Moving On (A Polvellan Cornish Mystery Book 6) Page 5

  ‘You don’t know what this mean –’

  ‘Thank him, not me. Actually, he should thank you. He certainly will when he sees the quilt you make for his grandchild.’

  Chapter Five

  On Saturday morning, chores finished, Jess made herself a mug of tea, opened her laptop and entered Congress of Vienna in the search bar. She was startled to learn that there had been no structure to the Congress, no organised meetings for the delegates.

  All negotiations were conducted through informal conversations at social events. This made it almost impossible for ministers representing their sovereigns to keep track of what was being agreed. Most had imagined they would be in Vienna for a few short weeks. But against a background of daily outings and entertainments, nightly balls and dinners, the Congress dragged on for months while the four great powers haggled over borders and the return of territory.

  Dukes and princes who ruled small states soon ran out of money but dared not leave. If they went, they abandoned any chance of a say in their own future.

  Investigating James Henry Carveth’s army career, Jess learned he was born in 1778 to Frederick Roland Carveth and his wife Dorinda, nee Casvellan, whose family bred horses for the army. He began his military career at the age of sixteen in the Cornish Militia whose Colonel Commandant was Viscount Falmouth.

  During the Bread Riots of 1795/6 the Cornish militia was sent to London to join forces with another from Derbyshire. Both were chosen because they didn’t have friends or relatives among the rioters.

  Aged eighteen, with a Captain’s commission purchased for him by his father, James transferred to the King’s German Legion, renowned for their care of their horses.

  Checking the battle record of the KGL, Jess discovered that in 1808, the year James’s wife Charlotte died of fever following the stillbirth of their daughter, James Carveth’s regiment, the 3rd KGL Hussars, fought at the Battle of Benavente under Brigadier General the Honourable Charles Stewart.

  Born in Dublin, Stewart was son of the 1st Marquess of Londonderry by his second wife, Lady Frances, daughter of the 1st Earl Camden. Educated at Eton, he was commissioned into the army as a Lieutenant at the age of sixteen, saw service in Flanders and, at the age of twenty, was a Lieutenant Colonel in the 5th Royal Irish Dragoons helping put down the Irish Rebellion of 1798.

  Stewart and Carveth fought in the Peninsula at Talavera and Busacco. In January 1812 both were badly wounded during the Battle of Ciudad Roderigo and invalided home.

  Meanwhile Stewart’s half-brother, Robert, Viscount Castlereagh, older by nine years, had rejoined the cabinet in 1812 as Foreign Secretary.

  In spring 1813, Stewart, now Major-General Sir Charles Stewart, was appointed ambassador to the Prussian Court in Berlin. Carveth, who had been promoted to major, went with him as a second ADC.

  Jess opened a new window to find out what an ADC was. The initials stood for aide-de-camp, a military officer acting as secretary and confidential assistant to a superior officer.

  Why would Stewart have chosen Carveth? The mere fact of fighting side by side for four years wouldn’t be enough. Following a hunch, Jess looked up Peninsular War despatches, and learned that Carveth had displayed conspicuous gallantry in risking his own life to free Stewart who was pinned under his horse then drag him to safety despite his own wounds.

  Jess tracked Stewart and Carveth from Berlin to northern Bohemia, then to Frankfurt, where in November 1813 the liberation of the German Confederation of States from French occupation was celebrated with balls and entertainments. Finding a guest list for one lavish ball she saw the names included Sir Charles Stewart, Col. 25th Light Dragoons, Major James Carveth, Roxanne Zelie Montclare and Count Bruno von Dannenberg. Was this Carveth and Rosalie’s first meeting?

  At lunchtime, knowing she ought to eat, but reluctant to leave her research, she made herself a sandwich. She had Carveth’s history, but what was Rosalie’s background? She knew the date of their marriage from military records, but the church records were not available online. Logging on to the LDS site in Salt Lake City to search through their world-wide database, she was told that her enquiry had been received and would be dealt with as soon as possible. Unfortunately, due to necessary upgrading and maintenance, a delay of up to seventy-two hours was possible.

  She returned to her search and paused on Baron Hager von Altensteig, Oberste Polizei und Cenzur Hofstelle. She didn’t speak German but the meanings of Polizei and Cenzur were obvious. Clicking on the name took her to another list. Scrolling down, she stopped and clicked the translation button. As the document opened Jess realised she had struck gold.

  She had found the first volume of reports from Baron Hager, head of Austria’s secret police, to Emperor Francis, with a copy to Chancellor Metternich, promoter of the Congress, compiled from the mass of information gathered by a vast network of servants, coachmen, landlords and tradesmen in Vienna who served and eavesdropped on the visiting kings, princes, dukes, ambassadors and their staff. Even influential Viennese families invited to the daily range of events accepted bribes to pass on what they saw and heard.

  Freed from the confines and etiquette of their courts at home, the crowned heads of Europe plunged into love affairs and sexual liaisons like greedy children in a sweet shop. Pillow talk repeated by the ladies involved gave Metternich an advantage in directing negotiations over territory and boundaries.

  Tempted to keep reading, Jess knew she needed to focus on Roxanne. Typing Roxanne Zelie Montclare in the search box brought up a list of connections and page numbers. Jess went first to Lucille von Dannenberg, Rosalie’s mother. The entry was brief. Formerly Montclare, nee Lacroix, of Huguenot descent, she was born in Friedrichstadt. She married Etienne de Laval de Montclare, a French aristocrat and army officer who was killed in battle 1807. In 1809 Lucille Montclare married Bruno von Dannenberg. She died 1811 from poisoning. No further details were given, presumably because she was not at the Congress, so was of no interest.

  Was her poisoning accidental, the result of contaminated food? Had she been ill and taken too much medicine? If her death wasn’t an accident, there were only two possibilities. The first was that she killed herself. But she had been married only two years. What could have made her so unhappy that she felt driven to take her own life? The alternative was that she had been murdered. But who would want her dead, and for what reason? Finding out what had happened would be difficult, if not impossible. Nor was it relevant to her search. Yet the questions niggled.

  On Sunday she returned to Hager’s reports and clicked on von Dannenberg’s name. He was one of the landed aristocrats known as Junkers, descended from the Brandenburg-Prussian line of the House of Hohenzollern. His family owned large estates in Brandenburg. As was traditional, his elder brother inherited, so he became a lawyer and diplomat and his younger brothers entered the military and the civil service. As well as their salaries, all received income from the estates, so they were not short of money.

  She returned to Hager’s report on Roxanne. But, still puzzled over the poisoning, she wasn’t fully concentrating as she read that Roxanne was born in 1795, in Gross Zeithen, Brandenburg. She gave birth to a daughter in January 1812. Surely that was a mistake? Roxanne and Carveth had had a son. But that was three years later. They hadn’t even met in 1812. She read quickly through the rest of the entry. Roxanne Zelie Montclare married James Henry Carveth on 6th June 1814 in Paris. Their son Frederick was born 15th April 1815. She searched but could find no mention of an earlier marriage for Roxanne. So who fathered her daughter?

  She looked up Stewart, skimmed details she already knew, and saw that in April 1813 the Hon. Sir Charles Stewart was appointed Ambassador to the Prussian court in Berlin. This was five months before the ball in Frankfurt. Carveth would have been there as Stewart’s aide. Might this be where he and Rosalie first met?

  Her stomach growled and she sat back, flexing her shoulders. It was after one o’clock. No wonder she was hungry. She topped a baked potat
o with tuna and sweetcorn. Dessert was fresh raspberries and ice cream. Feeling better for her meal, she washed up. About to return to her research, she remembered her promise to Stan Hooper. The evenings were beginning to draw in and it wouldn’t be long before the woodburner would be on all day. She needed the load of logs Stan had promised.

  Pushing her notebook and printed pages of research to one side, she opened a website and browsed through templates for flyers. She wanted to find a design that Stan would feel comfortable with, something that suited him and reflected his love of nature. He was a quiet man who loved all aspects of gardening, from growing vegetables, fruit and flowers to building fences and rustic arches for roses and clematis to climb over.

  She clicked through a dozen examples but they were too bold, too bright or too quirky. Then she saw an A5 size sheet featuring a soft watercolour-style border of the seasons. There were daffodils and crocuses for spring, roses for summer, shiny dark brown horse-chestnuts and apples for autumn and a spray of holly with glossy leaves and bright red berries for winter. Inside the border was a very faint wash of green on which the ad could be written. She inserted Stan’s name and phone number, and a few words describing his services. She tried different fonts and sizes, then saved three drafts to show him. Pleased with her day’s work, she closed her laptop.

  It was nearly a fortnight since she had spoken to her son, and even longer since she had seen her little granddaughter. She picked up the phone. She didn’t recognise the voice on the other end.

  ‘Fiona?’

  ‘No, Dr and Mrs Trevanion aren’t here right now. Can I take a message?’

  ‘I’m Jess Trevanion, Rob’s mother. May I ask who you are?’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Trevanion. I’m Shelley Doble, Helen’s nanny. Fiona is away on a course and Rob’s at the hospital. He should have finished at six so they must be busy. Shall I ask him to call you when he gets in?’

  ‘No, don’t bother. It wasn’t important. I’ll catch him some other time. Goodnight.’

  ‘’Night, Mrs Trevanion.’

  Relaxed after her bath, Jess had just made a mug of hot chocolate when the phone rang.

  ‘Hi, Ma. I’ve just got in.’

  ‘Good grief, Rob, it’s half past nine. You were supposed to be off at six.’

  ‘That’s A&E. Shelley told me you’d rung. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. More to the point, how are you?’

  ‘Tired. One of the SHOs is off sick and another is on annual leave. I can’t take time off and Fiona was determined to go on this course so Shelley is living in.’

  ‘Why didn’t –?’ Jess began then stopped.

  ‘I ring you?’ Rob asked. ‘I seem to remember you telling me you have your own life. Anyway, Helen is happy with Shelley and I don’t want to unsettle her.’

  Recognising his exhaustion, aware she was being warned off, Jess changed the subject. ‘What is this course of Fiona’s?’

  ‘I have no idea. All she said was that it was important she attend. It was her suggestion that Shelley live in while she’s away.’

  ‘It’s none of my business, Rob.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re not curious.’

  Jess wouldn’t lie to him. ‘All right, I am. I’m also worried that you and Fiona are growing apart.’

  ‘Her choice, Ma, not mine. If Shelley wasn’t here to look after Helen, how could I do my job? My shifts rarely end when they’re supposed to. Helen was miserable at the crèche. I won’t have her suffer because of her mother’s insistence on putting her job before her child.’

  Everything he said was true, which left Jess questioning her own reactions.

  ‘Shelley offered to take Helen home with her.’

  Startled, Jess opened her mouth to ask why he hadn’t taken her up on it but stopped in time, choosing her words carefully. ‘You didn’t think it was a good idea?’

  ‘It was a kind offer. But this is Helen’s home and when I’m off duty I don’t want to have to drive to someone else’s house to spend time with her. She’s changing so quickly.’

  ‘Has Shelley got a car?’

  ‘Yes, a little Fiat. We fitted Helen’s baby seat so Shelley can take her shopping or to the beach.’

  ‘If they’d like to come over one afternoon, I’d love to see them.’

  ‘So you can give Shelley the once-over?’ She heard his amusement. ‘You’re not the only one who’s curious. Not just because you’re my mother and Helen’s granny, there’s your growing fame as well.’

  ‘My what? You are joking.’

  ‘I’m not. Shelley’s mum was given a copy of Polvellan People, the one with your article? She wanted to know if we were related. And one of the A&E nurses is related to a Mrs Trewerne who has been praising you to the skies for solving a mystery that nearly split her family. People will be asking me for your autograph next.’

  ‘Come on, Rob. I’m a tiny fish in a small puddle.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. Listen, we could probably stop by tomorrow morning if you’re free.’

  ‘That would be great.’

  ‘OK, see you then. ’Bye, Ma.’

  ‘’Bye, love.’

  Did that mean he had met Shelley’s parents? It was perfectly reasonable that they would want to know who their daughter was working for. Was Fiona’s motive for suggesting that Shelley live in during her absence simple concern for Helen’s wellbeing? Couldn’t she see the risks of putting her career above her husband and child? Or had she decided the possibility of Rob and Shelley growing closer was a price she was willing to pay for her freedom to follow her own path?

  If Rob and Fiona’s marriage had been strong and mutually supportive, Jess knew none of this would have crossed her mind. Well, if she were honest, the thought might have popped up, but she’d have dismissed it. The trouble was she didn’t really know her daughter-in-law. Fiona had been pleasant and friendly, but Jess had always felt she was being held at a distance, treated with the professional courtesy shown to hotel guests.

  Not wanting to appear pushy, allowing that – however mistakenly – Fiona might feel she was in competition for Rob’s affection, Jess had allowed her to set the tone of their relationship, hoping that in time they might become friends. But it had never happened. Viv’s comment that Rob and Fiona’s marriage was none of her business was true enough. Viv had her own worries about Charlene and Darren, so she understood.

  Jess made herself a promise to bite her tongue and stay out of it. But not to worry? She couldn’t promise that. She headed upstairs for a bath.

  On Monday morning Jess was up by seven. Opening her curtains, she looked out at a pale blue sky streaked with mare’s tail cloud that promised a breezy day. By eight thirty she’d had breakfast, washed up and changed her bed. The washing machine rumbled quietly, a lemon drizzle cake was rising in the oven while sugar and lemon juice stood in a pan on the hob ready to be heated. As she had no idea what time Rob and Shelley would arrive, she opened her laptop and continued her research.

  In April 1814, after Napoleon’s defeat, peace was declared and King Louis XVIII arrived in Paris. More royalty followed, and with them came ambassadors, generals, wives and mistresses, all anxious to shop before their journey to Vienna where the Congress was supposed to begin in July.

  Visitors from England also flocked to the French capital. Revolution then a decade of war had kept Englishwomen out of touch with developments in Continental fashion. So they had gone their own way. But the results, according to the page Jess was reading, shocked and appalled the French.

  One French baroness complained of the extreme indecency of their dress: ‘sheaths so tight that every detail of their shape is exactly drawn, while they are open in front down to the stomach.’

  The British foreign minister’s wife, Lady Emily Castlereagh, was the target of particularly scathing criticism. A plump woman, her plunging décolletage and close-fitting dresses made her look even fatter. She was ridiculed for wearing colourful ostrich feathers, f
or her lack of social grace, for talking too much and laughing too loud.

  While Jess felt sorry for her, she had no sympathy for Sir Charles Stewart who had established himself in the grand house of a disgraced French aristocrat where he hosted lavish dinners and dances. Heavy drinking did nothing for his manners. He caused serious offence to Grand Duke Constantine, the tsar’s brother, by stopping the orchestra in the middle of a dance and ordering them to play a waltz instead. When Constantine objected, Stewart retorted that he was the host and could choose the music he wanted.

  How could a high-ranking soldier and ambassador, a diplomat, behave with such arrogant rudeness? Especially when the tsar’s agreement was needed if the British were to achieve success in the forthcoming negotiations.

  Why was she surprised? The wealthy and privileged had always done as they pleased. If newspaper headlines could be believed, they still did.

  A few nights later Stewart arrived home late and very drunk. He managed to pull off his uniform but fell into bed without closing the French windows of his ground floor bedroom. During the night thieves stole all his clothes including his gold-braided hussar jacket with its diamond-studded decorations. Karma. Jess grinned.

  Hearing footsteps on the path, she shut her laptop and went to open the door.

  Wearing an open-necked shirt and jeans, Rob carried Helen who wore a pink dress and matching cardigan. She was rubbing her eyes with tiny fists.

  As Jess greeted her son, Helen squirmed against him, hiding her face. Rob gently rubbed her back.

  ‘Hi, Ma.’ He leaned over to kiss her cheek and she gave him a quick hug. Shadows under his eyes betrayed tiredness. But he looked more relaxed than the last time she had seen him. ‘Ma, this is Shelley Doble. Shelley, my mother.’

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Trevanion?’

  Shaking the proffered hand, Jess saw a fresh-faced young woman with bubbly brown curls, a neat figure clad in jeans and a plaid shirt over a white T-shirt. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Shelley.’

  Helen gave a wail and turned away from Rob.