The following morning James woke early, and, as soon as he was dressed, took up a position on the ottoman by the drawing room window where he could observe the Wetherby’s house; waiting to see Richard depart on his rounds. When at last he saw him leave he went immediately around to the house.
Charlotte was alone in the drawing room as he had hoped. It had been some time since he had seen her and her beauty took him by surprise, as it often did, as though each time he saw her it was for the first time. She seemed so accepting of her appearance, but he knew she understood the effect it had on others.
She smiled at him and he knew it was not a smile she would have bestowed if Richard had been there. Charlotte used her beauty to confound; her mouth, her eyes, the way she held herself, all said, ‘Look at me, I am defenceless and I want only you.’ He knew she was playing to his uncertainty; that the moment he responded she might change, become angry and reject him, tell him she was a happily married woman, that he had misread their friendship for something else. Yet there was always that ambiguity in her manner, as though she might equally accept an advance. Whichever way she chose, he knew it would be her choice and that she would be in control.
She sat on the chaise-longue, patting the seat next to her with her left hand, ‘Come sit here beside me,’ she said.
‘I prefer to stand,’ he said. ‘There is something I need to discuss with you.’ She frowned, with an affected hurt expression and lounged back against the cushions.
‘I feel hurt, James,’ she said. ‘Have I offended you?’
He took the package from his jacket. ‘I found your letters in Harcourt’s safe.’
Her smile had disappeared now, and there was a barely concealed anger in the frown that replaced it for a moment; but only for a moment. ‘Richard told me you had found some letters in Harcourt’s safe and returned them. I guessed that you would have also discovered the ones I wrote. Have you told Richard?’ she asked.
‘Not yet,’ James replied.
‘Three innocent letters, that’s all they were,’ she said. ‘Nothing happened between us.’
‘Harcourt’s dead you know,’ James said, studying her face. If she felt anything she did not show it.
Her expression changed again, as though she was a little girl, being scolded for a small misdemeanour. ‘I was very foolish,’ she said. ‘I should never have written them, but they don’t amount to much. Nothing came of them.’
‘You forget that I have read them,’ James replied. ‘It troubles me now to think that I was used in this. I remember Harcourt trying to find out from me when Richard was likely to be out of the house. Perhaps nothing did happen between you, but if you hadn’t gone away and if Harcourt hadn’t had more pressing matters on his mind, then something would have happened, I have no doubt.’
‘You cannot know that,’ she replied. ‘Please give me the letters and promise you will say nothing to Richard. It would hurt him dreadfully and I could not bear to lose him.’
‘You should not have betrayed him then,’ James retorted. ‘How could you have done this to him, when he loves you with all his heart?’
‘I love him also,’ she replied, ‘yet he cannot always give me all that I need.’ She rose from the chaise-longue and walked over to him, her movements as delicate and precise as a cat. He thought he could see tears forming in her eyes as she encircled her hands behind his neck pulling him towards her.
James wanted to push her away, yet he could not. Her lips felt hard against his and though he resisted at first, her kiss became more urgent, her mouth open, her body pressing hard against his and he gave way. He put his arms around her, the letters falling to the ground. For a time he felt as though he were drowning, incapable of thought and then the memory of Belle’s kiss came back to him and the thought of Richard’s friendship. The realisation of what he was doing hit him like a shower of ice and he pushed her away more roughly than he intended.
She stumbled momentarily. Then she stooped down and picked up the letters and threw them to the back of the roaring fire, standing resolutely, until she was satisfied they had caught, barring his way to the fireplace, grabbing the poker from the hearth. ‘There, it is done,’ she said. ‘We need say nothing of this to Richard.’
‘And if I tell him what you have done?’ he asked.
‘Then I shall tell Richard that you are acting from spite, because I rejected your advances. You have no proof otherwise.’ She was smiling, composed again now.
He turned his back towards her. ‘You have burnt only two letters,’ he said, ‘I still have the third.’
Her anger was plain now. ‘You’re a liar,’ she spat, her beauty lost for a moment in her spite.
‘You cannot know that,’ he said. ‘You will never know if you burnt them all and if I have the slightest doubt of your fidelity in the future I will give the proof to Richard and you will lose everything.’
Charlotte said nothing as James left the room.
❖ ❖ ❖
It was in the afternoon of that same day that Richard called on him. If he had any suspicion of what had happened that morning James could not detect it in him. He seemed happy at first, as he set out the chessboard, as though everything that had happened in the last few months was forgotten or had never occurred. Then as if it were a matter of little consequence he asked, ‘Where is the other letter?’
‘What letter?’ James said, almost without thinking.
‘Charlotte told me everything,’ Richard replied. ‘She said you had called on her this morning and told her that you knew about Harcourt and her.’
James felt his cheeks redden and wondered if it was obvious to Richard. ‘What did she tell you?’ he asked.
‘She told me that Harcourt had been flirting with her for some time and wrote repeatedly before she answered. I knew that even if she hadn’t been unfaithful to me, there was someone else in her thoughts. I think I must have half suspected it was Harcourt, and yet I pretended it was imaginings, and did nothing. At times I even suspected that it might be you she was attracted to.’ He spoke the words as though he were more contemptuous of himself than condemning of Charlotte. ‘She said you had shown her two of the letters and allowed her to burn them, but that you had kept another to be sure that she did nothing like it again.’
‘What else did she say?’
‘She told me she was truly sorry and that it would never happen again.’
‘Do you believe her?’ James asked.
‘Yes,’ Richard replied. ‘She did not have to tell me what she did. She also told me that she tried to coax the letters from you and that you rejected her. She told me you are a good friend, and that she wants nothing to spoil our friendship. For my part I am sorry that I ever doubted you.’
‘Can you trust her again?’ James asked.
‘I love her so much that I have little choice in the matter,’ Richard replied, ‘but things will be different in the future. Please give me the other letter and let us not speak of the matter again.’
‘It is forgotten,’ James said, ‘and there is no other letter. They were all burnt this morning.’ Instantly he resolved to destroy the last letter as soon as Richard had gone. He could not bear the thought of his friend reading its contents, and he knew that Richard would never have been able to destroy it without first reading it. He knew it would not change his mind, and yet would hurt him even more.
‘Can I ask a favour?’ Richard said.
James instantly felt apprehensive, but said, ‘Of course you may after all that you have done for me.’
‘These have not been the easiest of times for my daughter, and Charity has grown much attached to the dog, since he has been with her.’
James smiled. ‘Then she shall keep him, for I believe Mrs Hawker has someone else on whom to lavish her affection now, and as for me, it will be yet another reason to visit your home more often.’
❖ ❖ ❖
Over the next few months, James gradually rebuilt his practice as a solicitor
. His reputation grew, particularly in criminal cases, and though many of the cases he took involved residents of Avon Street, he was able to subsidise them from the more lucrative fees he charged to his wealthier clients. Eventually he reached a stage where, despite the long hours he worked, he found himself having to turn work away. His social life was now, of course, far less demanding and expensive than it had been, and he surprised himself at the comparative speed with which he was able to repay his debts.
James contrived at every opportunity to have business in London, and when he could find no other excuse he went regardless. He found himself needing Belle’s company more and more, and though he felt she reciprocated his feelings, he also felt for a time that her career was drawing her further away with each success. He resolved to ask her to come with him when he visited his brother in Ireland, only half expecting that she might agree, but agree she did, despite having to cancel several engagements.
Needless to say, Sean could always be relied on to generate new projects which required an input from him. James often found himself called to attend the Orchard Street Church, on charitable matters, or to help someone who had fallen foul of the law, and whom Sean believed was at heart a good person. Try as he might though, and his efforts seemed to increase in those first months, Sean never managed to persuade James to attend a service there; yet the strength of their friendship grew.
For all Sean’s work, Avon Street remained much the same, though the lives of many became more tolerable. Some managed, with Sean’s help, to escape from the place and make new lives, or at least to ensure that their children could get away, but they were inevitably replaced by others.
Richard remained a close friend, but never spoke again of Charlotte’s infidelity, or of Harcourt. Though a regular visitor to James’ house, it was some time before he invited James to his own home. The visit, a dinner party just for the three of them, felt uneasy for all concerned, at first, but they gradually settled into a comfortable politeness. Charlotte thanked him for coming at the end and seemed sincere. It was clear to him that both Richard and Charlotte were working desperately to rebuild their relationship.
Imelda Hunt was discharged from the mental hospital and took her family to live close by her sister’s family on the farm in Ireland. James made sure that they would never struggle for money. It was plain to all, however, that she was unlikely ever to fully recover the spark of life that she had once had. On more lucid days she remembered better times, before life had become such a struggle, and when they had all been together. But she would never be able to forgive her husband for what he had done, in taking the life of their daughter.
Billy’s wife, too, took her family back to Ireland, where Billy had always dreamed of settling. James never saw her, before her departure, but he made sure through Sean that she had enough money to secure her future. She told Sean that she would use the money to set up a lodging house in Kenmare, where she had family.
John returned to Boston and made his peace with his family, but realised from the start that this was no longer his home. He had been rootless for too long, experienced too much, to go back. He decided to travel again, with the hope one day of making his home in England, where he could be near his friends. This time he would at least part on good terms with his family.
Charlie Maggs also became a regular visitor at James’ house. It was rare now for James to find Mrs Hawker sitting alone. She of course had more free time once staff had been engaged to help her, and she was the first to admit that she was anyway far less interested in domestic matters now. It came as no surprise to James when one morning, in August, dressed in his best Sunday suit, Charlie asked him for his permission to propose to Mrs Hawker. He gave it with pleasure.
Epilogue
In the early hours of that October morning in 1850 Nat Caine sat, resting in a chair, in the kitchen of his cottage in Cockroad. October had been a brutally cold month and that night there was a thick frost on the ground. It had not seemed worth the effort of taking himself off to bed for another cold, sleepless night. It was much warmer down here by the fire and besides, his stomach was less painful when he was sitting.
He rarely slept for long now, even with the brandy and laudanum. The dead faces were never far away, awake or asleep; Jeb, and Harcourt, and the Wood brothers, and all the others, over the years. Yet the nightmares seemed less frequent, less terrifying, when he dozed in the chair. Here he could keep most of the unwanted visitors at bay for a while, but not Thomas Hunt and his daughter. For some reason it was their images that most plagued his thoughts when he tried to sleep. Though in truth he could barely remember what Hunt looked like and he’d never seen the girl. Yet he knew it was them, she, lying in her father’s arms, her face almost featureless, except for her eyes. She would never let him sleep for long.
And when he did sleep, the slightest noise would wake him. This time it was the sound of movement in the village. He listened again. He had not been mistaken. There were sounds of movement; not livestock, nor fox, nor badger, but people; trying to approach without noise. And in their self-conscious stealth, their movements disturbed the order of the night; the pattern of more natural, nocturnal sounds. He knew at once that they were coming for him.
He went to the window and pulled back the edge of the curtain. They thought they were so clever; thought they had done nothing to give themselves away, but he had heard them, clear enough. He could see them now; dark shapes moving from cottage to cottage. He wondered how many there were? It was hard to tell, but he knew almost instinctively that this time there would be enough.
He rehearsed his ending in his mind. He would die with a pistol in his hand, defiant until the end, and people would remember his dying, remember Nathaniel Caine. There’d be no trial, no mocking testimonies against him, and no jeering crowds. He’d not give them the chance to disrespect him. They’d not see him dancing for them on the end of a rope, as his father had done.
He unbolted the door in readiness and moved to the deal table at the centre of the room. Shuffling in the wicker-backed chair, he moved its angle quietly so that he was facing square to the door. He lit the candle stub that sat in the middle of the table, straightening it in the pool of wax at its base. It seemed important somehow to have everything neat and tidy. He adjusted the two pistols on the table, straightening them too, so that they lay exactly a shoulder width apart, pointing towards the door. Knowing it would not be long now, he readied himself, sitting upright, resting both hands on his lap, his eyes trained on the doorway.
When the door burst open there were only two of them, each with a brace of pistols. He smiled and said nothing, made no movement, his hands steady, held immobile on his lap. They seemed nervous; taken aback at his ease and lack of surprise. Then the tall one at the front spoke.
‘Nathaniel Caine, I am Police Sergeant Hazell and I have come to arrest you. Surrender your weapons.’
Caine studied their eyes, enjoying their fear. He laughed at them. It’s me that ought to be afraid, he thought, but look at them. They still respect the name of Caine. Then the thought shot through his body like a bolt of lightning. There were only two of them and he had two pistols. Outside the night was dark and he knew the lay of the land better than any of them. The sound of shots would create confusion; feed the fear of his pursuers. If the others were even half as scared as these two, he could make it. Perhaps he had dismissed the idea of escape too quickly, he thought. Yet it could still be done. Besides, if he failed, he would at least die fighting.
‘Curse you, Caine,’ Hazell said. ‘Don’t make me fire.’
It was easy, Caine thought. All he had to do was grab the pistols on the table and fire. He wouldn’t miss, he was sure of that. It was only then, with the thought of escape, that he felt the first slight tremble in his hands. He looked down and saw his hands begin to shake, first one and then the other. He flattened them, slowly, against his thighs, but the shaking only worsened.
‘I have a company of militia with
me,’ Hazell said. ‘There are men in every house. There is no one to come to your assistance.’
‘There never was.’ Caine spat out the words, and the words took hold, and he found himself repeating them again, this time more quietly, as though talking to himself. ‘There never was anyone.’
Caine urged his hands to move, but they shook worse than ever and he felt the fear grow stronger in his mind. He didn’t want to die, not here, with only the militia as witnesses. While he was alive there were a thousand ways of cheating the hangman. And if they hanged him, he’d give them a show like no other, let them see how a true Caine dies; not like his father, but with pride. It didn’t need to end like this, unseen and alone.
Caine smiled and began to get up from the chair, keeping his arms at his side, so they should not see the shaking. The trembling now had spread through his body. He wondered if his legs would carry him. He reached out instinctively to support his weight against the table.
For the shortest of moments, Caine was conscious of the pain as the sound of the shot reverberated against the cottage walls. Just for that instant he felt the questions forming in his mind. Then the darkness took him.
❖ ❖ ❖
The room filled with noise and smoke as the shot that hit Caine sent him backwards into the chair and then onto the floor. Police Sergeant Hazell ran over to him as he fell, but he could already tell, before examining him, that Caine was dead. He crouched on the flagstones beside his body and closed his lifeless eyes with a thumb and forefinger.
‘Why did you shoot?’ Hazell asked, turning to the young militiaman, standing in the doorway, his pistol still smoking.
‘I thought he was reaching for the guns,’ the young man replied.
Avon Street Page 41
