A Thimbleful of Hope

by Evie Grace

  ‘Will Mrs Brooke here be subjected to cross-examination?’ her father asked.

  ‘I think we should bear that possibility in mind. Before you leave the office, I’d be grateful if you can arrange payment of my initial fee and an interim amount towards the incidental expenses.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll walk my daughter home then call on the bank.’ Her father forced a small smile.

  Violet walked back to Camden Crescent with him. She declined his suggestion that she should move back in with the Rayfields, or at least spend the night there.

  ‘You could sit with your mother for a while, in any event,’ her father said.

  ‘Are my sisters at home?’

  ‘I’ve sent them to your aunt’s for a few days – until after Christmas, maybe longer.’

  ‘You haven’t told them?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But Aunt Felicity knows?’

  ‘She is furious – she blames me. I suppose I’m clutching at straws when I say that I’m hoping the storm will blow over. In the meantime, I’ve engaged two nurses to care for Patience …’

  Reassured, she spent the rest of the morning with Mama, washing her hands and applying cold cream to moisten her skin. She seemed to enjoy the attention and Violet imagined that she heard her whisper, ‘thank you’, when she wished her goodbye.

  A couple of weeks of negotiation between the lawyers acting on behalf of the two Mrs Brookes went by before it was deemed that the matter should go before a judge.

  ‘Lawyers – they are lying, thieving bastards,’ her father kept saying. ‘Now we will have to find money for the court fees, but never mind, Violet. We will win this case and you will be confirmed as the rightful Mrs Brooke. Poor Arvin – he would never have put us in such a bind.’

  Like the lawyers, Violet reserved judgement, continuing to live quietly with May at the house at East Cliff while Ottilie and Eleanor returned from their stay at Aunt Felicity’s, having insisted on coming home to Mama.

  One dull February afternoon, Violet’s father sent Wilson to fetch her.

  ‘I’ve invited Mr Noble to the house – I wish to persuade him to give a statement to Mr Wiggins on your behalf,’ her father said when she arrived.

  ‘What can he say? What does he know about my marriage?’ she said hotly.

  ‘There’s no need to be shy about it. You’ll suffer worse indignities in court. He was on the Samphire that night. He saw you and Arvin together. Let’s go to my study.’

  She took a seat while her father stood waiting with his hands behind his back. A few minutes later, Wilson showed William into the room.

  ‘The vicar is here to see you, sir,’ the butler said. ‘Shall I ask him to wait?’

  ‘I’ll see him straight away. Please excuse me, Mr Noble. This will take only a few minutes.’ Pa and Wilson left the study, and Violet found herself alone with William.

  ‘How are you, Mrs Brooke?’ He seemed apprehensive, not knowing why he was being received, and she suspected that he would be remembering what had passed between him and Mr Rayfield the last time they had met.

  ‘I am as well as can be expected.’

  ‘It’s always a pleasure to see you,’ he said softly, and she had to turn away to hide the tears which sprang to her eyes. Others had been cruel, mocking her behind her back, yet William was the same as ever. ‘I’m sorry for your recent troubles. It’s unfair that a blameless woman has been judged in the way that you have. I don’t understand it. I want you to know that whatever the outcome, I shall never think any less of you. And remember, whatever your father wants from me, I do it only for you, nobody else.’

  She turned back to face him when her father returned.

  ‘Thank you for accepting my request,’ he said.

  ‘Make this brief – I have to return to work shortly.’

  ‘You are back at the Packet Yard?’

  ‘I’ve been promoted to the boiler-making department.’ William changed the subject quickly. ‘You’ve heard the latest news from the hearing?’

  ‘I sent a representative on my behalf. You understand why I couldn’t attend.’

  ‘Your wife is ill and … well, I can see that you are a man under pressure. Anyway, I can’t help thinking that the Court of the Admiralty influenced the hearing unduly. Those gentlemen behaved just as badly as the Board of Trade who put the blame for the accident on the captain, saying he was travelling too fast for the conditions.’

  ‘It’s a fair judgement – he was in charge.’

  ‘They didn’t consider how the Government Packet contract was set up, but then you are part of that, Mr Rayfield.’

  Violet noticed how her father’s spine straightened as William continued, unafraid.

  ‘As a shareholder in the railway company, you have corporate responsibility for the accident.’

  ‘How dare you make that accusation without proof?’

  Violet wondered if her father was about to throw William out of the house.

  ‘Mr Rayfield, I thought you wished to know the outcome of the hearing …’

  ‘Yes, it’s important. Go on,’ he said impatiently.

  ‘Captain Bennett is a hero – it’s the Postmaster General who’s the villain of the piece. If the voyage exceeds the length of time he has set – two hours and five minutes precisely – then money is deducted from the crew’s wages. They have criticised everyone except the Postmaster General: the crew for not keeping the passengers under control; the railway company who own the Samphire for not maintaining the cutters and lifeboats. But then you know that – you attend the meetings held by the railway company.’

  ‘The accident has been mentioned, but not discussed in any depth because we’re still waiting for the outcome of the Court of the Admiralty hearing,’ Pa said dryly.

  ‘Then you shall hear it now … the hearing was due to decide whether or not the Fanny Buck was properly illuminated as there was some question about the navigation lights being bright enough.’

  Her father nodded. ‘If her crew had looked after the lanterns, kept the glasses clean, then the lookout would have seen her, fog or no fog.’

  ‘Ah, that’s irrelevant – according to maritime law, steam must always give way to sail whatever the situation.’

  ‘The Fanny Buck was under sail – she had no time to alter her course,’ Violet said, remembering. ‘So her crew were not at fault. The blame for the accident lies with the Samphire.’

  ‘That’s right – that’s the Admiralty’s verdict,’ William said. ‘The London, Chatham and Dover Railway Company have been charged fourteen hundred pounds – that’s to be paid to the owners of the Fanny Buck for her repairs. Not that that will be anything but a drop in the ocean for the railway company and its shareholders. It must be rolling in money and assets.’

  ‘The Board will sign that off at our next meeting.’

  ‘Though there are rumours that the company’s in financial difficulty,’ William said, challenging her father.

  ‘They are rumours, that’s all. The shipping operations are heading to make a profit, after the high set-up costs, and the trains – well, everyone travels by train nowadays.’

  ‘What was it you wanted to ask me, Mr Rayfield?’ William changed the subject.

  ‘Ah, yes. Down to business … You will have heard of my daughter’s predicament.’

  William nodded.

  ‘We are going to court to prove the legality of her marriage – I’m asking you to give a statement regarding what you saw on the boat that night. What I mean is, how Mr and Mrs Brooke were together, the depth of their mutual regard …’

  ‘I cannot swear on oath that I saw them together, but I can confirm that Mrs Brooke behaved just as a wife should, her immediate thought being for her husband when the Fanny Buck struck the Samphire.’ He paused before continuing. ‘I can’t say the same for Mr Brooke. He showed little or no concern for Violet – I mean Mrs Brooke. Forgive me, but he played the part of a callous, ungallant and boorish husban
d.’

  ‘Then that’s most reassuring as it isn’t unusual for a husband to act in that way,’ Mr Rayfield said. ‘You’re willing to meet with my solicitor and stand up in court if necessary?’

  ‘If you think it will help Mrs Brooke’s case. Let me know when you require me to give my statement. I wish you good day, Mr Rayfield. Good day, Mrs Brooke.’

  ‘Violet, one more thing,’ her father said when William had gone. ‘This is a delicate subject, but I have to ask you if there’s any chance you are with child?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said softly. She had wished that she was. Holding Arvin’s child in her arms would have softened the blow of his loss. Since the accident, the spells of nausea had worn off, and although her monthly course had not yet returned, May had told her that a shock could put it off for some time. She’d had enough shocks to have put it off for ever. ‘I’m not,’ she confirmed.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ her father said. ‘The court is always particularly concerned with the fate of any children. Never mind. I have high hopes of a rapid and painless resolution. Everyone I’ve spoken to is behind us. Our case is watertight, just as Mr Wiggins hoped.’

  Was it, though? Violet had her doubts.

  The dreaded day of the court hearing arrived. The early March winds were whistling from the east along the Straits of Dover, gusting and rattling the windows of the house in Camden Crescent where Violet had stayed overnight so that she’d be ready to leave with her father first thing in the morning. Ottilie helped Violet dress while Eleanor and the nurses looked after Mama.

  ‘You can borrow my velvet dress,’ Ottilie said. ‘The navy one.’

  ‘With the matching hat and cloak?’ Violet said, looking at her reflection. ‘Thank you, but I intend to wear full mourning dress with Mama’s beads.’

  Ottilie fetched her black silk crinoline from the wardrobe. Violet hated it – the colour sapped her pale complexion, making her look even more washed out than she felt.

  ‘I’ll be able to go into half mourning later in the year,’ she said as Ottilie helped her into the dress, spreading the wide skirt over layers of petticoats. She scraped her hair back from her face and put it up in a bun covered with a piece of black lace. Her lips were dry, so she opened the pot of balm on the dressing table, but there was an iridescent fly in it which reminded her of the Frenchwoman, so she didn’t use it.

  ‘It will be over soon,’ Ottilie reassured her. ‘Tonight, we’ll celebrate the judge’s verdict.’

  ‘It won’t be a celebration.’

  ‘I chose the wrong word. I’m sorry. What I meant was that we’ll be able to carry on our lives without this terrible slur hanging over our heads. The papers will have to print an apology and our good name will be restored.’

  ‘I hope so, but there’s no woman on earth who would expose herself to such scrutiny if she didn’t think she had a good case.’

  ‘She’s trying it on for the money … and the notoriety. Apparently, she’s loving the attention of the press – she’s even been well received by some of Dover society. Well, it’s all going to come tumbling down around her. Pa has left no stone unturned in your defence. There.’ Ottilie fastened the last hook on the back of Violet’s dress. ‘You are ready.’

  She might be ready to face the court, but she realised as she and her father disembarked from the cab outside the Maison Dieu, the new Town Hall, that she wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of renewed interest. The lawyers had decided that, although the accused had been certified dead, the case should go before the bench at the Borough quarter session to decide who was entitled to inherit his property.

  ‘Steel yourself,’ her father said, taking her hand and leading her through the crowd.

  ‘That’s ’er – that’s Violet Rayfield.’

  ‘It’s Mrs Brooke, you mean.’

  ‘We don’t know that. She says she di’n’t have any idea ’e was married before now, but I don’t believe ’er. How can any man ’ide a second wife? ’E’d always be flitting from one to the other.’

  ‘I can’t think why any man would inflict a second wife on ’imself. One is more than enow,’ one said wryly amid runnels of laughter.

  ‘For variety,’ said another. ‘The two women – the Mrs Brookes – are chalk and cheese in appearance. Mr Brooke’s a hero, taking on two wives for pleasure and profit.’

  ‘She and her father encouraged it, so I ’eard. I reckon nothing would stop ’im getting his ’ands on Mr Brooke’s money.’

  ‘A man drownded while carrying more gold in ’is pockets than’s in the Bank of England.’

  ‘The coroner says ’e’s dead, but what if he i’n’t? What if ’e chose to disappear, avoiding the women ’e’s wronged? What if ’e’s set himself up in a new life with another woman?’

  ‘If ’e has, then ’e’s a felon of the first degree.’

  ‘Violet, this way.’ She looked up at her father’s urgent tone, and he led her inside. ‘Don’t listen to them. They know nothing.’

  They took their places in the ancient chapel which had been converted into the town’s court. Violet sat with her head held high – Mr Wiggins might have preferred her to pose with her head bowed, but she felt that it would give the impression she was hiding her face out of shame. As she rested her hands in her lap, she felt something flutter in her belly. It was like a butterfly, confirmation of what she had begun to suspect, that she was with child, which meant there was even more at stake.

  The Recorder, Mr Bodkin QC, presided and began proceedings with some legal discussion with the lawyers about the Bigamy Act, and how if any married person went on to marry again, their former spouse being alive, then that offence was an indictable felony, the punishment ranging from hanging to seven years in gaol, or branding on the thumb. As Mr Brooke couldn’t be tried, having been declared dead, the Recorder would restrict his judgement to the simple matter of which of the two Mrs Brookes was Arvin’s de jure wife, and therefore entitled to his estate, according to his will.

  Madame Brooke’s lawyer was interrogated first, but her evidence was straightforward. She had met and married Monsieur Arvin Brooke ten years previously and had the legal documents to confirm the marriage had taken place in France. There was no record of a divorce having been sought or granted.

  ‘It was painful for me to discover that my husband had become involved with a younger woman,’ Madame Brooke said. ‘I found out about his deception, but I never imagined he would be so stupide as to enter into a bigamous marriage.’

  ‘That is not yet proven,’ the judge warned her. ‘The court will now hear the evidence presented by Mrs Brooke.’

  The parish clerk produced a certificate of marriage – he had examined it against the register and stated that it was a true copy. A witness gave evidence that they were present at the marriage of the man they knew as Mr Arvin Brooke, bachelor, and Miss Violet Rayfield, spinster, while her father explained that he had given his blessing, having made enquiries beforehand as far as he could as to the man’s background and character. William wasn’t in court – it was a relief that Mr Wiggins had decided that they could do without his statement.

  Violet had deemed that she was prepared, but when she was called up to be cross-examined, she faltered. The words and sentences she had committed to memory evaporated as she faced Claudette’s lawyer, a well-spoken, well-dressed gentleman from London. Mr Carrick surveyed the court, then turned his head and looked straight at her.

  ‘When did your alleged marriage take place?’

  She stated the date, and the lawyer made a play of counting the months on his fingers.

  ‘Did you have full physical relations with Mr Arvin Brooke?’ His style of questioning was blunt and brutal, and the way he stared at her reminded her of how a hawk locked its eyes on to its prey.

  ‘Yes,’ she said very quietly, wondering why she should be ashamed of that admission when they had been husband and wife, and she too had legal documents and witnesses proving their marriag
e.

  ‘Speak up, madam. I can’t hear you.’

  ‘Yes,’ she repeated, having no intention of revealing her pregnancy to the court.

  ‘Your response goes to show that there was desire on your part. I put it to you that Mr Brooke did tell you of his prior marriage, but you wanted him for yourself. Knowing that his wife was out of the way, living in France, you coerced him into an illegal marriage to maintain a veneer of respectability. Miss Rayfield, you were driven by lust.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Violet couldn’t stop herself, and the court erupted into gasps and sniggers of shock and amusement.

  The Recorder’s gavel came down with a crack. ‘Order. I will have order in this court! This lady is not on trial. If you continue with this line of questioning I’ll hold you in contempt, Mr Carrick.’

  ‘No more questions, your honour,’ Mr Carrick said smugly, aware that he had already made his point, that Violet may have been complicit in Mr Brooke’s crime.

  ‘I will sum up. One must accept that Mr Brooke entered into a bigamous marriage with Miss Violet Rayfield. We cannot ask him why he did not seek a divorce, but it seems to me that he didn’t desire one. He was content to remain married to Madame Brooke, because he didn’t want to damage her reputation and status, or lose his marital benefits.’

  Violet began to offer up prayers. She was losing the battle. She could tell.

  ‘I rule that Madame Brooke is his wife de jure, and Miss Violet Rayfield’s marriage to the aforesaid felon is null and void. Null and void,’ the Recorder repeated as Violet grasped the railing in front of her. ‘Unfortunately, this isn’t an unusual crime. It has devastating effects on the women concerned. There is no retribution, no recompense, nor even the satisfaction of bringing Mr Brooke to trial so he can explain himself. I’m sorry, Miss Rayfield. You aren’t the first to be dishonoured in this way, and you won’t be the last.’

  Violet glanced towards the Frenchwoman who smiled back: she actually smiled. She had no delicacy of feeling, no compassion, Violet thought, turning away with tears in her eyes. When she looked back, she’d gone.