“Hooray!” roared the assembled staff of Chennington.
And so it was that the exultant cries abovestairs, which heralded Lady Tilly’s loss of virginity in the great bed, went mercifully unheard.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A small steamer called The Alligator chugged peacefully through the blue waters of the Mediterranean. Cyril Nettleford stretched himself out more comfortably in his long cane deck chair and reflected that things could be worse—much worse. Thank heavens for Heppleford’s antique ideas of what was due to his family name. All he could do was hope and pray that Tilly either proved barren or died in childbirth. He, Cyril, could not return to England, of course, since the marquess held his written confession and had promised to use it if he so much as put a foot on English soil again. Cyril blamed himself only for the theatricality of his murder attempt. The mask and the black clothes had given him no end of a sinister thrill. I should just have pushed her down the stairs, he thought gloomily. I always was overly elaborate.
The sound of shrill female voices approaching made him wince. A certain Miss Cecilia Wendover had been pursuing him from the start of the voyage. Cyril had been unbearably rude to her until the thick-skinned Miss Wendover had casually dropped a remark that Daddy was a rich Singapore merchant, one of the original crusty Scotch settlers who had made a fortune in the opium trade. Cecilia was long-nosed and sandy-haired and unbearably arch, but from that moment Cyril began to find her imbued with a mysterious charm.
She prattled on about the “little fishies” and the “sweet natives,” and Cyril only heard the music of falling gold coins in her father’s counting house. Like Richard III, he had decided to marry her, but not to keep her long.
It would be ideal if he could marry her on board ship and stage an accident before they even reached Singapore. But that way there was no guarantee that he would inherit any money. Father must be met first. Meanwhile, life held promise, his bruises had healed, and the warm sun had reddened his face to match the color of his spots so that they hardly showed….
Lady Aileen had snared yet another catch of London society in the shape of the Earl of Morningham. It was an Irish peerage, admittedly, but a title for all that, and the earl was undoubtedly handsome and all her friends were envious.
Aileen was entertaining the earl in the Art Nouveau drawing room that had so depressed Tilly. Since she was entertaining her fiancé to tea, she had the luxury of being alone with him. She smiled at him lovingly and he gave her a weak smile back.
“I say, Aileen, old girl,” said the earl in a hesitant manner. “It’s awfully jolly being alone with you, what… I mean not being paraded about in front of your friends like a prize bull.”
Aileen stiffened. She poured the Earl Grey into a paper-thin Spode cup with deliberate care. Then she turned a rather steely gaze on her beloved.
“I object to your choice of words, Henry,” she said evenly. “I don’t parade you about.”
“It’s not that I blame you,” said Henry earnestly. “I mean, after all, what with Bassett disappearing and then there was Heppleford falling for that gorgeous companion of yours… well, it stands to reason.”
“What stands to reason?” Lady Aileen proceeded to pick little pieces of watercress from her sandwich.
“Well, I mean, after all, jilted twice, what. I mean, got to show the girls you’ve made it this time.”
“Do you think I’m so hard up that I should have to settle for a drip like you?” shrilled Aileen.
“As a matter of fact… yes.”
“Oh!” Aileen stared at him balefully. The insult was gross. There was only one thing she could do and that was to tell this handsome cad to march. But what would her friends say? Henry looked at her almost hopefully.
“You do not know how cruel and rude you are being,” said Aileen at last. “I forgive you.”
Henry took a deep breath. “Nothing to forgive,” he remarked casually. “Only spoke the truth. May as well make the most of it, old girl, cos you ain’t seeing any of those friends of yours after we’re married.”
“What?”
“Can’t stand all this London nonsense,” pursued Henry. “Got the place in Ireland, you know. Bit run down and all that, but I like a nice, quiet life.”
Aileen made a desperate last stand. She slid along the sofa and wound her arms about his neck. “You can’t mean it. You wouldn’t take poor little fairy away from London.”
“Oh, yes, I would,” said Henry calmly. “And another thing. Shouldn’t call yourself fairy. Sickening enough when your mother says it.”
Aileen gritted her teeth and released him. “Are you trying to force me to break our engagement, Henry?”
“No. But I mean to be master. That’s what women are for. You do what I say from now on.”
Lady Aileen threw the contents of the teapot at him.
Two days later, London society learned that Lady Aileen was no longer engaged to the Earl of Morningham.
Four days later, Lady Aileen Dunbar appeared at Marlborough Street Magistrates Court, charged with breaking shop windows in Bond Street with her umbrella. Her defense lawyer pointed out that Lady Aileen had just joined the suffragettes movement and was protesting against women not having the vote. She looked very beautiful as she stood in the dock, and did a great deal to further the women’s movement. But she was still unwed….
A miserable, chill autumn descended on London, but for some inexplicable reason, Paris was still gilded with sunshine. The Marquess and Marchioness of Heppleford strolled along under the rust-colored leaves of the plane trees on the Champs Élysées.
“Are you sure?” asked the marquess for the umpteenth time.
“Perfectly,” said Tilly lazily. “The doctor’s sure as well. Oh, won’t Cyril be furious. After all his trouble. I hope he doesn’t turn up at the christening like a bad fairy.”
The marquess stopped at a neighboring news vendor and bought the English papers.
“You are not going to read them in the middle of the street,” said Tilly severely. “We shall go to that nice café over there and I can watch the crowds.”
The marquess grinned and took her arm and led her toward the nearest café table. Tilly settled back with a sigh of pure contentment.
Then her attention was drawn from the smart boulevardiers and the glossy carriages by an exclamation from her husband.
“Cyril’s dead!” he exclaimed, raising his head from a copy of the Daily Mail.
“What on earth happened?”
“He fell overboard just before the ship docked at Singapore. There’s been a hell of a stink at the inquest. It seems Cyril was entertaining some very handsome purser to drinks in his cabin when they were interrupted by a Miss Cecilia Wendover, who made a hysterical scene. She says she was engaged to Cyril on board ship! She demanded that Cyril come up to the boat deck for a private chat. No one saw the couple after that, but the next thing they knew was that Miss Wendover was running about screaming hysterically and saying that Cyril had fallen overboard. The purser claims she pushed Cyril. But the jury brought a verdict of accidental death. Well!”
“Oh, dear,” cried Tilly, her eyes filling with tears. All the horror of that evening on the swing rushed back into her mind.
“Don’t worry,” said her husband gently. “There will be no more shocks in your life, Tilly. I don’t care if Cyril jumped or was pushed. I’m heartily glad he’s dead. He’s been on my conscience. People who try to kill once may succeed the next time. I had long regretted not having taken him to the police. Don’t get so exercised over it, you’ll upset the baby,” he finished, for Tilly had let out a scream.
“It’s not Cyril,” said Tilly wildly. “Look who’s coming along the road. Only look!”
The marquess followed her pointing finger. At first he only saw what appeared to be an English gentleman with a very pretty Frenchwoman on his arm—a not uncommon sight on the boulevards of Paris. Then he too straightened up in amazement as he recognized the coup
le.
Toby Bassett, with Francine on his arm, came strolling along in a leisurely way in the pale sunlight. Francine was wearing a very modish gown in the latest fashion—a tailored suit by George Poirot in muted green with an otter collar. Over her arm she carried a large otter muff and perched on her glossy curls was a diminutive otter hat. Toby looked the picture of the English gentleman from his well-tailored suit to his glossy top hat.
The couple caught sight of the marquess and Tilly. Toby strode forward, pulling a blushing and embarrassed Francine.
“I say,” he cried, waving his cane, “this is splendid. All together again. Meet the wife.”
A series of images flashed through Tilly’s brain: Francine’s print dress fluttering in the breeze as Toby drove her off from the vicarage; Francine asking to be allowed to wear a dress of a different color; Francine transformed and elegant while Toby drank lemonade by the window in the drawing room and the aunts stared; Toby holding her in his arms as she, Tilly, had stood at the side of the road, frightened by the tramp and wondering why Toby smelled of her perfume. Francine used the same fragrance, she suddenly remembered.
“You’re married?” asked Tilly faintly as the couple sat down beside them. Tilly had never quite got over her disappointment on finding out that the pretty Emily was unwed and that the mysterious Mr. Bassett had disappeared.
“What’s that?” countered Toby vaguely, his eyes losing their focus. He was back in his old state of not quite drunk, not quite sober. Tilly flashed an accusing look at Francine, who got to her feet again.
“We will walk a little way together, Lady Tilly,” said Francine, “and leave the gentlemen to their newspapers.”
Tilly mutely allowed herself to be led away. Francine stopped at a bench under a plane tree and motioned Tilly to sit down beside her.
“You are shocked, non?” demanded Francine.
“I am a bit,” said Tilly. “You might have told me.”
“You might not have approved, and my lord would certainly have not. And, oh, those aunts! They would have had something to say. I had a chance and I took it,” said Francine simply. “He was so eager. We were married by special license by your good vicar.”
“But Emily—”
“Emily made a very pretty bridesmaid,” said Francine.
“Do you love him?” asked Tilly wonderingly.
“No, not in the way you love your lord.”
“But he is drunk again,” protested Tilly hotly. “If he loved someone, he might reform.”
“I said I do not love him, but he certainly loves me,” said Francine calmly. “And that one will never reform. For my sake, he only gets drunk once a day and that is as much as I can hope for. We will soon go home and he will sleep, and he will be recovered by the evening.”
“But why did you marry him? I don’t understand,” wailed Tilly.
“Why? You ask me, Francine, why? And after you have worked as a kind of servant yourself,” exclaimed Francine. “I am French and infinitely practical. A handsome young man offers me marriage and security. In return, he gets an affectionate keeper. I am a very good wife.”
But Tilly only bit her lip. When they returned to join the two men, she still felt upset. Francine was surely no more than a scheming adventuress.
She voiced this disturbing thought when she was safely back in the apartment with her husband. “I think it’s answered very well,” he said, removing his tie and loosening his collar stud. “Toby’s as happy as he can manage to be because Francine does not expect him to change. People don’t change, you know. If Toby had married Emily, she would have been a very upset young lady by now. Can you imagine? Her husband falling drunk out of the family pew on Sundays?”
“You say people don’t change,” said Tilly sadly. “Does that mean you are going to go back to chasing other women?”
He came forward and began to loosen the pins from her hair. “I couldn’t go chasing other women,” he said, “before I met you, that is. I only chased after women. Now I’m perfectly happy to confine my chasing to you.” He reached for the buttons at the top of her dress.
“What are you doing?” cried Tilly, trying to button them up again. “It’s still daylight!”
“Have you never heard of love in the afternoon?”
“It doesn’t seem quite right.”
“What if I do this… and… this… and this.”
“I can’t stop you when you do that to me,” moaned Lady Tilly as she was carried into the bedroom. “Oh, rats! You are a beast, Philip!”
Edwardian Candlelight Omnibus Page 56
