City of Light (City of Mystery) by Kim Wright

outside the confines of his men’s club, and far
past the age where anyone would expect him to walk the aisle, much less to take
on a girl with such an obscure background.  She came from Manchester, I think. 
Perhaps Liverpool.  One of those towns where they…you know, darling.  One of
those places where they make useful things.”
    Trevor sat back, the
picture unfolding swiftly before him.  A factory town, sprung up around a
port.  A city of industry, billowing smokestacks and dirty streets.  Brutal repetitive
work that began in childhood and ended, more often than not, in premature
death.
    “She had a notably
beautiful face.  Enough so that George must have convinced himself that her
origins didn’t matter,” Geraldine continued.  “Heaven only knows how she found
her way to his table but they married when she was no more than sixteen and he
was…well, George is older than me, I believe, which would have made him well past
sixty when he took his bride.  If memory serves, it was a bit of a scandal.”
     Trevor smiled. “If
memory serves, indeed.  I’ve never known you to be scandalized by scandal,
Geraldine.  I’m surprised you didn’t invite the old duffer and his sooty child
bride to tea.”
    Gerry chuckled.  “Perhaps
I would have, but George Blout and I hardly frequent the same social circles. 
Our politics differ, especially when it comes to the care and sustenance of the
working class.”
    “Well he certainly
cared for and sustained one of them.  How did he make his money?”
    “Mills, I believe.
Textiles.”
    “Located in
Manchester?”
    Gerry looked at him
archly.  “So you’re implying he marries a girl straight out of one of his own
factories, a girl whose family he has exploited for years?  Perhaps you’re
right, although it would be a strange selection for either of them, wouldn’t
you say?”
    Trevor shrugged.
“Not everyone is as politically motivated as you, Geraldine.  Nor as
dynastically blessed.  Imagine a girl coming up poor with no prospects.  She’s
pretty, but she knows that beauty will soon be swept away by the same hard work
that ruined her mother and indeed every woman she knows.  She might be willing
to put aside her resentment for a way out of her situation.  And I take it this
Blout man left her well-situated.”
    Gerry looked
surprised. “He didn’t leave her at all.  George is every bit as alive as I am.”
    “But Rayley implied
that – “
    “Isabel Blout is a
bolter.”
    Trevor frowned,
unfamiliar with the term. 
    “A woman who bolts,
darling,” Gerry explained.  “Leaves.  Runs away.  Is just suddenly, simply
gone.”
    “She went to Paris
on her own?”
    Gerry shook her head
with exasperation, and leaned forward to refill her tea cup.  “Ran off with
some sort of French merchant, a man whose origins are every bit as murky as her
own.  The sort who tosses about his money but has no family and thus no
comfortable explanation for how this money came to be.  Her departure left George
supposedly quite humiliated…as you’re thinking he no doubt deserves to be, and I
quite agree.  A man who marries a child must prepare himself for the day that
child grows up.”
    “Quite,” said
Trevor, although he felt a dash of sympathy for Blout. 
    “George’s
interpretation of the events undoubtedly differs from my own,” Gerry said.  “Rumor
claims that no one is allowed to say her name in his presence and that he has
struck every memento of her existence from his home.  He’s even selling the
Whistler.”
    “Whistler?   I say,
Geraldine, whistlers and bolters.  When you begin to speak of society, I hardly
know what you’re about.”
    “James Whistler,
darling, he’s a portrait artist from America.  A very good one and quite
popular among the Mayfair matrons.  He’s probably painted half the women I
know, and I’ve heard it said that his portrait of Isabel Blout was especially
striking.  It would almost have to be, I suppose,