‘Because they are not as interested as I am. If you would let me photograph you I could show you what I see in your face. But you won’t let me because you are afraid of what I will find.’
‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’ Charlotte looked out of the window.
‘You see, I am the only one who knows what a remarkable person you are.’
Charlotte put her hands up in front of her face.
‘I don’t feel very remarkable at the moment,’ she muttered.
‘That is because you thought that you and the Captain had an understanding. Or rather, he was the man that understood you. And I am sure he did, or rather does. But you are not the only woman that he cares for. And that makes you doubt everything he has ever said to you.’
Charlotte took her hands away from her face. Caspar’s analysis of her state of mind had put into words feelings that she had tried not to define. She wished more than anything that she had never taken that photograph, but now it was there it was impossible to ignore. Bay was not, as Fred and Chicken had hinted, using the Empress for his own ends; it was far worse, he was in thrall to her.
Charlotte looked at Caspar. His big, freckled, farm-boy face belied his intelligence. She wondered if a photograph would reveal the shrewdness beneath his flamboyance. In a collage he should be a peacock but she couldn’t quite reconcile that small head with Caspar’s intelligence. His flamboyance was not an end in itself like a peacock’s display. Charlotte thought that it was perhaps a diversion, or even a shield. She could not help remembering the strain in his face when he talked about the short life of Abraham Running Water.
But Charlotte did not want to listen to Caspar talking about Bay. Even though she knew that he was right, at that moment she could not bear to hear it. She leant forward and touched his arm.
‘Tell me about America, Caspar. I should very much like to think about something other than my own situation.’
Caspar cleared his throat and held out his hands as if preaching from a pulpit.
‘The first thing to realise is that it is a country that is still being imagined. Here every patch of earth has a story, all your places have nuances; if you say Cornwall to an English person, they think of smugglers, and King Arthur and fish. But there are great parts of my country about which Americans know nothing beyond an idea of unimaginable vastness. Of course the Indians that live there know the spirits of these places, but that is not the point. You can’t imagine how blue the sky is in the West, Charlotte. So much space. It’s really wild, not like your Lake District with its little stone walls. In the West the landscape is unmarked by man.
‘That’s why I like to photograph it; those landscapes are so strange that they defy the viewer. If I had painted the Grand Canyon, you would not believe me – but with my photograph I have shown you the truth and you will have to find a way to imagine it. Even the cities like San Francisco are making themselves up. They change their character completely in two years – I expect that I shall hardly recognise the place when I go back. Here we are in Mayfair going to Charles Street. An address that has been respectable, respected even, for centuries. Perhaps the buildings may change but to live in Charles Street is something. But we don’t have a Charles Street in the West, not yet, anyway. In San Francisco there are fancy streets, of course, but they weren’t there five years ago. There aren’t any layers yet, the paint is still wet. We don’t really have time for the past out West; we are too busy imagining the present.’
With impeccable timing, Caspar brought his speech to a close just as the carriage drew up outside the house in Charles Street.
‘There!’ he said. ‘Did I distract you with my vision of the land of the free? You should come to America, Charlotte, with your camera.’
‘Oh, I would love to, but how could I, Caspar? I can’t just get on a boat and go.’
‘Why not? When Fred and Augusta have gone on their wedding tour, there will be nothing between you and America but your aunt, and I think she is quite manageable.’
‘But I can’t go to America alone, Caspar. I don’t know anybody there.’
‘You can take your maid, the one who does your hair so nicely. Oh and of course,’ he smiled, ‘I would come with you.’
From any other man that was tantamount to a proposal, but not with Caspar. He was offering her something even more than marriage; he was giving her the chance to escape.
But before she could reply the footman opened the carriage door and there was Lady Lisle standing on the steps.
* * *
‘What do you know about America, Grace?’ Charlotte asked later that evening, as she was changing for dinner. The Melton maid was trying to coax Charlotte’s hair around a pad to give it some volume.
‘Not much, miss. The blacksmith’s son went over there from the village. He is doing very well. Sent his mother a photograph of himself wearing a suit. Mrs Street hardly recognised him.’
‘I am thinking of going to America myself. To take photographs. Do you think you would like to come with me?’
‘To America? I can’t really say, miss. It’s too much for me to imagine it. Coming to London was an adventure, but at least everyone speaks English.’
‘Oh, I think they speak English in America.’
‘Maybe they do, but I wonder how easy it is to understand them. When Mr Hewes starts talking fast I can’t barely make out a word he says.’
‘I don’t think many people in the world speak as fast as Mr Hewes,’ said Charlotte, smiling.
‘If you go, I think I should like to go with you. But not for ever, Miss Baird, I would miss my mother too much.’
‘No, not for ever. I just want to go for a … visit.’
‘But, excuse me for asking, miss. What about Captain Middleton?’
‘What about him?’
‘I thought that you and the Captain had an understanding.’
‘Sometimes understandings turn into misunderstandings. I doubt that Captain Middleton will care whether I stay or go.’
‘Oh, Miss Charlotte, I think you are being too hard on him. He has a good heart. Always popular in the servants’ hall. Pleasant with everyone and very generous, even though he isn’t a rich man. He didn’t keep a valet, but nobody minded polishing his boots or starching his hunting collars, and that can’t be said of all the young gentlemen at Melton. I don’t know what is passing off between you and the Captain, miss, but he isn’t a bad man. He never forgets to be kind to people like me.’
Charlotte wondered if Bay had simply been kind to her in the way that he was instinctively generous with servants like Grace, animals and children. She could not really believe that he had only wanted the money. Avarice she recognised, but kindness was so unfamiliar to her that it was possible she might have mistaken it for love. But as soon as the thought came into her mind, she batted it away. She could not bear to think about him. Caspar had been right, she had thought that Bay had understood her, but it turned out that she had misunderstood him.
Firmly, she made herself think of other things. The idea of going to America was beginning to take shape in her mind. If she had not seen the pictures she would have dismissed Caspar’s talk about the West as just another of his gaudy exaggerations. But the pictures were undeniable.
* * *
On the other side of Piccadilly, Bay was walking down St James towards his club. He had taken the train down from Cheshire, where he had stabled Tipsy in preparation for the National. In his pocket he had a card for Lady Augusta’s Crewe’s wedding to Frederick Baird Esq. He had not expected to get an invitation, but he had reckoned without the social ambition of Augusta, who, despite Fred’s protests, saw no reason to banish the most talked about man in London, to spare Charlotte’s feelings. ‘If we don’t invite him, people will say it is because he has jilted Charlotte, but as they were never officially engaged, the best way to put the rumours to rest is to have him at the wedding.’ Fred had reluctantly agreed to the sense of this and Augusta had taken
great pleasure in telling Charlotte what she had done. ‘If he comes, you must just treat him like anybody else. When people see that you are perfectly civil to him, they will stop gossiping about the whole affair.’
At the club Bay found a card game and played until midnight, losing mostly and having to put up with the joshing of the others. ‘Unlucky at cards, eh Middleton?’ Two of the drunker members had started to whirl each other around the room in an improvised Viennese waltz. Bay had borne it all with an easy smile. He knew how to handle the envious teasing of his contemporaries.
Crombie, a tall major from the Blues who had ridden against Bay at a few point-to-points the year before, accosted him on the stairs.
‘’Spect you will be too busy with your royal duties for the National, Middleton.’
‘Nothing would keep me away this year. In fact I’ve just been up to Aintree to feel the course.’
‘Are you riding that mare of yours? The one you bought in Ireland?’
‘God willing. I think we have a chance at getting round.’
‘Indeed. I don’t think there’s a book yet. Maybe I’ll take a punt on you. Mind you, it’s a bloody course. Might be too much for a mare.’
‘Tipsy is a finisher. She will make it past the post even if I don’t.’
Crombie nodded. ‘Nothing like an Irish horse. Well, I shall look forward to seeing you at Aintree.’
‘So long, Crombie.’
* * *
Bay was on his way out when he saw Hartopp weaving up the steps. He missed one and would have landed rather heavily if Bay hadn’t caught him before his face hit the granite.
‘They keep moving the damn steps. Goin’ to take it up with the Club Secretary. Damn cheek,’ grumbled Hartopp. ‘Oh, hello, Bay. What you doin’ here? Thought you were too busy bowin’ and scrapin’.’
‘Came up for Fred’s wedding.’
Chicken was brushing the dust from the steps from his evening clothes without much success.
‘Well, do me a favour, old man, and keep away from Charlotte Baird. I have a chance there now you are out of the picture. I’ve had my eye on her for years. Would have got her too if you hadn’t come along and turned her head. So stay away from her tomorrow, or you will have me to answer to.’
The threat present in Chicken’s words was undermined by his inability to focus properly. He addressed this speech somewhere behind Bay’s right ear.
‘Can’t promise that, Chicken. But I will tell you one thing, if Charlotte won’t have you, it has nothing to do with me.’
‘Is that so? At least I didn’t lead her on and then abandon her when a more attractive offer came along.’
Bay’s punch sent Chicken sprawling down the steps. He scrabbled to his feet and tried to have a swing at Bay, but Bay evaded him easily. Chicken’s nose was bleeding heavily, staining his shirt front. Bay was already regretting his flash of temper. He went inside and called out the club porter.
‘Captain Hartopp seems to have fallen down the steps. Can you see to him?’ He pressed a half-sovereign into the man’s hand.
The porter touched his cap. ‘Certainly, sir. We are quite used to Captain Hartopp.’
Chicken pointed a huge hand at Bay as the other man set off into the night.
‘You won’t get away with it, you know.’
St George’s, Hanover Square
No church pews were comfortable, but the ones in St George’s Hanover Square had been made by a nonconformist carpenter who saw no reason why worshippers, especially rich and fashionable ones, should sit at their ease in the Lord’s House. So he had made the bench seats intentionally half an inch narrower than was customary, which made it impossible for the sitter to do anything other than perch. Visiting preachers were always gratified by the attentiveness of the congregation to their sermons; no one ever closed their eyes in St George’s, as a momentary loss of attention inevitably resulted in an embarrassing and noisy tumble.
So the congregation awaiting the arrival of the bride did not view her tardiness with indulgence. It was early in the year for a society wedding and quite a number of the guests had come up to town for the day, in order to avoid the expense of opening up their town houses so far ahead of the season proper. The guests who lived near Melton wondered why Crewe had decided to hold the wedding in town when he had that chapel at home that he was so proud of. The women who had come out the same year as Augusta knew exactly why she had chosen St George’s; it was a way of showing the world that she was no longer on the shelf but a matron to be reckoned with. It was not a fabulous match for the daughter of an earl to be marrying a Borders squire, but by having the wedding in town, Augusta was making it plain that she did not intend to be written off.
The restless guests had little to do but survey each other as the organ launched into yet another Bach cantata. Captain Hartopp’s black eye was a cause of much speculation. There was a rumour that he had been knocked down by Bay Middleton, yet they were today both standing at the groom’s side. A drunken tumble seemed a more likely explanation, as Chicken was not a graceful drunk. Those guests who had heard about the now famous incident at the photographic exhibition were most curious to see Captain Middleton. Could the rumours about him and the Empress of Austria possibly be true? Middleton was known to be a ladies’ man, but for an officer on half pay to become a royal paramour, well, it was the stuff of novels.
Earl Spencer was particularly uncomfortable. The narrow slat barely supported his massive thighs. It was a beautiful spring day, a perfect day to be out with the Quorn on one of the last days of the hunting season. But Spencer knew his duty. Baird had been one of his adjutants in Ireland, but he might have ignored that tie if it hadn’t been for Bay. As far as he was capable of remorse, Spencer felt some responsibility for Bay’s current predicament. For that reason he had put on his morning suit and was now perching awkwardly on his pew. There could be no question of people cutting Bay if Spencer was at his side.
* * *
Bay stood between Fred and Chicken at the altar steps. He had shaken hands that morning with Chicken, and while neither had forgiven the other, they were now standing side by side as fellow officers, resplendent in their dress uniforms. Hartopp was sporting an eyepatch but the swelling underneath was so bad that it hardly covered the affected area. Because of Chicken’s shiner, Fred had asked Bay to hold the ring. ‘If Augusta sees Chicken looking like that she might faint.’
So Bay stood next to the groom rolling the ring around in his pocket, listening to Hartopp’s stertorous breathing, every exhalation sounding like a complaint.
At long last, the organist pulled out the trumpet stop and the congregation stood up as Augusta came down the aisle on her father’s arm. Bay looked over his shoulder at the approaching confection of lace, orange blossom and diamonds, and out of compassion he whispered to Fred, who was shaking with nerves, ‘You’re a lucky man, Baird.’ Fred looked surprised and grateful.
The service took place without incident, although it was noted that, unusually, the bride’s vows were considerably louder than the groom’s. When it was time for Bay to hand Fred the ring he tried to look at Charlotte, who was standing beside Augusta holding her bouquet. But either by accident or design, Charlotte’s face was hidden behind the voluminous folds of the bride’s veil. Despite this, Bay had thought it was a good sign that he had been invited to the wedding. He hoped that it was at Charlotte’s instigation. As the wedding party formed to make their way down the aisle, Bay thought for a moment that he would be able to take Charlotte’s arm, but somehow he ended up with Lady Crewe. Charlotte was behind him with Chicken.
As they came out of the church, the bride and groom made their way through the raised swords of Fred’s guardsmen. There was a shout of huzzah for the happy couple, and the congregation were enthusiastic in throwing rice at them as they drove away in the carriage drawn by wedding greys.
Bay tried to find a moment to talk to Charlotte outside the church, but he could not get near her. She st
uck close to Chicken Hartopp until she disappeared into the carriage that was to take the bridesmaids to the wedding breakfast in Portman Square.
Bay stood in the throng on the steps, listening to the excited chatter all around him, and wished that he was riding on Tipsy with the hounds in front of him and the wind at his back. For a moment he hesitated, wondering whether he should go on to the wedding breakfast, but before he could decide he felt Spencer’s heavy hand between his shoulder blades.
‘You managed to hand over the ring then.’
‘It was the least I could do,’ said Bay, trying to smile.
‘Come with me to the breakfast. My wife has gone with Edith Crewe.’
Spencer did not wait for an answer but swept Bay along in front of him, until they were seated in the carriage.
‘I saw the Empress last night at the Ambassador’s. The Crown Prince was there, which is why, I imagine, you weren’t.’
‘I wasn’t invited.’
‘But you might as well have been there, as the Empress talked about you all night.’
‘The Crown Prince must have enjoyed that.’
‘He glowered like a sulky child. But the Empress wouldn’t let him be; she teased him all night until he finally relented and smiled. Funny fellow. The way he looks at her is damned peculiar. Never seen the Prince of Wales look at his mother like that!’ Spencer, as always, laughed at his own joke. Bay did not join in.
‘The Empress was complaining that you have deserted her for the National.’
‘The timing is unfortunate.’
‘The Empress means to be at Aintree, so you had better perform.’ Spencer shifted in his seat and tugged at his waistcoat. ‘I meant to ask you, how are you getting on with the Baird girl now?’
‘She will have nothing to do with me,’ Bay said.
‘Pity, she’s a nice girl, and rich too. But you can’t have both, I suppose. Girls can be a bit snappish about these things. Way I see it, you dance to the Empress’s tune until she gets tired of you, which she will one day. And then you go back to Charlotte Baird and ask her if she will still have you. My guess is that once she has got over her missishness, she will come round all right. Women like a man who is in demand. Don’t think the Countess would have accepted me if she hadn’t thought that her sister was keen on me. You mark my words, when the day comes and the Empress decides she doesn’t need you any more, you can still have a crack at the Lennox fortune. I think the royal connection will only increase your charms. And if not her, there are plenty of others out there looking for a man like you.’
The Fortune Hunter Page 34
