The Trial of Marie Montrecourt (5 page)

There were also cuttings in the chest that covered the period six months later, when his father had re-emerged alive and unscathed from the veldt. The tone was altogether different.

Sir Gordon Harringdon is safe. Hero survives alone in enemy territory.

Despite a shaming defeat, Sir Gordon’s survival represents the spirit of England that will never die.

Sir Gordon is the hero of Majuba. He charged Boer guns alone, sword in hand. For six months he survived unaided in enemy territory. His intrepid spirit triumphed despite our defeat at the hands of those monsters. Let it be a warning to those who say that England’s spirit has been broken.

The strange thing about the last cutting was that someone, presumably his father, had scored it out in black ink. It had been done with some force, because the rest of the article was unreadable and the paper was torn. Why?

Evelyn put everything back in the chest and made his way down to the green drawing room. His mother had settled in a chair by the window with her embroidery. He poured himself a whisky and picked up the latest copy of
Punch
, seating himself opposite her.

“I’ve just been in the attic looking through a few things.”

“Yes, so I see,” she said, indicating that his trouser leg was covered in dust.

“Sorry,” he brushed it clean. “I’m curious. Did father ever talk to you about his time Africa?”

“No, he never did.”

“Isn’t that strange?”

“I don’t think so. There were many things we didn’t talk about.”

“It’s just that I found his journals in the attic. They were in one of the chests. He kept detailed notes on everything, did you know? Nothing of a personal nature; they were more a record of his beliefs and his political life.”

“I see.”

“He enjoyed being called the scourge of the Liberals. He noted it down in his journals quite often.” His mother smiled politely and concentrated on the stitching of a rose. “I think he intended them to be published after his death. Would you approve of that?”

“Yes. Certainly.”

“With a little judicious editing, of course.” He turned a page of his magazine. There were questions he wanted to ask her, but he didn’t know how to begin. “I noticed there was one journal missing, for the year 1881. The year he served in Africa. Do you know where that might be?” He saw his mother flush slightly.

“Perhaps it wasn’t possible to keep a journal at such a time.”

“Yes, of course. You’re probably right.” His question had made her uneasy, which was confirmed by her next words.

“Evie, if you want to ask me something, then ask directly. Don’t play games with me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m certainly not playing games.”

“I can feel your hostility, and if it’s because I didn’t write and let you know of your father’s illness, well, I’m sorry, but all I could think about was the fact that he was dying. I admit it: I didn’t even consider you. I hope you will soon be able to forgive me.”

“Perhaps I was piqued at the time not to have been told of his illness, but I’m over that. I would resent it, though, if I felt things were being kept from me now.” She didn’t respond, so he decided to ask her directly. “Do you know someone called Montrecourt? I’m sure I saw a letter…”

She snapped shut the lid of her sewing basket and stood up. “Stop this nonsense.” Her outburst was unexpected and he was too surprised to speak. “Keep out of things that do not concern you, Evie. That is my advice to you.”

She swept out with a rustle of black satin, slamming the door behind her. He was astonished. Something was obviously troubling her and she wasn’t willing to share it with him. After a moment, he rang for Wilson.

“Have them saddle Saracen, will you?” He needed air.

*

By the time he returned, he was feeling guilty and contrite about the way he’d cross-questioned his mother. The poor woman had her grief to deal with without also having to cope with her son’s insensitivity. He should apologise. He saw that the door to his mother’s writing room was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and was about to speak when he saw that she was on her knees in front of the fireplace. She was so intent on hurling papers into the fire that she hadn’t heard him enter.

It was obvious that a great deal of paper had already been burnt because there was a huge mound of soot spilling over the fender. As the last of the papers were ripped in two and thrown into the flames, she sank back onto her heels and pushed her hair back with her hand, leaving a black streak of soot against the grey. He must have made some sound, because she turned and saw him. Her expression was one of guilt, but she quickly recovered her composure.

“What are you burning, mother?” he quietly asked.

She rose to her feet. “Only things that should have been thrown away years ago. Things of no importance.”

“You should have let me see them first.”

“Why? You said you intended to leave estate business to me. Well, this was estate business.” He remained where he was, in the doorway. Realising she had offended him, she went over and laid a hand on his arm. “It was old estate business, Evie, no longer relevant. Believe me.”

He waited until the sound of her footsteps had disappeared, before crossing swiftly over to the fireplace. He picked up the poker and prodded the smouldering embers, uncovering the charred remains of what appeared to be the front cover of a notebook. It was just like those his father had used for his journals. He could see a page in his father’s handwriting. Was that the word Montrecourt he could see? He eagerly reached forward to salvage it, only to find that his movement accidently rekindled a flame. He had to stand back and watch as the page was slowly reduced to ashes.

Marie felt guilty sitting here with the Mintons, enjoying herself in Standing’s Oriental Café, while Daphne was slaving away at the shop, putting the final touches to the banners for the march. A date had been set. It was to be three weeks from now; every time she thought about it, Marie suffered a thrill of expectation. It was frustrating that she couldn’t go
too
regularly to the bookshop. She’d explained to Daphne how John Pickard had forbidden it, and Daphne had urged her to be cautious – not only for her own sake, but to prevent drawing attention to the march.

Marie’s guardian, meanwhile, had kept his word and arranged for her to go on various outings with Isabelle and Geoffrey Minton, and Geoffrey’s brother Stanley.

Standing’s was a much grander place than she’d expected it to be. Stained glass windows, tall bamboos and painted paper lanterns added a touch of the exotic to the luxury of the velvet and gilt decor. Waiters flitted through palm trees with trays piled high with food and there was a constant buzz of conversation.

The Mintons had suggested that it was acceptable for them to use first names as they were now well acquainted. However, Marie felt awkward using such familiarity towards the two men, whose personalities couldn’t have been more different. Geoffrey was loud and bombastic, while Stanley was quiet and subdued. It was usually Geoffrey who dominated the conversation and today was no exception. Marie was quite content to let him as it enabled her to enjoy the mock turtle soup, the lamb cutlets and the strawberry tartlet without having to make any effort to reply.

*

The next day, to her surprise, Stanley presented himself at Devonshire Place. He was accompanied by two huge St Bernard dogs. He wondered, he said, if she would like to accompany him on a walk to Harlow Moor? The tails of the dogs wagged slowly from side to side as they gazed up at her appealingly.

She couldn’t hide her surprise. “Just the two of us?”

“If you have no objection. I have spoken to Isabelle and Geoffrey, and to John Pickard, and they’re all perfectly agreeable.”

It was a beautiful day – too beautiful to stay inside – and another visit to the bookshop so soon after her previous one wouldn’t be wise.

“Yes. I’d like that,” she said. She changed quickly into her walking dress, before joining Stanley and the dogs in the hallway.

It was a pleasant spring day and Harlow Moor was packed with children playing with hoops and mothers pushing prams. Marie and Stanley walked a little stiffly side by side. She’d never been on her own in male company before and she had no idea what to say. Damson and Major, the two dogs, helped to dispel some of the awkwardness. They made a great fuss of her, lumbering at her feet, tails wagging vigorously, vying for her attention. When they stood on their hind legs with their large front paws on her shoulders, they were taller than she was. They tried to lick her face but she pushed them away, laughing.

She realised that Stanley was suggesting they might sit on a bench for a while to listen to the local brass band, which was playing in the bandstand. She said she thought that would be a lovely idea. Silence fell again.

She remembered the toothache he’d been suffering from when they first met at Isabelle’s dinner party. She’d given him a jar of ointment, but had forgotten about it until now. She asked if it had cured the pain and he quickly assured her that it had. She asked how long he’d suffered with toothache and what he’d done to try and cure it before, and Stanley was able to outline with some enthusiasm every twinge he’d ever felt. After that little flurry of conversation, silence fell again.

Marie searched desperately for something else to say. “Do you like poetry?” she asked at last.

“No… I’m sorry… I don’t read very much of anything. Just
The Grocer
– it’s a weekly magazine. No time for anything else, you see. The Emporium takes all my attention. You must come and visit.”

“But you do like music or you wouldn’t have suggested listening to the band. I was allowed to play the piano at the convent sometimes.”

“I don’t know very much about music either, sorry. It was Geoffrey’s idea to come here,” he said awkwardly.

Perhaps it would be better to let
him
choose the topic of conversation. “Tell me what you do like then? Apart from work,” she quickly added.

She could see him searching desperately for something to share with her. “I have the dogs, of course. ” She nodded encouragingly. “And butterflies. I collect butterflies. I’ve always liked butterflies, ever since I was a small boy. I used to cup them in my hands and look at them through my laced fingers. I could feel them fluttering. Then they would escape and I would be left with nothing. It wasn’t until I read in some newspaper about a man and his butterfly collection that I realised there was a way to keep them with me always. Now, I collect butterflies for a hobby. I bought my first case when The Emporium opened. I’ve added a case to my collection every year since.”

It was the longest speech she’d ever heard Stanley make. “And what do you do with them?”

He seemed surprised by her question. “I look at them. I like to look at them.”

“But aren’t they dead?”

“Yes, but their beauty is preserved forever.”

It seemed so cruel to Marie, to kill something just to have the pleasure of looking at it. She didn’t know how to respond. The subject was dropped. Luckily, they both became distracted by the antics of a tiny mongrel dog that was obviously determined to challenge the St Bernards to a fight. She laughed as the mongrel’s owner struggled to drag his dog away, while Damson and Major stared after it in amazement. Even Stanley managed a smile.

*

It was the day of the march at last. Marie woke early, with excitement fluttering around her stomach. She’d been unable to sleep all night and she was pretty certain that Daphne wouldn’t have slept either. She knew her friend was anxious because word about the march had begun to spread through Harrogate, and she was concerned about the possibility of adverse reaction.

Marie was able to slip out of the house unnoticed by the Mintons and make her way to the Majestic Hotel, outside of which the marchers were gathering. Apart from Daphne and Marie there were a dozen or so factory girls taking part in the protest, and their numbers were swollen by a handful of society women sympathetic to the cause – not as many as Daphne would have liked, however, but more than she had expected. There was a carnival atmosphere among the women. Clogs and shawls darted in and out between fashionable dresses and plumed hats. There was laughter and chatter that was full of nervous anticipation. It was a perfect June day with only the slightest breeze to stir the banners the women were carrying.

Silence fell as Daphne blew her whistle to attract everyone’s attention. “Welcome ladies and thank you all for your support. We will march to the end of the street and turn right; then at the edge of town, turn left and stop outside the gates of the factory. This is a peaceful demonstration, but we must expect some animosity from passers-by – women as well as men, I’m afraid. Do not respond to it. We shall stand outside the factory for an hour and then disperse, leaving a small group behind to keep vigil. Any questions?”

None being asked, Daphne instructed the group to form into a double line. Still chattering and laughing they obeyed, with Daphne and Marie in the lead, carrying their banner high. It was painted with the words:
FAIR TREATMENT FOR WOMEN.

After a while, the laughter and the chatter began to fade as it became clear that the march was not popular with the people of the town. There was thinly disguised hatred on their faces as the women marched past.

“Shame on you,” someone shouted. “Get back home where you belong,” was one of the least crude suggestions. Someone else shouted: “Whores”.

Marie glanced behind her at the others. The factory girls were looking grim but determined. On the faces of the society ladies, however, she could read shock. It was a relief to reach the edge of town where there were less passers-by. Spirits began to revive even more as the women saw their goal ahead: the wrought iron gates dominated by the sign that read BRIDGEWATER DYES.

Suddenly, the double line of women faltered and then stopped. Uncertain glances were exchanged. “What is it?” someone called from the back. “Why are we stopping?” In reply came the echoing clip-clop of horses’ hooves from the side streets.

“What’s happening?” someone called.

It soon became obvious what was happening as mounted police slowly rode into view. They took up a position facing the line of women, forming a barrier between them and the factory, batons in hands.

Daphne was the first to recover. “Don’t worry, ladies. Nothing will happen,” she shouted cheerfully. “We are doing nothing wrong. If we keep walking, they will give way.”

Following her lead, Marie and the group started to walk forward. However, so did the police, their horses progressing effortlessly from a walk to a trot. As they gathered speed, the line of women hesitated. Then, after a second, realising the police were not going to stop, the line wavered. The horses were almost on top of them now, muscles straining, charging straight at them. There were screams as the marchers struggled to get out of the way of the pounding hooves and the raised batons. Marie threw the banner aside and hurled herself towards the wall, feeling the heat from one of the horses as it brushed past her body. Daphne was beside her and pushed her into a doorway.

“When I shout go, run for the gate across the road,” she yelled. “It leads to fields that will get you back to the Stray.”

“What will you do?”

“I won’t be far behind you. Now, go!” As the last horse charged past, she pushed Marie towards the road. The police were reforming and getting ready to charge again. “Now!” Daphne shouted.

Marie did as she was told, skirts held high, feet pounding against the earth. To either side of her, other women were also running. Daphne remained where she was, heading them off from danger and pushing them towards safety. A few women lay in the road; their silk dresses torn and muddied, and their shawls and clogs covered in blood from wounds. Driven by panic, Marie kept running. She clawed her way over the gate and raced across the fields, not daring to look back.

It wasn’t until she reached the safety of The Stray that she slowed down. She pushed a shaking hand through her hair, trying to tidy it. She glanced behind her. No one was following. Having regained her breath a little, she walked swiftly across The Stray to Devonshire Place. The housekeeper let her in. She ran up the stairs to the safety of her room. It was only then that her legs turned to jelly and she collapsed on the bed.

Panic turned swiftly to guilt. She should have stayed with Daphne to help the wounded. She splashed her face with cold water from the jug. Should she go to the shop and make sure that Daphne was safe? She was too afraid to do so. Suppose the police saw her and arrested her? She sat on the edge of her bed all night imagining the worst things that might happen, so that by the morning she was in a dreadful state with dark rings under her eyes from lack of sleep. She knew she had to see Daphne and make sure she was unhurt.

“I’m just going to walk on The Stray,” she told Isabelle, who was too preoccupied with baby Jonathan to take much notice. It was obvious she hadn’t heard about the march. Isabelle merely nodded an acknowledgement. Once out of sight of the house, Marie quickened her pace and headed for the bookshop.

It was as dark as ever in Market Alley, but there wasn’t the usual light on in the shop. The door was ajar, though, which was odd. Marie pushed it open further, making the bell ring.

“Daphne?” There was no reply. She entered, closing the door behind her. “Daphne?” She heard a noise from behind the curtained partition. “Daphne?”

There was still no answer. She made her way to the small room at the back. As she reached the alcove, the curtain was suddenly thrust aside and the figure of a man hurtled towards her. He pushed her savagely in the chest and she screamed as she fell, striking her head against a corner of one of the shelves.

“Keep your nose out, bitch.” She could feel the heat from his breath as he bent close. Then the figure rapidly disappeared through the door and was lost in the gloom of Market Alley. Marie lay winded for a moment, too shocked to move. She heard a groan and managed to struggle to her feet.

“Daphne?”

Her head was throbbing as she hung on to a bookcase for support. Through the open curtain, she could see wreckage. Books were scattered everywhere, shelves were overturned and, in the middle of the debris, a figure lay huddled on the floor.

“Daphne!”

Marie stumbled over to her friend as Daphne rolled onto her back. She’d been savagely beaten about the head and her face was barely recognisable. It was a mess of blood and broken bone. Marie pushed her fist into her mouth to stop herself from crying out.

Daphne tried to speak but her mouth was so swollen that she could barely form the words. A paraffin lamp had been knocked over and a small tongue of flame had caught at some torn paper. The flame was growing stronger as it fed on the dry parchment, but Marie was too intent on helping Daphne to notice.

“Who did this?” She was struggling to find the Sal Volatile that she always carried with her. “Who was it? Was it a thief?”

Daphne’s attempt at a reply ended in a grimace, but she managed to shake her head. It was the crackle of the flames that made Marie look behind her. The backroom was filling with smoke. With a sudden whoosh, the flames shot high into the air.

Marie screamed. “We have to get out! Daphne, we have to get out of here!” But all her friend could do was lie still; she was too damaged to move. Marie attempted to pull Daphne towards the curtain, but she couldn’t shift her. She was too small and not strong enough.

“Stand up. Please, Daphne,” she begged. “Please stand up. We have got to get out of here.”

With an effort, Daphne managed to drag herself upright. She was soon on her knees again, but Marie quickly caught her and started to pull her to the front of the shop.