Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  “It’s still not too late, you know. You could tell Burke. He could prove the documents were forged—you weren’t ever directly involved, the court needn’t know how it came about. It—what I’m trying to say, luv, is—”

  “I know what you’re trying to say, Megan, and I appreciate your concern.”

  “I—I just don’t want you to do something you’ll regret for the rest of your life.”

  “I shan’t regret it.”

  “It doesn’t seem fair. He—” She hesitated, gnawing her lower lip. “He was indirectly responsible for Clinton’s death, and now he’s being rewarded for it.”

  “Sometimes getting what you want is no reward at all,” I replied. “Sometimes it’s the worst kind of punishment.”

  We heard the carriage coming down Maiden Lane, heard it stop in front, and we stepped into the foyer together. Megan gave me another tight hug before she opened the door. Jonathan Burke stood on the doorstep, looking very solemn in brown, looking very unhappy, as well he might. His brick-red hair gleamed copper in the morning sunlight. His dark eyes were grim. Megan asked if he would like to come in for a cup of coffee before we left. He shook his head and consulted his pocket watch and said we’d best leave at once. I took Megan’s hand and squeezed it and told her I would see her around midnight.

  “We’ll be waiting up for you, luv,” she said, tearful again.

  I kissed her cheek and followed Burke out to the carriage and he helped me inside. A few moments later we were on our way to Justice High Court, the carriage rumbling over the cobbles, caught up in the congestion of traffic as soon as we left Covent Garden. Burke sat across from me, silent, unhappily pondering the recent turn of events that had cost him a certain victory in court. He had been positive that we would win when the case came to trial. Now there was to be no trial. I would simply make my statement to the judges and answer some questions and it would all be over.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry about all of this, Lady Meredith,” Burke said after a while. “Had those documents not turned up, you would have inherited everything yourself. There was no other male issue, as you know, and by law and the terms of Lord Meredith’s own will, you would have received the lot as his widow.”

  “But the documents turned up,” I said.

  He nodded, his lips tight.

  “I couldn’t very well destroy them,” I continued. “One—one has to be honest, no matter what the cost.”

  Burke nodded again, totally unaware of the supreme irony of my words. The carriage left the Strand, turned past Charing Cross and started down Whitehall, moving toward Westminster. St. James Park was beginning to green, filled this sunny morning with a mob of strollers and noisy children. Inigo Jones’ Banqueting House, all that remained of Whitehall Palace after the destruction of 1698, was majestic in the sunlight, though weathered and sooty. The Thames was sluggish, filled with filth, the noxious odors filling the air. I lifted my black lace handkerchief to my nostrils. Burke frowned when we were caught up in the congestion and had to stop while a cart with a broken wheel was hauled out of the street amidst much shouting, cursing and lashing of whips. We eventually began to move again and I soon saw Westminster Abbey looming up ahead, huge and brown and ancient, dominating the whole area.

  A swarm of journalists from Fleet Street were waiting outside the building when we arrived. Burke took my elbow and deftly ushered me inside, scowling at the cocky chaps who fired questions at me. Inside was dim and cool and vaguely imposing, and I began to feel nervous for the first time. What … what if I faltered when they began questioning me? What if they could tell I was lying? Burke led me down a long dim corridor and into an anteroom and settled me on a bench and asked me to wait. The room was small, windowless. I felt as though I were in a prison cell. I paced back and forth, trying to control my nerves, and finally I sat back down on the bench, willing myself to be calm.

  I was doing the right thing, I was certain of that. It would be different if Clinton were still alive, but he was gone, and nothing would bring him back. I had not married him for his wealth, for his estate, and I didn’t want them now. Greystone Hall and the house on Hanover Square were filled with poignant memories. I could never live in either of them again. I had loved my husband and I had tried my best to make him happy, but I didn’t feel eight months of marriage entitled me to an estate that had been in his family for two hundred years. I hadn’t a drop of Meredith blood, whereas Hugh … Yes, I was doing the right thing.

  When Burke came to fetch me, looking quite different in his black robe and long white wig, I was completely composed. I followed him down another corridor and into a large, dusty room that wasn’t nearly as stately or impressive as I had expected. It was paneled in dark oak and shafts of sunlight streamed in through windows set very high in the east wall. There were benches and tables and a witness box up front set on a raised platform behind a wooden railing, as was the table where the six solemn-faced judges sat in their long scarlet robes and curly white wigs. I felt a sense of unreality as Burke showed me to a seat near the back and moved off to speak to two more men attired in black robes and wigs like his. I assumed they were Hugh’s counselors. There were no more than twenty people in the room, including the judges, and I was relieved to discover I would not have a large audience. The public had not been admitted, nor were there any representatives from Fleet Street.

  Hugh sat at a table up front with yet another counselor. He wasn’t aware that I had come in. His face, in profile, was stony and grave, his raven hair pulled back sleekly and fastened at the nape with a thin black silk ribbon. He wore an elegant black frock coat and black silk vest, fine white lace cascading from his throat and over his wrists. His strong brown hands nervously shuffled some papers in front of him. He was clearly not sure what the outcome of this hearing was going to be. Hadn’t his counselors told him what had happened? He pushed the papers away and began to tap the table with the fingers of his right hand, drumming nervously, impatiently. He turned his head. He saw me sitting in back. His cheeks paled. I felt nothing.

  Motes of dust swirled slowly in the shafts of sunlight. The room was warm and stuffy, despite its size. It seemed to take forever for the procedures to begin, and the legal rituals seemed inane and meaningless. I paid little attention, my mind wandering, the grief that had demolished me for weeks threatening to resurface. I toyed with my black lace handkerchief and was surprised to look down and see that I had torn it to shreds. They called my name. I looked up, startled. Everyone seemed to be waiting for me to do something. The room was very quiet. Burke hurried over and took my hand and led me to the witness box. I sat down in the large, uncomfortable wooden chair and Burke closed the wooden railing that opened and shut like a gate. He went back to his table and another man took his place, his black robe a size too large, his long white wig rather frayed.

  Hugh was staring at me. His face was still pale. The judges were staring at me, too. Their faces seemed to blur. The room seemed to blur into a brown haze, and I was aware only of the man in front of me, his face lean and haggard and pasty gray, aged, his blue eyes scrutinizing me with alarming intensity. I gazed at him coolly. He held up two ancient, creased, yellowing sheets of parchment spotted with brown fox marks and, in a cracked, rasping voice, asked me if I had ever seen them before. I nodded.

  “I must ask you to speak up, Lady Meredith,” he admonished.

  “Yes,” I said, “I have seen them before.”

  “Would you describe for the court the circumstances under which they first came to your attention?”

  You don’t want me to do that, dear counselor. No indeed. Megan and Charles had been absolutely horrified at my proposal and Charles had flatly refused to have anything to do with it. They had both railed at me, told me I was out of my mind, refused to listen when I tried to explain my reasons for wanting it done. Finally, when I threatened to go to Seven Dials alone and unaccompanied, Charles had reluctantly agreed to accept the commission. He took two stalwart ex-guardsmen
with him, and he wore shabby old clothes and a gray wig, his handsome face heavily disguised with greasepaint. The Grand Cyprus hadn’t been at all interested in his identity, only in his gold, and for an exorbitant fee had agreed to forge the papers Charles requested. Charles returned for them a week later, and they were perfect. The Grand Cyprus was indeed a genius, every bit as clever as Boswell had claimed that morning at the breakfast table. I looked at the papers now, aware that the counselor was growing impatient.

  “Milady?” he said.

  “I was cleaning out my husband’s desk in his office at Greystone Hall,” I said, “and I noticed one of the drawers seemed to be stuck. It wouldn’t open all the way. I tugged and strained and finally I employed a nail file and gave it a jerk. There was a tiny cache in back, obviously a secret compartment, and the papers were there, rolled up and tied with a rotten brown ribbon, completely covered with dust. I took them out and examined them, and when I discovered what they were I turned them over to my advocate, Mr. Burke.”

  The counselor nodded decisively and looked at the judges, as though to determine that they had heard properly, and then he turned to me again. “I see,” he said, “and do you think your late husband was aware of their existence?”

  “I’m certain he wasn’t,” I replied, and my voice was full of conviction. “As I said, they were completely covered with dust and clearly hadn’t been disturbed for a great many years.”

  “Tell me, Lady Meredith—” He hesitated a moment. “Do you have any idea how the papers might have come to be in this compartment you describe?”

  “I feel sure that Lord Meredith, my husband’s uncle, placed them there for reasons of his own.”

  “And what might those reasons have been?”

  It was an impertinent question. Both of us were aware of that. I gazed at him with cool eyes.

  “I don’t feel I’m qualified to answer that question,” I said crisply. “I would imagine you and the rest of Mr. Bradford’s counselors have a theory which you will establish in due course.”

  “Ah hummm … yes, well, uh, would you describe the papers to us for the benefit of the court.”

  “One appears to be a certificate verifying the legal marriage of Lord Meredith and one Teresa Guiccoli. The other would seem to be a certificate registering the birth of their legitimate son, the date entered approximately seventeen months after that on the first certificate.”

  The counselor was quite pleased with my statement. He brushed one of the long, billowing sleeves of his robe and looked at the judges again, beaming. I was acutely aware of Hugh’s eyes staring at me but I refused to look at him. I was growing restive and prayed that it would soon be over. The counselor gave me his attention, and when he spoke his cracked, raspy voice was portentous and full of drama.

  “Lady Meredith, you discovered these papers yourself. Have you any doubts about their authenticity?”

  “None whatsoever,” I lied.

  “You turned them over to your legal counselor, fully aware of their import. Would you tell the court what you believe they signify?”

  “I believe they signify that the man known as Hugh Bradford is unquestionably the legitimate son of my late husband’s uncle and his Italian wife and, as such, the rightful heir to all his father’s estate.”

  “To which you have no legal claim!” he cried triumphantly.

  “A fact I have no intention of contesting,” I said.

  “Thank you, Lady Meredith. I am sure the court appreciates your integrity and your honesty in these matters. That will be all.”

  There were excited murmurs in the room as I opened the railing and stepped down. Hugh had leaped to his feet, his expression exultant. He called my name as I moved past. I paid him no mind. My part of the proceedings was over, and I did not intend to stay for the rest. Burke took my arm and led me out of the room and down the corridor and past the anteroom and down yet another corridor to the front of the building. The carriage I had hired was waiting for me, and so were the gentlemen from Fleet. A furor broke out when I appeared.

  “Lady Meredith! Angel! What happened? Tell us! Give us the story! Do you keep the estate? Does Bradford get it? Come on, Angel! You’ve always cooperated before!”

  I smiled politely and maintained a discreet silence as they swarmed around me. Burke fended them off as best he could and led me over to the waiting carriage. The journalists shouted and waved and leaped about trying to get my attention. Burke opened the door for me and brutally shoved aside a husky fellow who tried to leap inside. I climbed in and Burke closed the door firmly, looking at me through the window. I reached out and took his hand and squeezed it, thanking him silently amidst the uproar. He nodded and I released his hand and he stepped back. The carriage pulled away, surrounded by journalists who hotly pursued it for several minutes.

  I was tense. The streets were terribly congested. It seemed to take forever to get out of the city, and it was only when the countryside began to clip past the windows that I finally relaxed. I sat back against the cushions, gazing out at the trees, the fields, the gentle hills already a hazy green against the vivid blue sky. Now that it was over, I had no regrets whatsoever. I had done what I felt I must do, and now … now I could get on with my life. We passed through a small village with thatched cottages and an ancient brownstone church with tarnished copper steeple. A little girl with flaxen hair was leading a flock of geese across the green. The carriage moved on, wheels rumbling, horse hooves clopping heavily on the road. There were more trees, more fields, several more villages. The journey seemed interminable. It was midafternoon when the carriage turned into the drive of Greystone Hall.

  Putnam himself came out to open the carriage door for me. Although he was as stately and reserved as ever, there was a new kindness in his eyes, and as he helped me out of the carriage he did so with concern, as though I were fragile. I smiled at him, thanking him with my eyes, and Putnam nodded and gave the driver instructions to go around to the stableyard. Mrs. Rigby was in the front hall, waiting for me. She made a deep curtsy, looking as though she might begin to cry at any moment.

  “I’ve packed all the clothes you left, Milady,” she said. “The bags are in the back hall. One of the footmen will carry them out to the carriage. The boxes of books you packed before you left are ready, too. I—I wasn’t sure if you would want tea or not, but I’ve prepared it anyway.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Rigby. I’ll take it in the back sitting room.”

  “Will you be staying long, Milady?”

  “Not long,” I replied. “An hour or two at most. I—I would like you to thank all the staff for me, Mrs. Rigby. You all have been wonderful to me from the first, and it has meant a great deal. I’ll miss you all.”

  The housekeeper took out a handkerchief and brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. “Then—then—this means you won’t be coming back?”

  The servants, of course, were fully aware that I was to go to court today, and they were all most eager to know the outcome. I handled it as tactfully as I could, knowing Mrs. Rigby would spread the news promptly.

  “There is a new Lord Meredith, Mrs. Rigby. I would imagine he will be arriving in a day or so to look at the property, and he will undoubtedly want you all to stay on. He will be depending on you, and I hope you will give him all the help and consideration due him.”

  “Of—of course, Milady,” she said hesitantly.

  I thanked her again and went back to the sitting room. Robert brought the tea trolley in a few minutes later. He was wearing his best livery, and he had clearly already heard the news. He poured for me himself and, before leaving, told me that it had been a pleasure serving me. Henri had prepared all of the things I liked, but I ate very little, sitting there near the fire and drinking my tea, trying not to look at the sofa where Clinton had drawn his last breath. After a while I went over and picked up one of the soft cushions and held it to my bosom, staring out the windows for a long time, and then I tenderly replaced the cushion and left
the room.

  There was very little for me to pack, a few wedding gifts, a few of my personal possessions. Most of my things had already been sent on to Maiden Lane, where Megan was storing them for me. The jewels Clinton had given me were in a safe at Dottie’s. I had leased space in a stable near the park in London, and Cynara was already there. I couldn’t leave her behind. Ian had gone to London with her, hiring on at the stable and assuring me she would receive the best of care. I packed the few things remaining. Robert took the bag to the back hall and it would soon be strapped atop the carriage along with the others.

  The sunlight was beginning to fade, long shadows spreading on the lawn. I went into Clinton’s dressing room and opened the wardrobe and took out his favorite navy blue satin dressing robe, holding it to me, resting my cheek against the smooth, cool cloth, and then I put it back and went into our bedroom, resting my hand on the curve of one of the bedposts, remembering, storing away memories that would remain forever. I had loved him with a gentle love that would always have a place in my heart, and my grief would always be there too, locked deep inside me. I went downstairs and wandered through the rooms so beautifully renovated by Adam, silently saying my good-byes. I stepped into the elegant empty ballroom where we had danced all alone the night of the ball, remembering that night, his wonderful composure, the love that had glowed in his eyes as we glided around that polished golden-brown floor to the lilting strains of music. The tears came at last, and I let them fall for several minutes.

  Putnam met me in the foyer twenty minutes later. I had dried my eyes, and I was completely composed. He informed me that the bags had all been strapped on top of the carriage, and I asked him to have it brought around. I went into the drawing room, so tastefully done in shades of white, pale gray and sky blue, rich sapphire blue velvet covering the graceful Chippendale furniture. Fading rays of sunlight slanted through the windows, hazily illuminating the beautiful Adam fireplace and the painting above it. An Angel in Scarlet glowed with rich color, vibrant and alive, and I gazed for a final time at that pensive girl who was no more. I was vaguely aware of the sound of wheels and horse hooves and I heard footsteps entering the foyer, but, lost in reverie, I paid no mind. Someone came into the room. Gazing at the portrait, I didn’t turn around.