The Bachelor List (21 page)

There was an instant's expectant pause but Max remained silent, nonchalantly leaning against the stone wall, hands still firmly inactive in his pockets.

“I'll help you, Chas.” Prudence released her supporting hand on the fuel can as Constance took its now reduced weight, and went off with her sister.

Constance set down the half-empty can, unscrewed the top on the second one, and hefted it onto her hip. She didn't look at Max.

He couldn't maintain the charade as he watched her struggles in the flickering lamplight. “Here, let me do it.”

“I can manage, thank you,” she said with icy dignity. “You wouldn't want to spoil your clothes. Or dirty those so-perfect hands. Why, you might even break a fingernail.”

“Give that to me.” He stepped forward and laid hold of the can. For a moment she resisted, then realized that they were both going to end up drenched in this foul-smelling spirit if they wrestled over its possession. She relinquished it, controlling a sigh of relief, and stepped back, wiping her hands again on her apron.

“So, the idea is for my father to run out of fuel so that the car will strand him somewhere?”

“That is the idea.” He set down the half-emptied can and unscrewed the top on the third one.

“But won't he notice that these are only half-empty?” Constance was fascinated now.

“They won't be. We're going to mix the spirit with lamp oil.” He set down the third can and casually wiped his hands on Constance's apron. “Is there a tap in the yard?”

“By the horse trough.”

She followed him out into the moonlit yard and stood back while he rinsed his hands at the tap and dried them on his handkerchief. She followed suit at the tap. “What will happen then?”

“You have to get the mix of spirit and lamp oil exactly right for the engine to run smoothly. We're not going to worry about the correct proportions, so the motor will run for a little once the tank's been replenished from the spare cans and then sputter and die. It won't come to any harm, but it will be very inconvenient for the driver.”

“You mean that every time he thinks he's got it going again, it'll stop?” she said with an awed nod. “Oh, that is very clever. It will drive him mad. I think I may have underestimated you, Mr. Ensor.”

“Now, that would be unwise.” He looked at her as she stood in the shadowy silver light of the moon, apron-wrapped, disheveled, her hair coming loose from its pins, a streak of dirt smeared across her cheek, a film of sweat on her forehead. “I ceased to underestimate
you,
Miss Duncan, somewhere around the time you were climbing over stiles.”

She smiled slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead with the back of a damp hand. “And has anything else occurred to confirm that opinion, Max?”

Would he say anything about
The Mayfair Lady
?
Drop just a hint that would tell her whether he'd seen the edition in the parlor?

The sound of a barrel rolling across the cobbles stilled any response he might have made. Chastity and Prudence rolled the wooden barrel of lamp oil towards the open garage doors. Max licked the corner of his handkerchief and wiped the smear of dirt from Constance's cheek before following her sisters into the garage.

Thoughtfully, Constance followed. Tomorrow there was the WSPU meeting, and afterwards they were to have dinner. There would be opportunities to probe a little then. But she decided she wouldn't mention the matter to her sisters, not until she had some idea of whether they had cause for concern.

“I hope we didn't go too far,” Chastity said in Fortnum and Mason the following afternoon. “He went out in that motor at eleven o'clock this morning and he wasn't home when we left.” She took a forkful of the meringue on her plate, neatly scooping up escaping crème chantilly as she bore the morsel to her lips.

“In the company of the earl of Barclay,” Prudence reminded her, refilling her teacup. “I'd worry more if he was alone.”

“I think the company of Barclay is worse than no company at all,” Constance stated, setting down her pen and raising her head from the sheet of paper on the table in front of her. “I was having a rather interesting conversation with Dolly Hennesy this morning. I bumped into her at the hairdresser's.”

“Gossip, Con?” Prudence took an almond slice from the plate on the table. She raised her eyebrows, her light green eyes teasing. “I thought you didn't have time for it.”

“I don't,” her sister replied, sipping her tea, unperturbed by the teasing. “But this is germane gossip. Barclay, it seems, is suspected of philandering.”

Prudence no longer looked amused. “That's hardly unusual,” she said grimly, driving her fork into the cake. “Father's not exactly pure as the driven snow.”

“But I don't believe our father goes around fathering offspring on women in his employ.”

Prudence set down her fork and pursed her mouth in a silent whistle. “No,” she agreed. “That he would not do. What are you saying?”

“That the earl of Barclay is well known for dabbling in such brooks,” Constance declared. “At least two women, from what I heard.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping. “I also hear that he has something of a reputation in his clubs for not being . . . how shall I put it? Not being exactly prompt about settling his gambling debts.”

“I know he's loathsome,” Chastity said, her own eyes wide at this revelation. “But surely not even Barclay would do something so . . . so ungentlemanly,” she finished for want of a better description. A failure to settle gambling debts in a timely fashion was probably the most heinous social crime.

“If it's true why hasn't he been blackballed?” Prudence asked, going straight to the heart of the matter.

Constance shrugged. “It seems that no one is prepared to come out and accuse him to his face.”

“But why ever not?” Chastity picked up a neglected hazelnut with delicate fingers. She gazed intently at Constance as she popped the nut between her lips.

“I was thinking a discreetly anonymous hint at the possibility of a scandal in the pages of
The Mayfair Lady
might elicit an answer,” Constance said with a distinctly evil smile. “I don't really care a fig about the gambling debts but I cannot abide men who won't honor their responsibilities to women. We brought Henry Franklin up to the mark, why not Barclay? Mother would approve.”

Prudence nodded with a degree of satisfaction. “That is certainly true.” She wiped her mouth on her napkin and frowned for a moment in thought. “And he couldn't possibly get back at us,” she said slowly. “We're anonymous. It's just an anonymous broadsheet.”

Constance hesitated, wondering whether perhaps she should confide her anxieties about what Max might have seen the previous evening.

“Something bothering you, Con?” Chastity, as usual, caught the flicker of uncertainty on her sister's face.

“No,” Constance said definitely. “I'm trying to think how to write an obliquely accusatory piece. Have another meringue . . . those coffee ones look delicious.”

“Not that you would sully your delicate taste buds to try one,” Chastity observed, helping herself to the pale golden meringue.

“My pleasure is of the vicarious variety.” Constance glanced at the clock at the end of the tearoom. “I have to get to Kensington Town Hall by six o'clock, to meet with Emmeline before the meeting itself starts.”

“And you have to dress for dinner with Max afterwards,” Prudence said. “We should get going.”

“Well, take a look at this.” Constance passed across the paper she'd been writing on. “I was roughing out the piece on Barclay. It's crude at the moment, but we have time to refine it.” She gestured to the waitress for the bill.

Prudence glanced at the sheet, shook her head doubtfully, and passed it to Chastity. “However you refine it, Con, it's incendiary.”

Constance shrugged. “Men who do what he does have to bear the consequences.”

“I hope to God he never discovers who wrote it.”

“Father will be mad as fire if his friend's attacked like this,” Chastity observed, rather anxiously, as she perused the paper. “You know how devoted he is to Barclay. And he always stands by his friends regardless of the rights and wrongs of an issue.”

“We won't publish it yet. I need to check some of the facts and gather more ammunition. It may take a couple of months to get it all together.” Constance took back the paper. “Dolly had the name of one of the women. She's in some Home for Fallen Women in Battersea. I'll go and talk to her first.”

“How does Dolly know these things?” Chastity asked.

“Her housekeeper happens to be the cousin of Barclay's housekeeper.” Constance folded the paper and slipped it into her handbag. “Dolly has tentacles that reach everywhere when it comes to gossip.”

“I hope they
don't
reach everywhere,” Prudence said with feeling. “At least not as far as Ten Manchester Square.” She gathered up her gloves and bag. “Let's go. Maybe Father will have made it home by now.”

They caught an omnibus outside Fortnum and Mason and arrived home to find Lord Duncan, red-faced and bursting with frustration and fury, pacing around the hall.

“Damned machine!” he exploded as they walked through the door. “Had to leave it in Hampstead. Right in the middle of the heath!”

“Why, what happened?” Constance asked, drawing off her gloves, her expression all sympathetic interest.

“Broke down! Not once but four times, would you believe! Damnable things, they are. Horses don't break down on a man.” His lordship wiped his sweating brow with the jaunty checkered cravat he'd worn for his drive.

“Oh, dear,” said Chastity, laying a soothing hand on his arm. “How disappointing for you. Jenkins, bring his lordship a whisky.” She kissed her father's cheek. “Tell us exactly what happened.”

“No, don't,” Prudence murmured sotto voce to Constance, as Chastity urged her father into the calming atmosphere of the drawing room. “I don't think we need to know.”

Constance shot her a warning look and followed her sister and parent, unwinding her chiffon scarf as she did so.

“Wouldn't have been so bad if Barclay hadn't been there,” her father declared, his voice still brimming with fury. “There I was, boasting of this damned Cadillac, supposed to be more reliable than that Panhard of Barclay's, and what does it do but strand us in the middle of the heath. First hill we come to, it gives up, rolls back to the bottom.” He took the full glass of whisky offered to him by a studiously impassive Jenkins.

“‘Run out of fuel,' Barclay says, ‘must have used more than you thought yesterday,' so we refill it and it starts . . .” He paused to drain the glass. Jenkins, at his elbow, took it from him without instruction. “Starts up sweet as a nut. We get to the top of the hill, go a quarter of a mile, and it stops again. Just stops dead.” He took the refilled glass. “Three times . . . we refilled it three times, would you believe?”

Oh, yes, we would.
Constance carefully avoided her sisters' eyes.

“Drained all three damned cans, then we had to walk all the way to the Bull and Bush. Just leave the bally motor right in the middle of the heath and walk. Miles, it was. Hot as hell. If it hadn't been for that Ensor fellow, it would still be sitting in the middle of the heath and we'd be twiddlin' our thumbs in the pub.”

“Max Ensor?” Constance stared at her father. “How did he come into this?”

“Turned up at the Bull and Bush in a Darracq. Damned fine-looking motor. Drove us back to the Cadillac and towed the damned car back to the mews. And that's where it's going to stay until they come and take it away. Give me a damned horse anyday.” He drained the second glass.

“How convenient that he appeared so fortuitously,” Constance said. “As it happens, I'm having dinner with him tonight.” She kissed her father. “I'm glad you're back safely. It must have been very frustrating, but Cobham won't be sorry to see the back of the motor.”

Her father gave a reluctant crack of laughter. “No, damn his eyes. If his legs weren't so stiff he'd have danced a jig when he saw it towed in . . . well, I approve of Ensor. You have my blessing. Not that that would make any difference to you one way or the other,” he added gruffly.

“Yes, it would,” Constance said. “I wouldn't want to disoblige you, Father, in anything. None of us would.”

He regarded her closely, then smiled. He seemed to have recovered his equilibrium. “No, I don't believe you would. Just like your mother . . . all of you. But you'd oblige me by getting a husband or two. Take a closer look at this Ensor, Constance. I like the fellow.”

“Oh, I think I'll wait to be asked before I start planning my wedding,” Constance said lightly. “Now, I must go and dress.”

Chapter 14

K
ensington Town Hall was deserted at six o'clock when Constance arrived. She hurried across the foyer and into a small cramped office at the rear. Emmeline Pankhurst and her daughter Christobel were talking in low tones with several other women.

“Constance, there you are,” Emmeline greeted her with a warm smile. “There's coffee, if you'd like.” She gestured to the coffeepot, but Constance, who knew how thin and ungrateful a beverage it contained, declined.

“We were just talking about a petition,” Emmeline said. “One we would present at Westminster. If we could get together a large group of women prepared to march together to present it, we might get some favorable publicity. We thought we'd bring it up at the meeting tonight.”

“We'd certainly get publicity,” Constance said. “I wouldn't want to bet on whether it would be favorable.”

“Well, it doesn't matter. Publicity is what we want if we're to raise the consciousness of women,” Christobel declared with a militant air. Her mother, who took a rather more patient, long-term view of their movement, frowned a little, but knew better than to antagonize her daughter.

“I've invited a guest tonight,” Constance said, brushing crumbs off the corner of the metal table before perching on it. “A Member of Parliament.”

“A supporter?” Emmeline leaned forward with interest.

“Not yet. In fact, he says he doesn't see the point of women's suffrage, but he goes so far as to say that he's willing to tolerate an opposing point of view.” She couldn't help a slightly ironic lift of her eyebrows.

“Pompous ass!” declared Christobel.

“He can be,” Constance conceded, wondering why her hackles prickled at Christobel's declaration when she'd almost invited it. It was one she had been known to make herself. “However, isn't part of our mission to educate?”

“Is he educable?” demanded the younger Pankhurst with the same scorn.

“He's not a simple primate, Christobel,” Constance said sharply. The other woman flushed slightly and fell silent.

“We might learn something from him ourselves,” Constance continued in a milder tone. “He already mentioned that the government was considering the issue of women taxpayers. Maybe he can tell us more.”

“Who is he?”

“Max Ensor. His constituency is Southwold. He won a fairly recent by-election, but from what I can gather he has the ear of the Prime Minister.”

“Well, let's meet him this evening. Any interest shown in the movement by an MP is promising, even if he's not yet a supporter.” Emmeline gathered up a sheaf of leaflets from the table. “Will you hand these out at the door, Constance? It's just a notice about the petition.”

Constance took them. “Who's taking names tonight?”

“Geraldine, would you?” Emmeline turned to a thin, tall, elegantly dressed lady standing by the window.

“Yes, of course,” she said in a soft voice.

“Then I think we're ready for the fray. Christobel is going to speak tonight and we'll invite questions from the floor.” Emmeline rose from her chair. “Let's open the doors.”

Constance took up her post at the door, handing out her leaflets to the women who hurried up the steps. They were women from every social stratum, some well dressed, some shabbily, some worn down with manual labor, some with hands that had never touched a washing-up bowl. But they all bore a similar expression, eyes bright with excitement and hope, energy and commitment radiating from them. They took the leaflets, some greeting Constance by name. She kept her eyes on the steps, watching for Max. There were a few men present, some alone, some with women. Constance was relieved to see that it was going to be a sizable crowd. It would have been embarrassing, not to mention unhelpful to the cause, for Max to have witnessed a sparsely attended meeting.

As it happened, she was in deep discussion with a woman she knew very well and missed his arrival.

“Do I get one of those?”

She jumped at the sound of the rich voice behind her and spun around. “Oh, I was looking out for you and then I got distracted.” She held out a leaflet. “If you want one, then of course you may have one.”

“Thank you.” He took it, glancing at it as he did so. “A march on Westminster?”

“The presentation of a petition,” she said. “You'll hear more if you come in. We're about ready to start.”

He nodded and followed her into the hall. Constance stopped at a small table where her colleague sat with the sign-in book. “Geraldine, this is the Right Honorable Max Ensor. Max, may I introduce the Honorable Mrs. George Brand.”

Geraldine offered her hand. “Good evening, Mr. Ensor. Welcome.”

“Will you sign your name, or would you prefer not to make your attendance a matter of record?” Constance asked, trying not to make a challenge of the question. “We don't insist.”

“I have no objection,” he said, and signed his name in the book. “Why should I?”

“No reason that I can see,” Constance said. “I'll sit with you. Normally I sit on the platform, but I won't this evening.”

He smiled. “I am honored, ma'am.”

“Don't be,” she responded. “I merely intend to ensure that you sit it out to the end.”

He shook his head in mock admonition and followed her to the front of the hall.

It was a lively meeting. Christobel had the ability to fire an audience in a way that her mother lacked. She spoke with a militant fervor that had the audience cheering, and questions came thick and fast when her speech was over. Constance contributed nothing, but sat quietly, vibrantly aware of Max beside her. He said nothing either, but he had evinced no restlessness, no impatience, no hostility to the speech. She cast him several sideways glances but could read nothing from his expression. The meeting ended promptly at eight-fifteen; there were many women in the audience who had to be back under their employers' roofs when the two hours between tea and supper that constituted their evening out were over.

As Constance rose to her feet she glanced behind her and saw Amelia standing at the rear of the hall. She must have arrived late. She had said how rarely she could make a meeting. Max had stood up now and he seemed to Constance suddenly to stand out like a sore thumb, head and shoulders above everyone else in the hall, exuding male power and privilege. She pushed past him with unseemly haste and as she reached the aisle managed to catch Amelia's eye. But Amelia had already seen her employer's brother. For a second she shot a startled, questioning glance at Constance, then she turned and hurried from the hall into the gathering dusk on the street.

One other complication that would have to be explained, Constance thought. They had decided not to tell Amelia in advance that they had designated Max as Henry's prospective employer. It had seemed a bridge best crossed if the plan worked out.

“Why the hurry?” Max asked when he'd finally managed to ease his way out of the row and into the aisle.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to push past you, but I thought I saw someone I wanted to speak to. I wanted to catch her before she left, but it wasn't her.” She smiled up at him. “What did you think?”

“I don't know,” he said. “I need time to digest.”

“Would you like to meet Emmeline and Christobel? I told them you would be here.”

“In what capacity?”

“A neutral observer,” she replied.

“That seems accurate enough. ‘Lay on, Macduff.' ”

“A most educable primate,” Constance murmured.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, nothing . . . nothing at all.” She gave him her radiant smile and took his arm. “Come, let's meet the Pankhursts.”

They went up to the platform where the speaker and the women who'd accompanied her on the dais were surrounded by a group of voluble questioners.

“Constance, this must be Mr. Ensor.” Emmeline, with impeccable courtesy, moved through the throng as soon as she saw them. A curious silence suddenly fell as they all realized there was a man among them.

Max felt like a circus animal. He smiled with what he hoped was a pacifying benignity and shook Mrs. Pankhurst's hand. “Thank you for allowing me to listen in, ma'am,” he said. “A most interesting meeting.”

“Interesting or merely amusing, sir?” The sharp question came from Christobel before her mother had had a chance to respond. She stepped forward, regarding him with sardonic hostility.

“I do not find this issue amusing, madam,” Max said in a voice that would cut steel. His eyes, as cold and blue as glacier ice, stared at her with undisguised contempt. “You would do well to consider that if you wish to make friends of those in a position to help you, it's sensible not to make enemies of them first.”

Constance drew in a sharp breath. She knew he could bite, but she hadn't realized quite how hard. She was torn between loyalty to Christobel and the reluctant acceptance that the woman had been unpardonably rude without provocation.

“We're all a little wary, Max,” she said. “We've made friends with influence before and they've let us down. You have to understand that we don't trust easily.” Her voice was quiet and reasonable.

Christobel's angry flush died down and she extended her hand to Max. “Constance is right, Mr. Ensor. It's a case of once bitten twice shy. But I apologize if my comment was gratuitous.”

He smiled without resentment and took the proffered hand. “I understand, Miss Pankhurst.”

“I hope you'll come to another meeting,” Emmeline said. “We're quite shameless in our desire to recruit supporters in the government.”

Max tapped the leaflet he held in the palm of his other hand. “You're planning a march on Westminster.”

“It would help us greatly if a Member of Parliament would be willing to accept the petition,” Emmeline said.

Constance felt Max stiffen and stepped in quickly. “Let's not make assumptions, Emmeline. We're not the press gang. This is not conscription.”

Emmeline nodded. “You're right. Your mother would have cautioned in exactly the same way.” She smiled at Max. “You never met Lady Duncan. She was a remarkable woman.”

“I can imagine. I've met her daughters,” he replied.

Constance decided she'd had enough of this. “You'll have to excuse us, Emmeline . . . Christobel. Max has another engagement.”

They made their farewells, and once out on the street, where a few gas lamps now glimmered, Constance exhaled in a soft whistle.

“Awkward,” Max agreed. “I hadn't expected to be ambushed.”

“No,” she agreed. “But desperation can cause generally intelligent people to sabotage their own interests.” She tucked her hand into his arm as they began to walk down Kensington Church Street. “On the subject of sabotage, how did it happen that you turned up in the right place at exactly the right time in order to rescue my father?” She looked up at him, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“Mere coincidence,” he said.

“Liar. There was nothing coincidental about your arrival at the Bull and Bush on Hampstead Heath at the same time as my furious parent.”

“He was certainly not a happy man,” Max said. “I rather got the impression that your little device had succeeded. He was swearing he'd never touch a motorcar again.”

“Yes, it succeeded, all right. But I still want to know how you happened to be there at the same time.”

“I didn't see any virtue in making him any more uncomfortable than was necessary to achieve your object,” he said. “So I followed them out of London. You have no objections, I trust.”

“No . . . no, of course not. The poor darling was at the end of his tether by the time he got home as it was.”

Max puzzled over the warm, affectionate tone she had used. It didn't seem to jibe with the exasperation he had noticed usually accompanied references to Lord Duncan. “Is your father a difficult parent?” he asked, stopping under a street lamp outside a small restaurant. He hadn't meant to probe this subject but somehow couldn't help himself.

Constance laughed, but it was a slightly self-conscious laugh, he thought. “No, he's incredibly indulgent. He never interferes with us at all.”

“Then why does he annoy you?”

“Annoy me?” she exclaimed. “How could you say such a thing?”

“Give me some credit, Constance. I'd have to be blind and deaf not to notice how exasperated you and your sisters often seem when his name's mentioned.”

Constance sighed. She could see no alternative to offering him a partial truth. “He's very stubborn,” she said. “He gets ideas in his head that he won't let go. And they're not always very good or sensible ideas. Our mother managed him very well, so well that he never noticed he was being managed. When she died there was no one to put the brakes on. He lost a lot of money at one point on a foolish venture and we decided we'd have to learn to do what our mother did if we weren't going to end up in the poor house. We don't succeed all the time, and we do get frustrated.”

“I see. I didn't mean to pry. Shall we go in . . .” He gestured to the restaurant behind them. “I made a reservation here. It's pleasant and very quiet. Unless, of course, you'd rather go somewhere more distinguished.”

“No, this will be lovely.” She was surprised at his choice of such an unpretentious, out-of-the-way spot, but also charmed by it. It was very small, the six tables basking in the soft glow of candles. They were shown to a table in the window by a cheerful woman, who greeted Max by name and shook his hand warmly.