“Goodnight, Ellie.”
“Goodnight, Ben.”
Did ever a man look more heart-stoppingly debonair as he adjusted his surgical mask and turned out the light?
My dreams should have been all humming bees and sun-drenched meadows. Instead, Mrs. Amelia Bottomly filled up my mental screen. A dozen identical men in raincoats took to stalking me, round and round for hours. I would be exhausted in the morning. A ghost with Ben’s features wearing a black lace mantilla and a rosary strung over her arm was beckoning me to follow her into the mist, which turned thick and hot. Toss and turn as I might, I could not escape being sucked into it.
When I unglued my eyes the next morning I found that the brass candlestick, which usually stood upon the mantelshelf, had levitated to the window sill. Even more eerie was the fact that the candle was alight. For a ghastly moment I suspected a nocturnal visit from The Raincoat Man, until I saw the candle wax on my hand.
Sunday afternoon found me sufficiently recovered in body and soul to begin convalescence on the drawing room sofa. Ben came and stood in my light as I was deep in the pages of another Edwin Digby/Mary Birdsong book.
“My finger still hurts.”
“What finger?”
“The one your damn cat scratched.”
“Oh!” Prying my eyes off the page, I saw he was holding the affected digit to the light.
“How positively heinous!” The inane caretaker had kidnapped Lady Lucinda.
“Ellie, I don’t think you give a damn about my finger.”
I closed the book. My mother used to complain she never got any enjoyment out of an illness because my father always stole the limelight with his near-death experience.
At three o’clock, Freddy rapped on the open window, pushed the curtains aside, and entered bearing gifts: a plate of eccles cakes. Mark you, they weren’t the greatest (the ratio of currants to dough was a little low), but feelings, which I had thought dead, stirred. There were six on the plate; one for each of us now, leaving three for later. One for Ben, one for me, and a spare.
“Not bad, Freddy.” Ben tossed a sample in his hand. “Keep this up and in a year, possibly six months, you will be able to hold your own against the competition.”
“Thanks, boss.” Standing on the hearth, Freddy flung his arms along the mantel, causing candlesticks and clock to jump. “Ellie, that nose does nothing for you.”
I smiled. “Come over here and let me kiss you.”
He smirked through his beard. “I never get colds. Mind over mucus.” He kicked the fire tongs. “Anyone want to hear what Jill has to say in her letter?”
“Can’t think of anything I would enjoy more.” Ben settled in a chair and studied his finger. I held my book negligently in front of my face.
Freddy let out a sigh, directed at my heartstrings, then read aloud, “ ‘To whom it may concern: Answer remains the same-marriage with strings attached.’ ”
Good for Jill. But unfortunately Freddy was about to give us his interpretation of reading between the lines.
“Hark!” I cried. “Is that the doorbell?” And merciful heavens, it was! Ben went out into the hall and returned ushering two people into the room. For a moment I thought I was having a setback. It couldn’t be… but, as with nightmares, it was. The Reverend Rowland Foxworth and Vanessa.
“Ellie, isn’t this a pleasant surprise?” Ben wiggled his eyebrows into question marks. I lay on my couch, fanned myself with my book, and said everything that was trite and insincere.
“Good God, Vanessa, what brings you here?” Freddy inquired. “Didn’t you see the cross on the door? We’ve all got the plague.”
“Freddy, you are the plague.” Vanessa sank into a chair. “But perhaps you could wait to expire until we’ve all had a cup of tea.” She smiled exquisitely up at Rowland, who was fidgeting for his pipe.
“I do hope this is not an intrusion.” Rowland looked at me, and I tried to arrange the book artfully in front of my face. “When I didn’t see you or Ben at church”-he hesitated-“Vanessa and I wondered if something might be wrong.”
“Thank you, but it’s just an average, unexciting cold.” Strange, I did not find Rowland, with his silvering fair hair and quiet face, as appealing as usual. The man was a dupe, a dope. For a long minute, the only sound was the wind whooshing around in the chimney.
“What brings you down here, Vanessa?” Ben finally asked.
“Oh, a little bit of this, a little of that.” She slid her coat off her shoulders, and Ben and Rowland collided trying to catch it before it fell to the floor. Naturally a wife wants her husband to be a gentleman, but not to the point of silliness.
Vanessa’s topaz eyes shimmered in the firelight. “As you know, Ellie, I wasn’t envious when Uncle Merlin bequeathed you this house and all the loot. So what if Mummy and I have been forced to sell off a couple of fur coats! You deserved some little remembrance in return for sending Uncle those hand-knitted pen wipers at Christmas. And, until recently, the seaside bored me.” She moistened her lips for Rowland’s benefit. “Now, I find the bucolic atmosphere of these parts utterly restorative after the daily grind in London. And, cousin dear, I have always had this absorbing interest in tombstones.”
There she didn’t lie. I had always known she would like to have one engraved with my name.
“I think I’ll don my pinny and cap and go out and make some tea,” cooed Freddy. I wished I could escape so easily.
Rowland tamped down his pipe. His voice came out a little too eager. “Ben and Ellie, I appreciate the invitation to your party Friday night at the new restaurant and I’m delighted to accept.”
“Glad to hear it.” Ben handed round the plate of eccles cakes. Should I tell Vanessa her invitation had been lost in the post? Luckily, she was examining her nails, an all-consuming occupation.
Rowland smiled. “Several of my parishioners have asked me to suggest you make lots of those little chicken tarts, the ones you served at the wedding.”
“Oh those!” Ben paced around the back of the sofa, wagging his injured finger and holding it up to the watery sunlight from the window. “Nothing challenging about them. I might have Ellie run off a couple of batches”-he looked down at me (in more ways than one, it seemed)-“if she feels up to it.”
This from my husband? The father of my unborn children! A slow flame of anger sparked within me.
After our guests finally took the hint and left, I went into an orgy of straightening cushions and swooping up tea plates. Two eccles cakes remained. I would eat them both for breakfast. That would show Ben-something or other.
“What’s all this busy bee stuff? We aren’t expecting anyone else, are we?” He spoke as though he had truly no idea he had upset me, putting me in the invidious position of having to spell it out, or let my wrath stew-pardon me, braise!
“I’m just straightening up, dear, so we can leave the place spotless tomorrow, the way you like it.”
“We aren’t moving out, are we? You haven’t sold the house behind my back to Vernon Daffy?” He ruffled my hair in passing, then dropped down on the sofa which I had just smoothed out.
“Why, no,” I said in the glacial accents of Charles Delacorte. “Tomorrow we are up to London for the day. You to see Mr. A.E. Brady, editor. I to squander some of my-our wicked inheritance.”
“Ellie, I really don’t think so.”
“Don’t?” I picked up Your First Fight-Spice or Spite and slapped a duster over it. “Don’t think I should spend money, my money-”
“Don’t think you should come to London.” He had a hand in a dish of cashews and was unconcernedly nibbling. I fought the urge to hurl the book at him.
“Why can’t I go, darling? We talked about it the other day; you invited me.”
“I didn’t say can’t, Ellie.” He had his eyes closed, his head resting on a cushion as if this was all a bit too much for him. “And, yes, we agreed that you should come. But, upon reflection, I do think it would be advisable for you
to be within call in case any problem should arise at Abigail’s. As of this minute”-he opened one eye and looked at the clock-“we are proceeding according to schedule, but we can’t afford any more botches.” A smile. “Ellie, you can see the logic of that, can’t you?”
“Perhaps you should run it by me again, in words of no more than one syllable.” My withering gaze was wasted on him. Ben was taking his injured finger’s pulse. Turning my back, I gave Spite or Spit-I mean Spice or Spite another wipe and my eyes one, too.
A hand touched my shoulder. “How about dinner in here tonight, Ellie? Wouldn’t that be cosy?” Someone was now unpinning my hair.
“Yes, it would, thank you.” Taking a deep breath, I reminded myself how lucky I was in having a husband who cooked for me, didn’t forbid my family the house, and had the magic touch. But my mother’s voice nudged at my ear: “Ellie, oh Ellie! Don’t you know you are in trouble when you start toting up his good points?”
That night I awoke several times to the feeling that the house was enveloped in a muffling stillness. And when I got out of bed at seven o’clock, the window was white with snow. Impossible on this the twenty-seventh of April! But true.
I trailed downstairs after Ben, wearing his plaid dressing gown, coughing into my hanky. It was mostly a sympathy cough as my cold was close to cured. My resentment at being left at home wasn’t.
“Ellie, if you desperately want to come…” He opened the fridge.
A magnanimous offer, considering that the taxi he had arranged to take him to the station was due any second. (It wouldn’t do for the Heinz to break down, causing him to miss his meeting with Mr. A. E. Brady and assorted bigwigs of Brambleweed Press). I was tempted-
Ben sloshed milk into a glass. “Still, considering that ghastly cough, you are better off here.”
The fact that I had handed him that ace increased my annoyance. He proceeded to make my blood boil. In each hand he had an eccles cake and was rhythmically taking bites out of each.
“You do realise that at least one of those is mine!”
“Sorry.” The taxi tooted. “Here, sweetheart, two halves make a whole.” He stuffed the remains in my hands, kissed my cheek, and grabbed for his umbrella. “See you about seven.”
The garden door closed-possibly slammed. How dare he! I tugged the dressing gown belt tight, charged to the alcove where we kept an assortment of outdoor gear and yanked on Jonas’s gardening boots. A dutiful wife was one thing, a servile cretin quite another.
Two seconds later and I was out the door. A slam (my turn) sent me clobbering out into the morn, down the driveway, all fluffy white with snow, in pursuit of the taxi.
It was hopeless. The vehicle was moving away. Ben was a blurred blob against the back window, but I was stricken by a kind of madness. I stood with my hands cupped around my mouth shrieking, “You monster! Do you have any idea what it has been like for me all these months? The constant denial, the suppressed longing, then, when I can almost taste-”
“Sorry, lady.” An apologetic male voice interrupted my soliloquy. “I try to provide prompt, reliable service.” Coming around the hedge was the milkman.
I didn’t stop to chat. It was, after all, cold. I grabbed my two pints and the milkman headed back to his little van at a run. Did I feel better for having behaved like a vulgar shrew? Upon reflection, yes. Ben’s sins had been squashed down to size. A long day lay ahead. First a scalding hot bath, a morning’s work at Abigail’s, and then a lazy afternoon in which to nurse my cold through its final stages, and perhaps by seven o’clock I would love my husband completely and unreservedly again.
The kitchen door would not open. Either it had locked behind me or, having conditioned myself never to leave a door unlatched, I had automatically pressed the catch.
Hope springs eternal. I checked the front door and all the French windows, all the while keeping my final ace at my fingertips-at least our bedroom window was open. I could see the maroon curtains billowing in the wind.
Also billowing in the wind was a fresh supply of snow. The first cold flakes fell on my head as, dressing gown hitched up, I headed for the stables to get a ladder. The stable was locked. My fault: I had insisted it be kept so since Roxie had planted those notions about the Raincoat Man.
Okay, so I must risk Freddy’s mockery and present myself at the cottage door. Brushing back my hair, which had to resemble the tails of dead animals, I slogged down the driveway. At the cottage, the final blow fell. No answer and another locked door. Who would have envisioned I would curse the day Freddy was corrupted by the work ethic?
Think positive. Roxie had a key to the house. All I had to do was find a phone and summon her to my aid. Clinging to the wrought iron gates, snow falling on my cheeks, I studied my choices. To my right stood the vicarage, inhabited by Rowland. Friend. To my left, perhaps ten minutes further from Merlin’s Court, stood the house of Mr. Edwin Digby. Stranger.
I knotted my hair about my neck and started walking. There was, of course, no need for laboured deliberation. Rowland was young and handsome. Mr. Digby was a middle-aged tippler who delighted in the gruesome.
From the Files of
The Widows Club
Monday, 27th April, 7:00 A.M .
President:
Good morning, Mrs. Hanover. Did I wake you?… Yes, I’m sure, in the public house business one would rise early. And to good news this morning!… That’s it-your voluntary services are needed at a Retirement Party this coming Friday, the first of May. Mrs. Hanover… Mrs. Hanover. Are you there?
Mrs. Hanover:
Forgive me… I… (Sounds of weeping.)
President:
Mrs. Hanover, I do trust you are not having second thoughts after all the time and energy expended in training you for-
Mrs. H.:
Heavens, no! Not for the world. One is so thrilled, for the minute one couldn’t speak.
President:
Then I will report your concurrence to the board and ring you again this evening with the details.
Mrs. H.:
Such an honour! Words… words quite fail one.
14
… Primrose gasped. “A young woman, partially clothed, entering the premises of a single gentleman of unsteady reputation! May we hope, dear Ellie, that Mr. Digby did nothing to make you blush!”…
“The last time I admitted an unknown woman reeking pathos to this house, she pocketed a silver table lighter.”
The great Edwin Digby might have walked straight from the pages of his own genre: goatee beard, natty daffodil-hued waistcoat, grey hair crinkling back from a lofty forehead, rheumy eyes under brows which twirled at the ends to tilt sinisterly upward. We were seated in his study, a red velour room crammed with Victoriana and dominated by a massive desk on which sat a cast-iron typewriter and a turbulence of papers, a hint that Mary Birdsong also dwelt here.
“I do not smoke.” I spoke with credible aplomb, considering I was dressed like a film extra from Gandhi. Mr. Digby’s eyes travelled from my towel turban to the three-piece suit I had taken (per his instructions) from the wardrobe in his bedroom.
I looked down at my boots, wishing they weren’t six sizes too big. Fleeing through the snow in these would be no joke. “Thank you for the loan of dry clothes, I-”
My host sank deeper into his leather chair. “Mrs. Haskell, pray do not use the borrowed apparel as an excuse to pursue an acquaintance which we would both find tedious.
Should your husband not wish to add the suit to his wardrobe, your woman will know of some indigent worthy.” The lizard lids narrowed. “I trust you reached this Mrs. Malloy on the telephone?”
I inclined my top-heavy head an inch. Detestable Mr. Digby. He stroked the goatee with a bony finger. “And she will not tarry in bringing your key?”
I pushed up my sleeves, then yanked them back down. He hadn’t so much as offered me a cup of tea. “She swore on the telephone directory, Mr. Digby, that she would haste herself to the bus stop and com
mit hijacking if necessary to get here.”
The fingers stopped moving.
“You are fortunate, Mrs. Haskell, in having so devoted a servant.”
“No.” I looked him smack in the eye. “Mary Birdsong is fortunate in having so devoted a fan.”
Mr. Digby grimaced, which did nothing to make him more appealing. “You err in your attempted flattery, madam. Nothing could be more abhorrent to me than some female churl, autograph album clutched to her overripe bosom, bleating a path to my door. Be warned-the instant she arrives, out you both go into the snow.” He withdrew his gaze to the frosted window.
“I understand, sir, you have not written a book in years. Aren’t you glad that some of your fans are still alive?”
The eyebrows vee’d sharply upward; Mr. Digby crossed his legs at the ankle, showing yellow socks to match the waistcoat. “Mrs. Haskell, I have been misled by the yokels at The Dark Horse, that home away from home wherein I quaff away the nights.” Easing out of his chair, he paced, somewhat unsteadily, to a cluttered buffet and unstoppered a decanter. “Will you join me in a glass of Madeira?”
“Tea would be rather welcome, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
“Far too much trouble.”
I punched down my turban. “How were you misled, Mr. Digby, about me?”
He replaced the stopper in the decanter. “Into supposing that in comparison to your rent-a-date spouse you are a creature of dolorous decorum.”
So! Word was out that Ben and I had met through Eligibility Escorts. Any one of my relations could have ferreted out the truth and spread their X-rated version. Or had Ben spilled the beans to Freddy? Never mind. Our love story may have started out as a commercial venture, but it had matured into passion, tenderness, and truth, if you delete a few moments here and there.
“Bentley was employed by a highly respectable service. I am not ashamed of how we met.”
Mr. Digby’s eyebrows twitched. “Assuredly your meeting was worth every penny it cost you.” He downed the Madeira while I delved deep for something vicious to say in response, but he was quicker off the mark.
The Widows Club Page 18
