The Grenadillo Box: A Novel (16 page)

Madame Trenti sat in a fauteuil upholstered in watered silk. She wore a gown of palest blue over an ivory embroidered petticoat. Her hair was arranged with a white-feathered pompon, and her face, as before, was meticulously painted and patched. She lowered her head to my bow and waved away my thanks for her assistance with her fan. “I am glad to see you are refreshed after your ordeal, Mr. Hopson. You look surprisingly well in that costume. Seat yourself, I beg you. Will you take tea?”

I should have known that it was unusual for a lady to receive an artisan thus, but I didn’t ponder her motives. So mesmerized was I by the object suspended above her head and its possible connection with the letter in my pocket, I could think of nothing else. I settled in a chair opposite her, wondering as I did so how to raise the subject. She smiled enticingly, as if I were a gentleman of her own rank and she were trying to impress me, before launching immediately into her own inquiries. What had befallen Mr. Partridge? How did he die so tragically? Why was I the person to discover him? On and on the questions went, allowing me no opportunity to intervene without appearing rude, which I knew would be self-defeating. And so I followed the only course available, answering as candidly as I could, awaiting my moment to broach the subject of the looking glass. My description of Partridge’s wounds seemed to unsettle her a little, but not so much as the mention of Montfort’s name, which made her fan herself rapidly and ask me to shift the fire screen to shield her from the flames.

“Madam,” I said during this short interval, “Partridge’s death perplexes me greatly. But there is a further matter on which I would question you. I recall Partridge carved the looking glass frame hanging above you. Am I to presume the initials are your own?”

There was a short silence as she slowly stroked the carved arm of her chair.

“Mr. Hopson, I fail to see the relevance of this digression, but since you ask, Maria Trenti is my stage name, invented by my father. I was baptized Maria Carmina.” The tone of her voice had grown suddenly haughty. I was no longer being addressed as a confidant but as an impertinent underling.

I felt in my pocket, thankful I’d had the presence of mind to salvage the letters, and handed her the page Foley had sent me.

“A minute more of your forbearance, madam, and all will be clear. This letter was written to Lord Montfort. You will see that it is signed with the same initials, M. C. Were you the author of it?”

She took the page and lowered her head. I was astonished to note her lip trembling as she read and that when she looked up her large green eyes shone with tears.

“You are correct,” she admitted, suddenly returning to her former easy manner. “I don’t know how this came into your possession, but it was indeed I who penned it. Before we speak further on the subject of Partridge and his unfortunate history—the subject which I know has brought you here—I should like to tell you something of my own past, for only then will you comprehend my involvement with your friend.”

But at that moment a rattle of crockery was heard outside the door and she broke off. A servant entered with the tea she had ordered. She waited in silence as he placed the tray on a side table and brought her a silver caddy. Carefully she unlocked it, mixed leaves in a glass bowl, and placed them in the pot, clicking her fingers for the servant to pour water from the kettle over them. When this was done, without glancing in his direction, she flicked her handkerchief to indicate he should leave immediately. There was silence for a moment while she poured the tea and then she resumed.

“I own to you that I have come here from Italy, not simply to make my reputation in your English theater, but with a more pressing design in mind. Two decades ago I was a young girl in Rome with little to recommend me, apart from my talent for the dramatic arts. My mother, you see, died when I was very young. My father was a music teacher; he taught me from an early age, and encouraged me to perform at recitals, playing, dancing, singing for the English tourists. They lauded my talents, and so naturally I formed…alliances…among them.” She paused, somewhat theatrically, to hand me a fragile tea bowl and saucer, leaning forward to allow me a glimpse of her powdered bosom.

“There was one, however, who was different. Who behaved dishonorably, who took the greatest advantage of me that a gentleman may take of the opposite sex. He procured a priest to perform a marriage ceremony, then abandoned me immediately after the union had been consummated…. I trust I need not say more…” Her chin quivered with emotion now, tears coursed her cheeks, tracing small furrows in her powder.

“I would not distress you further,” I said. “This man, I take it from the letter, was Lord Montfort?”

She nodded, dabbing her eyes carefully with a lace handkerchief.

“And there was a child born from this liaison?”

“There was, as you say, a child born. My father discovered my condition and forced a confession from me.” She dabbed her face again, before taking up the teapot and refilling my bowl. Her hands were tiny, with fragile wrists no stronger than a child’s, yet her long slender fingers with their immaculately manicured nails reminded me strangely of Chippendale. “He traced the priest, who pretended to have carried out the ceremony in good faith and said Montfort had taken the marriage certificate. My father pursued Lord Montfort to Venice, where he appeared the very embodiment of gentlemanly discretion. He said I wasn’t abandoned, nor did he wish to ruin me, for had he not married me? He’d sent word to me that he was in Venice, but the letter must have gone astray. He was about to return to England but couldn’t take me with him for the time being, until he had prepared his family for the arrival of an Italian bride. Now that my father had kindly apprised him of my delicate condition, as a gesture of goodwill he consented to leave a servant behind who would bring the child to England as soon as it was born. I should have regular news of the child’s progress and join him in due course.”

“And so you handed over your child?”

“What choice did I have? My father obliged me to submit to this plan. I trusted Montfort would send for me.”

“But that did not happen?”

“It did not. The child—a boy—was taken from me within days of its birth. Montfort had given my father a small sum of money for my welfare and returned to England immediately after their meeting. Since then I’ve received no word from him. I wrote several times, imploring Montfort to respond. But my letters went unanswered. Some years later I learned he was already engaged to another woman when he met me. He married her within weeks of his return and had a child, a son, nine months later. If I didn’t know it already, I realized then how terribly I’d been deceived. But still I could not rest without some definite news of what had happened to our child. Is it not every mother’s right to have such information?”

I nodded sympathetically, although privately I wondered what mother could abandon her infant to a man she scarcely knew and wait so long to find out what had become of him. Behind the tears and trembling lips, I could have sworn her eyes were cold.

“Thus I determined to come to England, find Montfort, and confront him.”

“And did you?”

She shook her head firmly; the feathers in her headdress shivered.

“Since my arrival he has proved more elusive than luck itself. Of course I already knew his whereabouts and wrote to him, but as before I received no response. The letters all remained unanswered. Until some weeks ago, when I received a curious letter from a person by the name of Miss Alleyn, who is, I gather, Montfort’s sister.” Here she rose, went to the commode, and took from it a paper. “Read and you will understand.”

She handed me the page, which I unfolded, not knowing what to expect. It was written in a large and looped script, in unusual purplish black ink.

I read the letter twice more, then handed it back to her. I did not allow my face to reveal what I thought, although I observed she was scrutinizing me intently. “Forgive me, Madame Trenti. I feel great sympathy for your predicament. But this still does not explain how you knew Partridge was a foundling, or your interest in him.”

“Can you be so slow-witted? Have you not guessed?” she exclaimed, shaking her head at my doltishness. “Partridge was my son. It was I who directed him to speak to Montfort…his father.”

Of course I knew this was what she had intended me to believe all along, but for some reason hearing her say the words “Partridge was my son” chilled me to the core. There was no warmth in her tone. She might as well have said, “That is my chair” or “This is my dress.”

“Truly that’s an astonishing claim. What proof have you?”

She pursed her lips. “Mr. Hopson, you are surprisingly skeptical for one so youthful.”

“Age has nothing to do with it,” I said coldly. “London is full of foundlings;I am merely curious to know how you settled upon Partridge as your child.”

“Very well, let me tell you, since you insist upon it. I went to the Foundling Hospital and looked at the ledger—they call it the billet book. As you see, Miss Alleyn’s letter is most specific about the date my child was left—the opening day. I consulted the records. The hospital opened on March twenty-fifth, 1741. I traced the child to one apprenticed to Mr. Chippendale on account of his unusual talent for carving.”

Part of me of course wanted to believe her. Yet part of me did not. How was it, I wondered, that she had found Partridge so easily, while he himself had never succeeded in tracing his parents? Was my clever, gifted friend truly the offspring of this guileful creature and the odious Montfort? Nothing I could recall of my friend bore the remotest resemblance to either of them. However smooth her discourse sounded, however convincing her tears, I couldn’t help feeling I was witnessing a consummate performance rather than an outpouring of heartfelt grief. She showed none of the emotions I associated with motherhood. There had been little distress when I’d told her of the violence of his death. On the contrary, her reaction, now I thought about it, had been one of shock, surprise—even, I fancied, annoyance.

“Why did you send Partridge to Lord Montfort? What purpose was there in it when you knew Montfort refused to meet you and had abandoned the child? Did you not suspect Montfort would reject him? As his mother, did you not feel it was a cruelty to send him?”

“I did not view it like that,” she said, eyes widening at my criticism. “Partridge had a
right
to be recognized as Montfort’s son. I am his wife, I too have rights. I wanted him to perceive that he could not shrug me off as some inconsequential courtesan. Both Partridge and I
deserved
justice.”

“Justice or money?”

“Do not both go hand in hand? How else could Montfort make amends if not financially?”

“Had Lord Montfort paid you money in the past?”

“If he had, what of it?”

“Had the payments recently stopped? Was that why you came to find him?”

She fluttered her fan with annoyance. I knew I’d hit the mark. “That is really no concern of yours, Mr. Hopson. Indeed I fancy you forget yourself. Now perhaps, having cruelly accused me, you would be good enough to tell me what it is I need to know. What is the name of Montfort’s executor and chief beneficiary?”

“Why do you wish to know it?”

“I wish to apprise them that I was the mother of his legitimate child. I wish to make clear
my
claim upon the estate.”

“Do you have any proof of the ceremony?”

“The certificate must still be among Montfort’s possessions. I have proof of the notes of credit sent to me for the past nineteen years.”

I doubted very much that without evidence of her marriage she would have any claim. Indeed, knowing what I did of Montfort and his methods of seduction, there was no doubt in my mind that the ceremony had been a sham, engineered purely for his own gratification. Nonetheless I didn’t care to voice my beliefs. I gave her Wallace’s name and whereabouts and advised her to contact him. As I wrote the necessary information on a paper for her, the warmth of the room, the softness of my chair, and the scent she was wearing became suddenly overpowering. I longed to be away from this house, from this room, from her deception. There were probably more questions I should have asked, but after all I’d been through this day my mind was growing weary and I was becoming muddled once again and could not frame them.