The Trial of Marie Montrecourt (18 page)

She laughed again. “Tell me what you did last week. Apart from your work in the House of Commons, I mean.
I’d like to know.”

“Let me see. I went to the West End to some dreadful musical comedy. Shall I tell you about the show?” She nodded enthusiastically. “It was at the Gaiety. Absolutely awful. Won’t run long. Gabriel Ray was the star.”

They settled on a bench beside Waterloo Lake, built by soldiers returning from the Napoleonic Wars. It was used as a boating lake but as it was out of season, there was no sign of the launch that usually ploughed across the huge expanse of water. As Evelyn began to tell her the outlandish plot of the musical, Marie shut her parasol, resting it against the bench between them. When he reached the end of the tortuous plot, he waited for her to comment. She said nothing.

“Have I been talking too much? You look a little tired.” He was regarding her with concern.

“No,” she said quickly. “I love to listen to you. You lead such an interesting life in such a different world.”

“Is everything all right with you? The move and selling the house – are there any problems?”

He was as perceptive as she’d feared. “No, of course not,” she said lightly. “Stanley just wants to build up a new business, that’s all.”

She was relieved to see she’d managed to reassure him. They sat side by side on the bench, watching the ripples on the lake and the ducks foraging for food. She wondered if this was the moment to ask him for the favour? Would he be angry? Should she risk it? But if he
could
find Father Connor, discover something more about her past – anything, no matter how small – it might give her the strength to face whatever lay ahead of her.

“Evelyn, I have a favour to ask of you.”

“Anything that it’s within my power to do,” he said instantly.

She took a deep breath. “When you wrote to me, your letter said you were going to France? Please don’t be angry with me, but, after your first visit to The Laurels, when you left Father Connor’s letter with me, I replied to it.”

She couldn’t tell from the expression on his face whether he was angry or not, but she’d gone too far to stop now.

“I only asked him if he could tell me anything at all about my mother and father. Time passed and I’d given up any hope of a reply, but then I received a letter from the Abbot in Pretoria. He said that Father Connor had left for France. He wanted to end his days in the Abbey of Saint Foy in Conques. I decided not to do anything further about it, but when you mentioned going to France… . I don’t know if Father Connor is still alive, but when you’re in France, and if you have the time, would you be able to make some enquiries for me? If he is alive, and you have a moment to visit him, you could ask him if he remembers anything else about my parents – anything at all. Would you do that? It would mean so much to me.”

He was very quiet. The sun had gone in now and the day had grown suddenly cold. It was getting dark. “I shouldn’t have asked you.” She was annoyed with herself for troubling him. “It’s getting late. I must go home.”

She reached for her parasol, just as Evelyn reached out to pass it to her. Their hands touched and he enfolded her hand in his own. “I will make those enquiries for you, if I can.”

“Thank you.”

She barely noticed how close they were until he kissed her gently on the lips. She broke away in confusion and stood up.

“I’m sorry.” Her face was flushed.

He was immediately on his feet beside her. “No, the fault was mine, Marie. My mistake, an error of judgement – it won’t happen again.”

“No, of course not.” She took her lead from him. “As you say, an error of judgement. I should go home now.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, formally.

They began retracing their steps and conversation was nonexistent as they waited for the tram. They sat side by side like strangers as it rattled through the streets to the Town Hall. When they reached their stop, he helped her to alight and, in the shadow of the huge lions that guarded the Town Hall steps, she held out her hand to him.

“Thank you, Evelyn, but please don’t worry about finding Father Connor. I shouldn’t have troubled you.”

He took her hand to shake it, but he didn’t let it go. “A promise is a promise. If I find him, I will talk to him. I will either write or visit you.”

Slowly, she withdrew her hand. There was so much she couldn’t say. “A letter will be enough, if you have the time. I have enjoyed today. I will always remember it.”

“Do you forgive me?” he asked anxiously.

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

He watched her walk away from him, her skirts trailing in the dust of the pavement. He was furious with himself for losing control. He had ruined everything. It was just that she had seemed so terribly sad. It was why he’d agreed to find Father Connor for her if he could, although every instinct screamed out that he would be a fool to try. He doubted the priest could tell him anything he could share with her. Still, he had promised her now and he would call on him if he could. He would then decide what to do about Marie.

*

“Where have you been?”

Stanley’s voice, coming out of the darkness of the parlour so unexpectedly, startled her. She had assumed he would be at work for at least another hour. She hoped the darkness hid the guilt he would read in her face.

“I didn’t think you’d be home from the shop yet.”

She took off her coat as Stanley lit the paraffin lamp on the table by his side. He held it up to look at her. “Where have you been?” he repeated.

“I went walking.”

“You’re looking very smart just to go for a walk. Where did you go?”

“I took the tram to Roundhay Park. I needed air.”

He stood up. She saw with a sinking feeling that his face had a yellowish tinge and his pupils were dilated. He’d obviously been indulging in his habit. It would be sensible to get out of the room as soon as she could. He hadn’t finished with her yet, though.

“You went out at noon. I know because I came home early and I saw you leaving Garibaldi Street. It’s now six o’clock. You’ve been walking all this time?”

“Yes.”

She turned to go again, but he placed himself between her and the door. “Look what I fell across.”

He was brandishing a bundle of letters. She recognised them instantly. They were Evelyn’s letters. For a moment, she couldn’t speak. Then she found enough self-control to say: “Those are mine. How did you get them?”

“I discovered them.”

“They were in my room. What were you doing in my room?”

He ignored her question. “So, who is he – this Evelyn?”

He had read the letters then. She tried to remember what Evelyn had written. She was certain they contained nothing that Stanley could use against her.

“Well?” he demanded.

“He’s a family friend.”

“You have no family except me.”

She glanced away without replying, not wanting to antagonise him. She just wanted this to be over.

“You meet this ‘family friend’ in secret, do you? Without telling me anything about him?” He waved the letters in her face. “What kind of a ‘friend’ does that make him?”

“If you’ve read the letters, you’ll know he called to thank me because my parents saved his father’s life during the first war against the Boers. He’d only just found out about it and he was in the area…”

“But you’ve been meeting him ever since, behind my back. What do you think that would look like to people – a wife meeting another man in secret? And all these letters and all these meetings?”

“He’s an honourable man, Stanley.” She backed away as he made a move towards her. “He’s Sir Evelyn Harringdon.” She brandished his name like a shield for protection.

“I know who he is. I’m not such a fool as you think.” She was flat against the wall now. “Sir Evelyn Harringdon, MP for Fallsworth – with a reputation and a career to lose if anyone finds out about these letters, along with a statement from the deceived husband.”

Evelyn must not be dragged into a scandal. “Those letters contain nothing to my shame, nor to his. They’re the kind any friend would write.”

“The difference being that this ‘friend’ is a man and you kept meeting him in secret. Wouldn’t people be interested to know that?”

“Give them to me.” She tried to snatch the letters from him, but he hit her across the face with them, banging her head against the wall. “Please Stanley, give them back to me.” She wasn’t too proud to beg. Then, she remembered something he didn’t know. It would mean breaking her word to Evelyn, but it was either that or staying silent and letting him be ruined. “You don’t understand, Stanley – his father, Sir Gordon, was our benefactor. He provided the money when we married.”

“What?”

The news threw him as she had hoped it would. “So you see, Stanley, we’ve had nothing but kindness from Sir Evelyn and his family. Now Sir Gordon is dead and his son simply wanted to tell me. To offer help if we should ever need it.”

Instead of pacifying him, it infuriated him even more. “So why wasn’t I told? Why didn’t father and son make themselves known to me, eh?”

For a moment, she was thrown. She’d never questioned Evelyn’s explanation, but perhaps it did sound odd. “Sir Gordon didn’t want thanks.”

“Rubbish. If the father bought you a husband because your mother saved his life, then the debt was paid. What does the
son
think he’s bought? What right does
he
claim? What money did he pay you?”

“Nothing.” She had to stand up to him. “Until now, Stanley, I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me. I’ve told lies for you to Dr Hornby and I’ve concealed your use of chloroform from everybody – but even if it ruins us both, God help me, I will speak out if you try to use those letters against him.”

He lunged forward and gathered the collar of her dress in his hands, twisting it tightly around her throat until the material bit into her flesh. He was choking her, she couldn’t breathe.

“The workhouse, is that where you want to end up? Because that’s what will follow if you tell anyone.”

She was fast losing consciousness. Then, without warning, his mood suddenly changed. He let go of her dress, leaving her collapsed against the wall, gasping for air.

“Of course, I might be persuaded not to use them.” She could smell the staleness on his breath as he leant over her. “The sweet liquid – I need more of it. The bottle is empty. I need it and I’m not strong enough to make the journey to my provider in Ilkley. Get it for me, go tomorrow, and I’ll keep quiet about these letters.”

She barely hesitated. If that’s what it would take to protect Evelyn, it was a small price to pay. She held out her hand. “Very well, but give me the letters.”

“They’ll stay with me until you’ve done what I ask. Then, I’ll destroy them.”

She looked at him with contempt. “Where do I get this chloroform?”

He returned to his armchair, his energy suddenly spent. “His name is Johnny Johnson; he’s got a chemist shop in Ilkley. I’ll give you the address and the directions.”

She watched him slump back in his chair and wondered if anyone could despise a man as much as she despised her husband.

Evelyn could think of nothing worse than to be in Paris on a bright winter’s day and have to spend it sitting in an over-decorated room on the Quai d’Orsay discussing international trade. He felt he had little to contribute to the proceedings and he was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate. He had promised Marie that he would try to contact the priest. He would keep his promise, but the more he thought about it, the more he regretted it. The Montrecourt business kept dragging him back to a past from which he wanted to walk away.

He became aware that Lord Renfrew was holding out his hand for something and was regarding him with a quizzical expression. “Do we inhabit the same world, Evelyn? The document please, for the third time of asking.”

“I’m sorry.” Evelyn swiftly searched through the papers in front of him until he found the relevant document. As the voices droned on again, Evelyn’s mind drifted back to his last meeting with Marie. He was convinced something was wrong with her.

“Well, that closes the business for today.” Renfrew was addressing him again. “As I told you, Evelyn, I have no need of your services for a few days. The time is yours to do with what you will.”

“Thank you.” It was his intention to use the time to visit the Abbey of Saint Foy.

At dinner that evening, in Bertrand’s Restaurant in the Rue de Rivoli, he asked his friends for the best route to Conques from Paris. Comte Antoine de Figeac immediately offered to drive him there himself. His family had a chateau nearby.

He waved aside Evelyn’s protests. “It’s no trouble. I have family business to see to, anyway. And I’ll drive you back again the following day.”

The next morning they set off early. The journey was a pleasant one and Antoine dropped Evelyn in the centre of town. “Meet you here later this evening,” he said. “Around six?” He drove off, leaving behind a cloud of exhaust smoke.

Conques was a medieval walled village on the wooded slopes of a steep gorge that rose from the Dourdou, a tributary of the River Lot. It was a major staging post for pilgrims en route to Santiago de Compostela and Evelyn could see that their feet had worn smooth the narrow, cobbled streets and stairways over the centuries.

The gothic Abbey of Saint Foy dominated the village. It was packed with the faithful, but thanks to the liberal use of Antoine’s name, he was not kept waiting. Almost immediately, he was ushered through the crowds into the presence of one of the Premonstratensian monks who lived there.

“How can I help you?” Although the man’s voice was quiet, it resonated around the domed chamber.

Evelyn’s French was fluent and he had no difficulty in communicating the fact that he had travelled from England and was trying to trace a Father Connor who, he believed, might have taken up residence there.

“Yes,” the monk replied. Evelyn had half hoped the answer would be no. “He’s a very old man, but a visit with him is possible as long as you don’t tire him. Follow me.”

They walked through twisting corridors that seemed to go on forever, but at last the monk stopped and knocked on a door. When a frail voice called out in French to enter, he opened it and indicated for Evelyn to go in. There was a narrow window in the wall that let in a tiny shaft of light – just enough for Evelyn to make out what looked like a white mound of sheets on a stone bench. The mound moved and he saw a face.

“A visitor for you, from England,” the canon said, and left them together.

Evelyn wasn’t sure how to begin. “I hope I don’t disturb you?”

“Nothing disturbs me these days,” the old man replied, wiping his eyes. They looked sore and were constantly watering.

The cell was freezing, the warmth of Evelyn’s breath created a cloud as it struck the air. He was grateful for the thickness of his coat. “Father Connor, isn’t it?” The old man nodded. “I am grateful to you for seeing me.”

“English, in English.” He was so frail that his voice was a mere whisper. “I don’t get the chance to speak English so much these days.”

“Of course.” The old man’s face was blue with cold and Evelyn wondered how he had managed to survive so long in such harsh conditions. “I came to see if you can help a friend of mine.”

The old man indicated for Evelyn to sit on the stone bench beside him, which he did. “I’ve called to see you on behalf of a young woman, Marie Montrecourt.” He paused, but there was no reaction from the priest. “Well, she’s married now. Her name is Marie Minton, but I believe you knew her as Marie Montrecourt?”

“No. I never knew her,” the old man said.

Evelyn wondered if the old man’s memory was going. “But you sent a letter to her.”

“Ah yes, but it’s the girl’s mother I knew. A sad little creature.”

“Her name was Hortense, I believe?”

“You’ve come all this way to ask me the mother’s name?”

“No. I’m trying to find out…” He didn’t finish because the priest had started talking again, obviously unaware that Evelyn was in mid-sentence.

“Sad little creature,” he repeated. “I met her when I was in the Transvaal during that terrible war. I remember the heat, the red dust, the flies. I worked out there as a missionary with the natives. Then, my superiors summoned me back to France. No reason given; no thanks for all the work I’d done; no suggestion of how I should get home, of course.”

The memory seemed to amuse him because he smiled, then fell silent. The silence lasted so long that Evelyn wondered if the old man had fallen asleep. Perhaps his visit was proving too much for him.

“I found a way home, though, in the end.” Evelyn realised the priest had simply lost himself in the past. “I heard there were some injured British troupers in a camp nearby. I forget its name now. They were being taken to a hospital in the Port of Durban. I found my way to their camp and I begged a lift. I hoped to find a ship to take me to France.”

“Was it in Durban you met Hortense Montrecourt?”

“What?” Evelyn repeated his question slowly and loudly. “No, no. In the camp; she was flitting like a lost soul through the tents. She was carrying a child.”

“She had her daughter with her?” The old man was surely growing confused. Marie had said she was born in France.

“No, she was
with
child. That was very plain to see. She seemed close to birth. It was the day Sir Gordon Harringdon stumbled into the camp looking like a dead man. After Majuba, everybody thought he
was
dead. They kept saying it was a miracle that he was alive.” He shook his head. “That’s a word cheapened by much over use. He walked into the camp leaning on the arm of a young woman. That was my first sight of Hortense. I heard them all saying they thought he’d been killed. When they saw he was still alive, rumours started – people speculating what had happened to him after the battle. Some rumours said he’d been taken prisoner, escaped, and fought his way back through hostile territory – but the war had ended by then, so I don’t know the truth of it. A proud example of the British spirit that will not acknowledge defeat, that’s what they were all saying in the camp – officers and men alike.”

“I can remember the crowds waiting to welcome him home,” murmured Evelyn.

“What the British did over there was nothing to boast about. There’s nothing to be proud of in thieves and murderers burning crops, destroying families and abusing women. Both sides were as bad as each other – Boer and British. It was the Africans who suffered, as always.” The old man sank back into silence again.

He must get to the reason for his visit quickly or the old priest would be too exhausted to continue. “Can you tell me anything about the baby’s mother? For example, what did she look like?” If he could tell Marie that, it would at least be something.

“I remember…” The old priest paused for a long time. “Sir Gordon said Hortense was married to a French prospector. Henri Montrecourt, I think his name was.”

“Montrecourt was a prospector, yes.” Evelyn didn’t want to discuss Henri. “About Hortense – can you tell me anything?”

“The man was killed helping Sir Gordon escape a Boer patrol. Sir Gordon said he’d brought his wife back with him to the camp out of gratitude, because she wanted to go to France for the birth of her baby.”

“Yes.” He wanted to move the priest away from events at the farm. “Do you remember what Hortense looked like?” he repeated, but the priest was obviously determined to tell his story in his own way.

“The girl had no family left in Africa. No family in France either, as it turned out, but maybe it seemed to her a safer place to be. She travelled to France in my company. I’m still amazed that she survived the journey as she was very sickly. I took her to the Convent of Our Lady – the English Convent. My cousin, Sister Grace, was one of the nuns there and that’s where she had her child.”

“The child that was Marie,” prompted Evelyn.

“I prayed for the soul of Hortense who died giving birth to her, and I still pray for the soul of the little baby who came into this life so cursed.”

“Cursed?” Evelyn was surpised by his choice of words. “Why was the child cursed?”

“Because her mother died of syphilis and the baby was tainted by it. It’s a miracle it lived.”

Evelyn’s face slowly drained of colour. “Syphilis?”

Unaware of the shock he’d just delivered, the priest continued. “Hortense was so young when she died and she had so very little to show for her life. I remember,” his face softened, “she had this lump of rock – just a lump of rock. She called it her gold and her treasure. She would hold it up to the light to see it glisten. Fool’s gold, I assumed it was. And she had a button that she clutched tightly in her fist, like a talisman. They had to prise it out of her hand after she died.”

Evelyn was still trying to absorb what he’d been told. “Hortense had syphilis? How can you be sure?”

“I’d been around enough army camps to recognise the disease. Poor Hortense had led a dissolute life. She was forced by the husband to sleep with anyone who would pay for her. She told me he was penniless and he used her to get money from the miners.”

Evelyn couldn’t remain seated. The old man put out a comforting hand.

“You mustn’t let her fate disturb you. Hortense was not alone when she died. I was with her. I took her final confession. I gave her absolution. I know the terrible things she did and I asked God to forgive her for them.”

All Evelyn could think about was Marie. Thank God she knew nothing about the dreadful life her mother had led.

Father Connor leant towards Evelyn. “Tell Marie Montrecourt that her mother begged me to write to the father of her child and I did.”

“But surely Montrecourt was already dead when Hortense was in France?” Perhaps the old man had become muddled? His memory had failed him? Perhaps none of this was true.

The priest ignored Evelyn. “I wrote to him in God’s name, telling him about his daughter. Tell Marie he did not turn his back on her completely. It may give her some comfort. Tell her he gave her the only thing he was capable of giving – his money. Reverend Mother told me that it was he who paid for the child to be raised at the Convent of Our Lady; he supported her throughout her life.”

Evelyn slowly sank down on the stone bench.

“Maybe he still does support her,” continued the priest, remaining lost in his own world. “Although it’s my belief the syphilis will have killed him too by now.” Then he looked at Evelyn and registered for the first time the impact of his words. Assuming it was distress for his friend, he added comfortingly: “Tell Marie Montrecourt that in his own way, her father did care for her. I hope that will bring her peace.”

“Her father… was it…” Evelyn’s whisper was barely audible. “Was it Sir Gordon Harringdon? When she was dying, is that the name Hortense said to you?”

Father Connor crossed himself. “That must remain known only to God and her confessor,” he said.

But Evelyn didn’t need the priest to confirm what he already knew.

*

The night after agreeing to buy the chloroform for Stanley, Marie barely slept. A confusion of thoughts and fears swirled around in her head. When the chloroform
did
kill Stanley, then his addiction would surely become public knowledge. What would happen to her then? How would she live? Even if she pleaded ignorance about its use, she would still be ostracised by decent people. As the sun rose, she wearily climbed out of her bed. There was something else she had been thinking about. Evelyn was still vulnerable. He must never make contact with her again – not even by letter. He must not rush to help her. They must become strangers. She must not only close the door on their friendship, but lock it too – for Evelyn’s sake. She took out paper, pen and ink and began to write.

Dear Evelyn, although it was a great pleasure to see you on your last visit, I fear you may have misconstrued our friendship, which I am willing to accept was probably my fault. I have too much respect for my husband to allow the mistake to go uncorrected. Therefore, I think it best to be plain and say that, although I am grateful for your kindness, my feelings go no further than that. I think it advisable, therefore, that we no longer meet nor communicate in any way. Out of respect for me and for my husband, I would ask you to agree with my request. Please do not reply to this letter, no matter what news you have for me from France. Your friend as always, Marie Minton.

She blotted it carefully and re-read it, then sealed it and placed it on her dressing table. She would post it on her way to Ilkley.

She glanced in the mirror. There was a livid wheal on her neck left by Stanley’s attack on her yesterday. She took a scarf from a drawer and wound it in such a way as to conceal it.

Stanley was sitting up in bed when she entered his room. He looked dreadful. “I need money for the chloroform,” was all she said.

“Get me a bottle of brandy as well.” He handed the money over. As she took it, he held on to her wrist. “No more protests about being innocent?” he mocked. “No more whining, ‘Where are the letters, Stanley?’”

She shook herself free. She knew where they were – underneath Stanley’s mattress.

As she went down the stairs to the hall, the Gilpin’s door opened and Mrs Gilpin popped her head through.