by Annis Bell
He had a lot of respect for Levi, whom he considered a gifted musician, but the man had a veiled past, like practically every refugee. That had never been a problem before, because Levi kept to himself and rarely left the house. But if that was changing, there had to be a reason for it. David hoped that Levi was sensible enough not to start associating with any radical revolutionaries. God knows, there were enough of those among Russian immigrants.
Blount stroked the short beard he had been sporting for several weeks now. He was an intelligent man and had proven himself both in war and on dangerous missions alike to be completely loyal and reliable. Indeed, they had saved each other’s lives on several occasions. It had been Blount who carried a seriously injured David from the battlefield. And it was Blount who had convinced him, in the weeks he lay convalescing in the field hospital, that there was a life beyond military service. “The house is in Holborn, and I’ve been asking around. The only politically interesting name that’s come up is Sergej Gundorov. Everyone else seems more interested in reminiscing about their homeland.”
“Gundorov? I heard that name just recently, at a meeting with Lord John Russell. Because of his dissident activities, Gundorov can expect the death penalty if he ever returns to Russia. I’ll sit down and talk to Levi in the next few weeks. Thank you, Blount. And make sure—discreetly, of course—that Josiah doesn’t accompany him to this meeting tonight. Boys like him are easy prey for foolish, subversive ideas.”
The coach rolled slowly over the bumpy cobblestones of St. James Street. Gas lanterns lit the sidewalks; at this late hour, most of the pedestrians were men. Black top hats, fur-lined overcoats, and gilded knobs atop walking sticks were all signs that two of the most eminent gentlemen’s clubs in London were nearby. A slim figure with an exceptionally proud bearing caught David’s attention. Something in the way the man moved seemed familiar and caused a knot to form in David’s stomach. As the coach rolled closer to the man, who was deep in conversation with his companion, David recognized the angular profile of his father.
The Duke of St. Amand’s sideburns were silvery white, while the family’s signet rings sparkled on his hand. He used a walking stick, on which he seemed to be leaning more heavily than usual, and he looked tired. When the coach drew level with him, St. Amand turned his head and looked right at his son.
David knocked on the wall behind the driver’s box. “Drive faster, man!”
Given the darkness inside the coach, David knew it was not possible for his father to have actually seen him, and yet the fleeting encounter evoked images that David only ever saw in his nightmares. The duke naturally spent his time in the conservative atmosphere of Boodle’s, a dignified building that extended a long way behind its façade, and which offered its members every conceivable comfort. David grimaced at the thought of all the fine gentlemen who pretended to be men of honor and upholders of morality. Many a righteous mask needed only to be scratched for its thin material to fall away.
His own club was a little farther up the street, not that the clientele of Brooks’s was significantly different from that of Boodle’s. But the average age was somewhat younger, and the politics there were more liberal, for which David was prepared to overlook quite a lot. He could not change the world, but when he talked to daring young idealists, he had the feeling, at least for a while, that there was hope. Hope for change to a social system that was unjust and in dire need of reform.
Jane was right when she pointed out the evils of orphanages and the poorer neighborhoods. A hard winter would mean even more victims than usual, but a great deal of water would flow through the Thames before any real change would come. And Jane had to learn that there were people in this world who would stop at nothing to hold on to their privileges.
The damp, wintry London air battered him as he strode the short distance from the coach to the club entrance. The doorman, who knew every Brooks’s member by name, greeted him formally and opened the door. All of the servants who worked at the club were men. Indeed, women were expressly not permitted. For many members, the club represented a welcome respite from home, where a shrewish wife ruled the roost.
David handed over his hat and coat and asked the butler, Mr. Bale, about Thomas. Mr. Bale, who knew everything and everyone yet was the epitome of discretion, replied, “Baron Latimer is at one of the gaming tables, Captain.”
“Thank you.” Walking away, David greeted a young man with soft features and wavy blond hair; as he entered the gambling lounge and searched for Thomas, he wondered where he had seen the young man before.
Thomas was standing at a table where a game of dice was underway. Hazard was a popular game, and a good way to quickly lose a lot of money if you let yourself get carried away. Neither David nor Thomas played for more than they could comfortably afford to lose, but there were a number of club members who had run up sizable debts. Businessmen like Devereaux exploited such weaknesses only too readily. At the thought of the fugitive criminal, David recalled how he knew the pale young man. Everett Ralston was the son of Lord Ralston, chief justice of the Royal Courts.
“David! Wonderful to see you!” Thomas had noticed him enter, and he passed the dice cup along. “Gentlemen, thank you.” He gathered a handful of coins and notes, then slipped them into a pocket. “Did you want to play?”
“No, I’d like to talk to you. Let’s find somewhere quieter.” They left the busy lounge together and went in search of a corner in the large library, where men met to smoke and chat. David had nothing against a cigar now and then, but after his experiences in Crimea and India, he categorically refused anything stronger. Thomas, tall and well-built, was more of a hedonist than David, and it was beginning to show. They found two leather armchairs, and a servant appeared the moment they sat down. They ordered whisky and cigars, and as the first smoke rings drifted into the air, Thomas looked at David inquiringly.
“I passed young Ralston in the hall just now,” David began. “He seemed nervous. Is he mixed up in that scandal with Josephine Simpson after all?”
Stretching his long legs, Thomas sipped his whisky. His custom-tailored suit, made of the finest cloth, and his expensive tiepin left no doubt that he was a scion of one of the wealthiest and most influential families in England. It was not only Thomas’s prudence in relation to the Devereaux case that had spurred his and David’s mutual appreciation. Indeed, David’s government work had led to fruitful collaborations with Thomas and his department on several occasions. Thomas was responsible for matters of domestic security, which included cases of impropriety—when members of the House of Lords got involved with prostitutes, for example, and revealed information that might put the nation at risk.
“Josephine has taken things too far. She likes to play with fire, indeed so much that I worry about her pretty neck.” Thomas flicked the ash of his cigar lazily in the general direction of an ashtray, but most of it landed on the floor.
Josephine Simpson was one of a number of beautiful courtesans who plied their trade among society’s uppermost circles and who had the temerity to ride horseback through Hyde Park, although doing so was a privilege reserved for true high-society women. Yet Josephine had the money to take riding lessons and could even afford her own horse. She could often be seen riding through the park, head held high, wearing a riding outfit that showed off her physical virtues to great advantage. Whenever she went out, she created a stir, increasing her popularity among her clientele. For several months now, a persistent rumor had been circulating that she was having an affair with someone close to Lord Russell.
“Everett Ralston is known for his dissolute lifestyle, to be sure, but that doesn’t include prostitutes . . .” Thomas paused and looked at David.
“I know that he prefers the company of other men. A thorn in the side for the judge, that. He wants to marry the boy off. But what’s the connection between Everett and Josephine Simpson? There must be something there, or am I mistaken?”
“No, you’re absolutely right on the
money. Something is going on, some intrigue that’s supposed to catch Russell in its tangled web. We’re keeping our eyes and ears open.” Thomas drew on his cigar, then laid the glowing stump in the ashtray. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
David sighed loudly, drained his glass, and, measuring his words, said, “That, too, but . . . has Ally spoken to you about Jane?”
Thomas raised his eyebrows. “You know what those two are like. I’m the last to find out anything. Ally is still up in Northumberland with her cousin Charlotte. The doctor has forbidden her from leaving her bed during her pregnancy, but she is still healthy, and I believe she’s overdramatizing things a bit because she is worried about Charlotte.” He cleared his throat. “Charlotte’s husband, Sir Frederick, is an eccentric old fossil. I dare say Charlotte doesn’t have it easy, and with Ally tied to her bed anyway, then why shouldn’t she offer her cousin some company?”
“She asked Jane up to Northumberland, too,” David said.
“Well, I must say that is certainly going too far. Poor Sir Frederick! I’d turn into an eccentric myself!” Thomas laughed. “You talked her out of it, I hope?”
“I tried . . . ,” David replied grimly. “It will soon be snowing, and they could be stuck there for weeks!”
Thomas grinned. “If Jane wants to do something, she does it. Simple as that. In all the years we’ve known each other, I can’t remember one time when she didn’t follow whatever bee got into her bonnet.”
“That may be true, but she doesn’t think things through. She acts irrationally and impulsively and puts herself in danger as a result!”
“But certainly not up there, not in the wilds of the Cheviot Hills. Don’t worry, David. What could happen? Sir Frederick breeds orchids, and Charlotte has her two children. The women will sit around and gossip about children and pregnancy. Better get used to it.”
“What? But Jane isn’t . . . at least, she hasn’t said anything.” David looked at his friend in surprise.
“No? Well, she will be, sooner or later, and then you’ll understand. I’m actually happy when Ally talks about those things with her friends. We have a good nanny to look after the twins. My mother also stops by sometimes, but not too often, thank God.” Thomas waved the footman over. “Two more!”
“There’s something she’s not telling me. Ally wrote that Charlotte is afraid of something,” said David thoughtfully.
“Did she? I wouldn’t take it too seriously. Charlotte has a nervous constitution, and she’s extremely insecure. And Winton Park is a gloomy old box. I was only there once, briefly, for the daughter’s christening. And I’ll tell you, I was very happy to leave.” Thomas took another cigar out of the humidor on the table and drank in the scent of the tobacco. “Mmm, exquisite.”
With Thomas’s reassurances, David’s concerns now seemed less urgent, and he leaned back in his armchair. “I only hope Jane is back before Christmas.”
“You miss her!” Thomas snipped the tip off the cigar.
“I’m worried about her.”
“That’s something you’d better not get used to.”
Far too late for that, thought David as he took a large, consoling mouthful of whisky.
4.
Winton Park, Northumberland, November 1860
Jane and Hettie climbed out of the coach and stretched their chilled and aching limbs. After the long, bumpy drive through the wintry moorscape of the Cheviot Hills, they were looking forward to a blazing fire, a hot bath, and a relaxed supper.
“D’you think this place is haunted, ma’am?” Hettie whispered.
Standing in the courtyard below the main entrance, Jane stared doubtfully at the grim, cold walls perched atop a hill, partially hidden behind strangely trimmed boxwood hedges and an enormous oak tree. The main house, a Jacobean mansion, had two façades, each with a pointed gable. Houses had their own character, she believed, and this one emanated hostility. Perhaps it was the small windows on the third floor, arranged like pairs of eyes, or the chimneys lurking above the rooftops like dagger blades, or the dark stones that probably came from local quarries. Then there were the windows on the second floor, divided into four panes and so narrow that one could easily have mistaken them for arrow slits.
Jane pulled the fur collar of her coat closer and raised her chin. “I wouldn’t be at all surprised, Hettie, but I think that humans are fundamentally more dangerous than ghosts.”
Hettie didn’t seem to be listening, for she was staring at the main door, set back beneath an arch. Small stone sculptures decorated the house’s façade, and as they got closer, Jane could make out grotesque, grimacing faces. She pushed Hettie onward.
The door opened, and a butler appeared on the landing beneath the arch and greeted them stiffly. “Good day, my lady. We have been expecting you. May I show you into the drawing room?”
Jane estimated that the man was nearing forty, which was young for a position as important as that of butler in a manorial home. The man had a high forehead and attractive features, which no doubt endeared him to the housemaids. Hettie seemed to have noticed this, too; feeling perhaps a little overawed, she stayed close behind Jane.
Before the butler opened the door to the drawing room, he turned to Hettie. “The domestic quarters are down this way, miss.”
After the sparsely lit hall, the drawing room was a refreshing surprise. The leafy pattern on the wallpaper and the paintings of exotic animals and landscapes evoked the impression of a garden. A small collection of armchairs was arranged in front of an open fire, while light refreshments and tea had already been prepared and set on a sideboard. Though her stomach roiled with hunger, Jane suppressed the feeling and waited by the fire for her hostess.
Suddenly, Jane heard loud thumping and banging and the sound of children’s voices, and a boy of about seven and a younger girl came charging into the room. The girl was crying and reaching for a stuffed toy bear that the boy was waving triumphantly in the air.
“Come and get it, Elly! Here’s Mr. Boggle, and he says he doesn’t need his arm anymore!” Making a hateful face, the boy tugged threateningly at the bear’s arm.
The girl cried out so wretchedly that Jane could no longer simply stand and watch, and instead she snatched the toy out of the boy’s hand. She crouched down and held the bear out to the girl. “Here. Your brother was just having fun.”
With the face and hair of a blond angel, the boy crossed his arms across his chest and gave Jane a sour look. “Elly is a crybaby. All she does is cry, cry, cry. Who are you? You don’t belong to this house.”
“You must be Cedric. Nice to meet you, young man. I’m visiting your mother and my friend, Lady Alison.” The girl was still sniffling but had accepted the stuffed bear and was hugging it to her chest.
The boy took a rude tone. “My father says that there are already too many females in this house and—”
“Cedric!” snapped a sharp, female voice that made the boy fall silent. Jane glanced up to see a young woman in a plain gray dress. “Please excuse the boy. High spirits is all it is. He’s full of mischief, but that’s what boys his age are like,” the woman said.
This must be the governess, thought Jane, registering the self-consciously humble posture the woman adopted. Her voice, however, and the look in her eye—sizing up the situation—bespoke a woman who could get her way if she needed to, which would certainly be to great advantage with a boy like Cedric.
“We still have an hour until supper. Please excuse us, my lady.” The governess led the children by the hand out of the room.
Jane heard the governess speak briefly outside the door to another woman, who entered a moment later. With outstretched hands, a pretty woman with brown hair approached Jane. Everything about her was petite. Her hands were soft and looked so fragile that Jane was afraid just touching them might cause the woman injury.
“My dear Lady Jane, what a pleasure to meet you! Alison has been talking about nothing else for days, and I could hardly belie
ve that you would undertake the long journey up here . . . but please, do sit down. Hasn’t anyone offered you tea or sandwiches yet? Unforgivable. I don’t know what you must think of us.”
Jane smiled and eased herself into one of the armchairs, hoping that her grumbling stomach wouldn’t give her away. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you. We’ve only just arrived. Your children have already stopped by!”
She bit hungrily into a slice of bread topped with butter and cress.
Her hostess looked at her with concern. “That is so typical! Mr. Draycroft, the butler, should have seen to your well-being immediately! No one in this house listens to me. But dinner tonight will definitely not disappoint. The cook, Mrs. Elwood, came to Winton Park with me. She knows I place great store in dishes that have been prepared with care.”
After a second sandwich and a cup of strong, sweet tea, Jane was much revived. She felt sorry for the mistress of the house, who struck her as unsure of herself and unhappy. Ally might have been exaggerating, but even so, this poor creature could certainly use a little support.
They chatted for a few minutes, before, without warning, Charlotte Halston sighed and slumped in her armchair. The teacup almost slipped out of her hand, but Jane was alert enough to jump to her feet and take it from her. “Lady Charlotte, whatever is the matter? Where’s the bell—”
“No! Don’t call anyone, please. It will pass. Smelling salts, or . . .” Her eyelids fluttered, and her skin turned deathly pale and appeared suddenly waxy. Jane was deeply concerned.
Jane took a handkerchief out of her bag, dunked it in the pitcher of drinking water, and laid it across Charlotte’s forehead. She discovered a bottle of smelling salts on the fireplace mantel, opened the little vial, and waved it beneath Charlotte’s nose. The effect, however, was minimal, and Charlotte only raised her head and coughed before sinking back again. Jane patted her cheeks, which felt cold to the touch. Determined, she pulled Charlotte’s armchair as close as possible to the fireplace to let the heat envelop the poor woman, then half-filled a teacup with tea and added three spoonfuls of sugar.
