The Orphan Pearl

by Erin Satie

  So he offered what comfort he could—silence and patience would have to do—and tried to make himself useful elsewhere. He arranged to have Lily’s things sent from Hastings House to his own. This required explaining that they’d married to Adam, who pulled him into a quiet corridor and snarled, “Keep her safe. Keep her happy. Or you won’t keep her at all.” He stomped away before John could reply.

  Arrangements for the funeral got out of hand quickly. Hastings had been a public figure, and while he had not been well-liked he had been very well-known, feared and respected by turns. As a decorated officer, he was due full military honors. The Prince-Consort planned to attend.

  The ceremony took place in Westminster. John had never found himself in the company of so many men of rank at once; he suspected it must be a rare occurrence even for the more illustrious guests. A few months earlier, he’d have been impressed. At the moment, he’d run short on one of the ingredients necessary to produce awe.

  He did find Clive in the crowd, and managed to pull him aside as the guests filed out of the hall.

  “Thank you for your help in Brighton,” said John, angling the brim of his hat to keep the sun out of his eyes. Early September, one of the last fair days before the season turned. “You didn’t have to offer, but it made a difference. I owe you a favor.”

  “Unfortunately, I’m going to waste it,” replied Clive. “Come see me tomorrow, would you? We’ll pay a visit to Downing Street together.”

  John left Adam to circulate among the guests. Lily had not attended—women mixed with the crowd that had gathered outside Westminster to gawk at the cortège as it passed, but everyone at the ceremony had been male—and as he had no fond memories of Hastings, he took his leave.

  He found Lily sitting at her father’s desk, surrounded by stacks of paper, looking awful. Her fine eyes puffed and ringed with dark circles, the tip of her nose raw and red, with a certain muscular slackness common to people who have turned inward in their unhappiness.

  “Everything went smoothly,” he reported, crossing to the window and perching on the sill. “I’ll let your brother describe the rest.”

  “That’s good. I was worried.” Lily shoved away the page she’d been in the middle of reading and stretched, digging the heels of her palms into the small of her back. She wore a light morning gown, uncorseted, and the twisting showed her figure to best advantage. Any other time, and he’d have interpreted it as an invitation. At the moment? Unlikely.

  “And you?” John asked. “How was your morning?”

  She gestured to the desk. “It will be a while before Adam and I sort it all out. I wonder that my father found hours enough in the day to concoct so many schemes and projects. I’m starting to feel like I hardly knew him.”

  “Because you’re seeing a different side of him?”

  “Not exactly.” She furrowed her brows. “Were you close with your father? You never speak of him.”

  Not his favorite subject, but it was the first thing she’d said in a week that hinted at any awareness of the world beyond Hastings House. If it would distract her, he could give an honest answer. “A more complicated question than you might imagine. Yes and no.”

  “Oh?” She slouched into her chair, fingers tapping out a rhythm on the armrest. “Your father was a man of industry, yes?”

  “He built an empire from nothing but sheer determination—though the war made it possible. He manufactured war materiel. One of the few people who was sorry when the fighting stopped.”

  “And that bothers you? You think that his fortune is tainted by its origin?”

  “No. We were at war, our armies needed cannons and balls, and he certainly never supplied the enemy.” John paused. “I wish that his conscience had troubled him at least a little. And the lengths that he would go to, in order to succeed—it’s ironic, in retrospect, that that should have driven us apart.”

  “What lengths? You mean he was a taskmaster?”

  “He was that, yes. He was driven, pragmatic, eminently capable. He expected the same from everyone in his orbit.” Ordinarily, the story would end here. Difficult fathers with high expectations were not unusual, and his experience had been a variation on the theme. Most listeners were happy to fill in the rest, and they’d get enough right that he didn’t feel like a liar. “When I was a young man, I learned something… surprising. Received an answer to a question that I had never thought to ask.”

  “How mysterious.” Her voice twisted around the words, making them into a tease. “What was the question?”

  “I knew how my father had built on his successes. I’d seen it. But he started with nothing. How had he obtained his first contract with the government? Who had he impressed, what favors had he traded?”

  Lily motioned for him to continue.

  “Perhaps I’d dodged the question because I knew the answer would be ugly. I’m not naive. But the truth still came as a shock. My father convinced my mother to seduce the man in charge of purchasing supplies and armaments.”

  “And she agreed?”

  “I believe so.” His mother had been a perfect partner to his father—unsentimental, plainspoken, dedicated to his success. “It took me some time to piece together the story. I began to suspect the truth not long after I met the man who’d entered into the affair with her—that would be my natural father.”

  “No!”

  “He introduced himself as a friend of the family, and invited me to join him on that expedition to the Alps that brought me such fame. He was with me the whole time; Gavind, the man who broke his leg, was a friend of his. We carried him together. But he—my natural father—slipped away at the last to keep his name out of the papers.”

  Lily’s eyes were round as saucers now. “He was with you in the Alps! At your side, helping his fallen comrade?”

  The experience had made John incredibly sympathetic to Wilsey. First he’d been friendly, reaching out on his own initiative. Then heroic and strong, helping his injured friend. And, last but not least, generous enough to leave John all the glory. A fine testament to his character, all round.

  “I kept his secret, at least until I saw my parents next. I asked why they’d never introduced me to him—I couldn’t understand why they hadn’t cultivated a relationship with such an exceptional fellow.” John snorted. “My parents told me he was no friend of theirs, and warned me to keep my distance.”

  “I presume you were at an age where you were inclined to do precisely the opposite?” Lily asked.

  “Naturally. Their prohibition only whetted my desire to know him better.” Wilsey had never, until the moment he’d called Amelia John’s sister, acknowledged the truth in words. He’d left a trail of clues for John to follow. He’d wanted John to know. But he had also, by refusing to speak of it, drawn a boundary around their relationship. John had always known that if he crossed it—if he tried to force Wilsey to claim him, even in private—he would lose the man’s affection entirely.

  “It took me some time to piece together the story. When I thought I understood what had happened, I confronted my mother. I accused her of deceiving my father, and she told me I ought to know better.” John waited for Lily to piece it together before he explained, “They had decided together. She went to Wilsey with my father’s approval, to win the contracts he wanted.”

  Lily clapped a hand over her mouth.

  “My father—I mean the man I’ve always called father, the one who gave me his name—never treated me as anything but a son.” John had often wondered if the man he’d called father were capable of siring children. As far as he knew, his mother had only been pregnant the once. “I never felt unwelcome or resented. But once I knew the truth, I rejected him. I was appalled.”

  He’d seen Wilsey as a victim, and not a corrupt official abusing his power for fleeing physical pleasure. He’d held his parents responsible and let Wilsey off the hook.

  “And yet—you don’t seem happy?”

  “Until very recently, I was q
uite content with my behavior. My natural father sought me out, went out of his way to help me, to advance my career. He recommended me to the Foreign Office.” John paused, feeling the words shift in hue and meaning. He had been helped; he had been used. Lily had been right, the day he’d taken her to his schooner—help was so rarely free. He should have seen the truth earlier. “Though I’m starting to wonder if he saw me as a son or as a useful pawn. It was he who asked me to kill Kingston.”

  “And so—your sister? Oh, John. I’m so sorry. The poor girl.”

  John nodded. “But you know the whole story: he lied to convince me to do his bidding, he put my life in danger. I don’t think it was the first time he took advantage of my devotion.”

  Lily came to him. Stood stiffly for a moment, reaching out with little abortive caresses, then slipped her arms around his waist and pressed her whole body against his. “I can hardly imagine what you must be feeling.”

  She probably couldn’t. She had no idea how her presence affected him. How the parts of his heart that would have hardened had gone soft, instead.

  He’d never felt more tender.

  “I’ve been thinking I ought to be too cynical to think the best of people, and too old to believe that things will turn out right in the end.” Warmth radiated from her body to his, pooled where they touched, settled in his bones.

  Lily was a survivor, and like all survivors she could be ruthless. He understood that. He respected it. But she would not justify killing in her own defense and had cried over a father who didn’t deserve it—and maybe that was why he held on so tight. Maybe that was why he believed in her.

  “But maybe that’s the only way forward. The only way to avoid…” He trailed off, his thoughts slipping away before he could fix them into words.

  Lily rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “The only way to avoid what?”

  “I don’t know.” He kissed her hair. She’d washed it recently, probably here at Hastings House, because it smelled expensive. She hadn’t spent enough time at his Belgravia house to stock it with bespoke toiletries. “To avoid becoming part of the problem.”

  “Perhaps the trick is to find people who are better than you think,” said Lily, a little muffled. “And who work hard to make things turn out right in the end.”

  “Like you?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “Like you.”

  He swallowed through a suddenly tight throat. He hadn’t expected that; didn’t think he deserved it. But he didn’t contradict her, either. Why not believe? Hadn’t he just said that might be the only way forward? For her, and for him, too.

  Chapter Thirty

  John was still mulling over their conversation the next day, when he went to visit the Duke of Clive. He’d believed every word as he spoke it, but over the long run? That kind of idealism wouldn’t stand up to rough treatment.

  Clive’s warm welcome—the man seemed positively friendly, offering tea and chatting idly about his wife’s work—made John wonder if he’d been optimistic. Forget about rough treatment; a few hours of Clive’s gentle handling might be enough to do him in.

  “You know by now that you were right about the July treaty. Mehmet Ali did not accept the terms in the time allotted to him,” said Clive. “He waited it out.”

  “And France has been in an uproar,” said John. “Shocked, apparently, that we acted without their input.”

  “Oh, indeed. Shocked.” Clive rolled his eyes just a little. “And they might have continued in that vein indefinitely, but Hastings’s death changes things for them. They’d been counting on him to retrieve the Orphan Pearl.”

  “And now they know it will never happen,” finished John. “So. Now what?”

  “They’ve abandoned Mehmet Ali, of course. Withdrawn all hope of military support, while we’ve moved our forces into place on the Syrian coast.”

  “And Mehmet Ali?”

  “Sued for peace immediately,” Clive answered.

  “Excellent,” said John, then remembered that he’d been invited to return a favor. “Something’s gone wrong, I take it.”

  “Mehmet Ali is asking for the terms outlined in the treaty.” Clive paused. “The expired terms.”

  “Palmerston?” John guessed.

  “He wants to refuse,” said Clive.

  John swore. “He what?”

  “I’ll explain on the way.” Clive detoured to the door to call for his carriage and collect his outdoor things. “That treaty was designed to tempt France, but France is out. Hastings is out. No need to appease them anymore. And Palmerston wants to press his advantage.”

  “Hastings may be dead, but he wasn’t alone in his views,” protested John. “What’s Holland doing?”

  “He’s angry. Believes Palmerston is living in a fool’s paradise, wants to reach out to France… but he’s in no position to do anything about it. Russell’s taken up the fight.”

  Lord Russell. Colonial and War Secretary.

  “Good,” said John. “Someone with the authority to push back against Palmerston.”

  “Palmerston says we’re not at war, so the decision doesn’t fall to Russell.” Clive grimaced, waving John out the door. “Palmerston says that the Sultan is our ally, Mehmet Ali his subject, and we can’t go to war with an ally.”

  John had no reply to that. He followed Clive into the waiting carriage, rubbing his temple as a footman closed the door and the vehicle heaved forward.

  “And I’m supposed to change his mind?” he said finally.

  “You have the pearl,” said Clive. “And now you’ve married Hastings’s daughter. Form a bridge. Bring him over.”

  They arrived at Downing Street and were admitted to Lord Palmerston’s office without delay. Palmerston greeted John with surprising enthusiasm, clapping him on the shoulder and ushering him to a seat.

  “You’ve been on my mind, Ware,” said Palmerston, sitting down opposite. “We have something important to discuss.”

  “We do?”

  “The Orphan Pearl does not belong in the hands of a private citizen,” said Palmerston. “I’d like to arrange for the government to buy it. We can talk about where it would go—the British Museum, perhaps, though I hope you’d at least consider making a gift of it to the Sultan.”

  “We can talk,” said John, slowly. “But first I’d like to know why you’ve decided to reject Mehmet Ali’s offer of peace.”

  “If he wanted those terms, he should have accepted them before they were withdrawn,” said Palmerston. “He had his opportunity, and a timetable, all clearly spelled out. Over the long term, everyone benefits if we say what we mean and mean what we say.”

  “Over the long term, everyone benefits from peace and cooperation,” returned John. “If we have a solution that safeguards our alliances—all of them, with the Turks and the French—then we should take it.”

  “A pretty thought, but shortsighted,” said Palmerston. “Mehmet Ali balks like a wild animal clipped to a leash. He must know that he’s been beaten. If we soften the blow, he will not learn.”

  John tugged at his shirtsleeves. “If you want the pearl, I suggest you take Mehmet Ali’s offer.”

  Palmerston bristled. “It is not your place to dictate policy. Come, Ware. You think me harsh now, but given time you will see the wisdom of this course.”

  No doubt. By the time he’d clawed his way to the top, he probably wouldn’t know any other way. How to keep a strong man down, except by holding a foot on his neck?

  “You mean that, instead of pressing my point—and using every weapon at my disposal to carry it through—I should compromise?” John asked.

  Palmerston flinched.

  “You would have me do as you say, but not as you do,” John continued. “But I think I’ll follow your example, instead. I quit.”

  Palmerston spluttered. “What?”

  “You’ve bungled this from the beginning.” Ware stood. “Two years ago, you dismissed me because it was easier than confronting the situatio
n while it was still manageable. And now that the problems have reached a crisis point, you’re pushing too hard. There’s a balance, and you haven’t found it—you haven’t even looked.”

  “I see.”

  John nodded. He didn’t look at Clive as he showed himself out, and was surprised to find that he’d been followed.

  He paused on the pavement. He wanted to rage. Clive had led him into an ambush. What’s more, Clive had feigned friendship to cloak his misdirection. If the memory of Wilsey’s betrayal weren’t so fresh, if Clive’s ploy hadn’t been so similar, John would have shrugged it off. But he couldn’t. He was furious.

  For all that, he had discipline enough to assess the situation. He owed Clive a favor. He did not owe him an honest accounting.

  “I’m afraid I only made things more difficult for you,” John said.

  Clive shrugged. “I didn’t know he had his eye on the pearl.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “I would have told him that you’d never give it up.” Clive paused. “I would have told him you couldn’t, even if you wanted to.”

  John laughed. It was a measure of Clive’s skill that he managed to conciliate and interrogate in the same breath.

  “So I still owe you a favor?”

  “Never fear,” said Clive. “I’ll collect.”

  John nodded. “Palmerston is right about one thing. It’s hard to work toward a goal that you can’t support. Hard to put your own name on it.”

  “I’d hate to lose you entirely. There are ways to wield influence that don’t require an official position,” said Clive. “Bring your wife to supper. We’ll talk.”

  John held out his hand. Clive clasped it and they shook.

  “I wish it had turned out better,” said John.

  “As do I,” agreed Clive.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Almost four months to the day after Lily arrived in England, her name was returned to her. Adam had been able to use his influence to hurry things along at the Chancery. It would be weeks yet before the title officially passed to him, but the shift was well underway.