And although I had often been the author of her thwarted hopes, she had never done me harm because of it. In fact, she had within her grasp the means to do me tremendous evil for a considerable profit,but never had she swerved from her vow of secrecy where my true parentage was concerned. What a story she might have made of it! Her name would have graced the front of every newspaper from London to Lucknow. She would have been feted and feasted, immortalised as the woman who broke one of the greatest scandals ever to involve the British monarchy. She might have rocked the throne itself, toppled it even, such was the potential power of that secret, and yet never had she wavered. She was a stalwart heart, was J. J. Butterworth, and I had not appreciated her friendship as I ought to have done. Loyalty was a quality I claimed to prize, but I had not lived the proof of my proclamations.
Such were my musings as I wandered the grounds at Cherboys. The hour of luncheon had passed, but I had no appetite. I was restless and moody, and I had learnt through painful experience it was best not to inflict such humours upon others. Better to indulge my ill-temper on my own than have to make apologies later, I decided. I avoided anyone else, seeking out the most remote parts of the estate until I roused myself from my torpor and realised I had, without intent, taken the footpath that led to the cliffs.
Perhaps the sea air would blow the cobwebs away, I hoped as I climbed the narrow path. Here and there a gull shrieked, their high voices ominous against the broad blue sky. Clouds were gathering on the water, casting long grey shadows over the waves that whipped up, the foamy manes of the white horses riding across the endless rippling plain of the sea. As I walked, my mind went again to the quarrel with J. J. Something tugged at my consciousness, and I puzzled it over as I walked. J. J. claimed not to have been the maid, but I knew the woman I had seen could not have been one of the regular staff at Cherboys, who would have been wearing blue. Therefore it must have been someone else, dressed in black, wearing apron and cap in an effort to conceal her features. Someone who needed a moment of access to Beatrice’sroom to introduce the poison to the tonic bottle. Someone who would have had the opportunity to retrieve the tonic bottle later.
As I reached the top of the climb, I realised I was not alone, and I understood that Fate had been directing my footsteps all along.
Perched on the boulder above the crumbling cliff top was Augusta. She was very still, staring out to sea as the wind tore at her hair, blowing it free from pins and net. It rippled behind her, a banner of burnished red-gold. From a distance, the silver strands were invisible, and I could imagine her as she must have been, twenty years ago, ravishing auburn locks tumbling free as she romped and cavorted with the young men around her.
“It was you,” I said. I had not intended to speak. The words came of their own accord, and for a long moment, I thought the wind had borne them away, unheard.
But at last she turned her head and I saw that she had been weeping, tears still coursing down her cheeks.
She did not move as I came near. She simply sat, Niobe in her tears.
“Would you like to tell me about it?” I urged. “I am an excellent listener.”
She turned back to the sea, then began to speak, her voice tight with emotion. “Do you know what it is to love? To really love someone?”
“I think so.”
“You mean Stoker,” she said.
“Yes.”
She nodded. “He is a good man. He is worthy of your love. Lorenzo d’Ambrogio was not worthy of mine.”
She fell silent again and we watched the gulls wheel and dive, darting into the sea for a catch and climbing again, shaking the seawater from their wings.
“You met him here, when you were first betrothed to James, is that right?”
“I had met James precisely twice before our fathers made the arrangements. My mother was so pleased, she fairly glowed. ‘A title in the family. Little Gussie will be a lady.’ ” Augusta cut her eyes at me. “Have you ever heard anything so revolting? They called me ‘Gussie’ as if I were a cow in the field, munching on clover. And that’s all I was in the end. Mamma wanted nothing so much as respectability to go with the new money. She hired all the best tutors—dance, elocution, etiquette. I was taught everything. Everything except what to do with my heart.”
She paused and heaved a sigh that seemed to come from her very bones. “But I was reconciled to it. I knew I would never be permitted to choose for myself, and James was nice enough. I could manage him. I could make a good life for myself. And it would have all been perfectly fine if I had just stayed in London and waited for him. It was Mamma’s fault, you know. She’s the one who insisted we come. She knew I was reconciled but not enthusiastic. It was never enough for her that I did as I was told. I had towantto be perfect for her. I had to enjoy the things I was made to do, the endless lessons, the dances, the posing in tableaux like a dressmaker’s mannequin. I went to all the fittings for my trousseau. I let her choose everything, just as she liked it. I never complained, notonce.But neither did I exclaim and prance about with shining eyes, wittering on about my fiancé like other girls did. And one day she shook me by the shoulders, saying I was unnatural and cold. She inveigled an invitation out of Lord Templeton-Vane for us to come and join the house party. I think she believed if I saw James, spent more time with him, I would fall desperately in love and she could pretend it was all a love match instead of a grubby little business arrangement.”
She broke off, turning once more to the sea. “So we came and James was here, but I hardly noticed him. Who could notice a James MacIver when there was a Lorenzo d’Ambrogio in the world?”
“I heard it said he was beautiful,” I ventured. “Like Ganymede.” Elspeth Gresham’s comparison seemed apt.
“Cursed cupbearer to the gods. Yes, that is perfect. The worst part was that it didn’t matter to him. He never used it, not the way most men might have done. He treated everyone precisely the same. I think I might have been able to resist my feelings if he seemed to try. But he never did. He was exquisitely courteous with everyone and he had no idea what effect he had on people. It was, quite simply, devastating. At least to me.”
“You fell in love with him.”
“Love!” Her expression was bitter. “The anguish of it was like nothing I have ever known before or since. It settled into my bones like a cancer. It ate at me, day and night. I was feverish with it. I could not eat, could not sleep. I never dared to imagine he might feel the same. But then Lord Templeton-Vane decided to throw a ball. A whim of his, he thought the entertainment would make up for forbidding Lorenzo and Kaspar the right to excavate until the cliffs could be made secure. Lorenzo danced with me. It was the first time he had touched me, and I thought I would kindle into flames right there in the ballroom. And there was champagne. So much champagne,” she said with a rueful smile. “It went to my head. I had eaten nothing, which pleased Mamma greatly. She always thought it was elegant to be thin, and I was wasting away for love of Lorenzo. Mamma drank too deeply that night too. She slept in the room adjoining mine, but I could hear her, snoring away from the effects of the wine. So I crept out and went to Lorenzo’s room. I did not intend to go to him. I felt like a sleepwalker, moving as if underwater.”
Her expression was dreamy as she reminisced, and I wondered if she remembered it thus in order to remove all responsibility from herself for what followed. Sleepwalkers were innocent of agency, I reflected. They passed, ghostlike, and could bear no blame.
“His door was unlocked. I went in and simply climbed into his bed. He was dizzy with wine and wanting, I think. He did desire me,” she said with sudden fierceness. “He had resisted it because of his friendship with James, but when he had me there, in his arms, there was no refusal. There was onlyus. At least until morning. I crept back to my room before Mamma awoke. I pretended to be asleep, pretended that everything was the same, but I was changed, you understand. I had been loved, for myself. Not for Papa’s money or Mamma’s little sophistications. I had been loved as a woman.”
She turned to me with a smile. “I suddenly understood the story in the Bible, when Eve eats from the fruit of the tree of knowledge and all is revealed to her. I was enraptured. I could not wait to be married to James then.”
“James?” I started in amazement. “Not Lorenzo?”
“No,” she said, her lip curling in scorn. “I wanted to lie with Lorenzo as a means of exorcising the demon from my soul. I believed if I did that with him, I would be past it, free of my torment and able to marry James without regret.”
“But you were in love with Lorenzo,” I reminded her.
“Love is a notion for poets and children. I knew what mattered in the end was security, Veronica. A security I could never have with Lorenzo. If I pursued a life with him, what would that have been like? Living always with that sickness in my blood, forever at the mercy of that feverish need. No, it was not to be borne. I knew him carnally and that was the end of it. I was ready to marry James and be a proper wife to him.”
