Angel in Scarlet (75 page)

“Love—you,” he repeated, his voice fainter now.

“And I love you. I love you with all my heart and soul.”

He nodded and the weak smile reappeared and then his eyes filled with panic and he trembled and his torso jerked and he grew rigid. The rain splattered on the windowpanes and the fire made spluttering noises as a log snapped and began to flake apart. The room was dim and I was vaguely aware of Dottie standing beside the chair but everything was misty. I felt something warm and salty on my lashes. The tears streamed down my cheeks. Clinton relaxed in my arms, resting his damp head against my shoulder. His eyes opened and they were clear and gray and filled with tenderness and then concern when he saw my tears.

“No-no,” he murmured. He frowned. “Don-don't cry. You mustn't cry. I want you to be happy. Prom-promise me you'll be happy, my darling.”

I couldn't speak. I nodded. The smile curved tenderly on his lips, and he looked at me with love and then he frowned and squinted and tried desperately to find me in the fog. His body jerked again and grew rigid in my arms and then he gasped and went limp and I knew that he was gone. I held him close, feeling his weight and his warmth for the final time as tears streamed, blinding me. I gently rocked him as the rain fell and finally there were voices in the hall, and I knew I had to turn loose, give up, with only emptiness ahead. I eased him back onto the cushions and Dottie helped me to my feet. I looked at her for a moment without words and then sobbed wildly and threw myself into her open arms.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Winter was over and already, in mid-March, the air held a promise of spring. A lovely pale blue sky arched over London, and the trees in the garden in back of the house on Maiden Lane were studded with tiny nubs that would soon burst into delicate light jade leaves. It was not quite ten o'clock. Megan, Charles and I had had breakfast below in the charming yellow breakfast room, and I had come up to dress. Jonathan Burke would be here shortly and we would go together to Justice High Court where, he assured me, I would make my statement and we would be free before noon. I gazed at my reflection with level violet-gray eyes, and I was amazed at the calm and composure of the woman in the glass. The anguish and grief that had tormented me for weeks were nowhere in evidence. The woman in the glass looked cool, self-assured, determined.

Megan tapped at the door of the guest room and called my name. I told her to come in. She entered apprehensively, a worried look on her face. She wore a fetching sky blue frock with narrow sapphire blue stripes, a sapphire sash at the waist. I put the brush down, gave my chestnut waves a final pat and stood up, the folds of my black velvet grown rustling softly. I smiled at Megan, and she frowned, still apprehensive.

“Has Charles gone?” I inquired.

She nodded. “He had to be at rehearsal early. They're opening the first of April, you know, and everything's still in shambles.”

“And when do you start rehearsing?”

“Not for another two weeks. Sheridan's still doing revisions on the third act. I bowled him over when I auditioned, luv—he didn't think I could handle the part. Everyone in the theater burst into spontaneous applause when I finished reading. Betsy went into raptures. Her brother scowled and reluctantly admitted I was marvelous. It's my very first lead, luv. I hope I have what it takes to carry it off.”

“You'll be superb, darling.”

“Sheridan and I are sure to fight like cats and dogs, but I intend to give my all, if only to show Charles he's not the only star in the family. Dottie's doing the costumes, busy as she is, and I'll wear a powdered wig and satin gowns that will take your breath away. Angel—”

Megan hesitated, frowning. We had merely been making small talk, ignoring what was really on our minds. She looked at me, eyes full of concern.

“I still wish you'd let me go with you, luv,” she said. “You might need someone to—to give you moral support. I just don't feel right about your going alone, Angel.”

“I won't be alone,” I pointed out. “Burke will be with me.”

“I know, but—”

“I'll be perfectly all right, Megan.”

I picked up the hat I had selected and put it on. It was of black velvet with a wide, slanting brim, black egret feathers spilling down one side. I had contemplated wearing the delicate black lace veil I had worn to the funeral but had finally decided against it. I wanted those six judges to see my face when I gave my testimony. Adjusting the tilt of the brim, I secured the hat pin and sighed.

“I just want to get it over with,” I told her. “Burke assures me it will not take long. The judges have already seen the documents and Hugh's attorneys have already been briefed. It's a mere formality.”

I began to pull on a pair of delicate black lace gloves. Megan moved over to the bed and sat down, rumpling the smooth lilac satin counterpane and watching as I stretched the frail lace over my fingers.

“The carriage I've hired will be waiting for me,” I continued, “and I'll go directly to Greystone Hall.”

“I don't like the idea of your being there by yourself.”

“I shan't be by myself, darling. The servants will be there. It shouldn't take me long to—to gather up the rest of my things and say my farewells. I'll be on my way back before sundown. I should get back here before midnight. There's no need for you to concern yourself.”

“Still—”

“It's something I have to do, darling,” I said in a quiet voice, “and I have to do it alone. You and Charles and Dottie have been—you've been wonderful, but I—I have to stand on my own two feet.”

“I understand, luv.”

She got up from the bed and we hugged. Tears glistened in her eyes. She brushed them aside and, hand in hand, we went downstairs to wait for Burke. It was warm in the front drawing room, a small fire burning in the fireplace. The room was pleasant with its beige wallpaper delicately flowered in blue and pale orange, its blue rugs and comfortable chairs and sofa upholstered in brown. We stood near the fireplace, waiting for the sound of a carriage pulling up out in front. Megan took the brass poker and jabbed at the log. Tiny sparks shot up as the log flaked.

“Are you certain about this, Angel?” she asked.

I nodded, smoothing one of my gloves.

“It's still not too late, you know. You could tell Burke. He could prove the documents were forged—you weren't ever directly involved, the court needn't know how it came about. It—what I'm trying to say, luv, is—”

“I know what you're trying to say, Megan, and I appreciate your concern.”

“I—I just don't want you to do something you'll regret for the rest of your life.”

“I shan't regret it.”

“It doesn't seem fair. He—” She hesitated, gnawing her lower lip. “He was indirectly responsible for Clinton's death, and now he's being
rewarded
for it.”

“Sometimes getting what you want is no reward at all,” I replied. “Sometimes it's the worst kind of punishment.”

We heard the carriage coming down Maiden Lane, heard it stop in front, and we stepped into the foyer together. Megan gave me another tight hug before she opened the door. Jonathan Burke stood on the doorstep, looking very solemn in brown, looking very unhappy, as well he might. His brick-red hair gleamed copper in the morning sunlight. His dark eyes were grim. Megan asked if he would like to come in for a cup of coffee before we left. He shook his head and consulted his pocket watch and said we'd best leave at once. I took Megan's hand and squeezed it and told her I would see her around midnight.

“We'll be waiting up for you, luv,” she said, tearful again.

I kissed her cheek and followed Burke out to the carriage and he helped me inside. A few moments later we were on our way to Justice High Court, the carriage rumbling over the cobbles, caught up in the congestion of traffic as soon as we left Covent Garden. Burke sat across from me, silent, unhappily pondering the recent turn of events that had cost him a certain victory in court. He had been positive that we would win when the case came to trial. Now there was to be no trial. I would simply make my statement to the judges and answer some questions and it would all be over.

“I'm dreadfully sorry about all of this, Lady Meredith,” Burke said after a while. “Had those documents not turned up, you would have inherited everything yourself. There was no other male issue, as you know, and by law and the terms of Lord Meredith's own will, you would have received the lot as his widow.”

“But the documents turned up,” I said.

He nodded, his lips tight.

“I couldn't very well destroy them,” I continued. “One—one has to be honest, no matter what the cost.”

Burke nodded again, totally unaware of the supreme irony of my words. The carriage left the Strand, turned past Charing Cross and started down Whitehall, moving toward Westminster. St. James Park was beginning to green, filled this sunny morning with a mob of strollers and noisy children. Inigo Jones' Banqueting House, all that remained of Whitehall Palace after the destruction of 1698, was majestic in the sunlight, though weathered and sooty. The Thames was sluggish, filled with filth, the noxious odors filling the air. I lifted my black lace handkerchief to my nostrils. Burke frowned when we were caught up in the congestion and had to stop while a cart with a broken wheel was hauled out of the street amidst much shouting, cursing and lashing of whips. We eventually began to move again and I soon saw Westminster Abbey looming up ahead, huge and brown and ancient, dominating the whole area.

A swarm of journalists from Fleet Street were waiting outside the building when we arrived. Burke took my elbow and deftly ushered me inside, scowling at the cocky chaps who fired questions at me. Inside was dim and cool and vaguely imposing, and I began to feel nervous for the first time. What … what if I faltered when they began questioning me? What if they could tell I was lying? Burke led me down a long dim corridor and into an anteroom and settled me on a bench and asked me to wait. The room was small, windowless. I felt as though I were in a prison cell. I paced back and forth, trying to control my nerves, and finally I sat back down on the bench, willing myself to be calm.

I was doing the right thing, I was certain of that. It would be different if Clinton were still alive, but he was gone, and nothing would bring him back. I had not married him for his wealth, for his estate, and I didn't want them now. Greystone Hall and the house on Hanover Square were filled with poignant memories. I could never live in either of them again. I had loved my husband and I had tried my best to make him happy, but I didn't feel eight months of marriage entitled me to an estate that had been in his family for two hundred years. I hadn't a drop of Meredith blood, whereas Hugh … Yes, I was doing the right thing.

When Burke came to fetch me, looking quite different in his black robe and long white wig, I was completely composed. I followed him down another corridor and into a large, dusty room that wasn't nearly as stately or impressive as I had expected. It was paneled in dark oak and shafts of sunlight streamed in through windows set very high in the east wall. There were benches and tables and a witness box up front set on a raised platform behind a wooden railing, as was the table where the six solemn-faced judges sat in their long scarlet robes and curly white wigs. I felt a sense of unreality as Burke showed me to a seat near the back and moved off to speak to two more men attired in black robes and wigs like his. I assumed they were Hugh's counselors. There were no more than twenty people in the room, including the judges, and I was relieved to discover I would not have a large audience. The public had not been admitted, nor were there any representatives from Fleet Street.

Hugh sat at a table up front with yet another counselor. He wasn't aware that I had come in. His face, in profile, was stony and grave, his raven hair pulled back sleekly and fastened at the nape with a thin black silk ribbon. He wore an elegant black frock coat and black silk vest, fine white lace cascading from his throat and over his wrists. His strong brown hands nervously shuffled some papers in front of him. He was clearly not sure what the outcome of this hearing was going to be. Hadn't his counselors told him what had happened? He pushed the papers away and began to tap the table with the fingers of his right hand, drumming nervously, impatiently. He turned his head. He saw me sitting in back. His cheeks paled. I felt nothing.

Motes of dust swirled slowly in the shafts of sunlight. The room was warm and stuffy, despite its size. It seemed to take forever for the procedures to begin, and the legal rituals seemed inane and meaningless. I paid little attention, my mind wandering, the grief that had demolished me for weeks threatening to resurface. I toyed with my black lace handkerchief and was surprised to look down and see that I had torn it to shreds. They called my name. I looked up, startled. Everyone seemed to be waiting for me to do something. The room was very quiet. Burke hurried over and took my hand and led me to the witness box. I sat down in the large, uncomfortable wooden chair and Burke closed the wooden railing that opened and shut like a gate. He went back to his table and another man took his place, his black robe a size too large, his long white wig rather frayed.

Hugh was staring at me. His face was still pale. The judges were staring at me, too. Their faces seemed to blur. The room seemed to blur into a brown haze, and I was aware only of the man in front of me, his face lean and haggard and pasty gray, aged, his blue eyes scrutinizing me with alarming intensity. I gazed at him coolly. He held up two ancient, creased, yellowing sheets of parchment spotted with brown fox marks and, in a cracked, rasping voice, asked me if I had ever seen them before. I nodded.

“I must ask you to speak up, Lady Meredith,” he admonished.

“Yes,” I said, “I have seen them before.”