by R. J. Koreto
Time to put into effect another college technique: when an assignment wasn’t going well, put it away and approach it with fresh eyes later. Tomorrow she’d see about contacts in the War Office. Someone higher up than Major Raleigh.
The train made good time; it wasn’t even dinnertime when she arrived back at Miss Plimsoll’s to find a note waiting for her. Her heart fluttered when she recognized the crest on the heavy cream stationary.
Dear Franny,
Your most excellent maid told me you were expected home later today. I should’ve asked further in advance, but I would very much like to have dinner with you this evening. I was going to wait a decent interval, but I couldn’t bear it. Please say your evening is open.
She read it three times. He had enclosed his card with his telephone number. How convenient that was not to have to send servants running back and forth with responses. She went into the telephone parlor, and a few moments later she was talking to Gareth.
“That is very presumptuous of you,” she said. She lied and told him she had made plans to visit one of her tedious aunts, but that could be postponed, since Gareth had written such a nice note. But he wasn’t to do that again. He said he would come by at seven o’clock and begged her forgiveness.
Frances left the telephone room feeling a little light-headed. Then she remembered her conversation with Hal. Pull yourself together, she told herself. You have work to do. She called his offices, and the clerk said for her to come back at ten o’clock the following morning—Mr. Wheaton had something to say to her. She then walked briskly upstairs—just enough time to write a few letters and pick out a dress before dinner.
Mallow was determined the make the most of her mistress’s social life. “This dress, my lady? I thought it would go well with the hat with the feather . . .”
“That’ll work nicely, Mallow. I’m sure you know best.”
“It’s just that I’m not sure where you’re going this evening?” asked Mallow, making it half a statement, half a question.
“I don’t know either,” said Frances with a smile, hoping that would end discussion of clothing.
“Very good, my lady,” said Mallow in a very cool tone that was as close as she ever came to voicing disapproval. Imagine going out but not knowing where! “I just want to add that in my experience, gentlemen like seeing a well-turned-out lady.”
“Do they indeed? We’ll see what Lord Gareth says then,” said Frances with a wry smile.
Gareth arrived not in his car but in a hansom. “It’s not easy to bring a car where we’re going,” he said.
She had assumed they’d go to one of the fashionable restaurants but should’ve known better. Gareth guided the driver to another unfamiliar street, to a restaurant with a simple sign announcing its unpronounceable name. “This is a secret, dear Franny. Englishmen who have spent so much time in India that they have become Indian dine here when in London.”
Frances had expected something modest, based on the plain exterior, but inside the decorations were lavish, upholstery in red and gold and colored silks on the wall. The other diners wore dinner clothes like themselves, but the staff members were all from the subcontinent, with turbans and fierce-looking mustaches.
The headwaiter greeted them. Gareth pressed his palms together, bowed, and said a few words in a foreign tongue. The man smiled and led them to a table.
“Don’t tell me you know Hindi, too,” she asked.
“Just a few words in order to amaze impressionable young girls,” he said.
“I’m not all that impressionable,” she said with mock severity. She had thought herself worldly with her travels to America, her education, and her politics. But keeping up with Gareth was a challenge—exciting, but a challenge. Gareth started by apologizing for offering no wine with dinner. “The proprietor is a good Hindu and so will sell no wine or spirits. You can discreetly bring your own, but as for me, you are intoxicating enough.”
Frances blushed and was annoyed at herself for it. She quickly spoke. “Flatterer. But why does the Hindu not drink? I don’t believe the Muslim does either. I knew some Jewish girls in college, and they didn’t drink much, but wine was important in certain rituals.” And that led to a religious discussion. Frances had taken a basic theology course at Vassar, but Gareth was at least her equal.
They continued their talk over the food—strange, highly spiced concoctions she couldn’t identify, cooked with herbs not found in England, using methods unfamiliar to Western chefs. All the items were delicious, and in between their discussions, Frances caught Gareth looking at her as if he expected her to turn up her nose at the unusual delicacies. If so, she disappointed him.
During a break in their talk, Frances changed the subject. “Gareth, I was wondering about other evening. Don’t misunderstand me; it was delightful. But I have heard stories about the Heathcote set, that aside from your motives, their motives for inviting me to the event may have been more . . . commercial. I was wondering if it was in connection with a favor I am doing for a friend. I think you know what I’m referring to.”
Gareth usually responded to any comment or question quickly, but now he just toyed with his water glass for a few moments.
“I won’t deny it, Franny. There is a great deal of interest in the Colcombe manuscript. You may not realize just how important that manuscript is to some people. I mean politically.”
“Why shouldn’t I know it? Because I’m a woman and therefore must know nothing of politics?” She felt her anger rise—this is not what she expected from Gareth.
But he shook his head. “No, Franny. Of course not. It’s because you are good. You want to do good. But other people have other motives.”
“Like the Heathcotes?” asked Frances.
“They are powerful people, Frances. They have powerful friends. You want the manuscript to bring justice to the men who died at the Sapphire River.”
“You seem to know a lot,” said Frances.
“You’ve been in Society long enough to know how hard it is to keep secrets. There were plenty of men who knew what happened in South Africa. They talked no matter how many threats and incentives they were given to be quiet. But we need something like the manuscript to really make a change. You could make a difference.”
Frances looked at the earnestness in his eyes. He seemed very sincere, but Frances was from a political family. People rarely worked for free.
“And what do the Heathcotes want out of this?” she asked.
“A chance to do some political housekeeping before publication.”
Of course. The Heathcotes had favors to grant and return. The manuscript would allow them to do that before its content became public. Merely the threat of what it contained, of the political mistakes that led to the carnage, would be effective.
“And what do you want, Gareth? Are you merely a Heathcote agent?” She was sure Gareth could see how hard her heart was beating.
“I am merely a messenger. If you want to work with them, they can be powerful allies.” He shrugged. “But my commission is over. It is up to you to decide if you want to join them or play a lone hand, as they say.”
“And what do you want?”
He answered by leaning over the table and kissing her on the cheek. “Only what you want.”
Then all thoughts of the Colcombe manuscript went out of her head. Gareth signaled their waiter and paid. It was a nice evening, and Gareth suggested walking. Frances was unfamiliar with the neighborhood but felt safe with Gareth. She was realizing how little she really knew London—just the fashionable areas where she and her friends and family lived and the one grim corner of the East End where she worked at the soup kitchen.
Other couples and some young families, taking advantage of the evening, were walking on the sidewalks as well. Frances held onto Gareth’s arm. After the chatty dinner, they were silent now, and she concentrated on feeling him next to her.
The sun was setting as they turned onto a wide commercial street
, where Gareth hailed a hansom cab. Frances was a little disappointed; she wasn’t ready for the evening to end. But her spirits soared when Gareth announced grandly to the driver, “Into the park and round and round until I tell you otherwise.”
As they entered the park, Gareth kissed her again, first soft, then insistent, and Frances found herself half-delighted and half-fearful, so overwhelmed by emotion and so unused to the delicious loss of control.
Gareth stopped and put his lips next to her ear. “I do so love you, sweet Franny.”
But she wasn’t completely gone—not yet. She pulled back. “Do you really?” She looked as serious as she felt. “Do not say that unless you mean it.”
He took her chin in his hand. “Are you now an old-fashioned maid, pretending you had no idea?”
“I knew you desired me. I didn’t know you loved me,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.
“How stupid of me to forget how shrewd you are,” he said. “But how do you feel about me?”
She started to answer, but he quickly put a finger to her lips.
“No, don’t answer. I may be stupid—but I am smart enough to know you are too young and too inexperienced to know your own feelings.” He smiled to take away the sting, as if he were just teasing her, challenging her. And then he kissed her again, and it was divine. Eventually, the evening had to come to an end, and Gareth left her at the door of Miss Plimsoll’s, happy, dazed, and more than a little confused.
CHAPTER 9
The next morning, Frances studied her maid for any kind of a smile, but Mallow was her usual brisk and efficient self. Frances decided to draw her out.
“Has there been any mention downstairs about Lord Gareth?” asked Frances, trying to sound very offhand about it.
“My lady, I do not gossip about you, your friends, or the family.” Mallow was deeply affronted.
“Of course not, Mallow.” You could never be too direct with Mallow. She had been too well trained. “But I am sure you have seen Lord Gareth call for me, and I wondered what you thought of him.”
“You are asking for my opinion, my lady?” It was like their discussion about Mr. Wheaton. Again, any lady would ask for an opinion about clothes, but Lady Frances wanted insights on people. About someone she seemed to be falling in love with, if Mallow was any judge of her ladyship’s behavior.
“Yes, Mallow. Your frank opinion.”
“Then I would say, my lady . . .” Frances watched her look for the right words. “I would say that Lord Gareth cuts a fine figure, my lady.”
Frances laughed. “Well said, Mallow.” But she wondered what Mallow would’ve thought of Gareth’s manners last evening.
Mallow busied herself brushing Lady Frances’s hair and fixing it up for the day.
“I forgot to ask, Mallow. On your recent afternoon off, did you have a nice tea at the Ansons’ next door?” Mallow had been invited to take tea in the servant’s hall in the neighboring town house. More specifically, she had been invited—with the butler’s permission—by Mr. Gregmon, valet to Sir Simon Anson.
“Very nice, thank you, my lady. Cook baked a cake and scones, and there was marmalade sent up from the country.”
Frances turned and smiled. “And Mr. Gregmon? He was pleased to introduce you to his friends?”
Mallow blushed, and Frances turned away.
“I am sorry, Mallow. I was prying.” Mallow’s mother insisted that servants were allowed their privacy. Whatever they did on their own time was their business, as long as their behavior brought no disgrace to the household. One may show some guidance for an inexperienced and young maid or footman, but a senior servant like a lady’s maid would be allowed wide latitude.
“Quite all right, my lady,” said Mallow cheerfully. Indeed, she would welcome Lady Frances’s opinion. “Mr. Gregmon and I have enjoyed walks in the park. Only very respectable outings, my lady. But he is looking for a new position.” Mallow sighed.
“Sir Simon always seemed like a good master,” said Frances.
“Oh, yes, my lady. Mr. Gregmon much admires him. But he would like to be a butler. He says he may find such a position in the country. And butlers—especially in the country—well, my lady, they can get married. Valets are expected to remain unmarried.” Just like maids.
Frances felt a pang. Would she lose Mallow? “Has he made you an offer of marriage?”
“No, my lady.” Mallow began pinning up Frances’s hair, and they were silent for a few moments. “And I would not say yes if he did. He is very nice and will make his way in the world. But I do not love him.”
Now it was Mallow’s turn to feel anxious. Would Lady Frances tell her she was a fool not to even consider a man who would make a good husband?
Frances turned and looked her in her eye. “Then if he asks, you should not marry him, Mallow.”
“That is what I thought, my lady.”
Mallow was glad to hear Lady Frances agree with her. Frances was pleased her maid was being sensible—and relieved she would not lose her, even though she was honest enough to admit that was a selfish thought.
“Marriage is a noble institution, Mallow, but it changes many things, and I am very satisfied with my lot in life right now.”
Mallow thought about being married to a butler in the country. It would not be very interesting, stuck in an estate miles from anywhere, and she would lack the prestige that came from being a lady’s maid to an aristocrat.
“I am satisfied with my lot as well, my lady. Now would your ladyship be so good as to hand me more of those pins?”
Mallow chose something brisk and businesslike for Frances’s trip to Hal’s law office. She had been consumed with curiosity about what he could tell her about the Colcombe manuscript.
It would be odd seeing him in his office—the first business visit after their friendship had developed. If it was just a friendship. She thought about the secret portrait and was sorry she had pried. But it could have been perfectly innocent: he wanted to paint a young woman and had no idea how to hire a model or maybe felt it wouldn’t be respectable. So he painted a woman he knew from memory. She was merely convenient.
But his sister was attractive. Hal knew her even better and had photographs to work from—why not paint her? Frances frowned and shook her head. This would bear watching.
She arrived a few minutes early, but a clerk quickly showed her into Hal’s office.
Hal stood up and walked around his desk, smiling at her as he folded his gold spectacles and put them away. He signaled over her shoulder, and an office boy came in with a tray of tea and biscuits, which he put down on a small table. Then the boy shifted two chairs around the table and left. The clerk began to leave as well, and Hal called to him, “Mr. Waller—”
“Yes, Mr. Wheaton?”
“We are not to be disturbed or interrupted for any reason. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely, sir.” He left, closing the door quietly behind him.
When they were alone, Hal showed Frances into a seat. With mock annoyance, she said, “I thought that you had serious business for us to discuss. But this was just an excuse to have tea with me.”
“Tea with you would always be a delight, but as what I have to discuss with you is not only serious and legal but also very personal, I thought this would be best.” He paused and smiled again, this time wryly. “But I’m still wearing my black coat.”
“I owe you so many apologies. That was very childish and unkind of me to tease you.” She felt silly for having spoken like that. Hal just waved it away. “But I will still call you Hal, and you will still call me Franny, even in this office, as long as your staff isn’t within hearing distance. Very well . . . now I shall pour.”
She filled their cups, each sipped, and then Hal leaned back as he ordered his words in his head—Frances was sure he had rehearsed it. And then he began to speak.
“I wasn’t going to say anything. But I know you would keep going until you found her. So I communicated wi
th a woman who lived in the south, on the coast. It was Major Colcombe’s secret, but hers too. She gave me permission. And so I have a story to tell you.”
Hal explained that his firm had never acted for the Colcombe family, but he had known the name because Lord Seaforth had mentioned his close friend Daniel to Hal on several occasions. One day, Daniel Colcombe showed up in the office on Lord Seaforth’s recommendation. Colcombe needed some special legal work done, and he wanted it done apart from, and unknown to, his old family firm.
Frances realized she was about to learn something significant, even shocking, and had to hold her tongue and not ask him to hurry up with the story. She had to let Hal tell it in his own way, in his own time.
It seemed that Colcombe was not in the best condition when he came home from South Africa. The bullet wound wasn’t healing as fast as the doctors would like, but more than that, his nerves were shot and his health was broken. Something happened out there—he had done something rather extraordinary, although Hal never knew what, and it had taken its toll.
Frances knew the details about Danny’s great heroism, of course, but she didn’t want to interrupt.
The family hired a nurse to take care of him. Colcombe’s physician recommended Nurse Dorothy Jones—they called her Nurse Dot—most highly. She had experience tending wounded soldiers and was trained in the tradition of Florence Nightingale. “You are aware of Nightingale, of course?” asked Hal.
Naturally, Frances knew of her. Another Crimean War reference: Nightingale had been the heroine of that war, her nursing saving countless men, and she had professionalized nursing. She was still alive, and Frances had even been introduced to her once.
Well, from the first day, Nurse Dot was a credit to her mentor and to her training, according to all accounts. Gradually, Colcombe improved. The wound healed. He could sleep again, and his mood improved. He had been skeletally thin when he returned, but now he was eating well and putting on some badly needed pounds. And then he showed up at the Wheaton offices.