Rivals in the City (20 page)

Mary shrugged. “All right, then. I’ll see you a little later.” She set off casually along the gravelled path, not looking back. Once her light tread was beyond earshot, she stepped onto the grass and behind the wide trunk of a convenient tree. A moment later, Angelica glanced about sharply – left, right, behind – then squared her shoulders and began to walk, purposefully, eastwards.

Mary’s pulse leapt. She forced herself to give Angelica as much distance as possible: it would soon grow difficult to see her in the semi-darkness. In her plain mourning-wear, Angelica would become as discreetly invisible as Mary herself. For the time being, however, it was simple enough.

They left the park and began to pick their way southeast, trailing through Marylebone in a sort of silent procession: Angelica in the lead, followed by both Mary and, somewhere out there, the shadow-agent. Angelica walked steadily, but seemed unhurried. Apart from a certain sense of purpose in her bearing, this could have been yet another long stroll to pass the time. Yet Mary would have wagered a great deal that Angelica did, in fact, have a destination in mind.

Darkness gathered and thickened about them. There were still people aplenty in the streets: clerks and labourers trudging homewards, wagons creaking under heavy loads and the occasional lamp-lighter with his ladder and lantern, struggling to create a bit more illumination amidst the heavy fog.

They turned into Tavistock Place and Mary wondered, for a wild moment, if they were going to her own flat. It was impossible, surely, for Angelica and Mrs Thorold to know about that? Who could have told them but a member of the Agency, or perhaps James himself, under duress? She arrested her train of thought: that way lay panic and disaster.

Still, she felt a distinct sense of relief when they veered south, instead, winding their way towards Russell Square. Angelica slowed her pace and began a sedate stroll around its perimeter. The foot traffic was thinner here: most passers-by cut straight across the square, eager to reach their destination. As a result, each of Angelica’s footsteps in the gravel was faintly audible, and Mary again turned onto the grass and gave Angelica more distance in order to remain unnoticed.

This sort of waiting was always difficult, thought Mary. It was a delicate push and pull, between being poised for anything and eschewing undue haste. Although Angelica seemed entirely immersed in her thoughts, Mary felt increasingly conspicuous following her in what was merely a large circle. She chose a plot of bushes at the south-east corner of the square and disappeared behind it.

Waiting in stillness was harder yet. Mary had to be vigilant, constantly turning her thoughts and anxieties away from James Easton, Anne Treleaven, Ivy Murchison. She had to have confidence that Angelica would keep to her established circuit around the square and not suddenly dart into a side street. Mary was not naturally a woman of great faith, and so the minutes oozed by, lethargic and grudging. Mary counted them slowly, whilst mapping the square in her mind, exploring its possibilities for exit and entrapment. When that exercise was exhausted – Angelica had now performed nine unhurried laps of the path – Mary breathed deeply, felt her stomach rumble. She’d eaten nothing since midday. She thought longingly of a nub of cheese, a small bread roll. A boiled egg. Better yet, a cold chicken leg. So intent was she upon this fantasy that she nearly missed the nautical sweep of a tall lady’s skirt as it glided along the path.

A moment later, however, Mary straightened, spine tingling. The woman was veiled and dressed in simple dark raiment. Yet something about her bearing was deeply and alarmingly familiar, as it had been two days ago, outside the Bank of England. Mary rose from her hiding place and followed at a cautious distance. Sure enough, the woman walked with quiet confidence towards Angelica and took her by the arm.

To her credit, Angelica did not cry out. She jumped in surprise, then turned to face the woman. She spoke to her in a low tone – Mary was still too distant to discern any words – and, for answer, the woman raised her veil. Prepared as she was, Mary had to bite back a gasp. Those pale, glittering eyes. That prominent jaw, made squarer by thin lips. They sat ill with the expression on the woman’s face, which was of maternal pride and affection. But it was unmistakably she: Maria Thorold.

Mary’s stomach turned over. Her eager hunger soured into nausea and her heartbeat felt violent enough to bruise her ribs. She fell back a step, then wondered if her movement had been too sudden. Yet luck was with her. The two women were focused only upon each other. A few moments later, the veil fell again, and Mrs Thorold took her daughter’s arm once more. They began to stroll.

Mary abandoned all notion of returning to her post behind the bushes. She had no intention of permitting Mrs Thorold out of her sight now that she was really, truly found. A moment ago, she had been merely a vague threat, a sort of Agency bogeyman. Now, she was here. She represented real danger, but she could also be apprehended. Mary realized how sound a decision it had been to stay quietly behind some bushes and risk Angelica’s wandering off unsupervised. Mrs Thorold would surely have been watching from a distance to ensure that Angelica was alone. Had Mary been trailing her … she shuddered and stopped the thought there.

She was interested in the women’s postures. Each held herself erect, at a cordial distance from the other. Yet Mary thought that even from her distance she could discern Angelica’s tense scepticism, her readiness to pull away. This was in contrast to Mrs Thorold’s uncharacteristic eagerness: she seemed to do most of the talking, her head pivoted towards Angelica.

When Angelica next spoke, it was accompanied by a gesture towards a nearby bench. Mrs Thorold demurred but eventually agreed, although she chose a bench further towards a corner of the square. It sat just within the yellow haze cast by a gaslight, and was ringed by open space. It was a good choice for privacy, and Mary bit her lower lip. How would she ever overhear a murmured conversation?

In daylight, it would have been impossible to get anywhere near the Thorolds’ bench. Tonight, however, the rapidly falling darkness was her accomplice. Mary left the square by the nearest exit, although it pained her to turn her back on the women even for a moment. Still, they would only feel confident in their solitude if it was genuine. She made a wide circuit around the square and, after several agonizing minutes, re-entered at the corner behind the Thorolds. There was a wide, sturdy oak tree some yards behind the bench, just outside the circle of gaslight. It was far from ideal, but better than open ground. And, as Mary eased herself into a comfortable position against the tree trunk, she realized that luck was still with her: mother and daughter were speaking in normal conversational tones, rather than hushed and secretive whispers. Even from her limited vantage point, Mary could catch enough words to fill in the gaps with confidence.

“Most mothers are commonly, unjustifiably proud of their children,” Mrs Thorold was saying. “But you have accomplished much. I am proud of you, Angelica, although I can take no credit for your achievements.”

Angelica’s tone was pleased, confused, a trifle embarrassed. “That’s enough about me, Mamma. I am dying of curiosity to know more about you. Where do you live? What is your life like?”

An expressive sigh. “Oh, my dear. It’s been a curious few years in exile. As you yourself know all too well, we fell from the heights of luxury and social advantage into lives as penurious outcasts. Your father’s estate was forfeit, of course, as a result of the terrible crimes of which he was accused and convicted.” A pause. “I do not say that he committed them, my dear. I find it impossible to believe that your poor father was capable of such evil. But he was convicted, and we have all paid the price.

“You will think that I left London because of the disgrace, and that part is true. But the main reason I live in France, my dear, is that I, too, was left penniless by the crime. Rural France is relatively inexpensive. I pawned my jewels and have been living on their proceeds ever since.”

Angelica’s intake of breath was loud. “Oh, Mamma! I never even thought to ask…”

“And rightly so,” said Mrs Thorold. Her tone was perfectly pitched between maternal love and steely self-possession. “After the way I treated you. I am grateful that you are here at all, and willing to speak with me.” Another pause. “In any case, we have both survived the sort of disaster that would cast other women into the streets, or the poorhouse.”

“Have you thought how you will live once that money runs out?”

Mary smiled at Angelica’s practical bent. So much for cosseted débutantes and starving artists.

Mrs Thorold sighed. “My money is almost gone, and that is why I’m back in England. I must confess, Angelica, that I haven’t many ideas. I have no education to speak of, no conspicuous talents. My own parents are long dead, and their families dispersed. Even if they would own me, after such a disgrace, I have been unable to find them. I am utterly without resources.”

“Have you tried to find some sort of work?” There was genuine curiosity in Angelica’s tone: she hadn’t the faintest idea what the answer might be.

A puff of disgust. “Work! I am not above hard work, my dear. But tell me what I can do! It’s not merely the lack of training that stands in my way: I am beyond the middle age, my dear girl, and for that reason, nobody wants me.”

“Your age might be an advantage as a governess, or a paid companion.” Angelica’s voice was timid, as though she knew how weak this sounded.

Mary grinned in the darkness. There was a rich and satisfying irony here of which even Angelica must be uncomfortably aware.

“The difficulty of such work is twofold: first, one is forced to depend upon the mercy and kindness of others, and obey their slightest whims. The second is that the paucity of the salary makes it impossible to save any money. Accepting such work will ensure that I must labour until I can labour no more, after which time I am certain to be destitute.”

A silence. Then, slowly, Angelica said, “You speak rightly, Mamma. I have recently been talking to a lady who is in much the same position, and while she seems resigned to her situation, she says no differently.”

“And this lady is content with a life of threadbare servility, followed by the workhouse?” There was distinct contempt in those words: shades of the old Mrs Thorold.

“If she has other ideas, she has yet to tell me of them.”

“Well, not I. And in the same predicament, you would be no tamer, I wager.”

“Ask me in ten years, when I’m no longer a young, aspiring musician.” Angelica appeared to be thinking hard. “Have you any little store of capital left, Mamma? You might try renting a house and taking in lodgers.” She hurried on, knowing it sounded preposterous. “It needn’t be seedy. There must be any number of genteel widows in reduced circumstances…”

“Like myself?” There was even the hint of a smile in Mrs Thorold’s voice.

“Well, not unlike you…”

“My dear, it’s a promising plan, but I haven’t enough money to risk it. If I live carefully, I’ve enough for a few months yet. If I fritter it away on the lease of a house and cannot find sufficiently respectable lodgers, I am lost.”

Another pause, and then Angelica said, “You sound as though you’ve considered all these ideas closely, Mamma, and rejected them. Have you other plans, in their stead?”

Instead of answering the question, Mrs Thorold shivered dramatically. “The weather is cold this evening, is it not? Much as I used to love this city, I have come to prefer the heat and sunshine of my adopted home in the south.”

“So you intend to return? Why did you come to London at all, Mamma? Was it to see—” She seemed to choke on the end of her intended sentence.

“Your father?” Mrs Thorold sighed. “I wish I could have seen him, one last time. But as you know, I am still under suspicion. Impossibly evil accusations have been levelled at me. I could not run the risk of falling into the hands of the police.”

“Yet if you are innocent, surely the truth will emerge? If you have not committed such crimes, how can they prove their case against you?”

“My dear, sweet girl.” Mrs Thorold’s laugh was utterly mirthless, and disturbingly familiar to Mary. “You are still young enough to believe in grand ideas of justice and truth. But I am old enough to know of many instances of justice miscarried and innocent people irretrievably wronged. I cannot take that chance, Angelica.” She sounded suddenly fierce. “I will not risk my neck on the supposed intelligence and honesty of strangers. Not while I have a choice.”

Angelica’s voice was very quiet. “And what choice is that, Mamma? If you starve, it matters not whether it is here or in France.”

Again, Mrs Thorold failed to answer Angelica directly. Instead, she picked up an earlier thread. “You said, ‘if’ I was innocent. Are you so uncertain, daughter?”

A pause. “I am largely certain.”

“But a frisson of doubt remains?”

“Mamma, I am not accusing you of anything.”

“Yet you lack faith in me.”

“Mamma, I feel as though I scarcely know you. You were an invalid for years. I was brought up by the nurse, the governess, the finishing school. I met you at the dinner table, and scarcely elsewhere. I am not complaining of this, yet I ask you: how could I feel absolute confidence in your character, when this is the case?”

“Because circumstance is the key to this puzzle. As you say, I was an invalid for most of my adult life. I was only healed of my complaint after I moved to France, where the climate is so much more salubrious. A life-long invalid might be able to plot criminal destruction, but carrying it out requires sustained physical vigour.” In her fervour, Mrs Thorold turned to Angelica, raised her veil and seized her daughter’s hands. “I can’t be guilty of those heinous crimes, Angelica, precisely because of who I was.”

Mary could only admire Mrs Thorold’s stagecraft: dignified yet impassioned, emotional yet governed by logic. It was a tour de force.

Angelica seemed to return the pressure of her mother’s hands. “Thank you, Mamma. The accusations seemed impossible to me, too. But I am glad to hear the truth from you.”