The Widow's Club (14 page)

I must rethink having children. I had assumed that Ben’s genes would water down any eccentricities I might pass along.

Ben leaned over the back of the sofa. “Ellie, ask Dad about Mum.”

I felt like a ventriloquist’s dummy. “What about Mum … um … Mrs. Has—”

“Call me Poppa.”

Paris appeared with a loaded tray. Cups and saucers circulated, along with a platter of egg sandwiches. I took one and nibbled around the edges. Pretending to eat avoids a lot of outside pressure. Paris picked up his book and was about to leave again, but Mr. Haskell insisted he stay.

“You’re one of the family.” He turned to me. “Paris is very devout. We read the Torah together.”

Ben put down his cup as though it contained poison.

Poppa leaned back in his chair and spread his hands expansively. “We’re a devout family. When Maggie was three years old, she wanted to be a nun; when she married me, she still wanted to be a nun. When we would argue, which sometimes happened in forty years of marriage, I would tell her to make up for lost time and get thee to a nunnery.”

I looked at Ben. If he ever spoke to me like that … but of course he never would.

“And this time”—Mr. Haskell emitted a sigh which sounded horrendously cheerful to me—“this time, for once in her life, the woman listens to her husband.”

The only sound in the room was the whispering of the purple caftan until Ben pounced out of his chair. First he opened his mouth, then he closed it, then jerked round to me. “Ask my father what he means.”

A more experienced wife might have taken the situation in stride. I stared, mute.

It was Paris who answered, imbuing his words with a grandeur worthy of the Old Vic.

“The sad truth, Ben, is that your parents have parted.”

My husband staggered and I helped him to a chair. “You mean
separated
? At my age I find myself the child of a broken home?”

“Was it anything we did?” I stood twisting my hands like Miss Thorn. “Did the wedding feature somewhere in this catastrophe?”

Poppa chuckled. “You young people always have such a big sense of your own importance.” He rose from his chair, smoothed out the bald spot, and spread his hands. “The reality is poor Maggie suspected me of having a romantic flutter with a Mrs. Jarrod, a nice widow lady who makes the best pickled herring in the world.”

“Mum thought you were having an affair?” Ben visibly relaxed. “Why the devil didn’t you tell her she was making something out of nothing; that at seventy years of age you are past making a fool of yourself, in some areas?”

His father stood in front of the fireplace looking like he had come down the chimney.

Paris bent to remove my cup as I said, “I’m sure the personal touch is very important in your business. Did
Magdalene perhaps misinterpret?…” I left the question hanging open.

Poppa, brown eyes gleaming, closed it. “That, dear daughter-in-law, is
my
business.”

From the Files of
The Widows Club

1st December, Commencing 7
P.M
.

Vice President:

Kindly be seated, Mrs. Woolpack.

Beatrix Woolpack:

Oh, surely, must we be so formal? Please call me Beatrix!

Vice President:

Christian names are not permitted at emergency sessions, summoned only at moments of gravest crises. Our president being out of town, I, in accordance with Article Six, Section C, of the Bylaws, will preside. All board members are present, saving Mrs. Shrimpton, who is indisposed. Mrs. Howard, kindly pass Mrs. Woolpack that box of tissues so she may proceed to answer the charges that she willfully rescued a Subject To Be Retired. Tonight being the final episode of the BBC’s serialization of
Pride and Prejudice
, I’m sure we all wish to facilitate matters.

B.W.:

(Gulping sobs.)
I will try to get a grip on myself, but I am so utterly devastated! So ashamed! Please believe me, Mrs. Howard and all my dear, good friends, I meant to do everything perfectly. I purchased the mice, as instructed, from the source in Bainsworth. I released them at precisely the right moment, using a magazine for camouflage. The train was coming. The S.T.B.R. was standing right at the edge of the platform—exactly as his personality profile suggested he would.… Excuse me, may I have a cigarette? Thank you so much.… When I released the mice, I felt productive, fulfilled. The S.T.B.R. screamed, clutched at his trouser legs, and pitched forward. (
More sobs
.)

Vice President:

As you say, Mrs. Woolpack, a job well done—until you forgot duty, loyalty, and sisterhood and snatched him off the line.

(Rumblings from the Board.)

B.W.:

I don’t know what came over me! The noise from the train filled up my whole head, and those lights—charging! I was hypnotised. I couldn’t think of anything, see anything … except the butcher’s scraps I had fed my cat at breakfast, all bloody like Mr. Daffy would be …

(Fist pounding on the table.)

Vice President:

You were instructed never to put a name to the S.T.B.R.

B.W.:

I know, but—

Vice President:

Consider, if you will, Mrs. Woolpack, how you would have felt if the person charged with the office of dispatching your husband had been overcome with such sentimentality.

B.W.:

(Weeping.)
I know, I know. What can I say, Mrs. Howard? I was abominably selfish.

(More rumblings.)

Vice President:

You volunteered for this assignment.

B.W.:

Indeed I did. But it was stressed to me during my briefing that murder is not an exact science. I was told there was only a fifty-fifty chance that I would succeed. Don’t think I am excusing myself, but I do ask for a little understanding.

(Prolonged silence.)

Vice President:

Mrs. Woolpack, had the operation gone awry through no fault of yours or had you unwittingly bungled, you would have met with profound sympathy. As it is, the Board and I will bear in mind the excellent job you did in Correspondence. However, I feel it my duty to advise you before we convene, Mrs. Woolpack, that to err is human, to rescue is unforgivable. All rise.

 … Primrose’s blue eyes misted. “Ben must have been seriously alarmed about his mother’s state of mind.”

“He was upset for her, but he didn’t believe she would jump off a bridge, if that’s what you are thinking. For one thing, her religion frowns on such behaviour. For another, Ben was certain she wouldn’t want to make things easy for Mrs. Jarrod.”

“Ben didn’t think his father was showing off, in regard to Mrs. Jarrod?” Hyacinth’s earrings hung motionless.

“Upon calming down, that’s exactly what he did believe—a wink or two and an extra orange slipped into the woman’s bag, that sort of thing. I didn’t know what to think. Poppa looked so smug. Quite like Tobias when he knows we know he has been in the pantry. When we mentioned Constable Beaker, Poppa said he was glad the police had time on their hands. He told us that his wife had dragged her suitcase out from under the bed on the morning of the twenty-seventh November and announced she was leaving to take up a life of prayer and abstinence. I kept picturing her trudging some lonely road clad in sackcloth, but Paris relieved my mind on that score. He said my mother-in-law had telephoned the afternoon of her departure and told him she had found a safe harbour at the seaside. Ben spent the rest of our visit to the flat saying that a change of scene would do his mother the world of good and that he was certain she would soon come to her
senses and return home, to the embarrassment of the gossips.”

Primrose clasped her papery hands. “Paris! I do hope he was named for the Trojan. So romantic, that whole story! Aphrodite and the apple, the incomparable Helen: the face that launched a thousand ships. Foolish of me, but as a young girl I used to think I would be quite satisfied if I could launch a couple of rowing boats.”

I know the feeling. I suppose every woman does on her honeymoon.…

The Hostelry was known the length and breadth of England for its home-away-from-home atmosphere. So said the liveried porter as he carried our luggage into the bridal suite. But looking around at the cream and gilt splendour, I could believe Ben and I were guests in someone’s home—a someone who did not know we were here and would have been hopping mad if he knew we were treading down the pile of his champagne carpet, fingering his filigreed light switch plates and fogging his rococo mirrors. The marble fireplace reminded me of monuments in St. Anselm’s churchyard. Drawing a silk handkerchief from his gold-braided pocket, the porter flicked a single speck of dust from a carved rose on the headboard of the exquisitely fragile Louis XIV bed.

“Slept in by the Empress Josephine.”

“I trust the sheets have been changed since her visit.” I had to say something, anything, to draw attention from the fact that Ben had rested a hand on the garlanded footrail while probing in his pocket for change.

The instant we were alone, I buffed away his fingerprints and examined the petit point rug in front of the fireplace. Ah ha! A footprint. Breathlessly, I ordered Ben to remove his shoes.

“And my socks and my …” My beloved’s voice was hushed and raspy. This Versailles away from Versailles atmosphere was getting to him too. He kicked off his shoes without untying the laces (I would have to break him of that habit) and pulled me into his arms. When I could break away from his kiss, I had to repeat three times that we should unpack and go downstairs to the restaurant. Ben had to be starving.

“Ravenous.” He was unbuttoning my jacket. “We’ll
have something sent up later. Maybe breakfast … tomorrow evening. We can unpack some other time.” He was sliding my jacket off my shoulders, a look of intense concentration on his face. Was he thinking about his mother? Pondering Mrs. Jarrod’s true role?

“My nightdress!” I closed my eyes; even as I responded to his renewed kisses I regretted not finishing that last chapter of
Everything Your Mother Did Not Tell You (Because She Did Not Know) About Married Bliss
. I had not planned on being nervous, but this had been an unsettling day, and I wasn’t sure I could live up to this room.

“It’s a gorgeous nightdress. Pearl pink, one of a kind. Made from the gossamer wings of one thousand and one Arabian fireflies.” I trailed a finger under his chin. That sublimely masculine chin, betraying, as with dark, impassioned lovers everywhere, a hint of evening shadow. I could feel a pulse beating in his neck.

“I am sure it is the most beautiful nightdress in the world,” breathed Ben. “But it might be a bit hot this time of year.”

I backed away from him. “You must see it. And perhaps make a decision over a glass of champagne … a red wine would clash with the room.” I was rummaging through my suitcase with increasing fervour. “I can’t believe it! I must have forgotten to pack the wretched thing!”

“What a bitter blow!” Ben’s arms came round me and he consoled me with kisses. My pulse quickened; I would have been transported on a tidal wave of ecstasy but for one thing. The bed. My experience as a decorator advised me that this one was purely for show, a place to display one’s collection of drawn-threadwork pillows and china dolls. One wasn’t supposed to sleep on such beds, let alone cohabit. But Ben was lifting me up, carrying me toward it, laying me down upon the silken counterpane.

Here it was at last—the golden moment. The drum roll I heard was my heart. The bedframe creaked, merely because I turned my head on the mignonette-scented pillow. But I could not entirely blame the bed for my Victorian flutters. I loved Ben. I had wanted him desperately for months, but had insisted we wait; I had not wanted our first encounter to be an afternoon tea party or a late night snack. Or had I been plain scared? Would Ben be disappointed? Would he find the dishabille me about as exciting
as roast lamb without red currant jelly? I began taking the pins out of my hair. A pity I had had it cut recently; those extra inches would have provided extra coverage. Ben was peeling away my blouse and I focused on a new fear. Would he start humming? Our family M.D., Dr. McTweedy, had always hummed while checking me over.

“Ellie,” he said gently.

“Yes?”

“This has been a long day. If you would rather …”

Anguished, I stared up into his blue-green eyes. He was having second thoughts. My heart slowed. Resolutely I wound my arms around his neck. Sometimes a wife has to fight for her marriage. My hands moved up into his thick black hair. I would make him forget his squabbling parents, his unsold cookery book, the responsibilities inherent in opening a five-star restaurant. I would be the strong one, the one who would transport us both to that transcendent star-studded sphere previously glimpsed only in the final pages of paperback romance.

My wedding night was delightful. But as I drew the counterpane over Ben’s ears to keep him snug during the hours till morning, I was attacked by an infinitesimal doubt. Perhaps I hadn’t done everything perfectly. Wasn’t I supposed to have heard a symphony of scraping violins and experienced a sense of floating out of my body into a burst of golden light?