Last Nocturne
Page 33
For a moment the direct question floored Guy, since he wasn’t entirely clear himself what had been the point in coming here. He had a natural curiosity to see the woman for whom his father, an otherwise honourable man, had broken his marriage vows, but that was not all. He had also wished to meet her in order to discover the child who might have been his father’s. Lamb had said the child was the daughter of Miriam Koppel, the dead woman, but…
‘How long did you know my father, Mrs Amberley?’ he asked abruptly. He kept his gaze averted from Dulcie and Grace, neither of whom said anything, however, though he was aware of surprise and perhaps disapproval emanating from both at his question. It was not part of the plan.
For a long time Isobel said nothing, regarding him ironically. At last she said, softly, ‘Sophie is not my daughter, Mr Martagon. She really is the daughter of Miriam Koppel – whom your father met only a few times, just before she died.’
Guy was discomfited and apologised stiffly. ‘I’m exceedingly sorry if I have offended you, but it was a question that had to be asked. Perhaps you may feel able to tell me why, then, my father arranged for a generous annuity to be paid to her?’
‘Your father was fond Sophie – and angry at the way life had treated her. She is a very talented child, musically, and he simply wanted to make provision for her, to make sure she need never be in want to support herself and that talent, whatever happened, that is all. Life is uncertain, one never knows what is around the corner.’ She watched him steadily as she spoke, but he sensed the deep sadness behind what she said.
Guy was not a romantic. Nor was he made to break the unwritten code he had been taught to respect. He was conservative by nature and felt such laws were necessary for the smooth working of society. But he had also knocked about the world a bit and it had made him less tolerant of a society which allowed a man to stray outside its boundaries yet stood in judgement on the woman who did. It was always the woman who paid.
He had found himself unexpectedly in agreement with Grace over this, angry at the way she was being treated, sickened by the hypocrisy of it all. Mrs Amberley had not been blameless in the affair, but neither had his father. Sympathy now was all for his mother, who no doubt deserved some, but had her place in society, the support of her friends. This woman had nothing. No one gave a thought to her, unless to castigate her.
‘You should not have come,’ she said abruptly, breaking his silence. ‘I should have refused to see you. If your friends knew you were here they would condemn you for it.’
‘Mrs Amberley, there is a higher authority than those so-called friends, and as far as I know, He has not seen fit to condemn,’ said Grace, suddenly and rather sharply, then immediately, mortified, wished it had sounded less – pious, less – Grimshaw-ish. She looked down at her hands and the still unfamiliar glitter of Guy’s engagement ring on her finger: diamonds – a large, brilliant-cut stone set in a thick band of smaller, pavé-set stones – and wondered if she would ever get used to wearing such expensive jewellery, along with learning to be more circumspect in the way she spoke.
Bravo! thought Guy, with an inward smile. One forgot, sometimes, that Grace had been brought up as a daughter of the vicarage, though she would probably have said this even had she not been. But of course Mrs Amberley was right. There was nothing to be gained by coming here except to extend the hand of friendship, which was all that had been intended, but which in itself the world would look askance upon. Eyebrows would be raised if it became known he was consorting with the enemy, and had, moreover, allowed Dulcie to do so. But Dulcie, with her own brand of quiet stubbornness and the confidence gained by the promises her mother had made regarding her future, had insisted that she was not to be left out, and in the end he had given in, as long as Grace consented to be there as well. And of course Grace, who had previously been against him trying to see Mrs Amberley at all, had immediately said he should do it if he felt he had to.
‘If ever you need help, Mrs Amberley—’ he began diffidently.
‘Thank you, but I have adequate means to live. And I have Sophie. As long as I have her I need nothing more.’
Dulcie spoke for the first time. ‘You are kind. I knew that if Papa had a regard for you, you must be good.’
Isobel had learnt not to shed tears, but now they sprang to her eyes. ‘Dulcie is worth loving.’ Eliot’s words. Yes, she thought, hearing the girl’s soft voice, seeing her expressive eyes. She was just about to cast off the ugly duckling stage and one day, soon, she would emerge as a graceful swan, but it was her spirit, Isobel thought, that would always illuminate her. She thought that in other circumstances it would, as Eliot had hoped, have been possible to make a friend of her, and that Dulcie would not, even now, reject such overtures. But she put even the thought from her; it was an indulgence she could not allow herself. Further contact between herself and the Martagons was impossible. She had forfeited that.
Another awkward silence fell. She rose and poked at the small bright fire in the grate, unnecessary since the day was warm, but she had felt the need of its cheer.
‘Do you think we might see Sophie?’ Grace suggested rather hesitantly, recovering herself.
This fiancée of Guy’s was pretty, fair-haired, nicely dressed and had a direct blue gaze which didn’t really tell you anything, though she seemed charming and unaffected. But with a sharpness that added an edge to the sweetness, Isobel thought. She saw the way she and Guy looked at each other with a twist of mingled pain and pleasure, a bitter-sweet recollection, and wished them well.
‘I should like to see Sophie, too,’ Dulcie said. ‘Her portrait is intriguing.’
‘Sophie will not be back for some time. Susan, my companion, has taken her to a matinée.’ Isobel did not add that it was a purposely arranged treat, in order to avoid this meeting. It was not the past which Sophie should constantly be made aware of, but the future.
She stood up, indicating the visit was at an end. She did not think she could endure it much longer, though she found herself touched by the unexpected overtures which had been made by Eliot’s children. ‘I am sorry if I spoke harshly. It was a kind thought, to bring the portrait, très gentil. I think Sophie will be pleased.’
‘What are your plans for the future?’ Guy asked, hanging back a little before following the other two out of the gate.
‘I am not sure.’
‘Whatever they are, I wish you well.’ He extended his hand.
‘Thank you,’ said Isobel, taking it. She believed he was sincere. She watched them until they disappeared up the road, and into the waiting hansom, then closed the door behind them.
What were her plans? It was a question she must give attention to. If she stayed here in London – in England at all – what sort of life would she have? Ostracised. Gossiped about. The woman in the Martagon case. She had no doubt that the story was still doing the rounds of London society, with embellishments, but it would soon cease to be of interest if she disappeared from the scene. There was no one here she cared enough about to fear a scandal, but her continued presence in London could only be a constant reminder, and not only to herself, but also to the Martagons and all their society friends, of the terrible events which had occurred, however quietly and discreetly she lived. She had in any case no desire to live a hole and corner existence, but she could not go back to Vienna while the spectacle of war loomed ever darker over Europe. She caught her reflection in the looking glass over the mantelpiece, her chin raised as she put a hand up to tuck back a wisp of escaping hair. The gesture reminded her of her mother.
‘Time to move on, chèrie.’
She smiled. She had been a stranger to herself for so long, and now, thinking of those young people with their future before them, Eliot’s son and daughter, she knew her decision was made. She would take Sophie, they would go to America, where once all her hopes had rested.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marjorie Eccles was born in Yorkshire and spent much of her childhood there an
d on the Northumbrian coast. The author of over twenty books, serials, and short stories, she is the recipient of the Agatha Christie Short Story Styles Award. Living on the edge of the Black Country, where she taught creative writing, inspired the acclaimed Gil Mayo series. A keen gardener, she now lives with her husband in Hertfordshire.
ALSO BY MARJORIE ECCLES
A Species of Revenge
Shadows and Lies
The Superintendent’s Daughter
Killing Me Softly
A Sunset Touch
Killing a Unicorn
The Shape of Sand
Untimely Graves
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters,
organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
LAST NOCTURNE. Copyright © 2008 by Marjorie Eccles.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.
For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth
Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Eccles, Marjorie.
Last nocturne / Marjorie Eccles. — 1st U.S. ed.
p. cm.
“A Thomas Dunne Book.”
eISBN 978-1-4299-5729-8
Date of eBook conversion: 07/16/2010
1. London (England)—History—1800–1950—
Fiction. 2. Great Britain—History—Victoria, 1837–1901—
Fiction. 3. Vienna (Austria)—History—20th century—
Fiction. I. Title.
PR6055.C33L28 2010
823'.914—dc22
2009049633
First published in Great Britain by Allison & Busby Limited
First U.S. Edition: Februrary 2010