It had been written five months before, just as Charity was preparing to embrace the spring.
With terror and foreboding, he soon discovered, as he scanned the lines of tiny writing.
By God, Cyril had been pestering her, persuading her of the comforts he could provide Charity if Hugo failed to live up to his promises to send her what meagre financial assistance he could.
He couldn’t stay seated, such was his anger and agitation.
Cyril was a snake in the grass and Hugo had been a fool to have taken at face value the lie that his motivation in cheating and ruining his cousin was simply so he’d not be the one to accompany his father to India.
No, Cyril had always had his eye on the main chance. And with Hugo out of the way, he thought he could make a play for Charity. Not just because Charity was the girl Hugo loved but because Charity was pure and untainted by the grubbiness of life and there was some perverse streak in Cyril that made him want to sully whatever goodness came his way.
“Hot in the sun, eh?”
He’d not heard his uncle enter the room and he looked up with undisguised loathing as the older man removed his panama hat as he made for a cane chair.
Hugo stepped forward, brandishing the letter under his uncle’s nose as if it were a weapon.
“How many more of these have you kept from me?” he asked softly. It was not often his temper rose to the fore with such fire and fury. But he had to contain himself. His uncle had a mind that worked like his father’s. He enjoyed outbursts because he was in a position to quell them swiftly and effectively. He was physically stronger and he controlled the finances.
Hugo took stock, realising how much his own physique had changed compared to a year ago. Since the Christmas they’d left, age had diminished his uncle. His hair was thinning, and more white than gray as it had been when they’d arrived in this country. He seemed to have shrunk, physically.
Meanwhile, though Hugo was not exactly strapping, he was, without doubt, stronger, more powerful than his uncle. And he could feel the urge to use this newfound strength; to do violence, tingling in his fingertips.
But violence would achieve nothing. It was not going to give him the answers he demanded right now. His uncle was obdurate and wily. He liked to taunt and he’d taunt Hugo by withholding the information Hugo was so desperate for, unless Hugo played him just right.
Any suggestion that Hugo might resort to his recently acquired physical strength would be fatal.
Generally, Hugo had as little to do with his uncle as he could. They often spent their evenings apart, his uncle socialising with several chosen acquaintances nearby. Hugo could imagine it gave him secret pleasure each time the post was delivered, to withhold, or destroy, any correspondence addressed to his nephew.
But surely the time would come when it would be more satisfying to taunt Hugo with everything he’d had the power to deny him?
His uncle peered at the letter Hugo held out as if he were trying to place it.
“Ah yes, the writing. A very pretty, feminine hand. Extremely accomplished for such a creature, too.” He sent Hugo a benign smile.
“So, you knew who was writing to me.” Hugo tried to ignore the insult to Charity. “And you deliberately kept only her letters from me, I assume, since I’ve received the regular, expected missives from my father, exhorting me to do my duty. Yes, there’s been no shortage of the letters that crow about the company’s trading success, the recognition that’s finally coming your way, the hopes for an investiture becoming an increasing reality. Meanwhile, any comfort that may be coming my way is withheld as if I’m an errant schoolboy who can’t be trusted not to tarnish the precious reputation. Can’t be trusted not to give into his base impulses like you did, Uncle; and my father did, when you both could have married heiresses or aristocrats who’d have erased the taint of trade and elevated the family a notch or ten. I’ve heard it a thousand times.”
Septimus’s nostrils flared but he kept his temper. He was better at that than Hugo’s father. The less fiery brother, perhaps, but he enjoyed sticking the knife in. His methods of torture were more sophisticated for he had crafted subtlety to a degree Hugo’s father had not.
“And it’s the truth. Money is the currency that brings us the trappings of the good life but it’s the perception of good breeding that opens the real doors.” Septimus reached for the gin and tonic that had just been offered him on a tray by a servant, passing silently through the room, and indicated the room with a wave of his arm. “A little bit of discomfort brings a lifetime of rewards. Soon I’ll return to England with a healthy balance sheet to show for my efforts. Meanwhile, you will thank your father and I for curbing the impulses that are natural to a young man who believes himself in the throes of love. I was young once, believe it or not, and I believed that what I felt for Cyril’s mother was love. Of course it wasn’t. Your father made the same mistake I did.”
“I am not like you or my father.” God, how good it was to know it.
“You believe you are purer of heart and that elevates you above the rest of us. Yes, Hugo, I know that’s what you think. I know your sort. I don’t understand you but I know what’s good for you and you’ll thank me for it when your little obsession has run its course and you can choose a wife when you are no longer in the throes of calf love. A wife who will add worth to the family name.”
Hugo shook his head. “You had no right to keep Charity’s letters from me. Not when I did what was expected and accompanied you here for the sake of the company.”
“No, for your sake, Hugo.” Septimus stroked his moustache. “And if you want reassurance regarding Charity’s well-being, Cyril writes that he’s taking good care of her in your absence.”
Hugo stiffened but did not take the bait. He knew his uncle was lying. “Charity loathes Cyril. She knows he cheated me at the gaming table. She knows Cyril encouraged me to be a fool, to get drunk and to play deep, thinking I was securing my future when really it was my father’s plan to keep me financially dependent upon him for another two years.”
Septimus took a leisurely sip of his drink. “Cyril was persuaded to act in your best interests, Hugo.” He picked up the wedge of lemon and gave it a squeeze. “No need to sound so bitter. He was acting in all of our best interests, for you are decidedly better suited to doing what needs to be done for the business in this god-forsaken country than Cyril who, besides, was to come into his inheritance a good deal earlier than you. He’s far less reliable than you when it comes to sticking to his guns. Cyril takes his pleasure without being troubled by his conscience.” He took another sip then added, thoughtfully, “Though it seems it was his conscience that persuaded him to offer your young lady his protection in the absence of any other form of maintenance.”
“I’ve sent her all my wages,” Hugo muttered, turning away, sickened by the conversation. “She has no need of Cyril’s protection so stop pretending to me that my Charity isn’t as faithful as Homer’s Penelope.”
“My dear boy, your wages have been going straight into the Bank of India.” Septimus evinced surprise. “I thought you knew that. Or perhaps I neglected to tell you how assiduous your faithful manservant has been in keeping me informed of your state of mind. Yes, I know you wrote a letter of direction for a large portion to be directed to an account in London which I presumed could be accessed by your young lady but in your best interests I overrode this.” He patted his chest. “I couldn’t let matters of the heart blight your future. Of course, when you have reached your twenty-fifth birthday in a year’s time and are free to do as you wish with your grandfather’s inheritance, you’ll be able to supplement your new wealth with all your hard-won earnings.” He smiled. “You’ll even be able to go home and marry your young lady if you truly wish. If she’s waited that long for you.” Although his tone remained genial, his eyes hardened. “But you can rest assured that, in the meantime, Cyril has been looking after her with all the tender care you’d have lavished upon her, yoursel
f, had you been there.” He raised his eyebrows. “No need to look so concerned, Hugo, my boy. I know the idea of giving or accepting charity can be hurtful to one’s notions of pride, and your sensibilities are highly developed. So, don’t regard it as charity. Cyril won’t be out of pocket for attending to her daily needs. I’m sure she’s paying for it in the only way she knows how.”
Instinctively, Hugo raised his arm. He wanted to belt his uncle so badly his whole body shook with the effort of resisting the impulse. But he had to drop his arm and close his eyes. He had to rein in his rage. It would not satisfy his screaming desire for vengeance, or ease his terrible fear.
He turned away.
How had Charity survived for seven months without a penny from Hugo? How could he blame her if she’d succumbed to Cyril’s advances? But again, how could he not forgive her for whatever she’d had to do to survive? In her letter, she’d told him how hard she’d tried to find work as a servant but that it was impossible without a reference from a current, respectable employer. She’d told him how relieved and grateful she was for the money he’d promised to send. And Hugo had taken comfort in the belief that, though small, the amounts he thought he was sending her were keeping her safe until he got back.
He kept his eyes closed. The rage would not abate. His world was black, his ears full of the distress he had to hold tight.
The information that Charity had not received a penny from him since her last, fearful and desperate letter, was enough to send him insane.
Slowly, he exhaled, then quietly and with deliberate care, he walked past his uncle.
“What are you doing?”
Hugo paused in the midst of gathering writing materials from the desk and putting them into his satchel. “I’m leaving tonight. Now, in fact.”
“Good lord, boy! I’d never have told you if I knew you’d be so...juvenile in your response.” Septimus glanced across the room as if to emphasise the pitch dark that had fallen so suddenly beyond the shutters. A servant had lit lamps in the meantime and the smell of spiced food wafted from the distant kitchen.
“In the morning we can talk about this. Yes, you’re a man, not a boy, and entitled to free will but your father would never forgive me if I let you jeopardise everything we’ve been working towards. The company’s future growth and prospects. Your future growth and prospects.”
Hugo ignored him. He fastened the clasps of the satchel and reached for his hat which he’d tossed onto a side table.
“For God’s sake, be reasonable, Hugo.” His uncle sounded rattled. Hugo didn’t acknowledge him as he evaded his grasping hand on the way to the door. “Hugo! If you walk away now, you walk away from everything your grandfather has left in trust for you to receive in just a matter of months!”
Behind him, he could hear Septimus’s footsteps on the soft runner, Hugo’s final journey that led from this hated prison. “Hugo, don’t be a fool! Think with your head, for once!”
Hugo turned on the front verandah. The wide, shuttered expanse was illuminated by the waxy yellow glow from the lamps placed around the perimeter. He thought how much he’d like to paint Charity reclining against the pile of cushions upon the low bench by the far wall. The light would imbue her chestnut hair with a glorious lustre, highlighting that creamy complexion of hers. He thought of how he might find her when he returned. With Cyril? Another man? Many other men?
He didn’t care.
“I no longer care about my inheritance.” His heart quickened. He took the first step into the inky blackness. He’d send a servant to fetch the trunk from his room, packed with his belongings.
“Hugo!”
Hugo ignored him. “There comes a time when one must stop thinking with one’s head.” He didn’t care if his uncle was out of earshot though he could hear Septimus’s footsteps nearing the edge of the verandah. He turned and spoke into the darkness, uncaring whether his uncle heard him or not. “When one must think with one’s heart and one’s conscience.”
Like a wraith, the night embraced him. “I’ve realised it’s the only way I can live with myself,” he muttered as he walked away.
Chapter 13
“It strikes just the right note, Charity. Perfect!” Madame Chambon circled Charity with a critical eye though her mouth was curved into a smile. “What gentleman will not want to devour you but he will have to think such thoughts inside, no? You are not just anyone’s.”
“Charity! Mr Riverdale is here!”
Charity pinched her lips and clasped her hands together, swinging around for a final beseeching look at Madame. “Is it a mistake?” she asked.
“A mistake?” Madame cocked an eyebrow as she smiled, though her expression was tinged with sadness. “How wonderful if I could accompany you. A woman like me, however, could never gain entry to such society. Besides, half the gentlemen there tonight would know me.”
“Charity! He says you’ll be late!”
Charity took a few steps towards the door then turned back towards Madame. “Arabella will be magnificent. I’ll tell you everything that happens, every gentleman who engages her!”
“It is not Arabella’s night to shine,” said Madame. “Tonight will only prove if she can survive in a snake pit. It is her testing time but it is your moment to triumph over your past. Now go! Mr Riverdale is waiting.”
She did not call him her father, just as Charity had never called him her father. But he had been assiduous in following through everything that he had promised that first night at dinner.
First the drawings, the paintings had been disseminated, placed in prominent places, in news sheets, magazines, usually with a snippet of verse, a teaser. Words that Hugo had used to describe Charity; his love for her; the essence of her.
She’d become a talking point. An enigma. An icon.
Oh, her father had managed it so well. As if he were born to tease, just as he’d done so successfully with her mother. His real line of work had been more prosaic. A desultory interest in a publishing firm established by his grandfather and which he used to visit if he had the inclination to go to work that morning.
But since making Charity’s acquaintance it seemed he’d been inspired by work rather than visiting his club.
“Perfect! Just perfect!” Her father smiled approvingly as he opened the door of the carriage that waited for them around the corner. “Your Madame Chambon has a good eye. And she’s a woman of the utmost discretion. Why, how many entrances are there to that building, including underground. No spy could run you to ground there. But soon you will be moving out, Charity, my dear. This is no place for a girl like you. Tonight will change everything. You’ll see.”
Charity shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t want to move out. Not until my Hugo comes back and I can live with him. As his wife.”
Her father patted her knee. “And when did you last hear from your Hugo?”
Charity didn’t answer though her throat thickened. Her father knew very well she’d heard nothing since several weeks after Hugo’s departure.
Still, she held out hope. There was some very good reason for his silence. Not once did she despair and believe he’d forsaken her. She knew Hugo too well.
“And now we are here. My! The welcome party is bigger than I’d expected.” He sounded taken aback, which was surprising. Nothing seemed to faze Mr Riverdale.
Charity took a constricted breath. She was sure she’d not laced her corset too tightly when Madame’s maid had dressed her but suddenly, she was finding it hard to breathe. She touched the rose at her decolletage and plucked at the bows and furbelows of her train as she stepped out of the carriage at their destination, rearranging her bustle.
Cyril was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He grinned at her as he offered his arm. “Smile like a princess, not a startled rabbit,” he whispered. “Everyone here wants to see the girl pictured in the book. Not some frightened hopeful.”
“But there are so many people.” Charity took a lungful of air as she gazed at the fac
es ranged around her, eager and smiling, some reaching out hands to touch her. “I wasn’t expecting this. It’s only supposed to be the launch of Hugo’s book.”
“But Hugo’s book has become the sensation of the season, my dear. It is the only thing anyone wants this Christmas.” He raised her hand to the crowd, then kissed it, and a cheer rang out. “See! They want you to be happy.”
“But they mistake what they see.” Anxiously, Charity turned to her father on her other side, and he patted her shoulder, catching her words.
“What they choose to read into any interaction is their affair, not yours,” he said, matching his pace to hers as she negotiated the stairs with all the elegance she could muster in her tightly fitting cuirass and the heavy, elegant upholstery that followed her like a sinuous snake. “You know that it is Hugo’s work that has made this evening possible and you will tell the world that. The truth will always out.”
The truth will always out. Charity glanced at the two men on either side of her. Men she had once despised. Men who had sought to profit from her. Men whose company she had come to enjoy as their curious experiment had gathered momentum, fuelling them with excitement and genuine pride in the achievements of cousin on Cyril’s part and daughter on Mr Riverdale’s part.
Tonight Hugo would be publicly revealed to the anticipatory gathering as the author of Tales of Love and Loss, his wildly successful book of poems and accompanying paintings and drawings. Charity was merely here as his muse. But she was a face everyone now recognised.
“Miss Charity, please can you sign this?” A shy young man hovering amidst a group of eager-eyed young people near the entrance approached her holding a print of one of Hugo’s drawings of her.
“When will your young man return to England?” asked another. “You must miss him very much. That cruel and wicked father who forced you apart is not here, is he?”
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