Mr Thin emerged from the cellar, a pile of books in his arms. He balanced them on the side table beside Mrs Graham’s chair.
Ramona addressed him. ‘Sir, I’m looking for a novel. Something diverting for an elderly relative. Mrs Graham, can you think of something for us?’
‘Scott,’ Maria suggested. ‘Does Sir Walter have something new?’
‘Kenilworth.’ Mr Thin perused a shelf and slid out a volume. ‘It’s an historical romance of the Tudors.’
Maria said nothing and was careful not to show her distaste. She’d have chosen poetry.
‘Kenilworth will be perfect,’ Ramona enthused, quite oblivious. ‘We shall both love it. History is so diverting and a romance will restore my aunt’s spirits. I hope it ends happily.’
‘Or Maid Marian by Mr Thomas Love Peacock, perhaps.’ Mr Thin produced another book as if from nowhere, like a magician. ‘It has proved very popular with many of the ladies and if you like a history . . .’
‘I shall take them both.’ Ramona smiled gratefully. ‘We shall have plenty of time for reading and I expect a story that my aunt hasn’t heard will be most beneficial. How helpful. Thank you.’
The footman moved forward to pick up the books, which Mr Thin was already parcelling.
‘What are you buying, Mrs Graham?’ Ramona enquired.
‘Books for my charge, mostly. I shall be a governess when I return to the Brazilian court. We require a library of educational publications for the Princess Royal.’
Ramona smiled warmly. She picked up the Latin primer and turned it over in her palm. ‘How lovely to be around children.’ She paused momentarily. ‘And how is Captain Henderson?’
The words escaped as if casually. Maria found herself perturbed by the question – not so much the enquiry itself as the stab of jealousy that accompanied it. Why must every mention of Henderson provoke a physical response? No good could come of it.
‘I have scarcely seen the captain,’ she said. ‘We docked at Bristol and since then I have only bumped into him once. We do not move in the same circles.’ After this last, she found she was biting her lip. She did not want to sound uppity.
‘But he is in London?’
‘As far as I am aware.’
‘I hoped I might see him again.’ Ramona shrugged. ‘What a shame. I’m glad I ran into you. I’m staying on Fitzhardinge Street. Number 12,’ she volunteered. ‘It’s close to Manchester Square. Please call if you’re in the neighbourhood. I can’t offer fried chicken and chilli, but the cook is from Scotland and makes excellent scones.’
Maria nodded. She was transfixed by Ramona’s eyes – the girl had extraordinarily long lashes. ‘I will,’ she said. ‘How kind. I hope your aunt is feeling better soon.’
Later, with a large box of books set to be packed for travel and dispatched to her lodgings at Georgiana’s townhouse, and a conversation during which Mr Thin said he would be delighted to stock Maria’s new editions and would stack copies in pride of place, close to the clock, Maria emerged onto the sunny street. At the corner, she engaged a cab to the village of Kensington Gravel Pits, and her next appointment. Taking her seat, she snatched a glance at a man in a dark frock coat and, for a ridiculous moment, her heart skipped a beat. The spectre of Henderson was everywhere. She must get on.
The cab was dusty and worn. Dirt ingrained the threadbare seats, but Georgiana hadn’t offered the use of a carriage and Maria had not liked to ask. Mrs Graham had not anticipated that London would be so trying. Still, as long as it was roadworthy, the state of the cab hardly mattered. The journey west was pleasant. The light on the road became dappled with shadow as the busy London streets shifted to a more suburban state lined with trees. Maria opened the grimy window and considered the frontages on some of the newer crescents. She tried to focus on the horticulture instead of thinking of him, but it was impossible. Miss Bagdorf, she realised, would make the captain an excellent match, and he, she. And there it was again, that tearing feeling, uneasy, in her belly. Maria cursed quietly. Amid the buying of the books and the interest in her work, it was difficult to accept that she was stuck or that things were difficult. I can’t have my cake and eat it, she told herself. In short order she’d be leaving for Rio, and yet, there was no denying it, if she couldn’t have Captain Henderson, she preferred that no one else would.
Maria had never been illogical in her life. She prided herself on her ability to think things through and abide by what she knew to be right. But now it seemed she was cursed by an inability to play by the rules. At the gates of Hyde Park, she suddenly realised she was set to arrive at Miss Calcott’s empty-handed. She tapped the roof of the cab to stop the driver and descended into the sunshine to buy a posy of lavender and rosebuds. Beyond the railings, children played with their nannies on the grass. Prams were wheeled in the open air. A little boy was being taught to ride a pony by his family’s groom. She felt at a great remove from such comfortable domesticity – miles away from Murray’s townhouse and all its cultured conversation. Beyond, Miss Bagdorf’s lodgings were not far, on the other side of the grass, in Marylebone. Maria stole aboard once more and set off into the countryside.
The village wasn’t far. The first sign of it was a line of carts hauling stones from the pits and transporting them to town. They pulled to the side to let the carriage pass until Maria’s cab drew up on the pebbles that lead to the double-fronted brick house where the Calcotts resided. She climbed down and, after paying the driver, took a moment to collect herself, taking in the clematis that rambled up the facade. The flowers were in bloom, cascading on a wave of summer sun. Before she could even knock, a maid opened the door and, bobbing a curtsey, led her through a wide, pleasant hallway and upstairs. The house smelled of beeswax and peaches and the light streamed through the well-appointed windows. As Maria entered the bright drawing room, she noticed a vase of garden roses placed on the piano, blousy petals spilling across its surface. On the table there was a white dish of red apples with their leaves attached. All so English. The Calcotts did not favour the fashion for exotic or Oriental furniture and the room was set with comfortable chairs, oak cupboards and tables of English design. Though close to town, Kensington Gravel Pits felt like the country.
Miss Calcott jumped to her feet as Maria entered, laying a ring of embroidery onto her pink velvet chair. ‘My dear Mrs Graham, I have missed your company,’ she declared, and rang the bell for tea, which arrived so quickly it must have already been on its way up.
A plate of sandwiches was laid on the table next to a silver teapot and delicate porcelain cups. Maria set the flowers beside her friend’s chair and tried to relax. It was a good day, or at least it should have been. Arriving at the Gravel Pits was diverting. Here, somehow, life seemed less complicated. Perhaps because it was a home rather than a residence, or maybe because Miss Calcott was truly glad to see her. Two painted landscapes had pride of place over the simply carved mantel, but they could not divert her from what was truly on her mind. Maria’s stomach turned. It was shaming and unfair of her to keep hold of Captain Henderson. She must let go.
‘I’m so glad you have come. The dressmaker will be along in a little while. In the meantime, Augustus left you this.’ Miss Calcott passed across a blue box, tied with an ivory ribbon. ‘He had to see to a portrait commission. He’s frightfully dedicated, you see. He said to send you his regards and to invite you to accompany us to see Mr Bourgeois’s portrait collection at Dulwich on Friday. Might you come, Maria? I’m sure you will like it.’
Maria smiled. Augustus Calcott was everything you might hope of a gentleman. She’d wanted to visit Dulwich. ‘Yes. Friday,’ she said as she sat down on the long sofa, then eased the thin ribbon to one side and slid the top of the box open. Inside, staring up at her, lying on a bed of straw, there was a likeness of her father in miniature. Calcott had dressed him in naval uniform with the horizon in the background, sea, sky and, in the distance, a ship – it looked like the frigate Juno, which had been his favourite c
ommand. Mostly blue, the miniature was set in a carved oval ebony frame that set off Captain Dundas’s dark hair. Startled, Maria let the box fall into her lap. She gasped. For a man who had never met her father, the likeness the painter had captured was astonishing. Augustus had even caught the little mole that she’d described, by the cleft of her father’s chin.
‘Oh.’ She let out every pocket of breath in her body. ‘Oh.’ Tears flooded and she scrambled for her linen handkerchief.
Miss Calcott leaned over and touched her arm. ‘Augustus was sure it would please you, my dear. Don’t fret, I beg of you. If it is wrong, we shall have him paint it again.’
Maria put out her hand. ‘No. It’s absolutely perfect.’ She picked up the tiny picture. It fitted exactly in the palm of her hand. ‘This is the first painting I have ever owned.’ She smiled. ‘I shall take it with me everywhere.’
As Maria clutched the miniature, she comforted herself that she was doing the right thing. London was paramount. Her father’s likeness showed that as surely as if he’d laid a comforting hand on her shoulder and whispered into her ear from beyond the grave. She should be proud of herself – she was a royal tutor and an accomplished writer. A respectable widow. Georgiana was only in mourning, that was all. Lady Dundas would, if not come round, at least come to accept her decision. Ramona, poor girl, was perhaps a little lonely. Soon, she’d be gone on a royal commission. Maria ran a finger over the portrait’s frame like an old woman stroking a cat. She sniffed. Coming home had made her terribly overwrought.
‘I honestly think it is the best gift anyone ever gave me.’
Miss Calcott poured the tea. ‘Oh good,’ she said. ‘I thought something was wrong.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make a fuss.’ Maria sat back on the pale-green pillows. She stared into her father’s eyes. ‘I’m very glad to be here.’ She picked up a sandwich. ‘Ham is quite my favourite.’
‘Well,’ said Miss Calcott, ‘the dressmaker will be along directly. And Augustus says I must order myself a new day dress as well as your evening gown. He has arranged the colours. We need only agree them and submit to measurements. Won’t that be nice?’
Maria smiled. How thoughtful. Soon she would be travelling again.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘What a perfect afternoon.’
*
The Old Street Bridge Club was not in the habit of meeting anywhere other than Mallow Street, but in the present circumstances the gentlemen made an exception and congregated at Fisher’s residence near Leicester Fields. Grant lit a cigar and eyed the crystal decanter on the sideboard. He ignored Fisher’s dogs – two terriers, which were crowding at his feet in hope of attention. Fisher poured three glasses.
‘Down,’ he ordered the animals, to no avail.
Normally he’d ring and have the dogs taken away, but with Hayward and Grant here, he did not want staff in the library. The men were careful not to be seen in public together and certainly not as more than passing acquaintances. He casually put out his foot and kicked one of the dogs away. The animal whimpered.
‘They belong to my wife,’ he explained, his brown eyes phlegmatic as he passed the brandy.
None of the men had yet slept. The business of the evening before was most disconcerting, and all had cried off social engagements in order to come to an understanding.
Hayward downed his brandy in one. ‘That’s better,’ he said.
‘Well, whatever are we going to do?’ Fisher asked. ‘The captain said he was coming here.’
Hayward remained steely-eyed. For almost two hours after Henderson and Fry had left the club the night before, the men had interrogated Sam Pearson. It had started as a bloodletting, but it quickly became clear that there was real mileage in it. The boy had spent time aboard the captain’s ship and, although he had been restrained below decks, he had seen and heard plenty. Hayward’s jaw flexed. He was the one who had realised, of course – Fisher was little more than an idiot when it came to it, and Grant, while having an excellent brain for logistical matters, had no understanding of people, least of all himself.
‘We have to kill Henderson, whether he pays the money or not.’ Grant couldn’t restrain himself. ‘He has threatened us.’
‘Yes. We can’t have that,’ Hayward agreed.
‘Not at all.’ Fisher shook his head. ‘But if we can secure the money as well as the fellow’s death, it would be preferable. I like to balance the books.’
‘Quite.’ Grant nodded. ‘And he says he’s coming here to pay. So it seems that is entirely possible.’
Fisher looked around his grand library. He was accustomed to behaving quite differently in these surroundings from his persona at the Bridge Club. While the thought of the captain’s presence in his home made him uncomfortable, he still felt a frisson at the idea of killing someone here.
Hayward stood up and served himself from the decanter without offering either of the others. ‘Gentlemen, I see another possibility,’ he said. ‘Why kill the fellow when we can still have him? He’s the most useful captain I’ve seen in years. Not only can he throw an effective punch, but he’s clever too. This Brazilian run has been troublesome. I think he may still be the answer to our problems. The chap is a natural smuggler. We must only tame him.’
Grant and Fisher looked nonplussed.
‘What do you mean, Henry?’ Grant enquired gently, as if Hayward might have gone mad. ‘He is coming here to pay us, but we cannot suffer the fellow to live. He knows who we are.’
Hayward smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I think we may have something to parry with. What Pearson said last night. You know. The woman.’
Grant’s eyes narrowed. He couldn’t grasp what Hayward was talking about. ‘What woman?’
‘The woman aboard his ship. Pearson said she was a lady. Weren’t you listening?’
Fisher lit a cigar. ‘Yes. The captain’s mistress,’ he said glibly. ‘The men said there had been an affair.’
‘Not only an affair. Didn’t you hear how they had put it? The captain was doe-eyed, and the lady a widow recently returned from South America,’ Hayward said slowly. ‘A lady who has been travelling in Brazil? Don’t you fellows follow the news? It is Mrs Graham, I’ll warrant. The writer. She is the toast of Piccadilly. Do you not see?’
Fisher had clearly never heard of the woman, but something stirred behind Grant’s eyes. He recognised the name and, therefore, the glimmer of possibility.
‘If our captain has feelings for this lady then we may counter his threat with one of our own,’ Hayward announced with a flourish. ‘He will not want to see her fall – why, he is probably relying on her position in society to advance his own plans. And, in that case, we have him quite as much as he has us. In fact, we have him more so, don’t you see?’
Grant nodded slowly. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We could expose her. That’s brilliant, Hayward. Quite brilliant. We could kidnap her. We could do anything.’
Fisher squirmed. ‘Ruin a lady? I say, that’s a bit much. And who’s to say the captain would spring to her defence? He’s a grubby chap. No, I don’t believe it. A lady with . . . that man. I say we take the money when he delivers it and then we kill him.’
Both Grant and Hayward ignored Fisher’s objection. The men were a tight threesome, but the two of them were at its core. They did what they wanted when it came down to it. Fisher was like putty – easily moulded. He was there by inheritance alone, although admittedly he was useful for some of the Old Street Bridge Club’s more hands-on jobs. It was Fisher who had been charged with dumping Sam Pearson’s body into the Thames only two hours before. The boy was a hopeless case – not nearly perceptive enough to bring off the job.
‘If Henderson loves the woman, he could not risk her disgrace. We’d have him as our captain as long as we wanted.’ A grin slit Grant’s face as the idea settled. ‘We can keep the money. We can have whatever we want.’
‘No, no.’ Hayward raised a finger. ‘We mustn’t be greedy, for there is someth
ing more valuable here. We shall insist upon three times the stake, as usual, but the captain must run for us. He will be our man. We will make a fortune or,’ he added smugly, ‘another one.’
‘Who is this woman?’ Fisher tried to keep up. ‘It seems rather a lot to go through on her account.’
Hayward regarded his friend. They had known each other all their lives. ‘You do not understand love,’ he said simply. ‘Mrs Graham shall be our insurance policy. You will see.’
Fisher slumped into a leather chair. ‘I think I shall organise my own little insurance policy,’ he insisted. ‘In case the captain does not fancy your deal. That’s if he turns up at all. He may run, of course.’
‘I account him a man of some honour. I think he meant what he said,’ Hayward pronounced.
‘Let’s give him a day.’ Grant looked at his nails. ‘No more than one. It would be good to secure the money, whichever way it turns.’
Fisher extended his leg to once more remove one of the terriers from his notice. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I will stay at home today. And if the captain arrives, I’ll try your ruse with the lady. Mrs Graham, is it? What kind of a woman writes?’ His voice dripped with distaste. ‘Really, I can’t see that this plan of yours will work at all.’
27
St James’s Street
In the normally restrained atmosphere of Boodle’s gentlemen’s club, John Murray’s colour was rising. Firstly, he had been summoned like an errant schoolboy, and now he was being given a dressing-down.
‘We simply can’t have it,’ Sir Horace Strange, notable member and Tory peer, tutted, spit flecking his collar. He was furious. ‘A woman. What are you thinking, sir?’
Murray stood up for himself. ‘I am thinking that Mrs Graham has one of the most interesting minds of our age and, furthermore, that excluding her from speaking at the Royal Society on account of her sex is ridiculous, given the woman’s talents. Her writing is marvellous and her scientific observations I’m sure will prove valuable. She is an adept geographer. Her books are widely regarded.’
On Starlit Seas Page 30