Forbidden

by Nicola Cornick

  Margery stumbled to her feet, grabbing the banister for support. “I have to go to grandfather and tell him at once,” she said.

  “No,” Chessie said. “You have to go to Henry. This malicious tittle-tattle—” she tapped the papers disparagingly “—will already be all over Town. The only way to counter it is with the announcement of your betrothal. Then—” She squeezed Margery’s hands. “Then you talk to your grandfather.”

  “Yes,” Margery said. Her mind felt fuzzy and unfocussed. “Yes, of course. Thank you, Chessie.”

  Chessie gave her a brief, fierce hug. Margery could see she was very pale. “I’ll come with you,” she said.

  “No,” Margery said. “I’ll go alone.” She wanted no one with her when she went to Henry.

  Chessie nodded but her eyes were still anxious. “If you are sure.”

  Once Margery was upstairs in her room, though, she found that she did not actually know what to do. She sat down on the bed. She stood up again. She walked to the window and looked outside. She did not seem to be able to focus on anything, neither the busy street, nor the carriages rattling past, nor the quiet green spaces of the park stretching away into the distance. Everything looked strange, too brightly colored and too distant.

  She startled herself by giving a little sob. It felt as though there was a huge weight building in her chest and that any moment it would burst out and she would cry as though her heart would break. She had been so determined only to marry for love. Now she would be the one begging Henry to wed her out of duty. She grabbed her hat and spencer. The hat was yellow, frivolous and completely inappropriate. She did not care.

  As she came down the stairs a second time she heard voices in the hall.

  Henry.

  He knew. He had come to her. She stopped on the landing, one hand on the banister, and looked down at him. He was waiting for her in the hall below, head tilted up to watch her, the sunlight from the fan window falling on his face. In that moment of stillness Margery noticed several small things about him. He had taken the time to dress immaculately because this would be his third marriage proposal to her, and despite the circumstances he wanted to do it properly. He had also stopped on his way to buy her a small bouquet of flowers. Behind him was rank upon rank of elaborate arrangements from the flower cart, but Henry had brought her two tiny sprays of pink roses, just like the ones he had given her on the night long ago before she had become Lady Marguerite.

  For a second the tears stung Margery’s eyes but she blinked them back. She saw that Henry had a copy of the Mercury in his hand and the breath caught in her throat, tight and painful. He threw it aside and came forward to take her hands as she reached the bottom step.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said brokenly. The grief was back, searing her chest with hot tears. “So sorry that this has happened.”

  Henry shook his head. “You are not to blame,” he said fiercely. “It is my fault.”

  Chessie touched his arm. “You should be in private,” she said, and Henry nodded. He took Margery gently by the hand and led her into the drawing room. It was so bright with sunlight that it hurt her eyes. She threw her hat and spencer down on a chair and turned back to him. She was so anxious that she could not wait.

  “Will you marry me, please?” she burst out.

  Henry’s lips twitched into the smile she loved but his eyes were grave. “It would be my privilege,” he said.

  He said nothing of love, but Margery had not expected it. She trusted him. If, all her life, she felt the ache of loss in not having his love, she at least knew he was not like her father. He would never leave her. He would always stand by her side.

  She smiled and he took her hands and drew her toward him and kissed her very gently. And so they were engaged.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Six of Cups: Memory. The answer to a question lies in the past

  “MOLL!”

  Margery had been shopping for bridal clothes in Oxford Street with Joanna Grant and Tess Rothbury, and had just dropped the ladies back in Bedford Street when she heard Jem hailing the carriage from the other side of the road.

  It was a beautiful July day. Traffic on the streets was light. Members of the ton were starting to drift away from London to their country estates to escape the heat. Margery’s wedding was planned for a week’s time, at Templemore, and she could not wait to return to the country. Holding her head high and facing down the gossip in the full storm of all the lurid newspaper headlines had been one of the hardest things she had ever done in her life.

  It had been amusing to see Lady Wardeaux torn between gratification at the match she had wanted for so long and outraged disapproval at the way Margery and her son had behaved before they were engaged.

  “Really, Henry, I do believe that you have a great deal more of your papa in you than I had ever imagined,” she had said, on seeing the lurid headlines in the scandal sheets. “That sort of bad behavior comes from the Wardeaux side of the family.”

  Later, when Henry was absent, she had spoken to Margery.

  “No lady would ever behave the way that you have done, Marguerite,” she had said. “And if they had, they would not have been caught.”

  “So, my sin was to be found out rather than to sleep with Henry in the first place,” Margery complained to Chessie later.

  “Well, of course,” Chessie said, smiling. “Ladies behave badly all the time, Margery, but as long as no one finds out, everyone can pretend they are not.”

  “I never was very good at pretending,” Margery said gloomily.

  Chessie, Lady Grant and Lady Rothbury had been at her side every moment of the scandal, forcing her to go out when she would rather have pulled the bedcovers over her head and hidden away, helping her through the disgrace that had stolen her fragile confidence and forced her even further into the glare of publicity.

  “You should see what the papers used to write about me,” Tess Rothbury had said one day when they were in Gunters taking hot chocolate together. “And only half of it was true. The other half I wish I had tried, but alas I never did.”

  Henry, too, had been stalwart in his support, always beside her. No one dared say a word when Henry was there. But it was her grandfather whom Margery most regretted hurting. Not once had Lord Templemore reproached her, but she felt guilty through and through.

  “Moll!” Jem shouted again and Margery rapped on the roof for the carriage to stop. The groom let down the steps and Jem bounded in to throw himself down on the seat opposite her.

  “Hell’s bells,” he said, eying the huge piles of shopping with disfavor. “How can one small bride require so many clothes?”

  “I’m not sure,” Margery confessed. Ladies Grant and Rothbury were truly terrifying once they hit the shops and she had come away with bandboxes piled high with an astonishing number of items. Some of the underwear and nightgowns had made her blush, lacy, transparent, barely there. She imagined Henry would appreciate them once they were safely wed and allowed to be alone together again. Now that they were formally engaged, she was strictly chaperoned to make sure there was no more scandal.

  The carriage turned into Bedford Square. Some of the bandboxes started to tilt at a precarious angle and Margery put out a hand to steady them.

  “I say, Moll.” Jem leaned toward her. She could smell wine on his breath even though it was only the middle of the afternoon. “Could you lend me some cash? My pockets are to let.”

  “I don’t have any cash,” Margery said, dismayed. Over the past few weeks she had heard all manner of rumors about Jem’s profligate spending. His gambling losses were particularly acute. Barnard had also confided in her that a number of small items of gold and silver had disappeared from Templemore House. Margery knew exactly where they had gone. She had put temptation in front of her brother and he had been unable to resist.

  “I cannot give you any money, Jem,” she said firmly. “You know my fortune is all in trust. All I have is my allowance.”

&nb
sp; “You could ask your grandfather,” Jem said. His mouth set in an obstinate line. “He’d pay up. I dropped two thousand pounds at faro last night and they are dunning me for payment. Tell him there’ll be another scandal if he doesn’t settle the bill.” His gaze swept over the parcels and bandboxes. He scowled. “It’s not fair, Moll.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Margery snapped. She was furious at his attempt to blackmail her into getting him some money. “Life isn’t fair, Jem. How many times have you told me that in the past? That doesn’t mean you should go around stealing just because you don’t have everything you want.”

  Jem turned a dull brick-red. “Never thought you’d notice,” he said. “I suppose it was that poxy butler. Might have known he would keep a list.”

  “Of course he does,” Margery said. “It’s his job. This has to stop, Jem.” She leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. “I’m worried about you. The gambling and the drinking and all those women—”

  “Devil a bit,” Jem said. He broke into a grin though his eyes were cold. “Can’t a fellow have a bit of fun?” He shrugged, the casual gesture full of bitterness. “Let’s not talk about it anymore.” He turned his face away and stared fixedly out of the window at the bustling streets.

  “All right,” Margery said. She felt miserable. She knew this was not the end. It could not be, not with Jem. She had known for years that he was weak in some ways. He could not resist the lure of money. She had chosen to ignore it because she liked him and because he had always been on her side. Until now.

  There was a shout in the street outside and the carriage pulled to an abrupt halt. Margery and half the bandboxes and parcels cascaded onto the floor. The lids came off the boxes. Silks and laces spilled around her in a sea of tumbling color. She sprawled on the floor of the carriage with her trousseau frothing about her.

  Jem was laughing. He leaned down, extending a hand to help her. “Here you go,” he said. “Take my hand. We’d better get you home before anything else happens.”

  Take my hand. We’d better get you home.

  Margery froze, gooseflesh breathing along her skin. With no warning and a terrifying and vivid suddenness, the darkness in her memory lifted. She was four years old again, and she was in a carriage, and the night was black, and it was raining and the door of the coach was swinging open and Jem was looking down on her and extending a hand.

  Why, what have we here? Take my hand, sweetheart. I’ll take you home.…

  She gave a gasp. For a moment, she thought she was going mad. She could see her mother’s body sprawled on the seat and smell the gunpowder in the air. And there was blood. Jem was smiling as he bent to pick up little four-year-old Marguerite. His body was warm as he held her close and she could smell his scent and see the way his fair hair fell across his brow.

  A dream. A nightmare.

  Margery opened her mouth, but no words came.

  Jem was still holding out a hand to her. She did not move. She saw his expression change. Wariness came into his blue eyes, and then sharp awareness.

  “I knew you would remember one day,” he said. He spoke easily, conversationally, but the look in his eyes was colder than a whetted knife. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and sat back. “I was afraid that you would remember one day.”

  Terror closed Margery’s throat. She tried to find the words to deny it but already it was too late. She knew Jem had seen in her face that she knew the truth.

  “It was you,” she whispered. “You killed my mother.”

  Jem shrugged. “It was me,” he said.

  “Why?”

  Jem laughed. The sound ripped the air. It was loud and incongruous. “For the money, of course,” he said. “You know me, Moll. Why else?”

  Then his hands were about her throat, tight as a vise. The blood roared in Margery’s ears and she struggled and fought amid the cascading piles of bridal clothes, but it was no use. Jem was too strong. She felt consciousness slide away as the darkness came.

  * * *

  MARGERY WAS NOT SURE how long she was unconscious. She woke feeling sick, dizzy and disoriented. For a long moment she could not remember anything that had happened, then the images came rushing back, images of the carriage, of Jem, his hands about her neck. Her throat felt terrible, sore and bruised. Her entire body ached.

  She opened her eyes and squinted at her surroundings. She was being dragged up a staircase like a bag of coal, her body bumping on every tread. There was no carpet on the steps and the wood was old and splintered, scraping the back of her legs, pulling on her hair. Jem was carrying her. She could hear him swearing as he heaved her upward. She allowed her head to slump forward onto her chest to give the impression that she was still dead to the world. The very last thing that she wanted was for Jem to realize that she had regained consciousness.

  Jem pulled her around a turn of the stair. There was a scent in the air now. It was elusive, teasing Margery’s nostrils, a heavy perfume, and out of place against a background of peeled walls and bare boards.

  Light flared for a second and Margery screwed up her eyes against the brightness. Then it was gone. She felt herself lifted and tossed carelessly aside. She braced herself for a hard landing but instead rolled over in the yielding folds of a mattress that smelled old, of dust and damp. Somehow the reek of it filled her with desolation as though she were locked away forever in a room imbued with lost hopes and despair.

  Sound faded. She was alone. She opened her eyes and blinked painfully. Everything seemed to hurt. Needles of light exploded in her head. Her throat was rough and dry. She could feel her stomach rising. She lay still, trying to quell both the sickness and the panic.

  When she felt a little better she opened her eyes again and saw that the room she was in was small and lit by faint daylight from a dirty window far above her head. She could see a slice of rooftop, a chimney pot and a pale piece of blue sky, but that was all. She was in an attic, then, with a tiny dormer window and no way of climbing out. There was a door, though. She slid off the bed, being very careful to make no sound, and crept over to it, steadying herself against the wall as the dizziness threatened to engulf her.

  She could hear voices. One was Jem. The other was familiar, too, a woman’s voice, angry and vicious.

  “Why would you bring her here, you fool, and in full daylight? I want no part in this.”

  Jem replied, too low for Margery to hear though she strained her ear against the panel of the door.

  “Get rid of her!” The woman’s voice again. “You know plenty of people who could tip her in the Thames, no questions asked. You could do it yourself. Just don’t involve me!”

  Again Jem’s voice, louder this time, rising with anger. “You’ll do as I ask, you old bitch, or I’ll drag you into this so deep you’ll drown. Who do you think finds you the best girls for your filthy trade and makes sure they stay in line? Who pays for the roof over your head?” His voice quieted again. “All I’m asking is that you keep her here while I go and rattle the old man’s cage for some money.”

  “Then you’ll give me my cut, too!”

  Margery pressed a hand hard against her mouth to smother her sickness and fear. She recognized the voice now, and the elusive smell of perfume. The woman was Mrs. Tong and this was the Temple of Venus.

  Jem and Mrs. Tong were in business together. She felt sickened. Jem as pimp to the girls and financier to Mrs. Tong. It was the violent underside to the trade that she had always tried to ignore.

  Horror and cold fear rolled over Margery, setting her teeth chattering. In her heart of hearts she had always known that Jem was in bad company. He had run wild even in his teens. He could only have been fifteen when he had stopped her mother’s carriage in the robbery that had gone so dreadfully wrong. And now he planned to blackmail her grandfather into paying for her.

  She had loved Jem the best of all her brothers. He had protected her and watched over her and fought her battles for her, and all the time he had been the one who kne
w the bitter truth of her identity and her mother’s death. She wondered if he had protected her out of guilt for taking her mother’s life. She realized she would probably never know.

  She remembered everything about the night she had disappeared. She could see it running out like a silken thread through her memory, unrolling in all its horror. Her parents had quarreled and her mother had bundled her back into the carriage. They had driven off through the night, the London streets giving way to the dark countryside. All the while her mother had cried, and Margery had sat still and frozen in a corner, shrinking as small as she could to escape the misery she could feel but not understand.

  She saw it in images and emotions, not as one continuous memory. There was the sudden shift and sway of the carriage as it had come to a halt, the sound of a shot and the blast of cold air as the door had swung open. Her mother was screaming, then nothing, nothing but blackness and the cold and Jem scooping her up and taking her away to his home where there had been warmth and candlelight. There had been food, too—a rough broth Margery could remember even now. She had felt kindness—Mrs. Mallon hugging her tight and saying she had always wanted a daughter….

  She was left with an overwhelming feeling of loneliness. She raised a hand to her face and felt it wet with tears again.

  The rest were memories from a new and different life, and now she wondered if the shock of the experience as a small child had wiped the entire episode from her mind until she had seen Mr. Churchward and started the painful process of memory.

  She frowned. There was one small piece of memory missing, a shadowy figure who had also been there that night, standing by the carriage in a waft of veils, a clatter of bracelets and the scent of lily of the valley. Margery shuddered, blinked. She saw the face of Lady Emily Templemore.

  Lady Emily. It seemed impossible, mad. Yet she was certain that Lady Emily had been involved. She thought of the accidents at Templemore and Lady Emily’s repeated questions to her from the very first day.

  My, what a striking resemblance you bear to your late grandmama…not your mama, she was tall. Do you recall anything about her?