The Iron Master (18 page)

‘Thank you,’ Charlotte said, holding out her hand. ‘Thank you, sir.’

He gave the hand an abrupt little shake, and followed the maid down the stairs. She was grateful to him, and glad he had gone. Soon Polly would stoke up the fire and bring her something hot to eat. Then, warmed and fed, she could return to her writing with confidence, and might, sometime in the early hours of the morning, find herself so caught up in the future of mankind that she could forget her own future, which seemed bleak.

A week later, France declared war upon Great Britain, and Toby was still missing.

They came late one night, Ralph Fairbarrow and the stranger, when Polly and the children were long abed. Charlotte knew, even as she held the flickering candle high to see their faces, that the news was bad, but lighted them up the stairs with a still composure reminiscent of her mother. Either they were in a hurry to be done, or found the room colder than they could wish, but they stood uncomfortably in their great-coats, holding their hats, and looking anywhere but at her. Then Fairbarrow fetched a bottle of brandy from his baggy pocket and asked where she kept the glasses.

Very pale, Charlotte motioned them to sit, then she mended the small fire and rubbed her hands to warm them: a tall, fineboned woman, hair garnered carelessly into an ashen knot, wrapped in an old brown velvet pelisse trimmed with grey fur.

‘You’d better have this,’ said Ralph Fairbarrow, putting a glass beside her. He said abruptly, ‘It was an accident, Mrs Longe. Toby died by accident. In the streets of Paris.’

The young man now lifted his head and glanced at her. There was a guilty air about him, as though he felt the message should have been given by him, and not so baldly. She sat, face averted, and sipped the brandy.

‘How did Toby … ?’ she began, and could not finish. ‘You tell her,’ said Ralph Fairbarrow. ‘You were there, damn it. I was not’

The unknown was a man of some gentility, most probably a convert like herself, immersed in his own traditions and fighting nobly to overthrow them.

‘Forgive me for bringing such news as this, Mrs Longe,’ he said courteously, ‘I wish to God I could have fetched him back again.’

‘Get on with it, man. We are not concerned with your fine feelings!’ cried Fairbarrow.

‘It wasn’t safe, you know, the streets weren’t safe, those last days. Toby and I met, by arrangement’ — here he glanced at Ralph Fairbarrow — ‘and we liked each other, madam.’

She looked at his bright young face and white linen, saw that his enthusiasm would break through, his ideas beckon him ever forward, despite the onslaught of life.

‘Yes,’ said Charlotte quietly, ‘I imagine you did, sir. Pray go on.’

‘We saw Capet executed. He died with dignity. Aye, poor stupid fellow, with more dignity than he had lived. And, oh God, the people there! As if the streets were running with rats. Such faces and such voices. The sense of evil, the feeling of being watched. Nay, not a feeling but a fact. Everyone watches, and is watched. Fear your enemies, for they can denounce you, have you tried and guillotined, within the week, within the day, as fast as they can fill and empty the tumbrils. I took care not to seem conspicuous. The cleanly are not well regarded over there, just now, nor are the English. But Toby took not a ha-porth of notice. He stood out among that filth and they misliked it. Everywhere we went there would be eyes, peering from under a dirty mat of hair. Sometimes they threw things at him, sometimes called “Aristo!” for all that he wore the cockade, talked and believed in the revolution.

‘Then — oh, all shouting and running feet, I know not what, some fellow escaping capture or being captured. I pulled Toby into a doorway. Saw his face change. Before God, Mrs Longe, it was so quick he could not have felt the bullet. Sagged against me. And I held him. Stared at him. Cursed them, Mrs Longe. Cursed the damned lot of them. And then the questions, and the difficulty over papers, the lack of money. The English community over there paid up and saw him decently buried. I’ve written down the name of the cemetery. Brought his few things. Poor Toby. God damn them all, he was a fine gentleman. A brave gentleman. We are all the less because Toby’s gone. Forgive me for bringing news such as this, madam.’

‘Drink up,’ said Fairbarrow roughly, and took a gulp of spirit to encourage them both.

With the stilted kindness of that other day, recently, he then asked if he could rouse Polly Slack to attend her. Charlotte shook her head, stunned.

‘When you’re feeling more yourself,’ said Fairbarrow, ‘we must think what is to be done about you. I shall help you as best I can, of course.’

‘If you would give me a day,’ said Charlotte stiffly, ‘just a day, Mr Fairbarrow. And then I should be grateful for any suggestion you could make that was practical. For what we shall do I cannot think.’

He laid another guinea, as unobtrusively as he could, on the table by her glass, and coughed to indicate his departure. But the young man, whose name she never knew, lifted her cold hand and kissed it and bowed low.

‘Put that down there,’ said Fairbarrow softly, and a packet was set next to the guinea. ‘We are going now, Mrs Longe.’

‘But will she be … ?’ she heard the young man say anxiously.

‘Yes, sir,’ Charlotte answered him, ‘I shall be well enough, I thank you. I should prefer to be alone. A day’s grace, if you please, Mr Fairbarrow.’

The clock ticked quietly in the corner. She sat silently, gazing into the fire. After a time she stirred a little, and picked up what was left of Toby’s worldly goods. His watch, which she would keep for Ambrose. A purse, containing a few French coins of no great value, which she would give to Cicely. His papers in a leather folding-case: passport, notebook, and a letter of some age, much-read and fragile. She opened it, wondering, and recognised her own young hand and mind in the words.

‘
…
I
do
not
charge
you
with
being
Mean
and
Paltry
,
sir
,
but
you
were
not
Companionate
enough
to
Shield
me
from
Misfortune
…
’

Then Charlotte bowed her head and covered her face, and wept for her husband.

Even grief, it seemed, was luxury. Within forty-eight hours Toby’s death brought his creditors about her ears. She wrung payments from a few debtors, and sat up at nights calculating how she could maintain the business. Ralph Fairbarrow did what he could, but his help finally amounted to finding a purchaser for Longe & Son. Two gentlemen drove a bargain which left Charlotte and her children with the clothes they possessed, and no home. So she took the only course left to her, and wrote to Kit’s Hill, asking if Dorcas and Ned would care for Ambrose and Cicely while she found work and lodgings, until such time as she could support all three of them.

Post-haste came the finest and tenderest of letters from her mother, enclosing a banknote to pay the coach fares to Millbridge and provide immediate necessities, urging Charlotte to keep her small family together.

…
for
they
who
have
last
a
Father
shd
not
lose
their
Mother
also
.
I
Comprehend
and
Admire
yr
determination
to
Support
yr
selves
,
but
this
you
cd
do
in
Millbridge
.
Thornton
House
is
but
a
Hospital
these
days
,
with
Sally
caring
for
Agnes
—
who
is
Ailing
—
and
yr
Aunt
Phoebe
—
who
is
Rapidly
Ageing
.
They
are
Provided
for
;
why
shd
not
You
be
also
?
You
have
yr
own
Allowance
,
and
can
Earn
a
Little
by
means
off
Pen
—
perhaps
yr
Friends
in
London
will
put
Work
in
yr
Way
!
You
was
always
Fond
of
Millbridge
,
and
Thornton
House
will
Come
Alive
again
when
the
Children
are
there
,
and
you
have
many
Friends
here
.
Think
too
,
that
you
will
not
be
Over
-
strained
and
the
Little
Ones
will
Benefit
from
this
.
A
Tranquil
Mother
makes
a
Tranquil
Family
.
But
shd
you
Decide
to
stay
in
London
then
yr
Father
and
I
will
Care
for
Ambrose
and
Cicely
as
we
once
cared
for
You
and
William
.
Take
yr
Time
, my
Dearest
Child
,
to
make
up
yr
Mind
.
We
Grieve
with
and
for
you
in
what
can
be
the
Greatest
Loss
of
all
—
that
of
a
Dear
Husband
and
Friend
.
Indeed
,
I
Weep
as
I
unite
.
God
Bless
you
All
from
our
Hearts
.
yr
Loving
Mamma
.

The decision cost Charlotte another night’s sleep. Time was short. The next day she wrote back, assenting.

*

There had been many callers at Lock-yard, and Charlotte was moved and amazed that they came with love and admiration for her, as well as compassion. She had assumed that everyone adored or deplored Toby, but took her for granted. Now a personal regard was made manifest which both humbled and strengthened her. On this last evening, when Ambrose and Cicely were abed, came Ralph Fairbarrow at his own request to discuss the final arrangements for
The
Northern
Correspondent
.

He arrived punctiliously upon the stroke of ten, bringing a bottle of claret with him and some sweetmeats for the children. As always, he was lost where human relationships were concerned, and his thoughtfulness embarrassed rather than touched Charlotte, though she thanked him kindly. He had, in his way, been good to her. Now he sat with his feet upon the fender, and watched her mull the claret with a sort of dreary gaiety, as if they were celebrating a friendship rather than mourning a friend. She was very quiet, keeping her despair to herself.

‘Now, Mrs Longe,’ he began, as they sipped the claret in a ghastly essay at companionship, ‘we grieve over Toby, certainly, but life must go on, and I believe you will find that matters have turned out very well in the end.’

She deplored his choice of words, and his ineptness, but knew him too well by this time to feel offended.