Aurora plunged her nose into the scented handkerchief in her left hand. Her right hand held a bouquet, which would have served equally well to mask the stink of the river. But she did not want to use it as a nosegay. It was her wedding bouquet.
“For all that this river is called the Fleet, it is not very fleet,” observed Flora. “It hardly runs at all.”
“And it smells to heaven!” added Eleanora. “You had better hurry and get married, Aurora, so that we may escape from this unholy stench.”
“I cannot marry until my groom arrives,” replied Aurora.
“What will you do if he does not come?”
“He will come,” insisted her mother. “And by God’s grace, you and Flora too will come to be married in this place soon enough, stink or no stink.”
Eleanora pouted and looked with disapproval at the inn sign above their heads. “I shall not be married here!” she declared. “My husband will stand beside me at the altar of Westminster Abbey itself!”
“You wish to marry the bishop, then?” suggested Flora, with a sideways look at Aurora.
“Not at all, you simpleton…” Eleanora caught the look. “Do not tease me!”
Aurora too might have wished to be married in the sight of God, rather than in a plainly furnished room behind an inn, the ceremony presided over by a parson long since disgraced. She would rather have had the luxury of the time afforded by the reading of the banns in which to choose a length of fashionable material and have her mother make a beautiful wedding dress. But however much she had considered the situation during the seven days and nights that had passed since Mr Francis’s proposal, she could find nothing actually illogical in his request for a hasty wedding. They must marry now, and Aurora must be satisfied with only one item of new finery – a wide-brimmed hat, lavishly trimmed with flowers by the excited fingers of Flora and Eleanora. Apart from that, her blue dress and best gloves would suffice until such time as she could employ her own dressmaker and milliner, and visit the glover, hosier and shoemaker whenever she wished. In short, when she was Mrs Edward Francis, a woman of means.
She knew she should be happy that such a rich man wished to marry her, under any circumstances. But she did not feel happy. She felt perplexed, unsettled and disappointed.
“Something is happening over there,” declared Flora, craning her neck. “Could that be Mr Francis and his groomsman?”
A carriage had been prevented from coming nearer than the end of the street by the narrowness of the space between the jutting upper storeys. Two men emerged from its door, one tall and fair-faced, the other smaller and stooping.
“Aye, that is my would-be husband,” observed Aurora without enthusiasm. “And the man he was with in the park.”
Flora bounced a little on her toes. “The tall one is—”
“I know, the better-looking,” said Aurora. “You will have to set your cap at him, Flora. I am sure you know how.”
The gloom of the street was too great for Aurora to see Mr Francis’s features distinctly, but his wiry frame and round shoulders were unmistakeable. He was wearing another highly decorated jacket, dark red this time, and a long wig. His sword hung at his left side, but, unlike his companion, he did not rest his hand upon it as he approached. His right hand held a walking-stick, which he leaned on with every step.
Aurora’s heart contracted with pity. If his condition had so weakened him within a single week, how many weeks could she expect to pass before she became a widow? Silently, she prayed. If it please you, God, allow Mr Francis to live long enough for me to bear him an heir, and give his father happiness beyond the grave. This I ask you from my heart. Amen.
“My deepest and most humble apologies for keeping you waiting,” Mr Francis said to the ladies with a bow, “but I found myself indisposed this morning and had to take a little time to recover.” His friend went to his side, ready to support him if he staggered, but Mr Francis waved him away. His eyes beneath the curled wig alighted upon Aurora. “I am quite well now,” he said softly, “and happier than I have ever been.”
Aurora knew she had turned pink. She curtseyed. “I am honoured, Mr Francis.”
“Please, you must call me Edward. And so must all your family.”
The other ladies curtseyed, Flora and Eleanora unable to resist a giggling glance at one another. “Thank you, Edward,” said Mrs Eversedge.
“And this is my good friend and groomsman, Richard Allcott. Richard, allow me to introduce Mrs Catherine Eversedge and her daughters Miss Aurora, Miss Flora and Miss Eleanora Eversedge.”
They curtseyed; Mr Allcott bowed, ignoring the quizzical look thrown at him by Flora. “Delighted,” he said and, with a glance at Edward, he opened the door of the inn and offered his arm to Mrs Eversedge. “Madam, shall we enter?”
The innkeeper ushered them into a low-ceilinged room with a small window and a bare floor. Behind an oak table was a carved chair, and before it stood two plain chairs with shabby worked cushions. Aurora wondered how many hopeful, or apprehensive, or relieved, or possibly happy men and women had sat on those cushions.
An elderly man in the black garb of a clergyman appeared through a doorway behind the table. He indicated the assortment of benches arranged around the room, then patted the cushion on the left-hand chair. “The bride is to sit here, and the groom on the other chair, if you please.”
They sat down. Edward reached into his pocket and laid some coins upon the Prayer Book on the table, and the ceremony began. Before many minutes had passed, Aurora and Edward had each made their responses, and Edward had placed a gold ring upon Aurora’s finger. Within another few minutes the clergyman had presented certificates for them to sign, and in less than a minute after that, they were pronounced married.
“Your names shall be entered in the parish register without delay,” the clergyman informed them. And with that, he opened the door behind the table and disappeared.
Aurora was trembling. It was too late to go back now. She had done it. She was married. Her ears buzzed. All she could hear was her mother sniffling into a handkerchief.
She felt Edward take her arm. “The wedding breakfast awaits us at Hartford House,” he announced to the company. “Come, my wife and I will lead the way.”
Aurora got to her feet, and the little wedding party walked out of the mean room, through the inn and into the street. All around them strangers noticed their smart clothes and Aurora’s bouquet, and called out good wishes.
The carriage was still at the end of the street. Edward’s coachman, who looked no older than Aurora herself, handed the ladies to their seats. Then he took Edward’s stick, settled him comfortably and placed a rug around his knees. “Thank you, Burns,” said his master.
The carriage swayed as Burns and Richard Allcott climbed up to the box. Aurora heard a shouted command to the horses, then the creaking of the wheels. Their progress over the cobbles was slow and jolting. She looked out of the window, wondering how long it would be before she saw London streets again.
She shifted her gaze. Her husband, who sat opposite, was watching her, smiling. There it was, the thin-lipped smile that barely creased the corners of his mouth, studied and self-conscious. Aurora did not return it.
The wedding breakfast continued into the late afternoon. In a dining room from which long windows opened on to a pretty garden, Aurora’s sisters had fallen upon a table spread with cold beef, pies, sweetmeats, cheese, fruit and the kind of wine jellies they had last seen before their father died, and then only at Christmas. But Aurora had not allowed herself to feel embarrassed. It was clear that Edward Francis had no intention of displaying anything but generosity towards her relations; she had resolved to let his behaviour be the guide of hers.
As dusk spread over the garden, she watched a man-servant lighting the wall candles. Fatigue, wine and rich food had rendered her very sleepy. She put her elbows on the table, supported her chin on her hands and endeavoured to keep her eyes from closing.
“Aurora!” Flora, her round face pink with excitement, seized both her sister’s hands and tried to draw her to her feet. “Come on, the dancing is beginning! And you know what the gentlemen must do! Mother, you tell her!”
Mrs Eversedge regarded her eldest daughter with affection. “You are tired, my dear, I know, but tradition must play its part.”
Aurora rose unsteadily. A group of musicians waited in the corner of the room while the man-servant and the young coachman moved the table nearer the wall to make space for dancing. Feeling foolish, she curtseyed to Edward, and he bowed. Both he and Richard Allcott, who was bowing to Flora, were smiling, though Edward’s unease was obvious.
Aurora sympathized with him. She knew she had to be patient with her sisters’ enthusiasm for wedding tradition. But a man whose lungs were diseased would surely dance only the first, and Mr Allcott was the only other gentleman present. If they wished to dance for longer, Aurora and her sisters, not for the first time, would have to partner each other.
The dancing began. The musicians played a stately court dance rather than a country jig, for Edward’s benefit. Richard Allcott’s task as groomsman would have been easier if the music had been fast enough to require the holding-up of skirts. But he was determined to perform the ritual regardless. Clearing his throat, he spoke to Aurora in a voice loud enough to be heard above the music as he led Flora round. “You will give me your garter as a marriage token, will you not, my lady?”
In the shadow of his hat brim Aurora saw the expression in his eyes: amused, but determined. She turned away her face, pretending bashfulness, and took a few more measures with Edward. “Sir, you are impertinent!” she scolded Mr Allcott.
Flora, more delighted by the playing-out of this scene than the prospect of more dancing, let go of her partner’s hand. “Go on, Mr Allcott!” she whispered urgently. “We have tied the garter low for you!”
“Impertinent? Never!” declared Richard Allcott gravely. “Gallant? Certainly!”
Aurora released Edward’s hand and looked at the faces of her sisters. Each was pink-cheeked from wine and bright-eyed from excitement, and over each was spread a joyful abandon she had not seen there in years. The attentiveness of Edward and his friend, clearly intended to make up for the shortcomings of the wedding, had turned Flora and Eleanora for the moment into young girls newly out of childhood, without anxiety and eager for innocent entertainment. Which, of course, they should be. How Aurora wished they could remain so!
“What will you do, sir?” she asked Mr Allcott, who looked so comically solemn she could hardly keep her countenance.
“Why, steal it!”
The musicians began a fast tune. Amid squeals from her sisters, Aurora set off around the room, followed by Richard Allcott, who repeatedly lunged towards her, trying to lift the hem of her gown. She pleased the onlookers by turning round and round, holding down her skirts against her pursuer’s attempts to raise them. As the room whirled around her, she was aware of Edward, resting on a chair, watching her.
She was unwary for a second, and immediately Mr Allcott reached under her skirt as far as the white silk garter below her right knee. It untied as he pulled it. With a yelp of triumph, he twirled it round above his head, then tied it round his hat.
“Do I not look fine?” he asked, placing his hand on his sword and striding around the room like a dandy.
“Very fine indeed,” said Edward from his chair. “Will you steal the other garter, and fasten it to my hat?”
Aurora, her eyes on Edward’s face, allowed Mr Allcott to lift the hem of her skirt again. While the garter was being retrieved, she and Edward continued to look at each other. Several times today she had tried, unsuccessfully, to fathom his expression. This time was no different. She saw that he was entertained by the spectacle, though his face held some of the bemused embarrassment it had shown earlier. But she could not read the meaning of the flash of emotion that crossed his countenance when he grasped the piece of white silk Mr Allcott handed to him.
“Thank you, Richard.” Never removing his gaze from Aurora’s face, Edward kissed the garter before allowing Mr Allcott to tie it to his hat. Amid the applause that followed, he said, “Now, let us have more dancing. As we have seen, traditions must be adhered to.”
The musicians played; the hour grew late. Aurora’s head and feet began to ache, and she was relieved when Edward ordered one last dance before thanking and dismissing the musicians. They bowed, and while the dancers applauded, Aurora sank gratefully into a chair.
The man-servant appeared in the doorway, almost hidden behind armfuls of rosemary and branches of bay. He put his load on the floor, gave Edward an inscrutable look, and retreated.
“Oh, Eleanora, look!” exclaimed Flora. “We are going to strew the way for them!”
Aurora could not find it in her heart to look forward to the events leading up to the bride-bedding. But she made no comment while her sisters scooped up handfuls of greenery, sticking sprays in each other’s hair, and trying to do the same to their mother. Mrs Eversedge resisted, though amiably. “Oh, girls, if only your father were alive to see this!”
“If Father were alive, Aurora would not be in this situation.”
Everyone turned to Flora, who immediately flushed. “I mean,” she continued, twisting a sprig of rosemary in her fingers, “Mr Francis – Edward, that is – would never have… Oh, do not listen to me. I have spoken hastily.”
“Quite right, young lady, you have,” admonished her mother. “And you must apologize.”
Edward held up his hand. “My dear madam, Flora is mortified enough.” An expectant silence hung upon the room as he came to Aurora’s side, took her hand and drew her to her feet. “We are all aware,” he declared, “that the circumstances of this wedding are not what Aurora deserves. Her father would not have parted with his daughter in anything but the traditional manner, bestowing upon her a dowry and demanding, rightly, that a contract be drawn up. But I will do everything in my power to honour and protect Aurora, and to make her as happy as she has made me today.”
He leaned towards Aurora and placed a kiss upon her lips. She had never been kissed by a man before. His mouth felt soft, and the stubble on his chin scratched her skin. But Aurora did not feel the emotion a bride should feel. She felt a sense of loss. She was no longer Aurora Eversedge, eldest daughter of a Westminster mantua-maker. She was Aurora Francis, mistress of Hartford House, and whatever lay before her was in the hands of this plain, bookish, music-loving man.
A stifled exclamation came from Eleanora. She was staring at the bay leaves in her hand as if she were wondering how they had got there. “Oh, Aurora!” Advancing towards her eldest sister, she held out her arms. “I hope he loves you truly!”
And, clinging to Aurora as tightly as a child to its mother, she burst into tears.
The fragrance of rosemary and bay reminded Aurora of Father’s garden. He had favoured flowers, but had grown herbs too, for the cooking pot and to indulge his love of orderliness. Rosemary, thyme, lavender, parsley, all in rows, and the pretty bay tree in the corner, against a sunny wall. When Aurora and her sisters were small, they were set to picking and drying the herbs for muslin bags, or to be stored in the kitchen. Aurora had loved the bursts of scent that came from the crushed thyme, the solid, shiny green of the bay leaves, the papery lavender flowers.
The smell filled the room. Edward’s bedchamber was not large, but it had a pleasant aspect, with windows on two sides. Hartford House was square and well built, with a carved canopy above the door. The windowpanes sparkled, the grounds were neat, the furniture and decoration tasteful. Throughout the afternoon, Aurora’s mother had not been able to hide her satisfaction at the prospect of her daughter’s substantial inheritance. Later, she had demanded to make Aurora ready for bed and present her to her new husband in the bedchamber, as tradition demanded. But seeing Aurora’s discomfiture, Edward had instructed Mr Allcott to take Mrs Eversedge and her younger daughters home to Dacre Street, and leave himself and his new bride in peace.
Aurora’s eyes became hot as she imagined the conversation in the carriage. This stuffy, fragrance-filled room was very different from the chamber she and Flora had shared. She already missed the sight of Flora’s face, animated in the candlelight, her stream of chatter mingling with the street sounds below. But Aurora had secured her freedom from that childhood existence by making her bargain with Edward. She had taken a step into a new world.
Her mother had explained what her husband would expect from her in return. She considered herself prepared, but when a knock sounded on the dressing-room door, her heart leapt. Her voice was so soft when she called for Edward to enter, she wondered if he could have heard it. She lay against the pillows, her hands folded on the counterpane, her heartbeat unsteady.
Edward opened the door. Wigless, he was wearing a nightshirt of white linen, with frilled cuffs and an embroidered hem that stopped short of a pair of white ankles and bony feet. All this Aurora had expected, but she could not help staring. She had never seen him without his wig before. The lack of it did not improve his appearance. His hair, which was very dark, was not clipped close or shaved off, like that of many men who wore wigs, but cut untidily into locks of differing lengths – short above his brow, longer behind his ears – perhaps by his own hand. Whatever his vices might be, it was clear that the personal vanity of the wealthy was not amongst them. The proportions of his head were not bad, and the neck that emerged from the ruffled collar of the nightshirt was slender, with a prominent Adam’s apple.
She thought he would smile then, his face taking on the tender look she had seen at the wedding, and climb into the bed beside her. But he crossed the room to one of the windows, where he leaned on the sill, his face immobile and, to Aurora’s dismay, unreadable.
“What is it, Edward?” she asked. Was he about to tell her that he was feeling too ill or exhausted to perform the act of consummation tonight? His weakness would be a constant in her married life. Consumptives never recovered. “Is there something wrong?”
He took an embroidered robe from the back of a chair and put it on. Then he came and stood beside one of the posts at the bottom of the bed, his eyes upon Aurora’s face. She watched his fingers twist the fronds of the tasselled cord that secured the bed curtains.
“My dear Aurora,” he began, “I am not quite as I have represented myself to you. Now I will tell you the truth, and you must decide, in the light of that truth, what you will do.”
A coldness crept over Aurora, raising gooseflesh upon her arms. She sat up and pushed her loosened hair behind her shoulders. “I do not understand, sir.”
He did not look at her, but worked more vigorously on the tassel. “It is quite simple. Nothing that you see around you is mine. Not this tassel, nor this curtain, nor this bed, nor this house. It all belongs to Richard, who – thank God! – has remained a loyal friend. The servants and musicians who attended to us today are associates of Richard. Actors, who have been paid for their silence. I have no carriage, no horses, no estate, no fortune.” His voice quivered on the last word. He swallowed several times, composing himself. “I have nothing,” he said. “Not even consumption.”
Aurora said nothing. She had not the breath. She felt as if something had struck her chest with great force, squeezing the air out of it.
“My health is no more delicate than yours,” continued Edward, raising his eyes to look at her at last. His voice was full of bitterness. “Though I do a mightily clever impression of a consumptive, do I not? Leaning on a stick, barely joining in the dancing, even arriving late for my own wedding? It could barely be improved. A coughing fit, perhaps? Blood on my wedding clothes? Richard warned me it was a risk, and that you might take offence at my lack of punctuality and change your mind. But I insisted. I knew you would not.”
Aurora’s brain buzzed with bewildered questions, interrupting one another, beginning but not ending. She could not voice any of them because her lips would not form the words. She was aware that she had pulled the covers up to her chin and was staring at her husband as if he were an exhibit at a freak show that she had paid a penny to view. Beyond that, bafflement had paralyzed her senses.
“May God forgive me,” said Edward bleakly, “but I tricked you because I love you. How else would a penniless man have persuaded you to marry him?”
The bravado he had summoned in order to make this extraordinary confession had deserted him. In the candlelight the rich colours of his robe contrasted with the pallor of his face. He remained standing for a moment longer, kneading his hands. Then he untied the tasselled cords one by one and let the bed curtains fall. Taking a candle from a side table, he sat on the bed, holdng the candle so that its flame would illuminate his face, and Aurora’s.
“I know you are astonished,” he said, his voice both tender and urgent, “but I swear before God that what I am about to tell you is the truth.”
At last, Aurora found words.
“Sir, no more!” In the small, candlelit space, their shadows thrown weirdly upon the bed curtains, she addressed him as calmly as her thudding heart would allow. “Mr Allcott will be returned with the carriage by now. I will prevail upon him to take me home.” Her throat contracted. She absolutely would not cry but she could not suppress her outrage. “What a good joke it must be for you and Mr Allcott, and his play-acting ‘associates’! A clandestine marriage with a willing girl! Dear God, only a madman or a criminal would perpetrate a falsehood on this scale!”
“I beg you, Aurora—”
She held up her palm. “Do not speak to me. I do not know to what end you sought to humiliate me, but you will have no further opportunity to do so.” She pushed aside the blankets, fought her way between the heavy curtains and put her bare feet on the floor. “I must leave this house without more ado.”
Edward did not speak. His face was stony.
“We made a bargain,” she reminded him angrily. “Your money for my flesh. Well, sir, no money, no flesh!”
She had no robe, but her cloak lay upon the window seat. She gathered it into her arms and went towards the dressing-room, where she had left her other clothes. The handle turned, but nothing happened. Her shoulder hit the door. There was no doubt it was locked. She flew to the bedroom door and tried its handle, equally fruitlessly.
The desire to scream for help fought with the certain knowledge that Mr Allcott had not yet returned, and the impostor servants had already gone. No one else was in the house. Aurora tried to breathe; she tried to think. She was ready to plead, or even fight, but she must escape.
Edward’s black eyes glowed as he walked towards her. She yelped in fear, but he stopped before he was near enough to touch her. “You are quite correct,” he said steadily, “we did make a bargain, and I am determined to keep my half of it, as I assured you. You may not give me your flesh, but I, God willing, may yet give you my money.”
Aurora’s breath had shortened so severely that her lungs burned. She could not control her fear. In the face of imprisonment by this man to whom she had promised herself, but who by his own admission was a liar and a deceiver, she could not find courage. “I am frightened,” she gasped.
“There is no need. But I cannot allow you to leave this room until I have told you the reason for my shameful behaviour. When you have heard me, you will be free to do as you consider best.”
Aurora put on her cloak, thinking busily. Another bargain had presented itself. “I will hear you, sir, if you will unlock the door.”
“I cannot do that.”
“Then I cannot hear you.”
“You are stubborn.”
“I am intelligent. You told me so yourself.”
He contemplated her for a moment, neither smiling nor frowning. Calculating, perhaps. Then he drew a bunch of keys from the pocket of his robe.
Aurora stood aside while he unlocked the door. He stepped back, the keys still in his hand, his eyes still upon her. But by the time he had drawn breath to speak she had pulled the heavy door a few inches open and slipped through. Her bare feet slapping the flagstones, she ran along the gallery and down the stairs. Her heart pounded; her temples throbbed. At last, tears escaped, half blinding her as she ran. How could this have happened? How could everything she had believed be false? She desired only to get away from this place, and from Edward Francis.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Where was he? Why was he not following her?
The house was utterly silent. The lighted tapers on the walls of the hallway showed that the main door was secured by bolts and an iron bar. Moonlight threw patterned shadows from the small-paned windows. The door to the dining room stood open, revealing the remains of the wedding breakfast. The actors had left the clearing-up, apparently, for Mr Allcott’s real servants.
Aurora’s legs were trembling. Her tears cooling on her cheeks, she sat down on the bottom stair. She was alone, at the mercy of a man who was not the fool she had taken him for. He had unlocked the door knowing perfectly well she would flee. She might escape Richard Allcott’s bedchamber, but she could not escape his house. If she ventured out at this hour, dressed only in a nightdress and cloak, with no carriage or driver, and not knowing the way from Hartford House to Dacre Street, she would not get far.
For a moment she wondered wildly if she could take a horse from the stables and ride to London, relying upon strangers to set her on the road to Westminster. But she had been brought up in the city, and was no horsewoman. She leaned her head against the banister post, beset by the weariness of defeat.
“Aurora,” said Edward from the top of the stairs. “You will freeze to death. Come back to the bedchamber. I swear I will leave you alone there, once you have heard me out, which you promised to do if I opened the door.”
She pulled her cloak closer around her. “I care nothing for your ‘swearing’, sir.”
The sound of his footsteps as he descended the stairs jolted Aurora’s heart once more. She could not fight down her fear of this man, who, careless of the fact that he had deceived her so wantonly, continued to press his request to be heard. She huddled at the edge of the staircase, clamping her teeth together to stop them chattering. She was cold, to be sure, and fear was making her colder. She drew her bare feet under her nightdress, waiting for his next words.
“If you will not return to the bedchamber, will you come into the dining room?” he asked, sitting down beside her on the stair. “The fire in there has not quite gone out.”
Aurora’s instinct was to refuse. But refusal would result, at best, in a lonely, freezing night followed tomorrow by a humiliating return to her mother’s house. How she had longed to get away from there! But now it was safety, not adventure, that she craved. She must not give in to instinct; she must use the intelligence her husband insisted she possessed, and consider the alternative.
She thought quickly. Perhaps Edward had a good reason for his elaborate deception. If he was indeed a villain, and had tricked her in order to ruin her, he would surely have saved the truth for tomorrow morning. But he had not taken advantage of her innocence. He had respected her virtue. In return, it may be wise to respect his request.
Tentatively, she spoke. “Do I have your word, sir, that you will not touch me?”
“You have my word, madam.”
“Then…” She could not stop trembling. She must get warm. “Then I will come with you, and hear you. But I make no promise beyond that.”
Her hair, hanging untidily over her face, made a screen through which she could see his expression, but he could not so clearly see hers. His evident relief struck her so hard that she studied his face for a few moments. Was it indeed true that beside her sat a decent man driven to trickery for reasons he was desperate to explain? Or was he a better actor than the men his friend had hired?
“Thank you,” he said simply. “Now, shall we sit by the fire?”
Having promised not to touch her, Edward did not offer Aurora his hand. She pushed herself up with the aid of the banister post and followed him through the open door of the dining room. Neither of them mentioned the wreckage of the banquet on the table. Aurora sat on the bench beside the fire, wrapping her feet in her cloak. She wondered if she had ever been so cold in April before.
“I am not an impostor, if that is what you dread,” said Edward, bending to stoke the near-dead fire. “My father, Mr Henry Francis, was an advisor to King William, and my mother, Elizabeth, one of Queen Mary’s favourite ladies-in-waiting. My mother died some years ago, but my father, as you know, is lately taken from me. He was well loved by His Majesty, and well rewarded. He left a large fortune, a London house and an estate in Lincolnshire. I am his only heir, but I am penniless.”
He straightened up and sighed. Not, Aurora thought, in self-pity. It was the sigh of a wounded, defeated man. She studied him from behind her veil of hair as he settled himself in a chair.
“I have not inherited anything,” he continued. “No fortune, no property. My father altered his will and bequeathed it all to a man who was once his good friend, but became his enemy. And the document seems perfectly genuine.” He leaned towards her, his fingers linked in an attitude of supplication. “But I am convinced my father’s sudden disinheritance of me is a vile falsehood contrived by criminal means.”
Aurora pushed back her hair. “Criminal?”
“In short, my father was murdered,” said Edward. His voice became animated. “The murderer forged his signature on the altered will.” His eyes, so impenetrably dark they reflected the struggling flames, searched her face. “I am determined to expose this crime, and avenge it in my father’s name.”
The distant call of an owl was the only sound. Fatigue rushed over Aurora. This had surely been the longest day of her life. She tensed her muscles, fearing that if she did not, sleep would overwhelm her. But Edward was still watching her, willing her to reply.
“I can scarce believe it,” she confessed.
His face took on an expression of sympathy. “You are bewildered, of course, and wearied by today’s events. I will be as brief as I can, but I must tell you the story.” He took his gaze from her face and concentrated it upon his clasped hands. “My father, myself and a party of friends celebrated his fifty-first birthday on the seventh of December last, at Marshcote, our country house. On the eleventh of December, he returned alone to London. On the twelfth, he was found dead by the housekeeper. I rushed to our house in Mayfair as soon as I heard. It was apparent that my father had been struck down by some sudden indisposition and had died where he stood. The physician declared him dead from a convulsion, or from eating something bad. And when the will was read, to everyone’s astonishment it was found that the beneficiary had been changed from myself to one Josiah Deede, a former close friend of my father’s.”
“But surely a will cannot be changed without a lawyer to witness it?” Aurora could not help asking, though her interruption would keep her longer from her bed.
“There is a lawyer’s signature upon it,” said Edward patiently. “That of my father’s attorney, Lord Snaresborough. The will is dated the fourteenth of June last year. Lord Snaresborough died in a riding accident on the twentieth of June, less than a week later. Why he should have committed his signature to my father’s extraordinary request remains a mystery. I have spoken to his widow and his associates, but none of them can throw any light on it. Needless to say, I contested the will.”
“And what happened?”
“I could not convince Sir John Wilkinson, who presided at the contesting, that mischief was afoot, and the will was allowed to stand.”
“Sir John Wilkinson?” Aurora was surprised. This judge was one of the few of the Catholic faith who had retained their positions in the Protestant court of King William. She could only conclude that his connections, his wealth and his will were stronger than those of his opponents.
“Josiah Deede also follows the Roman church,” explained Edward. “His conversion to it was at the root of my father’s estrangement from him. And he is himself an attorney, so who knows what corruption may have taken place? Lawyers, as anyone will tell you, are not always to be trusted.”
“True,” said Aurora ruefully. She had heard her father say the same thing. “But can you not confront this man? Surely, the fact that he worships at the same altar as Sir John Wilkinson cannot keep a murderer from the gallows?”
“It is useless to confront him!” retorted Edward. “He will deny all. My father’s signature is there on the will for all the world to see. I must find proof before I accuse him, or I will find myself on the wrong side of the law.”
Aurora had heard something in Edward’s voice that had not been there before. “You will not confront this man because you fear him,” she said. “Are you afraid that if he has murdered once, he will murder again?”
He tapped the arms of his chair, looking into the fire. Aurora saw his throat move as he swallowed repeatedly. “Yes, I fear him, and I have reason to.” His intense gaze fell once more upon Aurora, but she did not flinch. “How old were you in sixteen eighty-eight?” he asked. “I was thirteen. Do you remember the tumultuous events of that year? The ‘Glorious Revolution’, as some call it?”
Aurora considered. “I was no more than five years old. But a couple of years later, I remember playing a game with my sisters called ‘Sending the Old King Packing’. Poor Eleanora was the Old King, and we would shoo her from the room and slam the door after her. I was always the New Queen, dressed in an old petticoat of my mother’s. Flora would be the New King from Holland, with a paper crown and the worst Dutch accent in Christendom.”
“Thus are great events remembered in children’s rhymes and games,” said Edward grimly. He leaned forward and spoke with urgency. “That revolution, which sent King James into exile, may have been bloodless, Aurora, but his Catholic supporters favour another revolution, which we all fear will not be so bloodless. Josiah Deede supports King James’s claim to the throne and, like many converts, he is a religious zealot. He hates Protestants with extraordinary fervour.”
Aurora frowned. “Why did he convert, when those of the Catholic faith are so ill-favoured at court?”
“For the usual reason,” said Edward grimly. “Fortune. Shortly after my parents married, Deede too chose a wife, a Catholic woman who brought him great riches, amassed by her family from the slave trade. My father, though repelled by his friend’s conversion, was a tolerant man. He tried to continue in Deede’s society. But Mrs Deede would not allow it, and Josiah Deede became irrevocably estranged from my family.”
Despite Edward’s best efforts to coax the fire into life, it sent out little warmth. A bone-deep chill had descended upon the room, and upon Aurora. “Intolerance is the cause of many wars, my father used to say,” she observed bleakly.
Edward nodded. “That is true. But jealousy is the cause of many quarrels. You see, when our present king and queen ascended the throne, Josiah Deede was banished from court, while my father rose in King William’s favour. Deede began to put about untrue gossip, saying my father was a gambler who would soon be bankrupt, and that he neglected his family. My father tried to keep this from me, but of course as I grew up I could not help but hear it. Josiah Deede’s son, who frequents coffee houses, continues to spread vile rumours, about me as well as my late father. And of course, my father’s final act of disinheriting me merely adds fuel to the fire of such slander.”
Edward’s passionate telling of the story made such a cold-blooded plot seem more likely than Aurora ever would have imagined. Her heart trembled at the thought of the anguish the death of her mother in such circumstances would bring upon her and her sisters. “You are quite convinced of this, are you?” she asked.
“I am. And so is Richard, who has known my family for many years.”
Aurora pondered. “So what do you intend to do, to right this wrong?”
“This is where you enter the story.” Edward’s eyes were fixed upon her face. “My dear Aurora, Richard and I talked endlessly of that sweet moment of revenge, but until I saw you I could not think of a way to achieve it. What I told you of my futile search for a wife is perfectly true. You are the first woman I have ever looked upon who has stirred my heart. I confessed this to Richard, and we devised a plan.
“I would pretend I still had my riches, and try to persuade you into a clandestine marriage so that no one, especially not my father’s enemies, would know of your existence. Who better than a pretty stranger to uncover the truth by stealth?” Forgetting his promise to refrain from touching her, he gripped her hand tightly. “God will guide me in my quest to uncover this villainy. I beg you, if you will not act as my wife, will you act as my spy?”
Aurora stared at him. “Your spy, sir?”
“That was my word.”
Aurora’s knowledge of spies was meagre. She knew, of course, that the government employed men who secretly kept watch on people suspected of subversive activity. Since the spies, too, were necessarily engaged in subversive activity, she had always wondered whether spies actually spied on other spies, and no one knew exactly who anyone else was, or what they were doing. It sounded like an impossible task.
Edward’s expectant gaze was fixed on her. “Do you think you can do it?”
Aurora did think she could do it. She was suddenly possessed by a sense of recklessness, attracted by this opportunity to pursue freedom and adventure, with the added prospect of disguise, dissembling and deceit. But she was reluctant to betray her excitement to Edward. If he could confound her, she could confound him. She pulled her hand away. “Sir, I have little doubt that I can do it, but the question is whether I will.”
He looked at her warily. “Will you, then?”
“Perhaps. But I have a question. How do I know that what you are telling me now is true, since you have told me so many lies?”
“Richard will confirm it,” he said. Releasing her, he spread his hands as if this were too obvious to say.
“But Richard could be in league with you!”
“He is in league with me.” Anxiety was leaking away from Edward’s face. He was almost smiling. “He is my loyal supporter.”
“Do not twist my meaning,” Aurora told him tartly. “Richard himself could be the murderer! You and he could be engaged in an infamous plot to discredit your father’s former friend, get him hanged for a crime he did not commit and steal his fortune!”
Edward gave a brief laugh. “I suppose we could, my dear clever Mrs Francis. And if we were, I have no doubt you would find us out within five minutes.” He leaned back, contemplating her proudly. “It is clear you have the attributes required for a secret existence – suspiciousness, distrust, the desire to interrogate, the need for constant confirmation. And you have the wit to think your way out of any situation. You will make a most excellent spy, do you not agree?”
She did not laugh. “I agree to nothing, sir,” she said. “But if I did, what is the first thing you would have me do?”
“The first thing,” he said, with apology in his eyes, “is to dupe your mother and sisters. They must not know of your true whereabouts. They must think you live here, at Hartford House, which they believe to be my house. But they cannot come here, and you cannot visit them in Dacre Street until all is resolved. You must write them letters full of lies, I am afraid, about my increasingly bad health and your inability to leave the house or receive them. Richard will bring you the letters they write in reply.” He regarded her carefully. “Will you agree to this temporary severance from those you love?”
Aurora did not hesitate. “If I must,” she replied. “And what is the second thing?”
“To invade the Deedes’ privacy. Josiah Deede has a son and a daughter. My father said the son was a foppish bully, and the daughter, scarred by the smallpox, a recluse. I never saw any of the Deedes until the will-contesting, which was attended by Josiah and his son, who looked much as my father described.” His gaze flicked to Aurora’s face, then away again, as if embarrassed. “It is with this son, whose name is also Josiah, and his sister, whose name I do not know, that you must engineer a meeting. You are about the sister’s age. You must disguise your identity, enter the Deedes’ house, penetrate their daily lives, ingratiate yourself with them and search for evidence of their father’s guilt.”
Aurora did not speak. A foppish bully and a recluse. Enter, penetrate, ingratiate, search. She let her chin drop to her chest and rested her forehead upon her hand.
“Are you feeling unwell?” asked Edward.
“No, merely fatigued.” She raised her eyes to his, which remained watchful. “If I agree to be your spy, it will be on these terms. I will do it for one month only, from this day until the same date next month. During that time you will not share my bed, nor importune me for any favours due to a husband. If your wealth is returned, you will pay me enough to bring a handsome dowry to my future husband. That is, the man I shall marry when our sham marriage is annulled.”
“And if we do not succeed within a month?” His eyes were bright, but whether with hostility, or hope, Aurora could not tell.
“Likewise,” she told him, “the marriage will be annulled, and I will go back to my mother as penniless as I was when I left her.”
He paused, thinking. “Then you will not seek to punish me in any way?”
“I will not. Are these terms agreeable to you?”
“They are.” He nodded, frowning. “So we have made yet another bargain, have we not?”
“We have, sir,” said Aurora wearily. “And now, I must go to bed. Where, pray, do you intend to sleep?”