The Trial of Marie Montrecourt (4 page)

As she entered the conversation stopped and Isabelle moved towards her, drawing her further inside. Introductions were made to Alice and George Smith, who were neighbours of the Mintons. Marie thought they seemed an ill-matched couple. He had the round-eyed, permanently surprised look of an owl and his wife had the pointed features of a ferret. Martin Godson was introduced next. He was a pleasant, fresh-faced young man who worked for Geoffrey’s brother, Stanley. His wife, Jenny, seemed equally pleasant. She was then finally introduced to Stanley himself, Geoffrey’s elder brother. He stood up awkwardly to shake her by the hand.

“Good to see you again, Miss Montrecourt.”

She couldn’t recall ever having met him before, but then she remembered the man she’d passed in the hall after her first visit to the bookshop. “Yes, of course,” she murmured, politely.

She took her place at the table and the conversation revived, allowing her mind to drift back to the march.

“And all the ingredients for this dinner have been provided by Stanley.”

Marie realised that Isabelle was addressing her. “I’m sorry?”

“Stanley owns The Emporium in Prospect Crescent.”

Geoffrey joined in. “It has a reputation for being Harrogate’s highest of high-class grocers. You should visit it sometime, Miss Montrecourt. Very grand; very fashionable!”

“I should like to.” Marie glanced at Stanley, but his eyes slid shyly away from her. He struck her as rather a sombre man, a man who had forgotten how to smile. His moustache drooped sadly over his small, pink mouth and his sandy-coloured hair sat sparsely on his head. She guessed his age to be about forty.

“I believe you’re French, aren’t you, Miss Montrecourt?”

She realised that Alice Smith was regarding her with bright, beady eyes.

“Yes, I am.”

“You speak very good English – for a foreigner. I’d never have known it.”

“Ah, but there is something different about her.”

She was aware that George Smith hadn’t taken his eyes from her since she’d joined them, but she’d been trying to ignore it.

“Very charming,” he added.

His wife frowned, while Marie blushed and looked down at her plate. She was wearing the blue, silk chiffon gown that Isabelle had chosen for her on their visit to the department store, and the gas lamp behind her had turned her hair into a halo of red and gold. She realised that Stanley Minton was now staring at her. He became nervous when he saw she was aware of it, and patted his mouth with his napkin.

“I’m sorry. The colour… of your dress… it reminds me of the Blue Morpho.” Marie had no idea what he was talking about, and Geoffrey groaned as his brother continued. “Morpho Peleides, it’s a rare butterfly. I bought one from a collector many years ago. The wings are exactly that shade of blue. Sometimes I remove the pin that anchors it to its velvet pad and I hold it up to the light. Then the wings become opalescent.”

Marie had no idea how to respond, so she simply smiled politely.

“Stanley, not everyone shares your obsession with dead insects,” said Geoffrey.

“No, I’m sorry. Forgive me.”

Stanley flushed and patted his mouth again, and Marie felt sorry for him. She helped herself to some of the poached salmon that was laid out on the silver platter in the centre of the table. It was garnished with cucumber and watercress. She declined Geoffrey’s offer of wine.

“Do you like animals, Miss Montrecourt?”

Stanley’s second attempt at conversation struck her as equally odd. “Er… yes. Yes, I do.”

“Stanley does,” Geoffrey interrupted. “My brother breeds St Bernard dogs, you see, Miss Montrecourt. He shows them, too. He won a prize for one of his dogs once, didn’t you, Stanley? He’s more obsessed by them than he is by The Emporium and butterflies, and that’s saying something.” As the housekeeper came in to clear the dinner plates, he noticed his brother had barely touched his food. “You’re not eating much, Stanley. Not like you.”

“No. Well, I still have this ache in my gums. Toothache,” he explained to Marie. “It makes eating difficult.”

“Oh, I have the perfect cure for that, Mr Minton,” she said. “It’s a tincture of cloves. I brought it from France with me. I made it myself.”

“I should think the patented cures will do him just as well, my dear,” said Alice, quickly.

“Really, you made it yourself?” Stanley almost smiled. “Then I should very much like to try it. Thank you.”

“You made it yourself, Miss Montrecourt?” Alice’s husband leant towards her. “How very clever of you.”

“I’m sure Miss Montrecourt means well,” Alice interrupted, “but I wouldn’t take the risk of trying it if I were you, Stanley. Heaven knows what it might contain.”

Marie chose to ignore the comment. “I will make sure you have a jar before you leave, Mr Minton.”

*

The next day Marie arrived at the bookshop, eager to start work on the banners. The bell jangled as she went through the door.

“Daphne?”

Hearing a noise from the backroom, she pushed through the curtain.

The stench made her realise that Daphne was not alone. She saw a woman sitting in the cane chair just under the cracked mirror. It was hard to tell her age. She was wearing a shawl over a thin calico dress that seemed to be held together by patches. Her hair was covered by a bonnet and her boots were bound by rags. The factory women were well dressed in comparison. She seemed unable to sit still because she was forever scratching. Marie saw that her arms were covered with sores and bites. On the floor by the side of her was a blacking box filled with cottons and tapes and stay laces.

“This is Sal,” said Daphne. “She sometimes calls in to see me when she’s in the area – to get warm and have a cup of tea.”

This was obviously one of Daphne’s good causes. “I’ll pour it,” Marie said, eager to help.

“Life hasn’t been kind to her,” Daphne continued, always keen to point out the harsh realities of life. “You don’t mind me talking about it?” Sal shook her head as she gratefully accepted the tea from Marie. “She lost her job as a seamstress a year ago. Soon after, her father died and her mother couldn’t afford to keep her. There were six younger children to provide for, so Sal left home. However, she couldn’t find any work. She’s been hawking wares around the streets of Harrogate ever since.”

“That must be hard.”

The girl’s face was pale and she seemed very weak.

“If she’s lucky,” said Daphne, “and she’s made some sales, then she can afford to pay for the share of a bed in a lodging house – which probably has room for two families but houses ten. If she’s unlucky, then she applies for a chit to stay in the workhouse at Knaresborough.”

“I don’t like the workhouse.” Sal spoke for the first time and Marie was surprised by her voice. It was pleasant and low, with only a hint of a local accent. “You have to pick oakum.”

Marie looked at Daphne enquiringly. “It’s rope that has to be unpicked inch by inch, but as it’s tarred and knotted it rips the fingers to pieces.”

Marie glanced at Sal’s hands, but they were so dirty it was difficult to see what its effect had been.

Aware of her glance, the girl said, “It’s impossible to keep neat and clean when there’s nowhere to wash and no money for clothes. It was different when I was working. I used to work at Leyland’s, the department store. I was one of their best seamstresses.”

Marie was too astonished to speak for a moment. She remembered the young women who had served her in the store when she’d visited with Isabelle Minton. “Why did you leave?”

Sal looked away, so Daphne answered for her. “The owner’s son made advances that Sal rejected. Her work soon began to be criticised and she was eventually asked to leave. There was no appeal.”

For the first time, Marie noticed that Sal was extremely pretty. All she had initially registered was the sorry figure. “That’s dreadful.”

“A young woman on her own is seen as fair game,” Sal murmured.

“Wasn’t there anyone you could turn to?” Marie asked.

“No.”

“No other work?”

“The choice is limited without any references – and, anyway, how do you live while you look?” Her eyes were a deep blue, Marie noticed. “A few weeks, even a few days, living in a workhouse turns you into scum and then no one sees any good in you. All they see is the dirt and the rags.”

Marie flushed, remembering the two girls at the convent. She’d been guilty of that. She’d paid them no attention and given no thought to their feelings, until she was threatened with the same fate.

Daphne turned to her. “You see, that’s what could happen to the factory women if the march fails and they lose their jobs. They’re decent, respectable women whose families can’t support them. If they fall, who is going to catch them?”

“I don’t know,” Marie murmured. She’d been lucky – she had had Sister Grace to catch her.

“Thanks for the tea,” Sal said. “I’d better get on.”

Marie murmured a goodbye and her thoughts turned to her own future. She hadn’t heard anything further from Mr Pickard.

When Daphne returned from seeing her visitor out, Marie could see she was angry. “And she’s just one of the many, Marie, who struggle just to survive. Heaven help anyone who makes a mistake, because this world is an unforgiving place. No one gives any thought to those who fall on hard times. It’s a thin line that divides those who fall and those who don’t – anyone of us can fall foul of it.”

“Yes.” Marie understood that only too well.

“Let’s leave the banners for today, shall we?” Daphne pushed aside the paint. “I don’t feel like doing it, do you?”

Marie shook her head. “Not really.”

“I don’t know if I’m helping or harming the women by organising this march. I only know things can’t be left as they are.”

They sat side by side in the backroom of the shop, staring bleakly into space. Neither of them were sure of the answer.

*

When Marie arrived back at Devonshire Place in the afternoon, she was still lost in thought and almost bumped into the housekeeper in the hallway.

“Mr Pickard, miss. He’s in the front parlour with Mr Geoffrey. He told me to tell you to go straight in.”

Marie could hear Geoffrey’s voice through the closed door. “So what do I gain from it?” he was saying. “You’re expecting a lot from me.”

She couldn’t hear Mr Pickard’s reply. She knocked.

“Yes?” Geoffrey called out.

“It’s Marie,” she called back. “Mr Pickard asked to see me.”

There was a pause and then Geoffrey came out. He nodded towards the room. “He’s in there,” he said, pushing past her.

She could see the solicitor standing with one foot on the fireplace, his round, pink face was a deep shade of puce. Had he discovered about the march? Was he angry? He attempted a smile when she entered and his tone became avuncular.

“Miss Montrecourt, sit down. I need to speak to you.”

She sat on the edge of the chair, facing him. He cleared his throat. “I believe you’ve made a friend of a woman called Daphne Senior. It concerns me.”

She was astonished. How had he learnt about that?

“Harrogate is quite a small place. Nothing goes unnoticed, and people like Daphne Senior make themselves very conspicuous.”

“I’m not sure why my friendship with Daphne would give you so much concern.” There had been no mention of the march, so it couldn’t be because of that.

“I appreciate you’ve been left alone a great deal since you arrived in Harrogate and I am intending to remedy that by introducing you to suitable people. I know of Miss Senior and she isn’t a suitable companion for a young woman with no experience of the world.”

Marie’s first instinct was to fly to the defence of her friend, but she waited to see if he had anything further to say.

“Also, you should not be going out alone.”

“But times are changing, Mr Pickard. The world is changing.”

“Not here, not in Harrogate.”

“Even here.” She was going to add that Daphne was proof of it, but Mr Pickard didn’t give her the chance.

“Miss Montrecourt, you have no experience of the world, so whether or not it is changing is something you’re not able to judge. I have asked Mr and Mrs Minton to arrange some outings for you, but they must be accompanied. Stanley Minton has agreed to escort you. He’s a very busy man, so it is kind that he has agreed to do so.”

She was taken aback at this and was not sure how to feel. Why on earth would Stanley Minton agree to be her escort? Whatever the reason, however, her main concern now was Mr Pickard’s opinion of her friend. “I’m grateful, but I still don’t understand why I can’t see Daphne.”

“You recall our agreement when you accepted the terms of the allowance? I’m asking you not to see Miss Senior. It is for the sake of your own reputation. I’m afraid I must insist on it. You know the alternative?”

To be sent back to the convent. After a moment she gave a brief nod of acceptance, crossing her fingers behind her back as she did so. The girls at the convent always said that God knew you didn’t mean to keep your promise if you crossed your fingers behind your back when making it. Nothing would prevent her from seeing Daphne again, and after the march she was certain that everyone would admire her friend’s courage and integrity as much as she did.

Evelyn stood on the steps of St Paul’s Cathedral between his mother and Lord Renfrew, his father’s oldest friend, and bowed his head as a frail Queen Victoria was helped into her carriage by the Prince of Wales. There were a few cheers from the huge crowd as she raised a hand to wave, but most stood in respectful silence. They were aware that they had come to mourn the passing of the Hero of Majuba, not to cheer their queen. Not since Lord Nelson had a man achieved such adulation from the people and now Evelyn faced the daunting prospect of stepping into his shoes. Whether he liked it or not, he had become head of one of the most prominent families in the country. And whether he wanted them or not, he now had responsibilities. He could already feel them settling heavily on his shoulders. During all the pomp, all the ceremony of today, one question was uppermost in his mind: was he capable?

Reading all the tributes to his father had only increased his feelings of inadequacy.
The London Chronicle
had written:

There is to be a memorial service to celebrate the life of Sir Gordon Harringdon, known as the Hero of Majuba. He gave this country back its pride during the British Army’s terrible defeat at Majuba Hill in 1881 – the first war against the Boers. It is difficult now to separate fact from fiction, but what cannot be disputed is that during the battle for Majuba, he single-handedly charged at the enemy line and broke through. A lone Englishman in enemy territory, he evaded capture and survived for six months before rejoining his regiment in Pretoria. When the queen awarded him the Victoria Cross, she spoke for the nation when she said: ‘Deeds such as his are at the heart of the British Empire. Our spirit will never be defeated.’ Sir Gordon has been an inspiration to the nation ever since.

The
Illustrated News
was quick to draw a parallel between the past and the present.

Nineteen years after Majuba, as we fight once again our old enemy, the Boer, we remember Sir Gordon, whose spirit still inspires our fighting men who will, we know, avenge the defeat at Majuba and give the Boer the bloody nose they deserve.

Evelyn bowed his head again as the queen’s carriage pulled away. If his mother had had her way, there would have been no memorial service. Without consulting him, she had planned to have his father laid to rest with no pomp or ceremony – just a simple service and a few close friends to witness his internment in the Mausoleum at Ardington. Evelyn had insisted that the nation would feel cheated if there was no ceremony and, fortunately, the queen had agreed with him.

“Your arm, Evie, please.”

He gave his mother the support of his arm and helped her into the carriage, taking his seat beside her. Lord Renfrew took the seat opposite. His sister, Harriet, and her husband, the Duke of Beddington, settled themselves into the carriage behind.

He glanced at his mother. She hadn’t looked at him once during the service. In fact, they’d barely exchanged a word since his father’s death. It would probably be easier to prove himself to his peers than to persuade his mother to take him seriously. She insisted on leaving London for Ardington immediately after the service, so he returned to his father’s apartment at Carlton Terrace alone.

He stood now at the apartment’s study window, twirling the whisky in his glass and watching a detachment of The Blues clatter down the Mall towards Buckingham Palace. At one time his father had wanted him to join that regiment. Evelyn had infuriated him by declining, saying he preferred a life of pleasure to one of regulation. Now he acknowledged the real reason for his refusal. He feared comparison to the Hero of Majuba, as he would surely be found lacking.

He turned and looked around the room. Everything was in its place, in meticulous order, exactly as it had been while his father was alive. He could visualise Sir Gordon sitting at the walnut writing desk in the centre of the room, or smoking a cigar in one of the green leather armchairs set either side of the marble fireplace. He could imagine him straightening the regimented rows of books on the shelves that lined the walls. All were bound in green leather; their spines gleamed with gold lettering and the crest of the Harringdons was embossed on every cover.

Not that Evelyn had been a frequent visitor here. He glanced into the large square mirror over the fireplace and ran a hand through his hair, which was long and unruly – so unlike his father’s. He had his mother’s eyes, but he had inherited the square jaw of his father. He was grateful he hadn’t also inherited his father’s patrician nose. It had given Sir Gordon the supercilious look of a man who disapproved of everything he saw.

He studied the portrait of his father that was hung over the fireplace. It had been painted after the Battle of Majuba on his return from Africa. The newly won Victoria Cross was prominently displayed on his chest. His father had nearly died fighting the Boers and what had been gained from it? Nineteen years later, the country was fighting the same war all over again.

“What a waste of lives, eh, father?”

The eyes in the portrait stared coldly back at him. It was a perfect example of art mirroring life. There was a discreet knock at the door and Wilson, the butler, entered.

“Excuse me, Sir Evelyn, the Honourable Mr Austin Frobisher has called.”

The arrival of his best friend was just what he needed to lift his spirits. “Show him in, Wilson. Show him in.”

Austin Frobisher, called Siggy for no reason that anyone could convincingly explain, entered in a billow of scarves and overcoat tails, brushing aside Wilson’s attempt to alleviate him of them. “Not staying long enough.” Wilson obediently backed out and closed the door. “So, it’s over, Evie. All went smoothly I hear. Must be a relief?”

“It is.” Evelyn poured himself a whisky and raised the decanter to Siggy, who shook his head.

“Mama not here?”

“Mother decided to return to Ardington. Probably happy to get away from me. I’m glad you’ve turned up. I was beginning to feel rather low.”

“Because of your father’s death? You didn’t seem to have much time for him while he was alive.”

Evelyn stared moodily into his drink. “Perhaps I should have made more of an effort.”

Siggy decided to change his mind and join his friend for a drink, helping himself from the decanter. “Typhoid, eh? A bit ironic, isn’t it? To be one of the few who survived Majuba, only to succumb in later life to an insanitary water pipe while inspecting the slums of Islington.”

Evelyn drank his whisky in one. “Things are going to change for me, Siggy, and I’m not sure I’m ready for it.”

“It’s a simple choice. Either adopt the mantle of Papa and prove you’re worthy of it or continue indulging with me in the finer things of life to which your rank entitles you.”

Evelyn poured himself another whisky. Siggy’s insouciance was usually catching. Today, however, it failed to distract him. “It’s surprising how ingrained a sense of duty is,” he murmured. “I never thought I would be plagued by it.”

“Centuries of breeding,” Siggy said, sadly, “but some of us have managed to bat it away.”

“I’ve been thinking that I would have liked to know him better – my father. When I was finally allowed into his bedroom, it was so dark I could barely see him. He was already dead. He died a stranger to me.” Evelyn crossed over to the fire and kicked the logs back into life, creating a shower of sparks. “Dr Oliver told me that father had been in pain ever since Majuba. I never knew that. From a wound in his back that had never really healed. He was on morphine. I suppose that explains his moods.”

“He was never an easy man. Great men never are.”

Silence fell for a moment, broken by Siggy putting his empty glass on the walnut desk.

“Well, much as I love you, I do have to go. I’m due at Romano’s for dinner. You’re much missed there, you know. Soon as decency allows, I hope to see you back in the fold. We’ll all miss you if you choose duty over pleasure. Are you staying on here or joining Mama at Ardington?”

“I’m leaving for Ardington the day after tomorrow. There’s estate business to sort out and papers to sign.”

Siggy grimaced. “Do you know, you’re already beginning to sound uncomfortably like your father? Be very careful, my friend, I don’t think I could handle that.”

*

Wilson had travelled by train from London to Ardington the day before, so he could be there to greet his master on arrival. As Evelyn pulled up in the Renault, he was waiting at the top of the steps.

“Good journey, sir?” He signalled for a servant to take Evelyn’s luggage.

“Yes, but I’m in great need of a bath, Wilson,” said Evelyn, entering the hall. He handed his coat and goggles to the butler, who was following behind.

“And a whisky, Sir Evelyn?”

“You read my mind. Where’s mother?”

“Resting in her room, sir. Please excuse the disorder.” He indicated the huge glass chandelier in the hall that had been lowered to be cleaned and polished. “Lady Harringdon was hoping to have everything finished before you returned.”

“Yes, I left earlier than I expected. I’ll be in the library. Let me know when my bath is ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

*

As Evelyn soaked in the warm water, he found himself dwelling on a matter that he could no longer ignore. He would have to take his father’s seat in the Lords.

He’d always avoided politics. His father had been such a dominant figure in the Tory Party and in government. He was known for his ability to silence all opposition with a cutting phrase delivered in a voice of steel. Evelyn slid down in the bath, submerging his face. Still, what had it achieved but temporary glory? On his deathbed he was just a lonely old man and the commanding voice had been reduced to a painful whisper. Evelyn sat up, wiping his eyes free of water. The action reawakened the memory of his father’s last words, and the letter by his bedside that had quickly been removed. Wrapped in his bathrobe, Evelyn rang for the butler.

“I’ll dine in my room this evening, Wilson. Apologise to mother will you, but I’m very tired.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Oh, and Wilson…” Evelyn hesitated. “Did my father know anyone called Montrecourt?” He was just curious, that was all.

“Not to my knowledge, sir. Would you like me to make some enquiries?”

Evelyn shook his head. “No, it’s not important. Thank you, Wilson.”

The butler withdrew and Evelyn threw himself back against the bed, closing his eyes.

*

Breakfast with his mother the next morning was, as expected, something of an ordeal. Apart from acknowledging one another, they said very little. He decided it would be a kindness to put her mind at rest about Ardington.

“Mama,” he said, helping himself to kedgeree and coffee, “I intend to spend a good deal of my time in town rather than in the country, as father did. I’m assuming you’ll be willing to continue to handle the estate business, as you did while father was alive.”

There was a visible relaxing of his mother’s shoulders, but she simply nodded. “If that’s what you would like me to do, Evelyn, then of course I will.”

“Good.” He picked up
The Times
. There was nothing of much interest in it – just an article about the memorial service, which was written in the tone of adulation he would have expected. “By the way, I believe Wilson has put some of father’s belongings in the attic. I thought I’d look through them, if you have no objection.” Did he imagine it or did his mother’s shoulders grow tense again?

“No. I have no objection.”

*

There were crates and boxes all over the floor of the attic and Evelyn, his hands on his hips, wondered where to begin. It was obvious that some of them hadn’t been disturbed for years, while others had obviously been placed there within the last few days. He casually opened one or two of them. One was stuffed with papers pertaining to the house. He saw some account books and flicked through one of them. It noted a series of payments to someone with the initials JP, which meant little to him.

In the other crate were clothes he’d never seen his father wear, as well as snuffboxes, cigar cases and reading glasses he’d never seen his father use. It all seemed strangely impersonal. He looked around; two chests that were set apart from the others caught his attention. They were thick with dust, but the dust had recently been disturbed. It was curiosity that made him open them.

The first one contained nothing but bills, deeds and plans for the house, which went back years. He was about to close the lid again when he realised that there were piles of notebooks underneath, neatly tied together in bundles. He untied them and recognised his father’s precise, neat writing. They were journals. His father had obviously kept one for every year since 1874, the year Evelyn had been born. They finished in 1899, just before his final illness.

Evelyn opened the journal dated 1874 and flicked through it until he came to the date of August 3
rd
. His father had written:
Sarah has given birth to a son. I have an heir at last.
That was all, just two sentences – no indication as to whether he was proud of the event.

He glanced through the other journals. There was nothing personal in them; they consisted of punctilious and detailed notes on his public life, his speeches, the minutes of the meetings he’d addressed, his political philosophy – all obviously recorded for posterity and meant for publication. Despite his father’s continual denial, it seemed the opinion of posterity did matter to him.

Evelyn began to bundle them up again and then stopped. He’d assumed they ran chronologically and they did, except that there was a year missing. The journal covering the year 1881 – the year his father had fought in Africa – wasn’t there.

He turned to the other chest. There were no more journals, just a carefully folded uniform – his father’s regimental uniform. There was a button missing from the sleeve, but otherwise it was in perfect condition. Underneath, he found piles of newspaper clippings, which were all from the year 1881.

England’s shame
screamed one of the headlines.
Britain’s Army defeated by a handful of Boer farmers at Majuba Hill. Our troops have been demoralised and defeated, led by Sir George Colley on a pointless mission to retake a position on Majuba Hill that we did not need to hold. His folly led him to his death and resulted in the death of many others.
His father’s name was mentioned as being among those missing, presumed dead.