Vice and Virtue (24 page)

Still unconvinced, but seeing his decision was irrefutable, Aurora reached out. Gently, doing her best not to hurt his shoulder, she took his face between her hands. “Very well, no word of this shall pass my lips.”

He nodded, his eyes closing. Tears slid from under his eyelids; Aurora wiped them with her handkerchief as if he were a child, and they did not speak again.

She sat by the bedside in the candlelight until his breathing deepened and he slept, his ill-kempt hair like an irregular stain on the pillow. Softly, she drew her finger over his jaw. It felt scratchy. Attending the barber had not been possible for several mornings past. Aurora’s heart was moved as she wondered how long it would be before Edward would be able to resume the life that had been so cruelly taken from him when his adoptive father died. She pictured his fathomless eyes with their hollow, haunted expression. “Dear God,” she whispered, “I pray that before many more days have passed, I will see joy upon his face.”

Sleep was not possible for her. The pallet the maid had left for her was comfortable enough, but when she removed her gown and lay down in her chemise, her thoughts would give her no peace. She could not rid her memory of scenes from the time she had spent as Edward’s wife. Her sisters’ excitement, Edward’s despair, her own dilemma, kind Mr Marshall and his gouty foot, Mrs Fellowes, Spring Gardens, the key which had unlocked not only the writing desk but the whole story of Honoria.

And Joe Deede.

She pondered on how strange it was that Joe’s fair face hid such a villainous soul, and Edward’s scholarly demeanour such a courageous one. And what did her own countenance hide? Round and round went reminders of the deceptions, falsehoods and disguise she had been obliged to practise in the name of seeing justice done. If she begged forgiveness, of her family and of God, surely they would forgive?

As she lay there listening to Edward’s breathing, moonlight slanted from the half-open shutters and the sounds of the city diminished as the hour grew later. Gradually, one thought began to overcome all others in Aurora’s head: when all was resolved, what would happen to her?

She had made a bargain with Edward. She had agreed to help him expose Henry Francis’s murder if he would respect her virtue and annul, on the grounds of non-consummation, a marriage based upon a trick. But less than a month later, everything had changed.

Her fate, she realized, was in Edward’s hands. This slightly built, sorrowful, bookish man had revealed himself to be the very man of action who had for so long filled her dreams. A man who rode a horse and wielded a sword, seamlessly slipping in and out of his roles as a consumptive, a Spring Gardens swaggerer, a defender of his father, his friend, his wife and now his sister. The indignation and compassion his story had aroused in her had increased when she saw the gentlemanly way he conducted himself and as she came to know his modesty and courage. But what she felt now was no longer indignation or compassion. It was as if Edward Francis had the power to work magic upon her heart.

How would she confess to him that she had changed her mind about the annulment of their marriage? And how would she bear it if his response was not the one she sought?

“Heavenly Father, forgive me!” cried out Edward suddenly. “I killed him! My dear Lord, I killed my brother!”

Though he was still not fully awakened from his dream, Edward was trying to sit up. Aurora threw back her blankets and went to his side. “It is all right, you are safe. You are safe, Edward. It is I, Aurora.”

His eyes were open, but saw nothing. His head slumped against Aurora’s breast. “Josiah Deede,” he said, more calmly. “I wish to see Josiah Deede.”

“I am persuaded he wishes to see you too,” Aurora assured him. She sighed, imagining the unsettling, unpredictable meeting that must take place. “But now, try to go back to sleep. Tomorrow morning, I will send for him.”

A Sovereign in Her Palm

A
urora helped Edward into one of Richard’s clean shirts. He made no sound, but his teeth were set into a grimace throughout. The bandage Aurora had made by tearing her cotton underskirt into strips had done its work, and no blood yet seeped through it. But he was not out of danger; she knew she must watch every minute for signs of fever.

For now, his face felt cool enough, and the perspiration on his forehead was produced only by the struggle to change his garment. Although his eyes still held something of the disconnected look of shock, they were clear. “How do I look?” he asked her. “Fit to be presented to …” – he gave her a quizzical look – “my father?”

“You look as you always do,” said Aurora. “A little paler, perhaps.”

“Then let him come up.”

Aurora went to call the servant, but turned when Edward spoke again. He looked at her, resolute, but still wary. “All may be well, Aurora,” he said softly.

“Aye, we must pray so.”

When Josiah Deede was shown in, he removed his hat and approached Aurora, his hand outstretched. “Good day, madam. Are you well?”

She shook his hand, noting the apprehension in his eyes, and, not for the first time, their impenetrable blackness. “Good day to you, sir,” she replied. “I am well, and I am glad to see you are recovered from your indisposition.”

Josiah nodded, his nervousness unabated. “I thank you, Mrs Francis.” Recognition and relief flickered in Josiah’s eyes as his gaze fell on Edward. He could see that his son was too badly injured to shake hands, so he gripped his hat brim with both hands and bowed stiffly. “Good day to you, sir,” he said.

Edward had not taken his eyes from his father’s face. He did not speak.

A tight feeling took hold of Aurora’s midriff as she sat down on the chair by the bed. Her fingers again closed around the glass phial, hidden in the folds of her skirt. Celia must surely know by now that it was missing, and very likely suspected Aurora had taken it. “Mr Deede,” she began, “Edward asked to see you, but he is not strong, and this visit must be brief.” She indicated the bench that stood against the wall. “Please sit down.”

“Thank you, I prefer to stand.” He planted his feet with his back to the fireplace, his deep-set eyes fixed upon Edward’s shoulder. “I am most humbly thankful that you wished to see me…” He paused, swallowing. “The more so now I see your injury is severe, Mr Francis.”

“Please address me by my first name, sir,” said Edward, who had to lean sideways against his pillows in order to avoid pressure on his upper arm. “I am in some discomfort, but as the matters I have to discuss with you are of great import, I could not forbear a moment longer.”

Josiah nodded. To Aurora’s dismay, his gaze fell on the sword-belt that rested against the wall, where Richard had left it. “Is that … the weapon?” he asked. Before Edward could speak, he added, “You must be skilled in wielding it. Joe was a more accomplished swordsman than most.”

Edward’s unease was clear. “My father – that is, my adoptive father – taught me well,” he began. He stopped, drew breath and went on. “There is a good long hall at Marshcote, as perhaps you are aware. We fenced up and down it on many afternoons when I was a boy. By the time I was fifteen, and my father’s rheumatism had overtaken him, I could take on most challengers. For sport, of course.”

He did not look at Aurora. He had never mentioned his fencing prowess before; indeed, he had denied it. In a rush of astonishment she understood why. If she had been aware of his skill, would she have cherished the hope that he might be the victor in the duel? Was that a worse torment than her conviction that without divine help, he would certainly die? Edward had clearly thought so, and perhaps he was right.

“I see,” said Josiah, sighing deeply. “I must offer you my most profound apologies, Edward, for what has happened in the past. I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

Edward regarded his father with steady eyes and spoke with a steady voice. “Sir,” he began, “I can barely imagine the pain and grief this affair has caused you. As a gentleman and a Christian, I forgive you.”

Josiah bowed his head. “I thank you, as I thank God,” he murmured, his voice muffled by the frilled jabot he wore at his throat.

“But what I am about to say will perhaps bring you some comfort,” continued Edward.

Josiah looked up. He was frowning slightly. Aurora wondered what was in Edward’s mind.

“When he was mortally wounded,” said Edward, “Joe struggled to say the word ‘Honoria’ loud enough, and more than once, so that it would be plainly heard.”

“Yes?” asked his father, still unsure of Edward’s meaning.

“I am convinced, sir, that as he lay dying, Joe wished the story of Honoria to come out, so that we might be reconciled, you and I. Saying her name was a way of confessing his sins, according to your religion. He could not carry the burden of hatred and revenge as he went to meet his Maker.”

Josiah was gazing intently at his son. His eyes contained the mixture of darkness and brightness Aurora had so often seen in Edward’s own eyes. Beneath the bluff demeanour Josiah usually wore, and the contrite apprehension he had shown this morning, Aurora knew there lay an honourable, if misguided, man. Edward’s desire to spare him the final piece of the story, concerning the phial of poison, had been right. His battered heart would never have withstood it.

The effort of speaking had whitened Edward’s face, especially around his lips. Aurora knew he had begun to bleed through his bandage. “We know you are innocent in this matter, sir,” she assured Josiah gently. “Your sins are those of envy, intolerance and hatred, which you admit yourself. God will forgive you those, since you show true penance.”

Josiah’s eyes lingered upon her face for a moment, then he seemed to make a decision. “I will go to my attorney immediately. The matter of the inheritance must be settled. You may be assured,” he said, nodding towards Edward, “that not only will your own estate be returned, but I intend to bequeath a good portion of my own to you, having made very good provision for my daughter.”

“No!”

Edward’s protest was so unexpected that Aurora jumped. She and Josiah both looked at him in surprise.

“Thank you, sir,” he said to his father, “but I will accept no part of the Deede fortune. Let my own be returned to me, and I will be satisfied. I do not want your money, sir.”

Bewilderment crossed Josiah’s face, but he checked it. He put on his hat and made a low bow. “Very well, Edward, I will do as you say. You are more Henry’s son than mine, I see.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Edward. His voice was weak; he would soon sleep again.

Josiah went towards the door. “Fare you well, both of you,” he said. “If you should need a physician, or if there is anything I can do…”

“I will send for you,” Aurora reassured him, curtseying. “He must rest now.”

Josiah nodded and took hold of the latch. But when he opened the door an unexpected noise assailed Aurora’s ears. The shrill keening of a distressed female rang throughout the upper floor of the inn. Layered within it was the equally loud rumble of a man’s protests. Aurora could not make out their words, but sensed the panic in them. She picked up her skirts and followed Josiah out onto the landing.

Missy, Celia’s maid, was sprawled across the floorboards as if she had fallen there from a great height. Harrison, greatly agitated, repeatedly tried to raise her to her feet.

“For pity’s sake, Harrison, what is the matter?” demanded Josiah.

Missy was wailing now, a sodden handkerchief held to her streaming eyes. There was no interruption to her anguish.

“’Tis Miss Celia,” said Harrison curtly. “She’s gone. Run away.”

These words inspired more vigorous sobbing from Missy. Josiah leaned against the banister post, his brow in the crook of his elbow. “Dear God, dear God,” Aurora heard him murmuring. She advanced across the landing and placed her hand upon his arm. Beneath his coat sleeve he trembled uncontrollably. Fate had inflicted all it could upon the man; he was almost broken. “Mrs Francis,” he gasped. “Mrs Francis—”

“Aurora,” said Aurora. “Please call me Aurora.”

He raised his head. His hat and wig were askew, and tears covered his cheeks. “My daughter, my darling Celia…” He strove to control himself before his man-servant, but in vain. His sobs were loud and heartfelt. “Why has she forsaken me?”

Aurora wondered the same thing. It seemed a cruel desertion of her father. But Celia
was
cruel. By now she would have missed the phial and decided to flee rather than face the consequences of its discovery. Edward had refused to confront her, but she had instead brought her own punishment upon herself. Where would she go, and how would she live?

“I cannot say, sir,” she told Josiah. “But perhaps she can be found.” She crouched down beside Missy. “Did your mistress hint where she might be going?”

Missy gulped back tears. “No, ’m. She never spoke to me. It … it was in my apron pocket when I put it on, and I never, I never—”

“What was in your apron pocket?” asked Aurora.

“This note, Miss,” said Harrison. He held up a folded paper. “The girl gave it to me to read for her, as she weren’t never taught her letters.”