3 Great Historical Novels

by Fay Weldon

  ‘Yes, this is Miss Mahoney, Ryan’s niece, and this is my husband’s cousin, Mr Blake.’ Antonia introduced the gentleman as Mr Montgomery, a mercer of Regent Street, and his associate as Mr Beckwith. Rhia had not heard Antonia Blake use formal titles before. Was she doing this for Mr Montgomery’s benefit? And if so, what of her Quakerly values? Rhia extended her hand, which Mr Montgomery took. His clear hazel eyes met hers for only a moment, but she felt a small thrill at their intensity. It must be useful, as a mercer, to have such an effect on women – his clientele being largely female. He turned to Laurence.

  ‘Ah, Mr Blake, I heard you had moved to London. Your reputation precedes you. I understand you are making great advances in the photogenic field.’

  ‘Indeed I am,’ said Laurence. ‘If you would like a portrait or a personalised calling card, I am at your disposal.’ Even Laurence seemed a little in awe of the man.

  ‘But Mrs Blake has already taken my portrait! Or rather, she took a group portrait in her garden in the spring.’ Mr Montgomery turned his handsome face back to Antonia. He was in the region of fifty and had an abundance of pewter hair and a toffee-cream complexion. The corners of his eyes were crinkled to suggest he often smiled. Mr Beckwith barely raised his eyes. He was either painfully shy or overcome by emotion. Perhaps he had been fond of Ryan.

  ‘I have done nothing with the negative yet,’ said Mrs Blake eventually, softly. ‘It is not transferred.’ It was clear that she did not want to talk about the portrait, which made Rhia even more interested in it.

  ‘My deepest commiseration for your loss, Miss Mahoney,’ said Mr Montgomery. ‘Your uncle was very well liked. He will be missed. Sadly, Mr Beckwith and I have a pressing engagement elsewhere and cannot attend Cloak Lane, but I would very much like to make your acquaintance. I know it is abominably short notice, but you must, all three, agree to be my guests this Saturday for supper.’

  ‘That is gracious,’ said Antonia. She looked at Rhia, flushing. Laurence was clearly pleased, so Rhia nodded.

  ‘Splendid! Shall we say eight o’clock?’ Mr Montgomery strode away through the churchyard with Mr Beckwith hurrying behind him. He looked rather magnificent, with his polished leather top hat and black mourning coat. It must be English broadcloth. The quality, Rhia had to admit, was superior even to that woven in Wicklow. His patent boots and the silver tip of his walking stick flashed in the sun, affirming that he was a man who had money and who liked to spend it. There was something reassuring about this.

  The vision of the ribbon in the brown earth would not leave Rhia as they returned to Isaac’s carriage. It was a symbol of renewal, she decided, and of hope. If today were a cloth, it could only be green velvet.

  At Cloak Lane, Beth and Juliette wore starched white aprons and caps, they curtsied and took top coats and hats and showed guests down the hall.

  The fire was lit in the drawing room, at the centre of the house. Rhia had not yet seen this room in use. Like any drawing room, it was a statement of the prosperity of the household, but it seemed out of place in the Blake household. The carpet was deep rose and the curtains heavily patterned damask. The furnishings were teak and mahogany upholstered in red velvet, and the walls were papered in dark green. The room was conventional and did not have Mrs Blake’s lightness of touch. Rhia felt, instinctively, that this room had been Josiah’s and that it had not been used since he died.

  Several gentlemen, whose names Rhia immediately forgot, approached her and offered sympathy and condolences and murmured a few kind words about Ryan. They drifted off to converse quietly in huddles by the fire, on the ottoman or by the windows.

  Antonia brought her tea in a cup and saucer of pink china, so fine that it might have been made from a sea shell. Neither of them spoke for a time. Rhia was puzzling over the drawing room and Quakerism. For all of the simplicity of their faith, the Blakes unashamedly embraced the accessories of wealth.

  ‘You must be thinking about Ryan,’ Antonia coaxed.

  Rhia almost felt guilty that she was not. ‘No. Is it true that Lloyds and Barclays are Quaker banks?’

  Antonia looked puzzled. ‘Yes.’ She nodded slowly. ‘But affluence can be a consequence of ethical trade as much as large-scale production. The real error is in being without charity, which is, after all, what God intended for us.’

  ‘How can you know what God intended? He has not been in direct conversation with anyone for almost two thousand years!’

  Antonia had the good grace to smile before she said she must fetch more of Beth’s barberry tarts and ginger loaf cake. Rhia suddenly longed to be like her; to believe in something wholly and unquestioningly; to follow a creed that made sense of life and death, instead of hovering between the worlds of the living and the dead. On the other hand, wearing grey and brown for the rest of one’s life seemed a high price to pay for unwavering faith.

  Laurence and Dillon appeared and were, for a time, deep in conversation with Isaac Fisher. When Antonia went to the kitchen, Dillon approached Rhia. He was dressed respectfully in black, but his boots were as narrow and pointed as ever.

  ‘May I speak with you for a moment, Miss Mahoney?’

  ‘Of course.’ She wished he wouldn’t, as her tone probably implied. She was tired. She caught Laurence watching from the other side of the room, frowning, though he smiled quickly when their eyes met. She felt unsure of herself and wished someone would bring out a fiddle or tell a joke about Ryan. She could not help admiring Mr Dillon’s apparent disregard for social graces.

  ‘It is remarkable that your arrival in London should co incide with your uncle’s death,’ he began, and she braced herself. ‘Is it possible that the circumstances which brought you here were connected to his … situation?’

  Rhia felt a surge of anger which seemed to fortify her. ‘If you think my arrival in London somehow contributed to my uncle’s—’ She didn’t manage to finish before Mr Dillon interjected.

  ‘That is not what I said. I only wondered if you could tell me more about the circumstances that brought you here.’

  Rhia bit her lip and felt foolish. ‘If you must know, my family’s business in Dublin collapsed and I have come to London to find a position as a governess.’

  ‘A governess?’

  It was evident that he did not think her suited to the profession. Perhaps he thought her too shallow or not cultivated enough? She clenched her teeth. ‘Yes, a governess.’

  ‘I see.’

  She thought she saw the shadow of a smile and that did it. ‘I have some questions of my own. Please tell me what your business was with my uncle and why you are so interested in his affairs?’

  ‘It is a fair question,’ he agreed. ‘I only wish I could be of more assistance to you. As to your uncle’s estate, by law, the property of someone who commits self-murder should immediately be seized by the Crown. The gentlemen from Scotland Yard who visited China Wharf have now issued a report to the coroner. There is, however, a period in which the circumstances of death can be attested.’ He had neatly side-stepped her question.

  ‘What is there to attest?’

  ‘That is what I intend to discover. Perhaps your uncle felt he had no choice but to take his own life. Meanwhile neither you nor your family will be allowed access to the will or any of your uncle’s assets and neither will his lawyer be permitted to release documentation of his legal holdings.’

  ‘I had not given such things any thought.’

  Mr Dillon looked surprised. Did he not believe her?

  ‘There is one other matter,’ he said. ‘I think Mr Blake has told you that we failed to find the letter. I blame myself, in part, for having to ask you this, but please cast your mind back to last week when we went to your uncle’s rooms. I should have told you at the time not to touch or move anything. Was there anything, Miss Mahoney, that you noticed; that seemed out of the ordinary or out of character?’

  Rhia could think of nothing, and said so.

  I see. Thank you. I wish you well in
your new profession.’ He bowed and went to pay his respects to Antonia. When he left, without a backward glance, Rhia breathed a sigh of relief.

  What had he meant about the ‘circumstances of death’? Presumably he intended, somehow, to discover what had gone wrong in Ryan’s personal or professional life. Was there anything she had noticed at China Wharf? She remembered the calling card she had picked up from the floor. Although it was probably nothing, she could do some investigating of her own; at least discover what the numbers and the oriental character meant. It might make her feel less helpless. Dillon’s interest in Ryan’s affairs made her uneasy, and she was now regretting telling him anything at all.

  Armozeen

  Juliette’s fingers were icy cold as they brushed Antonia’s neck. Antonia shivered. Juliette finished fixing the lace fichu and stepped back to inspect her work. She looked pleased, as she always did on the rare occasions that Antonia wore a pretty collar or cuff. The fichu was decorative, not her own choice, but Antonia did not want to insult her hosts by appearing too abstemious. Personally, she cared not if every other female at the Montgomery supper were clothed in rainbows. Or so she told herself.

  ‘I am sorry, madam, I tried rubbing them together to warm them, but they’re just cold hands and there’s nought I can do about it.’ Juliette’s penitence was occasionally irksome, yet it was what had drawn Antonia to the girl. She had not intended to employ a maid on her charitable visit to the Manchester workhouse. Had she thought that she could save Juliette? It seemed arrogant, now.

  ‘It is not important. No doubt it prevents me from becoming complacent. It is a blessing to have you. Now, is the collar straight? And what about my hair? You know I rely on you to be my looking-glass.’

  ‘You look very fine, madam, though not too fine, of course!’

  Antonia smiled. Juliette seemed to have untangled some of the emotion of her mother’s letter, but there was still that something. Antonia could still not bring herself to ask about the death of the father, though she often longed to. She must be deferential, and tread lightly. Was this what God wanted – that no creature should be affronted by another? She was disturbed to feel so weary of righteousness.

  The others were waiting in the hall. Rhia was dressed in straw coloured corinna; a silk so ornately figured that it resembled embroidery. Her shawl was of deep, rich maize. The tones set off her inky hair and olive skin as though she were some harvest deity, and Laurence could barely drag his eyes from her. Antonia vaguely recalled a tale of the survivors of the Spanish Armada who had left a strain of their fine, dark looks in Ireland. She felt like a dried-up wheat shaft by comparison. For a moment she longed for the ephemeral pleasure of vanity.

  ‘You look handsome,’ Rhia said. She was looking at her quizzically, and Antonia felt her colour rise guiltily. The plainness of dress was originally intended to be a protest against fashion and its wasteful and fickle demands, but that had been in response to the lavish adornment of the last century. It struck Antonia that, without Josiah, these virtues might have lost their meaning. She smiled as sincerely as she could.

  ‘Mr Montgomery is sending his carriage.’ The ring of hooves on the cobbles interrupted her. ‘And here it is. Remarkably punctual.’ She busied herself with her gloves and bonnet to hide her confusion.

  Rhia gazed out of the carriage window as they travelled along Holborn and Oxford Street, though there was little to see but drizzle and carriage lamps. She had now drafted two letters to prospective employers; one to a vicar with two young daughters in Finsbury and the other to an elderly widow in Kensington who had advertised for a young lady companion. The latter position, Antonia guessed, might be too staid for someone with Rhia’s restlessness. At least Quakerism actively encouraged women in the workplace. At least the Friends would not disapprove of her trading on her own.

  ‘What sort of establishment is the Jerusalem Coffee House?’ Rhia asked suddenly.

  ‘It is a meeting place of sorts,’ Laurence began, looking to Antonia for help. The world of trade was of little interest to him; unless it was a study in chiaroscuro. ‘It is where bankers, investors and merchants and people who work for the Royal Exchange all meet to buy and sell stocks and shares,’ Antonia explained. She envied Laurence. She wished that she, too, could focus on light and shade to the exclusion of all else. The irony of the metaphor did not escape her. Focusing on the light alone seemed as problematic as becoming lost in the shadows. They fell into silence again. No one was in the mood for a dinner party.

  The Montgomery residence was one of a number of mansions in Belgrave Square, in the vicinity of Buckingham Palace Gardens. They passed through imposing iron gates attended by a footman, and stopped at the bottom of several broad marble steps. These led to a columned portico and double doors of polished oak.

  The doors were opened by a starched maid as pretty as a china doll, and they stepped into an austere entrance hall with a tiled floor and walls papered in patterned jade and peacock blue. Very theatrical, Antonia thought, feeling like a domestic servant in her plain, corded armozeen.

  They were delivered to a vast reception room. Every wall hung with French tapestries. Here, the dinner guests gathered to listen to the pianoforte, played by a flaxen creature in a froth of sugar pink tulle. Isabella Montgomery was soon to come of age but looked fresh from the nursery with her pale, sausage ringlets and limpid, cornflower eyes. She turned to look when the new arrivals were announced. She struck a wrong key and giggled nervously.

  Close by, perched on regal chairs, were Mr Montgomery and his wife Prunella in magenta silk and a tiara. She averted her eyes pointedly when they grazed Antonia’s skirts. She had the same cloud of sunflower hair as her daughter, but her eyes were glassy with whatever she sipped on so urgently. Mr Montgomery seemed strained.

  The dinner guests were seated on a row of upholstered chairs and Antonia recognised the gaunt couple as Lord and Lady Basset; he being one of the East India Company’s representatives in Canton. The Bassets were a part of Society, and Antonia did not miss Lady Basset’s eyes widening when a Quaker and a foreigner took their seats beside Mr Beckwith and Isaac. At least Laurence had oiled his hair, but his shirtfront was just as creased as ever. She had no idea how he managed to look so consistently rumpled when Beth went to great pains to iron and starch his shirts.

  Isabella hammered the pianoforte keys and Antonia caught Isaac stealing looks at her. His mouth twitched as another stray chord escaped. She looked away quickly, lest she giggle. Was it just her feeling of displacement, or was the tension in the room palpable? It was a peculiar company, and she thought Mr Montgomery brave to gather them together.

  Isaac had been attentive on the day of the burial, mindful that another death had cut her to the quick. The actuality of Ryan’s suicide had not completely registered – Antonia felt only disbelief. Surely they should have seen the signs? Had they all been neglectful? She had noted Ryan’s odd mood but had just assumed that he was feeling the pressures of commerce. It was clear that Isaac felt the same remorse. He had been colleague and friend to both Ryan and Josiah. He lived with grief, too, having lost his wife to typhoid fever two summers ago.

  Isabella finished playing and Mr Montgomery took charge, since his wife was already in her altitude. He guided Antonia by the elbow to the dining room, and she felt her skin tingle at his touch through the thick fabric of her sleeve. To esteem him was no crime, but she must be doubly careful to be proper – not because she cared what people thought, especially, but because she was aware of her own vulnerability.

  Mr Montgomery had seated her next to him. ‘I am delighted to see you abroad in society, Mrs Blake. Am I to believe what Mr Fisher tells me – that you mean to run Josiah’s business?’

  ‘Of course. I have been more involved in the trade than you perhaps realise.’ Why was Isaac discussing her affairs with Jonathan Montgomery?

  ‘It shouldn’t surprise me, given that your creed is so intent on reform.’

  ‘I am disap
pointed that you think it reform! It is merely a mark of respect on the part of both husband and wife that a woman should take an interest in such things.’

  ‘Indeed, forgive me. Quite so.’ He sighed heavily and Antonia felt her heart lurch. If his wife were more often sober she might take an interest in his own affairs.

  ‘We must speak more on the subject of commerce, soon,’ he added as he pulled back his own chair. ‘Perhaps your husband mentioned our newest enterprise?’

  ‘I am not up to date. No doubt he intended to when he … returned from India.’

  Her host looked down at his plate, shaking his head. He must miss Josiah too. Her husband had been well-liked even though he was outspoken on the subject of ethics. He would not be associated with anyone who was not similarly principled. Antonia wanted to say something soothing. ‘I have been thinking about the portrait in the garden. Perhaps you would like a representation of it?’ She trailed off when she caught Isaac’s eye. He looked disapproving, and she wondered if he thought she was being too familiar. Isaac looked away quickly and said something to Rhia, his expression earnest and the movements of his large hands slow and deliberate. She had seen him at the Jerusalem with the banker from Barings! She had completely forgotten the incident, so much had happened since. Isaac was listening to Rhia’s impressions of London, as was doe-eyed Isabella Montgomery. Antonia could not hear much above the clink of cutlery and crystal, but heard him say, in his slow, resonant voice, ‘Irish linen, being an import, can hardly compete against English, but it is favoured in Germany, a nation that appreciates fine-spun cloth as much as it favours quality in all things. Britain is less concerned about quality than with reducing cost and increasing production and profit.’

  As they were served their first, extravagant course – chestnut soup and baked sweetbreads – Mr Montgomery leaned towards Antonia.

  ‘I would very much like a representation of the portrait, Mrs Blake. Are you progressing with your photogenic drawing any more than when last we spoke?’