The Trial of Marie Montrecourt (2 page)

“You do keep cropping up, don’t you?”

She glanced behind her, startled by the unexpected voice. It was the man who had raised his hat to her in Ogden’s doorway. Had he been following her?

“You look lost,” he said. “Can I help?”

“No. No, thank you.”

The man interpreted her response as an invitation to join her, however, and fell into step by her side. Alarmed, she took the first turning right and found herself in a dark alleyway. It was deserted.

She started to walk faster. Was he still following? She could hear footsteps. Was it him? She glanced around and saw a figure, but couldn’t see who it was. The footsteps were getting closer. She quickened her pace, her heart beating painfully. There was a shop straight ahead. Increasing her speed until she was almost running, she shot through the shop door with little thought for dignity – her hat was awry and her coat was slipping from her shoulders. Weak with relief, she collapsed against some shelving behind her.

“Can I help you?”

The brisk query, which had come so unexpectedly out of the gloom, startled her. Marie turned around to find a woman looking at her enquiringly. She was wearing a plain white blouse with leg of mutton sleeves and a severely cut black skirt. Marie knew she was being rude, but she couldn’t help staring at the woman’s hair. It was extremely short. It wasn’t roughly cut like the nuns’ hair but had been tailored into the nape of the neck like a man’s. Her expression was severe and unwelcoming.

“I… I just…” Marie glanced around her. What kind of place was this? There were ancient looking prints on the walls and shelf upon shelf of old books. It must be a bookshop.

The woman raised a quizzical eyebrow. “The cat appears to have got your tongue.”

Marie made some attempt to straighten her hat and regain her composure. “No. Not at all. I didn’t know; I didn’t realise. I came…” She was beginning to find the woman’s steady gaze unnerving.

“You’re very welcome to just look around, you know.” An unexpected smile softened the woman’s face, making it a great deal less severe. Her tone was abrupt, but her voice was low and that counteracted its harshness. “I’m Daphne Senior. I own the shop.” She held out her hand.

“Marie Montrecourt.” The woman’s handshake was firm and businesslike.

“So, got your breath back yet? What brought you in? You’re very young to be wandering around on your own.”

“I’m eighteen,” said Marie, taking offence.

Daphne made a mock gesture of apology. “I didn’t realise.”

“And I just took shelter in here.”

“Really? Shelter from the snow?” The woman seemed to be teasing her. “You catapulted in here as though all the hounds of Hell were after you.”

“I was being followed. By a man.”

Daphne crossed swiftly to the door and peered out. “Can’t see anyone. Whoever it was, he appears to have thought better of coming in here after you.” She closed the door and returned to Marie. “So, Montrecourt – that’s a French name, isn’t it? And if I’m not mistaken there’s the slightest hint of an accent.”

“I’m told my English is very good.” The woman was still regarding her quizzically. “I think I must go.”

“No, Marie Montrecourt, I won’t let you go. You’re brightening up an extremely dull day for me. I won’t let you just slip away. After all this excitement, you need a cup of tea. The English remedy for everything. And then you can tell me more about yourself.”

“Oh no, really…” Marie had no wish to be cross-examined.

“I insist. Follow me.” It was a command, not a request, so Marie obeyed as Daphne led the way into a small backroom that was separated from the shop by a curtain.

By the time the second cup of tea had been poured, the atmosphere between the two women had become much more relaxed. Daphne had done most of the talking and Marie was astonished by the breadth of her knowledge about, what seemed like, everything.

“Do you smoke?”

Marie realised with a shock that she was being offered a cigarette. “My goodness! No. No, thank you.” She’d never seen a woman smoke before. Fascinated, she watched as Daphne placed the cigarette in an amber holder. After lighting it, she blew out a perfect smoke ring.

“You look like one of Mesmer’s patients. Quite transfixed,” said Daphne with a laugh and she inhaled deeply again.

Marie, embarrassed to appear so naive, stood up. “I think I’d better go.”

“Have I upset you? I’m sorry.” Daphne quickly stubbed out the cigarette in her saucer. “It’s childish of me, but I can’t resist shocking people. Stay a little longer. I’d rather enjoy your company than smoke a cigarette, believe me. It’s surely better sitting in here with me than walking the streets of Harrogate in the snow?” Marie hesitated. “I have an idea. Instead of rushing off, why don’t you look around the shop? I have books on everything and anything. You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you? Won’t say another word, I promise.”

“I haven’t… I didn’t bring any money with me.” Marie had only intended to walk around the town and not go into any of the shops. Besides, she had no money of her own.

“Choose any book you like. Call in another day to pay me. In fact, choose two books. I’m feeling generous.”

The sight of so many books had the same effect on Marie that a casket of jewels would have on a thief. She couldn’t resist them, and she could always ask Mr Pickard if he would pay Miss Senior for them later. He had said there was a small sum set aside in the allowance for necessities. Surely he would agree that those necessities included books. She wandered along the shelves, pulling out novels, books of poetry, biographies. Two books! Only two!

The shop bell clattered and Marie turned to see two young women enter arm in arm. They were coarse-featured and loud-voiced, with shawls over their heads and clogs on their feet. They were hardly dressed for the cold. She watched them curiously, as they seemed completely out of place. Daphne appeared to know them. She crossed over to them and words were exchanged between the three of them in whispers. Daphne then glanced towards Marie and again said something to the women that Marie couldn’t hear. Whatever it was, it prompted them to disappear into the back of the shop.

Daphne walked over to her. “I need to close now. Found anything you like yet?”

Marie held out a book of poems by the Romantics and a short history of Harrogate. It was obvious that she was being dismissed because there was no comment on her choice from Daphne and the books were swiftly turned into a parcel.

“Now, tell me where you’re staying, Marie Montrecourt, and I’ll give you directions on how to get back there.”

“Devonshire Place.”

“That’s not very far away at all – almost around the corner. Five minutes is all it should take.” She quickly scribbled down directions and almost bundled Marie out into the snow, turning the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’ and locking the door.

Curiosity overcame Marie and she couldn’t help glancing back. Through the glass panel, she saw the two women emerge from the back of the shop. Daphne crossed over to them and embraced them both warmly. Their heads drew close together and the trio seemed locked in a deep conversation. But then the snow began to fall heavily again and curtained them from view.

As Marie entered Devonshire Place, she almost bumped into a man who was standing in the hallway. He was handing his damp overcoat to the Minton’s housekeeper and stared at her as she passed. She then saw Geoffrey Minton come out of the parlour to greet the man, before she scurried up the stairs, anxious to avoid any awkward questions as to where she had been.

When she reached the door to her room, she turned and saw that the man was still staring after her. For a moment, she was silhouetted in the doorway. Then she closed the door, shutting out the light and leaving only darkness behind.

Nothing would have dragged Evelyn Harringdon back to the country today, except his need to settle some of his more pressing gambling debts. He was therefore left with no option but to travel to the family home outside London, throw himself on his father’s mercy and endure the contempt he knew would rain down on him. Eventually, only once he’d been made to crawl, his father would give him the money he so needed. The family name must not be sullied by scandal.

Evelyn acknowledged that his feelings towards his father were complex. He admired him and he was in awe of him, but he didn’t
love
him. What he found inexplicable then was that, despite everything, he still craved his approval. He was twenty-five years old and should have grown out of that by now. His father was, and always had been, a cold, unemotional man who claimed the moral high ground and defended it with zeal. Evelyn had struggled to please him for years, even when it had become obvious he’d never succeed. So, instead, he had created a new life for himself in London where he had become a prominent member of the fashionable set. They valued him for his charm and his skill at the gambling tables. At home, he was viewed as a failure.

As he turned his motor car into the drive of Ardington Hall, the house came into sight through the snow-covered birch trees and he was again struck by its beauty. The creamy Cotswold stone suddenly turned gold as it was lit by an unexpected burst of winter sunlight. The house had been a gift to the Harringdon family from a grateful William of Orange, but no one was very clear what exactly the family had done to deserve it. The
sprawling mansion, with its graceful arches and soaring towers, had been gratefully received.

The gift had also included acres of rolling Cotswold countryside. Evelyn’s mother ran the land with such efficiency that his father was able to spend most of his time in London carrying out his duties in the House of Lords. However, over the last few weeks, he’d been absent from the Lords.

Evelyn swung the bright blue Renault in a wide circle and pulled up at the stone steps that swept in an arc to the front door. He wondered why Wilson hadn’t come out to greet him. He then noticed that the shutters were still closed even though it was already midday. Once out of the car, he walked up the steps and pushed open the heavy front door. It took him some time to adjust to the darkness of the hallway.

“Wilson?”

He looked around for the butler. He then heard a flurry of movement upstairs, followed by voices. One of these he recognised as belonging to his mother, but the other voices were male and unfamiliar. He took the stairs two at a time and realised they were coming from his father’s bedroom. He knocked on the door.

“Mother? Father?”

There was a sharp intake of breath and then silence. After some time, his mother finally spoke behind the door: “You weren’t expected, Evie.”

“No. I wanted to surprise you.” He had obviously managed to do that.

She still didn’t open the door. “Go downstairs, Evelyn. I’ll join you in the blue drawing room.”

He frowned. Her voice sounded strained. “Is everything all right?”

“I’ll join you in the drawing room,” she repeated.

He did as he was told and poured himself a brandy. He heard the front door open. Curiously, he crossed to the window that overlooked the drive. He saw his mother on the steps, talking to a man with his back to the window. He was a large man and wore a greatcoat to protect him from the cold. He turned, and Evelyn caught a glimpse of the round circle of his face that was set on the even larger circle of his body – a child’s representation of a figure. One of the servants was helping him into a carriage. As it pulled away, his mother turned and saw that he’d been observing them. She headed inside.

He wasn’t particularly close to his mother. She once told him she could never forgive him for
his reluctance to emerge into the world. Harriet, his younger sibling, had been much more amenable, and her birth had been far less traumatic.

As she entered the drawing room, she closed the door behind her. “I’m sorry, Evie. You’ve arrived at a very distressing time. There is no easy way to tell you this, so I will simply come to the point.” She seemed to be struggling with her emotions, which was something Evelyn had rarely witnessed. “I’m sorry to inform you that your father is dying.”

“Good God.” His exclamation was involuntary and his mother chose to ignore it. He’d always thought of his father as indestructible. “I suppose I should go to him.” He started towards the hall.

“No.” Her voice stopped him. “No, Evie. He’s dying of typhoid. It’s highly contagious. Dr Oliver is with him. On his instructions no one else is to be allowed into the room. He was very clear about it.”

“You were in there, Mother, and that gentleman who left in such a hurry. Who was he?”

She ignored his question. “I’m his wife, Evie. It’s my duty to be with him. I am nursing him with the doctor’s help. No one else needs to take the risk.”

“I’m his son. I have a duty to him, too.”

His only son and heir. It would be foolish to risk the contagion. I would ask you to accept my decision – it is your father’s, too, of course.”

Evelyn nodded his head obediently and she swept out of the room. There was a discreet knock on the door and the butler, Wilson, entered. He’d been with the family ever since Evelyn could remember. He looked distressed and weary.

“Can I get you something, sir? I apologise for not being in the hall when you arrived.”

Evelyn waved aside his apology. “Is it serious with my father?”

“It seems so, sir.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Not since he was taken ill. Can I get you something, sir?” he repeated.

“No. No, thank you, but perhaps you can ask one of the servants to collect my case from the motor car. I’ll go up to my room.”

The eyes of his ancestors watched impassively from their carved frames as he climbed past them to the first floor. He heard the murmur of voices from his father’s room again. This time, he knew it was Dr Oliver who was in there with his mother. Suddenly, someone else spoke.

“He is watching. Bury – deep…”

Surely that couldn’t be his father? The voice was too querulous – too feeble.

Evelyn hesitated outside the door of the bedroom, then quietly tried the handle. It was locked. He slipped into the antechamber next to it, but the connecting door to the bedroom was also locked. Uncertain what to do next, he glanced around. Something caught his attention, something out of place. He stood up and walked to the sofa. One of his father’s shoes was lying abandoned on the floor, just the one. One single, solitary shoe – black and highly polished, with the lace neatly tied. His father was such a meticulous man. It was absurd, but the sight of it brought Evelyn close to tears.

His father had begun speaking again. It was painful to listen to. “Montre…” What was he struggling to say? Silence fell.

After a moment, the door from the bedroom was unlocked and his mother emerged into the antechamber looking pale and worn. “It’s over. He died in peace. You can see him now. Dr Oliver has said not to touch him or to go too close.” She followed her son back into the room.

It was dark, so dark that Evelyn could barely see his father. What he did see, however, shocked him. The face that had inspired a generation had, in death, collapsed into the lined face of a defenceless old man. The nation’s hero, whose approval
he
had longed for, was now nothing more than an empty shell, and his approval would never be won.

On the table beside the bed, there was a letter. It was in his father’s hand. He could just make out a name. Montrecourt, was it? Was that what his father had been trying to say – the name Montrecourt?

He glanced at Dr Oliver. “Was he in pain?”

“I increased his intake of morphine,” replied the doctor.

“He had been on it before?”

“Ever since he was wounded at Majuba.”

Evelyn glanced back at his father. He hadn’t realised. He frowned – something was missing from the table by the bedside. The letter he’d just seen wasn’t there anymore. He looked enquiringly at his mother, but her face was expressionless.

“I suggest you go to your room, Evie, and tidy up after your journey,” she said. “Dinner will be served at the usual time. I’m afraid you will be on your own. I have no appetite.”

“No, neither have I,” said Evelyn. She nodded and left. He turned to Dr Oliver. “Was there a letter on the table beside my father’s bed?”

Dr Oliver looked nonplussed. “I’m so sorry, I have no idea.”

“It’s not important.”

With one last glance towards his father, Evelyn left the room.