by May Burnett
“She has made an excellent choice, a man of integrity, and I for one support Minerva fully,” James said. “I am happy that a good friend should become a brother-in-law.”
“My felicitations, Beecham,” Rook’s expression was perfectly composed, his voice calm. “You are a very lucky fellow.”
His father threw him an incredulous look.
“Oh, I know it.” Beecham’s face was glowing. “I will do my best to deserve such happiness.”
The duke shook his head at so much folly, and called for his coach-and-four to be readied. Within minutes, he and Rook had left.
Jennifer was not yet reconciled to the match. “Mother will be furious. She has boasted to all and sundry that Minerva would marry Rook, and will look a fool now it is not going to happen.”
“That is hardly Minerva’s fault,” James pointed out. “It was unwise, to say the least, to boast of the match before the fact.”
“Yes, and to think she nearly got me to accept him,” Minerva said with a grimace. “I am happy, Jennifer, cannot you be pleased for me? Your own choice of husband was not universally applauded.”
“Indeed,” Beecham said, looking steadily at Potts, “By the way, I have been thinking of a political career eventually. I want to help eradicate some of the ills disgracing our times, such as slavery.”
There was a stricken silence. Celia looked from one face to the other, and sent Alphonse a questioning glance. Minerva looked bemused at her fiancé’s introduction of such an extraneous subject.
“What an excellent notion,” James said heartily. “I was already going to suggest to George, that he give Protheroe’s seat to you. It would be a neat solution in all respects. Why did you not tell me earlier, Henry, that you wanted to go into politics?”
“It is not my habit to ask for favours. I was going to try and stand for one of the city seats, fight a real election. And you forget that my politics would hardly be palatable to your brother, who is a Tory.”
“A radical? A reformer?” Lady Jennifer looked at Beecham as she would have considered a slug in her garden. “Minerva, think what you are doing! You cannot mean to throw yourself away like that!”
“Yes, Jennifer, I do,” Minerva declared, twining her hand in Beecham’s, “and I do not consider it throwing myself away. It is my life: I know best what will suit me.”
“George won’t mind your politics. You know I’m not a Tory either,” James told Beecham. “Now that you’ll be family, he’ll be happy enough if we have a foot on either side. There is a long tradition in the family to take opposing positions in the Lords and Commons.”
“I think it is a splendid solution,” Charlotte added her vote. “I was afraid we’d never have time for our Cornwall estate again, if Parliament kept James tied to town.”
“You are a fool,” Lady Jennifer said to Minerva, ignoring the political discussion. “If you didn’t want Rook, why didn’t you take Alphonse, who’s a Marquis with an ancient title and impressive castle? Why a mere solicitor, even if he goes into politics?”
“Now that,” Alphonse said, “is crossing the line into vulgarity, Jennifer. Perhaps this is not the best moment, but before you bestow me on anyone else, let me inform all of you” – he made an elegant bow – “that Miss Conway has this morning accepted my proposal, and will be my wife as soon as we can arrange the matter.”
If Minerva’ announcement had surprised the assembled family, Alphonse’s stunned them. After a few seconds, Charlotte embraced and kissed Celia, James pumped Alphonse’s hand, and Sir Mortimer could hardly contain his joy at this unexpected tidings. “I always knew it,” he said. “You were destined to be a great lady, Celia! A Marchioness! I want to give you away when you marry.”
“And so you shall,” Alphonse told the baronet. “We can organize a journey to Scotland to celebrate the wedding, as Beecham suggested. You can come with us, and give Celia away. Her grandmother could also travel with our party, if she feels up to it. Then, after I have the right to do so, it will give me the greatest pleasure on earth to get rid of your nephew’s pretensions.”
“A splendid idea.” Sir Mortimer rubbed his hands.
“I can hold off your father for another few weeks,” Beecham said, “and when you come back married, Miss Conway, I will happily transfer your fortune into your new husband’s hands. His social position and wealth ensure that Conway will have no chance whatsoever of contesting the marriage.”
“Since you are right here,” Alphonse told Beecham, “I want you to draw up the settlements. Her entire fortune and income is to remain Celia’s, to manage and dispose of as she wills.”
Everyone looked at him in astonishment. “You cannot be serious,” Mr. Potts cried. “It goes completely against all custom! She is barely more than a child!”
Alphonse regarded him haughtily. “My family act as we see fit. We set custom, rather than following it.”
“Just so,” James said. “You’d better work on Minerva’s settlements as well, Henry. Though that is less urgent, since you’ll have to wait for George and Marianne to come back before you can wed. Can you stay here for another day?”
“I believe so, as the weekend is upon us, and Conway cannot institute any legal steps before Monday. In any case, I have the greatest inducement right here, at my side.” Beecham smiled at Minerva, who returned the smile with equal warmth.
“What an amazing day, two engagements at once,” Charlotte summed up with a broad smile. She gave orders for champagne to be fetched, for a toast to the two betrothed couples.
While everyone else was celebrating, James pulled his sister Jennifer aside. “How can you reject Henry as our brother-in-law, Jenny, when your own husband’s fortune is built on trading in slaves? In my eyes, an honest solicitor is far more respectable.”
She tossed her head. “When I married Bartholomew, I had no idea what his company was engaged in.”
“And when you found out?”
Her eyes slid away from his. “If his ships did not engage in such a trade, someone else would. It is not illegal, after all. My children and I have nothing to do with any of that, and I prefer not to know the details. Bartholomew respects that.”
James looked at her sadly. “I see. Jennifer, I will not lecture you or your husband on this happy day, but I strongly advise you to voice no further objections to Minerva’s perfectly sensible choice. I have a feeling that society’s tolerance towards slavery will come to an end before too long, even without Beecham agitating for that in the House. You might be wise to prevail on your husband to find some other use for his ships, before your children are old enough to suffer from any backlash.”
“Nonsense,” Jennifer retorted, but with little conviction. “That has nothing at all to do with our sister’s unwise marriage. Mother will be livid, but at least I can write to her that I did my best to register my protest. In the end, if Minerva wants to ruin her life, it is her own bed to lie on. Just don’t let her come to me if they fall on hard times.”
“Don’t worry,” James said, revolted by his older sister’s attitude. “Henry is not poor, and will be more prosperous by and by. Besides, while Charlotte and I live, they will never lack for a friend. I had expected better of you, Jennifer.”
“I do not care for your censure,” Jennifer retorted, irked beyond measure that a younger brother should take it upon himself to disapprove of her husband or her actions. “Please tell the stables to ready our carriage, and send word to the nursery. We shall be leaving as soon as we have packed.”
Chapter 33
That evening, an urgent message for Henry Beecham arrived at the Hall just before dinner. The family and guests were already assembled, waiting for the meal to be announced.
Beecham opened the missive he had received, and quickly perused it. The others clustered nearby, in case the message contained news of immediate concern.
He looked up from the letter at Celia. “This is unexpected and unhappy news, from an investigator I employed on your b
ehalf. Your father has been attacked by unknown assailants, and lies close to death, unable to be awakened. His wife and son have abandoned him and left the house for parts unknown.”
“When did this happen?” James asked with a frown.
“Yesterday night, during the time of the ball here.”
“Every single one of us has witnesses where they were, except me,” Alphonse said. “I left London around ten in the evening, and found it slow going in the darkness. But I assure you, Celia, I would not have solved your problems in such a violent fashion.”
“I know.” Celia smiled at her fiancé, but without her usual cheerfulness. “Despite everything, I do not like to think of my father all alone, with only servants to look after him. Who can be responsible for this crime?”
“Possibly the fellows to whom he owed money five years ago,” James said. “But surely he would have paid them off, before showing his face in town again. Not to do so would be madness, considering the gambling houses and moneylenders he was involved with.”
Beecham looked at the message again. “He was attacked after midnight, but nobody would suspect you anyway, Marquis.”
“Let’s go to London tomorrow morning, and see what is going on,” Celia suggested to her uncle and Alphonse.
“What if this news is false and merely a ruse to lure you out of hiding?” Sir Mortimer worried.
Beecham shook his head. “My informant is highly reliable.”
Celia and Alphonse assured the baronet that together, they could hold their own against Conway, even in such a case; and Christian charity demanded that they go to him, if the news was accurate. “We’ll take good care of little Monique while you are gone,” Charlotte assured them. “I am also most interested in what you find out, and want to hear all about it afterwards. Good luck!”
+++
They found the Conway household at Half Moon Street in complete disarray. The butler fell on the elderly gentleman who claimed to be the master’s uncle with so much relief, that he did not even pause to ascertain who Celia and Alphonse were. “You are family? A good thing you came. The Missus is gone, with the nipper, and all their things. Bow Street has been here asking everybody, and is looking for her. I’ve never in my life been involved in a scandal, no, not once, and I don’t like it.”
“No wonder,” Sir Mortimer said diplomatically. “Can you take us to my nephew?”
The butler led them to a bedroom on the first floor, making excuses all the way, that there was nobody suitable for sick care in the household since the disappearance of his mistress.
The appearance of Celia’s father, stretched out on his bed fully clothed, dispelled any doubts – this was indeed a man close to death. Nobody had undressed him, and the fetid air made Celia gag. Before she could say anything, Alphonse threw the window open. With the added light, Celia could see that her father’s features were drawn, and there were deep dark shadows under his eyes. He looked much older than the last time she had seen him, some five years before, and there were white hairs among the original dark brown. Despite everything, the unconscious man on the bed looked handsome, even distinguished. His breathing was regular. A head wound had been inexpertly bandaged with two neck cloths.
“Hasn’t a physician been called yet?” Sir Mortimer said faintly. He was pale as he looked at his closest known relative.
“I was going to send for one, when they first brought him here, but the Missus countermanded my order,” the butler said, somewhat guiltily. “That was before she packed up and left.”
“But even so, man, you cannot simply let your master die from neglect! This is shameful!”
“How long has he been unconscious like this?” Celia asked. “He must be thirsty. Have tea and broth sent up right away, as well as boiled water. And send for the physician, right now.”
While she gave these orders, her uncle and Alphonse started to undress Conway, faces grim.
By the time the physician arrived, the patient had been cleaned, and was dressed in a nightshirt. He had not awoken during this procedure, though he had groaned a few times. Celia was sitting by his bed, transferring liquid into the gaunt body as best she could, by means of a small sponge. It was a slow procedure, and some of the broth had spattered onto her cambric dress.
The doctor took his time with the examination, and looked grave at the end. “The prognosis is not good,” he said frankly. “If he does not wake within the next twenty-four hours, he might never do so at all, and slowly waste away. Even if he does wake up, there might be permanent brain damage, impossible to tell at this stage. He needs constant care.”
“Could you recommend a competent nurse, or better two, to take turns?” Alphonse asked. “Money is no object.”
“It looks like a deliberate hit on the head with some heavy object like a cudgel,” the physician warned. “If he dies, it is murder, and someone will have to hang for it. I must inform the authorities.”
“I understand they are already informed,” Sir Mortimer said. “We came from a house party in Sussex when we learned of this crime, to look after my poor nephew. But it really is the duty of his wife, whose whereabouts nobody seems to know.”
“Most unusual,” the physician said, raising his brows.
“I had better talk to the magistrate myself,” Sir Mortimer said. “If his men are investigating, they might know more already.” It was arranged that he should to so together with the physician, while Celia and Alphonse stayed to look after Celia’s father until a pair of nurses could relieve them.
Finally they were left alone with the unconscious man.
“I am sorry that our engagement begins with such an unpleasant scene,” Celia said. “And despite everything, I hate seeing my father brought to this. He is not a good man, but nobody deserves to be murdered.”
“He is not dead yet,” Alphonse pointed out. “But attempted murder, at the least, was certainly done here. If he should wake, I hope he can name the culprit. Though if he was set upon by a professional, it is surprising they would not have finished the job. I am inclined to think it must have been some amateur, someone he had wronged.”
Celia looked at her father, helpless on the bed. A dutiful daughter should cry at such a sight, but her eyes remained obstinately dry. “I cannot understand him at all. He could have lived happily, by sticking to one rich wife, or to the military career, when Uncle Mortimer bought him a commission. Instead he kept running off again and again, finding new victims to swindle. It cannot have made him happy, and he left misery in his wake. Why?”
“Gambling,” Alphonse told her. “This might be a good time to confess that I once played dice with him, five years ago, and won several hundred pounds that he was reluctant to pay.”
“You never told me that,” Celia said.
“Because we had far more important things to talk about.”
“If you knew what he was like, had even met him, it amazes me that you would want to marry his daughter.”
Alphonse smiled. “You are not he, and your virtues by far eclipse his rather mundane vices. This gambling fever is a sickness, like drinking too much or taking laudanum. People susceptible to such a habit cannot help themselves. It is not unusual for them to destroy many other lives in the process, as your father has been doing. It happens in the best families.”
“Even so, I hope he does not die,” Celia said. Alphonse hugged her comfortingly.
To their mutual relief, a male nurse, dispatched by the physician, arrived shortly after, and took over the sickroom duties with evident competence. Celia and Alphonse went downstairs to the drawing room to await Sir Mortimer’s return.
Celia looked at the rich furnishings with curiosity. “So this is where my father lived, while I was kept in three shabby rooms in Bloomsbury. Notwithstanding all this gilt plaster on the ceilings, I do not much care for this place either.”
“Nor I,” Alphonse said. “Too fussy, and the colour scheme lacks style. The rooms are too narrow and dark. We can do much bette
r than this.”
“I look forward to seeing your castle. Uncle Mortimer and Mme Fourrier have told me how splendid it is.”
“You can help me keep it splendid. It is not an easy task.”
They were deep in a discussion of the castle’s requirements, when he asked, “Is that your uncle at the front door?”
So it proved, and the magistrate, Sir John Billander, was with him. Celia’s uncle made the introductions, and all four sat down on the patterned pink silk sofas. The magistrate frowned at Celia. “I am not sure that this is a discussion fit for a delicate young lady,” he said reprovingly.
Alphonse took her hand in his. “My future Marchioness is directly concerned, as Conway’s daughter and closest relation. She has a right to first-hand information.”
The older man gave a shrug, as though to say, on your head be it, and came to the point without further ado. “We have already found out who the culprit is, but he has eluded capture so far. The quick solution of the crime was due to a witness, a maid in this household, who overheard her mistress conspiring with her lover.”
“Who would this lover be?” Alphonse said, tightening his grip on Celia’s hand. “We had no idea of his existence. In fact, none of us has even met the second Mrs. Conway face to face.”
“It would seem that Conway came back to England after several years abroad, not long after his father-in-law had died and left a considerable fortune to Mrs. Conway. He forced his wife to return to him, with threats to ruin her reputation otherwise. According to the maid, Mrs Conway had been living with another man, of not too savoury reputation, though they practised reasonable discretion.”
He bowed apologetically to Celia. “I am sorry that you have to hear such distasteful details, Miss.” He cast a reproachful look at the two gentlemen.
“Please proceed,” Celia said. “I would rather know the truth, no matter how awful.”
“This other man, by name Joshua Robertson, is a former captain turned businessman. He was furious when Mrs. Conway went back to her husband. We have found several witnesses who have overheard him making threats. He will hang without a doubt as soon as catch him, and the woman as well. The one thing I cannot fathom,” the magistrate said, “is why they took Conway’s young child with them.”
