“Upon calming down, that’s exactly what he did believe-a wink or two and an extra orange slipped into the woman’s bag, that sort of thing. I didn’t know what to think. Poppa looked so smug. Quite like Tobias when he knows we know he has been in the pantry. When we mentioned Constable Beaker, Poppa said he was glad the police had time on their hands. He told us that his wife had dragged her suitcase out from under the bed on the morning of the twenty-seventh November and announced she was leaving to take up a life of prayer and abstinence. I kept picturing her trudging some lonely road clad in sackcloth, but Paris relieved my mind on that score. He said my mother-in-law had telephoned the afternoon of her departure and told him she had found a safe harbour at the seaside. Ben spent the rest of our visit to the flat saying that a change of scene would do his mother the world of good and that he was certain she would soon come to her senses and return home, to the embarrassment of the gossips.”
Primrose clasped her papery hands. “Paris! I do hope he was named for the Trojan. So romantic, that whole story! Aphrodite and the apple, the incomparable Helen: the face that launched a thousand ships. Foolish of me, but as a young girl I used to think I would be quite satisfied if I could launch a couple of rowing boats.”
I know the feeling. I suppose every woman does on her honeymoon…
The Hostelry was known the length and breadth of England for its home-away-from-home atmosphere. So said the liveried porter as he carried our luggage into the bridal suite. But looking around at the cream and gilt splendour, I could believe Ben and I were guests in someone’s home-a someone who did not know we were here and would have been hopping mad if he knew we were treading down the pile of his champagne carpet, fingering his filigreed light switch plates and fogging his rococo mirrors. The marble fireplace reminded me of monuments in St. Anselm’s churchyard. Drawing a silk handkerchief from his gold-braided pocket, the porter flicked a single speck of dust from a carved rose on the headboard of the exquisitely fragile Louis XIV bed.
“Slept in by the Empress Josephine.”
“I trust the sheets have been changed since her visit.” I had to say something, anything, to draw attention from the fact that Ben had rested a hand on the garlanded footrail while probing in his pocket for change.
The instant we were alone, I buffed away his fingerprints and examined the petit point rug in front of the fireplace. Ah ha! A footprint. Breathlessly, I ordered Ben to remove his shoes.
“And my socks and my…” My beloved’s voice was hushed and raspy. This Versailles away from Versailles atmosphere was getting to him too. He kicked off his shoes without untying the laces (I would have to break him of that habit) and pulled me into his arms. When I could break away from his kiss, I had to repeat three times that we should unpack and go downstairs to the restaurant. Ben had to be starving.
“Ravenous.” He was unbuttoning my jacket. “We’ll have something sent up later. Maybe breakfast… tomorrow evening. We can unpack some other time.” He was sliding my jacket off my shoulders, a look of intense concentration on his face. Was he thinking about his mother? Pondering Mrs. Jarrod’s true role?
“My nightdress!” I closed my eyes; even as I responded to his renewed kisses I regretted not finishing that last chapter of
“It’s a gorgeous nightdress. Pearl pink, one of a kind. Made from the gossamer wings of one thousand and one Arabian fireflies.” I trailed a finger under his chin. That sublimely masculine chin, betraying, as with dark, impassioned lovers everywhere, a hint of evening shadow. I could feel a pulse beating in his neck.
“I am sure it is the most beautiful nightdress in the world,” breathed Ben. “But it might be a bit hot this time of year.”
I backed away from him. “You must see it. And perhaps make a decision over a glass of champagne… a red wine would clash with the room.” I was rummaging through my suitcase with increasing fervour. “I can’t believe it! I must have forgotten to pack the wretched thing!”
“What a bitter blow!” Ben’s arms came round me and he consoled me with kisses. My pulse quickened; I would have been transported on a tidal wave of ecstasy but for one thing. The bed. My experience as a decorator advised me that this one was purely for show, a place to display one’s collection of drawn-threadwork pillows and china dolls. One wasn’t supposed to sleep on such beds, let alone cohabit. But Ben was lifting me up, carrying me toward it, laying me down upon the silken counterpane.
Here it was at last-the golden moment. The drum roll I heard was my heart. The bedframe creaked, merely because I turned my head on the mignonette-scented pillow. But I could not entirely blame the bed for my Victorian flutters. I loved Ben. I had wanted him desperately for months, but had insisted we wait; I had not wanted our first encounter to be an afternoon tea party or a late night snack. Or had I been plain scared? Would Ben be disappointed? Would he find the dishabille me about as exciting as roast lamb without red currant jelly? I began taking the pins out of my hair. A pity I had had it cut recently; those extra inches would have provided extra coverage. Ben was peeling away my blouse and I focused on a new fear. Would he start humming? Our family M.D., Dr. McTweedy, had always hummed while checking me over.
“Ellie,” he said gently.
“Yes?”
“This has been a long day. If you would rather…”
Anguished, I stared up into his blue-green eyes. He was having second thoughts. My heart slowed. Resolutely I wound my arms around his neck. Sometimes a wife has to fight for her marriage. My hands moved up into his thick black hair. I would make him forget his squabbling parents, his unsold cookery book, the responsibilities inherent in opening a five-star restaurant. I would be the strong one, the one who would transport us both to that transcendent star-studded sphere previously glimpsed only in the final pages of paperback romance.
My wedding night was delightful. But as I drew the counterpane over Ben’s ears to keep him snug during the hours till morning, I was attacked by an infinitesimal doubt. Perhaps I hadn’t done everything perfectly. Wasn’t I supposed to have heard a symphony of scraping violins and experienced a sense of floating out of my body into a burst of golden light?
“Ben?” I touched his shoulder. “Were you carried away to another planet?”
“Wild horses couldn’t have dragged me away from right here.” He gathered up my hair, twined it round, laid it over my shoulder, and was asleep.
Light was beginning to creep through the window. If I didn’t at least doze, I would be a walking corpse in the morning. An unfortunate turn of thought. Again I saw the widow on the church steps. Jenny was holding my bouquet, and then I was on the train. There was the infamous Dr. Bordeaux, Jenny again, and those two women- the nanny and the invalid. Who were they in relation to Jenny? My eyes… so heavy and Ben so warm and close… but somehow I was in the hall at Merlin’s Court, and Mr. Daffy was trying to sell me my own house. His voice kept getting louder and I tried to shush him because my husband was sleeping.
Too late! Ben bolted up in bed and shouted, “Gladys!”
When I touched him, I found he was trembling. So was I. Gladys who?
“Ellie, I had the most ghastly dream about Miss Thorn-we were in this tunnel and I couldn’t escape.”
“
“When we were talking to her, I thought she had funny eyes. The kind that peel your skin off.” He sat up, trapping my hair under his hand.
“Ouch!” I clutched at the headboard. Ben rolled sideways and there it came-an ominous groaning. One brief second later, and the bed collapsed in a crash, sending the chandelier into a crystalline spin. Swearing and laughing, we struggled to crawl free from the tangle of sheets and blankets. He might have asked if I were injured, but happily only my eyes smarted-from the sunlight streaming through the open windows. And my pride. We must immediately don false moustaches and do a flit down the fire escape. Alas, immediately was not soon enough. The door was thrown open and the manager swooped into the room. Behind him stood a half-dozen smirking chambermaids.
Happy Ever After was off to a poor start, but I was still a believer!
Looking like an Indian without feathers, I faced Monsieur Manager and threatened suit. He countered with an offer of a complimentary breakfast.
“Sounds pretty decent, don’t you think, Ellie?” said Ben.
I did not. The dining room would be standing room only, with people come to gawk at us. Had Ben ever been overweight, he would have been more sensitive to collapsing furniture.
“Darling,” he whispered, “this is the bridal suite; the other guests will be green with envy.”
