Ollie's Cloud (20 page)

“This is a very exciting moment. I know from your book what you went through in escaping from Persia. I am so pleased that I can reunite you with a dear friend who is now a diplomat visiting London for the first time.”

Anne is very confused.

“And here he is, my dear, along with his interpreter, Eardley Pickwick.”

Lady Cowper does not see the white expression of horror on Anne’s face because she is busy waving her arms, beckoning the other Patronesses to join her. Anne looks at the familiar turbaned face and feels as if she is falling into the fiery pit of hell. She reels and leans against Herbert, who is confused by her behavior.

“Dear,” Herbert says, “what is it?”

Anne cannot speak, cannot stand, yet she does not fall. She continues to look into the wretched face of the kelauntar, Mirza Hasan Qasim.
This cannot be happening. Not here, not in London.

Ladies Castlereigh and Sefton join Lady Cowper at the table. “My dear friends, we have here an old friend of Anne’s,” Lady Cowper explains to the other Committee members, “from Persia. Mr. Hasan…” She cannot remember the odd name.

“Mirza Hasan Qasim, thank you very much,” the Persian says.

Lady Cowper’s arm-waving has attracted the attention of about fifty guests, including Oliver, who sees his father standing next to Anne. His heart drops in his chest. He could not have imagined such a terrible event—especially here, at Almack’s. His mother’s humiliation will be killing.

“Mr. Hasan,” Lady Cowper says slowly, as if this will help the Persian understand her words, “will you tell us how you know Mrs. Eaton?”

Hasan speaks to Eardley, who translates for the crowd: “In Persia, I knew her as Anisa. She lived in the village of Bushruyih, of which I was mayor.”

Lady Cowper looks confused. “Excuse me, perhaps the translation is not accurate,” she nervously says to Eardley. “If I remember correctly, Anne was bought as a slave by the mayor of that village. Could you ask him to repeat his explanation?”

Eardley and Hasan have a brief exchange in Persian, then Eardley translates: “Yes, I am the one who purchased Anisa in Bokhara.”

The blood rushes from Lady Cowper’s face. “Oh my,” she says. Looking at Anne with wide eyes, she continues: “Then… then Mr. Qasim is the same Qasim that you wrote about in your book?”

Trembling, Anne slowly nods yes.

“Oh my dear, I am so sorry. I had no idea.”

Hasan speaks again, and Eardley offers a translation: “Mr. Qasim would like to explain that he purchased Anisa—Anne—on the slave market in Bokhara to save her from a most miserable existence. He then most respectfully brought her to his village of Bushruyih.”

Now more than a hundred guests have gathered. A chain of whispers helps the latecomers catch up on the conversation. The cluster has thickened to the point that the orchestra, having just finished a quadrille, hesitates to begin another piece. The room is suddenly hushed.

Eardley continues. “Mr. Qasim wants everyone to know that he always had the most noble intentions toward Anne. That is why he took her as his wife.”

Anne faints into Herbert’s arms.
The truth is out!
Herbert lies her down on the floor and looks up at the Persian. “She was a slave in Persia! I am her husband!” he shouts.

Another quick verbal exchange ends with the Persian handing a paper to Eardley who then speaks: “Mr. Qasim has brought with him the legal marriage contract, which has been authenticated by officials in London, as you can see.”

He hands the paper to Lady Cowper, who shakes her head and mumbles,
Oh dear, oh dear.

The crowd buzzes madly, for the meaning of this revelation has suddenly become quite clear. If Anne Chadwick is the legal wife of Mirza Hasan Qasim, then she cannot, could not, dare not marry another man. And since she married Herbert Eaton, she must have committed…

“Mr. Qasim would very much like to take his wife back to Persia with him. He believes that she was misled by the treachery of a missionary, who swayed her into the deceitful and sinful life that she has been leading in London. He is prepared to forgive her.”

Suddenly Herbert Eaton stands, facing the Persian with a fierce look in his eyes. “Look here, this woman is my wife and she is not going to Persia!” He pokes a stiff forefinger into the Persian’s chest, backing him up and shouting, “You and your lies—you get out of here!”

Four men reach out to Herbert and pull him back.

Lady Cowper is still mumbling
Oh dear, oh my goodness,
and studying the paper in her hands.

The Persian straightens his tunic and speaks in English: “I am sorry, my friends. But it is true. She is my wife. I will not divorce her. The book is a lie.”

Herbert shouts, “Get out of here, you heathen scum! Get out!” He is difficult to restrain—it takes two more men.

Anne opens her eyes, moans at the sight of Herbert tearfully raging above her, then turns to see Oliver on the fringe of the crowd. She stares at him. He stares back, and his look of guilt tells her what she needs to know. He had known about his father’s threat and had not told her.

Hasan takes Eardley Pickwick by the arm and walks toward the door, passing Oliver. Hasan does not look at his son—not even a glimpse—but Eardley whispers to him in passing, the words hissing from a sad face: “He promised to pay all my bills.” A plea for forgiveness.

The Patronesses stand motionless and numb. The crowd begins to disperse as if the Eatons suddenly had been diagnosed with cholera.

Herbert drops to his knees, brushes his fingers through Anne’s hair. His tears fall on her face. He truly does not care about himself, but he can feel the immense weight of Anne’s humiliation. What will they do now that they are not, can not,
will never be
man and wife? He suddenly realizes how much he loves her. And misses her.

Oliver knows what he will do. First, he will go to the George & Vulture and get drunk. Then he will ruin Eardley Pickwick.

It’s a start.

Chapter 24

By the time Oliver arrives at the George & Vulture it is closed. It has rained and steam rises from the streets like a fog on the moors. The opening ball at Almack’s will go on until four or five, and Ollie can almost hear the excited buzz of the
ton
excitedly dissecting the awful scene between the Persian diplomat and the slave-girl.

He wants to go home, but can’t face seeing his mother. He is shrouded with a cloak of guilt.
The poisonous look that his mother gave him—she had known!
And he had wilted under her gaze. Is
still
wilted. He walks hunched like an old man, saddened and contrite.

Why hadn’t he told Anne about his father’s plan for revenge? She could have prepared a defense.

But then he realizes that he is not as sad as he first thought. And not so contrite. Watching his mother’s public humiliation was painful, yes, but now barely half-an-hour later he is not feeling quite so ashamed of himself. After all, he had not invited his father to Almack’s, and did not know that he would attend.

And was it not his mother’s choice to hide the fact of her Persian marriage? Certainly she could have anticipated the possible consequences of bigamy. Had she
really
thought that she could get away with it?

And what of her virtual abandonment of her son? Could she really have expected the loyalty and intimacy of his full confidence when she had so selfishly withdrawn from his life? No, she had forfeited her right to motherhood; she had relinquished those rights to Mum, who had seen through Anne’s transparency at their first meeting.

How he misses Mum!

It is suddenly clear to Ollie that Anne has brought about her own tragedy. All he had done was to do nothing—to let the natural order of things evolve. If he had intervened on his mother’s behalf, if he had warned her, if she had somehow avoided this fate, wrong would not have been righted. In a sense, by simply getting out of the way, Ollie had become an agent for justice.

A blur of movement in an alley catches his eye. The street urchins! Ollie is suddenly seized by a desire to see those youngsters again.
What was the tall one’s name?
He rushes into the alley and is greeted by the stench of garbage and a wriggling mass of rats unintimidated by his presence. The gang has disappeared, but he knows they are close, hiding in the shadows.

“Halloooo!” he calls out. “I’m looking for Tim Shaw.”

Silence—except for the gnawing of rodent teeth on beef bones and rotten cabbage.

“Tim, I know you’re here,” Ollie calls again. “I’m sure you remember me. Oliver Chadwick. We had a nice chat and I paid you to answer my questions.”

More silence. Maybe this is not the right alley. He steps forward slowly. One of the annoyed rats turns irritably to look at him, then goes back to its feeding. Ollie takes another step and then hears a shuffle of gravel from further down the alley. He stops. His eyes are slowly adjusting to the dim light.

From the shadows a small boy appears, his face a pale biscuit in the devouring darkness. Then another boy appears, and another, all carrying long sticks. “Ollie, that you?” The voice is high-pitched, a little boy’s.

“Tim?” Ollie asks.

“No, it’s Willie.” The boys come nearer. “Ya lookin’ for sum more answers?”

“Maybe. Where is Tim?”

“Tim? Oh, Tim ain’t wit us no more.”

“Then where can I find him?”

“Find ‘im? In ‘eaven, I s’pose, wit the angels.”

These words strike Ollie hard.
Perhaps he misunderstood!

“Do you mean… he’s
dead
?”

“Oh, ’e’s dead, aw wite. Got sick, ‘e did, coughin’ up all kinds o’ grunge, an’ then ‘e jus’ up an’ died. The gavvers took ‘is body somewhere. Least the rats didn’t get it.” The small boy pokes a large gray rat with his stick. The rat hisses and then rumbles away from the garbage.

A great sadness settles over Ollie. How odd that he feels such grief for a boy he barely knew, and so little sadness for his mother. The grief grows until it almost overcomes him. This is not some kind of social falling-out that has happened, it is a life suddenly ended. The life of a small, pathetic creature who never had a chance.

“Where did they take him?” Ollie is glad that the darkness covers his moist eyes.

The boy shrugs his shoulders.

Ollie reaches into his pocket and produces a few schillings, then hands them to the boy. “I’m sorry you lost your friend,” he says.

“I ‘ope ter live as long,” the boy says, taking the money.

The boys melt back into their harsh dark world. Ollie stands there, unable to move his feet. He cannot shake the unbearable grief, which is swelling up now like a taut bag over his head, suffocating him with an airless anguish. He wants to tear away this shroud of sadness and lash out at those responsible.

He wants justice for this wrongful death!

But there is no one to blame.
Too many
to blame. The villains are all nameless and faceless. They are blameless through their anonymity. They are found among the legions of corrupt and ignorant politicians, the malevolent orphanages, the oblivious and self-serving ton of Almack’s. The blame is on this wicked and uncaring society that tolerates equally the hypocrisy and over-reaching power of the rich on one hand, and the wretched, deplorable condition of the poor on the other hand. Two hands, each full. A kind of balance. London’s idea of a just society.

Ollie feels himself challenged. He is newly rich. He will become powerful. And yet he cries for little Tim Shaw. He cries, but he also remembers that a few hours ago he was seated on a fabulous burgundy sofa with Princess Esterhazy, dancing the gallopade to a full orchestra, sipping lemonade with captains of industry and generals and diplomats. Right now he would trade the sensuous delights of Almack’s for a chance to stand beside the grim pauper’s grave of Tim Shaw in a chilling rain.

Journalism! The craft of writing and publishing the truth. The opportunity to unveil hypocrisy and injustice, unmask inhumanity in all its clever disguises, and wave the magically curative wand of public scrutiny over the malignancies of London—this is Ollie’s answer, his mission.

But first he needs to hurt someone. He craves vengeance. And the only personal target he knows is Eardley Pickwick, a vivid symbol of the sleazy, selfish, ruthless nature of humankind, and how easily one can destroy another through a simple act of greed. Ollie will bring this man down. His profound sadness has been replaced by anger. And exhaustion. Ollie hails a carriage and goes to his room at the Charterhouse—he still cannot face his mother.

On the weekend Ollie finally returns home. His mother has vanished, and all her things have been removed from the house. There is no note. No evidence that she had ever lived there.

Herbert, standing by several packed crates of his belongings, greets Ollie with a hug. “She’s gone, Ollie. Left yesterday.”

“Where did she go?” Ollie asks.

“I don’t know.” Herbert sniffs back tears.

“Is she very angry?”

“All of her speaking engagements have been cancelled,” Herbert replies.

“So soon?”

“It seems the Evangelicals have not yet learned the Christian principle of forgiveness. But they are quick to see sin.” Herbert pauses, takes a deep breath, then says, “I fear for your mother’s well-being.”

“She’s strong. You have no idea.”

“I hope you’re right, Ollie.”

Oliver looks down at the crates and frowns. “I don’t want you to leave, Herbert. You don’t have to go.”

“It makes no sense to stay. This is not my home.”

“Yes it is! I’ve lost one father, I don’t want to lose another.”

Herbert reaches out again and hugs the boy, who is now taller than he is. “It’s best that I leave.”

Ollie pulls away and says, “And go where? You gave up your apartments when you married Anne.”

“I’ve made arrangements for temporary quarters until I can get my feet back under me.”

“Stay here—temporarily, that is, until you have a permanent place. Why move twice? This is a very large house. If you must move out, then do it when you’re ready.”

“I don’t know, Ollie. Our rooms here, they still have memories that—”

“But we have other rooms here. Rooms without those memories.”

“Ollie…”

“I need you to stay with me, just for a while.” Ollie looks at Herbert, and his face is suddenly a small boy’s, lonely and afraid.

“Well, maybe just until I find a permanent place.”

“Excellent! Then I think we should have a special dinner tonight to celebrate that we are still together… for a time, at least.”

Herbert smiles sadly. He knows that Ollie has manipulated him into remaining in the mansion, but that’s all right.

He wants to stay.