by Steven Neil
‘He has not spoken since we heard the news,’ she says. ‘He has taken it hard.’
‘I understand from Miss Findon that Harriet and her father argued when she came here.’
‘It was not so much an argument. Joseph was angry with her. He said some very unkind things. Of course, I am sure he regrets it now.’
‘Yes, it is a shame. We never know the future. Once said, things cannot be unsaid, even though we might wish it.’
‘We cannot turn back the clock, either, although I wish we could. If she had not come to England, she would still be alive.’
‘You must not think like that. Harriet was determined. She had to come. She was putting her life in order. And she wanted to see you.’
‘I see that. Mr Strode, did you know my daughter well?’
‘I knew her very well. I was her financial and legal advisor, and I managed her affairs for her. I flatter myself we were friends as well.’
‘Did she talk about us, Joseph and me?’
‘You were forever in her thoughts. She talked about you often.’
‘And our living here, our financial rescue, as you might say. Was that all due to Harriet?’
‘It was.’
‘Thank you. All the stories about her… were they true?’
‘That is not easily said. I think there were many stories. I cannot answer to them all.’
‘I think you know what I am asking… as her mother.’
‘I understand. I would say that Harriet was much maligned. My own experience of her was that she navigated her way through difficult waters with great courage, integrity and strength. It is not my place to say it, but I think you should be proud of her.’
‘I appreciate the sentiment. I sense there is a great deal you are not saying.’
‘I suppose it doesn’t matter now, just between us. Harriet was in the employ of the British Government.’
‘Assisting at the embassy?’
‘I think it was rather more than that. I would say she did not accept the role willingly. There were threats to the people she loved. She had very little choice. She made the best of things and I hope I helped her in some small way.’
‘Thank you. I am grateful for your replies. I will ask no more. Now, I assume you have not come here simply to express your condolences and to answer my questions, although it is kind of you and very much appreciated. How can we help you?’
‘There are, perhaps, some issues for discussion, concerning Harriet’s will.’
‘I assume so. I hope we will not be unduly affected. We would like to carry on here if that is possible.’
‘Quite the contrary. You and your husband are the main beneficiaries of Harriet’s will. It is probably appropriate if you are both present for this part of the discussion.’
After a while, Joseph Harryet shuffles into the room and stares blankly into the middle distance. His face is grey and he has not shaved for a few days. Little tufts of white hair sprout randomly around his cheeks. His eyes are rheumy and he shakes visibly. Beside him, Elizabeth Harryet is the stronger, but Strode can see from the knitted brow and the pursed lips that she is only just holding herself together. Strode reads out the will, slowly and with particular emphasis here and there. When he is finished, he gathers up the papers in front of him and takes off his spectacles. He waits for them.
‘You will forgive us if we understand the details imperfectly,’ she says. ‘We are not as sharp as we once were. Can you summarise for us?’
‘Of course. With the exception of some specific bequests to Mr Martin Harryet, Miss Melliora Findon, Mr Thomas Olliver and Mr James Mason and myself, Mr Nathaniel Strode, the rest of the estate falls to you and your husband, with the provision that the Château de Beauregard be held in trust by you, to live in during your lifetimes if you wish, but to pass to Martin on your deaths.’
Elizabeth asks for a little time alone with Joseph to digest the implications, but she doesn’t detain Strode long.
‘Thank you for explaining everything so clearly. It is a generous arrangement. We don’t want the château. It is not for us. Can we give it straight to Martin?’
‘If that is what you wish.’
‘It is.’
‘Very well. I will put things into effect as soon as I return to London. Is there anything else I can help with before I leave you?’
‘Yes, there is one more thing I forgot to ask.’
‘Of course.’
‘Was our daughter happy? I mean, before she came to England.’
‘I never saw her happier.’
***
When Strode returns to London, he visits Jem, now installed back at Clarendon Place. Strode hopes to see him looking better, but he is disappointed. Jem looks shrunken, wizened. In short, Strode thinks he looks awful. There is no doubt that Jem is ailing, but it is hard to know what is due to the illness and what should be attributed to the effect of his bereavement. He is bitter about the circumstances of Harriet’s death. As will often happen in such cases, those left behind cannot help but look for blame. It is a natural part of the grieving process.
‘Mellie is sure that the presence of cholera was well established in that area of London,’ he says. ‘Yet the authorities did nothing.’
‘I am sorry; she is right. The government is suppressing the figures. There is fear in many parts of town. Another epidemic is only a matter of time.’
‘Should I make other arrangements?’
‘You are safe enough here, but there are many places I would advise you avoid. I am having a list of areas of the city drawn up. I will send it on.’
***
Strode’s next task is to see Martin back in France; they meet at the townhouse in Versailles. Strode is quick with the news.
‘Jem is in a bad way. You should visit him.’
‘I will travel back with you, if that is alright.’
‘Of course. I have seen the Harryets as well.’
‘How are they?’
‘As well as can be expected. It is hard for them. They want you to have the château. It will be yours when the lawyers have completed their work.’
‘Joseph and Elizabeth didn’t need to give up Beauregard, surely?’
‘They are glad to pass on the responsibility. They live very simply, although I encourage them that they can spend more if they wish. They will never spend their money. They have never quite become used to the idea that Harriet provided for them so well. It is a great sadness that the old man reacted so badly when Harriet went there.’
‘I blame myself for not picking that up when I visited. He was an old curmudgeon, but I never suspected he was harbouring such vitriol. When Mellie told me Mama’s account of what he said, it shook me.’
‘There is, perhaps, a lesson for us all.’
***
As the year draws to a close, Tom visits Clarendon Place. Jem does his best to respond to his old friend, but he finds it impossible to shake off a deep depression. Tom cannot console him.
‘I am so sorry, Jem.’
‘I needed something to live for. Now, I have nothing.’
‘Martin needs you.’
‘That is a romantic thought, but it is not so. He has managed all his life without me. He is his own man.’
‘He would still benefit from your guidance.’
‘He has you to guide him. And Nathaniel Strode. He cannot improve on that – even you will not argue the point.’
‘You are correct, of course. I am trying to say the right things, but it doesn’t come easily. How can I help you best? Can you tell me?’
‘There is nothing. I’ve always valued your friendship. That is enough. You and Strode made me see sense. I’m thankful.’
Thirty-Six
One Day
> Wroughton, England
1873
Autumn is late this year. It is the beginning of November and red and orange flamed leaves hang on stubbornly to their hosts. I was thinking the other day that it is ten years since we landed the gamble with Ely at Doncaster. How we celebrated. It seemed to go on forever, but, of course, none of us knew what was around the corner. I’m afraid my old alias, Black Tom, is more accurately Grey Tom these days. I don’t move so well lately and there is a downstairs room in the house I have converted to a bedroom. There is an attached sitting room, with a small terrace outside. I can see into the yard, here at Wroughton, and I still maintain the pretence that I am the boss, even though I rely more and more on my staff to train the horses. I gave up riding about five years past when my knees started to seize up and my assistant, Tom Leader, drives me up onto the gallops in an old growler – a hansom cab in Bath in a former life.
Of course, Jem is no longer with us. The cancer took him, just over a year after Harriet left us. At least he didn’t suffer for long and I think it was nothing to him, compared to the loss of Harriet. He stayed on at Clarendon Place, with nursing care, in his final months and I saw him there as often as I could. He was well looked after and all his old racing friends rallied round. There is much I could say about Jem, but The Sporting Life put it best. I keep this cutting folded up in my pocket. I read it often.
The Sporting Life, Saturday 27th October 1866
DEATH OF JEM MASON
Modern hunting men, whose talk is of horses and who seldom care to note how Guilder held the line over a dusty fallow, or how Grappler turned short to the left while the whole body of the hounds flashed to the right, differ very widely about riders’ merits. There seems, however, to be one point upon which the older school seem pretty well agreed: that James Mason, in getting to the end of a run and as a steeple-chase professional, had scarcely a peer in England. A lath-like, elegant figure, beautiful seat and hands, and a very quick eye, combined to make him quite the doyen of the steeple-chase field, though his great rival, Tom Olliver, was a much harder man and a stronger finisher.
What struck you so in “Jem” Mason was the perfect absence of anything like effort or fuss. The right thing to do came to him by intuition and he did it instantly. Poor William McDonough, in his hot haste, might take the ridges slantways, but Jem would just gallop along the headland and then come straight and leave him and The Nun in hopeless distress, like a gunboat in a gale. We know of no exact parallel to his handling of a horse. The last steeple-chase which we saw Mason ride was more by way of a lark than anything else, at Hendon, and he did not even condescend to take his cigar out of his mouth. The more a hunt approximated in pace and distance to a steeple-chase, the better he liked it.
He was equally at home over Leicestershire or Northamptonshire, or the doubles of the Vale, but, as for killing the fox, he was much of Mr. Holyoake’s opinion; “It’s perhaps best killed, if it’s any satisfaction to the master of the hounds, but it’s none at all to me”. He liked to have a horse of perfect manners and in perfect condition, on which he could take the lead and sail away, but he had no idea of persevering if he was beaten and generally pulled up at once with “an appointment in town”. He did not care to buckle on his spurs to “make a scraw stir” or to nurse a third-class horse through a long run, simply for the honour of getting to the finish. He will forever be remembered in Mr. Elmore’s “light blue and black cap”, carried by Lottery, when winning the Liverpool Grand National Steeplechase. We will consider ourselves fortunate, indeed, if we ever see his like again.
***
Martin visits when he can, although not so often in recent years. The Comte de Béchevêt title suits him well and he is married now with four young children. Aunt Mellie lives with the family and helps to look after the children. I’m not sure how much of my advice helped him, but when Martin found the right girl, Marianne-Joséphine-Caroline de Csuzy, he didn’t prevaricate. Martin sold the château at Beauregard. I think there were too many memories there. And, without Jem, his heart went out of the stud business, although he and I still dabble in a small way – more as a way of keeping in touch than anything. He lives in Compiègne now. He follows a career as a diplomat, which has a certain irony, but his education and charm have helped him succeed. He still rides out in Chantilly and rides in the occasional amateur race.
He was able to spend some time with Jem before the end came. They rode out together, went racing together and enjoyed each other’s company. They had a lot to talk about. The funny thing was that after the drunken party at Beauregard, when Mathilde got us all talking about Jem and Martin, it was never discussed again. I think we all thought it was understood between us and it didn’t need underlining.
***
As we get older, our world shrinks into itself; life exists inside our heads as a patchwork of memories. I spend a lot of time looking back on things nowadays. Living in the past becomes a habit. Different scenes flit in and out of my thoughts: an urchin on a coloured pony, galloping across the Grafton countryside; a beautiful woman riding side-saddle, ghosting into view down a mist-shrouded drive; a slim, elegant figure on a bay horse, jumping the last fence clear at Liverpool, neat as a cat; a young man walking into my yard at Newmarket, with questions on his mind; a nerveless jockey, sitting motionless at Doncaster, as the horse in front goes four lengths ahead, only to sweep past a few seconds later. In more recent years, I think about what wonderful times we all had at the Villa Danetti: Nathaniel Strode and Eleanor; Martin and Marianne; Amédée Mocquard and his sister, Marie; Mellie Findon and her good friend, Sarah Clare; Princess Mathilde plus one, but never the same one; and the lovely Lavinia Lampard. Harriet would have enjoyed it.
I think about the people who shaped Harriet’s life: Palmerston, Normanby, Sly, Mocquard – all gone to meet their maker. I think about those who are still with us, somewhere. What happened to Captain Clarence Trelawney? He managed to repeat the feat of marrying a beautiful woman with money and spending the lot, before disappearing again. Rumour says he went to America. And Colonel Francis Mountjoy-Martin? He never came back from India, as far as I know. I often wonder about him. He is no longer listed as a serving officer, but perhaps he stayed on and made his fortune, as he hoped. Even Louis Napoleon died earlier this year. I think he missed Jean Mocquard’s wise counsel and, like his uncle before him, his reputation faltered. Finally, his reign collapsed in ignominious defeat at Sedan. He lived out his days in exile at Camden Place in Chislehurst and is buried near there. He and Eugenie, who survives him, eventually became on good terms with Queen Victoria, who has the great good grace to always see the best in people. We are fortunate to have her. We know politicians cannot be trusted. At least we have our monarch to provide some stability.
***
Nathaniel Strode calls in to see me. He is full of surprises. He quite embraced horse racing after our adventures with Ely and Blair Athol, and he is something of a man of the turf these days. He likes to come up on the gallops with me and talk about which horses are working well and what plans I have for them. I have a lovely horse called George Frederick, bred by my old friend, William Cartwright, and named after Queen Victoria’s grandson. He is the best since Ely and I have great hopes for him. I always thought Strode quite a cold sort, but as I’ve come to know him better I realise he has a lighter, more quixotic side to him.
‘Not all accountants are dull,’ he says. ‘It is not a requirement, although it does help.’
We talk about Harriet, as we always do. He fills in some details if I press him. I ask him how he managed to be in Harriet’s company so much and not be seduced by her charms.
‘Not easily,’ he says. ‘She was the mistress of the bewitching smile and the appealing glance. I pride myself on keeping a professional distance from my clients. I think I managed it very well for a long time in Harriet’s case. The time she was in England, staying at Camden Place, to
see Lord Palmerston provided the greatest challenge. Palmerston was physically rattled by her and she positively glowed after the encounter with him. It was intoxicating. Suddenly, I had invited her to the theatre and to dine with me. Nothing else mattered at that moment and I didn’t even think about the consequences. Fortunately, my fiancée arrived unexpectedly and that brought me to my senses. I was almost lost.’
He tells me about his friendship, in later years, with Louis Napoleon.
‘It has always gone unspoken between Louis and me, but I sometimes wonder if everyone around Harriet knew what was going on except her.’
‘You think he knew that Harriet was being funded by the British Government?’
‘I think it’s possible – with the benefit of hindsight, of course. I don’t think Louis questioned it too much. Why would he? An attractive woman with no shortage of finances was making herself available to him, without strings attached. I think he went along with it happily.’
***
I know, above all things, that life is fundamentally unfair. Harriet and Jem deserved better.
In the year following Harriet’s death, six thousand people died of cholera in an epidemic in the East End of London. All the deaths, including Harriet’s, were avoidable. I know that, by comparison, I’ve been lucky. I get a bit melancholy sometimes, but then I find myself up on the gallops in the early morning, just as daylight breaks. The mist clears slightly and I hear the thud of hooves on turf and see a group of thoroughbreds thunder past me. Then, the sun burns through and the skylarks start to sing and lift into the air. It always brightens the morning and it usually puts me in a good mood for the rest of the day.