Mightier Than the Sword

As Emma looked up at the shiny brass knocker on the front door, she recalled the first time she had climbed those steps. A young woman, barely out of her teens, she’d been shaking like a leaf and had wanted to run away. But she’d spent all her money to get to America, and didn’t know who else to turn to in New York if she was to find Harry, who was locked up in an American prison for a murder he hadn’t committed. Once she’d met Great-aunt Phyllis, Emma didn’t return to England for over a year—until she found out Harry was no longer in America.

This time she climbed the steps more confidently, rapped firmly with the brass knocker, stood back, and waited. She hadn’t made an appointment to see her cousin because she had no doubt he’d be in residence. Although he’d recently retired as the senior partner of Simpson, Albion & Stuart, he was not a country animal, even at weekends. Alistair was quintessentially a New Yorker. He’d been born on 64th and Park, and that, undoubtedly, was where he would die.

When the door opened a few moments later, Emma was surprised to see a man she immediately recognized, although it must have been more than twenty years since she had last seen him. He was dressed in a black morning coat, striped trousers, white shirt, and gray tie. Some things never change.

“How nice to see you, Mrs. Clifton,” he said as if she dropped by every day.

Emma felt embarrassed as she wrestled to recall his name, knowing that Harry would never have forgotten it. “And it’s so nice to see you,” she ventured. “I was rather hoping to catch up with my cousin Alistair, if he’s at home.”

“I fear not, madam,” said the butler. “Mr. Stuart is attending the funeral of Mr. Benjamin Rutledge, a former partner of the firm, and isn’t expected back from Connecticut until tomorrow evening.”

Emma couldn’t hide her disappointment.

“Perhaps you’d care to come inside and I could make you a cup of tea—Earl Grey, if I remember correctly?”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Emma, “but I ought to be getting back to the ship.”

“Of course. I do hope the Buckingham’s maiden voyage was a success?”

“Better than I might have hoped for,” she admitted. “Would you be kind enough to pass on my best wishes to Alistair, and say how sorry I was to miss him?”

“I’d be delighted to do so, Mrs. Clifton.” The butler gave a slight bow before closing the door.

Emma made her way back down the steps and began searching for a cab, when she suddenly realized she was still clutching the shoebox. Feeling embarrassed, she climbed the steps a second time and rapped the door with the brass knocker a little more tentatively.

Moments later the door opened a second time and the butler reappeared. “Madam?” he said, giving her the same warm smile.

“I’m so sorry, but I quite forgot to give you this gift for Alistair.”

“How thoughtful of you to remember Mr. Stuart’s favorite shoe shop,” he said as Emma handed over the box. “I know he’ll appreciate your kindness.”

Emma stood there, still helplessly trying to recall his name.

“I do hope, Mrs. Clifton, that the return voyage to Avonmouth will be equally successful.”

Once again he bowed and closed the door quietly behind him.

“Thank you, Parker,” she said.

5

ONCE BOB BINGHAM had finished dressing, he checked himself in the long mirror inside the wardrobe door. His double-breasted, wide-lapelled dinner jacket was unlikely to come back into fashion in the near future, as his wife regularly reminded him. He’d pointed out to her that the suit had been good enough for his father when he was chairman of Bingham’s Fish Paste, and therefore should be good enough for him.

Priscilla didn’t agree, but then they hadn’t agreed on much lately. Bob still blamed her close friend, Lady Virginia Fenwick, for Jessica Clifton’s untimely death, and the fact that their son Clive—who had been engaged to Jessica at the time—hadn’t been back to Mablethorpe Hall since that fateful day. His wife was naïve and overawed when it came to Virginia, but he still lived in the hope that Priscilla would finally come to her senses and see the damned woman for what she was, which would allow them to once again come together as a family. But that, he feared, would not be for some time, and in any case Bob had more immediate problems on his mind. Tonight, they would be on public display, as guests at the chairman’s table. He wasn’t at all confident that Priscilla would be able to remain on her best behavior for more than a few minutes. He just hoped they’d get back to their cabin unscathed.

Bob admired Emma Clifton, “the Boadicea of Bristol” as she was known by friend and foe alike. He suspected that if she had been aware of the nickname, she would have worn it as a badge of honor.