Shadow of a Lady

by Jane Aiken Hodge

  “Where to?” How much more of this was she going to be able to bear?

  “Back to Naples, stupid. Autumn now. Cool nights; better start living it all down, soon as you can. But don’t fool yourself I’ll help. Oh, put in an appearance now and then. Form’s sake. Devoted husband; all that; just not over-fond of brats.”

  “Just, the same,” Helen had been nerving herself for this, “you had better take a look at Henry while you are here, just in case the servants should think it odd.”

  “Servants!” he said.

  “There’s Charlotte too,” she reminded him.

  “Yes!” He rounded on her. “Another thing. Letter from Mrs. Standish. Seems to think it all my fault that chit engaged herself to another of those captains of yours. Can’t think why. Not my idea to have her in my house. Turn her out if I have any more trouble.”

  “No you won’t.” Helen had had enough. “Have you considered, Lord Merritt, what might happen if I were to decide to write your uncle the entire truth of what has happened between us? Oh”—she held up a hand to silence him—“I know it would ruin me, but it would most certainly ruin you too. Wills can be changed, remember.” If only it was November. If only her own fortune was safe, how gladly she would have ordered him out of her life forever. No; she could not. “My dear,” she was persuading herself as well as him, “we must not quarrel, for the child’s sake.”

  “Damn the child.” But after allowing himself this explosion, he subsided somewhat. “Child’s your affair. All I’m trying to say. So’s Miss Standish. Just try to keep out of trouble when you come back to Naples.”

  After this, it was astonishing to arrive in Naples and find that she and Charlotte were heroines. Everybody called; everybody wanted to know in detail of their adventures; and the more Helen tried to play them down, the more heroic she was considered. She could only assume that Lord Merritt’s outburst had been brought on by jealousy, combined with his knowledge, and, inevitably, everyone else’s, of the shabby part he had played. Helen soon realised that among the female part of society at least the kind of semi-separation in which she and her husband now lived was considered the most natural thing in the world. Probably the only source of surprise was that she had not got herself a lover, or at least a cicisbeo. The fact that Charles Scroope had rescued her twice was good for an occasional roguish look, but no more. Charles Scroope, after all, was God knew where in the Mediterranean, still believing whatever filthy lies Trenche had told him. It did not bear thinking about, and Helen tried not to.

  Lady Hamilton, calling on the occasion of Helen’s return to the Palazzo Trevi, settled one question that had irked her. Sir William had known about Uncle Henry’s new will as far back as the end of May. “Comfortable for you to have all that settled.” The beauty was not given to delving much into the springs of human behaviour. And, besides, she knew nothing of the extraordinary circumstances of Helen’s marriage. Why should she be plagued by Helen’s horrible suspicions? If she had been killed at Torre del Greco or at the Villa Emma, no one would have mourned more loudly, she thought, or less sincerely, than the husband who had abandoned her both times. And Price? She would rather not think what part he played in all this. It was hard to say which frightened her more, Price’s domination of her husband, or the way, in her presence, that he continued to play the perfect servant.

  It was no good pretending to anything but relief when Lord Merritt merely escorted her back to Naples, told her to behave herself, and rode away to Caserta, with Price at his side. With them out of the way, it was possible to convince herself that once again she had been letting her imagination run riot. Her husband was weak, not wicked, and Price merely an opportunist. But she was extraordinarily glad they were gone. Naples was very quiet that autumn. The trials of the young men who had been arrested in the spring had begun at last, and though no one discussed them, no one thought of much else. Helen and Charlotte had decided to give up any idea of a box at the opera. The child made an admirable excuse for domesticity. Helen had shocked everyone by insisting on feeding him herself, which happily made most social occasions impossible. And Charlotte was glad to stay at home with her. There was a strange feeling in the air as the trials of the young revolutionaries dragged on, and it was much easier not to meet their silent relatives.

  In the end, Annibale Giordano escaped with deportation for life. Most of the other conspirators were either imprisoned or exiled, but three of them were condemned to death, and the riot that followed their hanging caused a new wave of rumours of possible Jacobin uprisings. It was no time for party-giving. The Queen stayed as much as she could at her palace at Caserta, while the King inevitably went on with his bloodthirsty sports.

  “But at least they only hanged three.” Helen and Charlotte were alone in Helen’s boudoir, playing with little Henry.

  “Three are too many,” Charlotte said.

  “Yes,” said Helen. “But think of the thousands the French have killed with that unspeakable guillotine.”

  “I know. And, Helen, there are rumours that they may be going to invade Italy. I do wish we could go home.” It was a cry from the heart, and an understandable one since Captain Forbes was now on the Channel Station.

  “So do I.” Helen, too, was homesick, though she would have been hard put to it to say exactly what for. But she was buoyed up by a secret hope, which actually came to fruit on her twenty-first birthday, late in November. Lord Merritt had chosen to ignore the celebration, and Helen and Charlotte were sitting quietly together when Carlos announced Sir William and Lady Hamilton.

  A visit from both of them was a rare honour, and Helen, glancing quickly round the immaculate salon, felt a pang of gratitude to Charlotte, who never let the servants’ standards slip, however quietly they lived. The Hamiltons added to her astonishment by wishing her many happy returns of the day, and Lady Hamilton produced a hand-carved necklace of volcanic jet, which would remind her, she said, of her miraculous escape at Torre del Greco.

  Helen, saying everything that was proper, was not entirely sure that she wanted to be reminded of that day, but she was distracted by Sir William. “I have more to congratulate you upon than a mere birthday,” he said. “I imagine I may have been looking forward to this day even more than you.” And then, aware of their surprised glances (though Helen, in fact, was beginning to guess), “I was approached,” he went on, “some time ago by a firm of London lawyers who asked me to have certain—ahem—enquiries made on their behalf. Naturally, I was able to give them a most satisfactory answer, and the result, my dear Lady Merritt, is that you are now a rich woman.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She had rehearsed this scene in her mind over and over but had never imagined playing it with Sir William. It was evident, however, that he expected her to be amazed, so amazed she was, with Charlotte and Lady Hamilton proving extremely helpful as chorus. Sir William told the story of Helen Glendale Stott both lucidly and kindly, with a wryly apologetic glance from time to time for Charlotte. “I’m afraid your family were a shade tactless,” he said, explaining the trouble Mrs. Stott had taken to keep the real terms of her will secret.

  “They always are,” said Charlotte cheerfully. “Oh, dear Helen, I am so happy for you.”

  “I am only sorry,” Sir William had ended his story, “that Lord Merritt is not here to share in your rejoicings. He will, of course, take control of your fortune.”

  “Of course.” Helen managed it stoically, but it was a blow just the same. She had been mad to hope that Great-Aunt Helen, who had contrived so much, might even have ensured that she should control her own fortune instead of its passing automatically into her husband’s hands. How far away, how long ago seemed the young Helen Telfair, for whom this had been one of the powerful arguments against marriage.

  Too late now for this kind of regret, and no time either to wonder just how this would affect her relations with her husband. She must show a happy face of surprise, and entertain the Hamiltons with the wine and fruit that Char
lotte had ordered. And Sir William was saying something. “I expect Lord Merritt momently.” He leaned towards her. “I sent a messenger as soon as I learned he was from home. There will be, I am afraid, a certain amount of paper work for him, but my secretary will do everything in his power to make all smooth.”

  “Too kind,” said Helen mechanically, at once touched and irritated by the hint of sympathy in his tone. He knew as well as she did that she was infinitely better able to cope with the necessary business than her husband, but there was nothing either of them could do about it.

  Lord Merritt returned next day, in a curious mixture of moods. “Dark horse, aren’t you?” he greeted her. “Never told me you were an heiress.”

  “Didn’t know it.” Lying to him, it seemed natural to fall into his way of speech.

  “And what’s this about tying it up for the child? Lot of nonsense. Told Sir William so.”

  “And what did he say?” Sir William’s suggestion that she could, in fact, arrange for some of her surprisingly large fortune to be put in trust for her children had somewhat softened the blow of her husband’s inevitable control of the rest. And she had been immensely grateful when Sir William had volunteered to propose this to Lord Merritt.

  “Said it would look better. Nothing I could say to that. All very well if it was my child. Serve me right for saddling myself with a bastard.”

  “Don’t speak of him like that!” They were alone, mercifully, but her anger shook him. “You made a bargain. Stick to it.”

  “Got to.” Sulkily. “Letter from my uncle. Lot of fuss in England. You been writing?”

  This was the heart of the matter. “Who would I write to?”

  “That Miss Whatsername? Clergyman’s sister. Tell her about Torre del Greco?”

  “Only in the most general terms . . . I said nothing about you, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Certainly is. Some bitch of a gossip’s written a pack of lies about it . . . Got back to Uncle Henry in no time. Just as well you’ve inherited that fortune.”

  “You don’t mean he’s changed his will again?”

  “Threatens to. Wants us to go home; lead a proper married life; stay with him; under his nose. Damned if I will.”

  Helen’s heart sank still further, but she made one attempt at a recovery. “Perhaps if I were to go home, and take little Henry?”

  “No!” Furiously. “Worst thing possible. You’ll stay here and behave like my wife.”

  “Then you had better behave like my husband. And pretend a little more interest in the child than you have so far. Oh, don’t worry.” She had seen his recoil. “I don’t want anything but a fake marriage any more than you do, but it takes two, even to create a fake.” In her heart she blessed the unknown Uncle Henry who had given her back some kind of small hold over her husband. “Shall we ask your Uncle Henry to act as trustee for the child?” she suggested now.

  He looked at it for a moment, sideways. Then, “Not a bad idea,” he conceded. “Might do just that. I’ll go and consult Sir William. Mind you, Uncle will very likely turn up sweet anyway when he hears your news. Sly old bird that great-aunt of yours, hey?” He laughed his brutally silly laugh. “Like to see old Whatshisname’s face—clergyman Tillingdon—that’s it—when he finds he’s lost the lot. Must have prayed you’d disgrace yourself.” And then, “Hey! Lucky for you I took you on. God, wouldn’t you have been sick today.”

  Luckily, the Palazzo Trevi was large enough so that the pretence at married life could be kept up without undue inconvenience, but just the same, Helen breathed a heart-felt sigh of relief one fine spring day of 1795 when she received a letter of her own from the unpredictable Uncle Henry. He had been flattered, delighted, and surprised at being asked to act as trustee for little Henry and accepted with pleasure. “If you would only come home, so that I could see him, it would make my happiness complete,” he wrote in his crabbed, old man’s hand. “Dear Helen, if I may call you so, do, pray, persuade your husband that it is time to come home. I do not overmuch like the sound of things in Europe, and, besides, I am a selfish old man and long to see my heir.”

  “Letters?” Sometimes Lord Merritt moved with disconcerting swift silentness.

  “Yes.” Nothing for it but to hand it to him. “Your uncle has been so good as to write to me.”

  “To you? That’s a new comeout. Losing his mind, like as not. Never was very strong in the attic.” He took the letter from her unceremoniously, and began to read slowly, as always, deciphering the difficult hand. At first, all went well. “Capital idea that of yours,” he said. “Making the old fool trustee. Pleased him no end, hey?” He turned the page. “What’s this? Go back to England? Nonsense.” And then, his tanned face suddenly black with rage, “Longs to see his heir? What heir, pray? You been writing behind my back? God!” He broke into a screech of furious laughter. “Going to find myself cut out after all for that bastard?”

  “Don’t use that word!”

  “Darling Henry.” His tone was savage, but at least he moved swiftly to the door and made sure there had been nobody outside to overhear. “One thing, Lady Merritt! He ties it up for the child, I’ll break the will if I break us all doing it.”

  “Which you would. But, consider,” she was cold with a terror she could not analyse, but kept her voice steady: “I think you are misinterpreting your uncle’s words. It is you your uncle longs to see, not little Henry. What does an old man like him care about a six months’ baby?”

  “Hmm.” He read the letter through again, slowly and carefully, a finger tracing the words. “Could be you’re right. Hope so, for all our sakes. Going to answer it?”

  “I think I should, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Show me what you say before you send it. And be careful.”

  She was careful. She knew now what that cold sweat of terror had recognised somewhere below her consciousness. If the child were to stand in his “father’s” way, he might well be in horrible danger. She had long since faced the fact that her husband had left her to her fate at Torre del Greco because he thought he had no more need of her. What hope, then, for a six months’ infant who stood to deprive him of a fortune? Little Henry was the healthiest of babies, but accidents can happen so easily . . . And particularly in Naples, where the infant mortality rate was so high that it was almost more surprising if a child survived than if it died.

  She shuddered as she wrote draft after scratched-out draft. She had been mad—she knew it now—to make that deplorable bargain with Lord Merritt at Toulon. But then she had thought him weak, silly, and guidable. Now she knew him potentially wicked, and as for guidance from her, all hope of that had passed long since. He was guidable indeed, but now it was Price who held the reins. And Price was her enemy. It was he, she was sure, who had encouraged her husband to leave her to her fate before. What might he not do now?

  A double accident. That would be the way. That was what she must guard against. And—she must have an ally. Not Charlotte. Fond though she was of her, she knew Charlotte too well to hope for help from her. In some ways, Charlotte was her mother’s daughter, with more than a hint of her mother’s rigidities. They lived in a world where husbands did not murder their wives, and were incapable of imagining any other. No. Not Charlotte. She rang her bell, and told Carlos to ride out to Torre del Greco and fetch Angelina. “Tell her that now Maria’s child is born, I need her more.” It had seemed easier, when she moved back to Naples, to let Angelina go, granted her husband’s fury over the Catholic christening and the unlucky name. Now, she must have her back.

  The decision taken cleared her mind. She sat down once more to the task of writing to Uncle Henry, and this time produced a draft that satisfied her. She wrote another letter, locked it in her desk, then thought again and enclosed it in a cover to Sir William Hamilton. “Dear Sir William,” the words had formed themselves in her mind ready to be written. “I have a great favour to ask of you. Will you, for my sake, and my child’s, keep the enclosed, mention
it to no one, and open it only in case of my death?” Should she say death by accident or, she shuddered, death by murder? No, that would be an unpardonable slur on Lord Merritt. After all, her fears might be entirely unfounded. And, besides, there was an easier way. She added, “And the child’s.” God bless Sir William, she thought, signing and sealing the brief enclosure. “I am afraid of my husband,” she had written. “I have been ever since the birth of our child. If anything should happen to us, pray enquire closely into the circumstances. I sometimes think a kind of jealousy (totally ungrounded) makes him mad.”

  It would have to do. She rose wearily and made her way down to Lord Merritt’s rooms on the floor below. Price opened the door to her, and she saw that he and his master had been sitting together, playing one of the rather simple card games Lord Merritt enjoyed. Two glasses showed that they had not only been sitting, but drinking together. Not for the first time, she thought that she did not like Price.

  Price’s manner in face of this unprecedented visit was his usual caricature of courtesy. He ushered her in, dusted a chair for her, as if, she thought crossly, Charlotte did not see to it that these rooms, like all the rest of the house, were always in perfect order, and then, with an apologetic glance at the card table, said smoothly: “I am delighted to see your ladyship. My lord is a trifle out of sorts, and I have been doing my poor best to cheer him. You will undoubtedly succeed far better.”

  “I hope so.” It was depressing to see that her husband was already a little fuddled with drink. “Bring us some coffee, if you please, Price? I have been writing all afternoon and am dying of thirst.”

  “Glass of wine,” said Lord Merritt. And then, sharply, “Writing?”

  “Yes.” The door closed softly behind Price. “To your uncle. I would be glad if you would look it over for me and tell me if you think it will do.” No time to wait for the coffee and, besides, Price’s absence was the opportunity she needed.

  Lord Merritt was reading, slowly and carefully as always. “ ‘Dear Uncle Henry—May I call you that?’ Soft soap as usual. Works though, don’t it? Hope you’ve done it right this time. Heir . . . child . . . too young . . . hope he’ll forgive . . . sure he really meant . . .” He stopped and thought it over. “Not bad; not bad at all. Now. Can’t face the voyage back to England. Child not up to it. All right and tight.”