Although Mr. Trent has injured me grievously, I still mourn for his dark descent into eternal damnation, and I pray for him.
Do you think me mad, dear Helen? Do you perhaps imagine that I have turned my horror and grief into fantasy? It is what Mamma and Papa think, and they have called in the doctor to bleed me, and they talk of sanitariums in low voices that I am not meant to hear. Perhaps I am mad, for my grief is like a wall I cannot break through, and I sometimes wonder if it is better that I do not try. What will be on the other side?
I will never mention the events of that day again, in case the world thinks me ready for the asylum. I give you the keeping of my story. It eases me a little to know that someone else in the world has heard my truth, and I know that you will face it with your customary reason and good sense.
I am fully aware that we will not be able to meet again in any foreseeable future. Yet I hope that such a happy event is not beyond imagination or, one day, reality.
Your friend,
Delia
Helen kept her eyes on the final page. If she looked up, she knew her uncle would take the letter and burn it, and she needed a moment to digest its startling contents. Poor Delia. Her suffering rose from the page, clear and immediate, as if she had walked into the room and spoken the words. Not only her suffering, but also her fear. Once again, Helen read through the paragraph that told of the strange flash of light within Mr. Trent.
Perhaps Delia was mad.
No. Delia had always been truthful, and Helen could not see why she would suddenly start lying about something so wild that it could lead to her own incarceration. Aunt, too, had mentioned the groom’s account of a strange light, yet the four gentlemen denied it. What possible reason would they have to lie? And Delia’s conclusion that Mr. Trent’s soul had been dragged down into Hell seemed so Gothic and overly dramatic.
She frowned. Who were these other gentlemen? And why were they chasing Mr. Trent, if not to reclaim Delia from his clutches?
There were no answers to be had in the letter.
She finally looked up from the page. “Uncle, I beg you, please allow me to answer my friend. This one time only. Please.”
“Did you not just swear you would have no more contact with the girl?”
“But she is suffering, Uncle.”
“And so she should.” He snatched the letter from her fingers and strode to the hearth. A flick of his hand and it was in the fire, pulled into its bright orange heart by the leap of a high flame. The paper flared, raged, then curled into blackened ash. “You have made me your promise, Helen, and if you do not hold to it, I shall cut short your Season and begin marriage negotiations with Sir Reginald. He may be contrary to your aunt’s ambitions for you, but I will not harbor a girl who bears false witness on God’s own book or will not obey the basic proprieties of society. Do you finally understand me?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
“Your father’s will has placed you in my care until you are twenty-five, or until another man is willing to take on the burden of your well-being. If you are to become a wife, you must learn that obedience is the cornerstone of femininity.” He tilted his head toward the door. “Go.”
Helen curtsied and walked from the room, her wrist still aching from the grind of his grip.
Eleven
Tuesday, 5 May 1812
AUNT LEONORE WRAPPED her shawl more firmly over the bodice of her cherry-striped gown and held its edges tightly together in a death grip against the cold evening wind.
“I swear I would not be here if it were anyone other than Lady Jersey,” she whispered to Helen. “I hope we are not forced to wander too much longer amongst the trees before we go to our supper box.”
A little way ahead, the elegant figure of their hostess and her plump companion, Mr. Saltwell, led the way along the Grand Walk of Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. Helen glanced over her shoulder at the other pair in their party, Lady Margaret Ridgewell and her brother, Mr. Hammond. Both wore dark colors—the lady stylish navy-blue silk, the gentleman gray—and strolled arm in arm with all appearance of relaxed pleasure. Helen, however, sensed tension in them both, especially Lady Margaret.
On their introduction at the entrance gate, Helen had recognized her as the small, fine-boned woman who had watched her aunt so closely at St. James’s Court. Yet Lady Margaret had given no indication of that previous encounter, merely curtsying with delicate grace and murmuring her delight at meeting them. Up close, Helen had been struck by her vivid coloring: black hair against pale, pale skin, and eyes that were almost the same navy as her gown. According to Lady Jersey’s whispered intelligence en route to the Gardens, she was a wealthy widow—very rich pickings—and was being escorted around town by her unmarried brother, who had his own respectable fortune of two thousand a year. Mr. Hammond was almost as fine-boned as his sister, with a wiry quickness about him that hinted at some kind of training—fencing, perhaps, for there was precision to his movements. He had bowed to Helen with a charming affability that was belied by the sharp interest in his paler blue eyes.
“Do not despair,” Helen said, turning back to her aunt. “I’m sure we will be heading to our supper box soon. Then we will be warm again.”
She rubbed her own gloved hands together, hoping she was right. The vigorous chafing set her reticule jiggling on the end of its silk drawstring. She pulled it closer, reassuring herself that it was firmly anchored around her wrist. The small purse held a precious cargo: her mother’s miniature, brought in obedience to Lord Carlston’s ill-mannered command. Now all she needed was for the Earl to appear and finally give her the answers she craved. The thought of that moment brought a clench of dread. Like poor Delia, Helen was not sure she could cope with whatever lay on the other side of such knowledge.
What was she?
A loud whistle cut through the air. The crowd, primed for the famous lighting of the Vauxhall lamps, paused in their activities. Even the orchestra stopped playing. From every direction came the sound of running feet and the flit of dark figures: dozens of lamplighters taking their positions throughout the Gardens. Helen held her breath. She had seen this once before, but that did not lessen her anticipation. All around, the darkly clad shapes of men waited, each at the start of a line of linked oil lamps, a lit taper cupped in hand to shield it from the wind. Another whistle sounded; the men stepped forward and touched flame to fuse. At once, hundreds of lights flared into life along the Grand Walk, the galleries, and the gardens, bringing a moment of dazzled blindness. Helen gasped. The illumination was so sudden and so glorious, it was as if a divine hand had driven out the descending night in a blaze of holy radiance.
Entranced, she clapped alongside Aunt and the rest of the crowd. The Grand Walk was now so bright, it was almost like a sunlit day—darkness vanquished by the ingenuity and imagination of man. Her aunt sniffed. “These lamps may be pretty, but they certainly stink.”
Helen nodded, having just caught the distinctive acrid odor of whale oil mixed with wine. In the brand-new light, she scanned the groups of people that strolled past or stood contemplating the artwork, but found no sign of Lord Carlston. With such cold weather, the Gardens were thin of company, so it would not be too hard to spot him—if, indeed, he was actually in attendance. Helen studied a gathering of gentlemen who stood admiring the elaborate molded frontage of the Chinese Temple, but none of them was his lordship. What if he did not come at all?
“Are you looking for someone?” Aunt asked.
“No.” Helen quickly brought her attention back to her aunt. “I am just delighted by all the additions since last season.”
Aunt grunted. “I would be more delighted if we found the addition of our supper box.”
But that was not yet to be. Lady Jersey and Mr. Saltwell led them along the covered walkways that ran beside the grassy expanse of the Grove, home to the three-story Gothic orchestra building. Its tower was now lit b
y hundreds of lamps, and the musicians within the gallery were playing a pastoral that soared over the rattling breeze in the trees and the conversations nearby.
They paused for a moment, listening, then Lady Jersey veered away from the Grove and led them across the wide avenue toward a row of supper boxes. As they passed the plainly appointed booths, Aunt peered hopefully into the dimly lit interiors. “Do you think one of those is ours?”
It was early in the evening, so only a few were populated. Each had a large painting decorating the back wall and a country-style table set with linen, glassware, and crockery. At the entrance gate, Lady Jersey had ordered a full menu to be brought to their box: wafer-thin ham, cold chicken, salads, cheesecakes, and, she’d added with a guilty laugh, “a bowl of that terrible rack punch” to wash it all down. Apparently, their hostess was of the mind that one must have the entire Vauxhall experience, including a sore head the following day.
“I think we must be close,” Helen said. “Look, Lady Jersey has stopped, and waits for us.”
At her wave, they quickened their pace, joining her in front of a supper box a minute or so before Lady Margaret and Mr. Hammond arrived. There was an air of serious purpose about the brother and sister at odds with the frivolity of their surroundings. It was intensified by Lady Margaret’s sudden intent regard of Helen.
“Do forgive me, Lady Jersey,” Mr. Hammond said, “but my sister is of a mind to take a turn around the Handel Piazza before we go to supper. We would not wish to disrupt any of your kind plans for our entertainment, but if that is possible . . . ?”
“But of course you must,” Lady Jersey said. “This is our box here, but our supper will not arrive for an hour yet. Plenty of time for a stroll to take in the art and music.”
Lady Margaret exchanged a glance with her brother. “Perhaps Lady Helen would like to accompany us?”
Helen studied the woman’s earnest face: beneath its expression of polite inquiry was a held breath, a communication of conspiracy, an urging for an affirmative response. This was no ordinary request. Helen could scarcely believe her own obtuseness: Lady Margaret and her brother were, of course, Lord Carlston’s emissaries. He was already in the Gardens, and this proposed walk was the pretext for meeting him.
“A walk would be most pleasant,” Helen said, annoyed to hear a slight quaver within her voice. She steadied herself. “Thank you.”
“Yes, yes, a wonderful idea,” Lady Jersey agreed. Helen had another startling thought: since this was Lady Jersey’s party, she must also be at Lord Carlston’s service. His reach, it seemed, knew no bounds. “You young people go and enjoy the Gardens,” their hostess continued. “We older folk will take our ease in the supper box. After all, that is the point of the exercise, is it not? Enjoyment and pleasure according to one’s inclinations.” She turned to Aunt. “Unless, of course, you have an objection, my dear. But I can assure you, Lady Margaret will take the most tender care of your niece.”
“No, I have no objection,” Aunt said, obviously relieved to be finally heading into the box. “But do stay under the covered walks as much as possible, Helen. The chill is coming in with the night.”
“We will make sure of it,” Lady Margaret said. “Come, take my arm, Lady Helen.”
Before she could answer, Helen found herself linked to Lady Margaret. With Mr. Hammond walking with perfect propriety beside his sister, they strolled back past the orchestra that was now accompanying a rather dumpy but sweet-voiced soprano in the midst of a throbbing ballad. To any onlooker, the three of them were all ease and enjoyment, but Helen could now feel the tension in Lady Margaret’s arm and see Mr. Hammond’s tight grip on his cane.
As they left the melancholy song behind, Helen could no longer remain silent. “We go to meet Lord Carlston, don’t we?”
Lady Margaret waited until a pair of ladies passed by, then said, “His lordship said you were keen-witted.” Her sidelong glance held a distinct moment of reestimation. Clearly, she had not shared that opinion. “We are here to take you to him. He is waiting in the Dark Walk.”
Helen drew in a startled breath. The Dark Walk had a bad reputation. On her previous visit, she had insisted that Andrew escort her along it, and both of them had been shocked by the licentious behavior alongside the gloomy, underlit path—men and women pissing in the bushes, drunk gentlemen grabbing at girls, and some couples even engaged in kissing. “Why are we to meet in the Dark Walk?”
“Because that is where the low prostitutes ply their trade,” Lady Margaret said, her tone clipped with distaste.
Prostitutes? The raw, shocking word silenced Helen.
They headed toward the ghostly white columns of the Temple of Apollo. A party of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, hunched against the chilly wind, stood listening to one of the strolling bands play a popular sea shanty. Helen and her two companions skirted them, the jaunty tune bringing a grimace to Lady Margaret’s face. Ahead, one of the Vauxhall constables, the Gardens’ own peacekeeping force, strolled on his rounds, hunkered into the warmth of his distinctive light-blue greatcoat.
Mr. Hammond took out a gold fob watch and flicked it open. “We need to hurry, Margaret.”
With a nod, his sister picked up her pace, pulling Helen into a small skip to keep up. They turned again, heading along the South Walk, the gardens on either side bordered by low trellis fences. There were fewer people here—the avenue’s position made it a disagreeable channel for the wind. Helen felt her bonnet lift under the cold current, and grabbed the brim, her breath coming harder.
“Careful,” Mr. Hammond said. “We are attracting attention.”
A few people admiring a grotto had turned to look at their brisk progress.
“Make up your mind, Michael,” Lady Margaret snapped, but she slowed to a more decorous pace.
“What are we going toward?” Helen demanded. She stopped, resisting the pull of Lady Margaret’s arm. “What is in there that I must see? I will go no further until you tell me.”
Lady Margaret’s mouth tightened at the delay. “Lady Helen, you know what you are going toward.” She leaned closer, her voice a hard whisper. “Lord Carlston is going to give you the answers you crave, and that involves something near the Dark Walk. You want answers, do you not?”
“I did not think it involved . . .” Helen gestured to the end of the avenue, where the gloomy junction of the Dark Walk was visible. “I am not a simpleton, Lady Margaret. I will not walk into a place of disrepute with people I barely call acquaintances, let alone allies. Not to mention Lord Carlston and his reputation.”
Lady Margaret glanced at her brother again, this time, it seemed, for support.
“Upon my honor, Lady Helen, we are your allies, and Lord Carlston is worthy of your good opinion,” Mr. Hammond said. He pressed his gray-gloved hands together; almost a supplication. “I understand your natural caution, but I beg you to restrain it a while longer, and you will soon discover the reason for our secretiveness.”
“Lord Carlston is quite the bravest man I have ever met,” Lady Margaret added. “I would trust him with my life and, on occasion, I have.”
The full light of a nearby lamp fell on her pale oval face, and within her level gaze Helen saw the woman’s secret: she loved Carlston with as much heat as Lady Caroline loved Byron. No wonder she believed him so worthy of trust.
“And yet he is accused of murdering his wife,” Helen said. “Was that a false accusation?”
She had not meant her inquiry to sound quite so blunt. Lady Margaret glanced at her brother, and Helen saw the warning in his eyes: the subject was not to be discussed. Lady Margaret, however, had other ideas.
She lifted her chin and said, “Yes, I believe it was.”
Mr. Hammond stepped forward. “Lady Helen, if we are to meet Lord Carlston, we must continue. I ask you, do we go on? Or do we go back?”
The pair looked at her stea
dily, but she could see that each of them held their breaths.
With her arm still tucked into Lady Margaret’s firm hold, Helen felt a strange sense of inevitability, as if everything in her life had been leading to this journey into the darkest reaches of the Gardens. A ridiculously Gothic notion, she told herself, but she could not shake it.
“We will go on,” she said, although alarm drummed within her like another heartbeat.
They resumed walking, leaving behind the sparse company on the path until only a deserted stretch of gravel lay between them and the ill-lit junction. Lady Margaret slowed, peering into the somber woods on either side. Helen flinched as a large figure detached itself from the shadows beside a gnarled tree: a huge man, with even more breadth to his shoulders than Lord Carlston. He had pulled the brim of his beaver hat low, but the broad contours of his face were familiar, as was the olive-gold cast to his skin. She had seen him before, loitering outside Half Moon Street: Lord Carlston’s man. Taking off his hat, he dipped his close-shaven head in a bow, the light from a nearby lamp catching thick black horizontal lines across his high cheekbones and broad forehead. Helen recoiled from the sudden ferocity of his countenance, then realized it was a tribal tattoo: she had seen such markings in her uncle’s magazines. The man must be from the Indies or Africa. Yet he did not look to be from either place.
“Quinn.” Mr. Hammond nodded to him, his own slight stature accentuated by the man’s size. “Is Bales here?”
“Aye, sir.” Another man emerged from the bushes on the other side of the avenue. He was thickset, his collar up against the cold. Helen glimpsed meaty lips and the flattened bridge of a pugilist’s nose.
“Is everyone in place?” Mr. Hammond asked.
“Aye, sir.” Quinn’s deep voice lilted in a way that was unfamiliar to Helen’s ear. He pressed his hat back onto his head, smoothing the curve of the brim between thumb and forefinger before he pulled it low over his brow. It was an oddly elegant action for such a big man.