Beautiful Lies (31 page)

Henry’s old friend Charles de Vere leaned across the table.

‘Surely you are not serious, Teddy, old chap,’ he said. ‘A Member of Parliament attending an illegal demonstration? Won’t you be in the most fearful hot water?’

‘For what? It is the Commissioner of Police who defies the law, not to mention morality, decency and the fundamental rights of a civilised society. When a British government attempts to outlaw its people’s right to peaceful protest what else is a man to do but peacefully protest?’

‘Do you honestly believe that the lowest elements of London will be content with that? Last year’s protests were intended to be peaceful, remember? Those ruffians broke every window in my club.’

‘I would break a few windows myself to protect the fundamental right of the people to freedom of speech,’ Edward said. ‘We cannot allow Warren’s cavalier disregard of English constitutional law to go unchallenged.’

‘You cannot challenge it in Parliament, through the proper channels?’

‘When the Home Secretary himself shows not the faintest regard for the proper channels, as you call them, one must assume that they have ceased to serve any functional purpose.’

‘The Home Secretary does have the small advantage of several thousand police,’ Vivien pointed out.

‘And the Household Guard, if the
Telegraph
is to be believed,’ Charles added.

‘But we have the Fourth Estate,’ Edward countered. ‘Gascoigne at the
Post
and Webster at the
Chronicle
have both come out in favour. The Easter Sunday rally in Hyde Park drew nearly one hundred and fifty thousand people. With the newspapers behind us Hyndman reckons we should get double that. They will not disperse us so easily.’

‘Three hundred thousand people,’ Maribel said faintly. She had never imagined it would be so many.

‘It will be a most extraordinary spectacle,’ Mrs Rasmussen said. ‘You are quite right to march, Mr Lowe. A man’s right to free speech should be inalienable.’

‘I hope you mean to ride in on Pampa,’ Charles said. ‘I can see you now, gaucho cloak tossed over one shoulder, bridle jangling like a Christmas tree.’

‘I imagine I shall walk,’ Edward said, smiling, but Maribel winced. Even on foot, she knew that his participation would provoke the House. There were already too many Members, even among his own party, who considered him an agitator and an egotist. His participation in the march would, for many, be another proof of his incorrigible exhibitionism.

‘You will join my little party, I hope,’ Mrs Rasmussen said to Maribel. ‘We will provide you with sandwiches and a first-class view of the proceedings.’

‘That’s most kind, but I am not sure –’

‘But of course she will come,’ Edward said. ‘Mrs Rasmussen and I shall wave at you with our flags.’

Mrs Rasmussen laughed giddily.

‘Mr Lowe, truly, you are too much.’

Edward smiled at her. Then he leaned across the table towards Maribel.

‘Please, Bo. This is our moment, the one we have been waiting for. They shan’t stop us, you know. We shall reclaim Trafalgar Square for the people.’

Edward’s face was lit like a boy’s. It filled her with tenderness and a sinking sense of foreboding.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know you shall.’

Even Edward knew well enough to keep a low profile during the preparations for the march. The following morning he travelled north to Carlisle. From there he would go to Newcastle and then to Stoke-on-Trent before returning to London early on Sunday morning. It had been recommended that Maribel accompany him. The provincial party faithful liked wives.

Instead, after Edward had left for the station, Maribel went to Turks Row. Though several days had passed since her visit to the Wild West she had not yet had the opportunity to develop the plates and she was curious to see how they had turned out.

To her surprise it was Mr Pidgeon who answered the door when she knocked for the key. It was the first time Maribel had seen him since their contretemps about the photograph. He looked old and tired, his mouth bracketed with deep parentheses. Unhooking the key from its nail, he passed it to her through the gap. The silence was awkward.

‘No Thomas here today?’ Maribel asked, for something to say.

‘He’s busy,’ he said. ‘We have a family due shortly. Eleven children.’

‘Heavens. That poor mother.’

The photographer did not answer.

‘Well then, I shan’t keep you.’ She lingered, weighing the key in her hand. ‘You know, I saw that photograph you showed me in the
Chronicle.
The widow. I was surprised. I thought you told me not everything in life was for sale.’

Mr Pidgeon frowned but still he said nothing. He turned away.

‘Is that what would have happened to my photograph, if you and Mr Webster had persuaded me to sell?’ Maribel demanded. ‘Would it have been published in his newspaper?’

‘Now hold on –’

‘You attempted to deceive me, Mr Pidgeon. To take advantage of me.’

‘Madam –’

Maribel shook her head.

‘I think perhaps it would be best if I found another darkroom. Wouldn’t you agree?’

Pidgeon closed his eyes, massaging the arch of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.

‘If that is what you wish,’ he said.

‘You have not left me much choice in the matter.’

‘And today?’

‘I am here now. I haven’t time to take the plates elsewhere.’

‘Very well.’

‘Send me the account of whatever expenses are outstanding. I shall put the key back through the door when I am finished.’

He watched as she turned and walked away down the corridor towards the darkroom.

‘What Webster did was unpardonable,’ he said quietly. ‘It was beyond the pale.’

Maribel hesitated. She did not turn round. ‘He told us that his wife had lost her mother. That the photograph would be a comfort. Afterwards he claimed that he had acted “in the public interest”. He said that Mrs Burwood had an obligation to share her experiences with the nation, that glimpses into the next world were a gift to us all. Doubtless he was also aware that impoverished widows are not in a pos ition to sue.’

‘Are you saying that the photograph was printed without her permission?’

‘Mrs Burwood’s sister-in-law shared the photograph with our group in confidence. It was not easy for her. The spirit was her dead brother, to whom she had been greatly attached. She wept when – It was a family matter, a private family matter.’

‘And the widow?’

‘She knew nothing of Mr Webster’s intentions until after the photograph had been published. He has since furnished her with a small cheque by way of reparation.’

‘But that’s unconscionable.’

‘Mrs Burwood is no longer on speaking terms with her sister-in-law. Miss Burwood for her part refuses to see me. The damage is irreparable.’

They were both silent. Mr Pidgeon exhaled heavily, smoothing the lapels of his coat with the palms of his hands. Then he extended his right hand.

‘Goodbye then, madam. It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance and I wish you every success with your photographic endeavours.’

For a moment Maribel hesitated. Then she took his hand and shook it. It was regrettable, but his admissions, as they both knew, made the necessity of finding another darkroom even more pressing. There would be no escaping the awkwardness between them now.

‘Goodbye, Mr Pidgeon. I shall return the key when I am finished.’

From the bottom of the stairs came the slam of a door. A cacophony of children’s chatter filled the stairwell.

‘Children,’ an exhausted voice protested. ‘Children, please.’

Maribel gave Mr Pidgeon a small smile.

‘
Bonne chance
,’ she murmured.

He shook his head, raising his eyes to heaven, and hurried to the head of the stairs to greet them.

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY SHE
lunched with Charlotte in Piccadilly. An exhibition of Old Masters, several of which had never before been shown in England, had recently opened at the Royal Academy and Maribel, eager for distraction in Edward’s absence, had persuaded Charlotte to go with her. They met at Vaizey’s, a tea shop in the Oriental style in a narrow street off St James’s Square. Convenient not only for the Academy but for the shopping emporia of Regent Street, it was one of a handful in the vicinity considered respectable for ladies lunching without a gentleman escort. The room was attractive, arranged into alcoves colonnaded with narrow pillars, while, in its centre, above an extravagant arrangement of ferns, an octagonal glass cupola trimmed with filigreed brass sifted onto the polished floor the pale grey light of the autumn afternoon. The coffered ceiling was gilded and painted with stars. As befitted its clientele, the restaurant was staffed entirely by women.

Charlotte and Maribel followed their waitress to a table in the far corner of the room. Around them feathered and beribboned bonnets ducked and swayed like a meadow of exotic flowers. Although the baby was not due for another three months Charlotte had already grown fat and she sighed with pleasure as she sat down, smoothing her starched napkin over the jut of her stomach.

‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘My feet are so swollen I can barely get my boots on.’ Taking the menu from the waitress she opened it, running her finger down the page.

‘Shall we have roast chicken?’ she asked Maribel. ‘I have the most atrocious craving for roast chicken. Heaven knows what that signifies about the baby.’

‘That it is unlikely that it is a chicken?’

‘One can but hope. Although a chicken might stand a better chance of mastering Latin than Georgie.’

‘Talking of Georgie, I brought this.’ From her bag Maribel extracted a copy of her photograph of the Indian child reading his upside-down adventure story. ‘I thought he might think it amusing.’

The waitress cleared her throat. Charlotte smiled at her.

‘Oysters, I think,’ she said. ‘And then most assuredly roast chicken. Oh, and ginger beer.’ She eyed Maribel across the table. ‘You agree, don’t you, dearest? If we don’t decide now we never shall.’

‘That sounds perfect.’

Charlotte handed the menu back to the waitress and held out her hand for the photograph.

‘But that’s wonderful! And fearfully funny with him clutching his penny dreadful. Georgie will be tickled pink.’ She turned the photograph over. ‘The photographer’s stamp. You used it.’

‘Of course I used it. I use it all the time.’

Charlotte smiled, her gaze moving idly over the room. Suddenly she ducked, raising the photograph between them like a fan.

‘Don’t look now but there is Esther Allbright lunching with Lady Coningham. Let’s pray they don’t see us. Americans are so extraordinary about pregnancy. The agonies they suffer trying not to notice, you would think it was syphilis.’

Maribel glanced over.

‘I think you are safe there. From what I hear Esther Allbright is so nearsighted she only recognises her own husband at two paces.’

She nodded towards a wan-faced lady seated alone at a small table near the entrance to the kitchen. As she studied the menu, the lady frowned, jotting with a pencil in a small notebook by her knife. Her hands were small and pink as a mouse’s paws.

‘What about that one, though?’ she said. ‘What can she be writing so furiously? Do you think she is working out what she can afford to eat?’

Charlotte considered the woman for a moment.

‘Her hat is new. And look at that pearl brooch. No, she means to set up a rival restaurant. She is taking notes on the menu so that she can steal the best dishes.’

‘Either that or she is setting it to music. Something jovially Continental, with a part for a squeezebox.’

‘Now that is just silly. Her hair is much too neatly pinned for a composer and look at how cross she is. I have it. She is writing the definitive New Woman novel.
A Table for One
. It will be a devastating critique of female education, marriage, the shackles of motherhood and the emancipation of fish with parsley sauce.’

It was a thoroughly cheerful lunch. Afterwards the two women made their way arm in arm along Duke Street towards the Academy under the canopy of Charlotte’s umbrella. The afternoon was still and the fine rain hung in the air in veils. At Piccadilly the traffic was at a standstill. They picked their way cautiously between the carriages.

‘You know, we could skip the exhibition and go to Burlington Arcade,’ Charlotte suggested as they reached the other side. ‘I’ve had over three hundred years to see Titian’s
Charles V
. Another week or so won’t hurt.’

Maribel shook her head.

‘You will not corrupt me,’ she said. ‘I promised Edward faithfully I would not go shopping.’

‘You had no business making promises like that without consulting me first.’

‘It is for your own good. If you so much as glimpsed the horrors of our estate accounts you would go into labour on the spot.’

‘That bad?’

‘Worse.’

Charlotte clicked her tongue, squeezing Maribel’s arm. ‘For heaven’s sake don’t say anything to Arthur,’ Maribel said. ‘Edward would never forgive me.’

‘Not a word, I promise.’

At the junction with Bond Street they stopped as a dray inveigled itself into a gap large enough for a two-wheeled trap. An omnibus driver shouted angrily, brandishing his whip.

‘You wouldn’t have to shop,’ Charlotte said. ‘You could carry my packages.’

‘That’s quite enough from you, young lady. We are going to see these paintings if I have to carry you in myself.’

Despite the respectful notices the exhibition had received in the newspapers the gallery was almost empty. Charlotte had gone on ahead and, apart from an elderly man in a homburg hat and spectacles, Maribel was quite alone. She stood in front of Rubens’s
Fall of Man
, her head on one side as she considered the painting. She remembered Oscar’s friend Rex Whistler telling her that, as an old man in his fifties, the widowed Rubens had married a girl of just sixteen years old and it was her voluptuous figure that had served as the model for the most famous works of his career. She wondered if this picture was one of those. There was something in the way that Adam reached for Eve, his hand at her breast, his thumb brushing her nipple as she stretched up to pluck the apple, that spoke not just of warning but of unashamed desire.