The Widow's Club (34 page)

To my revulsion, he dropped to his knees and groveled forward to clutch at the hem of my dress. The waiters exchanged a significant look.

“Ellie, forgive! I have come to my senses. I want to work. Or at least get paid.”

“Stop it!” I tried to shake him off, but he was like static cling. Magdalene gave a little yelp. Pressing down on the newspaper covering the punch bowl, she exclaimed, “I’ll put this where it’s supposed to go.” With a bobbing flit, she headed down the hall like a sparrow trying for lift-off. The waiters, smiles back in place, followed. Roxie didn’t budge. Freddy gave her a wink.

“Ellie, I know I’ve made you wretched. You look a hundred years old, but maybe it’s the dress; not telling its age, is it?”

This gorgeous original (only two others on the rack) bought for the honeymoon I never attended! I eyed my
watch. Was there time to dash home and change? Absolutely not. Not even time to push Freddy down the stairs.

6:15
P.M
.
I stepped through the alcove into the reception room and savoured a moment alone. All was magnificence. The tables flanking the walls were covered with white damask cloths and laden with the sort of spread commonly glimpsed only on the pages of magazines where the meals coordinate with the decor. Wall sconces added their brilliance to the gloss of panelling, the sparkle of silver and crystal. There were flowers everywhere; the air was scented like a springtime country garden. Raindrops spattered the tall latticed windows overlooking Market Street. Pretty, but would the room be warmer looking if I drew the Jacobean print curtains? My hand brushed the fabric. From here, the cars and buses below looked like they were playing tag, sending up sprays of slush. People scurried along, umbrellas and raincoat collars up. A shiver decided me. But before I could pull the curtains, one of the waiters came in to speak to me about the positioning of the punch bowl.

6:25
P.M
.
Five minutes to go. Was Ben lying awake and tense, listening for the striking of the hall clock? Should I phone home? Yes. I rushed into the office, two doors to the right of the reception room. Since there was no phone in our bedroom, I would only get to speak to Poppa. My fingers stumbled as they dialed. Surely he would write down my message and hand it to Ben. What shall it be? A triumph is in sight, or simply, I love you. The phone rang at least twenty times; my panic escalated with each
brrp, brrp
, until I remembered that Poppa must have had his earphones on. I quickly hung up before Ben decided to crawl out of bed to silence the phone.

6:30
P.M
.
The waiters were stationed at the foot of the stairs. Magdalene and I positioned ourselves at the top like characters in a Jane Austen novel. I fully expected to hear the words, The Dowager Duchess of Plooth and Her Daughter Esmerelda, floating up to us. I unhooked and rehooked my belt. Magdalene straightened her black lace mantilla. Like me, she was wearing a black dress. We should have discussed our ensembles, I thought.

Mr. Howard from the bank and his wife Cynthia, their coats darkened with rain, headed toward us. “So pleased you could both come. I would like you to meet my mother-in-law
Magdalene Haskell. Unfortunately my husband

They passed on by, as did the Wilsons and the Peckworths. I kept eyeing Magdalene to see if she was enjoying herself. Her expression was intent, but she addressed Mr. Bremmer as Mr. Barking. Now came someone whose name provided august emanations—Lady Theodora Peerless in a check raincoat. Her peach lipstick emphasised her protruding teeth. I liked the effect; it made her look warmer. What was she like before life turned her into a brown paper parcel, giving little hint what was inside?

“I’m sure, Ellie, you will do fine. Your husband, and your mother-in-law”—a nod—“will be proud of you.” There was a hint of something winning under her smile; perhaps underneath she might be as colourful as her history.

My eyes strayed after her—how did she come to be in that photo with Mr. Digby and his daughter, Wren? Mrs. Melrose introduced herself, reminding me in a voice as strident as her mustard and plum tweeds that this was the doctor’s night at the hospital.

“Good to hear, Mrs. Haskell, that your man is on the mend. Mine needs his sleep, you know.”

Behind her came Charles and Ann Delacorte. She was the picture of World War II elegance in the emerald green dress she wore for my wedding; he was as glacial as ever. I turned to introduce Magdalene, but she was gone. Probably to the loo. Ann and Charles moved through the alcove and I saw two people I had not anticipated would come when I added their names to the guest list: Jenny Spender and Dr. Simon Bordeaux. Black cashmere coat hanging capelike from his shoulders, a white silk scarf streaming down the front of his dinner jacket, the doctor looked as though he ate only caviar for breakfast on his toasty wheats. A patron to be cultivated. Jenny’s hair wasn’t in plaits tonight. It was held back by a satin band that matched her turquoise dress. Why didn’t someone encourage her to dress like a teenager? I thought of the invalid mother and the old-world nanny. Would it be thought interfering if I offered to take Jenny shopping?

“It is good of you both to come.”

Dr. Bordeaux’s deep-set eyes flickered across my face. He ignored my outstretched hand. “There is nothing like
a hint of infamy to push one to the top of the social ladder, Mrs. Haskell.”

What an arrogant man to think I had invited him because he was suspected of callously murdering old ladies!

Jenny glanced up at him, smiled, and touched the white plastic raincoat folded over her arm.

“We can’t stay long because Nonna tends to doze off in the evening. It was kind of you, Mrs. Haskell, to include Mummy’s name on the invitation card, but you do understand, she doesn’t go to parties—or anywhere.”

Dr. Bordeaux interpreted the question in my eyes. “Except once a year when Jenny and I take Mrs. Spender to a nightclub in London for her birthday celebration. For a few hours we watch her come alive again.”

What a pathetic situation. Did I detect repressed passion in his voice? Was the invalid Mrs. Spender once his lover? Was he still ensnared by the memory of what they had shared? I dragged my eyes away from him and Jenny. Surprise! Magdalene was back.

Another couple moved to the top of the stairs. And another. Would anyone notice if I kicked off my shoes? “So pleased you could come.… Yes, there is a room for coats at the end of the hall.…”

My voice just went down the wrong way. Coming toward us was Vanessa, her mink-clad body entwined around Rowland Foxworth’s arm. He surely was horribly embarrassed. What man wouldn’t be? Family decency had decreed I invite my relations, but only she had taken the embossed white card literally.

“Darling Ellie!” She closed in, her eyelashes brushing my face. “You look ravishing. I could count every one of your ribs from downstairs. Can you believe the change, Rowland?”

Instantly I gained a stone. A good thing I was not bothered about what Rowland thought of my feminine appeal. A married—happily married—woman doesn’t need that kind of reassurance; besides, I had more important things on my mind. Magdalene was gone again.

Rowland patted his pockets for his pipe, dislodging (unintentionally?) Vanessa’s hold on him.

He turned to her. “Ellie never changes in my eyes.”

An intake of breath. Was it mine or Vanessa’s?

“How’s Ben?” Absently Rowland touched a hand to
his silver hair. Vanessa studied her fingernails. Magdalene’s face wavered at my left. I introduced her to Rowland. Those grey eyes of his, that beautiful mellow voice, touched me physically. I experienced, to my eternal shame, a thrill of adulterous pleasure, in addition to the lesser sin of cousinly conquest.

“Quite a pretty girl.” Magdalene squinted for a better look as Vanessa and Rowland passed down the hallway. “A bit like Angelica Brady. This one’s your cousin, you say? Did Ben meet her before or after you and he had settled things?”

7:15
P.M
.
The party was a smashing success. Cigarette smoke beclouded the air, as here and there someone emphasised the point in a witty monologue with a fiery tip. Freddy kept popping into the room to take little bows. With his hair up and under his chef’s hat, he looked borderline respectable. From all sectors of the room came accolades about the food.

Freddy was doing a backbend to hear what Gladys Thorn was saying to Millicent Parsnip about the flaming cheese. Would someone please mention Ben’s name! I was miserable that he wasn’t the focal force here this evening, wretched about the rift between us, guilty that things had gone well without him, angry that I should feel guilty when I already had enough on my plate, and—this is the bad part—fully aware that the aforementioned guilt was an emotional blanket caused by the knowledge that I had looked upon the Reverend Rowland Foxworth with lust aforethought. That the experience lasted a scant fifty seconds was no consolation. I had eternally dishonoured my wedding vows.

Vanessa glided up to me and said we ought to have a little talk on a subject whereof she was an expert and I a beginner—men.

“You’ll destroy your marriage, Ellie, if you don’t stop ogling Rowland in public. And I’d hate to see you lose Ben. One doesn’t meet men like him every day—er—at escort services.”

She glided off to stand near the windows, best profile on view. I stopped grinding my teeth, as I realised how long it had been since I’d opened up a magazine and had to close it on her face.

Rowland was at the punch bowl next to Charles Delacorte,
who was picking his way through the sandwiches. I crossed the room toward Amelia Bottomly and Millicent Parsnip. I could not look at Rowland without seeing into my soul and knowing that, despite my sense of shame, I didn’t want Vanessa or any woman to have him. Rowland must keep only unto me, his heart a shrine to my unattainability. It was devastating to discover, at twenty-eight, that one was a low woman.

7:30
P.M
.
I sat by the desk in the office, holding the phone, listening to the
brrp-brrrp
. No answer. Common sense told me that if Ben had suffered a relapse, Eli would have telephoned. But guilt had a louder voice than sense. It told me I was being punished. Something was wrong.

7:35
P.M
.
The party hummed along. The smoke was making me feel sick. I went the long way around Vanessa to the windows, intent on opening one, but Magdalene, in the midst of talking animatedly to Sidney, was apparently struck by the same idea. She parted the curtains, reached for the latch, then froze. What was it? An attack of some sort? Arthritis, perhaps.

“Ellie, dear”—Sidney gripped my arm as I started after Magdalene—“I want you to be one of my first customers to know that my life is suddenly in bloom. I’m floating on air. Bound to crash sometime, but might as well dance in the sun while I can! Some months back I put an advert in the classifieds of
The Daily Spokesman
, expressing my heartfelt wish to meet a female who thinks personal hygiene and bingo important—”

“Sidney, I think I read it.” I peered between heads searching for Magdalene, who had again disappeared.

7:40
P.M
.
I nudged the punch ladle against the floating ice ring garlanded with fruit flowers. Roxie passed me carrying a tray of munchie-morsels; she walked with exaggerated care along an invisible line. Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I jumped. It was Froggy, I mean, Shirley Daffy.

“Mrs. Daffy, I do hope you will have good news soon concerning your husband. It is, after all, only a few days since … he went out jogging.”

Her eyes popped with emotion. “I’m being sensible about it. It doesn’t do any good to get in too much of a fidget over what you can’t alter. And I make myself get out
as much as possible.” She touched the brooch puckering the front of her brown crepe frock.

“How pretty!” I said to fill up a pause. “What is the significance of the blackbirds?”

“Crows, actually.”

“Really!” I started to say more but Mrs. Bottomly appeared and rather rudely snatched Mrs. Daffy away. I found Mrs. Hanover beside me, replenishing her plate.

“Any more of the chicken tarts left? Oh, goody! One does find them tasty.” She helped herself from the now scanty array. I would have to do some artistic interspersing with parsley.

“Mrs. Haskell!” Her very false teeth made her smile a bit unreal too. “We do so miss your husband of an evening. Such a lovely pair, him and Frederick! I can’t tell you how relieved were all the regulars when that dart incident didn’t turn out serious. A bit of a
dark horse
is Sidney Fowler. But I wouldn’t think, not for a moment, that he meant to hurt Frederick. Would you, Mrs. Haskell?”

7:45
P.M
.
I was getting almost as edgy about Magdalene as I was about Poppa not answering the phone. I would have asked Sidney to look for her, but he was talking to Mrs. Bottomly on the far side of the room. From her gestures she appeared to be unhappy about something. Last week’s wash-and-set? The towering pompadour did look a bit top-heavy.

Roxie paused at my shoulder. “How’s it going, Mrs. H.?” She thrust her fingers into the midst of her silver tray and bunged two sausage whatevers into my hand. Not to make the guests feel left out, she did the same to the man with the handlebar moustache standing next to me. “Makes a person do some hard thinking, doesn’t it, Mrs. H.?”

“About what, Roxie?”

“The horrible abomination of human nature. For instance, that Miss Thorn, over by the fireplace, born with her knickers on.”

“Shhhhh!” Luckily, there was no one else at the buffet table. Handlebar moustache had gone.

“As for our Mr. Sidney”—she minced out the name—“people think they’ve got him pegged. Don’t you believe it!” Roxie popped a sausage thing into her mouth. “Now what I want to know is why you invited that Dr. Bordeaux.
Mark my words, that hollow-eyed look comes from sleeping on a marble slab.”