The Daughters of Gentlemen (22 page)

T
he next morning Frances returned to the school, where she at once sought out Mlle Girard. The teacher of French was poring over some translations and shaking her head with little sighs of regret. She at once greeted Frances, who suspected that few visitors who distracted her from this unrewarding task would have been unwelcome. ‘I would very much like to see the handkerchief you were working on the other day,’ said Frances.

‘Ah, the one you admired so much,’ said Mlle Girard with a smile. ‘It is not yet complete I am afraid.’ She took it out of her workbox and Frances could see that while a great deal of progress had been made, it was unfinished.

‘I saw a lady only yesterday with one very like it – in fact, identical, but I had imagined that this was the only one,’ she said.

‘There was another,’ said Mlle Girard. ‘I made it for the Christmas bazaar, and it was sold to a lady there.’

‘How interesting,’ said Frances. ‘The lady I met yesterday was a Mrs Gribling. What is her connection with the school?’

‘I do not know,’ said Mlle Girard, ‘but Mrs Venn will tell you. She knew the lady and greeted her by name, not, I think, Gribling, but I do not recall what it was.’

Frances went to see the headmistress at once. Mrs Venn, who was preparing some papers for a history lesson, seemed to have aged since they had first met. Her face was worn, like old wood that had lost its varnish, and it was an effort for her to maintain her dignity and composure. Frances wondered if she had even eaten breakfast, something Sarah always insisted she do, and took the liberty of sending for tea and buttered toast.

‘Mrs Venn, I believe I may have made some progress towards solving the mystery,’ said Frances, when they were settled more comfortably. ‘What can you tell me about Mrs Gribling?’

‘Why, I do not know anyone of that name,’ said Mrs Venn.

‘But I am given to understand by Mlle Girard that this lady attended the Christmas bazaar where she purchased a handkerchief and that you greeted her and addressed her by name.’

‘How extraordinary,’ said Mrs Venn. ‘Of course there were many ladies there, aunts or parents of former pupils to whom I spoke, but none are called Mrs Gribling.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I do remember the table where Mlle Girard and Mrs Sandcourt were selling fine lace and needlework, and I stopped to admire it. Oh yes, I do recall now, and it was quite a surprise. I encountered Mrs Clare, Caroline’s mother, and spoke to her, and she did purchase a handkerchief, but I hardly recognised her at first, and she seemed quite taken aback that I knew her at all.’

‘Had she changed so much?’ asked Frances.

‘The Clares had been living in very humble conditions, and were dependant on Mr Matthews’ kind charity. Mrs Clare, on the one occasion I had previously met her, was not fashionably dressed and neither was her hair quite so beautifully arranged, or so – dark. But I have a good memory for features and after a moment I realised that it was she. Of course I was careful to make no allusion to her altered circumstances. She did advise me, however, that she had married again, to a person with a business in Soho, but had since been widowed.’ She sipped her tea. ‘I remember now – Soho – that was the location of the printer.’ Sudden comprehension made her almost drop the cup. ‘Was it Mrs Clare who was responsible for the pamphlets?’

‘I am not sure,’ said Frances cautiously. She looked again at the photograph on the wall, the one of the governors presenting the key of the school to Professor and Mrs Venn. When she had first seen it the faces of the girls standing on the steps had seemed identical, unrecognisable, but that was only because she had not then met some of them. She studied the picture again, counting eleven girls, and was able to distinguish the promise of pale beauty that was Selina’s face, the sharp nose and cheekbones of Lydia and one other, the sweet calm features of Flora Quayle. ‘This must be Caroline Clare,’ she said, and Mrs Venn agreed.

‘Was Mrs Gribling, that is, the former Mrs Clare, at the dance display?’ asked Frances, ‘because that is when I think the pamphlets were left here.’

‘No, I have not seen her since the bazaar. She has not been here since, I am quite sure of that.’

Frances, feeling that she was drawing closer to the answer, took a cab to Fulham and called again at Flora and Jonathan Quayle’s home. She knew she went to fetch away the truth but did not know what it was she might be bringing with her. There was a very great risk that she carried unhappiness and discord. The truth, as she was well aware, was not always a source of contentment. It would be best to speak to Flora alone.

She knocked at the door, and a moment later saw a curtain creep carefully aside and a face glowing like an opal within, then, after a pause, the door opened. ‘Miss Doughty,’ said Flora timidly, ‘I had not expected you. But you are very welcome, please do come in.’

Frances entered and Flora conducted her to the parlour, where she busied herself with the kettle.

‘Mrs Quayle,’ began Frances.

‘Yes?’

‘You may know that I have been teaching at the Bayswater Academy, where you were once a pupil.’

Flora stopped what she was doing and her shoulders stiffened, but she did not turn to face Frances and remained silent.

‘In Mrs Venn’s study there is a photograph of the governors handing over the key to the premises, and you are there. I am told you were once called Caroline Clare. Is that correct?’

Flora looked around, and she was clearly afraid. ‘I had forgotten about the picture,’ she said. ‘I suppose I cannot deny what you say. Yes, I was once Caroline Flora Clare.’ Her mouth trembled. ‘Have you told anyone else of this?’

‘No. I assume you would prefer it if I did not?’

‘I must
beg
you not to!’ she said earnestly.

‘Very well, I will respect your wishes, but in return you must answer my questions. Do you agree?’

She nodded.

Frances took out her notebook. ‘First of all I would like to know when you were married.’

Flora began darting about with teacups and saucers and plates and spoons. ‘Oh, my dearest Jonathan and I were united less than a year ago,’ she said lightly.

Frances, concerned that she could not see Flora’s expression, said, ‘Please, do not trouble yourself about refreshments; I would like just to sit with you at the table and talk.’

Flora put the cups down with a nervous clatter, and came to sit down, biting her lips, the knuckles of one hand grinding into the palm of the other.

‘You have not previously been married?’ asked Frances.

‘I have been married only once,’ Flora said.

Frances unfolded the letter and placed it on the table in front of her. ‘Do you know of this letter? Is it in your handwriting?’

Flora glanced at it briefly and looked away. ‘That is not my writing,’ she whispered.

‘Aren’t you curious to see what it says?’ asked Frances. ‘Or do you already know? Perhaps it is your husband’s writing – or your mother’s – it would not be hard to make a comparison.’

‘No, please!’ begged Flora. ‘Please say nothing to Jonathan!’

‘If there is something amiss which concerns Mr Quayle, then that is for you to tell him,’ said Frances. ‘Now, perhaps you would like to talk to me about what is in the letter.’ She held up the paper so that Flora could read it, but the girl stared down at the tabletop.

‘Who wrote it?’ Frances demanded.

‘It is my mother’s hand,’ said Flora quietly, ‘but written at my behest.’

‘And can you tell me why it was written, for the contents cannot be true.’

‘But it
is
true,’ Flora insisted, looking up, emotion colouring her pale cheeks. ‘Roderick Matthews is my husband.’

‘Mr Matthews denies the connection,’ said Frances, ‘and there is no proof that it ever occurred. There is no marriage certificate at Somerset House, and no record in the register of St Mary’s Havenhill. I have spoken to Reverend Farrelly and he is adamant that he did not conduct the service, and Joshua Jenkins could not have been a witness on 6th October because he was dead.’

Flora gave a little gasping intake of breath. ‘It happened!’ she cried. ‘You must believe me! Roderick and I were married as the letter describes. Of
course
he will deny it, and Mary Ann will say whatever he directs her to say. He would not want the Duchess of Kenworth to know that he is another’s lawful husband or that he abused his responsibilities as my guardian. When I wanted my freedom my mother went to Somerset House to get the certificate and found none, so I had to remain content in my present circumstances, but when I heard of the proposed wedding I knew I had to say something, even at the risk to myself.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Frances. ‘What risk is this? What are you afraid of?’

It was a few moments before Flora could whisper ‘My husband.’

‘Do you mean Mr Quayle?’ said Frances.

‘No!’ exclaimed Flora. ‘Jonathan is the best creature in the world and I love him dearly. He is kindness itself. But – and it pains me to admit it – he is not my husband as the law understands it, although he is the husband of my heart and mind. The law has bound me to a monster, a wicked monster – not a man – and I am afraid, Miss Doughty – afraid for my life!’

Frances began to seriously wonder about the sanity of the young woman before her. ‘Perhaps,’ she said soothingly, ‘you could tell me from the beginning how this wedding in Havenhill came about.’

Flora nodded and her agitation subsided a little. ‘I first came to Havenhill soon after Roderick returned from Italy,’ she said. ‘I was eighteen then, and had just left school. He told me I was to be his housekeeper, but in reality,’ she blushed, ‘he attempted to make me his mistress.’

‘Attempted,’ said Frances, leaving the question unasked.

‘Naturally I refused him,’ said Flora quickly, ‘and he did not try to force me. But then he asked me to be his wife. I have no fortune, Miss Doughty, and – so I thought at the time – no prospect of marriage. He said that he would secure a fortune for me in his will and also – and please believe me this was what decided me – he promised to ensure that my mother was never free from want. His only condition was that as I was not of full age, and he was my guardian, the wedding must be kept a close secret from all except those immediately involved, and even those few would be trusted persons who would be sworn to secrecy. I did not love him but, to my eternal regret, I consented.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘It did not occur to me that he would carry out his purpose so soon. Barely a week later, I was awoken very early one morning by Mary Ann Dunn, the maid.’

‘The morning of the 6th of October?’ asked Frances.

‘Yes. I cannot say what time it was, only that it was dark. She said that I was to be married to her master at once and helped me to dress. It felt so very strange, as if I was still asleep and dreaming. We walked down to Havenhill, with a lamp to light us. There was no sound anywhere. It was dark in the church, but Roderick was there and Joshua and the clergyman. And so we were married.’

‘But Joshua Jenkins was a sick man,’ said Frances, ‘he could not stir from his bed. Reverend Farrelly was called to him that same morning and sat with him until he died. There is no mistake; he recorded the date in the register.’

‘Joshua Jenkins was there,’ Flora insisted. ‘I can only say what I saw.’

‘You knew that he was a dying man?’

‘I knew that he was very ill. When I saw him sitting in a pew, wrapped in a great cloak against the chill, I assumed that he had rallied. And of course he was a person in whom Roderick placed a very great trust. It seemed quite natural that he would be there.’

‘Did you sign the register?’ asked Frances.

‘I – I’m not sure. There was a paper, and I signed it, but it was too dark to see what it was.’

‘And the witnesses signed too?’

‘I don’t know. I couldn’t see.’

‘But there is no record of the marriage,’ said Frances. ‘I have seen the register for myself. How do you explain that?’

Flora shook her head. ‘I can only imagine that Roderick used his influence to ensure that it went unrecorded.’

‘Are you suggesting,’ said Frances, with considerable astonishment, ‘that Mr Matthews either induced or even bribed Reverend Farrelly to conduct a secret wedding in the middle of the night, not to enter the event in the parish records, and then to see that no certificate was ever registered with Somerset House? I am not sure but that may be a criminal offence.’