Roger was appalled and, for a few minutes, utterly stricken by this threat to a reasonably pleasant future which he thought he had solved.
During the pas two days he had been congratulating himself. To sell his treasures had only recently occurred to him; but, having once decided to do so, he had thought of other assets he had at Thatched House Lodge. There were his coach and four, which he used when going to evening parties in London, the carriage in which Mary had driven out in the daytime, three other horses, including his beautiful bay mare, for which he had paid three hundred guineas. There were the rare jade carvings he had brought back from India, two fine suits of armour inlaid with gold tracery which he had bought in Spain, his collection of weapons acquired in a dozen countries, the charming models of six ships of war, in each of which his father, the Admiral, had served at one time or another, and the beautiful tapestry work on which his mother had spent so many hours.
Looking through the advertisemenl from The Chronicle that Droopy Ned had sent him, he sighed as he saw other items: his fine cellar of wines, linen, garden tools, kitchen and dairy implements, saddlery, steel fire irons, mattresses and silk bedspreads. He had at first only guessed at the price his special treasures might fetch, and clearly the whole contents of the house would bring in a much greater sum, especially as the sale had taken place at the height of the London season and scores of wealthy people would have driven out to Richmond, in the hope of picking up bargains. Instead of twenty thousand pounds, the contents of the house should bring in thirty thousand, and instead of putting it in the Funds, he could have asked Rothschild to invest it for him; so even if he failed to secure a post thirty-five thousand pounds would have brought him an income of anything up to fifteen hundred a year.
Obviously Mary had again forged his signature when giving the auctioneer instructions to sell. Although she had already robbed him of many thousands, she meant to have the last penny from him. How could anyone be capable of such malice? But it must be demoniac possession, not malice, for in Portugal, Russia and America she had adored him. While he had been absent all those months on the Continent in 1813–14 and she had taken to drink, it must have opened her mind to evil forces. Brooding on the fact that it was on Georgina’s account that he had gone abroad must have built up this intense jealousy. Then, actually coming upon them naked in bed together had proved the last straw; her brain had given way to the devilish impulse to destroy them.
Now, with all his possessions, valuable and trivial, gone, his resources were again reduced to five thousand pounds. Even if he invested it with Rothschild, who could probably get him five per cent, his income now would be no more than a miserable two hundred and fifty pounds.
Again he looked at the advertisement. Right at the bottom it read: Can be viewed 26th, 27th and 28th. Sale Friday, 30th June. Staring at it, he gasped, ‘God be praised!’ Droopy’s letter had reached him in time. It was only the 23rd, so he could easily be in London well before the 30th, and stop the sale. Nevertheless, he meant to take no chances. His wound was healing well. If he took care not to over-exert himself, there was no reason why he should not leave Brussels that evening.
Having examined him, the doctor agreed. So in the afternoon he went out, bought himself a suit of civilian clothes and sold Gunston’s charger, which brought him the equivalent of another seventy-four pounds. He then hired a coach and was driven the thirty miles to Ghent, where he slept the night.
King Louis and his Court of exiles were still there; so the following morning, Roger enquired for Talleyrand, then went to the mansion in which the Prince had installed himself. He received Roger with delight and limped forward from behind his desk to shake his hand, congratulating him on having come safely through the past few months of uncertainty and renewed war. Then he sent for wine, and they sat down to talk.
Roger told of his journey to Elba and of accompanying the Emperor right up until Waterloo. Then Talleyrand gave him particulars of the development of the campaign and of the reports he had received from his spies in Paris. Napoleon had succeeded in rallying all that remained of his army at Laon, then hastened to Paris, where he arrived, physically exhausted, on the 21st. However, 1ie had pulled himself together sufficiently to send for his Ministers and tell them he meant to carry on the war by a levée en masse, with which he would defend the capital. According to report, a furious disagreement had ensued, and it remained to be seen if he would succeed in getting his way.
Meanwhile, on the 18th, Grouchy had come upon Thielmann’s corps, defeated it, driven it across the Dyle and would no doubt have pursued him; but, on the following morning, he had learned of his Emperor’s catastrophe at Waterloo and that Blücher was now in a position to cut him off. With good generalship he had promptly retired on Namur, fought a successful rearguard action there, then got his army safely away up the valley of the Meuse into France. The Austrians had completed their concentration on the Rhine, so Rapp’s corps would shortly be overwhelmed, and one hundred thousand Russians were on the march westward.
It was obvious, therefore, that Napoleon’s situation was now hopeless. Even if the government in Paris agreed to his ordering a levée en masse, the greater part of it would consist of cripples and youngsters fresh from school, whom there would be no time to train. Such a force, with the limited number of veterans that remained to him, handicapped by a great shortage of cavalry and artillery, could not possibly resist the mighty army with which the Allies would invade France. It could now be only a matter of weeks before they were again in Paris.
Neither Roger nor Talleyrand was the least doubtful about the outcome of the war, but the question which did cause the latter very great concern was what would happen afterwards.
Once Napoleon was dead, or again sent into exile, what would the future hold for France? Obviously that would be dictated by the victorious Allies. Last time, owing largely to the British and the Czar, the peace terms.had been very generous. But, having been put to great exertions and enormous expense to mobilise their armies again, they could not be expected to let France off so lightly this time. It was probable that they would impose a huge indemnity, and that France would have to suffer occupation by foreign troops for many years, until it was paid.
Also, last time Talleyrand had been in Paris. By his skilful arguments he had persuaded the Allied sovereigns that the principle of ‘legitimacy’ was the proper policy to pursue in establishing a new government for the conquered country, and so brought about the Bourbon restoration. But nobody could maintain that their rule had brought happiness to the majority of their subjects. On the contrary, they had brought back many of the old abuses of power, disbanded a great part of the Army and left thousands of France’s heroes to beg their bread, reimposed the hated taboos favoured by the Church, and had flagrantly broken many of the promises they had made when signing the peace treaty. Could it be expected that they would be welcomed back?
And this time Talleyrand would not be in the capital to give a lead, persuade, bribe or overawe the old die-hards of the Revolution who had always hated monarchy. But they were there. With the noblesse again in exile, and the Bonapartists proscribed, the Deputies left in the Chambers would have a free hand in forming a different type of government and persuade the Allies that they represented the ‘will of the people’. That, in a year or so, might lead to another Terror.
Knowing so well Talleyrand’s great love for France, Roger felt the deepest sympathy for his anxiety. But he could do no more than express his earnest hope that matters might not go so badly. Then, having refused an invitation to stay on to dinner, he said he must be on his way and by evening he completed his journey to Ostend.
As Wellington’s headquarters had been in Brussels, there was no lack of ships crossing back and forth, and the following day Roger took passage in a ship that landed him at Dover on the morning of the 26th. Having four days still in hand before the sale, it occurred to him that, in view of all the ill Mary had done him, it would give him some little pleasure to tell her personally how, by having arrived in England in time, he could thwart her last wicked intent. So after breakfasting at an inn, he hired a fast post-chaise and, instead of driving to London, had it take him the seventy miles to Brighton. There he spent the night at the Old Ship Inn.
Thinking it unlikely that Mary would be up before ten o’clock at the earliest, he did not make his call at the fine house she had bought, then so cunningly made over to her partner, Mrs. Vidall, until eleven o’clock. On enquiring for Mary, he learned that she was no longer there, and had left some weeks earlier. He realised then that she would probably have returned to Thatched House Lodge to make arrangements for the sale; but it was also possible that she was staying at some hotel in London, so he asked to see Mrs. Vidall.
He was shown upstairs to the room in the front of the house where he had last seen Mary. After a few minutes the raddled old harridan, her hair not yet dressed, and wearing a chamber robe, waddled in. To his enquiry she replied:
‘Your wife? No, she’s not here, neither do I care a devil’s halfpenny where she’s gone. We threw her out at the beginning of the month.’
‘What!’ Roger exclaimed. ‘But she owned this house, if not legally, by a partnership arrangement she made with you.’
The old woman leered at him. ‘She did until she signed away her share in the partnership to me in April. To begin with, being a Countess, she was an asset to the house, but her drinking so heavy led to her making scenes that upset the customers. I let her stay on the last two months only so that she’d gamble away all that was left of her money.’
‘All? But, damn it, woman, she had thousands!’
‘Bless you, don’t I know it? ’Twas the luckiest day of my life when she first crossed my doorstep. You should have seen the stakes the little ninny put up. The bucks who lose fortunes at White’s and Almack’s come here to play when they’re down in Brighton. They took her on and had the lot off her.’
At White’s Roger had seen members stake up to five thousand guineas on the turn of a single card or, in the early hours of the morning, when desperate, endeavour to recover their losses by pledging even their country houses. If Mary, drunk and obsessed with gambling, had played against such men, he could no longer doubt that she had squandered his fortune in less than a year. Sourly he said:
‘No doubt you helped her lose her money, and took a handsome cut out of her losses.’
The blowsy gaming-house keeper only laughed and sneered, ‘What if I did? There’s naught that you can do about it.’
Roger knew only too well that she was right. With an oath, he turned and marched out of the room.
That afternoon he took the coach to London, and arrived at Amesbury House a little before eight o’clock. Droopy was at home and, as Roger was shown in to him, cried happily, ‘So my letter reached you. Thank God for that! ’Tis only the 27th, and the sale is not until the 30th. You’ve still ample time to see the auctioneers and have it called off.’
Embracing him, Roger replied, ‘Yes, Ned. Bless you for letting me know what was afoot. I’ve thought things over, though. I don’t mean to see the auctioneers. They won’t pay the money over until my property has been sold. And I’m broke to the wide, so I mean to let the sale take place and will claim the proceeds afterwards.’
‘No, no! You must not do that.’ Droopy’s tone was shocked. ‘I’ve money; near a six-figure income. Ample for both of us. I wouldn’t miss several thousand a year. You must look on me as your banker for any sum you like.’
Roger smiled, but shook his head. ‘ ’Tis truly generous of you, old friend, but I could not accept. I’ve always stood on my own feet, and I mean to continue so. I’ll manage somehow.’
Droopy frowned. ‘Roger, act not like a fool. If you have scruples, we’ll come to some arrangement. I have it! I’ll appoint you my agent. You can live at Norman-rood and keep an eye on my rents, but come to London whenever you wish. You know well that you will always be welcome here.’
Again Roger shook his head. ‘No, Ned. I could not do that. You’ll recall my reason for last going abroad. That insane wife of mine has sworn that she will kill Georgina, even if she hangs for it, unless I remain out of England. I had thought of appealing to Castlereagh. I am confident he could find me some diplomatic post in Spain, Italy or the Netherlands. But with the money from the sale of the contents of Thatched House Lodge, I’ll have ample for my needs.’
‘So be it then,’ Droopy nodded. ‘Since you are determined to sell, I’ll attend the sale and buy such items as I know you to treasure most. And those, I insist, you must accept as a present.’
‘I would think myself churlish to refuse. I’d like above all the paintings Georgina did herself and gave me. But we must agree a limit on what you spend. Let us say five hundred pounds. That would be a most handsome gift. But I warn you, pieces to a greater value than that I’ll refuse to accept.’
‘When you have been out there tomorrow, let me have a list of things you would particularly like to retain; then, should they exceed that sum I’ll keep those over it to give you as Christmas presents.’
‘Dear Ned, you are the very kindest of men. But I’ll not be going out there tomorrow. ’Tis the last of the three view days, so the house will be swarming with people. Thursday has clearly been set aside for the auctioneers’ men to rearrange everything ready for the sale on Friday. So I’ll go the day after tomorrow, as I think the odds are that Mary is there, and I’ll be able to get her on her own.’
Droopy had been going out to sup with friends, but made no mention of that, in order to spend the evening with Roger, and sent out a running footman with a note cancelling his engagement. Over the meal Roger gave an account of his journey to Elba, the months he had spent with Napoleon, and the Waterloo campaign. Droopy then gave him the latest news from France. Fighting was still going on outside Paris, but the Chambers had ruled that, as the Allies had declared their war to be not against France but against Napoleon in person, he should be deprived of his authority, and they had demanded that he should abdicate. Whether he would do so, or use such troops as he had to continue to assert his will, was not yet known.
As they were about to go to their bedrooms, Droopy asked, ‘Have you heard of the amazing coup that Rothschild made on the result of Waterloo?’
In giving Droopy an account of the battle, Roger had made no mention of having met Rothschild, nor of having killed Gunston. Now he said, ‘So his initiative and the fatigue he must have sustained were well rewarded. I encountered him on a hill top, observing the battle, and when the Imperial Guard broke, he dashed off in a light carriage he had waiting. At that pace, over those roads, I marvel he had an unbroken bone left in his body by the time he reached Ostend.’
Droopy laughed. ‘Had he had to spend six months, in hospital afterwards, it would still have been worth it. Here in London, knowing that the Duke had such a mixed force under him and part of that unreliable, against Napoleon’s veterans, every one was most pessimistic. The Funds fell sharply. Then, when the news came through of Blücher’s defeat at Ligny and the Duke’s at Quatre Bras, they positively plunged. The following morning Rothschild appeared on ‘Change and leant against a pillar there, looking like death. All who saw him took it that his pigeon post had brought him early news of an even more disastrous defeat of the Allies, and he was ruined. But in fact he was the only man in London who as yet knew that Napoleon was finished. While his people openly unloaded his shares to any takers they could find, a score of secret nominees were buying up for him every share they could lay their hands on. That evening news of the Duke’s victory became public and the Funds went up sky-high. ’Tis said he made a million.’
‘A million!’ Roger echoed. ‘A million in a day! Fantastic! Then at least I can count on him investing for me at good interest such money as I can save from the wreck of my fortunes. But tell me, how fares Georgina? Is she well?’
‘She is not in England.’
‘What! Gone abroad at the height of the season! Why, and where?’
‘To Vienna. She left London last week. ’Twas on the Saturday if my memory serves me. She took Charles and Susan with her. But why they should choose to go travelling abroad when it is high summer here is more than I can say.’
‘I can,’ Roger said with obvious annoyance. ‘She has returned there to resume an affair she was having just before old Kew died, with the handsome Archduke John. They first met some years back when she was Baroness von Haugwitz and living in her husband’s castle on the Rhine. She and the Archduke took a great fancy to each other then; and both must have remembered the other with much pleasure, for it was he who asked her to come to Vienna at the time of the Congress. As a widower he was free to make frequent rendezvous with her, although no scandal attached to their friendship. No doubt it is to prevent tongues wagging, now that Vienna is no longer thronged with half the nobility in Europe, that she has taken the young people, on the pretence of showing them that lovely city.’
Droopy laughed. ‘Poor Roger. ’Tis obvious that the Archduke put your nose out of joint. But be not too concerned. Apart from that with yourself, Georgina’s affairs have never lasted any great length of time. I’ll wager that within a few months she will have tiredi of His Highness. The thing that matters is that, Georgina being abroad, you need have no fear that Mary may harm her; so you can remain here with a quiet mind for a while.’
‘You’re right on both counts, Ned, and I am much relieved. With an ample income of over a thousand a year, things will not be too bad. When Georgina tires of her royal beau, no doubt she’ll be willing to pay me lengthy visits. I’m beginning to look on my enforced exile much more cheerfully.’
Next morning, being anxious that Mary should not chance to learn prematurely of his return to England, instead of going out with Droopy, Roger spent several hours endeavouring to interest himself in some of the books in his host’s fine library.
At four o’clock Droopy returned waving a copy of The Chronicle and crying that it contained news of interest. Spreading the paper out, he pointed to an announcement inserted by the auctioneers. They apologised to such of their clients as had been out to view the contents of Thatched House Lodge, as the sale was now cancelled, the properties having been sold en bloc by private treaty.
‘I am also told,’ Droopy said, ‘when I spoke of it this afternoon to some of our friends at White’s, that the same notice appeared in yesterday’s Chronicle; but I missed it. How, think you, will this affect your chance of making Mary hand over the money she is to receive from it?’
Roger shrugged his shoulders and replied, ‘I see no reason to suppose this will make any difference. The auctioneers will receive the money just the same, and my thought was to force Mary into writing a letter instructing them to pay it into my account.’
After a momenta Droopy said with a frown, ‘I pray you will succeed in that, but ’tis by no means certain. The sale is now accomplished. There is at least a possibility that Mary may have already claimed the money from the auctioneers; and, if so, made off with it.’
‘Hell’s bells!’ Roger exclaimed. ‘Dam’me, should that be so ’twill prove my final ruin. I’ll be left with no more than five thousand pounds. There will be nought for it but having to beg a minor diplomatic post from Castlereagh, as I had planned to do before it occurred to me that I could sell the contents of Thatched House Lodge.’
M
‘You would be wise then to lose no time in waiting on him. Any day he may be off to Vienna, now that Napoleon is all but defeated, to confer again with our allies.’
‘You are right, Ned. I’ll to the Foreign Office, now to secure myself a sheet anchor. Pray God that the auctioneers still have the cash, or that I’ll succeed in forcing Mary to hand it over. In that case I’ll be well enough off to travel, or settle in any city on the Continent I may choose. But, should she have pipped me at the post, being accredited to one of our larger embassies would at least enable me to lead a not unpleasant life.’
Droopy nodded. ‘ ’Tis to be hoped that your luck will be in tomorrow. But ’twould be wise, if you can sec Castlereagh this evening, to think of yourself as though you had already seen Mary and could expect nothing from her. Your request will then have a greater effect on him.’
With this sound advice in mind, Roger hurried off to the Foreign Office and sent his name up to the Minister. After a wait of three-quarters of an hour, Castlereagh received him very pleasantly, listened to an abbreviated account of Roger’s doings since he had left Vienna, then gave him the intelligence he had received up till that morning.
Apparently, on reaching Paris Napoleon had declared that he meant to dismiss the Chambers and assume absolute power. But the wily Fouché had persuaded him that the Deputies, although restless, could be won over; so the Emperor’s prospects would be better with their backing than if he made open enemies of them. Instead of acting at once, as he had intended, Napoleon said he would sleep on it. His hesitation proved his undoing. The Chambers had time to meet and passed a measure proposed by Lafayette—that they should continue in perpetual session and that anyone who attempted to dissolve them should be arrested for high treason. They had then called out the National Guard for their protection and formed a Provisional Government with Fouché and Carnot as its leading members.
Roger smiled. ‘If Fouché is now at the head of affairs, Napoleon is finished.’
‘Yes. Only this morning I received a despatch stating that the Chambers had sent him word declaring his deposition. He agreed to abdicate in favour of his son, and on the 25th left the Tuileries to retire to his private property at Malmaison.’
‘And what prospects think you, my lord, have the Bourbons of achieving a second restoration?’
‘They are now better than we had at first supposed,’ Castlereagh replied. ‘And we favour it, for it is reasonable to assume they will have learnt their lesson and grant a more liberal constitution, by which they would abide. If the people will accept them, that would mean a stable France, and we regard that as of the first importance. Immediately after Waterloo the Duke wrote to King Louis, urging him to issue a proclamation promising an amnesty to all who had taken up arms against him, and to re-enter France with the least possible delay. On the day Bonaparte abdicated’ the King crossed the frontier at Chateau Cambresis and was well received in Cambrai. The south has always been Royalist, and in the west La Vendée can be counted on to support him.’
Roger then made his request for employment.
Castlereagh raised an eyebrow. ‘I recall, my lord, your making a similar request to me last August. It led to my taking you on my staff for the Congress of Vienna. But now, only loose ends have to be tied up, and there is no similar employment that I can offer to a man of your abilities.’
With a rueful smile, Roger said, ‘My lord, at that time I wished only to get away from England. Since going to Vienna I have had the misfortune to sustain serious financial losses, so I am in sore need of some post which will supplement my income, for ’Tis now reduced to a mere pittance.’
Having expressed his sympathy, Castlereagh said, ‘I had always supposed you, my lord, to be a man of considerable wealth. It was for that reason I did not offer you any financial recompense when you accompanied me to Vienna, thinking that some honour might better suit the case. But if you are in need, I will willingly see to it that you receive a grant from the Treasury. However, over twenty years of war have proved incredibly costly, and our trade nearly brought to ruin, so I fear it could not be for any really substantial sum. Say, perhaps, a thousand pounds?’
‘I would be most grateful for that. However, my request to your Lordship is for a permanent post, perhaps in the Diplomatic Service.’
Castlereagh shook his head. ‘With your exceptional knowledge of affairs, few men could better represent Britain abroad as a Minister, or even an Ambassador. But I fear that is out of the question. It would be entirely contrary to precedent to deprive a diplomat de carrière of his chances of promotion by appointing someone who has not spent his life in the Service. Perhaps, though, we might find you some sinecure in England. I will speak of the matter to Lord Liverpool.’
As Roger could not disclose Mary’s threat to murder Georgina, he replied:
‘Unfortunately, a wound I received at Marengo has so afflicted my right lung that I am unfitted to winter in England. But I had no idea of aiming so high. I had in mind some quite minor post.’
‘My dear Kildonan, you are not the man to run errands for people you would count your inferiors. You would be miserable in such a situation. At least you must have some position of responsibility, and be your own master. Besides, it would be embarrassing for one of our envoys to have as an underling a man of your distinction. I could of course … but no.’
‘What was your lordship about to suggest?’
‘A Consulship. But such an offer is beneath your dignity to accept.’
Roger smiled. ‘You mean because I am an Earl. But beggars cannot be choosers. I can think of a dozen Jacobite Peers who went into exile with the Pretender and, their estates having been confiscated, would have jumped at such a post had they been eligible for it. Think, too, of the French who sought refuge here, owing to the Revolution. Many Counts and Marquises earned their living for years as dancing and fencing masters, or even as barbers. If you could procure me a post as Consul in some city where the winters are mild, I would be grateful.’
‘So be it, then,’ Castlereagh shrugged unhappily. ‘I would that I could do more for you. Within a few days I will let you know what I have to offer.’
As Roger walked back to Amesbury House, he was far from happy at the result of his interview. He knew that Castlereagh had been right in his objections to securing him a minor post in an embassy; but it would at least have enabled him to reside in some capital where his name would be a passport to the best society. Now, should he fail to secure the money from the sale, the best he could liope for was to live in some port such as Genoa, Oporto, Malaga or Cadiz and spend his time assisting merchants in their business. The salary, too, of a Consul would not be more than a hundred or so a year.
It was with this in mind, and in a great state of anxiety that on the following morning Roger rode out to Richmond on one of Droopy’s horses. It was a lovely summer day and, as he trotted over the greensward towards Thatched House Lodge, thoughts of other lovely days there ran through his mind: those during the first two years when he had been married to Susan’s mother, living a life of leisure in the days before the name of Napoleon Bonaparte had been known to anyone except a few hundred people in Corsica and officers and men in the French Army; those in more recent years when he had had Susan as a lovely young teenager staying with him;, times when Georgina, Droopy Ned and other friends had been his guests for a few nights; of the days when he had held garden parties for his neighbours and there had been games and laughter and abundance of peach-bola; Mary’s delight when he had brought her as his wife to be mistress of his charming home. How utterly tragic that drink should have led to her becoming so possessed by evil that, down at Newmarket, she had actually fired a pistol, with murderous intent, at Georgina’s face.
Outside the gate there still stood a board advertising the sale and listing the most valuable contents of the house. But across it there was now a broad strip of white paper, bearing in thick brush strokes the one word, ‘Cancelled’.
No-one was about. As usual in fine summer weather the front door stood open. Tying his mount to the railing he walked up the path and into the house. No sound disturbed the warm silence, except for a faint swish of someone sweeping with a broom in the kitchen quarters. He looked in Mary’s little parlour, the drawing room, his library and the dining room. It had occurred to him that, the sale having been cancelled, she might have left the house and he would have difficulty in tracing her. But it was equally possible that she was, as he had found her on his last visit, upstairs in her room, lying in bed, drinking.
He went up unhurriedly, took a deep breath and opened the door of their bedroom. Mary was there, but not in bed. Clad only in a soiled chamber robe, she was half reclining on a chaise-longue, from which there was a pleasant view out of the window across the park. On a small table by her side stood a glass and a decanter of port; but it was nearly full, so evidently she had only recently started her day’s potations.
Her hands lay idle in her lap. Sitting up with a start, she exclaimed, ‘Why, dam’me, if it’s not my husband!’
With a grim smile, he replied, ‘It is, madam. But I shall not burden you with my presence long. I have come here only to call you to account for having sold my property and to rectify the matter.’
‘Indeed,’ she sneered. ‘And how, pray, do you propose to do that?’
‘Very simply. Obviously, believing me to be abroad and so hear naught of it, you forged a letter in my writing asking you to sell the contents of this house and pay the proceeds into some bank where you have opened an account since you began to rob me.’
‘Your guess is right, my lord, and the devil’s own work I had to pen a whole letter in your hand which would be above suspicion. But I succeeded. The auctioneers raised not an eyebrow when I produced it to them. They were so pleased at the thought of their fat commission that they nearly kissed me.’
‘Having stolen the greater part of my fortune, you did not scruple to rob me of my last possessions?’
‘Lud, no! Why should I, after the scurvy way in which you threw me aside to pleasure your whore, the Duchess. Besides, I had to have the money. That treacherous bawd, Emily Vidall, outsmarted me and threw me from the house near penniless.’
‘I have been to Brighton and seen her. That she is as crooked as a corkscrew I’ve not a doubt, and should be rotting in some gaol. But had you not become a sot, even the cleverest of crooks could hardly have swindled you out of that house, the jewels you bought and many thousands of pounds besides, without your being able to seek legal redress on some plea or other. However, that is now beside the point. I intend at least to secure the money paid for the contents of this house. You will sit down at your bureau and write a letter to the auctioneers, instructing them …’
‘To pay the money to you?’ Mary broke in with a laugh. ‘ ’Twould be useless. They have already paid me. Since the sale was by private treaty, I was taking no chances of the buyer backing out at the last moment and, having cancelled the auction, have all to do again; so I insisted on immediate payment.’
‘Who was the buyer?’
‘I’ve not a notion. He insisted on remaining anonymous as far as I was concerned. But he must have known this house and its contents well, and been determined to have your treasures. The auctioneers estimated that, sold by auction, they would have fetched anything from twenty-five to thirty thousand pounds. I asked thirty-five to start with. There followed a fortnight’s haggling, and on Saturday last I said I would settle for thirty-two thousand. By Tuesday the auctioneer’s draft was in my bank.’
‘You did well, then. And from what you said a while back, the auctioneers settled promptly, so the money is now in your bank.’
Mary took a swig of port and nodded. ‘I received the draft on Tuesday.’
‘Very well then. Instead of writing to the auctioneers you will write to your bank, instructing them to pay the amount received into my account at Hoare’s.’
‘You stupid oaf. Is it likely I’d so oblige you? And you cannot make me.’
Roger made no reply. Turning his back, he walked into his dressing room, took a key from a hollowed-out, leather-bound book on the bottom shelf of a dwarf bookcase there, and unlocked a small wall cupboard. From it he took a nearly full bottle of yellow pills. Returning to the bedroom with the bottle in his hand, he said quietly:
‘I think I can persuade you. The choice is a simple one. Either you write that letter, or you will not leave this room alive.’
Mary started up, her eyes popping and ran a hand through her dishevelled hair. ‘You don’t mean that?’ she gasped. ‘You’d not murder me! You dare not! You’d swing for it.’
His smile was grim. ‘No, Mary, you are mistaken there. It will appear that you died by your own hand. And, seeing the state to which you have brought yourself, no-one will be surprised that you decided to end your life.’ Opening his hand, he showed her the bottle and went on:
‘These pills are opium, compounded with another substance which is more dangerous. The latter kills pain almost at once, the opium induces sleep. Two can be taken without risk, four would possibly cause death, and six would certainly prove fatal. Unless you do as I bid you, I shall give you ten, then leave the open bottle by your bedside.’ As he was speaking he uncorked the bottle, shook out a pill and put it in one waistcoat pocket, then recorked the bottle and put that in the other.
Mary had come to her feet. She opened her mouth to shout for help, but he was too quick for her. The pills were actually plain opium, and he knew that in any case he could not bring himself to kill her; but he hoped to scare her into writing the letter, and had no scruples in preventing her from bringing anyone to her assistance. His fist shot out and struck her hard in the stomach.
Instead of a cry only a gasp came from her mouth, and she doubled up. Seizing her by the hair, with his left hand he threw her backwards on to the bed. An instant later, his left hand went up to her nose and gripped it firmly. His right hand went to his waistcoat pocket and he took out the pill. After a moment she was compelled to open her mouth to breathe. Still holding her nose he pushed the pill into her mouth, then put his hand over it until she was forced to swallow.
Standing up, he smiled grimly down on her and said, ‘There! That is an earnest of my intent. Attempt to cry out and I’ll again drive the breath from your body and administer a second pill. Now will you write?’
Still panting for breath, she came to her feet, helped herself from the decanter to another large glass of port, drank it straight down and hiccuped.
Muttering, ‘Damn you for a swine! May perdition take you,’ she stumbled to her bureau, on which there were pens, ink and a sand-sifter. Having taken from a drawer a piece of paper embossed with the Kildonan crest, she pulled from a pigeon hole a letter with a heavy seal which had been slit open at the top. Holding it out to him, she said:
‘I knew not where this would find you, so kept it here. Recognising the writing as that of your whore, I naturally opened it. I scarce thought, though, that I’d have the pleasure of giving it to you in person. Read it while I’m doing as you bade me.’
Snatching it angrily, Roger took the letter from the envelope and carried it to the window to read it in a better light. It was dated June 23rd and read:
Roger, my heart,
I gather that your wife has been living in Brighton for some time. I therefore assume there will be only servants at your home, and your dear old Dan Izzard more likely than anyone else I can think of to have your address abroad, so be able to forward this to you.
Although we have been life-long lovers, it is clearly Fate’s decree that we should never marry. When you were at last prepared to give up your activities on the Continent and settle down, I waited for your return in vain: then, believing the report that you were dead, and not caring what became of me, I married my old Duke. After his stroke the surgeons made a wrong prognosis and declared he might well live another dozen years. As I could be with you only infrequently, it seemed good sense to both of us that you should marry again. Alas, that your choice should have fallen on Mary, who showed such delightful promise, but has turned out to be a most wicked shrew. As you must have heard, Kew died last December, much sooner than expected, and I became free again; but you are still tied to Mary and as you are over twenty years her senior, she may well outlive you.
Therefore, my dear love, I feel you will not hold it against me that I have now decided to combine ambition, which has ever been part of my nature, with true affection. The Emperor, with less reluctance than we might have expected has, in view of my rank and a personal liking for me, given his consent. Tomorrow I am leaving for Vienna to marry my dear Archduke John…
Roger gave a cry of anguish and dropped the letter. Mary had been covertly watching him. The second his cry rang out, she sprang to her feet and ran from the room.
In that moment a great blackness surged through Roger’s mind. With appalling clarity he realised what Georgina’s letter meant for him. Gone now were those consoling possibilities that, although he must live abroad, she would at least come out for visits to share the winter sunshine with him. Even had she married an ordinary nobleman that might somehow have been managed, for she could have brought her husband with her and, with the one exception of Charles’s father, she had never been faithful to her husbands as far as he was concerned, any more than he had been to his wives. But for her to marry an Archduke made such meetings impossible. She could not cozen the brother of a reigning Emperor to take her for a holiday to the South of France. And, even if he paid visits at long intervals to Vienna, he would never be able to see her in private. She would be the mistress of a great household, with ladies-in-waiting always in attendance, her comings and goings dictated by etiquette and no more able to carry on an amorous intrigue than could a prisoner in a cell. He had been stricken in a way that had never occurred to him to be possible. He had lost his beloved Georgina. Lost her for ever.
These searing thoughts raced through his mind in less than a minute—thirty seconds perhaps. He was vaguely conscious of Mary’s footsteps as she fled, but did not even turn his head. She and the money he had been endeavouring to extort from her mattered little now.
He was brought back to the present by a cry and two loud thumps, one after the other. They could mean only one thing. That last long draught of port had made Mary unsteady on legs long unused to taking any exercise. She must have tripped and fallen down the stairs. Walking quickly out on to the landing, he saw that he had guessed correctly. Mary lay, a twisted, unmoving body, at the bottom of the flight. His housekeeper, Mrs. Muffet, was bending over her. Quickly she took Mary by the shoulders and lifted her a little. Her eyes were open, but she made no sound, and her head fell limply sideways.
Mrs. Muffet caught the sound of Roger’s footsteps. Looking up, she exclaimed:
‘Oh, your lordship. I’d no idea you had come home.’ Then after a moment, she added, ‘I was passing through the hall. Hearing her ladyship running, I wondered why. I saw her bump against the newel post and slip, then she lost her balance. She … she’s broken her neck. Oh, my! The poor lady’s dead.’
Together they carried Mary’s body upstairs, laid it on the bed and turned the top of the sheet down over her face. In a hoarse voice, Roger said, ‘Mrs. Muffet, find Dan, please. Tell him what has happened, then he is to ride over to Dr. MacTavish and bring him here as soon as possible.’
She had begun to cry, but bobbed him a curtsey and hurried from the room.
For a few minutes he stood looking down at Mary’s body. They had had some happy times together, but after all she had done to him during the past year, he could feel no real grief at her death.
As he turned away, his eyes fell on Georgina’s letter, where it had fluttered to the floor. Picking it up he read on from where he had left off. It consisted of assurances she had made him many times before—that he was the only man who ever had, or would really count in her life, and of deep regrets that Fate had come between them in the person of Mary, thus making it impossible for them to spend their later years together in sweet companionship and tranquillity. She added that she was taking Charles and Susan with her to Vienna for the marriage, and that they meant to buy a house there, so that they could come out to be with her for a few weeks two or three times a year, yet be much more free than if they stayed as her guests in the Archducal Palace. They would, of course, be most happy for him to accompany and stay with them whenever he was able to do so. And she counted upon his doing that, because it was unthinkable that their life-long bond should be completely severed. Perhaps he could come out with them for Christmas. In fact, she would not take no for an answer.
He gave a deep sigh. It was at least some consolation that she had no thought of separating herself from him for ever. But such visits to Vienna could lead only to bitter frustration. He would see her and again delight in her wit and laughter; but even when she spent afternoons or evenings at the house of Charles and Susan, she would have to be accompanied by a lady-in-waiting. Circumstances would never allow them even half an hour alone together. Only too well he knew the rigorous etiquette with which the members of the Imperial family were hedged about.
Slowly he read the letter through again. His eye lit upon the phrase … ‘I became free again but you were still tied to Mary’. Its implication came home to him in a flash. Mary was dead. Georgina had left for Vienna only on Saturday. If he set off immediately he might yet overtake her before she reached the Austrian capital. Overtake her, persuade her to give up the Archduke and marry him instead.
In two strides he reached Mary’s bureau and snatched up the letter he had forced her to write to her bank which would give him thirty-odd thousand pounds. As his eye scanned it, his heart missed a beat. Instead of a letter to her bank, she had scrawled:
You poor fool. I drew the money out on Wednesday in one-hundred pound notes to guard against any chance of your hearing about the sale and coming to claim the money. I’ve hidden it, and in a place where you will never find it.
Closing his eyes, he put a hand to his head. That demon-possessed, malicious bitch had pipped him on the post. She had had only the previous day in which to hide the money, so he should be able to find it, even if it meant pulling the house to pieces and digging up the whole garden. But such a search would take weeks, perhaps months. And he dared not lose even a day if he were to catch up with Georgina before she reached Vienna. He was again reduced to a beggarly income of two or three hundred a year. How could he go cap in hand to Georgina and propose that, instead of marrying her Archduke, they should marry and he would live on her? His pride made that unthinkable.
He could tell her that he had something like thirty thousand pounds here at Thatched House Lodge—if he could find it. But he might fail to do so. There was always the chance that Mary had buried the money the previous night in one of the many coppices in the great park. No, Fate had yet again stymied him.
On going downstairs he found Mrs. Muffet waiting for him in the hall. She asked tentatively if he would like her to prepare a meal for him. He did not feel he could eat anything, so he declined her offer with a word of thanks, and went into the dining room. There he helped himself to a stiff brandy and water, carried it into his library and sat there moodily for the best part of an hour.
Inevitably his thoughts centered on Mary. Even to get the money, which would again have made him independent, he would never have dreamed of killing her. And now she was dead no threat or trick could lead to her disclosing where she had hidden it.
For her own sake he felt that Fate had been kind in ending her life so swiftly and painlessly. Even with the thousands from the sale of the contents of the house what could the future have held for her? As a dipsomaniac she would have gone from bad to worse. Within a year or two at most delirium tremens would have set in. Having no relatives or friends to take care of her she would have ended up as a pathetic creature in a madhouse.
When he thought of the change that had come over her tears came to his eyes. He recalled her sweetness and gaiety when she had first fallen so desperately in love with him in Lisbon; her splendid courage during the terrible retreat from Moscow; and how utterly shattered he had felt when he had feared her dead after her fall from a high cliff into the St. Lawrence river. Her degeneration in less than two years from a gay and pretty girl into a blowsy, vicious slut, whose brain had become addled by drink, was utterly tragic. Yet he had to be honest with himself and face the fact that it was his conduct that had driven her to drink. His love for Georgina was his very life and nothing on earth could have induced him to give her up. Even so, he felt terribly conscious of his guilt and raised his bowed head only when Dan knocked on the door and announced Dr. MacTavish.
They went upstairs together. The doctor’s examination was brief. He confirmed that Mary’s neck was broken, and said she must have died almost instantly. Then, giving Roger a curious glance, he asked, ‘Was there any witness to the accident?’
The question suddenly brought home to Roger that the doctor and numerous other people must be aware that, for a long time past, his relations with Mary had been strained, and they had been living apart. It could well be thought that, on his unannounced return, they had had a violent quarrel and he had thrown her down the stairs. He then realised how fortunate he was that Mrs. Muffet had been passing through the hall and had seen Mary trip and fall; so he was able to allay any suspicions the doctor might have had.
MacTavish said he would notify the undertaker in Richmond about her ladyship’s death, have a woman sent to lay her out, and make the other necessary arrangements. Roger then saw him downstairs, mount his horse and ride away.
Now feeling that he ought to eat something before he set off back to London, he went into the kitchen and asked Mrs. Muffet to bring him some cheese and biscuits in the library. As he sat down, his eye fell on a pile of letters at one end of his desk. There were not many, as he had spent so much of his time on the Continent that few people wrote to him at Thatched House Lodge. To kill time while Mrs. Muffet prepared his snack, he began opening them, having turned the pile upside down to look first at the ones which had been there longest. There were several appeals for charity and invitations to long-past entertainments, a begging letter from an old school friend who had fallen on hard times, and one from the local parson asking for a donation to repair the church belfry. Then, when he opened the very last letter, he saw that it was from Nathan Rothschild. It was dated only two days earlier and read:
My dear Lord Kildonan,
I trust that, as a result of the Emperor’s complete defeat, by this time you will have returned to your home and that this missive will reach you safely.
Your lordship’s courage, resource against odds and unhesitating determination to rescue an acquaintance in dire straits, when you came upon me overlooking the field of Waterloo, constitute an episode that I shall recall with gratitude as long as I live.
Your gallant action enabled me to save my House from ruin, and I pray you never to forget that, at any time or any place in which the House of Rothschild can be of service to you, that service will, in accordance with instructions I have sent out, be most willingly given.
By now you may have heard that, being the first to arrive in London aware of the result of the battle, enabled me to make a very considerable sum. In fact our final figures show that we profited by over one million pounds.
Such service as you rendered me and mine cannot be fully paid for by a remuneration in hard cash; because, had you not cowed and outwitted those Dutch-Belgians, they might well have taken my life, in order to prevent my identifying them later as thieves. But I can at least send you a normal commission of ten per cent on my successful transaction, and I beg that you will accept the enclosed draft on my House for £100,000.
I have the honour to be your lordship’s, etc., etc.
Roger’s mouth fell open and he jumped to his feet. One hundred thousand pounds! He was rich again—richer than he had ever been before.
Running from the room he collided with Mrs. Muffet bringing his plate, of cheese and biscuits. Pushing past her he cried, ‘I have business in London that brooks not a moment’s delay. You will be hearing from me.’
A moment later he had mounted his horse and was heading for the park gates. His mind was in a whirl.
Would he be able to overtake Georgina before she reached Vienna? And—if he succeeded—would she forgo her Archduke to marry him?