Authors: Jane Feather
“What don't you understand?” It was Prudence's turn now. She sat next to him, turning sideways to face him. “It's a simple fact of life, Henry. These things happen. But when they do, then decisions have to be made.”
“You would not expect Amelia to carry this burden alone.” Chastity rested a hand on his. “You are far too good a man to do that, Henry. I know you are.”
The waitress appeared behind them with a laden tray, and Constance said, “It's so nice to see you again, Mr. Franklin. We were passing through Ashford on our way to Dover and thought how delightful it would be to catch up with you. We had such a delightful time at the musicale in Dover. Do you still play?”
Henry mumbled something. His grayish pallor was waxen and beads of perspiration stood out on his brow. He stared down at the table until the waitress had set down their plates and left, her backward glance brimming with speculation.
“Why didn't she write and tell me?” he said, poking at his sardines with his fork. “I don't understand why she didn't write to me.”
“But she did,” Prudence said. “She told us she had written several times, although she didn't mention her present situation. But you never wrote back.”
“I didn't receive her letters. We'd agreed not to see each other again, so I just assumed that she was holding to that.”
“Well, what could have happened to her letters?” Constance asked, taking her fork to the crisp bubbly cheese topping of her rarebit.
Henry looked up and stated bitterly, “My father sees all the post that comes into the house before anyone else does. He distributes it at the breakfast table.”
“And he knew about your understanding with Amelia?” Constance took a mouthful of her lunch. It was surprisingly good, with just the right mustardy bite to the cheese.
“Someone told him they'd seen us out walking in the evenings. He was very unpleasant about it.” He shuddered at the memory. “I couldn't bear to listen to him . . . to the things he said about Amelia. He said she wasn't good enough for a Franklin, that she was a woman of loose
morals . . . oh, dreadful things.”
“Why didn't you stand up to him?” Prudence asked, pouring tea from the big brown pot.
“That's easy for you to say,” he responded as bitterly as before, cutting his sardines into minute fussy little pieces. “You don't stand up to my father. No one does. He threatened to throw me out on the street if I ever saw or spoke with her again. It was no idle threat, I can promise you.”
“Then what are you going to do?” Chastity's voice was still soft and sympathetic.
He made a helpless gesture with his hands. “What
can
I do? He'll throw me out without a penny and I can't support a wife and child without money.”
“You could always earn it,” Prudence pointed out dryly.
“Doing what?” he exclaimed in an undertone. “I'm good for nothing but playing the piano.”
“You work as a clerk in your father's office,” Constance pointed out. “You could find such a job elsewhere.”
“It's killing my soul,” he said with a mournful sigh, echoing Amelia's observation.
“And what do you think carrying an illegitimate child is doing to Amelia's soul?” Constance demanded, her patience all but exhausted.
Henry looked as if he was about to cry. He covered his face with his hands.
“Do you love Amelia?” Chastity asked.
“We can't live on love!” He looked up and the hopelessness in his eyes stirred even the impatient Constance to sympathy. She glanced at Prudence.
Prudence took off her glasses and then replaced them, pushing them up the bridge of her nose with a firm, decisive forefinger. “This is what you must do.”
Henry gazed at her with the soulful hopeful eyes of a dog unsure whether he was about to receive a stroke or a kick.
“You have to declare your independence from your father before you do anything else. You will come to London, where you will marry Amelia in a civil ceremony at the registrar's office in the borough where Amelia lives. You will find a job as a clerk. We shall help you do that—in fact, we shall hold your hand throughout. Once you've sorted that out, then you will take Amelia to visit your father. It will be a fait accompli and I'm willing to bet that the prospect of a grandchild will soften him. You will present him with your own plan. Amelia is a clever woman, good with figures, with writing letters . . . she has any number of the skills essential for running an office. She'll take over the office instead of you, and you will start building a private practice teaching piano. If he refuses to be reconciled, and he won't, then you simply return to your job in London. If he knows that he can't bully you, he'll think twice. I promise you.”
“Oh, masterly, Prue,” Constance said. “So what do you say, Henry?”
He looked winded. He could no more imagine withstanding the incredible force of this trio of women than he would an avalanche. “How will I get his permission to go to London? He'll never give me the time off.”
“You weren't listening, Henry.” Constance leaned across the table towards him. “Prue said that you have first to declare your independence from your father. You won't ask his permission. You will simply leave here and commit yourself to a new life. If you can't face him in person, then write him a letter. Take the night train if it'll be easier. You can stay with us for a few days until you can find somewhere for both of you to live. I would think Amelia could hide her marriage and go on working at the Grahams for another month or so, if necessary. It would give you more time to get established. But first you
must
get married.”
He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palms. “But a registry-office wedding. Surely Amelia would not want that. She'll want a proper wedding.”
“Amelia wants a wedding . . .
any
wedding . . . just as long as it comes with a marriage certificate and a ring on her finger,” Constance declared. “Now, if you write her a letter telling her what you've decided we'll take it to her when we see her on Thursday.”
“I have pencil and paper.” Prudence rummaged in her handbag and produced a small notebook and a pencil. “There.”
Henry took them. He looked down at his now cold sardines, then back at the three women who were regarding him steadily. They were an irresistible force, and perhaps, just perhaps, they were a match for his father. He felt a faint stirring of energy. With them at his back, there was no telling what he could do. “When shall I come to London?” he asked.
They all smiled at him and he felt their approval like a warm bath.
“The sooner the better,” Prudence said. “This coming weekend, if you like. We'll expect you on Sunday.”
He took a deep breath, then said in a rush, “Yes . . . all right. On Sunday.”
“We'll arrange with Amelia for the marriage license, and next Thursday, on her afternoon off, you can be married.”
“Oh, dear,” he said, shaking his head. “It's . . . it's quite overwhelming.” He began to write in the notebook. The sisters returned to their cooling lunch.
Half an hour later they were on their way back to the station, Henry's letter to Amelia tucked into Constance's bag.
“Do you think he'll come?” Prudence asked with a slightly worried frown.
“Yes. I don't think he'll let Amelia down once he's made a promise,” Chastity responded. “Besides, he's not going to risk our coming back here and talking to his father. Con implied, in no uncertain terms, that we would if he didn't show up on Sunday.”
“It was a bit heavy-handed,” Constance admitted of her parting shot as they had left the café. “But I thought fear might give him more backbone.” She added with a rueful grimace, “I just hope we're doing the right thing for Amelia by forcing this. Henry's such a broken reed.”
“I don't think you need worry about that,” Prudence said stoutly. “Amelia's strong enough for both of them. It isn't as if she doesn't know his weaknesses. She'll run their marriage and he'll do as he's told. If she can manage the kind of brat that young Pamela Graham seems to be, I'm sure managing Henry will be a walk in the park.”
Constance nodded with a chuckle. “I'm sure you're right. I wonder if Max has a secretary.”
“Why?”
“Well, if he doesn't, I'm sure he needs one. I would have said we have the perfect candidate in Henry Franklin.”
“Is there no limit to your deviousness, Con?” Prudence demanded as they reached the station.
“I don't know. I haven't found one yet,” her sister responded with a grin. “I'll just have to see if I can persuade him.”
“So the husband works for Max, and the wife for his sister, and neither of their employers knows they're married?” Chastity shook her head.
“It'll only be like that until Amelia has to leave the Grahams because of her pregnancy,” Constance said piously. “It's hardly a deception at all.”
“Tell that to the marines!” scoffed Prudence.
Constance laughed. “Well, I can talk to him anyway.”
They sat down on the station platform to wait for the train and Chastity sighed. “It's very tiring work, this Go-Between business. And tomorrow we have to take care of Anonymous and his requirements.”
“No peace for the wicked,” Constance agreed.
“No peace for those in straitened circumstances,” Prudence amended.
“We'll wait behind the curtain at the back of the shop, Chas,” Prudence said the following morning, glancing quickly behind the counter. “Mrs. Beedle says we'll hear everything that goes on from there if you and Anonymous conduct your business over by the biscuits.” She gestured to a dusty corner where packets of biscuits lined the shelves amid jars of liquorice sticks and farthing candies.
“You've time for a nice cuppa, Miss Con. If the gentleman's not coming until eleven o'clock.” A round woman with her white hair in a neat bun, her starched apron rustling with her step, emerged from behind the curtain of heavy drugget, the brass rings rattling on the rod as she pulled it aside. “I always have a cuppa about now. And a nice bite of lardy cake, just made this morning. We'll hear the bell if anyone comes in.” She gestured to the bell over the shop door.
“Oh, I love lardy cake,” Chastity said. “It'll give me heart for my lonely task.”
“Chas, I'll do it if you're really uncomfortable,” Prudence said quickly.
“No, of course I'm not. I was only joking.” Chastity followed her sisters behind the counter and through the curtain into a small neat kitchen where a kettle whistled merrily on the range.
“Sit you down now.” Mrs. Beedle gestured to the round table on which reposed a very sticky currant-studded sugary concoction. She set out cups, warmed the teapot, measured tea, and filled the pot. “There now.” She set it on the table with a milk jug and sugar bowl. “You'll have a piece of lardy cake, Miss Con.”
Constance hated lardy cake. It was far too greasy for her taste, but she asked for a tiny slice for politeness' sake. She could always slip it onto Chastity's plate when their hostess wasn't looking.
The bell rang in the shop and Mrs. Beedle twitched aside the curtains. “Oh, it's just Mr. Holbrook, come for his newspaper and his cigarettes.” She bustled out, greeting the customer cheerily.
Chastity took a large bite of her cake and licked her fingers. “This is so sinful.”
“It's terrible,” Constance said, pouring tea. “I don't know how you can eat it.”
“It's a very fine lardy cake,” Prudence declared, licking her own fingers.
“Have mine.” Constance put her slice on Chastity's plate and glanced at the clock. “It's nearly eleven. I wonder if he'll be early.”
The doorbell jangled again. They all looked towards the curtain. A man's voice, lowered to a bare murmur, reached them from the shop. “It's him.” Chastity wiped her fingers on her napkin, took a quick gulp of tea, and stood up, adjusting her thick black veil. “Can you see my face?”
“Barely.”
“I'll try my French accent.”
Mrs. Beedle emerged from the shop. “Gentleman's here for you, miss.”
“Thank you.” Chastity nodded at her sisters, braced her shoulders, and went into the shop. Her sisters moved as one away from the table to the curtain. Constance tweaked it aside a fraction so that the corner of the shop where the biscuits were arrayed was visible.
“You are looking for me, m'sieur.” Chastity's exaggerated French accent caused her sisters momentary disarray as they struggled with involuntary laughter. She sounded like a French maid in a Feydeau farce, Constance thought.
“You are the Go-Between from
The Mayfair Lady
?” The man was in morning dress, carrying a top hat and a silver-knobbed cane. His hair was gray and rather sparse on top and he wore pince-nez perched on the end of a long, thin nose. A neat little moustache graced his upper lip. He looked undistinguished but perfectly respectable.
“I am its representative,” Chastity said.
He took off his gloves and offered his hand with a bow. She gave him her own gloved hand and gestured to the corner of the shop. “Let us talk there, if you please. We will be quite private.”
He looked around. “I had expected an office.”
“We have our own reasons for wishing to remain anonymous also, m'sieur.”
The sisters behind the curtain exchanged approving nods.
“But you can help me?”
“I will know that better, m'sieur, when you have answered some questions.” They moved into full view of the watchers behind the curtain. “You must understand that the ladies who are interested in our service request only the most impeccable referrals.”
“Yes . . . yes . . . of course. I would not expect otherwise,” he said hastily. “Please do not misunderstand me, madam. I meant to cast no aspersions—”
Chastity held up a hand, cutting him off. “That is all right, m'sieur. We understand each other. Let us review your circumstances and the qualities you desire in a wife. You say that you prefer to live in the country?”
“Yes . . . yes. I have a small estate in Lincolnshire. Not a grand mansion, you understand, but more than comfortable. I am possessed of a comfortable fortune.” The words seemed to be tumbling over themselves in his haste to get them out. Constance and Prudence knew what was happening. Chastity frequently had this effect on people. Her very posture and the softness of her voice, even in its present disguise, always implied sympathy and an empathetic ear.