Salt Redux

by Lucinda Brant

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Nanny? Is there something urgent that has caused this intrusion?” Jane asked, interrupting Sir Antony’s questioning when Nanny crept up the room, an unfamiliar gentleman at her back. She was about to enquire as to the gentleman’s identity when Sir Antony shot to his feet and went to meet the stranger.

  “Semper?”

  “Please excuse the gross intrusion, my lord,” the majordomo apologized, not a blink in the Countess of Salt Hendon’s direction, and still slightly out of breath. He had run all the way from South Audley Street, the muck to his shoes and his windswept hair testament to the urgency of discharging his errand. “I need a private word—now.”

  Sir Antony nodded to Nanny Browne, who reluctantly departed, and he took Semper a little way down the length of the room, out of earshot of the Countess.

  “You spoke with Mr. T?”

  “Yes, my lord, I did.”

  “He was able to persuade the domestic of the establishment in question to divulge the particulars of what transpired with Mrs. S?”

  “Yes, my lord, he was very persuasive and the domestic forthcoming.”

  “And?”

  “The information is distressing to say the least…”

  Sir Antony felt a prickle of sweat break out across his scalp.

  “Go on! Go on!”

  “The domestic told Mr. T that Mrs. S was very particular in her wants, and that it was some days before the object could be obtained, and then secreted away and given to Mrs. S—”

  “Well? Well? Semper! For God’s sake, just spit it out!”

  “Yes, my lord. The domestic gave Mrs. S the object wrapped up in a parcel. This parcel matches in size and shape the one the nursery maid was seen carrying under her arm when she left the carriage.”

  “And in this parcel, Semper? What was in it?”

  “An article of clothing, stripped from the still-warm body of an infant recently deceased, along with its mother, from, as you can rightly surmise, the smallpox. The domestic told Mr. T that the dead infant’s outer garments, shoes and cap were not wanted. Just the plain chemise, that which is worn next to an infant’s skin—”

  “Good—God, how diabolical,” Sir Antony muttered. “That scoundrel Amherst has a lot to answer for!”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord? Amherst…?”

  “Never mind that lunatic! I have my own to deal with!” Sir Antony rallied and gripped his majordomo’s shoulder. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “I thought time was of the essence, my lord.”

  Semper dared to glance over at the window seat where he let his gaze linger a moment on the beautiful young woman cradling an infant, and at the nursery maid standing mutely to attention before her. Recovering his wits when he heard his name for a second time, he bowed and left the nursery with as much dignity as he could muster, Sir Antony striding back to the window seat to say to Betsy without preamble,

  “You were given something yesterday. A parcel. Mrs. Smith gave you a parcel. Where is it?”

  “Please, Betsy. Don’t cry. You must be brave and tell Sir Antony what he wants to know, and be truthful.”

  Betsy nodded vigorously and dashed her moist eyes.

  “Yes, my lady. I will. I will be truthful! I was truthful with Nanny Browne. I told her I did what I did because I had to. I didn’t want to steal Sam’s rattle but Aunt Smith said if I didn’t, me da would never get out of debtor’s prison.”

  “You took Sam’s rattle?” Jane asked before Sir Antony could, such was her surprise. At least she did not need to ask the maids to keep searching for it. “What did Mrs. Smith want with it?”

  “I don’t know, my lady! I don’t know why I was to do any of the things they had me do! It made no sense to me at all. Please. You must believe me!” The tears were back and she glanced at Sir Antony before saying to the Countess, “Will I hang for it? Mrs. McIntyre says little children get strung up for stealing a lady’s handkerchief!”

  “No. You won’t hang, Betsy. That I promise you.”

  “The parcel, Betsy?” Sir Antony prompted. “What did you do with the parcel?”

  Mention of the parcel again set Betsy off into a convoluted explanation that made no sense.

  “It wasn’t right what they wanted me to do! I told Nanny Browne, I didn’t care if I got into trouble for doing it, I just had to do it! I had a feeling in m’bones, you see. A feeling that told me what I had to do. And it wasn’t what they wanted me to do.”

  “That’s just it, Betsy,” Sir Antony said with extreme patience. “It is what you did with it, or didn’t do with it, that concerns us. What did you do with the parcel?”

  Betsy looked from the Countess to Sir Antony as if it was self-evident. And as both showed not the slightest twinge of getting angry with her, she took a deep breath and told them.

  “I brought it into the house as I was asked to do but it just didn’t feel right to me and so I let it be, and when I got up this morning, before I came down to your ladyship’s bedchamber to fetch Sam to change him into a clean chemise after his first feed of the day, I put the parcel to the flame.” She pointed to the large fireplace with its white painted overmantel and tapestry safety screen on the other side of the room. “I put it in the grate over there. I waited and watched until it was well alight, so no one could pull it out again. I wanted it to burn until there was nothing left to show for it, but then I had to fetch Sam, and it made some smoke and one of the footmen had to open a window, and that’s when Nanny Browne was told. There must have been something of it left in the grate… All the nursery maids were blamed for it, but it was me and I didn’t want anyone else to get in trouble.”

  When Sir Antony put his face in his hands and let out a great sigh as he crouched before her, Betsy cowered, thinking he was about to berate her as Mrs. McIntyre and Nanny Brown had done. But in the next instance he stood tall and ran a hand over his face and smiled at her, so she took a step closer.

  “I did the right thing, didn’t I? To put it to the flame?”

  “Yes! Yes! You did, Betsy! Thank God for that! Thank God for you, Betsy! Well done. Burning that parcel was the only thing to do with it!” He had a sudden thought. “You didn’t open it first, did you?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir. I saw no reason to do so.”

  “Good girl! Do you know what was in the package?”

  “Yes, sir, I do. A baby’s undergown. It was for baby Sam. Aunt Smith told me. She said it was a gift. But the parcel was tied up with a bit of dirty old string and it didn’t look the sort of wrapping for a gift for a noble babe. It would be cloth tied up with silk ribbon or a velvet pouch, wouldn’t it? That was what the silver rattle was given in, wasn’t it, my lady?

  “Yes, Betsy. That is so.”

  The girl nodded and continued, the more time she was permitted to explain herself, the more confident she became, particularly with such a receptive and attentive audience.

  “They said I had to dress Sam in the gown, and when I had me doubts, they did this to me to convince me otherwise.” She showed Sir Antony and Jane her bandaged arm. “The true Countess of Salt Hendon is not a very nice lady for all her finery. I don’t care what Aunt Smith says otherwise, or how badly she says the true Countess has been treated. I’ve never had it so well in all my life as I have here in this house. I’ve been treated very kindly by your ladyship. My bones told me that there was somethin’ wicked about such a gift. And so I knew, I knew in my heart what I did with the parcel was the right thing to do, whatever they say will happen to my family back in Birmingham!”

  Jane and Sir Antony shared a look.

  “I beg your pardon, Betsy,” Jane said, incredulous. “The true Countess of Salt Hendon?”

  Betsy nodded again. “I don’t know her by any other name. Aunt Smith says she calls herself something else in good company until the time comes when she can claim back her husband—”

  “Claim her husband?”

  “—from you, m
y lady. He who shares your bed and has given you children, even if he can’t give you his title, because he loves you, not her.”

  Jane clapped a hand to her mouth. She didn’t know whether to laugh at the girl’s ingenuous explanation or cry because she was certain that in her insanity and self-delusion this is precisely what Diana believed, no doubt reinforced in her years of captivity.

  Jane’s action and Sir Antony’s subsequent frown made Betsy blurt out, as if she was disbelieved,

  “As God is my witness, everythin’ I’ve said is the truth, my lady. I tried to tell Nanny Browne everythin’ from the beginnin’, but she says I made it all up to get m’self out of trouble because I burned the parcel. She says it’s all a fairy story, but it isn’t! You must believe me, my lady!”

  “No, Betsy, it is not a fairy story, although I do hope it will have a happy ending just like a fairy story,” Jane said with a smile, returning her pinkie to her son’s mouth. “And I do believe you.”

  The nursery maid’s vehement plea coincided with Sam’s wail of need. When Jane had clapped her hand to her mouth in surprise, she had unconsciously pulled her little finger from between her son’s mouth. He had been sucking on it in the vain hope of receiving nourishment. He was now not content with that ruse and let his mother know in no uncertain terms his demands must be met at once or his wails would get louder.

  “Shall I fetch a shawl, my lady?” Betsy asked, a glance at Sir Antony, and at Jane’s nod, she rammed the cap over her curls and scuttled out of the room.

  “You really must get her a new, smaller cap, Jane. Perhaps one with a pretty blue bow.”

  “It is the least I can do for her, believe me! Good Gracious!” Jane exclaimed when Betsy was out of earshot. “Is it any wonder the poor creature was accused of being a liar and a thief? That poor, dear girl. What hold must Diana and that Mrs. Smith have over her to try and get her to do such dreadful things?”

  “I have no idea, but it seems to involve her father and her siblings. I am sure Betsy will tell us. And when she does, I will assure her that we will do everything in our power to correct the mischief caused by Diana and that dreadful creature who does her bidding.”

  “I have the greatest feeling of dread, but yet also of wondrous relief. I can’t explain it. But I am very sure Salt and I are in Betsy’s debt for burning that parcel.”

  “You can have no idea just how much you are in her debt. Sam is upset enough, so I don’t want to upset you both. It can wait for another day. Suffice that the danger has been averted because of the feeling in Betsy’s bones!”

  He returned the empty teacups and saucers to the tea trolley by the door and went to inspect the fireplace where the parcel had been put to the flame, back to the window seat. He did not expect to find any remnants of the parcel or its contents, but he prodded the ashes with the brass poker as if he were searching for something, all to give Betsy the time to return with the shawl and Jane the grace to undo the lacings and adjust her maternity bodice to accommodate her infant son’s demands. Before he returned to the window seat, he walked the length of the long room and stood at the furthest window with its view of the gardens. There was no sign of the children, so perhaps they were on their way up to the nursery.

  The absence of Sam’s lusty cries and Betsy fussing about Jane, signaled he could safely return to the window seat, but first he went to the tea trolley and made a cup of milky sweet tea in the remaining clean teacup. He then grabbed one of the children’s chairs and placed it before Jane and had Betsy sit upon it. He then surprised the girl by handing her the cup of tea. He returned to his corner of the window seat, where he plumped a cushion and settled himself, long muscular legs crossed at stockinged ankles and arms folded.

  “Betsy, I want you to tell Lady Salt and me everything there is to tell about you and Mrs. Smith and the lady you know only as the true Countess of Salt Hendon. Don’t spare any detail and don’t worry. Everything you tell us will go no further than these four walls. I shall now close my eyes, but I am very much awake and eager to hear every word of your story. Shall I start you off? Once there was a girl called Betsy…”

  “It’s Elizabeth, sir. But Betsy is what I’ve always been called. My ma named me after her ma, and she was named after her ma who lived…”

  Sir Antony smiled to himself. It was going to be a very long story indeed… But what did that matter? The smallpox-infected chemise was burned, his godson was safe, and as he had foretold, Diana had not calculated on the power of love to conquer all. He prayed she continued in her ignorance and supreme arrogance, unaware of what awaited her the night of the masquerade until the moment of capture. He hoped he could maintain his façade of civility in her company long enough not to throttle the life out of her beforehand, causing the sort of newssheet sensation he was desperately trying to avoid.

  Two days later as he stepped up into the carriage to join Diana and Lady Porter for the short drive to Salt House for the masquerade, he caught his sister’s spiteful retort, and it took supreme effort of will not to leap across the seat and do just that, and the evening not yet begun.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  SIR ANTONY SETTLED on the upholstered carriage bench next to Lady Porter, diagonally opposite his sister. He carefully avoided stepping on the hems of the voluminous silk petticoats of either lady, although he couldn’t avoid the gathered-up yards of gold embroidered silks of Lady Porter’s Jacobean costume, despite the wide panniers being concertinaed to accommodate travel in such a confined space. With the steps folded up and the door closed, he gave a knock with a gloved knuckle on the wooden panel above the upholstered headboard, and the carriage set to for the short journey to Grosvenor Square for the most anticipated masquerade ball of the Season.

  He had heard Diana’s spiteful remark about the Countess of Salt Hendon but chose to ignore it. Fluffing out the delicate lace ruffles at his wrists, he took stock of his sister in her masquerade costume. She had chosen an Elizabethan-themed outfit. Her upswept auburn hair was tightly curled, her face powdered, cheeks rouged, lips a cherry red, all framed by a magnificent Elizabethan ruff that encircled her neck. Constructed for the ball of the thinnest parchment, veneered with beeswax mixed with other ingredients to give it a high sheen, it complemented her red taffeta gown. From her ears dripped a pair of diamond and garnet earrings, and at her décolletage was a matching necklace. Her outfit had cost him a small fortune. But it was a tiny price to pay, given it had kept her preoccupied right up until the moment the carriage pulled up to take them to Salt House.

  Before leaving for the ball, he’d had a last word with Semper about arrangements for later that evening. His valet-in-training, Nikolas, shrugged him into the blue silk and gold brocade military-style frock coat that completed his costume as Peter the Macaw, and as he stood before the long looking glass appraising his outfit, he enquired if everything and everyone was in place when the time came for him to give the signal for Diana’s recapture. This would occur at the end of the evening, as the guests departed in the small hours, when people milled about the entrance foyer of Salt House saying their farewells, and carriages were coming and going. He and Diana would climb into his carriage, Lady Porter shown home by sedan chair, and leave Grosvenor Square heading north, not south and drive up North Audley Street. The carriage would turn left into Tyburn Road and head out of the environs of Westminster. A carriage carrying Mr. T and his associates would follow, and a second carriage was waiting to meet both carriages at the turnpike.

  There was a cottage near the turnpike, possibly lived in by the collector of tolls. Sir Antony did not care to know. All he cared was that Mr. T had secured its use and the selective blindness and loss of hearing of the cottage’s occupants. In this cottage, Diana would be stripped of her finery and put into a rough linen gown, her ankles and wrists manacled. She would be rendered speechless by a scold’s bridle. A frightening instrument, but as necessary and as justified as the manacles for a cold hearted murderess—a monster who had tried to i
nfect a newborn infant with a smallpox-ridden rag.

  Once the prisoner was bundled into the second carriage, Sir Antony would hand over a letter of instruction and half what was owed Mr. T and his associates. The rest of their payment would be forthcoming once his sister—he would never call her that after tonight—was transferred to her Russian handlers, those intrepid souls taking her deep beyond the Ural Mountains. The last he ever wanted to hear of the prisoner was by letter, from her jailer at the settlement at Beryozovo.

  And what would Society make of this second sudden disappearance of Diana, Lady St. John? The inspiration for that had popped into Sir Antony’s bare head while soaking in his thinking tub. Such a necessary luxury, his thinking tub. The details he had mulled over while making the perfect cup of tea. He had taken his cup of tea to the walnut writing table in the sitting room off his bedchamber. Here he sat with a scarlet silk banyan covering his nakedness and composed a news piece to be published in the morning’s newssheets. It would be anonymous. Written on fine parchment, the red sealing wax offset, clumsily imprinted with the intaglio seal in his signet ring, so as not to identify the sender. Yet, delivered by a liveried footman, the proprietors could not fail to print the interesting news as fact, not hearsay. It only remained for Sir Antony to persuade the second party named in the missive to cooperate, and he didn’t doubt that gentleman’s support when he confronted him at the masquerade.

  As for Mrs. Smith…

  Diana had descended the stairs to the entrance foyer in all her Elizabethan finery with a secret smile of satisfaction curving her painted mouth, no doubt in response to last minute instructions given Mrs. Smith for her next dastardly deed. Sir Antony responded with one of his own lovely smiles as he complimented her on her gown, knowing that at that very moment, four of his Russians were bundling Mrs. Smith down the backstairs and out into a waiting hackney bound for Bethlem Hospital. Mrs. Smith would spend the rest of her days in Bedlam, a certified lunatic. It was more than she deserved. But Sir Antony had taken a modicum of pity on the woman for being duped. Besides, anyone who could be so slavishly devoted to such an evil creature as his sister had to be insane.