The Bachelor List (6 page)

“I've had another idea,” Chastity said suddenly. “Rather on the same lines. Why don't we provide a personal column . . . you know, if someone has a problem they write in and ask for advice. Then we publish the letters and give advice.”

Constance looked up from her work. “I don't see myself giving advice,” she said. “I have enough trouble organizing my own life.”

“That's because it takes you forever to make up your mind,” Prudence said. “You always see both sides of every question, and then a few extraneous aspects as well.”

“'Tis true,” Constance agreed with a mock sigh. “At least until I do finally make a decision. Then I'm constant as the evening star.”

“That is also true,” Prudence conceded. “I'm not good at dispensing advice either, most of the time I can't see what people are worrying about. I think Chas should do that column, she's so intuitive.”

“I'd like to,” Chastity said. “And to get the ball rolling I'll make up a problem letter. We'll only use initials to identify the writers so people will feel secure about making their problems public.” She sucked the tip of her pencil. “What kind of problem?”

“Love's always a good bet,” Constance suggested. “Torn between two lovers, how about that?”

She blotted her paper and reread the three paragraphs she had written. “There, I think that'll do. What d'you think?” She carried the paper to the sofa and took up her glass again, taking a sip as she watched her sisters' reactions.

Chastity gave a little choke of laughter. “Con, this is scandalous.” She began to read aloud. “‘This evening, the Right Honorable Max Ensor, newly minted Member of Parliament for the county of Southwold in Essex, made his social debut at the delightful musical soirée given by Lady Arabella Beekman in her charming mansion on Grosvenor Square. Mr. Ensor is the brother of Lady Graham of 7 Albermarle Street. The Right Honorable Gentleman turned quite a few heads as an eligible newcomer to Society, and several anxious mamas were seen jockeying for a chance to introduce him to their daughters. It is unknown whether Mr. Ensor is a fan of the opera, but he certainly made fans of his own this evening.' ”

Prudence whistled softly. “Declaration of war, Con?”

Constance grinned. “Could be.”

“Well, it's outrageous,” Prudence said, chuckling. “It's not really about the soirée at all.”

“Oh, it goes on,” Chastity said. “Descriptions, lavish praise for the singer, some faint disapproval of the Gluck aria . . . so you were listening, Con . . . and a nice little tidbit about Glynis Fanshaw and her new escort.” She looked up. “Was Glynis really escorted by that old roué Jack Davidson? She's really scraping the barrel.”

“I didn't say that,” Constance said piously.

“No, and I suppose you didn't imply it either.” Chastity shook her head. “People are certainly going to have some fun with it.”

“That is the idea, after all. Where shall we insert this?”

“Inside the back page. We'll save the fluffy stuff for that page and hope that readers will be distracted by Con's serious pieces on their way to the cream.”

“On the nursery principle of bread and butter before cake,” Prudence mused. “How's the problem letter coming along?”

“I've kept it very simple,” Chastity replied, “but who should they be writing to? Dear
who
?”

“Someone grandmotherly,” Prudence said. “Smelling of gingerbread and starched aprons.”

“Aunt Mabel,” Constance said promptly. “No, don't laugh,” she protested. “It's a very fine name denoting stability and wisdom and all the coziness of a favorite aunt. You couldn't imagine ever being led astray by an Aunt Mabel.”

“Aunt Mabel, it is,” Chastity said. “I'll read the letter to you. ‘Dear Aunt Mabel—' ” She broke off at a knock on the door. Lord Duncan called, “Are you still up, girls?”

Constance swept the papers off the table and stuffed them behind a cushion. “Yes, we're still up,” she called. “Come in, Father.”

Lord Duncan came into the parlor. He carried his black silk hat in his hand and his tie was crooked. His gaze was benign but bleary. “I saw the light under the door as I was passing,” he said. He leaned against the door, his eyes wandering around the parlor. “Your mother loved this room.” He frowned. “It seems very shabby. Why don't you replace the curtains, and surely some new cushion covers would improve the look of it.”

“We like to keep it as Mother had it,” Constance said, her tone soothing and reasonable.

He nodded and coughed into his hand. “Oh, yes, I see. Of course . . . of course. A nice sentiment. Did you enjoy your evening?”

“Yes, it was delightful. The singer was magnificent,” Prudence said. “We were just chatting about it over our hot chocolate before going up to bed.”

“Good God! You don't want to be maudling your insides with that pap,” he declared. His eye fell on the cognac glass that Constance still held. He said with a nod of approbation, “At least one of you has an appreciation for the finer things of life.”

“I consider chocolate to be among the finest things in life,” Chastity said, smiling at him.

He shook his head. “I suppose such solecisms are only to be expected with a house full of females.” His gaze fell suddenly on a sheet of newsprint that had fallen to the floor. “Good God! What's that disgraceful rag doing in here?” He stepped forward and bent to pick up the fallen copy of
The Mayfair Lady.
“There was a copy of this in the club this evening. No one could imagine how it got through the door.” He held it by finger and thumb as if it might be infected.

“I wouldn't expect to find it in an all-male establishment,” Constance observed serenely. “But it's a more substantial newspaper than it used to be.”

“Your mother used to read it,” Lord Duncan said with a grimace. “I tried to
forbid it . . . all that nonsense about women's rights.” He shrugged. “Forbidding your mother anything she'd set her heart on was a futile operation at best. I don't imagine it would do much good with you three either. Oh, well . . .” He shrugged again as if the recognition didn't much disturb him. “I'll bid you good night. Don't stay up too late: you need your beauty sleep if you're to—” The door closed on the silent end to the sentence.

“Catch husbands,” the three chimed in unison.

“You'd think he'd get tired of singing that song,” Constance observed. “Well, beauty sleep or not, I'm ready for bed.” She retrieved the papers from behind the cushion. “Thank heavens he knocked. I didn't hear him come up the stairs.”

Prudence yawned. “I think we've done enough for one evening. I'm for bed too.” She took the sheets from her sister and locked them in the secretaire. “I confess to being intrigued as to how people are going to receive this edition. I think it might well bump up our circulation considerably.”

“Just as a matter of interest, how did a copy get into Brooks?” Chastity inquired, taking the dirty cups to the tray. “Any guesses?”

“Oh, I think it's possible that your Lord Lucan accidentally discovered a copy in his overcoat pocket,” Constance said airily. “He was on his way to Brooks yesterday morning when I bumped into him inside Hatchards. We chatted for a while. His coat was just hanging over his shoulders and he was very animated, flinging his arms around, and the coat fell to the floor so I picked it up—
et voilà.
I expect he abandoned it in the cloakroom at Brooks without even knowing what it was. He's not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.”

“Poor soul. He's very good-natured,” Chastity said kindly.

“Yes, sweetheart. And so are you.” Constance kissed her cheek as she held the door for her sisters. “Prue and I should take a leaf out of your book.”

“I can be nasty,” Chastity said with a touch of indignation. “As nasty as anyone, in the right circumstances.”

Her sisters laughed, linked arms with her, and went up to bed.

Chapter 4

W
hat are we to do about these suffragists?” demanded the Prime Minister, seating himself heavily in a large leather armchair in the Members' Lounge in the House of Commons. Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman had a perpetually preoccupied, worried air that was not diminished by the large goblet of post-luncheon cognac in front of him and the fat cigar he drew on with obvious satisfaction.

“The Pankhurst woman has started up her Women's Social and Political Union in London now. At least while they stayed in Manchester we could ignore them for the most part.” He examined the ashy tip of his cigar critically. “Now we can expect petitions and delegations and excitable meetings right on our own doorstep.”

“Appeasement,” one of his companions suggested. “We'll get nowhere by provoking them. Promise them a steering committee; it doesn't have to come to anything.”

Max Ensor leaned across the glossy surface of the low table in the square formed by the armchairs of the four men who were digesting a particularly substantial lunch with an equally fine cognac. He pushed a copy of
The Mayfair Lady
towards the Prime Minister, and indicated the black boxed headline:
WILL THE LIBERAL GOVERNMENT GIVE VOTES TO WOMEN TAXPAYERS
?

“This seems to be a particularly sensitive issue. We could announce that we're establishing a committee to discover how many women taxpayers and ratepayers there are in the country. That would quieten them down, at least for the moment.”

Sir Henry picked up the newspaper. “A copy of this found its way into the Cabinet Office,” he said. “How the devil did it get in there? I've asked all the staff but no one will admit to it.”

“You see it everywhere . . . they'll be wrapping fish and chips in it next.” One of the four gave a sardonic laugh as he reached for his goblet on the table.

“Does anyone have any idea who writes it?” the Prime Minister asked.

“Not a clue.” Two of his three companions shrugged in agreement. “Perhaps it's the Pankhurst women.”

“No, they're too busy organizing meetings and protests. Besides, it has its lighter side. I don't see Mrs. Pankhurst indulging herself in society gossip and fashion news. And in the latest edition they're offering some marriage broker service. The Go-Between, they call it. What with that and this Aunt Mabel, who'll wrestle with your love problems, I doubt the Pankhursts would sully their eyes or their hands with it.”

“But it's a clever strategy,” Max said. “Most ladies wouldn't be in the least interested in a political tract, but they are interested in the other stories on offer—”

“I notice you're mentioned in this one,” one of his fellows interrupted with a deep chuckle. “Quite complimentary, really.”

Max looked less than gratified. “It's arrant nonsense,” he said shortly. “But my point still stands. Women who wouldn't ordinarily think about these issues will have their attention drawn to them the minute they leaf through the paper.”

“If we're not careful, we'll have our wives and daughters waving placards on the steps of every town hall in the city,” muttered Herbert Asquith from the depths of his armchair.

“Whoever wrote it had to have been present at the Beekmans' soirée,” the Chancellor of the Exchequer continued. “No one could have written this commentary on Ensor without having been present. What d'you think, Ensor?”

“I think that's obvious, Asquith.” Max tried to keep the irritation from his voice but barely succeeded. He had been stung by the underlying mockery of the piece. As a politician he thought he had developed a thick skin, and yet those little darts had somehow managed to penetrate. “At least we know the paper's written by a woman . . . or women.”

“How so?” The Prime Minister held a long curl of gray ash over a deep marble ashtray, waiting reflectively for it to drop from the cigar tip of its own accord.

“It's obvious,” Max said with a dismissive wave at the newspaper. “Only women would write of trivialities in that mischievous way. Gossip is not a man's forte. Neither is idle chitchat, not to mention this matchmaking service. It's a women's newspaper.”

“A Society women's newspaper,” Asquith stressed. “So who could be responsible?”

Max was silent and his companions regarded him with interest. “Max, you have some idea?”

“Perhaps,” he said with a careless shrug. “Just a hunch. But I wouldn't bet the farm on it.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn't mind knowing who's behind it.” The Prime Minister yawned. “What is it that's so soporific about steak and kidney pie?”

It was a rhetorical question. Max stood up. “If you'll excuse me, Prime Minister . . . gentlemen . . . I have an engagement at three o'clock.”

He left them dozing peacefully amid the soft snores and discreet conversational buzz of the Members' Lounge and made his way to Albermarle Street to collect his sister. He was looking forward to the rest of the afternoon. A little cat and mouse with Miss Constance Duncan.

“I can't think where Constance is. Did she say when she would be back?” Chastity asked her sister as Prudence came into the drawing room with a large crystal bowl brimming with heavy-headed, deep red roses.

“No, but since she was only going to Swan and Edgar's for some ribbon, I assumed she'd have been home long since.” Prudence set the roses on a round cherry wood table and wiped a drop of water from the tabletop with her sleeve.

A worried frown crossed Chastity's face. “Surely she would have said if she wasn't going to be back for three o'clock?”

“Normally she would have said if she wasn't going to be back for lunch,” Prudence declared, trying to dissipate her sister's concern with a briskly cheerful mien.

It worked to a certain extent, diverting Chastity's anxiety for a minute. “Well, she didn't miss much,” Chastity responded, plumping up cushions on the sofa. “Last night's warmed-over fish pie.” She wrinkled her nose. “There's something about second-day fish, particularly cod, that's more than ordinarily unappetizing.”

She caught her elder sister's expression and said, “Oh, don't look so disapproving, Prue. I can make a comment, surely. I know perfectly well we can't waste food, heaven forbid, but I don't have to like old cod, do I?”

Prudence shook her head ruefully, wondering why she so often felt responsible for the shifts they had to make to manage some degree of solvency. It was true she made these sometimes disagreeable choices for them all, but someone had to. “No, you don't,” she agreed. “And neither do I. But we can only eat up leftovers when Father's not at the table.”

“So we must take the opportunity when it arises,” Chastity responded with a wry grimace. She glanced up at the handsome Italianate gilt clock on the marble mantelpiece. “Look at the time. Where
is
Con? It's almost half past two. People will start ringing the bell at three.” The worry was back in her voice.

Prudence tried another diversion. Once Chastity started fretting, she would soon be imagining every kind of disaster. “I wonder if Max Ensor will beat a path to our door this afternoon?” She went to the French doors that opened onto the terrace. “Should we open these?”

Chastity forced herself to concentrate on the issue. “Why not?” she said. “It's a lovely afternoon, people might like to stroll on the terrace.” She repositioned a group of chairs into a conversation circle. “If he does come I'm sure it'll be in pursuit of Con. You could tell how interested he was that night at the Beekmans'. Tactless but interested,” she added with a chuckle, forgetting her concern for a moment. “He can't have any idea what devil he's aroused in Con. I can't wait to see her demolish him, or rather, his pompous arrogance.” Then she demanded again, “Where
is
she?”

Prudence stepped back from the now opened doors. She said soothingly, “She can't have had an accident, Chas, we would have heard. A policeman would have been here by now . . . Oh,
Jenkins . . .” She glanced at the butler, who entered with a tray of cups and saucers. “No sign of Con yet?”

“No, Miss Prue.” He set the tray on a console table. “Mrs. Hudson has prepared two kinds of sandwiches, cucumber and egg and cress. She could make tomato as well if you want more variety, but she was hoping to use the tomatoes for the soup this evening.”

“Keep them for our soup, by all means,” a voice chimed in from the door. “We could always give our guests potted meat paste or jam.”

“Con, where have you been?” Prudence demanded, ignoring her sister's joking suggestion. “We were getting really worried. Or at least Chas was,” she added.

“I wasn't really,” Chastity said a mite defensively. “But you might have sent a message, Con.”

Constance removed the pins from her wide-brimmed felt hat. “I'm sorry,” she said, instantly penitent. She knew how quickly Chastity became anxious. “I didn't mean to worry you. I would have sent a message, only I couldn't. I have had the most invigorating day.” Her cheeks were flushed, her dark green eyes asparkle; energy seemed to flow from her with every long-legged stride as she crossed the room. “I'm sorry,” she said again. “I've left you with all the work.”

“There's not much to do,” Chastity reassured. She was now smiling, her relief at her sister's reappearance visible in her eyes and in the relaxation of her mouth. “Mostly you were fortunate to miss the old cod pie.”

“Last night's?”

“Mmm.”

“Oh, and I had a Cornish pasty and a glass of sherry,” Constance said with a stricken expression. “But mostly it was food for the mind.”

“Well, what were you doing?” Prudence regarded her with curiosity.

“Do you remember Emmeline Pankhurst, Mother's friend?”

“Oh, yes, Mother worked with her on the Women's Suffrage Committee, and the Married Women's Property Committee. I thought she was in Manchester.”

“No, I knew she had moved to London but I haven't had a chance to visit her. But I bumped into her this morning. She and her daughter Christabel have formed a London branch of the Women's Social and Political Union. They're lobbying for votes for women, but of course you know that.” Constance was rummaging in her handbag as she spoke. “I went to a meeting this morning and joined the Union afterwards . . . See?” She held up a purple, white, and green badge. “My official emblem in the colors of the WSPU.”

“So you go out for ribbon and come back with a political badge,” Chastity said. “How did that happen?”

“I didn't even get through the door of Swan and Edgar's. I bumped into Emmeline on the pavement outside and she invited me to this meeting. She was speaking at Kensington Town Hall. It was electrifying. You can't imagine what it was like.”

Her words tumbled over themselves as her mind still raced with the details of the meeting she had attended. The excitement and enthusiasm of the audience still rang in her ears. She had grown up with the sentiments that had been expressed and the issues that had been aired at the Women's Social and Political Union but she had never participated in a group discussion before. Her mother had been convincing when she'd talked to her daughters about women's suffrage, but the surge of jubilation, the sense of a group of women in harmony, prepared to fight for a just cause, had been a new experience for Constance.

“I can't say it surprises me,” Prudence said. “You've always been passionate about women's suffrage. Not that Chas and I aren't too, but I'm not a great one for soapboxes and joining associations.”

Constance shook her head. “I didn't think I was either, but something happened there. I felt . . . well . . . inhabited by something suddenly.” She shrugged, helpless to describe the overwhelming sensation any more clearly.

“Well, whatever you do, don't flaunt the badge,” Prudence said seriously. “If it becomes common knowledge that you've joined the Union, it won't be long before someone puts two and two together with the political views of
The Mayfair Lady.
And the cat really would be among the pigeons then.”

“You have a point,” Constance agreed. “I'll be as discreet as I can. I'm sure I can attend meetings and even speak at them in parts of London where no one we know would be seen dead.

“Anyway,” she continued in the same breath. “Since I was in Kensington, I stopped afterwards at your sister's shop, Jenkins, and picked up the mail. Four letters for
The Mayfair Lady
.” She took white envelopes from her bag and flourished them gleefully.

“You haven't opened them?”

“No, I thought we should open the first ones together. But that's not all,” she said with a significant little nod. “Before I went to Swan and Edgar's I visited all the shops on Bond Street and Oxford Street that had agreed to carry
The Mayfair Lady.
And guess what?” She paused expectantly, then when her sisters declined to guess, continued, “They had all sold out. Every last copy in every shop. And they all told me they would order three times the quantity next month.”

“Well, something's working, then,” Prudence said. “Is it Aunt Mabel, or the Go-Between, or your wicked gossip, Con?”

“It could be the politics,” Constance suggested, then shook her head ruefully. “No, of course it's not. Not yet. But I live in hope. Chas will have to don her heavy veil and widow's weeds and go and collect the proceeds of all those sales. Shall we open these letters? Just quickly to see if they're for the Go-Between or Aunt Mabel.”