Free The Bannister Girls by Jean Saunders

her skirt as she heard the knitting ladies preparing to leave the house. This was their last meeting at Bannister House, and Clemence had particularly asked that Angel should bid them good-bye with her mother. It was the done thing, and Clemence was a stickler for doing things right.
    Angel tried to compose herself, hoping that her cheeks weren’t as pink as they felt, nor her eyes as bright. Despite the poignancy of the letter, her blood sang in her veins, for Jacques was as much in love with her as she was with him. She no longer tried to deny it, nor to pretend that it couldn’t happen in a moment. And one day, they would be together for always…
    â€˜Angel, dear, please try to pay attention when Mrs Moncrieff is speaking to you,’ she heard her mother’s cool voice when she had seemed dazed for several minutes.
    â€˜I’m sorry, Mrs Moncrieff!’ Angel’s face went scarlet then, knowing she would be reprimanded later, and wanting nothing to spoil this joyous day.
    The lady laughed indulgently, her eyes twinkling. ‘Angel probably has a young man on her mind, which is far more interesting than a group of virtuous elderly ladies! I know that look in a young gel’s eyes, and good luck to you, my dear.’
    â€˜Nonsense, Violet, Angel’s far too young to think of anything like that,’ Clemence said crisply.
    Mrs Moncrieff touched her lips to Clemence’s cool cheek.
    â€˜My dear, it’s a healthier occupation than throwing oneself beneath the King’s horse, wouldn’t you say? The sooner you get dear Ellen out of the clutches of those awful women, the better. Find her a husband to keep her in order.’
    Clemence kept the smile firmly fixed on her face. Violet Moncrieff was an old friend, and therefore entitled to be freer with her advice and opinions than most. All the same, some things were private family matters, not to be bandied about publicly.
    One of those matters was Ellen’s involvement with the suffragette movement. Another was the undoubted glow on Angel’s face at this moment, which she too began to recognise with alarm. In fact, it had hardly left the girl since the arrival of that extravagant bouquet of flowers from an unknown admirer. Clemence resolved there and then to investigate further.
    Violet finally left the house, and Clemence gave a sigh of relief. Good Works were all very well, but nothing could compare with the peace and quiet of one’s own home. She turned resolutely to Angel, just as the girl gave a great sneeze, fumbling in her skirt pocket for a handkerchief.
    As she dragged it out, a piece of paper went flying to the floor, and Clemence bent to pick it up. Seeing the handwriting, she too knew it at once. She heard Angel give a little cry, but it was too late.
    Clemence held the letter out of Angel’s reach, scanning it in mingled horror and misbelief.
    â€˜Please give it to me, Mother. It’s mine, and it’s private,’ she said in a high, tortured voice.
    â€˜I have no doubt of that,’ Clemence said shrilly. ‘It seems I can no longer trust my own daughter. I’m appalled by the contents of this letter! Am I believe that you have been so – so wicked as to be –
intimate
– with this man?’
    Despite herself, Angel felt a wild desire to laugh. How absurd to defile that glorious night in Jacques’ arms bycalling it wicked! But then that other word – that delicious, awesome, and scary word – sent her thoughts scattering to a direction she had never even considered until now.
    She knew very well that to be intimate with a man meant taking the risk of becoming pregnant. To be disgraced in society, and to shame one’s entire family. The thought of it dried the saliva in her mouth, and made her heart thump sickeningly.
    â€˜Mummy, you have no right –’ Angel whispered.
    â€˜I have every right!’ Clemence was outraged at her daughter’s