Vice and Virtue

by Veronica Bennett

  Aurora’s heart had leapt so suddenly that she almost missed Celia Deede’s next, gently spoken words.

  “I must correct you there, my dear Mrs Fellowes. We have not been your neighbours for several weeks. We live in Mill Street now.”

  “Of course you do! I had quite forgotten. And do you like your new house?”

  “Very much, thank you,” said Celia sweetly. “Oh! Here is Joe.”

  A gentleman approached. Aurora needed only one glance to absorb his well-kept coat decorated with wide bands of gold at the cuffs, his polished boots, his unostentatious wig and white-plumed hat, tall stature, confident bearing and fair face. He was certainly the most handsome man she had seen tonight.

  “This is my brother Josiah,” said Celia to Aurora. “He is always called Joe, as Josiah is also my father’s name. Joe, this is Miss Drayton.”

  Joe Deede looked at Aurora with undisguised admiration. So undisguised that Mrs Fellowes lost no time in acting upon it.

  “Miss Drayton is without an escort, Joe, if you can believe it. Her brother is in ill health and does not leave the house, but she craves company. And who can blame her? Such a pretty thing!”

  Joe Deede bowed. “Miss Drayton, if you will allow me, may I offer to convey you home in our carriage?”

  “I thank you, sir,” said Aurora, “but I have no need of a carriage. I live very near.”

  “But you cannot walk alone through dark streets!” protested Celia. “Please allow us to accompany you.”

  “Thank you,” said Aurora again, “but there is no need. I insist.”

  Celia Deede gave her a curious look, though not, Aurora thought, an offended one. “Very well.” Her gaze touched her brother, then came back to Aurora. “As you please. But will you call on us in Mill Street? Come tomorrow, for dinner at two o’clock, and meet my father. Since you are newly arrived in the city you must be in need of friends, and we have hundreds! It is the house on the corner of Conduit Street and Mill Street in Mayfair. There is a stone horse-trough outside, with an inscription to St Christopher.”

  Aurora curtseyed. Her mouth had dried so much that she could not immediately utter her thanks. This opportunity to ingratiate herself with the Deedes had occurred so swiftly she could hardly muster her thoughts. Celia Deede had taken a fancy to her and, for her part, she warmed to the girl’s smiling, audacious, but courteous, manners. To make further acquaintance with this smooth-complexioned girl and her utterly un-foppish brother was vital, though she must do it without revealing anything of her true self. “Thank you, Miss Deede,” she said. “You are very kind.”

  Celia Deede dropped a small curtsey, her eyes on Aurora’s face. “The pleasure, Miss Drayton, is all mine.”

  Edward must have heard Aurora’s footfalls on the stairs. Wigless, in his nightshirt and house robe, with a candle in his hand, he was waiting for her at the open door.

  Aurora walked in, removed her gloves, untied her hat-strings and faced him. “I met them.”

  Edward closed the door. “Father and son?” he asked, bright-eyed.

  “No, son and daughter. Celia Deede is not scarred. Neither is she a recluse. Indeed, she told me she has hundreds of friends. ”

  Edward’s mouth opened, but he did not speak.

  “Celia is a delightful name, is it not?” observed Aurora. “As delightful as her countenance and clothes, both of which are of the greatest beauty. Her brother is handsome too, as you no doubt know, and they are both very well-mannered. They insisted I did not go home alone.”

  His eyebrows rose and his jaw fell. “You did not allow them to escort you here?” he exclaimed, horrified. “Of all the—”

  “Of all the imbecilic things to do? Good God, Edward, how little you think of me!”

  Exhausted, she sat down at the table. She removed her hat and rested her forehead upon her fingertips, rubbing her temples in the hope of relief from an insistent headache. “Of course I did not lead them to this place! I insisted I be permitted to return home alone. What Joe and his sister made of my obstinacy I do not know, but they showed me nothing but kindness.”

  Edward sat down on the edge of his bed and stared at the dirty floor. “Joe?”

  Aurora’s shoulders drooped. Her body felt numbed by the enormity of the subterfuge she had embarked upon at the expense of such amiable people. How bewildered they must be at her refusal of their protection!

  “Very well, you did not give them your address,” said Edward, looking up. “But did they give you theirs?”

  “They told me they live in Mill Street, off Conduit Street, in Mayfair. At the house by the stone horse-trough.”

  Aurora watched Edward absorb this news. The Deedes had recently moved, of course, to the address which was rightfully his own. But his voice and countenance remained steady. “How long will you wait before you call?” he asked.

  “I am to go tomorrow, to dine with them and their father.”

  “And if they wish to return the call?”

  “I will explain that my brother is in poor health and we do not receive visitors.”

  The candlelight licked Edward’s face. His lips were compressed into a line. Neither he nor Aurora spoke for a long time. At last, she could bear it no more. “Edward, I confess myself baffled,” she said. “How could your father have hated these people so much? They are pleasant, I assure you. And they have many friends. I cannot understand how you have not met them before. You must have been kept apart by the unceasing vigilance of your families.”

  Edward did not look at her. Aurora mustered her courage and softened her tone. “Is it possible your suspicions are unfounded?”

  He rose, went to the empty fireplace and set the candle on the mantel. “No, it is not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  “Aurora, have pity!” These words were expelled with such force that they almost killed the candle flame. “Somewhere in that house is the answer to the questions I have been asking myself since the day my father died. How did he die, and why did he disinherit me? I must know the truth, and you have agreed to help me discover it. Are you so taken in by the Deedes’ appearance of amiability – the very amiability that makes no one suspect them – that you will abandon our cause?”

  He rubbed his face wearily. Though it was a sentence of his own making, this evening’s incarceration in the attic rooms, waiting for news, had taken its toll on his spirits. Aurora could see how unsettled he was. She rose and went to him, chastened. “Of course not,” she said gently. “And you know, Edward, the plan is working. Your plan. The Deedes are pleased to welcome a friendless female into their circle, exactly as you said they would be. I do not believe they see me as a threat.”

  He considered her words, a muscle in his cheek working. “No, they see you as a potential companion for the girl and a match for her brother. It cannot be by chance that you met them. They must have been watching you all evening. Deede no doubt has an eye for a beautiful maid. It must be very flattering, having two men at your feet.”

  “Oh, Edward, what nonsense! I have no dowry and no family connections!”

  “That did not stop me, either from loving you or marrying you.”

  “But you had other reasons for your courtship of me,” retorted Aurora.

  His face no longer showed the inscrutability she had so often tried to fathom. There was misery in his eyes and tension in the set of his chin. “Do you doubt that I love you?”

  Aurora sighed. “Joe Deede will never ask a Protestant woman to marry him, as well you know.”

  “It is not a proposal of marriage the man has in mind!” cried Edward scornfully. “It is a … a flirtation. A gratification of his desires.”

  Aurora tried to remain calm. “Edward, hear me. You wished me to ingratiate myself with Josiah Deede’s son, but are jealous when I do. So—”

  “That was when I thought he was a fop and a fool! But now you say he is neither of those things!”

  “So what would you have me do?” demanded Aurora. �
��Do you seriously imagine that I – who would not consent to the ‘gratification of the desires’ of a man who married me under false pretences – will now succumb without scruple to the attentions of the first handsome man I see?”

  He had the grace to hang his head. “Aurora…”

  “And if Joe Deede should wish to court me,” she continued frostily, “he had better begin forthwith. He has less than a month, remember.”

  They regarded each other for a moment. Neither of them pointed out that Edward’s own courtship of Aurora had lasted less than a quarter of an hour.

  “I beg you, forgive me,” said Edward wearily. “I have not the right to be jealous. Though jealousy was never a respecter of rights.”

  Aurora was strongly tempted to sulk. But she resisted; this was no time for pettiness and flouncing. “Have no fear,” she told him. “When I go to Mill Street tomorrow, I shall be wary of everything, including Joe Deede’s attentions. I will encourage them, because I am trying to ingratiate myself with the family. But that does not mean I am being disloyal, to my husband or my God. It is a pretence.”

  He nodded. “Of course. I understand that, and I must tolerate it as best I can.”

  “Very well.” Aurora was suspicious of this apparent humility. His eyes were still watchful. “Edward,” she ventured, “have I displeased you?”

  “Not at all.” He shook his head. “Your night’s work has been very successful. But I am disturbed by the discovery of my father’s lies. He taught me always to be truthful.”

  Aurora almost laughed aloud. Truthful!

  “Then…” she began in an ironic tone, “would he not be sorely grieved by the deceptions you perpetrated upon me, and are continuing to perpetrate upon the Deedes, on his behalf?”

  His black eyes flicked to hers. He had heard the irony. “Yes, he would. But think of the alternative! Everyone in society whispering about my sudden disinheritance? Years of bearing my disgrace without prospect of redress? I cannot imagine it.”

  Pity and impatience fought each other for a moment in Aurora’s heart. But the bleakness of Edward’s countenance decided the matter. “Then I make you a promise,” she said stoutly. “Tomorrow, I will find a way to bring Henry Francis into the conversation. If I detect the smallest chink in the Deedes’ facade I will not rest until I have something to report to you.”

  Edward took hold of her hand, massaging absentmindedly the finger where her wedding ring, which she had removed within twenty-four hours of her marriage, should be. “I know you will not,” he said with wistful satisfaction.

  Despite the firmness of her words, a sudden stab of apprehension caught Aurora unawares. What would she face tomorrow? She withdrew her hand, retrieved her hat and gloves from the table and opened the door to the inner room. “And now,” she said, “I confess myself exhausted. I bid you goodnight.”

  Edward’s Library

  Aurora did not know the streets of Mayfair, though she knew the area was a good address. Many premises advertised themselves as milliners, glovers or wig shops. Others sold more unnecessary things like silver and porcelain, silk-covered cushions and gilded mirrors. She noticed the pristine books in the booksellers’ window, quite different from the cracked covers and grimy pages of those offered by Samuel Marshall at the sign of the Seven Stars. Prices, no doubt, were high.

  Mill Street was narrower and darker than Conduit Street, but the stone horse-trough was plain to see, with its inscription invoking St Christopher. There, on the corner, stood Edward’s house.

  He had been born here. His mother and father had both died here. It was here that he had learned his letters from a tutor and the violin from his beloved music master. “As a boy, I was never happier than when I was reading a book or playing my fiddle,” he had told Aurora. “By the time I was eighteen I had read all my father’s books, so together we embarked upon expanding his library.”

  They had chosen, bought, placed and stood back to admire each volume. But the years’ spent building this precious library had been in vain. Like everything else in the house, it had been lost to Josiah Deede.

  The house was substantial. There was no shop at the level of the street. Aurora counted three storeys, then stood back from the overhang and noticed a fourth built into the roof. All had the elegant sash windows of the wealthy. She could not quash the thought that by insisting to Edward that their marriage be annulled whatever the outcome of their quest, she had rejected the chance to become mistress of this house. And, furthermore, of Marshcote, Edward’s family seat in Lincolnshire, the aspect, situation and proportions of which she could only imagine.

  A man-servant answered her knock.

  “Good afternoon,” she said. “My name is Miss Drayton. I am expected by Miss Deede.”

  He opened the door for her to pass through. “Miss Deede will be down in a few minutes,” he said, leading her towards the rear of the house. “Will you wait in here, if you please, Miss?”

  Aurora found herself in a room which was clearly the library, though it perhaps also served as a study, and may have been a schoolroom in the past. There were many bookshelves, and a sturdy old-fashioned globe in the corner. In the centre of the carpet was a large table covered with books and papers. The space between the windows was occupied by a new, expensive cabinet, the type in which the front lowered to reveal a writing surface and many small drawers, cupboards and compartments.

  Aurora suspected this writing desk was locked, but she scrutinized it closely. There was a keyhole in the hinged front, and another in each of the three drawers below. The keyholes were all of the same type, and probably opened with the same key, perhaps similar to the key that unlocked the box in which Aurora’s mother kept a yellowing bundle of Father’s love letters.

  The desk seemed a suitable place to begin to search for something – a private paper, an account, a legal document, anything that might incriminate Josiah Deede. She could do nothing now, but she resolved to return as soon as an opportunity arose, and conduct herself like a real spy. She must either find the key or conquer the lock by some even less legitimate means.

  Above the fireplace was a painting of a country house. Aurora leaned closer to read the inscription on the frame. “Marshcote, 1656.” The house was low, made of red brick, not at all imposing. Set round a courtyard, it had casement windows and many chimneys, in the style of buildings of more than a hundred years ago. It must have been in the Francis family for generations. She thought about this for a moment. Her husband’s family. Her family, for the present. And now it had passed to the Deedes.

  Celia Deede flung open the door. Dressed in a pink and green silk house robe, its flounced sleeves trailing from her wrists, and with ribbons threaded through her blonde hair, her smiling countenance was as open as that of a child.

  “Miss Drayton!” she cried, taking Aurora’s hands, “how lovely you look!”

  Aurora had dressed in one of her two second-best gowns, a small-patterned brocade left unpaid-for by one of Mrs Eversedge’s customers, and eventually, after much unhappy correspondence, bequeathed to Aurora. It was a little heavy for a spring day, and Aurora hoped her attempt to lighten it by wearing pale-coloured shoes and a modestly trimmed hat had succeeded.

  “Thank you.” She found herself drawn into the hall, where the man-servant waited at the foot of the stairs. “Please call me Aurora.”

  “And you must call me Celia,” said her hostess, thrusting Aurora’s cloak into the man-servant’s arms. “Harrison, find Mr Joe.”

  Upstairs, they entered a large salon decorated in a tasteful, though not highly fashionable, style. “Joe will be here in a minute,” said Celia happily. “I was at the window and saw you looking at the house from the street, but Father says I must always leave Harrison to open the door because I am the mistress of the household. You seemed very interested in our house! Do you approve?”

  “Oh, yes!” Aurora gazed round the room. She saw a Turkish carpet, upholstered furniture, large portraits tastefully arrang
ed upon pale walls, a carved fireplace, a pile of books upon a small table, work abandoned on a chair. Light streamed through tall windows, one of which was open to the spring air and the sounds of the city. The room gave off an atmosphere of calm content, as if pleasant people conversed here, and pleasant things happened.

  “My father wishes to change this room,” said Celia, also looking around. “He says it has too much of a woman’s hand upon it. I believe it was furnished by the wife of the previous owner.”

  “You have not lived here long, I understand?” ventured Aurora. She sat down on the chair Celia indicated, adjusting the fall of her skirt. Her stomach seemed to be trying to escape from the top of her bodice. She tried to breathe steadily.

  Celia pushed aside her crumpled work and sat down to consider Aurora’s question. “Father was left this house in a will,” she said, “and it is grander than where we lived before, in Tavistock Street. Joe is so pleased to be living at such a smart address!”

  “You are fond of your brother,” observed Aurora with a smile.

  “Very fond.”

  “As I am of mine.”

  “Do tell me about your brother!” demanded Celia. “He is in ill health, is that correct?”

  Aurora sighed. “I am afraid so.”

  “And he will not receive visitors or go out?”

  “Cannot, rather than will not. He is in a consumption. Not quite at the end, but he is very ill.”

  “And you nurse him? How noble!”

  “We have servants,” said Aurora, thinking ruefully of taciturn Mary and workshy William. “And he keeps himself occupied. He is a writer.”

  Celia frowned. “A playwright, you mean? Or is he a – you know – a political man?”

  “He is neither. He writes for his own pleasure,” said Aurora gently. “And I think, under the circumstances, we can none of us begrudge him the indulgence.”

  “Quite so.” There was a short, uncomfortable silence. Then Celia took one of the books from the table and slid Aurora a sheepish look. “Joe gave me these to read. Father says I must read, or I will be empty-headed, and he does not approve of empty-headed girls. But I confess I do not very much like reading.”