22. Caroline
22
Caroline
W hen Arrowsmith started tapping wine bottles, Caroline thought he might well have lost his mind.
She couldn’t help glancing upwards. Down here in the lower cellar, the weight of the house above seemed to press down on her shoulders. The low ceiling was originally white, but the years had stained it black. A rotting, musty smell pervaded through the misshapen room—or what she could see of it, anyway.
She should have known this was a bad idea when Arrowsmith brought the coal miner’s lamps.
The upper cellar hadn’t been quite so…creepy. Although rusted, the gate down into it was well oiled and clean. The long, sloped room was well-lit. The racks and shelves were well organised, but the stairs down to the lower cellar had plunged them into a gothic novel.
The two lamps flickered pitifully around her, leaving the rest of the cold, unsettling room in darkness. Noises crept into her ear, a faint, incessant scratching that left her hair standing on end.
And she was going deeper still.
“One, two, three, four, five down,” Arrowsmith mumbled, tapping the bottles’ corks as he went. They stood in front of a vast wine rack that extended almost to the ceiling and nearly spanned the length of the wall. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine across. ”
Caroline watched as Arrowsmith withdrew the bottle before reaching through the gap in the rack.
Movement distracted her, her vision flicking to the right. She jumped as a shockingly large spider crawled across the wall and disappeared around the corner, into the room’s endless abyss.
A sharp, metallic shot rang through the room.
“What was that?” she whispered, half-expecting the Ghost of Christmas Past to appear at any moment.
Arrowsmith glanced around, withdrawing his arm from the slot. “The lock, my lady. I do beg your pardon. It’s been some time since I last had to unlock this contraption.”
She blinked. “What?”
He gave her a knowing smile, hooking his fingers into the rack’s slots and simply…sliding it across.
Her lips parted with amazement as a doorway was revealed, its upper corners hiding a network of spider webs and dust. “How ingenious,” she whispered.
“The wine rack can only slide across two feet,” Arrowsmith panted. “And it is rather heavy, but there’s naught we can do about gravity.”
“Indeed.” She smiled—before her admiration came crashing down as she sighted the top of a ladder sticking out of the doorway floor.
Oh god.
This was why David had wanted her to wait until Alex came home from his appointment. She’d assumed she would simply have to descend some stairs, unlock the vault, and, Bob’s your uncle, she’d have her marriage certificate.
But she’d waited for Alex all day . Goodness knows what had happened with his meeting, but she was tired of waiting. She just hadn’t realised she’d be descending into Chateau d'If’s sodding dungeons.
“Well,” Caroline began, edging her way over to the decrepit, cracked ladder, “no time like the present.”
Arrowsmith hooked the handle of one of the lamps over the ladder to illuminate the crusty rungs, holding his hands out to assist her as she gingerly climbed onto it. “Take care, my lady.”
She didn’t look down. She didn’t want to see what was at the bottom—because then she might not go.
She would, quite literally, take things one step at a time.
The first couple of rungs were the ones most fraught with uncertainty. She was no doubt giving the vault a fantastic view up her jacksie, but she had bigger things to focus on—like slowly putting her weight on the next step down and hoping it wouldn’t break.
Things became easier when she’d stepped far enough down that she could hold the ladder instead of Arrowsmith’s hands, the light from the lamp in front of her momentarily rendering her night blind. The stench of decay intensified the moment she climbed past the lower cellar’s floor.
Caroline yipped out a squeak when her foot touched something that wasn’t a rung, but after a moment’s reflection—
“Oh.” She looked down at her feet. It was the floor.
Arrowsmith stepped closer to the opening above her. “Are you quite well, Lady Caroline?”
“Yes,” she answered, unhooking the lamp from the ladder and giving her new lodgings an exploratory glance. “I wasn’t expecting this room to be so…short.”
Or so small.
She expected to have to find the vault door somewhere within the bowels of this room, only to discover that the vault was the room. All that was left was the strangely clean square of space she stood in—enough space for her to open the vault’s door, presumably. Its dark grey metal loomed before her, the glass face of the dial catching the flickering light of the miner’s lamp.
Twenty-one, twelve, seventeen, ninety-four.
Patiently, Caroline diligently began the process of turning the dial both clockwise and counterclockwise, carefully counting her rotations until at last the dial stopped turning.
It was the same type of lock as on her lockbox at Scarlett Castle, which—funnily enough—she used to hide away all her letters from Harry. And now here she was unlocking the door to his family’s ancestral vault to find their marriage certificate and rid herself of the bastard.
A faint smattering of dust cascaded down on her as she pulled open the vault’s door, momentarily blocking the pitiful light from her lamp.
When it cleared, she was profoundly…disappointed.
The vault was as big as her bedroom, but almost entirely empty. Although the more she thought about it, the more it made sense. If David knew Harry had money issues, there was no point in leaving the family jewels within grabbing distance.
She took a dainty step within, lifting the lamp to throw light on as much of the room as possible. Perhaps one day it had housed the family jewels. It was certainly big enough. Something metallic glinted in the far corner, luring her deeper into the vault.
It was a medal. A dark metal cross hanging on a wide crimson ribbon. A Victoria Cross.
Caroline lifted up the little presentation box it was stored in to take a closer look. It seemed like eons ago that Harry had told her he’d won one. For gallantry , she remembered.
She hadn’t seen any evidence of it herself, but it was a timely reminder that despite all his faults, despite everything he’d done to her, Harry had once had the ability to do good .
Carefully placing it back where she found it, she moved on to the untidy stack of papers next to it; the only thing the vault was guarding. Letters comprised most of it, but there was no sign of her own handwriting as she flicked through. It didn’t upset her, as it once might have, but nor did she care to read them—even Harry deserved his privacy.
Recognition sparked within her when she sighted the familiar pale green paper reserved for marriage certificates. Unfolding the wide document, she cast her eyes over Harry’s familiar writing—and then did a double take.
The space in which Caroline Lilian Robertson should have been was occupied by another name entirely.
Florence Mary Scott.
Her brows drew together in a confused scrawl across her forehead. Florence? Her would-be lady’s maid? Caroline remembered signing the marriage certificate, for crying out loud. How could Florence’s name be there? But understanding dawned on her when she saw the date.
4 th July 1924.
It was more than a year before her and Harry’s wedding.
Needing confirmation, Caroline frantically searched the rest of the pile, her stomach dropping when she once again saw the pale green marriage certificate paper. She smoothed her hands over it, quickly recognising her own writing, and the correct date.
Her gaze slowly flicked between the two documents, the criminal truth glaring up at her without mercy.
She hadn’t been Harry’s first wife. And if Florence’s presence that night at Castell Du'r Arddu signified anything, Caroline may well have married a bigamist.
Caroline lowered her hand from over her eyes as the low morning sun finally disappeared behind the functional grandeur of Chancery Lane. “I never realised how narrow this street was,” she noted, her eyes gritty from her lack of sleep. She’d heard of Chancery Lane, of course. It was famous for its association with the legal profession, but it was almost indistinguishable from every other narrow street in London. If it hadn’t been for the street signs bolted to the buildings, Caroline wouldn’t have paid it any mind at all. “It’s number 122.”
For whatever reason, Alex didn’t look as though his night had been any easier. He certainly hadn’t been happy when she’d stormed into Silverburn Hall demanding that he accompany her. She’d found him in his office, his head in his hands and his clothes far too rumpled for the early hour. So rumpled she suspected they were yesterday’s clothes.
Alex slowed the Bentley down as they passed number after number, finally coming to a halt at 122. “And the reason you dragged me out of my house is…?”
Clutching the foolscap wallet in which she’d stored the marriage certificates, Caroline let out a nervous huff. David knew she was visiting Alex, but nothing more than that. Despite his son’s faults, David loved Harry, and Caroline had no intention of changing that.
But bigamy was illegal . Harry could go to prison.
It wasn’t something she was aiming for, by any means. Harry was an utter imbecile—and a thief to boot—but she didn’t want him imprisoned .
But once she told the solicitors what he’d done, his punishment wasn’t up to her.
The only question that remained was whether David would forgive her for it.
She shifted in a half-hearted shrug, reaching out to take Alex’s hand. “Because I’m too scared to do it alone.”
Whatever Alex had expected her to say, it wasn’t that. His exhaustion burned away to reveal the rigid strength beneath. “I’m here. Whatever this is, we’ll fix it together.”
His steady presence at her side made it easier to walk into the staid, severe solicitors’ office. A waiting room stretched out to their left, comprising a handful of leather armchairs and several copies of the latest newspapers and financial magazines on a table in the centre. In front of them stood the reception desk, staffed by an attractive blonde woman who couldn’t have been much older than Caroline herself.
Behind the receptionist, though, was a clear sheet of glass—a window into the office beyond. Women of all shapes and sizes sat surrounded by stacks of papers, pulling thick books from the wide bookcases, speaking into telephones, diligently typing on typewriters, opening letters, and even carrying around cups of steaming tea.
“Good morning,” Caroline began. “I rang earlier this morning. My marriage to Harry Burton is in the process of being annulled.”
Recognition flew into the receptionist’s eyes. “You must be Caroline Burton.”
She had once coveted that surname above all else, but now it made her squirm with discomfort. She nodded.
“Follow me, I’ll take you through to Mr Clarke’s office. I believe you’ve met him already.”
“Yes, he was nice enough to hand-deliver the nullity application to me in Hampshire.” And thank god he had, otherwise she’d have had to awkwardly ask David for the name of the legal firm. Then she’d have to explain why .
She wasn’t quite ready for that conversation. At least until she knew what the ramifications would be.
With her blonde hair bouncing with every step, the receptionist led them deeper into the building, past the room crowded with typewriters and telephones. Daylight crept in through the transom windows cresting the closed office doors, each labelled with shiny metal nameplates, until eventually the receptionist stopped in front of one and knocked.
“Come.”
Pushing open the door, their guide was the first to enter. “I’ve got Mrs Burton here to see you, Mr Clarke.”
Mr Clarke stood, albeit not without effort. He must have been 70 if he was a day, the straining buttons on his waistcoat an indicator that it had likely been some time since it was tailored. “Mrs Burton, Lord Lakenheath.” He smiled, his handlebar moustache twitching. He gave them a short bow, showcasing the bald spot on the top of his head. “It’s a pleasure to see you both again.”
“Thank you for making space for me on such short notice—especially so soon after you came down to Scarlett Castle.”
“Not at all, not at all, dear girl.” He waved her off, reminding her of a kindly grandfather. “Please sit. How may I be of service?”
With a nervous glance at Alex, she passed Mr Clarke her little foolscap wallet. “Lord Menai said that you need mine and Mr Burton’s marriage certificate, but when I went to fetch it, I found two marriage certificates.”
Oddly, Mr Clarke didn’t look too perturbed. He unfolded one of the certificates, giving it an approving nod. “Well, Mr Burton may have ordered a second copy,” he murmured, his eyes flicking across the pale green paper. “It’s always good to have a spare.”
“You misunderstand me,” Caroline said politely. “The other marriage certificate doesn’t concern mine and Mr Burton’s marriage. I—I think he was already married.”
Alex’s head jerked towards her. “ What? ”
Alarm stole across the solicitor’s face. He flattened out the second certificate, his brow pinching as he read it. “And Mr Burton has never mentioned a divorce to you?”
“No.” And he was still sleeping with her after they married, so the possibility didn’t seem that likely. She nibbled on her lip as Alex squeezed her hand. “But…but what happens to our marriage? What happens to Harry?”
Mr Clarke gave her a conflicted smile, leaning back in his chair. “Under the circumstances, your concern for your husband does you credit, my dear.” He tapped the certificates. “I will need to send some enquiries to the relevant court. Prior to this meeting, your marriage was voidable on the grounds of non-consummation. Legally, it existed, but we were in the process of getting it voided . However, if Mr Burton’s marriage to, uh, Ms Florence Scott was still in effect on the date he married you, then your marriage was void , not voidable. Legally, it never existed. You were never Mrs Harry Burton. You were never married at all.”
There was a chance she had been a free woman all along? Her lips parted. “Just like that? It…it cancels it out?”
“If Mr Burton was already married—and assuming he hasn’t had a divorce—then him marrying you has as much legal significance as a wedding acted out on the West End.”
Alex jumped in, leaning forwards in his chair. “How do we prove this? What if he’s just hiding the fact he’s a divorcee? ”
“I shall need to make an enquiry with the Royal Courts. It’s not necessarily a quick process, but knowing the exact dates of Mr Burton’s first marriage certainly accelerates things. Quicker than an annulment, to be sure.”
“And he’ll be prosecuted?” Alex asked.
His lips thinning, Mr Clarke nodded. “If Mrs B—if Lady Caroline wishes to report him to the authorities, she would be well within her right to do so. I would be happy to assist you.”
“What if I don’t want to report him?” she said, sotto voce .
Alex’s attention snapped around to her, his expression half incredulous and half furious. “He strung you along for months, effectively kidnapped you from Scarlett Castle, all to trap you into a fake marriage to steal what little fortune you had and abandon you. Why the devil do you not want him prosecuted?”
She opened her mouth, but the words failed to come. Perhaps once she had been angry at Harry, full of rage and wishing to repay the pain he’d caused her. She didn’t hate Harry anymore. She didn’t particularly like him, but she didn’t hate him either.
And all of that was without taking into consideration who he was related to.
“He’s David’s son , Alex.”
Alex brows pinched together. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Because he was the man she loved.
Mr Clarke cleared his throat, the soft interruption she needed to avoid answering. “There’s no rush to make a decision now. First, we must establish if Mr Burton was indeed still married to his first wife.”
“How long will that take?” she whispered. It wasn’t a decision she wanted to make at all, but any delay was better than none .
“It depends on how busy the courts are, but around a week. I’ll do my best to hasten the process.” Mr Clarke gave her a sympathetic smile. “I know this is a difficult time for you, but I’ll be on hand to answer any questions you may have.”
There was one. “If the marriage is discovered to be bigamous...” She swallowed. “What would his sentence be?”
“It’s difficult to say.” Mr Clarke picked up the two marriage certificates, scanning them both. “Although your marriage to him took place in a church, his first marriage was in a registry office. That may count for something. A crime in a registry office is less frowned upon than a crime in a church. It could be the difference between spending months in prison—or years.”
When all was said and done, Caroline remained silent as Alex guided her from Mr Clarke’s office back to the car. Her thoughts buzzed around her brain like angry wasps, stinging her from the inside. Part of her wished that she’d never found the other marriage certificate. The truth may have laid undiscovered until long after they were all dead and buried.
The truth meant that Caroline had never truly been unfaithful to her husband—because she’d never had one. At the same time, it also meant that she would be the one responsible for sending Harry to prison.
He did that to himself , her conscience fought for her. She was the victim of the crime here.
In the end, her choices were clear. She could stay quiet, and be the cowardly doormat her mother had taught her to be. Or she could prosecute Harry for what he’d done to her, getting justice for herself—and potentially losing David’s love in the process.