wishing to be a widow may differ from that of the other club members.”
I tried to grip the seat of my chair, but my hands kept slipping. “You’re thinking Ann may have wanted Charles out of the way because of what I told you about her feelings for Lionel; but that doesn’t add up.” We were talking about a friend of mine. The sisters nodded and Gladys Thorn’s mushroom eyes magnified behind her glasses.
“Bunty’s still in the picture, you mean?” Hyacinth stood, paced for a few seconds and sat back down. “A stumbler, but Ann Delacorte may be banking on her allure as a heartbroken widow. And Flowers Detection must bank on her loyalty to the club not equalling that of her sisters, making her a little more approachable, a little less guarded if someone-”
She stopped significantly. I finished for her. “If someone attempted to infiltrate the group.” I picked up Edwin Digby’s book,
The pink bows in Primrose’s silvery curls and the Mickey Mouse watch were suddenly at odds with the sternness in her blue eyes. “Ellie, men are being
“I’m not at all sure that they are,” I flashed back.
“Then, my dear, nothing terrible can happen, if you just have a little chat with Ann about your unhappy marriage and how you are desperately seeking a way out.”
I couldn’t answer her. I didn’t have any words left. I opened up
20
“And now, my dear Ellie,” said Primrose, “it’s time to assign Bentley a paramour. Remember, to meet the eligibility requirements of The Widows Club, you must accuse him of conduct unbecoming a married gentleman.”
Miss Thorn raked fingers through her hair. “Anything I can do in the line of duty?”
Hyacinth froze her with a smile. “Without doubt, cousin Vanessa is the ideal choice. Her attentions to the vicar can so easily be made to look like camouflage. Now, Ellie, as to contacting Mrs. Delacorte and requesting she put you up for membership in The Widows Club, I suggest you allow a decent interval to elapse, say, a few days. Perhaps you could use the interim period to do something about eating sensibly?”
Miss Thorn twitched agreement. In addition to her other shortcomings, she undoubtedly ate like an elephant and lost rather than gained.
At midnight, after that marathon talk with the Tramwells, I crept into Merlin’s Court like a thief.
“Ellie.” Ben came out of the hall shadows and crushed me in his arms. “I thought you had left. And I was desperately worried about you; I didn’t think you would like being a nun.” He attempted a laugh. “I couldn’t blame you though if you’d had enough. I’ve failed you miserably.” He kissed my neck, my weakest spot. “My illness is no excuse…” Something in his voice told me he hoped it could be. “My treatment of you has been unforgivable.”
I wasn’t the innocent I had been when we married. I knew now that unless one chooses to join the ranks of the divorced-or worse-a spouse has, at times, to forgive the unforgivable. And Ben was compounding all the horrors of my situation by being utterly desirable. I stood there, my nose against his ear, arms rigid at my sides.
“Ellie, I know that even without what happened to Charles Delacorte, this has been a time of adjustment for you. First Mum, then Poppa descending on us with their problems, but in the end nothing counts but our love for each other. That is still so, isn’t it? We would have married even if so doing had cost us the inheritance. The house, and the money is just the
This from the man I was plotting to murder! That I was doing so in a just cause and did not plan to bring the matter to fruition seemed, as the shadows in the hall stealthed the walls, to be splitting hairs. Ben had every right to know about my involvement with Flowers Detection; he was crucially involved. But if I told him everything… anything, he might be consumed by guilt, thinking that he had reduced me to this state of lunatic credulity. And… he might respond with heavy-handed chivalry and demand that I stop. A big chunk of me wanted to stop. But what if no one combatted the widows? What if they expanded their horizons? Did I want to raise children in a world where it was off with the heads of grannies who wouldn’t babysit every other Saturday or teachers who didn’t give all A’s?
In such a frame of mind, how could I go freely into my husband’s arms? That night I did not worry about the absence of violins; my head was filled with bells knelling. That sort of thing makes a woman frigid in a hurry.
There was, however, a glimmer of help for me. Ben blamed my abstraction upon his mother, who spent half the night pacing in her turret room. Even now we could hear every step, every chink of the rosary beads.
Poppa, on the other hand, caused us daytime audio problems. The next day and the next, the sound of his saw was enough to send anyone into orbit. He had turned the loggia into his workshop, and sawdust rose like a Sahara sandstorm. I tried to look pleased. He was, after all, engaged in making the cake from which I was to leap the night of Bunty’s Follies-now only a few weeks away. I had expected something disposable, but this was a magnificent edifice, good for the wear and tear of the next three generations. Not that my crystal ball showed any future generations.
Monday morning, three days after Charles Delacorte’s funeral, I determined I could do something about my marriage. I could eat the attractive, delicious, well-balanced meals Ben prepared. And if in so doing I gained a pound, so be it. Somewhere along the pathway to becoming the perfect wife I had forgotten that I had needed Ben’s help to keep trim; I had stopped letting him support me in this very important area of my life. We had been more of a team, more married, in the days when we were friends.
If only… if only we could have a second chance. I made a second determination. At nine-thirty, give or take an hour, I would pick up the phone and dial Ann’s number.
Magdalene and I were alone in the kitchen, but I was barely aware of her until she said, “If it’s something I’ve done to upset you, Giselle, I’d rather you told me straight out. Don’t worry about hurting my feelings, I’m not as frail as I look.” She picked up the milk jug with both hands. “I draw strength from doing for others.”
I believed her. The kitchen was a changed place. Strung above the window were brightly painted egg shells sprouting tiny plants. A patchwork rug lay on the floor, a doily draped over the back of the rocking chair, and a new army of statues topped one of the cupboards. But the biggest change was in Magdalene herself. She wore a secret glow that perked up her dusty sparrow face. She and Poppa still weren’t speaking beyond essentials, and she continued to cross herself every time he came into the room. But there seemed something different about the way she did it. Had Charles’s untimely demise brought home to her the temporary nature of all things, including extramarital flings?
“You haven’t done anything to upset me, Magdalene. I’m just a bit preoccupied.” A nicer person would have reassured her with a hug. My uncooperative arms dangled at my sides. In a few minutes I must take that long walk to the phone.
“You’ll just be saying that, but it’s not in my nature to poke and pry.” Opening the garden door to admit Sweetie, her expression clouded. “Hm! Here comes Mrs. Malloy.”
“Morning!” Roxie rattled the supply bag at Sweetie. “Not another in the world like the little moppet, is there? Only scratches to come in when she has to go.”
Magdalene and Sweetie bristled. Hurriedly, I mentioned the post Roxie had in her hands.
“Don’t get excited, Mrs. H. Nothing of interest.” She licked her index finger and continued to flip through. “Nothing but bleedin’ bills, by the looks of it.” She whapped the envelopes on the table and prissied her lips at Magdalene. “We can’t get letters from France every day, can we, Mr. H.’s Ma?”
My mother-in-law hadn’t mentioned any foreign correspondence. She avoided my eyes and got busy stroking Sweetie; her lips were tight. Roxie dumped the supply bag on the table and gave me a lavish smile. “How’s Mr. H. and the restaurant coming along?”
