Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Hetty felt her mouth drop open. She went cold all over as she stared at the man who had just walked through the door.

She had been hoping and praying that Frank would not make an appearance. And it had seemed that her prayers had been answered in that regard. But now, his legal representative had just waltzed into the room, as cool as a cucumber, claiming that the court would like to hear Frank's version of events that had led to his desertion of her.

Suddenly, a wave of heat swept over her. A wave of anger, so intense that she wouldn't have been surprised if she started to steam out of her nostrils, like a raging bull.

He was a coward, through and through. He had decided that he couldn't, or wouldn't, face her in this court. Instead, he had sent a solicitor. It was not Mr Baldwin, who had negotiated the sale of their house, and was well acquainted with the weasel that her husband was. No, he had employed another man. A younger man, who looked so very slick and confident in what he was about to say.

The bishop cleared his throat. "Mr Mitchell. We were wondering why Mr Blackmore had not seen fit, to be here …"

"My client regretfully cannot attend today's proceedings," said the solicitor smoothly. "He was not given sufficient notice in which to book passage back to England. All of the ships sailing were full." He paused. "He wrote to me, informing me in detail about what had happened within his marriage, and prior to it, that led him to the decision to leave his lawfully wedded wife. May I present this to the court?"

The bishop nodded. "If you would, Mr Mitchell. We would like to hear Mr Blackmore's side of it before we make a final decision."

The solicitor bowed, smiling. "Thank you, my lord."

Hetty glared at the man, whose eyes swept over her without even taking her in at all. He cleared his throat, producing a letter, which he tended to the court. As it was handed to the bishop, she could clearly see the familiar scrawl of Frank's handwriting.

The solicitor produced another letter from his pocket, unfolding it. "What I have presented to you, my lords is the original letter, which Mr. Frank Blackmore sent to me," he said slowly. "I have copied it for my own perusal, so I may refer to it as I speak."

The bishop nodded. "Go on."

"Firstly, my client expresses his deep regret at any pain that he has caused Mrs Blackmore," he said, frowning slightly. "He still holds her in regard, and does not wish to cause her distress, despite the extenuating circumstances that led to his desertion of her." He paused dramatically. "He asserts that he has forgiven her, as a good Christian man should, but can no longer trust her …"

Hetty's head started to spin with horror. She felt herself sway. What on earth was Frank claiming? And how dare he say that he had forgiven her, when he was the one that had caused all of this pain and upheaval?

The bishop was skimming the letter as the solicitor spoke. "Please continue, Mr Mitchell."

The solicitor stared down at the copy of the letter in his hand for a moment. He then raised his head, his eyes boring into Hetty. He sighed deeply, shaking his head.

"There is nothing as detestable as an unchaste woman," declared the solicitor in an almost regretful tone. "My client greatly admired his wife when he was first betrothed to her. And there is obviously much to admire. We can all see that she is a beautiful, well brought up young lady, from a proper home." He paused. "Mr Blackmore had high hopes that she would be a good wife to him. But he had deep concerns about her throughout their engagement. He heard many rumours that she was behaving unchastely with other gentlemen …"

Hetty stood up, her chest heaving. "That is a lie!"

"Mrs Blackmore," boomed the bishop, fixing her with a withering look. "Please, take your seat, and do not interrupt this court again."

Hetty sank down with her heart hammering. She felt so sick that she could barely breathe. Her father looked outraged, his lips thinned, but he said nothing. Her mother looked as shocked and sickened as she felt.

She could feel Louis's eyes on her, but she didn't dare to look at him for fear of seeing confusion and revulsion in his face. That there might even be a shred of doubt about her, now, and that she had lied to him about her engagement and marriage.

"Many people told him that Miss Arnold was running around behind his back," continued Mr Mitchell, without a pause. "There were sightings of her with other gentlemen. Once, she was observed to be in a passionate embrace at a public gathering." He sighed heavily. "But the worst was when he was told that she had been seen leaving a different gentleman's chamber in the middle of the night, at a house party …"

Hetty stifled a sob of pure rage. Her hands balled into fists. So, this was the tactic he had decided to take. To try to discredit her, smear her name in front of this court. That he had somehow been justified in deserting her.

It wasn't bad enough, what he had done to her, the shame and misery he had unleashed upon her. Now, he was grinding in his heel. He was determined that she be utterly destroyed so that he could walk away from this looking like the long-suffering fiancé and husband. So that he could smell of roses while she was crucified.

And there was another reason, as well, of course. The money. If he could prove that he had been justified in abandoning her, that he had no choice, then her dowry would remain with him.

She was simply amazed. It had never occurred to her that he might stoop to this level. That he might try to put the blame for all of this back on her by lying about what she had done and how she had behaved.

He was crafty, and he was cunning. He would be very well aware that the Ecclesiastical court took a far grimmer view of a woman's infidelity than that of a man's. That he could perhaps get away with his glaring infidelity to her, while all he needed to do was suggest hers, and she would be blamed for all of it.

And the worst of it was, she had to sit here and grit her teeth while he assassinated her character to the court. While he presented her as the whore of Babylon, a woman of insatiable sexual appetite, who had been unfaithful to him with not just one man, but several.

"My client felt like he was trapped inside the engagement," continued Mr Mitchell, sighing heavily. "He wanted to believe the best of Miss Arnold and ignored the rumours. He was fully committed to making her his wife, despite her rumoured dalliances with other gentlemen." He paused, his eyes appealing, as he gazed at the judges. "He knew Miss Marchand, his current mistress, during his engagement to Miss Arnold but swears they did not have a physical relationship during that time. However, he would often confide in her, his concerns, about Miss Arnold, and her impropriety. He started to fall in love with Miss Marchand but felt honour bound to marry Miss Arnold …"

Hetty's chest was so tight that she could barely breathe. The solicitor was doing a superlative job of presenting Frank as the hard done by, long-suffering fiancé, who only turned to his mistress for comfort.

"These are very serious allegations, indeed," said the bishop, looking appalled. "For as it says in the Proverbs: ‘a prostitute is a deep pit, and an adulteress is a narrow well.'" He paused, gazing at the solicitor. "Your client writes fluently about these rumours surrounding Miss Arnold prior to their marriage. But do you have any evidence that she did these things?"

The solicitor sighed again. "Unfortunately, because my client so desired to believe that they were not true, he did not investigate them as he should, and thus, has no proof of her infidelities." He hesitated. "But they alarmed him enough that after they had exchanged their vows, he suddenly realised he could not go ahead with the marriage, that he must flee it. In his despair, he re-connected with Miss Marchand, who showed him what the love of a good woman was. He knew that he could never return to his wife, given her loose morals, for fear that he would always be played for a cuckold, and most likely never be confident that the children they might have would indeed be his. It is the only reason that he betrayed his marriage vows …"

Her father suddenly put his hand in the air. "May I speak, my lord?"

The bishop nodded. "Yes, Mr Arnold?"

"This is rather ridiculous, my lord," he said, his voice full of ice. "Mr Blackmore seeks to blacken the name of my daughter and excuse his actions against her without a shred of proof that she was ever unfaithful to him, or behaved in the wanton manner suggested." He glared at the solicitor.

"Your client is living in mortal sin with a woman who is not his wife. He is expecting a bastard child from this unholy union. His adultery is plain for the world to see. Whereas I can produce any number of people, who can swear that my daughter, Henrietta, always behaved appropriately during her betrothal. Where are these people who attest to the actions you insist she committed? I demand you produce them."

"You have no authority here to demand any such thing, sir," said the bishop, frowning deeply. "It is up to this court to carry out such investigations if it deems it is necessary. I ask you to sit down, sir, and let the court do its work."

Her father turned bright red but did as he was instructed, muttering to himself. Hetty's eyes filled with tears as she gazed at him. He was the best father in the world and would defend her like a tiger, but he was as helpless in this situation as she was. His hands were tied.

She glanced at Louis, who was still sitting in the gallery, listening to all this. He was pale and looked as appalled as she felt. Her heart lurched. What must he be thinking? But there was nothing he could do about any of this, as well. He might be a peer of the realm, but he was powerless here, too.

It was all slipping away from her. Only a short time ago, she had been quietly confident that perhaps the court would grant her the divorce. It had looked so promising. And now, it had been turned on its head, flipped over, and she was being presented as the one at fault, who had driven her husband away.

She would never get to marry him. She would never be a free woman.

And it was even worse than that. For not only could she never marry the man that she loved more than life itself, but Frank had made sure that she would always carry the shame of this. Word would get out about his wild accusations, the fact that he had accused her of being little better than a whore. He had tripled her disgrace if the court found in his favour. How could she ever return to her home and live again in society?

She took a deep, shuddering breath as she felt her whole world come crashing down around her. She was doomed. She should never have petitioned to this court. She should have run off to a convent as she had wanted to. She wished to God that her parents and Louis had never talked her out of it.

Maybe it would have been better if Louis had never approached her father, seeking her hand. For it had set them all on this course, now. It had given her hope, and there was none. None at all.

***

That night, in the small inn near the court, where her family had booked rooms for the evening, he came to her, sneaking into her room after dinner, wearing a dark cloak with a deep hood.

It had been a wearying day. The judges had been unable to agree on a verdict, in the end, and had instructed them to return the next morning. She knew that it was merely a stay of execution; that in the morning, they would find in Frank's favour. Their eyes had been cold when they rested upon her. She could almost hear the accusations swimming around in their heads.

Whore. Jezebel. Strumpet. Adulteress.

"You should not be here," she whispered desperately. "Anyone could have seen you. And it will only confirm that I am the whore that they are making me out to be …" her voice trailed away on a sob.

"Hetty," he whispered, his green eyes glittering in the darkness, "you know I do not believe any of it, don't you? I know that it is all lies, cooked up by a desperate man, eager to keep your dowry. He is angry with you that you dare to call him out on what he has done, and he is getting his revenge …"

She sobbed again. "Well, it is working. Those judges want to believe the worst of me. They want to believe that Frank had no choice but to leave me." She shuddered. "All is lost, Louis. All is lost ."

He grabbed her fiercely, pulling her into his arms, kissing the top of her head. She buried her face into his chest, unable to stop the torrent of tears from spilling over.

"How dare he," she whispered, beating her hands against his chest. "How dare that man blacken my name with his lies. He knows that those judges will always believe the man over the woman. That they do not take much persuasion to condemn me as an adulteress …"

Louis sighed heavily, stroking her hair. "It is true, my love. Look at what Henry the Eighth did to get rid of the wives that he no longer wanted." He paused. "He made up all manner of things about them, accused them of the most shocking things in order to get his way, knowing that once a woman's name is besmirched in that manner, that the mud sticks …"

Hetty pulled away from him, gazing at him. "Yes, he did. He could never prove his allegations against Anne Boleyn, but it did not matter in the end. Everyone wanted to believe that she was guilty, and so it was done." She paused, pensive. "He also claimed that his marriage to his first wife, Catherine of Aragon, was never valid, either, because she had first been married to his brother. He managed to procure an annulment because of it …"

Hetty's heart started to quicken. Something was forming in her mind. Something that might just convince the court that she was telling the truth about everything. Something that might just manage to fix all the damage that had been done today.

"Hetty, what is it?" asked Louis, frowning. "You look as if you have suddenly found a fortune."

She couldn't tell him. Not yet. It might not work, and besides, she didn't want to get his hopes up. She needed to think it through thoroughly.

"You should go," she whispered, her eyes shining. "It is not safe."

They kissed passionately, and then he stole out of the room as silently as he had arrived. Hetty walked over to the window, staring down at the unfamiliar streets of the city where they were staying. Her mind was whirring like a cog in a wheel, and she could not hope to rest, yet, even though she was so very weary.

She thought about Frank, safely ensconced with his mistress, in the small fishing village, in Provence. He had been so very confident that he hadn't even bothered to make the journey back to England. He had thought that all he needed to do was pen some lies about her, and he would be home and hosed.

He thought wrong.

Because there was one little thing that Frank had forgotten about. He could call her all the names under the sun, but he couldn't prove a word of it. He was counting on the fact that the law almost always believed the man over the woman. But she did have proof that his lies were just that.

She thought of Louis, patient, kind Louis, who had told her he was willing to wait to make love to her, until their wedding night, as a sign of his commitment to her. She had been impatient, wanting to make love with him, but now, she was very glad – so very glad – that they hadn't. That Louis had insisted that they wait.

She almost laughed out loud. Her love of history was proving very beneficial indeed.

Good old Henry the Eighth. He had been a clever man. He almost always got what he wanted, in one way, or the other. His queens had been clever women, too. And she was about to take a leaf out of all of their books, and use her mind, and her knowledge, to pull out her trump card.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. Frank Blackmore was going to rue the day that he had decided to take her on. Because he was going to be made to pay for all that he had done to her in spades. And no amount of lies, on his side, was going to change it.