A Lady of Consequence

by Mary Nichols

  ‘She fell in love with you, my lord, and was besieged by guilt and the knowledge that she had forfeited your respect. “Hoist by my own petard” I think were the words she used. That is why she left. And if I might be so bold, I think you should leave her alone to recover.’ She paused and when he had nothing to say, added, ‘Now, I have a rehearsal to go to, if you will excuse me.’

  He left, utterly dejected. Was she right? Should he give up and accept that Maddy was lost to him? But how could he rid himself of this ache in his heart, this huge knot of longing that only she could relieve? He walked. He did not know where he was walking, nor did he care.

  Chapter Ten

  Arabella Cartwright took York by storm. Accustomed to having all the best actresses rushing off to London as soon as they had learned their craft, the theatregoers of that city welcomed her like a breath of fresh air. From her first performance in an indifferent tragedy by an unknown playwright, she was fêted and the theatre’s takings took an unprecedented boost.

  It pleased Madeleine that she was judged on her merit as an actress and not because she was Madeleine Charron, well known as one of Lancelot Greatorex’s ‘finds’. Everyone was singing her praises as the best tragedy actress the north had seen for years, but it was easy to play a tragic heroine when your heart was breaking. She had only to think of Duncan and how she had won him and lost him, for genuine tears to fall and her performance rose from good to superb.

  Many, well versed in theatre lore, wondered where she had come from. She appeared not to have had the usual struggle to be recognised, but arrived already skilled and totally in command of herself and the role she had been given. Their questions were unlikely to be answered because she disappeared immediately after each performance and did not mingle with the other thespians and theatregoers who crowded backstage afterwards. It gave her a certain aura of mystery.

  But she had learned her lesson. She told no lies, made no statements about her antecedents; she certainly said nothing at all about a French grandfather. She was, she told the theatre management when she applied for a job, simply a young woman who had come into acting because she had to earn a living and she had discovered she was good at it. She asked only for a chance to prove it. It was fortunate for her that one of their company had fallen sick and a replacement was needed and so, having given them a speech from Romeo and Juliet, her most famous role, as a taster, she had been offered a part as a temporary measure.

  And just in case her fame had spread to Yorkshire, she had reverted to her real name of Cartwright and used her mother’s given name. Not that she expected pursuit. Duncan was, by now, engaged to marry Miss Annabel Bulford, a young lady considered eminently suitable by his friends and family, and he evidently agreed with them. She tended to fall into hysterical laughter whenever she thought about it. Annabel Bulford was no more beautiful, no more accomplished, no more educated than Madeleine herself; indeed, she was probably less so. But she had the one thing that mattered: a pedigree.

  Over and over again, she told herself that if a pedigree was all the Marquis of Risley was interested in, then she was well rid of him. Perhaps she should not have run away. It let him know how hurt she was and that would feed his…what did he once say to her? Prodigious vanity, that was it. But the thought of returning to London filled her with panic. She could not go. Not yet. One day, perhaps.

  The London Season was drawing to an end, already some families had gone to their country estates and the knockers were off the doors. It could not come fast enough for Duncan. He longed for the peace and quiet of his Derbyshire home, to immerse himself in the affairs of the estate, being left more and more to his management because the Duke was involved with government affairs. There he could ride in the countryside, go hunting and fishing, help bring home the harvest on the home farm and amuse his cousin and young brother until both went back to school in the autumn. There, perhaps, he might find, if not contentment, then an easier mind.

  Towards the end of July, the engagement was announced between Miss Annabel Bulford and Benedict Willoughby, something which came as a complete surprise to Duncan. He wished them happy with all his heart and gave his friend a lecture on the responsibilities he was taking on, which made Benedict laugh.

  ‘You are a fine one to talk, Stanmore. What do you know of it?’

  ‘I know she is a lovely girl and deserves the best.’

  ‘You mean you. I am sorry you have been disappointed, my friend, but on this one occasion, I have bested you.’

  ‘True,’ he said. Henry Bulford had made sure everyone knew that Annabel had refused him and he had no intention of denying it. Let them think what they liked. ‘And I felicitate you.’

  ‘The ceremony is to be in London next April. Will you be my groomsman?’

  ‘I will be delighted.’

  He had never envied his friend before, but now he was filled with such unutterable despair, he was obliged to make his excuses and go off somewhere on his own. He did as he usually did when he was beset by problems, he set off for Newgate to talk to the prisoners and help them in any way he could; it reminded him how lucky he was. He had everything any man could possibly wish for, except the woman he loved. He was plagued by the notion that she had been violated by Henry Bulford and then his fury knew no bounds. He began to realise what drove a man to murder.

  He spent two hours talking to the prisoners and arranging for extra food to be taken in to some of them and paid for the shackles of some others to be loosened and by then he had become calmer. As usual, he asked everyone he spoke to if they had come across anyone by the name of Cartwright and wondered as he did so, why he continued to worry about Viscount Armitage’s daughter when there was another missing person nearer to his heart that he wished he could find.

  Madeleine must have taken a coach to wherever she was going; he had made enquiries at every staging post in London but no one had recognised her, let alone remembered her destination. She seemed to have disappeared into thin air and he began to wonder if some of the rumours surrounding her disappearance might be true. Had some harm come to her?

  Having done all he could for the prisoners and arranged for an inmate who had served his time to go to the house in Bow Street to be helped to find work, he set off for home, walking swiftly down Fleet Street and along the Strand to Charing Cross. Here he found himself outside the Golden Cross, one of the busiest coaching inns in the capital. The bustle of horses being harnessed and luggage being hauled out and strapped on the waiting coach made him stop to watch.

  His previous enquiries about Madeleine had drawn a blank, but perhaps someone had remembered something since his last call. He was pondering whether to go in and ask again, when the familiar figure of Donald Greenaway appeared at his side, carrying a portmanteau and dressed for travelling. ‘Stanmore, what are you doing here? I thought you’d gone to the country.’

  ‘Not yet. My father still has some government business to attend to before we leave. Where are you off to?’

  ‘I had word from one of my scouts that there is an actress called Arabella Cartwright in York.’

  Duncan smiled. ‘Another long shot.’

  ‘Perhaps, but that was her name, if you remember: Arabella Cartwright, born Arabella Armitage. I have a feeling in my bones, this is the one.’

  ‘Then good luck to you.’

  ‘Since I spoke to you last, I have discovered what happened when Mr and Mrs Cartwright left St Albans. He was drafted to India and died there of a fever in 1803, so that seems to rule out any connection with Miss Charron. She said her father was killed in the war with Napoleon, didn’t she?’

  It was in his mind to comment that if she could lie about one thing, she could also lie about another, but decided to keep his own counsel. It did not make any difference, especially now it looked as though Donald was on the trail of the lady at last. ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘It means Mrs Cartwright was widowed very early in her marriage and would have had to find a way of earning her
living. If the woman in York is Arabella Armitage, it is strange she should choose the same road as Miss Charron, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it is, though if she were of gentle birth, she would not have considered a menial job like being a servant, would she? Nor, if she had any spirit, being a companion at some elderly termagant’s beck and call. At least acting would allow her to retain some dignity.’ He paused. ‘I have a mind to come with you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Curiosity, I suppose.’ He would not admit it was anything else. ‘And nothing else to do. London is emptying by the day. Even some of those who stay in town all the year round have drawn the blinds on their front windows to make believe they have country houses to go to. Lady Willoughby does it every year and it fools no one, not even the cracksmen who always seem to know when a house is unoccupied.’

  ‘In other words, you are bored.’ The Major laughed. ‘I would welcome the company but the coach is leaving in five minutes and I dare not wait for you. She might disappear again.’

  ‘Then I must not delay you. Besides, I have almost made up my mind to go to Loscoe Court ahead of the family. But let me know what you discover.’

  Donald undertook to do so and the two men shook hands and parted, the one to go on the coach and possibly come to the end of his long search, the other to go home and add to his boredom by attending one of his stepmother’s frequent musical evenings.

  The crowd outside the theatre after the performance was thick as everyone called for cabs or called up their carriages and Madeleine had to force her way through. She had been asked to join a supper party, but had declined. Playing the tragic heroine had taken more out of her than she realised and she was anxious to go back to her lodgings, eat a solitary meal and go to bed.

  If Marianne could see her, she would ring a peal over her for being such a ninny. ‘You are not going to make a recovery if you do not make the effort to meet new people.’ She could almost hear her saying it. But she was not yet ready to face the world. She had to learn to live for herself and not pine after someone she could not have and to face the knowledge that she would never have been in this coil if she had not told lies.

  She was aware as she walked that there was one admirer who was more persistent than the rest and had followed her into the quiet streets behind the theatre where her lodgings were situated. She assumed it was an admirer, but it might be a footpad, and so she quickened her steps.

  ‘Mrs Cartwright. Wait, please.’ The voice did not sound like a thief; besides, a thief would not know her name. She stopped and turned and found herself face to face with Donald Greenaway.

  ‘Major, what are you doing here?’

  He had not been to the theatre and seen her performance and was as surprised as she was to find the woman who faced him was young and not the middle-aged one he had been expecting. ‘Good God! Miss Charron, it is you.’

  ‘Yes. Whom did you expect? Why did you call me Mrs Cartwright?’

  ‘It is a very long story and cannot be told out here in the street. Will you come to my hotel and have supper with me and I will explain everything?’

  She was wary. ‘Did the Marquis of Risley send you?’

  ‘Not at all. He does not know that Arabella Cartwright and Madeleine Charron are one and the same any more than I did until a moment ago. If he had known, I’ll wager nothing would have stopped him from being here beside me now.’

  She smiled crookedly. ‘I doubt it. He is more than likely making arrangements for a wedding.’

  ‘I know nothing of a wedding,’ he said. ‘What I have to tell you has nothing to do with the Marquis of Risley and, unless you wish it, I will not tell him of our meeting.’ He paused, watching her face. Her violet eyes had lit briefly when he said he knew nothing of a wedding, but then became wary, as if he were about to trick her into something. He smiled reassuringly. ‘So will you come?’

  Curiosity won. ‘Very well. But not for long. I am very tired.’

  He led the way along several ill-lit streets until they emerged close to the magnificent Minster. Another turn and a few more yards and they were at the Star Inn. He ushered her inside and asked the patron for a quiet corner where they could talk undisturbed.

  ‘Now,’ he said, when a light meal and wine had been ordered and brought to the table. ‘Why are you calling yourself Cartwright?’

  ‘Because it is my name.’

  ‘And Arabella, is that also your name?’

  ‘No, it was my mother’s name. Why are you quizzing me? You said you had something to tell me.’

  ‘I wanted you to confirm what I believe to be true, that you are the daughter of Arabella and John Cartwright.’

  ‘I never knew my father’s given name. Are you quite sure you have not been sent by Lord Risley?’

  ‘I am quite sure.’ He bent down to a small case he had put on the floor beside him, opened it and extracted the portrait. ‘Do you recognise who this is?’

  She took it and studied it. The face that looked out on her was familiar from her childhood and she was at once transported to the little apartment over the dressmaking establishment where her mother sat at her sewing machine. She had a lovely smile, that was one of the things Maddy remembered most about her, the smile and the soft, cultured voice. ‘It looks like my mother,’ she said in wonder. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘From the Duchess of Loscoe. She painted it twenty-five years ago. When I said I was searching for Arabella Armitage, she remembered the painting and found it for me.’

  The Duchess. So even she was determined to rake up her past and disprove the comte had ever existed. ‘You said Arabella Armitage.’

  ‘Yes, that was your mother’s name before she married.’

  ‘I never knew that,’ she said, wondering how he could be so sure. ‘She never spoke of her past, though sometimes she talked about riding in the country when she was a girl and a Miss Gunnery whom she had known and loved. I believe she was a schoolteacher, for Mama spoke of the things she had taught her.’

  His face broke into a smile. ‘You have just confirmed that I am on the right track, Miss Charron. Or should I call you Miss Cartwright?’

  ‘Whichever you like, Major, but Madeleine will do.’

  He smiled. ‘Miss Gunnery was not a schoolteacher, your Mama never went to school, she was educated at home. Did she ever say where that home was?’

  ‘No. In the country somewhere. It might have been Hertfordshire.’

  ‘Now I am as sure as anyone can be that you are the person I have been looking for. Or to be more precise, the daughter of that person.’

  ‘Looking for?’ she echoed.

  ‘Miss Cartwright, you told Lord Risley and others that your mother was dead. Is that true?’

  She stared at him for several seconds. So he was out to prove her a liar, was he? But the only lie she had told was about the French grandfather and an exaggeration about her father’s role as a soldier. She bristled. ‘I would not lie about something like that, Major. My world fell apart when she was killed. She was all I had.’

  ‘Not quite all,’ he said softly. ‘You had…you have a grandfather.’

  She was confused and angry at the same time and answered him sharply. ‘Oh, him. I invented him and if you have been talking to the Marquis of Risley, you must surely know that.’

  ‘I am not speaking of the French émigré, I am referring to your real grandfather. He has been searching for his long-lost daughter, not knowing she was dead, but I am sure he will be overjoyed to meet her daughter.’

  ‘Who is he?’ she asked, leaning forward in her seat and forgetting all about the food congealing on her plate.

  ‘Viscount Armitage.’

  She sat and stared at him, unable to take in what he was saying. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you do.’ He beckoned the waiter and asked for a glass of brandy for her and when she had it in front of her, he told her the story of the viscount and his search for h
is daughter.

  ‘It was because Lord Risley thought the painting was so like you, that set me thinking,’ he said. ‘He told me you had been in an orphanage, but he did not know which one. Knowing the Duchess of Loscoe is a patron of more than one orphanage, I asked her if she could make enquiries. Her Grace always insists on keeping meticulous records just in case lost relatives turn up, you know. There was no information about anyone called Cartwright, though there were details of the arrival of Madeleine Charron whose mother’s name, according to the neighbour who brought her in, was Bella. I began to wonder if they could possibly be one and the same, but before I could question you, you had disappeared.’

  ‘How did you find me, then?’

  He smiled. ‘I have been pursuing these enquiries for a long time now and have a whole army of contacts and informants primed to tell me the minute anyone by the name of Cartwright turns up. I heard from one such only two days ago and came post haste, expecting to find your mother.’

  She took a gulp of brandy. It did not seem to make any difference, she was still shaking and confused. ‘I can’t take it in. Are you telling me I have a family, a real family?’

  ‘I believe there are aunts and cousins and suchlike besides your grandfather.’

  ‘And he is really a viscount?’

  ‘Yes. He is old and ill and worried about what has become of his daughter. News of her death will come as a shock, I have no doubt, but that will be softened when he meets you.’

  ‘Does he know you have found me?’

  ‘No, I did not know myself until an hour ago. But we must make all haste to go to him. His home, Pargeter House, is on the outskirts of St Albans, so we can take the London coach.’

  ‘I’ll have to get leave from the theatre.’

  He smiled. ‘Your life is about to change forever and you worry about your work. There is no need for you to earn your living, you know. Viscount Armitage is quite wealthy.’