“Of course. A huge passenger liner which hit an iceberg and sank in April. Thousands were killed.”
“Yes, and one of the poor souls lost was Miss Helen Hastings. James’ fiancée.”
“Fiancée?” Clarissa gaped at her, lost for words.
“You must remember Miss Hastings. She used to visit here regularly, with her parents. Her father and the late viscount were close friends.”
Clarissa racked her brains. She did, dimly, recall the name now she put her mind to it. Mr and Mrs Hastings had come to dinner from time to time, though she had been too young to join them in the formal dining room. And there was a young woman in the party, though she had never properly met her. Still, to suggest that James had actually been engaged was ridiculous.
“You’re lying,” Clarissa spat back.
“Am I? See for yourself.” Victorine pulled a sheet of newsprint from under her arm and handed it to Clarissa. “There it is in black and white, in The Times’ personal announcements.”
Clarissa scanned the creased page, then glanced back at Victorine. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“There.” Victorine tapped the page with her bony finger. “In the engagements.”
Clarissa directed her gaze to where Victorine had pointed. A chill flooded her veins as she read.
Mr and Mrs Edmund Hastings of St Albans, Hertfordshire, have the greatest pleasure in announcing the engagement of their eldest daughter, Miss Helen Hastings, to James, Viscount Smallwood of Rotherdene…
There was more, but Clarissa had seen enough. She thrust the newspaper back at Victorine. “There has to be some explanation. I shall ask James…”
“I have told you the explanation, but by all means feel free to raise it with my brother. He was engaged to Miss Hastings, the love of his life, but she sadly perished when the Titanic went down. She was on her way to meet him in New York, where they would have been wed. He is still grieving, of course. It has only been a matter of a few months, after all. He hides it well, though. But he is not getting any younger and he finds himself compelled to waste no time in looking elsewhere for a new viscountess. His gaze has fallen upon you. It could have easily been another, but I suppose you were convenient. If I were you, I would waste no time. My brother is not a patient man, and his attention will wander again soon enough.”
“This is nonsense. James is not grieving, he is fine. And…he loves me. He has said so.”
“Well, he would say such a thing, would he not? Believe me or don’t, that’s up to you.” She waved the folded-up piece of news-sheet in Clarissa’s face. “What can’t speak can’t lie.” She curled her lips in a semblance of a smile. “I will leave you to your ablutions. Good morning to you, Clarissa.”
Chapter 6
James was surprised and disappointed not to encounter Clarissa at breakfast. On enquiring as to her whereabouts, he was advised by Mr Thompson that she was taking a bath and had asked for a tray to be sent up. He shrugged and took his coffee to his study.
The morning passed quickly. James had ample business to occupy him and welcomed the relative peace of his study at Smallwood. On the days he went into his office in Fleet Street, he was constantly beset by the frantic demands of a busy publishing house. He employed a very competent editor to manage the day-to-day running of The Citizen, but as owner, he was the one who brought in advertising accounts, built up their circulation, and sought out new angles for their reporting. It was a hectic and demanding business, but a profitable one when steered by James’ entrepreneurial flair. The Citizen was James Smallwood, and he knew better than to take his eye off it for long.
At lunchtime, he ventured into the family dining room to discover that Clarissa had requested the use of a carriage and had gone into St Albans to shop. James hoped she would see fit to purchase a warm winter coat while she was out. He sat to eat his lunch alone before returning to his work.
It was mid-afternoon when he was disturbed by a knock on the door of his study.
Ah, she must be back.
“Come in,” he called, turning in his chair. His smile dimmed somewhat on seeing Mr Thompson enter.
“Excuse me, my lord, but this has come for Miss Clarissa.” The butler held out his silver tray, upon which lay a telegram. “It is from London, sir.”
James took the folded, sealed sheet of paper and turned it over. The sender was clearly printed on the reverse: Miss Lucy Carter, Camden, London.
“It is from a friend of hers.” He frowned. “The news must be urgent to necessitate a telegram. Has Clarissa returned from her shopping trip yet?”
“No, my lord.”
“Leave this with me. I will give it to her the moment she gets back. Please inform me when that is, Mr Thompson.”
“Of course, my lord.” The butler bowed and left James to ponder the possible contents of the missive from Lucy Carter.
He had a bad feeling about it. Very bad.
An hour later, Mr Thompson opened his study door without knocking. “Miss Clarissa’s carriage has just pulled up, my lord.”
James got to his feet and followed the butler across the hallway. He reached the front door just as Mr Thompson was swinging it wide to admit Clarissa. She entered, thanked the butler, and started for the main stairs without so much as a word to James.
It was clear that something had upset her. She was contriving to ignore him. Had he, perhaps, gone a little too far when he’d kissed her yesterday, or with his blunt words last night? He had not thought so, but…
He dismissed that problem. He would address it later. Right now, the matter of the telegram took precedence.
“Clarissa.” His voice stopped her in her tracks, but she did not turn around. “I need to speak to you. Shall we go into the sitting room?”
“I am busy. Maybe later…”
“You have a telegram. From your friend, Miss Carter.”
Now she did turn. “A telegram? What does it say?”
“It is addressed to you, so I have not opened it.”
“Where is it? Give it to me.”
He retrieved the telegram from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to her. “I do think, perhaps, the sitting room…”
Clarissa ignored him and ripped the message open. She scanned the contents, and within moments the blood drained from her complexion. She let out an anguished cry, and the telegram fluttered from her fingers. Her knees buckled.
Both James and Mr Thompson leapt forward and between them managed to catch her before she collapsed to the floor.
“I have her.” James picked Clarissa up and strode in the direction of the sitting room. “Bring that,” he instructed, tilting his chin at the crumpled remains of the telegram.
James set her down on the sofa. He wasted no time in removing her stout outdoor shoes and lifting her feet up onto the cushion. He turned again to the butler and held out his hand for the telegram. “A glass of water, I think. And a blanket.”
“Yes, of course, sir.” Mr Thompson hurried out, leaving James to read the message which had caused all of this.
M-B died this morning stop Very sudden stop Funeral Friday, 11a.m., St Berteline’s, Camden stop
“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath. “Bloody fucking hell.”
“I need to go to London. I need to see her.” Clarissa sat up on the sofa, her features ravaged by her desperate sobbing. She had wept and wept, inconsolable for the best part of an hour.
James could do nothing more than hold her and wait for the first violent storm of grief to subside.
From what he knew, Clarissa’s acquaintance with Mary-Belle had been relatively short, just the few days they had shared a cell in Holloway, but a deep and meaningful bond had been forged between them. Clarissa was distraught, heartbroken at the loss of her friend. He had no words of comfort that might help. All he could do was be there.
“You want to go to Camden? Now?”
“Yes. I need to be there, to see her. I need to know what…how…”
“I understand. I’ll have Mr Thompson summon William. We can be there within a couple of hours.”
“We? I didn’t mean… You don’t need to come.”
“Oh, but I do.” He kissed her forehead. “I surely do.”
Clarissa was silent in the car as they drove through the frigid countryside. James did not press her for conversation, sensing her need to digest this dreadful news. At last they reached the outskirts of London. James was relieved that William needed no further instructions in order to locate the house off Camden’s high street since he had driven Clarissa there just days before. James had no idea where Mary-Belle had lived, and Clarissa was in no state to make any sense.
James asked William to wait and got out of the car. He assisted Clarissa, and, his arm about her, led her to the front door pointed out by the driver. Lights were on inside. James noted the flickering of oil-filled lamps since electricity had yet to be installed in the more modest properties in this part of London. He knocked smartly.
For several seconds there was just silence, then the sound of shuffling feet approaching the door.
“Who is it?”
James appreciated the need for caution. It was, after all, quite dark. There was little in the way of street lighting hereabouts, and they had come unannounced.
“James Smallwood and Clarissa Bellamy. We are here to see Miss Carter. Miss Lucy Carter.”
There was a rattling of locks, then the door opened a crack. Another tear-stained face peered out at them. “Oh, Miss Bellamy. You didn’t need to come rushing out…”
Clarissa stepped forward. “Lucy… I… I wanted to come. I had to. Is she still here?” Clarissa sounded as though she might dissolve in another fit of weeping at any moment.
James tightened his arm around her and braced himself.
“Yes,” Lucy replied, sniffing, “she’s in the front parlour, just until the funeral.”
James was aware that houses such as this tended to have just two rooms downstairs and two up. The ground floor would typically have a living kitchen, the room where most family life occurred—cooking, eating, receiving friends or family, socialising. The second room or parlour would be kept for ‘best’, rarely used and maintained in a pristine state of tidiness and dust-free spotlessness. It would be called into service should a more distinguished visitor descend upon the household, the vicar, perhaps, or doctor. And for laying out the deceased.
He and Clarissa entered the house at Miss Carter’s invitation, and she immediately showed them into the front room. It was sparsely furnished, just a sofa and two chairs which had been shoved back against one wall, a side table and four hall chairs, also at the edge of the room. In the middle was a long, narrow table which James assumed had been supplied by the undertaker, and upon that lay the open coffin.
“Mr Pounds came straight out, as soon as I sent for him. He’s a good man, does all our family. His assistant laid her out so nicely, as you can see. She looks to be just sleeping…”
James assumed Mr Pounds to be the undertaker, and he had indeed managed a fine job, but there was no mistaking the strained, emaciated appearance of the woman whose waxy features could be discerned, swathed in cream-coloured satin in the casket. He judged Mary-Belle to have been perhaps in her mid-thirties, and probably a fine-looking woman before she had been subjected to her ordeal in jail.
Clarissa let out a low moan and edged closer. James released her and allowed her to approach the coffin alone. For long moments she stood, silent, gazing down on the still, lifeless face of her friend. She reached out, laid the backs of her fingers on the sallow cheek, and stroked gently. Then, as he had known she would, she surrendered once more to her grief. Her features crumpled, and she fell, weeping across the coffin.
Lucy Carter was also sobbing beside him. James felt absolutely useless.
Lucy managed to collect herself first.
“Please, sir, would you like to sit down? Miss Clarissa, too?”
This seemed like a reasonable plan to James. He wrapped his arms about Clarissa and managed to ease her from the casket and steer her in the direction of the sofa. He lowered her onto it, then drew up another chair for Miss Carter before sitting himself. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to Clarissa. Miss Carter seemed to be adequately supplied already, having tugged her own crumpled handkerchief from the pocket of her apron. She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose.
“Ooh, I can’t seem to stop crying. It’s been such a day. Such a shock…” She managed a tremulous smile. “Can I offer you some tea, sir? Or a slice of cake. Mrs Jenkins next door brought a nice walnut sponge round.”
“I think we’re fine, and we would not wish to put you to any trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all, sir. I shall just be a moment…” Before he could refuse again, she had bustled from the room.
James supposed this might be her way of composing herself, so he let her go. She was back a few minutes later carrying a tray upon which she had balanced a teapot and three cups, complete with saucers, a matching jug full of milk, a sugar bowl, and a set of small silver teaspoons. The walnut sponge had been sliced into generous portions, and three small plates, also matching the rest, sat beside it.
Again, James suspected they were being treated to the best crockery, reserved for such auspicious occasions as this. He pulled the side table forward so that Miss Carter could set the tray down and waited while she busied herself pouring the tea.
By now, Clarissa had also collected herself somewhat, though her hands shook as she accepted her cup and saucer. She took a small sip, then, “What happened? I thought… I thought she was improving. Getting better…”
Mis Carter nodded. “So did I. The doctor said so, and Mary-Belle seemed a little stronger yesterday, though she was still coughing badly. She managed a bit of that broth you brought and seemed to get a good night’s sleep. Then, when I took her breakfast in, she said she felt queer. She was a funny colour, too, pale and sweating. I sent for the doctor, but before he could get here, she was gone. She sort of groaned, her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed against the pillows. The doctor says it was probably her heart.”
“Did she have a weak heart?” Clarissa asked. “She never mentioned it.”
“I hadn’t thought so, but who knows? And what with all that happened to her, you know, in that prison. She had an awful time there.”
“I know,” Clarissa whispered. “I know.”
“It must have all been just too much for her. It’s not right, though. She was only thirty-seven. It’s no age…”
James managed to rescue the teacup as Clarissa once more succumbed to grief. He set it aside and gathered her in his arms, helpless to stem the outpouring of emotion. He had not known Mary-Belle at all, yet he, too, felt the acute sense of loss, the useless, cruel futility of her death.
The votes for women movement would have their way, eventually, he was convinced of it. Meanwhile, though, force-feeding had to stop.
James accompanied Clarissa to the funeral two days later. She had barely spoken two words, to him or anyone else, since they’d left the terrace house in Camden. She spent her time in her room, asking Trudy to bring up trays, but according to Mrs Crabbe who kept an eye on what was sent back to the kitchen, she barely ate anything. She refused to join him in the family dining room, and when he ventured to knock on her door, she claimed she was tired and wished to sleep.
He believed she would have attended the funeral alone but for William, had James allowed it. He was having none of that and insisted upon coming with her. She acquiesced but showed scant enthusiasm for his company.
They sat side by side on the hard little pews in St Bertoline’s church, surrounded by the purple, white, and green of the Women’s Social and Political Union. Almost all the mourners, and there must have been hundreds of them, were women, most wearing rosettes or some other symbol of their cause. Clarissa’s lapel also sported the ribbons, though he was not certain where she’d acquired
them. Trudy, probably.
The vicar spoke the usual words, suggesting that there was comfort to be had in the love and protection of the Almighty and that Mary-Belle was at peace in the arms of her Maker. Glancing about him, James did not feel that many were convinced of that. The clergyman stood aside to allow the personal eulogies. Several women, including Mrs Pankhurst herself, took it in turns to walk to the front and address the congregation. The speeches were as much about the justness of their cause and their collective resolve to fight on as they were about their lost comrade. The general feeling was that Mary-Belle Carter was a courageous, steadfast woman whose death was a direct consequence of her ill-treatment in prison. She had died for female suffrage and was a martyr to the cause.
Although he understood the medical evidence to be inconclusive, James could not find it within himself to disagree.
Following the interment in the grounds of the church, there was a gathering at a nearby hotel. Clarissa expressed the desire to attend, so James and William, the only males present apart from the vicar, found themselves leaning against a wall while she circulated and chatted with women of her acquaintance.
“It’s fair knocked Miss Clarissa for six has this, my lord,” William observed. “I’ve never seen her so upset.”
“Me neither, though of course, you have seen more of her over the years than I have.”
“Yes, I suppose. We were together a lot as little ’uns. They’re a fierce lot, these women,” William added, looking around at the assembled crowd. “Not her sort at all, I’d have said.”
“Clarissa has strong principles and is determined to do the right thing. She believes in all of this…” James gestured at the purple, green, and white festooned about them. “But, yes, I know what you mean.”
“The sooner we get her back to Smallwood, the better it’ll be if you ask me, sir.”
“I tend to agree, but I’m reluctant to rush her…” He paused as a tall, slim figure stepped up onto a box to address those gathered. “Ah, I do believe the speeches are about to start. Perhaps we should wait in the bar.”
Once Upon a Christmas Wedding Page 220