The Widow's Club (6 page)

Ben’s hand closed over mine, and suddenly the world was blissful. The organ music washed to a ripple, then faded away.

“Shall we begin?” Rowland Foxworth smiled. A sense of timelessness assailed me, along with the smell of mildewed wood, polished brasses, dusty velvet kneelers, and chrysanthemums.

“Who giveth this woman to this man?”

“I do,” answered Jonas at his most gruff. “And make a note in yer hymnal, vicar, if the lad gives her a mite of trouble, I’m taking her back.”

Make haste, Rowland dear. Other women may wish these moments extended, every word savoured for cherishing in later years, but I couldn’t wait to feel that ring on my finger, to know that I was finally Mrs. Bentley Haskell.

“Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today …”

I was drowning in the brilliance of Ben’s eyes, their shifting colors … such an incredible blue-green, flecked with amber … and those black lashes, long enough to rake leaves. How could I, a fat girl masquerading in a thin body, be so blessed?

“And so I caution all here present that if any of you
know of any just cause or impediment why Bentley Thomas Haskell and Giselle Simons may not lawfully be joined together in the holy estate of matrimony you shall declare it now or forever after hold your peace.”

Pause.

“Yoo-hoo, I do! I have something to declare!”

Gasps. A commotion erupted at the back of the church. A baby bellowed. Exclamations of horror. Footsteps. Rowland, an expression of consternation on his kind, handsome face, tucked a finger into the book and let it fall shut with a thud. Ben dropped my hand and turned to stare at whoever was pounding down the aisle. I took one look and became immobilized.

This was monstrous. Whoever the woman was, she was off her rocker. A disappointed spinster who went from wedding to wedding, causing a ruckus at each one? Perhaps I should try to pity her. Might I not have ended up the same way myself?

“There now, Mumma’s little pudding cheeks. Say hello to Da-Da.”

A baby! The Just Cause and Impediment she held aloft was a baby. Ben’s baby. Jane Eyre’s tribulation was nothing to this; she only got lumbered with a mad wife.

Closing my eyes, I took slow deep breaths. I tried to bear in mind that Ben had never claimed to have kept himself untouched by human hand until I had happened along. Yes, a baby did indicate a certain closeness in the relationship, but I would have to try very hard not to be jealous and petty.

The woman identified herself: Mrs. Bentley T. Haskell, the First. She was screeching that the louse had bunked off without even the courtesy of a divorce.

Loud bawling from the baby.

“Pack of lies, the whole lot of it!” rapped out Dorcas. From the corner of my eye I saw her lift my crushed bouquet as if to pitch it in my predecessor’s face.

A sparkling laugh, which I recognised at once as cousin Vanessa’s.

A menacing yowl from dear Jonas.

Ben’s arm came around me. Wed, or almost wed, to a bigamist! I searched his profile and found it explosive. Exerting every ounce of will, I forced my leaden body into a half turn.

The woman, all six foot of her, was planted level with
the front pew. My one, benumbed thought was: how could Ben ever have desired her enough to produce the child now dangling untidily over the arm of her black coat? The destroyer of my happiness was wearing a week’s worth of greengroceries—apples, bananas, and oranges—on her hat. Beneath its olive-green brim, mangled yellowish curls bounced against hollowed cheeks caked in rouge. Her eyelids were coated with a luminous mauve, liberally sprinkled with tinsel dust, and the exaggerated bow of her mouth was outlined in glossy lavender pink.

The baby kicked out, and the black-clothed arm went into a spasm of junketing up and down. An appalling, expectant silence descended. Time went into slow motion. Among the sea of faces I saw Uncle Maurice, Aunt Lulu, my ex-neighbor Jill—a hand covering her mouth—and Ann Delacorte, who had helped me select my wedding dress from those for sale in her husband’s antique shop. Could she persuade him to take it back?

“Believe me, vicar ducky, I ain’t a vengeful woman. All I asks is me rights.” The woman drew her free hand across her eyes and spluttered piteously.

“Wicked shame,” came a cry from the rear. “He should be strung up, won’t say by what on account of being in church.” This theme was swiftly picked up by other voices. “Makes Dr. Simon Bordeaux look like a saint. He puts women out of their misery!” someone yelled.

Tucking the book under his arm, Rowland appeared lost in thought. “Ellie, Ben—and you, madam—I think it best that we adjourn to the vestry to discuss this unhappy turn of events.”

The shadows cast by the candles made the woman look as though she needed a shave. Ben, how could you? I thought mournfully.

“To the vestry, to the vestry! I feel a lynching coming on!” Ben’s arm tightened around me, and despising myself, I clung to him.

Rowland cast his eyes upward. I thought he was praying for help, then realised he was signalling to the organist. With “Rock of Ages” pouring its rousing tide of rejoicing and repentance down upon the up-in-arms congregation, Ben and I, the woman and the infant, followed Rowland into the vestry.

Drawing the door closed behind us, Rowland fumbled
in the folds of his cassock, pulled out a pipe, jammed it into his mouth, removed it, and stood tapping the bowl with one finger.

“Ellie,” he said pensively, “why don’t you sit down in that chair by the writing desk. Perhaps you would like a glass of water?”

I shook my head dumbly and remained standing.

The woman was lounging against the wall; the baby tugged on her coat buttons.

Rowland looked from her to Ben, who still had his arm around me.

“Is what this woman claims true? Ben, are you now or were you ever married to her?”

I braced myself, but I was not prepared for what happened. For suddenly, clutching his arms around his middle, Ben backed against the wall, doubled over, and howled with laughter.

His mind had snapped under the strain. My gaze fixed on his wife.

I must have had a minibout of temporary insanity because my hand reached out, not to strike the woman, but to help myself to one of the apples on her hat. Thank heaven pride returned. I would not sully my hands or my lips with anything this woman had touched with those fingers poking through the holes in her gloves. I couldn’t look at Ben. It was ghastly enough to hear his emissions of mirth.

My eyes clung to Rowland and saw his lips moving. Was he praying for a speedy end to this abomination? And whose side would God be on? If what this woman claimed were true … but of course it wasn’t. She must be brought to see that she was indulging in a case of mistaken identity. If not, flogging no longer being an accepted practice, there had to be some equally compelling …

Another revolting gurgle of laughter burst from my bridegroom, and the rubber band holding my nerves together finally snapped. I was standing in a welter of butchered dreams and in the process had gone as mad as Mr. Rochester’s first wife. For I could swear that Ben’s first wife had winked at me.

Incredibly I beheld a countenance that, seen in better light, was uncannily familiar. My rival’s expression switched to weary martyrdom. Lifting a hand to her hat,
she plucked off a banana, peeled it, and stuffed it into the child’s slobbering mouth.

“Perhaps we should fetch Dr. Melrose, Ellie. I believe Ben has gone into shock.” Rowland’s voice was deeply concerned.

So dear a man! His was a mind singularly unacquainted with evil. The baby—bonnet askew, collar jacked up because its coat was buttoned wrong—spat out a chunk of banana and, bleating miserably, banged sticky hands against its mother’s rouged cheeks. And then, as I stood in frozen horror, the poor little creature was shoved into my arms.

“Here Ellie, take the ruddy little blighter. Won’t hurt you to practice up on motherhood,” said the woman in the masculine voice of my cousin Freddy Flatts. “Come on, Ellie, old stodge! Be a sport like your intended! He was as surprised as you were, but he’s taking it on the chin.”

Freddy grinned down at my fiancé, who had slithered into an ignoble heap on the vestry floor. “Glad you enjoyed the joke, mate. Been toying with the idea of pulling this stunt for years. But I can tell you, I couldn’t come up with any couple that meant so much to me that I was prepared to shave off my beard, bleach my hair, and bribe old Alvin into lending me his soggy kid. Not until you two. Something to tell the grandchildren, eh? But I tell you, my girdle is killing me.”

From the Files of
The Widows Club

29th November

The Gardening Committee did unanimously elect to change the date of the dried-flower Christmas ornament project, from 3:00
P.M
. on the 1st of December (a Friday) to 7:00
P.M
. on the 4th of December (a Monday).

The meeting place to remain at the home of Evelyn Jones. As previously arranged, Mary Phillips will bring the cheese and biscuits. The Gardening Committee will provide the coffee and wine.

This change of dates was deemed necessary due to the number of members wishing to attend the Haskell/Simons wedding. As always, the Gardening Committee fully supports the club’s position that occurrences of a matrimonial
nature are highly therapeutic for members. A motion was made by Maude Garway to picket the event. This was seconded by Alice Reardon, but outvoted by the membership.

The annual holly-gathering Sunday was rained out and has yet to be rescheduled.

… “I would have killed Cousin Frederick.” Hyacinth’s black eyes sparked.…

“On your marks, get set, smile!” Crouched behind a camera worthy of Lord Snowdon, Dorcas dropped her left arm, signalling action. Alas, one of the tripod legs buckled. The crowd closed in to proffer advice.

As the bridal party—Ben and I, flanked by Jonas and Sid—stood on the church steps, bombarded by pealing bells, and stung by the wind, I refused to meet my husband’s eyes. I felt no great need to kill Freddy. My cousin Frederick Flatts was born with his brain trickling out of his ears and had attained the age of twenty-nine still believing the world hungered for his sublime wit. On Rowland’s advising him to go confess his sacrilegious prank to the congregation and inform them he would be returning the infant to its parents forthwith, he had replied gloomily, “If they’ll take the little monster back.”

Ben was the one I longed to murder. I could still see him sagging against the vestry wall, weak with laughter, while that sticky baby tugged at my veil and yanked tufts out of my bouquet.

“I love you, Ellie.” His breath brushed my face like a kiss. Too little, too late.

His hand moved up my arm. “I’m sorry, darling, but I was so unsettled by your arriving late that Freddy’s stunt sent me over the edge.”

I should have tossed my train over my shoulder and stormed from the church.

In years to come my children would say, “Mummy, why do you have that wicked look on your face in your wedding pictures?” And I would have to explain to those innocent mites what it feels like to have the words “I do” drowned out by the babbling of the guests. They were still at it now as they stood grouped at the base of the steps.

“Hold that pose, lovebirds! Best profile forward, Ben. Love the Mona Lisa smile, Ellie.” Dorcas pegged her jockey cap on the head of a marble statue of the great local hero, Smuggler Jim Biggins, and jamming her red hair behind her ears, squared her shoulders and got down to the serious business of twiddling dials.

Click. Click
.

“Looks like we have to wait for these clouds to move, so go on, make a break for it, old son.” Ben’s eyes were on me as he spoke. I closed mine to keep my righteous anger intact.

“Do I get to kiss the bride?” asked lachrymose Sid, and I felt my hand lifted and pressed to a pair of lips—his, presumably.

“Sidney, how gallant!” I tapped him playfully with my bouquet, entirely for Ben’s benefit.

“Tall women bring out that side of me,” he mourned. “I refuse to stand on tiptoe to kiss even the best of them. I suffer enough indignity having people use my ass as a door scraper.” And with that he hunched off down the steps. Jonas stumped after him.

“Hold fast, Mr. and Mrs. H.” Dorcas was grimacing at the clouds now rolling like dense smoke across the sky. “Should brighten any minute, if it doesn’t pour first. Want some nice snaps to send Ma and Pa, don’t we, Ben? Must show the stay-at-homes what they missed.”

“Absolutely,” he replied.

I straightened the seed pearl tiara, fanned my veil over my shoulders, and smiled for the crowd. I could see my ex-neighbor and Freddy’s amour, Jill—the mystic, built like a toothbrush and with the same sort of bristly hairdo, wedged between Uncle Maurice and a woman in a busby. And there, next to Smuggler Jim’s statue, stood Mrs. Swabucher, all pink tulle and gusts of ermine. Rowland was wending up and down along the edge of the gravel path,
the black book clasped in his hand. A sweep of overhanging branches cast shadows in his wake. He seemed to be looking over to the lich-gate.

“I wish my parents had been here.” Ben drew me close.