Chapter 15
August 16th, 1881Upper East Side, Manhattan, New York
In his bedchamber, sleeping off a heavy dose of laudanum, Henry was woken by the screeching cries of a crow beneath his window. He sat up in bed, rubbed the cold sweat from his neck and gave an exasperated sigh. He had spent another pathetic night in the clutches of the drug and was suffering the consequences.
He checked his watch. Half past noon. Ignoring the pounding in his head, he wobbled to his washing stand to make himself decent for the day. He would walk to the hotel and, hopefully, receive correspondence from Clarkson confirming the plan of the illegal trade from his end.
Henry descended the narrow staircase. On impulse, he took a right into the dining room to search for the remnants of the breakfast he had missed.
There was a bowl of crisp red apples on the dining table.
As he reached for one, he caught sight of Fanny in the kitchen, a shopping bag dangling from her wrist as she spoke with a maidservant. Between the white-framed doorway, the maidservant handed Fanny a bundle of letters.
“It was picked up this morning?” Fanny said.
“The white envelopes were picked up from the hotel. The yellow one was delivered to the house, Mrs. Asheford.”
Fanny nodded. “Good. I shall return them to you within the hour. Then you can take them back to the hotel. I do not believe the miserable bastard will be up so soon. He won’t suspect a thing.”
An angry wave swept across his chest. Fanny was monitoring his mail. He was quick to retrieve his palm from the bowl of apples, and he clenched it to his side.
Fanny left the kitchen through the second door, not visible from the dining room. It led to the main corridor where the staircase was. Her heels echoed down the hardwood floor, then the gentle sound of a creaking stair reached Henry’s ears.
He held still in the sun’s warmth. How long had the snake had been monitoring his mail, and did she knew about his plan to flee? As soon as he heard Fanny reach the top step, he dashed after her.
Boots hammering on the wood landing, he rushed to her bedchamber door as she reached it. It closed in his face, and he did not hesitate to burst through it.
Fanny shrieked as she turned. Hand across her heart, she looked at him as if he had committed a great offence.
“What are you doing with my letters?” he said.
She raised her chin and batted her lashes. “I do not know what you speak of.”
His face hardened, and he stepped into her bedchamber. It was the first time he had seen her private quarters. With its pink fluff and jewelled golden furniture, the place was an ode to materialistic opulence. It made his skin crawl with distaste.
“Do not lie to me,” he said.
“I am not lying.”
Her audacity shocked him. He had seen her speak with the maidservant. He had discovered their plan to intercept his letters and remail them as if nothing had occurred. Still, she would lie to his face like he was some mute idiot.
“Your insolence knows no depths. I am at my wits’ end with this behaviour,” he said.
With a huff, she placed the shopping bag on her vanity table and slipped off her gloves finger by finger. She did not utter a single word or sneak a glance his way.
Her silence infuriated him.
“Fanny,” he said sternly. “Where are my letters?”
More silence passed as she placed her gloves onto the vanity table.
He stepped forward. His temper was seconds away from bubbling over. It was proving increasingly difficult to keep it at bay.
“Do not make me ask a third time,” he said.
“Or what?”
“Christ—”
She spun around. “If you hit me, I will call upon my brother.”
He tucked his chin, recoiling at her accusation. “Hit you?” he exhaled. “Hit you? What do you take me for? I would never hit a woman, no matter how rude, distrustful and abhorrent she may be. The fact you believe me capable of such a thing shows how well you know my character.”
“Every day you are angry and cold to me. And … and you are under the influence of God knows what! How shall I know your character? Tell me, husband, how do I know what you are capable of?”
“What I am and how I behave is not the subject of this conversation, and I refuse to entertain the idea further. Give me those letters.”
She lifted her chin. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
“I saw you speaking with the maidservant.”
There was a subtle crack in her confident gaze.
“I heard the entire conversation,” he continued, seething through his teeth. “You said I would not suspect a thing. Why are you monitoring my mail? What could you possibly gain from doing such a despicable thing?”
With a deep inhale, she turned to her vanity mirror and proceeded to remove her hat from her intricately woven black hair.
As he stared at her nonplussed expression in the mirror, he ground his teeth. He struggled with what to say next because his plan for freedom was no longer simple. There were too many factors at play. While Clarkson remained silent, Angelo and Durrett were keeping a watchful eye on him, and now his wretched wife was monitoring his communication. It was a bloody losing battle.
“The letters,” he growled.
“I do not have them,” she stated.
All her obvious lying was wearing his patience thin. The bomb within him was threatening to blow. He caught sight of the shopping bag upon her vanity table. In one swift lunge, he took hold of it.
She stepped away with a gasp, knocking a bottle of perfume to the floor.
“What are you doing?” she said.
He emptied the bag’s contents. A pink box fell with a soft thud onto the carpet.
“My letters, Fanny,” he said, bringing a boot to the box. “Give them to me or I will crush it.”
“I will tell Angelo how cruel you are to me,” she said.
“By all means.”
Her face twisted into a pout.
“Fine, be an insolent child,” he said.
He applied pressure to the box. Despite her pleas, the box buckled beneath his weight and burst open to reveal a satin pouch of shimmering jewels.
He removed his boot.
A tiara lay in the middle. It was a mangled mess of twinkling metal.
She looked up at him with large, wet eyes. “You are so cruel to me.”
“Am I? And here I thought I was not cruel enough because you continue to test me. If you do not hand over my rightful property, I will not hesitate to show you the true force of my cruelty.”
Her lips flattened into a straight line. With a huff, she went to her jacket that hung from the chair of the vanity table and produced a bundle of letters from the pocket.
She tossed them to the floor. “Here, pick them up like the pathetic dog you are.”
His lips twitched. He had married a spoiled, conniving two-headed snake. It was high time he taught her a lesson. He turned to pick up a large Chinese vase to his right. It had a rim of gold, and the pearly pink roses shimmered in the sun from her bedchamber window. Yes, this would do.
She pointed her finger at him. “Do not dare.”
“Get on your knees and clean up the mess you’ve made,” he demanded.
“I will never bow down to you.”
“Oh, but you will,” he said. “You will pick up those letters like the good girl you pretend to be, and hand them to me. If not, I will ensure your mess grows by the second, starting with this pretty vase.”
Her fists trembled by her side.
“You want to keep playing? Fine,” he said.
He brought the vase down hard onto the floorboards. It burst into a firework of jagged white and rose shards.
She burst into tears.
“Theatrical crying will not sway my heart, wife,” he said loudly. “I know you’ve lived a spoiled life, so allow me to enlighten you in saying there are consequences to your actions.”
“I hate you!”
“So, we’ve come to a mutual understanding after all. All you must do is pick up my letters and hand them to me, and I shall leave you be.”
“Never.”
“Fine.”
He removed an oil painting from the wall. The subject was a small beige dog sitting on a velvet cushion of red, a pink bow around its frail neck.
She lunged forward and attached herself to his arm.
“Not Fru Fru! Please, stop this! Stop, I beg you,” she cried out.
“Pick up my letters—”
“Give me Fru Fru—”
He blocked her hands from grabbing hold of the painting. She dug her fingernails into the flesh of his arm. With a hurling cry, she clawed at him and pushed him hard against the wall.
“You’re a lunatic,” she shouted into his face. “Just like your father!”
He saw red.
Painting in hand, he applied his foot to the canvas, and it entered like a searing poker. There was a ripping noise. He threw the painting to the wall, stepped forward and picked up the letters from the ground.
She was right on one count.
A wicked madness had gripped him. He could feel it coursing through his veins, plunging him further into despair.
“You are not worth my time,” he said, his voice barely a whisper above the hammering of his heart. “If I catch you tampering with my mail again, I will reduce your allowance to mere pennies, and you will become the laughing stock of your friends. In fact, I think I will do just that.”
Her red-stained eyes widened with fear. “No, no, don’t,” she stammered. “Please, I apologize.”
He snorted. “Apologize? Much too late for that.”
“Henry … please.”
The softness of his first name upon her lips brought a wave of cold within him. How dare she say his name as if they were lovers? That was a right reserved to one woman only. With a hand on the knob of her bedchamber door, he turned to glare at her.
“You spied on me in the privacy of my own home, you treat me as if I am nothing but an object of wealth and status, you continue to force yourself upon me like I was an animal to be bred and now this? Monitoring my communication? Why?”
“Because…” she sobbed. “Because I want … I want you to myself. I want to know who holds your affections.”
“The one who holds my affections…” his voice faded before it had the chance to break.
He wanted to say The one who holds my affections is no longer part of this world,but he did not think it mattered. Besides, he was too exhausted to continue this argument. It would only end in more anger from both sides.
“As of today, I will reduce your allowance by fifty per cent,” he said. “If you show remorse for the way you have acted, I will re-evaluate accordingly. If not, well, I suppose you will continue to lose ten per cent by the week.”
“Ten per cent by the week?” she shrieked.
“Change must happen. I cannot continue like this.”
Her mouth snapped shut. Something in her dark regard irked him. He knew this battle would never be over. He needed to leave soon…if his plan had not yet been foiled.
He looked at his letters. Could she be covering up the truth behind why she searched his mail? Had she been instructed by Angelo to keep an eye on him? He had posted the letters to Clarkson and Lottie himself. There was no way she could have discovered his plan to escape.
I want to know who holds your affections.
“Were you looking for proof of my supposed infidelity?” he said.
“Yes,” she exclaimed. “I know you are still in love with Jane, and I thought … I thought she may still be around. I apologize, husband. I will never again let my jealousies get the best of me.”
Henry’s stomach fluttered. Still around? Odd use of words.
“I will replace the jewels I have ruined,” he said.
It would be an incentive to dull the fire between them. The last thing he needed was for her to ruin his intended escape by running to Angelo with tales of cruelty.
“Let us begin anew tomorrow,” he added with a sigh. “I beg you to sleep upon what was said today. I am not a cruel man, and it pains me to harbour this anger in my bosom.”
The air around them cooled, or perhaps it was his nerves calming because he had decided to forgive her horrendous behaviour. He understood how passions of the heart could easily lead to madness.
There was a flash of remorse on her face.
He turned away and slid out of the bedchamber, leaving her to wallow in the mess they had caused. He did not want to hear another word, lest she say something to reignite his fragile temper.
He entered his bedchamber as quickly as his jittery legs allowed, feeling the weight of their argument on his shoulders. He promptly locked the door and threw the bundle of letters onto his writing table.
His pulse was running dangerously high.
He brushed back a loose curl from his forehead and held a palm to his head as he considered what to do next. Fanny had confessed her indiscretions were caused by her suspicions of his possible infidelity. He should be relieved to hear that, but he was not. It was all too close to comfort for his liking.
One week.
Yes, one week until he was on a ship to France, leaving this nightmare behind.
Pacing, he thought back on her words comparing him to his father. That had been raw provocation, cut from the same cheap, glittering cloth as her brother’s tactics. But what if there was a grain of truth in them? He halted in his tracks.
“No,” he breathed.
You will not allow yourself to take those words to heart.
You are not mad like your father.
You are strong.
He fell into his chair and forced himself to breathe. It took him back to the day at Bondieux House when Eva had made him sit and breathe through his anxiety attack. As of late, he had been practising that exercise instead of immediately reaching for a cigarette or a dose of laudanum. It did not help as much, but he was desperate to regain self-control.
When his breathing had returned to normal, he reached for the first yellow envelope on his desk. It was addressed to him, and he recognized the flowery handwriting. Angelo. He sliced it open with a letter knife to find a formal invitation to the upcoming party at his brother-in-law’s home. It was the same event where the trade would happen.
Henry scoffed and tossed the card aside.
The next envelope was white and written in an unknown hand. Thinking it may be from Clarkson, he flipped it over to discover a plain wax seal of crimson. Disappointment hit him. Clarkson had used a navy-blue seal. He sliced it open.
Dear Mr. Asheford,
My associate tells me that my identity and intentions have been made known. I would like to follow up with you regarding the plan as described by our mutual friend, Clarkson. He has entrusted me to oversee the trade from American shores to ensure no foul play should arise, lest the trade be lost or stolen from potential rivals.
It is of utmost importance that the shipment reach Britain’s shores.
If you wish to discuss more, meet me outside the northern entrance of Central Park on August 18th at ten in the evening.
Sincerely,
F. Durrett
Although bold, the words did little to sway Henry’s suspicion that it was a bait-and-trap situation. He had to decide what Durrett’s sudden appearance meant. If Durrett was genuine, he had little to worry about. Still, it grated him that Clarkson had not informed him of the plan with a return letter. If it were a trap, that meant his plan had been discovered. But how? He had been so careful. It was not possible for anyone to know of the plan, unless Clarkson had spoken to someone like Durrett. With the decision to ignore the letter for the time being, he set it aside and picked up the third.
It was another white envelope. On the back, the wax seal was forest green with Elias McKenzie’s initials engraved into it.
Henry froze.
A flurry of nerves entered his belly. The last time he had spoken with his friend was in June. It had been after his return from the Grosvenor Hotel, a few days after his engagement to Fanny was announced. When he arrived at Elias’s home, Elias had been waiting for him. He informed Henry that Lottie and William had returned to Asheford Hall. Then, he mentioned that Eva had returned to her world. In response, Henry could barely muster up a conversation. He had spent his days wandering the London streets instead of facing those he had hurt. After his wedding, he had left Elias a note, informing him where to contact him in New York.
He slid the letter knife through the envelope’s lip and pulled out the silky-smooth paper inside.
Henry,
I write to you because it is the honourable thing to do after a lifetime of friendship.
Eva has been found.
She never did return. We were mistaken. She is in safe hands. I will honour your request by taking her to Scotland.
E.M.
Henry read the letter once more, then again for good measure. When Elias’s words had sunk in, he took a deep, deliberate breath to ease the incoming fainting sensation.
Eva has been found.
Unable to contain the hysterical buzz in the depth of his stomach, he promptly stood.
The chair fell against the floor with a thud.
Found meant she had been lost. Where had she gone? Had she run away all this time? He did not know whether to be elated by the news or horrified. My God, Eva was still here. In his world? There was still a chance to see her, to hear her voice … to make amends … to possibly love her as he had dreamed of doing every night since their separation.
He smiled.
And then he burst into a laugh fraught with tears. Dizzy from the rush of joy, he fell to his knees and cried against the hardwood floor. Anyone seeing him would have thought him neurotic. Pathetic, too, because he could not stop the happy tears. That he should experience such joy after months of heartache left him breathless.
He raised his chin and looked at his trunk.
Everything else be damned. He would pack a suitcase and go to her this instant.
I cannot stress enough the importance of ensuring a check of the goods before shipping to London.
His smile fell.
Clarkson’s earlier words haunted him. Angelo’s party was a week away. If he remained, he could follow through with the goods inspection. Even if Clarkson had not directly confirmed the plan from his end, he had implicitly suggested the need to confirm the illegal goods before shipment. What would happen if Henry did not witness the transfer of pistols to the ship? If no pistols were sent, there would not be a trap to catch his father in London. That would risk never catching his father in the act. This was his one and only chance to finally live a normal life.
With Eva.
Who was in Scotland with Elias, probably despising his existence.
Damn, damn, damn…
He pressed a hand against his racing heart. There was an uneasy sensation stirring in his stomach and a desperate fire of need echoing in his chest. It ached with impatience and desire. He could practically feel her presence, giving him the much-needed strength to push forward.
Only one more week. One more torturous week.
What could possibly change?