Memory's Bride

by Decca Price

  Eleanor Hanniman rose from the table as Claire entered and bustled forward.

  “How did your visit to the Watkins cottage go? I assume that’s the place Lord Montfort suggested for the school. There no better option in my view.”

  “Goodness,” Claire said with the briefest of smiles. “If I had known your interest was so great, I could have let you deal with the viscount.”

  “He’s not so bad, really. Just a bit wild in his youth,” Mrs. Hanniman replied, as she reseated herself on one side of the long table and accepted another helping of salad greens from Simmie. They were dining casually while the servants ate.

  “But I understand there was some real scandal,” Claire said in spite of herself. “His brother?”

  “Poor George. Such a tragedy!” the plump little woman replied, crumbling a roll. “Such a handsome lad, he was. And so kind. But not very bright and he could never hold his liquor, my husband always said. William—my late husband—dined frequently at the house in the fifth viscount’s time and watched both boys grow into strapping young men. It was a different world then, you know. The country families and the aristocracy mingled on much more familiar terms than they do now.”

  “Would you like some soup, Claire?” Simmie interjected. She nodded and Simmie filled her bowl with a fragrant broth as Hanniman rambled on.

  “It was fortunate George and Rhys both weren’t killed in that fire,” she was saying. “The building went up in an instant and it was late. The servants had retired and both boys were the worse for wear, if you take my meaning. No, you’d be thinking of his wife, no doubt, Miss Burton.”

  “Whose wife?” she said between sips of an excellent asparagus soup.

  “Why, Lady Montfort. Isabel. The one they say he murdered!”

  Simmie’s cup hit the saucer with a crash. “He murdered his wife?” she said in astonishment.

  “Well, the official story is that she fell down the staircase, befuddled by the laudanum her doctor ordered to help her sleep. But everybody knew within a month of them returning from their honeymoon abroad that the marriage was a disaster. It wasn’t a love match, naturally,” she confided, leaning across the table toward them. “It was even said she was unfaithful to him with some count in Rome, which is why they returned after only a few months.”

  “Gracious, Mrs. Hanniman!” Claire exclaimed, blushing. “You take my breath away. How could you possibly know all these things?”

  “Servants talk,” she replied. “You must know that! And in a place like Abbot Pyon, they’re all related. My Bessie—a wonderful cook, my dear, I hope you and Miss Simms will dine with me soon. I can invite a few close friends and we could have such a lovely time. Do either of you play pique?”

  “Your cook?” Simmie urged. To Claire’s embarrassment, they both were much too interested in their voluble guest’s information to turn the subject, as they knew they should. Her mother would have skillfully elided the conversation toward gardening or Mrs. Hanniman’s dressmaker.

  “Oh, yes, my cook. She’s been with me for ages and makes such a soufflé, you can’t imagine. Her daughter Susan is in service with the Montforts. She even traveled to London one season to wait on Lady Adelaide Montfort, who married Sir Harold Saxton the following spring.”

  Simmie and Claire waited expectantly.

  “Isabel Brown was the daughter of a coal magnate in Yorkshire. Her father was frightfully rich and brought her to London for the most extravagant season you could imagine. He sent her to the best finishing school in Switzerland, intending all along to buy his future grandchildren the best title he could afford. That turned out to be Rhys Fitzgordon. It would have been his brother, no doubt, if the father could have managed it, but George was besotted with Lucy Latimer and, as I said, he wasn’t very practical. Who was Lucy but just the rector’s half-sister, with maybe £500 to look forward to?

  “Well, you know, my dear Claire,” she rattled on. “The Montforts needed money badly. You wouldn’t be here today otherwise. Rhys thought he knew the terms of the bargain, but if you ask me, she was thoroughly bad right from the start. European education!”

  She paused for a sip of water. “He couldn’t have mistreated her that badly that she’d run off the rails within a month. That’s my opinion. Wicked to the bone, she must have been. Common.”

  “Would you like some of Mrs. White’s apple tart, Mrs. Hanniman?” Simmie asked when their guest paused for breath. “Claire?” Simmie passed the dish around. “Cream?”

  They ate quietly for only a few moments when Mrs. Hanniman appeared to catch her second wind.

  “Well,” she said. “Even my Bessie can’t produce a crust like that. There were no other family at Oakley Court when Isabel died, and most of the staff were in London with the dowager and her two unmarried daughters—and goodness knows how those two could have hoped to find a match without Rhys! Again, it was late, and all the servants who were there had retired. They found her at the foot of the stairs in the morning when the maids started round to light the fires. Stone cold. She broke her neck. When his valet went to wake him, Rhys was dead drunk.”

  Wordlessly, Simmie refilled their teacups and exchanged a glance with Claire. Mrs. Hanniman continued like a wind-up doll that was far from running down.

  “The funeral was grand, no expense spared. Your Mr. Carter was there, Miss Burton. He and Rhys were such good friends. But then ‘Lord Morden’ came out and that’s when the trouble started.”

  “Claire hasn’t read the novel, Mrs. Hanniman,” Simmie managed to interject.

  “You have, Miss Simms?” Simmie nodded. “You know, then.”

  “I don’t,” Claire put in with a touch of impatience. “I do know Lord Montfort hates the book, though.”

  “Of course he does. Everyone in the neighborhood knows ‘Morden’ is Montfort to the life, right down to the scar on his face. And Morden murdered his wife, Lady Iolathe, by drugging her and throwing her down the stairs of the ducal mansion. It was common knowledge that Rhys and Isabel had a raging argument the day she died. People put two and two together.”

  “Oh,” was all Claire could manage in response. “That’s—that’s appalling.”

  “Appalling, yes. Rhys can protest his innocence from now until doomsday, but you can’t deny that within the space of a year, Rhys Fitzgordon lost a spendthrift brother and a disagreeable wife, only to gain a peerage and an enormous fortune. Poor boy! It didn’t help that he put off his mourning for Isabel after just three months.”

  She stopped and looked at Simmie and Claire in turn, her eyes wide.

  “Dear me, have I been dominating the conversation? And I didn’t even get to what I wanted to tell you about your school. The Watkins cottage—is it arranged?”

  “Yes,” Claire said, “or it will be in a day or two. If we can find a teacher, I hope to have the school open in month. I plan to ask Mr. Latimer to advise on pupils and curriculum, and Mr. Carey has been educating me on wages so I can plan a scale of fair stipends—”

  “Well, I beg your leave to recommend a teacher before you consult him on that head,” Mrs. Hanniman said eagerly. “I know just the young woman. Evangelina Gilbert is genteel, accomplished and something of a scholar. Her father was a bookish man, quite the antiquarian in these parts, and she often assisted him in his later years. When the poor man died last winter, he left Lina and her mother nearly penniless. If you give her charge of the school, you’ll be doing a deed of Christian charity in a way that will allow her to hold her head up again.”

  Claire was intrigued. “But can she teach, Mrs. Hanniman?”

  “Talk to Mr. Latimer,” the little woman suggested. “He can examine her and I’m sure you’ll find that she suits. Now I must be off. Thank you for a most lovely afternoon. Don’t forget you’re coming to dine at Wisteria Lodge soon!”

  “I didn’t see your carriage when I came in,” Claire replied. “How will you get home?”

  “My dear! I’ll walk across the fields between Oak Grov
e and Oakley Court. It’s much shorter than going by the main road and the path comes out near St. Michael’s. From there, it’s practically a hop and a skip and I’m home. It shouldn’t take me more than three-quarters of an hour.”

  “No, you can’t do that. Not after…” Claire said more forcefully than she intended. “Please, let me have the gig brought around. I insist. It’s warm today.”

  Not one to be asked twice, Eleanor Hanniman acquiesced, and the two ladies of Oak Grove soon were alone to contemplate the titillating information she left in her wake.

  Simmie turned to Claire before the gig disappeared from view. “Let me help you to your room. You can tell me what happened later if you aren’t up to talking now.”

  Claire sighed “Feel up to it? I may never feel up to talking again! Mrs. Hanniman seems like a good woman, but my heavens. Can you imagine her and Aunt Maud together?”

  “Perhaps that’s why your aunt is a woman of so few words,” Simmie said with a straight face—before allowing a smile to creep across it.

  The two went inside and climbed the stairs with their arms around each other’s waists, Claire leaning her head on the older woman’s shoulder. This is what she had been longing for since the morning, Claire thought. To lean on a dependable friend.

  By the time they reached Claire’s room, Simmie knew nearly everything: the inn, Montfort’s lateness, the school, the grisly discovery. The only item Claire omitted was the kiss.

  “And I pledge to you,” Claire added as she sank onto the chaise in her room, “I will never consume scrumpy on an empty stomach again, nor in that quantity, nor that quickly.”

  “So you’ve had a lesson today?”

  “Ummm,” was all Claire said, lying back with her arms above her head. She thought about the way she felt in Montfort’s arms. “Yes, a lesson.” Unconsciously, she began twisting the heavy amethyst ring that never left her finger.

  Claire slept well past nightfall. Simmie brought her a supper tray, then later removed it after the food, untouched, had gone cold. Whatever dreams soothed or troubled Claire vanished without a trace when she awoke. The musical clock on the mantel chimed nine times as she splashed cool water on her face. Refreshed but still unable to contemplate food, she changed into her warm woolen wrapper and descended to Josiah’s library.

  The fire burned brightly and eerie shadows flicked on the walls. Claire glanced up at the “Jacinta” window, but with no moon tonight, the round space was a black void. Just as well, she thought, her mood flat.

  Claire made straight for the section where Josiah’s own works were shelved in order of publication. The volumes in this special edition were beautiful, hand-tooled red calfskin embossed in gold with an extravagantly curlicued “JFC” monogram on each cover and gilt-tipped pages.

  She located “Lord Morden” quickly and pulled it from the shelf. She opened the heavy volume to the frontispiece and carefully turned the thick octavos past the title page to the dedication:

  “To the friends of my youth and those better days—

  Waters on a starry night

  Are beautiful and fair;

  The sunshine is a glorious birth;

  But yet I know, where’er I go,

  That there hath past away a glory from the earth.

  Wordsworth. That must have stung Montfort when he read it, she mused. She turned a few more pages, holding the edges gently between her fingertips. Edward Latimer would be coming any day now and if they were to begin well together, she reminded herself, she needed to make headway on the promised inventory of Josiah’s papers and journals. Setting the novel aside, she scanned the shelves.

  Two levels higher, but still within reach, was an equally impressive set of volumes bound in dark green leather. Reaching on tiptoe, she pulled one from the middle of the range down to her. Her heart began to pound when she opened it to the words, written in firm masculine script: “Journal of Josiah Fitzgordon Carter, 1868-69.”

  Setting it down next to the novel on the shelf, she pulled a library stool closer and climbed up. There were more than a dozen of the green books neatly ranged there—the first, she found, dated 1860-62 and the last, 1875.

  Grasping the first volume in her right hand and her skirts in her left, she climbed down. Curling up in the wing chair by the fireside, she began to read.

  “1 January 1860

  “Now that I am to be the toast of literary London, it seems fitting that I record my comings and my goings, my most profound thoughts, the trials and triumphs of my love play with my darling, daring Muse. Hence I commence: Slept late, dined with Higby and Morris at their club (to which they promise to propose me, though I’m not entirely certain now I should be satisfied with an establishment as quotidian as the Beargarden, with the Athenaeum and its august company within my grasp.) Much talk, many cigars, adequate port in copious amounts. They went on about 2 to a gambling den they favor, but I, the earnest artist, must keep my head clear, since the next number of “Love’s Labors Rewarded” is expected in M.’s hands next Tuesday and I’ve scarce begun it. And so to bed”

  Claire closed the book over her finger to hold her place. How thrilling to see into Josiah’s thoughts at the dawn of what would prove, as he suspected, so successful a career! How like him to turn aside temptation to labor at his art. But she should be taking notes. Discovering the identity of “M”—that would be easy enough. But Higby and Morris? Perhaps Mr. Latimer would know. Or Lord Montfort. They struck her as rather wild companions for the serious Josiah—unless, of course, he had used the opportunity to study society’s darker side for his art’s sake.

  She rifled through the desk drawers until she located blank sheets and a pen with a serviceable nib. Drawing her robe more tightly against the chill, she resigned herself to working at Josiah’s broad desk away from the fire. But the inkwell was dry.

  With relief, she resumed reading in the big chair, where the renewed warmth and the turmoil of the day overcame her. Her thoughts drifted, and the heavy volume slipped from her fingers onto her lap. Staring into the dancing flames, she tried to summon Josiah’s presence as she had experienced it that first night in the garden and failed.

  Finally, unable to stop herself, she crept to the place where the diaries were shelved, climbed up slowly and retrieved the one from her year, the year she bound her heart to his. Feeling almost guilty, she opened it and turned the pages until she came to the day they met.

  There was nothing.

  Paging forward, she saw that Josiah had skipped over numerous days in that time so momentous to her yet, apparently, of so little consequence to him. Then she found it, the first mention of her name.

  4 June 1873

  Dined at Sir Henry Burton’s home. What an ass! But the good bart. is a type of his class, solid, true blue, the backbone of the nation. He will make a good study–a “life among the gentry” to follow my sketches of the provinces perhaps? That Miss Burton was there, quiet as ever, though she couldn’t take her eyes off me, of course. Quite nice eyes.

  Claire was baffled. By the time Josiah had dined at the Burtons’ house in town, she and Josiah had met more than a dozen times at various social events and in Regent’s Park, where she got to know Kip as well. She began flipping forward, skimming the pages for her name. “Danced with Miss Burton again.” “Called at the Burtons.” “Saw Miss Burton at the opera.” All this time she had been dreaming of him, she had been merely a footnote to his days?

  Then she slowed to read,

  10 August 1873

  That poltroon Burton threw me bodily out of the house. I blustered and swore at him but can scarce find the words now to capture the outrage in my heart. My Claire would be the perfect wife for me—amid the cackling geese that pass for the haute monde today, hers is the only voice speaking sense. And she truly loves me! I know not what to do. I shan’t get near her again—her dear Papa will see to that. And she is too dutiful to sink to a clandestine affair, though that would force the D.P.’s hand once he knew. Bu
t I tried to mount that citadel and failed. Claire is a “good” girl, more’s the pity. How Montfort and Latimer would laugh—that Josiah Carter in the end would be captured by an honorable woman. And know it! Well, there it is. Forster’s been wanting me to do another “foreign” book—perhaps the ladies of the Punjab or Siam will bring me succor. Or shall I take the advice of that American chap and “Go West?”

  The remainder of the volume was nothing but blank pages.

  Chapter 9

  Simmie came to the door of Claire’s sitting room and left twice over the course of the morning. The third time she entered without knocking, bearing a tray with tea, butter, toast and a pot of Mrs. White’s strawberry preserves. Kip looked up from his place under Claire’s desk and eyed it hopefully before dropping his head back to his paws with a snuffle.

  Claire, seated at the desk, reluctantly closed the journal and laid down her pen. A full week had passed before she could bring herself to return to Josiah’s journals. But she had her duty to him and, perplexed as she was, she was determined to fulfill it. With every page, she hoped to find the key to understanding him.

  “I don’t know when Josiah had time to write!” she said to Simmie. “It seems like every night he was dining with friends, playing cards at a club or visiting the theatre. Honestly, if it weren’t so long ago, I’d be jealous. I’m afraid I am jealous. At least once a week he’d meet a Miss Laycock at the theatre and take her to supper afterwards. Listen.” She carefully leafed through a few pages and began to read.

  “Jolly good day’s work—won’t Forster be pleased to have two chapters together this time.” He’s working on ‘Jared Cooper - or the Lost Inheritance’,” Claire interjected. “And won’t I be pleased to have the ready in consequence! A few hands at the club and then Pembrook and I will head for Haymarket, never mind what’s on. I’m sure to get my money’s worth with my Dolly tonight since I can pay so well and we’ll be sure to tip the velvet before dawn’s rosy fingers—”