by Steven Neil
‘Please do.’
‘In the meantime, we must carry on with our task. I don’t wish to be insensitive. Margaret was a friend to us both and I will miss her as you do. However, we must not forget our responsibility…’
‘Our task. Our responsibility. I am the only active partner in this. Your role is to preen yourself, take credit for my sacrifices, and add ribbons and stars to your uniform. Congratulations are in order, I surmise.’
‘As you observe, I am promoted. In the absence of Lady Blessington and the temporary unavailability of Sly, I will take full responsibility for looking after you.’
‘How nice for you.’
‘I had hoped you might find this satisfactory in the circumstances. I did not seek this. I will do my best for you, as I always do.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I have one more piece of news.’
‘Please tell me.’
‘My wife is dying. It will not be long now.’
Mountjoy-Martin gives her no opportunity to respond. He leaves the room before she can gather her thoughts.
***
Harriet doesn’t take in the implications of the new development with her sometime guardian. She is sorry for him, but her own grief blots it out for the moment. In any event, there are other appointments to be faced. She sends word to Louis Napoleon that she is indisposed and will not be available for her meeting with him, but he comes anyway. The president does as he wishes. Sensitivity is not his strong point and he provides her with a detailed description of his latest ailments, before her silence halts him.
‘You seem distracted,’ he says.
‘I’m sorry. Margaret’s death weighs on me. I wish more could have been done for her.’
‘Such a vivacious person. We are all the poorer for her untimely death.’
‘What a fine statement.’
‘I don’t follow you. You have something on your mind?’
‘No, nothing. I don’t expect you to understand.’
‘Please, Harriet, if anything can be done, I will help as much as I can.’
‘Very well. I am suspicious. This has the mark of murder on it.’
‘You are one for melodrama. Lady Blessington lived hard. Anyone can see that. And I understand there were stresses behind the scenes. Please don’t look for blame. It helps no one.’
‘Someone is responsible.’
‘In my experience, little can be gained from speculation. I share your sorrow, but nothing can be done.’
‘Please leave me. I have nothing more to say to you.’
***
Harriet hopes that Nathaniel Strode will be more forthcoming when he reaches her that evening. How refreshing, at least, to talk to someone without a motive. She values the businesslike nature of her relationship with Strode. He seems like a man who can be trusted, but she reminds herself that sometimes all is not as it seems. Nevertheless, she can have no argument with Strode’s record in her dealings with him and she needs help.
‘I was sorry to hear about Lady Blessington,’ he says.
‘Do you believe it?’
‘I have no reason not to. I detect that, perhaps, you do?’
‘In London, the cloak is drawn rather effectively, I hear. In Paris, there is talk.’
‘That is not unusual.’
‘Of course, but the sources I have here are reliable. Normanby was slow to be informed. The cover up was not immediately implemented.’
‘Cover up?’
‘Yes, Nathaniel. Margaret was not alone in the room as I understand it. Another body was found. A man. The room was covered in blood. Three maids had to be brought in from another hotel and it took them two days to clean it. Even now, the room is under guard. No one is allowed in.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘Let us just say I have my informants.’
‘I see.’
‘You are a resourceful man. Can you see what else you can find out?’
‘My forte is money. I am not a detective.’
‘I understand, but I would be most grateful if you could try.’
‘I will see what I can do.’
‘I am sorry to ask this of you. I am feeling exposed. She was a friend, a companion. I could not have survived without her and now she is gone.’
‘I am sure your friends here will rally round.’
‘Are you?’
‘I see this has affected you greatly. Can I assure you that I will do whatever I can to support you? If there is anything else, please let me know.’
***
Nearby, at the British Embassy on rue du Faubourg Saint-Honore, Lord Normanby and Francis Mountjoy-Martin are deep in conversation.
‘So, you see, things have become rather complicated,’ says Normanby. ‘First, we hear that Louis may be thinking about marrying Miss Howard, then we have this business with Lady Blessington. It really is too much. Obviously, we need Miss Howard in place as a financial channel, but there are limits to what can be accepted.’
‘What arrangements should I make?’
‘I would only say that you may be here for some time. I would prefer to leave it at that for the moment.’
‘As you wish, sir. I am happy to do what is necessary.’
‘I am sure.’
As Mountjoy-Martin leaves, Jean Mocquard arrives. They acknowledge each other with a brief nod. Mocquard and Normanby know each other well. They are easy in each other’s company. When they meet, there is no need for small talk and scene setting.
‘Something very odd has gone on here with Lady Blessington, as I’m sure you may have heard. Do you know anything more about it?’ says Normanby.
‘I am afraid not.’
‘Miss Howard makes a great show of mystified hurt. She is an accomplished actress.’
‘Perhaps she is simply upset by the death of her friend.’
‘Possibly. Find out what she knows. I think she knows a great deal more than she is letting on.’
‘Of course, monsieur. It will be my pleasure to talk to her.’
‘Yes. You are very taken with Miss Howard, I see. Don’t be fooled by her. She likes to play the defenceless young lady, but she has steel in her. She is adept at having men in thrall to her charms.’
‘That is evident.’
‘Thank you, Mocquard. That will be all.’
***
At the rue du Cirque, Harriet waits up late. Mocquard arrives, as he promised he would.
‘I can’t believe that Normanby doesn’t know,’ she says.
‘He seems not to, at the moment at least.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘He asks me to find out what you know. He suspects, but he is guessing.’
***
In London, as the year wears on, the British Government breathes a collective sigh of relief that the revolutionary fervour in Europe seems not to have taken hold in Britain. The Chartists and the Irish nationalists gain support for demonstrations, but not direct action. Queen Victoria visits Ireland and the trip is hailed a success. Lord Palmerston, the foreign secretary, and Louis Napoleon enjoy several convivial lunches together, during which time Berrys’ wine cellars in St James are seriously depleted. They each pronounce their great satisfaction with progress in Europe.
Lord Normanby travels back to London, for a briefing on Louis Napoleon, with Lord Palmerston and Lord Russell, the prime minister.
‘Far too cocksure of himself for my liking,’ says Palmerston, which is rather at odds with what he says to Louis Napoleon’s face.
‘That is the nature of the man,’ says Normanby.
‘True enough, but we need to stay the course with him.’
‘We have no alternative. That much is plain.�
��
Russell stares at a spider’s web in the corner of his window sill. A moth has just become entangled and the spider is inching towards it, as the moth jerks helplessly.
‘What do you say on the matter, Prime Minister?’ asks Palmerston.
‘Oh yes, quite so, quite so. Yes, indeed. Mmm.’
Palmerston raises his eyes to the ceiling and then winks at Normanby.
‘The prime minister wishes you to carry on as before. Keep us informed, won’t you?’
***
Back in Paris, October sees Louis Napoleon, tired of the squabbling among his supporters and the carping from his detractors, take matters into his own hands. He dismisses the puppet prime minister, Camille Odilon, saying that he proposes to take responsibility for government directly through his ministers, without the need of a prime minister. It is his clearest signal yet that he means to be Emperor. It can only be a matter of time.
Normanby calls Mountjoy-Martin to the embassy again. He feels the need to seek reassurance.
‘Louis Napoleon is far from secure. He pushes his luck. Politically, he will probably pull it off, but as usual, he is running short of money. We will need Miss Howard’s help again, I think.’
‘She knows what is required. I will alert her.’
‘Can we rely on her?’
‘Events recently have unsettled her, but she will not let us down.’
Seventeen
Everything Is Risked
London, England
Paris, France
1850
In the spring of 1850, Jem Mason and Tom Olliver are called to a meeting at Manchester House in Manchester Square, London. They arrive early and sit on a bench in the square to share cheroots. The plane trees are already in leaf and the lawns glisten under a light morning dew, as the sun rises over the rooftops. Thrushes pick at the moss and blackbirds rustle in the undergrowth of the ornamental bushes. As the air warms, the smell of jasmine mingles with the tarry tang of the cheroot smoke. Tom checks his watch and swings it into his waistcoat pocket.
At the appointed time, Lord Hertford receives them very warmly and they are ushered into an elegant drawing room at the back of the house, with wide doors opening out onto a courtyard, lush with greenery. His brother, Lord Henry Seymour-Conway, is in attendance and it is he who explains the purpose of the discussion. Jem reminds Tom later that it is not their first meeting with him. A few years earlier, Tom rode with Jem in an exhibition race at Croix de Berny, when jumping in France was barely heard of. Clearly, a seed was sown and it transpires that the French Jockey Club is keen to promote jump racing and a new course is almost complete, just outside Paris, beyond Ville d’Avray at La Marche. Lord Henry is a former president of the French Jockey Club and still an influential member. Lord Hertford is a great lover of all things French and spends a great deal of his time in Paris.
Paris is calmer after the disruption of the past two years and there is a sense of optimism again in some quarters. It is explained that a number of prominent owners, both French and English, are proposing to support the new venture by installing trainers at Chantilly and Saint Cloud and investing in bloodstock. They want the best jockeys available to ride them. This is where Tom and Jem come into the equation. Tom feels very flattered. Jem says, after the meeting, ‘Who else would they ask?’
Things move on quickly and, within a few days, they are entertained at Lord Hertford’s new Paris residence, Château de Bagatelle, in the Bois de Boulogne. They meet several members of the Jockey Club and are entertained at the Opera and the Café de Paris. Comte Achille Delamarre puts his entire staff at their disposal and they are given a tour of all that Paris has to offer. Paris has a lot to offer.
The detailed proposition is attractive and it is easy to accept. They can keep their best rides in England; the French racing will be scheduled to avoid the big meetings; they will earn twenty per cent of all prize money; and stakes are estimated to be twice the going rate in England. They will be on the best horses for the wealthiest owners. Apartments will be secured for them, but until that time the Hotel Saint James will be their home from home. Contracts are duly signed.
Looking back, Tom supposes it was obvious that Jem and Harriet were likely to meet again, but it wouldn’t occur to him until later. Whether it was in Jem’s mind, he didn’t know. He didn’t ask him.
***
Paris in springtime, in 1850, is transformed. The change in a year is remarkable. Slums have been cleared and the green spaces in the parks and squares, especially around the Tuileries and the Élysée Palace, bristle with new planting. Cafés open up again on street corners and customers spill out onto the pavements. Music plays through open windows and the avenues echo with laughter. The Seine is free of sewer stench for the first time in many years and the booksellers return to their left bank pitches to ply their trade.
Events soon conspire to put Jem and Harriet in the same location. Harriet receives a visitor at rue du Cirque.
‘Louis asks that I should entertain you today,’ says Jean Mocquard.
‘How thoughtful he is.’
‘I am told there are races today at La Marche. Some of your countrymen and women will be there. I thought it might be an amusing diversion. Does it meet your approval?’
‘It may do. Is there a programme for the day?’
‘Indeed, there is. I have it here.’
She pores over the lists of owners, runners and riders. Her heart beats fast. She tries to stay calm, to regulate her breathing. She feels the colour rise from her neck to her face. Her hands begin to shake, but she manages to sit on them and attempts to project an outward display of nonchalance.
‘I suppose it may fill a few hours. I see Lord Hertford has two horses entered. It would be quite interesting to see how they fare against the French horses, perhaps.’
‘As you wish. I can make some other arrangements if you would prefer.’
‘Let us proceed with your suggestion. Why not?’
‘Perfect. I will have the carriage ready at eleven.’
‘Thank you, Mocquard.’
***
As soon as they cross the Seine at the Pont de Saint Cloud, the countryside seems to open out. May feels like an auspicious month; there is a fresh greenness to the boughs of the trees and there are primroses pricking the long grass of the roadside verges. The blossom on the hawthorn hedges hums with honeybees. When they make a brief stop for the coachman to adjust some harness, Harriet pulls down the carriage window and fills her lungs with the air. She spends too much time in town, she thinks. She enjoys the parks, but this is something else.
***
At La Marche, Tom and Jem walk the course to familiarise themselves with the layout of the track. The turf is a pristine, luxuriant green. Old turf. They find a figure-of-eight course, laid out on a broadly flat, meadowland site. The track goes right-handed, then left-handed, then right-handed again. The plain fences are tightly packed with birch. Unforgiving to a lazy jumper, thinks Tom. As well as the familiar fences found in England, there is a rail and ditch, a bullfinch, a bank, a water jump and a few sheep hurdles. Jem thinks it owes more to what might be encountered in a day’s hunting in Ireland than an English steeplechase course. There is a complete absence of guide rails and only very occasional flags. It is a test of memory as well as bravery.
‘Should be a craic,’ says Tom.
‘If we don’t get dizzy first,’ says Jem.
Harriet and Mocquard arrive at one o’clock. The newly painted grandstand shines white in the sunlight and multicoloured pennants flutter overhead in the breeze. On the first floor, an elegant dining room, fitted out with crystal and damask, greets the opulently dressed racegoers. French and English voices mingle. Waiters glide between the tables. In a far corner, a bearded student sits at a piano and makes a passable attempt at some Chopin sonatas.
Harriet picks at her food and twists at the end of her napkin. When the horses come into the parade ring for the first race, the room empties as everyone makes their way to view the runners and riders. The scene never fails to excite Harriet, but there is an added frisson today. Standing across the paddock, she sees Jem Mason and Tom Olliver, smiling and joking together.
The afternoon passes in a blur of flashing jockey silks and the glint of gleaming thoroughbreds. Tom and Jem ride two winners each: Tom all power and strength and driving finishes, whip high, roaring, Jem almost lazy by comparison, long rein, squeezing the horses into the fences, his whip an ornament, patting the horses on the neck as they pass the winning post.
At the conclusion of the racing, Mocquard arranges an introduction to Lord Hertford in his private box. He, in turn, introduces his jockeys to Harriet.
‘How lovely to see you again, Tom. You must tell me all the gossip from home,’ she says.
‘I see you know each other. Do you know Mason as well?’
‘Hello, Jem.’
There are perhaps twenty-five people in the box, which has two balconies attached: one looking forward across the racecourse; one looking back at the stables and parade ring. Mocquard is adept at manoeuvring people around, making introductions here and there, turning this person to that; a deft pull at an elbow, a gentle hand in the small of the back. After a while, Jem and Harriet find themselves alone on the rear balcony. A door closes behind them.
‘We may not have another chance, Jem,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to live my life in complete regret. What do you want?’
‘I wish I knew.’
‘You wish you knew or you wish you could admit it?’
‘You know what I think, but I don’t, is that it?’
‘No. I know what I think. I have no pride, but you are the mystery. Let me be clear. I would like us to be as we once were. I am prepared to risk a rebuttal, but I will have tried. Is it so hard to tell the truth? Walk towards me or walk away from me, but don’t stand and look at me. What is it to be?’
When the carriages are called, Mocquard leaves without Harriet. She and Jem are nowhere to be seen.