The Fortune Hunter

by Daisy Goodwin

  I remain, despite my temporary absence, always your affectionate sister,

  Charlotte

  Charlotte sealed the letter and rang the bell. A page appeared wearing the Adelphi Hotel’s red and gold livery. The boy was about twelve but he was small for his age and the uniform swamped him.

  She held out the letter and showed him a half-crown. ‘I want you to post this for me, and when you’ve done that I want you to come back here and I will give you this.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ The page took the letter and scampered off.

  Charlotte went back to her desk in the hotel library. The room smelt strongly of varnish and morocco leather. The hotel was brand new. Caspar told her that it had sprung up in the year since he had arrived in Liverpool from America. Through the sumptuous red and gold brocade curtains she could see the storm clouds hanging over the horizon and could hear the rain lashing the windows in an endless round of applause.

  The library was empty, which was a relief. The train from London had been crowded with parties coming up for the Grand National Steeplechase, as well as passengers bound for America. Even in the first-class carriage (Caspar had insisted on the most expensive tickets: ‘If I have to go back to America I want my last memory of England to be a fragrant one’) the atmosphere had been verging on the rowdy. The racegoers had availed themselves of their hip flasks and the America-bound passengers had been voluble about their anxieties concerning the primitive conditions they expected to find there. Caspar had attempted to reassure one particularly nervous lady that most Americans had stopped wearing feathers in their hair, and no longer cooked on an open fire, but both his vocabulary and his waistcoat were so florid that the woman’s fears were exacerbated rather than soothed.

  Charlotte had no such worries. Her decision to leave had been sudden, but she had not regretted it for one minute. Anything was better than sitting in the drawing room of Charles Street, waiting for something to happen. Or worse still, having to listen to Chicken Hartopp talking about Bay and the Empress.

  She picked up her pen and wondered if she could actually bring herself to write to Bay. But as had happened so often before, Charlotte found that she could not find the words. She wanted to write a letter that would both scald him for ever and at the same time bring him to her side. It was easier to pack her trunk, pawn her diamonds and go halfway across the world than it was to know what she wanted to say to him. He had sent a letter to her after the wedding – a note that looked as if it had been written in the dark.

  My dearest Charlotte,

  I will still call you that in my head even if I can never say those words to you myself. My dearest Charlotte, my offer to explain the truth of how Captain Hartopp earned the name of Chicken still stands. I have nothing else to offer you except my heart and Tipsy’s services as a photographic model. The letter broke off here as if Bay had thought better of this jauntiness, and then started again, the handwriting here much less regular. I wish I could kiss you again: I remember it so clearly – your lips a little dry – the freckles on your eyelids. I would like to kiss every one of those freckles. You see I am quite reckless now; now that it is too late. But you should know how much I want to hold you and how I will always adore you even if we never meet again. You have my photograph but nothing could be clearer than the picture of you that is in my head. A photograph can be destroyed but the image I have of your dear face is indelible. [This last word was underlined several times.]

  I will always remain, now and for ever,

  your own Bay Middleton

  It was her first and only love letter. It was the letter that she had longed for after the fracas at the exhibition. But it was, after all, only a letter. If Bay had said these words to her face, Charlotte thought that she would never have been able to resist him, but he hadn’t. She had read it so many times that she knew its words by heart, had murmured them to herself as she packed her trunk full of the things she would need for a world three thousand miles away from Bay.

  The library door opened and Grace came in. The vivid magenta dye used in the silk trim of her bonnet had run in the rain, so that her face was daubed with amethyst streaks.

  ‘It’s terrible out there, miss. I went to buy some hat pins, British ones, you know, but I wish I had stayed here now. I was lucky that there was a gentleman with an umbrella to escort me back to the hotel. He is staying here too on account of the racing.’

  Grace caught sight of herself in the mirror over the mantelpiece and gave a little scream. She started to rub at her face with her handkerchief and it came away purple.

  ‘Heavens above! Excuse me, miss, while I go and make myself presentable. And the racing gentleman never said a word. He must have been laughing his head off inside, while all the time he was pretending to be pleasant and talking about the Grand National. He said I should put my money on Dancing Bear at fifty to one. It’s a sure thing, he said.’

  ‘You shouldn’t trust racing tips from strangers,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Don’t worry, miss, I wasn’t born yesterday! I told him it was too late for me to bet, even if it was guaranteed, because we were off to America tomorrow. He said if I gave him my address he would keep the money for me. He must have thought I was not right in the head – on account of this,’ she scrubbed at her face with her handkerchief.

  Charlotte went over to where the newspapers were hanging on the wall on their wooden posts. In the Manchester Guardian she found what she was looking for. Halfway down the list of jockeys was Middleton, J.M., riding Tipsy (grey). She felt the jolt of seeing his name in print and realised that she had no idea what his initials stood for. She had only ever known him as Bay.

  ‘Please, miss…’ It was the page; his scarlet livery was soaked, and the rain had washed his cheeks clean. Charlotte gave him the half-crown and added another shilling.

  ‘I am sorry you got so wet on my account. You should have taken an umbrella.’

  ‘I did, miss, but it got blown inside out, the wind’s that strong.’

  As the servant went off to get into dry clothes, Charlotte went back to the newspaper. There was an article about the race which she found almost incomprehensible. What she could glean was that there were forty horses in the race. Five of the horses were Irish, two French and only ten of them were mares. She could not see Bay or Tipsy’s name in among the list of likely favourites. The shortest odds were being offered on a horse called the Governess, ridden by Ned Beasley.

  Charlotte found that she was pleased that Bay had, after all, entered the race. She remembered him telling her about his desire to win that first night at Melton. It meant that he was more than the Empress’s creature. It was strange to think that for tonight at least, they would be only a few miles apart. Aintree, the course where the Grand National was held, was, she had gleaned from the racegoers on the train, only a carriage drive away from Liverpool. But tomorrow when Bay was lining up at the start of the race, she would be halfway across the Irish Sea.

  She rang the bell to order some tea. Caspar would be back soon. One more night and they would be at sea. It was a terrifying thought but also a great relief to know that for a few months at least she would not be the Lennox heiress or even the girl who was jilted by Bay Middleton; she would simply be Charlotte Baird, the photographer. If things went well she might never come back. She thought that Fred would probably support her till she came of age if it meant that Augusta was able to sparkle through the season in the Lennox diamonds.

  Of course, if she did come back there would be talk about her decision to travel with Caspar Hewes. People who did not know Caspar would assume they had eloped. This, Charlotte thought, would be more damaging to his reputation than hers. The worst that would happen to Charlotte was that she would no longer be invited to the smartest parties. There would be duchesses who would no longer think her a suitable match for their younger sons. Augusta would never get over the humiliation of being related by marriage to a social outcast – but these were all consequences that C
harlotte felt that she could tolerate. But Caspar’s burgeoning success as a society photographer was based on his unique ability to flatter and charm all his sitters into believing that he alone saw their true beauty. If his society sitters thought that his affections were spoken for, especially by someone as insignificant and dingy as Charlotte, he might not be able to cast the spell that made even the plainest of his subjects blossom into the goddess-like being of Caspar’s rhetoric.

  The night before, as they were eating in the cavernous dining room of the Adelphi, Charlotte had said, ‘It feels quite scandalous to be eating alone with you in a restaurant. If Augusta could see us she would die of mortification.’

  ‘But what on earth could be scandalous about a man and a woman having dinner in public? It would be much more shocking if we were having dinner upstairs in your room,’ said Caspar.

  ‘Unmarried girls are not meant to be out in public unchaperoned, especially with unmarried men.’

  ‘But you seem remarkably unconcerned, Carlotta, to be consorting with me. Aren’t you worried that I might make demands on your virtue?’

  It had been a light-hearted question, but Charlotte knew that it had a serious undertone.

  ‘No, I am not worried. Should I be?’

  Caspar smiled and Charlotte thought she saw a flicker of relief in his face. He raised his glass to her.

  ‘You are the only woman in the world I could ever imagine proposing to, but even in the unlikely event that you would have me I think I know that I am not the marrying kind.’

  ‘Not even for the Lennox fortune?’ said Charlotte, laughing.

  ‘Now I am sorely tempted, but no, not even for that.’

  And at that moment Charlotte thought that Caspar was the closest thing she had ever had to a friend.

  A waiter brought in the tea.

  ‘Shall I set the table for two, miss?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Caspar should be back from the shipping office by now. Charlotte had bought their passages in London, but Caspar had insisted on going down to the Liverpool office to make sure that they were given decent cabins. This had not seemed to Charlotte like a good enough reason to go out in a thunderstorm, but Caspar had been adamant. ‘You have no idea how much these things matter. Trust me, Carlotta, you may be defying convention by running away to America, but you don’t want to end up in a cabin next to the engine.’

  She was eating her third slice of anchovy toast when Caspar burst into the library, his ulster dripping with rain water. He gave his wet things to the waiter who was hovering in the background and collapsed into a chair.

  ‘Forgive me for leaving you alone for so long. I have bad news, I’m afraid. A timber ship lost its load during the storm and the port is rammed with floating logs. None of the ships can move until the logs have been plucked out of the Mersey. The quayside was full of men with chains shouting their heads off and accomplishing very little, so I suspect that the task may take some time. So we will have to amuse ourselves in Liverpool for another day at least.’

  Charlotte handed him a cup of tea.

  He looked at her. ‘I thought you would be disappointed. And yet you look quite cheerful. Have you changed your mind about going?’

  ‘No, not that. But if we are going to be here for another day, I have an idea as to what we might do tomorrow.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘I think we should go to the Grand National. The racecourse at Aintree is only a carriage ride away.’

  Caspar narrowed his eyes at her. ‘I had no idea, Carlotta, that you followed the sport of kings.’

  Charlotte blushed. She did not want to admit to Caspar, or even to herself, the real reason for her interest in the Grand National.

  ‘Oh, but this race is famous. It will be a splendid place to take photographs,’ she said. ‘We could probably make all our passage money by taking pictures of the horses with their owners. There are forty starters.’

  ‘You are remarkably well informed, Carlotta.’ Caspar raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Oh, Grace told me all about it,’ Charlotte said, as easily as she could. ‘It sounds rather interesting. The course is four miles long, and there are sixteen fences.’

  ‘Sixteen fences?’ said Caspar. ‘Fancy that.’

  ‘Yes, and only about half the horses finish the race. It’s tremendously difficult.’

  Caspar shook his head. ‘It sounds like a supremely English occasion. Incomprehensible and pointless to the uninitiated. But it can’t be any worse than a cricket match, so we might as well go.’ He looked Charlotte straight in the eye. ‘Who knows who we might run into?’

  Charlotte could not return his gaze.

  The Grand National

  The day of the national was fine. The storm had passed over entirely, leaving the sky a watery blue. There was even a weak sun fighting the chilly breeze from the Atlantic. The change in weather was a great relief to the many female racegoers who had bought new trimmings for their bonnets in honour of the great day; it was heralded as a good omen by the seasoned racegoers from London, who knew from experience that the stands at Aintree were not adequately covered; the Prince of Wales was happy because he would be able to wear his new Homburg hat and his view would not be obstructed by umbrellas, which he thought deeply vulgar inventions. The Empress of Austria, who was travelling with him in the royal train, thought that the good weather was entirely in keeping with her present disposition, which was cheerful – she was always irritated when the weather was at variance with her mood. Countess Festetics was happy because her mistress was smiling. For her the only weather that mattered were the clouds that gathered in her mistress’s eyes.

  Only Bay, who was walking the course that morning, was indifferent to the sunshine. For him the damage had already been done. The ground after two days of rain was soft, and as he led Tipsy round the jumps to show her the treacherous dips and shallows that lay in wait for them later that day, Bay, despite the spring weather, felt a cold ripple of fear. It had been a frosty winter, and the going all season had been hard, but now the ground was muddy and waterlogged. After the first lap of the course it would be a quagmire. Bay hated soft ground: it unsettled the horses and the spray from the puddles made it impossible to see. Horses stumbled on sodden turf; even if they took the fence at the correct angle there was no guarantee that they would land safely.

  Bay felt a twinge in his bad shoulder as he walked around Becher’s Brook, named after the man who had fallen there in 1856. His doctor had been very stern about the dangers of another fall. He knew that he should have his shoulder strapped up properly before the race, but that would put his whip hand out of action. Was it really worth endangering his whole future for the sake of winning this one race? There was only one possible answer to that. For Bay at that moment, victory at the National was the only thing that mattered. It was the one thing in his life that seemed to be under his control.

  A rabbit darted across the ground and Tipsy neighed in alarm. As Bay calmed his horse, he thought that the mare was the only female in his life with whom he was in perfect accord. He was still good with horses, even if he had lost his touch with women. Tipsy nuzzled his ear and Bay tried not to think about Charlotte. He had almost won her over at the wedding before the Empress had arrived and declared her interest. He no longer felt the desire for Sisi that had flooded his senses at the beginning, but that urgency had been replaced by something more insidious; to be so publicly needed by the most beautiful woman in Europe was quite something. But even stronger than the appeal to his vanity was the call on his compassion; he knew he had the power to make her happy.

  ‘Morning, Middleton!’ Bay recognised Major Crombie from his club. ‘How do you like the course?’

  ‘Too soft for my taste. Could have done without the storm,’ said Bay.

  ‘Favours the Irish, they like it boggy.’

  ‘What odds are they giving for Tipsy?’

  ‘Twenty-five to one. Mares are very sticky
and a grey has never won the National.’

  Bay said nothing.

  Crombie laughed. ‘Personally I am delighted at the length of your odds. I saw you and Tipsy ride at the Cottesleigh point-to-point last year. Never seen a braver ride. So my money’s on you. Some of the Irish horses will give you a run, but none of the jockeys are in your class. I put a monkey on you last week, so don’t let me down.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ said Bay.

  ‘The royal box will be full, at any rate. The Prince and Princess of Wales and the Empress of Austria. I expect half the crowd will be too busy watching them to pay any attention to the race. But so long as the jockeys don’t get distracted, eh Middleton?’

  Crombie waved Bay farewell as he turned back towards the stands, which were already beginning to fill up six or so hours before the race was due to begin.

  When he got back to the stables, the lads were sitting down to a race day breakfast – porridge, bacon, eggs, ham, devilled kidneys. Bay had ordered it from the local inn the night before but now he found he could not face even a mouthful.

  He sat down on a mounting block and pulled out his cigarette case. Perhaps a gasper would help calm his nerves; what he really wanted was a shot of brandy, but even the Irish jockeys never drank before a race. As he fumbled with the match, he heard a familiar voice.

  ‘Feeling a bit shaky, Bay?’ It was Hartopp.

  ‘Chicken! This is a surprise.’ Bay looked at the other man warily.

  ‘Don’t worry, old boy. I haven’t come to get my revenge. Anyway, that bird has flown. Paid a call at Charles Street yesterday only to find that Miss Baird has gone to America. To take photographs, if you please. Lady Lisle was in quite a state about it. First thing she knew about it was the note that Charlotte left her on the breakfast table.’

  ‘America?’ Bay finally lit his cigarette.

  ‘Desperate measures, I know! That photographer chap she was hanging about with has gone with her.’