by Seth Hunter
“And why is she staying with you?” he enquired with a frown.
“Why, where else should she stay in London? We were close friends when she was last here and corresponded even when she was in France, as you know, for I forwarded one of her letters to you. Concerning a mutual friend,” she added slyly.
“Yes,” he replied sharply. “Thank you for that.”
“I suppose it is useless for me to ask how you became acquainted with the Countess of Turenne?”
“Quite useless,” he assured her coolly, relieved to know that she had not already learned it from Mary.
“And was the rumour true, that she had escaped the guillotine?”
“I have no means of knowing. As you have explained, we are at war.” Her look was very like that of a cat contemplating a mouse that is altogether too assured for its own comfort. “So that was not why you were on a beach in France?”
“You have a very disconcerting way of putting two and two together and making five,” he observed.
“Yes, and you know something? In the world of politics, of which you are not as ignorant as you would have me believe, five is very often the right number.”
Finding himself unable to respond to this gibe as cleverly as he might have wished, Nathan contented himself with a shrug and the remark that there were some things she was better off not knowing.
“But that is exactly what the government thinks,” she declared in mock surprise. “In fact, it might almost have come directly from one of their spokesmen in the Morning Post. If you should tire of the Navy, my dear, or they of you, I am assured you would find employment in the Ministry of Misinformation.”
He regarded her warily. “Do they continue to trouble you?”
“Who?”
“The government. Or their agents. When I was last home you said they had you under surveillance and were making life difficult for your friends.”
“Which you did not believe.”
“I thought you might be exaggerating a little.”
“Ha. There are none so blind as those that will not see. However, even you, child, must be aware of the measures taken by the government to suppress dissent. And they have grown far worse of late, with the war going so badly for them.”
“Is the war going so badly ? I had not realised. The last I heard was that we had won a great victory in the Bay of Quiberon.”
“Pah. When only three French ships were took? I do not call that a great victory, whatever the government would make of it. But the expedition itself has been a disaster. Even their own hacks cannot disguise it. Surely you are aware of that.” She fixed him again with her cat’s eyes and he was assured she knew perfectly well that the beach he had been on was at Quiberon. “And it is the same everywhere. The Duke of York made an utter shambles of the expedition to Flanders and was forced to retreat almost to Scandinavia. The people have made up a rhyme about it. Since when the Dutch have been forced to surrender, the Prussians have made peace, and now it is said the Spanish want out. Soon your Mr. Pitt will not have a single ally in Europe.”
“Well, that should content your friends in the Corresponding Societies,” Nathan responded tartly.
“Those that are not in jail already,” she whipped back at him. “I suppose you know you are taking a great risk being seen anywhere near me.”
“Oh, they think you are mad, Mother, and quite harmless. Though having Mrs. Imlay under your roof will not please them.”
“Oh and why is that?”
“Well, only that she has been in France for several years, moving about quite freely, though our two nations have been at war since ’93. I am surprised she moves about quite so freely in London. Where is she now, anyway ?”
Lady Catherine looked about the room as if surprised not to see her there. “She must have gone to her room. I wonder if she did not wish to see you. Can you imagine a reason why she should not?”
“None whatsoever,” he assured her blithely, though there were many. “Save that my conversation might bore her.”
“Well, perhaps she thought to leave us alone for a while, to renew our acquaintance, for I have been very worried about you.” She regarded him fondly but the frown soon reappeared. “You look thin. When Izzy gets back from the market I will have her cook you a nice dinner. We usually dine late in Soho,” she added airily, “but we will make an exception for you.”
“That would be nice,” he assured her, but it was impossible to shake off his general air of despondency. “And will Mrs. Imlay be dining with us?”
“I expect so. She usually does.” They fell silent for a moment, each with their own thoughts on the subject. “Have you seen your father since you were back?” she enquired at length.
“No. I told you, I came straight up from Portsmouth.”
“Oh. So you did. Well, and do you plan to visit him during what we must not call your convalescence?”
“Possibly. It rather depends what plans the Admiralty have for me.”
Nathan wondered if she had been informed about his father’s plans. Better not to say anything on that score, he thought. He might have dropped them. It was certainly to be hoped he had.
“How is Mary, anyway ?” he persisted. “The last I heard she was with child.”
“Well, she is now a mother. And the child is above a year old and quite a bonny creature, though Mary is not as well as I could have hoped.” She dropped her voice. “Indeed I am quite worried about her.”
“Oh, and why is that?”
“Well, you must keep this under your hat …”
Nathan lifted this item cautiously from the window-seat and peered under it as if to confirm that there was room.
“Well, if you do not wish to know …” his mother complained pettishly.
“I am sorry, Mother, do please continue.”
“I was going to say, but why should I tell you, when you are so disagreeable and do not have the slightest concern for her?”
“I beg your pardon. It was remiss of me. Please. I am most concerned, for I have come to entertain the greatest respect for Mrs. Wollstonecraft, or Imlay, if that is what she wishes to be called.”
“Oh, have you indeed? There is a wonder for you did not appear to be the least respectful when she was last a guest in my house and I seem to remember poured scorn upon her writing, not that you had read more than a page of it. And when did this occur?”
“Oh, it has just grown upon me, over the years,” he remarked lightly. Clearly Mary had been discreet about the adventures they had shared in Paris—and the other friends he had made there.
His mother was regarding him with suspicion. “Well, as you appear to know a great deal more of her life than you are prepared to reveal to me, you probably know she has been crossed in love, as they say in the romantic novels.”
He dealt easily with this. “I believe you told me when I last saw you that her husband was involved with an actress from a strolling theatrecompany.”
“Did I tell you that? Yes, well, he still is, as Mary discovered upon her return from France. And what is more, he now maintains that their marriage was a sham. That is to say, in the legal sense, having been conducted by the American Minister in Paris and not a proper clergyman, though Imlay must have known this at the time, the rogue, even if poor Mary did not. And now he says that though he is prepared to give his name to the child he does not wish them to live as man and wife.”
“Wait a moment.” Nathan raised a hand in protest. “You are going too fast for me. When you say ‘he still is,’ what do you mean, precisely ?”
“Well, I do not know how I can make it any clearer. I mean that he is still living with his actress.”
“What—here in London?”
“Of course here in London. Where do you think I mean? In Eskimoland?”
It was quite possible, given Imlay’s predilection for popping up in unexpected places. Certainly it would have been less alarming.
“Do you mean to say Imlay is here in Lond
on? Now?”
Lady Catherine raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Dear me. Am I expressing myself badly or has the blow to your head done more damage to your wits than you would have me believe?”
“I am sorry. I am confused.” Having delivered Imlay into the custody of the authorities on a charge of spying for the French, he thought he had every right to be confused. But this was not something he wished to debate with his mother.
“So, he is seen walking about town, quite freely ?”
“Why should he not be, there being no sanction in law to prevent a man forsaking his wife for another woman—and certainly he appears to have no shame at the plight he has put poor Mary in.”
Nathan’s head was spinning. Why had Imlay been released from custody ? Had the charges against him been dropped or held in abeyance? Had he managed to talk himself out of the trouble he was in? This appeared only too likely. Imlay was nothing if not a plausible rogue.
“So poor Mary is now having to face up to the fact that the great love of her life, as she once described him, is a liar and a cheat,” his mother continued, “and that she is cast in the light of the very creature she had always pitied and deplored: the victim, the abandoned mistress, the fallen woman. And I fear she has taken it very badly indeed. You would not know her for the woman you met in London before the war. She is a shadow of her former self, in looks and in spirits. Indeed, I confess I am more concerned than I can say.” She hesitated a moment and then decided to say it anyway. “You really must not repeat this to anyone but shortly after she discovered the truth, she attempted to take her own life.”
“You are not serious?” Nathan was genuinely shocked.
“I have it on good authority, though she thinks I do not know. She took an overdose of laudanum but was discovered in time by Imlay and brought to her senses. Well, I should not say her senses for she is still sadly lacking in those, but her life was saved. That is when he proposed they live together—with the other woman, I mean—though he has since thought better of it.”
“What!”
“Did I not say ? He proposed they should all live together as one happy family. All three of them.” She did a quick sum in her head. “Four, counting the child. And Mary, poor fool that she is, agreed. She had some notion of ‘reforming’ the other woman, as she put it, but Imlay took fright and changed his mind.”
“I am not surprised.” Nathan shook his head wonderingly. The woman he had known in Paris had been a formidable creature and though she had clearly been in love with Imlay she was not so besotted that she would not express her disapprobation whenever he behaved in a way she considered beneath him. Which was quite often. She appeared to be unaware of his more clandestine activities but she had always been critical of his dealings in commerce. Perhaps too critical. Was this why he had chosen more tolerant company ? Though it was no excuse for abandoning her—and with a child to boot.
They heard the sound of the bell at the front door.
“Oh, look out of the window, will you, and see if it is the bailiffs come back,” his mother instructed him. “Let them see your uniform, it might intimidate them.”
Nathan stared at her in astonishment. “The bailiffs?”
“Yes. They have been dunning me. It is more of a nuisance than anything but sometimes I feel besieged in my own home.”
“Mother, I wish you would let me give you some money.” In truth, he wished he had money to give her for he was quite short himself.
“Oh, I will soon be able to settle my debts, or most of them. But look out of the window, there’s a good boy, and tell me if it is them.”
Nathan twisted round in his seat and assumed his most ferocious quarterdeck expression.
“There is only one of them,” he said. “And I do not think he looks like a bailiff. “
Lady Catherine peered down over his shoulder just as the man in question looked up and saw that he was observed, whereupon he raised his hat to reveal a countenance that Nathan thought vaguely familiar.
“Oh, it is Mr. Blake,” said Kitty. “You met him last time you were home, I recall, when he came to sell me some of his work. We have since become friends though I fear I am a poor patron. I will go and let him in.”
“You will do no such thing,” Nathan insisted. “I will go.”
He returned shortly with a man of about forty whose imposing features were somewhat offset by a disconcertingly simple smile.
“I was in the neighbourhood,” he announced, “and thought I should call on you, if it is not an intrusion. And now I have the double delight of meeting your son once more, though I am sorry to see he has been wounded.”
“You are very welcome, Mr. Blake,” Kitty assured him. “I expect you would like some tea.”
“Only if it does not inconvenience you.”
“It is no inconvenience at all. I will tell Mrs. Imlay you are here for I am assured she would not wish to miss you. Mr. Blake has illustrated one of Mrs. Imlay’s books,” she informed Nathan in the hope of providing them with something to talk about while she was absent from the room, for she did not think they would have a great deal in common, but she could not resist adding: “It is a book of fairy tales which should be more to your tastes than A Vindication of the Rights of Women.”
“Oh, I do not think you will find her,” declared Mr. Blake, “for I have just seen her at Westminster Stairs when I came over from Lambeth.”
Kitty stopped in her tracks and regarded him warily for he was sometimes given to delusions.
“Are you positive?” she queried him. “I could have sworn she was in her room with her little girl.”
“Well, I am almost positive,” he insisted, “though when I called out to her she turned away as if she did not wish to acknowledge me. This happens from time to time,” he informed Nathan engagingly. “I fear I sometimes embarrass people with my conversation.”
“I am sure you do not,” Nathan assured him politely, recalling that when last they had met, as strangers in St James’s Park, he had been instructed on the subject of lepers and the exhumed body of King Edward the Confessor.
“I will go and fetch her,” muttered Kitty, fleeing the room.
She was back within the minute looking strangely distraught and clutching a pair of letters, one opened and one not, and a number of banknotes.
“She is gone,” she announced dramatically. “Leaving the child in its cot. And see what she has left me.” She thrust the opened letter at Nathan but before he could read it she continued: “She says she can no longer bear to live with her shame and leaves the poor infant in my care with thirty pounds which is all she has in the world.”
Nathan scanned the hastily scribbled words, snatching at a phrase here and there. Yet having been so perpetually the sport of disappointment … what have I to fear who have so little to hope for! God bless you …
“And here is another addressed to Imlay. I hardly know if I should open it.”
Nathan had no such reservation. He took it from her and broke the seal.
My dear Imlay,
I write to you now on my knees imploring you to send my child and the maid to Paris to be consigned to the care of my very good friend Madame Farber, Rue Jacob, section du Theatre-Français. Should they be removed, their landlady, Madame Benoit, can give their direction. Let the maid have all my clothes, without distinction and do not mention the confession I forced from the cook—a little sooner or later is of no consequence. Nothing but my extreme stupidity could have rendered me blind so long. Yet whilst you assured me that you had no attachment, I thought we might still have lived together.
I shall make no comments on your conduct, or any appeal to the world. Let my wrongs sleep with me! Soon, very soon shall I be at peace. When you receive this my burning head will be cold.
I would encounter a thousand deaths rather than a night like the last. Your treatment has thrown my mind into a state of chaos yet I am serene. I go to find comfort and my only fear is that my poor body will be i
nsulted by an endeavour to recall my hated existence. But I shall plunge into the Thames where there is the least chance of my being snatched from the death I seek.
God bless you! May you never know by experience what you have made me endure. Should your sensibility ever awake, remorse will find its way to your heart and in the midst of business and sensual pleasure, I shall appear before you, the victim of your deviation from rectitude.
Mary
Nathan turned on their discomforted visitor. “Where did you see her? Was it on the bridge?”
“No. The bridge is closed. She was waiting at the Stairs. I—I thought she was waiting for a boat.”
Nathan snatched up his hat. “You had better come with me,” he said to his mother.
“But do you think she means to harm herself?”
“I do,” he said, handing her back the letter to Imlay.
“I will fetch my shawl,” she said. “Mr. Blake, would you mind staying here to look after the child, until Izzy returns?”
“But …” Mr. Blake looked at them in bemusement. “Where are you going?”
“I think we must go down to the river,” Nathan told him.
“Surely she will no longer be there. There were very few waiting.”
But they were already out of the room.
“If the child cries, give her a candied fruit,” Kitty called back over her shoulder. “You will find them on the sideboard.”
They hurried down Frith Street in the direction of the Strand, Nathan looking back constantly for a cab and his mother half running and clutching her shawl to her bosom.
“He is right. We will never find her at Westminster,” she lamented, “and then where shall we look?”
“She will make for one of the bridges,” Nathan mused.
“But how can you know that? She could be anywhere on the river.”
“No,” he informed her with heavy patience. “Because then she would have to wade in from the shore and force her head under the water. And I assure you that is not easy, even for someone determined upon drowning.”