“I shall consider it,” Vespasia replied, but important as it was, other things were more pressing, and crowded her mind.
Charlotte was looking at her closely, anxiety clouding her eyes.
Vespasia was not ready to share her thoughts; perhaps she never would be. Some things are part of the fabric of one’s being and cannot be framed in words.
She rose to her feet. Charlotte immediately stood also, recognizing that it was time to leave.
“Thomas came to see me yesterday,” Vespasia said. “He was well….” She saw the relief flood Charlotte’s face. “I think they are looking after him in Spitalfields. His clothes were clean and mended.” She smiled very briefly. “Thank you for coming, my dear. I shall consider very carefully what you have told me. At last many things are growing clearer. If Charles Voisey is the leader of the Inner Circle, and John Adinett was his lieutenant, then at least we understand what happened to Martin Fetters, and why. And we know that Thomas was right. I shall see what I can think of to help Mrs. Fetters.”
Charlotte kissed her lightly on the cheek and took her leave.
Now Vespasia must act. Enough of the pieces were in place for her to have little doubt left as to what had happened. The Prince of Wales’s debt was not real; she knew that from the note of debt Pitt had brought. It was a forgery—an excellent one—but it would not have stood the test in court. Its purpose was to convince the frightened, the hungry and the dispossessed of Spitalfields that their jobs were gone because of royal profligacy. Once the riots had started neither truth nor lies would matter anymore.
On top of that, Lyndon Remus would release his story of the Duke of Clarence and the Whitechapel murders, true or false, and riot would become revolution. The Inner Circle would manipulate it all until it was time for them to step forward and take power.
She remembered Mario Corena at the opera. When she had said what a bore Sissons was, he had told her that she was mistaken in him. Had she known more she would have admired his courage, even self-sacrifice. As if he had known Sissons was going to die.
And she remembered Pitt’s description of the man he had seen leaving the sugar factory—older, silver hair in the black, dark complexion, fine bones, average height, a signet ring with a dark stone in it. The police had thought it was a Jew. They were mistaken: it had been a Roman, a passionate republican who had perhaps believed Sissons a willing participant.
It was fifty years since she had known him in Rome. He would not have murdered a man then. But a lifetime had come and gone since that summer, for both of them. People change. Disappointment and disillusion can wear away all but the strongest heart. Hope deferred too long can turn to bitterness.
She dressed in silver-gray, an exquisite watered silk, and selected one of her favorite hats. She had always looked well under a sweeping brim. Then she sent for the carriage to come to the door and gave the coachman the address where Mario Corena was staying.
He received her with surprise and pleasure. Their next engagement had not been until the following day.
“Vespasia!” His eyes took in her face, the soft sweep of her gown. The hat made him smile, but as always, he did not comment on her appearance; his appreciation was in his eyes. Then as he regarded her more closely the joy faded from his expression. “What is it?” he said quietly. “Don’t tell me it is nothing; I can see differently.”
The time for pretense was long past. Part of her wished to stand in this beautiful room with its view over the quiet square, the rustling summer trees, the glimpses of grass. She could be close to him, allow the sense of fulfillment to possess her that she always felt in his company. But however long or short the time, it would come to an end. The inevitable moment would have to be faced.
She turned and looked into his eyes. For a moment her resolve faltered. He had not changed. Their summer in Rome could have been yesterday. The years had wearied their bodies, marked their faces, but their hearts still carried the same passion, the hope, and the will to fight and to sacrifice, to love, and to endure pain.
She blinked. “Mario, the police are going to arrest Isaac Karansky, or some other Jew, for the murder of James Sissons. I am not going to allow it. Please don’t tell me it is for the greater good of the people to sacrifice one that all may benefit. If we allow one innocent man to be hanged and his wife left bereaved and alone, then we have made a mockery of justice. And once we have done that, then what can we offer the new order we want to create? When we use our weapons for ill, we have damaged their power for good. We have joined the enemy. I thought you knew that….”
He looked at her in silence, his eyes shadowed.
She waited for him to answer, the pain inside her building as if to explode.
He took a long, deep breath. “I do know that, my dear. Perhaps I forgot for a while exactly who the enemy was.” He looked down. “Sissons was going to take his own life in the cause of a greater liberty. He knew when he lent the money to the Prince of Wales that it would not be returned. He wanted to expose him for the self-indulgent parasite that he is. He knew it would cost many men their jobs, but he was prepared to pay with his own life.” He looked up at her again, brilliant, urgent. “Then at the last moment his nerve failed him. He was not the hero he wanted to be, wished to be. And yes … I did kill him. It was clean, swift, without pain or fear. Only for an instant did he know what I was going to do, then it was over. But I left the note in his own hand that said it was suicide, and the Prince’s note of debt. The police must have concealed them. I cannot understand how that happened. We had our own man in place, on duty, who should have seen to it that suicide was recognized and no innocent person blamed.” Confusion shadowed his face, and unhappiness for fear and wrong.
Vespasia could not look at him. “He tried,” she acknowledged. “He came too late. Someone else found Sissons first, and knowing what riot it would cause, destroyed the note. Only, you see, it could not have been suicide because James Sissons did not have the use of the first fingers of his right hand, and the night watchman knew it.” She met his eyes again now. “And I saw the note of debt. It was not the prince’s signature. It was an excellent forgery, designed for just the purpose you tried to use it.”
He started to speak, then stopped. Understanding slowly filled his face, and grief, and then anger. He did not need to protest that he had been deceived; she could not have doubted it from his eyes and his mouth, and the ache that filled him.
Her throat hurt with the effort of control. She loved him so fiercely it consumed all of her but a tiny, white core in the heart. If she were to yield now, to say it did not matter, that either of them could walk away from this, she would lose him—and even more, she would lose herself.
She blinked, her eyes smarting.
“I have something to undo,” he whispered. “Good-bye, Vespasia … I say good-bye, but I shall take you with me in my heart, wherever I go.” He lifted her hand to his lips. Then he turned and walked out of the room without looking back, leaving her to find her way when she was ready, when she could master herself and go back to the footman, the carriage and the world.
The whole story of Prince Eddy and Annie Crook remained in Gracie’s mind. She imagined the ordinary girl, not so very much better off than many Gracie herself might have passed on the streets of her own childhood—a little cleaner, a little better-spoken perhaps, but at heart expecting only a pedestrian life of work and marriage, and more work.
And then one day a shy, handsome young man had been introduced to her. She must have realized quickly that he was a gentleman, even if not that he was a prince. But he was also different from the others, isolated by his deafness and all that it had done to him over the years. They had found something in each other, perhaps a companionship neither had known elsewhere. They had fallen in love.