3 Great Historical Novels (13 page)

Rhia could think of nothing, and said so.

I see. Thank you. I wish you well in your new profession.’ He bowed and went to pay his respects to Antonia. When he left, without a backward glance, Rhia breathed a sigh of relief.

What had he meant about the ‘circumstances of death’? Presumably he intended, somehow, to discover what had gone wrong in Ryan’s personal or professional life.
Was
there anything she had noticed at China Wharf? She remembered the calling card she had picked up from the floor. Although it was probably nothing, she could do some investigating of her own; at least discover what the numbers and the oriental character meant. It might make her feel less helpless. Dillon’s interest in Ryan’s affairs made her uneasy, and she was now regretting telling him anything at all.

Juliette’s fingers were icy cold as they brushed Antonia’s neck. Antonia shivered. Juliette finished fixing the lace fichu and stepped back to inspect her work. She looked pleased, as she always did on the rare occasions that Antonia wore a pretty collar or cuff. The fichu was decorative, not her own choice, but Antonia did not want to insult her hosts by appearing too abstemious. Personally, she cared not if every other female at the Montgomery supper were clothed in rainbows. Or so she told herself.

‘I
am
sorry, madam, I tried rubbing them together to warm them, but they’re just cold hands and there’s nought I can do about it.’ Juliette’s penitence was occasionally irksome, yet it was what had drawn Antonia to the girl. She had not intended to employ a maid on her charitable visit to the Manchester workhouse. Had she thought that she could save Juliette? It seemed arrogant, now.

‘It is not important. No doubt it prevents me from becoming complacent. It is a blessing to have you. Now, is the collar straight? And what about my hair? You know I rely on you to be my looking-glass.’

‘You look very fine, madam, though not
too
fine, of course!’

Antonia smiled. Juliette seemed to have untangled some of the emotion of her mother’s letter, but there was still that
something
. Antonia could still not bring herself to ask about the
death of the father, though she often longed to. She must be deferential, and tread lightly. Was this what God wanted – that no creature should be affronted by another? She was disturbed to feel so weary of righteousness.

The others were waiting in the hall. Rhia was dressed in straw coloured corinna; a silk so ornately figured that it resembled embroidery. Her shawl was of deep, rich maize. The tones set off her inky hair and olive skin as though she were some harvest deity, and Laurence could barely drag his eyes from her. Antonia vaguely recalled a tale of the survivors of the Spanish Armada who had left a strain of their fine, dark looks in Ireland. She felt like a dried-up wheat shaft by comparison. For a moment she longed for the ephemeral pleasure of vanity.

‘You look handsome,’ Rhia said. She was looking at her quizzically, and Antonia felt her colour rise guiltily. The
plainness
of dress was originally intended to be a protest against fashion and its wasteful and fickle demands, but that had been in response to the lavish adornment of the last century. It struck Antonia that, without Josiah, these virtues might have lost their meaning. She smiled as sincerely as she could.

‘Mr Montgomery is sending his carriage.’ The ring of hooves on the cobbles interrupted her. ‘And here it is. Remarkably punctual.’ She busied herself with her gloves and bonnet to hide her confusion.

Rhia gazed out of the carriage window as they travelled along Holborn and Oxford Street, though there was little to see but drizzle and carriage lamps. She had now drafted two letters to prospective employers; one to a vicar with two young daughters in Finsbury and the other to an elderly widow in Kensington who had advertised for a young lady companion. The latter position, Antonia guessed, might be too staid for someone with Rhia’s restlessness. At least Quakerism actively encouraged
women in the workplace. At least the Friends would not disapprove of her trading on her own.

‘What sort of establishment is the Jerusalem Coffee House?’ Rhia asked suddenly.

‘It is a meeting place of sorts,’ Laurence began, looking to Antonia for help. The world of trade was of little interest to him; unless it was a study in chiaroscuro. ‘It is where bankers, investors and merchants and people who work for the Royal Exchange all meet to buy and sell stocks and shares,’ Antonia explained. She envied Laurence. She wished that she, too, could focus on light and shade to the exclusion of all else. The irony of the metaphor did not escape her. Focusing on the light alone seemed as problematic as becoming lost in the shadows. They fell into silence again. No one was in the mood for a dinner party.

The Montgomery residence was one of a number of mansions in Belgrave Square, in the vicinity of Buckingham Palace Gardens. They passed through imposing iron gates attended by a footman, and stopped at the bottom of several broad marble steps. These led to a columned portico and double doors of polished oak.

The doors were opened by a starched maid as pretty as a china doll, and they stepped into an austere entrance hall with a tiled floor and walls papered in patterned jade and peacock blue. Very theatrical, Antonia thought, feeling like a domestic servant in her plain, corded armozeen.

They were delivered to a vast reception room. Every wall hung with French tapestries. Here, the dinner guests gathered to listen to the pianoforte, played by a flaxen creature in a froth of sugar pink tulle. Isabella Montgomery was soon to come of age but looked fresh from the nursery with her pale, sausage ringlets and limpid, cornflower eyes. She turned to look when
the new arrivals were announced. She struck a wrong key and giggled nervously.

Close by, perched on regal chairs, were Mr Montgomery and his wife Prunella in magenta silk and a tiara. She averted her eyes pointedly when they grazed Antonia’s skirts. She had the same cloud of sunflower hair as her daughter, but her eyes were glassy with whatever she sipped on so urgently. Mr Montgomery seemed strained.

The dinner guests were seated on a row of upholstered chairs and Antonia recognised the gaunt couple as Lord and Lady Basset; he being one of the East India Company’s representatives in Canton. The Bassets were a part of
Society
, and Antonia did not miss Lady Basset’s eyes widening when a Quaker and a foreigner took their seats beside Mr Beckwith and Isaac. At least Laurence had oiled his hair, but his shirtfront was just as creased as ever. She had no idea how he managed to look so consistently rumpled when Beth went to great pains to iron and starch his shirts.

Isabella hammered the pianoforte keys and Antonia caught Isaac stealing looks at her. His mouth twitched as another stray chord escaped. She looked away quickly, lest she giggle. Was it just her feeling of displacement, or was the tension in the room palpable? It was a peculiar company, and she thought Mr Montgomery brave to gather them together.

Isaac had been attentive on the day of the burial, mindful that another death had cut her to the quick. The actuality of Ryan’s suicide had not completely registered – Antonia felt only disbelief. Surely they should have seen the signs? Had they all been neglectful? She had noted Ryan’s odd mood but had just assumed that he was feeling the pressures of commerce. It was clear that Isaac felt the same remorse. He had been colleague and friend to both Ryan and Josiah. He lived
with grief, too, having lost his wife to typhoid fever two summers ago.

Isabella finished playing and Mr Montgomery took charge, since his wife was already in her altitude. He guided Antonia by the elbow to the dining room, and she felt her skin tingle at his touch through the thick fabric of her sleeve. To esteem him was no crime, but she must be doubly careful to be proper – not because she cared what people thought, especially, but because she was aware of her own vulnerability.

Mr Montgomery had seated her next to him. ‘I am delighted to see you abroad in society, Mrs Blake. Am I to believe what Mr Fisher tells me – that you mean to run Josiah’s business?’

‘Of course. I have been more involved in the trade than you perhaps realise.’ Why was Isaac discussing her affairs with Jonathan Montgomery?

‘It shouldn’t surprise me, given that your creed is so intent on reform.’

‘I am disappointed that you think it reform! It is merely a mark of respect on the part of both husband and wife that a woman should take an interest in such things.’

‘Indeed, forgive me. Quite so.’ He sighed heavily and Antonia felt her heart lurch. If his wife were more often sober she might take an interest in his own affairs.

‘We must speak more on the subject of commerce, soon,’ he added as he pulled back his own chair. ‘Perhaps your husband mentioned our newest enterprise?’

‘I am not up to date. No doubt he intended to when he … returned from India.’

Her host looked down at his plate, shaking his head. He must miss Josiah too. Her husband had been well-liked even though he was outspoken on the subject of ethics. He would not be associated with anyone who was not similarly principled.
Antonia wanted to say something soothing. ‘I have been thinking about the portrait in the garden. Perhaps you would like a representation of it?’ She trailed off when she caught Isaac’s eye. He looked disapproving, and she wondered if he thought she was being too familiar. Isaac looked away quickly and said something to Rhia, his expression earnest and the movements of his large hands slow and deliberate. She had seen him at the Jerusalem with the banker from Barings! She had completely forgotten the incident, so much had happened since. Isaac was listening to Rhia’s impressions of London, as was doe-eyed Isabella Montgomery. Antonia could not hear much above the clink of cutlery and crystal, but heard him say, in his slow, resonant voice, ‘Irish linen, being an import, can hardly compete against English, but it is favoured in Germany, a nation that appreciates fine-spun cloth as much as it favours quality in all things. Britain is less concerned about quality than with reducing cost and increasing production and profit.’

As they were served their first, extravagant course – chestnut soup and baked sweetbreads – Mr Montgomery leaned towards Antonia.

‘I would very much like a representation of the portrait, Mrs Blake. Are you progressing with your photogenic drawing any more than when last we spoke?’

Antonia saw Laurence’s head turn at this. ‘I am not, Mr Montgomery, though I’ve not lost interest by any means. I have merely … paused. As for the portrait, the paper negative looks very much like it did before. I’m not sure if I was successful because I’ve not yet been brave enough to find out.’ She turned to Laurence, who did not yet know about the portrait. ‘Perhaps it is too late?’

He shrugged. ‘If the iodised paper is carefully preserved,
you should be able to expose the latent image even several months later,’ he assured her.

‘That is fortunate indeed. You see, the tableau in the portrait included Josiah.’ She gazed at her soup. She had not discussed the photogenic drawing with Laurence because every time she thought of the possibility of having Josiah’s image brought back to her, a terror seized her. Her husband would never return. This ghost image of him could only be a reminder of the fact. When she looked up, Mr Montgomery’s expression was so tender that she could hardly bear to meet his gaze.

‘I am still baffled by this means of drawing by the use of light and silver salts,’ he said. ‘Tell me how the method of Mr Talbot differs to that of the Frenchman.’

Antonia was relieved. This was safe territory. ‘Daguerre favours the use of a copper plate coated with silver, which darkens when exposed to the light. Rather like an etching on the metal. Mr Talbot’s method fixes a negative image onto a paper template that can generate any number of copies. Am I right, Laurence?’

‘Quite. With the Talbot method, one picture might be circulated as widely as a woodcut image stereotyped in plaster. In fact, once Mr Talbot releases his patent on the calotype process, photogenic drawing will no doubt be in use by the London papers and journals.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Mr Montgomery, still watching Antonia, as though she were the object of his fascination. She was anxious to deflect his attention, even though she had sought it in the first place. She lowered her voice when Laurence turned away.

‘Are you still looking to create an exclusive range for the House of Montgomery?’

Mr Montgomery raised an eyebrow. ‘I am. The Parisian designs are always very modern, but I tire of being led by the French.’

‘Perhaps you would consider a female artisan?’

Mr Montgomery looked shocked. ‘Mrs Blake, are you petitioning me?’

She laughed. ‘Oh, not for myself, no. For Rhia Mahoney.’ She rather enjoyed his astonishment. She could not have devised a better test for his character had she tried. Did he have the gall to consider employing a woman for such a position? She could only wait and wonder how he would respond.

The main course had only just been served and Rhia had already eaten too well for a boned bodice. She looked around the table. Mrs Montgomery’s tiara tilted comically, or tragically, and her voice was too loud as she explained some obscure rule of whist to Lady Basset. Mr Beckwith and Isaac Fisher were engaged in a heated discussion over the opium trade. Rhia had given up interjecting. Her opinion was inconsequential and Lady Basset’s disapproving looks were becoming irritating. In fact, she was certain that Lady Basset had whispered something unkind about her to Mrs Montgomery, because her hostess kept glancing at her suspiciously.

By now they were feasting on wild duck and roast hare and something the serving girl called ‘an Indian dish of fowl’. The meats came served with broad beans and baked Spanish onions and truffles with champagne – the latter, they were informed, a delicacy the Montgomerys had recently dined on in Paris and hoped their guests would enjoy. Rhia did not. The flavour of the truffles was strong and earthy and the champagne unpleasantly heady. The claret had sufficiently improved her endurance of Isabella’s company. Isabella seemed very taken with her, and thought her
emancipated
. She whispered the word as though it both terrified and excited her. Rhia was enjoying being thought liberal and exotic, but then again a dairymaid would appear so to Isabella who was
as cosseted as a little princess – it seemed that she went nowhere without a chaperone. Isabella asked endless questions about the journey from Dublin, her eyes wide and her voice breathy. ‘What an
adventure
! Papa should never allow it. How I
envy
you.’

Rhia was only partly listening while Isabella tinkled on about a forthcoming tea party in honour of her birthday. The neighbouring conversation between Isaac and Beckwith was much more interesting. Isaac had raised his voice.

‘The fact remains, Francis, that it is as unethical to attempt to buy China silk under the emperor’s nose as it is to export our cotton to China. The trade ban is law as far as I’m concerned.’

Mr Beckwith fixed the Quaker with a look that seemed to hold meaning for the two of them alone. Rhia intuited that this was a well-rehearsed conversation. ‘The treasuries of China and Britain are inextricably linked, as we know,’ he said carefully. ‘The ethics are complicated, of course, but didn’t gentlemen of your …
persuasion
once invest in cotton that was picked by Negro slaves?’ Mr Beckwith seemed almost embarrassed to point this out. ‘I am merely arguing the case for commerce,’ he hastened to add.

Isaac was silenced as though he had suddenly thought better of his argument. Rhia caught Antonia’s expression of dismay and was puzzled. There was some undercurrent that she was missing.

Mr Beckwith looked down at his dinner plate as though he regretted drawing attention to himself. She’d gathered that Mr Montgomery’s associate was a sage of the financial markets. It was curious that Beckwith and Montgomery were also friends, since they seemed of vastly different social talents.

Antonia was looking pained. She addressed Lord Basset almost curtly. ‘The East India Company, of course, would wish
the government to protect the opium trade, which is an enormous advantage to them.’

‘And to the British nation,’ he spluttered, his face turning the same colour as the veins on his thin nose.

‘With respect,’ she persisted, ‘I know bankers who conjure China as the new British Raj.’

‘But the Raj is a huge success,’ said Lord Basset. ‘The populations of China and India should be grateful for our civilising influence.’

Rhia snorted and before she could stop herself, said, ‘Then you cannot know that it was a Chinese delegation that started the Renaissance in Italy?’ She was making herself unattractive again, but what was the point in having illicitly read her father’s entire library if she could not put the knowledge to use? ‘Surely the fact that opium is a slow poison means something to the East India Company.’ There was silence.

Lady Basset stared daggers at Rhia. Rhia glared back and took a large, inelegant, swallow of claret to stop herself sticking her tongue out.

It was Isaac who broke the silence in his low, unhurried voice. ‘Of course, without the need to sell opium to buy tea, the silver crisis could be averted, couldn’t it, Francis?’ Mr Beckwith looked up from his plate and replied in his lilting northern accent. ‘It is true. The entire reserve of the Bank of England is earmarked for the trade.’

Prunella Montgomery put down her cutlery with a clang, and turned to her husband. ‘The Union flag has become a pirate flag,’ she said, and then lifted her glass to no one in particular. There was an awkward silence for a moment before Mr Montgomery laughed. ‘Yes, my dear, or so Mr Gladstone says.’

Rhia lifted her glass in accord, but no one else did. She had
already made a spectacle of herself, so it made no difference what she did now. ‘Then it seems that Mr Gladstone is the only man in Whitehall who is more concerned with the humanity of the matter than with its economics,’ she said. Even to her own ears, her tone was brittle and accusing, but as far as she could tell, the British were behaving like pirates. Lady Basset had a sudden coughing fit and Rhia thought she heard her say ‘impudence’ or ‘impertinence’ between splutters.

‘It is also,’ Antonia remarked, ‘a matter of conscience, a quality rare in a politician.’ A look of affinity passed between them. If Antonia did not think less of her for being opinionated, then Rhia didn’t care what anyone else thought, including Laurence, who had drained his glass nervously twice since the debate began.

Mr Montgomery was now looking at her as though trying to decide something. Perhaps he was making a mental note not to invite her to another dinner party. Cold lemon pudding and damson tart were served in silence. It was a relief, afterwards, to adjourn to the drawing room with only the women. Lady Basset was now studiously ignoring her, which suited Rhia very well. She was unrepentant.

They drank over-sweetened café noir and liqueur, and Isabella chattered ceaselessly about the royal wedding, although it was months ago, and how very
small
Queen Victoria looked beside Prince Albert in all the drawings, and wasn’t it remarkable that someone so tiny, and even younger than she, should be queen of an empire? Everyone nodded but no one seemed to be listening. Mrs Montgomery was now comprehensively intoxicated and was sitting with a faraway look and a fixed smile. She was obviously accustomed to the condition, because the only thing that gave it away was the occasional swaying of her torso. Lady Basset looked bored and irritated and Antonia was clearly
exhausted. Rhia hoped that she would want to go home soon. Their eyes met. Antonia leaned towards her conspiratorially.

‘Mr Montgomery would like to see your portfolio.’

Rhia was suddenly awake. ‘My portfolio – is he in need of a draughtsperson? But how did he know?’ She trailed off, confused for a moment before she realised that this must be Antonia’s doing.

‘He told me some time ago that he was looking for a textile designer.’

Rhia was speechless. Antonia merely looked pleased with herself. How was it possible that a Regent Street mercer would even consider a designer with no experience, let alone entertain the thought of employing a female?

‘Mr Montgomery wants something a little special, something that is not imported from Paris. Don’t forget, Rhia, that some of the most exquisite and famous designs for silk were by Anna Maria Garthwaite.’

‘That is true.’ She had of course heard of this famed designer, a favourite of the regents of the last century.

‘Does it interest you?’

‘Oh yes! But I cannot call myself a professional.’

‘Yes you can. Perhaps not measured by experience, but experience is not everything and I have seen your work. I am always uplifted to see a woman employ her talent and her wit. I’m certain that God did not intend that artistic fulfilment should be entirely for the gratification of men.’

Rhia was overcome. The evening had been a strain and now, for some reason, she was close to tears. ‘I have not known what to do, what to expect of London, now that—’

‘Expect anything. London offers everything or nothing, depending on one’s fate.’

It was so like something Ryan had said. As if the hopes and
desires of so many were merely tricks in a game of whist. ‘Then you believe in fate?’

Mrs Blake sighed. ‘To some degree. One must find the fragile balance between directing one’s energies and accepting what is bestowed. Or taken away.’

Isabella was attempting to follow their conversation with a petulant frown. ‘You are both too serious! Miss Mahoney, you
must
visit again and see Mama’s pretty collection of cloth that Papa brings back from the Orient. It is worth thousands, apparently. Mama says I can choose a length for my birthday gown.’ Suddenly, Isabella clapped her hands with delight. ‘
You
must come to my birthday party!’

‘When is your birthday?’ Rhia asked, trying to sound interested.

‘Oh, not until February, but one must have something to look forward to.’

Rhia smiled wearily and Antonia suppressed a yawn. Surely it was finally a respectable hour to withdraw? Antonia stood up and Rhia sighed with relief.

In the darkness of the carriage, silence finally felt natural. Mr Montgomery had seen them out and asked her bring her portfolio to Regent Street soon. The thought filled her with exquisite terror.

Laurence was sitting next to her and she could feel his discomfort. He was probably cross with her for being so opinionated at dinner. He had spent the days since the burial in his studio and didn’t seem to know what to say to her, though he was always unerringly cheerful at breakfast. He took lunch upstairs and dinner at his club.

‘You are very well informed on the China Trade, my dear,’ Antonia said softly, as though she were reading Rhia’s thoughts. ‘I approve,’ she added. ‘Perhaps you would be interested to read
Laurence’s friend Mr Dillon’s column in the
Globe
. He writes on commerce and City matters, you know, and has some quite unusual opinions.’

‘Yes, he does rather,’ agreed Laurence with a wry smile. ‘Too clever for me, though.’

They fell into silence.

As they passed a carriage lamp, Rhia noticed Antonia’s expression. She looked as though she needed her bed, perhaps to be alone with her private memories of her husband. She often seemed formidably self-possessed but now she looked fragile and uncertain. She was only human after all.