by May Burnett
Chapter 13
The ride to Newhaven had taken several hours, but on arrival James and Alphonse quickly managed to hire a boat for the following morning’s tide. After entrusting their winded horses to a livery stable, and arranging for their return home after a thorough rest, the two friends by common accord sought out a hostelry that offered a four-course dinner to weary travellers. They also called for ale.
“You are looking more cheerful than when we set out,” James observed while they waited for their sustenance. “Did the exercise have this beneficial effect?”
“In part. I find it is always better to do something, rather than just sit and wait for news. That is why the whole last year, in deep mourning with an ailing child to worry over, was a foretaste of hell. When that message arrived today, I was certain it contained news of Monique’s death, so long anticipated and feared. Anything less than that was comparatively good news, once it had sunk in. I am not sure if I make myself clear. I don’t know if my mind is even clear,” Alphonse said apologetically.
“I understand,” James said, “now, at least you can still hope for the best.”
“While we were riding I have been thinking back, and going over every word I ever exchanged with Mme Fourrier. Whatever my mother says, I cannot believe she would intentionally harm my little girl. She is a recent widow, and since Mme Fourrier’s own boy child was still-born, she appeared to have instantly transferred all her devotion to my daughter; she even battled with Mother over feeding schedules and swaddling bands. Without her care, I doubt Monique would have survived so long, quite apart from the nourishment she provided in abundance.”
“If she lost her husband and child in short order, can it be that her reason was unhinged? That she plans to bring up your daughter as her own child, away from your interfering mother?”
Alphonse shook his head. “She always struck me as eminently sane and reasonable. Of course, nobody can truly know what is in another person’s heart.”
“One can have a fairly good idea, if it is the person you live with,” James disagreed. Their tankards of ale were finally placed before them by a buxom barmaid. “Let’s drink to a swift recovery of your child.”
They drank deeply. “I must be one of very few Frenchmen who appreciate good English ale,” Alphonse stated. “We’d better be careful, and not order any more after this.”
“Yes, or we might end up like Rook, unconscious in a ditch, and here in town we’d likely be robbed as well. A bruising rider like him! Rook will never live it down.”
“We left Charlotte with a lot on her hands,” Alphonse said, a little guiltily. “The ball, unless she decides to postpone it, the Conways and their unscrupulous relative, Minerva, and poor Rook, as well as three children and a large household. She copes admirably with big and small complications.”
“And don’t forget that she is in a delicate state, and that Jennifer with her large family may descend on her at any moment,” James added ruefully. “Whenever I have to leave home, I comfort myself with the reflection that my wife is equal to anything.”
Their food arrived, and they fell to with a will, hungry after the long ride.
“How soon, after meeting her, did you know Charlotte was the destined to be your wife?” Alphonse asked. “From my observation it cannot have been long, but I was not present when you first met.”
“Not at the very first moment,” James said, “then I thought her attractive and intriguing, but it took several days to realize that she was my fate. There was no sudden blinding insight. I just found myself thinking about her more and more, and the conviction that she had to be mine slipped over me so gradually that I could not pinpoint the exact moment. It all happened inside of the first week or so.”
“That is not something I ever experienced with poor Louise-Henriette. I should have refused to marry her when my father asked it of me after his stroke. Then she would still be alive, and we would not be on this mission to retrieve her child.”
“Had you refused your father’s dying request, Alphonse, you would have felt guilty about that for the rest of your life. You had no way to know that she would die in childbirth. Besides, Louise-Henriette also agreed to the marriage, didn’t she? It was not all your own decision.”
“You didn’t know her, James. She was brought up in a convent to be dutiful, and would have married whoever her parents presented as her husband. I was of suitable pedigree and handsome enough, as she once told me, but it made little difference.”
“How did you get on after the marriage?”
“Remembering your happiness with Charlotte, I tried to establish a closer friendship, but she showed little interest. She never made the slightest effort to enter into my preoccupations, and hers were needlework and court intrigue. She would not even try to learn English, when I suggested it, and refused to accompany me the one time I came to London during our short year of marriage. When we walked anywhere, within a short time she had to return, because she felt out of breath, or had a stitch in her side. Any vigorous exercise was anathema to Louise-Henriette.” Especially in intimate situations, but that was not something he could ever speak aloud, even to James. He cast about for something more positive to say about his wife. “She could be very charming in a girlish way, and had a lovely singing voice; indeed she was highly musical, a talent I could not properly appreciate, to my regret.”
“How could your father have foisted a woman onto you, who was so little suited to provide companionship to one of your nature? In my opinion he is chiefly to blame for the situation in which you now find yourself. I hope I never play such a trick on my own children.”
“Let us make a pact,” Alphonse said, “that we will never force our children to marry anyone in particular, but will help them to find their own way and happiness.”
“A good idea,” James agreed. “If ever one of us should be in danger of forgetting, the other has to remind him of our vow.”
The two friends solemnly sealed their pact with the last of the ale in their tankards.
+++
They reached their rented ship without mishap, still in possession of two full purses, the dinner and livery stable having made the only barest dent in their ample resources. The ship, slightly larger than Alphonse’s own yacht – out of reach in Dieppe just now – set sail straight for Nantes, the seaport closest to the historic Ville-Deuxtours Castle, catching the morning tide just before dawn. As the sun rose in an almost cloudless, blue sky, a brisk, favourable wind filled the canvas, and the captain had every expectation of arriving in Nantes harbour within three days.
James watched his friend standing at the rails, looking out over the green-blue waves. The enforced wait aboard had wrought an end to Alphonse’s temporary optimism, and fear for his daughter was again uppermost in his mind. James could not even imagine what it would be like to have mislaid his own Violet or Roger.
“The one time I visited your castle, I came by land, from Paris,” he remarked. “How far is it from the port of Nantes?”
“About a day’s distance. We can rent a carriage in Nantes easily enough. Although I have only lived in France for the last three years, I know the town well. Most of the wine grown on my estates passes through there.”
“Do you find it difficult to be a French landholder, after growing up in England?” James hoped to distract Alphonse from thoughts of his missing child.
“One gets used to anything,” Alphonse’s voice was bleak. “It was the dream of my parents that we would one day recover our castle and estates, but I believe towards the end they had almost given up hope that it would ever happen.”
“Did they never sue for its restoration from Napoleon, as so many other noble families did?”
Alphonse gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Both my parents would rather have died in a gutter than have any dealings with that Corsican upstart. No, from first to last they were loyal to the Bourbons, and the reward came, finally, after Waterloo. In the meantime the castle was at first
standing empty, and looted, by those same people who now doff their caps at me and call me M. le Marquis. Eventually the castle was given to one of Napoleon’s generals, as the reward for winning a battle against Austria.”
“What happened to that General?”
“He did not make it back from Moscow. His widow moved to Paris and after Waterloo, the castle was taken away from her and returned to my parents.”
“So you had never seen the place until your parents got it back in 1816.”
“No, though I heard endless tales of its size and magnificence throughout my childhood. My parents loved to describe every single one of its many rooms, the treasures that are scattered now, and the luxurious parties they used to have there before the revolution.”
James had been acquainted with the old Marquis and his wife long before their fortune turned to the better, due to his childhood friendship with Alphonse, but most often Alphonse had visited at Amberley. He had not himself heard his friend’s parents indulge in these wistful reminiscences.
“When I first set eyes on the place, I was impressed,” Alphonse said. “Having discounted much of my parents’ description as the embellishments of memory, the sheer mass of the castle, and its undeniable beauty, stole my breath.” His eyes followed the flight of a gull against the blue sky.
“Unfortunately,” he went on lightly after a moment, “there was serious damage from all those years of neglect, though the Bonapartist General at least replaced part of the roofs, where they had burned in the revolution. The cost of repairing and maintaining the place financially crippled the poor man, long before he lost his life in the cold Russian winter. Thus – among other reasons – why my parents fixed on poor Louise-Henriette, whose dowry was large enough to finance the repairs the house needed. Most of the third I received outright has been spent already on those works. During my year of mourning I kept myself occupied with overseeing them.”
“I did not know,” James said. “My own two estates are so small in comparison.”
“Be glad of that,” Alphonse advised him. “The burden of past tradition can be heavy. You should thank your stars that you were born a second son.”
Chapter 14
Two days later, dinner at the Hall was subdued, in the absence of James and Alphonse. Rook was still confined to his room, chafing at his captivity. Sir Mortimer as the only gentleman did his best to keep up a steady flow of small talk, aided by the younger ladies, yet compared to earlier times a pall lay over their small group.
After the sweet course, they were considering whether to retire early, or play a game of whist for pennies –four being the ideal number of players for the game, as Sir Mortimer insisted – when a carriage was heard outside.
“Who can it be, this late?” Charlotte immediately went to investigate, flanked by her guests.
“Mr Beecham!” she said in faint alarm, when the late arrival was ushered in by a yawning footman.
The solicitor looked tired, but managed a creditable bow towards the ladies and Sir Mortimer. “Forgive me for arriving unannounced at this hour, but I have urgent news. Where is your husband?”
“Gone to France,” Charlotte said baldly. “Please come into the library.” She gave orders to prepare a tray for the late guest, and a guest room.
“Would you like some brandy?” she asked Beecham. “You look thirsty.”
“Tea would be more welcome, if you do not mind. I want to keep a clear head, and it has already been a long day.”
“For us as well,” Minerva said, suppressing the desire to smooth Beecham’s weary brow.
“Though I always value James’ good counsel, it is mostly on your behalf I came tonight,” Beecham said to Sir Mortimer and Celia. “My fears regarding your father have proved only too justified.”
“Have you seen him? Is he in London?” Celia asked. It felt strange to be apprehensive about the motives of her parent. But in her early years she had witnessed too many discussions about money between him and her governess, to be under any illusions about his priorities.
“No, I myself have not yet seen him, Miss Conway, but he came to the London office of your company, and demanded to see the books for all the breweries. The manager was much taken aback, and told him that he could not possibly show them to him without your grandmother’s permission.”
“When was this?” Sir Mortimer asked, brows furrowed.
“Yesterday morning. As soon as I was informed, I sent orders back to your manager, on no account to let Conway even step on the company premises again. But we have to face it: your father has a strong legal case.”
Sir Mortimer and Celia exchanged glances of consternation.
“It is incredible that Peter should come back after all these years and create more havoc,” Charlotte said angrily. “How dare he!”
“I immediately endeavoured to find out more,” Beecham continued. “He is now living once again in the Half Moon House with Mrs. Conway, the former Miss Bessemer. Somewhat surprisingly, they also have a three-year old son, young Simeon Conway.”
“But how is that possible?” Celia asked, confused. “You told us that my father spent the last few years in the Americas. Did his wife visit him there?”
“No, she remained here in England throughout.”
“Then how– “
“These things happen, Celia,” Sir Mortimer said. “Imagine, a young, rich woman, with her husband on another continent for years on end, not expecting him back …”
“And nobody to gainsay her if she claimed that the child was his,” Beecham added with a nod. Minerva and Celia exchanged shocked glances.
“Of course, when he did come back, she would have no choice but to submit to whatever he dictated,” Charlotte said. “She does not move in the first circles, but the rich bourgeoisie is, if anything, even more censorious. She cannot afford a scandal, any more than we.”
“So this boy passes for my half-brother, but is no relation really?” Celia still found the whole idea incredible.
“That seems the likeliest explanation, Miss Conway.” Beecham confirmed.
“I suppose it would be no use for me to denounce Peter to the authorities,” Charlotte said. “He did in effect defraud my family of five thousand guineas. Many have been hung for much less.”
Celia looked at her, eyes wide. “I had no idea, Mrs. Ellsworthy. Let me replace the sum, as soon as I am in full possession of my fortune.”
Charlotte smiled. “No need, but I thank you for the offer. The money was the least of it.”
“I beg you will do nothing rash, Charlotte,” Minerva said, shifting uneasily on her chair.
“It would indeed do more harm than good to denounce Conway at this late date, and the damage to your family – your own children – would be considerable, ma’am. I advise you to forget about the possibility,” Beecham said.
“So what is your counsel?” Sir Mortimer asked the solicitor.
“It is a difficult situation. Since nobody expected Conway back before Miss Conway attained her majority, the most elementary legal precautions have been neglected. I wish I could have advised your late grandfather, Miss Conway, to tie the fortune up in a trust that would have protected your interests better. Unfortunately I only was involved in your affairs long after his accident.”
“At my suggestion,” Sir Mortimer explained to his niece, “and I knew of Mr. Beecham through the Marquis.”
“I see,” Celia said. “But is it useless to indulge in might-have-beens. What can be done here and now?”
“We could, even at this late date, try to have you declared a Ward in Chancery,” Beecham said. “But if Conway contests the move, as he is likely to do, we would have created the very scandal and notoriety that we most want to avoid.”
“I have always felt,” Charlotte said, “that the need to avoid scandal is constraining good people far too much. Tell me, on whose authority is Miss Conway’s fortune managed now?”
“I have a power of attorney from Mrs. Treppanner,
her grandmother, who is still part owner of the breweries,” Beecham explained. “Nobody has questioned her and my power to act on Miss Conway’s behalf. It is a very profitable, cash-rich enterprise, and has not needed any bank loans.”
“Couldn’t your father just be bought off?” Minerva suggested.
Everyone considered this proposal for a few seconds. “He would keep asking for more and more,” Beecham said at last. “I have met others of his type.”
“But with his own wife so rich, why would he even need to?” Celia wrinkled her brow.
“He gambles,” Charlotte said. “Badly, from what James told me, and no matter how much money he gets from rich women, it is never going to be enough.”
“Yes, that was the reason he had to leave London in the first place,” Beecham confirmed. “He got into more debt than the Bessemers would pay off for him, and some very nasty moneylenders were threatening him with personal harm, to set an example to their other debtors.”
Celia sighed. “How humiliating, to hear these things about my own father.”
Charlotte patted her arm consolingly. “It is not your fault. My father was an inveterate gambler, too. A more successful one, fortunately, or I might be languishing in a poorhouse right now, and never have met James.”
“What other legal remedies are there left?” Minerva brought the discussion back to the point. Poor Beecham looked very tired, and at the rate the others were talking, they might be here half the night.
“As I explained before, the most secure way to spike Conway’s guns would be for his daughter to marry in Scotland, preferably somebody of standing and fortune, to scotch any malicious rumours Conway might spread.”
Minerva frowned. “Are you volunteering, by any chance, Mr. Beecham?”
The young solicitor looked startled at the question, and a faint colour stained his neck. “Oh, no, milady, I have the greatest admiration for Miss Conway,” he bowed to the young lady, “but her fortune and beauty put her far above my touch, I would never presume so far. Besides, I believe that marriage should only be contemplated by couples who know each other well, and have experienced that deepening of affection that is the only suitable basis for a happy union.” His brown eyes met Minerva’s in silent challenge.
