The Trial of Marie Montrecourt (30 page)

*

Marie had no idea how long she’d been waiting in this cell underneath the court. She had no way of knowing. There were no chimes to be heard through these thick walls. All she did know was that this waiting was unbearable.

Sir Herbert was suffering the same agonies as he paced the marble corridor outside the courtroom. There should have been a verdict by now. Five hours had passed since the court had reconvened for the day. Lawler, his junior counsel, found him sitting on one of the steps outside the Town Hall, doing battle with despair.

“They’re coming back, sir. They’ve reached a decision.”

Everywhere were running footsteps as people scurried back to court, determined to be present when the verdict was given. Sir Herbert quickly took his place. As Marie entered, supported on both sides by wardresses, he rose and gave her a slight bow, and she was grateful for the courtesy. The wardresses sat either side of her, two doctors and a chaplain stood behind. The jury filed in and the judge took his place as silence fell.

The clerk of the court rose. “Gentlemen, have you agreed upon your verdict?”

The foreman replied: “We have.”

“Do you find the prisoner, Marie Minton, guilty or not guilty?”

The foreman paused. Everyone leant forward. Marie didn’t breathe.

“We’ve considered the evidence and we do not think there is sufficient proof to show how, or by whom, the chloroform was administered.”

“Then you say the prisoner is not guilty?”

“Not guilty.”

There were gasps from those who were convinced she was guilty. Cheers from the few who believed her to be innocent. Daphne sank back in relief as the women of the WSPU stood on the benches waving handkerchiefs.

Marie collapsed in tears. She couldn’t take it in. Sir Herbert Manners crossed to her, his hand outstretched. She took it in a daze and muttered: “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”

She caught sight of Geoffrey Minton sitting in the well of the court, the crowd milling around him. He was in shock; his face was white. She saw Daphne pushing her way towards her. She flung her arms around Marie and hugged her. “Thank God,” she kept saying. “Thank God.”

*

Outside the Town Hall, Evelyn caught hold of the arm of a gentleman who had been attending the trial.

“What was the verdict?” he asked.

“Not guilty,” he replied.

The man’s wife joined him. “Only because they couldn’t decide how she’d done it,” she said. “If you ask me, it’s obvious she killed him.”

But Evelyn barely heard her because at that moment Marie came out of the Town Hall supported between two people. On one side was Sir Herbert Manners and on the other was a woman whom he recognised as Daphne Senior. They helped her down the steps and hurried her through the crowd into a waiting hansom cab, which sped its three passengers away from the throng of reporters.

He watched the cab disappear into the distance. It was over. She was free and that was the end of it. She could move on and put everything behind her. Forget about the past and concentrate on the future, as he must – but there was something he had to do first.

Daphne stood in Tilly Walker’s front parlour viewing her surroundings with mock horror. “Red curtains and green wallpaper? How on earth could you bear living here?”

Marie smiled. “After the white walls of my cell, it seems like heaven. I’m grateful to Tilly for letting me stay on after the trial. I’d nowhere else to go. The Gilpins made it clear I wasn’t welcome back there. While I was in Armley Gaol, they put all my belongings into storage. There’s nothing of mine left in Garibaldi Street. Won’t you sit down?”

“No, I can’t stay. I have to return to London.”

Marie nodded. “Thank you again for everything you’ve done, Daphne. I’ll never forget it.”

“No thanks needed.” Marie could see that Daphne had something on her mind, something she was finding difficult to broach. “Look, I called because – well, to say goodbye, yes – but because there’s someone who asked me to speak to you on his behalf. He’s here, waiting, hoping you’ll see him.”

Marie covered her face with her hands. It could only be Evelyn. “He shouldn’t have come here. Oh, he shouldn’t have come.”

“No one else knows he’s here and you know
I
won’t say anything. I haven’t asked questions and nor will I. It’s not my business, but he’s in the kitchen talking to Tilly. He’ll leave straightaway if you’d rather not see him.”

“Oh Daphne, I’m not sure I can face him.” How could she, after everything she’d done?

“I’ll tell him to go then.” Daphne turned towards the door.

“No.” Marie stopped her. “No. Don’t let him leave.”

“Oh, my dear friend,” Daphne turned back to her and hugged her tightly, “don’t despair. Make use of the life you now have.” She held Marie at arm’s length for a moment, studying her. “You look so frail. Take care of yourself. Write to me often. You have my address now.”

Marie nodded and, with one last hug, Daphne left. A moment later Evelyn entered, quietly closing the door behind him.

They stood at opposite ends of the room, facing each other, neither able to speak for the moment. Marie tried to read the expression on his face. All she could see was compassion. It was she who broke the silence.

“Your letter – the one Daphne gave me – means a great deal to me.”

“I wanted to do more. So much more.”

It was so good to hear his voice again. “You shouldn’t have come here. If any reporters saw you.”

“They didn’t.”

She wanted to run to him, to throw her arms around his neck, but he had made no move towards her and she felt too shy to take the initiative.

“Daphne tells me you’re returning to France?” he said, eventually.

“Yes. I intend to train at a nurse’s school outside Bordeaux, and to offer my services to one of the nursing orders once I’m trained.”

“Do you have enough money to do that – if it isn’t impertinent of me to ask?”

“I have enough. Tilly arranged for the sale of my furniture, and that will give me what I need to live on until I’ve finished my training.”

He seemed so awkward; it was making her nervous.

“Marie, there’s something you should know. Something I have to tell you.” Whatever it was, she could see that it was difficult for him to say. “When I was in France, I did meet Father Connor.” Her first reaction was one of delight, but that quickly dissolved because it was obvious he didn’t share it. “When your mother saved my father’s life they… fell in love. You were the result.”

It took a moment for his meaning to dawn on her. The she almost laughed at the absurdity of it. She’d obviously misheard him. She waited for him to correct what he’d just said, but he didn’t.

“It isn‘t true. It can’t be.” The feelings she had for him were not a sister’s feelings.

He was standing stiffly, formally. “God help you, but you are my father’s daughter, Marie, and my parents did you a great wrong by trying to hide that fact. It led me to misinterpret the… natural feelings I have for you.”

“I’m sorry, I still can’t believe it.” She turned her back on him, unable to continue facing him.

“It’s true. My parents hid you away in a convent – they hoped you’d stay there. There’s more.” She shook her head. She didn’t want to hear any more. “My father cheated Henri Montrecourt out of a gold claim – not directly, but he was part of the group that did. He used the money to save the estate, but that money should have been yours. I want to give you…”

“No,” she swung around to face him. “Is money the answer to everything in your family? It’s because of your family’s money that I married Stanley.” He tried to speak. “Stop it. Don’t say anymore. I don’t want to hear any more and I don’t want your money. I don’t want anything from you – any of you. I just want to be left alone.” Tears were streaming down her face and she couldn’t stop them.

“I have to make amends; you have to let me make amends.” He was pleading with her now, aware that he was close to tears, too. “Anything you need – anything. You have the right to ask for it. I swear I knew none of this before.” She believed him. “I want to put things right. Do everything I can to mend things.”

She thought of Stanley, of what she’d done and she shook her head. “It’s too late. Too much has happened.” She wiped away the tears. She had to ask him something – it was important to her. “Did your father love my mother?”

He had no idea, but he sensed it mattered to her. “Yes.” Perhaps he had. Evelyn had no way of knowing. “If I’d realised when we first met…”

“If – that’s such a futile word, isn’t it? It means nothing; it solves nothing.” She was in control of herself again. “I know your intentions are good, Evelyn, and I thank you for them. But truly, there is nothing I want from you, except to beg you to leave me alone. Let me go with your blessing to find the freedom I never had before. I want to make decisions that are my own and not ones dictated to me by your family’s interests.”

“It’s your family, too.”

“No, you were never my family. Not really.”

After a while, he nodded reluctantly. “If that’s what you want. Will you keep in touch with me?”

“No. It wouldn’t help. Daphne will always know where I am and what I’m doing. But take my advice, Evelyn, and let go of the past. It’s nearly destroyed us both. Look to the future. Do wonderful things. I want to read in the newspapers about the great things you’re achieving.”

“I don’t think I’m capable of achieving anything,” he murmured.

“You are. I know you are. I believe in you,” she added quietly.

Evelyn stood outside Tilly’s house and fought back the urge to hammer on the front door, demanding to be let back in. He would never see her again, he knew that, and there were so many things he wanted to say to her. She was right to tell him to look to the future, but memories were not so easily forgotten. He would always remember his first sight of her. Her hair, the colour of amber, forming a halo around her face. She had worn a white lace waistcoat over a white dress, and a black shawl embroidered with roses was thrown around her shoulders. She looked like a painting by Rossetti, and that was the image of her that he would always carry with him.

*

Marie was staring into space when Tilly touched her on the shoulder. It made her jump. She’d been thinking about Evelyn. It had been hard, but she had been right to send him away. The past had to be amputated like a diseased limb.

“You going to that storage place now, Mrs Minton?”

“Yes, I’m just going there to pay the bill, Tilly.”

“Want company?”

“No. I’ll be all right. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to leave here, you know. You’re very welcome to stay on. I’ve enjoyed having you about the place.”

Marie was touched by her kindness. “Thank you, but I have to leave for France tomorrow.”

Tilly hovered in the hall as Marie put on her coat. “It won’t be the same without you,” she said sadly.

*

The warehouse where her furniture was being stored was in the middle of a forest of chimneys and a labyrinth of narrow alleyways. She found it eventually, despite the fact that the sign on the wooden gate was caked with mud and dust. A bonfire was burning in the yard, the smoke creating a choking, grey fog. There was a small pile next to the fire, consisting of the bits and pieces left over from the sale of her furniture.

Beavers, the owner of the yard, was engrossed in a newspaper. He threw it aside as the gate creaked open. “Mrs Minton, is it?” When she nodded, he said: “There’s three months’ storage to pay.” He took the money from her. “And what do you want me to do with the rest of this stuff?” He indicated the small pile. “I’ve left it here in the yard for you to look over.”

“Burn it all,” she said.

She accidentally swallowed a lungful of acrid smoke from the bonfire and held a handkerchief to her mouth as she coughed.

“The wind’s changed direction,” he said, shuffling away. “Stand on the other side while I go and get your change.”

She did as he directed, looking down at all that was left of her belongings – at the notebook containing Sister Grace’s remedies, its leaves lifted by the wind, and Hortense’s tin box, which contained the tarnished silver button, the shiny lump of rock and the note that her mother had written. The flames from the bonfire reflected on something else among the jumble. It was the Bunsen burner. She shivered.

“Here you are, lady.” Beavers came back, holding out the few shillings of change in his grubby hand. “I suppose you don’t want to keep these?” He indicated another pile of jumble she hadn’t noticed until now. It consisted of the glass cases full of butterflies. “I could sell them if you’ll let me. Make a few bob for myself.”

“No. I don’t want you to do that.” The butterflies’ wings were stretched out – they were trapped in perpetual flight.

Ignoring Beavers’ astonished protests, she picked up the cases and smashed the glass against the stones of the yard, scattering the contents. Released from the pins that skewered them against the velvet, the butterflies were animated by the wind. It played with them and caressed them, lifting them up on damaged wings, twisting them in circles, like so many dead leaves. But they were free.

Some of the incidents in this novel draw on events in real life but characters have been changed and action and relationships invented.

Any mistakes are my own, but I would like to thank all the friends who have encouraged and helped me. In particular the writer Carolyn S Jones for her guidance, without whom I am sure I would never have finished the novel.

Long after I began writing it, my sister was diagnosed with dementia. I decided to contribute whatever proceeds came to me from its sale to Alzheimer’s Research UK, in the hope that in some small way it might help in the search for an understanding and cure of an illness that affects so many.