Betina Krahn (57 page)

The next morning Antonia spent time in the small parlor, listening to the hopes and fears of her Bentick brides, and steadying them on their course of action. It was clear that their husbands’ visits the day before had made a great impression on them. Though none were ready to pack their things and go home, all were hopeful that some accommodation might be reached that would allow them to return home and to build the kind of marriage they wanted.

“We don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t allowed us to come and stay for a while,” Camille summed it up, speaking for all of them as she squeezed Antonia’s hand. “You’ve been so good to us all. We only hope you find happiness yourself someday, Lady Toni.”

“Amen to that,” came a familiar voice from the doorway.

Antonia looked up with her heart in her eyes to find Aunt Hermione in the doorway, smiling. “Auntie!” She bounded up and threw her arms around Hermione, and it was some time before she could bring herself to let Hermione go, even to ask some of the questions she was dying to ask.

“You look wonderful—positively glowing,” Antonia said, then looked around her aunt. “And Sir Paddington? Is he here, too?”

“He brought me here, then went on to Remington’s offices. He’s needed about some awful banking mess or other. We arrived later than expected last night.”

Antonia held her at arm’s length and looked at her with remnants of heartache visible in her eyes. “Are you happy, Auntie?”

“Oh, yes, Toni dear. Paddington is all I could possibly want.” Then she got that mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“And a bit more.” Antonia laughed and ushered her back out into the hall, sending Camille to tell everyone Hermione was home. Halfway to the drawing room she remembered and halted, taking Hermione by the hands.

“It’s Cleo, Auntie.” She took a deep breath. “She was taken ill … a stroke.”

Hermione paled and had to steady herself against Antonia.

“Is she …?”

“She’s recovering, but won’t be allowed out of bed for a while. She’ll want to see you, I know.” They hurried up the stairs to Cleo’s room and found her awake and strong enough for a few hugs and a few tears.

“You did it, eh?” the old lady said, clutching Hermione’s hand and squinting as she looked her over. “And it’s good, from the looks of you. You youngsters.” She shook her head fondly. “I said you should follow your heart.”

“And I took your advice, Cleo,” Hermione said, patting the older lady’s thin hand. “As usual, you were right. You know, I’d almost forgotten how nice having a man around can be.” Then she cast a glance at Antonia. “I just wish we could get Toni to listen, as well. She needs a man in her life. And love. And babies.”

Antonia stood with mild irritation, watching the two old ladies flaunting their conspiracy while giving her an oblique lecture on life. Apparently Hermione had asked the
older woman’s advice about marrying again, and Cleo had advised the “youngster” to do it. “You knew. And you kept it from me,” Antonia declared, scowling at Cleo, who gave a papery cackle of a laugh.

“Wouldn’t want Hermie here to go without, just because you choose to, girl.”

Antonia sputtered for a response while Hermione laughed.

Word had spread quickly through the house that Hermione had arrived, and everyone dropped their work and came running to greet her and to hear all the details of her romantic adventure. They collected in Cleo’s room, so she could hear as well, and Hermione began to tell her story. Secreting her bag out the kitchen door, the mad rush to Gretna Green, the vows spoken in a small parish church, the flowers Paddington had picked for her along the way, the old family ring with the magnificent ruby that he had given her—duly admired by everyone present—and the romantic wedding supper after … it was like something from a young girl’s dream. And Hermione seemed somehow more youthful from having lived and recounted it.

“Your Paddington sounds splendid,” Eleanor said mistily.

“Well, I know one thing,” Gertrude said, dabbing at her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Ye mus’ bring ’im around for supper some night so we can meet him.”

Hermione beamed at their good wishes and their open invitation to visit them. Antonia thought she detected a trace of mist in her aunt’s eyes and mentioned that Hermione must want to see about the rest of her things. As the others went back to work or hurried off to prepare a special luncheon, Antonia went with her aunt to pack.

In Hermione’s room a silence settled between them, which deepened with every garment and knickknack they placed on the bed to be packed. Then Antonia turned from
retrieving an old beaded reticule from the bottom of the wardrobe and found Hermione standing in the middle of the floor, clutching an aged scrapbook to her chest. Her rosy face and rounded form were filled with emotion. Watching her, Antonia felt tears welling and swallowed to clear her throat.

“Why, Auntie? Why would you run off and get married?”

Hermione smiled at her through a prism of tears. “When you love someone, you want to be with them. And I’m head over heels for Paddington. He’s so droll and well traveled and interesting. Do you know he was in India the same year my Stephen and I were? We must have just missed meeting at the viceroy’s ball. And he has the most handsome silver hair and the gentlest hands.…” She trailed off into realms of feeling that were difficult to put into words. Then, after a moment, she came back to the present. Searching Antonia’s face, she shook her head at what she saw.

“And frankly, Toni dear, I got a little tired of waiting for you to get on with your life so I could get on with mine.”

Antonia drew her chin back and her eyes widened. Aunt Hermione had been waiting for
her
to get on with her life, so that she might get on with … locating husband number five?

“No offense, my dear. But just because you’ve no taste for ‘footsie’ doesn’t mean that no one else does. And I’m not getting any younger. When the chance for love comes along, I take it.” She smiled with just a hint of rebellion that Antonia had seen in her face before, but hadn’t recognized as that until now. “I always have, you know.”

Antonia wobbled to the bench at the foot of the bed and sat down hard. Hermione joined her and gently put an arm around her shoulders. “I love you with all my heart, Toni. You’re the child I was never able to have. It hurts me
to see you alone. What will you do with the rest of your life, dear? There’s so much more to living than stitchery and charity work and taking tea in the afternoon. And if my marrying will give you a nudge to do something more—”

Hoskins appeared in the doorway just then to announce: “Sir Paddington Carr is here to see both Mrs. Fielding-Carr and yourself, ma’am. He says it is urgent.”

Antonia and Hermione left both their packing and their conversation unfinished to hurry downstairs to see Paddington. They found him in the entry hall pacing, red-faced and stomping this way and that, looking as if he were ready to explode. When he looked up and saw them, he did just that.

“Hermione—Antonia!” He came rushing toward them, his whole being a’ quiver with outrage. “Hell’s fire—pardon th’ French—” he declared, looking a bit confused, caught unexpectedly between the ordinaries and the extraordinaries of life. “They’ve arrested Remington on some charge or other, and he’s in jail!”

“Arrested him?” Antonia suddenly had difficulty drawing breath. “Dearest heaven—what for?”

It was Hermione who had the presence of mind to pull them into the drawing room and sit them down to learn what Paddington knew, which wasn’t very much.

“Phipps, Remington’s butler, hotfooted it to the offices first thing this mornin’, sayin’ the boy’s been placed under charges. They came to his house last night … Scotland Yard, he said. Waited for him all evening, and arrested him on the spot, the minute he set foot in the door.” Here Paddington paused and looked a bit confused. “Something about consumption of the queen’s morals …”

“Consumption? Morals?” It made no sense … until the gears of Antonia’s mind finally kicked into motion. “Do you mean—dear Lord!—
corruption of public morals
? Was
that it?” It sounded like a serious charge. Heart-stoppingly serious.

“No—
the queen’s
morals,” Paddington said, scowling at the way it sounded. “The queen was definitely involved … her and her ‘national fibers.’ Something about his being ‘under her mining’ and weakening some of her ‘timbers’ … Dashed if I can figure when or how he might have fiddled with her blessed fibers.…”He halted, straightened abruptly, and looked startled as the pieces finally fell into place in his head. “Good Lord—Remington’s being accused of meddling with the queen’s morals! Damned scoundrels—accusing him of such dastardly business. Why, I doubt he’s set eyes on the old girl in years!”

Antonia blinked, watching Paddington grapple to make connections that were being made all too clearly in her own mind.

“Not the
queen’s
morals … the
public’s
!” She groaned and reached for Paddington’s sleeve. “The queen is accusing him of corrupting public morals—that has to be it. But why? What could he possibly have done to make her accuse him of such a thing?”

Neither of them could answer her, and the only way to learn what had happened was for Sir Paddington to hurry down to Scotland Yard and demand to know the reason for his nephew’s detention. Distraught as she was, Antonia did think clearly enough to advise Paddington to call first on Remington’s solicitors and insist that they accompany him to police headquarters. Remington most certainly needed legal help.

Uncle Paddington was suddenly back to full capacity and set upon a solid course, at the peak of his form. But as he reached the front doors, Antonia felt a towering surge of anxiety and called out to him.

“Wait, Sir Paddington—give me a minute to fetch my hat and gloves. I’m coming with you!”

• • •

Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, was a stately old building that was indeed constructed around a yard—a courtyard set in the middle of London. It was the place that prisoners were taken for questioning and to await trial. As Antonia’s and Paddington’s carriage neared the center of London, the streets were clogged with cabs, carriages, carts, and people on foot. Waiting for the traffic wore on Antonia’s nerves; every minute seemed precious and time was wasting.

She glanced at Paddington, beside her on the seat, and found him staring worriedly out the window. Across from them in the carriage was Denholm Herriot, one of the leading solicitors of King’s Inn, and Remington’s chief legal counsel. He was a moderately tall, balding man whose eyes were lively and whose wise countenance usually inspired confidence. Just now he was the picture of distress. When Paddington had explained Remington’s situation and asked for his opinion, he judiciously refrained from offering one, except to say that a morals charge was a criminal offense and was never pressed lightly—certainly not against a man of Remington’s standing. And he said that if there was a trial, it would likely be held at the Old Bailey.

A criminal offense. The words lay like a smothering weight on Antonia’s chest. And
trial
. The word itself meant “ordeal.” They would put Remington on the prisoner’s dock and have people come and testify as to his … what? Immorality? How could anyone possibly think Remington a corrupting influence? He was one of the most decent, responsible, and moral men she had ever met!

They spoke little as they inched along through the late-afternoon traffic. Then Paddington straightened, leaned toward the window, and lowered the glass to listen to something. Antonia craned her neck to see and realized he was staring at a newsboy who was barking out the headlines
on a street corner. It was time for the afternoon editions, and something in one of the headlines galvanized Paddington. He whistled and waved the boy over to the carriage, tossing him a shilling and stretching down to snatch the paper. He snapped it open, and as she read over his shoulder, Antonia was hit by a sickening wave of horror. The headline read:

Gaflinger’s
had not only scooped every other paper in town, it had also scooped Remington’s own legal representatives. For there, in lurid black and white, was a list of the charges against him and a version of the circumstances that had prompted them. “… charged with the corruption of public morals, a case brought from the very highest levels of Her Majesty’s government and the palace itself,” Paddington read aloud.

As Antonia listened and stared at that obscene headline, she felt a rising fury generated by yet another distorted and sensationalized story about him—and in that despicable rag,
Gaflinger’s.
Trembling with impotent anger, she realized that those wretched reports and the ill will they had stirred against him had finally accumulated to an intolerable weight. And that weight had set the slow but inexorable wheels of the justice system into motion against him.

It was the cursed newspapers! First the stories about the “Woman Wager,” then the humiliating revelations of that awful night when the Bentick husbands invaded his house, then that business of his attacking women on the streets … Her heart beat faster with the recall of every absurd but still damaging piece of scandal press. They had gleefully reported that he forced her into degrading labor, and had women demonstrating against him in the streets—which they then reported with vicious whispers of
“shackles” and “male oppressor” and worse. Then, finally, came the last straw: allegations that he had wrecked numerous marriages!