She blinked rapidly as the tears gathered. Would she ever truly be able to believe that?
Imogen made her way to her bedroom. Everything had a gray tinge to it, as if the dreary damp outdoors had crept inside, overcoming the warm gaslight, the glow of wood, the very fabric and texture of the walls. Her life seemed suddenly to be such a waste. What was the point in loving someone you couldn’t possibly live with? And just how was it possible still to love the man even when she found his behavior abhorrent? What devil’s trick was that?
She stopped abruptly as a burst of laughter billowed into the corridor. Joyous laughter that was so startlingly out of tune with her own frame of mind that it stopped her in her tracks. She was passing Duncan’s bedroom and the uplifting bubble of hilarity came from behind his door. What was he doing here when he was supposed to be living in lodgings on Albemarle Street? Her annoyance at her brother rose sharply. If it hadn’t been for him and his obsequious pandering to Charles Riverdale, she wouldn’t be in this wretched situation. Without much thought, she knocked briskly on the door.
The laughter within died and there was complete silence. “Duncan?” She pushed open the door, peered around it. For a long, horrendously long moment, she stared at the bed, where her brother and Harry Graham lay sprawled, a rumpled sheet carelessly covering them at waist level. An ashtray rested on Harry’s bare chest and the tips of their cigarettes glowed in the dimly lit room. They looked back at her like deer caught in the searching light of a hunter’s torch.
She didn’t know what to say—what could possibly be said? With a strangely futile little flutter of her fingers that meant nothing sensible, she backed out and closed the door.
She stood for a moment in the corridor. Silence came from behind the door. Then she heard a whisper, a hushed rustle of bedclothes, and she flew down the corridor back to the stairs. She couldn’t possibly be there if they opened the door.
Robbie, Duncan’s valet, emerged from the back stairwell as she reached the landing. He carried two ironed shirts over his arm. “Good evening, Miss Carstairs.”
“Good evening, Robbie,” she heard herself murmur as he walked down the corridor to Duncan’s bedroom. How long had Robbie been in her brother’s confidence? Imogen wondered, thinking about the two shirts over the valet’s arm. And how the hell had she and Esther never guessed?
For the moment, her own unhappiness retreated. She retraced her steps to the back parlor, where Esther still sat by the fire. “I need another drink,” she said, refilling her discarded glass and returning to her chair, looking slightly dazed. “I think I have the answer to a few puzzles.”
Esther listened wide-eyed as her sister described what she had seen. “Sweet heaven,” she said when her sister had finished. “I suppose we should be shocked.”
“It would be a bit hypocritical after our passionate defense of Oscar Wilde,” Imogen observed, taking a sip of whiskey.
“And it would explain how prudish the poor boy was the other night when we were talking about Oscar Wilde,” Esther commented.
“Mmm,” her sister agreed. “On the lines of the overly protesting lady. But Harry wasn’t bothered by it. He didn’t seem in the least concerned.”
“I wonder what he sees in Duncan,” Esther wondered. “I mean, they’re so different. Harry’s so much more grown-up.”
Imogen nodded, inhaling the heady aroma of her whiskey. “Precisely. But there’s no accounting for lust . . . as I know all too well. And Duncan is rather a beautiful young man, when he’s not sulking.”
“True enough.” Esther frowned. “But what’s going to happen now . . . now he knows we know. He did see you, I presume. Why didn’t he lock the door?”
Imogen shrugged a little self-consciously. “Because sometimes the danger of discovery can be very enticing . . . adds to the thrill.”
“Does it, indeed,” Esther said drily. “Who’d have thought it?” She shook her head. “Maybe the shock of your finding them will make him more careful. God, can you imagine the scandal if this gets out?”
“Worse than my jilting Charles three days before the wedding,” her sister responded. “Should we talk to him about it?”
“Could talking to him change his mind—his proclivities, if you will?”
“I don’t know. Is it something you can really change at will, Essie?” Imogen frowned. “Love seems fairly intractable, as far as I can tell. I think the best thing we can do is pretend it never happened. It’s nothing to do with us, after all, and I don’t find myself particularly shocked, do you?”
Esther shook her head. “Not really. It’s nothing to do with us, as you say. No heirs to the Carstairs estate, though,” she added.
“I don’t see why not. Wilde had a wife and children. I wonder if she knew about his other life. She still sends him money, apparently.”
“But she won’t let him see the children.”
Which brought them full circle to the Warwicks, Imogen thought. She stood up. “I’ll go and have my bath now, and I won’t make any unscheduled stops on the way.”
“Are you going to the Old Bailey to watch the case?” Esther asked, as if she’d read her sister’s earlier thought.
“Yes, of course.” Imogen was both reassured and surprised that somewhere in the last hour she had regained a clear sense of what her place was in this personal muddle of dismay, betrayal, and disappointment. She would do what she knew was right. What she believed in and would fight for to her last breath.
“We all have to show support for Emily Warwick in the public gallery. We’ll get as many members of the NUWSS as possible to show up. At least it’ll get some publicity.”
“If we make a fuss, though, the judge will throw us out,” Esther pointed out.
“It’ll be a peaceful and silent protest,” Imogen reassured her. “We’ll stand shoulder to shoulder, Essie.”
“Shoulder to shoulder,” her sister stated.
Imogen made her way to her own bedroom. The door to her brother’s bedroom was ajar, the room empty, the rumpled bed and a faint lingering smell of cigarette smoke the only evidence of its previous inhabitants. Perhaps it would be easier all round if Duncan stayed away for a while, until sufficient time had elapsed for them to meet and maintain the pretense of ignorance more naturally. This was not an issue to be confronted. It was one occasion when it was best to sweep something under the rug. It still didn’t explain Duncan’s over-anxiety to please Charles, though.
Unless . . . unless Charles knew of Duncan’s proclivities and the poor boy was terrified he’d expose him.
Well, she would never know now. Imogen went into her bedroom, and the wash of helpless unhappiness came over her again.
Chapter 18
A small group of women were gathered on the pavement outside the imposing building of the Old Bailey at nine o’clock in the morning of the day of the Warwicks’ divorce case. They were well dressed and composed, and the policemen on duty at the doors to the building barely glanced in their direction.
Imogen and Esther stepped out of a hackney cab and joined the group. Kate Sutton greeted them with her customary exuberance. “There you both are at last. We’ve been waiting for you. I have visitors’ passes so we can go straight up to the gallery. I don’t know when Emily’s suit comes up, but we’re here early enough if it’s first. Gen, darling, you do look a little wan.” She studied Imogen’s countenance with a slight frown. “Do you have a cold?”
“No, most definitely not,” Imogen stated firmly. “But we’ll all catch one if we stand around in this freezing wind. Let’s go in.” She gestured imperatively to the double doors, where two policemen stood guard at either side.
Kate led the way, presenting their passes to one of the policemen, who solemnly counted them, then counted the group of women out loud, matching each pass to a number. “All seems correct, ma’am.” He stepped aside to let them in. “Which courtroom are you wanting?”
“Oh, we’re only interested in observing the judicial syst
em at work, officer,” Imogen said. “We’re not here for anything specific.”
“Right y’are, ma’am. There’s a board in the vestibule. It’ll tell you what cases are being ’eard in which court.”
“Thank you, officer.” Imogen gave him her most dazzling smile and accompanied the group inside the building. “There are men from the newspapers outside,” she murmured to Kate. “We don’t want them to know who we are or why we’re here—not yet, at least.”
They looked up at the board where the courtrooms and their cases were listed. “The Court for Divorce and Matrimonial Causes . . . court number one,” Kate said. “Shouldn’t surprise us. When has Charles Riverdale ever been seen in any other?”
There were murmurs of agreement and Imogen felt her ears burn. She wanted to defend Charles, but she couldn’t. Not when she agreed with them. And it was true, Charles was so prominent in his profession, any case he heard would never be assigned to an inferior court room. “Who are the three judges?” she asked.
“None that I recognize,” Esther said.
“Well, maybe one at least will be a friend to women,” Kate said with a grimace. “Or maybe Dirk Macanally can work a small miracle.”
“Is Emily taking the stand?” Imogen asked.
“She’s determined to. God help her if Riverdale gets his teeth into her.”
Esther glanced anxiously at her sister. Imogen was very pale. “How are you bearing up?” she whispered.
“Fine, Essie.” She spoke with resolution. She was going to see this through, watch the final nail hammered into the coffin of her future with Charles Riverdale. “Let’s go in.”
Charles stood in the anteroom to the court with his client and his client’s solicitor, a fussy little man in a pince-nez who shuffled his papers incessantly and dabbed, sniffling, at his cold-reddened nose.
Alan Warwick was strutting—there was no other word for it, Charles thought. He was smoking a cigar and consulting his gold hunter every few minutes. “How long can they take in there?” he demanded. “Our case was due to start fifteen minutes ago.”
“Three wise judges take time to deliberate their decision,” Charles said, a touch of acid in his voice. “One would hardly wish for anything else, would one, Warwick?” He glanced down at the sheaf of papers in his hands.
“No . . . no, of course not,” his client hastened to agree. “But it stretches the nerves, this waiting. Don’t you feel it, Riverdale?”
“I’m accustomed to it.” Charles went to the grimy window that looked down onto a back alley. At least it wasn’t raining, but what sunlight there was couldn’t penetrate the gloom of the alley or the grime of the window. His nerves were well under control. He had learned to master his emotions many courtrooms ago.
The clerk opened the door. “Warwick versus Warwick, gentlemen.”
“At last.” Warwick heaved a sigh of relief and dropped his watch back into his waistcoat pocket. “Let’s get on with it, then.”
Charles laid a hand on his arm as he walked to the door. “You are absolutely certain that you have had no contact with your wife since she brought this suit, Warwick?”
“Of course not, man . . . of course not. Now let’s get on with this.”
Charles inclined his head in acknowledgment and led the way into the courtroom. He glanced once, briefly, up into the visitors’ gallery. He hadn’t known what to expect. Whether Imogen would be there or not. But she was, and she had not come alone. He could feel the hostility emanating from the group of women with all the force of an Antarctic storm. He gave an inner shrug. He’d dealt with worse. He led his client to the defendant’s side of the court and sat down, placing his papers in front of him. Once he looked to his right as Emily Warwick came in with her barrister and solicitor. The lady was heavily veiled.
In the gallery, Imogen was unaware that her nails were digging into her palms, but she was all too aware of the swift pulse beating in her temples. Those little white wigs that barristers wore made them look silly, except that Charles did not look silly. He wore his as if it was an essential part of himself, and his silky black robes hung from his shoulders, reminding her inconveniently of Mephistopheles and the opera cloak. She felt Esther’s eyes upon her and turned to reassure her with a quick flutter of a smile that gave her sister no reassurance at all.
The court rose as the three judges entered and took their places on the bench. The ritual movements and words followed, and the visitors sat quiet and still in the gallery. Then the chief judge leaned forward. “The case may proceed. Mr. Macanally.” He gestured courteously to the young man seated beside the veiled lady. “Your first witness.”
“Mrs. Warwick, my lord.”
Emily Warwick took her place in the box. Her gloved fingers shook a little as she took the Bible and swore the oath. Imogen’s nails dug deeper into her palms. What must it be like to sit up there in front of a sea of faces and describe the humiliations of a marriage? Better, surely, to live one’s days as an independent spinster.
Emily answered her barrister’s questions in a quiet and steady voice. Yes, her husband had beaten her on many occasions—often she had no idea why. Yes, he drank a great deal, and gambled at his clubs. Yes, she had had occasion to seek the advice of a physician for a health issue, a very personal issue, and had been informed that she had been infected with a particular disease that could only have come from her husband.
Here Imogen closed her eyes. She could almost hear Charles asking in that sweetly nonchalant tone he so often used in a courtroom how she could be certain only her husband could have infected her? Her husband’s countersuit cited numerous cases of her own adulterous affairs. Dirk Macanally had pulled no punches when he’d talked to his client the previous day, and Emily had been as honest with her friends. There had been no actual affairs, but some friendships . . . close friendships . . . and some indiscreet correspondence that could be read in a certain light. But she was adamant she had never committed adultery.
Dirk was gentle and courteous, and Emily retained her composure until finally he stood back and the chief judge glanced at Charles. “Mr. Riverdale?”
“Thank you, my lord.” Charles stood up and moved to the witness box. He smiled at the witness. “Mrs. Warwick, would you mind very much lifting your veil?”
Imogen felt a hot coal of rage. He was going to make her show her face to the world as well as expose those ghastly details of her abuse, even as he attempted to prove her own adultery.
“I would prefer not to, sir.” Emily’s voice was so soft, the courtroom leaned forward as one body to hear.
Charles looked at the judges on the bench. “Would you instruct the witness to lift her veil, my lords?”
There was a moment’s discussion and then the chief judge said, “If you insist, Mr. Riverdale. Madam, please lift your veil.”
Slowly, Emily Warwick lifted the spotted veil from her face. She was a pretty woman, except for the ugly bruise marring her right cheek. She put a hand up to cover it and Charles said softly, “No, please don’t do that, Mrs. Warwick.” She let the hand fall to the rail in front of her and lifted her head, looking defiantly into the court.
“I have one question for you, ma’am. Was that bruise inflicted by your husband two nights ago, when he came to your lodging and demanded that you drop your suit?”
The courtroom stilled; only the faint sound of the stenographer’s pencil could be heard.
Slowly Emily nodded. “Yes, sir. It was.”
“And you have sworn on the Bible to tell the truth and nothing but the truth,” Charles pressed gently.
She nodded. “I do not lie, Mr. Riverdale.”
“No, I don’t believe you do, madam.” He stepped back and addressed the bench. “May I approach, my lords?”
The judges nodded, and he said, “I believe this concerns my learned friend.”
Dirk, looking utterly bemused, came forward to the judges’ bench. The courtroom remained silent, watching the men but unable to hear a w
ord of the whispered conversation.
“What’s going on?” Esther mouthed to Imogen, who shrugged. She’d watched Charles at work on numerous occasions, and thought she knew most of his maneuvers, but this was new territory.
After a few minutes the discussion at the bench ended and Dirk returned to his seat. The chief judge leaned forward and said, “You may stand down, Mrs. Warwick.” He waited until she had returned to her seat, before saying, “Mr. Riverdale, you may address the court.”
Charles had returned to his own side of the courtroom. His client was gaping at him, the solicitor snuffling into his handkerchief, looking bemused. “My lords, I find that my client, Mr. Warwick, has lied to me on numerous occasions about his conduct toward his wife, the last time only minutes before we entered the court this morning. I cannot, with any moral conscience, continue to defend my client in this divorce petition. For as long as there was doubt in the case as to who was telling the truth in the matter, I could defend his case, but there is no longer any doubt in my mind. I must stand down and recommend to my client in his own interests that he drop his opposition to Mrs. Warwick’s petition.”
There was a moment of stunned silence; then Alan Warwick lunged to his feet. “You can’t do that! I paid you good money.” He seized the starched white bands affixed to Charles’s collar. “You do the job I paid you to do.” A shower of spittle accompanied his words, and his raised fist shot out.
Charles ducked, sidestepped, and with an almost disdainful air pushed Warwick away from him. There was sufficient power behind the push to send the man reeling, falling back against the bench behind him. The courtroom rose to its feet and the chief judge nodded to the clerk of the court, who brought his gavel down with a resounding bang.
“Clear the court, Mr. Mark,” the judge instructed. “Mr. Warwick is hereby held in contempt of court. I suggest you instruct your solicitor to instruct a new barrister to act in your defense, sir. And I would seriously suggest you consider Mr. Riverdale’s counsel to drop your countersuit. In the meantime, the court grants Mrs. Warwick a judicial separation from her husband until the court can rehear her petition for divorce on the grounds of cruelty and adultery.” He and his fellows rose and walked in stately fashion through the curtain and out of sight.
Jane Feather Page 17