CamillasConsequences

by Helena Harker

  Since she does not invite me to sit, I use a polite, deferential approach. “I was wondering if you could spare a few moments to speak with me.”

  Before I even finish, she shakes her head. How rude.

  “I’m afraid not.” Her pretty eyes narrow, and she raises a teacup to her pale, pink lips.

  I lean forward, lower my voice so no one else can hear and issue an ultimatum. “Either you come outside with me for a short walk along the garden path, or I will sit here and say what I need to say in front of your daughter and every other lady within earshot.”

  Mother and daughter exchange consternated glances. For a woman such as herself, rumors and scandal are the enemy, so she behaves exactly as I expect.

  “Excuse me, Sarah,” Lady Aldridge says to her daughter. “It appears Miss Covington and I have an important matter to discuss.”

  “Thank you, Lady Aldridge. May I call you Virginia?”

  “You may not,” she mutters tersely as we exit through the rear door and follow a narrow garden path. “I cannot imagine what someone like you might have to say to me.”

  “There is no need to be disagreeable,” I admonish, my fingers brushing the leaves of a mulberry bush.

  Blood-red roses wilt on the vine. A sea of fallen petals litters the ground at my feet. Since the sun blazes in the sky, I open my parasol to shield myself from its rays. Lady Aldridge walks a few steps ahead, her spine rigid, her steps short and rapid. Since she is a victim, I should not make her feel worse by drawing out this conversation.

  “I should like to discuss your husband.”

  “What of him?” she snaps, whirling to face me.

  Why so much anger? She behaves like a cornered animal. “I will be brief and direct. You are aware of his perversion, are you not?”

  She looks at me blankly. Is she ignorant of his philandering? As I continue to stare, her façade falters.

  Her cheeks blanch, and when she speaks, she sounds rehearsed and wooden. “He is a good husband, a loving father, a respected politician. Do not make accusations.”

  “I simply wish to understand how you can continue to live with a man who betrays you on a regular basis.” When I discovered Samson’s infidelity, I rectified matters immediately.

  “He has always been faithful.” She utters “faithful” with a tremor.

  Denial is much like a bog. Once you fall into its depths, it is virtually impossible to extricate yourself. Poor woman. I must say I pity her, trapped in a loveless marriage, unable to break free. “I know for a fact that he has not been faithful to you.”

  Her blue eyes are glassy. “Have you…do you have knowledge of my husband?”

  “No!” What a ludicrous assumption. Me? Consort with Lord Aldridge? “I am speaking of the men.”

  “You know of this?” she whispers, glancing at the other ladies through the window as if hoping for rescue.

  “Yes. Why do you remain with him?”

  “A woman in a marriage is like a bird in a cage, is she not?”

  “No. There is always a way to unlock the door and fly free, although sometimes one must be creative.”

  “How?” A note of desperation tinges her voice. “Divorce is not an alternative. The Church will not allow it. My family cannot afford a scandal. I have three daughters. Sarah will make her debut this spring. Our family’s name must be impeccable in order for her to find a good husband.”

  “A husband unlike your own.” Society binds a woman to her husband, expecting her to remain honorable throughout the union. If she so much as flirts with another man, her reputation is stained forever, and the husband can resort to an immediate divorce. But if a man commits adultery, there are no similar repercussions. The wife is blamed for not seeing to her husband’s needs, and she ultimately bears responsibility for his infidelity.

  A tear runs down her cheek, resembling a dewdrop sliding down a rose petal. “Yes, a husband unlike my own.”

  “I am not here to judge you. That is not my role. It is your husband who concerns me, but I need to know how you feel about him.”

  She pauses a moment. “He has always been good to our daughters.”

  Once, I followed Lord Aldridge and his trio of blonde, prattling girls to a milliner’s shop. While I watched through the window, he sat patiently on a bench, admiring each daughter as she modeled one fashionable hat after another. In the end, he purchased several, and they flounced out the door in their new apparel, jostling one another, all of them trying to hang on their father’s arm.

  “But for everything else, I loathe him.” Her eyes burn with an inner fire.

  “Do you wish to confront him about his errant ways?”

  “Confront him?” She shakes her head, a tendril coming loose from her chignon. “He is Lord Aldridge, a member of the House of Lords. He is powerful beyond your dreams.”

  No more powerful than I. “He does not frighten me,” I say. “Do you wish him to stop fornicating?”

  “Of course.”

  Good. In order to decide on a proper course of action, I ask more probing questions. “Do you still have relations with him?”

  She balks and takes a step backward. My question is indeed invasive, but I relish asking it. Women are so repressed, so unable to discuss sexuality. It should not be so. Even I, who have never lain beneath a man, am capable of discussing the sexual act in great detail.

  “A wife cannot refuse her husband,” she admits in defeat.

  “So you allow him to lie on top of you.”

  Her eyes widen, and no sound comes from her open mouth.

  “You let him slide his member into you.”

  She folds her arms against her chest, as if to shield herself from me, and averts her eyes. “Y-yes. I must. It is a wife’s duty.”

  It pleases me to pry this intimate information from her. I thirst for first-hand carnal knowledge but am forced to rely on vicarious experiences that I capture with my Panoptoscope. “How does it make you feel to have relations with him when he has lain with a man?”

  “Stop!”

  “Do you know where his manhood has been?” I recall Aldridge ramming his stiffened cock into Tewkesbury’s puckered hole. “He is guilty of sodomy!”

  “Enough!”

  “Imagine where his tongue has been. Think of the crevices it has explored,” I whisper harshly. “It is the same tongue he uses on you.”

  Her hands press against her ears. “He disgusts me! I can’t stand for him to touch me, but he does! And I can do nothing to prevent him! I am his wife. I belong to him!” she shrills.

  “Quiet,” I soothe, placing my arm around her shoulder. Antagonizing her was not a good idea, but Lady Aldridge must learn that she does not have to be a victim. There is a way for her to take control of her marriage. “Do you want him to pay for his sins?”

  “Yes!” she utters with ferocity.

  Never have I involved a third party in my activities before, but perhaps this time I should. Why not? It might make matters far more stimulating, and increasing Lord Aldridge’s torment is definitely of interest to me. “If you wish your husband to suffer, leave your home on Sunday morning. Allow your staff to leave for the day.” Undoubtedly, one or two will remain, but not enough to interfere with my plans.

  “All right.”

  “If you wish to witness his suffering, return promptly at two.”

  “Witness his suffering?” she repeats, uncomprehending.

  “Yes, if you wish to participate, to punish him for his transgressions, return home at two. If not, I will carry on with my judgment without your aid.”

  “Judgment?”

  She need not know the details. “If you do not have the stomach for it, stay away. Return in the early evening after I have finished with my disciplinary action.”

  She nods.

  “If you wish to exact revenge against your husband, do not share the details of our conversation with anyone.” My earlier thought about secrets resurfaces. I am taking a risk by involving someone
else. Yet the more I look at her, at the fury on her face, the anger, the betrayal, I believe I have found a kindred spirit.

  “I will speak to no one.” She takes a long breath, wipes the tear from her cheek and clasps my hand in both of hers. “Why are you helping me? Who are you, Camilla Covington?”

  A righter of wrongs. A bitter crusader. A woman searching for love, a pure, honorable love. “A mystery,” I answer. “Goodbye, Lady Aldridge. I hope to see you Sunday.”

  “Perhaps.” She returns to the tea house, scattering petals as she walks. Her strides are longer, more confident, her shoulders no longer hunched.

  The bonds of marriage should never be broken, such is my belief. Both parties must love and honor one another. If not, I will impose my own rules to rectify the situation, rules that must be obeyed.

  * * * * *

  The housekeeper, a shapely girl in a modest gray uniform, examines my visiting card. She looks at me and then back at the card, probably thinking it is highly unusual for an unmarried woman to call upon a married man.

  “Lord Aldridge is expecting me,” I lie.

  “He is?” She sounds doubtful and scrutinizes me from head to toe.

  My attire is rather dour, but I prefer to wear black on these occasions. There is something to be said for black, which I associate with power and revenge. “We have an appointment to discuss the upcoming vote.”

  “All right, ma’am,” she says with a good dose of skepticism. As she heads up the spiral staircase, which is in no way as grand as my own, I notice how her curvaceous figure fills out her drab clothing.

  For a housekeeper, she lacks tact. It is a wonder Lord Aldridge keeps her in his employ considering her lack of civility. Unless…oh dear, can it be? Another conquest, this time a young female? Does Aldridge know no limits? I must make sure, however, before making false accusations. Several minutes later, as I have begun to pace in the foyer, the girl returns and gives me my card.

  “Lord Aldridge never called for you.” Her gray eyes chastise me. “He would like you to leave.”

  She does not even do me the courtesy of saying please. The top button of her dress is undone, revealing milky skin and a slight yellowish bruise. A bite mark? Was her dress undone when she answered the door? I cannot recall.

  I hold my beaver stole closer to my neck and produce a sealed envelope. “Give him this.”

  Her hands remain by her side. “You should go. Lord Aldridge says it’s not proper for a spinster to call on a married man.”

  A spinster! How dare she insult me in this manner! And she has the audacity to lecture me on morality. Me? Me? “Why you insolent little tart!” Taking two brash steps forward, I shove the envelope into her palm. “Give him this. And button your dress.”

  The girl staggers back. “Yes ma’am.” Her cheeks flush as she fumbles for the top button. “Sorry, ma’am.”

  She scurries up the stairs, holding her dress in one hand, revealing calves that are firm and white. And bitten. That is all the proof I need. Damn you, Aldridge. Sighing, I await the girl’s return. As expected, it does not take long.

  This time, when she speaks to me, her attitude is much improved. “Lord Aldridge will see you in the library, Miss Covington.”

  I walk primly behind her, up the curving staircase, down a narrow hallway and into a room that smells of cigar smoke. Rows and rows of books cover the walls of an austere library, decorated in somber ocher tones. Most definitely a place where a man can retreat from the rest of the household. Along a bay window covered by lush draperies is a rococo divan. On the other side of the room are two overstuffed easy chairs covered in plush pile upholstery. The stench of smoke lingers in the air, and at the far end, sitting at his walnut desk, is Lord Aldridge, an offending roll of tobacco between his lips.

  “Thank you,” I say to the girl, whose name I still do not know. “Bring us tea with scones, please.”

  “We have no scones.”

  “Then begin baking.” She should not witness what is about to transpire. “I will be here for quite some time.”

  She looks questioningly at Aldridge, and he gives her an almost imperceptible nod.

  The moment the girl leaves, I say, “Put out your cigar.”

  “No.” He takes a lengthy inhalation and puffs a huge cloud of smoke in my direction. When he is done, he props both feet on his desk.

  What boorish behavior. On the outside, he appears to be a gentleman, his muscular frame covered by a charcoal smoking jacket, his hair fashionably oiled and slicked back, but on the inside, he is arrogant and conceited.

  “You are not taking me seriously.” A careless—and costly—error on his part.

  “What is the meaning of this?” He taps a finger on my handwritten note, which says, I know of your extramarital affair.

  The servant girl bears the marks of Aldridge’s passions. I filmed his encounter with Tewkesbury. Over the past few months, on my nocturnal forays, I have seen him embrace two other men. He must wonder which affair I am referring to.

  “First of all, you are abusing your housekeeper.”

  “And you are wasting my time. This piece of paper means nothing.” He places his cigar between his lips, inhales until the tip glows red and sets fire to the note. After a brief orange flare, only ashes remain.

  “Correct. The note did not mean much at all.” I remove another envelope from my bulky handbag and deposit it on his desk. I sit in the leather armchair opposite him, enjoying the cool leather under my fingertips. “These, however, are incontrovertible proof of your misdoings.”

  His countenance is wooden. His eyes are cold, and the veins in his neck throb. With a letter opener, which he brandishes in a suggestive slicing motion, he opens the envelope. He takes a series of nervous puffs on his cigar. As five Panoptographs drop to his desk, his cigar almost falls from his lips, and his feet return to the floor.

  “Set them aflame if you like, for I have many more. As a matter of fact, I have an entire reel of cellulose that documents the encounter.”

  Aldridge’s face turns grim. He scowls, and for a moment he reminds me of the lion I encountered in Africa, dangerous and unpredictable.

  “Put out your cigar.”

  Slowly, he removes the cigar from his mouth and stamps it out in an ashtray.

  “Obedience becomes you, Aldridge.”

  “Who are you and what do you want?” he growls.

  “My name, as you already know, is Camilla Covington. I am a sexual blackmailer. I enforce society’s unwritten moral code, if you will.” Not that I am proud to call myself a blackmailer, but the term strikes fear into the hearts of my victims, and fear is my initial goal. “Unlike you, I have impeccable morals.”

  “Impeccable morals?” he ridicules. “A blackmailer with impeccable morals?”

  “Do not make light of your situation.” I cross my legs and relax in the chair. “Those Panoptographs have the power to obliterate your career and your marriage.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic.” He swallows, and his features are sullen. “Blackmailers are cowards. Their prime motivation is greed. What must I do to avoid being ruined?”

  “You must be punished for your sins.”

  “Only God can do that.”

  “I can do far more than God.” So much more. “This is what I want.” I hand him another piece of paper, which lists my demands.

  He peruses it, his fist pounding the desk as his eyes flit down the page. “You are insane!”

  “No, I am quite rational, I assure you. I will acknowledge that I am greedy and vindictive. But insane? Certainly not.”

  “You want me to sign over forty-nine percent of all my assets?”

  “Of your shipping company, your tea plantation in India, the foundry in Lower London. However, I require your full ten percent share of the diamond mine in East Africa. A lady can never have too many diamonds. And I want your five percent share in the British National Locomotive Company. Steam power is the future, after all. Contact your barris
ter in the morning. He will draw up the necessary paperwork, and then these incriminating pictures will never be sent to the London Post or distributed to your fellow politicians.”

  He balls up a Panoptograph in his fist. “So if I refuse, you will make these public.”

  “That is indeed what I said.” Neville Mountbatten, the vice president of the National Bank of England, kept a mistress despite being engaged to a young woman half his age. He chose not to give in to my blackmail, so I worked in tandem with Devlin and distracted his fiancée’s maid, who was about to post the wedding invitations. I spent the afternoon steaming open every one, inserting an incriminating Panoptograph into each envelope, and then returned them to the post office. I can imagine the shock on the faces of the prim and proper society ladies who opened those invitations. Needless to say, the wedding did not take place, my victim lost his position at the bank and last I heard he was on his way to Brazilia to work as a bookkeeper on a rubber plantation.

  “If I give in, I will be ruined.” The color leeches from his face. He is as white as his starched shirt.

  “Not at all,” I say encouragingly. “Let me define ruined. Ruined is losing your seat in the House of Lords. Ruined is facing public shame not only for yourself but also for three daughters who will soon be seeking well-to-do husbands. Ruined is facing a prison sentence for evidence that clearly proves you are a Uranian.”

  Aldridge says nothing and does not look at me, but my last statement produces a shudder. I would give anything to read his thoughts. Has he ever been in this position before, where someone has threatened to take everything away? I think not. He has always been in a position of power.

  “So you see, Aldridge, I am not ruining you. I am allowing you to pursue the life you have always known, but with fewer financial benefits. You still retain controlling interest in your companies.”

  “How generous.”

  “It has nothing to do with generosity. As a silent minority partner, I do not have to bother with the day-to-day decision-making process involved in running the companies. You will continue to take care of your businesses as you always have. All I have to do is keep track of the profits as they accrue in my bank account.”