Our Lady of Pain (16 page)

When they got back to the castle and Rose and Daisy had retreated upstairs, Rose said fretfully, “I must get this ring off!”

“Why? I happened to notice the captain was quite pleased you were wearing it.”

“It’s just … oh, did you notice how sour he was towards me when we came back from Inveraray?”

“No, I was too happy about working as a detective and having a little place of our own. Let’s go down to the kitchen. Maybe Cook can suggest something.”

The cook, Mrs. Burridge, was a thin woman who looked as if she barely ate. “Goose grease is what you need,” she said. “I’ll warm some up and we’ll get to work, my lady.”

She heated up a little bowl of the grease and then began to work it gently into Rose’s ring finger. Then she pulled hard. There was a
plop!
The ring shot off Rose’s finger, skittered and flashed over the stone flags of the kitchen and down a drain in the corner.

“Oh, no,” wailed Rose. “I’ll never get it back now. Where does that drain go?”

“Down into the castle cesspool, my lady. I am right sorry. I never thought it would just come flying off like that.”

“I’ll need to tell Captain Harry,” said Rose miserably.

She went upstairs and asked a footman to tell the captain to meet her in the morning room. Rose waited nervously, rubbing her sore finger.

Harry came in and stood looking at her. “You sent for me?”

“Yes. I have some very bad news.”

“That fellow hasn’t come back!”

“No, it’s my ring, the one you gave me.”

“What about it?” he demanded sharply.

“I was wearing it on a chain round my neck and I decided to try it on. I could not get it off. The cook put some goose grease on it and pulled. It came flying off but it rolled away and went down the kitchen drain and it’s now in the cesspool.”

“No doubt a fitting burial for it,” he said harshly. “Is that all?”

She turned her face away. He went out of the room and slammed the door behind him. He stood with his back to the door, breathing deeply. Then he heard the sounds of weeping and opened the door again. Rose was sitting in a chair by the window. She had her face buried in her hands and was sobbing.

He went quickly across the room and knelt down beside her. “I did not mean to be so cruel,” he said. He drew her hands away from her face. Taking out a handkerchief, he mopped her tears. “You see, I had hoped you wanted to wear my ring again.”

“I did,” said Rose with a gulp.

He drew her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her and turned her face up to his. “Oh, Rose,” he said and bent his mouth to kiss her.

“Just what is going on here?” demanded Aunt Elizabeth.

Harry held firmly on to Rose. “Congratulate us. We are to be married.”

“No, that you are not. Not without her father’s permission. Leave her alone until then. There’s a telegram for you.” She held it out.

Harry released Rose and took it from her. He read it and swung round to Rose, his eyes shining. “They got him. They caught Jeffrey Biles. You have nothing to fear any more.”

“Where did they find him?”

“It doesn’t say. I’ll go back to Inveraray and phone Kerridge.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Rose.

“Oh, no, you won’t, miss,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “Not while you’re under my care.”

“It’s all right,” said Harry. “I won’t be long.”

Rose waited impatiently for the next few hours. At last Harry came back. Rose would have rushed to meet him but Aunt Elizabeth made her wait with Daisy in the drawing room.

He came in and smiled at her. “Jeffrey Biles was arrested at a lodging house in Dumfries. He’d put on a false moustache and a maid at the lodging house caught sight of him gluing it on. She told her mistress, who reported him to the police. Biles tried to say he was doing it for a joke, but the Dumfries police had a description of Jeffrey Biles and so they put him in the cells and contacted Scotland Yard. He’s on his way south. He’ll be charged first with the murder of his sister and then with the murder of Madame de Peurey. I sent a wire to your parents, Rose, to say we would all be returning to London.”

“Lady Rose cannot go with you to London without a chaperone,” said Aunt Elizabeth.

“There is Miss Levine,” protested Harry, “not to mention her lady’s maid.”

“Miss Levine is married to your servant and is therefore not a suitable chaperone.”

Harry suddenly smiled. “If you want to come with us to London, why not just say so?”

“Well, I would so like to go. I have become used to all the company and excitement.”

“Splendid!” said Rose. “But we cannot all fit into your car, Harry.”

“I will drive you and Lady Elizabeth and Hunter to Glasgow in a few days’ time to catch the London train and then Becket, Daisy and I will follow you by road.”

Charlie, the footman, entered the room. “Cook wants a word, my lady.”

“Send her in.”

Mrs. Burridge came in, followed by a small ragged boy. “Iain here is the pot boy. He said that drain didn’t go into the cesspool but in a pipe down into the river. He ran down there and guess what the lad found in the river. Show them, Iain.”

The boy triumphantly held up Rose’s ring.

“Oh, how wonderful.” Rose took the ring from the boy. Harry handed Iain a half-sovereign. “Too much!” exclaimed Aunt Elizabeth, but Iain had seized the coin and scampered off.

Harry took the ring from Rose and solemnly put it onto her finger. “I’ll keep it safe this time,” said Rose.

The logistics of moving themselves to London proved more complicated than Harry had expected. Aunt Elizabeth had a great deal of luggage. At last, they decided to hire a removal firm from Glasgow to deliver the heaviest trunks to London.

Rose felt happy and carefree on their last night at the castle. Becket played the concertina and Daisy sang music-hall songs, much to the delight of Aunt Elizabeth. The villain was locked up and Rose felt she had nothing more to fear.

Owe of the fiercest reform champions addressed a physician, listed all the
detriments of fashionable clothing and the threats it posed to health,
and said, “Must we wear that stuff? Must we become ill?” The doctor reflected
a while and finally said, “Yes, go on and wear it—better a sick woman
than an ugly one
.”

—
THE AGONY OF FASHION
BY LINE CANTER CREMERS-VAN DER DOES

London again. Rose felt she had been away for years. After the bustle of arrival, of seeing Aunt Elizabeth settled in her rooms, Rose was summoned by her parents.

Rose’s first remark was, “Why, Ma, you are quite brown!” Lady Polly screeched in horror and rushed to the mirror. “I can’t be,” she wailed. “I kept under a parasol the whole time we were in Cairo.” She turned to her husband. “Am I brown?” “A trifle,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry about it. It’ll fade.” Daisy, sitting discreetly in a corner of the room, marvelled again at the attitude of Rose’s parents. They now knew the perils their daughter had endured, and yet all Lady Polly seemed concerned with was the colour of her skin.

“Lemon juice,” muttered Lady Polly. “This is awful. I shall need to make my calls veiled.”

She turned reluctantly away from the mirror and faced her daughter. “Well, Rose, we shall need to decide what to do about you. We may as well make use of the Season now you are here. A few discreet calls at first, I think. Good heavens, child, what is that ring doing on your finger?”

Rose braced herself. “I have decided to marry the captain after all.”

“Bad connection,” said the little earl, reluctantly casting aside the newspaper he had been reading. “Nothing good will come of it except more nasty adventures and scandal in the papers. Give him his ring back.”

“I can’t,” said Rose defiantly. “He could sue me for breach of promise.”

“No, he can’t. He hasn’t got our permission, so there. You are not marrying Cathcart.”

As if on cue, Brum announced from the doorway, “Captain Cathcart.”

“Look here,” said the earl. “You’ve got no right to creep around behind our backs. You ain’t marrying Rose, and that’s that.”

“I have pointed out to you before,” said Harry, “that your daughter has a knack of getting into trouble and she will need someone like me to protect her.”

“I have to marry him,” said Rose. She threw back her head. “I am carrying his child.”

“Oh, Gawd,” said Daisy from her corner.

The earl turned puce. “You rat!” he shouted. “I should have you horse-whipped.”

Harry tried not to laugh. “Rose,” he begged. “This won’t answer. Tell them the truth.”

Rose’s shoulders drooped. “Oh, well,” she said. “I tried.”

“You mean you’re not up the spout?” demanded her father.

“No. But I do think you should let me marry the captain,” said Rose. “We could elope. How would you like that?”

“Rose, please,” begged Harry. “This is not helping.”

“The subject is closed,” roared the earl. “Rose, go to your room. You, Captain Cathcart, are not welcome in this house any more.”

When the earl and countess were left alone, Lady Polly asked her husband, “What if they do elope?”

“So what? Save us the cost of a wedding.”

“But the scandal!”

“Only one more attached to Rose’s name. Oh, take her to a few parties and get her mind off Cathcart. There are plenty of respectable men out there.”

Upstairs, Rose said goodbye to Daisy again. “I hate leaving you,” said Daisy, “but I’ve got to get back to my husband. I only came with you to see you settled in. Perhaps Aunt Elizabeth can help you.”

“Aunt Elizabeth is a stickler for the conventions, but I can try. I’ll visit you as often as I can, Daisy. Ask Brum to get you a carriage to take you to Chelsea.”

Daisy gave Rose a fierce hug. She went downstairs and waited in the hall for the carriage to be brought round.

As she climbed into the carriage, she had an odd feeling of being watched. She stood with one foot on the step and looked around. There was a man with a barrel organ at a corner of the square, cranking out wheezy tunes, a nursemaid with a child, a footman walking a dog, but no one sinister-looking.

The house in Chelsea was deserted. She found a note in the room she shared with her husband. Becket had written, “Dear Daisy, Gone out with the captain on a case. Love you.”

Daisy felt restless. The rest of the day stretched before her, empty and boring. They should have waited and taken her with them. She was now supposed to be a detective as well.

She took off her hat and went downstairs to the parlour and sat down to read the newspapers. Daisy came across an advertisement for Miss Friendly’s salon, announcing the grand opening in a month’s time. She took a note of the address and decided to go and visit Miss Friendly.

The salon was in a small shop at the bottom of Hay Hill in Mayfair. Daisy rang the bell and waited. The door was opened by Phil Marshall.

“Come in,” cried Phil. “The missus will be glad to see you.”

“You’re married?”

“Yes, we thought it was the respectable thing to do. Mrs. Marshall is in the workroom.”

He led the way up rickety stairs to a room at the top. Miss Friendly—I’ll always think of her as that, thought Daisy—was stitching away at rich material. There were three other seamstresses in the room.

“Miss Levine!” cried Miss Friendly. “How good to see you. How is Lady Rose?”

“Very well, but I am no longer her companion. I am married to Becket.”

“How splendid.”

“We did plan to start a salon with you,” said Daisy severely.

“I know. I am so sorry. But you were not in London and Mr. Marshall was so ready to help.”

“It’s all right,” said Daisy. “Are you getting ready for the big opening?”

“Oh, yes. I do hope you will come. I am going to be very bold. I am introducing a few ‘reform’ clothes in my collection.”

These clothes were the original brainchild of the Reform Movement, which urged women to stop being “lust objects.” For a long time they had fought a losing battle against the corset, blaming that argument for every illness from sore throats to corns. Doctors complained that the absence of a corset weakened the muscles. They said, “A good corset is best, a bad corset is bad, no corset is worst.”

“Do you think that is wise?” asked Daisy. “These society ladies do not want to be comfortable. They change their clothes six times a day. Maybe they want to be lust objects.”

“I am sure some of the more elderly women would welcome freedom from all the constrictions of fashionable dress.”

“I saw an interesting gown in Paris for the working girl,” said Daisy. “It was a navy-blue tailor-made with a washable blouse and a pleated skirt which showed the wearer’s entire foot.”

Miss Friendly looked shocked. “Exposing the whole foot! Oh, no, now that would be going too far.”

Daisy asked to see some of the collection and spent a pleasant hour before returning to Chelsea. The house was still empty and she wondered what Becket was doing.

Becket was at Scotland Yard with his master, Kerridge having summoned Harry.