Snobbery With Violence (2 page)

But the fact was that her support for the suffragettes had indeed damaged her socially, and it seemed as if Sir Geoffrey had the field to himself. Resentment against Rose was growing in the gentlemen’s clubs and over the port at dinner parties after the ladies had retired. Suffragettes were simply men-haters. They needed to be taught a lesson. “What that gal needs,” Freddy Pomfret was heard to remark, “is some rumpy-pumpy.”

As the season got underway and social event followed social event, the earl began to become extremely anxious. He felt that by now Sir Geoffrey should have declared his intentions.

One day at his club, he met an old friend, Brigadier Bill Handy, and over a decanter of port after a satisfying lunch, the earl said, “I’d give anything to know if Geoffrey means to pop the question.”

The brigadier studied him for a long moment and then said, “I think you should be careful there. Blandon’s always been a bit of a rake and a gambler. Tell you what. Do you know Captain Cathcart?”

“Vaguely. Only heard of him. Sinister sort of chap who never opens his mouth?”

“That’s the one. Now he did some undercover work behind the lines in the war. You mustn’t mention this.”

“I’m a clam.”

“All right. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll give you my card and scribble something on the back of it. I’ll give you his address. Pop round there and ask him to check up on Blandon. It’s worth it. Rose is your only daughter. They say she talks like an encyclopaedia. Wouldn’t have thought that would fascinate Blandon. How did you come to make such a mistake?”

“Not my fault,” said the earl huffily. “My wife got her this governess and left the instruction to her.”

“I hear that Lady Rose is a member of the Shrieking Sisterhood,” remarked the brigadier, using the nickname for the suffragettes.

“Not any more, she ain’t,” said the earl. “Mind you, I think the only reason she lost interest was because of Blandon.”

“Well, maybe there is something to be said for love, though I don’t hold with it. A girl should marry background and money.

They last, love don’t. Here’s my card.” He wrote an address down and handed it over.

The earl put his monocle in his eye and studied it. “I say, old man. Chelsea? No place for a gentleman.”

“If Captain Cathcart were the complete gentleman he wouldn’t dream of doing your snooping for you. But you’ll be safe with him.”

Lady Rose was at that moment fretting under the ministrations of her lady’s maid. Having abandoned the Sisterhood—but only briefly, she told herself—Rose had once more subjected herself to the staltifying dress code of Edwardian society. While she had been supporting the suffragette movement, she had worn simple skirts and blouses and a straw hat. But now she was dressed in layers of silk underclothes, starched petticoats and elaborate gowns with waterfalls of lace. Her figure was too slim to suit the fashion of ripe and luscious beauty, and so art was brought to bear to create the small-waisted, S-shaped figure. A beauty had to have an outstanding bust and a noticeable posterior. Rose was lashed into a long corset and then put into a Dip Front Adjuster, a waist-cinch that stressed the fashionable about-to-topple-over appearance. Her bottom was padded, as was her bust. By the time the maid had slung a rope of pearls around Rose’s neck and decorated the bosom of her gown with brooches, Rose felt she looked like a tray in a jeweller’s window.

Geoffrey always praised her appearance but had implied that once she was married, she would be free to wear more comfortable clothes. Rose stared at the mirror as the maid put in pompadours, the pads over which her long hair would be drawn up and arranged. Sir Geoffrey had said nothing about when
we
are married. But he had stolen a kiss, just the other night, behind a pillar in the Jessingtons’ ballroom, and stealing a kiss was tantamount to a proposal of marriage.

The captain lived in a thin white house in Water Street, off the King’s Road. The earl fervently hoped that the man was a gentleman and not some sort of Neverwazzer who wore a bowler hat or carried a coloured handkerchief in his breast pocket or— horror upon horrors—brown boots with a dark suit. He had never met him but had heard about him in the clubs.

The earl climbed stiffly down from his carriage and waited while his footman rapped at the door. To his rehef, the earl saw that the door was opened by a sober-looking gentleman’s gentleman who took the earl’s card, carefully turned down at one corner to show the earl was calling in person, put it on a silver tray, and retreated into the house.

The earl frowned. His title should have been enough to grant him instant admission.

The captain’s servant returned after only a few moments and spoke to the footman, who sprinted down the stairs to tell the earl that the captain would be pleased to receive him.

The earl was ushered into a room on the ground floor. He was announced, and a tall saturnine man who had been sitting in a chair by the window rose to meet him.

“May we offer you something?” asked Captain Cathcart. “Sherry?”

“Fine, fine,” mumbled the earl, taken aback by the amount of books in the shelves lining the room. His Majesty, King Edward, set such a good example by not opening a book from one year’s end to another. Why couldn’t everyone follow such a fine example?

“Sherry, Becket,” said the captain to his manservant. And to the earl, “Do sit down, sir. I see the sun has come out at last.”

“So it has,” said the earl, who hadn’t noticed. “I come on a delicate matter.” He handed over the brigadier’s card.

“What matter?”

“Well, y’see—” The earl broke off as the manservant reentered the room with glasses and decanter on a tray. He poured two glasses and handed one to the captain and one to the earl.

“That will be all,” said the captain and Becket noiselessly retreated.

The captain turned his fathomless black gaze on the earl, wondering why he had come. The earl was a small round man dressed in a frock-coat and grey trousers. He had a round, reddish face and blue eyes which had a childlike look about them.

“It’s like this,” said the earl, feeling awkward and embarrassed. “I have a daughter, Rose ...”

“Ah, the suffragette.”

“I thought people had forgotten about that,” said the earl. “Anyway, Rose is being courted by Sir Geoffrey Blandon. He’s not an adventurer. Good family. Nothing wrong there.”

“And the problem?”

“He hasn’t proposed. Rose is my only child. Would like some discreet chap to check up on Blandon. Find out if he’s the thing. I mean, does he have a mistress who might turn awkward? That sort of business.”

Having got it out, the little earl turned scarlet with embarrassment and took a gulp of sherry.

“I am not much out in the world these days,” said the captain, “but knowing how gossip flies about, I would have thought if there was anything unsavoury about the man, you’d have heard it.”

“Blandon’s been in America for the past four years, came back in time for this season. Might be something nobody knows about. Handy says he’s a gambler.”

Captain Cathcart studied him for a long moment and then said, “A thousand pounds.”

“What, what?” gabbled the earl.

“That is my fee for research and discretion.”

The earl was shocked. This captain was a baron’s son and yet here he was asking for money like a tradesman. And yet, why hadn’t Blandon declared his intentions? He was spoiling Rose’s chances of finding another suitor.

The captain let the silence last. A carriage rattled over the cobbles on the street outside and a small fire crackled on the hearth. A clock on the mantel ticked away the minutes.

“Very well,” said the earl with a cold stare.

“In advance,” said the captain mildly.

The earl goggled at him. “You have my word.”

The captain smiled and said nothing.

The earl capitulated. “I’ll give you a draft on my bank.”

“You may use my desk.”

The earl went over to a desk at the window and scribbled busily. He handed the draft to the captain and said angrily, “If there’s nothing wrong, it’ll be a waste of money.”

“I should think to be reassured on the subject of your only daughter would be worth anything.”

“Harrumph. I’m going. Report to me as soon as you can,” snapped the earl.

The captain waited until Becket had ushered the earl out and then smiled at his manservant. “My coat and hat, Becket. I am going to the bank. I will have your overdue wages when I get back.”

“That is most gratifying, sir.”

At that moment, Rose was taking tea at the home of her mother’s friend, Mrs. Cummings, in Belgrave Square. She looked dismally at the small butter stain on one of her kid gloves, and, for seemingly the hundredth time, damned the mad rules of society, one of which was that a lady should not remove her gloves when taking tea. Although the bread and butter had been carefully rolled, a spot had got onto one of her gloves> Most ladies avoided the problem by simply not eating. What insanity, thought Rose bitterly. She had a healthy appetite and the spread before her was of the usual staggering proportions. Apart from the bread-and-butter, there were ham, tongue, anchovy, egg-and-cress and foie gras sandwiches; chicken cutlets and oyster canapes. And then the cakes: Savoy, Madeira, Victoria and Genoa, along with French pastries, to be followed by petits fours, banana cream, chocolate cream and strawberry ice cream. And all of it sitting there mostly untouched so that the ladies would not soil their gloves.

Did no one but herself notice the poor on the streets of London? she wondered. And again she felt that uncomfortable feeling of isolation as she assumed she was probably the only person in society who did notice. Geoffrey, dear Geoffrey, did have some idea. He had told her that only the other day, the Duke of Devonshire had been visiting a bazaar with his agent and had stopped at a stall displaying wooden napkin rings and the duke had asked his agent what they were for.

“Napkin rings,” said the agent. “Middle-class people keep them on the table to put their table napkins in between meals.”

Said the astounded duke, “Do you mean that people actually wrap up their napkins and use them again for another meal?”

“Certainly,” said the agent.

The duke gasped as he looked at the stall, “Good God!” he
exclaimed. “I never knew such poverty existed.”

How Geoffrey had laughed at such idiocy. If only he would propose. She knew her parents were beginning to fret. She glanced at her mother, who was chatting amiably with her hostess. The countess had moaned before they had left for the tea party that she should never have allowed that “dreadful” governess to over-educate her child. What a world where intelligence was regarded with such deep suspicion. Poor Miss Tremp. Such a fine governess. She had moved on to another household. When I am married, I will take her out of servitude and make her my companion, thought Rose. And I will be married, she told herself firmly. The Duke of Freemount’s ball was to take place the following week, the grandest affair of the season, and Geoffrey had whispered that he had something to ask her and he would put the question to her there. What else could he mean? But on the other hand, why had he not approached her father and asked permission to pay his addresses?

Harry Cathcart decided to start work right away. By dint of saying he had lost money to someone in a card game and he thought that someone might be Blandon, he managed to secure his address and a description of him. Blandon’s apartment was in St. James’s Square. Harry hired a closed carriage and sat a little way across the square to get a sight of his quarry. After a long wait, Blandon emerged. Although he was a fine figure of a man, Harry disliked him on sight. His stare was too arrogant, his eyes too knowing and his mouth too fleshy. There certainly was an air of the gambler about him.

First, Harry went to The Club and checked the betting book. There was nothing there. He frowned down at it. For the next few days, Harry tailed Sir Geoffrey. He found the man kept a
mistress in Pimlico, but in these loose days would anyone consider the presence of a mistress a scandal? Perhaps Sir Geoffrey was not as rich as he was reported to be. Perhaps he was after Lady Rose for her money.

Harry could only just afford to keep up his membership of The Club. He could not afford to belong to any of the other London clubs.

He went back to his home and asked Becket to look out his photographic equipment, a recent hobby. Then he ordered his manservant to find him his oldest, most-worn suit, and after being helped into it, he sat down at his dressing-table and studied his face. He put pads of cotton wool inside his cheeks to plump them out and then, by dint of sabotaging a shaving brush and with a tube of spirit gum, he made himself a false moustache. Pulling an old hat down on his head, he heaved up his camera equipment and took a hackney to Brooks’s and asked to see the club secretary. His voice distorted by the cotton-wool pads in his cheeks, Harry explained he was a photographer sent by the Duke of Freemount, who wanted to mount an exhibition of photographs of London clubs to show in a marquee at his annual fete. Permission was given. Harry carefully left a few bits and pieces of photographic equipment in the secretary’s office.

Then, when he gratefully saw the secretary had been buttonholed by a crusty old member, he murmured something about needing more magnesium for his flash and went back to the secretary’s office. He quickly searched around until he found the betting book. Quickly he scanned it and then on a page he saw that Sir Geoffrey Blandon had bet that he could obtain the favours of Lady Rose before the end of the season. Harry knew “favours” meant seduction. The bets were running at forty to one.

“Bastard,” he muttered, and taking out a penknife, sliced out the page. He had meant to photograph it if he had found anything incriminating but realized it would take too long, and operating a plate camera in dim light might not produce any results at all. And the use of a magnesium flash in his office might bring the secretary running.

He went back and photographed several more of the main rooms before making his retreat.

Harry should have been happy at his success, but he wished he did not have to break such news to the earl. Lady Rose must indeed have ruined her reputation by being photographed supporting the suffragettes. She had become the subject of a common wager.