Heirs of Acadia - 02 - The Innocent Libertine (27 page)

“Why, that seems absurd.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But rabble-rousers from all about the union have been gathering here, intent on pressing Congress to make good on the claim.” Once safely past the noisy throng, he slowed the horses back to a canter. “The Land Office is our nation’s greatest source of income. It pays for the military, the government, even the National Road.”

She started to ask what that was, then decided that in truth she really was not very interested. Reginald obviously caught her introspective mood, for he said nothing else until they arrived in front of the Cutter home. He fastened the reins to the brake lever, leaped down, and helped Lillian alight. “Perhaps you would prefer to go in and rest?”

“I have explained to you, Reginald, that I am not the least bit weary.”

“But—”

Lillian motioned to where Mrs. Cutter had already opened the front door and stood waiting for them to enter. “Do please come with me. Otherwise the lady of the house will think we have quarreled.”

Midway up the walk, however, Lillian knew something was wrong. The solemn cast to Mrs. Cutter’s features caused her insides to clench with foreboding. “What—what is the matter?”

Mrs. Cutter waited until they had climbed the front steps to reply, “You have a visitor.”

No walk seemed longer than the one Lillian took from the front stairs of Mrs. Cutter’s house across the foyer and down the hall. She was halted by the sight of several people seated in the parlor, silent and staring forward. She could not see who was the focus of their attention.

She looked at Reginald, feeling helpless to enter the room. But he was wise enough to understand and offered, “Shall I go in for you and see what it’s about?”

The words granted her the clarity she needed. She whispered, “Would you please stay nearby?”

“Of course,” he replied, offering his arm.

She could feel his strength through her fingertips. They stepped into the parlor.

The tableau would remain etched upon her mind. Erica Powers sat closest to the visitor, occupying a straight-backed chair by the window table. Abigail, looking a bit rain-spattered, sat on the parson’s bench closest to the fire, alongside an equally damp Abraham Childes. Old Mr. Cutter sat opposite them, the parlor’s most comfortable chair turned so he could be near the fire and still observe the room. Horace Cutter and his wife, Beatrice, occupied the sofa next to the spot Mrs. Cutter must have vacated to watch out the front door.

A solitary chair, isolated on the window-table’s other side, was occupied by a stranger. One glance was enough for Lillian to be certain they had never met before. Even so, she knew him and why he had come. Oh yes, she knew.

This gentleman was stouter and far taller than Simon Bartholomew. He cut a commanding figure from the gray light pouring through the window behind him. No color to his dress, no break from the stern black save the starched collar rising to envelop his substantial jowls. But there was no doubt in her mind who Lillian faced.

Reginald must have sensed her tension and her fear. He demanded, his tone civil but direct, “Perhaps you would care to state your name and the purpose of your visit, sir?”

“I believe Lady Houghton is well aware of this matter,” the man replied, “and understands why it should remain confidential.” He had a deeper voice than Bartholomew but the same pompous overbearing tone.

“Your name, please,” Reginald pressed.

Erica Powers was the one who answered. “His name is Andrew Smathers.”

Reginald tensed. “The banker?”

“The very same.” Erica’s cold voice continued. “Financier to the nation’s slavers. Backer of the most despicable trade—”

“My business is with the countess!”

“—the world has ever known,” Erica said, not to be deterred. “Trader in misery and death. Profiteer of chains and anguish.”

Lillian quickly realized the man was nervous. And why not? He was in the presence of the very opponents he and Bartholomew were hoping to crush. The people they had intended to use her to destroy.

The indecision she had been carrying slipped away.
No
. She would not be used by them anymore. It was time. They were gathered, and they would hear.

Even so, she trembled with fear, no longer only from concern over her son’s fate. She was desperately afraid of what these new friends would think of her.

Lillian sighed deeply. What would be, would be. This day, this hour, she would do the right thing.

For once.

Her hand trembled on Reginald’s arm. “Do you need to seat yourself?” he whispered.

“No, well, that is, perhaps . . .”

Reginald guided her to the place alongside Horace. Mrs. Cutter had remained standing by the parlor entrance. Reginald took his station beside her.

“I have stated as clearly as I know how,” the banker intoned. “My business with the countess is strictly a private matter.”

“No, it is not,” Lillian asserted. “There will be no secrets in this house. No longer.”

“Lady Houghton, I assure you I come well armed.”

“And precisely what do you mean by those words?” Reginald asked, moving forward a step.

The banker sought to mask his rising nervousness with bluster. “It would most certainly be in Lady Houghton’s best interests, sir, if you were to refrain from involving yourself in matters that are none of your concern!”

“But they are his concern,” Lillian said. “They are most certainly his concern.”

Reginald’s hand came to rest upon her shoulder. Once more his touch gave her the strength to go on. “Allow me to hazard a guess, Mr. Smathers. The same vessel which carried us to America also contained a mail packet. From a certain banker in London.”

“My lady, I must warn you—”

“A banker,” Lillian cut in, “by the name of Simon Bartholomew.”

To her astonishment, Erica Powers cried aloud. “It can’t be!”

“Bartholomew,” Lillian continued, “is your ally in the financing of the slave trade, I would imagine.”

Smathers glowered at them all, but his words remained directed with swordlike precision at Lillian. “You trifle with danger, my lady.”

Well she knew it. But neither her fear nor her tremors would halt her words. She declared to all the family, “I have come here on false pretenses. The whole wretched story will come out. I intend to hold nothing back from any of you ever again. But I do not care to reveal all my distasteful secrets in this man’s presence. My guess is, Simon Bartholomew has only told him the barest of details, keeping the greatest ammunition safely under his sole control.”

Erica had risen to her feet. “How do you know Simon Bartholomew?”

“His bank holds all the papers to my late husband’s estate. The count was ruined by a failed venture. We lost everything.”

“This is a misguided confession.” The banker leaped to his feet. “As you well know.”

“I know only that these secrets are over. The subterfuge is ended. Your bank’s hold over me is finished. Did you hear me?
Finished!
”

She found she was breathless. Reginald squeezed her shoulder. She reached up and took a grip of his hand with her own. It might be the last time she held it, this good, strong hand.

She took a long breath. “Simon Bartholomew approached me last summer. He had come into possession of all my late husband’s outstanding debts, his land, his manor, the London house, everything. But more than that, he had uncovered a dread secret. One Reginald is aware of, and one I shall share with you when this man has—has taken his leave.”

“Which will happen immediately,” Reginald said, his meaning clear.

“No, let him stay a moment longer. He needs to hear enough to know his power over me is ended.” Her voice was wracked now by the same tremors that coursed through her frame. “My entire life is a lie. My titles, my son’s good name, his right to hold his head up in British society—all will come crashing down if Simon Bartholomew reveals what he knows about my past. And this he has sworn to do.”

Erica took a step toward the banker. “Will his evil maneuverings never end?”

Something in her features caused the man to back up a step, knocking against the chair.

Lillian continued because she had to. Though
why
was now lost to her, and the words burned her throat like acid. But speak she must. “Bartholomew threatened to ruin me entirely. He would cast me out into the street. He would reveal my dark secrets. I would be penniless and without friends or allies, and my son would be scorned and destitute.” She took the hardest breath of her entire life. “Unless I agreed to spy upon the family of Samuel and Lavinia Aldridge.”

Now Abigail was on her feet, her hand to her lips.

“Added to this were the names of two strangers, at least strangers then. Erica and Gareth Powers. Bartholomew wanted information that would subvert their antislavery campaign or do them personal harm.”

“It can’t be!” Reginald’s voice was like a knife through the tension in the room.

“The threat was delivered the very same night Abigail’s mother and I met at a dinner given by the earl of Lansdowne.”

“No!” Abigail gave a stricken cry.

“The same night you were arrested in Soho.” Lillian could not seem to bring the young woman into focus. “I am so very, very sorry. I did not know what to do or how to avoid his cruel task. But that same night, when your mother sat in the coach outside the gates of Newgate Prison . . .”

She stopped and found a handkerchief had been slipped into her free hand. She wiped her face as best she could and drew as much breath as her aching chest would allow.

“Lavinia Aldridge is the finest woman it has ever been my honor to meet. And you stand close behind her, Abigail. But what was I to do? How was I to free myself from this foul task? How was I to protect myself and my son?”

Again she halted. The room was utterly still. Even the banker did not move.

Finally she managed to continue, but only by keeping her gaze downcast. “And so I traveled to America under false pretenses. I accepted a banker’s draft from your father, a man I had agreed to help destroy. A man as stalwart and fair as any who has ever walked this earth.”

The pain in her chest was now so great she could no longer hold herself erect. Lillian clenched her arms across her stomach and bowed herself over her knees. “I am so utterly, wretchedly sorry,” she gasped, tears dripping down her face.

Other arms were there now, wrapping about her back, touching her face and her hair. Lillian heard a voice she recognized as Abigail’s. And another. Could it be Erica Powers? But had she not just confessed to seeking their downfall? Oh, nothing in this world made sense. Not even her confession.

Reginald’s voice came from somewhere above her. “You will remove yourself from this room and this family. And do so this very instant!”

“Yes,” Lillian whispered. Of course. What else was there for her to do but flee? “I will go and gather my things.”

“Shah, my sister, you will do no such thing.” This from Erica Powers.

“But . . .” Lillian raised her face. Could those be tears she saw upon the woman’s face?

“He was not speaking to you,” Abigail said quickly.

Lillian lifted herself further, supported now by a woman on either side. She wiped her eyes in time to see a furious Reginald escorting the banker from the room. And to hear him declare, “If ever I learn that you have had a hand in damaging this lady in any way, Mr. Smathers, you will rue the day you ever heard of her, do you hear me, sir? You will rue the day!”

Chapter 22

Lillian woke and felt the house stirring about her. She had no idea what time it was, but most certainly she had slept later than usual. Her limbs felt languid. Though she had slept deeply, still she felt weary. The strain of a lifetime would not be healed by one good night.

She had taken a cold supper with the others, remnants of the Sunday dinner. They had gathered comfortably together in the kitchen, so many of them the men had stood by the counter. Horace’s youngsters had noticed nothing untoward. Indeed, the atmosphere had been that of just a normal extended family at the end of a long day. A slap-up meal, Horace had called it, and meant it as a compliment. Other than the children, none of them had been particularly hungry. No further mention had been made of Lillian’s confession, but the adults all bore a thoughtful air as they concluded their meal and said their farewells. Lillian had excused herself as early as was polite and retreated to her bedroom.

In the distance Lillian heard a church bell begin to chime. She counted, and with alarm, Lillian realized it was ringing eleven o’clock. She leaped from bed and hastily began to dress. She had not slept this late in years.

She was taken aback to find almost the same gathering awaiting her downstairs. Horace was there, this time without Beatrice and their children. Erica Powers was deep in conversation with Mrs. Cutter and Abraham Childes, Abigail hovering nearby. Even old Mr. Cutter was in his high-backed padded chair, pulled up close to the range fire. Everyone wore a somewhat preoccupied air. Lillian cast quick glances at Erica and Abigail as she sat down at the kitchen table, but she was not able to catch the eye of either. Abigail murmured something about getting her some tea and moved to the stove. Mrs. Cutter offered toast, but Lillian declined.

“Are you sure I can’t offer you anything? Maybe a bowl of porridge? That’s not difficult at all—”

“You are very kind, Mrs. Cutter. But I really can’t disturb your routine any more than I already have.” She found herself addressing the entire room, as all had turned her way. She felt she had to make some explanation for her lateness. “I can’t remember the last time I have slept so long into the day.”

“You have been under a great strain,” Mrs. Cutter soothed.

She nodded and sipped her tea. Reginald cleared his throat. “Lillian, might I have a word?”

“Yes, of course.” She sighed. Perhaps it was best coming from Reginald.

“Would you care to take a turn with me? The day is brisk for September, but not unkind.”

“Yes, thank you. I will get my wrap.”

As she rose from her place, old Mr. Cutter said in his trembling voice, “My dear.”