by May Burnett
Anna knew he was speaking ironically. A notorious Radical, Beecham had only recently denounced hereditary titles and royal privilege in the House of Commons. For once, Anna was almost inclined to sympathize with his shocking views.
“We shall have to make the most of the occasion,” she replied. “I have not formerly had the felicity of knowing any English dukes. One cannot help but wonder if this one is typical.”
“I devoutly hope not,” Beecham murmured so low that she only caught it due to her unusually sharp hearing.
To say that Anna did not take to the Duke and Duchess of Ottway was putting the matter mildly. She had not hitherto wasted much thought on this couple, who would have a profound influence on Princess Gisela’s future, but not her own, thank Heaven.
She had not forgiven the Duke for having omitted to call on the Princess in London, as proper courtesy would have dictated. Now she had actually met him, she was even less favourably impressed than she had expected. How could a man be so similar to his glorious son in size and colouring, yet immediately inspire such a violent dislike? Anna preferred to bide her time and observe for a while, before making up her mind about new acquaintances, but some people simply stroked you the wrong way from the very first moment.
She could not complain of anything in his Grace’s treatment of her, since the Duke had not exchanged more than a few meaningless phrases with Anna. It was his attitude towards Princess Gisela that irked her, but it took some minutes of observation and analysis to work out why. Anna concluded that the duke’s gestures, his habitual sneer, and his cold eyes belied his minimal verbal courtesy far beyond the ordinary hypocrisy of their class, which was second nature to all assembled in the dining room, even kind Lady Amberley. His Grace’s fundamental contempt for his fellow men, and especially for all women, was hardly dissimulated, since he considered it unnecessary to pretend among people he considered his inferiors. Anna had quickly divined that this category included even the Princess, whom he treated as a useless and merely decorative object, rather than a person with opinions and feelings. As she observed the Duke from her seat several places lower down on the table, much became clear to Anna. She wrestled with doubt and incipient guilt.
What was she doing, facilitating the Princess’s alliance with this unpleasant family? Rook’s lack of enthusiasm was bad enough, but at least he was handsome and – Anna had come to believe – basically honourable. She had the gravest doubts whether the last was true of the Duke, who in her estimation would walk over the dead bodies of his enemies without the slightest qualm. And not just his enemies – anyone who stood in his way, no matter how innocent or unaware.
The Duchess, a handsome woman with vivid red hair and blue eyes, was as proud as the duke in her own way, though more conciliatory in her manner. Anna had looked in vain for some resemblance to the Marquess, until she remembered that the Duchess was his stepmother, and no blood relation. The Duchess was unhappy about the Princess’s expectation of deference. Dealing with a social superior for lengthy periods was not a situation she often encountered, Anna surmised. Yet what would become of Gisela, forced to live amongst these people, who would only come to resent her more over time? What had everyone been thinking in promoting this impossible match?
Did Anna’s loyalty to the Prince of Obernberg – her sovereign – demand that she continue to devote her best efforts to this ill-thought-out scheme? If one discovered that one’s cause was a bad one, should one persevere anyway? This English marriage made no sense politically, economically, or emotionally.
Rook would be unhappy, Gisela would be unhappy, - and she as well, given her foolish but irrepressible feelings for the Princess’s bridegroom. Not even the Duke and Duchess of Ottway would be happy for long with the outcome of their stupid scheming. If there was any means yet to avert this marriage, she ought to help find it.
Anna glanced fleetingly at the rigid face of the Marquess, for once seated away from the Princess, since his father’s rank superseded his own courtesy title.
Rook was chatting with Lady Tembley in a desultory way, but Anna unexpectedly met his hazel stare directed straight upon her face, in no very friendly fashion; reproachful and accusing, rather. She stared back haughtily.
“You look very thoughtful,” Beecham commented, laying down his fork. “Better drink some of this excellent canary. It will help drive away your worries, whatever they may be.”
“Who has not got some? But I was merely wondering how the Princess and her in-laws would get on in future years.”
“Everybody at this table is wondering the same thing. If it were up to me, all titles would be abolished tomorrow, and anybody could marry anyone else, without all that bother about rank.”
“There would still be rich and poor people,” Anna pointed out, “and how would you decide who got to go in to dinner first?”
“By age, or the first letter of their name, or who was closest to the door at the time,” Beecham said promptly. “There are many ways to regulate society, other than the current one.”
He was probably right, but customs were tenacious, and it would be bothersome having to learn new ones. The likelihood of having to do so was excessively remote … though maybe in Russia she’d have to adapt to different usages? She would soon see for herself.
“Do you know when Mr. Ellsworthy is coming back?” She rather liked the earl’s brother, and hoped his mission to find Miss Prentice in London had been successful at last.
“Any day now, I expect. Charlotte must be missing him.” Beecham looked at the blonde Mrs. Ellsworthy at the other side of the table, enjoying her beefsteak with slightly more than fashionable gusto. She did not look particularly unhappy to Anna.
Beecham went on, “Too bad about Miss Prentice, I cannot believe that a girl like her can simply vanish like that, in the middle of town. Somebody would have wanted to claim the reward by now, one would have thought.”
“What is your own theory, Mr. Beecham?”
“I fear she must have fallen victim to white slavers, and is possibly bound to the Barbary Coast even now. When Parliament resumes, I plan to give a speech on the subject – we really must do something against this outrage.”
“I hope your efforts may help prevent future cases, though they will come too late for poor Miss Prentice.” Anna had only seen the girl once, for those few dramatic minutes, but no matter how foolish, she did not deserve such a dire fate.
“True, but it’s too early to entirely give up hope. I may be wrong, after all. James is smart and tenacious, and knows many people in London. The Society Argus also seems determined to keep up the search.”
“An interesting publication, that,” Anna said neutrally.
They had received a copy of the newest issue that very day. It contained an impassioned plea to all subscribers to help find the missing debutante, described in glowing terms as a ravishing brunette with dark lovely eyes, a vivacious manner, and a soft voice. She must have made a strong impression on the author of the article.
In the same edition the Duke of O… had been lampooned in a mock-heroic ballad, describing how he tried to defend his honour with a horsewhip and instead ended up being struck on the cheek with a mercer’s measuring rod. There even was a cleverly drawn caricature of the mock duel. Anna supposed the Duke had not seen the offending publication as yet, but was conscious of an ignoble desire to place it on his pillow, where he could not possibly miss it. If he had tried to horsewhip the intrepid editor for the first article, what would be his reaction to this new provocation? Anna would have dearly liked to observe it in person.
Chapter 28
James had delayed his return to Amberley for another day, as his old friend Alphonse, the Marquis de Ville-Deuxtours, had unexpectedly arrived in London. They were having dinner in the privacy of the Ellsworthy town house.
“Celia wanted to come herself when she got the news of the explosion,” Alphonse explained over the soup, “but she’s expecting again, and the summer heat is no
time to travel for a woman in her condition, so I offered to come to England in her place. As her husband I have legal authority to do whatever is needed, after all. Dealing with the tragedy has been both depressing and educational.”
“Just what happened? I didn’t see anything about an explosion in the papers.”
“It wasn’t quite spectacular enough, I suppose, but pretty bad in its way. A vat exploded in Celia’s Swindon brewery. Three workers were badly hurt, and one died of his wounds two days later. The company has standing instructions how to deal with such work accidents, but Celia felt uneasy, and doubted whether the local manager – whose negligence she was inclined to blame – would carry them out faithfully. She spoke of the evils of absentee ownership in business, and the lack of direct control, until I decided to make myself useful. I’m also adding to my wardrobe while I’m over here. That I have my clothes tailored in London is considered as eccentric in France, as anything Celia does with her breweries.”
“I can imagine, but you wear your English clothes with French flair. You did even when we were in Eton, and you’d never yet stepped on French soil. So what happened with the explosion’s victims?”
“As Celia had suspected, the manager had not properly provided for them as he was supposed to. He considered Celia a soft-hearted woman who didn’t know the practices of his trade, and was quite surprised when I upheld her orders and summarily dismissed him. It only remained to pay compensation to the victims, and find a new manager. Within two days everything was accomplished. I paid a quick visit to Celia’s great-uncle, - Sir Mortimer is doing very well - and on Saturday, when my tailor delivers the last pieces, I’ll be on my way back to France.”
“I am impressed. Celia herself could not have done better.”
“Well, I do have my own estate and vineyards to run. Business is more interesting than I used to think in my younger days, and though I don’t have a natural talent like Celia, I am getting better at it.”
“My business affairs are mostly in Jonathan’s capable hands, but I have also had a vexatious summer so far.” James told his friend about Rook’s engagement to Princess Gisela, Miss Prentice’s disappearance, and his fruitless efforts to find the girl in London.
“If she’s been gone for almost two weeks, I see little chance of a happy outcome – she’ll be ruined in any case,” Alphonse said, shaking his head. “What a terrible tragedy for the whole family. The only daughter, you say? Celia was only eighteen when I met her, if she were here she would feel great sympathy for this unfortunate young woman.”
“Celia has more sense in her little finger than Miss Prentice in her whole body,” James said. “I feel rather exasperated with the foolish girl, but her parents are so helpless that I could not depart right away. There is nothing left to do at this point, however, but to hope that the reward offered, and the campaign of the Society Argus, may yet yield results.”
They were sharing an after-dinner brandy in the study when James’s butler announced an unexpected but persistent visitor. “A Mr. Selbington, Sir,” he said with a slight sniff. “Claims he has urgent news and wants to see you right away, despite the late hour. Shall I tell him you are not at home?”
“No – bring him here, right away.” As the servant left, James told his friend, “I hope it is news about Miss Prentice at last. This may take a while. If you’d rather leave, seeing how late it is -?”
“And miss the end of this story? Not a chance, and it is only half past one, hardly that late.”
The young barrister was ushered into the study by the butler and announced in a stiff voice. James introduced Selbington to Alphonse, and offered him a chair and a drink. “What is this news you bring – is Miss Prentice found at last?”
“Possibly,” Selbington said, drawing a letter out of his pocket and handing it to James. “This came to the offices of the Argus in reply to our appeal for news, just today. I am not sure how believable it is, and wanted to consult you before you left – you are returning to the country in the morning, I understand?”
“That was indeed my plan.” James read the letter out loud for Alphonse’s benefit:
Sir,
I am a faithful reader of the Argus and was much affected by your description of the missing young lady. The girl you are searching for might be a young woman who was delivered to the Cullingham Institute some ten days ago, though she goes under the name of Miss Rabick here. The Institute is a private sanatorium for mentally disturbed patients, in Greenwich. Miss Rabick was brought here unconscious by a Mr. Tolling, who is rumoured to work for a high-ranking nobleman. She has the big brown eyes you described, and she talks like a nob. I have only seen her from a distance, so I cannot vouch for the latter but her attendant says she has a slight Northern accent.
Sir, nobody from outside is allowed to see our patients, and if any family member tried to get in, her presence would not be admitted. It is worth my job to tell you about this but if I could get the reward I would not mind, they do not pay us very well and the work is very hard. Please do not show this letter to Dr Cullingham or any of his employees.
“Dulcie”
P.S. That is not my real name but I will claim the reward as Dulcie if this Miss Rabick is the young lady you are seeking. Be very careful!
“A private madhouse?” Alphonse said incredulously. “Surely not!”
“It would certainly explain why we found no trace of Miss Prentice elsewhere.” James was reluctant to hope, but the lead must certainly be followed up. “This Dulcie writes like a relatively educated person. I wonder if she’s really female; the handwriting could be from either a man or a woman.”
“So you also believe there might be something to it? I have already verified that the Institute does exist. As the letter states it is in Greenwich, behind a high wall.” Selbington sounded as though he wanted to climb that wall sooner rather than later.
“It definitely merits following up,” Alphonse said. “Even if this Miss Rabick should turn out to be some other young woman, to be brought unconscious to such a place by the minion of a nobleman sounds intriguingly melodramatic. You may end up saving another girl instead.”
“Of course for all we know this Miss Rabick may be genuinely mad,” Selbington said. “Dulcie does not say one way or the other.”
“From the letter, one might infer that the Institute accepts patients whom someone wants out of the way, whether they are genuinely mad or not.” James had heard that such places existed. “The question is, how do we go about verifying the information? If we knew for sure that this Miss Rabick was Miss Prentice, I could apply to a magistrate I know fairly well, for a warrant. With a clutch of constables we’d soon find her, if she’s there to be found. But the magistrate would just laugh at me if I showed him an anonymous letter like this.”
“Someone must go as a prospective customer, and have a look around,” Alphonse suggested. “It cannot be Mr Selbington because of the connection to the Argus, or you, James, as whoever is keeping Miss Prentice prisoner may know that she had been staying with your brother’s family. I had better do it.”
Selbington looked at him in surprise, and seemed about to question the offer, but in the end only said, “That’s very helpful of you, Monsieur.”
“I could go along as your secretary, Mr. James,” James suggested. “While you ply the good doctor with questions, I may have a chance to sniff out our quarry. If I can testify that I saw the girl – and I know her personally – we can get the warrant to free her easily enough.”
“You would postpone your departure, then?” Selbington said, sounding relieved. “In such a delicate matter, your assistance will be invaluable. In the meantime, I’ll try to find this man Tolling – have you ever heard of him? The only powerful lord involved with Miss Prentice is the Duke of Ottway, or his son, I suppose. But the latter has been in the countryside, from what you told me.”
James shook his head. “It’s definitely not Rook – Lord Molyneux, I mean. He helped search for her,
and he would not be so cruel towards a girl who loves him. His father, now – but surely even he would not do this – how would he even know where to find her?”
“She was taken on the very day the article about her and the Marquess first appeared,” Selbington said. “Indeed, how would the Duke be able to find her in Holborn so quickly? But I’ll try to find out if he employs anybody by name of Tolling. If he does, then we can be virtually certain of Miss Rabick’s real identity.”
“I would suggest we do not tell Mr. and Mrs. Prentice about the possibility that their daughter is found, until we know for certain whether it is indeed she,” James said. “My last talk with them earlier today, when I took my leave, left me worried for their own health. It would be too cruel to raise their hopes, and then have to dash them, if it is not their daughter after all.”
“That makes sense,” Selbington agreed.
“I’ll send a messenger for an urgent appointment first thing in the morning then,” Alphonse said, getting up and stretching his limbs after sitting for so long. “I’d better get back to my own place, and write the note and give my orders before I turn in. By the time we awake, we may have the appointment, James. This should be interesting.”
“I’ll hold myself ready,” James said. “We’d better go in your carriage, with your coat of arms. You can pick me up here on the way.”
“If I find out anything about Tolling, I’ll send word immediately,” Selbington promised.
“Before we part,” James suggested, “let’s drink a toast to Miss Prentice’s recovery, for luck.”
“We certainly could use some good luck, after all this searching,” Selbington agreed. “And so does poor Miss Prentice. If it turns out to be her in that Institute, I shall advise her parents to bring suit against the Duke for an enormous amount of compensation. I would love to argue the case – I can see it now. By the time I’d be done, he would not dare show his face in London again.”