Death and the Cyprian Society (16 page)

“To what do I owe the . . . honor of your visit?” he asked, by his manner implying that he was discharging a distasteful social duty. And so he was. The Right Reverend Clydesdale was not pleased to find a woman of easy virtue fouling his sacrosanct rectory air with her presence.

She curtsied, meeting his coldness with a coolness of her own. “How do you do? I believe your predecessor has left a parcel for me here.”

Arabella had become very aware of teeth, since her first case had so hinged upon them, and she noticed that Clydesdale’s were separated, each from the other, by a little space, like the tumuli at Avebury. He peered unpleasantly at her through his tiny, pale eyes, and at once advised her to come to the Lord and be cleansed of her sins.

“I’m afraid I have not got time for that today,” she said, “but you would greatly oblige me by fetching my parcel, so that I may attend to the rest of my errands.”

The rector was not accustomed to being dispatched like a common servant. Not, at any rate, by fallen women. He stood and glared at Arabella for the space of four heartbeats, at the end of which time Mrs. Hasquith rather unexpectedly saved the situation. For, having divined the visitor’s purpose, the housekeeper now entered the parlor of her own volition, and handed over the parcel without comment.

“Thank you,” said Arabella. And turning on her heel, she made a swift and stately exit, meaning to escape from the place at once. But outside the rectory door, the Effing Sunday School children had gathered in a body to embrace her. Reverend Kendrick had on several occasions taken them to Lustings to study the pond and bird life there, and Arabella had always treated the group to a wonderful cream tea afterward. She was not overly fond of children as a rule, but she liked the nice ones well enough, provided they did not share proximity with her for too long. Besides,
these
children had once been closely associated with her dear Mr. Kendrick, and she was therefore delighted to stoop down and receive their affectionate caresses.

But Reverend Clydesdale, following close on her heels, was aghast. He waded straight into the thick of the group and physically separated the innocent lambs from their false idol.

“Certain women are to be shunned, if you would grow up in the sight of God,” he said sternly.

The children obediently fell away. Arabella didn’t mind. She knew she should never again return to this place, now that she held the thing she had come for in her own two hands. She leapt into her carriage, slamming the door behind her.

Now that she had leisure to inspect her parcel, Arabella was both pained and pleased to observe that the package was the exact size and shape of a bundle of letters; pages full of longing, expressive of a deep and lasting love, and carefully smoothed out with a sensitive yet masculine hand before being bound together in a neat stack and wrapped in brown paper.

Are
they love letters? she wondered. Penned to me during quiet nights and lonely dawns in the sanctity of his bedroom? Arabella resisted the urge to tear off the wrapping and plunge into the contents immediately—she would wait till she might be alone in her boudoir, because it wouldn’t do for Trotter to hear her blubbering. The carriage had scarcely cleared the rectory drive, however, before she was attacking the string with the penknife she had brought with her for this purpose!

Inside, all she found were the notes and letters she had written to Mr. Kendrick. There were not many, considering the length of time she had known him. Here was a handkerchief of hers, too. And a glove and a hairpin. There was nothing of him. It was all her own.

Arabella was shocked by the insensitivity of the gesture. For a few moments she sat and stared blindly before her, but at last she gave herself over to tears. Not those hot, voluptuous floods of self-indulgent remorse that are so purging for the soul; these were the cold, peevish tears of disappointment, which must be squeezed out from under the eyelids in order to fall at all, expressive of nothing but hopelessness and abandonment. Grief of this type is good for neither the soul nor the mind, and all too frequently results, for the young, in a heart turned to ice that can never be thawed again.

Though the tears of desertion work differently upon different characters, the results are never good. In Arabella’s case, the shock and emptiness she felt turned first to vexation, thence to fury. What a coldhearted thing to do! How could he profess to love her, and yet treat her thus? But by the time her carriage pulled into the drive, she was sitting up straight, perfectly composed and dry-eyed. There was only a dull, aching throb at the back of her head, which could not be detected by others. In fact, anyone observing Arabella walk into the house would have been arrested by her perfect poise and the self-controlled elegance of her demeanor.

 

It is a skill of a higher order, this trick of concealing one’s emotions, and other people were not as adept as Arabella was. After his visitor had gone, Reverend Clydesdale found himself unable to rid his mind of her. He was not able to eat his dinner, and lay long awake that night, imagining he could hear her voice in his head. Gradually, the things she had actually said to him—“I’m afraid I have not got time for that today.” “You would greatly oblige me by fetching my parcel.” “Allow me to attend to my errands.”—became things she
hadn’t
said: “I have got time to oblige you.” “Allow me to attend to you.” “I am afraid of your parcel!” And eventually, he floated off into the sort of dreams that men of his profession are never supposed to have.

But that was nothing to the emotional display taking place on the other side of town, where a gaoler, in the company of a solicitor, was unlocking one of the prison cells.

“Where have
you
been?!” shouted the prisoner.

“I came as soon as I could. The regent is currently conscripting every able-bodied Tory lawyer to work on his divorce. I only finished up half an hour ago, and then I came straight over. I’ve had nothing to eat since breakfast.”

Madame Zhenay made no reply, glaring balefully into the darkness ahead as she stalked down the prison passageway toward freedom. But what the solicitor fancied was the sound of an ancient bolt being dragged across the door of a distant cell was actually his client grinding her teeth.

Chapter 11

L
ady Ribbonhat had tried to distance herself from her footman (the selfsame footman who had started all the trouble with Costanze in the first place) as he rapped the rhino knocker smartly against Arabella’s front door. But there wasn’t much room on the doorstep, and her ladyship’s enormous crinoline limited the available space even more. When ladies went calling, it was usual for them to remain in the carriage whilst their footmen plied the knockers, but Lady Ribbonhat knew that her servant’s livery had only to be recognized, and Lustings’s door would be slammed in his face. So she was taking the precaution of standing near the entrance, in order to be able to push herself forward (a thing at which she excelled) before this should occur. Her gown, though, was overly commodious to quite an outrageous degree. So much so, that when Fielding opened the door, the footman lost his balance and was unable to avoid collapsing into the foyer on top of her.

“Get up from there, Harry!” exhorted his mistress. “This house may be run like a brothel, but that does not entitle you to take advantage of the fact, nor does it excuse you from your duty to me!”

Harry picked himself up, and helped the hapless Fielding to her feet. When he attempted to brush off her skirt for her, though, he only received a sharp kick in the shin for his pains, after which Fielding pushed him back out onto the doorstep.

“Good day to you,” said Lady Ribbonhat imperiously.

Fielding responded with a stony stare. Like Lady Ribbonhat’s pugs, she knew her mistress’s enemy by sight, and though she refrained from snarling and snapping, she was nevertheless disinclined to shew the dowager any respect.

“Whatsoever it is you come for, th’ answer is no.”

“I have brought you and your fellow servants a gift of uplifting tracts,” replied the duchess, attempting to hand the maid a basket full of nasty, dog-eared leaflets, “which contain any number of moral and improving sermons. Perhaps you would like to read them on your off day. Or, if you happen to be illiterate, you might ask one of the more educated servants, should your mistress employ any, to read them to you.”

“What are they about?” asked Fielding suspiciously, placing her hands behind her by way of rejecting the basket.

“All sorts of wonderful things!” Lady Ribbonhat replied, and she picked carefully through the soiled pamphlets so as not to stain her gloves. “
The Right Way to Remove Mucus from the Nasal Passages
;
Living Off the Land: How to Make Soup from Dirt
; and
Looking Within for Reasons to be Thankful You Are Poor
. That will give you the general idea
.
I believe there is also a leaflet with instructions on how to curtsy when a duchess calls, and not keep her waiting on the doorstep.”

Fielding snorted. “Sounds like utter rubbish! An’ if you think they’re so wonderful, why are they all stained and crusted-looking?”

“One or two of them might have seen duty at the bottom of the canary cage, but that in no way reflects upon their fine, moral tone. Anyway, I should like to leave these with you,” insisted Lady R., thrusting the basket rather more firmly at Fielding’s stomach, “and I wish to have a talk with your mistress. Is she at home?”

“ ’Course she is! Where else would she be at
this
hour?” asked Fielding rudely. “The question’s not whether the mistress be at ’ome, but whether she be at ’ome
to you
. I’ll go see what she says, but you’ll ’ave to wait outside. ’Ere, gimme them pamphlets; she’ll be more apt to see you if she’s ’ad a good laugh.”

After Fielding had grabbed the basket and slammed the door, Lady Ribbonhat turned toward her footman, nearly knocking him off the porch. “Wait at the carriage,” she said, “but be ready to assist me if I am attacked.”

It was very early in the morning, and ordinarily, Arabella would still have been deep in the arms of Morpheus (or Henry, or Thomas, or somebody). But today she was up and about, for there were Things to Be Done at her club, and she was having a light breakfast before leaving the house.

“Lady Ribbon’at’s at the door, miss,” said Fielding.

“What on Earth has she to do here?”

“Dunno, miss. She says she wants to talk to you, and she give us
this.”
Fielding held out the basket of tracts for inspection, but her mistress recoiled from them.

“Faugh! Keep those things away from the butter, if you please! You didn’t let her in, I hope!”

“Naw. She’s outside, on the step.”

“Good work, Fielding. I shall see her directly I’ve finished my ‘toast and post,’ but you needn’t tell
her
that. In fact, you needn’t tell her anything. Just remove that foul receptacle from the dining room, if you would.”

“Yes, miss. Would you like us to read through the pamphlets, and tell you about the funniest bits?”

“Yes, why not? Thank you, Fielding,” said Arabella distractedly, for she had just noticed a missive from Frank on the letter tray.

Her blood seemed to stop its course through her veins: To be on that woman’s bad side was not a pleasant prospect. “Well,” muttered Arabella under her breath, “and isn’t that
just
what I needed!”

All this while, Lady Ribbonhat had been waiting outside. Ordinarily, a self-respecting dowager duchess would have quitted any place where she was so emphatically unwelcome. But Lady Ribbonhat had fully expected this type of reception, for she knew herself to be in enemy territory. So she stood there alone with her hands folded across her stomach and humming a hymn through her nose, prepared to wait till doomsday, if need be.

“It is early for social calls, Lady Ribbonhat,” Arabella remarked, standing in the open doorway and pointedly not inviting her adversary to enter.

Lady R. ignored the reproof. “I have brought a gift for your staff.”

“So I understand. Generally, we take deliveries through the rear door, but deliveries of garbage do not, as a rule, come into the house at all.”

“Since last we met,” said the dowager duchess, ignoring this remark, “I have been considering what you told me, and have decided that there may be merit in your counsel. Accordingly, I am here on a mission of goodwill. Ask me in, if you please, for I bring urgent news which may be of use to you.”

Arabella was so surprised by the courteous form of this address that she actually did let her adversary in, and led the way to the drawing room.

“Will you take tea?”

“I think not. This is a pilgrimage of contrition; not a social call.”

“Suit yourself,” said Arabella, picking up the silver teapot with the curlicue handle. “I am going to have some. What was it you wished to say?”

“First of all, my son, Henry, your generous protector, will wed Madame Zhenay as soon as his ship returns. So, were I you, I should make other financial plans for the future.”

Arabella arched an eyebrow as she poured the fragrant stream into a pink and gray teacup as fragile as a fingernail. “Is he, indeed? Henry never mentioned it to me, and I have just had a letter from him. One would think he’d have included an item of such great personal import.”

“He does not know of it, as yet—Madame Zhenay and I have arranged it between ourselves in his absence.”

“That is the single most incredible thing I have heard this week,” said Arabella, stirring her tea. “I am afraid I don’t believe a word of it.”

“It is quite true, nevertheless. But that is not what I came to tell you. Madame Zhenay knows that you turned her over to the police, and now she is sworn to have her revenge. Your life is in danger.”

Arabella smiled and sipped. The fact that she had already had a warning from Frank enabled her to mask her concern with perfect equanimity.

“I am not afraid of Madame Zhenay. I run faster than she does.”

“Don’t be a fool!” cried the dowager with sudden vehemence. “Zhenay’s not coming after you
herself!
She’ll be sending hired thugs to do the dirty work.”

“Then what would you suggest I do, Lady Ribbonhat? Take up the javelin? Wear chain mail under my gowns? Learn to operate a trebuchet?”

Arabella’s visitor rose from the chair and gathered her things. Lady Ribbonhat badly wanted a cup of tea, but it would not be seemly to ask for one now.

“Well,” she said, glancing at the ceiling as though to invoke God’s attention and approval. “I have tried my best to help her, but it is clear that there is nothing more to be done here.”

Arabella walked her nemesis to the door, to make sure she didn’t steal anything. The dowager duchess had once owned Lustings, and before her son had given it to Arabella, she had planned on spending her retiring years in this place. She still looked upon the house and its contents as rightfully hers, and for this reason could not be trusted in the vicinity of any of Arabella’s portable objets d’art.

When they reached the door, the courtesan held it open as wide as she could, both to accommodate her visitor’s voluminous skirts, and to be able to slam it after her as loudly as possible.

“I should like you to return the basket when your servants have finished reading those tracts,” said Lady Ribbonhat, her foot upon the threshold. “And remember: Whatever happens to you via Madame Zhenay, you shall not be able to fault me for it.”

“Not for that, perhaps,” replied Arabella, leaving her listener to imply the rest. “Good morning.”

The prospect of Madame Zhenay stalking her through the streets was not a pleasant one, but Arabella could not afford to waste time worrying about it now, with the Bird’s opening night just round the corner. After quickly finishing her tea and donning her hat and gloves, she struck out for town, inhaling deep lungsful of spring air as she walked. It was clean today, for a wonder, and smelt faintly of the countryside.

As she stept off the kerb, Arabella noticed the driver of a brewery wagon across the road, who slapped the reins across the broad rumps of his draft horses at precisely the same instant. The next thing she knew, the wagon was heading dead at her! Arabella held her ground, assuming that the driver had not seen her yet. For to run away now, either to the right or left, would have been equally dangerous, should the wagon veer in either of those directions. It is also thus with life in general: the middle of the road is usually safest.

But the rumble and clank of the wagon grew ever louder, seeming almost to explode in her head like the last sound she was ever to hear in this life. And then, for the briefest instant, Arabella’s eyes met those of the driver, and she saw that he fully intended to run her over. She whirled about upon the instant, making the kerb only just in time. And as she stood there, shaking like a gooseberry jelly, she saw the man pull up his team and grab a cudgel from the floor of the wagon. Then he jumped down, and in very much less time than it has taken to describe all this, was running at Arabella, with his club held high and ready to strike.

London is widely reputed to be one of the most crowded places on Earth, and in the main, I expect it is. But one of the most peculiar things about this most peculiar city is that it only becomes crowded at a certain time of the day—after ten in the morning, to be exact, and it was just gone 8:30 when our heroine was nearly run over. So there was no one at hand to step in and accost her attacker, as there would have been a mere two hours later.

Fortunately, Arabella had, from her grandmother, inherited the gift of automatic reflex. And before she quite understood what the fellow was even doing, she had turned and fled from him down St. James’s Street. This was lucky for her, because St. James’s Street, as we have seen, is home to London’s most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs. Many a gallant member, who lived elsewhere but was staying temporarily in town, or who had sat up gambling on the previous night until it was too late to return home, was already stationed at some bow window or other. Because of the early hour, some were clad in dressing gowns and slippers; others still had their curl papers in, but virtually all of them were drinking coffee and waiting to observe life with wry amusement and caustic remarks, as soon as life should wake up and display itself before them in all its amusing variety. They were not amused by the sight of a fine lady chased down by a ruffian, however, and immediately began to pour forth from their various front doors to come to her assistance.

But the brute had a head start on them, and he was evidently accustomed to running, whereas Arabella was not. Although she had nearly reached the Cyprian Society, she doubted whether she should be able to make it up the steps, for her assailant, who was closing on her quickly, seemed to have energy to spare, whereas Arabella was practically out of breath. But just when she thought she could go no further, the Cyprian Society’s burly doorman, Rivers, came down the steps and seized her by the arm.

“Quickly, Miss Beaumont! Up with you, now! Mr. Tilbury!” he shouted over his shoulder to the porter. “Help, Mr. Tilbury!”

And before she knew what was happening, Arabella found herself handed inside to the porter and rushed through to the cloakroom.

“This way, miss,” said the porter. “Hurry, if you please!”

Someone else took her from his capable hands, and then another servant opened the secret panel.

“In here, miss,” he said, and he shut it behind her.