“Your name, please,” Reginald pressed.
Erica Powers was the one who answered. “His name is Andrew Smathers.”
Reginald tensed. “The banker?”
“The very same.” Erica’s cold voice continued. “Financier to the nation’s slavers. Backer of the most despicable trade—”
“My business is with the countess!”
“—the world has ever known,” Erica said, not to be deterred. “Trader in misery and death. Profiteer of chains and anguish.”
Lillian quickly realized the man was nervous. And why not? He was in the presence of the very opponents he and Bartholomew were hoping to crush. The people they had intended to use her to destroy.
The indecision she had been carrying slipped away. No. She would not be used by them anymore. It was time. They were gathered, and they would hear.
Even so, she trembled with fear, no longer only from concern over her son’s fate. She was desperately afraid of what these new friends would think of her.
Lillian sighed deeply. What would be, would be. This day, this hour, she would do the right thing.
For once.
Her hand trembled on Reginald’s arm. “Do you need to seat yourself?” he whispered.
“No, well, that is, perhaps . . .”
Reginald guided her to the place alongside Horace. Mrs. Cutter had remained standing by the parlor entrance. Reginald took his station beside her.
“I have stated as clearly as I know how,” the banker intoned. “My business with the countess is strictly a private matter.”
“No, it is not,” Lillian asserted. “There will be no secrets in this house. No longer.”
“Lady Houghton, I assure you I come well armed.”
“And precisely what do you mean by those words?” Reginald asked, moving forward a step.
The banker sought to mask his rising nervousness with bluster. “It would most certainly be in Lady Houghton’s best interests, sir, if you were to refrain from involving yourself in matters that are none of your concern!”
“But they are his concern,” Lillian said. “They are most certainly his concern.”
Reginald’s hand came to rest upon her shoulder. Once more his touch gave her the strength to go on. “Allow me to hazard a guess, Mr. Smathers. The same vessel which carried us to America also contained a mail packet. From a certain banker in London.”
“My lady, I must warn you—”
“A banker,” Lillian cut in, “by the name of Simon Bartholomew.”
To her astonishment, Erica Powers cried aloud. “It can’t be!”
“Bartholomew,” Lillian continued, “is your ally in the financing of the slave trade, I would imagine.”
Smathers glowered at them all, but his words remained directed with swordlike precision at Lillian. “You trifle with danger, my lady.”
Well she knew it. But neither her fear nor her tremors would halt her words. She declared to all the family, “I have come here on false pretenses. The whole wretched story will come out. I intend to hold nothing back from any of you ever again. But I do not care to reveal all my distasteful secrets in this man’s presence. My guess is, Simon Bartholomew has only told him the barest of details, keeping the greatest ammunition safely under his sole control.”
Erica had risen to her feet. “How do you know Simon Bartholomew?”
“His bank holds all the papers to my late husband’s estate. The count was ruined by a failed venture. We lost everything.”
“This is a misguided confession.” The banker leaped to his feet. “As you well know.”
“I know only that these secrets are over. The subterfuge is ended. Your bank’s hold over me is finished. Did you hear me? Finished!”
She found she was breathless. Reginald squeezed her shoulder. She reached up and took a grip of his hand with her own. It might be the last time she held it, this good, strong hand.
She took a long breath. “Simon Bartholomew approached me last summer. He had come into possession of all my late husband’s outstanding debts, his land, his manor, the London house, everything. But more than that, he had uncovered a dread secret. One Reginald is aware of, and one I shall share with you when this man has—has taken his leave.”
“Which will happen immediately,” Reginald said, his meaning clear.
“No, let him stay a moment longer. He needs to hear enough to know his power over me is ended.” Her voice was wracked now by the same tremors that coursed through her frame. “My entire life is a lie. My titles, my son’s good name, his right to hold his head up in British society—all will come crashing down if Simon Bartholomew reveals what he knows about my past. And this he has sworn to do.”
Erica took a step toward the banker. “Will his evil maneuverings never end?”
Something in her features caused the man to back up a step, knocking against the chair.
Lillian continued because she had to. Though why was now lost to her, and the words burned her throat like acid. But speak she must. “Bartholomew threatened to ruin me entirely. He would cast me out into the street. He would reveal my dark secrets. I would be penniless and without friends or allies, and my son would be scorned and destitute.” She took the hardest breath of her entire life. “Unless I agreed to spy upon the family of Samuel and Lavinia Aldridge.”
Now Abigail was on her feet, her hand to her lips.
“Added to this were the names of two strangers, at least strangers then. Erica and Gareth Powers. Bartholomew wanted information that would subvert their antislavery campaign or do them personal harm.”
“It can’t be!” Reginald’s voice was like a knife through the tension in the room.
“The threat was delivered the very same night Abigail’s mother and I met at a dinner given by the earl of Lansdowne.”
“No!” Abigail gave a stricken cry.
“The same night you were arrested in Soho.” Lillian could not seem to bring the young woman into focus. “I am so very, very sorry. I did not know what to do or how to avoid his cruel task. But that same night, when your mother sat in the coach outside the gates of Newgate Prison . . .”
She stopped and found a handkerchief had been slipped into her free hand. She wiped her face as best she could and drew as much breath as her aching chest would allow.
“Lavinia Aldridge is the finest woman it has ever been my honor to meet. And you stand close behind her, Abigail. But what was I to do? How was I to free myself from this foul task? How was I to protect myself and my son?”
Again she halted. The room was utterly still. Even the banker did not move.
Finally she managed to continue, but only by keeping her gaze downcast. “And so I traveled to America under false pretenses. I accepted a banker’s draft from your father, a man I had agreed to help destroy. A man as stalwart and fair as any who has ever walked this earth.”
The pain in her chest was now so great she could no longer hold herself erect. Lillian clenched her arms across her stomach and bowed herself over her knees. “I am so utterly, wretchedly sorry,” she gasped, tears dripping down her face.
Other arms were there now, wrapping about her back, touching her face and her hair. Lillian heard a voice she recognized as Abigail’s. And another. Could it be Erica Powers? But had she not just confessed to seeking their downfall? Oh, nothing in this world made sense. Not even her confession.
Reginald’s voice came from somewhere above her. “You will remove yourself from this room and this family. And do so this very instant!”
“Yes,” Lillian whispered. Of course. What else was there for her to do but flee? “I will go and gather my things.”
“Shah, my sister, you will do no such thing.” This from Erica Powers.
“But . . .” Lillian raised her face. Could those be tears she saw upon the woman’s face?
“He was not speaking to you,” Abigail said quickly.
Lillian lifted herself further, supported now by a woman on either side. She wiped
her eyes in time to see a furious Reginald escorting the banker from the room. And to hear him declare, “If ever I learn that you have had a hand in damaging this lady in any way, Mr. Smathers, you will rue the day you ever heard of her, do you hear me, sir? You will rue the day!”
Chapter 22
Lillian woke and felt the house stirring about her. She had no idea what time it was, but most certainly she had slept later than usual. Her limbs felt languid. Though she had slept deeply, still she felt weary. The strain of a lifetime would not be healed by one good night.
She had taken a cold supper with the others, remnants of the Sunday dinner. They had gathered comfortably together in the kitchen, so many of them the men had stood by the counter. Horace’s youngsters had noticed nothing untoward. Indeed, the atmosphere had been that of just a normal extended family at the end of a long day. A slap-up meal, Horace had called it, and meant it as a compliment. Other than the children, none of them had been particularly hungry. No further mention had been made of Lillian’s confession, but the adults all bore a thoughtful air as they concluded their meal and said their farewells. Lillian had excused herself as early as was polite and retreated to her bedroom.
In the distance Lillian heard a church bell begin to chime. She counted, and with alarm, Lillian realized it was ringing eleven o’clock. She leaped from bed and hastily began to dress. She had not slept this late in years.
She was taken aback to find almost the same gathering awaiting her downstairs. Horace was there, this time without Beatrice and their children. Erica Powers was deep in conversation with Mrs. Cutter and Abraham Childes, Abigail hovering nearby. Even old Mr. Cutter was in his high-backed padded chair, pulled up close to the range fire. Everyone wore a somewhat preoccupied air. Lillian cast quick glances at Erica and Abigail as she sat down at the kitchen table, but she was not able to catch the eye of either. Abigail murmured something about getting her some tea and moved to the stove. Mrs. Cutter offered toast, but Lillian declined.
“Are you sure I can’t offer you anything? Maybe a bowl of porridge? That’s not difficult at all—”
“You are very kind, Mrs. Cutter. But I really can’t disturb your routine any more than I already have.” She found herself addressing the entire room, as all had turned her way. She felt she had to make some explanation for her lateness. “I can’t remember the last time I have slept so long into the day.”
“You have been under a great strain,” Mrs. Cutter soothed.
She nodded and sipped her tea. Reginald cleared his throat. “Lillian, might I have a word?”
“Yes, of course.” She sighed. Perhaps it was best coming from Reginald.
“Would you care to take a turn with me? The day is brisk for September, but not unkind.”
“Yes, thank you. I will get my wrap.”
As she rose from her place, old Mr. Cutter said in his trembling voice, “My dear.”
“Sir?”
“My wife speaks for the both of us.” He was not in particularly good form this day, for shaping the words seemed almost too much for him. “It is important that you understand this.”
“I do indeed, sir.” With all the grace she could muster, Lillian offered the old gentleman a full curtsy, the same she had learned before her first presentation at Buckingham Palace. The gentleman deserved nothing less. “And I in turn can offer you only my sincerest gratitude. And my heartfelt apologies as well.”
“There is nothing for which you need apologize.” His voice quivered, but his gaze was direct and clear.
Lillian decided not to respond. She would depart from this place as much of a lady as she could muster. “Good day, sir.”
Mrs. Cutter followed them into the front hall. The older woman seemed unable to decide what to do with her hands. They flitted about, touching everything, remaining nowhere for very long. The normally unflappable woman seemed distraught, agitated.
As Reginald settled the cloak about her shoulders, Lillian said to her hostess, “Please don’t concern yourself further, ma’am.”
“Nothing about this entire affair is all right.”
“No,” Lillian conceded. “I quite agree.”
But Mrs. Cutter did not seem to hear her. “I want you to know one thing. You are not being pressured into making any decision.”
Reginald protested, “Mrs. Cutter—”
“You will permit me to say what my husband and I have decided,” she insisted. Mrs. Cutter continued to Lillian, “They say there is suddenly a great need for haste. That is all well and good in the world of business. But you are my guest and I shall not have you feeling pressured to do anything except what you feel is correct.”
Lillian felt as though she had missed an important part of the conversation. “Ma’am?”
“It is vital that you understand this one thing.” Mrs. Cutter shot Reginald a rather stern glance. “You are welcome to remain here for as long as you like.”
“No one is intent upon pressuring Lillian,” Reginald quietly insisted.
Mrs. Cutter paid him no mind. “As far as I am concerned, you are welcome to consider that upstairs room your new home.” Finally her hands managed to fasten themselves together before her waist. “There. I’ve had my say. Now you two may go about your business.”
Reginald sighed as he opened the front door. Lillian forced her legs to carry her outside and down the front steps. Once upon the brick pathway, however, she found she could go no further.
Reginald showed no interest in walking on either. He led her over to a garden bench. When they were seated, he turned to her. “I fear what I must address cannot wait.”
“Please speak, then.” Lillian dropped her head to stare at her folded hands.
“There are two principal roads heading west from this central portion of our nation,” he began. “One was fashioned by Daniel Boone himself and is known as the Wilderness Trail,” he continued. “Though the region it traverses is no longer wilderness, it remains little more than a trail. In many places it is a marshy, narrow, convoluted track that is good only for men on foot and pack animals. But it has remained the principal route for settlers headed through the Cumberland Gap to the bottomlands of Kentucky. Only these lands are now almost all taken, at least those worth farming. And still the immigrants keep arriving on our shores. Now, as you may have heard, other lands are opening. Missouri might be a state, but only half of the land within its borders has been claimed, much less farmed.”
Lillian knew he was talking of something vital. But precisely what he was addressing, she could not be sure. Over and over her mind returned to the same astonishing fact. These people did not seek to discard her. She was not to be punished for her ways. They accepted her. Lillian raised her face to Reginald’s. His hair was tossed by the rising wind, and she now realized he must have spent considerable time preparing what he wanted to say to her. How was this possible? Was it not just the previous day that she had confessed her terrible truths? And of course poor Lavinia and Samuel did not know her evil deception yet.
“The name on everyone’s lips these days is the state of Indiana,” Reginald continued. “It has recently been opened to cultivation, and the stories that come back from new settlers are of a land that is bursting with promise. Dreadful winters, by all account, but the hardy Scots and Swedes and Germans who are settling there have no doubt survived worse. What is remarkable is that these lands, Missouri and Indiana and Illinois between them, are being made accessible through something called the National Road. Even now they are surveying as far west as St. Louis, and already they are laying the rock well beyond Wheeling. Broad as the largest Conestoga wagon and well structured for easy travel, it is financed by these very same land purchases. What’s more, there’s never a grade more than five percent. I don’t suppose that means anything to you. But for a drover carting a full load of produce, a level road means the world, I assure you. It means the very world itself.”
She nodded, but mostly to keep him talking. She turned slig
htly so as to be able to see the house. It was a fine place of dressed brick with tall white windows framed with green shutters. A chimney rose at each end of the slate roof, standing with the grace of Corinthian columns, or so it seemed to her. The six trees in the front lawn stood like sentinels against the world’s troubles. She glanced at the front door, now shut. Mrs. Cutter’s words still rang clear and strong, causing her heart to shimmer with surprised delight. She was invited to call this place home.
“This National Road is now open all the way from here to Wheeling,” she heard Reginald say. “This town on the Virginia-Ohio border has become a jumping-off place for settlers headed west and north. It is a remarkable place, by all accounts, with many an opportunity to be had. But this you already know.”
Do I? she wanted to say. But Reginald was talking so spiritedly he did not seem to need further encouragement. So she did her best to listen, while still examining the lovely day about her. Had she even really noticed this place before? Had she seen this village? She could not for the life of her recall.
“What has us all in such a dither is the timing, don’t you see. Here we’ve spent the entire summer talking about sending Abraham out to establish an emporium. We’ve dawdled for almost four months now. Horace and I needed to frame the new partnership. Then we’ve had the hardest time convincing Abe he could manage well enough. To tell the truth, we had almost given up hope of having the man agree to take it on. Then you arrived on our doorstep.”
Lillian returned her full attention to Reginald.
At her unspoken question, he said, “Well, you and Abigail. And you brought word from that Wilberforce fellow, asking Gareth and Erica to determine the truth to the land tales. Then there is your desire to seek out land for a new estate for yourself. And now Abigail turns Abe’s head straight around. Why, it’s divine Providence is what it is. A whole string of events directed by the Almighty, I’m convinced. Never have I seen such a change in a young person.”
Reginald stood up and started pacing in front of her. “It’s the snows, you see. That’s the hurry.”
Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine Page 21