“And a selection of sandwiches and cakes, please, Monsieur Pierrot. You’ll know best.” Esme inhaled the sweet spiciness of carnations from the central floral arrangement. It was an elusive pleasure, almost overwhelmed by the fashionable scents of the gathered ladies and the tea and coffee aromas from the warehouse below.
“Good morning, Miss Smith.” Mrs. Trenlow arrived on the heels of the departing wait staff.
Chairs scraped as the men in the party stood.
“Gentlemen.” She stared avidly at Jed, clearly looking for some sign of his sinning nature.
Miss Arbon jostled her as she approached the table with Miss Houghton pressed close behind her.
“Good morning.” Esme smiled tightly. These three weren’t the worst gossips, but they were the most brazen snoopers. She would give them five minutes.
They noted her smile and quickly claimed the coveted empty seats.
The three men sat down, Uncle Henry grumbling slightly as he tried to find a comfortable position on the spindly gilt chair.
“Mrs. Reeve, may I introduce Mrs. Trenlow, Miss Arbon and Miss Houghton? Ladies, Mrs. Reeve is newly arrived from San Francisco. She is Mr. Reeve’s grandmother.”
Mrs. Reeve nodded without any sign of pleasure or ingratiation. If anything, she appeared bored.
There was a moment’s awkward silence as the three visitors realized that they could hardly raise the scandal occupying everyone’s minds. Social manners saved them.
“How do you do, Mrs. Reeve?”
Their darting glances were storing up the details of Esme’s appearance, the quality of Mrs. Reeve’s pearls and Jed’s easy manner.
“How was your journey?”
“How do you like Swan River?”
Delivery of the tea, coffee and cakes covered Mrs. Reeve’s failure to respond to these inanities. Moreover, by the time the waitresses had laid out the goodies, the first brash ladies’ time was up. Miss Arbon might have risked the etiquette of the situation, but a quick glance around the slyly watching room showed that a second wave of more serious gossips were ready to pounce. Only if she were willing to risk Mrs. Ketteridge’s sugary wrath could she stay. Miss Arbon’s lips thinned in vexation, but she stood, visibly deciding discretion to be the better part of valor.
Barely had they regained their own seats then the next three ladies descended as a bloc, Mrs. Ketteridge to the left of tall and slender Miss Marmian and pudgy Mrs. Johnson on her right. They smiled in challenge at Esme who smiled back, baring her teeth.
Toil, toil, boil and bubble. The line from Macbeth floated through her mind. Cauldron burn and cauldron bubble. These were definitely the three witches and she’d crossed swords with them before.
Monsieur Pierrot stepped into Esme’s vision.
Amusement relaxed her smile into one of genuine appreciation. She could take direction as well as any waitress. “Tea for the ladies, please, Monsieur.”
He nodded, more in approval than acknowledgement and faded backwards. Everyone sat, with Uncle Henry grumbling more than ever at not finding room for his lanky legs. He glared at Mrs. Johnson’s puffball skirts and edged his chair away.
Once again, Esme made introductions. But these ladies weren’t to be daunted by the social tact required to raise the issue of the scandal Jed found himself mired in.
“Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Reeve,” Mrs. Ketteridge purred. “You arrived in good time to assist with your grandson’s wedding preparations. Esme must welcome your advice. An older lady’s guidance through these treacherous waters of the betrothal period is invaluable. So many young people go astray.”
Esme schooled her expression to display mere polite boredom though the dratted woman had managed to work three dagger thrusts into one short speech: that she herself lacked womanly competence, her father’s wedding preparations were inadequate and Jed couldn’t be trusted to stay on the straight and narrow.
Mrs. Ketteridge’s feline smirk, just the corners of her mouth curving while her sunken eyes narrowed, showed how much she was enjoying this chance to score points. She wouldn’t be the only one, either. There were any number of society ladies who would flex their claws. Many of the younger ones resented Esme’s annexation of such an eligible gentleman as Jed. Older women had wanted Esme’s fortune for their sons and resented her refusal of such boring suitors. Finally there were the high sticklers who honestly disapproved of her independence and political action.
Miss Marmian, daughter of Professor Marmian, was one of the younger women who’d fluttered their lashes in Jed’s direction. Now, she made a point of drawing her buttercup yellow skirts away from him. “How are your wedding preparations progressing, Miss Smith? Any difficulties?”
“Not at all.” Esme made sure she smiled brightly, even as she noted how Mrs. Reeve’s arthritic hand tightened around her cake fork. The old lady had seen and resented this slighting of her grandson. Would she finally say something? “Although of course I don’t have your personal knowledge of weddings, Miss Marmian. You are quite the experienced bridesmaid. What is it, three times you’ve stood beside your friends?”
Always a bridesmaid, never the bride.
Miss Marmian glared as the old aphorism floated unspoken above the table.
Esme held her smile. You want a fight? I’ll give it.
Mrs. Reeve’s hand relaxed on the cake fork. She stabbed a Victoria sponge rather than the annoying Miss Marmian.
“I remember my wedding.” Mrs. Johnson sighed. “So many years ago now. Dear Michael has been gone three years. I do miss a man in my life.” She looked directly at Uncle Henry, who startled.
“Blast.” Coffee splashed into his saucer. “Pardon me, ladies.”
“I’m sure you understand my loneliness, Mr. Smith,” Mrs. Johnson continued, switching attention to Aaron. “It’s two years since your Martha passed away.”
Esme met Jed’s amused eyes across the table. Evidently one of the three witches was more interested in acquiring a second husband than scoring points.
Aaron took the opportunity to push their agenda. “I wish Martha was alive to meet Jed. She’d have approved of him for Esme.”
“Enough backbone to stand up to her.” Uncle Henry’s seconding of this praise lacked tact.
Esme didn’t mind. This was the sort of family support that could squash the burgeoning scandal and she knew Jed had the strength of character to match her own.
“Yes, I imagine Miss Smith requires firm handling.” Mrs. Ketteridge adopted a sweet, thoughtful tone. She turned to address Mrs. Reeve directly. “Why, I remember…” She launched into poisonously amusing retellings of Esme’s political adventures. “…and then she emptied that bucket of sludge over the harbor master’s desk.”
Miss Marmian chimed in. “Dear Miss Smith, you are always championing those less fortunate.” She widened her pale hazel eyes at Mrs. Reeve. “Why, she even cries friends with Indians and the local people, the Nyungars.”
Indignation flushed her father’s and uncle’s faces but they couldn’t find words to fight this sly, so-called civilized attack. Like her, a number of their good friends were Indian, Nyungar and even ex-convict which was the worst shame in this colony that only thirty years ago had accepted British convicts.
Esme listed to the twisting of her good activities and wondered what mental notes Mrs. Reeve was making as she listened and sipped her tea. Certainly she was following intently this retelling of Esme’s misdeeds—or as Esme herself saw them, her political activities.
Jed’s coffee cup clinked as he set it down. “Esme is a good friend. I know. She is my best friend as well as my beloved.”
She blinked back the sudden warmth of tears. Darling.
Mrs. Ketteridge raised her eyebrows in silent disbelief. Her message was clear. If Esme was so important, why had he been discovered cavorting with a gypsy?
Esme ground her teeth.
“I think husbands and wives should be friends.” Mrs. Johnson smiled coyly at the two older men. �
��Close friends.”
“Really, Mavis!” Mrs. Ketteridge was scandalized. Her glance at the hand painted Louvre clock on the wall showed she was also aware of the passing time and the demands of etiquette. She put her tea cup aside, preparatory to standing. Still, she found time for one final jab. “Be sure to introduce Mrs. Reeve to Miss Ivers, Miss Smith. I’m sure they will find much to discuss. Mrs. Reeve, a pleasure to meet you. Gentlemen.” She sailed off, Mrs. Johnson and Miss Marmian following in her wake.
“Women,” Uncle Henry grumbled into his cup.
“It gets worse.” Esme braced herself. “Mrs. Reeve, much as I dislike Mrs. Ketteridge, she’s right about introducing you to Miss Ivers. She is the social arbiter for the colony.”
“Has been for the past fifty years.” Aaron regarded Esme with concern. “She holds to old-fashioned standards. Young women should be demure and stay at home. She’s clashed with Esme before.”
“But she is fair.” Esme smiled her thanks at the waitress who whisked away the tea cups of the three women who were now back at their own tables, heads bent and gossiping.
Miss Ivers sat straight-backed like a queen at a center table graced with an arrangement of the apricot sweetheart roses she preferred. She appeared to be listening intently to one of her table mates, the poet Mrs. Roland, but Esme knew the high stickler would be monitoring every action at their table.
“Miss Ivers is a dragon, but we need her on our side. She can kill any scandal with one dictate. Mrs. Reeve, may I introduce you?”
“No. Jed, take me home.”
Chapter Eleven
“‘No, and that’s it.” Esme stormed around her room. She hadn’t trusted herself to say anything in the carriage. The last thing the gossips needed was evidence of conflict between her and Mrs. Reeve.
Jed had attempted a careful remonstrance at the tea table. “Grandma, if Esme says this Miss Ivers is important—”
“Either take me home now, Jed, or I’ll walk out by myself.”
The men had risen hastily to their feet.
“Bloody hell.” The terrible curse escaped Esme as her hip collided with the corner of her dressing table. It wasn’t the pain of the blow, though it would bruise. She rubbed the spot absently. No, what terrified her was the realization that Mrs. Reeve had decided the scandal engulfing her grandson was worth the price of freeing him from Esme, an Australian suffragette.
“I am perfectly respectable.” Except that she wasn’t. Respectable women didn’t challenge the governor to a shooting match to decide future policy on domestic violence or visit the prison to arrange training for the women there so that they had skills to support themselves honestly on their release. Respectable women—and it was a worse curse than bloody hell—busied themselves with gossip and looking pretty and making men feel better about themselves.
“Jed doesn’t want a silly ninny. His grandmother should know that.”
But she’d been too upset to risk talking with him after Mrs. Reeve established herself in the library. No matter what the old lady said or did, Esme had to remember that she was his grandmother. Esme couldn’t insult her or even question her actions.
Her hands fisted. But nor could she trust her own self-control. So she’d dashed upstairs with a muttered excuse of changing clothes.
A soft knock at the closed door interrupted her thoughts.
“Come in.”
The door opened quietly.
At the sight of the well-dressed woman standing there with her arms full of fabric, Esme rushed forward. “Oh Jane, I completely forgot our appointment.” She stopped dead. “Mrs. Reeve.”
The old lady stamped forward, not waiting for an invitation.
Over her head, Esme exchanged a questioning look with her friend and dress-maker, Jane Bryant. Only a few years older than herself, Jane was years older in heartbreak. She’d lost her carpenter husband soon after arriving in the colony. Dress-making, and in particular the clothes Esme herself ordered, enabled Jane to support herself in comfort and with some degree of security when she thought of the future.
In return, Jane brought commonsense, compassion and an enviable sense of style to their friendship. Now she smiled lopsidedly and a shrug of one shoulder said she’d had no choice about Mrs. Reeve accompanying her to Esme’s room.
“Mrs. Bryant said she was here for a fitting of your wedding gown. I’d like to see it.” Mrs. Reeve chose a straight backed chair and sat.
Esme drew a deep breath. Given that she suspected Mrs. Reeve didn’t want her to marry Jed at all, viewing the gown seemed a hypocritical request—unless Mrs. Reeve intended to conduct their private battle here, away from the men. In which case, bring it on. “Of course you may see it. Jane is a marvelous seamstress. I’ll just change into it.”
She disappeared into the dressing room. She had no particular attachment to her wedding gown. It was just one more part of the public festival that seemed to be her wedding. What mattered to her was the private aspect, the knowledge that on New Year’s Day she and Jed would be married and would belong to one another. The wedding was public, the marriage private. She could put up with the former for the joy of the latter. “Jane has promised this is the final fitting.”
“Cross my heart.” There was a smile in Jane’s voice as she uncovered the gown from its calico wrapper. “I’ve added the embroidery and lace, but I’d like to be a hundred per cent sure of the fit before stitching on the pearls.”
“What about the crystals?” Esme looked resignedly for the corset that approximated the more elaborate corset she’d wear on her wedding day.
“I decided you were right. It’ll be the middle of summer and we don’t want to blind anyone with dazzling daylight reflections.”
Or compete with the diamond tiara, earrings and necklace Father had commissioned from the jeweler, Esme reflected. Although Jane would never be crass enough to mention that she’d be a bride dripping in jewels. Esme ducked behind a screen to wriggle out of her day clothes, then had to ask for Jane’s assistance in lacing the corset—yet another concession to the day’s spectacular. Usually she insisted on sensible garments in accordance with the suffragette dress reform code.
Jane tugged the despised laces firmly and knotted them, then shook out the gown.
Esme slipped on a thin petticoat before shrugging into the gown, careful for Jane’s neat stitches and the fragile fabric. It settled around her with the cool whisper of silk. She turned to study her reflection.
The neckline was daring. The wide scoop would have been modest in a ball gown, but the wedding gown would be worn in the afternoon. Still, January was a frighteningly hot month, so the coolness would be welcome. Jed would boil in his formal suit. The elbow length sleeves looked modest, but were transparent, and the light swirling skirt skimmed the top of her shoes. The silk fabric was delicately embroidered panels of roses in ivory on snow white.
Jane fastened a final button at the waist and sighed with relief. “It fits perfectly. Show Mrs. Reeve.”
Esme grimaced faintly, unable to share the note of happy expectation in her friend’s voice. Grandma would probably condemn the dress and her as “fast”. Definitely not respectable.
Jane propelled her out into the bedroom with a firm hand. “Doesn’t she look like an angel?”
Mrs. Reeve looked her up and down. “I doubt she’ll inspire angelic thoughts in my grandson. Or any man.”
“Esme looks lovely,” Jane said loyally.
“It’s your beautiful dress,” Esme said. “You must have been up nights to finish it so fast.”
“I was glad to do it.” A faint sheen of tears appeared in her eyes. “My gift to you.” Jane blinked rapidly then smiled. “Besides, I have your whole trousseau to sew yet.”
Esme stifled a groan. More fuss. More fittings.
“I have to agree, your dress sets her figure off to advantage, Jane.” Mrs. Reeve nodded determinedly. “If you’ve got it, flaunt it.”
Esme’s jaw dropped open.
Jane giggled.
“I’ve always been one to make my mind up fast. I can’t bear shilly-shallying,” Mrs. Reeve continued. “Esme, it’s time we talked.”
I knew it. “Let me just get out of this dress.”
Mrs. Reeve settled herself in an armchair drawn up to the library windows and looking out over the port. Steamboats and skimmer-boats travelled swiftly. Coal hulks floated with slow deliberation. Fishing boats darted among the commercial traffic.
“You think I came here to discover what sort of woman Jed had gotten involved with,” she began unpromisingly. “I did. He’s a charmer, but he’s also got a deep streak of loyalty. Come hell or high water, he’ll keep his promises.”
“And you wanted to be sure I’m worth his loyalty.”
“He praised you in his letters. Beautiful. Intelligent. Strong-minded.”
“But you weren’t reassured?”
“He also said you were a suffragette, a woman with political ambitions.”
“I am,” Esme said proudly.
Mrs. Reeve went off on a tangent. “My son’s a senator.”
Esme waited, drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. She knew this.
“Personally, I don’t have a lot of time for politics,” Mrs. Reeve continued. “But I’ve seen how that world works. Money and influence.” She looked around the library, crowded with evidence of the Smith family’s interests, interests they could afford to indulge. “Clearly you’ve got the money but a woman wanting to influence politics needs a certain sort of man.”
“A woman doesn’t need a man. I’m marrying Jed because I love him.”
Mrs. Reeve ignored her protest. “A woman who wants to change the world needs a man who is charming, well-connected and whose profession won’t clash with her ambitions. Jed meets all those criteria.”
Esme a exhaled a long, slow breath of understanding. “So that’s why you undertook such a long journey. You think I’m using Jed in some diabolical scheme to advance my political plans.”
“I feared it—and I feared his Galahad heart had betrayed him. Jed is like my Seb. God rest his soul, my husband could never walk past a woman in need. He was a rescuer of damsels in distress. Dance hall girls and sob stories got him every time. If you marry him, you’ll have to save Jed from himself—and from those hussies. That’s how this gypsy girl conned him. Show Jed a woman in trouble and he rides to the rescue.”
Curses and Confetti Page 7
