The Penmaker's Wife

by Steve Robinson

  Of course, as with so many of these terrible things that transpired during my acquaintance with Angelica, I knew nothing of it at the time. I was so full of joy at being with her that it was easy to overlook the brooding, contemplative moods into which she soon began to descend, which seemed to haunt our stay in Brighton. I had thought it merely due to the events of the past year catching up with her as she began to relax and unwind while we took the fresh, seaside air, but the real cause of her worry and anxiety is now plain to see. For myself, I had a wonderful time visiting our friend Violet, despite Angelica’s dark moods and her frequent absence from our company, entirely oblivious as I was to the terrible realities that troubled her mind.

  Her unusual disposition, however, did not last long.

  We returned to Birmingham to the best news Angelica could hope to hear. While we had been away, William had proposed to Louisa, and to Angelica’s delight, Louisa had accepted. It was enough to make Angelica forget everything that had happened in London, or so it seemed to me, because as the weeks and months slipped by I had never seen her more contented. William and Louisa were married in the spring of the following year.

  Even then, there was more wonderful news to come.

  A little more than two years after our return from Brighton, in the March of 1896, William turned twenty-one, and there was a very special gift in store for him. With it, I even dared to imagine that my hopes of Angelica and me someday moving away together were one step closer to becoming a reality. But it was not to be. Although I could not have foreseen it, all our darkest days were yet to come.

  Birmingham

  1896

  It was late afternoon, the skies over the Jewellery Quarter still clear and bright, the gas lamps not yet lit inside the pen factory on Legge Lane. The multitude of machines and presses had stopped over an hour ago, the factory workers’ tools laid down early for the day, although none of the workers had left – not on this day. On this most special day for the pen factory, there was great cause for celebration. Drinks and canapés had been circulating among the workers and guests alike, from the lowest-paid cleaner to members of the press and the most prominent of the city’s dignitaries, which included the Lord Mayor of Birmingham himself, Sir James Smith.

  Angelica could not have been happier.

  She was standing beside William and Louisa, high up on the walkway at the top of the ironwork stairs that led up to the main office. From there she looked down over the gathering at a sea of bright faces, all gazing expectantly upwards as they waited for Alfred Moore to begin his speech and make his announcements. Her eyes found Effie, who was below with her parents. They exchanged smiles, and then Angelica’s eyes drifted across to Alfred, who was standing proudly beside the Lord Mayor and his wife. Given Angelica’s inauspicious beginnings, she could hardly have believed it possible to be standing amidst such fine company. A tear formed in the corner of her eye and she dabbed it with the back of her lace-gloved forefinger, the lace no longer black, but white. Her dress not dark, but bright, shimmering blue.

  Alfred puffed his chest out and raised his bearded chin as he tapped his hand against the top of the railings. The rings on his fingers reverberated against the metal and the sound rang out over the gathering, ensuring he had everyone’s attention before he began. He may have been a short man, but as he spoke his voice was that of a giant.

  ‘Thank you all for coming,’ he bellowed, peering down from beneath the bottom of his glasses. ‘As most of you will know, young William here beside me, whom I’m proud to call my son-in-law, has today turned twenty-one years of age. So, while I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. Happy birthday, William!’

  There were cheers from below as Alfred turned to William and beckoned him closer. ‘Come along, young man. This is all for you.’

  William stepped closer to Alfred, and Alfred pulled him closer still, until their shoulders were touching. ‘That’s it,’ Alfred said. ‘You stay right by my side. I have something else for you, too.’

  William smiled and the gathering kept cheering. Angelica had a lump in her throat. She knew exactly what Alfred was going to give William, even though William did not.

  Alfred raised his hand and the gathering fell quiet again. ‘Now, as I’m sure none of you yet know, I have decided to retire from business.’

  That announcement was met with a number of low groans from many of the people below, and Angelica understood why: just as Stanley Hampton’s death had been deeply mourned by the factory employees, so too would Alfred Moore be greatly missed.

  ‘I thank you for that,’ Alfred said, earnestly, ‘but as much as I’ve enjoyed being a part of this business, I’m not getting any younger. My health isn’t what it used to be, either. It was always my hope to someday have a son of my own with my lovely wife Dorothy – someone to step into my shoes, so to speak – but as you’re all no doubt well aware, that was sadly not to be. Fortunately, the good Lord has chosen to bless me nonetheless with a young man any father would be proud to call his son.’

  Alfred turned to William, his face beaming. At that moment, the Lord Mayor produced a small mahogany box and handed it to Alfred.

  ‘This is for you, son,’ he said to William, and Angelica held her breath as William took it from him.

  ‘Well, open it, won’t you?’ Alfred said after William had stared at it far too long.

  As William lifted the lid, Angelica stepped closer. She saw his eyes grow wide with delight when he saw what was inside, and her heart could have burst. She had never felt more proud, more complete, than she did at that moment. William turned to her now with a look of disbelief on his face, and Angelica nodded back at him, confirming his thoughts.

  Alfred puffed his chest out again. ‘I give to you, William Chastain, the keys to this factory. I do so in the knowledge that between you and my daughter Louisa, they are in the safest of hands.’

  The gathering began to clap and cheer again, but Alfred had not finished. He raised his hand for silence. ‘Furthermore,’ he bellowed, ‘the company shall no longer be called Hampton and Moore, but simply Chastain Fine Pens, after its new owners, William and Louisa Chastain.’

  Alfred shook William’s hand, and with the other, William held up the keys for everyone to see. Now the gathering erupted as cheers rang out and hats were tossed in the air.

  ‘And perhaps,’ Alfred continued, more quietly now as he paused and looked at his daughter, focusing on the sizeable bump protruding from her dress, despite her maternity corset, ‘perhaps there will soon be occasion to change the company name to Chastain and Son Fine Pens.’

  ‘I very much hope so, sir,’ William said, his eyes on Louisa’s as he spoke.

  ‘Good, good,’ Alfred said. ‘Now, where’s my brandy? I think it’s your turn to say a few words, William. I’m parched.’

  ‘Of course,’ William said. He turned to the gathering and leaned over the railings. ‘Thank you!’ he called, raising his hand as Alfred had to quieten everyone down again. ‘Thank you, Alfred. Thank you, Lord Mayor.’ He looked at his mother, her hands clasped together in joy, and he returned her smile. Then he turned to Louisa again, and still addressing the gathering, he said, ‘Mr Moore has already given me so much. As if his daughter’s hand in marriage wasn’t enough, he has now given me the keys to the pen manufactory business both he and my late stepfather built, and my own name over the door.’

  He turned back to Alfred. ‘Sir, it is my most humble privilege to accept these keys, and I give you my solemn promise to uphold the time-honoured traditions of Hampton and Moore as the business moves into a new era under the Chastain name.’ To the gathering, he added, ‘Thank you all once again for your attendance this evening. I promise to work hard for you, as I hope you will for me, and for your fellow workers.’

  Hats were flying again as soon as William stepped back from the railing. Angelica rushed to his side. ‘Bravo, William!’ she said, kissing his cheeks. ‘You speak so beautifully, and look, they all love you, just
as I love you.’

  William gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Thank you, Mother,’ he said. ‘I really had no idea this was coming.’

  ‘We wanted it to be a surprise for your birthday,’ Angelica said. ‘It’s all for you, William. It was always for you.’

  ‘You did well to keep it from me. How long have you known?’

  ‘Since we heard Louisa was pregnant. I merely had to suggest to Alfred that with your twenty-first birthday coming up it was the perfect time for him to step down and enjoy his garden. He was all for it.’

  ‘Well, thank you. You’re the best mother any son could wish for. I have so many ideas for the company. It really is the most perfect gift.’

  Yes, it was, Angelica thought. It was the fruition of everything she had hoped for when she held her then five-year-old son in her arms and leapt from London Bridge into the filthy River Thames. The uncertainty of both their fates had hung in the balance from that moment on, but she had triumphed. The life she had sought for William was now his, and her duty as his mother, as she saw it, was complete.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Two days after William’s twenty-first birthday celebrations, Angelica was home at Priory House, sitting in the drawing room before dinner, going over the old newspapers from the day before. She had a copy of the Birmingham Daily Gazette open on the low table in front of her by the fireplace and was reading all about William again. The story had been covered by all the major news publications in the area, and even some further afield. She had seen to it that William’s rise to fortune was as widely reported as possible, and she could never tire of reading about it. It filled her heart with such joy that it made her impatient for his return from the pen factory so she could hold him and kiss his cheeks again, and tell him just how proud of him she was.

  She picked up another of the many newspapers from the pile, the Birmingham Daily Mail, and as she opened the pages to find the article about William and the renaming of the pen factory, her mood suddenly darkened. It came without warning, but she knew at once what had triggered it. It was the newspapers, or rather, it was the fact that she was sitting there poring over them, just as she had when she returned from Brighton with Effie. She turned away to the windows, which were aglow with the day’s last vestiges of sunlight, and tried to block those dark thoughts out.

  But she could not.

  Then, as now, she had gathered all the newspapers she could lay her hands on. For weeks she had secretly studied them, looking for any connection to Jack Hardy. She had even arranged for newspapers to be sent to her at Priory House from London – especially from London – where she at least expected to read about the discovery of a body in the Thames, and the brutal stabbing of an unidentified man. For the first week, she had found nothing, but then . . .

  ‘Horrible murder! Read all about it!’

  She could still hear the cries of the newspaper sellers in her nightmares as they repeated the headline over and over again from the corners of every street in London. Following that, she had read only that the victim was believed to be someone called Jack Hardy from Birmingham after staff at the Victoria Hotel in Euston Square reported that one of their guests had not paid his bill, and had absconded in an apparent hurry because he had left what few belongings he had arrived with in his room.

  Believed to be Jack Hardy, Angelica reminded herself. Clearly after being pulled from the Thames, bloated and colourless, no one had been able to identify him with any great certainty. She imagined the police would have searched his rented accommodation on Navigation Street, but what could they hope to find? Certainly nothing that would incriminate her, or anyone else for that matter. If there was anything, she would have been questioned about it long before now. She was glad that Hardy’s employment at the pen factory had been terminated before his demise. The police, uncertain as to whether they even had the right name and address for their victim, had likely taken their investigation no further than his lodgings. Three years had passed. The case was surely closed.

  So why did Jack Hardy still haunt her?

  The only answer she could ever think of was Alexander Hampton. He was safely locked away in prison, yes, but had Hardy visited him? Gentleman John had reported no such visits in all the time he was following Hardy, while Hardy had been unearthing her past with the help of Mathias Pool. There were, however, two days unaccounted for. The last time she had seen Gentleman John was on a Wednesday. He had told her that Hardy was taking a train to London that coming Saturday. After that she had, perhaps foolishly, discontinued his services, leaving Hardy entirely unobserved on the Thursday and Friday of that week.

  Had Hardy been to see Alexander during that time? Had he told him everything he had uncovered about her, and what he planned to do about it? Did Alexander know that Hardy was going to London? It was not knowing the answers to these questions that tormented Angelica, and she knew her torment would not abate until she worked through her usual rationale, and in doing so brought peace to her mind again. She told herself that Alexander would have missed Hardy’s visits long before now. If he knew what Hardy knew, he would have suspected foul play as the likely reason Hardy had never once gone back to see him after his trip to London. If Alexander suspected foul play on her part, he would surely have told the authorities, and yet here she was, years later, without having had so much as a polite conversation with the police about her association with Jack Hardy.

  No, Alexander did not know what Hardy had discovered – she was certain of that. She had no doubt that there would be a confrontation between them in the years ahead, but she was ready for him. He would wonder what had happened to his friend, Mr Hardy, and it was possible that if he looked hard enough for the answer then he would find it in London. But that was all Alexander would find. Any accusations levied at her would only be laughed at. After all, Alexander Hampton had every reason to seek retribution, as he saw it, against her, disgruntled as he would be at his new position in life as a penniless ex-convict, at the very least seeking to besmirch the good name of the woman he blamed for his pathetic situation. She thought Alexander was most likely to wind up in a lunatic asylum for the remainder of his days if he tried to take her on.

  And she would see to it.

  She took a deep breath, her eyes still on the light at the windows, which was now fading. Where was William? He was due home from the factory soon, but she imagined all manner of situations could have arisen to keep him there. She went to the windows to look for his carriage, making knots with her fists as she went. Why was she still so anxious? She had gone through everything again, hadn’t she, just as she always did? She hadn’t missed anything, had she? So why hadn’t it helped to lighten her mood again this time? She needed William, just the sight of him would be enough to calm her down. She looked out, but there was no carriage on the drive.

  She returned to the settee, thinking that her son should be in a greater hurry to return home, if not to his mother, then to his pregnant wife, who had largely taken to her bed with a maid on standby outside her room night and day since the celebrations at the factory, which Angelica imagined must have been too much for the girl. They had planned to find a home for themselves soon after the baby was born, but Angelica had other ideas.

  ‘Why don’t you and Louisa live here?’ she had said one morning soon after she heard that Louisa was pregnant.

  Since their marriage, they had been living with Louisa’s father part of the time, and at other times with Angelica at Priory House, sharing themselves between parents. It was an entirely unsatisfactory arrangement, and it would become more so once the baby was born.

  ‘That’s very kind,’ William had replied, ‘but we aim to find somewhere of our own as soon as possible – somewhere in town, closer to the factory.’

  Angelica had wanted to tell William that they could soon have Priory House all to themselves if they wished, that she was going away with Effie, perhaps in a year or two, but she did not say it. She could see his heart was set on living i
n the city, and she thought it would raise awkward questions about why she and Effie wanted to move away together. She wished she could tell him how she felt about Effie. She wished he would understand and not judge her as she knew others would, but she was certain that he would think less of her for it.

  Effie . . .

  They had been out shopping all day, trying to find a new hat for Effie to wear to her parents’ golden wedding anniversary, which was only a few weeks away. Heaven knew she had enough hats already, but she was so insistent on wearing something no one had seen on her before that she had worn herself out trying to find one she liked. She was staying at Priory House for the night and was now upstairs taking a nap in the hope that she would recover her strength before dinner.

  Angelica began to crave her company.

  She went to the drinks table and poured herself some Madeira. Then, from her reticule, she withdrew her little bottle of laudanum and added a few drops to her glass to help calm herself. Her hand was shaking as she held the neck of the bottle over her drink, being careful not to add so much that it would make her sleepy. She put the bottle away again, and before she had taken a sip of her drink, she heard a sound that instantly lifted her spirits. It was a carriage. She heard a horse whinny and went to the window to see the carriage drawing up outside, and she sighed with relief to know that William was home at last to ease her pain. She quickly went back to the table and folded the newspapers away. Then she drank half the Madeira and tried to relax so that when William came in to kiss her, as he always did before going up to change for dinner, he would not sense her anxiety.

  When the door opened, however, it was Missus Redmond who entered, red-faced and flustered. With her was not William, but a man Angelica recognised equally well, despite not having seen him in more than fifteen years. She stood up, catching her breath at the sight of him as all her nightmares, all her deepest fears, caught up with her at once.