Vice and Virtue

by Veronica Bennett

  “Very well,” she said bitterly. “Do your worst, the both of you.”

  On the table lay her gloves, where she had discarded them when she came in. They were her new ones, made of kid leather edged with lace. Edward picked up the right‑hand glove and threw it on the floor at Joe Deede’s feet. “I challenge you to defend the honour and reputation of your family.”

  Joe stooped and picked up the glove. Aurora stared at it, invested as it was with an importance beyond its appearance, wondering if somehow its femininity could make void the masculine vow it represented. The desire to scream with horror constricted her throat.

  “I accept the challenge,” said Joe. He dropped the glove, returned his sword to its sheath and bowed. “At dawn, sir, the day after tomorrow, upon Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

  Edward bowed too, and Joe strode from the room. Only when the sound of his footsteps had gone, and the street door had slammed, did Edward put down his own sword. “Remind me tomorrow,” he said, looking ruefully at Aurora, “to get this old thing sharpened.”

  Aurora’s legs would no longer support her. She sat down on Edward’s bed. The room swung around her. “Edward,” she said, her voice sounding far away, as if it were someone else’s voice heard through a wall. “Edward, my husband, I beg you, do not do this.”

  He removed his sword-belt and his wig, put them on the table and took off his coat. Not having yet been able to change his clothes, it was his best coat, the dark red one with gold-trimmed buttonholes. Under it he was still wearing the dishevelled shirt he had donned for Spring Gardens, his embroidered waistcoat and his dirtied breeches. He set the jacket on the back of the chair, rumpled his hair with the palm of his hand, and sighed deeply.

  Aurora knew that all the time he was doing this he was thinking. It was becoming clear that he was much, much better at thinking than she was. Tears stung her eyes. “I am so sorry,” she said in a whisper. “I should have been more vigilant. I forgot the key. I have proved worse than useless to you; I have led you into mortal danger.” Her cheeks were wet with tears, but she made no attempt to wipe them away. “You must withdraw from the duel. Please, please…”

  Gently, he took her hands in his. “I cannot withdraw. It is a question of honour. ”

  “But you are not a match for Joe Deede!” she protested. “You do not follow sporting pursuits. You do not ride or hawk. You like books and music, and carry a sword only because it is part of every gentleman’s attire, like his wig or his waistcoat. Surely there is a less violent way to settle this dispute?”

  Edward wiped her cheeks with his thumbs. “Are you suggesting that I arm myself with a treatise on natural history, and Deede defend himself with a violin?”

  “How can you joke?” Aurora was aghast. “He will kill you!”

  “Then I will die defending my father’s honour. There are worse ways to end one’s life.”

  “Edward!” An agitation she had never felt before rushed over her. She gripped his wrist with her good hand. “You cannot throw your life away in this stubborn way. I cannot bear it. Have you forgotten that I am your wife?”

  He regarded her for a long moment. Then he removed her hand from his wrist and drew it to his breast. “No, I have not forgotten. You are my wife and I am your husband, much to Joe Deede’s chagrin. But you married me believing I was about to die, and that you would soon be a widow. A rich one, but a widow nevertheless. If I am killed by a blade rather than an illness, you will still be my widow, only you will not be rich. The Deedes do not know who you were before you were Edward Francis’s secret wife. You may return to your family and forget all about me.”

  “How can I do that?” she protested. “If you are killed, I will not rest until I have had my revenge. I will pursue Josiah Deede relentlessly. Richard will help me. Your family honour, and your fortune, will be restored.”

  He smiled sadly. “Think of your mother, and your beloved sisters…”

  “It is because of them that I must do this! If you are killed, the stolen fortune is mine in law, and I will do everything I can to retrieve my rightful property so that I can give my mother the material comfort she deserves and help my sisters to find suitable husbands.”

  He regarded her, his lips compressed, the skin under his eyes wrinkling with the intensity of his stare. Aurora did not flinch.

  “Then do as you wish,” he said, and bent his head to kiss her hand.

  She did not know what to say. She could not explain the force of her feelings, or how sudden and strong was her desire that he should live and continue to be her husband. The seriousness of his situation, and the tenderness of his action, made all the words she knew seem redundant. She gazed helplessly at him as he raised his head.

  “Tomorrow may be my last day on earth,” he said. “If I do not return from Lincoln’s Inn on Tuesday morning, you must—”

  She put up her right hand to stop him. “But you will return, Edward! God will surely protect you!”

  Murder Begets Murder

  The next morning Aurora found herself again alone in the attic rooms. Edward’s dark red suit lay folded upon the chest in which his clothes were kept, and his long wig was on its stand. He had dressed plainly for whatever business he was about today. The outer door, its lock broken, hung half open.

  It took her a long time to dress in her sprigged gown. Her shoulder throbbed with insistent pain. She managed to wash her face, but she could not pin up her hair with one hand, so she left it as she had worn it for sleep, in a single plait. She sat at the table, read the precious letter from Flora two more times, then folded it and put it in her pocket.

  It was after two o’clock when Mary came to clear the breakfast dishes. She gave Aurora an inquisitive look. Aurora knew it was foolish to pretend nothing had happened. Mary might be graceless and taciturn, but she was not an imbecile.

  “I thank you, Mary, for your attempts to dissuade my visitor from coming upstairs last night,” she said. “But he was incensed, and would not listen to reason.”

  Mary bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, ’m.”

  “Mr Drayton dealt with him. He will not come back.”

  “Yes, ’m.” Mary stretched for the butter dish, which was at Aurora’s elbow. Aurora, who was expected to help Hester at home, unthinkingly reached for it too. She gasped, the jolt of pain bringing tears to her eyes. “You ’urt, Miss?” asked Mary.

  “It is nothing. Um … Mr Drayton will speak to Mr Marshall about the door lock. He will of course pay for its repair.”

  Another curtsey, then Mary picked up the loaded tray, still eyeing Aurora. “Very well, ’m.”

  Mary elbowed the half-open door wider and bustled through with her tray. Aurora heard her footsteps on the stairs, William’s inept whistling and the squawking of the chickens in the yard behind the house. Then the street door banged and Edward’s boots sounded on every second stair as he ran up to the attic rooms. Normal sounds in a normal world.

  But Aurora’s world was no longer normal. When Edward came in, put a grease-stained package from a pie shop on the table and sat down in the other chair, she knew she had never felt such dread. She looked at him intently, imprinting his every feature on her memory.

  “Your shoulder hurts you, does it not?” he asked.

  She nodded. “But not as sorely as my dread of Joe Deede.”

  “Do not think about him. You are nervous because you are in pain.” From the pocket of his waistcoat he took a small bottle. “I have brought you a draught of laudanum. It will make you sleep. You will not be anxious, and when you wake up your arm will feel better, and all will be over.”

  “I thank you, but I cannot sleep,” she told him gravely. Unbidden by any conscious instruction, her good hand grasped his forearm as it lay on the table. Touching him, feeling his living flesh through his shirt and coat sleeve, seemed compellingly important. The idea that after tomorrow that flesh might be for ever cold seemed ludicrous, the suggestion of a madman. “I wish to be with you every minute until dawn
.”

  His eyes shone as he put the bottle containing the sleeping draught on the table and took her hand in both his. He seemed to wish to smile, but kept his countenance as grave as her own. “Be in no doubt of my gratitude for your concern, my dear,” he said, “but that cannot be. I have been to a knife-grinder this morning and had him sharpen my sword, and now I must rouse Richard.”

  Aurora’s heart thudded, but she recovered herself enough to voice her surprise. “Surely Richard should rest today?”

  “He has rested long enough. He has duties,” said Edward briskly. “He must act as my second.”

  Aurora pictured Richard’s thin, watchful face and his bandaged head. She could not imagine him performing the duties of the duellist’s second man, making sure the rules of duelling were followed, calling the en garde for the start of the fight, dealing with his wounded, or dead, friend after the event. “I cannot think he is well enough for such a task,” she said dubiously.

  The sounds of doors opening and closing and of Samuel Marshall’s voice came from below. Edward spoke softly. “He will have to be. He is a good swordsman, and even though he is injured I need his help. I must practise for many hours today. It is a while since I drew my sword.” He smiled thinly. “Until last night, that is.”

  Aurora was dismayed. Women could not enter fencing-halls. “But I cannot stay here alone, Edward, waiting for you. I shall go mad.”

  “Then take the laudanum and sleep. I will not be back tonight. Richard and I intend to go straight to Lincoln’s Inn Fields from the fencing-hall.”

  Aurora gazed at him blankly. “But the duel is not until dawn!”

  “The sun does not rise until half past five,” he explained gently, “but there are too many people going about their business by then. Deede will be there before four o’clock, you may be sure.”

  Aurora’s heart felt swollen, as if it were too small to hold the many things she wanted to tell him. She wished he knew that his death would break her heart, and that she would give herself to another man only from the strictest necessity, as she had promised, that day in the drawing-room, to give herself to Edward. He had stirred something in her beyond the compassion, pity or indignation aroused by his plight – something inexpressible, yet which she longed to express. And although he seemed aware of the shift her feelings had undergone, he gave her no opportunity to speak of it. Wiser than she was, he would not allow her to say or do anything she might afterwards regret, at least until the outcome of tomorrow’s meeting on Lincoln’s Inn Fields was known.

  So she said nothing of these thoughts. She put her hands in her lap and summoned a meek expression. “Very well, I shall obey. I shall sit here and write to my sister, and pray for your safe return.”

  “God will protect me, as you yourself believe,” said Edward. “And I have right on my side.”

  Aurora nodded. Men always thought they had right on their side, whichever side they were on. “Beware, though,” she warned, “and remember that it is your father’s death that has led you to this. Murder, as is often said, begets murder.”

  Edward looked at her for a moment with his black eyes. Her heart quailed; she was near embracing him. But before she could move he stood and went to the door. “I bid you farewell,” he said flatly, and departed, pulling the broken latch behind him.

  Mary was sweeping the stairs. Knock, knock, knock went the brush against each riser. Aurora heard Edward exchange greetings with Mr Marshall. She looked at the package of food before her. Its smell nauseated her; she had no appetite. Wearily, she rose and went into her bedchamber, where she sat on the bed, nursing her arm and thinking.

  Her shoulder felt red-hot, as if pierced by needles, but she did not take the laudanum Edward had brought. She stared at the wall and imagined the next day’s events. Richard would come in the early hours and tell her Edward was dead. And she would tell Richard of her promise not to rest until she had exposed Josiah Deede and regained Henry Francis’s fortune.

  Tears threatened, but she quelled them. She must not sit here weeping. She was responsible now. Together she and Richard would mourn Edward, pretending to her mother and sisters that he had died suddenly of his illness. Richard would give her money, and she would continue to live in the city, never ceasing her pursuit of Josiah Deede. Only when Deede had been tried and hanged would she return to Dacre Street and tell her family the truth. She tried to imagine being a rich widow, spending Edward’s fortune. But she could not; such a notion seemed fatuous. What did she care about the money if she were obliged to live her life alone?

  Her heart leapt suddenly. She knew without question that she would lodge for ever above the bookshop and sew petticoats for bread if only Edward were alive, and by her side.

  She got up and walked about the small room. Three steps this way, three steps that. And as she walked her desire to preserve Edward’s life consumed her. She became more and more resolute. The duel must not take place.

  Pain shot through her left shoulder as she pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to think. Where would Joe Deede be today, on a Monday afternoon? At home in Mill Street, taking tea with his sister? Was he at this very moment telling Celia that Aurora was an impostor, and that her husband had challenged him to a duel? A vision of Celia’s horror-stricken face came into her mind, but she dismissed it. Celia had been a means to an end, and Aurora must suppress any guilt arising out of her treatment of her. A girl such as Celia would quickly find herself another “dearest friend”.

  She walked around the room again. At whatever cost to herself, her only choice was to persuade Joe Deede to withdraw his acceptance of the challenge. But she could not go to Mill Street as Miss Drayton, or as herself. She would have to become someone else. After all, she remained Edward’s spy as well as his obedient wife. Aurora the obedient wife had told him she would stay in all day and pray for him. But Aurora the spy had no intention of giving him up to Joe Deede’s sword without a fight of her own.

  Her trunk still stood open by the bed. She took out the brown woollen gown she used to wear for helping her mother in the shop. Slowly, clenching her teeth whenever she had to use her left arm, she changed her clothes. She looped up her plait under her plainest cap and a small straw hat. Then she wrapped an old shawl she usually only wore indoors around her shoulders and tied it behind, servant-fashion. As an afterthought, she tucked her left arm inside it. The makeshift sling lessened the pain in her shoulder; she would be able to face with reasonable comfort whatever came to her today. She crossed the room to the mirror. To her satisfaction, it showed her a nondescript member of the servant class.

  She set off towards Mayfair, a lively wind whisking her skirt. When she came within sight of the horse-trough, she noticed that an alley adjoining Conduit Street led past the back of the house. It was narrow and smelled foul, but widened into a yard where there were stables and a dairy. A woman in a pink second-hand gown, the skirt six inches deep in filth, crossed the yard with a bucket of slops. She did not even cast a glance at Aurora.

  The windows of Edward’s house overlooked Mill Street and Conduit Street. But its rear wall was solid, except for attic windows, which were visible if Aurora stepped back far enough. No one could be watching from inside. She shivered, though the day and her clothes were warm. It was apprehension, she told herself, not fear. What she was about to do did not frighten her. It was a necessity.

  A panelled door in a stout frame opened off the narrow part of the alley. Nailed to it was a piece of wood with the word “Deede” carved into it for the benefit of tradesmen, coachmen and messengers such as her disguised self. She climbed the step and knocked. While she waited she tried to picture the Deedes’ servants: Harrison, who had taken her cloak and brought water when she had pretended to faint; the young man, Robert, who had helped him wait at table; Missy, who had brought the tea. She thought wistfully of Hester, who had done whatever she was asked for ten years and had still had time to soothe grazed knees, invent rainy-day games and act as media
tor in sisterly disputes.

  “Yes?” It was Missy. Aurora dipped her chin.

  “Message for Mr Deede,” she announced, imitating Mary by not using unnecessary words.

  “Master, or young master?”

  “Young master.”

  “Who is the message from?”

  “Mr Marshall of the sign of the Seven Stars in Covent Garden.”

  Missy contemplated her with her head on one side. Aurora looked steadfastly at the doorstep, pretending the awkwardness of an inferior servant before a superior one.

  “Mr Deede is from home,” said the maid. “If you will tell me your master’s message I will pass it to him when he returns.”

  “Master said the message is to be delivered to Mr Deede himself.” From her pocket Aurora drew the letter from her sister, which had been the nearest paper to hand when she had changed her clothes. “He was most particular that I put this into his hands myself.”

  An uncertain look came over Missy’s face. “Oh, very well. Mr Marshall should have sent a man-servant, though. Mr Deede will be at White’s.” And without any parting words, she shut the door.

  Aurora hurried away, her brain busy. Joe Deede did not feel the need to practise fencing, then. He would rather spend the day discussing whichever subject arose with anyone who would listen. Everyone talked to everyone else in a coffee house, from aristocrats to journalists, from physicians to booksellers, from attorneys to slave-merchants.

  Everyone, that is, except women.

  There were plenty of people about, mostly of the middling sort, and mostly men. Nobody looked at Aurora as she approached White’s. The door stood open, but a thick fog of tobacco smoke hung between Aurora and proper sight of any of the customers. The place was crowded and very noisy, each voice raised over the din of all the others until every man was shouting. She knew that the only feminine presence would be the woman who operated the steaming, puffing array of coffee pots behind the counter. Ladies did not go into coffee houses, and neither, as Missy had pointed out, did female servants.