A Fatal Freedom (5 page)

‘Mrs Trenchard,’ a small woman bustled into the little group, her generous curves beautifully contained in tightly tailored, bright pink linen. She said with determination, ‘It is votes for spinsters and widows we fight for, not all women.’

‘And,’ said Mrs Mudford, looking as though she chewed on a lemon, ‘you, Miss Fentiman, did the cause no favours by your behaviour the other day. Quite disgraceful. If your father were still alive, he would be ashamed of you.’

Miss Fentiman, her eyes sparkling, opened her mouth but, once again, Mrs Trenchard took the initiative. ‘I thought what Rachel did was splendid. That is what our Movement needs: action.’

Ursula, refilling cups of tea while Enid passed round the cucumber sandwiches and exquisite pastries Cook had produced, saw a rustle of interest pass through the others at the party. Up until that point, groups of two or three had enjoyed exchanging conversation with one another. Now it was as if the curtain had gone up on a stage.

Had all Mrs Bruton’s guests come on the recommendation of Mrs Trenchard? Ursula wondered, giving a recharged cup to a slight woman in a stylish grey silk outfit. She had not seemed on easy terms with any of them.

‘Mrs Mudford, will you not ask our hostess how she would feel if, having received the vote, she had it taken away from her on the occasion of a remarriage?’

The other woman bridled. ‘You go too far, Mrs Trenchard. Next you will be saying there are women who will vote differently from their husbands.’

‘Surely,’ Rachel Fentiman said in a most reasonable voice, ‘no woman of intelligence would allow herself to be instructed on how to place her vote?’ She turned to her hostess. ‘Mrs Bruton, I have only just met you and we have hardly exchanged more than half a dozen words, but you have the look of a woman of intelligence. Tell us, if you will, did you allow your husband to monitor and guide all your thoughts?’

Mrs Bruton took a sharp intake of breath and for a moment Ursula saw something flash in her employer’s eyes. Then she smiled warmly. ‘Why, Miss Fentiman, you are too kind. My intelligence could never match that of Mr Bruton and I was therefore happy to accept his views. I have always held that it is a wife’s duty to defer to her husband. Of course,’ she added, ‘there were small matters, concerning the household for instance, where he allowed me to make such decisions as were required.’

There was an appreciative little rustle amongst the other women.

‘But,’ continued Mrs Bruton hastily as Mrs Tenchard seemed about to speak, ‘I think the point about a widow on remarriage having to give up the vote, should we women be fortunate enough to be granted such a privilege, well, that is something to be thought about indeed.’

Another little rustle of approval.

Mrs Mudford looked as though she was gathering herself together for a determined assault and Ursula, fascinated by the arguments being displayed at what she had thought would be a purely social occasion calling for chitchat of the most inconsequential kind, waited for what came next.

The doorbell rang.

Enid was at the far end of the drawing room with two women hovering undecided over a plate of pastries, so Ursula went into the hall, a little curious over who the visitor was. All the guests had arrived and this was not an hour for the leaving of cards.

The moment she opened the door, a heavy man pushed past her. ‘I know she is here, useless to try and stop me.’ He threw the words at her and charged into the drawing room, still wearing his bowler hat.

Ursula, astonished, followed preparing to apologise to Mrs Bruton for not being able to stop the intruder.

She was given no opportunity.

The man went straight to Rachel Fentiman. ‘Where is she? You have no right to withhold such information from me, her lawful husband.’

‘What do you mean?’ Miss Fentiman said haughtily. ‘What information do you think I’m withholding?’ Then her attitude suddenly changed. ‘Are you saying that Alice has left you?’

‘Don’t pretend ignorance. Don’t pretend that my wife doesn’t tell you everything.’ He grabbed her by the shoulders; they were much of a height and his gaze locked with hers. ‘You must know where she has gone.’

For a moment Ursula thought he was going to shake the information out of the girl. But Mrs Bruton said, ‘Sir, I do not know why you should intrude in this rude manner but you have no business molesting my guests.’ Her tone was every bit as icy as Rachel Fentiman’s.

The rest of the guests were silent but Ursula could feel an electricity running through the group, as though it was a cord that bound them in suspension. If the stranger actually tried to attack the girl, she was convinced the waiting women would swoop on him like a pack of vengeful Furies.

The man dropped his hands and turned to his hostess, his face a mask of anger.

‘And who are you, Madam?’

His solid face, with its heavy jowls and strong cheekbones, seemed designed for confrontation. Pouches under small eyes and broken veins in the fleshy nose hinted at dissipation. A large black moustache failed to hide a mean mouth.

‘If you will not introduce yourself,’ Miss Fentiman said coldly, ‘then I shall have to make you known to Mrs Bruton. First, though, remove your hat.’

Additional hate flashed over his countenance as he snatched off his bowler. Ursula smoothly removed it from his grasp, earning her one of his vengeful looks.

‘This gatecrasher,’ the girl’s voice dripped scorn, ‘this remnant of humanity, is Mr Joshua Peters of Montagu Place. My sister, Alice, has the misfortune to be Mrs Peters.’

Ursula realised with astonishment that the man must surely be the client Thomas Jackman had told her about after his quarry had disappeared from the menagerie.

‘Mr Peters, this is Mrs Bruton and it is her tea party you have invaded,’ continued Miss Fentiman.

Joshua Peters glared at his hostess. Confronted with his hostility, she backed away, a hand at her lace collar, her face pale.

For a long moment it seemed as though the intruder was searching for a method of attack, and his hostess for some course of action that would defuse his anger.

‘If Alice has brought herself to the point of leaving you, I can only congratulate her good sense,’ Miss Fentiman said.

He rounded on her again. ‘Your sister was a well-behaved wife until you taught her to forget her duties.’

‘You mean encouraged her at last to stand up to your bullying.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Where is she? It is my right to know.’

Miss Fentiman laughed derisively. ‘An abusive husband should have no rights.’

Ursula admired the girl’s ability to maintain her composure in the face of his anger. She also wondered how it must feel to be married to such a husband. The man she had married in America, and followed across the prairies to a silver mine in the Sierra Nevada, had had many faults and she had suffered in his company, but Jack had also been charming and fun and from time to time made her feel loved and wanted. He had been nothing like this bully.

Joshua Peters let out a howl of frustration and lunged at his sister-in-law. Several of the watching women leaped forward and grabbed his arms.

‘Shall I send for the police, Mrs Bruton?’ asked Ursula.

‘I … I …’ Mrs Bruton seemed too flustered to speak. She looked at the man struggling against the restraining force of four women who were visibly challenged by the effort needed to keep him under control, their faces anxious but determined. The hostess took a deep breath. ‘I think Mr Peters would rather leave with a certain amount of dignity instead of being handcuffed to a police constable.’

The colour faded from the man’s face, leaving it a sickly grey. He stood quite still and gazed at the hostess with a stricken expression. The women released him, stepping back and looking at their hands as though they had touched something disgusting.

Joshua Peters ostentatiously brushed down the sleeves of his jacket and fought for self-control. When he spoke, his voice was steady and vindictive. ‘Mrs Bruton, you will hear from me. You will regret inviting that viper into your society.’ With a last venomous glare at Miss Fentiman, he walked out of the drawing room.

Ursula hurried after him. He snatched his hat and wrenched open the front door. She grasped the handle, frustrating any intention he might have of slamming it shut, then watched as he stalked down the steps, cast one last look of hatred at the house and stormed off down the road.

Ursula closed the door and turned to see Mrs Bruton standing in the hall looking after her uninvited guest. Then she moved back into the drawing room and said in a voice that was once again under control, ‘Ladies, that ill-mannered intruder has departed. Enid, please ask Cook to make fresh tea.’

There was a collective sigh of relief. But Joshua Peters’ unpleasant invasion had destroyed the carefully cultivated atmosphere.

Mrs Mudford, her lips tight with distaste, was the first to say goodbye.

‘So kind, Mrs Bruton,’ she said as though she could hardly bear to utter the words. ‘I must leave now.’

Ursula accompanied the departing guest to the door.

Mrs Mudford declined to offer any thanks as she drew on white gloves with sharp, angry movements. Instead, without glancing at Ursula, she said, ‘What a hussy. No wonder that man was half demented.’

Did she mean Miss Fentiman or Mrs Peters?

Ursula found herself manning the door as guest after guest followed Mrs Mudford with apologetic murmurs of thanks. They gathered on the pavement, then walked with heads bent together, no doubt discussing the extraordinary way the tea party had ended.

Ursula closed the door behind the last of them with a decisive click.

In the drawing room Rachel Fentiman was sitting down, her head bowed, her face white, her hands clasped tightly together. The composure she had displayed in front of Joshua Peters had finally cracked.

Mrs Bruton collapsed into a chair, her face almost as pale as Miss Fentiman’s. ‘What a disaster,’ she muttered as Ursula came in. ‘What a disaster.’

Mrs Trenchard looked around the room and spied a side table with spirit decanters. ‘Brandy, that’s what’s needed,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Such a shock as we have all had.’ She found two glasses, charged them from one of the decanters, and supplied Mrs Bruton and her niece.

‘This, I think, will help to calm your nerves.’

Miss Fentiman drank half the glass, choked slightly, then seemed to pull herself together. ‘I am so sorry, Mrs Bruton,’ she said. ‘That was an appalling display of bad manners you and your guests had to witness.’

Ursula moved quietly around the room collecting up discarded cups and plates.

‘How did Mr Peters know that you were here?’ Mrs Tenchard asked, sitting beside her niece on an upright couch. ‘I told no one I had suggested to Mrs Bruton she sent you an invitation for this afternoon. Did you?’

‘Only Martha.’ She gave half a laugh. ‘You know how interested she is in all my movements.’ The girl turned to Mrs Bruton. ‘Martha was my mother’s maid and now looks after me, more of a housekeeper than a maid. Mr Peters must have gone to my apartment.’

‘Do you really not know where Alice is?’ Mrs Trenchard asked.

Miss Fentiman set her half-finished glass down. ‘I know she has been trying to summon up the courage to leave that brute; she should have done so a long time ago. It was only after …’ she broke off, then said in an agitated voice, ‘but she promised to let me know before she acted. I … I was afraid Mr Peters would use force to prevent her.’

‘Hmm.’ Mrs Trenchard smoothed down the skirt of her linen suit. ‘My dear sister, your mother, told me before she died that she did not think the marriage was proving a success. She regretted not persuading your father that Joshua Peters would be an unsuitable match for Alice.’

‘I pleaded with Papa,’ said Miss Fentiman. ‘But he was obdurate.’

‘Why did your Papa think Mr Peters should be married to your sister?’ broke in their hostess. She caught herself. ‘Forgive me, I have no right to pry into your family matters, but having seen what happened here, in my drawing room …’ She lifted a hand, then let it fall back in a gesture of helplessness.

‘Mrs Bruton, it is we who should apologise for bringing our worries into your delightful surroundings,’ said Miss Fentiman. ‘As to why Papa wanted Alice to accept Mr Peters’ proposal, it was because he is rich.’ She rolled the word round in a way that made it sound disgusting.

‘Rich?’ said Mrs Bruton faintly.

‘I know money should never be discussed in polite society,’ Miss Fentiman said. ‘But it has to be stated. Joshua Peters has made a fortune out of import and export. Alice has lacked for nothing material. In all other areas she has been poor indeed.’

Placing the last cups and saucers on a tray, Ursula wondered if the gentleman the girls had been with at the menagerie would be mentioned.

Mrs Trenchard rose. ‘Dear Mrs Bruton, I do apologise for the ruination of your delightful tea party. Come, Rachel, we must leave our hostess to peace and quiet. Will you come home with me?’

Ursula saw them out, then took the tray downstairs and told Enid and Cook that the guests had departed.

Mrs Evercreech sighed and removed a large kettle from the stove. ‘Just as it’s coming to the boil. Isn’t that life?’ She lifted it up with sinewy arms and placed it on the side.

Ursula laughed; she and Cook had quickly established an understanding, each respecting the other’s place in the household and enjoying their brief contacts.

The drawing-room bell rang and Enid hurried upstairs. Ursula followed more slowly and found Mrs Bruton sitting with her eyes closed, an expression of intense concentration on her face.

She looked up as Ursula entered. ‘That was not quite the tea party I had planned,’ she said, her tone ironic. ‘Thank you for your help.’

‘I’m afraid there was not much I could do, Mrs Bruton. Is there anything you need just now?’

‘No, Enid is just about to get me more tea and it is time for you to leave. Tomorrow is one of your days, I think?’

After assuring her employer she would be there the next day, Ursula returned downstairs, said goodbye to Cook and Enid and left via the basement entrance. As she emerged from the steps up on to the pavement, she found Miss Fentiman waiting for her.