A Victorian Romance

by Steven Schechter

Table of Contents

Chapter 3: French Language Lessons

part 1

One evening in mid-September on his way to the opera, Charles Beauton noticed a lovely young woman sitting alone outside a café on Jermyn Street. Her status was at first ambiguous; to be alone in this way suggested that her virtue was for sale. Yet she might have been waiting for a rude companion who had left her exposed. She was attractive enough, but it was her bearing, suggesting an innate dignity and reserve, that caught his eye.

Charles hurried on, late for his engagement, but two nights later he returned, this time wearing a disguise of beard and glasses. The woman was sitting in the same spot, alone again. He watched her for a time, and what he saw was not a little intriguing. Men would approach her, strangers apparently, and she would smile — she had a lovely smile — and offer her hand, exchanging a few words. But each time, the exchange would end with the young woman shaking her head “no,” and she would remain at her station. She would not go off with anyone! One fellow must have been too persistent, forcing the woman to turn fully away with a frown until he left.

After watching for nearly an hour, Charles approached her. “Good evening,” he said.

“Good evening,” she answered.

“We are fortunate it did not rain tonight,” said Charles.

The woman smiled and nodded. She was older than he had thought, in her early 30’s, but her smile was even lovelier up close, bespeaking kindness and gentleness. She offered her hand, and he took it.

Ah ha! He could feel a card neatly concealed in her palm, and she transferred it into his hand. Charles resisted the impulse to read the card. He asked the woman if he might buy her a cup of tea, or a whiskey if she preferred. Smiling, she shook her head and pointed to the card. Charles nodded and stepped away.

When he had gone a distance, he stopped to read the card:

French Language Lessons.
Privacy and Discretion for Gentlemen of Taste
14 Russell Square

Across the card was scrawled a name: Jenny.

* * *

Several days later, Charles showed up in Russell Square in his disguise. The Square was a middle-class neighborhood with families out for a walk, older women walking arm-in-arm, and the occasional young couple strolling slowly. Charles soon found #14, a nondescript building at the end of a long walk, and he knocked on the door. A large bearish sort of man opened the door and Charles presented the card, so nervous he could barely still his hand.

“This way, sir.” The ground floor seemed to be only an anteroom with no doors. Charles followed the man up a narrow staircase to the first floor and down a hallway, where he was ushered into a large room. “Jenny will be with you promptly, sir.” The man closed the door behind him.

The room was expensively furnished with a great-sized bed, a bar, sofas and chairs. Charles poured himself a drink, his heart pounding. In a few moments. there was a knock on the door but, before Charles could move to answer it, the door opened. In stepped a teenage boy about fifteen years old, wearing a robe and a female wig, his face gaudily made up as a woman.

Charles felt his heart jump into his mouth. “Who are you?!” he almost shouted.

The boy smiled and loosened the robe, exposing his nakedness. “I’m Jenny,” the boy said.

“What in God’s name...?!” Charles felt dizzy. He headed for the door, but the boy grabbed onto his coat.

“Wait a minute, Guv’nor — there’s money you owe.” Charles flung the boy off and opened the door.

“Lord Beauton!” the boy raised his voice and Charles froze, turning to look at him.

“Vermin! What are you about!?”

“Where’s that guinea you promised?” the boy asked, putting his arm on Charles. “You’re not going to welsh on me,” he sneered. In desperation Charles reached into his pocket and stuffed some coins into the boy’s hand, but the boy was only more sullen. “Aww... Me mum told me you was a welsher.”

Charles broke away, flinging the door open and hurried down the narrow stairs, tripping midway and falling down the rest. He picked himself up, his forehead bleeding, his vision was blurred. The anteroom which before seemed to have no doors was now filled with faces. Charles could see the boy following down the stairs, and he propelled himself forward again toward the front door. Charles rushed out of the house, reaching the end of the walk before he tripped again. The boy caught up and jumped on him, managing to tear Charles’ beard off. The glasses had been left behind. Despite the tussle, the boy’s wig seemed to be plastered on.

Immediately a crowd of onlookers formed. As the two struggled, the boy tried to shout as coherently as he could manage, “Hold this man! ’e has me money! Lord... Beauton!... Member... Parliament!”

A gunshot went off. No one appeared hurt, but in seconds the crowd had swelled. A middle-aged man reached down to grab the boy by the neck and managed to pull him upright before the boy wriggled from his grasp. Two men grabbed Charles and held on, while the boy darted here and there, managing to elude a man that was half-trying to catch him. Keeping up a steady commentary:

“Leavin’ your mollyboy without a farthing!... Lord Charlie Beauton!...How am I to get on with you so jealous of me!? — Eh, Lord Beauton!?... And you a member of Parliament!”

Several men went to the door at 14 Russell Square and knocked. No one answered, and they began pounding on the door. On went the spectacle until Charles bolted away from the men holding him and tried to flee. The crowd parted grudgingly, and the boy followed at Charles’s heels, keeping up a steady stream as Charles pushed his way through: “Said you’d be more than a dad t’ me!... Ha! Ha! Look at ’im! All lah-di-dah! Lord Beauton!...Come back, Lord ’igh-and-Mighty!.. ’e’s got me money!!”

The police were approaching, and the boy left with a few parting shots: “Always done what you asked, Lord Beauton!!... Gave y’every dirty trick in the book!” And he was off. Disheveled, eyes wild with terror, Charles fled in the opposite direction.

* * *

“Times! Times! — get today’s Times!” shouted the news hawker by the steps at Westminster Bridge as he handed out newspapers. “Gentleman exposed!” Attached to the newsstand was a newsposter, a large chalkboard for writing and rewriting the news of the hour. “WEST END NOTABLE LINKED TO HEINOUS CRIME!” read the newsposter on the morning of September 24th, attracting a brisk trade.

“Lord Beauton’s letters!” shouted a news hawker outside Parliament two days later. “Home Secretary orders investigation!” The chalkboard read, “BEAUTON LETTERS FOUND IN BOARDING HOUSE.” A liveried footman put a coin in the man’s hand and returned to his carriage with the newspaper, handing it inside to a white-faced Thomas Beauton. “Lord Belham home to face scandal!” shouted the news hawker.

On the day the first headlines appeared, Digby found Margaret in tears, a newspaper in her lap. “I don’t believe a particle of it.” she said, wiping her eyes. “The whole thing is absurd on its face.” Only one explanation seemed plausible to Margaret: the opposition, the Conservative Party, had put this up somehow.

But as the days passed and evidence mounted against Charles, Margaret was forced to remind herself that one can never truly know the heart of another. When Thomas Beauton made a desperate surprise visit to Ossbourne, asking Margaret if there was some word from Arthur that might bolster his brother’s spirit, it pained her deeply to be silent.

Charles had written to Arthur in Italy when the headlines hit, but Digby’s communique by diplomatic pouch reached Arthur first. A shaken Arthur immediately sent a telegram back to Digby, instructing him to cancel the wedding plans and to give that news to the press. The next day Arthur and Beatrice set off for home.

Charles’s letter, when it finally found Arthur back at home, insisted that he had not been at Russell Square. He could only guess, Charles wrote, that this was a desperate effort to kill the reform bill. He added, “We shall not let them win, shall we?”

On his way home from the continent, Arthur had passed through London to meet with the Director of Public Prosecutions, a man named Stephenson, to be apprised of the latest developments. The Director allowed that there was no way to be absolutely certain whether it had been the real Charles Beauton at the brothel that evening. However, the letters found in the boy’s flat were a match with the handwriting sample Charles had provided; Stephenson added that he had complete faith in his experts. In addition, several letters seemed to contain information that only the two families could be party to.

Arthur arrived home one week into the scandal, a tearful, mortified daughter in tow. He gave Digby three directives: There were to be no newspapers in the house; he did not want these lurid headlines in his home. Second, Digby was to arrange their attendance at a public event, opera or theatre, sometime in the next week, and put the family’s plans for that evening in The Circular and The Owl. They must show their faces, they were not to be intimidated. Last, Digby was to write to Charles, urging that for the sake of the reform bill, which might still be rescued, Charles should resign, effective immediately. The letter was to be signed and out in the morning, no later. Unlike Margaret, Arthur had no sympathy for Charles, only fury at the public embarrassment of his family and his party.

After midnight, Digby was at work on the letter when he heard a soft voice: “Simon.”

Beatrice was at the doorway. Digby rose. “M’lady,” he said, stepping out from behind the desk. He had not laid eyes on her for over a month, and here she was in the flesh, only feet away.

“Hello, Simon.”

Digby gestured at the wine and cheese he had put out for himself. “Would you care for some wine?”

“Don’t be foolish. We mustn’t make mistakes.” Her perfume wafted over him as Digby seated himself again.

“What did Mr. Stephenson tell Papa?” she asked.

Digby leaned back in the chair. “You have not read a newspaper, have you?”

“No-one will tell me anything.” Beatrice had seen only the first headlines, although, of course, she knew the wedding was off. “But you look cheerful about something.”

“Your wishes have been answered.”

“Yes? It is all over then?”

“He cannot recover.”

Beatrice looked at him in silence a moment. “You have done well, Simon. I will prepare your reward very soon.” And she was gone.

* * *

On the night they attended the opera, Beatrice felt radiantly beautiful and all of life had a sheen to it. They were to see Scandolo at Covent Garden where Richard had found her two months earlier and where, she was certain, he would present himself again. She could barely contain her excitement, although it was necessary that she remain outwardly somber. She had played her part well over the past week, moving through tears of fury, humiliation, and despair. She had refused to appear in public until she allowed her elders’ pleas to wear her down.

When she took her seat and finally looked down with her opera glasses, she found Richard almost immediately; he was watching her from downstairs! She nodded ever so slightly, and he nodded in return.

From the night of the Regimental ball, Major Richard Griffith had sought an understanding: how should a man conduct himself after so crushing a blow? There were long talks with a family friend, a Vicar, and the Vicar had given him poets; Tennyson, Patmore, Rossetti. Richard had come to believe that in Beatrice he had met his soulmate, the one person in the wide world who was made for him, made to be loved forever. Painfully, he had learned that the course of love could be frustrated by worldly affairs. But go on loving, said the poets, even if love was unrequited here on earth. In heaven, the lovers will be united and the pain on earth will seem a trifle.

Then out of suffering came new hope! He told himself to keep his hopes in check. But should good fortune come, could he not accept it with as much equanimity as he had the bad? Richard’s closest friend, Percy, urged caution. Percy mistrusted Beatrice, yet there was little he could say to his friend but to go slowly. Still, Richard did not hesitate to avail himself at the first opportunity.

Arthur Belham also had an agenda for the evening. He had met the eyes of his peers unflinchingly. Within a quarter-hour, he had received a supportive nod from Lord Capelle and a sympathetic smile from Capelle’s wife. Thus far, Margaret wasn’t there to join the project. For the first half of the evening, she was in congested traffic along the Strand. When her carriage finally pulled to the curb outside the opera house, and a footman handed her down, she was met by the deafening cries of a news hawker: “Times, Times! Today’s Times!... Lord Beauton to face charges!... Beauton may flee abroad!” Margaret shrank from the street crier as she made her way inside.

“Curse the press!” she whispered to Arthur as she took her seat, “You would think the nation had no other business!”

Toward the end of the evening, Beatrice looked down and held Richard’s gaze. He thought she looked on the verge of tears. Her lips moved, she was trying to tell him something!

My Dear Lady Beatrice. — he began composing a letter in his head — It was with great sorrow that I learned of your misfortune... If... If my friendship would be of any comfort to you...

Onstage, a servant was hiding in a closet from a jealous husband. Laughter moved through the crowd as the servant silently made fun of his cuckolded master. The actress began a favorite aria, and the audience upstairs began applauding. The first floor took the cue and joined in. Everyone stood, clapping.

At the same time, in a bedroom across town, Charles Beauton placed a round into the chamber of a revolver. He placed the gun to his head and fired.

* * *

In late November, six weeks after the Beauton suicide, newspapers announced the engagement of Lady Beatrice Belham of Buckinghamshire to Sir Richard Griffith of Lanark, Scotland. Eager to leave in the past what was sordid and tragic, The Times of Scotland opined: “This match possesses every element of happiness: love, youth, wealth, and beauty; lofty rank and great deeds to inspire and sustain.”

Beatrice may have gained her prize, but Digby felt forgotten. Week after week had gone by without any word from her, then a month, then six weeks. First, Beatrice had remained shut in her room, telling the world she could never think of love again. When that phase passed, she was always in London with the hero, chaperoned by Margaret. Then came news of the engagement and the busy preparations for a long country weekend at Ossbourne to celebrate the happy event. Digby decided that he would speak with her over the weekend before she was gone again, no matter about the guests and the goings-on.

The first day of celebration found Digby in a tedious game of cricket. The contest pitted the staff of Ossbourne — groomsmen, cooks, stable boys and Digby — against the officers of Richard’s regiment. On the boundaries was a bevy of high-spirited young ladies who had come up from London, and the pavilion bustled with old friends and the extended Belham family.

Despite the efforts of a few athletic footmen, the game was a sorry mismatch. Richard was a gifted athlete, hitting one boundary after another. Late in the afternoon, a young groomsman caught a short fly ball, changing the sides. As a relieved Digby headed for the pavilion, Arthur signaled him over.

“The Queen’s Light are too much for us,” Arthur said.

Digby nodded, wiping the sweat from his face, and accepted a drink from a servant. “Indeed.” He took a seat, and they watched the game for a few moments. He noticed that Margaret seemed in somewhat better spirits. The suicide had hit her particularly hard, and for some time she had been a gloomy presence about Ossbourne.

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2023 by Steven Schechter