The Bachelor List (26 page)

Henry was waiting in the foyer with Prudence and Chastity. If anything, he looked paler than Amelia. He kept one hand in his breast pocket, clasping both the marriage license and the wedding ring. His free hand he gave to his bride as she reached him.

“Is all well, dearest?” he asked in a low voice in which a distinct tremor could be heard.

“Yes, perfectly well.” Amelia put back her veil and smiled at him. “You're very brave, Henry.”

He shook his head vigorously. “No, dearest, you are the brave one.”

“I think you're both very brave,” Prudence declared before this exchange of denials could continue into the evening. “Now that we're all here we can go into the anteroom.” She led the way across the galleried foyer, towards a door at the rear. Henry and Amelia followed, with Chastity and Constance close behind.

The registrar's clerk greeted their arrival with a pointed look at the clock. It said four twenty-five. He made elaborate play of looking into an appointment book. “Mr. Franklin and Miss Westcott?”

“Yes,” Henry said. He cleared his throat. “I am Mr. Franklin and this is my . . . my . . . Miss Westcott.” He stepped forward, holding Amelia's hand tightly in his.

The clerk looked askance at Amelia's funereal garb then looked again at the clock. He neither spoke nor moved until the hands touched the half hour, then he rose, gathered up a file folder, and disappeared through another door.

“Friendly fellow,” Prudence observed.

“He just likes the power,” Constance responded acidly. “Petty bureaucrats are all the same.”

“Both sexes,” Prudence said with a half smile.

Constance shrugged. “Probably, but there aren't that many women in positions of power, however petty.”

“Yes, Con,” Chastity agreed with an exaggerated sigh that made them all laugh. Henry and Amelia hadn't taken their eyes off the door through which the clerk had disappeared, and when he returned still clutching his book they simultaneously straightened their shoulders.

“The registrar is ready for you,” the clerk intoned. “If you would give me the license.” He held out his hand.

Henry relinquished the paper and they followed the clerk into a pleasant paneled room that was nowhere near as institutional as Constance and her sisters had feared it would be. There was even a vase of daisies on the marble mantlepiece. The registrar nodded at the little party and took the license from his clerk. He showed little expression in either voice or countenance as he went through the simple businesslike ceremony.

Henry and Amelia made their responses with conviction; indeed, it seemed to Constance that Henry grew taller and more assured with each declaration. When he slipped the ring on Amelia's finger his hands were perfectly steady; the bride's trembled. The registrar stamped the document with his official seal and Mr. and Mrs. Franklin exchanged a kiss.

“Congratulations.” The registrar shook both their hands and smiled a courteous dismissal. The Duncan sisters exchanged smiles of relief.

“And now,” Chastity said when they were all once more in the street, “we eat cake. I ordered a beautiful gâteau at Claridges.”

“And champagne,” Constance said. “Tea seems a little pedestrian for a wedding feast.”

The newlyweds didn't appear to be taking much in. They both seemed stunned as they stood hand in hand on the pavement.

“Two cabs, I think,” Prudence said with a significant glance at her sisters. Constance nodded and stepped to the curb. She put two fingers to her mouth and produced a most unladylike whistle that had instant success. They urged Amelia and Henry into one cab and Constance told the cabby to deposit them at Claridges. She closed the door on them and brushed off her hands with a gesture of satisfaction. “That'll give them ten minutes of privacy.”

It was a privacy they clearly put to good use. Amelia emerged from the seclusion of the cab looking rather flushed and rumpled, her hair escaping its pins. Henry had an air of complacent satisfaction and he kept a possessive arm around Amelia's shoulders.

Prudence slipped into the hotel ahead of the rest of the party, and when they joined her in the foyer, a footman stood ready to escort them to a small private room.

“You're such a sentimental Scrooge, sister dearest,” Constance murmured affectionately, taking in the table set with cake and champagne. “I wish I'd thought of this.”

“It only takes one of us to do this,” Prudence said in the same low tone. “You've fixed up Henry with a job. They can take it from here.”

Constance nodded, reflecting that that minor deception would have meant very little if she and Max still had the possibility of remaining friends. It felt rather different now.

Chapter 17

H
enry was sorting the mail when Max entered his office at home early one morning several days later. “Anything of interest, Henry?” He tossed his newspaper onto the windowsill.

“Mostly bills, sir. A couple of letters from constituents.” Henry indicated the neat pile of opened mail on the desk.

“You're here bright and early,” Max remarked, standing at the window looking out onto the street, where a few pedestrians battled heads-down against a strong gusty wind that was sending hats tumbling into the road.

“I was wondering, sir, if I could start an hour early every morning and leave at half-past three on Thursdays,” Henry asked timidly, a flush blooming on his cheeks.

Max turned from the window. “Do you have something special to do on Thursday afternoons?” he inquired in a friendly fashion.

“Well, yes, sir, as it happens.”

Max smiled. “Why do I think it must have something to do with a young lady?”

Henry's blush deepened. “As it happens, sir . . .”

Max laughed. “I see no difficulties, Henry.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ensor.” Henry went back to work with his paper knife.

Max picked up the already opened mail and flicked through it. He was feeling restless, dissatisfied in some way, although he couldn't put his finger on the cause. Unless, of course, it was because he hadn't seen hide nor hair of Constance for days.

“You did make sure those flowers were delivered to Miss Duncan at Manchester Square yesterday?” he asked.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Ensor. The florist promised they would be delivered by four o'clock. In fact, I believe this is a letter from Miss Duncan.” Henry proffered a slim white envelope emblazoned with the Duncan crest.

Max took it, trying not to betray his eagerness. He recognized her writing, a bold but elegant flowing script that matched the writer. He slit the envelope and unfolded the thick sheet of vellum. The message was disappointingly short.

Dear Max,

What lovely flowers. Thank you so much for the kind thought. I had wanted to thank you in person for such a lovely evening at the House of Commons but I was a little under the weather when you called the next morning. Please forgive my negligence and accept my thanks now.

In haste,
Constance.

Max read and reread the short note. It had no perceptible warmth in it and contained not even a hint of a future meeting. It didn't make any sense. And why the haste? He crumpled the vellum and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. Of course, it was always possible she was rather busy. Putting out that broadsheet every fortnight must take up a lot of her time. He frowned in thought, trying to remember the date on the mockup that he'd seen in the parlor. He couldn't remember it exactly but it had to be around now. Maybe the Duncan sisters had been taken up with their editorial activities.

“Henry, I'd like you to go in search of the latest edition of a publication called
The Mayfair Lady.
”

“I don't believe I've heard of it, sir.” Henry raised inquiring eyebrows.

“No, it has a relatively small circulation, I believe. You might have to try several newsagents. I would think you might find a copy around Parliament Square somewhere. It has a certain political thrust to it and I would imagine its editors would try to place it prominently with Westminster vendors.”

“Very well, sir. I'll go right away.” Henry took up his hat.

Max sat down at his desk to begin tackling his constituency mail but after a minute his hands fell idle and he stared frowning at the window. A light scatter of raindrops hit the glass. Perhaps he should simply pay a morning call at Manchester Square. He realized that a few days ago he wouldn't have thought twice about such a visit. It was perfectly natural, a perfectly acceptable thing to do on a Saturday morning. She would either be there or she wouldn't. And yet something indefinable held him back. Unease, a nameless unidentifiable sense of trouble, kept him sitting at his desk staring out at the stormy morning.

What could possibly be wrong? Had something happened to her? Some family trouble? With her father perhaps? Or one of her sisters? If so, then he must go to her. But she hadn't asked for his help, or his comfort, or anything else that he might usefully have to offer if something was wrong. And surely they were close enough for her to turn to him. When it came to making mischief with her father's car she hadn't hesitated to co-opt him. Perhaps, he thought, she was so taken up with the WSPU at the moment that she had no time for anything else. That would not be surprising. She had described her involvement there as the driving force of her existence.

He stood up abruptly. It was a ridiculous business. She had to be exaggerating the passion of her involvement. She was an intelligent, reasonable woman, not some wild fanatic. Somehow he would have to get her to see reason, to step back from the whole enterprise. She was entitled to her opinions, he would never dispute that, but he couldn't possibly have a wife who was an active suffragist. God knows what it would do to his career.

Max dropped his pen to the desk and ink spattered across the blotter. He had just silently given words to something he hadn't realized he had been contemplating. But, of course, in the deepest recesses of his mind it had been there for weeks now. She had fascinated him from the very first moment he had met her. And little by little that fascination had become the all-powerful need to have and to hold her, to claim her for his own, now and forever.

He was not given to fanciful turns of phrase and he found himself absurdly trying to hide an embarrassed smile from the deserted room. He told himself that she would make him the most unrestful wife. But then there was the reverse side of the coin. Excitement. She exhilarated him and excited him, even as she challenged him. But she was an impossible wife for a career politician.

Which left him precisely where?

He heard the front door close, the sound of Henry shaking an umbrella in the hall, his quick step. “Just started raining cats and dogs, Mr. Ensor,” Henry observed as he came in. “But I found the paper. Yesterday's date, so it's the latest edition.” He took the folded broadsheet from inside his coat. “I don't think it's wet.” He handed it to his employer. “The newsagent said it was selling like hotcakes.”

Max nodded absently as he scanned the headlines. He noticed that the list of contents now included information on upcoming WSPU meetings, to be found on the back page. There was the usual black box:
Will the government give votes to women taxpayers?
Then his gaze was riveted by the headline to the article immediately underneath.

The Government resorts to spying

Shame on Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman and his Cabinet. It has come to our notice that a certain Right Honorable Gentleman has undertaken to supply the government with information about the plans of the WSPU by posing as a friend to the Union. A secret informer. Is the Union so threatening to the entrenched ranks of our government that they must resort to such underhanded trickery to get the better of it? Are women so threatening? Can they not be faced in the open? What does this say about the moral courage of our government? Must we conclude that women frighten them so much they can't possibly face giving them even the simple power of the vote? The Right Honorable Gentleman, who, one has to say hardly deserves the title, has weaseled his way into the confidence of members of the Union with false statements of interest and friendship, only to betray them. One wonders how his constituency, the urban center of S——wold, will view such behavior in the man they have so recently elected to represent their interests in Parliament. It is hardly the behavior of an honorable man. Or an honest man. Or a courageous man. The Right Honorable Gentleman, eagerly embracing the dishonorable trade of a spy, is no more than the Prime Minister's cat's paw.

There was more of the same but Max barely took it in, although his eyes followed the print. His anger surged in a great crimson wave and he was unaware that he had lost all color, his complexion ghastly, a gray shade around his mouth that had thinned so as to be almost invisible.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Ensor?” Henry stared at him, unable to conceal his shock at this abrupt transformation. “You don't look well.”

Max looked up from the paper. His blue eyes pierced Henry like sharpened icicles and the secretary took an involuntary step back. “I am quite well, thank you, Henry.” Max folded the broadsheet and tucked it in the inside pocket of his waistcoat. His voice sounded unfamiliar to Henry. It was curiously clipped and had quite lost its mellow tones. “I am going out. I don't know when I shall be back. I would be glad if you would answer this correspondence for me. I'm sure you'll know exactly what to write. Leave the letters on the desk for my signature.”

“Certainly, sir,” Henry said to Max's fast-disappearing back. The door closed with a soft click that was somehow more menacing than a slam. Henry scratched his head, wondering what it was in
The Mayfair Lady
that had so incensed his employer.

Max went upstairs for his waterproof driving coat, his vizored cap, and goggles. He moved like an automaton along the current of his fury. It was all clear to him now. Her sudden withdrawal that evening, her avoidance of him since. Constance must have overheard his conversation with the Prime Minister in the House of Commons after dinner last Wednesday. He couldn't recollect the exact words that had been spoken but he could imagine how the gist would have sounded to that particular eavesdropper. And she'd been preparing her revenge ever since.

Below the level of his rage ran the acknowledgment that she was entitled to her own anger at what she would have perceived as deception. But why didn't she simply come out with it, confront him? Any man would have done so. Instead she chose to attack him in such a fashion . . . to hold him up to the scorn and mockery of his friends and colleagues. Such an embarrassment could ruin him. It was unendurable.
And by God, she was going to pay for it.

He was halfway down the stairs, buttoning his coat, when the doorbell pealed. The male half of the couple he'd recently employed to run the house for him emerged from the back regions and went to the door.

“Is Mr. Ensor in?”

It was Asquith's voice. Max felt his jaw clench, his nostrils flare. So it had begun already. He stepped into the hall. “Thank you, Billings, I'll look after Mr. Asquith.”

The manservant moved away from the door. “Very well, sir.”

The Chancellor entered the hall, shaking rain off his tall beaver hat. “Ah, Ensor, do you have a minute?”

Max nodded and gestured to the morning room. “You've seen
The Mayfair Lady,
I assume?”

“It arrived with my breakfast. My secretary found it in the newsagent's on his way in. What's to be done about it? Scurrilous rag!” Asquith declared as he entered the room. “Who's responsible, that's what I'd like to know. I'll have 'em jailed for libel.”

“Except that it's not,” Max observed dryly. “Coffee, or something stronger?”

“Nothing, thank you. What d'you mean it's not libel?” Asquith brushed the brim of his hat with a rough sweep, sending raindrops flying across the room.

“I certainly had the intention of using any inside knowledge I gained to keep the government informed.” Distantly Max wondered whether he was losing his mind. He was going to wring
her neck . . . tear her limb from limb . . . boil her in oil. And yet it sounded as if he was defending her.

“But this!” Asquith pulled the broadsheet from his pocket and waved it disgustedly at Max. “What kind of cowardly attack is this?”

Max merely raised an eyebrow. He forced himself to put his anger aside for the moment. He would only survive Society's malicious gossip and the inevitable—if veiled—pleasure his peers would naturally take in his discomfiture by appearing detached and relatively indifferent. He had to treat the matter in public as one not deserving of attention or even a hint of annoyance.

In private it would be a different matter. “It'll blow over,” he said.

Asquith gave him a shrewd look. “It implicates the government in something shady. The Prime Minister's not too happy.”

“No, I don't suppose he is.” Max perched on the arm of the sofa. He shrugged. “It's a scurrilous piece with no proof offered. No one really takes any notice of these termagants. They just don't realize it yet.” Even as he said this he felt a pang of conscience. Constance and her friends were too intelligent, too passionate, too committed to a basically selfless cause to be dismissed with such contempt. But she deserved it, he told himself. She had thrown down the gauntlet and had no right to object to the manner in which he chose to pick it up. He would meet public mockery with its like.

Asquith was still regarding him closely. “I suppose you have no idea who's behind it? Seems likely it's someone who knows you.”

“Someone with a grudge,” Max said. “Politics is a world that harbors grudges, Asquith. And whoever's responsible for this broadsheet clearly enjoys exploiting them.”