Belgrave Square (42 page)

“There is nothing …” Fanny began again, but James Hilliard was suddenly there, his shock at last melted enough for him to come and defend his sister from what he believed to be harassment.

“Mrs. Pitt—” he began sharply.

“Yes,” Fanny agreed. “Tomorrow.” She swiveled around to her brother. “Thank you, James. Please take me home.”

He glanced quickly at Charlotte with a look of confusion, pain and anger, then put his arm around Fanny’s shoulders and escorted her to the door.

Back in the withdrawing room the music had begun again and everyone was seated. They at least appeared to be listening, although underneath the carefully composed expressions imaginations were seething and words were falling over themselves ready to relay the choice piece of scandal the moment they were able. Pages would be scurrying all through society tomorrow morning, and those with telephone instruments would be feeling a magnificent superiority over their more backward friends.

“What did she say?” Emily demanded as soon as Charlotte sat down beside her.

“Nothing,” Charlotte replied. “I shall see her tomorrow.”

“It’s too bad.” Emily was considerably upset. “I was becoming very fond of her. And I really hoped she would marry Fitz—even if he is Jack’s rival. I know that is not very consistent, but I like him.”

“It is not in the least inconsistent,” Charlotte said with a sudden hard insight. “No matter how much you like Fitz and
Fanny, and I accept that you do, it is nothing compared with your love for Jack, and your belief that he will make an excellent member for Parliament. And if Fitz jilts Odelia for Fanny, even if her reputation is immaculate, it will be one of the very few mistakes that could cost him his chance of selection.” She saw Emily’s look of consternation, but continued anyway. “I don’t believe for a moment you would, or could, cause that to happen, but don’t tell me you will grieve if Fitz brings it upon himself.”

Emily looked uncomfortable. “Of course I would not bring it about,” she defended herself, but there was no outrage in her voice. “If I hope for it for Fitz and Fanny, it is because I know that love in a marriage is far more important than this particular opportunity for political candidacy. Really Charlotte, I am not nearly so conniving as you seem to think.”

Charlotte smiled at her without withdrawing a word, then faced forward and gave her attention to the music.

The morning was bright with sunshine and a brisk, clean wind, and Charlotte was glad of a light cloak as she stood at the southern end of Rotten Row, the long earthen track beneath the trees stretching from the Royal Albert Memorial to Hyde Park Corner where ladies of the fashionable world, both of excellent reputation and of the very worst, rode on horseback to parade their skills, their outfits, and their personal charms.

As Charlotte waited a small group passed close to her, all dressed in precisely the clothes required by custom, tight-waisted jackets, some with high necks and beautiful pins of horse heads or stirrups at the collar, one with reveres to her jacket and a silver hunting horn pin in her dazzlingly white cravat.

Of course they all wore long riding gloves and carried crops with ornamented handles; she saw one of carved horn, and the light caught the head of another and shone silver for a bright moment.

Then the riders turned and set off at a canter, passing another group going in the opposite direction. The leader changed hands with her reins and crop in order to touch hands with her acquaintance in greeting, rather a daring maneuver
at such a speed. Another leaned forward to pat her horse’s neck, another quite unnecessary gesture performed solely to display the rider’s skill.

Charlotte smiled to herself and walked a few paces to keep warm.

When at last she saw Fanny about twenty yards away, coming from the Kensington Road, she thought for a moment it could not be her. She looked so unlike her previous self; the joy was emptied out of her, the grace gone from her step, all the vividness and life from her face. Whatever she had done, and why she had done it, all Charlotte could feel for her was a wrenching pity.

She went over to her quickly, almost at a run, taking the younger woman’s hand in hers and holding it tightly.

“I don’t know why you’ve come,” Fanny said in a voice so husky Charlotte knew in a moment she had been weeping so long her throat ached. She could remember the same pain long ago, over other loves before Pitt, rejections that hurt abominably at the time, even though their faces were long faded from her memory now.

“I want to know the truth,” she said simply. “Maybe there is something that can be done—and if there isn’t, then I am still your friend.”

The tears spilled down Fanny’s cheeks as though the kindness were more than she could bear. She had steeled herself against condemnation, but this caught her unguarded.

For several seconds she fought to master herself.

Charlotte pulled out a wholly inadequate handkerchief and gave it to her, then hunted for another, and when she found it, passed that over too.

Fanny blew her nose and sniffed fiercely. It was extremely inelegant.

“Do you love Mr. Carswell?” Charlotte asked.

A ghost of a smile crossed Fanny’s face, the tears brimmed over and slid unregarded down her cheeks. Her eyes were red rimmed, her skin blotched and she was barely recognizable as the glowingly pretty girl Charlotte had first seen, but it was of no importance now.

“Yes,” she said hesitantly, then with a choking laugh. “Yes-I do.”

Charlotte was taken aback, but she had committed herself too far to retreat.

“I would have sworn you were in love with Fitz.”

“I am.” Fanny sniffed. “I am—” She swallowed convulsively and reached for the sodden handkerchief again.

Trying to be practical, Charlotte reached into her reticule for yet another handkerchief and failed to find one. Resenting the extravagance, but feeling Fanny’s pain too sharply to deny it, she fished very discreetly under her skirts and tore off a strip of her cotton petticoat.

“Blow your nose,” she ordered. “And then explain yourself.” She felt like Vespasia as she said it. Someone had to take command of the situation.

Fanny was too weary and too wretched to fight anymore.

“I love them both—quite differently,” she said haltingly, in little more than a whisper.

“That’s nonsense,” Charlotte said briskly. “Unless you are just plain silly. You cannot for a moment imagine you can have the position of financial help from a man like Addison Carswell, deceiving his wife, who is a very nice woman and does not deserve it, and at the same time say you love Fitz.”

“I do!” Fanny looked desperate, as if her only friend were threatening to abandon her. She blushed hard and made some last terrible decision. “Not the way you think. Addison Carswell is my father.”

For a moment Charlotte was stunned. Then gradually a whole new picture took shape.

“Oh! You are illegitimate? I’m so sorry! How dreadfully painful for you.”

“No I’m not. That is the whole point.” Now that Fanny had at last committed herself to telling the truth, she was eager to tell it all. “Papa was married to my mother first—that is the whole awful thing of it.” She looked at Charlotte with anguished eyes.

“Then your mother is dead?”

“No.” It was little more than a whisper. “Divorced?” Charlotte was amazed. Divorce was so terribly rare, and a fearful scandal. Divorced women were worse than dead in society. A man put his wife away only for the most heinous of reasons, like flagrant adultery. Mere disagreeability
he ignored, and took a more pleasant mistress, spending only what time was absolutely necessary in his home, but continuing to provide for his wife, and whatever children there were, and keeping his social status intact. Such arrangements were kept discreet, and well understood. A woman only put her husband away if he deserted her, or beat her beyond anything even remotely reasonable. A little merited discipline was expected. And of course adultery was no reason for divorce, if committed by the man.

“No.” Fanny’s voice was sunk to a whisper.

“Then—I don’t understand.” Charlotte was totally confused.

“That’s it,” Fanny said desperately. “There was no divorce. My mother and father are still married.”

“But—but what about Mrs. Carswell? I mean—Regina…” Suddenly Charlotte saw the awful truth. “Oh! You mean—you mean she is not married at all? Does she—?”

“No—no, she doesn’t know,” Fanny said quickly. “That is why I would not tell them the truth last night. That is why we neither of us can. Her marriage is bigamous. And her daughters—and her son—are bastards.”

“Oh my heavens!” Charlotte was aghast. “Oh you poor creature.”

“I can’t betray him,” Fanny said in anguish. “It would ruin him, and in so many ways, more terrible than that, it would ruin them too. Did you see Mabel with that young man yesterday evening? What chance would she have of marrying him—or anyone—if people knew?”

“None,” Charlotte admitted. “But what about you?” Then she wished she had not said it. Fanny knew only too well what her future was now. “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said quickly.

“I know.” Fanny’s hands closed around hers even more tightly. “Believe me, I’ve thought of it all since last night. I suppose I should have realized it would come out—I just thought it was all secret. Papa was so careful. He came to see me so very secretly. I don’t know who found out, or how. But perhaps it was bound to have happened one day.”

“Your brother? He seemed last night not to know.”

“He didn’t. He is younger than I and had no memory of Papa. Hilliard is my mother’s maiden name, and she used
that after—after they separated. She never told James the truth, and I saw no point to it. I did not tell him that in the last two years I have seen Papa again. When Mama became ill—Very ill, not only in her body but in her mind, we needed help. I went and found Papa and told him of our state. He was full of sympathy, and perhaps a little guilt.” She winced. “And he helped immediately. He provided an allowance for Mama and used his influence to get James a good position in the City. Of course, James does not know that.” She smiled very slightly. “He was so very fond of me, so gentle and so nice to be with, I never once thought it was other than affection. I still don’t.”

“But you did not tell your brother?”

“No—nor will I now. He—he might betray Papa—to defend me—and that is something I am not prepared to do.”

“That is very fine of you,” Charlotte said with instant admiration.

Fanny smiled wanly. “It is also realistic. I love Papa; and I could not live with myself if I ruined his present family and brought such terrible misery upon them. But even if I did, who would admire me for it? People might see some justice in it—but justice is not what I want. I want Fitz—and that I cannot have. He would not love me for that, and I cannot tell him the truth.” Again her eyes filled quite suddenly with tears and she turned away for a moment to regain her self-mastery.

This time Charlotte permitted her the dignity of silence, then gently put her hand on Fanny’s arm.

“I would be very happy if you would permit me to be your friend,” she said sincerely. “For the little that is worth. That is, if when you know me better, the things you do not know at the moment, you wish it.”

Fanny put her other hand up and clasped Charlotte’s fingers tightly.

“Please,” she whispered huskily.

In his Bow Street office Micah Drummond paced the floor from the closed door to the window overlooking the hot, busy street, and back again, door to window, and again, too restless to sit. He was furious over the Osmar case. He poured all his frustration and unhappiness into his rage that this
wretched man should call on his past friendships with ministers of state in order to make the courts ridiculous and impugn the honesty of the police. He had no doubt that it was done by the influence of the Inner Circle. Osmar had no importance himself. The fact that it was the brotherhood added to his own sense of guilt that he was part of it, and his growing fear as to its power and its purpose.

He was halfway facing the window when there was a sharp rap on the door. He spun around as if he had been caught in some wrongful act.

“Yes?”

The door opened and Urban came in. He was looking pleased, although there was still a shadow of irritation over his tight, amused smile.

“What is it?” Drummond said less courteously than usual.

Urban disregarded his manner; he was too full of his own news.

“We won,” he said simply.

Drummond had not the slightest idea what he meant. “Won what?” he said irritably.

Urban was crestfallen, much of the triumph drained from his face.

“The case over Osmar.”

“We can’t have.” Drummond was still confused. “It’s already been dismissed!”

“Not the prosecution,” Urban corrected with disappointed patience. “The case against the newspapers for slandering us over Latimer’s interrogation of Beulah Giles.”

“Oh!” Suddenly it came back to Drummond. He should have known straightaway; the issue had certainly been serious enough. He looked at Urban now and tried to make up for his omission. He forced his features into an expression of pleasure. “Thank heaven for that. I didn’t think it was due for trial for months yet, surely?”

“It isn’t,” Urban agreed, mollified. “They settled out of court, paid us damages—and retracted all the charges of brutality.”

“Then what was the reservation I saw in your face when you came in?” Drummond asked. “Were the damages poor?”

“No—they were excellent, and so they should be. It was
a damned comprehensive slander, and they misquoted us, and even themselves,” Urban replied heatedly. “It was a hysterical and completely irresponsible piece of journalism, and the other papers that picked it up didn’t even bother to check their facts.”

Drummond waited, his eyes wide.

Urban smiled, at himself. “That swine Osmar is still free to prance around saying he is innocent and without a stain on his character.” He pushed his hands into his pockets. “Which doesn’t matter in that he’s hardly a major criminal, simply an elderly ass who fornicates in the public parks.” His face darkened and his voice took on a graver note. “But he’s also a man who uses personal influence and the obligations of past office to escape the consequences of acts he expects other people to answer to, if they are caught. He uses privilege to set the law aside when it suits him—and that is about as serious a crime against society as there can be. In some ways it’s worse than murder.” And with those passionate words he turned on his heel and went out, closing the door very quietly behind him. Drummond was left shaken so profoundly he stood in the middle of the floor with the sunlight shining around him and felt cold, the sounds of the street below like insects far away, his mind whirling.