A Fatal Freedom

by Janet Laurence

  They spent a little more time walking through the pleasant environs while Jackman entertained Ursula with an account of a recent case he’d been involved with, then he returned her to her hotel with a promise of future contact. ‘But let me know your new address,’ he said, tipping the curly brim of his bowler hat as he left.

  The second of the recommended addresses was a terraced house just west of Victoria station. It only accepted female boarders. Mrs Maple, a bony woman with a severe face, showed Ursula a second-floor room. Reasonably sized, it contained a bed with a firm mattress, a comfortable armchair, a small table with a bentwood chair, a hanging rail shielded by a curtain, a chest of drawers and, behind a small screen, a washbasin. Mrs Maple’s stern expression lightened as Ursula expressed her delight at this feature.

  ‘Mr Maple insisted that every room be provided with running water,’ she said. ‘Poor man, he knew he was not long for this world and was determined that after his demise I should be provided with the means for a reasonable income.’

  Ursula announced that she would be very happy to take the room and pay two weeks’ rent in advance. As she counted out the coins, she silently hoped that before it was due again, she had obtained employment.

  She moved in the next day and posted a note to Jackman thanking him for his help and confirming her new address. Arriving back at Mrs Maple’s after another fruitless interview, Ursula was met by Meg, the lanky maid-of-all-work. ‘Oh, miss, Mr Jackman’s here. He’s with the mistress and she says you’re to go to her parlour.’

  Mrs Maple was laughing as she handed the investigator a cup of tea in the room at the back of the house she reserved for her private use. ‘Ah, Miss Grandison, Mr Jackman has called to see you are settled. Mr Jackman is a good friend, I don’t know what Mr Maple would have done without him sorting out that crook of a builder he had the bad luck to employ. Sit down and have a cuppa, won’t you?’

  Ursula was happy to oblige. Her feet were tired from another day of walking around London in her hopeless quest.

  ‘How pleasant to see you again, Mr Jackman,’ she said, sitting down. ‘Tell me more about the crooked builder.’

  Soon Ursula was enjoying an account of various difficulties Mr and Mrs Maple had had setting up the boarding house. Under her severe demeanour, Mrs Maple gradually revealed humour and warmth and it was evident that she and Jackman had a companiable relationship.

  ‘And how has your day been, Miss Grandison?’ Mrs Maple asked after it had been explained how the crooked builder had been warned off by the investigator.

  ‘Without result, I am afraid,’ Ursula said brightly. ‘However, I have hopes for an interview that has been arranged for tomorrow.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Mrs Maple slowly. ‘I ran into an old friend yesterday. We knew each other a long time ago. She moves in different circles these days. Mrs Bruton she is now, quite the lady.’ The dry way she said this told Ursula that Mrs Maple’s friend had patronised her. ‘She told me,’ Mrs Maple continued, ‘that Mr Bruton passed on two years ago and she is now out of mourning. She also mentioned that she has need of some sort of secretary. I didn’t give it attention at the time but with you looking for a position, Miss Grandison, I wonder … now, what did I do with the card she gave me?’ Mrs Maple started investigating her pockets. ‘Here it is!’ She handed over a piece of pasteboard.

  The card was stylishly printed, the name ‘Mrs Edward Bruton’ printed in flowing italics, with an address in Wilton Crescent in smaller typeface on the bottom left-hand corner.

  ‘Now you write to her, Miss Grandison, and say you are available.’

  ‘Can’t do any harm,’ said Jackman. He rose. ‘Must be on my way, just dropped by to say hello to Mrs Maple and see you were settled, Miss Grandison.’

  Ursula remembered how they had agreed down in Somerset that they would use each other’s first names. Somehow this didn’t seem the right time to remind him.

  * * *

  Two days later, Ursula met a fluttery woman in her forties who seemed happy to relate her circumstances. Mr Bruton had been considerably older than herself, there had been no offspring of the union, and the widow had been left well provided for. Now out of mourning, she was beginning to involve herself with various activities.

  ‘I wish to enlarge my circle of friends. Edward was a very private person, Miss Grandison.’ Mrs Bruton rearranged the wayward chiffon scarf that was draped over her pale pink crepe de chine blouse, prettily tucked and inserted with lace, the sleeves slightly puffed at the shoulder and anchored in lace-bedecked cuffs, each fastened with a row of tiny pearl buttons. A dark grey slubbed silk skirt, its cut pronouncing that it came from no ordinary dressmaker, managed to suggest that its wearer was slimmer than close inspection revealed.

  The interview took place in the morning room of a fashionable home in Knightsbridge. Sun lit Mrs Bruton’s pale gold hair, artfully arranged in a sort of pillow with escaping tresses that suggested a mind free from too many formal restraints.

  The face was softly plump with only a few lines around the eyes. The mouth had none of the stern qualities Ursula had discerned in those older ladies she had recently met who required companionship – or a genteel slave. The eyes were a gentle blue with heavy lids. Hanging from her neat ears were pearls whose sheen declared they were genuine, as was the long string around her neck. Her hands were soft; diamond rings flashed brilliantly on plump, white little fingers as their owner fiddled with her scarf.

  ‘As long as he had me to keep him company in the evenings, Edward was perfectly happy, he did not require social activity,’ Mrs Bruton continued, lightly touching a Lalique dish that sat on a small round table beside her chair. ‘Occasionally we would have one of his legal friends to a luncheon.’

  ‘Legal?’

  ‘Edward had been a solicitor. By the time we met, he was retired. He said I had been sent to enlighten the last years of his life. There was nothing he liked more than to play cards with me.’

  It sounded a somewhat humdrum existence. Ursula wondered how captivating a companion Mr Bruton had been.

  ‘Did you travel, visit friends at weekends?’ she enquired.

  ‘Edward adored abroad.’ Mrs Bruton’s blue eyes suddenly sparkled as brightly as her diamonds. ‘He said the weather was so much better. We would stay in Nice in the spring, and we went to Berlin and Vienna; we loved Vienna almost as much as Nice. We would visit the opera, dine in restaurants and occasionally we would meet people. I always had to take new dresses and hats. He would buy me jewels, tell me how lovely I looked.’ She gave a musical little laugh. ‘I longed for the times we would travel, it was as though a door had been opened from a dull room on to one filled with light and gaiety.’ Mrs Bruton gazed out of the window that gave on to a small garden filled with soft greens and a variety of pink and white flowers. ‘Life has been very dull for me since his passing away.’ She reached a hand towards Ursula’s wrist in a confiding gesture.

  ‘While he was moving towards his end I hated to see him suffer. But, do you know, Miss Grandison, after he had gone, after the first relief that he was no longer in pain, I missed not only Edward but my efforts to turn his mind from his illness. I would read to him, relate little incidents I had noted in my afternoon walks to take the air. And I missed the activity of the sick room, the doctor’s calls, the nurses, the occasional visit from one of his legal friends. Was that dreadful of me?’

  The soft blue eyes seemed anxious.

  ‘Mourning drains the spirit,’ Ursula said gently. ‘You must now welcome the opportunity to take up a social life again.’ Then she wondered at that ‘again’. It did not sound as though the woman had had much of a one before.

  ‘I want to involve myself in good causes,’ Mrs Bruton said earnestly. ‘There are so many who suffer in life and so many splendid women who organise relief for them. I wish to join their number. Also,’ she added quietly, ‘I am sure my dear Edward would not want me to bury myself away wearing widow’s weeds for all eternity.
I have no children to occupy my thoughts or my days and I think I deserve some entertainment; do you not think so, Miss Grandison?’

  Ursula hastily reassured her that that was so.

  ‘Now, let us turn our minds to why you have so kindly attended on me. With my social life expanding, I shall need someone to organise “At Home” cards, send out invitations, keep my diary, and advise on what should be served at such little thés and even soirées as I shall hold, shall I not? Also, I will need someone to assist at such events, for I am woefully unaccustomed to social matters in England. You, Miss Grandison, have such an air and with so splendid a reference from the Dowager Countess of Mountstanton, I can be perfectly at ease knowing that all is safe in your hands.’

  It seemed that the position was being offered. Just as Ursula was about to say she would be happy to work for her, Mrs Bruton asked, ‘I do not think you mentioned how you knew I was in need of a social secretary?’

  ‘Mrs Maple, who I understand is a friend of yours, told me of your requirement.’

  ‘Mrs Maple?’ It seemed Mrs Bruton had difficulty recalling the name.

  ‘I understand she encountered you unexpectedly a week or so ago and that it was some time since you had last met.’

  The blue eyes fixed a contemplative gaze on Ursula. Then light seemed to dawn. ‘Why, of course, Mrs Maple! Such a long time … and we had once been quite friendly. But, you know, the paths our lives follow can diverge. Poor Maisie, once she settled for Mr Maple, and I met my beloved Edward, we moved in totally different circles.’ Mrs Bruton looked around her immaculate room as though conscious its silk upholstered chairs, antique occasional tables, attractive water colours and porcelain ornaments were a world away from Mrs Maple’s functional boarding house.

  ‘If indeed it was Maisie Maple who sent you to me, I have a feeling I shall owe her a debt. Tell me, when could you start?’

  * * *

  ‘Mrs Bruton seems so disingenuous, so unused to the ways of the world,’ Ursula said to Thomas Jackman a few weeks later. ‘Yet she is very shrewd. The position is only two and a half days a week and not live-in. However, the pay is not ungenerous and I may be able to find someone else who also requires a part-time secretary.’

  ‘It must be a relief to have some income,’ Jackman said. ‘Even if it is not as much as you need.’ It was one of Ursula’s half days and they were in a small eating place near Victoria station enjoying a pot of tea for two. ‘Tell me more about your employer, she sounds an interesting woman.’

  ‘I find her so. As I said, she is really much shrewder than she appears on the surface. Two women called on her the other day. She had a slight acquaintance with one but was meeting the other for the first time. They wanted to interest her in donating to some charity for orphan children. Mrs Bruton made them very welcome and wanted to know everything about the “poor little children”, as she continually referred to them: where the foundlings came from, where they lived, who cared for them, and particularly what sort of education they were being given. At the end of the tea, she said very sweetly that she would think carefully about all she had heard and would be in touch.’

  ‘Did she think they were trying to milk her?’

  ‘Afterwards she was quite angry and said fancy imagining she was unaware that the state provided education without charge for the poverty-stricken.’ Ursula gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘The women had been very stupid, for at one stage Mrs Bruton introduced the name of Froebel but they seemed unaware of who he was or his kindergarten principles.’

  ‘Did she not think they could be perhaps ignorant but still charitably inclined?’

  Ursula shook her head. ‘She thought they were using every possible ground to convince her large sums of money were required to care for and educate the poor orphans.’

  ‘So, the poor little children will not be receiving any of the Bruton funds?’

  ‘Not through those agents.’ Ursula checked the pot and poured them both more tea. Soon, though, Jackman had to leave and she made her way back to Mrs Maple’s.

  She was finding working for her new employer was both pleasurable and challenging. Mrs Bruton had a way of dealing with several subjects at the same time, interweaving the description of a new friend with plans for an entertainment and the necessity for enlarging her wardrobe of tea gowns. Ursula would find herself making confused notes that later had to be sorted out and sometimes required applying to Mrs Bruton for confirmation she had understood her wishes correctly.

  ‘Oh, Miss Grandison, what a silly woman you must think me. I meant that Mrs Trenchard was to attend luncheon with me on Thursday this week; I did tell you I met her through the church, did I not? Why, look at that dear little kitten in the garden, do chase it away, I saw it kill a bird the other day.’ After Ursula returned to the morning room, it was as if no interruption had taken place, ‘Then the tea party I wish to arrange, with Mrs Trenchard’s help, is to be the week after next. Now, where did I put the list of guests to be invited?’ Searching her desk, Mrs Bruton’s attention was caught by several samples of blue silk. ‘Which do you think, Miss Grandison, matches my eyes?’

  The list found and Mrs Trenchard consulted, Ursula sent out the invitations. She memorised all the names and enjoyed trying to work out from the addresses and her scant knowledge of London where in the social hierarchy the various guests belonged, but she soon gave up.

  Mrs Bruton’s cook was used to providing simple fare; apparently that was what Mr Bruton had preferred. For a formal tea more would be expected and Ursula spent much time consulting a well-worn edition of Mrs Beeton’s Household Management. Remembering the delicacies the chef at Mountstanton had produced for tea, Ursula had long discussions with Mrs Evercreech in the well-appointed kitchen, convincing her that miniature chocolate éclairs and tiny iced sponge squares were well within her capabilities and would be ideal beside the wafer-thin sandwiches with either cucumber or egg fillings and Battenberg cake she was used to producing.

  ‘A nice jam tart, that was what Mr Bruton liked,’ Mrs Evercreech said with a sigh as the book was closed. ‘Still, it will be nice to do something different for once, long as they turns out all right.’

  ‘You will do everything perfectly, Cook,’ Ursula said firmly.

  On the day itself, her employer was, perhaps understandably, nervous. ‘I do so hope Lady Chilton will attend.’

  ‘She has accepted your invitation,’ said Ursula, consulting her list of guests to make sure her memory had not failed her.

  ‘And Mrs Bright, she is such a leader in political matters.’

  ‘Indeed,’ murmured Ursula, wondering how far her employer was determined to enter that arena.

  Mrs Bruton adjusted the lace jabot of her powder-blue chiffon afternoon gown, then fussed with her enamel and sapphire bracelet. Ursula had managed to persuade her that single pearl earrings were more suitable for the afternoon than sapphires, but Mrs Bruton had insisted on the bracelet. ‘Edward so liked to see me wearing my precious things,’ she said sadly, laying the earrings back in her jewel case. Huckle, her maid, closed it with a snap that said she disapproved of anyone else advising her mistress on her appearance.

  The delicate chimes of the little clock on the bedroom mantelshelf reminded the hostess she should be downstairs to receive the first of her guests.

  Soon the drawing room was alive with fashionably dressed women managing to avoid accidental encounters with other hats and greeting acquaintances with every appearance of delight.

  ‘So pleased Mrs Bruton is taking up the cause, I am sure you were responsible, Mrs Waterside …’

  ‘Such a failure on the political side over the years, you have to agree, Mrs Parsons …’

  ‘Rachel Fentiman was so brave the other day …’

  The voices came and went in Ursula’s ears as she supervised the maid serving the tea. Enid was every bit as nervous as her mistress and needed gentle encouragement.

  ‘Is they all here, Miss Grandison?’ Enid looked dou
btfully at the last few cups on the side table.

  ‘I think so.’ Ursula tried to make a headcount of the room. Just as she decided one guest was still to arrive, the doorbell rang. Enid almost dropped a cup and saucer as she tried to decide which needed her attention more, the tea or the door.

  Ursula rescued the china and said, ‘I will answer the bell, Enid; you continue serving.’

  Standing on the doorstep was a girl with an alive face and though the plait had given way to a fall of dark hair beneath a cream beret, Ursula had no difficulty in recognising her.

  ‘Rachel Fentiman,’ said the girl. ‘Am I horribly late? My omnibus was so slow I think it would have been faster to walk.’

  ‘Please, come in, Miss Fentiman. Mrs Bruton will be so pleased to see you.’ Ursula opened the drawing room door for the girl who had made the freedom speech at the menagerie.

  Chapter Three

  Miss Fentiman gave Ursula an apologetic smile. ‘Afraid I’m a little late. I do hope Mrs Bruton will forgive me.’

  She was wearing a cobalt-blue, short-sleeved shirt with a narrowly cut matching skirt; it was a severe design and yet it did nothing to dim the girl’s attractive aura of energy. Everything about her seemed fresh: the clear, peach warmth of skin, the shine of dark hair, the sparkle of vivid blue eyes.

  Ursula led the way into the drawing room and announced Miss Fentiman’s name.

  Mrs Bruton immediately came forward, as did Mrs Trenchard.

  ‘Rachel, my dear,’ said the woman. ‘Let me introduce you to our hostess. Mrs Bruton, this is my niece, Miss Fentiman.’

  ‘It is so kind of you to invite me,’ said the girl after apologising for her tardy arrival. ‘I do admire you for holding this event.’

  Mrs Bruton purred. There was no actual sound, but Ursula could think of no other word to describe her employer’s satisfied expression or the way she laid a soft hand on the girl’s arm.