by Jane Feather
“I too,” he said, and stepped back to the curb as the hackney moved away. Now to have a collegiate drink with his fellow tenant-practitioner. There were so many tedious social steps on the way to achieving his goal, but they couldn't be hurried. However impatient he grew with his present inability to deal adequately with the ever-lengthening lines of the sick and needy crowding the pavements of St. Mary Abbot's, he had to proceed with patience, ingratiate himself with the upper echelons of London's Society without giving away the slightest hint of his rising urgency.
“No, I'm serious, Con,” Chastity insisted. “He really looked as if he'd walked off the stage set of The Marriage of Figaro. I expected him to break into an aria at any moment.”
“And the house is truly a Renaissance palazzo?” Prudence inquired in laughing disbelief.
“Well, it's not from the outside. It's a large and perfectly respectable-looking piece of Park Lane, it's just inside. Almost as if they'd brought the contents of the Uffizi with them. I kept looking at the ceilings hoping they'd managed a corner of the Sistine Chapel.” She shook her head. “Oh, dear, that's so unkind, and I truly don't mean to be. It was just so . . . so unlikely.”
“And they're coming for the whole of Christmas,” Constance stated flatly. “We have to endure that dreadful Laura for an entire week.”
“We'll have to endure her for longer than that if she becomes a stepsister,” Prudence pointed out with customary bluntness.
“Yes, but we'll get her married off, and you must admit the mother is a very nice woman,” Chastity said a mite defensively. “I know we should have consulted you both before issuing invitations, but Father just sprang it on me out of the blue.”
“Oh, but I think that's a very good sign,” Prudence said. “And it is his house, after all. He's entitled to invite whom he pleases to it.”
“Yes, I agree,” Constance said. “And we can only be pleased that he's coming out of himself enough to issue invitations. Has he said anything yet about being able to afford to wine and dine all these people?”
“Not yet,” Chastity said. “I think he's still a little starry-eyed and hasn't come down to earth.”
“Well, if they're all coming for Christmas, there's no need to arrange a dinner party beforehand,” Constance pointed out. “So, we don't have to ambush him about that this evening.”
“I think that's him now.” Chastity cocked her head towards the drawing room door. “He's talking to Jenkins.”
Lord Duncan entered the room almost on the instant. “Well, well, my dears, this is quite like old times,” he declared, rubbing his hands. He was looking rosy from his evening bath and several large glasses of whisky while dressing. “Do you have sherry?”
“Not yet,” Constance said. “We were waiting for you.”
“Let me do it.” He went to the sideboard, where the decanters awaited. “So, is this some special occasion that brings us all together tonight?”
“No,” Prudence said. “We just thought it might be pleasant to have a family evening.”
He turned with two sherry glasses in his hands and regarded his three daughters with acute suspicion. They showed him smiles of pure innocence and good feeling. He handed the glasses to Prudence and Constance and turned back to the sideboard for Chastity's. He brought that over with his own and stood in front of the fireplace, every inch the paterfamilias in his black evening clothes, his gold fob watch gleaming on the round belly of a man who had never believed in stinting himself of the good things of life.
“What of your husbands?” he asked, taking a sip of whisky, his suspicion apparently unabated.
“Oh, they had other things to do . . . or at least Max did.”
“Gideon is taking Sarah to a play,” Prudence said. “Twelfth Night. She's studying it at school.”
Lord Duncan frowned into his whisky. He could find nothing wrong with these explanations. “So, has Chastity told you about our Christmas houseguests?”
“Yes, it's a lovely idea,” Constance said. “The contessa seems a very charming woman.”
“A large party will be great fun for Sarah,” Prudence said with enthusiasm. “And the aunts dote on her already, so she'll be spoiled rotten.”
“Well, what kind of entertainments have you planned?” Lord Duncan asked.
“None so far,” Chastity said, looking at her sisters. “Do we have to do special things?”
“I think the contessa will expect to be entertained,” Lord Duncan said. “We should invite some of the neighbors, don't you think? For drinks if not for dinner.”
“Boxing Day . . . in the evening, after the hunt?” suggested Constance.
“Dinner is served, my lord,” Jenkins spoke from the doorway.
“Ah, good.” Lord Duncan rubbed his hands. “Did you bring up the Chateau Talbot, Jenkins?”
“I did, my lord. Two bottles.”
“Good, good.” He sighed a little. “The last two bottles. Never see its like again. But then, I thought we'd have a treat tonight, my dears, since it doesn't happen very often these days that we all dine together as a family.”
“Why won't we see its like again, Father?” Prudence asked as they crossed the hall into the dining room.
Lord Duncan gave another, heavier sigh. “Too rich for our budget, my dear. I paid an arm and a leg for it when I laid it down. Goodness knows what it would cost now.”
The sisters exchanged an exasperated glance as they sat down. “Father, there's no reason why you should deprive yourself of everything,” Prudence said. “Certainly we have to be a little economical, but we'll be saving money on the horse and carriage when Cobham retires, and I've already found someone to rent the mews, which will bring in some extra income, more than enough to keep good wine in the house.” Wisely, she made no mention of the increasing income from The Mayfair Lady. Her father did not care to be reminded of that source of revenue.
“Now, this is something else I wanted to talk to you girls about,” Lord Duncan declared, picking up his soup spoon. “You and Constance have your own households to run now. There's no reason for you to be running this one as well.”
“We've been doing it for so long, Father, I don't think we could stop,” Constance said.
“Apart from anything else, we like doing it,” Prudence added. “It's not as if it's much trouble.”
“And we're actually rather good at it,” Chastity said with a cajoling smile. “Mother taught us everything we know. And you know she would want us to continue in her footsteps, at least until . . . unless . . .” She stopped.
“Unless what?” her father asked, regarding her from beneath beetling white brows.
Chastity gave a tiny shrug. “You never know what might happen, do you?”
“Or who you might meet,” said Constance.
There was an instant's silence while Lord Duncan absorbed the implications of this. A slight flush bloomed on his cheek then he shook his head vigorously. “Nonsense,” he declared. “Arrant nonsense. I don't know what's come over you . . . all of you.” He reached for his wineglass. “Now let's talk about Christmas, although how we're going to afford to entertain a large party, I really don't know. I was thinking I would tell the hunt that we can't have the meet at the Manor.”
“We've always had the Boxing Day hunt meet at the Manor, Father,” Constance protested. “We can't do away with tradition.”
“The stirrup cup,” Lord Duncan muttered. “That costs a pretty penny.”
“Oh, Father, it doesn't,” Chastity said, laughing. “Fifty little cups of shooting sherry, that's all.”
“We'll manage the same way we've always done,” Prudence said.
“Besides, not all the Christmas entertainments have to be lavish,” Chastity pointed out. “We'll have one party for the neighbors, the hunt meet on Boxing Day, and the rest of the time we'll play Christmas games—charades, for instance. How expensive can that be?”
“Three meals a day for . . . how many people is it?” Lord Duncan poi
nted out. “Breakfast, lunch, dinner, not to mention afternoon tea for . . .” He began to count in his head. “Twelve,” he announced with a certain contrary triumph. “And the staff, of course. There's the staff dinner and ball, and their presents.”
“Father, we've been doing Christmas traditionally every year since mother died, and in fact this year we have rather more money than in the past,” Prudence said patiently. “Just don't fret about anything except the wine cellar. You and Jenkins can discuss what's laid down and ready to drink at the moment, and the account at Harpers is in credit now for anything else you need.”
His lordship's response was a grunt that could have been acceptance, and an oblique change of subject. “You girls are going to the Lucan wedding first, then?”
“Yes, we'll take the train afterwards. Jenkins and Mrs. Hudson are going the day before,” Chastity said.
“Then I think I'll go down with them. Make sure all the arrangements are satisfactory.”
“That's a very good idea,” Chastity said swiftly, happy to give her father the sense that he was not superfluous to requirements when it came to organizing the house party. “Which bedroom do you think the contessa should have?”
“Oh, the green room, definitely the green room,” he said. “It's the most spacious of all the guest rooms and I particularly like the view over the park. I'm sure the contessa will appreciate it.”
“Well, at least we sowed a little seed,” Constance said after dinner, when their father had retired to the library with his port and the sisters had retired to their own parlor upstairs.
“Yes, and we let him know that we wouldn't have any objections to his remarrying,” Chastity said from the depths of the sofa. “At least I think we did . . . I was trying to anyway.”
“No, it was good,” Prudence said. “But we don't want to rush anything. You know how stubborn he is.”
“I just wish he wouldn't obsess about money, or the lack of it,” Chastity said with a sigh.
“Poor soul. You have to put up with it all the time.” Prudence gave her a sympathetic smile. “At least we go home at night.”
“Oh, it's not that bad,” Chastity said quickly.
Constance frowned at her, then changed the subject. “So, if the contessa has the green room, where does everyone else go? What about the good doctor, Chas? Any ideas?”
“Should we put him in an adjoining room with Laura?” Chastity asked. “Or would that be a little obvious?”
“I don't see why it should be,” Prudence said. “Besides, I don't see the lady indulging in any bed-hopping, do you?”
They all laughed at an idea that seemed absurd. Laura Della Luca was far too prim and opinionated for any indiscreet forays at dead of night.
“But if they're next door to each other, they'll bump into each other all the time,” Constance pointed out. “Going in and out, up and down the stairs, that kind of thing.”
“Then, we'll give the doctor the Chinese room and his prospective bride the pink room next door,” Chastity said, adding, “I expect she'd like the pink. It's not quite Italian but it's pretty-pretty, and the furniture in there is white and gold. She'll feel quite at home.”
“Will they bring ladies' maids?” Constance asked, reaching behind her to the secretaire, where there was a notebook and pen. “We'd better start making notes.”
“I would think they would bring their own personal servants,” Chastity said. “Mrs. Hudson will know where to put them.”
“What about the doctor?”
“I doubt he can run to a valet,” Chastity responded. “Unless he's trying to make an impression, of course.”
“Men who live on Wimpole Street would tend to have valets,” Prudence mused.
“I know he has a cook/housekeeper,” Chastity said thoughtfully. “He said she came with the flat he's leasing. But I'm not sure about a valet.”
“We'll have to ask him,” Constance said. “Next time you see him.”
“Which will be when?” Chastity frowned. “I don't have his address, so I don't know how to contact him. We can't write to him care of Mrs. Beedle, because that's the address the Go-Between knows.”
“But he knows how to find you,” Constance reminded her, rising to her feet with a yawn. “And he's bound to need to make contact before Christmas. To discuss travel arrangements and suchlike.”
“I could always ask Laura. She has the address of his office on Harley Street,” Chastity said. “I'll write to him there. There's no need for us to meet.”
“No, I suppose not,” Prudence said, regarding her younger sister with a slightly quizzical air. “If you don't wish to, then of course there's no need.”
“Exactly,” Chastity said.
Chapter 8
Chastity hurried along Kensington High Street in the teeth of an icy wind. Her coat was buttoned to the neck, the fur collar turned up around her ears. Her hat was pulled down low over her brow and a long, fringed scarf muffled her throat and streamed behind her. Her hands were encased in fur-lined leather gloves and her feet in high, buttoned boots. Even so, her breath steamed and the wind reddened her cheeks and the tip of her nose and made her teeth ache.
Mrs. Beedle's corner shop was a welcome haven and Chastity entered, setting the bell tinkling, almost slamming the door behind her in her anxiety to keep out the cold. She took a deep breath of the warm air that smelled of sweets and baking.
At the sound of the bell Mrs. Beedle emerged from behind the curtain that separated her kitchen from the shop. “Why, hello, Miss Chas.” She beamed at her visitor. “Oh, my, don't you look cold. Come you in now and have a nice cup of hot cocoa. I've just made a Victoria sponge, straight out of the oven, it is.” She lifted the hinged top of the shop counter.
“Yes, I can smell it,” Chastity said, clapping her hands together in an effort to restore the circulation to her fingertips that despite the gloves were numb. “I can't think of anything nicer on such a day than cocoa and cake.” She went behind the counter, dropping the top before following Mrs. Beedle through the curtain and into the kitchen.
“Oh, it's so lovely and warm in here,” she said appreciatively.
“Sit you down by the range, m'dear.” Her hostess was setting a pan of milk to heat on the stove. “There's a couple of letters for you on the shelf there.”
“Thank you.” Chastity took down the letters and then sat on a chair so close to the range, she was almost inside it. She glanced at the envelopes. They were all addressed to The Mayfair Lady. She thrust them unopened into her coat pocket before drawing off her gloves and unwinding her scarf. “That's better,” she said. “It's the wind that's so fierce. It whistles around every street corner. Everyone looks blue with cold.”
“Aye, there's not been too many customers today,” the shopkeeper said, slicing a large piece of sponge cake oozing raspberry jam. “When it's cold like this it keeps them at home. There you are now, Miss Chas. And the cocoa's coming up.”
Chastity took the plate, smiling her thanks. Her hostess spooned cocoa powder into a mug and poured the steaming milk on top, stirring vigorously. This she placed on a low stool set beside her visitor's chair.
Chastity inhaled the rich chocolaty fragrance of the drink and broke off a small piece of cake with her fingers. “How have you been, Mrs. Beedle?”
“Oh, well enough, dear,” the woman said comfortably. “Business has been busy with Christmas coming.”
“I wonder if we'll have a white Christmas,” Chastity said, happy to make idle conversation in this warm kitchen. The shop bell rang again and with a word of excuse Mrs. Beedle hurried through the curtain.
“Why, Doctor, haven't seen you in a while,” she declared as she emerged into the shop. “Thought you'd up and left us.”
“I moved away last week, Mrs. Beedle,” Douglas Farrell explained. “Into central London.”
Chastity sat very still, barely breathing, a piece of cake arrested in its journey to her mouth. Of all the narrow escapes. Five minutes ei
ther side and she would have run straight into him, and how in the world would she have explained her presence in unfashionable Kensington, patronizing the shop that served as the poste restante for The Mayfair Lady? The man was no fool; it was at Chastity Duncan's At Home that he'd been introduced to a prospective bride. He would certainly have put two and two together.
“Central London, eh?” Mrs. Beedle was saying admiringly. “Now, that's a place I like to visit, particularly around Christmastime. I like to look at the shops all decorated with their window displays. So, what'll it be, Doctor?”
“Oh, the usual . . . licorice and humbugs, a pound each, if you please, Mrs. Beedle,” Douglas said in his pleasant voice. “And I have a letter to leave for you to be collected.”
“Oh, yes. Just drop it on the counter over there, Doctor.” The sound of the shopkeeper shaking and weighing sweets reached Chastity, still sitting, almost paralyzed, behind the curtain.
She finally swallowed the piece of cake and licked the jam off her fingers, then sipped her cocoa, careful not to make the slightest scraping sound as she lifted the mug from the stool. Not that Douglas, as a mere customer, would have any interest in the sounds that came from the shopkeeper's private apartments, she reflected. It didn't make her less nervous, however.
She listened as the exchange was completed with a few cheerful pleasantries on both sides, and the chime of the doorbell signaled the customer's departure. Mrs. Beedle came back into the kitchen holding a letter. “Well, this is a strange thing, Miss Chas,” she said. “Dr. Farrell there left a letter for The Mayfair Lady. Isn't that a coincidence . . . and you sitting right here in the flesh?”
“It is rather,” Chastity agreed, taking the letter Mrs. Beedle held out to her. “But then, quite a lot of people write to the publication.”
“I suppose that must be true,” her hostess said, but she was shaking her head. “Doesn't seem quite like the doctor, though. What would he be doing writing to The Mayfair Lady?”
“I can't imagine,” Chastity said cheerfully, thrusting the letter unopened to join the others in her pocket. She stood up, reaching for her gloves and scarf on the table. “I must run, Mrs. Beedle. Thank you so much for the cake and cocoa. I'm ready to face the outdoors again now.”
