The Wedding Game

by Jane Feather

  “If you could show Lady Sydney into the office when she arrives,” he said, and went back to his office. He stood looking at the screen, then bent to examine the tapestry panels more closely. On close scrutiny it appeared they did not represent an orgy or a virgin sacrifice. It was some pastoral scene in a Roman temple. Or at least he decided to believe it was.

  Lady Sydney, by some miracle, was on time. Douglas was learning to accept that his time was not considered nearly as valuable as his patients', and for the time being he held his tongue. Once he was established, he would probably unleash it. Against all expectation he found he liked Lady Sydney—but then, he had liked Chastity's group of friends that night at Covent Garden, which seemed an eon ago. He would probably like the Duncan sisters' friends as a matter of course. It was not a helpful reflection. He tapped his pen on the desk blotter, noticing for the first time that the leather edging had some kind of runic engraving. Laura had probably thought the hieroglyphics depicted ancient remedies or apothecaries' recipes.

  “Dr. Farrell . . . Dr. Farrell?”

  He became aware that his patient was staring at him in puzzlement. “You were saying something about iron.”

  “Yes, of course.” He resumed briskly. “Liver, and cod liver oil. You should include those in your diet at least three or four times a week. Pregnant women become anemic very easily.”

  “I loathe liver,” the young woman said, wrinkling her nose.

  “You want a healthy baby,” he said with something approaching a snap, thinking of all those women who couldn't afford the foods that would ensure that outcome.

  She looked disconcerted. “Yes, of course. I'll do everything necessary, Dr. Farrell.”

  He smiled, hoping to dissipate the effect of his snap. “I'm sure you will, Lady Sydney. I'll see you in a month. If you'd like to make an appointment with Miss Gray on the way out . . . ?”

  She rose to her feet, gathering handbag and gloves. She held out her hand to him. “Your office . . . such unusual furnishings,” she said. “For a physician, I mean. Not that they aren't charming, perfectly charming,” she added rather hastily.

  “My predecessor's choice,” he said smoothly, shaking her hand.

  “I expect his wife had some influence,” Lady Sydney said.

  “Yes, I expect so,” Douglas agreed. His visitor took her leave and he sat staring at the screen and the crimson tasseled shades on the lamps and exhaled slowly. Miss Gray came in with an armful of files. She looked around in clear puzzlement.

  “The filing cabinet, Doctor,” she said. “It appears to have disappeared.”

  “It's probably disguised,” he said. “Like the hat stand.”

  “I wonder what as,” the woman said, a little laugh shivering in the back of her throat. “It's quite intriguing, really. I'm sorry, Doctor, but—” The laughter got the better of her and she dropped the files onto the desk and laughed as if she couldn't stop. After a minute, Douglas yielded to the absurdity himself and joined her. The room rocked with the sounds of their hilarity.

  “Oh, dear,” Miss Gray said eventually, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. “I don't know what came over me, Doctor. I can't remember when I've laughed like that.”

  “It did me good too,” Douglas said. And it had done him good, in more ways than one. He felt purged. No bitterness, no desire for vengeance, not even a shred of mortification remained. He now knew exactly what he wanted—well, he'd always known that, but he now knew exactly what he had to do to get it.

  He waited until Miss Gray had left, still wiping a tear of laughter from her cheek with her gloved finger, then opened a drawer and took out a plain sheet of paper, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and very carefully printed his missive, signing it with a completely indecipherable scrawl. He blotted the sheet, folded it, inserted it into an envelope, and with the same care printed the address of Mrs. Beedle's corner shop.

  “I don't seem to be able to get the hang of this,” Prudence complained as she tapped with two fingers on the typewriter's keyboard. “My B's keep becoming N's.”

  “I'm not sure my thoughts flow as quickly as they do with a pen,” Constance said, leaning back in her chair at the desk in The Mayfair Lady's new premises on Shoe Lane.

  “It's just adapting to a different technique.” Chastity slapped the carriage backwards with a merry ring. “I think I have it down pat. It's so much quicker to answer these agony aunt letters. Maybe I'm not as cerebral as you two.”

  “And that, you know, is nonsense,” Prudence said. “You're just more adaptable.”

  “I doubt that,” Chastity said with a tiny shrug, and continued with her tap-tapping.

  Constance stretched and flexed her hands and wrists. “I think it's time for luncheon,” she said. “Three working women are entitled to a luncheon break.”

  “Agreed,” Prudence said, jumping to her feet. “Let's try that little café on Fleet Street where all the newspapermen go. I'd love to see how they react when we walk in.”

  “Prue, we can't,” Constance demurred. “We'll draw far too much attention. Let's go to Swan and Edgar's.”

  “You two go,” Chastity said, still tapping away. “I'm not very hungry. I'll finish this and then take the omnibus to Mrs. Beedle's. We haven't picked up the post in a week.”

  She didn't turn around as she spoke, leaving her sisters to look at the back of her head. “You must need luncheon, Chas,” Constance said.

  “Oddly enough, I don't,” her youngest sister responded. “You two go.”

  Prudence sucked on her lower lip, wondering whether they should force their way through this thicket that Chastity had thrown up around herself, and then decided that they couldn't. She glanced at Constance, who simply nodded and took her coat off the rack.

  “Can we bring something back for you, Chas?” she asked. “We could bring you some soup.”

  “No, I'll go and eat lardy cake at Mrs. Beedle's,” Chastity said, still without turning around. “I haven't had a good chat with her for ages.”

  “All right. See you later.” Prudence and Constance left the office. They didn't say anything until they'd gained the pavement.

  “I'm worried about her, Prue,” Constance said.

  “I know. So am I. But I don't know what to do.”

  “No,” Constance agreed. “Neither do I.”

  Chastity finished typing her letter and then leaned back in her hard office chair, aware of a crick in her neck. Typing was certainly quicker than penmanship but it was physically harder work. Maybe once she became proficient it wouldn't be such a strain.

  She needed a break, though, and a walk to the omnibus would be welcome exercise. She walked briskly, muffled in a scarf, her felt hat pulled low over her ears, her gloved hands thrust deep into her pockets. She wasn't allowing herself to think these days, or at least not about anything that didn't concern The Mayfair Lady or her father's developing relationship with the contessa. Only at night did the longings plague her, the regrets that she didn't know what she could do to assuage.

  She got off the omnibus at Kensington High Street and walked quickly to Mrs. Beedle's. Involuntarily she found herself glancing at the passersby, wondering if she would see Douglas. But of course he would have no reason to be around here now. His slum surgery was some walk away and he now lived in the upper reaches of Wimpole Street. He would have no need to visit Mrs. Beedle.

  “Why, long time no see, Miss Chas,” Mrs. Beedle greeted her with wreathing smiles. “It's a Happy New Year to you too. How was Christmas?”

  “Nice, thank you, Mrs. Beedle. Very nice,” Chastity said, hearing how lukewarm she sounded. “Cold and snowy,” she added, trying to infuse some enthusiasm into her voice. “Sarah had a wonderful time.”

  “Oh, well, that's good,” the shopkeeper said comfortably. “Nice for the little lass to have a real Christmas. Got some post for you.” She lifted the hatch in the counter, inviting Chastity through.

  The kitchen was warm and inviting as always, and the s
mell of baking filled the air. “Jam roly-poly,” Mrs. Beedle said. “You'd like a piece with custard, Miss Chas. Straight out of the oven, and the custard's just made.”

  Pudding for lunch, Chastity reflected, suited her mood. There was no one to tell her she had to eat her meat and vegetables first. “Yes, please, Mrs. Beedle,” she said, unwinding her scarf as she sat at the table.

  “And here's your post.” Mrs. Beedle reached up to the shelf and took down a batch of envelopes, setting them beside Chastity before she went to dish up an enormous portion of jam roly-poly liberally smothered in thick yellow custard.

  Chastity glanced at the envelopes, then put them in her handbag and turned her attention to her pudding. Mrs. Beedle was chatting cheerfully about her children and grandchildren and seemed to require little or no response. Once or twice the shop bell rang and she went out to deal with a customer. In her absence Chastity scraped her plate clean. That was going to put back a few of the curves she'd lost in the last couple of months, she thought.

  “And how's his lordship doing?” Mrs. Beedle asked as she bustled back into the kitchen.

  “Oh, rather well,” Chastity said with a tiny wink. “He has a lady friend.”

  “Oh, my goodness me,” the shopkeeper exclaimed. “Well, now, isn't that wonderful. I always say, however good the marriage, the one left behind should be open to fate.”

  “A good maxim, Mrs. Beedle,” Chastity said. “Mother would have agreed with you.”

  “A wonderful woman,” Mrs. Beedle said. “Such a great heart.”

  “Yes,” Chastity agreed with a smile that was just a little sad. “She was and she did have.” She reached for her hat and coat. “That was wonderful, Mrs. Beedle. I could stay all afternoon, but I have to go.”

  “Well, don't be a stranger,” the woman said. “And give my best to Miss Con and Miss Prue.”

  “Of course. And they send theirs.” Chastity kissed the woman's round cheek in farewell and braced herself for the cold outdoors. Roly-poly pudding and custard had their uses when it came to padding against the wind, she thought.

  She went back to the office and found her sisters already returned, Prudence balancing the books, Constance writing a rather wicked account of the New Year's Eve party at Elizabeth Armitage's.

  “How was Mrs. Beedle?” Constance inquired, glancing up from her two-fingered pecking.

  “Well. She sent her best.” Chastity hung up her coat, then reached into the pockets for the post. “There are a few letters.”

  “Did you eat anything?” Prudence asked, trying not to sound anxious. “We brought you back a sandwich just in case.”

  “I had the most enormous helping of jam roly-poly and custard,” Chastity said with a laugh. “Not at all good for me, but good for the soul.”

  “Then good for you,” Constance said. “Let's have a look at the post.”

  Chastity laid the letters on the central table and they scooted their wheeled chairs over to look at them. Prudence, by custom, wielded the paper knife. “Two agony aunts for you, Chas,” she said, passing them across. “And this one's some kind of tirade against that article you wrote about Freud's book, Con.”

  “Three Contributions to the Theory of Sex,” Constance said, reaching for the letter. She glanced at it, pronounced disgustedly, “What a bigot. Some ignorant country vicar who thinks publications of our kind should cater to the delicate sensibilities of ladies, not go out of their way to offend them.”

  “Shall you answer it?” Chastity asked somewhat absently as she perused another of the letters Prudence had handed her.

  “What do you think?” Constance said.

  Chastity smiled reflexively. “This is another Go-Between. Odd writing, though. It's all printed.”

  “Perhaps he—or is it she—can't manage cursive,” Prudence suggested.

  “I think it's a he.” Chastity passed the letter over. “But the gender is definitely a little obscure.”

  Her sisters read the letter. “No one who reads The Mayfair Lady is unable to write cursive,” Constance said. “Perhaps he has a reason for not wanting people to know he's sent the letter.”

  “‘Curiouser and curiouser, said Alice,'” Prudence quoted. “Who's going to meet the mystery?”

  “I will,” Chastity said without too much enthusiasm. “The Rubens room at the National Gallery works well. I'll tell him to carry a copy of the broadsheet, as usual.”

  “Are you sure you don't mind doing this?” Constance asked. The Rubens gallery was where Chastity had first met Douglas and it might rub salt into old wounds.

  “No,” Chastity said with an unwavering smile. “Interviewing Go-Between applicants is my job. Of course I'm happy to do it.” She took the letter and scooted her chair back to her typewriter. “It's Friday today, so I'll suggest next Thursday. That should give him plenty of time to make whatever arrangements he has to, to make the rendezvous.”

  Chapter 18

  The following Thursday was crisp and clear as Chastity strolled across Trafalgar Square, tossing corn to the pigeons as she went. The brightness of the day had lifted her spirits a little but she knew from experience that it wouldn't last. Once the evening drew in and the prospect of the long night lay ahead, the now familiar depression would swamp her anew.

  She was swathed once more in her loose alpaca dust coat, her face obscured by the opaque chiffon veil, her Feydeau accent well prepared, although just the thought of it filled her with distaste. She hurried up the steps and entered the ground-floor hall, then climbed the stairs towards the atrium, turning to the left at the half landing, a copy of The Mayfair Lady prominently displayed in her hand.

  She made her way through to the Rubens gallery and sat down on the circular bench in the middle of the room, as she'd specified in her letter, and opened up the broadsheet, its title page facing outwards. The Go-Between's client couldn't fail to identify her.

  He didn't. Douglas entered the gallery and spotted the veiled, swathed figure immediately. A smile touched his mouth as he approached. “Madam Mayfair Lady, we meet again,” he said.

  Chastity looked up. She stared at him in bewildered incredulity. “Douglas?”

  “The very same. May I sit down?” He didn't wait for an answer, merely sat next to her on the bench. He reached out and lifted her chiffon veil, folding it carefully over the brim of her hat. “Surplus to requirements on this occasion, wouldn't you say?” He raised an eyebrow even as the smile in his eyes deepened. “Since we have no secrets from each other.”

  Chastity was unable to respond for a minute. Her first thought was that this meeting was accidental; her second, that of course it wasn't. She was overwhelmed by his presence, by his scent and his smile, by the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the large hands that were now stripping off his gloves. His deep-set eyes were darkest charcoal, and his long angular jaw had a disconcerting jut to it, as if he had determined on some course of action.

  “You wrote to the Go-Between?” she asked, feeling stupid.

  “I took a gamble that it would be you who answered, not one of your sisters,” Douglas said. “I need you to come with me.” He took her hand, standing up as he did so, drawing her inexorably to her feet.

  “Come with you where?” Chastity thought she should be making some protest but for some reason couldn't summon the will to do so.

  “You'll see,” he said. “I want you to see the consequences of your actions.” Still holding her hand he drew her firmly beside him and began to walk out of the gallery.

  Chastity made no protest as they walked across the upper hallway, down the great flight of stairs, and out into the bright afternoon. In truth, just the feel of his fingers on her wrist set her senses awhirl. If she'd wanted to, she could have pulled away, but the idea never crossed her mind. She had no idea what was happening, or what he intended, but he was here beside her and she could sense none of the cold hurt and anger that had marked their parting.

  Douglas hailed a hackney and when the cab dr
ew up he lifted Chastity into the interior and climbed in behind her. She contemplated a form protest and then with an unconscious shake of her head dismissed the idea. She hadn't minded, why pretend she had? He was sitting beside her and now took her hand again, enclosing it in his own but saying nothing, seemingly content to sit quietly side by side in the swaying carriage.

  “Where are we going?” she asked finally.

  “Harley Street.”

  “Why?”

  “You'll see.” He smiled again, a very private smile, and said nothing further until they were inside the ground-floor hallway of his office building. “The second floor,” he said, gesturing to the stairs.

  Chastity, with one questioning glance, went up the stairs ahead of him. She couldn't help drawing a shocking comparison between this opulent building and the tumbledown hovel of St. Mary Abbot's. It must be so difficult for Douglas to move between the two, she thought, stopping outside the single door on the second floor.

  He leaned across her shoulder with a key in his hand and unlocked the door, pushing it open. Chastity stepped inside. She stopped dead. “Dear God,” she whispered, a tremor in her voice. He moved to stand beside her and she turned her head towards him. “Laura,” she said in the same awed whisper. “She did this?”

  “To the letter,” he agreed impassively. He gestured. “Go in. There's more.”

  Chastity took another step, and then another. She looked all around, her hazel eyes stunned. “Is there a Buddha?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No, she spared me that. But there's a palm tree.” He pointed.

  Chastity gazed at it, her hands now covering her mouth. “Sweet Jesus,” she murmured.

  “You realize that you are entirely responsible for this,” he said, leaning against the door, arms folded, little flickers of laughter in his eyes.