Читать книгу A Fallen Woman - Nancy Carson - Страница 11

And so the big day at last arrived for the wedding of Harriet Meese to Clarence Froggatt. St Michael’s red-brick hulk in Brierley Hill was bedecked inside with gold chrysanthemums. Supervised by Priss the day before, the blooms were positioned to best advantage in various locations within the church with the help of Harriet’s other sisters. This exercise was not just to make it look pretty, but to elicit favourable comments also, for Priss was generally starved of any praise and strove to invoke it in whatever way possible.

Outside, the sun was shining, as if to extol its symbolic blessing on the happy, well-matched couple. There were about eighty guests, plus a throng of the uninvited curious who came mainly to inspect the bride and her dress, for she was well known in the town for her exquisite couture. Others attended merely to wish the couple well.

Eli Meese, almost as portly as his wife in his tailed coat and striped trousers, symbolically handed over his second daughter at the behest of the curate, Mr Cuthbert Delacroix, who, of the two parish clergy, had been the one favoured with the task of conducting the ceremony. This was a sop to Priss, because of her partiality to him.

Clarence turned to his bride with a proud smile. When prompted, he took her hand and repeated after the curate, ‘I, Clarence George, take thee Harriet Delicia, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.’

Looking into his eyes through her veil, Harriet took his hand in turn, as directed by Mr Delacroix, and dutifully repeated her vows. Her voice and diction were as clear as the locally made crystal glass, and the entire congregation could hear her with perfect clarity.

Cuthbert Delacroix smiled his encouragement.

‘Oh, eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind, Giver of all spiritual grace, the Author of everlasting life; send thy blessing upon these thy servants, this man and this woman, whom we bless in thy Name…’

While the two figures were kneeling at the altar listening to Cuthbert Delacroix forging this legal and spiritual bond, a clatter from among the guests on the bride’s side ensured that disdainful heads at once turned to see who the clumsy culprit might be. Algie Stokes had accidentally knocked his Book of Common Prayer onto the floor and the racket, though minor, echoed magnified throughout the nave. He stooped to pick it up and looked apologetically at Marigold.

‘Clumsy article,’ she whispered, smiling good-naturedly, her eyes brimming with forgiveness, while the curate progressed with the ceremony unperturbed.

Algie glanced around him with mild embarrassment to ascertain whom he had troubled with this trifling disturbance. He caught sight of Benjamin Sampson and Aurelia behind him, a few pews distant. Benjamin was looking straight ahead, an expression of bored indifference on his face, while Aurelia flashed a smile from under her fashionable toque. A lump came to Algie’s throat.

It seemed no time before the congregation was outside, fanning out in the elevated churchyard which overlooked Stourbridge and Audnam. This animated group of well-dressed guests nodded their smiling faces to one another in the late summer sunshine. Wisps of white cloud drifted unhurriedly overhead and a light breeze stirred the trees. The appointed photographer adjusted his huge wooden plate camera on its tripod and tried to muster the wedding group into a formal pose on the church steps. He ducked under a black shroud, his arm outstretched so he could operate the shutter on the lens and, in a muffled cry, called ‘Watch the birdie!’

The six bridesmaids were Harriet’s sisters, all as yet slender, unlike their mother who was endowed with the girth of a small gasometer. They wore gold dresses that perfectly matched the chrysanthemums adorning the inside of the church. Their girlish chatter was interspersed with giggles as they shuffled about self-consciously to find a place that would be to their individual advantage when the photographs eventually appeared for posterity. When the best man, a good-looking fellow, was asked to join the group, those bridesmaids in their later teen years vied vigorously for position next to him.

The breeze pressed Harriet’s white wedding dress in billows about her figure, and she resembled some Pre-Raphaelite heroine. She was clearly happy and excited, smiling contentedly, counting her blessings that she had been able to captivate this handsome young man at her side whose hand she was holding. She was well aware of the shortcomings in her looks, and that Clarence could have had his pick of much prettier girls in this town and beyond. But he had chosen her and she was beside herself with joy, for she could still hardly believe it. She felt like a queen. Destiny had been kind; her life was settled, her future mapped out. Graciously, she accepted the good wishes of everybody who called their congratulations. Later, at the wedding reception in the assembly rooms at the Bell Hotel across the street, she would have the opportunity to thank them all.

‘Harriet looks lovely, Algie,’ Marigold whispered as she held his hand and watched the proceedings. ‘Don’t you think so?’

Algie agreed.

‘Just think, it could have been you standing at her side if you’d decided to marry her.’ She was mindful that early on in their courtship she had deemed Harriet a dangerous rival.

He laughed. ‘Don’t be daft. I would never have married Harriet. She would never have had me anyway.’

‘Well, you never asked her.’

‘Course I didn’t ask her, you nit.’ He smiled affectionately. ‘Once I’d met you, she never had a chance.’

‘I reckon she’d have made you a good wife all the same. She’ll make Clarence a good wife.’

‘I expect she will. She’s got the makings.’

‘I bet Clarence is glad he never married your Kate, the way she turned out.’

Algie rolled his eyes. ‘It was on the cards, but the Lord help him if he had.’

Marigold, in her new outfit, looked as exquisite as a young princess. Algie had anticipated that at this event some handsome women would be flaunting themselves, bedecked in a dazzling array of finery, and he dearly wished for Marigold not to be outdazzled. Her pastel blue dress was a perfect fit, accentuating her small waist and her shapely young bosom. The girlish set of her head was enhanced by an elegant toque that sat stylishly on the mound of lush dark hair piled-up as if nonchalantly, with a deliberately wayward wisp caressing her slender neck.

As the photographer coaxed the newlyweds’ immediate families into another formal pose, Algie was conscious of somebody close behind them. He turned to look.

‘Hello, you two.’

‘Aurelia!’

His heartbeat quickened. It was always the same where she was concerned. Warily, self-consciously, he glanced at Benjamin, wondering if he had noticed his floundering reaction to her. Benjamin’s eyes were scrutinising Marigold, however, as he casually pulled out a silver cigarette case from an inside pocket of his jacket and lit up.

It is a strange but undeniably true saying that the grass on the other side of the fence always seems greener than the grass on one’s own side. So the wife of Algie Stokes seemed eminently more appealing to Benjamin than his own. Conversely, from Algie’s viewpoint, Aurelia had always seemed the most beautiful, the most exotic creature on God’s earth. Always, he was moved at sight of her. He was also acutely aware that Benjamin did not love his own beautiful young wife, and he could not understand the man’s idiocy, for she was divine. To a detached onlooker, however, there was little to choose between Aurelia and Marigold. They looked like sisters, visibly akin.

‘I love Harriet’s wedding dress,’ Aurelia admitted generously.

‘I just said as much to Algie,’ Marigold said, adding proudly, ‘and she uses the same dressmaker as us.’

Marigold glanced at Algie for his nod of approval, but his eyes were transfixed on Aurelia’s captivating face.

‘Your dress too, Marigold – it’s beautiful. Didn’t I tell you it would be some spectacle?’

Marigold smiled and touched Aurelia’s arm with sisterly affection. ‘Thank you. But so does yours.’ Marigold turned to Aurelia’s husband. ‘Don’t you think your wife looks lovely, Benjamin?’ she asked mischievously, keen to eke out of him a positive answer on Aurelia’s behalf.

Benjamin drew on his cigarette. ‘I suppose she does,’ he answered almost grudgingly, exhaling a cloud of smoke. ‘But I reckon a less expensive dressmaker could have done just as good a job.’

Both Marigold and Algie looked at Aurelia, awaiting her reply, but it was Algie who spoke.

‘Do you begrudge your wife the cost of a decent dressmaker?’ He asked the question in a conversational tone, but it was goading all the same, and deliberately so. Algie was glad of the opportunity to nark Benjamin.

Benjamin turned to Aurelia. ‘Am I right in thinking the wedding reception’s at the Bell?’

Aurelia nodded.

‘Then I’ll see you over there,’ he said curtly. ‘I’ll be in the saloon bar.’

‘As you wish, Benjamin,’ Aurelia replied, annoyed, but more than a little relieved at his exit.

Over the next quarter of an hour the wedding party drifted over in small, animated groups to the Bell Hotel. The new Mr and Mrs Froggatt welcomed their guests heartily and thanked them all for their generous gifts. When it was Benjamin Sampson and Aurelia’s turn to congratulate the happy couple, Benjamin eyed the bridegroom suspiciously, wondering if the young man might have cuckolded him, as Maude earnestly believed. If Clarence had been guilty, he returned Benjamin’s private surveillance giving nothing away. Thus, Benjamin was not at all sure. He must study them together to see how they reacted to one another before he made a rational judgement.

The guests mingled, and Marigold found herself in conversation with two of Harriet’s sisters, namely Priss, the eldest, and Emily, the third in line. Meanwhile, Benjamin talked with the bride’s father. Aurelia, clutching a glass of sherry and happy to escape the company of her husband, presented herself in front of Algie who was standing alone, an onlooker content to study the human diversity before him.

‘I thought your mother and Rose were invited to the wedding,’ Aurelia remarked.

‘Oh, they were.’ He smiled self-consciously. ‘But Rose is a bit too young. And Mother grasped that excuse to stay at home and look after her. She hates being out of the house, especially after dark.’ He shrugged, indicating he would never be able to change her. ‘Anyway, how are your two children?’

‘Fine, thank you, Algie. The nanny is looking after them.’ She sipped her sherry.

‘This nanny’s a bit different to the last one, eh?’ he said with an arched eyebrow that emphasised his directness.

‘Very different. A bit aloof, really. And middle-aged.’

He and Aurelia first met when Benjamin, who used to employ Algie, invited him to dinner at his house to discuss a business proposal. She was the most fascinating creature he had ever seen, and her beauty left him thoroughly disconcerted. He was inexorably drawn to her. Often he wished he had never set eyes on her, for she embodied not only the utterly desirable, but also the frustratingly unattainable.

‘We don’t get the chance to talk these days,’ Aurelia remarked candidly.

It was the truth, and he could utter neither confirmation nor denial. Always he had found her to be forthright, always disquietingly direct.

‘Maybe it’s for the best,’ she added.

‘How is he these days?’ Algie indicated with a nod that he meant Benjamin, then settled on Aurelia’s glistening eyes, wallowing in their deep blue depths.

‘As unpleasant as ever.’

Algie sighed, exasperated at this deplorable, despicable waste.

‘He’s hopeless with money. That share of the money my father left – you know? It’s all gone. He said he wanted it to invest in the business. So I stupidly gave in and let him have it. My guilty conscience, I suppose. But I’m sure it never was…Invested, I mean. He simply squandered it. The business is worse off than ever.’

Algie shook his head in sympathy. ‘I’m so sorry, Aurelia.’ He sounded truly sincere. ‘Things don’t look good for Sampson’s anyway, from what I hear. But if there’s anything I can do to help…to help you, I mean, not him or his business.’

She put her hand on his arm in acknowledgement of his concern, and it was like a pleasurable bolt of electricity surging through him. ‘You have your own responsibilities these days, Algie.’

‘I’m all too aware…’

‘But Marigold is a treasure. She’s my one true friend these days. I don’t know what I’d do without her.’ Then her face lit up with a smile and her vivid eyes widened, so appealingly. ‘I understand your business is doing well, though. Marigold tells me you’re expanding already.’

‘We’ve got a full order book, if that’s any indication. We’re making as many bikes as we can, but it’s not enough to meet the orders we keep getting.’

She laid her hand on his arm again affectionately; always the sort of woman who had to touch and feel. ‘I’m so glad for you, Algie.’ She stood on tiptoe and placed a kiss briefly on his lips, then looked steadily into his eyes, as if apologetic that it was such a brief kiss when both would have favoured a lingering version. But then, she was always so disconcertingly forward. ‘I’m so glad for you,’ she added.

Benjamin was at that moment a particularly riveted observer, observing what appeared to be strong empathy between his wife and Algie Stokes.

Just then, an usher called out, asking everybody to take their places at table.

* * *

At the top table, portly Eli Meese sat next to the groom’s mother, Mrs Beatrice Froggatt. She was an unassuming woman, attired in a plain but well-made blue chiffon dress that buttoned up to her throat, where was fastened a blue and white cameo brooch. Clarence’s father, the eminent Dr Froggatt, enjoying a day off from tending the sick and dying of the parish, rubbed shoulders with Eli’s heroically proportioned wife, mother of the bride, and done-up like a turkey cock in a vast cream concoction which, when she tacked down the aisle of the church, resembled the wind-filled mainsail of some fabled argosy.

An old friend of the groom, Robert Sankey, tall, athletically built and handsome of face, was the best man. He had distinction, came across as being casual in demeanour and just a little bit negligent of his attire, but not of his dark, glossy hair. He sat next to Priss Meese, the chief bridesmaid. By their very number, the younger bridesmaids spilled out onto the adjoining tables that flanked the room, but their eyes were fastened on this appealing Robert Sankey.

Because of her fussy nature, Priss seemed to spend only half her time at the table, constantly up and down, watchful, hospitably anxious, ensuring that things were going right and that everybody was content. She perceived it was her duty as a member of the bride’s family to spread herself amiably among the guests. Priss was even plainer of face than her newly married sister was, and her fleecy dark hair unravelled relentlessly into an unruly mop as the afternoon advanced.

At the two long trestles sat various relatives, mutual acquaintances of the bride and groom from the Brierley Hill Amateur Dramatics Society, and from St Michael’s Church, including Mr Cuthbert Delacroix, the curate.

Aurelia sat next to Algie Stokes. Marigold sat opposite him, with Benjamin Sampson at her side facing Aurelia.

Benjamin engaged Marigold in conversation, oozing the smoothness that he could turn on like a tap when with an attractive woman. Nevertheless, Marigold knew too much about him for it to have any effect. Besides, her former life on the narrowboats had taught her wiliness. She was entirely aware, too, of the business rivalry between Benjamin and Algie, how Benjamin had conspired to lure Algie with false promises during their catastrophic relationship as employer and employee. She knew that only Algie’s resentment at being thus exploited had prompted the momentous leap into starting his own business – Ranger Cycles – with the help of a hundred pounds he borrowed from his mother. To Benjamin’s profound envy and irritation, that small rival business was thriving.

Marigold had not the slightest notion, however, of the depth of Algie’s partiality for Aurelia.

Because Marigold and Benjamin were sitting so close to them during the wedding supper, conversation was confined between the four of them, with only the occasional word to those others sitting near them. After the customary speeches, when everybody had partaken of a drink or two and had become a little more relaxed and the general hubbub more noisy, their comments to each other loosened up, talk focusing on the bride and groom at first; neutral territory and uncontroversial.

‘How long have they been courting?’ Aurelia asked conversationally.

Algie shrugged. ‘A year. Eighteen months. I’m not sure exactly.’

‘Soon after he gave up your sister then, Algie?’

‘Must have been.’

‘Do I understand from that, Algie, that Clarence Froggatt courted your sister?’ Benjamin queried, desperately trying to home in on their conversation while also blarneying Marigold.

‘For a time, yes. And she led him a merry dance, I believe.’

‘Well, I’m hanged. I never knew. I bet my wife knows all about it, though.’

‘Only because Marigold told me,’ Aurelia answered dismissively.

‘Well, I suppose she has an interest in knowing what Clarence is up to at any time, since she was engaged to him once.’ He smiled all round to suggest it was a well-intentioned, rational comment, spoken without rancour.

‘Once upon a time,’ Aurelia answered coolly, irritated that he should refer to her in the third person rather than speak to her directly. ‘It was a long time ago. But why should I want to keep tabs on Clarence Froggatt? We went our own separate ways. And he looks perfectly content that we did.’

‘Even so,’ Benjamin replied. ‘You still know things about him that I don’t. I just wonder how you know.’

‘Women’s gossip, how else? Anyway, why shouldn’t I be curious? Why shouldn’t I want to wish him well?’

‘This sister of yours, Algie…is she here?’

‘It’s hardly likely, Benjamin, she lives in Norfolk,’ Algie explained. ‘When she’s not performing.’

‘Performing?’

‘She’s an actress,’ he said in a low voice.

‘An actress?’ Benjamin grinned. ‘Well, I’m blowed. Is she a well-known actress?’

‘Well known on the vaudeville stage in London. I doubt if many will have heard of her outside London, though.’

‘She must be a good-looking girl.’

‘Oh, she is,’ Marigold chimed in, generous in her praise. ‘She’s gorgeous-looking. Gorgeous figure, lovely face. She can really fetch the ducks off the water, I can tell you.’

‘Gorgeous, eh?’ Benjamin mused. ‘You must be quite proud of her, Algie.’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Oh? Why’s that?’

‘Because…’ Algie offered no further explanation.

‘Oh…one of those actresses, is she?’

‘Whatever she is or is not, she married some wealthy aristocrat,’ Aurelia informed him.

‘Aristocrat? I’m impressed. And I suppose Marigold told you that?’

‘Benjamin, I really don’t recall,’ was the scornful response.

‘A Lord something or other,’ Marigold interjected. ‘Done well for herself, she has. But with her looks she could have anybody she wanted.’

Benjamin looked at Algie. ‘So is that a valid reason for not being particularly proud of her? For being gorgeous, for marrying a lord and doing well for herself?’

Nobody offered to explain. After a few embarrassing seconds of silence, Benjamin said, ‘Well, if it’s a touchy subject…’

‘It is,’ Algie replied bluntly.

‘Anyway, Aurelia, you seem to know quite a lot about Algie’s sister as well,’ Benjamin said, addressing her directly this time. ‘You seem particularly well informed about Clarence Froggatt’s past love life.’

‘Yes, well, he’s worthy of a bit of gossip,’ Aurelia responded pointedly. ‘Don’t you think so, Marigold?’

‘I suppose so,’ Marigold replied. ‘Except there’s not much to gossip about, is there? Nor where Harriet’s concerned. She’s hardly the sort to do anything worth gossiping about. But Algie knows more about Harriet than anybody. He courted her for a couple of years. Didn’t you, Algie?’

‘In a half-hearted sort of way, yes.’

* * *

The curate of St Michael’s – whom Priss, Harriet’s older sister, had set her sights on from the day of his appointment to the parish – was in his late twenties, tall and rather gangly. His hair was floppy and already thinning, and neither could he be deemed handsome. However, as Priss had never possessed the wherewithal to trap a handsome beau, she felt she could make herself perfectly content with the curate’s unremarkable looks. She saw a liaison as a possible meeting of minds in any case, for Priss was intelligent, keenly religious, and she wallowed in the notion that she would thus make the curate an excellent wife, and able to offer incomparable support in his vocation.

So, avoiding even the polite attentions of the handsome Robert Sankey, whom she knew of old (and with whom she was well out of her depth), she set about another round of the guests. She made sure her tour took her to the curate, and to her delight and utmost surprise, he invited her to sit beside him for a minute or two.

Cuthbert Delacroix was famed in the parish for his ancestors, an aspect of him that particularly impressed Priss. Speculation about his forebears had been intensified and enhanced and, while he had never discussed them with Priss directly, some exaggerated tales had reached her ears, and she had mentally exalted these supposed forebears to the status of mythical ancient gods. In consequence, these imagined ancestors had overawed Priss and somewhat inhibited her self-confidence before him. The distinct lack of notables in her own family led her to believe that Mr Delacroix must perceive her as common. So to hide her inferiority she had duly kept her distance, comfortably yet disappointingly revering him from the relative lowliness of the family pew.

‘I understand you are a teacher, Miss Meese,’ he remarked, when they had done with small talk about the wedding.

‘Yes, I teach at the Dudley Proprietary School for Girls.’

‘I say! An excellent school for young ladies, I understand. What subjects do you teach?’

‘English and Divinity,’ Priss answered, with an emphasis on the latter.

‘How interesting. And do you enjoy your subjects?’

‘Oh, very much,’ Priss enthused. ‘Particularly Divinity,’ she felt bound to say to enhance her appeal. ‘I feel privileged to be in a position where I can disseminate the word of our Lord quite liberally, and in such a high-class educational establishment.’

The curate smiled enigmatically. ‘How very interesting. But you know, I would have thought English a vastly more interesting subject.’

‘Oh, but I love teaching English as well, Mr Delacroix. My girls are a delight to teach. Three of them are my sisters, you know.’

‘You have sisters who are pupils at the school?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘How fascinating. D’you find them attentive pupils, or does their familiarity breed a certain amount of contempt for you as a teacher?’

‘They treat me as they would any teacher, and I treat my sisters as I treat any other pupils, Mr Delacroix,’ Priss answered with a smile that put a sparkle in her eyes. ‘One wrong move and I’m down on them like a forge hammer.’

He smiled amiably. ‘No favouritism there, then?’

‘None at all. You can’t afford favourites if you want the respect of all your pupils.’

He raised his right hand and wagged his index finger. ‘I’m sure you are right, Miss Meese.’

Priss smiled demurely, and felt herself colour up at the curate’s sincere compliment. ‘I’m fascinated by your ancestors, Mr Delacroix,’ she remarked, hoping to eke some factual information about them, but also keen to divert emphasis from herself. ‘Is it true that you are a descendant of William the Conqueror?’

The curate roared. ‘Dear me, I doubt it. My ancestors were in fact Huguenots,’ he explained. ‘Somewhat later in history than the Conqueror, but hence the French-sounding name I’m saddled with.’

‘Huguenots!’ Priss sighed, as if it were a great relief. ‘I heard that you are a direct aristocratic descendant of William the Conqueror.’

‘Then I fear I must be a massive disappointment.’

‘Oh…au contraire, Mr Delacroix. They were persecuted then, your ancestors.’

He shrugged. ‘The persecution of the Huguenots of France is well documented.’

‘I understand they were such clever people. They brought brilliant talents with them when they arrived on these shores, to the detriment of France in the long run.’

‘Just so. But at the time, the French were more concerned with the Huguenots’ heretical religious beliefs.’

‘I trust you don’t follow in their footsteps yourself though, when it comes to heretical beliefs,’ Priss remarked, wide-eyed and gaining in self-confidence.

‘I’m afraid I do.’ He smiled enigmatically. ‘But that’s strictly between us, Miss Meese.’

‘Indeed? Well, there’s a turn-up!’

‘Does that shock you?’

‘I…I don’t know,’ she answered, half in admiration, half in disappointment. ‘I suppose it rather depends on the degree of heresy. I wonder if I would approve or disapprove.’

‘Then might I be so bold as to suggest that we meet sometime and perhaps discuss my heretical beliefs?’

‘Oh, Mr Delacroix!’ Priss exclaimed, feeling quite deliciously hot at this entirely unexpected invitation. ‘I would be very happy to. When should we, do you think?’

* * *

Harriet had taken the day calmly, a little surprised at her own detachment. For some weeks she had been very excited, wound up about her forthcoming marriage, but on her wedding day a remarkable calm had descended on her. She had married Clarence Froggatt, and all had passed off without a hitch, without anybody claiming at the last minute any just cause or impediment why they should not be joined together in holy matrimony.

She saw it all with exceptional clarity; the nervous perspiration on Clarence’s nose, his perpetual smile that day; the confidence in Robert Sankey’s demeanour as best man, the clever speech he delivered; the striking figures of those of her sisters in their blossoming teen years – although they were no doubt destined, as she was, to grow stout eventually, like their mother. She was touched by her mother’s tears, which she hoped might be regret at losing a daughter, though more likely just relief that a wedding had come off after all, meaning one less daughter to keep.

She and Clarence were circulating the room together arm in arm, enjoying brief discourses with each of their guests against a background of tinkling glasses, sporadic laughter and the insistent thrum of many conversations. They reached eventually the foursome comprising Algie, Marigold, Benjamin and Aurelia, standing grouped together, having left the table while it was being cleared. Harriet had something in common with these young people now; she was also married. She was at last content that she had attained that heady state of social acceptance and respectability that was the goal of every self-respecting young woman – wed to a well-set-up young man with a solid future in prospect. At last, she was the equal of Aurelia whom she had envied greatly, not for her man – certainly not for her man – a little for her looks, but mostly for her status.

Talk at first was complimentary; how marvellous everybody looked, what a terrific spread Mr Meese had arranged, how delightful the bridesmaids were in their identical frocks, how beautifully Priss had decorated the church.

‘Oh, Priss was at the church till quite late last evening doing the flowers,’ Harriet commented.

‘What it must be to have such a devoted sister,’ Algie remarked, making the mental comparison with his own.

‘You think so? I thought you knew our Priss better than that, Algie. I’m sure it had more to do with the likelihood of bumping into the curate.’

‘It looks as if her prayers are being answered,’ Clarence commented with a nod in Priss’s direction. ‘Mr Delacroix seems almost indecently attentive. How much has he had to drink?’

Harriet craned her neck to gain a peek. ‘Oh, but I do hope you’re right, Clarence,’ she gushed. ‘She’s drooled over that man for so long now, poor girl. I’d dearly love to see her settled.’

‘Just think of it,’ Aurelia chimed in, ‘the prospect of another wedding on the horizon.’

‘Father would have a fit.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘The expense.’

‘But, Harriet,’ Clarence said, laughing at her reaction, ‘a man with seven daughters must expect to be impoverished for the rest of his life, especially if he pays for their weddings.’

‘I don’t recall your father paying for yours, Aurelia,’ Benjamin goaded. ‘I seem to recall that I paid.’

‘I have two retorts to that, Benjamin,’ Aurelia replied haughtily, while he swigged his beer. ‘Firstly, I didn’t want my father’s money, or anything else that was his. And secondly, I believe you’ve been repaid since…with interest.’ She was referring to the small legacy from her late, estranged father, money that Aurelia had been pressed into handing to Benjamin to help prop up his ailing business.

Benjamin flashed narrowed eyes at her in response.

Algie noticed the exchange, for he knew what Aurelia meant by her comment. ‘Have you played much cricket this summer, Benjamin?’ he asked in an effort to diffuse the moment.

‘Too busy,’ he answered brusquely, glancing at Aurelia, for it had been Maude Atkins and the irresistible combination of her horizontal allure and her bed that had kept him busy, not his factory.

‘The team has missed you,’ Clarence admitted generously. ‘I’ve only played a few matches myself but, when I have, we could’ve done with your batting. Other people have said the same. You really must make an effort next season, Benjamin.’

Benjamin afforded himself a smile, but avoided all eye contact. ‘I’d like to, I’ve always loved cricket.’

‘You’d get your place back in the team at once.’

‘I take it then, Clarence, that you’ll be allowed out on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon to play next season?’

‘Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘Isn’t it a question of Harriet allowing it?’

Clarence, humouring Benjamin, looked at Harriet exaggeratedly and raised his eyebrows to prompt her for a response.

‘Oh, I don’t suppose Harriet will have much say in the matter, Benjamin,’ Harriet herself declared. ‘Clarence will do as he pleases and that’s fine by me. I wouldn’t wish to be accused of restricting him, especially where his cricket is concerned.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Benjamin said, smiling again. ‘But, Clarence, what’s kept you from your cricket when you ain’t played?’ He was fishing. Could Clarence have been clandestinely meeting Aurelia on match days, while he, Benjamin, was doing his extramarital duty with Maude?

‘The only time I’ve not played was when work was pressing,’ Clarence responded. ‘You’ve obviously no idea how much time and effort a chap has to put in to pass his final examinations.’

‘And that’ll continue, even now you’re married?’

‘I shall try not to let work interfere with married life, you can be sure. Nevertheless, with a wife to keep…’

‘Your house is ready now, isn’t it?’ Aurelia suggested.

‘House?’ Benjamin queried, looking from one to the other and wondering how and why his wife would know about a house…unless she’d visited it…

‘Yes, we’re renting a house…for the time being, at any rate. You have to start somewhere, Benjamin.’

‘Yes, course you do. I’m just curious as to how my wife knows about it.’

Clarence shrugged. ‘Well, it’s hardly been shrouded in secrecy. Just part of the parish gossip, I expect. To tell you the truth, I’ve been renting it for quite a while.’

‘It amazes me how Aurelia gets to hear all these things. She gets to hear about everything. I get to hear nothing.’

‘Maybe it’s the company you keep,’ Aurelia replied pointedly.

‘I get to hear gossip, and I pass it on to Aurelia,’ Marigold declared, determined to protect Aurelia. ‘Mostly from Algie, though.’

‘From Algie, eh? But of course, Algie and Harriet were close once upon a time,’ Benjamin added with deliberate crassness. ‘Whereas you, Clarence, were formerly close to Algie’s famous sister, I understand.’

‘We were friendly for a while, yes,’ Clarence replied dismissively.

While Benjamin persisted with his clumsy enquiries, Algie turned to Aurelia in an aside and they shifted a step away from the rest of the group. ‘Why is Benjamin being so damned thoughtless? He’s got a bee in his bonnet about something. Has he been drinking?’

‘Only what he’s had here, as far as I know.’

‘Obnoxious twit. I couldn’t care less about his being aggressive to Clarence, but poor Harriet deserves more consideration. It’s her wedding day, for God’s sake. What’s she done to offend him?’

‘Nothing, I imagine, Algie. But you know Benjamin. Do you think I ought to try and get him to leave before he upsets somebody?’

‘That’d mean you leaving as well. Why should you have to go?’

Her eyes twinkled into his and her lips curled into a lovely smile. Algie’s stomach turned somersaults.

‘No, I don’t want to go,’ she whispered, still looking tellingly into his eyes. ‘I’m enjoying myself. But if Benjamin is going to be objectionable…’

At that moment, Benjamin turned and saw an unmistakably warm look for Algie in his wife’s eyes once more. He wasn’t sure that it meant anything other than misguided admiration, but he’d seen that look before – for himself – in the days before they were married, when she was smitten. But the way Algie was standing…so close to her…too close.

‘Aurelia, it’s time we left,’ he spouted decisively. ‘I’ve got things to do.’

‘Then go,’ she said, embracing the sudden alluring possibility of him departing without her. ‘I’m not leaving.’

‘Blowed if you’re not. You’re coming with me. I’ll drop you off at home. Otherwise, how will you get back? I certainly won’t allow you to walk home alone at night from here.’

‘Such gallantry doesn’t become you, dear.’

‘We can take Aurelia home,’ Algie suggested. ‘We’ve ordered a cab for eleven o’clock. It’s hardly out of our way, and there’ll be plenty room for Aurelia.’

Aurelia beamed. ‘Thank you, Algie. I accept your very kind offer.’ She turned to her husband. ‘So you see, Benjamin, you don’t have to worry about me. Algie and Marigold will look after me and deliver me home safely. So you can go about your business with a perfectly clear conscience.’

Benjamin eyed Algie with a measure of suspicion. Before today, he’d never considered that Aurelia could feel anything for a man as mundane as Algie Stokes, a man who used to be one of his own lowly employees. Yet the prospect of cavorting with Maude Atkins right then was growing in appeal, becoming an increasingly powerful influence. ‘Right-ho…But what if I come and collect you myself afterwards?’

‘What’s the point?’ Aurelia queried impatiently. ‘Why trouble yourself when Algie and Marigold have so kindly offered to take me home?’

He shrugged. ‘Then I’ll see you at home. Cheerio, everybody…’ He made to leave, then turned and put on one of his charming smiles. ‘Oh…thank you for a lovely day, Harriet. You too, Clarence. I wish you both every happiness.’

‘Thank you,’ they said in unison, and took their leave of the threesome that remained.

At that, Robert Sankey appeared, thrusting himself amiably into the trio.

‘Aurelia!’ he greeted, beaming, focusing only on her. ‘At last I get the chance to say hello. How are you? You look absolutely ravishing.’

‘Thank you, Robert, and so do you. It’s been such a long time.’ She smiled radiantly. ‘Let me introduce Marigold, my very best friend, and her husband, Algie Stokes.’

Robert looked directly into Marigold’s eyes with a broad smile, and took her hand. ‘Delighted to meet you, Mrs Stokes.’ He looked from one woman to the other. ‘It’s been a long time since I was in the company of two such beautiful girls at the same time.’

Marigold smiled back, delighted at receiving such a compliment from this attractive and distinguished-looking young man. It gave a definite boost to her confidence. ‘It’s nice of you to say so,’ she replied, and felt herself blushing.

He turned to Algie. ‘Mr Stokes,’ he said, offering his hand, and they shook. ‘Happy to make your acquaintance.’

‘Likewise,’ responded Algie. ‘You’re obviously a friend of Clarence.’

‘I know Clarence – and Harriet – from the Amateur Dramatics Society. I was more of a stagehand, helping out behind the scenes during performances – for a while at any rate. Long before it all collapsed, of course.’

‘Robert is the son of Elijah Sankey, owner of Sankey’s Glassworks in Audnam,’ Aurelia informed them.

‘For my sins,’ he admitted modestly. ‘By the way, did you know the folk from the Amateur Dramatics Society are frantically getting the thing restarted?’

‘Well, they’ll have to do it without the dubious auspices of my late father,’ Aurelia remarked.

‘Oh, indeed. We shall use a different name too. “The Brierley Hill Players” is favourite. With all due respect, Aurelia, we can’t afford to be seen to have any connection with your late father, dear old Murdoch Osborne.’

‘Not if you value your reputations,’ she agreed. ‘Why taint yourselves with his?’

He smiled affably, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Marigold thought him so appealing.

‘Actually, we are looking for new recruits. We really could do with some good-looking young women. There are some plum parts in the offing. Aurelia…? Mrs Stokes…? You qualify admirably. Do I hear you offering your services?’

‘Oh, it’s not my cup of tea, Robert,’ Aurelia answered. ‘And I certainly don’t think your members would welcome Murdoch Osborne’s daughter. How about you, Marigold?’

‘Oh, I think I might like it, Mr Sankey.’

‘Do call me Robert, Mrs Stokes.’

‘Thank you, I will. And you can call me Marigold.’ Her blush was reignited.

It was the first time anybody had flirted with Marigold since she had fallen in love with Algie, and she was flattered and affected by this handsome young man’s attention.

‘So, Marigold, you might like to join the Brierley Hill Players?’

‘I would…but only if my husband will allow it.’ She glanced at Algie for his approval.

‘Over my dead body,’ he protested.

‘So, Mr Stokes—’

‘Algie,’ Algie interjected, forcing a smile in an attempt to hide his irritation at the man’s presence and his visible effect on Marigold. ‘Everybody calls me Algie.’

‘Very well…Algie. I was about to say, Marigold is exactly what we Players need. Why deny her the opportunity to become involved, even to act, if that’s what she would like to do? I’m sure she’d be outstanding.’

‘It’s the first I’ve heard about any urge my wife might have to try her luck at acting, outstanding or not. My sister was a part of your troupe, and to say it turned her head is a bit of an understatement. I’m blowed if I’ll allow my wife to become involved.’

‘So, is your sister Kate Stokes, by any chance?’ He sounded surprised.

‘You remember her?’

‘I do indeed. Unforgettable. A rather exotic-looking girl. Didn’t Clarence—’

‘Yes, Clarence did. But Clarence was one of the lucky ones. He got away unscathed.’

‘Well, anyway, ladies,’ Robert Sankey said in an effort to extricate himself from what was turning out to be an embarrassing conversation. ‘If you – or your husbands – ever change your minds…’

‘Oh, Algie won’t change his mind, Robert,’ Marigold said resignedly. ‘But we’d both love to come and see one of your plays, wouldn’t we, Algie?’

‘Yes, we don’t mind seeing your plays.’

* * *