by R. J. Koreto
Frances pasted a smile on her face and gave Colonel Mountjoy her hand. “You’ve been too kind,” she said.
“Please, let me see you into a hansom,” said Mountjoy.
“That’s quite all right. I’m sure the club porter can get me one.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Lady Frances. Your brother is a fellow club member—I can do no less.”
He indeed hailed a cab for her. The door slammed, and she was off, back to Miss Plimsoll’s. The exchange played again and again in her head. He was Secret Service. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t genuinely being thoughtful. Two serious agencies—the Secret Service and Special Branch—with interest in the same manuscript. But unlike Inspector Eastley, Colonel Mountjoy didn’t question her. He didn’t seem to care about finding it, so maybe he really did want to help out.
Part of her confusion centered on social class, she realized, thinking now about what her brother said about agency rivalry. Men like Mountjoy, the officer class, in the same club as her brother. It wouldn’t be a surprise to see him at a social event. Should she tell Eastley about Mountjoy’s interest? Or would that make it worse?
Frances wasn’t sure why, but she found it irritating that Mountjoy had sought her out to discuss the manuscript. He seemed to know a lot and was vague on how he came by this knowledge. Simple kindness didn’t seem sufficient for his interest, but maybe she was being cynical.
Once home, Frances forced herself to put the Colcombe manuscript out of her mind and catch up on both her personal correspondences and letters on behalf of various clubs and committees. After lunch, she took a nap; these parties lasted well into the night, and she wanted to be fresh. Mallow gently woke her in plenty of time and then helped her into the waiting dress and did her hair. Mallow had a lot of opinions on what would best work for her ladyship’s complexion, hair color, and face shape and wasn’t shy about vocalizing them.
“Oh, my lady, you do look grand, if I say so myself. You’ll turn all the heads.”
“It’s your work, Mallow. Nicely done.”
“Thank you, my lady,” said Mallow. Frances glanced at her maid—she was all pink, the way she was when she was pleased with herself. Why shouldn’t she be pleased—she had done her mistress proud.
“I will admit that every once in a while, it is fun to get you truly dressed up, my lady.”
“And I admit, every once in a while, I like getting dressed up. I am sorry I don’t give you a chance to dress me up more often. If you worked for another lady, you’d have more of an opportunity.”
“That’s quite all right, my lady. There’s plenty to keep me busy.”
Frances laughed. “But what if I meet a duke tonight, Mallow, and because I behave myself, for once, he proposes. I become mistress of a great house, and you become lady’s maid to a duchess. A huge town house and a country estate instead of a little hotel suite and balls every week. Oh, but I’m just being silly. Now what about a hat . . . ?”
But she had put some ideas into Mallow’s head. She enjoyed the prestige of being a maid to an aristocratic lady, but it might be nice to be in a great house. What if Lady Frances did marry well? Mallow imagined herself in a London town house, full of junior maids who had to defer to her. Maybe someday she would even become a housekeeper, the highest rank a female servant could aspire to. She’d be Mrs. Mallow then—housekeepers were always called “Mrs.” as a mark of great respect. A housekeeper in a ducal household—then maids in the house would have to serve her tea while she sat . . .
“Lost in thought, Mallow?” said Frances with a smile.
“I’m very sorry, my lady,” said Mallow. It didn’t do to daydream.
“Not at all, it was entirely my fault for starting it. Yes, that goes nicely with my dress. Good choice.” Frances glanced at herself in the mirror again. Then she sighed.
“Remember when we went to my cousin’s country party in Lincolnshire last summer?” she said. “It was so hot, and I persuaded you slip outside with me so we could cool our feet in the pond late at night.”
Mallow remembered. She had been afraid at first. A city girl born and bred, she found the country so dark and too quiet. She imagined wolves hiding behind every tree. But oh, it was so delicious in the pond, and she followed her ladyship’s example, lifting her skirts and slipping into the water up to her knees. Lady Frances had gossiped to her maid about the other guests, and Mallow had giggled as Lady Frances mimicked them.
“Oh, go on, my lady,” she had laughed.
“It’s true, Mallow, every word.”
Frances looked at her maid and brought her back to the present. “You do know, Mallow, that if I became a duchess, you and I could never cool our feet in a pond again.”
Now Mallow sighed, too. “Yes, my lady.”
A cab dropped Frances at the elegant Moore home, and the butler announced her. Lady Moore found her quickly, and the two women caught up with each other. Lady Moore was delighted to hear about all of Frances’s achievements and the committees she worked on. She seemed shocked when Frances mentioned her suffrage work, but Frances guessed she was more titillated than upset.
“Maybe it was the old Queen’s death,” said Lady Moore, “but things seem to have changed so much. Women especially seem to have more . . . well, more choices today. But some things haven’t changed.” She smiled. “People still get married. Have you met the Honorable George Ralston? He’s the eldest son of Viscount Wellchester . . .”
Frances had no interest in meeting the Hon. George Ralston. “Not yet. I really must meet him. Meanwhile, I seem to have lost sight of my brother and sister-in-law. I’ll call on you very soon, Lady Moore . . .”
Charles and Mary were part of a knot of other Foreign Office couples. They welcomed her, but Frances quickly snatched her sister-in-law away “for sister gossip,” she told the group, to much amusement.
“Thank you so much,” said Mary when they were by themselves. “I do accept the responsibilities of being a political wife, but it’s getting so tiring hearing about the kaiser in Germany, the emperor in Austria, and the sultan in the Ottoman Empire. But enough—you look lovely tonight.”
“As do you, dear sister.” They giggled. “Now tell me,” said Frances, “I’ve not been as closely tied to Society as you these past months—even these past years. Tell me who is who.”
Mary pointed out the bishop’s nephew (who was engaged to the second daughter of a baron), the grandson of a duke (who was being sent to India until that mess in Oxford blew over), and the young earl (who was engaged to an American woman, but the money was needed and Americans seemed to have so much of it).
They weren’t alone long. First Charles found them, and then another man about Charles’s age sauntered over. He had a handsome face—no, more than that, decided Frances. He had a face out of another era, from the regency at the beginning of the nineteenth century, not the beginning of the twentieth. His eyes showed some merriment, as if from an earlier, wilder London, and his suit was a little livelier than what most of the other men were wearing.
“Seaforth, don’t you think you’re being just a little bit selfish, keeping the two loveliest women here to yourself?”
It was a signal for Charles to introduce them, but he hesitated for a few seconds, and his smile seemed artificial. How odd, thought Frances. No man had better manners than Charles.
“Allow me,” he finally said, introducing his wife and sister to Lord Gareth Blaine in a toneless voice. “You’re something in the Home Office, right, Blaine?”
“Yes—something,” said Blaine with a grin. “A pleasure to meet both of you.”
The Home Office. It was the ministry that had overall authority over policing functions and security of the realm. Her decision to attend this party was already paying off.
“I imagine your work must be very interesting,” said Frances.
“My sister would like to be a police inspector,” said Charles.
Blaine laughed. “If it were in my power to do
so, I would appoint you today. Unfortunately, supervision of Scotland Yard is not in my remit. But your name is familiar to me—tell me, Lady Frances, do you know my cousin, Genevieve Ballentine?”
“Of course. She is a very active member of the women’s suffrage committee.”
Mary grinned, and Charles rolled his eyes.
“I imagine you don’t share your cousin’s views,” said Frances with a hint of challenge in her voice.
Charles interrupted at that point, saying he would happily leave them to their political discussion, and he wanted to introduce Mary to some people from the Exchequer. Mary gave Frances a quick wink as she left with her husband.
“If I may say, you imagine a lot,” Lord Gareth said when they were alone. “But regarding my politics, you imagine wrong. Please ask Genevieve about me, and you will find I am one of the few members of our family talking to her. Because of her stance, her mother is beyond furious. But I still visit with her. Indeed, I have great sympathy for your cause, and I support universal suffrage.”
“Do you really, Lord Gareth?” So many men said so just to make fun of her. Others tended to hedge so as not to offend her. It was rare to find an outspoken supporter like Lord Gareth.
“Again, Genevieve will happily confirm my views.”
“May I ask what convinced you?”
“I like to think I am well read. Certain philosophical writings . . .” And that led to a discussion of favorite authors and favorite philosophers. Lord Gareth had taken a degree at Cambridge, and Frances lost no opportunity in telling him about her unusual education in America. Lord Gareth was curious and asked many questions. The conversation was a challenge—and although Frances worked at it, she had a sense Lord Gareth had to work at it too.
“So tell me, do you really want to be a police inspector?”
“I think I’d be very good at it. Are you sure you don’t have anything to do with the police at the Home Office?” she said with a smile.
“My dear lady, if it were up to me, to please you, I’d appoint you commissioner. But my work is so dull, I can’t tell you about it, as it would spoil your good opinion of me.”
“Isn’t it rather arrogant of you to assume you already have my good opinion?” But her tone was mocking, not serious.
He mimicked her. “I’d be very wounded if I did not.”
Frances eyed him. “But I don’t think you have my brother’s good opinion.”
“So you noticed,” he said dryly. “My politics and beliefs sometimes upset even my progressive colleagues among the Liberals. And as a second son, I don’t have expectations of becoming a duke like my father and influencing the world that way. But don’t think the feeling is mutual between me and your brother. I admire your brother as a man of principle and intelligence, even if we disagree sometimes.”
Blaine then waved his hand as if to clear the air. “As entertaining as this has been, I’m in danger of monopolizing your evening and causing a dreadful scandal. But I wonder . . . are you familiar with Lord and Lady Heathcote?”
Even people who didn’t know the Heathcotes—and their circle of intimates—knew of them. They held fashionable parties where the liveliest members of Society mingled with poets and artists. Perhaps too fashionable: Frances had never been to a Heathcote event but had heard the rumors of behaviors that were never discussed in polite drawing rooms . . .
“They are quite notorious. I did not know you were a member,” said Frances.
“A member? You make it sound like being a member of a political party. It isn’t that formal. One simply shows up.”
“My brother and late father said they weren’t to be trusted.” There had been whispers of papers stolen, secrets passed, scandals hushed up . . .
“We’re just a lively group of friends assembling a little theater party with a reception beforehand. Don’t believe society gossip. Care to join us? Unless you’re afraid.” His eyes were inviting, but there was also a challenge.
“I never said I was afraid,” she snapped back. She was not subject to her brother’s approval. “It sounds pleasant. I love the theater. I saw one of Mr. Shaw’s latest plays, Major Barbara. Very thought provoking.”
“I agree . . . and I look forward to discussing it with you when next we meet. But I should tell you that this evening of theater will be a little different. May I reach you at your brother’s house?”
“Actually, I now reside at Miss Plimsoll’s Residence Hotel for Ladies.” She tripped it off proudly. Lord Gareth raised an eyebrow.
“How independent of you. This has been very interesting. Good evening, Lady Frances.”
Frances made the rounds for the rest of the evening, catching up on gossip and enduring comments, sarcastic and otherwise, about her work with the suffrage movement. She found Mary as the party wound down. Charles was just finishing a conversation in another room.
Mary smiled slyly. “You seem to have made quite a conquest this evening.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Lord Gareth and I were talking politics.” But she reddened nonetheless.
Coaches waited outside, but not for the Seaforths. Charles had traded in the family coach for a motorcar. Frances had never thought about the sound of iron-shod horses on pavement, but now it was startling to hear the hum of a precision engine instead of the clop of hoof beats. It was very smooth. Charles said that in twenty years, there wouldn’t be a horse left in London. It made Frances feel very modern to be in an automobile. She was sure the Heathcotes would approve. She suppressed a shiver at the thought of being at a Heathcote event. She felt guilty at not telling Mary, fearing her sensible friend would try to talk her out of it.
They drove to Miss Plimsoll’s, and Charles got out with Frances, waiting until the night porter came to open the door. The porter grumbled as usual, and Charles gave his sister a kiss on the cheek and told her not to run herself down with committee work.
The porter bolted the door behind her. Frances was looking forward to bed. She had told Mallow not to bother waiting up, but the loyal maid was knitting in the lounge and rose to greet her mistress as soon as she came in.
“A good evening, my lady?”
“Yes, thank you. By the way, would you like to live in Norfolk? Lady Moore seems determined that I become the next Viscountess Wellchester.”
Before Mallow could respond, they heard the knocker on the door. Another resident at a late-night party? Through the heavy door, they heard a muffled voice. “It’s the chauffeur. Left something in the car, my lady.” Frances was surprised. She had her wrap and her little bag—there was nothing else.
But the porter was already opening the door before Frances and Mallow could stop him, and it was barely cracked before a man pushed himself inside. He was tall and lean with an outdoor complexion.
The women and the porter froze. The porter was neither young nor fit, and there was no one in easy call.
The man gently closed the door. Then he grinned. He pulled himself up and gave a mock salute. “Private Alfred Barnstable, late of his majesty’s colonial force and the Empire Light Horse.” The twang was unmistakable—he was an Australian. Frances had never actually spoken with an Australian but had heard the accent, often mocked by Englishmen.
“Sorry, ladies. Would you be Frances Ffolkes? Or know where she is? This is Miss Plimsoll’s, isn’t it? She left a note that she’d like to speak with anyone who had served under Major Colcombe.”
Frances gathered her wits. “I’m Frances Ffolkes. And your entrance here is rather abrupt and unusual. How do I know you are who you say you are?”
The soldier considered that. “How about this? The major had a scar on his left hand—a fencing accident, he said.”
“That’s true,” said Frances.
Then the soldier grinned. “I have one more. He liked to talk about his women. And if you’re Frances Ffolkes, he called you ‘Ursula.’ I got that right, didn’t I?”
Frances was speechless, but Mallow jumped in.
�
��Mr. Barnstable, this is Lady Frances Ffolkes. She is not anyone’s ‘woman.’ And when you address her, you will call her ‘my lady.’ Is that clear?”
He didn’t look at all abashed. “Sorry about that. Now what might you be called?”
“Miss Mallow to you. I am her ladyship’s personal maid.”
“You have a pretty face, Miss Mallow. Would you be interested—?”
“Mr. Barnstable,” jumped in Frances, “flirt with my maid on your own time. It’s late, and I sense we have a lot to discuss. Go sit in the lounge, and I’ll be along shortly.”
“Right you are, my lady.” He bowed and headed into the lounge.
“Well,” said Frances.
“Well indeed, my lady,” said Mallow. “He’s Australian.” That explained everything.
Frances turned back to the porter, who was looking a little stunned himself. “This man fought with my brother in South Africa. I don’t suppose you have any beer I could buy off you? I’ll pay you double what it cost.”
A rare smile lit up his craggy face. “Quite all right, my lady. You can have them at cost.”
“Thank you, that would be lovely.” She drank very little during the evening, but the thought of a beer was suddenly welcome. The porter said he’d bring along the bottles while she saw to her guest.
Private Barnstable had made himself very comfortable in the best chair. She doubted his lodgings had overstuffed leather chairs.
“I am glad to see you settled here,” she said with a wry smile. “I thank you for responding to my note. But it is a little surprising to see you sneaking in like this at such a late hour.”
“I’m sorry I startled you, my lady. And this one here, too.” He winked at Mallow, who did not give him the pleasure of a response. “But being in the war, being in that war, has made me a very cautious man, and when I tell you what I have to tell you, maybe you’ll see why. I’ll give it to you straight. Daniel Colcombe was the finest man I knew, and when I heard he died, I almost died myself—but what’s this?”
