Violet patted Lillian’s hand. “It is decided. Ambrose Deveraux is not for me. But he will be a good match for you.”
Lillian’s eyes widened. “A match? God, no! I would much prefer a conversation with him on the manner of business and investments. I hope to learn a thing or two from him.”
“Ah. Well, I’m sure that would work for him too. Now, what is your news from today?”
“Well, I was looking through some old books, looking for a survey that was completed on Papa’s land some years back. And I came across this. I thought you would be interested,” Lillian said, holding up the book.
It was a slim volume, bound in dark green leather and bound with a metal clasp.
“What is it?” Violet asked, taking the book, and turning it over in her hands.
Lillian reached over and undid the clasp. “Look at the front page.”
Violet did so and gasped at the words written on the first page inside the cover.
Diary of Fiona Courtham, March 3rd. 1811
“Fiona Courtham!” Violet breathed. “Mother!”
Lillian beamed happily, rocking back and forth in excitement. “Isn’t it simply splendid? Your mother’s diary. It was wedged between two antique and quite inconsequential books of accounts, behind a bookcase in the Dovecote of all places!”
The Dovecote was the nickname given to the large attic room of the house. It covered the entire floorspace of the house and was home to several generations of pigeons who found their way in and out beneath the eaves. It was a maze of boxes and chests, with narrow spaces in between to allow someone to pass through. The air was thick with dust in there. Violet found it an unpleasant place, having poked her head in once from the top of the staircase that led up into the middle of the attic floor.
“I wonder how it came to be there,” Violet said, leafing through the pages.
All thoughts of Alexander and Ambrose fled from her mind as she read on. This was a glimpse into her mother’s life just beforeViolet herself was born. An insight into what Fiona was thinking and doing in the last year of her life.
There may be mention of the man who became my father!
Chapter 16
Alexander staggered slightly and steadied himself with a hand to the wall. Beyond that wall the Thames flowed, sluggish and black. Its noisome stench reminded him of the Clyde, viscous and polluted. The night air was cool on a face made hot by too much liquor. Sebastian had offered him a carriage after they had dined with Phillipton and Graves. Wine had been consumed, and brandy. Both men had promised their votes and their support. Alexander had declined his friend’s offer, choosing instead to head south from the pleasant eatery overlooking St James’ Park and follow the river in search of a dockside tavern.
Those men were asses. They see the bill as a way of climbing their way up the greasy pole, ingratiating themselves with the Whig government. They don’t care about the thousands of children forced into slave labor.
Sebastian had declared the evening a success. Claiming the votes were almost in the bag to secure the bill’s passage through the Lords and back to the Commons to be enacted. The twoindependent peers would bring others with them, he was sure of it. But they had wanted to meet the chief sponsor of the bill. Get the measure of him before they committed to his cause.
The measure of me! I’d like to give them a measure, a Glesga measure. I was an exhibit in a zoo to them. Come see the wild Scotsman. The only one in captivity.
He spat over the wall, righting himself. After leaving Sebastian, he had found a tavern. It had been dark with low ceilings. The air had been thick with the smell of tobacco, tar, straw, and spilled beer. The walls hummed with the rising and falling swell of noise. Shouting, laughter, singing. Alexander had felt a weight lift from his shoulders as he stepped inside. Now, he felt ashamed.
If anyone saw me here. Or recognized me and sold their account to the newspapers. Or the bloody Tories! Everything is lost! What is wrong with me!
Not for the first time he considered throwing it in, retreating with his tail between his legs to Lorchester. And then staying there. Losing himself in the wilderness, shunning company, and no longer concerned with how he walked, stood, or sat. Or what terms should be used to address which people. He was walking randomly, not conscious of the direction he chose. The river was behind him and dark buildings all around. If a thief decided he would be easy prey, they would get a shock. Alexander walked with fists clenched, spoiling for a fight.
I cannae run away. Who would stand up for them? All those helpless weans. Someone has to stand up!
It made him feel trapped, shackled to this place and these people. People he despised. Except one. The wine, brandy, and ale had chased her from his thoughts for a time. Now she filled his head once more. A woman he had met on three occasions, had known for a handful of hours. A woman who inflamed him. Made the wildness in him rise to the surface. Violet. His savior. Lost in thoughts of her, he did not note that his direction had turned northward, that he was walking at a brisk pace. The Treasury appeared to his left, Scotland Yard to his right. Ahead was Charing Cross and if he continued on this arrow-straight path, he would eventually reach Great Russell Street.
Learning the geography of this blasted city is worth something after all. It can lead me to her.
The drunkenness was fading with the exertion and the crisp night air. He no longer had his gloves or cane, both had been lost in the tavern he had visited. So too had his hat. A cab appeared and he raised a hand, bellowing to get its attention. There was no-one in the street to hear but the cab turned and clattered down Whitehall towards him. He snatched the door open and gave Violet’s address. As he sat back in the cab, he wondered at his actions. What would he do when he got there? It was late. She would be asleep.
Damn and blast it! I’m letting the drink and my own misery rule me. I should tell the cab to turn around and take me toBrompton Row and my own house. Better yet, keeping going ‘til we get tae Hampshire.
But he did neither of those things. He watched the streets of London and thought of fair hair and sparkling blue eyes. Presently, the cab had departed and Alexander stood before number 45 Great Russell Street. Black railings separated the house from the street. The front door was elevated above the pavement at the head of a flight of stone steps. Other houses of identical appearance stood to either side of it. Alexander stood on the other side of the street and retreated into the shadow cast by a wall, surrounding a property on the corner of Charlotte Street.
The towering edifice of the British Museum loomed to one side. He had not been inside and had no inclination to do so. It was a reminder of the powerful elite that ruled this country and kept those less fortunate in their birth in abject poverty. There was one lighted window in number 45 on the top floor. All others were dark. The curtains of that window stood open. As he watched and time crawled on, he saw a shadow cast against the ceiling. It was hunched and impossible to know to whom it belonged. The shape of someone sitting, shoulders pulled down and forward, head bowed over something.
