Mrs. Jeffries Forges Ahead (2 page)

“Where on earth did she get that gown? It’s too daring and bright a color for a married woman.” Lady Emma Stafford sniffed disapprovingly as she stared at the lovely redhead in the emerald green evening gown sitting on the far side of the Banfield ballroom. “I’m sure she’s wearing rouge as well. No one has cheeks that color; it can’t be natural.”

Geraldine Banfield exchanged a quick, amused glance with the other two women at their table, her houseguests Margaret Bickleton and Rosalind Kimball. Poor Emma’s complexion was such a bright shade of red one could see her coming from half a mile away! The Staffords might be aristocrats, but poor Emma was not only cursed with a florid complexion but she had jowls so loose they draped over the top strand of her diamond choker. Her hair was white, styled in youthful ringlets that made her look absurd and held up by silver combs encrusted with sapphires. But even the most skilled of dressmakers couldn’t disguise the fat threatening to burst out of the blue silk of her gown.

Lady Emma turned her attention back to her friends and gave Geraldine a condescending smile. “Oh dear, that was very unkind of me. I do hope you aren’t offended. But we’ve been friends for such a long time, I thought I could speak freely.”

Geraldine Banfield reached for her wine and took a sip before she responded. “I’m the first to admit that she’s certainly not the sort of woman I expected my nephew to marry. But she is family now so I would appreciate it if you’d be a bit more circumspect with your opinions.” She paused and leaned closer to her companions. “At least in public. You never know who is listening. The dark-haired man behind us is an old friend of hers.”

Margaret Bickleton glanced over her shoulder at the laughing group sitting at the next table. She was a tall skeleton of a woman with deep-set eyes enclosed by dark circles, thinning gray hair worn in a tiny bun at the nape of her neck, and a long, sharp nose. “You mean the man who needs a haircut? Goodness, he is unkempt; I’m surprised you let him into the house.” She picked a fleck of lint off the tight cuff of her beige chiffon sleeve.

“As I said, he’s a friend of Arlette’s,” Geraldine responded dryly. “I thought I told you at breakfast yesterday that she insisted on inviting her artist friends.”

“Artists indeed!” Margaret snorted delicately and gazed across the ballroom at the object of their conversation. “I’m surprised that Lewis allows her to mix with such people—and why is Lady Cannonberry sitting at her table? Surely those two aren’t friends.”

“But of course they are!” Rosalind Kimball exclaimed. She was a small, slender woman with stooped shoulders growing into a widow’s hump, frizzy brown hair, and a thin, flat line of a mouth. “Ruth Cannonberry is a member of that society that’s always agitating for something or other. I saw her outside of Parliament last year and she was marching with a bunch of other women and carrying a big sign about getting the right to vote. Honestly, voting, it’s unthinkable.” She glanced at Geraldine. “Frankly, I was surprised to see that you’d invited her tonight.”

Geraldine gave her a sour smile. “I had no choice in the matter; Arlette specifically asked that she be put on the guest list.”

“You could have refused,” Rosalind snapped and then clamped her mouth shut as she realized what she’d just said. “Oh dear, I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget you’re no longer mistress here.”

“No, not anymore,” Geraldine agreed with a shrug. “But I don’t mind giving up the role of lady of the manor. Running a house this size was becoming very tiresome. Arlette, despite her unusual background, has enormous energy and is actually very intelligent. She’s quite good at going over the household accounts.”

“From what I’ve heard, that’s not the only thing she’s good at,” Lady Emma said. The women laughed and continued staring at the table where Arlette Banfield was now taking a sip from a delicate blue champagne flute.

The Banfield ball was one of the premier events on the London social calendar, and everyone who was anyone in society was eager to be invited save for the woman sitting in a place of honor at the head table. Lady Cannonberry, or Ruth, as she was known to her friends, was there because she hadn’t been able to come up with a reasonable excuse to avoid the wretched thing and she’d not wanted to hurt Arlette Banfield’s feelings. She glanced at the pretty redhead seated next to her. Arlette was leaning back in her chair, trying to get someone’s attention on the far side of the huge room. Ruth sighed inwardly, she felt so guilty. She liked her hostess and found her to be kind, witty, and intelligent. But she really wished she were at home or having dinner with Gerald. There were times when a ball or a dinner party or a tea could be very useful, but as she wasn’t “on the hunt” just now, she was bored.

Ruth turned slightly and studied the others at her table. Her host, Lewis Banfield, was discussing business with Sir Ralph Fetchman while Lady Fetchman gossiped with a lady at the next table. Sir Adrian Fortnoy was waving his empty glass at a waiter while his wife, Ellen, lifted her wrist closer to the candelabra so Nora Kingsley could see her bracelet. Rufus Kingsley, Nora’s husband, was staring at the screens in front of the buffet and impatiently tapping his fingers on the tabletop. As she was sitting next to Rufus, she mentally decided to make sure she wasn’t in his way when the barrier between him and the food was removed. He looked quite capable of bowling her over.

Her attention shifted to the room. Women in pastel ball gowns of yellow, coral, and blue, this year’s favorite colors, moved between the tables, stopping here and there to chat while the orchestra members tuned their instruments. The French doors that led out onto the terrace were open, and the summer breeze sent the candles flickering but did little to cool the increasingly crowded room.

Her gaze fixed on the four women huddled around a table to the left of the terrace and, as if by magic, they all seemed to shift their heads at once and look back at her. Ruth didn’t consider herself overly sensitive, but she could almost feel the disapproval coming from their direction.
Goodness gracious,
she thought,
with their sagging skin, hair in various shades of gray, and sour expressions, they looked like a coven of well-dressed witches.
But they were four of the most prominent women in the kingdom and apparently felt their social status and wealth gave them leave to be rude. Ruth lifted her chin and met their eyes. But their expressions didn’t waver, and it took her a moment to understand that it wasn’t she, but the woman sitting next to her, that was the real object of their scrutiny.

“Don’t let them worry you.” Arlette Banfield’s whisper interrupted her thoughts. “They’ll soon tire of staring at us and turn their attention to someone else. They remind me of the witches Macbeth met, except he only had three and we’ve got to put up with four.”

Ruth tried to keep a straight face but failed. “You shouldn’t say such things.” She laughed. “But honestly, it was almost exactly what I was thinking. Why are they so miserable?”

“I don’t know.” Arlette shook her head. “You’d think that those who had every advantage this society has to offer would be a bit more cheerful, wouldn’t you? I thought Geraldine was simply morose because I’d taken her place in the household, but her friends are just as long faced and disagreeable, and what’s more, I’ve had to put up with them all week. Thank goodness tonight is almost over. As of tomorrow morning, the Mesdames Kimball and Bickleton will be gone. Then the only one I’ll need to concern myself with is Geraldine.” She took another sip of champagne and frowned as she put her glass down. “And that conversation isn’t going to be pleasant.”

“Oh dear, that sounds ominous,” Ruth murmured.
Bang . . . bang . . .
She started as a crashing noise thundered so loudly everyone in the room suddenly stopped talking and turned toward the orchestra to see what had happened.
Bang . . . bang . . .
The sound continued.

A violinist, his instrument still in his hand, stood and watched helplessly as every music stand in the front row was sent crashing to the floor.

“Good gracious, the fellow knocked over his stand and sent the whole lot of them tumbling over.” Sir Ralph laughed heartily. “I saw the whole thing. I’ll bet he’d not be able to duplicate that again.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t try,” Lewis Banfield replied.

The musician put his violin on his chair and began picking up the stands. When he reached the last one, he righted it, turned toward the ballroom guests and gave them a cheeky grin, and bowed. Everyone laughed and there was even a scattering of applause.

Ruth turned back to her companion and stared at her expectantly, hoping she’d continue with what she’d been saying before they were interrupted. She didn’t like to think of herself as a gossipmonger, but it was only human nature to be curious.

“Tomorrow isn’t going to be pleasant.” Arlette glanced at her husband, who had gone back to his discussion with Sir Ralph Fetchman. “Lewis is going to suggest that his aunt might be more comfortable if she moved to the country house.”

“Does Mrs. Banfield dislike London?”

Arlette shook her head. “She loves London, but she can’t seem to understand that she’s no longer mistress here. I’ve done my best to be sensitive about her situation and tried to allow her to have some say in the running of the household. But I cannot tolerate the way she treats the servants and neither can Lewis. My maid told me she was in the butler’s pantry this morning bossing the staff about as if they didn’t know what they were doing. Poor Michaels was run ragged. She insisted that all the glassware be washed again. But I know for a fact that every glass in that pantry was clean—I checked them myself yesterday. When I got home and heard what she’d done, I was furious.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I told her that Michaels has been a butler for over thirty years and he certainly doesn’t need her giving him instructions. She stomped off in a huff and didn’t speak to me at luncheon, and obviously she told her houseguests to ignore me, because they barely spoke to me, either.” She broke off and took another, deeper lungful of air. “But I didn’t mind in the least. Geraldine has a mind so tiny it could sleep on a pincushion, and the less I have to do with her and her friends, the better. I’ve no idea why she invited them this week; she’s barely spent any time with them at all.”

“Oh dear, I’m sure the situation is most unpleasant.” Ruth stared at her. Something wasn’t right. “Are you alright? Your face is flushed.”

“It’s the champagne.” Arlette’s chest heaved rapidly. “It seems quite strong tonight. It’s gone straight to my head.”

“But you’ve only had a glass,” Ruth protested. She glanced at Lewis, hoping to meet his eye so she could signal her concern, but he was still involved in his conversation, so she turned back to Arlette. “And even the most potent champagne doesn’t make you breathe the way you are now. It sounds like you can’t get any air into your lungs. What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

Arlette waved dismissively. “I’m fine. Really. It’s just a touch of nausea and a bit of light-headedness, that’s all.” She reached for her drink, took another sip, and put her glass down. It landed with a thud loud enough to get her husband’s attention.

He frowned at her. “Are you alright?”

But Arlette wasn’t alright, not in the least.

Her face turned white and her eyes bulged as she grabbed her throat and gasped for breath. “I can’t breathe,” she rasped. Her body began to buck against the seat of the chair, and she’d have fallen to the floor if Ruth hadn’t grabbed her around the shoulders.

“Get a doctor,” Ruth yelled as she struggled to hold her friend on the chair. “Something is wrong.”

“My God! Arlette, Arlette, what is it? Get a doctor, get a doctor!” Lewis screamed as he leapt up and threw his arms around his wife. Arlette was in full convulsions now, and the others at the table scrambled to their feet.

“Get her on the floor.” Ruth shoved her hip against the rim of the table. The others understood her intent and they grabbed the edge, pulling it back out of the way as she and Lewis eased Arlette to the floor. Ruth took care to keep her hand under the woman’s head to keep it from banging against the tiles.

“Is there a doctor in the house?” Sir Ralph yelled at the top of his lungs. “For God’s sake, get a doctor.”

“Arlette, Arlette, darling,” Lewis crooned, his face a mask of shocked misery and pain. “What’s wrong, what is it? Oh, my God, what can be wrong with her?” He looked at Ruth. “We must get her upstairs to a bed.”

But Arlette couldn’t move. Her body continued convulsing and foam came out of her mouth. She tried to speak but couldn’t. Ruth’s hand was being pounded by her head, but she barely noticed.

“Make way, I’m a doctor,” a man cried as he shoved through the crowd. He knelt down beside them and grabbed Arlette’s hand, snagging her wrist and feeling for a pulse.

Moaning, Arlette curled into a ball and tried to roll to her side but she suddenly went rigid, gave a gasp, and flopped onto her back.

The doctor put his nose to her mouth and sniffed at her lips, then he leaned back, made a fist, and smacked her hard in the chest.

Lewis screamed and grabbed at the doctor’s arm as he started to do it a second time. “What are you doing?” he yelled.

“Let me go.” He jerked his arm away and landed another blow on her chest. “I’m trying to start her heart and save her life. She’s not breathing.”

But despite the doctor’s valiant efforts, Arlette Banfield wasn’t going to be dancing at the ball tonight. She was dead.