by Nancy Carson
‘Fine, thank you, Algie. The nanny is looking after them.’ She sipped her sherry.
‘This nanny’s a bit different to the last one, eh?’ he said with an arched eyebrow that emphasised his directness.
‘Very different. A bit aloof, really. And middle-aged.’
He and Aurelia first met when Benjamin, who used to employ Algie, invited him to dinner at his house to discuss a business proposal. She was the most fascinating creature he had ever seen, and her beauty left him thoroughly disconcerted. He was inexorably drawn to her. Often he wished he had never set eyes on her, for she embodied not only the utterly desirable, but also the frustratingly unattainable.
‘We don’t get the chance to talk these days,’ Aurelia remarked candidly.
It was the truth, and he could utter neither confirmation nor denial. Always he had found her to be forthright, always disquietingly direct.
‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ she added.
‘How is he these days?’ Algie indicated with a nod that he meant Benjamin, then settled on Aurelia’s glistening eyes, wallowing in their deep blue depths.
‘As unpleasant as ever.’
Algie sighed, exasperated at this deplorable, despicable waste.
‘He’s hopeless with money. That share of the money my father left – you know? It’s all gone. He said he wanted it to invest in the business. So I stupidly gave in and let him have it. My guilty conscience, I suppose. But I’m sure it never was…Invested, I mean. He simply squandered it. The business is worse off than ever.’
Algie shook his head in sympathy. ‘I’m so sorry, Aurelia.’ He sounded truly sincere. ‘Things don’t look good for Sampson’s anyway, from what I hear. But if there’s anything I can do to help…to help you, I mean, not him or his business.’
She put her hand on his arm in acknowledgement of his concern, and it was like a pleasurable bolt of electricity surging through him. ‘You have your own responsibilities these days, Algie.’
‘I’m all too aware…’
‘But Marigold is a treasure. She’s my one true friend these days. I don’t know what I’d do without her.’ Then her face lit up with a smile and her vivid eyes widened, so appealingly. ‘I understand your business is doing well, though. Marigold tells me you’re expanding already.’
‘We’ve got a full order book, if that’s any indication. We’re making as many bikes as we can, but it’s not enough to meet the orders we keep getting.’
She laid her hand on his arm again affectionately; always the sort of woman who had to touch and feel. ‘I’m so glad for you, Algie.’ She stood on tiptoe and placed a kiss briefly on his lips, then looked steadily into his eyes, as if apologetic that it was such a brief kiss when both would have favoured a lingering version. But then, she was always so disconcertingly forward. ‘I’m so glad for you,’ she added.
Benjamin was at that moment a particularly riveted observer, observing what appeared to be strong empathy between his wife and Algie Stokes.
Just then, an usher called out, asking everybody to take their places at table.
* * *
At the top table, portly Eli Meese sat next to the groom’s mother, Mrs Beatrice Froggatt. She was an unassuming woman, attired in a plain but well-made blue chiffon dress that buttoned up to her throat, where was fastened a blue and white cameo brooch. Clarence’s father, the eminent Dr Froggatt, enjoying a day off from tending the sick and dying of the parish, rubbed shoulders with Eli’s heroically proportioned wife, mother of the bride, and done-up like a turkey cock in a vast cream concoction which, when she tacked down the aisle of the church, resembled the wind-filled mainsail of some fabled argosy.
An old friend of the groom, Robert Sankey, tall, athletically built and handsome of face, was the best man. He had distinction, came across as being casual in demeanour and just a little bit negligent of his attire, but not of his dark, glossy hair. He sat next to Priss Meese, the chief bridesmaid. By their very number, the younger bridesmaids spilled out onto the adjoining tables that flanked the room, but their eyes were fastened on this appealing Robert Sankey.
Because of her fussy nature, Priss seemed to spend only half her time at the table, constantly up and down, watchful, hospitably anxious, ensuring that things were going right and that everybody was content. She perceived it was her duty as a member of the bride’s family to spread herself amiably among the guests. Priss was even plainer of face than her newly married sister was, and her fleecy dark hair unravelled relentlessly into an unruly mop as the afternoon advanced.
At the two long trestles sat various relatives, mutual acquaintances of the bride and groom from the Brierley Hill Amateur Dramatics Society, and from St Michael’s Church, including Mr Cuthbert Delacroix, the curate.
Aurelia sat next to Algie Stokes. Marigold sat opposite him, with Benjamin Sampson at her side facing Aurelia.
Benjamin engaged Marigold in conversation, oozing the smoothness that he could turn on like a tap when with an attractive woman. Nevertheless, Marigold knew too much about him for it to have any effect. Besides, her former life on the narrowboats had taught her wiliness. She was entirely aware, too, of the business rivalry between Benjamin and Algie, how Benjamin had conspired to lure Algie with false promises during their catastrophic relationship as employer and employee. She knew that only Algie’s resentment at being thus exploited had prompted the momentous leap into starting his own business – Ranger Cycles – with the help of a hundred pounds he borrowed from his mother. To Benjamin’s profound envy and irritation, that small rival business was thriving.
Marigold had not the slightest notion, however, of the depth of Algie’s partiality for Aurelia.
Because Marigold and Benjamin were sitting so close to them during the wedding supper, conversation was confined between the four of them, with only the occasional word to those others sitting near them. After the customary speeches, when everybody had partaken of a drink or two and had become a little more relaxed and the general hubbub more noisy, their comments to each other loosened up, talk focusing on the bride and groom at first; neutral territory and uncontroversial.
‘How long have they been courting?’ Aurelia asked conversationally.
Algie shrugged. ‘A year. Eighteen months. I’m not sure exactly.’
‘Soon after he gave up your sister then, Algie?’
‘Must have been.’
‘Do I understand from that, Algie, that Clarence Froggatt courted your sister?’ Benjamin queried, desperately trying to home in on their conversation while also blarneying Marigold.
‘For a time, yes. And she led him a merry dance, I believe.’
‘Well, I’m hanged. I never knew. I bet my wife knows all about it, though.’
‘Only because Marigold told me,’ Aurelia answered dismissively.
‘Well, I suppose she has an interest in knowing what Clarence is up to at any time, since she was engaged to him once.’ He smiled all round to suggest it was a well-intentioned, rational comment, spoken without rancour.
‘Once upon a time,’ Aurelia answered coolly, irritated that he should refer to her in the third person rather than speak to her directly. ‘It was a long time ago. But why should I want to keep tabs on Clarence Froggatt? We went our own separate ways. And he looks perfectly content that we did.’
‘Even so,’ Benjamin replied. ‘You still know things about him that I don’t. I just wonder how you know.’
‘Women’s gossip, how else? Anyway, why shouldn’t I be curious? Why shouldn’t I want to wish him well?’
‘This sister of yours, Algie…is she here?’
‘It’s hardly likely, Benjamin, she lives in Norfolk,’ Algie explained. ‘When she’s not performing.’
‘Performing?’
‘She’s an actress,’ he said in a low voice.
‘An actress?’ Benjamin grinned. ‘Well, I’m blowed. Is she a well-known actress?’
‘Well known on the vaudeville stage in London. I doubt if man
y will have heard of her outside London, though.’
‘She must be a good-looking girl.’
‘Oh, she is,’ Marigold chimed in, generous in her praise. ‘She’s gorgeous-looking. Gorgeous figure, lovely face. She can really fetch the ducks off the water, I can tell you.’
‘Gorgeous, eh?’ Benjamin mused. ‘You must be quite proud of her, Algie.’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘Because…’ Algie offered no further explanation.
‘Oh…one of those actresses, is she?’
‘Whatever she is or is not, she married some wealthy aristocrat,’ Aurelia informed him.
‘Aristocrat? I’m impressed. And I suppose Marigold told you that?’
‘Benjamin, I really don’t recall,’ was the scornful response.
‘A Lord something or other,’ Marigold interjected. ‘Done well for herself, she has. But with her looks she could have anybody she wanted.’
Benjamin looked at Algie. ‘So is that a valid reason for not being particularly proud of her? For being gorgeous, for marrying a lord and doing well for herself?’
Nobody offered to explain. After a few embarrassing seconds of silence, Benjamin said, ‘Well, if it’s a touchy subject…’
‘It is,’ Algie replied bluntly.
‘Anyway, Aurelia, you seem to know quite a lot about Algie’s sister as well,’ Benjamin said, addressing her directly this time. ‘You seem particularly well informed about Clarence Froggatt’s past love life.’
‘Yes, well, he’s worthy of a bit of gossip,’ Aurelia responded pointedly. ‘Don’t you think so, Marigold?’
‘I suppose so,’ Marigold replied. ‘Except there’s not much to gossip about, is there? Nor where Harriet’s concerned. She’s hardly the sort to do anything worth gossiping about. But Algie knows more about Harriet than anybody. He courted her for a couple of years. Didn’t you, Algie?’
‘In a half-hearted sort of way, yes.’
* * *
The curate of St Michael’s – whom Priss, Harriet’s older sister, had set her sights on from the day of his appointment to the parish – was in his late twenties, tall and rather gangly. His hair was floppy and already thinning, and neither could he be deemed handsome. However, as Priss had never possessed the wherewithal to trap a handsome beau, she felt she could make herself perfectly content with the curate’s unremarkable looks. She saw a liaison as a possible meeting of minds in any case, for Priss was intelligent, keenly religious, and she wallowed in the notion that she would thus make the curate an excellent wife, and able to offer incomparable support in his vocation.
So, avoiding even the polite attentions of the handsome Robert Sankey, whom she knew of old (and with whom she was well out of her depth), she set about another round of the guests. She made sure her tour took her to the curate, and to her delight and utmost surprise, he invited her to sit beside him for a minute or two.
Cuthbert Delacroix was famed in the parish for his ancestors, an aspect of him that particularly impressed Priss. Speculation about his forebears had been intensified and enhanced and, while he had never discussed them with Priss directly, some exaggerated tales had reached her ears, and she had mentally exalted these supposed forebears to the status of mythical ancient gods. In consequence, these imagined ancestors had overawed Priss and somewhat inhibited her self-confidence before him. The distinct lack of notables in her own family led her to believe that Mr Delacroix must perceive her as common. So to hide her inferiority she had duly kept her distance, comfortably yet disappointingly revering him from the relative lowliness of the family pew.
‘I understand you are a teacher, Miss Meese,’ he remarked, when they had done with small talk about the wedding.
‘Yes, I teach at the Dudley Proprietary School for Girls.’
‘I say! An excellent school for young ladies, I understand. What subjects do you teach?’
‘English and Divinity,’ Priss answered, with an emphasis on the latter.
‘How interesting. And do you enjoy your subjects?’
‘Oh, very much,’ Priss enthused. ‘Particularly Divinity,’ she felt bound to say to enhance her appeal. ‘I feel privileged to be in a position where I can disseminate the word of our Lord quite liberally, and in such a high-class educational establishment.’
The curate smiled enigmatically. ‘How very interesting. But you know, I would have thought English a vastly more interesting subject.’
‘Oh, but I love teaching English as well, Mr Delacroix. My girls are a delight to teach. Three of them are my sisters, you know.’
‘You have sisters who are pupils at the school?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘How fascinating. D’you find them attentive pupils, or does their familiarity breed a certain amount of contempt for you as a teacher?’
‘They treat me as they would any teacher, and I treat my sisters as I treat any other pupils, Mr Delacroix,’ Priss answered with a smile that put a sparkle in her eyes. ‘One wrong move and I’m down on them like a forge hammer.’
He smiled amiably. ‘No favouritism there, then?’
‘None at all. You can’t afford favourites if you want the respect of all your pupils.’
He raised his right hand and wagged his index finger. ‘I’m sure you are right, Miss Meese.’
Priss smiled demurely, and felt herself colour up at the curate’s sincere compliment. ‘I’m fascinated by your ancestors, Mr Delacroix,’ she remarked, hoping to eke some factual information about them, but also keen to divert emphasis from herself. ‘Is it true that you are a descendant of William the Conqueror?’
The curate roared. ‘Dear me, I doubt it. My ancestors were in fact Huguenots,’ he explained. ‘Somewhat later in history than the Conqueror, but hence the French-sounding name I’m saddled with.’
‘Huguenots!’ Priss sighed, as if it were a great relief. ‘I heard that you are a direct aristocratic descendant of William the Conqueror.’
‘Then I fear I must be a massive disappointment.’
‘Oh…au contraire, Mr Delacroix. They were persecuted then, your ancestors.’
He shrugged. ‘The persecution of the Huguenots of France is well documented.’
‘I understand they were such clever people. They brought brilliant talents with them when they arrived on these shores, to the detriment of France in the long run.’
‘Just so. But at the time, the French were more concerned with the Huguenots’ heretical religious beliefs.’
‘I trust you don’t follow in their footsteps yourself though, when it comes to heretical beliefs,’ Priss remarked, wide-eyed and gaining in self-confidence.
‘I’m afraid I do.’ He smiled enigmatically. ‘But that’s strictly between us, Miss Meese.’
‘Indeed? Well, there’s a turn-up!’
‘Does that shock you?’
‘I…I don’t know,’ she answered, half in admiration, half in disappointment. ‘I suppose it rather depends on the degree of heresy. I wonder if I would approve or disapprove.’
‘Then might I be so bold as to suggest that we meet sometime and perhaps discuss my heretical beliefs?’
‘Oh, Mr Delacroix!’ Priss exclaimed, feeling quite deliciously hot at this entirely unexpected invitation. ‘I would be very happy to. When should we, do you think?’
* * *
Harriet had taken the day calmly, a little surprised at her own detachment. For some weeks she had been very excited, wound up about her forthcoming marriage, but on her wedding day a remarkable calm had descended on her. She had married Clarence Froggatt, and all had passed off without a hitch, without anybody claiming at the last minute any just cause or impediment why they should not be joined together in holy matrimony.
She saw it all with exceptional clarity; the nervous perspiration on Clarence’s nose, his perpetual smile that day; the confidence in Robert Sankey’s demeanour as best man, the clever speech he delivered; the striking figures
of those of her sisters in their blossoming teen years – although they were no doubt destined, as she was, to grow stout eventually, like their mother. She was touched by her mother’s tears, which she hoped might be regret at losing a daughter, though more likely just relief that a wedding had come off after all, meaning one less daughter to keep.
She and Clarence were circulating the room together arm in arm, enjoying brief discourses with each of their guests against a background of tinkling glasses, sporadic laughter and the insistent thrum of many conversations. They reached eventually the foursome comprising Algie, Marigold, Benjamin and Aurelia, standing grouped together, having left the table while it was being cleared. Harriet had something in common with these young people now; she was also married. She was at last content that she had attained that heady state of social acceptance and respectability that was the goal of every self-respecting young woman – wed to a well-set-up young man with a solid future in prospect. At last, she was the equal of Aurelia whom she had envied greatly, not for her man – certainly not for her man – a little for her looks, but mostly for her status.
Talk at first was complimentary; how marvellous everybody looked, what a terrific spread Mr Meese had arranged, how delightful the bridesmaids were in their identical frocks, how beautifully Priss had decorated the church.
‘Oh, Priss was at the church till quite late last evening doing the flowers,’ Harriet commented.
‘What it must be to have such a devoted sister,’ Algie remarked, making the mental comparison with his own.
‘You think so? I thought you knew our Priss better than that, Algie. I’m sure it had more to do with the likelihood of bumping into the curate.’
‘It looks as if her prayers are being answered,’ Clarence commented with a nod in Priss’s direction. ‘Mr Delacroix seems almost indecently attentive. How much has he had to drink?’
Harriet craned her neck to gain a peek. ‘Oh, but I do hope you’re right, Clarence,’ she gushed. ‘She’s drooled over that man for so long now, poor girl. I’d dearly love to see her settled.’