I hear it's excellent.” He sat down, his eyes darting from side to side. “I only have half an hour. Please tell me what you want.” He took off his glasses and polished them on a less than pristine handkerchief. His eyes without their protection were weak and watery.

  “We don't want anything,” Chastity said, leaning across the table towards him. “We're here for Amelia because she cannot be here for herself.”

  “I don't understand. She . . . Amelia and I . . . we agreed not to see each other again. It's impossible.” He returned his glasses to his nose. “My father would never permit such a match. What has happened to Amelia?”

  “What often happens when two people make love,” Constance said calmly, pitching her voice low so that no one but her immediate audience could hear her.

  Henry sagged in his chair. He wrung his hands convulsively and gazed helplessly at them. “I d-don't understand.”

  “What don't you understand?” It was Prudence's turn now. She sat next to him, turning sideways to face him. “It's a simple fact of life, Henry. These things happen. But when they do, then decisions have to be made.”

  “You would not expect Amelia to carry this burden alone.” Chastity rested a hand on his. “You are far too good a man to do that, Henry. I know you are.”

  The waitress appeared behind them with a laden tray, and Constance said, “It's so nice to see you again, Mr. Franklin. We were passing through Ashford on our way to Dover and thought how delightful it would be to catch up with you. We had such a delightful time at the musicale in Dover. Do you still play?”

  Henry mumbled something. His grayish pallor was waxen and beads of perspiration stood out on his brow. He stared down at the table until the waitress had set down their plates and left, her backward glance brimming with speculation.

  “Why didn't she write and tell me?” he said, poking at his sardines with his fork. “I don't understand why she didn't write to me.”

  “But she did,” Prudence said. “She told us she had written several times, although she didn't mention her present situation. But you never wrote back.”

  “I didn't receive her letters. We'd agreed not to see each other again, so I just assumed that she was holding to that.”

&n
bsp; “Well, what could have happened to her letters?” Constance asked, taking her fork to the crisp bubbly cheese topping of her rarebit.

  Henry looked up and stated bitterly, “My father sees all the post that comes into the house before anyone else does. He distributes it at the breakfast table.”

  “And he knew about your understanding with Amelia?” Constance took a mouthful of her lunch. It was surprisingly good, with just the right mustardy bite to the cheese.

  “Someone told him they'd seen us out walking in the evenings. He was very unpleasant about it.” He shuddered at the memory. “I couldn't bear to listen to him . . . to the things he said about Amelia. He said she wasn't good enough for a Franklin, that she was a woman of loose morals . . . oh, dreadful things.”

  “Why didn't you stand up to him?” Prudence asked, pouring tea from the big brown pot.

  “That's easy for you to say,” he responded as bitterly as before, cutting his sardines into minute fussy little pieces. “You don't stand up to my father. No one does. He threatened to throw me out on the street if I ever saw or spoke with her again. It was no idle threat, I can promise you.”

  “Then what are you going to do?” Chastity's voice was still soft and sympathetic.

  He made a helpless gesture with his hands. “What can I do? He'll throw me out without a penny and I can't support a wife and child without money.”

  “You could always earn it,” Prudence pointed out dryly.

  “Doing what?” he exclaimed in an undertone. “I'm good for nothing but playing the piano.”

  “You work as a clerk in your father's office,” Constance pointed out. “You could find such a job elsewhere.”

  “It's killing my soul,” he said with a mournful sigh, echoing Amelia's observation.

  “And what do you think carrying an illegitimate child is doing to Amelia's soul?” Constance demanded, her patience all but exhausted.

  Henry looked as if he was about to cry. He covered his face with his hands.

  “Do you love Amelia?” Chastity asked.

  “We can't live on love!” He looked up and the hopelessness in his eyes stirred even the impatient Constance to sympathy. She glanced at Prudence.

  Prudence took off her glasses and then replaced them, pushing them up the bridge of her nose with a firm, decisive forefinger. “This is what you must do.”

  Henry gazed at her with the soulful hopeful eyes of a dog unsure whether he was about to receive a stroke or a kick.

  “You have to declare your independence from your father before you do anything else. You will come to London, where you will marry Amelia in a civil ceremony at the registrar's office in the borough where Amelia lives. You will find a job as a clerk. We shall help you do that—in fact, we shall hold your hand throughout. Once you've sorted that out, then you will take Amelia to visit your father. It will be a fait accompli and I'm willing to bet that the prospect of a grandchild will soften him. You will present him with your own plan. Amelia is a clever woman, good with figures, with writing letters . . . she has any number of the skills essential for running an office. She'll take over the office instead of you, and you will start building a private practice teaching piano. If he refuses to be reconciled, and he won't, then you simply return to your job in London. If he knows that he can't bully you, he'll think twice. I promise you.”

  “Oh, masterly, Prue,” Constance said. “So what do you say, Henry?”

  He looked winded. He could no more imagine withstanding the incredible force of this trio of women than he would an avalanche. “How will I get his permission to go to London? He'll never give me the time off.”

  “You weren't listening, Henry.” Constance leaned across the table towards him. “Prue said that you have first to declare your independence from your father. You won't ask his permission. You will simply leave here and commit yourself to a new life. If you can't face him in person, then write him a letter. Take the night train if it'll be easier. You can stay with us for a few days until you can find somewhere for both of you to live. I would think Amelia could hide her marriage and go on working at the Grahams for another month or so, if necessary. It would give you more time to get established. But first you must get married.”

  He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms. “But a registry-office wedding. Surely Amelia would not want that. She'll want a proper wedding.”

  “Amelia wants a wedding . . . any wedding . . . just as long as it comes with a marriage certificate and a ring on her finger,” Constance declared. “Now, if you write her a letter telling her what you've decided we'll take it to her when we see her on Thursday.”

  “I have pencil and paper.” Prudence rummaged in her handbag and produced a small notebook and a pencil. “There.”

  Henry took them. He looked down at his now cold sardines, then back at the three women who were regarding him steadily. They were an irresistible force, and perhaps, just perhaps, they were a match for his father. He felt a faint stirring of energy. With them at his back, there was no telling what he could do. “When shall I come to London?” he asked.

  They all smiled at him and he felt their approval like a warm bath.

  “The sooner the better,” Prudence said. “This coming weekend, if you like. We'll expect you on Sunday.”

  He took a deep breath, then said in a rush, “Yes . . . all right. On Sunday.”

  “We'll arrange with Amelia for the marriage license, and next Thursday, on her afternoon off, you can be married.”

  “Oh, dear,” he said, shaking his head. “It's . . . it's quite overwhelming.” He began to write in the notebook. The sisters returned to their cooling lunch.

  Half an hour later they were on their way back to the station, Henry's letter to Amelia tucked into Constance's bag.

  “Do you think he'll come?” Prudence asked with a slightly worried frown.

  “Yes. I don't think he'll let Amelia down once he's made a promise,” Chastity responded. “Besides, he's not going to risk our coming back here and talking to his father. Con implied, in no uncertain terms, that we would if he didn't show up on Sunday.”

  “It was a bit heavy-handed,” Constance admitted of her parting shot as they had left the café. “But I thought fear might give him more backbone.” She added with a rueful grimace, “I just hope we're doing the right thing for Amelia by forcing this. Henry's such a broken reed.”

  “I don't think you need worry about that,” Prudence said stoutly. “Amelia's strong enough for both of them. It isn't as if she doesn't know his weaknesses. She'll run their marriage and he'll do as he's told. If she can manage the kind of brat that young Pamela Graham seems to be, I'm sure managing Henry will be a walk in the park.”

  Constance nodded with a chuckle. “I'm sure you're right. I wonder if Max has a secretary.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, if he doesn't, I'm sure he needs one. I would have said we have the perfect candidate in Henry Franklin.”

  “Is there no limit to your deviousness, Con?” Prudence demanded as they reached the station.

  “I don't know. I haven't found one yet,” her sister responded with a grin. “I'll just have to see if I can persuade him.”

  “So the husband works for Max, and the wife for his sister, and neither of their employers knows they're married?” Chastity shook her head.

  “It'll only be like that until Amelia has to leave the Grahams because of her pregnancy,” Constance said piously. “It's hardly a deception at all.”

  “Tell that to the marines!” scoffed Prudence.

  Constance laughed. “Well, I can talk to him anyway.”

  They sat down on the station platform to wait for the train and Chastity sighed. “It's very tiring work, this Go-Between business. And tomorrow we have to take care of Anonymous and his requirements.”

  “No peace for the wicked,” Constance agreed.

  “No peace for those in straitened circumstances,” Prudence amended.

  “We'll wait
behind the curtain at the back of the shop, Chas,” Prudence said the following morning, glancing quickly behind the counter. “Mrs. Beedle says we'll hear everything that goes on from there if you and Anonymous conduct your business over by the biscuits.” She gestured to a dusty corner where packets of biscuits lined the shelves amid jars of liquorice sticks and farthing candies.

  “You've time for a nice cuppa, Miss Con. If the gentleman's not coming until eleven o'clock.” A round woman with her white hair in a neat bun, her starched apron rustling with her step, emerged from behind the curtain of heavy drugget, the brass rings rattling on the rod as she pulled it aside. “I always have a cuppa about now. And a nice bite of lardy cake, just made this morning. We'll hear the bell if anyone comes in.” She gestured to the bell over the shop door.

  “Oh, I love lardy cake,” Chastity said. “It'll give me heart for my lonely task.”

  “Chas, I'll do it if you're really uncomfortable,” Prudence said quickly.

  “No, of course I'm not. I was only joking.” Chastity followed her sisters behind the counter and through the curtain into a small neat kitchen where a kettle whistled merrily on the range.

  “Sit you down now.” Mrs. Beedle gestured to the round table on which reposed a very sticky currant-studded sugary concoction. She set out cups, warmed the teapot, measured tea, and filled the pot. “There now.” She set it on the table with a milk jug and sugar bowl. “You'll have a piece of lardy cake, Miss Con.”

  Constance hated lardy cake. It was far too greasy for her taste, but she asked for a tiny slice for politeness' sake. She could always slip it onto Chastity's plate when their hostess wasn't looking.

  The bell rang in the shop and Mrs. Beedle twitched aside the curtains. “Oh, it's just Mr. Holbrook, come for his newspaper and his cigarettes.” She bustled out, greeting the customer cheerily.

  Chastity took a large bite of her cake and licked her fingers. “This is so sinful.”

  “It's terrible,” Constance said, pouring tea. “I don't know how you can eat it.”

  “It's a very fine lardy cake,” Prudence declared, licking her own fingers.