by Steven Neil
‘What is the real reason you cannot answer? Is it that you no longer love me? It would be as well to admit it. We can get on with our lives.’
The dart hits.
‘I will never be able to say that of you,’ he says.
‘Nor I of you, but do you know what love is? It is holding someone in your soul every second of every day and thinking of them always, no matter which way life takes you. Can you say that, Jem? If you can’t, you are not in love. Remember when we first lived in London. I said I wanted us to build a dream together. I still want that, Jem. More than ever. What do you want?’
‘You shame me. You did then and you do now. I want the same, but I don’t have the words. If you can be patient with me, I will try…’
She doesn’t let him finish. She moves towards him and places a finger on his lips. She slides her hand around the back of his neck and pulls him to her. The passion of the embrace unsteadies them both and they crumple to the floor. The sound of their quiet murmurings drifts into the slow rhythm of the afternoon and finally the resistances melt away.
***
When Mellie’s carriage returns much later, Jem’s horse still stands and fidgets in the stable. She waits in the harness room until she hears Jem and Harriet saying their lingering farewells at the terrace gate.
‘I will come again soon,’ he says. ‘Strode is keeping me busy here.’
‘Don’t keep me waiting too long,’ she says.
It is a breakthrough. They both sense it. Maybe, this time, things will be different.
Part Three
Twenty-Nine
Resolution
Newmarket, England
1862
I could hardly wait for Martin’s return. There was a chill in the air as he arrived early one morning and I ushered him into the kitchen to warm himself in front of the range. I wasted no time in idle chatter. The young man’s story captured my imagination and I had more questions. The list of names puzzled me.
‘It was Mocquard who gave me the list, but it was Mama who supplied it,’ said Martin.
‘I am being slow. Why would she put my name on the list, knowing it was impossible?’ I said.
‘She wanted me to meet you.’
‘And it pleases me greatly. But what was she hoping to achieve?’
‘Well… would you say we are friends?’
‘Indeed, yes.’
‘Then you have your answer.’
‘I think I am clearer, but not completely.’
‘My mother is a clever woman. I think many things about her, not all positive, but I do not deny her that. The truth is that the list was all part of an elaborate plan. She has watched me grow up, with all my faults. She knows me well. I share many of her character defects. The one we share to the greatest extent is that neither of us can ever be told anything. We must discover things for ourselves. Our distrust is so inbuilt that if anyone tells us a fact we immediately disbelieve it. It makes for a difficult life and it makes us awkward to deal with. Relationships are always strained. It is no surprise that we fight.’
‘And the elaborate plan?’
‘We don’t trust the truth, Mama and I, but we seek it. And growing up I was full of questions, like any child. Why are we in St John’s Wood? Is Francis my father? Why are we living in Paris? Is Louis Napoleon my father? Are Eugene and Louis Alexandre my brothers? She was always evasive, which, of course, made things worse. As I grew older, the questions settled into one big mystery. Who is my father? It gnawed away at me. Of course, once I was old enough, I read the newspapers and listened to the gossip. I started making guesses about things. Mama was famous, perhaps even infamous. She seemed to live a glamorous life, but she was never happy. There was the speculation about her marrying Louis: the “English Empress”. Then, there was the news about the Spanish Countess. Put yourself in my shoes, Tom. What was I to think?’
‘I see it was difficult for you. I sympathise. But the plan: what was your mother’s plan?’
‘I am coming to it, Tom. I never gave up hope. I thought that one day Mama would sit me down and say, “Martin, now it can be told. I am going to tell you the truth”. But it never happened. And now I know why.’
‘Why?’
‘Think about it, Tom. Suppose she sat me down and told me everything: about Sly; about the Duke of Grafton; about Lord Normanby; about Lady Blessington; about Count D’Orsay. What would I have done?’
‘Of course, I see now. You would not have believed her.’
‘Exactly. I would have railed at her. I would have called her a fantasist and a liar. No good could have come of it.’
‘So she set you the task of solving the mystery for yourself. And the list of the names was the starter’s flag.’
‘You have it. She laid the trail and slipped the hounds loose. And I’m nothing if I can’t hunt hounds. We are mixing our metaphors rather, Tom, but you see the nub of it.’
‘I do. My role was to guide you. I’m flattered. I hope I have performed the task well.’
‘You have. Mama judged that, because she liked you and trusted you, I might do the same. She wanted a positive example for me. Someone who would not judge, but would ask questions.’
‘It has been a pleasure meeting you, but is the mystery solved?’
‘There are some things I can be more sure about – that much I can say. We already know it is not you. It is not Louis Napoleon. Mama could well have met him in the years between 1838 and 1840, but I think she did not. Although her appearance was much changed when she met “Prince Louis Napoleon” in the summer of 1846, it is hard to imagine he would not have had some recollection of her. I think it was their first meeting and it takes place around four years after my birth. There is no record of him escaping the Château de Ham prison in the intervening years.’
‘That seems clear-cut. And the others?’
‘It is not Nicholas Sly. I think it is not Count D’Orsay, a late addition to the list, as we discussed last time I was here.’
‘I see. What has led you to these latest conclusions, may I ask?
‘Mama’s friend and companion, Mellie Findon, is the main source. Mellie has been in my life for many years now. She is an old school friend of Mama’s. I call her Aunt Mellie, although, of course, she is nothing of the kind – any more than Jean Mocquard is my uncle, I suppose.’
‘Harriet mentions them both in her letters. I think it marks a pattern of trying to surround you with people she trusts and who share her concern for your well-being. What did Mellie tell you?’
‘She said that Mama confided in her about Nicholas Sly. I am sure Mellie was only passing on this information because Mama gave her permission. Apparently, Sly made two attempts on Mama. He failed, not because he couldn’t overpower her, but because he couldn’t, as Mellie delicately put it, “perform”.’
‘Did you ever solve the enigma of Nicholas Sly?’
‘Up to a point. I’m not entirely sure what he did, but he was linked to the government in some way, as you thought.’
‘Did you find out how he died?’
‘He was murdered. That much is sure. Strode is always careful in his language, but I think the finger points at Francis Mountjoy-Martin. What is more interesting is that it wasn’t the first attempt on Sly’s life. Lady Blessington tried to kill him. Mellie says that Mama still feels guilty about that. Lady Blessington was acting on Mama’s behalf, apparently. The plan was for the two women to act together, but Lady Blessington took the initiative herself. It proved a fatal mistake.’
‘And D’Orsay?’
‘Count D’Orsay died in August 1852, but Mellie seemed confident that he could also be ruled out. She said that, although she understood “activity of an intimate nature” took place and further promises were made, D’Orsay couldn’t collect on them before hi
s Scottish play ended its run and Harriet escaped any further attention. The other rumours of dukes and marquises were just tittle-tattle – which leaves Francis Mountjoy-Martin and Jem Mason.’
‘But still a mystery?’
‘I have to face two possibilities. One is that Mama does not know who my father is. In that case, as you once said, this has been an elaborate charade, but arguably an educational one for me. If she does know, then the truth cannot come soon enough. Maybe there never was a mystery, but without the mystery to solve I would not have come to you. How would I have found out about Sly? How would I have learned about the friendship with Lady Blessington? The names on the list gave me the whole story, not just the piece I wanted to know. And it bought time. Time was important because Mama was protecting someone. Someone who led another separate life. Someone for whom an illegitimate son might be a distraction or an embarrassment even. And time was important because Mama never found the moment to tell my father that I was his son.’
‘And it is time for the truth now?’
‘Let us just say the process of resolution is playing itself out. She promised me last time we spoke that she would answer the propositions I put to her. I think she has some unfinished matters to deal with before we can speak openly about the facts, as I now understand them.’
‘And you, Martin. What is left for you now? How will you feel if your quest is over?’
‘I don’t know yet. I don’t know what to feel. Perhaps even because I don’t know how to feel. I have built a wall around me.’
‘Do you know what you want?’
‘What does any of us want? To be happy? To feel worthwhile? To do something good?’
‘It could be any of those. Or all of them. The thing is to try and work it out It is a help if you know where you are going; where you should put your energies.’
‘I see that. I have not thought much about it. I have been too busy blaming Mama for everything. I have been a spoilt brat.’
‘But you can change. You have a good brain. You have shown you can be diligent and hardworking when you have a clear aim in sight. You have a great natural talent with horses. You have the benefit of a fine education. You can be witty and charming when you choose. You are a fluent linguist. The world at your feet, if you wish it.
‘Now it is you who flatters me.’
‘I am just telling you the truth as I see it. Don’t waste your talents and don’t look back. That is my only advice.’
‘Tell me another story about Jem,’ he said. I was happy to oblige.
‘One time, at Dunchurch, he walked the course the night before racing and saw there was a shorter route, saving about fifteen lengths, going to the last furlong, but you had to jump a huge rail the size of a dogcart over a furze hedge. Only a madman would try and jump that, but Jem got the idea to have one of his associates saw through the rail in the early morning, so that when he jumped it and hit the rail in a race, the rail would break. Unfortunately, the man tasked with the sawing got drunk the night before and failed to turn up. Lucky for Jem, his mount in the first race was withdrawn and he didn’t have to test his man’s handiwork or lack of it. Doubly unlucky for Will Pope, though, who got wind of the plan through some loose talk in the Red Lion and decided to try it for himself. He was just behind the leading group in the first race and while they all took the longer route, with a wicker hurdle to negotiate, Pope dug his spurs in and had at the big rail for all he was worth. His horse had no chance, hit it halfway up and put Pope over the top. He flew through the air like a trapeze artist, but, with no net to save him, he hit the ground headfirst and broke both collarbones. He didn’t speak to Jem for a while. You could never be angry with Jem for long, though. I never heard him speak ill of anyone and there wasn’t a jockey who didn’t respect him – even Pope. Everyone knew he would try anything to win a race and the owners always wanted him. When the big races came up, they competed for his services.’
‘I can see you have a great admiration for him, despite his sometimes unconventional approach.’
‘He earned my admiration. He was often getting me out of scrapes. I had a way of letting money through my fingers when I was younger and I could never pay my debts at the month end. There were many times when Jem would arrive in the nick of time and pay off the bailiffs before they started carting off my possessions. I never paid him back, even though I always meant to. He would say, “It’s your comradeship I value, Tom. And having to ride against a man like you makes me concentrate. I can’t let up with you at my quarters. If I ever need your help, I’ll ask you and I know you’ll give it without question. We are gentlemen, Tom. Don’t forget it”. And in my mind, there is no one like Jem Mason. He is a rare man. There is no truer friend a man could have and no finer horseman.’
‘What is his situation now?’
‘I’m afraid the tables are turned these days. He has suffered some financial setbacks and he is not in the best of health. He is not very good at asking for help. I do what I can.’
We talked on through the day. We covered a lot of ground, but his thoughts kept coming back to Jem.
‘What would you say is the nature of their relationship: my mother and Jem Mason?’
‘Then or now?’
‘Both.’
‘When they first met, I think it was just an adventure for them. Harriet, or Eliza as she was then, had men falling at her feet. She was quite mesmerising. I think she enjoyed the excitement. There was a rebellious streak in her and I think she liked to shock. Of course, Jem had a way with the ladies, as he did with the horses. He was not what you might call “a ladies’ man”. He didn’t go out of his way to charm them with clever lines. That was more my line of attack. I gave them the full blarney and Jem always said they let me take them to bed just to shut me up. Jem was different. As brash and arrogant as he could be in male company, with a girl he was diffident – almost shy. Jem and Harriet were a love match, no doubt. They both played the field, but they were always doing it to make the other jealous, as it seemed to me. I knew how he felt about her. I think she felt the same.’
‘And now?’
‘As you might expect, it is more complicated now. From what she says in her letters, Harriet has tried her best. I really believe she has tried to make it work. But they are both contrary. When one is inclined towards compromise, the other is not. In many ways, any obstacles to them being reconciled have been removed. I think it is just a question of pride.’
Martin sat back in his chair. I sensed he was raking over our discussions; looking for a conclusion, a way forward.
‘I think we are in danger of coming up with the answer we would both wish for,’ I said.
‘You are right, of course. I want it to be Jem. I feel as if I know him well, with his many accomplishments and faults. Like us all, he is flawed. Taciturn, moody, proud, awkward – these accusations can all be levelled at him, from what you say. But he is a good man: loyal to his friends and serious about his craft. And while he frustrates and annoys my mother, he is the one person she could be happy with. If only they could see it.’
‘But how will you feel if it is Francis? It could still be him.’
‘Indeed, it could. It is as likely to be Francis, from what I can glean from Mellie. He was always kind to me when we lived together, but I was too young to really take in the relationship. He also has his strengths and weaknesses. Essentially, though, I think he tried his best.’
‘You seem to be rather relaxed about the answer to your quest. Does it not still gnaw away at you?
‘I did say that, didn’t I? Strange as it may seem, no. I surprise myself to say that. If it is Francis, well and good. He is in India now and unlikely to return, as far as I can tell. He has never done me any harm and I understand now the many pressures he endured. If it is Jem, that shapes everything. He is here and I can still get to know him properly. It
is an opportunity. Whatever the truth, there is a bigger truth that exercises me now. Mama and Jem must be reconciled. That is the greater prize. Mellie says Mama worries she has been an awful mother to me, but, frankly, I have been a worse son to her. I feel I owe it to her to do something.’
Our conversation seemed to run its course and I suggested we canter a couple of the younger horses that were in light work before he left for his return to London. He accepted readily.
‘No games today,’ I said, conscious of the trick I played last time he was here.
I led out a wiry grey colt, about sixteen hands tall, for Martin. He was a straightforward enough ride, but he had a habit of wrenching at the bit and throwing his head around. Once settled he was fine, but he was far from a novice ride. I mentioned this to Martin, as I legged him up. I used the mounting block to get astride my horse, an uncomplicated bay colt – smaller than the other horse, but also very athletic. They were evenly matched as we breezed four furlongs. I watched Martin closely. With jockeys, it is all about balance and good hands. Martin’s hands were light as a song thrush. The colt didn’t throw his head once. That is a gift. You can’t teach it. During the ride, Martin was quiet – preoccupied, I thought. When we got back, we unsaddled the horses, rubbed them down and put day rugs on them.
Martin eventually spoke, as he emerged from his thoughts.
‘I am formulating an idea in my mind. Will you help me?’
‘Of course,’ I said.
Thirty
Last Chance
Wroughton, England
Paris and La Celle-Saint-Cloud,
France
1863
Fairwater Stables
Wroughton
Dear Martin
Great news to tell. I’ve secured a move back to Marlborough and I have taken over the old Fairwater yard at Wroughton. I’ve had a wonderful time at Newmarket, but the chance to move back to Wiltshire is too good to miss. William Cartwright will put up half the money and I will have more boxes and my own old turf gallop up on the downs. All the team is moving with me and I know we can train a lot of winners here. I can’t wait to show you around when you come over. You will love it here. William has a new horse I want to show you as well. I think he could be the horse we have been looking for. Please write and tell me when you can come. Don’t leave it too long.