Again, he seemed at a loss for an answer. There was an interval of strained silence, then he said: ‘You must excuse me, Constance.’ He walked quickly towards the door.
‘Richard!’ It would have been easier to let him go, but Constance’s strength of character deterred her from such a course. He stopped in his tracks and turned to face her. ‘Shall we have your blessing?’
In the turmoil of his expression and the furtive darting of his eyes to avoid her gaze, she had an answer. It was the exact opposite of what he said, in the hoarse voice of one ashamed by his own words. ‘Yes. Of course you will.’
IX
Plon-Plon glanced up from the desk in his study at Prangins to confront the plaster-cast likeness of his famous uncle. What would the first and greatest Napoleon have done in his shoes? Much the same, he suspected. After all, sexual propriety had never been his strong suit, either.
‘Pay Miss Cora Pearl the sum of twenty thousand francs.’ It was more than he would have wanted to pay and less than she had hoped to receive. Still, compromise was the essence of diplomacy. He raised his pen to sign, nodding his head in silent affirmation as he did so. On balance, he thought it a fair price to pay for suppressing some of her more lurid reminiscences, among them the one story she had to tell which he had never heard before.
France’s defeat by Prussia in the war of 1870, and the consequent disintegration of the Second Empire, had forced Plon-Plon and Cora to decamp to England. Following a humiliating expulsion from the Grosvenor Hotel, London, when the manager discovered who the ‘Countess of Moncalieri’ really was, they embarked on a tour of the West Country, passing Cora off as Marie Clotilde – so successfully, in fact, that they were handsomely entertained wherever they went.
Early October found them installed at the Imperial Hotel, Torquay, a fact swiftly blazoned across the pages of the local evening newspaper. On the third day of their stay, Plon-Plon accepted an invitation from the commodore of the Torquay Yacht Club to join him on a cruise round the Devon coast, leaving Cora to amuse herself at the hotel.
The day proved more amusing than Cora had anticipated. Breakfasting on her first-floor balcony, she had the distinct impression that she was being stared at by a woman in the hotel garden. Later, taking tea in the sun-lounge overlooking Torbay, she felt certain that the occupant of a palm-screened corner table was the very same woman, who, this time, had the effrontery to walk across and sit down at her table, uninvited and unabashed.
‘I don’t believe I know you, madame,’ Cora said, reminding herself forcefully that, as Marie Clotilde, she could hardly utter the coarse dismissal that was on her lips.
‘But I know you,’ the woman replied. She was tall and middle-aged, inclining to gauntness and grey hair, yet possessed of an austere beauty which Cora judged some men might find attractive. There was, in her voice, the hint of a Scottish accent. ‘I read of your arrival in the newspaper,’
‘Really?’
‘It reported that Prince Napoleon had brought his pretty young wife, the Princess Clotilde of Savoy, to enjoy the English Riviera.’
‘As you see—’
‘But you are not the Princess Clotilde.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You are Cora Pearl, most notorious of all the whores in Paris.’
‘This is outrageous!’
‘Outrageous, but true. Do you deny it?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Then, feel free to break into the Princess’s native Italian by way of proof.’
Cora pursed her lips. The last thing she wanted was a repetition of the Grosvenor Hotel fiasco, something which this disagreeably knowledgeable woman seemed well capable of arranging. She leaned across the table and whispered: ‘Who are you and what do you want?’
‘My name is Vivien Ratcliffe. And I want you and your so-called husband out of Torquay.’
The strangest part of it all was that they had so much in common. Adjourning to Plon-Plon’s suite to continue their discussion, they discovered, much to their mutual astonishment, that they actually quite liked each other. Neither had anything to hide, except from other people. Vivien certainly had no wish to hound Cora, for she, too, had been a prostitute once. What she could not risk, however, was her doting and well-heeled husband discovering any of the truth about the Miss Strang he had married from Plon-Plon, whom they would inevitably meet at the ball Sir Lawrence Palk was planning in his honour. Cora had been pointed out to her in a box at the Théâtre des Bouffes-Parisiens during her honeymoon in Paris three years before. Thus had she been able to confirm her suspicion that the last woman Plon-Plon would be likely to bring to Torquay was his wife. Thus had she hit upon the means by which a catastrophic encounter might be averted.
Pleased to know more about Plon-Plon than he thought she did, and finding Torquay too restful by half, Cora was happy to do as she was asked. That very evening she created such a fuss that Plon-Plon meekly agreed to their immediate departure: the banquet was cancelled. Nor was Cora’s service forgotten. When reduced to auctioning the contents of her house in the rue de Chaillot in May 1877, she was surprised to receive a gift of money from ‘Mrs Ratcliffe of Torquay, now a wealthy widow’. Vivien Strang’s sympathy for a fellow-victim of Plon-Plon’s treachery was greater than Cora had ever deserved.
A trite, insistent tinkling reached Plon-Plon’s ears through the study window. He sighed. That would be the Marquise, back from her tricycling expedition. Really, the woman was straining his tolerance. If this went on, she would have to go.
He sealed the letter to Cora and dropped it into the post-bag, sniggering at the thought of what the Marquise would say if she knew how much more he was paying a former mistress than he had ever paid his present one. But, then, Cora had rendered him a service more valuable than any bedroom favour. She had given him the means of finding Vivien Strang. She had handed him a chance of exoneration.
X
When Constance complained to her of Richard’s begrudging attitude towards her forthcoming remarriage, Emily expressed more sympathy and puzzlement than she genuinely felt. Dearly though she loved her sister, she had begun, quite irrationally, to resent her peace of mind. By telling her nothing of what she had witnessed in Florence, of course, Emily only sustained that which she resented, but what else, she often asked herself, could she do, on the basis of her ill-gotten solitary suspicions? The news of Richard’s outburst suggested an answer: she might share the burden of doubt she had borne so long alone.
The first opportunity to do so came early on Sunday morning, when, by pleading a headache, Emily was able to excuse herself from joining Constance and her father at matins in the cathedral. Instead, she sought out Richard, whom she found packing in his room.
‘Are you leaving us so soon?’ she asked in some alarm, for the thought that he could be her ally had made her hope he might prolong his stay.
‘I fear I must return to London at once,’ he replied. The lack of conviction in his voice was not lost on Emily: both knew he could scarcely have urgent business in London on a Sunday morning.
In one sense, the need of haste was a relief to her. ‘Are you going because of what you said to Constance yesterday?’ she asked, glad, now it had come to it, to blurt out the question without prevarication.
‘She told you?’ Richard seemed surprised by this evidence of their closeness.
‘Yes. It’s why I wanted to speak to you this morning – alone.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Why did you urge her to postpone the wedding?’
His expression suggested that he thought she meant to rebuke him. ‘I don’t know,’ he said cautiously. ‘I should not have done so. It was stupid of me.’
‘Was it? Would it surprise you to learn that I’ve wanted to do the same myself for many weeks past?’
He stared at her in amazement. ‘You? But why?’
She told him then, in a rush of revelation, all that she had seen and heard at the campanile in Florence and all that she f
eared it might portend. She had hoped Richard might be able to assure her that all was well, but not so. He believed he had seen the same woman as Emily had: at St Bartholomew’s Hospital a year ago and at Victoria station in August. Clearly, she had followed them to Florence. As to her reasons, however, Richard harboured a suspicion more dreadful than anything Emily could have imagined.
‘I saw her more clearly than you had a chance of doing,’ he said. ‘She reminded me of somebody who’s already been described to me in unforgettable detail.’
‘Who?’
‘Melanie Rossiter. I know it must seem incredible, but the likeness was unmistakable. On both occasions, I felt uncannily certain that the woman I’d seen was the woman whom Trenchard claimed to have been deceived by.’
‘But that’s not possible. She was—’
‘A whore? So Trenchard’s doctors assured me. According to them, Melanie Rossiter only existed in his imagination.’
Words deserted Emily. Could the common prostitute she had seen leaving The Limes that dreadful night in November 1882 be the well-spoken young woman she had heard Sir James Davenall pleading with in Florence eleven months later? Richard clearly believed she was. But how could it be so? For if she was …
‘I have visited him regularly since the spring, Emily. In the end, they may persuade him that he was the victim of his own delusions, but they will not persuade me. I have listened to his account too often now to doubt that it contains more of the truth than we ever thought possible.’
Emily looked out of the window into the close. The cathedral wore its Sunday raiment of pious industry: within its walls Constance might even now be praying for confirmation that she was right to end one marriage and begin another. She could have no idea with what stealing dread others now viewed her future. ‘What must I do?’ Emily said, turning back to face Richard.
‘For the moment, nothing.’
‘But they are due to marry in a month!’
‘I have instituted enquiries which I can only hope will bear fruit before then.’
‘If they do not?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything, in fact, except this: that I will not allow James to marry Constance until this matter is settled – one way or another, for good or ill.’
Chapter Eighteen
I
THE TIMES, TUESDAY, 18th December 1883:
It was announced yesterday, five months after the victorious conclusion of his celebrated legal action, that Sir James Davenall will marry the former Mrs Constance Trenchard in a civil ceremony at Kensington Register Office on the 24th of this month. Last week, Mrs Trenchard was granted a decree absolute in the Admiralty, Probate and Divorce Division, thus bringing to a close proceedings for her divorce from Mr William Trenchard, who has been confined for the past year to a lunatic asylum.
II
‘Candidly,’ said Mr George Lewis of Lewis & Lewis, fixing an anything but candid stare on his guest, ‘I was puzzled to hear of your part in this.’
‘I dare say you were,’ Richard Davenall replied, in a tone that gave nothing away.
‘I can only assume,’ Mr Lewis continued, ‘that this morning’s announcement in The Times’ – he flapped a hand at the copy folded open on his desk – ‘explains your desire for a hasty conclusion.’
‘It does indeed. I realize it cannot be of concern to your client, but I wish, if at all possible, to uncover the truth before Mrs Trenchard marries Sir James.’
‘Quite so.’
‘So is there anything you can tell me?’
Mr Lewis sighed. ‘I am far from sure that I am free to tell you the results of our enquiries. After all, they have been undertaken on Lady Davenall’s behalf, not yours.’
‘But at my instigation.’
‘This aspect of them, yes. We are grateful for your assistance. Nevertheless …’
‘Have you proof that he’s Stephen Lennox? That’s all I want to know.’
Lewis pondered the point silently. Then he said: ‘No. We have not.’
‘Then, what have you found?’
‘Perhaps, after all, there is no harm in your knowing.’ He pulled open a drawer, lifted out a file of papers and began leafing through them as he spoke. ‘The Lennoxes evidently moved at an early date from Canada to the United States. Andrew Lennox bought a substantial property on Long Island in July 1860. Stephen Lennox attended Yale Law School during 1860 and 1861, then abandoned his studies to enlist in the Union army at the outbreak of the Civil War. He rose to the rank of captain in the cavalry. When the war ended, however, there is no sign of him returning to the law or to his parents’ home. We simply don’t know what he may have done. What we do know is that Andrew Lennox’s finances were by then in a chaotic state, owing to a series of unwise investments. By 1866, the family had moved to rented property in Boston. There followed a steady decline in their fortunes. Andrew Lennox died – very largely of drink, it seems – in 1869. His widow lived obscurely, in genteel poverty, in Worcester, Massachusetts, until her death in 1880.’
‘And her son?’
‘We don’t know. Mrs Lennox’s neighbours were told of a son living in California, who sent her money but never visited. That is all.’
‘All? Surely there must be contemporaries at Yale or in the Army who could identify him?’
‘That is our hope. But tracing them twenty years later has not been easy. When we do, we will need to bring them here to confront Sir James. We are, alas, a long way from being in a position to do that.’
‘I see.’
‘You had hoped for more?’
‘I had hoped, I suppose, that the hateful task could be accomplished without my part in it becoming known. I see now that it cannot be.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I will take appropriate action, Mr Lewis. Action I have tried – till now – to avoid. Action that will bring this case to a close, once and for all.’
III
It was early evening, and Sir James Davenall was on the point of setting out from Bladeney House to spend a few hours at his club, when his cousin Richard was shown in. It was immediately apparent that this was not a social call. Curtly declining to accompany James to the club, Richard said bluntly: ‘I must speak to you at once – in private.’
At first, James appeared unruffled by such brusqueness. ‘It has become unusual,’ he said when they were alone, ‘for you to speak to me at all, Richard. I could be forgiven for thinking that you had been trying to avoid me.’
‘Perhaps I have.’ Richard had made no effort to contact Sir James since returning from Ireland several weeks before. He had been, in fact, deliberately evasive. But it was clear now that he had done with such tactics. The doubts he had long harboured about Sir James were about to emerge into the light.
‘Why, may I ask?’
‘Because I no longer believe you to be my cousin James.’
They faced each other across the hearth-rug, shocked into silence by the realization that their uneasy truce was over. In a show of composure, James lit a cigarette, then said: ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Deadly serious.’ The tempered bleakness in Richard’s gaze confirmed as much. He needed no reminding of all the lies he now believed he had played a part in.
‘Then I must tell you that you’re making a very grave mistake.’
‘My mistake was ever to be taken in by you.’
James paused, as if still prepared to give Richard a chance to reconsider. ‘I don’t need to prove who I am any more,’ he said slowly. ‘The world knows me to be Sir James Davenall.’
‘The world is mistaken.’ There was an interval then, though it lasted no more than an instant, when the two men stood upon the brink of Richard’s accusation, each knowing and accepting that it might carry them beyond recall. ‘You are Stephen Lennox of Murrismoyle, County Mayo. Your mother was the wife of the Carntrassna agent, Andrew Lennox. Your father was Sir Gervase Davenall.’
‘That is an absurd suggestion.’
‘I believe Sir Gervase only learned you were his son when he visited Carntrassna in the autumn of 1859. Out of guilt, or alarm at your resemblance to his legitimate son James, he paid the Lennoxes to emigrate to Canada and to take you with them. Much later, you met Quinn and conspired with him to steal Hugo’s title and property on the basis of your physical similarity to James and Quinn’s knowledge of the family’s affairs. Quinn’s reward is to be set up as a country gentleman, yours to lead a life of false title and stolen wealth.’
‘Extraordinary.’
‘You deny it?’
James stepped away and lowered himself slowly into an armchair. His voice remained calm, his self-control unshaken. ‘I must urge you, Richard, to tell nobody else what you have just told me, because, if you do, they will think you a fool. You changed your mind about me once before. If you do so again, you will be totally discredited.’
But Richard showed no sign of weakening. ‘I cannot allow Constance to marry you under the illusion that you are James.’
‘You cannot prevent her marrying me. She will not entertain your preposterous allegations for an instant.’
‘I have proof.’
James smiled. ‘That I doubt.’
‘Your former tutor, Denzil O’Shaughnessy, is prepared to come to London and identify you.’
‘O’Shaughnessy?’ James said thoughtfully. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know the name.’
‘He taught you for eight years, long enough for him to be sure, when he meets you, that you are Stephen Lennox.’
‘We are to meet?’
‘He will be in London by the end of the week. I insist you meet him, in front of witnesses and in Constance’s presence, before the wedding takes place.’
‘If I refuse?’
‘I shall go to law. You may meet him in private or in court, as you please, but meet him you must.’
‘Those are your terms?’
‘They are.’
James rose from the chair and faced Richard, still unmoved, it seemed, by what he had said. ‘Let it be in private, then. I have no wish to embarrass you in court. Will you notify me of the time and place?’
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