The Wedding Game (2 page)

And both Prudence and Constance would be right.
The Mayfair Lady
and the Go-Between ensured the independence of the Duncan sisters, and kept their father in relative comfort. While Prudence and Constance now had husbands well able to take care of them financially, neither woman was prepared to give up that independence.

At the thought of her father, Chastity gave an involuntary sigh. One that her companion heard, even as he saw the slight puff of her veil.

“Is something the matter?”

“No,” she said. “Our business for today is concluded, I believe, m'sieur. I will go back to my office and consult with my si—my colleagues. You will 'ear from us by letter within ze week.” She stood up, holding out her gloved hand.

He took it. “How will I meet suitable prospects?”

“You will be told,” she said. “Always assuming that we can find a woman as willing as you to settle for a convenient marriage devoid of respect and affection. Good afternoon, Dr. Farrell.” She left him in the embrasure before he had time to recover his wits.

He took a step after her, anger replacing incredulity at her tart tone as much as her words, but she was hurrying through the busy gallery and he couldn't see himself arresting her to demand an apology in such a public place. But he would have one nevertheless. Of all the stiff-necked, self-righteous statements. How could she possibly know the realities of his work?

Of course, a little voice reminded him, he hadn't told her of those realities, of the other side of his work, but that was not something he chose to broadcast to all and sundry. And besides, it was not relevant to the service the Go-Between was offering.

For all the progressive views put forward in
The Mayfair Lady,
it was clear that its writers and editors were people—women, he assumed—of means as well as education. They would know nothing of the dismal streets of Earl's Court, the tumbledown row houses where rats ran freely and the stench from the outhouses poisoned the air. They would know nothing of the realities of the tuberculosis and dysentery that lurked in every dark corner, of the desperate mothers trying to scrape together a penny for milk for their rickety children, of the men out of work, many of them drinking away whatever coins they could get, in the noisome public houses that littered every street corner. Oh, no, it was one thing to pontificate about women's suffrage and equal rights under the law, quite another to pit such grandiose views against the grim realities of the underclasses.

Douglas Farrell strode from the gallery, still seething. Growing up fatherless in a household that comprised his mother and six older sisters, a household of chattering, squabbling, yet smothering women, he was inclined to sympathize with fellow Scot John Knox and his complaint about the monstrous regimen of women. True, Knox was referring to the queens who three hundred years ago had ruled England and Scotland, but Douglas, as he had threaded his way through the maze of womanhood that had dominated his youth, took a certain savage satisfaction in applying the comment to his own situation. An abundance of love could be as much of a disadvantage as too little, he had decided some years ago, and had managed to reach the age of thirty-five without succumbing to the trap of matrimony.

It had been a narrow escape with Marianne, the voice of honesty reminded him, but the little murmur was ruthlessly suppressed. The past was the past, and now he was ready to sacrifice the peace of bachelordom to the interests of his passionate commitment to the poor of London's underworld, and whose business was that but his own?

He could see no reason why the wealth of some privileged aristocratic woman shouldn't go towards improving the lot of the suffering men, women, and children whose existence he was certain she would barely acknowledge. And he could see no reason why he shouldn't put his considerable medical skills to work to the same philanthropic end, exploiting the hypochondriacs who could well afford to pay for his services. So, by what right did that undersized veiled creature with that ridiculous fake accent prate to him about love and respect in a marriage? She advertised a service and it was none of her business why her clients chose to avail themselves of it. He'd been cured of love matches, and if he'd wanted one now he'd have gone and found one for himself.

Fuming, he stalked down the steps of the museum and marched off in the direction of St. James's Park, hoping that the cold air would cool his temper, as indeed it did. By the time he'd crossed the park and reached Buckingham Palace, his customary sense of humor had reasserted itself. He had learned from the age of five that when dealing with women a sense of humor was essential if a man was not to court insanity.

Chastity hurried across Trafalgar Square, this time ignoring the pigeons who rose up in a flapping, cooing flock from around her feet. She hailed a hackney at Charing Cross, gave the cabbie the address of 10 Manchester Square, and climbed in, wrinkling her nose at the smell of stale tobacco that clung to the squabs.

She had been looking forward to meeting Douglas Farrell. That day when he'd walked into the corner shop to buy a copy of
The Mayfair Lady
, she'd found something intriguing about a doctor who practiced in the wretched area around Earl's Court. And she'd been very intrigued by one who bought several pounds of sweets. Far more licorice and humbugs than any one person could consume, and Chastity knew her own capacity when it came to the consumption of sweets to be more than ordinary. She had wondered if he'd been buying them for the poor children who attended his surgery at St. Mary Abbot's. It was an idea that had sparked her own empathetic nature and had made her eager to meet the man. But he was very different in person from how she had imagined him.

She put back her veil with a little sigh of relief as the cool air laved her overheated complexion. Mrs. Beedle had seemed to like him, but of course it stood to reason that the keeper of a small corner shop wouldn't have intimate knowledge of her customers. Was he living in Kensington? It seemed likely if he patronized Mrs. Beedle's shop. It was respectable enough, but hardly a fashionable address for an up-and-coming Harley Street physician. Convenient enough, of course, for an Earl's Court surgery. And presumably cheap enough. And money, of course, was one of his problems.

Chastity told herself that the Go-Between was a matchmaking service and passing moral judgment on its clients was not part of that service. If you looked at it from one point of view, the doctor had merely been blunt and to the point in stating his objectives.

It was just a hard point of view for Chastity to take. Dr. Farrell was coldly calculating. He wanted a wife who was both rich and influential, a woman that he could use for his own purposes. It made her scalp crawl. She was aware of an overwhelming sense of disappointment.

The cab drew up outside the imposing facade of No. 10 and she stepped down to the curb before paying the driver. She then hurried up the steps to the front door, shivering in a gust of wind that swept across the square garden. Jenkins, the butler, opened the door for her before she reached the top step.

“I saw the cab draw up, Miss Chas,” he said by way of explanation. “There's a bitter wind this afternoon.”

“It smells like snow,” Chastity said, stepping into the hall that was warmed by a fat steam radiator. “Is my father in?”

“His lordship hasn't left the library, Miss Chas,” Jenkins said. “He says he thinks he's getting a bit of a chill.”

“Oh, dear.” Chastity frowned as she took off her gloves and hat. “Should we call the doctor?”

“I asked, but he said no.”

Chastity nodded. “I'll go and see him. Perhaps he'd like some tea with whisky.”

“I took the whisky decanter in just after luncheon,” Jenkins said.

Chastity frowned again. Lord Duncan had become increasingly depressed since the libel case that had exposed the perfidy of his erstwhile bosom friend, the earl of Barclay. The case had exposed both his friend's betrayal and his own blind stupidity in trusting him. It was the latter that troubled Lord Duncan the most, or so his three daughters believed. Through his own stupidity he had lost the family fortune, entrusting it to a man who could be trusted only to deceive and defraud. As a result, Lord Duncan's daughters had turned
The Mayfair Lady
and the Go-Between into paying propositions whose income for a while had kept their father in ignorance of the true state of the family finances. That fact too was eating away at Lord Duncan's pride. The fact that his daughters had kept the truth from him while making shift themselves to keep the household from bankruptcy was something with which he could not come to terms.

Chastity went towards the library and hesitated, her hand raised to knock. Since Prudence's marriage six weeks earlier, Chastity was the only daughter living at 10 Manchester Square and the burden of Lord Duncan's increasing depression lay heaviest upon her shoulders. It was not that her sisters wouldn't share the burden, but simple physical distance from the house separated them from the moment-by-moment recognition.

She tapped lightly and then went into the room. It was in the semidarkness of late afternoon, with only the glow from the fire providing any illumination. “Wouldn't you like the lamps lit, Father?” she asked, closing the door behind her.

“No, no, I'm fine as it is. We don't want to waste the gas,” Lord Duncan declared heavily from the depths of his armchair beside the fire. “Time enough to light them when it's dark.”

Chastity frowned. One way her father dealt with his new knowledge of the true state of the household's finances was to insist on small and pointless economies. “Jenkins said you're not feeling too well, Father. Should we call Dr. Hastings?”

“No, no. No need for the expense of a quack,” his lordship declared. “It's just a chill.” He reached for the whisky decanter and Chastity noticed that the level was down about two-thirds. She knew that Jenkins would have brought it in full. Her father didn't seem the worse for wear, but he had a very strong head. He probably wasn't drinking any more than usual, she reflected, it was just that he was drinking alone, whereas in the old days he would have been at his club with his cronies. She couldn't remember when he'd last gone to his club.

“Are you dining out tonight?” she asked, forcing a cheerful note into her voice.

“No” was the unadorned negative.

“Why don't you go to your club?”

“I'm not up to it, Chastity.” He took a deep draught of his whisky.

“Well, why don't you change your mind and come with me to Prudence and Gideon's dinner party?” she coaxed.

“I declined the invitation, my dear. I'm not going to change my mind on a whim and upset your sister's table arrangements.” He leaned forward and refilled his glass.

Chastity gave up. Her father could never be met head-on, one had to approach obliquely. She leaned over and kissed him. “Stay in the warm, then. I'll see what Mrs. Hudson has for your supper.”

“Oh, just some bread and cheese will do.”

Chastity sighed, reflecting that her father's economic martyrdom was actually harder to handle than his blithe spending of the past. “I'm going to Prue's early to dress for dinner there, so I'm going to get my things together now. I'll pop in and say good-bye before I leave.”

“Very well, my dear.”

Chastity left the library and encountered Jenkins lighting the gas lamps in the hall. Lord Duncan, even if he could have afforded the innovation, considered electric light an abomination of the modern world. “Could you light the ones in the library?” she asked. “Father says he doesn't need them, but he can't go on sitting in the dark, it's so depressing.”

“If you ask me, Miss Chas, his lordship needs something to take him out of himself,” Jenkins said.

“I know. My sisters and I are racking our brains trying to come up with something,” she responded. “Maybe Christmas will cheer him up. He always likes the Boxing Day hunt.”

“We'll hope so,” Jenkins said, sounding somewhat doubtful. “I wanted to make sure about the timing for Christmas, Miss Chas. Mrs. Hudson and I will be going down to Romsey Manor on the day before Christmas Eve.”

“Yes, and the rest of us will come down late afternoon on Christmas Eve, after Lord Lucan and Hester Winthrop's wedding,” Chastity said. “The reception is a luncheon affair, so we should be able to catch the four o'clock and be there in time for the caroling.”

“Very nice it will be to have a grand family Christmas again,” Jenkins said.

Chastity smiled a little wistfully. “Yes, we haven't really had a proper one since Mother died. But with Prue and Gideon and Sarah, and Mary Winston, and Constance and Max and the aunts, it's going to be wonderful.”

“In the old tradition,” Jenkins agreed. “I'll go and light the library lamps now. I've told Cobham you'll be needing him at six. He'll bring the carriage around. You'll be staying the night with Miss Prue . . . Lady Malvern, I should say,” he added.

“Not to her face, she won't know you're talking to her,” Chastity said with a chuckle. “But, yes, I'm staying the night, and Sir Gideon's driver will bring me back in the morning.” She left him in the hall and went towards the kitchen regions to consult with the cook, Mrs. Hudson, on the subject of her father's dinner.

“Oh, don't you worry, Miss Chas,” Mrs. Hudson said comfortably. “I've a fine brace of pheasant for his lordship, with applesauce, just as he likes it. And there's his favorite chestnut soup, and I've baked a cream custard. Tempt his appetite nicely, that will.”

“I knew you'd have it organized,” Chastity said. “It certainly smells delicious in here.” She smiled, bade the cook a cheerful farewell, and hastened upstairs to get together her clothes for the evening.

It still felt strange and rather lonely sometimes being the only one left in the house. In the old days the sisters would dress together, moving around between bedrooms, sharing clothes, jewels and trinkets, curling irons, asking one another's opinions of particular items of dress. Both Constance and Prudence were very aware of Chastity's possible loneliness and went out of their way to ensure that she spent almost as much time with them now as she had when they were all together under the same roof. Very rarely did Chastity dress alone if she and one or both of her sisters were attending the same social event; she had a standing invitation to stay at both houses. Natural delicacy kept her from overusing the invitation. Much as she liked her brothers-in-law and knew that the liking was mutual, she didn't want to intrude on her sisters' marriages.