The Sealed Letter

  Helen shakes her head vehemently. "I couldn't put you through that, not though my whole future were to depend on it."

  "I wonder—" Fido hesitates. "Few needs to know what he's dealing with; what kind of monster you married. Perhaps the information could be useful, somehow."

  "But what—"

  "Oh, how little I know of the law," Fido frets. "What if Few—if he were to warn his opposite number, your husband's solicitor—"

  "Mr. Bird," Helen supplies.

  "If he told Bird that he has knowledge of an attempted rape." Her voice drops; she barely mouths the word. "Surely, if Bird passed this on to his client—Harry would quail at the possibility of the story getting out? He'd realize that although we are women," she goes on, her voice strengthening, "we're ready to put a name to evil, when our backs are to the wall."

  "Yes," marvels Helen, "yes. It could work. He'll be shamed into dropping this wretched petition," she goes on, "and he might even send the girls home!"

  Fido doubts that very much, but she can't bear to be the one to strip Helen's illusions away: time will do it for her.

  ***

  They lie as tight as spoons, that night, in Fido's hard bed, and talk in whispers till very late. "It's not too early to begin to consider your future," says Fido.

  "My future?"

  "If worse comes to worst."

  "I thought ... you said I could stay here," says Helen like a frightened child.

  "Of course you can!" Fido squeezes her, plants a kiss on the back of Helen's hair. "No matter what happens, we'll be together." She waits a moment; Helen doesn't contradict her. "But it'll be a rather different sphere of life," she goes on. No grand rooms to stuff with trinkets, she wants to say; no girls to prepare for presentation at court. But she doesn't spell out any of that, not yet. "Time might hang heavy on your hands at first, without an occupation." Especially as Fido's always hard at work, from six in the morning—but she doesn't say that either. It strikes her, for the first time, that Helen might require constant companionship, at home or out shopping; might raise objections to Fido's commitment to the Cause. The thought gives her a kind of vertigo. Don't borrow trouble, she tells herself; haven't we more than enough on our plates? She hurries on: "You do have one real asset, Helen: a fine grasp of the English language."

  A little giggle, in the dark. "I hope you don't propose I'm to take on Miss Braddon?"

  "No no, not writing for publication, but correcting for it, perhaps. For some time now, as it happens," says Fido with a kind of shyness, "I've been looking out for an educated lady, to check proofs at the press."

  No answer.

  "You could do the work at home, if you preferred—"

  "Don't be silly, Fido."

  She opens her mouth, and shuts it again.

  "I'm not that kind of woman."

  Fido stiffens. "You know, for a lady to find respectable employment doesn't lower her to the rank of a fishwife; in fact, it raises her to that of her father or brothers."

  "It's a matter of temperament, that's all. The leopard can't change her spots," says Helen, laughing.

  "I dare say that's true," says Fido, loosening. What an odd couple we'll make, it occurs to her. The divorcee and the spinster. The adulteress and the woman's rights-ist. The leopardess and the ... house cat?

  "I'd better let you sleep," says Helen.

  Fido snorts. "No chance of that. Every time I think of speaking to Few tomorrow, my stomach bucks like a mule."

  "Oh my dear. If only I could take this cup from your lips!"

  "No," says Fido, "the truth must out. It's only an absurd sort of squeamishness, on my part; the thought of telling such a story to a man, a virtual stranger."

  Helen holds her closer, puts her feet against Fido's cold ones. "I wonder—"

  "Yes?"

  "Would it help at all if I were to go in first, and give Few the gist of it?"

  "Would you really?" Relief floods her veins.

  "It's the least I can do. Besides, I'm a married woman," says Helen. "Such language comes rather easier to us."

  "Yes, then, yes: it would be so much easier, if you prepared the ground."

  "But you have to promise to sleep a little, now," says Helen in motherly tones, "or you'll be in no fit state for anything."

  "I promise," says Fido, shutting her eyes, letting out a long breath.

  ***

  Taking Fido's Kashmir shawl, the aged solicitor clears his throat in a melancholy way. "The Codringtons' is a very sad case," he observes. "Well, as the Bard put it, marriage has many pains but celibacy has no pleasures."

  "I believe that was Dr. Johnson."

  "Was it? Ah, well, you're the woman of letters, Miss Faithfull."

  Silence, broken only by the creaking of her lungs.

  "I can't say I was entirely surprised by what Mrs. Codrington told me this morning," says Few, eyes on his desk. "I suspected she was hiding something, yesterday, when she spoke of her husband. These military men—whited sepulchres, more often than not—"

  Fido traces the seam of her glove.

  "I needn't take up much of your time this morning; I already have a statement of the facts from Mrs. Codrington. This is really a formality, Miss Faithfull—and believe me, I wish I didn't have to offend your modesty in the least degree—"

  "Whatever's necessary to help my friend."

  "Your loyalty does you credit. And it will indeed be immensely helpful. Perhaps the strongest weapon in our arsenal." Few glances down at the topmost paper of his stack and clears his throat. "One night in the autumn of 1856, then, you were occupying the same room and in the same bed as Mrs. Codrington in Eccleston Square, both being asleep, when the petitioner came in—that's the admiral—"

  "He was only a captain at the time," Fido says.

  "Never mind that."

  And in fact Helen was awake. Fido doesn't suppose that matters either, though it's odd that he formed the impression they were both asleep. Perhaps he assumed it, since it was night? Or perhaps Helen thought it would simplify the story to leave herself out, since she's not permitted to testify; after all, she played no part in events that night, or none that made any real difference.

  Few goes on, eyes on the page. "He got in between the two of you, and attempted to behave improperly to you, Miss Faithfull—to treat you, ah, as if you were his wife—but your resistance frightened him and he rushed away. Correct?"

  She wheezes; she turns towards the window, but it's shut tight against the late September damp. It's only the difference between her having woken during the attack and her having woken just after it ended: a matter of seconds. When one's taken laudanum, the border between those states of consciousness is never clear. But she doesn't want to sound like an unreliable witness; that would be of no use to Helen's case. Need she mention the laudanum at all, if it would only undermine her account?

  "Are you feeling quite well, Miss Faithfull?"

  "Habitual asthma," she whispers. "If we could possibly complete this interview at another time—" She's longing for a cigarette. A little time to puzzle this out. On that night—almost eight years ago now—did she half-wake, fight Harry off in her dulled state, and manage to blot the whole thing out of her mind afterwards? Can one be said to have had an experience, if one has only the most fragmentary, uneasy recollection of it?

  "I'm afraid it must be done today, as tomorrow is Sunday."

  If she tries hard enough, she can almost summon up the scene, feel the bed shudder as Harry clambers in between the women; almost see his gigantic silhouette blotting out the candlelight.

  "No need to speak, if you'd prefer: simply nod," adds Few after a second. "Was it as Mrs. Codrington told me?"

  He seems to understand. There's no objective way to tell a story. But this is the terrible truth of that night, as best as she and Helen can muster it between them. A sort of joint testimony. Helen could witness to it herself were it not for the absurdity of the law that gags the participants in a divorce. Fido
makes herself nod.

  "Very good. I regret, again, that this is necessary. I can hardly imagine your distress."

  At twenty-one, on that autumn night, is that what he means? Or at twenty-nine, sitting in his chambers?

  "Now if you'll be so good as to look over the affidavit, I'll sign it." Few slides the crisp page across the desk.

  But Fido has broken out in a sweat, her eyes are swimming. The affidavit: that sounds alarmingly official. She's not sure she can bear to see this story written down in black ink on the long, tombstone shape of a legal document.

  "Would you prefer me to read it to you in full?"

  "Oh no." That would be worse. Fido glances through the paragraphs, but they make no sense to her. Her eyes catch on jagged phrases: separate but adjoining, in a nightdress, attempted to have connection, resistance of the said Miss Faithfull.

  "I wonder, have you any sense of the date of the incident?"

  Fido shuts her eyes. She can barely think of her own name. "I really don't ... October. Around the eleventh?" she hazards, just to put an end to it.

  "Very good." Few takes the paper back and scratches a few words in.

  He walks her to the door and uses a cab whistle to call a growler to take her home.

  Mutatis Mutandis

  (Latin, "the necessary changes having been made";

  in law, this refers to the application of an implied,

  mutually understood set of changes)

  What should we think of a community of slaves,

  who betrayed each other's interest? Of a little band

  of shipwrecked mariners upon a friendless shore,

  who were false to each other?

  Sarah Ellis,

  The Daughters of England (1845)

  In Few's chambers on Monday morning, Helen sits fiddling with the coral-beaded fringe of her bag.

  The solicitor shuffles his papers and looks up over his tiny glasses. "I must observe that for a woman of business—that's what they call themselves, I believe?—your friend's not very businesslike."

  Helen stares at him.

  "First thing this morning I received a rather absurd note from Miss Faithfull at her press, asking for the affidavit to be returned to her for burning as soon as I've shown it to your husband's solicitor. How can she have thought that was its purpose?"

  "Perhaps she took you up wrongly," Helen mutters, her mind scurrying.

  "As if detailed evidence were to be handed over to the opposition in advance of the trial!"

  "I suppose ... I have the impression she hoped Harry would withdraw his petition if he were warned of such a damaging countercharge. He must have been trusting to feminine timidity to prevent Fido and myself from mentioning the attack," Helen argues.

  Few frowns. "After fifteen years of wedlock, Mrs. Codrington, you ought to have known the masculine mind better. To be charged with a crime of viril-ity—if I may put it so bluntly—is something many men take in their stride."

  "Not Harry, the pillar of virtue," she says, sullen.

  "Well, whatever his private mortification at being accused of such an attempt, it can hardly match your friend's at being its victim. And judging by today's note, she doesn't seem to have grasped that she'll have to attest to it in court." He takes off his glasses, scowls as he swabs them on his neckerchief. "It is just a matter of maidenly modesty, I hope?"

  "How do you mean? My friend is modest, certainly."

  "Well, I don't like to doubt a lady's word, but ... I don't suppose her reluctance to repeat her story means that there's something less than reliable about it?"

  Helen draws herself up. "She's the daughter of the rector of Headley, and a noted philanthropist. If you knew her as I do, you'd never suggest such a thing."

  "No offence intended." Few scowls at the rolls of documents covering his desk. "Well, I wrote back to Miss Faithfull at once to clarify that she'll be called into court; the affidavit will be worse than useless unless she backs it up."

  "I'm sure I can persuade her to muster her courage," says Helen. Her mind goes through its calculations. No doubt Fido will huff and puff and make a scene, but when it comes to it—when she sees that Helen needs her to be brave, that it's a matter of friendship (Fido's sacred cow)...

  "Certainly you have some time. The court is overbooked, as ever," he remarks. "The Dickenses have renewed their endless squabble about his non-payment of maintenance."

  Helen is diverted by this piece of gossip. "And to think what his books and magazines must make him!"

  "No no, this is the bankrupt brother, Frederick. All three brothers left their wives in '57, a curious coincidence—or sign of the times, one might say." Few is searching through the pile of papers again; his white straggling hair almost touches it.

  Helen finds herself wondering how old he is, and the odds of his dropping dead while her case is still in preparation.

  "Lieutenant Mildmay," he says, meeting her eyes, and she can't stop herself twitching at the name. "Petitioner's counsel have applied to make him another co-respondent, which of course would seal his mouth like yours and Anderson's, and prevent us from calling him in your defence."

  "That's outrageous," she says, as it seems expected.

  "We'll oppose that application—unless of course you've any reason to fear the lieutenant's evidence might tell against you?"

  Helen's mind races. "I'm sure he'll deny any wrongdoing."

  "We'll have our man in India examine him, then, and bring back a deposition."

  India? She didn't know Mildmay was stationed there. Disconcerted, she pictures him in a bright sash, riding on a howdah, like the dashing officers she used to wave at when she was a little girl in Calcutta. They haven't corresponded since he left Malta. (Helen finds writing to faraway friends a chore.) But there was never any falling out, only a mild falling away. Gradually it came about that she saw more of Anderson and rather less of Mildmay; neither man was ever so crass as to press her about her choice.

  Few goes on. "I must ask—have you seen the Times this morning?"

  "I've had no leisure for reading the paper," says Helen. The truth is that she can't bear the prospect of seeing her surname leaping in capitals all over the Legal Notices column. Codrington: she's never liked the stuffy, provincial ring of it, but she dreads the prospect of losing it too.

  "There's an article. You may wish to—at your leisure." He slides a copy of the paper across the desk, and she accepts it, but doesn't unfold it. "Vis-a-vis Colonel Anderson. On page nine there's a notice of his marriage," says Few, frowning. "Perhaps the colonel feels that taking this step at the eleventh hour dissociates him from the charges—as if any jury would be so credulous."

  "A ... a notice that it's forthcoming?" she says, hating the way her voice shakes.

  "Rather, an announcement that it's taken place." Few waits. "I felt I ought to draw your attention to it; it's best to face these things."

  Her voice cracks. "You're not paid to lecture me, Few. I'm already facing the loss of my whole world."

  He nods, priestly. "You have my sympathies."

  Helen snatches her coral-fringed bag and gets to her feet. "I don't want your sympathies, or your homilies. I want your professional expertise. Block this damned divorce and get my daughters back."

  She expected her language to stun the old man, but he only shakes his head. "I really must impress upon you that the two aims are mutually inconsistent.

  My hope is to win you a separation with a comfortable settlement—but as to your daughters..."

  She watches a dying fly stumble along the window sill.

  "Are you listening, Mrs. Codrington?"

  "I made them, didn't I? In my—in me." Her voice is so guttural she hardly recognizes it.

  Few sighs. "Your being permitted to set eyes on them ever again, even from a distance, depends entirely on the admiral's goodwill. And the fact is, every day you resist this divorce—not to mention accusing him of cruelties and depravities—you sacrifice more of tha
t goodwill."

  She staggers towards the door.

  "My dear madam—"

  Outside on the street, Helen lurches along like a madwoman. Nell, she says in her head, Nan, trying to conjure them up. But their tiny, warped images stay locked up in the bottle. It's only been six days, but their faces are blurring already. What was the last thing they said to her? Or she to them? Some snapped criticism, no doubt. She clings to the thought of Nan asking her for a kiss, that night in the sickroom. The final game of Happy Families.

  There's something awry in Helen. She's coming to see that she was born with something missing. She has talents, she even has virtues, but something's lacking that would bind them all together.

  She shudders, she sobs. I'll never see my girls again. Still gripping the rolled newspaper like a club, she drops to her knees on the chilly pavement, retching. They'll never see their Mama again. Shiny bile runs from her lips to the stone like spider's silk.

  ***

  CODRINGTON V. CODRINGTON & ANDERSON

  Among the many elevating qualities that have made marriage the central institution of modern (as of ancient) society, it is a marvellous instrument of education. By yoking one woman to one man, it imparts strength to the weaker, softness and moral beauty to the stronger. The blessed companionship of two complementary natures, whose most potent bond lies in the very fact of their difference, enlarges the social sympathies and quickens the spiritual instincts of both.

  It is a fact to be lamented, then, and not merely by the individuals involved, when a marriage is dissolved—and generally the less said about it the better. When the Matrimonial Causes Act opened the floodgates in 1857, the Divorce Court's first President, Sir Cresswell Cresswell, expressed the hope that the attendant publicity would be on the whole beneficial; that a calm consideration of marital strife and the disgrace which must attach to it would have a deterrent effect. But since then, many commentators have argued that the Court's influence is rather corrupting than otherwise. Unhappy couples are known to attend sessions of this "School for Divorce" to learn the sordid tricks necessary to throw off a burdensome yoke. The public now turns to the Law Reports for a succession of sensational narratives that air details so filthy they put cheeks to blush and make ears ring. Any journal that reports the Court's proceedings at length, then, risks stooping below the level of a French novel.