Escapade, page 2
‘Impossible! Oh, she knows she was born in London, of course, but we have never talked about it. How could I, without speaking of Beth, and really, my dear, about her, the least said the soonest mended.’
‘I’m still sad you feel that way.’ It was an old argument between them, and one he always lost. Beth had been first Kathryn’s maid and then her dear friend; now she was well known as a great beauty: one of London’s most successful actresses and mistresses of hearts. The stories about her were legion: she had refused her favours to the Prince Regent because he was too fat, and to Beau Brummell because he bored her. Whatever she did, she remained the toast of the clubs and the darling of her audiences. Thinking of her, Mark thought of something else. ‘I have it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Charlotte will have gone to Beverley! The Comyns there are her kin after all, and I don’t suppose you have told her any more about George Comyn than you have about poor Beth.’
‘Poor Beth indeed! But it’s true about George. She knows he is her father’s brother, and that we don’t speak. But that is all she knows.’
‘She must have seen him at her grandmother’s funeral. And that wife of his.’
‘Yes, but remember the state she was in at the time. I never thought losing her grandmother would upset her so.’
‘That old fiend. No, it was odd. But Charlotte had been with the old lady every day, remember, reading to her. They may have been closer than you knew. You did not ask her about it at the time?’
‘No.’ Regretfully. ‘That was a bad time, remember. I lost the baby, and you had to go to America.’ She could speak of it at last without tears, but it had been a terrible time.
‘I thought it my duty.’ They were words all too familiar to Kathryn. ‘Mr. Jefferson’s embargo on American shipping was a disaster for our trade here in Hull. Someone had to speak up.
‘For what it was worth.’ Bitterly. Losing at once the child she was carrying and all hopes of another, it had been the last straw to lose her husband too for almost a year, while he pleaded in vain to the authorities in what he had described as the shanty town of Washington.
‘Not much.’ He admitted it ruefully. ‘And things look worse than ever just now. If it does not come to a war between our two countries it will be a miracle. And how that would delight Napoleon. But we have strayed from the point. You think I should go first to Beverley, and then to Scarborough, if I draw a blank there?’
‘I’m sure you will find her in Beverley. And how awkward that is going to be!’
‘So long as she is safe and well.’
‘Oh, they will look after her all right. She is the heiress to Comyn’s, after all.’
* * *
‘Let me refill your glass.’ The Foreign Secretary had invited his younger friend for what he had described as a bachelor glass of wine at Apsley House. ‘I have a proposition to put to you, Forde,’ he went on now, pouring claret for them both. ‘You said something the other night at White’s about how you longed for a bolt abroad, now you are out of Parliament, thanks to the idiocy of the voters.’
‘What’s the use of longing? There’s nowhere to go. The French have made travel impossible.’ As he spoke, Forde’s quick brain was considering possibilities. Was the Foreign Secretary going to suggest some kind of mission to his brother, Arthur Wellesley, now campaigning in Spain? ‘You know what an idle, good-for-nothing kind of fellow I am, Wellesley.’ He was leaning against the chimney-piece, his splendid head thrown back, and Wellesley, a handsome man himself, thought that his friend had everything: looks, money, intelligence… Everything except occupation, and, in his early thirties, a wife. ‘I confess I do long for the carefree life of a spa, for Carlsbad or Pau,’ Forde went on. ‘But I don’t fancy seeing the inside of one of Napoleon’s prisons, so I suppose it will have to be Buxton or Scarborough.’
‘Among the north country misses? I don’t quite see you there, Forde. Nor do I believe you when you cry yourself down. You know as well as I do that you are only at a loose end because of your great fortune, and because you have not found anything sufficiently interesting to occupy you.’
‘True enough. However much I long to help defeat Napoleon I cannot quite see myself in the army — still less pushing a pen in Whitehall.’
‘A lamentable waste of your talents. You are a good friend of Beth Prior’s, are you not?’
‘A remarkable woman.’ Forde concealed surprise at the question.
‘So I think too. One of life’s enchantresses. She has not made up her quarrel with the management of Covent Garden, I believe.’
‘She can afford to please herself these days.’
‘Quite so. Have you ever thought of making a trip to Sicily, Forde?’
‘Sicily?’ Now he could not conceal his surprise. ‘I can’t say I have. You’re thinking of Brydone’s book? Those romantic descriptions of brigands and ruins and volcanoes? Not quite my line, and besides, think of the inconvenience of getting there, just now.’
Not if I send you in a man-of-war. As a friendly gesture, you understand, nothing official about it. Just suppose Beth Prior could be persuaded to accept a position at the Theatre Royal in Palermo, and suppose, for the sake of argument, that you should be gallant enough to offer to escort her there, what could be more logical than that I, as your old friend and neighbour, should offer you passage on the next ship that’s going that way.’
‘What a remarkable set of suppositions. And what, I wonder, do they all add up to?’ He ran a hand through fashionably short fair hair.
‘Some work for you to do, perhaps. And for Miss Prior too, if you can persuade her to go.’
‘For Miss Prior?’ In amazement, now.
‘A great charmer, as well as a remarkable woman… Well,’ he refilled their glasses, ‘I don’t suppose you know much about the state of things in Sicily, since the King and Queen fled there from Naples, but you most certainly do know that, with Malta, it is our last outpost in the Mediterranean, vital to our operations against the French. And the King is a dolt, led by the nose by his wife, Queen Maria Carolina.’
‘Maria Theresa’s last daughter; Nelson’s patroness.’ Forde decided to show that he was not quite ignorant of the state of things in Sicily.
‘You have put your finger on it. Nelson’s patroness and Lady Hamilton’s good friend.’
‘So Emma Hamilton tells anyone who will listen to her.’
‘But it is true, just the same,’ said the older man. ‘Queen Maria Carolina is a woman of passionate friendships. With women as well as with men. And her friendship with Emma Hamilton and Nelson was crucial to our fortunes before the Battle of the Nile. She is older now, given to opium and hysteria, I believe, but she is still all-powerful in Sicily. And her granddaughter is married to the Emperor Napoleon.’
‘Marie Louise of Austria. Of course. Poor girl.’
‘They say he is devoted to her. Specially since the birth of the little King of Rome. Suppose she were to intercede for her grandmother? There are rumours already in Sicily that Maria Carolina has written to her. But then there are always rumours in Sicily; the place lives on them. That is why I should be so glad to have your intelligent ear on the listen for me there.’
‘And Miss Prior’s?’
‘Well, yes. But better still if she were to make herself agreeable to the Queen.’
‘As Emma Hamilton did? Closet councils.’ He did not pretend to like the idea.
‘I know. It does not sound pretty, put so baldly. But think, Forde, of the alternatives. We have a small army in Sicily, or King Murat would have been over from Naples and taken the island long since. If the Queen were to sell out, either to Napoleon or to Murat in Naples, they would be as good as dead. There is talk that she is in correspondence with Murat, too. The one thing we do know for certain, is that she hates Sicily and the Sicilians and longs to be back on the throne of Naples. Given the offer of that, she would betray us tomorrow. Think about it, Forde, have a word with Miss Prior, in deepest confidence. I am quite sure, are not you, that we can rely on her discretion.’
‘Yes.’ It was more than either of them would have said of any of the more respectable ladies of their acquaintance. ‘I’ll call on her tonight.’
* * *
‘Me! A kind of political emissary?’ Beth Prior dissolved into delightful laughter. ‘Gareth, my love, I would do a great deal for you, as well you know, but that is going a little too far. To start off with, I should be sick as a dog on the boat, and ugly as sin when we got there, and you would be embarrassed for me, which I would very much dislike. And the Queen would turn up her Hapsburg nose at me, as well she might: And the lazzaroni — do they have lazzaroni in Sicily, or is that just Naples?’
‘Just Naples, I think.’ But he was impressed by the local knowledge this suggested.
‘They’d throw rotten oranges at me if I appeared on their stage.’
‘I very much doubt that. Roses and lilies more likely. And think of the delicious climate.’
‘Hot as hell in the summer. I have read Brydone’s book, even if you haven’t. And talked to poor Emma Hamilton too. She don’t speak too highly of Queen Maria Carolina. Never sent her a penny in the way of pension, when she asked for it after Nelson died. Out of sight, out of mind, with that one.’
‘Yes, Beth my love, but you will be in sight. You told me just the other day that you were getting tired of doing nothing. Here’s your answer. Wellesley promises to organise a profitable engagement for you in Palermo. They rebuilt their opera house the other day, named it for the Queen, are on the lookout for international figures like you. A season there, as successful as it is sure to be, and you can come back and name your terms to that skinflint Kemble at Covent Garden. Wellesley tells me the fashionable world is flocking to Sicily, what with Brydone’s book —’
‘And the fact that there is nowhere else to go. I confess it is tempting.’ She thought about it for a moment. ‘But I don’t think so, my dear. To gallivant off to Palermo with you, delightful though it would be, would put paid to any rags of character I have managed to hang on to, and I don’t fancy that at all. Besides, I may be able to sing in Italian, but I don’t speak it too well; how would I ever get next to Queen Maria Carolina?’
‘She’s Austrian, remember, speaks French as well as German, and as for the Sicilians themselves, they speak some barbarous dialect no one can understand.’
‘Not the nobility. Brydone says they are a much more interesting set of people than the Neapolitans.’
‘Maybe that is why Maria Carolina is less happy there than at Naples. Think, Beth, how interesting it would be to plunge into a whole new world like that. And to be serving your country at the same time. Who knows what Wellesley might not get Government to do for you if you were able to influence the course of events there.’
‘He can hardly give me back my good name.’ There was a little silence, while they both recognised that only marriage could go anywhere near doing that for her. And marriage was the one thing they had never discussed.
2
After Forde had gone, Beth Prior prowled restlessly through her luxurious rooms for a while, making herself face the facts of her life. When she had first set up in London, it had been in a house belonging to her friends the Weatherbys, but Kathryn’s shocked reaction to her increasing notoriety had made it impossible to stay there, and she had taken pleasure, and run into debt, furnishing a snug little house in Clarges Street to which she invited the select few to whom she granted her favours. The debts had been almost paid off when a ferocious quarrel with John Kemble about the Old Price Riots at Covent Garden had ended with her finding herself out of work for the first time since she had swept to success on the London stage.
It was a pity, she faced it wryly, that this had happened just when Gareth Forde had come into her life and she had begun to find herself increasingly reluctant to entertain anyone else. As a result, the pile of bills in the little writing desk was growing alarmingly. When Forde had asked to see her urgently, her heart had jumped. A proposal of marriage from him would solve everything. No wonder if she had looked askance at his actual proposition.
But now, watching thin rain drizzle down outside, she found it immensely attractive. It would be hot in Sicily, a new world of flowers and sunshine, and, maybe, something worthwhile to do. Even if the Queen were to prove unreachable, she knew her own gift for getting on with people. They talked to her as they did not to blue-blooded Gareth Forde. She could certainly make herself useful as a gatherer of intelligence. The trouble was that she could not give that as a reason for going. But still less could she make the public gesture of accompanying Forde to Sicily as anything but his wife, however much she longed to do so. He was the only man who had ever given her real pleasure. And she liked him too. They could talk. Absurd. She was crying. Beth Prior did not cry; laughter had always been her line.
Her maid Prue was scratching at the door. ‘I’m at home to no one, Prue. I’ll not go out tonight.’
‘Oh, miss, he’ll be that cast down. It’s ever such a young gentleman. From the north, he says. A Mr. Charles Pennam. I reckon he has run away from school, or maybe it’s a wager, miss. Do see him, just for a moment. There’s something about him, really there is.’
‘Did you say Pennam? A young gentleman?’ Pennam had been her lost friend Kathryn’s maiden name, but she had only half-brothers called Morewood, and an unmarried aunt down on the Welsh border somewhere. ‘I’ll see him.’ She made up her mind. Never turn a mystery away. And she had always hoped that some day, somehow, she and Kathryn Weatherby would be friends again.
The youth Prue ushered in was even younger than Beth had expected. But that was partly, she thought, because his schoolboy’s best suit hung so loose about him. Passed down from an older brother perhaps? ‘Mr. Pennam.’ She held out a friendly hand. ‘How can I serve you? You’ll take a glass of wine with me?’ She turned to give the order to Prue.
‘If I could have milk instead?’ His voice had not broken yet. He was looking at her with a speculative glance that she would have found offensive in an older man. But his hand was cold, and quivered a little in hers.
‘Milk, Prue, and a glass of wine for me. And some cakes. You’ve come a long way, Mr. Pennam?’
‘Yes. It seemed to take forever. It’s good of you to see me.’ He moved over to warm his hands at the fire.
‘My curiosity, Mr. Pennam. I had a good friend, once, with your name. Are you kin to her perhaps? Kathryn Pennam she was. Kathryn Weatherby now. She lives in the north.’
‘Yes.’ He looked up quickly as Prue appeared with a tray. ‘That’s why I hoped you might see me. I’m so very grateful. And for this.’ He accepted the glass of milk Prue poured for him and took a deep draft.
‘And a cake, sir?’ Prue proffered the dish which was piled high with an assortment as for a schoolboy.
‘Thank you.’ Choosing a plain bun, he cast an anguished glance at Beth from under the dark brows that reminded her of something. Someone?
‘Thank you, Prue, that will do. We’ll wait on ourselves.’ It got her a grateful look over the half-empty glass. ‘And now,’ when they were settled facing each other, with the dish of cakes on a table beside him, ‘tell me about yourself, Mr. Pennam. I quite long to know.’
‘I’m most terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m going to be sick.’ And was, comprehensively.
Beth’s hand went out to ring for Prue, hesitated, stopped. She ministered to her guest herself and made a discovery that did not altogether surprise her.
‘Charlotte,’ she said at last, when she had her settled on her own chaise longue, wrapped in her own negligee. ‘It has to be Charlotte Pennam Comyn, but, in the name of goodness, child, why?’
‘I’m so sorry!’ Charlotte had been incoherently apologising between the spasms of sickness. ‘It was all so much worse than I imagined. That mail coach . . . the people . . . and the food at the inns . . . I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t let me in. I do thank you!’ In a strange way, the messy scene had made them friends.
‘Dear child,’ said Beth. ‘I was there, holding your mother’s hand, when you were born.’
‘I didn’t know.’ The dark eyes were misted with tears. ‘Mother never talked about that. Oh, I am glad I came to you.’
‘So am I. But you still haven’t told me why. I have to know that before we can think what is best to do with you. You can’t stay here, child, that’s one thing certain. I’m glad you had the sense to come in your brother’s clothes.’
‘I can’t stay?’ The desolation in the girl’s voice went straight to Beth’s heart.
‘Well, for tonight perhaps. Prue can keep a secret, and she knows I’m not at home to anyone. We’ll fudge something up in the morning.’
‘But, why? Oh —’ Charlotte looked down at the little pile of boys clothes on the floor. ‘Your reputation?’
‘No, yours. That’s the whole point, child. I have none. That’s why your mother cut the connection all those years ago.
‘Oh,’ said Charlotte. And then, ‘Oh, I see.’ There was a little silence. ‘I’m still glad I came.’
‘Then so am I. But tell me the whole story. I suppose there is a man in it. There usually is.’
‘Yes. My oldest friend. John Thornton.’
‘The banking family? I remember them. A starchy lot, but reliable.’
‘That’s it. John used to visit us at Windover when we were all children. He’s a bit older than me, but it didn’t seem to matter then. We had good times, the five of us.’ She looked back at them wistfully. ‘Then he went away to Cambridge. When he came back it was all different. And I’ve not been well. They sent me up to Windover, said the air would do me good. He came up the other day; asked me to marry him. Just like that. As if it had all been settled in advance; we merely had to go through the motions. And it had been settled too!’ She was angry now, her eyes sparkling as she remembered the scene. ‘He’d talked to his parents first. And to mine! Everything was fixed; we were to have a house in Albion Street until I came of age. It’s the bank, of course,’ she explained. ‘Nothing to do with me. Just the two banks getting together.’
