First church. I will pretend that nothing has happened yet--Ah Soh won't dare to say anything. Who to tell first? Hoag? Andr`e?
Edward? Mr. Skye?
She had already had a discussion with Heavenly Skye. His advice was that they had no option but to wait, to see what Hoag would do, and after that, what Tess would do. Tess's letter to him had been brief: Dear Mr. Skye: I know my son had dealings with you. Cease and desist in our affairs, my son's and mine. No good will come of it.
"Interesting choice of words," he had commented.
"You sound afraid, as though we've lost already."
"Not at all, Angelique. Our only posture can be to wait. She has the initiative."
"By the next mail I want you to write to Struan's solicitors, asking for an accounting of my husband's estate." This had been an idea Andr`e had given her, favoring opening of an immediate offensive.
"Gladly, if you want to fall into her trap."
"What?"' "Your only posture is the aggrieved, wronged child-widow who was enticed into an early marriage by a strong-willed man--not the impoverished, rapacious widow of a rich husband, a profligate minor, who had gone against his mother's wishes in marrying an impoverished lady of questionable antecedents--please don't be angry, I only tell you what can, may and probably will be said. You must wait, dear lady, pretending to hope that Tess will behave like a human being should.
If his child was, er, is en route, that would be a great assist."
"And if there isn't?"' "Let us consider that when it happens, I mean when it doesn't. Lots of time to con--"' "I don't have lots of time. I will run out of money."
"Be patient..."
Mon Dieu, patience! Men and their patience.
Now that Angelique knew beyond doubt she was not bearing Malcolm's child, she set aside all the ideas she had formulated in the event of a baby and concentrated on the other set.
An immediate onslaught on that woman? No, that comes later, Mr. Skye's right in that. I have to find out what she is going to do first. To do that I have to tell Hoag or Babcott. Hoag delivered her message so he will have to be the one. No need to have him paw me, either of them. I can tell him.
At once or later? Is it worth asking Andr`e, or Edward? I don't think so.
Having no baby to contend with, to consider, makes my life simpler, my chances of remarriage better. Whatever happens, like every girl in the world, I must have a protector, the right husband--or, at length, any husband.
As to my prospects: I don't have money enough to get back to Paris to set myself up there. I've no prospects except through a settlement with Struan's--no, not with the company, with that woman.
Even Edward is tied up in that. Especially him. Without a good settlement for me, and her benevolence on his deal, his marriage interest will evaporate. That's fair because mine will evaporate quicker. He's in love with me, I'm not in love with him though I like him a lot, but without mutual financial security the connection has no logic.
Always back to that woman, whatever idea comes up, Angelique thought, not a little pleased with the way her mind was working, coolly logically, not worrying, simply examining all aspects as a prudent woman should.
I can last a month or two, no more--if I don't give any more money to Andr`e. Soon my chits will run out, any day Albert can get orders to stop my credit and throw me out. I can almost read her spiteful mind. Never mind, I can move to the French Legation. But they won't support me for very long.
Sir William? No reason for him to do more than he has. Andr`e is the only one outside her grasp who can help. Think clearly, Angelique, that's wrong! When Andr`e sees that the money is drying up or has dried up, no telling what he may do in desperation. He could sell Tess that awful paper, he could give her proof about the... about the past. He's a cynic, callous enough or clever enough to have kept proof I paid for the medicine with the earrings I lost. He'd settle for much less money than I would. Even so he's the only man here evil enough to combat her.
Edward will go against her but only up to a point.
He won't lose Rothwell-Gornt.
Should I get Edward to go back to Hong Kong at once? Or Hoag, he's a friend, a sort of friend and he's the one she sent to me? Or Andr`e? Not him for then I wouldn't sleep a moment knowing he was in Hong Kong with that woman, unwatched.
For her church was a huge success, even with her melancholy. She had dressed as usual in black, a medium veil covered her hat and face. Prayerbook in hand she had set out on the blustery day, and when she passed the Catholic church on the promenade, joining the throng that headed for Holy Trinity, and went up its path and entered the church and sat in the empty back row, at once going to her knees and beginning to pray, a current went through the nave, already half full, echoed by latecomers, the current gathering strength and swooping through the Settlement and into Drunk Town.
"Godalmighty, the Angel's gone to church, our church..."
"Holy Trinity? Bollicks she's Catholic..."
"Bollicks or not she be in't Holy Titties, bright as a berry, all dress in red and no knickers on..."
"Oh for God's sake, don't spread rumors..."
"That's no rumor, she don't never wears knickers..."
"In Holy Titties? Holy God! Is she become one of us'n?"
"Old Tweety'll wet hiself with glee ..."
Maureen and Jamie had been behind her. They hesitated beside the last pew, readying to say, May we sit with you? but Angelique was still kneeling as if in prayer and did not acknowledge them though aware of their presence; and not a little envious of the joyous green of Maureen's dress and coat and matching hat, with its plume of yellow chiffon hanging down her back. In a moment they moved on, shoved ahead by the press of the others and not wanting to disturb her--which was what she wanted.
After her initial passionate prayer of thanks for the strength to conquer her vast disappointment, she stayed on her knees, the hassock comfortable, and, protected by her veil, watched wide-eyed to see what would happen. This was the first Protestant service she had witnessed.
There was not as much reverence as in her own church but it was packed, braziers spotted here and there against the damp, and everyone mobile was in attendance. The stained-glass windows were rich, the altar and trappings throughout more stark than she was prepared for.
Others would have stopped to greet or to nod, filled with degrees of delight or bewilderment, ready to sit beside her. But they did not, again not wishing to interrupt. Gornt chose an opposite pew.
So she was left alone and soon the service began. First hymn and she imitated the others, standing when they stood, sitting when they sat, praying when they prayed but always to the Blessed Mother, listened to the sermon that the Reverend Tweet stuttered, completely undone by her presence. More hymns and chanting and the plate, an embarrassed moment as she fumbled for a few coins, another hymn and the blessing and then it was over to an audible, well-earned relief.
The congregation stood as the vicar went into the vestry preceded by an ancient altar boy. Most began to shuffle toward the exit, palates ready for the traditional Sunday lunch, the best meal of the week: roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, roast potatoes for the lucky ones who could afford a joint from the last shipment of ice-frozen Australian beef.
A few remained for a final prayer. Hers was for forgiveness that she had come to this church but she was confident that God would understand it was only a momentary, necessary protest to Father Leo. All eyes watched her as they filed out. Then she joined the last of them, nodding and saying "'Morning," to murmured greetings.
The vicar stood just outside the door, greeting some, glowering at others. When she came up he became both seraphic and stuttering, "Oh, my, Miss Ang... oh Madame, how wonderful to see you, welcome to Holy Trinity, may we see more of you... if there's anything I can explain... Oh! No? Well I hope you enjoyed, well please, please come again, wonderful to see you, you're welcome..."
"Thank you, Reverend," she said, bobbed a quick curtsey, hastily walked up the path and onto the promenade.
Sir William was waiting for her, Babcott with him, muffled like everyone against the gusts. "Glad to see you up and about," Sir William said sincerely, "particularly here. We're rather proud of Holy Trinity and you're very welcome, very, and we're all happy you're here. The Vicar was a bit off today, sorry about that, he's usually quite good and not too much fire and brimstone. Did you enjoy the service?"
"It was so different, Sir William," she said. "To worship in English and not Latin was exotic."
"Yes, I suppose it was. May we walk with you?"
"Please." They set off briskly, exchanging pleasantries and genial questions, avoiding the issue central to their mind with: the weather's shocking, isn't it? the football match yesterday afternoon was grand--may we escort you next week; have you seen the latest papers, or heard the Yokohama Players were putting on a performance of Romeo and Juliet--Mrs.Lunkchurch has kindly consented to play the starring role against Mrs. Grimm's Romeo. "Have you ever been on the boards, have you performed, Ma'am?" "Only children's Nativity plays in the convent," she said. "And not very well... oh!"
A gust had seized Sir William's top hat and sent it twirling, Babcott just managed to hold on to his, she was not quick enough and hers went sailing away with hats all along the promenade to curses, wails, cheers and laughter. She joined the melee and scurried after hers, but Babcott retrieved it just before it went rolling down onto the beach, Sir William's was stopped by Phillip Tyrer who hurriedly handed it to him then charged after his own.
"My best beaver," Sir William said sourly, brushing off mud that looked suspiciously like manure. Her hat was undamaged and, smiling, she put it back on firmly, adjusted her hat pin. "Thank you, George, I thought it was going for a swim."
"So did I. Can we entertain you at lunch?"