by Burnett, May
“How can he do that, and shadow Lady Fenton as she leaves the hotel?” Jeremy said.
“He may have one or more confederates.”
Jeremy and Barnaby looked at each other bleakly. The more people knew about the will, the harder it would be to suppress. They might already be too late.
“So what are your suggestions, Mr. Hendrickson? Have you done this sort of thing before?”
Chapter 16
By evening, as it turned out, the young ladies were no longer staying at the Hotel Bonnard. Within an hour after reading the notice of her nephew’s engagement in the Morning Post, Lady Cirrell had descended upon them like a happy whirlwind, and insisted on carrying both of them off to her own spacious house, maids and luggage and all.
Abigail would not have agreed to leave Milla alone at the hotel, but as her friend was included in the invitation she had not protested. The change of residence would lend added credibility to her role as Jeremy’s bride.
“It is so much more convenient, to have you right here,” Lady Cirrell said when all three ladies were partaking of a light lunch after the rigours of moving. “You, Abigail, will be attending balls and soirees and dinners, and I’ll be your chaperon – almost as it was with dear Susan.”
Not quite, Abigail reflected; Susan had been an acknowledged beauty and great heiress. She – well, she was the fiancée of a future Earl now. She had to show more confidence, if she was to carry off the part.
“For tonight, we need to firmly establish your presence in society’s mind. The theatre, I think; we can use the Winthrop box.”
Abigail glanced uneasily at Milla, who was listening to these plans with an inscrutable expression. Abigail had not attended the theatre since a pantomime when she was twelve, as her stepmother strongly disapproved of this form of entertainment on religious grounds. “What are they playing tonight?”
“No idea, and it does not matter in the slightest. One goes there to be seen – especially you and Jeremy, to scotch the last remnant of those rumours. You will smile happily as you receive our acquaintances’ best wishes. By tomorrow we shall receive a mountain of invitations for you. No need to worry which ones to accept, I shall sift them on your behalf. Not more than two events per night; we want to establish you as exclusive from the start.”
The very idea was strange to Abigail. “I never was exclusive before, though I did attend Almack’s, because Susan got me on the list. I did not enjoy it much.” She had rarely been asked to dance, had counted the hours until she could return to her joyless home, where at least she was not exposed to constant humiliation.
“No, I suppose not,” Lady Cirrell said. “You are hardly the only person for whom it holds wretched memories. Unless you want to rub the debutantes’ noses in your triumph you need never go there again, now that you are so eligibly engaged. For my part, I shall hardly miss the place. The food is horrible, for the high subscription they charge.”
“I remember it well.” She glanced at Milla again, who was chewing a piece of lemon sole with a thoughtful expression. She had never seen the inside of Almack’s, or attended a fashionable ball in her life. Did that make Milla poor or lucky? The cases were hardly comparable. With Milla’s stunning looks, hers would have been a very different experience.
Lady Cirrell was still in lecturing mode. “Once you are married, you can pick and choose who you want to see, and what events to attend, though I suppose you’ll have to make exceptions for Jeremy’s particular friends.”
“That should not be a problem. But I would prefer to have a say in what invitations I accept from the beginning. And I am not easy at the thought of all that gadding about without Milla, leaving her alone.” She turned to her friend. “I know you would like to see the theatre, too.” Milla had never seen a theatre performance in her life.
Milla shrugged. “I already have plans for tonight, don’t you remember? And it is only a few more weeks till my mourning is completely over. I shall enjoy theatrical performances soon enough.”
Abigail regarded her friend suspiciously. “Remember that you are now well-known in town, there even have been some sketches pinned up in coffeehouses that are reasonably accurate, I hear… it would not do to go in disguise.”
Milla raised a brow. “Sketches? Caricatures, you mean. Don’t worry, I shall not sneak out in servant’s garb, or anything like that. For such a short period, it is hardly worth the risk, and –,” she smiled at their hostess, who had been listening with wide eyes – “I would not so abuse Lady Cirrell’s hospitality.”
“You are of course free to come and go as you like,” Lady Cirrell assured her, “though dear Abigail is quite right, circumspection in these last weeks of mourning is highly advisable; especially after that absurd newspaper article. A femme fatale, indeed! When you are not yet twenty! About your plans for tonight, will you need a carriage?”
“Thank you, no,” Milla said, without satisfying Lady Cirrell’s palpable curiosity. “I can take a hack.”
“It is not my place to advise you on your conduct, of course,” Lady Cirrell began.
Abigail saw Milla’s mouth tighten ominously, and hastened to intervene. “It is just a business errand that should not take long – I know all about it, and so does Jeremy.” It was going to be a nuisance, having to offer explanations and excuses all the time. From Milla’s expression, she was thinking the same thing.
Looking from Abigail’s face to Milla’s, Lady Cirrell wisely chose to drop the subject. “We have more important concerns, in any case,” she said. “I want you to show me your wardrobe, Abigail, if you do not mind. You may not have sufficient variety for all the events you’ll be invited to, and the sooner we see about getting new clothes ordered, the better. If I can also offer my advice to you, Lady Fenton, for the time when you can wear colours again, I am very much at your service.”
This conciliatory speech restored Milla’s good humour. Both her guests immediately accepted Lady Cirrell’s offer, conscious of having been long absent from town, and that their hostess’s advice would be invaluable. She herself dressed in the first stare of fashion. Of course on a large income that was easier, but taste and style could not be bought for money alone. Would Abigail ever attain high elegance similar to Lady Cirrell’s? Most likely not, but she would do her best. She could not shame Jeremy – she was so far from the woman he should have married, she must make an effort to please him where it was in her power. If she married him, that was; she must remember that it was by no means a foregone conclusion.
Would Lady Cirrell know the name and direction of a medical specialist on matters of fertility? She was a childless widow of many years, so it was unlikely on the face of it. Besides, what would she make of such a strange question? She probably would not gossip about it, for Jeremy’s sake, but until she knew her hostess better Abigail could not bring herself to mention her need.
The late Lord Fenton had much to answer for. She could not avenge herself on him now – except by striving for happiness, and enjoying her life while he lay in the cold ground. It had so nearly been the other way round… indeed, since that moment Susan had persuaded her not to jump into the river she was living on her second allotment of time. If Abigail’s life had been a play, it was supposed to have ended with a tragic early death. Yet here she was, munching delicacies and looking forward to the theatre. With Susan’s and Jeremy’s help she had rewritten the conventional ending. Now she could even hope to convert the short tragedy into a long novel. It might not be as dramatically satisfying, but it was definitely what she preferred.
If hers turned out to be a very long story, in a few decades she might get around to forgiving Lord Fenton, as a good Christian should. In the meantime, even if it diminished her morally, she would live with her anger. And if she could help to thwart her enemy’s evil last wishes, she would exert her fullest effort. His influence, his very memory should be eradicated from the world. Perhaps then she could finally sleep without nightmares.
“Shall
we go up now, and see which of your gowns is most suitable for the theatre?”
Abigail nodded, grateful to be recalled to this mundane and comforting present.
***
Jeremy handed Abigail’s light cloak to an attendant and seated her in the front row of their box, at his right side. She was dashed pretty tonight, doing them credit. He raised her hand to his lips for a lingering kiss, staking a public claim.
They had arrived at half-past nine, during the first act of the play, to avoid the crowds. Besides his aunt, at the last moment his father had decided to join the party also, ‘to get to know my future daughter-in-law’. Lord Branscombe had met Abigail several times as Susan’s friend, but at the time he had never paid Abigail much attention. None of them had, but that was about to change. Her happiness must be Jeremy’s paramount consideration from now on.
Abigail was looking at the stage with fascination. Drury Lane was giving The Merchant of Venice. She must know that as many eyes rested on their box as on the actors, but she successfully ignored the fact. Good.
Jeremy had reluctantly left Barnaby and Hendrickson in charge of events at St. Emma’s. If only he could have joined their ambush … but he had to keep away from Milla at all costs, until those rumours had completely died down. And Chatteris, damn him, would probably recognize him. Barnaby was not unlike him in stature and features, though hardly identical. Would his brother keep well back from the Church, as Jeremy had advised?
There was nothing he could do about it now. He had to play his assigned role here in public, to get rid of the rumours and gossip. Abigail did not deserve to have her groom tainted with suspicion. He would have to accustom himself to delegate the other problem to Barnaby, as he already delegated a large part of his business concerns. His younger brother was no less intelligent and capable, and just as eager to protect their sister.
Jeremy’s priority must be his courtship. It was going to be fraught enough. Getting Abigail willingly to the altar was a greater and infinitely more meaningful challenge than recovering Fenton’s will, lies about Susan or not. Even in the worst case, in ten years’ time Fenton’s lies would be largely forgotten, but his relationship to Abigail would be of central importance to their family fortunes. Or was he underestimating the malice and long memory of society?
That any man would posthumously try to harm women he had injured and persecuted during his lifetime defied Jeremy’s understanding; but then he had never been able to fathom what drove Fenton to the criminal lengths he had gone. The most charitable explanation was some kind of brain defect that had made him unable to comprehend the effects of his actions on others.
“Are you enjoying the play?” Lord Branscombe asked Abigail. She was wearing a relatively simple but well-cut green evening dress. Ladies were using stronger colours lately, though debutantes still largely stuck to white and pastel hues. Her choice of green signified that Abigail no longer saw herself as a debutante. Though her age was not much above the freshest crop of young ladies, her experiences had matured her. Of course nobody except the two of them, in all of London, had any idea of what she had lived through. If they did, she would have been shunned and cast out of their circle. As his sister Susan had tried to point out at the time, blaming innocent victims was profoundly unjust. Nobody must ever know, though it would matter less once Abigail had the protection of his name and title. Given the latent danger of ruin if her secret leaked, he could only admire the quiet poise with which his fiancée sat there, calmly conversing with his father and aunt, ignoring the many curious looks from other boxes with well-bred indifference. He was not sure he could have done the same in her position … not that a man could ever be in that position, thank Heaven, or even truly imagine it.
Abigail would make a magnificent Countess one day, dignified and intelligent. All he had to do was to overcome her fears with the skills of his body, surely not an impossible task. It would require more patience than he was used to devoting to such activities, but the prize was worth the effort.
Chapter 17
During the intermission a throng of ladies and gentlemen descended on the Winthrop box. Abigail fended off questions and compliments as graciously as she could, ably assisted by Jeremy and his aunt, but she was glad when the performance resumed. Although she had missed the beginning of the play, the story held her full attention. She marvelled at the artistry of the actors. What would it be like to enter so fully into a character’s skin that your voice trembled with deep emotion? Were the actors really feeling the anguish they portrayed, or was it possible to fake feelings that convincingly?
After the performance, Lord Branscombe suggested a late supper at a nearby establishment popular with theatregoers. They were assigned a table immediately, although lesser customers were still waiting. Over the meal of foie gras and other French titbits Abigail daringly indulged in two glasses of champagne. Lord Branscombe behaved with great civility to her, and listened attentively to her description of her ancestry. It made sense that he would take an interest; as far as he knew, these would be his future grandchildren’s ancestors too. She omitted the highwayman on her family tree, a younger brother of her great-grandfather whose hanging had drawn a great crowd of spectators. Abigail also glossed over her problems with her stepmother as best she could, focussing instead on her father’s nautical exploits. Lord Branscombe and Lady Cirrell expressed proper admiration of these, and declared they looked forward to making the Captain’s acquaintance when he returned to British shores. Jeremy was relatively quiet. She wondered how he would deal with her stern father. Of course if she broke matters off before Captain Trevelyan’s return, the issue would never arise.
It was half-past one when they returned to Lady Cirrell’s house and Jeremy took his leave. Neither of them had alluded with a single word to their secret preoccupation – had Chatteris at last been identified? Was the money secure or had Chatteris absconded with it, despite all their precautions? In the presence of Jeremy’s older relatives, they had to confine themselves to unexceptionable subjects.
The moment Lady Cirrell had bidden her good night, Abigail knocked on Milla’s door. Would she be back yet? It seemed she was; after a pause, Milla opened the door, clad in floor-length white night rail.
Abigail slipped inside and closed the door behind her. “What happened? I was sitting on pins and needles all evening!”
“I was trying to sleep,” Milla complained. She put on a warm wrapper and sat on the sofa, however. “There is not much to tell so far. Remember that my role was merely to leave the ransom in the church. I did so at the appointed time.”
“Was it spooky? Did you see Chatteris? And don’t tell me that you were prepared to go to sleep without knowing the outcome.”
“I would not know anything at all,” Milla said, annoyance sharpening her voice, “if it had been up to Mr. Winthrop. He expected me to go meekly home and wait for a report at breakfast time! You can imagine how quickly I disabused him of that notion.”
“Start at the beginning, Milla.”
“Very well.” Milla pulled her shapely legs off the floor and drew her knees close to her body under the wide-cut nightgown, in a casual pose more characteristic of lithe children than a widowed Viscountess. “It took almost an hour to reach St. Emma’s. Despite the late hour there was a surprising amount of traffic. Mr. Winthrop rode with me in the hack, watching over the gold – it came in a heavy leather bag – while Mr. Hendrickson and additional helpers recruited for the occasion had already made their own way to the church. One was disguised an old woman, and had been there since nine, turning a rosary. Yet another assumed the disguise of a Roman priest.”
“That sounds a bit sacrilegious,” Abigail commented. “But go on, please.”
“It was a rather mean, poorly lit neighbourhood. We arrived ten minutes early. The driver was not the hack’s regular driver, by the way; Mr. Winthrop had hired it for the whole night, and was using one of the Winthrop coachmen whom he deemed more reliable.”
“And then?”
“Exactly at midnight, I descended from the hack, right in front of the church, and entered by the principal entrance. There was a side door, also under observation. The bag was heavy, and I doubt that I looked very natural as I lugged it to the confessional and left it there, on the priest’s seat. I wonder if it is interesting to hear people’s confessions? It would likely depend on how imaginative their sins are.”
“Never mind that – we shall never be in a position to know.”
“Well, it was all anti-climax after that. Not seeing any stranger who might be Chatteris, I returned to the hack, and we slowly drove off. A few streets over, in a dark spot, Winthrop slipped out of the carriage to join the other men trying to catch Chatteris when he picked the money up.”
“In the meantime all that gold sat unguarded in the Church?”
“Not unguarded, remember the fellow with the rosary and the disguised priest. I did not look directly at them when I was inside, but they were around. I suppose Hendrickson sent two men so they would keep an eye on each other. It must have been tempting to grab the purse, though they knew that both entrances were under surveillance.”
Abigail was not interested in the disguised guards. “Did Chatteris arrive to remove the money?”
“He had not yet done so after the first hour, as a messenger from Winthrop informed me just before I decided to go to bed. He wrote that he would inform us the instant they had a success to report, otherwise would join us for breakfast at ten.”
“Ten? I suppose I had best catch some sleep myself, then,” Abigail said in disappointment. Despite the late hour she was too keyed up; sleep would not come easily.
“Chatteris never wrote that I must come all alone, or that I could not try to catch him,” Milla said. “It is like setting a piece of cheese in a mousetrap, in a way. Is Chatteris a foolish mouse, or are we all underestimating him?”