The Bachelor List (24 page)

She arrived home in the middle of lunch, to be told that Henry had returned from his interview flush with success. He had liked Max Ensor and the feeling had apparently been mutual. He was prepared to start work the following Monday. He'd eaten some bread and cheese and gone out to buy an engagement ring for his beloved.

“It's astonishing how he's blossomed,” Prudence said. “He even walks differently.”

“We'd better find him another roof soon, though,” Chastity put in, pouring lemonade into her glass. “Father's bound to terrify him at dinner. So, where have you been, Con?”

She told them as she helped herself to a dish of cauliflower cheese. When her recital was finished, Prudence said thoughtfully, “I just hope this crusading zeal isn't going to cause trouble, Con. It's not that I don't agree with you. The man's despicable. But we're playing with fire.”

“How could he possibly associate the piece with the Duncan sisters, Prue?”

Prudence shrugged. “I don't know. But it makes me uneasy.”

“Well, I'm going to meet Henry in the park for our stroll to the rose garden.” Chastity rose from the table. “I can't wait to see them meet. It's so romantic.”

“Henry . . .” Prudence exclaimed.

“Romantic,” Constance exclaimed.

“Well, the idea is,” Chastity said. “And I'm going to wear my best bonnet in honor of the occasion.”

She dressed with great care as she'd promised and set out for the park twirling a sunshade. Henry was waiting for her as instructed just inside the Stanhope Gate. “Do you think she will like this?” he blurted as Chastity came up to him. He held out the small box. “It's an engagement ring. I know she can't wear it, but I felt it was the right thing to do.”

“It's lovely,” Chastity said, taking the ring and holding it to the sun. “Any woman would love it. It's so delicate.”

“It's all I could afford.”

“It's lovely,” she reiterated firmly. “The rose garden is this way.”

In the quiet fragrance of the garden they sat on a bench in the sun to wait. Henry kept getting up and pacing the narrow gravel paths between the vibrant rose beds. Every so often he seemed inclined to chew his fingernails but resolutely thrust his hands into his pockets.

Chastity heard the shrill tones of Pamela Graham from quite some distance away. She stood up, nodding to Henry. “Take my arm, Henry, and we'll stroll towards the gate over there. Try to act as if it's just a pleasant surprise to meet Amelia and her charge here.”

“I'll try,” he whispered.

Amelia opened the little iron gate, ignoring the protestations of her charge.

“I don't want to go in there, Miss Westcott. I don't like flowers. You promised we would find the swings.”

“And so we will, Pammy,” Amelia said calmly. “But I want to show you the birdbath in the middle of the garden. It's a dolphin.” Her quick glance darted towards the two approaching her and her color ebbed for a second, her step faltered. Then she picked up her pace again.

“Miss Westcott, how nice to meet you here. Isn't it a beautiful afternoon.” Chastity smiled and extended her hand. “May I introduce Mr. Franklin?”

“Mr. Franklin and I are already acquainted,” Amelia said softly, offering her hand to Chastity and then to Henry.

“He used to teach me the piano,” Pamela pronounced. “Why are you in London, Mr. Franklin? You're not going to teach me piano again, are you?” She sounded horrified at the prospect.

“No, I don't believe so, Pamela,” he said, his nervousness dissipating at the child's artless question. He realized he was still holding Amelia's hand and dropped it rather hastily.

Chastity bent down to the child. “Pamela, you probably don't remember me. I'm a friend of your mother's. And your uncle's,” she added calmly.

“Uncle Max?”

“Yes, he comes to our house sometimes.”

“I thought I saw Mr. Ensor with Miss Duncan the other day,” Amelia said, her voice amazingly steady.

“Yes, they're old acquaintances,” Chastity said. Chastity's romantic inclinations had been immediately satisfied by the look that had passed between the two as their hands had touched.

“I want to go to the pond,” Pammy stated, dancing agitatedly on the path.

“I'll come with you,” Chastity said. “I love to sail twigs on the pond. We'll play a game.” She took the child's hand and led her off, studiously avoiding a backward glance at the reunited lovers.

After a decent interval that would not seem remarkable to Pamela they returned to the rose garden. Amelia was there alone. “I was about to come in search of you,” she said. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, her eyes very bright with what Chastity was sure were tears. “Such a charming gentleman, Mr. Franklin.”

“Yes, how curious that we should both know him,” Chastity said. “Pamela, do you see that beautiful butterfly over there. On the yellow rose.” She pointed towards a Red Admiral butterfly resting on the flower some ten paces away. Pamela ran over. Chastity turned back to Amelia. “Is everything all right?”

“Oh, yes. Wonderful. But . . . but, Chastity, I own I'm uncomfortable with the involvement of Mr. Ensor.”

“Don't be. Constance has him well in hand,” Chastity said, aware that she was probably promising a great deal more than the truth. “He doesn't know anything about you and Henry, and once you're married it's none of his business anyway.”

“I suppose that's so,” Amelia said with a little sigh. Then her expression brightened. “He gave me a ring, Chastity. Such a pretty engagement ring.”

“And on Thursday you'll have the gold band to go with it,” Chastity said, giving her a quick hug. “We just have to find Henry a place to live.”

“I think,” Amelia said quietly, “that Henry can do that for himself. You and your sisters have done enough.”

“If you think so,” Chastity said. “We don't wish to interfere.”

Amelia laid a hand on her arm. “Once we're married, Henry will take on the responsibilities of a husband. I assure you.”

“Oh, I believe you,” Chastity returned. “He played for us last evening. It was sublime.”

Amelia smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Sublime.” She stood in reflective silence for a minute, then called, “Come, Pammy, it's time to go.”

On Wednesday afternoon, a large display of cut roses stood on the hall table, their thorns clipped, the stems neatly wrapped in tissue paper. Chastity fussed over them, rearranging them in order of color, then mixing them up again. “It's a very eccentric thing to do,” she said, setting the single white rose just a little apart. “To give out roses.”

“It's a charming gesture,” Prudence said stoutly. “People will be enchanted. My only worry is that Millicent will fail us. We know Anonymous will come because he paid to do so, but supposing Millicent changed her mind, or had a headache or a more pressing engagement?”

“Let's cross that bridge when we come to it,” Constance said in a somewhat distracted tone. She was reading a letter that had just been delivered. “Max makes his apologies, he can't call this afternoon, but he's inviting me to dine with him in the House of Commons this evening.”

“Will you go?”

Constance gave her sister a look that declared an answer was hardly necessary.

“Wear the green and black silk,” Prudence said with a laugh. “It's so striking.”

“And Mother's diamonds,” Chastity said. “With that gorgeous emerald green shawl.”

“Whatever you say,” Constance agreed. “I wouldn't argue with either of you.” She moved towards the drawing room as the doorbell rang. “Don't forget, Jenkins. The white rose for Miss Hardcastle.”

“I have not forgotten, Miss Con,” the long-suffering butler declared as he crossed to the front door.

The sisters exchanged a quick grin. “I'll make myself scarce,” Chastity said. “Good luck.” She crossed her fingers and went upstairs to await the outcome. Her sisters hastened to position themselves in the drawing room to receive their guests.

Anonymous arrived punctually at half past three. He handed his card to Jenkins, offered his excuse for being there, and was ushered into the drawing room. A buzz of conversation rose and fell from the small group gathered there. The women all wore roses pinned to their corsages, but a quick glance revealed no white rose.

Jenkins announced him: “Arthur Melvin, Esquire.”

Constance came forward, just the right questioning note in her voice as she said, “I don't believe we've had the pleasure, Mr. Melvin. I'm Constance Duncan.”

“Forgive the intrusion,” he said. “I was given to understand Lord Jersey would be calling upon you this afternoon, and I have an urgent need to meet with him.”

Constance made a show of looking around the drawing room. “I'm so sorry, he hasn't appeared as yet. Perhaps later. Do come and meet my sister, and you'll take tea, I hope.”

She exchanged a speaking glance with Prudence as she introduced him. There was still no sign of Millicent. The no-longer-anonymous client was looking around rather restlessly, but he managed to comport himself graciously when introduced to the other guests.

“Miss Hardcastle, Miss Duncan,” Jenkins intoned from the doorway, and Millicent, sporting the white rose, came in.

“Constance, Prudence, I'm sorry to be so late,” she said, coming towards them, hands outstretched. “One of our housemaids had the most dreadful toothache and I had to take her to have it pulled. She was too terrified to go alone.”

Millicent was neither plain nor attractive, but she had a certain sweetness of countenance that bespoke her nature. She was approaching her mid-thirties and beginning to accept society's opinion that she would never catch a husband. Or at least she gave the impression of such acceptance for the sake of dignity, nothing was worse than being pitied, but in private she yearned for a home of her own away from the constant attendance upon her invalid mother, who was a past mistress at the art of manipulating her ailments to control her daughter. Millicent dreamed sometimes of a child, a house in the country, and a quiet, undemanding husband. But she kept her dreams to herself.

The sisters greeted her warmly and she turned from them to acknowledge other acquaintances. Arthur Melvin was balancing his teacup in one hand and a plate of cake in the other. He stood on the outskirts of the group as Millicent chatted, inquiring about health and families with an air of genuine concern.

Arthur noted her costume: a neat and very plain coat and skirt of brown serge, with a matching hat adorned with a pheasant's feather. It was serviceable rather than elegant. He liked the softness of her voice and her general demeanor that bespoke a rather retiring nature. All in all, he thought, on first acquaintance Miss Hardcastle exactly matched his specifications. He moved around the group to where Miss Duncan stood by the piano talking to a very young girl.

“Ah, Mr. Melvin.” Constance smiled at him as he approached. “May I get you more tea?”

“No, I thank you.” He set his cup and saucer and plate on the top of the piano. “I was wondering if I might have an introduction to Miss Hardcastle.”

“Why, certainly,” Constance said. “She's such a charming woman.” She led him across to Millicent and performed her first true client introduction, then she stepped back and left them to it.

“How do you think it's going?” Prudence murmured half an hour later.

“I don't know. But they're still talking,” Constance murmured back. “I think we've earned our fee.”

Chapter 16

C
onstance draped the emerald green silk shawl over her bare shoulders and fingered the diamond necklace nestled around her throat. “You don't think the diamonds are a little too much?”

“Absolutely not,” Prudence declared. “But the tiara might be since it's only dinner.”

“That's a relief,” her sister said. “I was afraid you were going to insist on it.”

“If you were going to a ball, I would.” Prudence clasped a diamond bracelet high up on her sister's forearm where it wouldn't be hidden by her long gloves. “Let Chas put the finishing touches to your hair.”

Constance sat down in front of the mirror watching critically as Chastity tied a black velvet ribbon around the elaborate braided chignon at the nape of her neck. “This style suits you so well,” Chastity said, teasing a few strands onto Constance's forehead to soften the line. “And the simplicity sets off the gown and the diamonds.”

Constance rose from the stool and examined her reflection in the long mirror. Her gown was of pale green silk interwoven with a delicate black filigree pattern. Black silk gloves, an ivory fan, and a tiny diamond-studded evening purse completed the ensemble. “I think I look rather untouchable,” she said.

“Tantalizingly so,” Prudence said with a laugh. “What more could a man want?”

“In the august halls of the Houses of Parliament a man's mind should be on serious matters,” Constance said with a righteous air. “I wouldn't wish to distract him.”

“Well, if you're to arrive punctually you should go now.” Chastity went to the bedroom door. “Cobham will be waiting for you.”

Constance followed her, as Prudence adjusted the set of the shawl. “I hope this evening goes all right. I feel bad about abandoning you to Henry and Father.”

“Oh, it'll be fine, don't give it a second thought,” Prudence said, giving her a little push through the door. “Father's never discourteous with strangers even if they annoy him. And once Henry starts to play after dinner, you can lay odds he'll be heading for his club.”

Constance couldn't argue with this, and wasn't inclined to. Her sisters accompanied her to the street, where Cobham waited with the carriage. “If you decide on another night on the tiles,” Prudence said with a knowing smile, “make sure you're back in plenty of time for the wedding tomorrow.”

Constance didn't deign to reply. She climbed into the carriage and sat back in the dim interior as the carriage moved at Cobham's stately pace along Whitehall to the Houses of Parliament. She alighted at St. Stephen's Gate and the police inspector who had charge of the gate came forward to greet her.

“Miss Duncan, Mr. Ensor told us to expect you. He's awaiting you on the terrace. One of my men will escort you.”

A policeman offered a deferential bow and she followed him through the long stone corridors and out onto the terrace that overlooked the Thames.

Max was standing with a group of people beside the balustrade, his eyes on the doors. As soon as he saw her, he came across with swift step. “Constance.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips. An unusual salute but one that seemed in keeping with their setting and the exquisite formality of her costume.

“You take my breath away,” he murmured into her ear as he tucked her gloved hand into the crook of his arm. “We aren't dining alone since unchaperoned ladies are rather frowned upon here, but I trust you'll find our companions congenial.”

Constance had expected this. It was one thing to dine alone with a man who was neither relative nor fiancé in the Café Royal or an out-of-the-way restaurant on Kensington Church Street, quite another in this bastion of male power and privilege.

She was, however, surprised to find herself dining with the Prime Minister and three of the most influential members of his Cabinet, all accompanied by their wives. The startling thought occurred to her that she was being vetted as a suitable wife for an up-and-coming politician. In these circles, a man's wife was a vital asset. She could make or break a parliamentary career.

She gave Max a speculative glance as they were seated at a prominent, large round table in the Members' dining room. He gave her a bland smile and turned to address a remark to the lady on his right. Constance picked up her own conversational ball with the ease of habit and training, ensuring that nothing revealing, nothing of any importance was said by herself or either of her table neighbors.

Her fork faltered when the Chancellor's wife declared in a voice that carried into one of those moments of silence that sometimes fall on a group, “As Asquith always says, man is man, and woman is woman. Parliament cannot make them the same.” She plied her fan, a tiny pink patch of indignation blooming on her cheeks.

Constance caught a sudden warning in Max's eyes. She picked up her fork again and poked at her roast beef. So she was to be muzzled. Her opinions would embarrass him. Well, so be it. This dinner table was hardly the forum for an impassioned diatribe on the manifest injustice of the disenfranchisement of women. It would win neither her nor her cause any friends.

But Max's warning rankled. He'd accompanied her to a WSPU meeting. He'd met the Pankhursts. He knew how passionately she felt about this. Surely if he had any respect for her views he wouldn't prevent her from presenting them for informed and respectful discussion.

The ladies rose when the Prime Minister's wife gave the signal, and repaired to the retiring room, leaving the gentlemen to enjoy port and cigars, while the women gossiped companionably, made what repairs were necessary to appearances, and sipped coffee in the adjoining lounge.

Constance was prepared for the inquisition. “How long have you known Mr. Ensor, Miss Duncan?” Lady Campbell-Bannerman inquired, settling back on the sofa with her coffee.

“A few weeks,” Constance responded. “I know his sister, Lady Graham.”

“Oh, yes, of course. A charming woman. Her husband takes his seat regularly in the Lords, I understand.”

“So I believe.” Constance sipped her coffee. She appeared perfectly relaxed, no hint of the coiled spring of tension as she waited for the test that was bound to come.

“Lord Duncan too, I understand, is most assiduous in his parliamentary duties.”

“My father takes his seat regularly,” she said. “He always has done.”

“And you, Miss Duncan? Are you interested in politics?”

“Very.” She smiled the smile of the tiger.

“It's a little unseemly for a woman to be interested in politics. Even those of us whose domestic lives are governed by our husbands' political work,” Lady Asquith said. “Our role is to provide him with the atmosphere in which to do that work . . . nothing contentious, perfect harmony at home.”

“Oh, yes, we must make certain that he's never aware of the little domestic trials and tribulations that beset us,” one of the other women confided, leaning across to Constance, patting her hand. “Our men do the vital work of the country. We're so privileged to assist them.”

Constance smiled faintly.

“It's the least we can do, after all, when we're so fortunate to have such men to decide all these matters for us, to come to decisions for our own good. Don't you think, Miss Duncan?”

“No,” Constance said, setting down her coffee. “No, ma'am, I don't think so at all. I find nothing fortunate or privileged about having decisions made for me by men, who make them simply by virtue of being men. I consider myself perfectly capable of making decisions for my own good.”

There was a shocked silence. Only Constance, it seemed, was unmoved by her speech. She waited a few moments, then, when it seemed no response was to be forthcoming, rose with a murmured excuse and made her way out to the terrace again.

She heard Max's voice as she passed an anteroom to the dining room. She paused, unwilling to enter in case it was one of the areas restricted to women. It was a fair assumption that it was, since women were allowed in very few areas of the Houses of Parliament. And not even Constance would break such a rule.

He was speaking clearly, as were his companions, the Prime Minister and Asquith. And she listened unabashed once she heard the first sentence.

“There's to be a deputation to the House with a petition,” Max said. “I don't know when, the date hasn't been decided as yet.”

“We must refuse it,” Asquith said. “If we accept a petition we're giving legitimacy to the question.”

“That's certainly a point,” Max replied. “But it will also enrage them.” He gave a short laugh. “I've seen these women in action, Prime Minister, and they're very passionate about their cause. I see our best course of action as appeasement. We take the petition, we just don't act on it.”

I've seen these women in action.
Constance could barely swallow her rage. Her nails bit into her gloved palms as she held herself still and quiet. How could he sound so dismissive? How
dare
he make light of the confession she had made to him of her own driving commitment? She had been trying to change his mind about women's suffrage, but she had also been willing to share confidences with him because she thought something good for both of them might come of it. And what did he do with those confidences? Make light of them, and use them to work against the Union.

“I have an ear to the ground,” Max was saying. “I can probably get details of their next move before it goes public. It'll give us time to plan a strategy.”

“Good man. Forewarned, as they say.”

Constance left her post. She wanted to leave the House altogether but caution held her back. Until she had decided what to do, she didn't want Max to know what she'd overheard. The cold voice of reason told her that acting in haste and fury was always unwise. This betrayal required an altogether subtler response. For the moment her anger masked her hurt, and for the moment she welcomed that distance. When it came it was going to be wretched. She had allowed herself to get close to him, to conjure with the idea of love, and therefore of a future. Instead she had invited betrayal.

The cooler air of the terrace fanned her cheeks, cleared her head a little, and when Max came up behind her she was able to turn and greet him with a smile.

“I didn't realize you were out here alone,” he said, leaning beside her on the parapet, resting his arms along the ledge. Below them the tide was high and the river was still busy with laden barges heading for the docks despite the late hour.

“I found my companions' conversation rather irritating,” she said flatly.

“Oh.” He shook his head. “I was afraid of that.”

“Then why did you invite me? Weren't you also afraid I might embarrass you?”

“No,” he said, sounding surprised. “Far from it. Why would you think such a thing?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. I'm tired, Max. I've had a rather busy day.”

“Then I'll take you home.” He gave her a searching look. Constance was rarely tired. She always seemed to have boundless energy. And yet she certainly seemed to be drooping a little tonight. He thought perhaps it had something to do with her woman's cycle. He had noticed often enough how at certain times of the month perfectly rational, even-tempered females became emotional and distracted.

Constance wondered how he could stand there, talking to her, behaving exactly as usual when he had just come from a conversation where he had talked so matter-of-factly of deceiving her, as if it was the only course of action, the obvious course of action. It was almost impossible to believe. But she had heard what she had heard. Her first impression of Max Ensor had been the correct one, and she had allowed her emotions, her self-indulgent impulses, to rule her. Typical female, she thought in disgust.

She couldn't bear his company another minute and said abruptly, “Would you make my excuses. I don't feel at all well. I'll take a cab home.”

“No, I'll take you home. Did you have a cloak?”

“No.” She drew the shawl tighter around her. There was no graceful way to refuse his escort home, and she was not ready to confront him yet.

Max made no attempt at conversation. He put an arm around her in the cab but when she twitched aside he let his arm drop immediately. He couldn't imagine what could be wrong between them, therefore there wasn't anything wrong. She was tired. It was the wrong time of the month. It could be no more than that.

He walked her to her door and bent to kiss her. She turned her face aside so his lips made contact with her cheek not her lips. “I expect you have a headache,” he said sympathetically. “I understand about these things.”

Constance stared at him.
Understand?
Understood what things? How could he possibly understand? And then it dawned on her as she looked at him, saw the warmly concerned but nevertheless slightly patronizing smile in his eyes. Of all the typical male conclusions to draw. He could think of only one explanation for why she suddenly seemed less accessible to him.

Max hesitated, wondering whether to say something else in the sudden silence, then while he was still wondering, she had bidden him good night and disappeared inside, using her own key in the door.