Daisy poured boiling water onto the leaves in the pot and gathered up the tea tray. She made her way up the back stairs. She knocked on Imogen’s door and entered on the knock. Imogen was already seated at her dressing table in her underwear. “Oh, thank you, Daisy.”
“You’re up already, Miss Imogen, and you didn’t ring.” Daisy set the tray down looking somewhat put out. “Is something wrong?”
“Not in the least. Pour a cup of tea, there’s a dear. I’ll wear the bronze poplin this morning. I expect Miss Esther and I will go for a walk later. It looks like a nice day.”
“Bit nippy,” Daisy commented, handing her mistress a cup of tea. She went to the armoire for the requested morning dress.
Imogen couldn’t help the smile that refused to leave her lips. She had woken up just after dawn, smiling, curled against Charles, and had stayed smiling even as against her protests he’d risen, dressed, and left her with a quick kiss, telling her to go back to sleep and he’d see her for breakfast.
He had to dress for work, of course, although, if they were married, he wouldn’t have to leave the house to do that. It was a reflection that put her back into a dreamy sleep from which she awoke remarkably refreshed after such a disturbed and energetic night.
When she entered the breakfast room a little later, she was only half surprised to see Charles was there already, consuming kedgeree with enthusiasm and discussing the morning papers with Esther. He was dressed for work in a dark suit, with gray striped waistcoat, and he bore no relation to the passionate Mephistopheles of the night.
“Good morning, Gen,” Esther greeted her sister cheerfully. “Charles has brought this newspaper, the Daily Mail, for us. It’s not at all like the Times. It’s really quite fun.” She pushed the paper towards Imogen’s place. “No Society Register, of course.”
“Well, you wouldn’t expect it in a workingman’s paper,” Imogen said. “Good morning, Charles, how good of you to pay such an early morning call.”
“Not at all,” he responded, rising from his chair. “It’s my pleasure, my dear Imogen. Besides,” he added, “I can never resist Mrs. Dalton’s kedgeree.” He kissed her chastely on the cheek. “I trust you slept well.”
“Oh, do stop it, you two,” Esther said. “There’s no one here but me.”
“Forgive me,” Imogen said with an apologetic smile. “We’re just practicing on you.”
“Well, don’t.” Esther took back the Daily Mail. “Where’s Zoe?”
“Alfie’s taken her for a walk. I thought I’d give her a run in Green Park later.” Imogen sliced the top off a boiled egg.
“Good lord,” Esther said, her eyes still on the paper. “There’s a story in here about a woman with three heads on display in a fairground in Battersea. How do they do that, do you imagine? Maybe we should go and see her, Gen.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to your illusions.” Charles drained his coffee cup and pushed back his chair. “I’m due in chambers in half an hour.”
“Are you working on the Warwick divorce case?” Imogen inquired, trying to sound casual as she took a slice of toast from the rack.
He frowned. “What do you know about that?”
“Only that that foul excuse for a human being is employing you in his divorce case,” she said, throwing caution to the wind. “Harry Graham told me. How could you have anything to do with him, Charles?”
His frown deepened and an ominous cloud crossed his dark gaze. “It’s a brief, Imogen. It’s what I do for a living.”
“Yes, I know that. But surely you have some discretion in which clients you accept.”
He sighed. “I accept the briefs that are financially rewarding. We have had this discussion before, Imogen, and, if you remember, we agreed that you would try to accept that some of my work might well conflict with your particular hobbyhorses—No,” he held up his hand as her color rose and her mouth opened on the verge of an impassioned protestation. “Let me get this out in the open. Yes, my client is the husband, Alan Warwick, and, just so you also know, Warwick’s wife is suing him. And yes, Gen, I know he’s not your cup of tea, and he’s not really mine either, but I was offered the brief by his solicitor and I accepted it. So, nothing more to be said. Goodbye, Esther, thank you for breakfast.”
“No . . . no, wait a minute, Charles.” Imogen recovered from her momentary stunned silence. “What are Mrs. Warwick’s grounds?”
“The usual,” he answered briefly and went out into the hall, closing the door firmly behind him. He left the house frowning. He had a feeling that the Warwick case was going to cause trouble. He was uneasy himself, if he admitted it, but he’d accepted the brief without knowing all the details, and his job was not to question his client’s statements. Warwick had a good case on paper for fighting his wife’s petition for divorce, and that was all his barrister needed to know.
Chapter 16
“And just what exactly does that mean—‘the usual’?” Imogen queried, frowning at the closed door, forgetting for the moment her outrage over his remark about her “hobbyhorses.”
“Well, it’s always adultery,” Esther observed. “Legally, it has to be.”
“Yes, for a man to divorce his wife, all he needs to prove is her adultery,” her sister said, still frowning. “But for a woman to divorce her husband she has to prove adultery and something else as well—cruelty, rape, bigamy, I think bestiality is in there somewhere. It’s not fair, even Charles used to admit that.”
“It’s still better than it was before the new act moved divorce from the church courts into the civil courts,” Esther commented. “You have to admit that, Gen.”
“I suppose so,” Imogen said, “but the injustice still makes me burn up inside. I wonder what other grounds Mrs. Warwick has apart from adultery?”
“Ask Charles?”
“I just did, and you saw where it got me.” Imogen poured herself more coffee. “Charles is a master of evasion.”
“He’s a barrister. It’s his profession,” Esther pointed out.
“Yes—a trick of his trade, I suppose,” she said acidly. “How dare he talk about my ‘hobbyhorses.’”
Esther tried not to smile. “I thought that would probably rile you.”
Imogen frowned fiercely at her toast. “So did Charles,” she muttered. “When he wants to stop me in full flood, he says things like that that he knows will wind me.”
Esther refilled her coffee cup, observing, “You two know each other inside out and back to front. I don’t know how one of you can ever hope to surprise the other.”
Imogen decided to abandon the subject of Charles for the moment, it was far too irritating, and turned her attention back to the Daily Mail.
“So, Fortnum’s this afternoon?” Esther queried.
“Yes, and we’ll send some cards out this morning with our At Home time. Maybe we should also put a notice in the Times. ‘The Misses Carstairs are At Home on Wednesday, between three o’clock and five o’clock.’ What do you think?”
“It’s a bit formal, but I suppose in the circumstances we want to err on the side of absolute propriety.” Esther pushed back her chair and got up from the breakfast table. “I’ll send the notice now and it’ll appear in the society pages tomorrow.” She paused to glance over her sister’s shoulder. “Are you enjoying that paper?”
“It opens one’s eyes to a completely new world.” Imogen bit into her toast. “There’s a story here about a prostitute murdered under Battersea Bridge. You don’t see that in the Times.” She frowned. “I think one should see that in the Times, don’t you? It’s a horrible story.”
“The overly delicate sensibilities of the upper crust have to be considered,” Esther declared with a lofty air. “Can you imagine Lady Dalrymple even uttering the word prostitute?”
Imogen, despite her lingering annoyance, laughed, “No, I daresay she’d balk at lady of the night.” She folded the paper and set it aside, and as she did so, the front door bell rang. “Who could that be this
early?”
The query was answered not by a dignified announcement from Sharpton, but by the precipitous arrival of a young woman, dressed in a very smart tailored walking suit of charcoal and white stripes. She wore a wide-brimmed hat sporting two huge ostrich feathers, and a fox-fur stole around her neck. The dead, beady eyes still seemed to gleam with a touch of malevolence against her bosom.
“Lady Sutton,” Sharpton murmured behind her. “And . . .” Whatever else he had been about to say was lost as three other young women swept past him into the breakfast room in a waft of silk and feathers and chiffon.
“Thank God you’re back at last. My dears, I can’t tell you how much we need you,” Lady Sutton said. “We have come for an informal meeting of the Westminster committee, Gen, darling. There’s really no time to waste.”
“Sharpton, may we have some more coffee, please?” Esther asked with a placatory smile. The butler, still standing in the doorway, looked outraged at these unseemly proceedings. He hadn’t even been able to announce the guests in proper fashion. “Kate . . . Amelia . . . Georgie . . . Cilla—sit down. I don’t suppose you’d like cold kedgeree, but is there anything else . . . ?”
Imogen cleared away a section of the table and seated their guests. “I assume this is about Emily?” she said, when the babble of greetings had died down and everyone was seated.
“Yes, Emily Warwick.” Kate’s tone was suddenly businesslike. For all their fashionable dress and their light chatter, these women immersed themselves in politics. They were also active in supporting women’s individual cases in the courts, even though every day they faced the grim reality of how little they could really do with no political power of their own to wield.
Imogen felt her stomach pitch. “Warwick?”
“Yes, an unimaginable brute,” Lady Amelia declared. “Her husband beat her and threw her out on the street, locking her out in the middle of a freezing night, all because she hadn’t ensured that the maids had black-leaded the fireplaces.”
“That would be Alan Warwick?” Imogen clarified slowly.
“Yes—how do you know?” Kate looked surprised. “Emily has been keeping her married name secret. She’s scared stiff of the man. Of course, now that she’s agreed to go for a divorce, it has to come out.”
Imogen ignored the question, aware of Esther’s intent gaze. “So Emily must be suing her husband on the grounds of cruelty and adultery,” she said as slowly as before.
“She’s lucky to be alive, the way that brute has treated her,” Georgina Hudson said. “He beat her black and blue—black and blue, my dear; she couldn’t show herself in public for over a week—and he threw her out in the street, refuses to let her see her children . . . and . . .” She lowered her voice, dramatically. “He gave her a disease—one of those,” she added significantly.
The door opened and Sharpton reappeared. “Coffee, Miss Imogen, and a little light refreshment for your guests.” He seemed to have recovered his equilibrium and summoned a pair of parlormaids with an imperative hand. “Clear away the dirty dishes and change the cloth.”
The two young women obeyed swiftly, and two footmen followed them into the room with trays of coffee and cakes, which they solemnly set on the table in front of the ladies.
“It seems the breakfast room has been transformed into a committee chamber,” Esther said, moving to the coffeepot. “Thank you, Sharpton.”
“Will there be anything else, ma’am?”
“No, thank you.” Imogen smiled her dismissal and the butler left, taking his cohorts with him.
“So,” Kate said, “I hope this isn’t awkward, Gen, dearest, but our main obstacle in helping Emily is that ex-fiancé of yours. Jilting him, my dear, was the best thing you could ever have done. Oh, éclairs—wickedly sinful, I know, but I do so love them.” She selected a chocolate-covered, cream-filled confection and took a bite.
Imogen was aware of a cold chill at the back of her neck. “Charles is representing Warwick. I know that.” She was aware of all eyes upon her. Only Esther knew that there was a possibility the broken engagement could be mended, but she didn’t know how to say that in this company, where Charles had now assumed the role of secondary villain.
Kate dabbed her mouth delicately with a lace-edged napkin. “Yes, Charles Riverdale is actually defending the husband.”
“Who can we get to go against him?” Imogen’s voice sounded rather flat.
“Who indeed?” Lady Amelia said, selecting a macaroon. “Your ex-fiancé is the best in town, Gen.”
“Maybe, but we’re not giving up,” Georgina stated. “We’re recruiting a barrister who’ll take the case pro bono, or at least won’t charge a fortune. We have some spare funds from the war chest, but not enough to pay full price for someone capable of taking on Charles Riverdale. If Emily loses her petition, Warwick will win his divorce and she’ll find herself penniless on the street.”
“She has nothing of her own?” Esther stirred sugar into her coffee.
Kate shook her head. “That’s the damnable thing—she did have, but her father tied it all up in a trust administered by her husband. He didn’t think his daughter was capable of managing her own inheritance. Of course, if she wins the case, then Warwick loses control of the trust.”
Did Charles know about that? Imogen wondered. But of course he would. He would know every intimate detail there was to be known. But how could he possibly justify acting on Warwick’s behalf? Money couldn’t salve his conscience on this one, surely?
“Which barrister have you briefed?” The chill on her neck was growing stronger and she could feel Esther’s alert gaze gauging her reaction.
“Dirk Macanally. I talked to him last evening at a gallery opening. He said he’ll do his best, but he’s also sure it’ll be an uphill climb. Charles Riverdale is so experienced in this field, and Mr. Macanally is a relative newcomer. It comes up at the Old Bailey next Tuesday, so we only have a week to prepare. D’you have any ideas, Gen? Is there anything we can do to help Mr. Macanally?” Kate selected a fruit tartlet. Her appetite seemed undiminished by the subject under discussion.
Imogen had no immediate answer. Her befogged brain seemed fixated on how anyone could eat sweet cakes straight after kedgeree. But then, of course, none of these women had had kedgeree for breakfast an hour earlier. That had been Charles.
She forced herself to concentrate, pushing through the fog of shock and disappointment. “Is Emily still staying with you, Kate?”
“Yes. I didn’t bring her this morning. It’s not comfortable to sit in on a discussion about yourself.” Kate, sharp-eyed, regarded Imogen. “Would you like to meet her?”
“Yes . . . if she wouldn’t mind.”
Kate shook her head. “Of course she won’t. Maybe you can ask her questions that might help her lawyer—you do, after all, know Charles rather well, even if . . . well, even though you’re no longer engaged.”
“A good idea,” Lady Amelia declared before Imogen could respond. “Gen and Emily can talk, and then maybe Gen can give Mr. Macanally some insight into what line of questioning Riverdale might take.”
Esther watched her sister—read the battle royal in Imogen’s mind. Was she ready to go into the lists against the man she loved? But Esther knew the answer even before Imogen said, “I’ll come to Grosvenor Square around noon, Kate. Would that be all right?”
“Perfectly. I’ll send a message to Mr. Macanally to see if he can join us, and I’ll prepare Emily. Perhaps you can buck her up a little as well. She’s terrified about appearing in court.”
“Particularly in front of the famous Charles Riverdale,” Georgina added.
Imogen held her tongue.
It was a bright morning, although with a chill wind, when the sisters walked through Green Park to Grosvenor Square. They arrived at the Sutton’s double-fronted mansion just after noon. The butler was expecting them and showed them up immediately into Lady Sutton’s private salon on the first floor.
Kate greet
ed them warmly as they were announced, coming over to them with hands outstretched in welcome. “Imogen, Esther . . . how good of you to come. As you see, Mr. Macanally was able to join us.” She indicated a tall, lanky, balding young man, who made up for his shining pate with an elaborate pair of beautifully curled mustachios.
He bowed to the newcomers. “Miss Carstairs . . . Miss Esther, delighted to see you again.”
“And you too, Mr. Macanally,” Imogen said, extending her hand. The sisters were only slightly acquainted with the young lawyer. They tended to move in different social circles, but Imogen had heard Charles speak of him first as a promising clerk in good chambers in the Temple, and then, when he’d been called to the bar, as a bright young recruit to the members of the Temple chambers. “We’re so glad you’re able to represent Mrs. Warwick.”
“Let me introduce Emily . . . Mrs. Warwick.” Kate turned smiling to a woman who looked to be in her early thirties, certainly older than the Carstairs sisters and Kate. “Emily, my dear, may I introduce Imogen and Esther Carstairs?”
Emily’s smile was wan as she shook hands with the sisters. “It’s very kind of you both to offer to help me,” she murmured. “And Mr. Macanally, of course.” She offered another smile in the direction of the young lawyer.
“It’s not kind in the least,” Imogen declared briskly. “It’s what we do—another skirmish in the battle we’re all fighting here.”
“Well, sit down, all of you.” Kate gestured to the sofa. “Will you take a glass of sherry, or shall I ring for coffee?”
“Sherry, please,” Imogen said.
“Yes, for me too.” Esther sat down next to her sister. She patted the seat of a chair beside the sofa. “Come and sit down, Emily. Tell us as much as you can about what’s been happening? I know it’s probably painful for you to remember, but it will help if you don’t mind giving us some details.”
Imogen nodded her agreement. Esther was good at drawing people out. She didn’t care much for organizing and decision making, but she could always persuade people to talk, and some of the women they encountered in their work had endured things they were reluctant to recount because of the pain it caused them.
Jane Feather Page 15
