Authors: Jane Feather
Max stood on the pavement, frowning. Then he shook his head and walked away, unaware of Constance at the landing window watching him go.
Constance went into the parlor where, as she'd known, her sisters were waiting up for her.
“What in the devil's name has happened?” Prudence demanded the instant Constance walked in.
“Con, you look as if you've seen a ghost,” Chastity said in concern. “Are you ill, love?”
“Sick at heart,” Constance said with a bitter smile. “I am so stupid! Here am I priding myself on how clever I am and how I can outwit anyone, particularly any man, and I fall for the oldest trick in the book. What a dupe!” She poured herself a glass of cognac and stood by the empty grate, one elegantly shod foot on the fender.
“I think you'd better tell us the whole,” Prudence said. “I'm assuming this has to do with Max?”
“Everything to do with Max.”
She told them and they listened in stunned silence. “And do you know what?” Constance asked with a short laugh as she finished her recital. “He decided that my sudden reticence was because I have the curse. Of all the insulting . . .” She gave another bitter laugh and drank her cognac.
“What are you going to do?” asked Prudence, deciding to leave the sympathy to Chastity, who, tearful herself, was already hugging her sister. Constance needed practical help as well as sympathy.
Constance disengaged from Chastity's embrace and dug into her purse for her handkerchief. She wiped her damp eyes with a decisive movement, as if putting all pointless emotion behind her. “I am going on the attack,” she declared. “In the pages of
The Mayfair Lady.
If we get it to the printer in the morning, will it make Saturday's edition, Chas?”
“I would think so,” her sister replied. “Sam's usually pretty flexible. If necessary he can just add another page.”
“Good,” Constance stated. “Max Ensor isn't going to know what hit him.”
“It seems appropriate,” Prudence agreed. “But shouldn't you talk to him first about what you heard?”
“No.” Constance shook her head firmly. “I shall avoid him, or perhaps
evade
is the better word, until after the article is published. If I have to meet him, he'll have nothing but smiles. I want him to be completely off his guard, and then ambushed. Totally blindsided.” Her mouth was set in a grim smile. “For the next day or two I can be in seclusion with my
womanly troubles
.”
The grim smile took a suddenly wicked turn. “You two can have some fun with that. If he comes a-calling, you can offer some delicate little evasions and hints. It'll feed right into his insulting assumptions. I might even hide behind the curtains while you do it.”
“You won't, not if you expect us to be convincing,” Prudence declared, but she too had a wicked gleam in her eye. “But I own it might be amusing. Don't you, Chas?”
Chastity looked less entertained by the prospect than her sisters. She wore a preoccupied frown. “Will you name him in the article, Con?”
“Oh, no, Chas.” The smile grew grimmer. “I'll just make sure that there are enough details to identify a certain Right Honorable Gentleman . . .
right honorable, indeed!
” She shook her head again in disgust and refilled her glass. “You two go on to bed. I'm too worked up to sleep, so I'll get started on my article.” She moved energetically to the secretaire, glass in hand.
“If you're sure,” Chastity said doubtfully.
“Quite sure. I'll not be good company right now. I need to do this if it's to get to the printer's in time for next week's edition.” She sat down and drew a pad of paper towards her. “Oh, by the way, how was Henry?”
“Nervous as a stray kitten,” Prudence said. “He barely managed a word at dinner despite Father's best efforts to draw him out, and then he played the piano for over an hour afterwards. Father listened politely for about half an hour, then beat a retreat to his club. We sent Henry to bed at eleven. Chas would have tucked him in if I'd let her.”
Constance smiled, but it was a distracted one. “We'll get him to Caxton Hall tomorrow, then?”
“Oh, yes, no doubt,” Prudence stated. “And Amelia will manage him from then on.” She paused, her hand on the door. “Quite sure you're all right, Con?”
“Quite sure.” Constance had already begun to write.
Her sisters exchanged a glance and then with a murmured good night left her to it.
It was close to three o'clock before Constance finally set down her pen, satisfied at last with what she'd written. If Max Ensor's ears weren't on fire at this minute they certainly should be. A wave of tiredness washed over her. She stood up, yawning. She felt purged of her hurt, or was it only masked by her anger? By the satisfaction of venting that anger?
In her heart she knew she hadn't begun to touch the wound. It was easier for the moment to blame herself for failing to trust her instincts and to rage at Max for his treachery. The pain would come later. She went up to bed, and to her surprise slept like a log until mid-morning.
She was awoken by Chastity, who came in softly carrying a tea tray. She set the tray on the dresser and drew back the curtains at the long windows. Gray light entered the room. “Oh, dear,” Constance said. “Not a pretty day for a wedding.”
“No, but it's not raining.” Chastity poured tea and brought it over to the bed. “You slept late.”
“I worked late.” Constance sat up and took the tea with a grateful smile. “Just what I need, Chas.”
Chastity sat on the edge of the bed with her own cup. “Prue's taken your article to the printer, then she's going to the florist to choose the flowers. We thought a red rose for Henry's buttonhole and we'll all wear white ones. Then we thought a small bouquet of pink roses and maybe lilies of the valley for Amelia. Whatever looks fresh and pretty. Prue is good at flowers.”
“Do we know what Amelia's wearing?”
“It has to be black.”
“Black?” Constance raised her eyebrows. “Why, pray tell?”
Chastity grinned. “Amelia wrote to say that she'd managed to get an extra hour off this evening . . . nice of Letitia, wasn't it?”
“Charming,” Constance agreed. “What convinced her to be so generous? A dying mother?”
“Almost,” Chastity said. “The funeral of a dearly beloved aunt.”
“Hence the black.” Constance laughed but without much humor. “At least any color flower will go with that.” She held out her cup for a refill. “The ceremony's at four?”
“Four-thirty, to give Amelia time to get there, since she can't leave the Grahams until four. Prue and I will bring Henry. We thought you should escort Amelia, since you're sisters under the suffrage flag.” Chastity's smile was a little teasing. “You'd be the most suitable maid of honor. We'll play groomsmen.”
Constance frowned slightly. “I feel bad that you're doing all the heavy lifting with Henry.”
“Oh, don't give it a second thought.” Chastity stood up. “Prue and I have Henry down to a fine art. You'll wait for Amelia outside the Grahams' when she gets off at four and escort her to Caxton Hall. Then we'll go to Claridges for a celebration tea afterwards. We booked a private room, so there'll be no danger of running into anyone. It would be a little awkward if we bumped into Letitia, or Max, wouldn't it?”
“Extremely,” Constance agreed dryly.
Chastity continued, “After that they'll have a couple of hours to . . . to . . .”
“Consummate their union,” Constance finished for her. “Where are they going to do that?”
“Henry found a little residential hotel on the Bayswater Road. Quite cheap, but he says it's clean and respectable. He's going to move there until he can find lodgings. Apparently Max gave him an advance on his salary to help him get set up.”
At the mention of Max's name Constance's expression grew somber. “Well, at least he can be generous,” she conceded.
Chastity said only, “I'll leave you to get up, then.”
Constance tossed aside the covers. “I'll be down in half an hour.” Chastity nodded and left with the tea tray.
Constance examined the contents of her wardrobe, her expression abstracted. She needed something suitable for a registry-office wedding and a subdued celebration. Finally she chose a suit of pale gray shantung with a deep green silk blouse. She plaited her hair and looped it into a chignon at the nape of her neck, then went downstairs. She was midway down the stairs when she heard Max's voice coming from the open doors of the drawing room.
She stopped dead, her hand on the banister, one foot raised for the next step down. Prue was saying in conspiratorial tones, “Oh, I'm so sorry, Max, but Con's not feeling too well this morning. A touch of stomach ache, you know.”
“Yes, and a headache,” Chastity chimed in. “It's so trying,” she added with a heavy sigh. “And poor Con seems to suffer more than any of us.”
“I see.” He coughed and Constance grinned to herself. He sounded distinctly discomfited at this confidence.
“She was not too well last night,” he continued with another little cough. “I thought perhaps it was . . . well . . . I do understand.” Despite her delight in his obvious embarrassment, his voice, rich and mellow, sent the usual prickles up her spine. Lust, it seemed, was invincible, resistant even to treachery.
“Do give her my best regards,” Max said, his voice coming closer as he moved to the door. Constance hastily stepped up the stairs, out of sight of the hall. “I'll call tomorrow, when I hope she'll be feeling better.”
“Oh, I would leave it for several days,” Chastity advised. “At these times, Con's often not comfortable leaving the house for a while.”
Constance choked on her laughter. Chastity was rarely outrageous but when she chose to be, no one could better her. She could almost feel sorry for Max, whose footsteps receded rapidly across the hall and out of the door opened by an impassive Jenkins.
“Chas!” Constance exclaimed, hurrying down the stairs. “That was not in the least subtle.”
“It wasn't intended to be,” her sister said with a touch of defiance. “He deserved it.”
“At least it ensured he won't be ringing the doorbell for a couple of days,” Prudence said. “Are you going to have a late breakfast, or wait for an early lunch?”
“Oh, I'll wait. I'm not particularly hungry. I want to show you my article and we'll decide where to run it. It'll mean rearranging the layout since it's rather a long piece.”
“In that case, I'll bring coffee to the parlor, Miss Con,” Jenkins announced from the middle of the hall, where he'd been listening and drawing his own conclusions.
“Oh, yes, please, Jenkins. And if Mrs. Hudson has made some of those little coconut cakes, could we have some of those too?” Chastity said over her shoulder as she ran up the stairs.
“I'll see what there is, Miss Chas.” Jenkins hesitated, then said, “Am I to assume that Mr. Ensor is no longer welcome, Miss Con?”
Constance paused, then said, “No, Jenkins, for the moment he's perfectly welcome. In a few days I guarantee he won't darken our doors again.”
Jenkins allowed himself the merest lift of an eyebrow. “I see.” He went off into the back regions of the house.
At three-thirty Constance left the house and took the omnibus to Park Lane. She walked to the Grahams' house on Albermarle Street and strolled casually along the opposite side of the street, hoping that Amelia would emerge before someone in a neighboring house noticed the lady carrying a bridal bouquet who seemed to have nothing better to do on an overcast afternoon than walk up and down the street.
Punctually at four o'clock Amelia, clad in black and heavily veiled, appeared from the side entrance to the house. She paused for a moment, looked up and down the street, saw Constance, and without acknowledgment hurried towards Park Lane. Constance followed.
On the relative anonymity of Park Lane, Amelia stopped and Constance came up beside her. Again they didn't acknowledge each other. Constance hailed a hackney. “Caxton Hall,” she said as she climbed in. Amelia followed her.
Once in the seclusion of the cab's dim interior Amelia put back her veil. “My heart's fluttering like a bird's,” she said. “I can't quite believe it's really going to happen.”
“Believe it.” Constance took her hand and squeezed tightly. “Henry will not fail and neither will my sisters.”
At that, Amelia gave a weak smile. “Poor Henry. Subject to this monstrous regimen of women.”
“Better that than his tyrannical father.”
“True enough.” Amelia leaned back against the squabs. “I never imagined going to my wedding in funereal black . . . but then,” she added with a tiny laugh, “I never imagined going to my wedding at all.”
Constance handed her the bouquet. “Maybe this will put you in a bridal frame of mind.”
Amelia took the flowers and inhaled their delicate scent. “You and your sisters seem to think of everything. I can't tell you how grateful I am.”
“There's no need for gratitude,” Constance said easily. “Just think that in an hour you will be a married woman.” She smiled encouragingly at Amelia, who was very pale. “And in about seven months you'll give birth to a perfectly legitimate seven-month child. Henry will be a successful private secretary to a Member of Parliament, and you'll take the babe to visit his grandfather, and Justice Franklin will embrace his grandchild and accept his daughter-in-law and take his son back into the fold.”
Amelia turned her head against the squabs to look at Constance. “Are you the optimist you make yourself out to be?”
“Where men are concerned?” Constance asked after an instant's deliberation. “No, Amelia.”
“That's rather what I thought,” Amelia said. “Neither am I.”
“But this will turn out all right,” Constance stated.
Amelia smiled again. “Yes,” she said. “I know it will. I don't place much faith in Henry's father, but Henry will stand true.”
“With you behind him.”
“Yes,” she said with a laugh. “With me behind him.”
The hackney drew up outside the imposing edifice of Caxton Hall. Constance paid the hackney and took Amelia's arm. “Ready?”
Amelia nodded and dropped her veil. “I suppose they're used to this hole-in-the-corner business in a registry office.”
“Don't think like that,” Constance chided. “This is perfectly legal and it doesn't matter what anyone thinks. Let's go inside.” She strode towards the double doors, her arm firmly tucked into the bride's.