The Trial of Marie Montrecourt (7 page)

The man was obviously trying to bate him. Perhaps it had been a mistake to confront him, but he couldn’t just walk away now. “Or it can be used to spread lies and rumours.”

“Lies and rumours?” Harlik’s laugh was derisory. “And this from a government who has turned the spreading of lies and rumours into an art form. Let’s talk about your father, shall we? There is much I could tell you, my friend, about the Hero of Majuba, if you would like me to. Things that could seriously damage the legend.”

Evelyn felt on much firmer ground now. The legend had never been stronger. “Tell me your lies, by all means,” he said.

“My revelations,” corrected Harlik. “Did you realise that your father was not alone when he crossed the veldt and made it safely back to camp?”

If that was the worst the man could do, then there was little to fear. Evelyn leant back in his chair, arms folded, and waited for Harlik to continue.

“All this lone hero stuff is rubbish, and if he lied about that, what else did he lie about?”

Evelyn shrugged. “I
would suggest nothing.”

“He was helped to escape by the wife of the man who’d sheltered him from the Boers. The man’s name was Henri Montrecourt, a Frenchman.”

His meeting with Marcus White had prepared him for this. He doubted such information would make much of a dent in his father’s reputation – his mother had been foolish to worry about it. He started to rise. “If that’s all…”

“No, it isn’t,” Harlik said, quickly. “I met Montrecourt a year before the first war against the Boers began.” Harlik leant forward to make sure Evelyn was listening. “It was 1879 and I was in Africa doing an article about the diamond mines around Kimberley for
The Enquirer
.”

At the naming of a left-wing rag that had since been closed down, Evelyn’s lip curled.

“Hear me out,” Harlik said. “I know your opinions, but hear me out. While I was there, I met Montrecourt in a bar in Pretoria. He was a pretty unpleasant individual even then. A Frenchman who loved his drink. He was boasting that he’d laid claim to a gold strike not far from Pretoria – somewhere called Witwatersrand. He didn’t know if it was a good claim. Said he was meeting someone who could tell him. Ever heard of the River Valley Mining Company?”

“Yes.” Evelyn knew of it. It was one of the biggest exporters of gold in Africa.

“Yes, well, in 1879 nobody had. Montrecourt said it was a representative of that company who was going to test the gold from his claim. I didn’t think anymore about it, just another broken drunk dreaming about growing rich. Africa was full of them.”

Evelyn shrugged. “My father wasn’t in Africa until 1881 so I don’t see how this can have anything to do with him.”

Harlik ignored the interruption. “I saw Montrecourt again after he’d met with the representative. River Valley had produced a report on the sample. It was fool’s gold, the report said. Rock that glitters like gold, but is worthless. At first Montrecourt didn’t believe him, but they shared a few drinks and the Englishman said he might still be able to make money out of his claim anyway. The company needed to test machinery for a rich strike they’d made some miles away and he was willing to pay Montrecourt a reasonable sum for his worthless claim, as it would be useful to them for testing new equipment. By now Montrecourt was blind drunk and signed away the claim without argument, pocketing a fist full of notes. He was a rich man by his standards. The money didn’t last him long, of course, and he was soon penniless again. On the other hand, the River Valley was declared one of the most successful mining companies in the area because of its discovery of a rich vein of gold at Witwatersrand.”

“I repeat this has nothing to do with my father,” Evelyn said impatiently.

“Hear me out. The war broke out at the end of the next year, 1880, and I had to return to England. Out of curiosity I did some digging when I got back, into the formation of the River Valley Mining Company, and found that your father was on the board. So were Marcus White and Lord Renfrew – both friends of your father, I believe?”

For a moment, Evelyn was thrown. But then he laughed at the ludicrous suggestion that his father and Lord Renfrew would be involved in the tawdry world of business. They were gentlemen.

“If you’re claiming that my father was associated with this company and with cheating Montrecourt, then you’re an idiot.” His father, above all people, could never be accused of corruption. “I assure you business held no interest for him and, I repeat, he wasn’t in Africa till 1881.”

“No, but when he
was
there, the year of Majuba, it was Montrecourt’s wife who found your father after the battle. Isn’t that curious?”

The man was fishing for information, that was all, trying to forge links where none existed. “As my father was never involved with this River Valley business, then I can’t see anything curious in it at all. You’re desperately trying to make up a story that doesn’t exist.”

“A few months after Majuba, when the war was over, I went back to Pretoria.”

“To dig out any dirt you could find?”

“I knew Montrecourt’s farm was at Virkskruge, so I returned to the area to see what I could discover. The farm was deserted. I was told the official version – that Montrecourt and his wife had sheltered an Englishman. A Boer raiding party had arrived at the farm and Montrecourt had been shot. The woman and the Englishman escaped. A neighbour told me the unofficial version. That he had, in fact, seen the wounded Englishman leaving the farm with the woman, but an attack by the Boers never happened.”

“So how did Montrecourt die?”

“A good question. I began to search around the farm and I found a grave. I opened it up. There wasn’t a great deal left of him but it was Montrecourt all right, and I found a bullet in his ribs.”

“So he
was
killed by the Boers.”

“An English bullet.”

Evelyn could see what Harlik was implying. It was ridiculous. “Weapons are captured by both sides in war.”

“My friend, if there was no Boer attack on the farm and no other bullets were lying around for me to find, what does that suggest to you?”

“That you have a vivid imagination.” Evelyn was furious at the man for making such an outrageous suggestion.

“I tell you what I believe. Your father was on the Board of the River Valley Mining Company that cheated Montrecourt out of his claim. It was your father’s misfortune that it was Montrecourt who found him when he was wounded. Then, when Montrecourt discovered the connection between your father and the River Valley, he threatened to reveal your father’s involvement in the deceit. Perhaps, finally, he’d found proof of it. After all, your father was wounded and he probably had a fever – who knows what he might have admitted under those circumstances? Whatever it was, I believe your father killed Montrecourt to protect his reputation. It wouldn’t do for an English gentleman to be accused of fraud.”

Evelyn was struggling not to hit the man. By coming here, he had given Harlik the opportunity to voice his poisonous lies. The Party had been right: ignore him and let him rot. However, Harlik hadn’t finished with him yet.

“There was a great deal of money involved, and money can corrupt even the purest of us. Besides, the government were, and still are, anxious to hide the fact that they’ve made huge profits out of these wars. I believe that underneath the veneer of all that breeding, men like your father are venal and greedy, and they are guilty of having led this country into two wars simply to protect their own investments. If I keep digging, I will eventually prove it.”

Evelyn regarded him with contempt. “Coincidence and conjecture, that’s all this is. There are a great many words like
might have
and
perhap
s in your story. It’s a ridiculous idea and you know it.”

“I don’t think so. I might not have got the story right yet, but there is a secret to uncover. Something happened after Majuba – something that’s been hidden. Believe me, I can smell a scandal from a mile away.”

Evelyn thought of something that Harlik had conveniently chosen to ignore. “Would Montrecourt’s wife have helped my father escape if he had killed her husband? Had that entered your head?”

“Maybe she had no choice.”

“Then all you need to do is produce her and your story is proven.” He saw uncertainty flit across Harlik’s face and knew that he had scored a point.

“Sadly, I have no idea where Hortense Montrecourt is. Once your father had reached the safety of the camp, I presume he abandoned her in the Transvaal.”

“So, you have no proof at all then. Well, I suggest you drop this fantasy of yours, Harlik, unless you want to make yourself look ridiculous – or worse, you want to be hauled into court to face a libel charge.” Evelyn screwed the pamphlet up and dropped it on the table before leaving.

Outside, a thick fog had descended since his arrival at the inn. He drew the collar of his coat up around his ears against the cold. His footsteps echoed through the empty streets. A hansom clattered past but Evelyn didn’t hail it. He needed to walk.

It was obvious, of course, that everything the man had said was a lie or just conjecture. However, it wasn’t only the name Montrecourt he’d heard his father say as he died; he had also used the word ‘bury’. Had he said ‘bury’ or ‘bury him deep’?

He strode on, the fog growing denser around him as he struggled to make sense of it all.

Marie missed Daphne; she missed the stimulus of her conversation and the thrill of playing even a small part in her world of ideas and ideals. Daphne hadn’t written since leaving the hospital. Marie would at least have liked to know that her friend was well. She couldn’t help feeling a little abandoned.

It was with difficulty that she settled back into the dull routine of how life had been prior to the march. The Mintons did their best to relieve the boredom and spent as much time with her as they could, and she walked out with Stanley every Sunday. It was kind of him, but they had little in common and barely exchanged a word. She was grateful for the presence of the dogs, which provided a topic of conversation.

Now, at last, John Pickard sent for her – “to discuss your future”, his note had said. She’d been on the point of writing to him, because she had some ideas of her own that she wanted to discuss. She soon found herself sitting in his office, nervously facing him across the desk, while he leaned back in his chair and viewed her silently. This silence unnerved her and she decided to take the initiative.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a trouble to you, Mr Pickard. If you could make Sister Grace see that we never meant any harm when we planned the march.”

“You are answerable only to me, Miss Montrecourt.”

This surely meant he hadn’t told Sister Grace and she was grateful for it. “Then let me apologise to
you
.”

“I did warn you not to become involved in Miss Senior’s circle,” he continued. “She’s ruined the lives of the women at the factory, and she very nearly ruined yours too.”

“I know.” Geoffrey had made plain to her what the consequences might have been. She could have been injured or ostracised – he said he wasn’t sure which was worse. “And I’m grateful to you for persuading the police not to take action against me.”

“I did nothing. It’s Stanley Minton that you have to thank for that.”

Marie was surprised. “He never mentioned it to me. That was very kind of him.”

“He felt strongly that the matter should be dropped, as there is no danger of you repeating the offence. There isn’t, is there?”

She shook her head. There would be no danger of that. “No. I’ll write to him and thank him.”

“You can do more than that, Miss Montrecourt.”

“Oh, of course.”

“The… er… allowance that’s been made on your behalf – I told you it would be paid until your future was settled, but we can’t wait indefinitely for that. Recent events have made me realise that it needs to be settled sooner rather than later.”

Of course, Sister Grace couldn’t go on supporting her forever – that she had managed to do so at all still seemed a miracle. “I have given that some thought, Mr Pickard. I decided I should look for some kind of work.” What it would be and how she would set about it she had no idea, but it was the only solution. She caught sight of Mr Pickard’s face. It had turned bright red.

“Work? Certainly not. I wouldn’t allow it, Miss Montrecourt. I would be neglecting my role as guardian if I encouraged you to think I would. If Miss Senior has put that notion in your head, then put it straight out again.”

She hadn’t expected such a strong reaction from him. “I realise it won’t be easy.”

“For any young woman the workplace is full of dangers, but for someone with no experience of the world, or of life, the dangers are even stronger. You’ve led a sheltered life, Miss Montrecourt, and it is a harsh world out there. I don’t think you’re aware of it.”

He was wrong. Working with Daphne had
made
her aware of it. She opened her mouth to say so, but Mr Pickard hadn’t finished with his objections yet.

“Do you really think you’ll find work with no references and no experience? Certainly not of the kind that any decent woman would find acceptable,” he said. “If you persist with this, then I will have to wash my hands of you. The financial support you receive will end immediately. How do you propose to live while you look for this work?”

“I thought I could use the money from Sister to support myself while I looked. If you ask her…”

“I keep telling you, Miss Montrecourt, this matter concerns only me. I am your guardian and I’m entrusted to act in your best interests. I have a free hand to do that, and it is what I intend to do. If I withdraw my support, you may find you can no longer legally stay in this country, and there’d be no alternative for you but to return to the convent.”

She could never face that. She tried to control the tremble in her voice. “Then what do I do?”

John Pickard leant back in his chair and cleared his throat. “There is an alternative. Let me put it to you. I have been approached by someone who is a great admirer of yours, someone who is willing to give you his support and protection. Quite rightly, he wouldn’t approach you directly without my approval, but I would have no hesitation in giving him that approval if you were interested.”

She wasn’t sure she had understood his meaning. “I’m sorry?”

“Do you have an objection to marriage?”

She looked at him in astonishment. It had never entered her head. “I… No, certainly not. I’m just…” she broke off in confusion. “But I don’t know anyone.”

“I’ve been approached by Stanley Minton.”

She was so astonished that she couldn’t speak. He’d never given any indication that he was interested in her. She could feel her face turning pink. Was that what the outings had been about? “I never knew. I never suspected…”

John Pickard was watching her closely. “Yes, I can see it’s come as a surprise to you, but it would be the perfect solution. At the moment, he’s expressed an interest only and he obviously needs to be sure that it would be agreeable to you before proceeding.”

She had no idea what to say. Silence was her refuge.

Mr Pickard took her silence for modesty. “Of course, you’re flattered by his interest. I can understand that. Let me assure you that he is a decent man. He lives with his mother and father in Ilkley, a town just a few miles from here. He’s supported them all his working life. He’s a respected member of the business community in Harrogate. There’s nothing about Stanley to offend anyone and, as your guardian, I would be happy to encourage his interest in you if you have no objection to it.”

Did she object? The truth was that she had no idea. She’d never viewed him as a potential husband. She realised that John Pickard was waiting for her answer. She cast around for something to say. “I know so little about him. He seems a great deal older than me.”

“Stanley is in his forties, which is a good age in a husband. You are very young and he has the experience to guide and protect you.”

“But he’s never indicated any feelings towards me.”

“And nor should he have done, until he spoke to me.”

“He wants to marry me?” she said, as if saying it aloud might help her to believe it. John Pickard nodded his confirmation.

“I won’t fill your head with romantic nonsense, Miss Montrecourt – you wouldn’t expect me to. For Stanley, I think he’s of an age when his thoughts have turned to settling down and perhaps starting a family.” He placed his fingertips together. “I know he respects and likes you. He sees in you a vulnerable young woman who needs his protection and, gallantly, he’s willing to offer it. On your part, you will have a position of some standing as the wife of a prominent businessman. You will have security for the rest of your life and a home of your own. Weigh that against the alternative.”

She needed more time to think. “The Mintons are Chapel and I was brought up a Catholic, wouldn’t that prove difficult?”

“I’ve thought of that. Geoffrey tells me you never go to mass. I assume, therefore, you have no great commitment to the faith you were brought up in. I assume, under the circumstances, you will be happy to adopt your husband’s faith.”

Did Sister Grace approve of that? Or would she ever even know? John Pickard had made it clear that he was acting on his own initiative and, anyway, she could hardly write to her and ask. The decision was hers and hers alone.

“Think about it, Miss Montrecourt,” said John Pickard, sensitive to the delicacy of the situation, “but I will need to know within the week.”

She returned to Devonshire Place with her thoughts in turmoil and went straight to her room. She didn’t want to see anyone, least of all the Mintons. Did they know about Stanley’s intentions? They’d never given her any indication. She slept very little that night. How did she feel about Stanley Minton? Did she feel anything? How did she feel about the alternative? The convent wasn’t an option, but neither was work if she had no means to support herself while she looked for it.

“He admires you and he wants to protect you” – that’s what Mr Pickard had said. She remembered Sal and the factory women. Was marriage really such a bad prospect compared to theirs? She remembered the two girls at the convent. A marriage to Stanley would make sure that didn’t happen to her. After a sleepless night, she had made up her mind. She sat down and wrote a note to Mr Pickard. It simply said:

I will be happy to accept Stanley Minton’s attentions. Marie Montrecourt.

*

Having prepared herself for whatever might happen next, she found to her frustration that nothing did. Neither Geoffrey nor Isabelle gave her any indication that they knew about Stanley’s intentions. Nor, over the days that followed, did she hear anything from Stanley. She was beginning to wonder if she’d imagined the whole thing.

Then, a few weeks later, she was invited to join the Mintons at the Harrogate Dog Show where Stanley was showing Damson in Best of Breed. They met him at the showground, but he was too preoccupied with parading Damson to do anything more than nod in her direction. When Damson won, Stanley’s face burst into a smile. It was the first time Marie had ever seen him do so.

When they finally got the chance to talk, he addressed her directly. “Should we visit the funfair?” he asked. “Would you like that?”

Relieved that he’d finally done more than just acknowledge her presence, she agreed enthusiastically. “Yes, that would be lovely.” Geoffrey and Isabelle agreed.

They all headed for the funfair – along with, it seemed, everyone else in Harrogate. The
grounds were teeming with so many people that it wasn’t easy to forge a way through but Stanley and Damson cleared the way, with Stanley self-consciously clutching the trophy under his arm.

As they approached the merry-go-round, the steam engine that drove it hissed out a great globule of steam. Even though she was some feet away, Marie could feel its heat on her cheek. Garishly painted horses bobbed up and down as mechanised musicians played pretend instruments – while the cylinder that actually provided the music laboured away hidden in its wooden box.

“Want a ride?” Geoffrey asked his wife, shouting above the noise. Isabelle hastily shook her head in reply.

“Do
you
want a ride?” Stanley asked Marie.

She was surprised. It didn’t seem the sort of thing that would appeal to him at all. She realised he was trying to please her.

“Yes. I would like that,” she said quickly, and Stanley handed Damson’s lead to Geoffrey.

When the merry-go-round stopped, Stanley helped her onto the deck. He had to lift her onto the back of one of the horses because she was too tiny to reach its stirrup. She sat side saddle, clutching the long twisted barley-sugar pole to which the horse was attached. Stanley sat astride the horse next to hers, still clutching the trophy under his arm. The music started to play, the machinery whirred and the horses began to rise and fall as the merry-go-round turned. It began to gather speed, whirling faster and faster, and round and round. The music was deafening. Marie threw back her head and laughed, swept along by the excitement of it all. She became aware that Stanley was trying to say something to her. He leaned perilously towards her but his voice was drowned out by the music. She saw that he was struggling to free a blue velvet ring box from his pocket. This was the moment from which there would be no going back.

“Will you marry me, Marie?” He had to bellow the words to be heard.

Her hair had escaped its restraining pins, her cheeks were flushed with the excitement of the ride, and as the painted horse rose to its full height she could see across the whole fairground to the moors. She was flying through the air. This was freedom; everything was possible.

“Yes,” she shouted back.

“What?”

“Yes, I will marry you.”

He didn’t say anything further, but as the merry-go-round began to slow down, and when the rise and fall of the horses came to a halt, he was able to lean towards her and slip the ring over her finger. She gazed down at the small circle of cut diamonds surrounding the blue sapphire. Her finger was so small, though, that the ring was in danger of slipping off again and she had to close her hand into a fist to keep it in place.

“I’ll have it made to fit,” he said.

As he helped her off the ride, she had to lean against him for a moment to steady herself because she felt quite giddy. She wanted to say something meaningful to mark the importance of the occasion, but she couldn’t think of anything suitable to say. It was Stanley who spoke.

“We should inform Isabelle and Geoffrey that we are to be married.”

He made it all sound so matter-of-fact. She looked down at the ring on her finger to prove to herself that it really had happened. She turned impetuously to Stanley, but he’d already left her side and was talking to Isabelle and Geoffrey
.
Isabelle gave an exclamation of delight and rushed over to her.

“Stanley’s just told us. I am so pleased for you.”

She hugged her and Marie clung on to her tightly, as if for support.

*

“How do you do, Mrs Minton, Mr Minton. I am so pleased to meet you both.” The prospect of meeting Stanley’s parents had worried her for days. Isabelle had done her best to reassure her but Stanley was equally on edge, which didn’t help.

Everything was moving at such a pace. They were to be married a few weeks from now. A client of Mr Pickard’s was making her wedding dress, the chapel had been booked, and now she was in the parlour of The Laurels in Ilkley facing Edith and Edwin Minton.