His One Woman (17 page)

Ezra Butler to Jack Dilhorne, August 1st, 1862

The
Washington Post,
August 10th, 1862

Sophie Hope to her friend, Isabelle Tranter
of the Boston Tranters, August 12th, 1862

Jack Dilhorne to Sir Alan, August 15th, 1862

Hunter Van Horn to Sophie Hope, September 2nd, 1862

Marietta's Journal, November 20th, 1862

The
Washington Post,
December 14th, 1862

The
Washington Post,
December 18th, 1862

Aunt Percival to her cousin Ginny in Boston,
December 20th, l862

Marietta's Journal December 20th, 1862

Jack to Sir Alan, April 27th, 1863

Sophie Hope to Isabelle Tranter, July, 1863

Aunt Percival to Mrs Leila Henty, July, 1863

In her Journal she wrote, for no one to see: ‘I think that Marietta still grieves for that wretch who deserted her. I could wring his neck—until I look at Cobie.'

August, 1863

G
o home, the Navy doctor had said to Jack. What was home? It was merely a cold, half-empty mansion on Long Island where no one was waiting for him.

Travelling North was a tedious business, except on the one occasion when, by some odd chance, he met Charles Stanton who was also on his way home.

‘If I didn't have my grand house, my useless title, and all the responsibilities that go with them,' he told Jack, ‘I would stay in the States. I agree with Alan—who, as usual, is always right—the future is here, not in Europe.'

Jack had nodded agreement. After that he told Charles, who had asked him for his news, of his loss of Marietta, and of her marriage. Charles gave him an odd look, before saying slowly, ‘I find it difficult to believe that she abandoned you. If it were not that she has married Avory Grant—I remember him, a
decent enough chap—I would tell you to return to Washington and try to discover what went wrong. I'm a little surprised that you never thought of doing so.'

‘I did,' said Jack sadly, ‘and then I had news of her father's sudden death, and that she had retreated into the country—no one knew where.'

‘Um,' said Charles, who was never long-winded, ‘a pity, that,' and tactfully abandoned the topic. Later he was to wonder briefly whether Sophie had taken a hand in the game, but concluded that, all things considered, the notion was somewhat fanciful.

Jack finally arrived home on a dark rainy day, a day which matched his current state of mind. Letters were piled high in the hall. One was from Peggy Shipton. To his surprise, it told him of her marriage. She added at the end, ‘I refused you because you still had that other woman on your mind. Why don't you go back and find out what happened?'

She was the second person to tell him that, but how could he? Marietta was married to a good man and that was that.

The last letter was from Ezra Butler, delivered all of eight months ago, just after he had left for the South, asking him to visit Washington as soon as he was free to do so. ‘I grow old,' he wrote, ‘and need a successor for the business. You are like enough to your late pa to make a good one.'

There was a postscript to this letter which contained a surprise for him.

Jack put the letter down thoughtfully. He had not fully understood that the Senator's death had been tragic, and he wondered a little at Butler's motives in sending him the news.

So, her husband was dead, poor devil. They had not been married long. He wondered why she had married Grant—perhaps that was why she had cast him off. On second thoughts, that seemed a little improbable. She had not married Grant until nearly a year had passed since he had last seen her. Perhaps he, Jack, had seemed second-rate when Avory had come back into her life. It was still an agony not to know why she had abandoned him.

Jack had once said that, like his late and formidable father, he never looked back. Perhaps it was time to do so. There were several reasons why he ought to visit Washington. Not only did he need to accept Ezra Butler's invitation to go there, but he had half-promised to visit the Secretary of State for the Navy in order to report to him the details of his journey to the river war in the South.

And when—and if—he saw Marietta again, what then? Would he at last discover what had gone wrong, and why she had left him after their last golden afternoon together? And if he did find out, it
might either destroy or ease the ache in his heart which plagued him whenever he thought of her.

Perhaps simply to see her without explanations or recriminations would relieve his pain. All in all, she was unfinished business and, one way or another, he would finish it.

Washington was dingier than he remembered it. It was crammed with people: soldiers were everywhere, and whores stood on each corner. Every building in the capital looked seedy, and war had transformed Willard's into something less than it had been. He was staying with Butler and was grateful for his hospitality.

Ezra had aged in the two years since Jack had last seen him. Ezra thought that Jack had changed, too. He was more serious, less light-hearted. At dinner that first day, he looked speculatively at his guest and asked, ‘What did you think of my PS?'

‘About Mrs Grant?' replied Jack, as though there had been another. ‘I was sorry for her, of course.'

‘Only sorry?' queried Butler. ‘Forgive me for being an old gossip, but I had thought that there was more to your relationship with her than that implies.'

‘There was,' said Jack. ‘But something went wrong. I may try to find out what it was.'

‘I'm not sure that she's in town,' said Butler. ‘She's seen occasionally in public, but she lives a restricted life compared to the one she enjoyed with the Senator and later with Grant.'

‘Yes,' said Jack. His behaviour confirmed Butler's
belief that he had changed. He was a harder, more mature man than he had been before he had left for New York. Ezra dropped the subject. Jack was obviously a big enough man now to look after himself. They talked business.

‘You're going to be one of those whom this war will make rich,' commented Butler. ‘The USA is going to be the number one world power when this war is over. Just let those Europeans watch out!'

‘Yes,' said Jack, ‘and that makes me feel a little guilty because I shan't have fought in the war.'

‘You shouldn't,' said Butler robustly. ‘You'll only be getting rich because of all you've done for the Union and from what I hear you've certainly done your bit. You went to war with the
Monitor
when you needn't have done. And your behaviour in the South was certainly beyond the mere call of duty.'

Jack said nothing to this. He looked tired, Butler thought, and he ordered him to bed. Tomorrow was another day and young Dilhorne ought to be ready for it. Besides, he was now sure that the Jack Dilhorne who had returned from the war would be the ideal young man to take over Butler and Rutherfurd's when the time came for an old man finally to admit his age.

In the meantime he would hope that somehow Jack would be reunited with his Marietta again.

If Jack harboured any such hopes he did not say so. He thought that he would let a few days pass before he called on Marietta. Once he would have
called on her the moment he had arrived in Washington and stormed the doors, but something that was almost superstition made him delay.

Perhaps he had been too forward in the past, taken things for granted. This time he would be more cautious. So it was with mingled hope and fear that he approached what was now Marietta Grant's home. The blinds were drawn, he noted with some dismay, and the house had a deserted look about it. Nevertheless he rapped the knocker smartly.

No one answered for some time and then the door opened to reveal Asia, who had let him in on his first visit to the mansion. She stared at him for a moment before her face broke into a broad smile.

‘Oh, it's Mister Jack. Fancy seeing you again.'

A woman's voice from within, not Marietta's, called, ‘Who is it, Asia?'

‘It's Mr Jack, Miz Percival, come a-calling.'

Aunt Percival called back peremptorily, ‘Tell Mr Jack Dilhorne to go away at once. He's not welcome in this house.'

‘I've come to see Marietta—Mrs Grant, that is,' Jack said, astonished at the dislike and contempt he could hear in Miss Percival's voice. He wondered what could have provoked it.

‘Indeed, you may not see her. Nor does she wish to see you. Asia, bid the man good afternoon, and close the door.'

All of this was conducted by Marietta's aunt, with whom he had been something of a favourite, from
inside the house and without even doing him the courtesy of showing herself.

Asia offered him a wistful smile and murmured, ‘Best go, Mr Jack. I know from what I have overheard that Miss Percival means what she says.'

Jack nodded. What else could he do? He watched Asia secure the door against him, and then began to walk away, wondering what he could have done to have inspired such hatred. Strangely enough, the very venom with which Aunt Percival had spoken inspired him, not to give up the battle to regain Marietta, but to pursue it with increased vigour.

Although how he would be able to do any such thing remained, for the moment, a mystery. The only things which might help him were those which his father had always relied upon: time and chance.

‘You would not, could not, guess who came to see you today, my love, and if I could conceal his arrival from you, I would, but I must tell you, lest others do, for it was Asia who answered the door and wanted to admit him.'

Marietta had just seated herself with a weary sigh, the result of a difficult afternoon. She had just returned from a visit to the Hamilton Hopes. She had had no wish to make it, but the man was her late father's brother and she owed him the duty of kinship. They had particularly asked that she bring Cobie, and Avory's daughter, Susanna, with her. She had done so, praying that Sophie would not be present.

Alas, Sophie, on being informed of the invitation, had turned down another engagement for the afternoon, even at the risk of offending her hosts. She felt a terrible need to see Marietta at close quarters. They had barely met since Marietta and Avory's marriage.

She had been sitting in the parlour, magnificently dressed, when Marietta had arrived. She had treated pretty little Susanna to a cold stare, and glared at Cobie, who had been trotting along, holding his foster-sister's hand. He loved Susanna dearly; indeed, at this stage of his life he loved everybody dearly, but Susanna most of all.

Sophie had little time for children, and had said to her mother on hearing that she had invited Susanna and Cobie as well as Marietta, ‘I can only hope that you are arranging for their nursemaid to take them to the kitchen for tea. Children do so spoil conversation.'

‘Certainly not!' Mrs Hope had exclaimed. She was growing tired of Sophie's many large and small selfishnesses. ‘That would be most uncivil. Susanna is a war hero's child, and Cobie is the best behaved little boy I have ever come across. He conducted himself like an angel on my last visit to dear Marietta. Besides, it would do you good to entertain them: you will have children of your own one day and will need to know how to look after them.'

If ‘God forbid' was Sophie's secret reaction to that unwelcome statement it did not show. Unfortunately, her mother, determined to encourage her to amuse Marietta's charges, picked Cobie up and began to
cuddle and pet him—something which he always enjoyed.

‘Come,' said Mrs Hope, handing him to her daughter, ‘let cousin Sophie look after you.'

‘He is not my cousin,' said Sophie sullenly, perching him on her knees and offering him nothing of the loving warmth to which he was accustomed, ‘but if you think I ought to entertain him, I suppose I must.'

This was ungracious, even for Sophie, and her mother coloured a little. Susanna said, sharply for her, ‘Cobie doesn't need entertaining, he entertains himself, and he does not like being treated as though he were a parcel.'

This accurate description of Sophie's handling of him did not help matters. It was her turn to colour and to show her anger by clutching Cobie in a death grip before bouncing him violently up and down on her knee.

It was one of the many wise sayings of mothers and grandmothers in those days that babies and little children always knew whether the person who was holding them was a friend or not. Cobie immediately demonstrated his mistrust of Sophie by beginning to cry, something which he rarely did, and to try to twist out of her grasp.

‘Goodness me,' exclaimed Sophie, ‘of all things I do detest a squalling child,' and she almost flung Cobie at Marietta.

Susanna, who had been watching Sophie's unkind
treatment of her treasure, said loudly, ‘I don't like that lady, she's not kind.'

‘Well, really,' said Sophie. ‘Have I given up an afternoon at the Van Deusens' gala in order to be pestered by
two
badly behaved children?'

‘Sophie!' exclaimed her agonised mother. ‘Apologise to Marietta at once. It is your own unkind conduct which has caused Cobie's distress.' For he was now howling loudly. He was always sensitive to the feelings of those around him, and the waves of dislike coming from Sophie were something to which he was not accustomed.

‘Indeed, not,' said Sophie, now lost to all sense of propriety by her hatred of Marietta and her own failure to secure a proposal from anyone halfway decent. ‘If you will excuse me, I will retire: it is not too late for me to visit the Van Deusens, where there will be no impudent brats to spoil the proceedings.'

She was no sooner out of the room than Mrs Hope added her tears to Cobie's.

‘I don't know what has come over her these days,' she sobbed. ‘She was such a pretty child, a little headstrong, perhaps, but not like this. She has been upset ever since her papa refused to allow her to visit Isabelle Tranter in Boston. He said that it was time that she settled down a little.'

Her sobs redoubled to such a degree that Marietta went over to her aunt to try to comfort her—something made difficult by her own disgust at Sophie's behaviour. The afternoon was ruined. She felt compelled to reprimand Susanna gently for her harsh—
if justified—criticism of Sophie; so to Cobie's hiccuping distress was added Susanna's unhappy face.

Now Marietta was listening, her face growing whiter by the minute, to what Aunt Percival was telling her.

‘It was Jack, wasn't it?' she asked faintly. ‘How could he? What could possess him, after two long years of silence, to come here as though nothing had happened?'