by Mary Nichols
‘Then fight it out at Jackson’s.’
‘He knows perfectly well I never could abide pugilism and he’s well versed in the art.’
‘So you fancy pistols at dawn, do you?’ Sir Percy went on, standing his ground. ‘One of you could be seriously hurt, killed even, and it would probably be you. I collect Stanmore would have the edge on you there too. Why don’t you both shake hands and be done with it?’
‘If he makes a public apology.’
‘That I will never do,’ Duncan put in before Sir Percy could stop him. ‘He was the one in the wrong.’
‘Then it will be gaol for the pair of you and who will get the lady then, I wonder?’
They turned to look at him and then both laughed. ‘Do you want her?’ Benedict asked, addressing Duncan for the first time.
‘No, do you?’
‘No, I have suddenly lost interest. She is nothing like as vivacious as she is on stage. Beautiful, yes, but decidedly frosty. But that don’t mean I’m backing out. No one is going to call me a coward.’
‘Tell you what,’ Duncan said with sudden inspiration. ‘Come with me now and I’ll show you something. And if you still want to fight me, then go ahead, I promise not to defend myself.’
‘Show me what?’
‘Wait and see.’
He called a cab which took them as far as Ludgate Hill, where he told the cabman to wait. Then they set off on foot up Old Bailey. ‘My God, Stanmore, where the devil are you taking me?’ Benedict demanded.
‘To hell,’ he said. ‘Euphemistically called Akerman’s Hotel. In other words, Newgate prison.’
‘What for?’ Benedict was already gagging on his handkerchief from the vile stench which seemed to ooze up from the very cobbles.
‘I thought it might open your eyes to what to expect if we go through with that duel. Sir Percy will not stand by and let it happen, you know. We are sure to be apprehended.’
It was as well they had left the cab at the end of the street; there had recently been a hanging and Bow Street was blocked to traffic while the crowd dispersed and the scaffold was dismantled. The stench of death was overpowering. Hawkers with trays were selling off short pieces of the rope used for the hanging and items of clothing from the corpses. Waiters from the nearby tavern were carrying food in to those prisoners who had money to buy it.
They approached the door where a seedy individual sat on the step, whittling a stick He stood up when he saw Duncan. ‘Good day, your honour. You just missed a fine hanging, a very fine hanging, danced like Morris men they did. Took ten minutes a-dyin’.’
Duncan grimaced. ‘I can’t do anything for those poor creatures whoever they were. I am more concerned with the living. Who else have you got for me to see today?’
‘There’s a cut-purse, got five years, and a fogle hunter, though why anyone bothers stealing handkerchiefs I never could fathom. Only a bantling. He got a year…’
‘You’re never going inside?’ muttered Benedict in disbelief.
‘Course he is, his lordship is a reg’lar visitor,’ the man said. ‘An’ wery welcome, he is too.’
‘Then you can go alone,’ Benedict said. ‘I’d die before I ventured in there.’
‘Well, that’s where you’ll go if you insist on fighting that duel,’ Duncan said. ‘I thought I’d show you what to expect.’
Benedict hardly heard him, he had turned away to be sick in the gutter. ‘Come away, man, for God’s sake,’ he said, wiping his mouth.
Duncan smiled at the doorkeeper; he was hardly a turnkey, for the door was not locked and there were people coming and going all the time. ‘Seems my friend does not have the stomach for it,’ he said. ‘Another day, perhaps. Is the bantling manacled?’
‘To be sure he is.’
Duncan dropped a few small coins into his filthy hand. ‘See the chains are eased. I shall check next time I come.’ Then he turned and put his hand under Benedict’s elbow to help him back to the cab.
They had been travelling in silence several minutes when Benedict finally spoke. ‘What sick thrill do you get from visiting a place like that?’
‘I get no thrill at all from it, my friend. I go because I feel it is my duty to do what I can for those poor souls incarcerated there. Many of them have committed no crime, or if they have, it was a minor one. They are chained to a stone floor, flogged and half-starved if they don’t have the blunt to pay for easement of irons and extra food. The only thing that is cheap and plentiful is rotten gin. I do what I can and when they are released I try to find them gainful employment.’
Benedict turned to stare at him. ‘I never knew that.’
‘No reason why you should have.’ He was thankful that Benedict was talking to him normally again. ‘It’s not something I want noised abroad. Those poor people would never trust me again if I made a song and dance about it and I trust you to say nothing. You are, after all, my oldest friend.’
‘Oldest friend!’ Benedict started to laugh. It began as a chuckle and ended as a full-throated roar and Duncan joined in, still a little unsure whether his friend was having hysterics or was genuinely amused by the situation.
‘Pax?’ Benedict said, holding out his hand.
Duncan grasped it. ‘Pax.’
‘I could do with something to take the vile taste of that place from my mouth. What say you we find something to eat and drink?’
‘Good idea.’ Duncan paid off the cab and they found an eating house where his strange garb would not be considered out of the way and ordered salmagundi—a mixture of cooked meats, anchovies, hard-boiled eggs and onions—for which Duncan paid. It was the least he could do.
‘I’m going shopping,’ Marianne announced. ‘I want a new dress for the concert. Are you coming?’
‘Concert? What concert?’ Madeleine asked. They had just finished rehearsals and were free until the evening performance. Madeleine had planned to go back to their lodgings and catch up on lost sleep. She had had none the night before and had hardly been able to keep her eyes open during rehearsal. Unless she had some rest, she would be a dishrag by the evening.
‘The concert at Vauxhall Gardens on Thursday. Sir Percy has asked us to join him. Don’t you remember? Last night.’
She hardly remembered anything of the previous night except snatches of conversation going on at the adjoining table and Duncan’s back whenever she dared venture to turn and look at it. His dark hair curled into the nape of his neck and over the top of his collar and his broad shoulders filled the width of his coat, so that it lifted a little whenever he raised his arm to drink or make some point while he spoke. Unable to see his face, she had tried to imagine it. It was not difficult, for every feature was ingrained in her memory.
It was an immobile kind of face, the contours classically sculpted, the nose straight and narrow, but it was his dark eyes that betrayed his feelings. Sometimes the irises were dark with anger as they had been when he had said she was no better than a whore. Sometimes, they were a soft, almost liquid amber when he was being tender. And he was capable of great tenderness. Was that the side he showed to Miss Annabel Bulford? Could he ever be angry with that insipid schoolgirl? Had she ever seen the fire of desire in his eyes?
She shook herself. ‘No, I could not have heard him. Have you accepted?’
‘Of course I have, why not?’
‘No reason. Did he say if the Marquis of Risley would be there?’
‘No. Can you not think of anything else, Maddy? Duncan Stanmore is not the only fish in the sea, you know. You really must snap out of it before it affects your work. You know Lancelot will not put up with the vapours from anyone.’
Madeleine knew her friend was right, but it was difficult when your body was so tired and all your brain would do was go over and over again every word Duncan had ever uttered, every nuance of phrase, every gesture, trying to understand what went on in that enigmatic head of his. She made an effort to pull herself together. ‘Right, shopping it shall be. What have
you in mind to buy?’
‘Oh, something colourful, I think.’
Madeleine laughed. ‘You do not mean to vie with Sir Percy in the matter of the hues you wear, do you?’
‘Goodness, no! But I like red. What about you? We have a nice little nest egg from our last production, are you going to spend some of yours?’
She was about to say she could see no point, her present wardrobe was more than adequate for her needs, but perhaps a new dress would cheer her up. And so they spent the afternoon ranging up and down Bond Street and Oxford Street, and going into Pantheon’s Bazaar where almost anything could be had from a pin to a ready-made ballgown. Here Madeleine chose a blue velvet, as dark as the night sky, its skirt scattered with shining glass beads, its bodice daringly décolleté. Used to making her own clothes, she balked at the price, but Marianne was there to urge her on. She did not know why she succumbed. As far as she was concerned no one who really mattered would see it, certainly not the one who was forever in her thoughts.
They went on to the Burlington Arcade on the corner of Piccadilly and Old Bond Street where Marianne found just the gown she was looking for, a crimson-and-cream striped satin with the biggest leg o’ mutton sleeves Madeleine had ever seen. They were so large they were stuffed with horsehair to hold them out; there was no way she could wear a coat over them and was obliged to buy a sleeveless pelisse in burgundy taffeta trimmed with swansdown to go over it.
Happy with their purchases, they left the shop, making for Piccadilly where they hoped to find a cruising cab. It was here, with their arms full of parcels, that they rounded a corner and bumped into Duncan and Benedict. The two young men, having dined well and drunk more than was usual, even for them, had their arms on each other’s shoulders and were laughing immoderately.
Duncan, the more sober of the two, stopped laughing immediately and began picking up Madeleine’s parcels, which had fallen from her hands. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, piling them back into her arms. ‘Clumsy of me. I do hope nothing has been damaged.’
‘Oh, it is only a few fripperies,’ she said lightly. ‘No harm done.’ She did not want to look at him, afraid that he would see the misery and longing in her eyes. She hoped he was not going to make conversation, because there was nothing they could say to each other which would not make matters worse. She had never seen him even slightly tipsy before and wondered what had caused it. He was not worrying about that duel, that much was plain, for he and Mr Willoughby appeared to have made it up. And that only proved how little real feeling he had for her. She knew she was being capricious, but she could not help herself.
She turned to look at Benedict who, deprived of his friend’s support, stood swaying dangerously. ‘Why, if it isn’t the toast of London town,’ he said, grinning at her.
‘My friend is a little disguised, ladies,’ Duncan said quickly, grabbing Benedict’s arm and putting it round his own neck. ‘I apologise on his behalf.’
‘Friends…sh, that’s what we are,’ Benedict mumbled. ‘In…ins…shep…arable.’
‘Come on, Ben, let’s get you home,’ Duncan said. ‘Excuse us, ladies.’
‘Got to fight a duel, don’t you know,’ Benedict mumbled as Duncan dragged him away.
Duncan hoped Madeleine had not heard. ‘I thought we had decided not to bother?’
‘Can’t. Matter of honour, don’t you know. Everyone knows…sh I challenged you. Up to you to choos…sh the weapons.’
Duncan sighed. It was going to take more than a sight of the outside of Newgate to put Benedict off; he wished now he had insisted on going inside and visiting the cells, a much stronger incentive. If he had to fight a duel, what he needed was a weapon that could do no harm. He smiled suddenly. ‘Then we’ll fight with pillows.’
‘Oh, very apt!’ Benedict cried. ‘Pillows it shall be. Let’s make it worthwhile and do it on a pole over water.’
‘Like we used to do at school, you mean?’
‘Yes, what do you say?’
‘I accept.’
‘Then let’s drink to it.’ They were passing White’s at the time and Benedict stumbled towards the door.
Duncan hauled him back. ‘No, my friend, they’ll not let me in dressed like this and we’ve had enough for one day.’
He took a firmer grip on Benedict and hailed a passing cab. Once he had bundled his friend inside and told the jarvey the address, he turned for home. It was a long time since he had been so cup-shot and already he was regretting it. Had he really agreed to a pillow fight? Was that all Madeleine was worth, a bag of feathers and a possible ducking? Had Benedict been drunk enough not to remember it tomorrow?
But Benedict did remember. It was all round town the following day. Not only had his friend taken great glee in publicising it, he had chosen the time and place. Not some quiet backwater at dawn, but one of the lakes at Vauxhall Gardens and at ten o’clock at night when the place would be crammed with people. It was something he had never intended when he agreed to it. Now what should he do? He could not back out without losing face. Benedict might even reissue his original challenge. The only way was to make a jest of the whole thing and make it look like a ruse put up for the amusement of their friends. But what would Madeleine say, if she heard about it?
Lavinia was as good as her word and the company at her little supper party consisted of a mixed group of old and new friends, young ladies and gentlemen from the arts and politics. There was a Member of Parliament with very radical views, a couple of young portrait painters, two lady novelists, a diplomat, a manufacturer and a judge, together with their wives and daughters, Benedict and Major Donald Greenaway, who had arrived dressed in his regimentals, and the Duke and Duchess of Loscoe.
The conversation was lively and informed and for an hour or two Duncan was able to take his mind off his most pressing problems, though Madeleine was never far from his thoughts. Sir Percy, who had declined Lavinia’s invitation on the grounds that he had a prior engagement, had advised him to ask her why she had lied to him, but he was not at all sure he wanted to know. He had told his sister it was all over and so it had to be.
He pulled himself together to pay attention to the conversation, which ranged from the Greeks’ struggle for independence from their Turkish oppressors and the relative merits of the new works of Turner and Constable on which the Duchess was very knowledgeable, to the latest state of the prisons, a subject close to Duncan’s heart.
‘Full to overcrowding,’ the judge said. ‘But what do you expect when the law won’t let us hang ’em any more.’
‘A great many are still hanged,’ Duncan said. ‘The Home Secretary has only tidied up an archaic law.’
‘I collect you are one of those who would abolish it altogether.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as to say that,’ Duncan said laconically. ‘Murder and treason should still carry the death sentence, but not theft, never theft.’
‘Then how can we deter the thieves, sir, tell me that?’
‘Prison is bad enough. Have you ever been inside Newgate, my lord?’
‘No. Nor want to.’
The conversation threatened to become acrimonious and Lavinia stepped in to avert it. ‘What great mystery are you working on now, Major?’ she asked Donald.
‘Making more work for me, I shouldn’t wonder,’ the judge said with a laugh.
Duncan held his breath, hoping that Donald would not mention Madeleine Charron. In view of the latest development, he would have to tell him not to proceed.
‘Oh, it is not only criminals I seek, my lord,’ the Major said. ‘Sometimes people become lost: parents, children, grandchildren. At present, among other commissions, I am looking for the daughter of Viscount Armitage.’
‘I have never heard of him,’ the manufacturer said.
‘He has become something of a recluse and is in poor health so he never comes to Town.’
‘I remember his daughter,’ Frances said. ‘She was a pupil of my art master. I did a small portrait o
f her. But that must have been more than twenty years ago.’
‘Twenty-five,’ the Major said. ‘Do you remember anything else about her? It might help.’
‘She was very beautiful, as I recall, but I was not clever enough to transfer that to canvas. Whatever was her Christian name?’
‘Arabella,’ Donald said.
‘Yes, that was it! I remember we called her Bella. But how did she come to be lost?’
‘It is a sad story, but not an unusual one,’ Donald told them. ‘When she was only seventeen she wanted to marry a nobody of whom the Viscount did not approve and when she insisted she was going to do it anyway, he delivered an ultimatum, telling her not to go whining to him when it all went wrong, for he was sure it would. He did not think she would defy him, but when she did, he disowned her, said he never wanted to see her again. She left with her new husband and he has not seen or heard of her from that day to this.’
‘What was so unsuitable about the man to make him unacceptable to the Viscount?’ Duncan asked.
‘He was a common soldier. Not even an officer of good family. He did not have the means to keep her in the style she was accustomed to, not in any style at all.’
‘And now?’
‘It is preying on the Viscount’s mind. He finds himself wondering if she is well and happy and if he has grandchildren he knows nothing of. A grandson would be his heir. And he is ill and afraid he will die without being reunited with his daughter. He tried to make enquiries himself but to no avail and so he called me in.’
‘And have you made any progress?’
‘Very little. There are so few clues. I have been able to discover where the marriage took place, but after that nothing. I have the man’s name, of course, but they seem to have disappeared completely. If he was a soldier, they could have gone anywhere in the world. He might have been killed and his wife left to fend for herself. She might have married again.’
‘But if he did survive,’ one of the lady novelists said, ‘he would be long past military age now and have come home and his family with him.’
