“I do not wish to waste your time,” he said.
She nodded.
“It is strange to see you,” she said after a pause. “You were a good counsellor to me that day. Our Lord sent me to you and spared me from a great sin.”
“For which you now punish yourself. A sin you did not commit.”
“But the intention was there. I would have destroyed myself.”
“I think you are making too much of it,” Giles said. “This is not punishment but a sort of pleasure for you, but you are punishing your friends instead. They cannot bear to see you like this, and yet you persist in it. It is rather perverse. Mr Carswell, I know, will be distressed when I tell him of this –”
“I would rather you did not tell him.”
“I think I must.”
She looked down at her hands.
“I do not wish to disturb his life. Oh, I should not have allowed you to come, Major Vernon. It was a moment of weakness, of temptation.”
“Or perhaps it was to show you are wrong-headed. As I did that day in Stangate. Let God judge you and sentence you when He thinks fit.” She winced as if his words had hit her. “It would be far better if you were to recover your health and then use your energy and talents on those who need help, surely? I imagine you did a great deal of good of that sort when you were in Santa Magdalena. The people loved you there, did they not, for your charity?”
“I don’t know why they loved me. For my husband, I think. I was nothing to them, really. I am nothing. I do not deserve kindness. All I can do is think of the mistakes I have made and how I can never atone for them.”
“But you can. If you accept the help of your friends and come back into the world a little, then you can do real good, I’m sure of it. Would that not be better than sitting here in misery?”
She stared across at him, and then looked away, anxious to conceal the tear that she quickly wiped away.
“Yes,” she said. “Perhaps. Do you really think it possible?”
“Yes, I do,” he said.
She stood up, taking the posy of Christmas roses and going to stand by the window with them, lifting the muslin curtain to look out. The window, being on the ground floor, was barred to deter thieves, but he felt sure she had chosen it to resemble a prison.
“Will you consider it?” he said.
“You may tell my lord I will,” she said. He felt this to be a success. It was not a point blank refusal, after all. “And that he may come tomorrow, if he likes.”
“And will you let him send a doctor?”
She nodded and then came and sat down again, still carrying the flowers. “And you will take some of these to Mrs Vernon?”
“Yes – if I can. I got them from a woman around the corner. She may have moved on.”
“No, she is usually there. She sells such pretty things. I have often wished that I could –” She gave a sob, and for some minutes she wept. Then, steadying herself a little, she said: “Oh, I hoped I could fade away. That is all – that I would fade away and be no trouble to anyone. That is all I wanted. I have been too much trouble to everyone. My whole wretched existence, from when I was a girl in Ireland, and then in Paris, when I was so wicked, and now, when great men such as you, Major Vernon, must waste their time on me.”
“I don’t consider this a waste of time,” Giles said. “In fact, there is something I would like your advice about. A matter in my own family. I hesitate to mention it, though, as it may be painful.”
She dried her eyes and said, “What has happened?”
He explained the affair with Mrs Gordon and her children.
“I feel I should go back to her and persuade her,” he said. “She is hurting herself without knowing it. To give them up –” Dona Blanca put her hand up to silence him. “Forgive me,” he said, feeling ashamed now of his self-indulgence. “I should not have spoken of this. It was cruel.”
“No, no, you were right to tell me,” she said. “And let me reassure you, Major Vernon: she has acted in the best interests of her children. She knows that you will be everything to them that she cannot be, and that you will treat her fairly. I’m sure you would be the first to tell me that this world is not perfect. Sometimes what seems to be the natural order of things is not for the best, and other arrangements must be made. When I gave up Felix it broke my heart, but it was better that I should be broken-hearted than that he should suffer my foolishness. When you speak of this woman, I can see myself.”
“But should we not encourage her to give up this man and help her to do better?”
Dona Blanca shook her head.
“She will go her way, just as I did. Those children will be better with you, I am sure of it.”
~
The journey back to Northminster was long and tedious, although he had to remind himself of the miracle of it now being only nine hours when formerly it would have taken three days by carriage. At just before ten he crossed his own threshold and found Emma sitting by the fire, deep in conversation with Maria. Both ladies greeted him with astonishment and enthusiasm.
“I had hoped for a letter tomorrow,” Emma said, kissing him, “but this is much better! And Christmas roses!”
“I shall go to bed and leave you to talk,” said Maria.
“So?” said Emma, when they were alone again. He had sat down in his usual chair by the fire; Emma pulled up a stool close to him and pressed herself against his legs, her head in his lap. “Triumph or disaster?”
“I have the sauce boat,” he said after a moment, and bent and kissed her forehead.
“Triumph, then. And she will be coming back?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What?” She straightened now.
“She has no wish to come back. She is intending to go to Paris with her lover.”
“But –”
“She has given them to me. Or rather, I have bought them.”
“Bought them? The children, you mean? What do you mean?”
“I let her keep the money. I have your jewellery and the sauce boat. She, rightly enough, realised what I wanted, and made me pay for it.”
“What you wanted?”
“The children,” he said, and reached for her hand. “Oh, I didn’t mean it to happen. It was simply that I could not allow her to have them back and neglect them, which I’m sure she would. She was willing to give them up. I think she knows herself that she is not fit.”
She removed her hand from his and got up from the stool. She walked a little distance away and stood with her back to him.
“I see,” he heard her say.
“I had to act,” he said.
“I don’t see that you did! You might easily have stalled her. You could have come back and discussed it with me properly. This is no small thing, Giles, no small thing at all!”
“I know!” he said, getting up himself. “I did not sleep last night for thinking of you and what you would feel.”
“But not hard enough, evidently! If you had truly considered my wishes then you would never have done this.”
“No, I admit that,” he said. “I did it because I wanted those children. And I wanted them to be safe, to be loved, to be brought up as they should be, by a father and a mother who love them.”
“I am not their mother,” she said, “and you are not their father.”
“But with work we can be,” he said. “And what a reward it will be for us. I have felt, since they came here, that there was a space in my heart I did not know about, and now it is filled.”
She sat down again and stared into the fire.
“I see,” she said. “And the best of it is, for you, that I can hardly disagree, can I? There is no choice for me now. I can hardly turn them out into the street. No, instead we will be left to struggle and save and scrimp even more!”
“Oh, the money, that can be managed. I will ask for an increase in salary. And Cousin Stephen will pay for their education. And I think he will do more for them over time.”
“That’s all fine and dandy, then!” she exclaimed. “Huzzah for Cousin Stephen!”
Her tone was so fierce, so bitter that he felt as if he was with a stranger.
“Do you feel nothing for them?” he managed to ask.
“I don’t know. A little, but I don’t know them, do I? They are perfect strangers to me. They are not mine.”
“But in time, perhaps –” He broke off, for she glared up at him.
“In the past,” she said, “you have accused me of impetuousness. But have I ever done anything to match this, I wonder?”
Now he sat down again and silence fell between them. He watched her staring into the fire for some moments and then managed to say, “I had to do it.”
She sighed and pressed her hands to her face.
“And what if something were to happen to either of us? Your profession is not without hazards, after all, and I – well, who knows, I might still die in childbed and then where would you be?”
“Do you think you might be –?” he ventured.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I am a day or two late. Perhaps it is the bother with Julia. That sometimes happens, but I was rather unwell first thing, and –”
He went and knelt beside her, taking her into his arms. She did not resist.
“I am still angry with you!” she said. “You are not forgiven, Giles, do not think so! This is all too much. If I am with child, then who knows what might happen! Old mothers often give birth to wretched, simple children, after all.”
“No, no, that’s nonsense.”
“It is not!” she said. “What if I gave birth to an imbecile and you cannot love it? What if you have used up all your love on my sister’s brats?”
“I promise you that will never happen,” he said, stroking her forehead. “And you must believe me. There is no need to be afraid, whatever happens. You must just find your courage again. I know you have plenty of it.”
She nodded and disentangled herself from his arms.
“I think my sister stole it,” she said. “She must have done to give them up! How could she? I could never have given up Charles!” She looked at him and shook her head. “Oh, Giles, I truly hope we do not live to regret this. I don’t feel comfortable with this at all. I will do all I can, of course, but I fear it will be a great struggle.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Emma was not well the following morning, but she refused to let him stay and tend to her, let alone send for Mr Carswell.
“It is nothing,” she said. “And no doubt, it means nothing. You have too much to do to be sitting at home fussing over me.”
He found it hard to believe her. Given that Emma generally had the most robust constitution, he could not help but be alarmed, especially given the implications of what they had discussed the previous evening. So he left reluctantly, leaving instructions that he might be sent for at a moment’s notice.
As he walked through the Precincts, he felt heavy-hearted. He had expected to be happy at such a possibility – after all, he had ardently hoped for it, and yet Emma’s anxieties, not to mention her disapproval of his actions, infected him. The world felt bleak and wretched.
His first visit to the Infirmary did little to lighten his mood. A letter from Carswell had been waiting for him, informing him of the assault on Inspector Coxe and Miss Roper’s deterioration. Seeing Coxe first, he was at least able to reassure himself that he was comfortable and likely to make a good recovery, but the calm brutality of the attack was disturbing, as was the fact that this same man had gone on to render Miss Roper into a state of insensibility. That they were dealing with a dangerous, cunning character, was undeniable, and such people were never easy to find.
As he watched Miss Roper sleep and murmur, he was joined by Carswell.
“Will she recover this time?” he said.
“It’s hard to say. She is stable now, but that is not to say she might not deteriorate again.”
“He must be involved with Roper’s death too,” said Giles.
“The hook-nosed man? Yes, I think so,” said Carswell. “It is just as well that your business in London did not keep you away long. I hope it was not too disagreeable down there – I know how you dislike it.”
“It was successful enough,” said Giles, “though –” He hesitated a moment. “I saw Mrs Martinez.”
“You did? How is she? Lord Rothborough said –”
“Yes, and I think matters had got a little worse, which is why I went to see her.”
“Did you go to London just for that?” said Carswell. “Did Lord Rothborough ask you to do that?”
“No, I went for another reason entirely – to do with Mrs Gordon and her children. But I travelled with Lord Rothborough and he asked me to go and see her. I’m glad I did, for I know you have been wanting to help her.”
“Yes, but she is –”
“She will accept your help now.”
“That is something. Was she well?”
“Well enough,” Giles said after a moment.
“Oh dear Lord. I should go, should I not?”
“I think she would rather you did not. She does not want to make things awkward for you with Mrs Carswell.”
“It is just as well that Eleanor should know. After all –” Carswell broke off and went to Miss Roper’s bedside, taking her hand to check her pulse. He frowned. “I think we should send for her sister. This is not encouraging.”
“Definitely. She may have more to say for herself if she sees what a state her poor sister is in. I will have her brought here. Meanwhile, I must go.”
His next call was at the offices of The Bugle, where Tom O’Brien was pleased to see him as usual, although, unlike in former times, he did not make the tea himself, but sent a boy out for it. But it came as before in his prized Chartist teapot.
“I hope I’m not too late for the next edition,” said Giles. “We have a nasty piece of work about and I want the public on their guard.” He took the copy he had drafted from his pocket as well as the original copy of The Ballad of Crimson Mary. “This fellow,” he said tapping the image.
“Crimson Mary is real?” said O’Brien, taking up Giles’ copy and scanning it. “Violent assault on a police officer?”
“Entirely unprovoked, and one of my best men. Inspector Coxe. You’ve met him, I think?”
“Oh yes, I remember him. Is he going to be all right?”
“Fortunately Mr Carswell was at hand, so we think so, yes. But he’s in the Infirmary still.”
“There’s a good story in that alone,” said O’Brien. “But that Crimson Mary is real? I never thought he might be.”
“He is known in Market Craven, and has commissioned this to be reprinted there by a small jobbing printer called Smith. The block is in the shop, apparently. I will have to nip it in the bud now. I had thought of letting things develop a little, but I do not care to have one of my most trusted officers being cracked on the back of the head with knuckle dusters, nor for that matter one of the principal witnesses drugged into a stupor. This man needs to be stopped.”
O’Brien nodded and sipped his tea.
“I am trying to remember back to 1820,” he said, “if there was any talk about his being a real individual.”
“It truly is a shame you did not keep a journal,” said Giles.
“I should have done, yes, but I am done writing for the day by the time I get to bedtime!”
“You don’t remember anything about the men who were hanged? I have begun to dig about for them, but I have not had much time. I will read the trial reports directly.”
“There were three of them,” said O’Brien. “All young men. One of them I think was called Walker. I remember his wife being at the foot of the scaffold. She collapsed when they dropped, and the crowd went silent. It was –” He broke off and blessed himself. “A terrible day.”
Giles left O’Brien, and spent the next hour searching through what records there were of the 1820 case.
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The names of the three hanged men were James Walker (as O’Brien had recalled), John Hubberd and William Burton, names that were lamentably commonplace. Their given addresses of the time were similarly lacking in distinction – they had all lived in one of the poorest but most densely populated parishes of Northminster, St Luke’s. Of the three of them, only Walker, aged twenty-three, had been married, but he was described as having no family.
Giles sat staring at the scraps he had discovered. He wondered how difficult it would be to find Mrs Walker or any of the relatives of the men who had been hanged. He wanted to get a first-hand account of what had happened and why those particular men had been arrested and charged. The official records were slight, and since they had all pleaded guilty at their trials, there had been scant examination of what evidence had been produced against them.
He made a note of what names and addresses there were and set off for St Luke’s, hoping that the constables on duty there might be able to help him. They had long had extra men assigned to this area because in his early days in Northminster, it had seemed to be the source of a great deal of local mischief. With Chief Inspector Rollins, he had laboriously worked out several routes through its maze of streets, that each constable was bound to follow on his beat. It was therefore easy enough for Giles to gather up a pair of constables (it had been decided that to patrol in pairs was the best and safest practice in this district) and he was just speaking to them when he noticed Amy Roper coming down the street towards them. She was wrapped in a brightly-coloured shawl, and wearing one of her fashionable bonnets. She moved confidently along, as if nothing in this rough district disturbed her in the least.
Giles excused himself from the constables and went to confront her.
She looked disconcerted to be stopped.
“May I take you anywhere, Miss Roper?” Giles said.
“I don’t think so, sir,” she said.
“This is not a district where respectable young women should go about alone.”
“I’m quite safe, thank you, sir.”
“Then before you go on your way, I must tell you that you have missed an important message, being away from Mrs Steele’s. Your sister –”
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