67A St James’ Place, London
Neville Black had a last look at his pocket watch, then decided that it was opening time and pocketed back his watch before leaving the back room of his gunsmith store and walking to the entrance door to unlock it. To his surprise a young woman was waiting on the sidewalk in front of his store, looking through the façade window. Female customers were a rarity indeed in any gunsmith store. She came in as soon as Neville unlocked the door, exchanging a polite greeting with him before avidly looking around his display cases. The woman, wearing fine jewels and being very tall for her gender, was quickly attracted to the counter displaying pistols. Moving to that counter, Neville cleared his throat to attract her attention.
“Ahem! Are you looking for something in particular, miss?”
“I am!” she replied in a clear, agreeable voice. “Do you have any American-made Colt revolvers, sir?”
That made Neville raise an eyebrow in surprise: very few of his customers knew about Colt weapons, them being so new. She must have heard stories about them from someone returning from the United States. Moving to the end of the counter, he bent down and fetched some guns from the lower tablets.
“You are in luck, miss: I acquired a few Colt models from Mister Colt himself when he was exposing his guns at the 1851 Great Exhibition. I can’t say that they are big sales items, though. I sold only one of them in three years.”
“That’s because your other customers didn’t know a good pistol when they saw one.” replied resolutely the woman, nearly getting Neville to make a remark of his own on women and guns. He did manage to keep it to himself, though, and was about to present each of the Colts to her when she surprised him again. Pushing a whoop of delight, she took hold of a particular gun and smiled with satisfaction.
“A Dragoon! Excellent! Do you have a second one like this, by chance?”
“Uh, I have a few others in my back store.”
“Then, bring three more Colt Dragoons, if you have that many, sir.”
“Three more, miss?” said Neville, having a hard time believing his ears.
“Yes! I need two for a friend of mine and two for me. If you have the reloading accessories and any tools that go with them, then I will take them too, along with at least 500 percussion caps, six cans of fine grain powder and a reserve of already molded .44 caliber bullets, Minié type if possible.”
“Good God, miss! Are you planning on attending a war?” exclaimed Neville. He then found himself the target of the woman’s unflinching green eyes.
“As a matter of fact, maybe, sir.”
Deciding that he didn’t want to antagonize further that customer, Neville went inside the back store and got her extra revolvers, percussion caps, accessories and bullets. Putting the lot on the counter in front of the young woman, he smiled to her.
“I guess that I will have to get more of these from the United States now. Each gun case for the Colt Dragoons include a spare six-shot cylinder, by the way. Anything else, miss?”
“Yes! I will need holsters, both belt and saddle types, for these guns, along with belts and ammunition pouches.”
“Then, this way please.” answered the gunsmith while pointing at a corner of his shop where leather products were displayed. The woman followed him there and examined the items as he described them.
“These holsters here will fit your Colt Dragoons. You also have here various types of belts and pouches that will go with these holsters. What waist size is your friend, miss?”
She eyed Neville critically before answering.
“He’s taller than you but has about the same waist size as you, I would say.”
“Then this one should fit him.” He said while grabbing a belt and adding it to the holsters she had selected. The woman grabbed a few matching pouches as well, then shocked Neville by taking another belt and trying it around her own waist after slipping two Colt Dragoon holsters and two pouches on it.
“This will do just fine for me.” she pronounced resolutely, ignoring the gunsmith’s stunned look. “Do you have fighting knives as well, sir?”
“Knives? Uh, yes miss, right here.”
The woman looked for a moment at his knives display and quickly decided on a huge American Bowie hunting knife. Taking it and its scabbard, she then smiled at him.
“Well, I think that I’m nearly done here. Since you got Colt revolvers, would you also happen to have models of Colt-Paterson revolving carbines or rifles?”
“In fact, I do, miss, but to be frank they sell even less than Colt revolvers. They have a bad reputation for unreliability and accidents.”
“Oh?” said the young woman. She then concentrated for a moment and frowned with apparent frustration. “I can’t remember anything about that, but you certainly must know better than me about it. Could I see them anyway?”
“Certainly, miss.” said the gunsmith, who walked behind his counter and took two rifles from a well filled wall rack, putting them on the counter in front of Jeanne and pointing at each weapon in turn while speaking.
“First, I have this Colt-Paterson Model 1836 revolving cylinder rifle. It has a caliber of .69 inch and has a seven-shot cylinder. The weapon above it is a Colt-Paterson Model 1842 carbine. Its cylinder can hold eight shots of .55 caliber. The main complaints about those Colt-Paterson weapons are their unreliability, their tendency to spit lead and hot gases from the gap between the barrel chamber and the front of the cylinder and the possibilities of having chain firing, when all chambers ignite at once when you fire a shot.”
“Those are serious problems indeed, sir. Are those complaints founded in your opinion, though?”
“Well, the lead and gas spitting is definitely a problem in these weapons, especially in the bigger, more powerful .69 caliber. The reliability could be better but, in the hands of a caring professional, these guns can be devastating, even if they are a bit fragile. As for the problem of chain firing, I believe that it is due to the fact that many shooters are not careful enough to cover with grease the front of the loading chambers once the powder and balls are in place. These weapons are by the way the only production repeating long guns you will find on the market now, anywhere. If you are looking for heavy firepower, then those are the things you want.”
The woman nodded while eyeing the two guns, then grabbed the smaller, .55 caliber carbine and examined it from up close.
“Do you have a set of spacer gauges, sir? I would also need a tool set for dismantling this gun.”
“Uh, sure, miss!” replied the surprised gunsmith before going into his back store. He was back after two minutes with the gauges set and the tools, putting them on the counter. The woman first checked with the gauges the spacing between the face of the loading cylinder and the back of the barrel. She was apparently unimpressed by what she saw.
“The spacing is effectively quite large. It will lose quite a lot of energy from the powder through that gap.”
“I could always fit a thin plate to diminish that gap, miss. It would be maybe half a day’s work.”
“You could, sir?” asked the woman, smiling. “Could you as well fit a flash guard plate around the lower half of the cylinder, so that my left arm is protected during firing?”
“Certainly, miss. In fact, that modification is one that is often requested with those weapons.”
“Perfect! Let me just finish my inspection of this carbine and I will then pay for my acquisitions.”
Watched closely by the gunsmith, the young woman quickly dismantled the carbine, then checked the internal mechanisms before reassembling the weapon, all the while showing the assurance and flair of a person expert in gun handling. She finally looked and smiled at the gunsmith.
“I will take this carbine, sir. If you have spare cylinders, I will take them as well, along with a full accessories kit, two cans of powder, one can of percussion caps and what you have in .55 caliber Minié bullets. I will come back on Friday to pick up the carbine once you have a filler plate fitted to it. You may add up my bill now.”
“Yes miss!” said the happy shop owner, who then went to his cash register and added up her bill. The young woman didn’t flinch when he told her that it all came to a total of a bit over 37 Pounds Sterling, a sum many Londoners would find quite impressive, it representing months of salary for an average worker. The woman actually added even more to that bill, selecting a pair of leather saddlebags in which she stuffed her new acquisitions, minus the carbine. She then left the store, the heavy bags slung over her right shoulder. The shop owner watched her walk away from a window, then shook his head in amusement: that woman had to be his most unusual customer ever.
11:28 (London Time)
Private study, 14 Belgrave Square
Gordon sighed with relief as he closed the accounting book and put down his pen. He always hated doing his household accounting, finding it boring and making him feel like a cheapskate. However, as his mother kept telling him, Sir Charles Smythe would not be part of the top shareholders of the prestigious East India Company if he had neglected his accounting chores. Gordon was putting back on the lid of his ink bottle when someone knocked on the door of his study.
“Come in!”
His heart accelerated when Jeanne stuck her head inside, a charming smile on her face.
“Hi, Gordon! I have a few things for you with me. Could you close your eyes for a minute?”
“Sure, my love!” replied Gordon, closing his eyes and straightening in his chair, a smile of anticipation on his face. If the few days with her had taught him something, it was that Jeanne loved making other people happy, a trait that only endeared her more to him.
“You can look now.” said Jeanne from behind him after a moment. Doing so, Gordon saw two closed wooden cases now sitting in front of him on his desk.
“What are these, Jeanne?”
“Open them and look!” she answered in an encouraging tone. Gordon did so, revealing two big revolvers and their accessories. Taking one of the revolvers, he examined it with growing happiness.
“A pair of six-shot pistols. They are real beauties.”
“These are American-made Colt Dragoon .44 caliber revolvers. I also have a few more things to go with them.”
She then lined on the desk the belt, holsters, pouches, powder and ammunition. Gordon got up from his chair and kissed Jeanne for a long moment before looking into her eyes.
“These revolvers are magnificent! Somehow I think that my pair of Adams single shot .577 caliber pistols will take an early retirement. Thank you, Jeanne.”
“Actually, you could say that those guns are as much for my benefit as for yours, Gordon. They will help you stay alive while in combat and thus also help me keep you.”
His happiness suddenly tempered by those last words, Gordon eyed cautiously Jeanne.
“I suppose that you are referring to that war in Crimea you predicted?”
“You suppose right, Gordon.” she said somberly. “I keep remembering more details about it all the time.”
“Jeanne, to remember something you have to either live it or see something about it, yet this war still hasn’t happened. What you see must be visions from the future.”
“Maybe that’s what they are, Gordon. It however doesn’t change the fact that they make me worry about you. You are too good a man to lose.”
Softened up by her declaration, Gordon stepped to her, hugging her for a long kiss. When they parted, Gordon sighed while looking into her eyes.
“And you are too good a woman to pull away from, Jeanne. Come downstairs and let’s have lunch: we have to escort Misses Hatfield to the bank this afternoon.”
13:39 (London Time)
Midland Bank
Prince’s Street, The City
London
Gordon, Jeanne at his left side and Elizabeth Hatfield behind him, swept his right arm around as they entered the large main hall of the Midland Bank.
“The Midland Bank, repository of my family’s wealth and the best bank in London, notwithstanding what the Bank of England across the street may say about it.”
The trio then took place in one of the short waiting lines of customers. Chatting about the sights they had seen while riding in Thomas’ carriage, now parked outside the bank, they only had to wait five minutes before their turn at the service counter came. A clerk in his mid forties, thin and balding, smiled at Gordon and his two female companions as they stepped forward.
“Good day, Mister Smythe! I see that you had the pleasure of meeting Lady Jeanne D’Orléans.”
While Gordon froze up, thunderstruck by the clerk’s words, joy filled Jeanne’s face.
“You…you know me, sir? What name did you say again?”
“But…your name: Lady Jeanne D’Orléans. You are our biggest account holder.” replied the clerk, surprised by their surprise. “Is something wrong, miss?”
“Not anymore!” said Jeanne before hugging and kissing happily Gordon. “I can’t believe it! I’m finally going to know who I am.”
While hugging Jeanne, Gordon looked at the puzzled clerk.
“We need to see the bank’s director, sir. Tell him that this is most urgent and important.”
“Uh, yes sir!”
As the clerk hurried to one of the offices behind the service counter, Gordon gently took hold of Jeanne’s face and kissed her.
“Jeanne D’Orléans: a beautiful name for a beautiful woman.”
Taking her hand, he led her and Misses Hatfield through a wicket and past a few bank employees desks. They were approaching a wood and tainted glass door when the clerk who had greeted them at the service counter emerged from that door. Stopping cold at their sight, the clerk then stepped aside, holding the door open for them.
“The director will see you now, ladies and gentleman.”
Jeanne took the time to slip a gold coin in the clerk’s vest pocket before going inside.
“I owe you a big one, mister. Thank you for remembering me.”
“What did I do to deserve this, miss?” said weakly the puzzled employee, getting a grin from Gordon.
“Like Lady Jeanne said, you remembered her.”
He then followed Jeanne and Elizabeth Hatfield inside the office, where the bank director greeted them and shook their hands. Sir Kenneth Maple was a jovial, rotund man with long whiskers and moustache. Offering chairs to his visitors, he then took place behind a huge desk of polished wood, sitting in a leather padded armchair. He immediately noticed the expectation on the faces of his visitors and looked questioningly at Gordon.
“How may I help you today, Mister Smythe?”
“It is Lady Jeanne that you can most help, Sir Maple.” answered Gordon while putting a hand on Jeanne’s shoulder. He then spent a couple of minutes explaining to him how Jeanne had become amnesiac and had been sheltered by him. The director nodded gravely his head at that story, shifting his gaze to Jeanne.
“You were indeed very lucky, Lady Jeanne. You could have been robbed while unconscious and then end up a lonely, destitute woman without memories. Your fate could have been quite grim, miss.”
“I know, sir.” replied softly Jeanne, bowing her head. “That’s why I am grateful to have met such a gentleman as Gordon. This may sound silly, sir, but could you tell me about myself?”
“By all means, Lady Jeanne. Let me just get your account file first, please.”
Gordon felt Jeanne’s hand search for his hand and then press it anxiously as Sir Maple left momentarily the office. The director returned within minutes with an inch thick file full of papers, receipts, account updates and cashed checks, putting the lot on his desk and sitting down. Taking a particular sheet from the file, he cleared his throat before reading from it.
“This is the account opening form you filled five years ago when you first came here. Your…”
“Wait!” interrupted Jeanne. “Could I have something to write all this down first?”
“Of course, miss!” replied the director, then searching in a desk drawer and taking out a few blank sheets of papers, putting them on the of the desk nearest to Jeanne, along with an ink bottle and a pen. Jeanne then shifted her chair close to the desk and dipped the pen’s tip in the ink bottle as Sir Maple resumed his reading in a slow, deliberate voice.
“As I was about to say, your full name is Jeanne Marie Céleste D’Orléans. You were born as Jeanne Marie Céleste de Brissac in Brissac, France, on June thirteen of 1831. You married the Chevalier Pierre Alphonse D’Orléans in the French overseas Territory of the Guadeloupe in 1846 but your husband died of a tropical fever in 1847 and you had no children. Both of your parents are dead according to the information you gave on this form.”
Gordon felt relief on hearing this: Jeanne’s true marital status had been increasingly bothering him, what with his project to marry her. Feeling much better now, he listened on as the bank director continued.
“Your official residence in France is listed here as the Hôtel de Brinvilliers, at number 12 Rue Charles-V in Paris. Your official occupation is as founder and head administrator of a philanthropic organization, the d’Orléans Social Foundation, based in Paris. From what I know of that organization, it is dedicated to charity work directed at the poor and the socially disenfranchised. You opened a local office in London last year, while your foundation has other offices in Italy, Germany and Holland.”
“Good God!” uttered Elizabeth Hatfield, impressed. “No wonder Lady Jeanne helped me: she could nearly qualify as a saint with this pedigree.”
Sir Maple gave Elizabeth an amused look.
“Actually, many members of London’s high society call her less flattering names, such as socialist revolutionary, mad visionary and stock market shark.”
“Stock market shark?” said Gordon, not having expected such an epithet for Jeanne. Sir Maple grinned at that and referred to one of the financial information sheets in Jeanne’s file.
“That’s right, Mister Smythe. Lady Jeanne seemingly started investing heavily in the stock markets on her return from the Guadeloupe, both in France and in England, using the fortune left by her dead husband. She hired an experienced stock trader here, who regularly comes to this bank to make deposits and withdrawals to and from a corporate account belonging to her foundation. The rumor at the London stock market, where I personally trade from time to time, is that Lady Jeanne is the one truly calling the shots and that her instincts on the trading floor are impeccable. Right now, Lady Jeanne’s London portfolio of shares and bonds is valued at approximately one and a half million pounds, while her personal account at this bank actually stands at a meager 873, 912 pounds. Lady Jeanne also has of course another bank account and stocks portfolio in Paris rumored to value over four million pounds in total. I have here the bank address and account number in Paris.”
While Jeanne recovered quickly from her surprise and then scribbled down all that information on paper, Gordon’s mind boiled up: Jeanne’s fortune eclipsed by far that of his own family and actually made her one of the richest women in Europe, if not the richest. Sir Maple gave Jeanne the address of her bank in Paris and the number of her bank account, then spoke cautiously.
“Since you became amnesiac, Lady Jeanne, I should remind you of a point of British law pertinent to you. According to it, women are not recognized as full legal persons. Married women in particular have no rights to private ownership, with their husbands automatically becoming owners of all their possessions on marriage.”
“But, that’s preposterous!” exploded Jeanne with indignation. “You said yourself that I support a number of charitable works. How am I supposed to continue doing that if all my wealth is forcibly stripped away from me when I marry?”
Sir Maple gave a cautious look to Gordon before answering.
“For the moment, the British laws regulating the rights of women do not apply to you, Lady Jeanne, as you are both single and French. If you however marry in England, those laws will apply, unless you arrange some special legal measures.”
“Such as?”
“You could always transfer the money you have in England to a corporate account, with you as sole signatory authority for its use. You could also, in the case you marry in England, have your husband sign a legal waiver leaving you in charge of your fortune. That last measure would however be open to legal challenges in British courts and is not foolproof. As for your money in French accounts, it is out of reach of British law. I’m sorry if I had to raise such a subject and I certainly didn’t want to infer anything bad about Mister Smythe, who is both a good customer and a personal friend of mine, but, in view of your immense fortune, I thought it my professional duty to warn you about these laws.”
“You did well to warn her, Sir Maple.” cut in Gordon, his face sober. “To be frank, I already proposed marriage to Lady Jeanne after being conquered by her personality, even though I didn’t know who she was. The last thing I would want to do is to abuse her confidence and strip her of her fortune. I am ready any time to sign a waiver to my rights to her fortune if we marry. Your professional honesty is a credit to you, sir.”
Sir Maple nodded his head at that compliment, then looked back at Jeanne.
“Your last account entry dates from last Friday and was incidentally the first one since January 26 of this year. You took out 600 pounds then and changed some French Francs as well. I thus presume that you just arrived from France on Friday.”
“That could be a useful information for later on, sir.” agreed Jeanne politely. “Do you by chance have an address for me in London? I have no clue where I resided here before I became amnesiac.”
“Unfortunately, none, Lady Jeanne. You are known to live rather modestly for a woman of your wealth and use middle scale hotels while in London. I do have however here the address of the local office of your foundation, along with the names of its local representative and of your stockbroker.”
“Those I will certainly note down, sir.”
“Finally, I can tell you that you have a vault safety box in your name here, miss. Would you have with you your box key by chance?”
“Wait a minute!” replied Jeanne, frantically taking out her purse and searching inside it. She shouted in triumph as she took out a small key attached to a key ring and showed it to the bank director. “Could this be it, sir?”
Kenneth Maple grinned after examining the key.
“This is definitely one of our safety box keys. This is decidedly your lucky day, Lady Jeanne. If you will now excuse me for a moment, I will go get your deposit box.”
The director then left the office for a second time. Jeanne hesitated a bit, then counted out 200 pounds out of the remaining cash left in her purse and handed it to a stunned Elizabeth Hatfield.