‘Oh, now, Jellie, you do not know it is so bad,’ says Mrs Fortescue. ‘And besides, no hireling would throw you over so abruptly – they know a little discretion.’
‘Hush, hush! Lower your voice, Bel.’ Angelica is hugging herself with worry. ‘As for discretion, they don’t trouble themselves with it once the money is gone. You saw how loudly that woman denounced me in the shop. It will be the same all over. I know how it is –’ she digs her fingers into her upper arms so tightly the knuckles whiten – ‘they positively triumph at one’s misfortune.’ Mrs Fortescue pats and shushes her, but she frets on, and groans, ‘Oh, this is grave! This is very, very grave!’ For the full awfulness of the situation is creeping chill into her bones; here she is alone with his debts, and no word of when he will return. ‘He cannot have expected this.’ She looks appealingly at Bel.
Her friend hesitates. ‘No, dear, no, he cannot.’
‘Oh, if I could only speak to him! I would be so much easier if I only knew his plan. If he had left me more cash!’
‘I can give you—’
‘No!’ Her poor cheeks flame scarlet. ‘I have too many gowns; I will have Eliza pawn something for the time being.’ If he were with her he would reproach her for her lack of faith. Oh, but she has been so faithful! She permitted herself for once to believe his every word! Is this where it leads one? She feels Bel’s hand on her back.
‘Do not think the worst. When he comes back …’
Angelica’s handkerchief is soaked through; she fishes for another and here is Bel’s pressed into her hand, embroidered with her husband’s crest. She blinks, and blinks again as the tears waver across her vision, gazing upon the lovely coronet, the unfamiliar letters. Then she screws it into her hot fist and hies it to the floor. ‘Foolish me,’ she says, ‘making such a meal of this. Why, all I need to do is write and acquaint him with my situation. He will be mortified to hear of it. I am as faithful a mate to him as he is to me – we are matched souls.’
‘But in the meantime, if you need help …’
Angelica has now entirely left off crying. ‘If you really mean to help me, you will leave off your naysaying,’ she snaps. ‘You have not uttered one encouraging thing throughout this entire sorry episode; you assume the worst of him at every turn.’
‘I meant only to be prudent; you would not be the first lady to have her trust abused—’
‘You see? You cannot simply be glad for me, not for one second.’
A certain tightness goes out of Bel’s figure; her shoulders droop, and although the slump in her mien is barely detectable, slump she most certainly does. ‘All the years of our friendship,’ she says in a little voice. ‘I rejoice at your rejoicing; when you weep, I weep with you.’
‘Then why are you so at odds with me now? Rejoice! Rejoice for me! I am the best I ever have been!’
They complete their journey in silence, and at Mrs Fortescue’s house Angelica will extend only the most muttered and insincere of fare-you-wells. If she had guessed that this would be the last ride of its sort – that they will not meet again under such circumstances – would she have discovered more warmth for her old friend? But she does not watch Mrs Fortescue go, and rides home without a backward glance.
SIXTEEN
Meanwhile, Mrs Chappell has rushed to the house at Portland Square, where Polly has been vanished more than twelve hours: the Christmas greenery and stars still adorn every surface, but the doors to even the smallest cupboard are all flung open, and there are men searching the attics and knocking at the walls in search of secret compartments. Mrs Chappell is crumpled and irritated and over-hot after her one-mile voyage across the city, for she hates to be harried about. She takes one look at the uproar and hurries Elinor into the library for a private interview and a glass of watered spirit. Even that closet is decked with branches of yew and mistletoe, most pathetic in light of the aborted festivities, which only heightens Elinor’s state of panic.
‘I helped Pol choose her stays,’ she now sobs, ‘and she said, “Nell, how many pairs of stockings are you taking? Well, I had best take double what you do, for I mean to dance all night.” She packed twelve new pairs of stockings, madam, and they are all in our trunk still.’
‘As if that signified,’ snorts Mrs Chappell.
‘She brought all three volumes of Evelina,’ insists Elinor, who is struggling with the peculiar sensation that she cannot get enough air into her lungs. ‘Nobody who means to leave on the first day takes all three volumes.’
‘Stop crying,’ says Mrs Chappell. ‘You do yourself no favours.’
‘But I knew nothing of it!’ Elinor wails.
‘I believe you,’ says Mrs Chappell, a magical incantation guaranteed to start any tongue flapping. ‘But you must be sure and tell me all you know. You were the last to see her.’
‘I and all the gentlemen,’ Elinor persists. ‘All the gentlemen. We were in company from seven o’clock until she disappeared.’
‘And then what?’
‘I’ve told you.’
‘Tell me again.’
Elinor wrings her hands. ‘It was about ten,’ she says, and sets about pacing up and down the little room as if she must chase from one recollection to the next, ‘or half after, or eleven, perhaps. And we had dined, and took a drink, and to be sure you remember what a fine clear night it was, though very cold –’ and here she hesitates, doubts herself, stumbles onward more shrilly – ‘at least it was fine here, I do not suppose the weather is much different in St James’s, although I have heard before of showers in Whitechapel when it was quite dry in Threadneedle Street, so who can truly—’
Mrs Chappell clicks her fingers. ‘Blathering, Nell. Pray, back to your story.’
‘The men will attest that the weather was just as I recall. And they said, “Why do we not go out onto the terrace and look upon the garden?”’
‘Were you drunk?’
‘I, madam? No, madam!’
‘But Polly is inclined to drink? And in her cups she becomes reckless, does she not?’
Elinor looks at her cautiously: which is the better reply? ‘You think …’ She stops but her thoughts are a burst of panicked birds wheeling in all directions, and she is short of breath as she darts to catch hold of them all. ‘Well, she is no sort of drinker – but now you cannot think her actions were calculated – and perhaps she did not go willingly – all the wassail may have gone to her head – if Polly came to be repentant, what would you …?’ Her palms are wet: she clenches her apron in her fists. ‘You could forgive her, surely.’
‘But she has not returned,’ says Mrs Chappell.
‘She may be in some trouble,’ says Elinor, ‘that we do not know of.’
‘What trouble could ever have come to her? She has been kept safe, has she not? As you all have been. She has wanted for nothing, and I have given her my protection without stint.’
‘She may have been kidnapped,’ says Elinor. ‘Gypsies,’ she adds hopefully.
‘Kidnapped for what purpose?’
‘Oh, madam, such terrible things happen in this world! When a young girl with a good face disappears in such a way, six times out of seven it transpires they have been drugged and carried off by terrible old ladies who debauch them and keep them captive! And then sell their honour, and profit by it. This is a daily occurrence in this city; no girl is safe from it.’
Mrs Chappell snorts. ‘You never were an observant child. Kidnapped! Cast the notion from your head. She went of her own accord.’
‘But why would she simply leave …?’ She is thinking, but why would she leave me? She is thinking, but I did not know we had such secrets from one another. She is thinking, but our lives were identical; I did nothing that she did not do. Why then was she so dissatisfied when I was not? She begins, precipitously, to sob. ‘I know nothing, madam, nothing at all of this matter.’
SEVENTEEN
‘You ought never to have let him up in the first place,’ says Mrs Frost, knotting the last tie of Angelica’s gown.