The Widow's Fire

by Paul Butler

  “You have testimony of this?” I said, trying to sound stern.

  “The nature of the relationship was well established in Captain Mason’s London household. In the morning, his servants waited until they had returned to their separate rooms before laying the fires. There really is no doubt about the story, Mrs. Smith.”

  Plato was motionless beside the flames. I thought for a minute, letting him wait while sparks arrowed up the chimney shaft. “I will need the names of the witnesses,” I said at last.

  Plato moved at last, slipping a paper from his side pocket. “Names and present addresses, Mrs. Smith.”

  I extended my hand. He didn’t move towards me. “We have not yet discussed terms,” he said.

  I smiled indulgently and let my hand drop. “But, Plato, I cannot yet be sure of the full veracity of your research, or for that matter its potency when presented to Captain Wentworth.”

  “But Mrs. Smith,” he said, also with an indulgent smile, “with respect, I have brought you evidence that would hang Captain Wentworth if it were made known to the admiralty or to a magistrate. We both know the gibbet greets at least as many sodomites as murderers. This news is surely far beyond your expectations. Not only would it bring utter disgrace and ruination to your…” He paused, eyes searching the room.

  “Victim,” I supplied.

  “Subject,” he corrected me. “It would bring death.”

  “‘Would’ is the operative term, Plato. Nothing is certain until it is tested. Using money to prize information is a sure way to compromise that information, regardless of your assurances.”

  He merely tilted his head and shrugged as though giving small credence to my argument.

  “What, then, is your fee, Plato?”

  “Seventy guineas.” He spoke the number softly, like a lover.

  I forced a laugh. “You know, Plato, I do not carry such sums! Indeed, I could hardly raise such an amount if my life depended on it.”

  Plato remained by the fire, a slight smile on his face. Nurse Rooke bustled outside the door again. Someone yelled from the street. Plato’s expression did not alter.

  “I do not have seventy guineas, Plato,” I said. “I would have to raise it from my investments.”

  He shrugged and slipped the paper back in his pocket.

  “Fifty, Plato.”

  “Sixty, Mrs. Smith.”

  I sighed and leaned back. “Nurse Rooke,” I called.

  She entered immediately, small eyes flitting and expectant. It seemed she was unable to even pretend she had not been listening at the door. Retrieving the ring of strong-box keys from my skirts, I held the ring out to her. “Fetch the money, Nurse Rooke.”

  She took the keys and turned to leave, glancing back as if she meant to ask the amount, but then — aware that I knew she’d heard — she went into my bedroom. I liked to keep coin and paper separate from the compromising letters, so the money strong-box was behind the hearth in my bedroom. Somehow it seemed vulgar to keep confessions of love too close to the revenue they yielded. Though I used a private banking house in Bath for my chief investments, the strong-box in my bedroom still held a hundred and forty pounds in banknotes and a further eighty in coin. The African would want coin as he feared what the ravages of fire and flood might do to paper. Nurse Rooke knew this already.

  Plato’s eyes now glistened with quiet triumph. Not for the first time did I wonder how great this young man’s influence might be but for the unfortunate hue of his skin. “You are a remarkable young man, Plato,” I said, “and a vital cog in the machine of my business.”

  The fire crackled appreciatively, and given the livery, the sense of bearing and nobility in his frame, I might have expected a stately bow. Instead the triumph seemed tinged with something else, some quality about the lips. If I didn’t know him better, if I didn’t know his ambition and guile to be quite the equal of my own, I would almost have called it contempt.

  6. MRS. SMITH

  HE DIDN’T SEEM CONTEMPTUOUS two days later when I entered the main ballroom of the Upper Assembly Rooms. So unexpected was my appearance in his workplace, in fact, that his expression revealed something akin to shock. His eyes blinked once then remained unnaturally open and fixed upon the attendant on the opposite wall. I love surprising people. These moments of discomfort remind me why I work so very hard.

  Nurse Rooke held me under my right arm as I shuffled forward. A string quintet played gently in the half circle gallery above. The crisp winter light spun down upon us from high windows that arched above the inward-facing porticos. With its grand, elaborate structure and its marzipan and lemon colours, the ballroom was like wedding cake turned inside out. The room always seemed to imbue its milling inhabitants with a celebratory energy even when, as today, no particular event had drawn them.

  I, in contrast, always moved carefully in public, pretending to watch my step. Today I went further, making my legs tremble so my head would seem to shake with the effort — this, dear reader, is much harder than walking normally, and made me feel as though my indisposition was quite a reality. It hardly matters, after all, why a person cannot walk as others. Self-imposed constraints are at least as exhausting as those visited upon us by nature or misfortune. Either because they knew me by sight or noticed my infirmity, ladies soon scattered away from us like geese. Gentleman lifted their hats and also withdrew so that the whole of humanity parted before us in a wave like the Red Sea before the Israelites.

  Amidst the general bustle, I noticed one feminine blush, and my eyes found Lady Heston. She fluttered a fan in front of her face and moved discreetly into the crowd. Poor Lady Heston; she obviously didn’t quite believe she was safe. Some years before, I discovered her dalliance with her husband’s brother and so had begun a long and fruitful association. When she was widowed last summer, I had sent my most sincere condolences and had agreed, without prompting, that she was entirely free of any further financial obligations. Her discomfort at my presence now was actually quite hurtful; it felt like an absence of trust. But such is the curse of my profession. No matter how well-intentioned and honest our overtures, no one will take us at our word, and the name they give our business sends a jolt of revulsion through all who hear it.

  Blackmail—

  Try uttering those two syllables without wincing.

  It is a brutally unfair label to pin on those of us who deal in information, and it is based on a falsehood. The very core of our trade is ensuring the continued secrecy of any information that would do the most damage to our associates. How does this set us apart? Does not the banker accept an annual fee for keeping one’s funds safe from theft? Does not the hostel keeper charge rent for sheltering customers under his roof? Tell me the difference, dear reader, and I will gladly accept that most odious of names. Until then, I will go about my business with as much dignity and kindness as I can afford.

  But the kindness is not always returned. I watched Lady Heston’s sarcenet pelisse emerge in the distance and then disappear again. Did she perhaps think I meant to threaten her chances of remarrying? I was hardly the greatest obstacle to that unlikely occurrence. No man — including, no doubt, the brother-in-law who already knew — wants to marry an adulteress.

  The happy buzz of conversation rose to the high ceiling and the Parisian fashion gave me a foretaste of a whole new generation of potential clients. A girl no more than seventeen years old, too young and too foolish for a declaration of love, drew her fan across her cheek for the benefit of some suitor out of view. Yes, went the sign, I love you. The language of the fan arrived on our shores rather late. No doubt Parisians had moved on to something else long before Napoleon was captured. But here it remained, quaint and old-fashioned, but daring and new to those who used it.

  Plato, nudged by a superior, appeared at my side, bowed and gestured towards one of the chairs along the wall. Like a battered ship, Nurse Rooke and I
began to make our painful progress behind Plato, our painted figurehead.

  The young always give hope and the sight of youthful indiscretion had lifted my spirits. Soon, this poor young fool would become another Lady Heston, paying me month after month, year after year, for some slip that gave her a few hours’ pleasure at best. Lady Heston, I thought again. Why should she fear me now? Nothing is more stagnant than an old rumour. There had to be something else; something worse. And what is a darker secret than adultery? Nurse Rooke gripped my arm harder and I could tell she felt lost trying to make her way through this crowd of refined people milling in circles. How convenient, I thought, that Lady Heston’s husband, though no more than fifty and known to be in robust health, should die so unexpectedly.

  We made the chair at last. Holding on to Nurse Rooke, I began to lower myself. I had no moral complaint against Lady Heston if my suspicions were correct. Men may act as they please. It is always the women to whom the hardest decisions must fall. I thought of my poor Charles. If he had lived, I could never have hoped to improve my financial situation. He would have gambled away every gain I made and more. If Lady Heston had taken my route, I knew from experience how she must have suffered first — the agony of uncertainty before, the self-recriminations and qualms of conscience afterwards. I could not be so great a hypocrite as to condemn her. But she was right to fear me. I would certainly remain awake to any business opportunities the suspicion might present.

  Seated at last, I took out a kerchief and mopped by brow, aware dimly at first that a tall, white-haired gentleman had just sprung up from his own chair and left the vicinity. I didn’t see his face and couldn’t be sure, but in posture, bearing, and movement he seemed very much like Lord Asham, the father of many a parlour maid’s offspring. Over the last few years he, too, had been one of my most rewarding business associates, though not an altogether willing one. The poor man had once tried to ingratiate himself out of his situation. Or perhaps it was an attempt to turn the tables on me. I should thank him for it either way, as this was how I met young Plato.

  I searched now for Anne and her dashing young naval officer. But I didn’t have to look long. Almost immediately she emerged from a sea of silks surrounding her — a pure cream-clad Venus from the foams. On one side of her, holding her hand, was the young woman I guessed from appearances to be her younger sister, Mary Musgrove. On the other, standing tall, slightly adrift and a little embarrassed, was the man who had to be Captain Frederick Wentworth.

  “Adeline,” she said blushing and breathless, hardly able to contain her smiles. She gave Nurse Rooke a pleasant nod. “I was hoping you might come as you said, yet I was also afraid. Is the damp not injurious to your health?”

  I glanced up at Nurse Rooke who smiled down at me complacently. (She could act a part when called upon. I had to give her credit for that.) “Nothing, my dear Anne, nothing would keep me from sharing this much of your happiness.” I reached out and held her proffered hand. “And dear Nurse Rooke was most happy for the diversion from the sick room.”

  The warmth and happiness radiated from Anne as though she were the source of light itself. Although her sister’s gown was much finer than her own dress, the simplicity of the latter seemed only to heighten her natural beauty while the sheen of her sister’s silk rather drew attention to the glumness of the expression above the neckline. Anne’s looks had always been pleasing to me, but the last week had transformed her utterly. Care lines around her eyes were quite gone, the pallor of her face lifted to a permanent rosy pink, and her movements, always graceful, but with the grace of duty rather than joy, had become like a subtle dance, light and flitting.

  It is often said that my kind feeds upon misery, but this is not true. We feed upon happiness and we try to ensure the happiness remains. I trade in comfort and peace of mind. If Captain Wentworth were to fail to purchase them, if he were to threaten the happiness of this sweet young creature who had given herself into his care, this was not my fault. Still, I could not but wince inside at the contrast between her sublime joy and the dangers I knew I must hold over her.

  “I must thank you, Anne,” I told her, “for the gift of tea you had sent to my rooms this morning. The leaves were so fragrant that even Nurse Rooke could not ruin the brew!” Nurse Rooke scoffed and Anne burst into fond laughter. Even her unhappy sister seemed to crack a half smile.

  While Anne introduced me to the said Mary Musgrove, I stole my first glance at the officer who would be my next customer. My immediate impression was of a man tall and dark, a rather slender man with an aura somewhere between shyness and disdain. He didn’t like being in a crowd, it was certain. One hand was behind his back, another at his side. His feet, though motionless, seemed to want to move. His eyes roamed while I exchanged small-talk with Mrs. Musgrove and it struck me his sense of abstraction was an affectation to cover his discomfort. At last, the moment of our introduction had come and Anne, allowing herself a sigh of pleasure slight enough to be detected only by those already intimate with her, motioned to him.

  “Mrs. Smith, please let me introduce Captain Wentworth.” He stepped forward and bowed.

  I gave him my gloved hand, which he took in his own. His manner was now quite changed. He looked at me intently and a real sense of warmth came into his face. “It is indeed a pleasure, Mrs. Smith.” I could well imagine the kinds of reports of me that must have lain behind his obvious partiality.

  “And,” I replied with equal warmth, “it is indeed a pleasure to meet you, Captain Wentworth. May I add my sincerest congratulations?”

  A smile passed over his face and he nodded, colouring as though remembering something he’d been on the verge of forgetting. As bashful as any schoolboy, I thought.

  “You know,” I said brightly, addressing both Elliots and Captain Wentworth equally. “I believe I might be equal to a turn around the room if any would care to join me.”

  Immediately, Captain Wentworth extended his arm as I knew he would. I stood up with the help of Nurse Rooke and laid my forearm upon his. Nurse Rooke continued to flutter around me, and then smiled sweetly when I nodded her dismissal. As she fell away, Captain Wentworth half turned so we were facing in the same way and took patient, small steps beside my own stiff movements.

  Anne was clearly overjoyed at seeing her old friend and her lover falling into such quick and easy comradeship. She fell into line in front of us with her sister as I knew she would, and the four of us moved like a long ship into the swirling perambulation of the room.

  The man beside me seemed much less severe now. I could see that his detached air was a natural reserve, a desire to keep to himself until politeness dictated otherwise. It made sense now that his acquaintances had found it so difficult to spill secrets that would damage him. Such a man makes firm allies and for life.

  I spoke in low, confidential tones, allowing the fingers of my free hand to come under the firm arm that was holding mine. “Having known my dear friend Anne since she was a child, Captain Wentworth, it has been almost impossible up to now for me to even imagine a man who might be worthy of her.” His arm remained firm but relaxed and I sensed the pulse of warmth at my words, a rising sentiment through the very fabric of his coat. For the moment he could not speak, so I went on. “But I am certain, Captain Wentworth, absolutely certain from all she has told me, that she has chosen well.”

  I caught a startled look from Lord Asham as he passed narrowly by me. Face still pink from having seen me before, wife chattering obliviously beside him, he seemed like an aged solider caught in the midst of some raging combat, the rules of which he did not comprehend. He seemed to throw a look of desperate pity at Captain Wentworth. No matter if he did. I was mistress of this situation and my command would soon be all the more certain.

  “You are very kind, Mrs. Smith,” Captain Wentworth said warmly. “I only hope I can come close to being worthy of my great fortune.” He paused, again easily, like a man
who had reached his life’s goal and was quite at peace. “Such luck as mine, Mrs. Smith, fills a man with a confidence in the human race, an optimism for the future, and a desire to do good to everyone he encounters.”

  I gave a laugh and moved closer to him as though basking in such thoughts and emotions.

  “In fact, Mrs. Smith, you might be able to help me in this task.”

  “Indeed, Captain Wentworth, if your object is to spread joy then I am quite willing to help in any way I can.”

  He paused for a moment as though considering how to broach a new subject. “I know of one happy task that would help me express my joy and receive the recompense of one who is dear to Anne.” I listened attentively, head tilted. A fan fluttered past. “If you would not think it impertinent of me, Mrs. Smith, I have heard from Anne about the impediments you have come across trying to reclaim your late husband’s interests in the West Indies. I would be delighted to act on your behalf.”

  Lady Heston came into view amidst a small party weaving an arc in our direction. On seeing me, she veered away suddenly, and joined a large group talking in the centre of the room. Being feared is a special kind of curse, I have found. Sometimes I wonder if this is how the spirits of the dead must feel as they make their way through the night, hoping for companionship yet knowing the sight of them fills strangers and loved ones with equal dread.

  I gave Captain Wentworth an appreciative glance. “That is too kind, indeed, Captain Wentworth, but I am afraid my late husband’s slight holdings would produce many arduous hours of labour for you and yield uncertain results.”

  He slowed down, ready to protest but I pressed his arm in a friendly manner and drew him on. “But there may be a service you can perform.”

  “Indeed?” He seemed encouraged.

  I glanced behind to see Anne and her sister, still arm in arm. Having made a full circle of the hall ahead of us, they were beginning to steal upon us from behind. Anne was focused entirely on the two of us. She caught my gaze with a sweet, shy smile. Her sister, Mary Musgrove, looked off to the main entrance where some rather proud looking people — perhaps her cousin the Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple and her retinue — had just entered.