Oliver is unaware of the male heads turning and the hungry eyes sliding surreptitiously to capture a tasty glimpse of the delicious Anne Chadwick, who in her simple form-fitting silver sheath and flowing cloak seems almost naked compared to the embellishment of the other women. By choice? Her stark beauty carves through the ornamental fatigue like a perfectly cut diamond on a velvet cloth and sends hormones purring. How daring, to buck the fashions of the day. Isn’t she the slave-girl from Persia? Nor does young Oliver notice the countless furtive glances in his direction by the suddenly captivated debutantes whose mothers, so astute and observant, nudge them with sharp elbows—Look, there is Lord Longhride’s second brother!--and point out better prospects among the older men—I believe that Baron Rendlesham has his eye on you, my dear. Ohh, he just looked away!
As he slips past, Oliver overhears snatches of conversation that betray the matrimonial motives of Almack’s matrons. My dear, you must not sit next to the Countess of Leuchars; she wears such a profusion of pink and yellow, it will make you look pale. As always, these women seem to perceive a chronic shortage of prizes, and by the sudden brightening of their eyes and heaving of their motherly chests when one approaches, Oliver understands that a title and a good rent-roll are the chief criteria, not love or looks or even age (many of the main prizes are ten, fifteen, sometimes twenty years older than the young ladies who expectantly display their carefully packaged charms).
The receiving line for the Patronesses has diminished and Anne is taking the hand of Lady Cowper, who introduces her to the Committee. Herbert generously and idly stands straight and still while a great fuss is made about Anne Chadwick the author, the slave-girl, the heiress. Almost as an afterthought, Herbert is greeted by the Patronesses, who now seem eager to get the line moving again. Until, that is, Princess Esterhazy—a small, round woman, about fifty, born Princess Theresa of Thum and Taxis before marrying the Austrian Ambassador—sees the fresh handsome face and sturdy frame of Oliver Chadwick.
“And you must be the Chadwick son,” Princess Esterhazy says, looking into Oliver’s deep and dark eyes. Certainly the lad is eighteen or older, from the cut of him.
Oliver nods and smiles. Light seems to fall on the princess, and the other Patronesses now turn their heads to study the boy-man, peering at him as if he were a horse for sale.
“I understand you are half Persian,” the princess says.
A question.
“Yes, my father was a Qajar prince.”
“Ah, yes, so I recall from the book. I pictured you rather more… more childlike. You seem to be a fine young man.”
“I aim to be a true English gentleman, though I know my Persian heritage makes me less so.”
“Nonsense! There is something rather romantic about the Persians; of course, I’ve never met one. Before, that is. Be a good lad and come up here with us, will you?”
Princess Esterhazy pats the sofa cushion and scoots to her left, making room for him. The other Patronesses laugh. “To become a gentleman worth knowing, you should meet the rest of London society, and this is the vantage point, I assure you. Tonight you are my guest of honor. Mrs. Eaton, I will make sure none of these squabbling matrons get their “hooks” into your son this evening.”
Anne looks on with astonishment. All she can think to say is, “Your Royal Highness, how good of you.” She sees Oliver seated on London society’s throne, cradled between Princess Esterhazy and Lady Cowper, looking suddenly younger than his age. As other guests greet the Patronesses, Ollie is introduced to them by the princess with a broad grin. The evening has begun with a surprise.
There are more to come.
Promptly at eleven, the orchestra strikes up a tuneful introduction. Guests swarm onto the floor for the first dance of the evening. Gentlemen claim their partners, the ladies they have been admiring since arrival, leaving not a few women alone in silent tears. The dance begins—a stirring gallopade, resembling more a race than an ordinary dance—launching the evening’s revelry.
On the dance floor the gallant men and their ladies begin their frantic scramble. The brightly polished floor is slippery, the product of a new French compound rubbed into the wood. A few feet find the going adventurous.
Of all the dances he has learned, Oliver likes the athletic gallopade best. He turns to Princess Esterhazy and boldly offers his hand. Though it has been some years since the princess has danced the gallopade, she smiles and walks with him to the dance floor. The other Patronesses stare after her. Two of them begin searching for their husbands, not to be outdone by the princess, but the men are hiding in the tea room.
The gallopade begins to pick up momentum. Some of the more spirited dancers dash against the ropes, rebounding back into the action. The princess gaily lifts her feet, prances in time to the music, holds Oliver’s hand and gaily shrieks as the crowd begins rushing, faster and faster. Some of the younger women now prance like headstrong fillies, pulling the men along, tapping their feet, slipping and sliding as centrifugal force flings them about. And then a gentleman of about forty, Lord Corvesa, loses his footing on the polished floor and crashes down, taking his partner with him. Three others tumble over the crumpled bodies with piercing shrieks. Princess Esterhazy is saved by the steady hand of Oliver. The orchestra stops. Every mother and chaperone in the room whose charge is not by her side suddenly races to the scene of the catastrophe. The princess, looking down at the prostrate dancers and seeing no injuries, lets out a low laugh, which grows into a comical chirp. The others begin to laugh with her.
“The gallopade is not for the faint-hearted,” she says. “My gallant partner, Oliver Chadwick, saved me from a fall.” She pats her hands together, and the crowd begins to applaud with her. And then, with a look of mock horror, the princess stares at the source of the calamity and says, “Lord Corvesa, what are you doing on the floor beneath Miss Caroline Pelham?”
Lord Corvesa sits upright and replies, “Madam, I was breaking her fall.”
The entire room breaks into laughter and the orchestra strikes up a waltz. Oliver escorts the princess back to her sofa. “Thank you, my dear,” the princess says to Oliver. “That was my first gallopade in eight years. And my last, I’m afraid. But memorable it certainly was.”
“I have never enjoyed the gallopade as much as this evening, your Highness,” he replies. And means it. “Would you excuse me? I would like some lemonade.”
“Of course. But come back to visit us before the end of the evening, will you?”
Oliver marches to the long refreshment table and sips a glass of weak lemonade. As he turns, he is chilled by the sight of a turban moving through the crowd. But then the turbaned figure turns toward him. It is a man from India.
As the evening continues, Oliver invents a plan to erase the disapproving scowls from the faces of mothers who see their eligible daughters glancing at him. He invites the mothers to dance. By midnight, he has asked four of the stunned women and received no rejections. Heartbreakingly, two of them danced this evening but their daughters did not.
At half-past-midnight, at the refreshment table, Lady Cowper finds Anne and Herbert sampling some of the dry sandwiches that are staple fare at Almack’s. No one comes here for the food. “Anne, my dear, I’ve been looking for you,” Lady Cowper says in a most urgent voice. “I have someone I very much want you to meet.” She turns and motions to someone. “He says he is an old friend of yours from Persia.”
Anne wrinkles up her nose. She has no old friends in London.
“This is a very exciting moment. I know from your book what you went through in escaping from Persia. I am so pleased that I can reunite you with a dear friend who is now a diplomat visiting London for the first time.”
Anne is very confused.
“And here he is, my dear, along with his interpreter, Eardley Pickwick.”
Lady Cowper does not see the white expression of horror on Anne’s face because she is busy waving her arms, beckoning the other Patronesses to join her. An
ne looks at the familiar turbaned face and feels as if she is falling into the fiery pit of hell. She reels and leans against Herbert, who is confused by her behavior.
“Dear,” Herbert says, “what is it?”
Anne cannot speak, cannot stand, yet she does not fall. She continues to look into the wretched face of the kelauntar, Mirza Hasan Qasim. This cannot be happening. Not here, not in London.
Ladies Castlereigh and Sefton join Lady Cowper at the table. “My dear friends, we have here an old friend of Anne’s,” Lady Cowper explains to the other Committee members, “from Persia. Mr. Hasan…” She cannot remember the odd name.
“Mirza Hasan Qasim, thank you very much,” the Persian says.
Lady Cowper’s arm-waving has attracted the attention of about fifty guests, including Oliver, who sees his father standing next to Anne. His heart drops in his chest. He could not have imagined such a terrible event—especially here, at Almack’s. His mother’s humiliation will be killing.
“Mr. Hasan,” Lady Cowper says slowly, as if this will help the Persian understand her words, “will you tell us how you know Mrs. Eaton?”
Hasan speaks to Eardley, who translates for the crowd: “In Persia, I knew her as Anisa. She lived in the village of Bushruyih, of which I was mayor.”
Lady Cowper looks confused. “Excuse me, perhaps the translation is not accurate,” she nervously says to Eardley. “If I remember correctly, Anne was bought as a slave by the mayor of that village. Could you ask him to repeat his explanation?”
Eardley and Hasan have a brief exchange in Persian, then Eardley translates: “Yes, I am the one who purchased Anisa in Bokhara.”
The blood rushes from Lady Cowper’s face. “Oh my,” she says. Looking at Anne with wide eyes, she continues: “Then… then Mr. Qasim is the same Qasim that you wrote about in your book?”
Trembling, Anne slowly nods yes.
“Oh my dear, I am so sorry. I had no idea.”
Hasan speaks again, and Eardley offers a translation: “Mr. Qasim would like to explain that he purchased Anisa—Anne—on the slave market in Bokhara to save her from a most miserable existence. He then most respectfully brought her to his village of Bushruyih.”
Now more than a hundred guests have gathered. A chain of whispers helps the latecomers catch up on the conversation. The cluster has thickened to the point that the orchestra, having just finished a quadrille, hesitates to begin another piece. The room is suddenly hushed.
Eardley continues. “Mr. Qasim wants everyone to know that he always had the most noble intentions toward Anne. That is why he took her as his wife.”
Anne faints into Herbert’s arms. The truth is out! Herbert lies her down on the floor and looks up at the Persian. “She was a slave in Persia! I am her husband!” he shouts.
Another quick verbal exchange ends with the Persian handing a paper to Eardley who then speaks: “Mr. Qasim has brought with him the legal marriage contract, which has been authenticated by officials in London, as you can see.”
He hands the paper to Lady Cowper, who shakes her head and mumbles, Oh dear, oh dear.
The crowd buzzes madly, for the meaning of this revelation has suddenly become quite clear. If Anne Chadwick is the legal wife of Mirza Hasan Qasim, then she cannot, could not, dare not marry another man. And since she married Herbert Eaton, she must have committed…
“Mr. Qasim would very much like to take his wife back to Persia with him. He believes that she was misled by the treachery of a missionary, who swayed her into the deceitful and sinful life that she has been leading in London. He is prepared to forgive her.”
Suddenly Herbert Eaton stands, facing the Persian with a fierce look in his eyes. “Look here, this woman is my wife and she is not going to Persia!” He pokes a stiff forefinger into the Persian’s chest, backing him up and shouting, “You and your lies—you get out of here!”
Four men reach out to Herbert and pull him back.
Lady Cowper is still mumbling Oh dear, oh my goodness, and studying the paper in her hands.
The Persian straightens his tunic and speaks in English: “I am sorry, my friends. But it is true. She is my wife. I will not divorce her. The book is a lie.”
Herbert shouts, “Get out of here, you heathen scum! Get out!” He is difficult to restrain—it takes two more men.
Anne opens her eyes, moans at the sight of Herbert tearfully raging above her, then turns to see Oliver on the fringe of the crowd. She stares at him. He stares back, and his look of guilt tells her what she needs to know. He had known about his father’s threat and had not told her.
Hasan takes Eardley Pickwick by the arm and walks toward the door, passing Oliver. Hasan does not look at his son—not even a glimpse—but Eardley whispers to him in passing, the words hissing from a sad face: “He promised to pay all my bills.” A plea for forgiveness.
The Patronesses stand motionless and numb. The crowd begins to disperse as if the Eatons suddenly had been diagnosed with cholera.
Herbert drops to his knees, brushes his fingers through Anne’s hair. His tears fall on her face. He truly does not care about himself, but he can feel the immense weight of Anne’s humiliation. What will they do now that they are not, can not, will never be man and wife? He suddenly realizes how much he loves her. And misses her.
Oliver knows what he will do. First, he will go to the George & Vulture and get drunk. Then he will ruin Eardley Pickwick.
It’s a start.
Chapter 24
By the time Oliver arrives at the George & Vulture it is closed. It has rained and steam rises from the streets like a fog on the moors. The opening ball at Almack’s will go on until four or five, and Ollie can almost hear the excited buzz of the ton excitedly dissecting the awful scene between the Persian diplomat and the slave-girl.
He wants to go home, but can’t face seeing his mother. He is shrouded with a cloak of guilt. The poisonous look that his mother gave him—she had known! And he had wilted under her gaze. Is still wilted. He walks hunched like an old man, saddened and contrite.
Why hadn’t he told Anne about his father’s plan for revenge? She could have prepared a defense.
But then he realizes that he is not as sad as he first thought. And not so contrite. Watching his mother’s public humiliation was painful, yes, but now barely half-an-hour later he is not feeling quite so ashamed of himself. After all, he had not invited his father to Almack’s, and did not know that he would attend.
And was it not his mother’s choice to hide the fact of her Persian marriage? Certainly she could have anticipated the possible consequences of bigamy. Had she really thought that she could get away with it?
And what of her virtual abandonment of her son? Could she really have expected the loyalty and intimacy of his full confidence when she had so selfishly withdrawn from his life? No, she had forfeited her right to motherhood; she had relinquished those rights to Mum, who had seen through Anne’s transparency at their first meeting.
How he misses Mum!
It is suddenly clear to Ollie that Anne has brought about her own tragedy. All he had done was to do nothing—to let the natural order of things evolve. If he had intervened on his mother’s behalf, if he had warned her, if she had somehow avoided this fate, wrong would not have been righted. In a sense, by simply getting out of the way, Ollie had become an agent for justice.
A blur of movement in an alley catches his eye. The street urchins! Ollie is suddenly seized by a desire to see those youngsters again. What was the tall one’s name? He rushes into the alley and is greeted by the stench of garbage and a wriggling mass of rats unintimidated by his presence. The gang has disappeared, but he knows they are close, hiding in the shadows.
“Halloooo!” he calls out. “I’m looking for Tim Shaw.”
Silence—except for the gnawing of rodent teeth on beef bones and rotten cabbage.
“Tim, I know you’re here,” Ollie calls again. “I’m sure you remember me. Oliver Chadwick. We had a
nice chat and I paid you to answer my questions.”
More silence. Maybe this is not the right alley. He steps forward slowly. One of the annoyed rats turns irritably to look at him, then goes back to its feeding. Ollie takes another step and then hears a shuffle of gravel from further down the alley. He stops. His eyes are slowly adjusting to the dim light.
From the shadows a small boy appears, his face a pale biscuit in the devouring darkness. Then another boy appears, and another, all carrying long sticks. “Ollie, that you?” The voice is high-pitched, a little boy’s.
“Tim?” Ollie asks.
“No, it’s Willie.” The boys come nearer. “Ya lookin’ for sum more answers?”
“Maybe. Where is Tim?”
“Tim? Oh, Tim ain’t wit us no more.”
“Then where can I find him?”
“Find ‘im? In ‘eaven, I s’pose, wit the angels.”
These words strike Ollie hard. Perhaps he misunderstood!
“Do you mean… he’s dead?”
“Oh, ’e’s dead, aw wite. Got sick, ‘e did, coughin’ up all kinds o’ grunge, an’ then ‘e jus’ up an’ died. The gavvers took ‘is body somewhere. Least the rats didn’t get it.” The small boy pokes a large gray rat with his stick. The rat hisses and then rumbles away from the garbage.
A great sadness settles over Ollie. How odd that he feels such grief for a boy he barely knew, and so little sadness for his mother. The grief grows until it almost overcomes him. This is not some kind of social falling-out that has happened, it is a life suddenly ended. The life of a small, pathetic creature who never had a chance.
“Where did they take him?” Ollie is glad that the darkness covers his moist eyes.
The boy shrugs his shoulders.
Ollie reaches into his pocket and produces a few schillings, then hands them to the boy. “I’m sorry you lost your friend,” he says.
“I ‘ope ter live as long,” the boy says, taking the money.
The boys melt back into their harsh dark world. Ollie stands there, unable to move his feet. He cannot shake the unbearable grief, which is swelling up now like a taut bag over his head, suffocating him with an airless anguish. He wants to tear away this shroud of sadness and lash out at those responsible.
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