by Fay Weldon
Beth was polishing the silver on the kitchen table. She looked mystified as Antonia set up her frame on the bench-top under the window. She laid a clean sheet of treated parchment onto the negative, then clamped them together and positioned the frame so that the sunlight streamed across it.
There was nothing anyone could do. She could not bear to watch. Rhia took her by the elbow, gently. ‘Beth might be pleased to have help polishing the silver.’
‘Yes, quite,’ Antonia agreed, hardly hearing her.
Beth looked horrified. ‘Oh, there’s no need!’
Rhia laughed. ‘I’ve put my hand to dirtier tasks than cleaning silver, Beth.’
They took turns dipping their flannels into the foul smelling brew. It was her mother’s recipe, Beth said, when Rhia wrinkled her nose, made from flour of sulphur and boiled onions. They polished candlesticks and salt cellars and cake forks, and Antonia took the watch from her pocket every two or three minutes.
When it was time, she put down her cloth and smoothed her hair, and then her skirts, before she approached the little wooden frame on the bench top.
A portrait had materialised: an almost perfect image, as though it had been penned in sepia. Five men stood in Antonia’s garden, just as they had almost two years ago. There was Josiah, looking straight at her. Her heart lurched, but she felt only relief. His image had not been spirited away. It was there all the time, waiting for the sun to reveal it. She could feel his gaze again.
Standing beside Josiah was Isaac, looking a little stiff and uncomfortable, and on his other side, Mr Montgomery wore a bemused expression but looked as handsome and elegant as ever. On one end of the row of men was Mr Beckwith, his head bent shyly so that his eyes were shaded. At the other end was Ryan Mahoney, attempting to preserve his rakish smile for the interminable time the exposure had taken.
Antonia unscrewed the bolts that held the frame in place and laid the photogenic drawing carefully on the bench top. The chord above the wainscoting yanked and the bell in the kitchen clanged making them all jump, then laugh nervously. ‘Who can that be?’ Antonia looked at the clock. It was only ten o’clock. ‘I’ll go, Beth.’
Isaac Fisher stood on the doorstep, hat in hands, the crisp morning light behind him. Even with his face in shadow it was clear that he was ill at ease. ‘I came immediately, Antonia. There seemed some urgency in your letter.’
‘Isaac!’ She didn’t know what to say to him. She should have thought this through. She had expected him to call later in the afternoon, if at all. ‘Come in. We’re in the kitchen. Rhia is here. Her ship put in yesterday.’ She scrutinised his face as she took his hat. Surely he wouldn’t want Rhia in London? He looked surprised, of course, and then he smiled wanly. He looked tired.
‘That is good news.’
‘Yes.’
Isaac followed Antonia down the hallway. She felt light-headed, as if she was only loosely anchored to the ground. Some part of her was becoming detached, observing the scene from a distance. It was out of her hands now. Now she must simply speak the truth.
If Rhia felt anxious at the sight of Isaac, she didn’t show it. She smiled and said how nice it was to see him, and then she helped Beth clear the silver from the table. Beth hurried away as soon as she could, sensing there would soon be more ‘goings on’ in her kitchen.
Isaac surveyed the room in his usual unhurried way. He had probably never been in the Cloak Lane kitchen before. His eyes came to rest on the bench where the still portrait lay in the sunlight. He moved towards it slowly and deliberately. Antonia watched him, hardly breathing. Rhia was standing, holding the back of a chair. Their eyes met and Rhia raised an eyebrow. Antonia straightened her back. ‘Isaac, there is something we must discuss. I … I have heard …’ She faltered. The truth was not easily spoken after all.
Isaac was looking at the portrait. He seemed dazed. ‘Extraordinary,’ he muttered.
‘Is it true,’ said Rhia boldly, ‘that you and my uncle were trading in opium?’
He turned slowly. He didn’t look surprised. He shook his head, but not in denial. In shame?
‘It is true,’ he said. ‘But I have achieved my purpose now. You need not tell me, Antonia, that I am not worthy of the Society of Friends. It has been as much a convenience as anything, to continue to be a Quaker. It has not been in my heart since Louisa died.’
Antonia was deflated. She had wanted, desperately, to be proven wrong. ‘Quaker or no, it is an immoral trade. I had thought more of you.’
‘Well you need not. It is a narrow view that you hold, but I understand it well enough.’
His tone angered her. ‘Then was it worth it, for the profit?’
‘Who can say? But the money has been well spent and I have done what I had to.’
‘How can you say such a thing! To think of the damage your trading has done in China and in India.’
Isaac sighed. ‘Antonia. Keep your bonnet on. I have, these past years, visited many villages in India where the weavers do not have land to grow crops because there are fields of poppies instead of rice. There is no simple solution in a modern economy that relies on the produce of other economies. This is the new world. The British government would never place itself at the mercy of a nation as sophisticated and impenetrable as China, they simply would not tolerate it. They are far too narrow-minded. This nation’s unprecedented consumption of commodities – tea, mostly – has left our silver stocks depleted. The only way to fill the vaults of British banks is to encourage opium use in China.’
‘I do understand the economics, Isaac. What I don’t understand is that you seem to think it perfectly reasonable.’
‘My lovely Antonia. Allow me to finish. With the profit made, I have purchased back land that will feed Indian families. This was what Ryan and I planned together, and it was necessary to tell Jonathan because he is part-owner in Mathilda and Sea Witch. I didn’t tell Josiah, of course, because the knowledge would have compromised his Quaker oath. He was, as you well know, an unyielding moralist. I am the first to admit that it is a filthy trade, but I have now used it against itself and I am content. I can only hope that Ryan is resting in peace too.’
Antonia was speechless.
Rhia’s voice was unsteady. ‘Then the money has been spent charitably.’
‘Of course.’
‘And the counterfeiting?’
Isaac looked at her sharply. ‘Counterfeiting?’
‘You must know that the Mathilda made a voyage from Lintin Island into Pacific waters to meet the Sea Witch? The silver from Lintin Island was to be exchanged for guineas that were illegally coined in Sydney.’
If Isaac was guilty, then it was a performance worthy of Drury Lane. He looked puzzled, his eyes darting about the room as if he was trying to piece the story together. He was in no hurry to tell them what he was thinking. Antonia held her breath. She looked at Rhia, who looked impatient. Isaac finally nodded slowly.
‘I have never been to Lintin Island. I was busy in Calcutta, arranging land deeds and so on. Everything takes a very long time in India. Mr Beckwith accompanied the shipment for me. It was purely a business arrangement; I paid him for his time and good management. I can see now why there was a delay in returning to Calcutta, and why the captain was such a cagey old salt.’ He shook his head. ‘I can see it now.’
The bell chord yanked again. Beth called out from the front of the house that she’d see to it, and arrived a moment later with a note for Antonia from Mr Montgomery. He regretted that he would not be able to call that afternoon as requested. He and Mr Beckwith had an important engagement.
Antonia folded the page. She frowned as something occurred to her. ‘But Isaac, if you weren’t aware of the counterfeiting operation, then surely Mr Beckwith was!’
‘He must know something about it,’ Isaac agreed. ‘I’ll speak to him and to Montgomery about it as a matter of urgency. Our clippers are not for charter to anyone who’ll pay. It is bad enough that they’ve carried opium.’
>
Isaac looked at the portrait again. ‘I see that you found your missing negative. You must be pleased, Antonia.’
‘That is another matter entirely,’ Antonia said. She looked at Rhia, who seemed to know exactly what she was thinking.
‘Tell me the address of the guest house in Cornhill,’ Rhia said, ‘and I’ll go and fetch Eliza.’
Felt
Rhia ran all the way to Cornhill, holding her chambertine skirts up from the puddles of melting snow. By the time she reached the lodgings where the Greens were accommodated, her hair had lost its pins and she’d attracted plenty of curious looks.
Eliza and Juliette were in the landlady’s tidy front room, talking so intently by the fire that they didn’t notice her at first. They seemed at ease in each other’s company. Juliette looked wary as soon as she saw Rhia. ‘What is it?’ she said, avoiding Rhia’s eyes. Juliette hadn’t looked her in the eye since she’d caught her talking to photogenic gum trees in the middle of the night.
‘Would you come to Cloak Lane? There is something you must see, Mrs Green.’ Both women were immediately on edge; you could see it in their hands. They had the same nervous, fluttering gestures.
Rhia tried to keep the talk going as they walked briskly back to Cloak Lane. She measured her footsteps as best she could so as not to feed the anxiety they all felt. She asked Eliza what she thought she’d do, now that she was in London.
‘Mrs Blake says I should be selling my collars and doilies at Petticoat Lane, and she needs a housekeeper, as well. She says she wants to spend more time with the trade.’
Rhia laughed. ‘I’m pleased to hear it. She is very good at finding employment for women.’ Eliza just shook her head as though she still couldn’t believe the way her life had turned around.
Antonia must have been waiting in the hallway for she opened the door the instant they knocked. She ushered them into the morning room and dismissed Eliza’s protestations about sitting on the Chesterfield. Isaac was at the table, bent over the morning issue of the Globe. He might have been reading, but Rhia doubted it. The portrait was next to the broadsheet. Antonia picked it up as though it were made of glass and then sat down beside Eliza, holding it against her chest so that the picture was hidden.
‘Eliza. There is something …’ Antonia faltered. ‘I would like you to look at this.’ She hesitated and then lay the portrait upon her lap.
Eliza gazed at it, frowning. It took her a minute to understand what she was looking at. But Juliette knew exactly what it was. Her hand went to her mouth and her eyes darted to Rhia suspiciously, as though this must be her doing.
‘Do you recognise any of these men?’ Antonia prodded gently.
Eliza didn’t seem to have heard; she was still trying to comprehend the portrait.
Juliette looked at Antonia, wide-eyed. ‘I don’t understand.’ She had seen not one ghost but two: Josiah Blake and Ryan Mahoney.
‘I know what you did, Juliette,’ Antonia said quietly, ‘and why. But you see, the negative found its way back to me anyway. Who would have thought it?’ She shrugged as though it was nothing more than a mildly interesting event.
Eliza yelped and threw the portrait onto the floor as though it had bitten her.
‘That’s him, that’s John Hannam all right,’ she croaked. She put her hand to her throat as if something had grabbed at it.
Antonia picked the portrait up. ‘Which one is John Hannam?’ Everyone was silent, watching Eliza.
Eliza stabbed her finger at Mr Montgomery. Rhia felt a chill. No one spoke. It must be a mistake. She looked around. Juliette didn’t look surprised, of course. Isaac was nodding as though he had already suspected as much, and Antonia was clearly devastated.
‘But that simply isn’t possible, Eliza. Mr Montgomery is a respectable man. A wealthy man, from a good family.’
‘Do you know anything about Jonathan Montgomery’s family, Antonia?’ Isaac asked.
‘No. But I assumed …’ She trailed off. ‘Do you?’
‘No,’ said Isaac. ‘I, also, assumed. Respectability only needs wealth to defend it these days.’
Rhia couldn‘t stand still a moment longer. She needed air. She needed to think. It could not be possible that Mr Montgomery was behind the deaths of Josiah and Ryan. She stood up. ‘Mr Dillon and Michael Kelly are meeting in Covent Garden,’ she said. ‘I’ll find them.’
‘Take my chaise,’ Isaac offered.
‘I’d sooner take one of your horses, if I may. I’d be faster.’
‘Very well. I’ll unhitch the mare.’
Isaac left to do this while Rhia fetched her cloak. By the time she reached the footpath, he’d put a bridle and reins on one of his pretty greys.
‘I don’t have a saddle,’ he said as he handed her the reins.
‘I don’t have need of one,’ she replied. Isaac held the mare still while she mounted.
She rode through Cornhill, easily manoeuvring past slow-moving carriages. On Threadneedle Street, a queue had formed behind a brewer’s cart that was unloading tuns at a tavern. She rode past, barely noticing the shocked expressions of ladies in hansom cabs as they stared at her skirts hitched up around her knees. You’d think they’d never seen a leg. It was cold. She wished she’d thought to put on her longer boots and a riding skirt instead. She pulled her hood lower over her face against the frigid air.
The road beyond Cheapside looked clearer, so she pressed her heels into the mare’s flanks. They almost reached a canter along Newgate Street. She didn’t look at the prison, not once. She wondered if someone within those grey walls was listening to the hooves on the cobbles, as she once had. She said a prayer. It came out so naturally that she barely noticed.
At Holborn the thoroughfare was congested again, and Rhia wondered if any of the side streets to the south cut through to Drury Lane. She saw three grey doves, sitting on the wrought iron curl of a street lamp on the corner of an alleyway. She took a chance.
If Mr Montgomery was indeed John Hannam then they needed evidence. It would do no good to accuse him otherwise. She had a feeling, though, that this was precisely what Dillon and Michael were up to. It would have been easy enough for Mr Montgomery to take the embroidery from his wife’s collection and put it into the emporium. And he only needed to pay his maid, or threaten her, to get her to lie. He must have suspected that Rhia knew something. She remembered the afternoon of Isabella’s tea party. She’d said something. She couldn’t remember what exactly, she’d been quite drunk, but it was something about being suspicious of Josiah’s and Ryan’s death. Mr Montgomery knew that she’d been with Isabella, seeing the collection. It would have been easy to convince his wife.
Rhia nudged the mare along the narrow passage towards the Covent Garden market square. Rows of hackney carriages queued around its periphery, their drivers smoking or talking in huddles beside a brazier, stamping their feet to stay warm.
‘Lovely set of pegs, miss,’ one of the drivers remarked as she passed.
‘Thank you,’ she said. She rode straight across the square and through a laneway clogged with barrows. She arrived at the Red Lion at the same time as Dillon, who was hurrying along from the opposite direction. The collar of his long coat was up around his ears and his breath was a puff of mist around him. Rhia dropped her hood back as they drew closer and he laughed when he recognised her.
‘I’ve been waiting to see Rhiannon on her mare,’ he said, ‘but isn’t your cloak the wrong colour?’
‘I’ve news.’
‘Ah.’ He took the reins. ‘There’s a stable at the back, I’ll tie her up. Mr Kelly’s probably inside.’
Michael Kelly was in a snug, smoking and reading a trade journal. He looked out of place, Rhia thought, with his sun-burnt skin, felt hat and stockman’s boots. They had spoken of Greystones at breakfast, before Antonia arrived, and for the first time Rhia saw his raw longing to be home. There were tears in his eyes when he spoke of Annie. There had been no time to send a letter from Sydney tha
t would reach home before they did. No one in Greystones knew that she and Michael Kelly were in London. Michael looked up as Dillon arrived with a jug of porter.
‘I’ve news,’ said Michael.
‘That’s all of us, then,’ Dillon said. ‘You first,’ he added, looking at Rhia.
She described what had happened that morning, and when she named Mr Montgomery Dillon slammed his hand down on the table making her jump. ‘I knew it!’ he said, shaking his head in disgust. ‘I knew it. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but I should have. Well, we’ve evidence now.’
‘We have,’ said Michael. ‘I paid a visit to Ryan’s solicitor this morning.’ He drew a sealed envelope from his waistcoat pocket. ‘But it isn’t mine to open.’ He handed it to Rhia
‘Not now,’ she said. ‘We should be on our way.’
‘Aye,’ said Michael, draining his glass. ‘I’ll find us a cab.’
‘Rhiannon is on horseback,’ said Dillon, glancing at her with a half-smile as he used her full name. ‘I’d like to recruit Sid if we’re going to pay Montgomery a visit, so let’s you and I stop at the Jerusalem on the way.’ He looked at Rhia and raised an eyebrow. If she had been in any doubt, before, about her feelings for him, she was no longer. She had no idea how one came back to earth from this soaring weightless feeling.
She rode hard and reached Cloak Lane before Dillon and Michael.
Juliette opened the door and shocked Rhia by attempting a smile. In the morning room, Eliza sat crocheting while Isaac was pacing. They all looked up at her expectantly.
‘They’re coming. They’ll be here soon,’ she said.
Antonia said something about people wanting lunch and disappeared, obviously needing to keep busy with something.
Michael, Dillon and Sid arrived.
No one seemed to want the curried salmon sandwiches Beth had prepared, and Rhia couldn’t even eat ginger cake though she took a bite just to keep Beth happy. For a time there were several conversations taking place at once. Sid shook Rhia’s hand so hard that it made her shoulder ache. ‘You look well, Miss Mahoney,’ he said, beaming.
