Park Lane by Frances Osborne Read Free Book Online Page A

anyhow, I’d only try to. And I can hardly become a suffragette. All that’s left to me, it seems, are the vices.’
    ‘Well, find another vice, then. And not alcohol. Why, why …’ She’s hesitating about what she’s going to say, shocking herself with the very words, but if it will save Edward, then, Beatrice, you cannot be such a prude. ‘How about a married woman, Edward? I thought all you young bucks did that sort of thing.’
    As a look of astonishment grows on his face it breaks into laughter, and so does Bea. As she laughs she continues, ‘I mean it, Edward. It’s a better place to pass your time.’
    ‘Edward!’
    Oh God, thinks Bea, and the two of them spin around to face the door to see the petite figure that is Mother, all the more formidable for being immaculately dressed even though she has just come up from the country.
    ‘My dearest boy, what a lovely surprise. Oh, how I missed you at Beauhurst. Now, I want you to tell me and your sister everything you’ve been up to. It is always such an unmitigated pleasure to hear.’
    Mother is unfailingly predictable in her bias. This, too, is what Bea has always told Edward: don’t worry about the fact that she adores you and simply does what she must with me, she’s straight out of Dickens. He laughs at this and, no doubt, if she catches his eye now, he will laugh again. Bea is careful. If they roar together, Mother will suspect that they have been up to something and will not let it rest until she has extracted an answer, and Edward does not look on good enough form to deceive well under the pressure of Mother. So Bea keeps her eyes away as her brother proceeds to nurture their mother’s mistaken belief that he could not, in a thousand years, do anything to upset her.

5
    ALL OF DOWNSTAIRS EXCEPT THE KITCHEN MAIDS AND the boot boy are lined up, as usual, for breakfast on either side of the long table. Mr Bellows, and what’s left of his red hair, is at the top. To his right is Mussyur Fouray, chef’s hat still on even though he’s at table, and taking up a good two seats with the size of him. Then there’s Summers in his two rows of chauffeur’s brass buttons, though his chest could fit three, and James and Joseph: James first, because he’s first footman, then Joseph as second. James is as dark as Joseph is fair and their gold-braided tailcoats are as dark as their breeches are pale, though how they keep them clean is beyond Grace.
    To Mr Bellows’ right is Mrs Wainwright, all grey hair and cheekbones, and not an ounce spare on her. Next is Miss Suthers, mouth as ever locked in her lady’s-maid pinch. Then come the three little maids in a row: Susan, Mary and Grace, all dressed for the morning in their flower-print frocks and mob caps. That puts Susan staring at the gap between Summers and James, and Mary between James and Joseph, and Mary can’t see a man but look at him in that way of hers. This makes Grace feel uncomfortable, and Joseph’s the only man she has to look at. Though how she’s to look at him is beyond her, for he’ll sneak a wink the moment he reckons nobody is watching and she’ll blush all over. Thankthe Lord it’s not often that nobody’s casting an eye around, for meals are times to work out what everybody’s up to, the top of the table all speaking with such plums in their mouths there’s no telling where any of them were born. Even lower down the table, growing closer to Grace, everybody has their Park Lane voice, which might as well be a different language to the one they grew up speaking. Some evenings, especially on Saturdays, if Mary’s been out with Lord-knows-who she goes out with, she falls back into the voice she grew up with. I don’t have a care in the world when I talk like this, Grace. But Mary also makes out she’s in good spirits.
    Today, as usual, they’re talking of upstairs, the boot boy and the kitchen maids on their separate table at the far end of the room trying to listen as best they can