Mum's the Word (25 page)

“Your servant, ma'am.” Pepys shuffled forward like some blood hungry henchman of the Tudors, ready to grab the comte by the hair and hurl him out the window. But so oft the hopes and dreams of man are foiled! A sound was heard from the lacquer box, a rustle, followed by an inquiring grunt. The comte's prayers had been answered.

“A miracle!” went up the communal cry. Ben was prying Pepys off the comte. I thought I had made good my escape. In the ensuing confusion I slipped from the room. I was within reach of the stairs when I heard the dreaded sound of footsteps.

“Are you all right, hon?” Lois Brown asked.

“Just a little tired,” I confessed.

“Sure that's all?”

Her face was so comfy, her grey hair so pretty and sensible. Remembering last night's dream visit to the flat in St. John's Wood, I surged with ill usage. This woman looked like a mother. She would not be into deep-knee bends and arabesques. When she hugged her children, she would smell of gingerbread and crayons and fresh air. Why couldn't I have had a mother like that? Why couldn't Mary?

“Know something, hon?” she said. “I sure do envy you.”

“You do?”

“Your first baby!” Her smile turned wistful. “And young enough to dream dreams and still believe in them. Henny wasn't always a meat-and-potatoes husband. But time
came when fixing the refrigerator pushed ahead of what was broke between the two of us. He's a good man. But for romance, I read books.”

I picked at the bumble bees on my pockets, not knowing what to say.

“That's a mighty handsome husband you've got,” Lois said. “How I remember when I was having my first. I couldn't believe Henny wasn't after every thin woman who came within a block of our house.” Still talking she put her hands on my shoulders and prodded me toward the stairs. “You go have your rest, hon.”

“Your husband worships the ground you tread!” My feet dragged on the stairs. About halfway up, I heard a door open … and again footsteps. I peered through the bars in fearful hope that it was Ben … about to come racing two stairs at a time to sweep me into his arms and carry me off to our bedroom, to the tune of broken murmurings. He had made a consummate fool of himself. And frankly my dear, he no longer gave a damn for Valicia X.

But Ben wasn't one of the three people in the hall. Jeffries and Pepys stood cosying up to Mary Faith. A touching scene of devoted servants consoling the lady of the house after her ordeal, but those two had made plain to me they disliked her. My skin prickled a warning that I was glimpsing something sinister. But blame that on my emotional state. I slipped past them to the sanctuary of our room.

Someone had been in my bedroom. Oh, I don't mean that it had been ransacked—only that the bed had been made. In my haste that morning I had left it in a heap. And, looking around, I saw other signs of an intrusion. My overnight bag was now zipped and I was sure it hadn't been. And had my copy of
Pregnancy for Beginners
been on the bedside table? Perhaps Pepys or Jeffries had come and done the room—or was Solange correct in her suspicions? Was Ernestine guilty of snooping? Was her belligerence today explained by her having made discoveries about Ben—and perhaps other of the candidates—which had invoked maternal fear as to Bingo's chances? Or was I growing paranoid?
Parenting for Pleasure
didn't conceal anything but words of wisdom and Primrose Tramwell's letter. I have this habit of tucking correspondence in books …

Time to lie down; never mind that I felt a trespasser in this caved-in cardboard box of a room. The silver lurex wallpaper hurt my eyes and an inadvertent glance in the mirror hurt more. My worst fears confirmed. Those were stretch marks on my face. No wonder Lois Brown had been so sympathetic. If only Mary had not disconnected the only phone in this house of horrors. Pouring out my tale of betrayal and deceit to Dorcas and Jonas would work wonders. If, that is, they believed me. Those two had been sadly taken in by Bentley T. Haskell, alias Mr. Letch. They thought him honourable, lovable, and only slightly cracked on the subject of haute cuisine.

“Thinking about me, sweetheart?” He crept up on me and gently turned my face to his.

“Yes.” I stretched out on our bed as Pepys had done on the window seat.

“Nice thoughts?” He sat beside me and traced a finger from my brow to my chin.

I addressed his nose. “When we were in the North Tower with Bingo you said that you had something important to tell me.”

“Ellie, this isn't going to be easy.” So spoke the stranger—this insidiously handsome man, his afternoon shadow of beard intensifying his ravaged appeal.

“Just say it!” I huddled deep in the mattress.

“Very well.” His eyes met mine without flinching. “I hate your hair this new way.”

A few moments of numbness, before I managed, “You can't blame your love affair with Ms. X on my hair!”

He managed to look stunned. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Don't deny it!” I slapped away his hand. “I heard you last night in cooing cahoots with that woman.” A laugh which chilled me, if not him. “Mary Faith showed me a viewing screen and listening device to the secret meeting room hidden in the medicine chest in the bathroom. I turned it on when looking for an antacid tablet. Just playing around with a gadget. I never expected anyone to be there at that time of night.”

Ben stood, arms folded, looking coldly down at me. “Ellie, you should be ashamed.”

“Me?” I squeaked. “You are the one who left our bed promising to return—presumably in the monogamous state you left it.”

He sucked in a breath. “Hard as it may be for you to believe, I was not pleased when Ms. X collared me and insisted on a quick word. But I could not refuse on the grounds of the scream; she did explain that Jeffries …”

“Yes, I know all about the primal yell. What I don't wish to hear are your excuses. I saw the way you looked at Ms. X from the start. Eyes burning with passion.”

“You're joking!” He did a commendable job of looking revolted. “Ellie, you sound like a character from that sleazy novel I was writing when we first met. I feel absolutely no passion for Valicia X. Through no fault of her own she reminds me of your cousin Vanessa. She's hardly my type.” He glared at me ferociously. “And even if she were God's gift to men, what would I need with her when I have you?”

The room turned into one of those glass-domed ornaments. The kind that turn snowy when you shake them. “But, Ben”—I lay still—“I heard you. My ear was to the medicine chest when you said that the moment you saw her you
knew
. And Valicia X said—
asked
if your wife suspected.”

He paced the few inches the room allowed. “The wages of eavesdropping,” he said, sounding like the Reverend Enoch, “are misery! And now I am placed in the invidious position of breaking a Mangé confidence.” Hand on the bedpost, he said, “You asked me when I paid the Mulberry Inn bill in cash, why I dislike credit cards. And I revealed how during my days and nights—at Eligibility Escorts I was hired to accompany a young woman to a grouse shoot.”

“You don't mean …?” I was on the edge of my bed.

“Valicia X, as we will continue to call her, was in her rebel phase. She was thumbing her nose at the parents for dragging her over to Europe when she wanted to demonstrate her social consciousness by living in squalour. Refusing to accept Daddy's choice of male companion for the grouse shoot, she hired me.”

“Spirited.” What else could I say—having done much the same thing myself?

“As things worked out, the other chap showed up. A
case of love at first sight and Valicia bunked off with him without paying me.”

I gripped my hands to stop them from applauding. “How embarrassing for her meeting up with you again here! I can understand her hoping I didn't know! Are she and the other man married?”

“Separated. We didn't dwell on her personal life. The encounter had been a shock to both of us and I was anxious to get back to you. She did tell me—and again I violate the bonds of secrecy—that each candidate was selected because of his unorthodoxy. I—on the grounds of having worked for Eligibility while attempting to write a novel. Ms. X had seen my file but it didn't ring a bell. She had forgotten both my name and that of the agency.”

“Felt guilty about Mummy and Daddy,” I suggested, “so she blotted out the experience?”

“Whatever. Such is the great impression I made on her.”

Ah, but would the mature woman take a more lingering second look? Ben thumped the bedpost. “Ellie, your suspicions have wounded me deeply. Nipping out for … a quick one with Ms. X, as though I were going down to the local for a pint.”

“Does sound rather vulgar, I admit.”

Another thump of the post. “I thought you loved me.”

Gnawing a finger, I tried to come up with a defence.

“And don't give me some such idiocy as she's so beautiful. I like the way you look much better. Or I did before you had your hair all stretched out of shape.”

How could I tell him I had entered the Scissor Cut that noon in hopes of being remodeled into a Valicia X look-alike? But as it happened, our time for talking was up.

A boom shuddered the room.

Ben thumped a fist to his brow. “There goes the damn gong. Ms. X instructed Pepys to sound the alert when the next session was due to begin. Jeffries is to bring the candidates' dinner to the meeting room. You will be sure and get something from the buffet?”

“Promise.” My heart was heavy as I trailed after him to the door.
What have I done?
I cried silently. His farewell
kiss was absentminded. Rather as if my face had got in the way of his.

The moment I was alone I rounded on my reflection in the mirror and screamed, “Idiot!” This is all your fault, I thought. And don't start blaming your mother or Fat Child Ellie! Flinging down on the bed, I burrowed under the poppy field spread. For comfort, not warmth. The horrid little bedroom was perspiring heavily. Willing myself toward the oblivion of sleep, I vowed that things would be better when I woke. Our love would be stronger for being tested.
Please God, let Ben be the chosen candidate. I feel bad about Miss Rumpson and Lois Brown and being asked to play favourites can't be easy for you. Bingo says he doesn't want the honour, but he could have been talking tough. And you don't have to worry about the poor comte. He's out of the running …
I fell asleep to dream of a swashbuckler knife being lifted from the dining room wall by an unseen hand. Where there had been five there now only two …

I came awake with a horrible abruptness as if something had touched me on the shoulder and whispered, “It's time!” The dark summons, however, was internal—not external. I was alone in the room, feeling exceedingly peculiar, in the grip of sensations astonishingly new, whilst unnervingly familiar. My travel clock said seven o'clock. The Mangés must still be in session behind closed doors, making up for the lost afternoon. Otherwise, Ben would have come for me. I wasn't sorry. Feelings that have been rubbed raw need time to heal. Platitudes. To be honest, all thought of my husband slipped away like sand swept away by an incoming tide of emotions—ones I had thought dead forever.

“Stop playing the ascetic, Ellie!” the demon whispered. “You're not fooling anyone. Get up, get dressed and get thee gone from this barren room. You know what you want. And who's to be hurt? Remember how late last night's meeting went on? Cinderella, you have until midnight.”

A dictionary could not provide enough adjectives for the craving—desperate, urgent, insatiable, voracious. I was like the headmistress of the girls' finishing school who discovers
she is a werewolf. Inching up on my elbow, a chill prickled my flesh.

I fought the need, truly I did. Pulling the bedclothes up to my hairline, I ordered myself back to the safety of sleep. I might not feel weak or woozy, but this was a sickness. These last few days I had felt well. But not like this! For the first time post-pregnancy I surged with vitality.

My hand tossed back the spread. Why fight the inevitable? There was a place in Mud Creek that offered all the spice I craved. I would sit in a dark booth, heavily disguised! The fantasy played on; but even as I got out of bed and began assembling clothes, I told myself I could back out at any time. The square eye of the window turned accusing. And my conscience turned to sandpaper. The risk of being spotted as I crossed the island to the boathouse was considerable. But I couldn't worry about that now.

Donning the sack-style dress I had purchased that morning at Nelga's, I voted it as slinky as maternity in Mud Creek was likely to get. Oh, but surely that moon-coloured person in the mirror wasn't me. How could I go anywhere with a face like that? As for my hips, they looked detachable. Would Mud Creek believe a new fashion fad—on the wave of shoulder pads?

Small wonder cosmetics found favour with the masses after the advent of electricity. Candlelight gilds the lily. As does emolient rich moisture balm, liquid-pearl foundation, blush, perfume, and lip gloss. My hands played over the bottles and plastic compacts like a concert pianist. Subtlety. That was the key word. No thornbush of back-combed hair. No beauty marks such as distinguished the comtesse. One should always look like a lady, especially when one doesn't intend to behave like one. So says Aunt Astrid.

Seven minutes later I was presentable, if not reincarnated. Britain's Ellie Haskell looking darling, darlings! I had left my hair loose, handy to duck under should anyone look at me boss-eyed. Picking up my bag, I watched my fingers do a slow walk toward a pencil lying on the bedside table. What word could I leave for Ben—on the off-chance that the Mangé Meeting ended before my return? That a woman has needs? A faint hint of Mr. Right aftershave lingered in the air. I wondered if I could go through with this. My hand was
trembling as I wrote:
Gone into Mud Creek. Expect me when you see me
.