Cressida intermittently whined and whimpered. In time, she only panted.
When daylight came, Elizabeth called for the children. The twins had a number of speckled spaniels and two whippets with which to play, but they always favoured the old wolfhound. The other dogs were soft as butter and licked their faces. But eventually, they would all squirm away when pressed into service for various indignities. Only grizzled Cressida would allow any humiliation with good-natured forbearance.
When the children arrived, they sat next to her and took turns brushing her coat and scratching her behind the ears. Directly, Elizabeth had them make way for Graeme. He knelt next to the dog, placing a hand on her head. He then, quite hastily, quit the room. Elizabeth did not fault him for that. She suspected his countenance was wavering and he stole away lest the children see him weep. She could not keep from that herself.
Cressida’s imminent passing also begat a number of questions from the children in regards to dying in general.
“Why must she die, Mama?” Janie cried.
“She is old, dear,” Elizabeth replied.
“Why do we die when we get old?” inquired Geoff. “Why can we not live forever?”
Elizabeth began to relate of the various frailties that dotage assigns all the world’s creatures and why death was often a kindness.
Listening politely, Janie said, “But William was just a baby and he died.”
At first, Elizabeth was caught unawares. She dared not show that the observation troubled her.
“William was taken ill, dearest,” Elizabeth reminded Janie. “He was just a baby and not strong enough to survive such as that.”
“We must die if we are too young, and we must die if we are too old?” Geoff asked worriedly.
An explanation was not at hand just then, so Elizabeth drew her son onto her lap and kissed the top of his head. Janie’s greatest care was that Cressida would go to heaven. Soon after they discussed all possible variants of the great beyond, they fell silent and each took turns petting Cressida until her last breath was taken. Everyone wept unashamedly. Elizabeth drew her children to her breast, patting and crooning to them until the worst of their grief eased.
When it became obvious that the dog was to be buried with the other family pets behind the stables, both children were dismayed. They wanted the dog to be laid to rest next to William to keep him company. Had Darcy been home, Elizabeth doubted he would have approved of such a plan. Just then however, Elizabeth approved of any design that might soothe her children’s broken hearts—never mind hers.
The children mourned for some time, but by mid-afternoon they were back at play. Elizabeth did not regain her spirits quite so easily. She felt the loss of Cressida most keenly when she returned upstairs. Every time she had heard Cressida slide to the floor outside their bedchamber, it had been a comfort. The absence of that sound was painful—indeed, she muffled her tears in a pillow for several hours.
Such a show of grief was uncommon for her. No doubt, the dog’s death had rekindled grief over dear, little William. Nothing else could account for it—unless it was the loss of sleep during her odd, nightmare-filled night. Perhaps, that had made her more susceptible to lewd dreams and melancholy turns.
A nap would have rejuvenated her. She was disinclined to take one lest she be beset again by obscene visions. Elizabeth most fervently wished Darcy home. She wanted to be held, reassured, soothed—just as she had done for her children.
A knock upon the door announced a missive from Darcy. It said that he would be home by the following night. Again, she began to weep copiously.
Such tidings should have caused her joy. Her spirits were wildly capricious—quite beyond her reason or control. Was her state of flux attributable to the loss of a dear, canine companion or was she missing her dear, lusty husband? Perhaps it was both. Then, in the midst of her weep, she began to laugh.
A singular thought arrested all her emotions: Her husband was not the only thing that she missed.
Chapter 88
Interview with a Wench
Juliette composed herself from her wretched meeting with Darcy with singular ease.
Although she had been near brought to her knees with despair, one who happened upon her just after Mr. Darcy’s visit would not have detected it. However resilient was her countenance, her heart saw no reason to go on. Her plan to repair to Venice, once so full of promise, now twirled emptily before her, a vast and endless gloom.
Ensconcing herself upon her favourite settee, she called for a carafe of wine. There was no longer reason to abstain. In the morn, she might draw the drapes. But for this night, she meant to become quite drunk.
Before the footman returned, her quiet was broken by the sudden appearance of her husband. He gained the room in a huff, but she paid him no heed. Therefore she was taken by surprise when he walked over to her, drew back his hand, and slapped her hard across her cheek.
Startled by pain and humiliation, she covered her cheek with the back of her hand and looked at him incredulously.
“Husband!” she cried.
Both knew this kind of attack was not part of their agreement. He stood over her, stout and snorting, like a bullying boar. Hastily recovering her composure, she refused to ask him why he struck her. It was his to explain. Hand trembling, she took a dainty sip of her wine. Through sheer will, she did not spill a drop.
He snapped, “I spied Mr. Darcy leave these apartments just moments ago!”
With a deadly gaze, she replied, “Indeed?”
Enough time had passed that she knew that what he said was not true (unless he had a drink at Boodle’s between that time and this). Someone had given him that information. It was not difficult to fathom who carried the tale. Although Howgrave brought back his hand as if to strike her again, she did not allow herself to cower. Rather, she rose and walked to her escritoire and daintily picked up the letter-knife, making a great pretence of opening, and then inspecting, her latest invitations. As she dug the point of the opener against each seal, she saw that vulgar knife as embodying what her life had become—tasteless, dull, and passé. However, Howgrave had not ceased his tirade.
“I know it all!” he cried.
“I have no idea to what you refer,” she sniffed. “I readily admit that Mr. Darcy was here. His visit was a matter of business. It is the first time I have seen the gentleman in some months.”
“That is a bloody lie,” he hissed. “He has been coming here clandestinely whilst I attended meetings!”
“What bêtise!” she scoffed. “Mr. Darcy has not been in town for months. Ask for yourself—do not rely on malicious gossipmongers.”
“Then why was he here? This day? I met him earlier and he made no mention of a visit.”
“I shall share that with you when you have reclaimed your temper. For now I must prepare for the theatre. Shall you accompany me?”
Juliette was not yet prepared to recount Darcy’s odd allegation. She was in want of considering the prospect without fear of a scene (such as the snit her husband had just displayed). Had she her heart’s desire, she would have shaken her husband until he gibbered. Indeed, had she not so much to lose, she would have screamed the truth in his chubby, little face.
“Darcy was once my lover, mon cochon! Had I my way, he would be yet. He is no flaccid, ineffectual brute. He is strong, worthy—and potent.”
However much she would have liked to watch Howgrave squeal, she dared not speak such heresy. Rather, she stood, smiled coquettishly, and extended her hand. In it, she held Darcy’s card.
“Would a lover leave his card?” she asked.
Howgrave came to her side to nuzzle apologies against her neck. Imperceptibly, she dipped her knees to accommodate his bussing. Such ego-salving measures had not been a particular bother in the past. Now, everything concerning the endomorphic beast annoyed her. At least Alistair was tall and trim-figured. At the thought of him, she took another sip of wine.
Darcy’s unexpected v
isit had left her in a muddle of disappointment and regret. Hence, all that he told her of George Wickham was slow to come to mind. As she bethought his words, she recollected Darcy saying that he and Alistair were said to resemble each other. She puzzled over that statement, but only for a moment. Then she recalled Alistair saying much the same thing. She saw no true resemblance save for height. That hardly seemed proof of his identity. Alistair was a bit of a rogue, but a murderer? She thought not. He was a scoundrel, nothing more. She was far too worldly to be so easily fooled. Her thoughts, however, were arrested by her husband’s interminable whine.
“We do not have to bear another bloody Italian Opera, do we dear?” inquired her husband patting his hair.
“No, my dear,” she replied, “Tonight, Grimaldi.”
———
By the time they were fitted in finery and had gained their carriage, the pretence of a happy marriage was once again in place. By Juliette’s design, they were late arriving at the theatre. Their box was near the stage and every patron watched them as they found their seats. Used to such scrutiny, Juliette was quite at ease. Howgrave preened momentarily and then he introduced her to new acquaintances, Sir Louiemac and his wife, Majorca. Neither had any hint of breeding but they were not ill-mannered because of it. They had lately come into money, by way of the Smithfield Stockyards. Their fortune, however, had not the stench of whence it came. Indeed, their wealth had reached an apogee that allowed the aristocracy to overlook its taint. (Since the wars and the reversal of fortunes in all levels of society, the upper class was far more accepting of those who had ready money.)
Louiemac’s cuffs were more out of fashion than his wife. Majorca’s manners were gauche and her face was uninspiring. Juliette did not mind. When nothing else could cheer her, her mood could be improved by sitting with an unhandsome woman. Basking in the glow of unadulterated admiration of those around her, she was soothed. Indeed, she was lulled into self-congratulatory complacency until she happened to spy Alistair peering over the backs of the gentlemen hovering about her husband.
He winked.
She pretended not to see him, but gave an inward shudder. A rogue in disguise or not, the thought of his company had lost its appeal. The only tell-tale sign of her unease was a slight shifting in her seat towards Sir Louiemac. Once positioned, she did not move until the intermission. The production had been quite amusing. Most of the spectators laughed uproariously. Juliette covered the lower half of her face with her fan more than once, but she did not find it as droll as did the others.
When the men adjourned to attend their bladders, she breathed a deep sigh of relief. Therefore, when she heard the rustle of silk, she turned to look upon what female dared invade her box. As she did, she was arrested by the sight of a most alarming personage. Indeed, the wench was so quaintly painted that Juliette momentarily believed her to be a juvenile member of the cast.
“How’dya do?” said Daisy Mulroney.
She offered her hand and her name. Juliette accepted neither.
Lady Louiemac was well-occupied by peering at other ladies’ gowns through her quizzing glasses. The strange creature before Juliette seemed to be speaking only to her. Desperately looking about for the men of her party, Juliette nodded curtly. Many strangers claimed her acquaintance—some of them even less acceptable than the one before her.
Not mincing words, Daisy said, “The tall feller—the one with the white hair—he’s with you?”
Juliette looked furiously about for someone of authority, hissing at Daisy, “You do not belong here. Leave, now.”
“Beg pardon, sister, but you ain’t no better’n any other strumpet in this town,” Daisy replied. “I should leave yer be, but I ain’t that kind of female.”
“Convent Garden hobby-horse, I’d say,” Juliette snapped back in an inflection that was far more Wapping than Mayfair.
At this, they both smiled. Daisy even laughed that the lady was that accomplished a mimic. More annoyed than angry, Juliette took a better look at the sassy girl. She saw immediately that she was not a girl, but a woman—five and twenty years if she was a day. She was dressed in the finest of gowns, but her ensemble was atrocious. Suddenly, recognition wafted over Juliette. This little woman harboured many political meetings. Her house was enormous, but furnished with disastrous discernment. Daisy Mulroney had come into money too late in life for it to improve her taste. Juliette’s countenance hastily regained its placidity, not giving a hint of repugnance. Before she could ask what she wanted, Daisy began to chatter away. What she had to say was flabbergasting.
“The white-haired feller is a ponce, a resurrectionist, and a murderer, but not in that order. He came with his silk nose-wipes into the Fortune of War every day. You do best to stay clear of him.”
There were any number of questions that Juliette wanted to ask this wanton sprite, foremost amongst those inquiries was why she was warning her against Alistair.
Before she could ask her that, the demoiselle urged, “Watch out fer ’em, I tell yer. He’s hard to kill. We shot ’em and he didn’t die.”
“You shot him?” Juliette repeated daintily.
“Yea, in the knackers,” Daisy said flippantly. “He has ones of stone—or did.”
Colour drained from Juliette’s lovely complexion. Daisy did not notice that, for she was on her way lest she be seen.
Her last remark was over her shoulder, “If yer don’t believe me, ask ol’ George if he’s still got teeth in his pockets.”
Chapter 89
Fortune Fails
Upon the carriage ride home from the opera, Juliette had to withstand the company of the stiff-rumped Majorca along with her pressing personal concerns.
The men chatted on like storekeepers in knuckle-dabs, but Juliette did not care to converse. She could do nothing but wonder where Alistair Thomas was at that moment and would he return to apply for more of her time. If he was guilty of the crimes of which he was accused, she contemplated how best to unmask him. Should she go to her husband, or to the authorities?
That, she supposed, was putting the cart before the horse. Above all else, she had to determine who he truly was. The wee strumpet at the theatre said Alistair was a procurer and grave-robber—and that he was a habitué of a disreputable house called the Fortune of War.
Abruptly, Juliette asked, “Pray do you know of an establishment called ‘The Fortune of War?’”
Majorca looked at her blankly, but both men bore gazes of such astonished abhorrence that Juliette was taken aback by their alarm. Fluttering her fan, she begged their pardon, saying, rightly, that the name was mentioned at the performance.
“Infamous place,” Howgrave said gruffly. Betokening the time-honoured expression of displeased spouses, he decreed, “We shall speak of this in private.”
She was satisfied to do so. Nonetheless, Sir Louiemac did not shrink from scandal.
“If your husband is too mannerly to speak of it, Lady Howgrave,” said he, “May I explain our surprise and disgust?”
She nodded.
“They say that the Fortune of War is one of the vilest places in town. It looks to be a common drinking house, but word has it that grave-robbers do their business there.” He turned to Howgrave, offering, “Grave-robbing has become quite a lucrative activity. It is something Parliament must address, Howgrave.”
Lady Louiemac became quite animated, inquiring as to why anyone might possibly want to dig up a corpse.
As Lord Louiemac was now rich, he only visited Smithfield on market day. (Lady Louiemac came not at all.) Although his fortune was made by tallow and hides, the filth and mire of the lanes oozed so deep, even he avoided it when he could. To endure the air, befouled by fresh-killed carcasses and their entrails, he covered his face with a handkerchief lest his lungs be stung by the acridity. Indeed, Louiemac was less sequestered from the baser doings in London than even the likes of Henry Howgrave.
Louiemac told them, “The anatomy classes are filled with surgeons
in want of learning the skills necessary for their occupation. They are in constant need of fresh dead to dissect.”
“I think I shall be ill,” said Lady Louiemac.
The thought of such deeds was grisly to Juliette as well. However, unlike Lady Louiemac, she had withstood grander misfortune than stench of sewage. In Paris, she had the questionable pleasure of observing any number of heads being lopped off. (In her opinion, witnessing the death throes of headless bodies squirting blood trumped the mere thought of a day-old corpse quite handily.) The newspapers alluded to suspicious removals from cemeteries, but as the dearly departed were rarely disturbed once they were committed to their graves in the West End, few investigations were made.
B006O3T9DG EBOK Page 46
