Instinctively, Hugo raised his arm. He wanted to belt his uncle so badly his whole body shook with the effort of resisting the impulse. But he had to drop his arm and close his eyes. He had to rein in his rage. It would not satisfy his screaming desire for vengeance, or ease his terrible fear.
He turned away.
How had Charity survived for seven months without a penny from Hugo? How could he blame her if she’d succumbed to Cyril’s advances? But again, how could he not forgive her for whatever she’d had to do to survive? In her letter, she’d told him how hard she’d tried to find work as a servant but that it was impossible without a reference from a current, respectable employer. She’d told him how relieved and grateful she was for the money he’d promised to send. And Hugo had taken comfort in the belief that, though small, the amounts he thought he was sending her were keeping her safe until he got back.
He kept his eyes closed. The rage would not abate. His world was black, his ears full of the distress he had to hold tight.
The information that Charity had not received a penny from him since her last, fearful and desperate letter, was enough to send him insane.
Slowly, he exhaled, then quietly and with deliberate care, he walked past his uncle.
“What are you doing?”
Hugo paused in the midst of gathering writing materials from the desk and putting them into his satchel. “I’m leaving tonight. Now, in fact.”
“Good lord, boy! I’d never have told you if I knew you’d be so...juvenile in your response.” Septimus glanced across the room as if to emphasise the pitch dark that had fallen so suddenly beyond the shutters. A servant had lit lamps in the meantime and the smell of spiced food wafted from the distant kitchen.
“In the morning we can talk about this. Yes, you’re a man, not a boy, and entitled to free will but your father would never forgive me if I let you jeopardise everything we’ve been working towards. The company’s future growth and prospects. Your future growth and prospects.”
Hugo ignored him. He fastened the clasps of the satchel and reached for his hat which he’d tossed onto a side table.
“For God’s sake, be reasonable, Hugo.” His uncle sounded rattled. Hugo didn’t acknowledge him as he evaded his grasping hand on the way to the door. “Hugo! If you walk away now, you walk away from everything your grandfather has left in trust for you to receive in just a matter of months!”
Behind him, he could hear Septimus’s footsteps on the soft runner, Hugo’s final journey that led from this hated prison. “Hugo, don’t be a fool! Think with your head, for once!”
Hugo turned on the front verandah. The wide, shuttered expanse was illuminated by the waxy yellow glow from the lamps placed around the perimeter. He thought how much he’d like to paint Charity reclining against the pile of cushions upon the low bench by the far wall. The light would imbue her chestnut hair with a glorious lustre, highlighting that creamy complexion of hers. He thought of how he might find her when he returned. With Cyril? Another man? Many other men?
He didn’t care.
“I no longer care about my inheritance.” His heart quickened. He took the first step into the inky blackness. He’d send a servant to fetch the trunk from his room, packed with his belongings.
“Hugo!”
Hugo ignored him. “There comes a time when one must stop thinking with one’s head.” He didn’t care if his uncle was out of earshot though he could hear Septimus’s footsteps nearing the edge of the verandah. He turned and spoke into the darkness, uncaring whether his uncle heard him or not. “When one must think with one’s heart and one’s conscience.”
Like a wraith, the night embraced him. “I’ve realised it’s the only way I can live with myself,” he muttered as he walked away.
Chapter 13
“It strikes just the right note, Charity. Perfect!” Madame Chambon circled Charity with a critical eye though her mouth was curved into a smile. “What gentleman will not want to devour you but he will have to think such thoughts inside, no? You are not just anyone’s.”
“Charity! Mr Riverdale is here!”
Charity pinched her lips and clasped her hands together, swinging around for a final beseeching look at Madame. “Is it a mistake?” she asked.
“A mistake?” Madame cocked an eyebrow as she smiled, though her expression was tinged with sadness. “How wonderful if I could accompany you. A woman like me, however, could never gain entry to such society. Besides, half the gentlemen there tonight would know me.”
“Charity! He says you’ll be late!”
Charity took a few steps towards the door then turned back towards Madame. “Arabella will be magnificent. I’ll tell you everything that happens, every gentleman who engages her!”
“It is not Arabella’s night to shine,” said Madame. “Tonight will only prove if she can survive in a snake pit. It is her testing time but it is your moment to triumph over your past. Now go! Mr Riverdale is waiting.”
She did not call him her father, just as Charity had never called him her father. But he had been assiduous in following through everything that he had promised that first night at dinner.
First the drawings, the paintings had been disseminated, placed in prominent places, in news sheets, magazines, usually with a snippet of verse, a teaser. Words that Hugo had used to describe Charity; his love for her; the essence of her.
She’d become a talking point. An enigma. An icon.
Oh, her father had managed it so well. As if he were born to tease, just as he’d done so successfully with her mother. His real line of work had been more prosaic. A desultory interest in a publishing firm established by his grandfather and which he used to visit if he had the inclination to go to work that morning.
But since making Charity’s acquaintance it seemed he’d been inspired by work rather than visiting his club.
“Perfect! Just perfect!” Her father smiled approvingly as he opened the door of the carriage that waited for them around the corner. “Your Madame Chambon has a good eye. And she’s a woman of the utmost discretion. Why, how many entrances are there to that building, including underground. No spy could run you to ground there. But soon you will be moving out, Charity, my dear. This is no place for a girl like you. Tonight will change everything. You’ll see.”
Charity shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t want to move out. Not until my Hugo comes back and I can live with him. As his wife.”
Her father patted her knee. “And when did you last hear from your Hugo?”
Charity didn’t answer though her throat thickened. Her father knew very well she’d heard nothing since several weeks after Hugo’s departure.
Still, she held out hope. There was some very good reason for his silence. Not once did she despair and believe he’d forsaken her. She knew Hugo too well.
“And now we are here. My! The welcome party is bigger than I’d expected.” He sounded taken aback, which was surprising. Nothing seemed to faze Mr Riverdale.
Charity took a constricted breath. She was sure she’d not laced her corset too tightly when Madame’s maid had dressed her but suddenly, she was finding it hard to breathe. She touched the rose at her decolletage and plucked at the bows and furbelows of her train as she stepped out of the carriage at their destination, rearranging her bustle.
Cyril was waiting at the bottom of the stairs. He grinned at her as he offered his arm. “Smile like a princess, not a startled rabbit,” he whispered. “Everyone here wants to see the girl pictured in the book. Not some frightened hopeful.”
“But there are so many people.” Charity took a lungful of air as she gazed at the faces ranged around her, eager and smiling, some reaching out hands to touch her. “I wasn’t expecting this. It’s only supposed to be the launch of Hugo’s book.”
“But Hugo’s book has become the sensation of the season, my dear. It is the only thing anyone wants this Christmas.” He raised her hand to the crowd, then kissed it, and a cheer rang out. “See! They want
you to be happy.”
“But they mistake what they see.” Anxiously, Charity turned to her father on her other side, and he patted her shoulder, catching her words.
“What they choose to read into any interaction is their affair, not yours,” he said, matching his pace to hers as she negotiated the stairs with all the elegance she could muster in her tightly fitting cuirass and the heavy, elegant upholstery that followed her like a sinuous snake. “You know that it is Hugo’s work that has made this evening possible and you will tell the world that. The truth will always out.”
The truth will always out. Charity glanced at the two men on either side of her. Men she had once despised. Men who had sought to profit from her. Men whose company she had come to enjoy as their curious experiment had gathered momentum, fuelling them with excitement and genuine pride in the achievements of cousin on Cyril’s part and daughter on Mr Riverdale’s part.
Tonight Hugo would be publicly revealed to the anticipatory gathering as the author of Tales of Love and Loss, his wildly successful book of poems and accompanying paintings and drawings. Charity was merely here as his muse. But she was a face everyone now recognised.
“Miss Charity, please can you sign this?” A shy young man hovering amidst a group of eager-eyed young people near the entrance approached her holding a print of one of Hugo’s drawings of her.
“When will your young man return to England?” asked another. “You must miss him very much. That cruel and wicked father who forced you apart is not here, is he?”
She’d heard such sentiments with increasing frequency, lately. It seemed Mr Riverdale had done a good job of imbuing her life with mystery and pathos. While her early years were shrouded in ambiguity, he’d made much of the star-crossed lovers theme.
Tonight’s attendees seemed to find the story as compelling as Hugo’s talent.
“Not much longer,” her father encouraged her, during a brief interlude when Charity’s attention wasn’t being sought. “Cyril will look after you when I’m on stage to officiate over the launch. You’ll feel much more relaxed when the formalities are over.” He squeezed her hand as he prepared to leave her. “My, my Charity, you have surprised me.” His look was admiring. “You were such a mouse when you agreed to meet me all those months ago. Albeit a very beautiful mouse. But you have grown into your role as if you were made for it.”
“I hate every minute of it,” Charity confessed with a smile, taking a sip of her champagne. “But I’m very grateful for there are other things I’d hate more.”
She felt herself color as she realised the implications of what she’d said.
“You will make a fine consort for your Hugo when he finally returns to you.” Her father obviously chose to ignore her earlier inference.
“What if he doesn’t come back?”
There was a silence. “Do you know, that is the first time I’ve ever heard you voice doubt. Tonight, of all nights.”
Charity bowed her head. “You make me ashamed of myself. If Hugo doesn’t come back, it’s because he cannot. But in his absence, he has given me the greatest gift.” She raised her head and looked about her. Jewels and sumptuous clothing adorned all those who’d crowded into the large reception room. There were artists rubbing shoulders with duchesses, oil magnates and publishing moguls hobnobbing with actresses.
“He’s given me a place in the world,” she said. “A place where I can be proud of who I am.”
“He’s made you the most sought-after woman in all of London town,” said Cyril, coming around to her other side and raising her hand to his lips. “Here’s to our cause celebre as her benefactor takes to the stage and sings the praises of my cousin.” He cocked one eyebrow and sent Charity his most lascivious look. “Of whom I am insanely jealous.”
Charity tossed her head. “But who is soon to wed the lovely Miss Dermot — thanks in part to me, I might add — who is heading this way flanked by, if I’m not mistaken, Lady Margaret Ponsonby….” She dropped her voice to a whisper, and added, “if one didn’t know any better.”
Chapter 14
It was as if he were still aboard a rocking boat. Hugo stepped out of the carriage and nearly fell flat on his face on the cobbles. Though he was exhausted from the rough and gruelling crossing, nothing was going to stop him seizing Charity and taking her home to safety.
Yes, he’d forgo his inheritance. He’d have to work hard to earn a living any way he could. But he was a man of education and, somehow, he could provide for two people.
He ran the back of his hand across his eyes and prayed for the strength to do what he had to do; and with a minimum of emotion.
But try as he might, he could not rid himself of the anger that had been simmering since his parting from his uncle. It seemed it wasn’t enough for Cyril to ruin Hugo and see him banished. Now, Cyril had stolen Charity from him after helping ensure she’d been made destitute.
Through the actions of Cyril’s own father. And with Hugo’s own father as an accomplice.
For a moment Hugo could only stare at the grand edifice, the assembly hall Emily had said Charity had been taken to for some grand entertainment.
“With Cyril Adams?” Hugo had asked her, barely able to focus on her face due to his swimming vision.
“Yes, Mr Adams will be there,” she’d said as he’d stumbled down the steps, ignoring her cries that he didn’t seem to understand; suggesting he was feverish, that perhaps he should rest rather than hunt down Charity in such a state.
Hunt down Charity? Was she suggesting that in only one year his beloved could have switched allegiance so that Hugo was hunting her down rather than seeking her out?
He staggered a little and a gentleman assisting a lady from the carriage that had drawn up by the front steps sent him a disapproving look before shepherding his companion indoors.
The warmth that hit him as a pair of footmen opened the double doors onto the disorienting spectacle was like a furnace when he was already burning up.
It took a few moments to see straight. The room seemed to be swimming in and out of focus.
He was surprised at how quiet everything was when there were so many people here. Then he realised someone was on stage, speaking. He glanced up at the gentleman, a distinguished-looking man who seemed to have the crowd in thrall, and who stood beside a drawing which, he realised with a start was of Charity.
Hugo tried to attend to what he was saying but he caught only the words “my daughter” which seemed to create something of a sensation. He could sense the emotion around him but he couldn’t understand anything, least of all why the gentleman should be standing on stage surrounded by paintings Hugo had drawn.
He shook his head, for of course he was dreaming, and then saw the man hold out his arm to indicate someone, at which point the crowd parted and he could see, as clearly as if she stood in a halo of sunshine, his beloved Charity.
She looked like a goddess in a sheath of white silk adorned with blue velvet ribbons and his heart swelled as he saw her smile.
But she wasn’t smiling at him, he now saw. She was smiling at Cyril who was raising her hand to his lips.
For a moment Hugo felt suspended above reality.
Everything was a dream. It had to be.
Until a waft of cool air from the doors opening behind him brought him face to face with this cruel world, and pain like he’d never felt before seared his heart. Swaying as his hopes fragmented into a million shards, he realised the futility of his life from here on towards meaningless eternity. He reached out for something to balance him but there was nothing. He was as alone as he’d been before he met Charity.
And ever would be, now that he’d discovered his love had been in vain.
Frozen to the spot, swaying as his vision coalesced into hues of scarlet and black, he confronted his options.
He could either quietly leave and never see Charity again, ceding her to Cyril, the man who had won. Again.
That would be the path of nobility.
He’d make no fuss. He’d sink into quiet obscurity, just as he’d lived his whole life. In his father and cousin’s shadow. A disappointment. The boy who simply wasn’t up to scratch.
Or he could make his feelings quite clear and direct, before walking out of Charity’s life.
Leaving her the option to follow if she chose.
He drew his shoulders back. The crowd had broken into applause but were quiet now. Hugo had no idea what the man on stage was saying, and he didn’t care.
All he cared about was navigating to where Cyril stood with his bland, unctuous expression, thinking he could possess Charity. Thinking he could walk roughshod over Hugo as he had all his life.
Hugo managed to cross the carpeted expanse without falling over. That was one small victory.
“Cyril.”
The moment his cousin turned, Hugo raised his fist and clipped him across the jaw.
The satisfaction of seeing the horror on Cyril’s expression was short-lived, swallowed up as it was by the sound of his Charity’s scream.
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