The Ladies In Love Series

by M. C. Beaton

  She prattled on about the “little fishies” and the “sweet natives,” and Cyril only heard the music of falling gold coins in her father’s counting house. Like Richard III, he had decided to marry her, but not to keep her long.

  It would be ideal if he could marry her on board ship and stage an accident before they even reached Singapore. But that way there was no guarantee that he would inherit any money. Father must be met first. Meanwhile, life held promise, his bruises had healed, and the warm sun had reddened his face to match the color of his spots so that they hardly showed….

  Lady Aileen had snared yet another catch of London society in the shape of the Earl of Morningham. It was an Irish peerage, admittedly, but a title for all that, and the earl was undoubtedly handsome and all her friends were envious.

  Aileen was entertaining the earl in the Art Nouveau drawing room that had so depressed Tilly. Since she was entertaining her fiancé to tea, she had the luxury of being alone with him. She smiled at him lovingly and he gave her a weak smile back.

  “I say, Aileen, old girl,” said the earl in a hesitant manner. “It’s awfully jolly being alone with you, what… I mean not being paraded about in front of your friends like a prize bull.”

  Aileen stiffened. She poured the Earl Grey into a paper-thin Spode cup with deliberate care. Then she turned a rather steely gaze on her beloved.

  “I object to your choice of words, Henry,” she said evenly. “I don’t parade you about.”

  “It’s not that I blame you,” said Henry earnestly. “I mean, after all, what with Bassett disappearing and then there was Heppleford falling for that gorgeous companion of yours… well, it stands to reason.”

  “What stands to reason?” Lady Aileen proceeded to pick little pieces of watercress from her sandwich.

  “Well, I mean, after all, jilted twice, what. I mean, got to show the girls you’ve made it this time.”

  “Do you think I’m so hard up that I should have to settle for a drip like you?” shrilled Aileen.

  “As a matter of fact… yes.”

  “Oh!” Aileen stared at him balefully. The insult was gross. There was only one thing she could do and that was to tell this handsome cad to march. But what would her friends say? Henry looked at her almost hopefully.

  “You do not know how cruel and rude you are being,” said Aileen at last. “I forgive you.”

  Henry took a deep breath. “Nothing to forgive,” he remarked casually. “Only spoke the truth. May as well make the most of it, old girl, cos you ain’t seeing any of those friends of yours after we’re married.”

  “What?”

  “Can’t stand all this London nonsense,” pursued Henry. “Got the place in Ireland, you know. Bit run down and all that, but I like a nice, quiet life.”

  Aileen made a desperate last stand. She slid along the sofa and wound her arms about his neck. “You can’t mean it. You wouldn’t take poor little fairy away from London.”

  “Oh, yes, I would,” said Henry calmly. “And another thing. Shouldn’t call yourself fairy. Sickening enough when your mother says it.”

  Aileen gritted her teeth and released him. “Are you trying to force me to break our engagement, Henry?”

  “No. But I mean to be master. That’s what women are for. You do what I say from now on.”

  Lady Aileen threw the contents of the teapot at him.

  Two days later, London society learned that Lady Aileen was no longer engaged to the Earl of Morningham.

  Four days later, Lady Aileen Dunbar appeared at Marlborough Street Magistrates Court, charged with breaking shop windows in Bond Street with her umbrella. Her defense lawyer pointed out that Lady Aileen had just joined the suffragettes movement and was protesting against women not having the vote. She looked very beautiful as she stood in the dock, and did a great deal to further the women’s movement. But she was still unwed….

  A miserable, chill autumn descended on London, but for some inexplicable reason, Paris was still gilded with sunshine. The Marquess and Marchioness of Heppleford strolled along under the rust-colored leaves of the plane trees on the Champs Élysées.

  “Are you sure?” asked the marquess for the umpteenth time.

  “Perfectly,” said Tilly lazily. “The doctor’s sure as well. Oh, won’t Cyril be furious. After all his trouble. I hope he doesn’t turn up at the christening like a bad fairy.”

  The marquess stopped at a neighboring news vendor and bought the English papers.

  “You are not going to read them in the middle of the street,” said Tilly severely. “We shall go to that nice café over there and I can watch the crowds.”

  The marquess grinned and took her arm and led her toward the nearest café table. Tilly settled back with a sigh of pure contentment.

  Then her attention was drawn from the smart boulevardiers and the glossy carriages by an exclamation from her husband.

  “Cyril’s dead!” he exclaimed, raising his head from a copy of the Daily Mail.

  “What on earth happened?”

  “He fell overboard just before the ship docked at Singapore. There’s been a hell of a stink at the inquest. It seems Cyril was entertaining some very handsome purser to drinks in his cabin when they were interrupted by a Miss Cecilia Wendover, who made a hysterical scene. She says she was engaged to Cyril on board ship! She demanded that Cyril come up to the boat deck for a private chat. No one saw the couple after that, but the next thing they knew was that Miss Wendover was running about screaming hysterically and saying that Cyril had fallen overboard. The purser claims she pushed Cyril. But the jury brought a verdict of accidental death. Well!”

  “Oh, dear,” cried Tilly, her eyes filling with tears. All the horror of that evening on the swing rushed back into her mind.

  “Don’t worry,” said her husband gently. “There will be no more shocks in your life, Tilly. I don’t care if Cyril jumped or was pushed. I’m heartily glad he’s dead. He’s been on my conscience. People who try to kill once may succeed the next time. I had long regretted not having taken him to the police. Don’t get so exercised over it, you’ll upset the baby,” he finished, for Tilly had let out a scream.

  “It’s not Cyril,” said Tilly wildly. “Look who’s coming along the road. Only look!”

  The marquess followed her pointing finger. At first he only saw what appeared to be an English gentleman with a very pretty Frenchwoman on his arm—a not uncommon sight on the boulevards of Paris. Then he too straightened up in amazement as he recognized the couple.

  Toby Bassett, with Francine on his arm, came strolling along in a leisurely way in the pale sunlight. Francine was wearing a very modish gown in the latest fashion—a tailored suit by George Poirot in muted green with an otter collar. Over her arm she carried a large otter muff and perched on her glossy curls was a diminutive otter hat. Toby looked the picture of the English gentleman from his well-tailored suit to his glossy top hat.

  The couple caught sight of the marquess and Tilly. Toby strode forward, pulling a blushing and embarrassed Francine.

  “I say,” he cried, waving his cane, “this is splendid. All together again. Meet the wife.”

  A series of images flashed through Tilly’s brain: Francine’s print dress fluttering in the breeze as Toby drove her off from the vicarage; Francine asking to be allowed to wear a dress of a different color; Francine transformed and elegant while Toby drank lemonade by the window in the drawing room and the aunts stared; Toby holding her in his arms as she, Tilly, had stood at the side of the road, frightened by the tramp and wondering why Toby smelled of her perfume. Francine used the same fragrance, she suddenly remembered.

  “You’re married?” asked Tilly faintly as the couple sat down beside them. Tilly had never quite got over her disappointment on finding out that the pretty Emily was unwed and that the mysterious Mr. Bassett had disappeared.

  “What’s that?” countered Toby vaguely, his eyes losing their focus. He was back in his old state of not quite drunk
, not quite sober. Tilly flashed an accusing look at Francine, who got to her feet again.

  “We will walk a little way together, Lady Tilly,” said Francine, “and leave the gentlemen to their newspapers.”

  Tilly mutely allowed herself to be led away. Francine stopped at a bench under a plane tree and motioned Tilly to sit down beside her.

  “You are shocked, non?” demanded Francine.

  “I am a bit,” said Tilly. “You might have told me.”

  “You might not have approved, and my lord would certainly have not. And, oh, those aunts! They would have had something to say. I had a chance and I took it,” said Francine simply. “He was so eager. We were married by special license by your good vicar.”

  “But Emily—”

  “Emily made a very pretty bridesmaid,” said Francine.

  “Do you love him?” asked Tilly wonderingly.

  “No, not in the way you love your lord.”

  “But he is drunk again,” protested Tilly hotly. “If he loved someone, he might reform.”

  “I said I do not love him, but he certainly loves me,” said Francine calmly. “And that one will never reform. For my sake, he only gets drunk once a day and that is as much as I can hope for. We will soon go home and he will sleep, and he will be recovered by the evening.”

  “But why did you marry him? I don’t understand,” wailed Tilly.

  “Why? You ask me, Francine, why? And after you have worked as a kind of servant yourself,” exclaimed Francine. “I am French and infinitely practical. A handsome young man offers me marriage and security. In return, he gets an affectionate keeper. I am a very good wife.”

  But Tilly only bit her lip. When they returned to join the two men, she still felt upset. Francine was surely no more than a scheming adventuress.

  She voiced this disturbing thought when she was safely back in the apartment with her husband. “I think it’s answered very well,” he said, removing his tie and loosening his collar stud. “Toby’s as happy as he can manage to be because Francine does not expect him to change. People don’t change, you know. If Toby had married Emily, she would have been a very upset young lady by now. Can you imagine? Her husband falling drunk out of the family pew on Sundays?”

  “You say people don’t change,” said Tilly sadly. “Does that mean you are going to go back to chasing other women?”

  He came forward and began to loosen the pins from her hair. “I couldn’t go chasing other women,” he said, “before I met you, that is. I only chased after women. Now I’m perfectly happy to confine my chasing to you.” He reached for the buttons at the top of her dress.

  “What are you doing?” cried Tilly, trying to button them up again. “It’s still daylight!”

  “Have you never heard of love in the afternoon?”

  “It doesn’t seem quite right.”

  “What if I do this… and… this… and this.”

  “I can’t stop you when you do that to me,” moaned Lady Tilly as she was carried into the bedroom. “Oh, rats! You are a beast, Philip!”

  Part IV

  Susie

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  To the ladies of President Street, Brooklyn…

  God bless ’em!

  Rachel Fevola, Elizabeth Cassarino,

  Paula Mazze, Mary Nocerino,

  Frances Puglisi, Ann Marie Parascondola,

  and Rosemarie Sellitto

  Chapter 1

  It was not that Susie Burke didn’t have dreams of her own. She would have been a very unusual seventeen-year-old if she did not. But her dreams were very much of this world, of the comfortable, jolly young man she would marry, of the cottage they would live in, of the sundial in their pocket-size garden, of the birds building nests in the thatch above their heads.

  But her mother’s dreams of the afterworld never failed to embarrass her, and Mrs. Christina Burke’s dreams were always stronger after church service.

  As soon as she had unpinned her velour hat and handed her otter-skin coat to the parlormaid, she was off among the angels. The vicar, Mr. Pontifax, had preached a sermon on the death of a Mrs. Amy Bennet, a local washerwoman, famed for regular church attendance. Mrs. Bennet, the vicar had said, would surely now be in her well-earned place at the right hand of God, and this had troubled Mrs. Burke sorely, since she felt obscurely that that hallowed place was reserved for herself.

  “I ask you, Susie,” she began as she straightened her fringe of false curls, “do you really think one has to mix socially with one’s inferiors in Heaven?” She rushed on before Susie could reply. “After all, the good Lord put us on this earth in our appointed stations, so why should He not do the same in His world? I would not know what to say to a woman like Amy Bennet.

  “After all, good soul though she was, she was undoubtedly common. Christ says that His Father has ‘many mansions.’ Perhaps that means that the lower orders will be in one place and us in another. But then that does not seem very fair either, for surely well-bred people like ourselves, although middle-class in this world, have a right to mingle with the aristocracy in the next. I would so like to meet the Duke of Wellington and ask him whether he ever actually had an affair with Lady Shelley. I am sure he did not, of course, so the question would not be sinful. Nonetheless I cannot help feeling that Mr. Pontifax has become uncommonly Low.

  “I had such a splendid wedding planned for you, Susie. I thought we might perhaps invite the Bellings to attend, for although Mr. Belling is in tea, it is said he is a second cousin to the Marquess of Warminster, several times removed.”

  “I don’t know how you can plan my wedding, Mama,” Susie pointed out reasonably. “Not only am I not engaged to be married, but I am not even walking out with anyone.”

  Her mother swung around. “And neither you will, Susie Burke, if you do not make some push. Now, young Basil Bryant is calling this evening to speak to your papa. He is reading for the bar and may even be a judge. In fact, I am sure he will be a judge. I can see him sitting in the Old Bailey, solemnly putting the black cap on his head and sending some dreadful murderer to the gallows.”

  “As a matter of fact, so can I,” said Susie dryly. She still remembered Basil as a spotty schoolboy who tormented little girls and cats.

  “Well, then,” said Mrs. Burke, brightening, “go and put on your blue silk and brush your hair well before he comes. You are so pretty, Susie—quite like myself as a girl—but so quiet and shy that nobody notices you. You may borrow my rouge, as your face is a little pale, but do not tell Papa. It is not necessary to bother him with these little sophistries.

  “Dear me. Amy Bennet at the right hand of God. It doesn’t bear thinking of!”

  Susie escaped to the privacy of her room, and Mrs. Burke, finding that Susie had gone, wrenched her mind back to the everyday world and went in search of her husband.

  Dr. Joseph Burke was sitting in his study, drinking a large glass of Wincarnis tonic wine and studying a sheaf of patients’ bills. He was a thickset man with grizzled hair and a majestic sable beard of which he was inordinately proud. He had the reputation among his patients of being a very wise man, since he hardly ever said anything original, confining his remarks to clichés and platitudes. His patients, in the main, came from the overworked and underpaid classes and therefore were never in any mental condition to appreciate a witty doctor.

  He was a good man in his way, and although snobbery was his ruling passion, he successfully managed to keep it to himself most of the time.

  He and his wife were tolerably comfortable together. They had never been in love with each other, or anyone else for that matter, and therefore had nothing to be disappointed about.

  He looked amiably enough at h
is wife, as he would have looked at a favorite piece of furniture—comfortably familiar, slightly worn, yet promising a good few years more service.

  “I’m worried about Susie,” said Mrs. Burke, pacing up and down the room so that her husband might admire her still-slim figure. At each turn she kicked out her taffeta skirts, which were edged with a deep border of fox fur. “She is still a child, admittedly, but she should already be thinking along the lines of an advantageous marriage.”

  “Quite so, Mrs. Burke,” agreed her husband. “Marriages are not made in Heaven.”

  “Just as well,” commented his wife irreverently. “I cannot help but feel that the Son of God was a teensy bit radical.”

  “Take not the name of the Lord thy God in vain,” said Dr. Burke, taking another swig at his Wincarnis. Mrs. Burke gave him a mutinous look. She had long imagined her own entry into Heaven as a sort of presentation at court, and that wretched Mr. Pontifax had gone and spoiled it all.

  “I shall sound out young Bryant this evening,” said Dr. Burke ponderously. “I feel he is not indifferent to our Susie. Perhaps she would fare better if we arranged a marriage for her. She has no mind of her own. She is”—here he made a tremendous mental effort—“lying fallow, so to speak, and it is up to us to plant a seed therein.”

  “Exactly,” agreed Mrs. Burke, struck anew by her husband’s wisdom.

  Upstairs, the subject of their discussion sat at her dressing table with her elbows propped on the glass top and stared at herself dreamily in the looking glass.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t say such things, Mr. Bryant,” said Susie coyly, flirting with her reflection. Then she heaved a sigh. It’s no good, she thought. He’ll always be horrible little Basil to me.