The Sealed Letter

  For a moment, it occurs to Fido that Bovill's going to strike back at his recalcitrant witness. He could call for the sealed letter to be brought into court again. She shudders at the thought. The black wax could be broken, the accusation released like a plague on the air. Fido's dropped her weapon, while Harry still holds his. She stares at the barrister, silently pleading.

  Bovill lets out a brief sigh and glances towards his client. Harry gives an infinitesimal shake of the head, and the barrister pronounces the words that release her. "No further questions, my Lord."

  Verdict

  (from Anglo-Norman, "to speak the truth":

  the final and unanimous finding of

  a jury at the end of a trial)

  Come, cheer up, my lads, 'Tis to glory we steer, To add something more To this wonderful year; To honour we call you, Not press you as slaves, For who are as free As we sons of the waves?

  David Garrick,

  "Heart of Oak" (1759)

  anthem of the Royal Navy

  Codrington v. Codrington & Anderson

  The verdict was accordingly entered for the petitioner on all charges. Judge Wilde pronounced a decree nisi and ordered the co-respondent (Colonel Anderson) to pay the petitioner's costs of £943. To the surprise of many present, Judge Wilde then took the unusual though not unprecedented step of ordering the petitioner to pay the costs of the respondent (Helen Jane Webb Smith, formerly Codrington) in the amount of £1,110, on the grounds that the petitioner had for many years suffered his wife to absent herself from his bed at night, and his company by day. As is customary, the Queen's proctor will be granted a period of not less than six months to look for any evidence of collusion between the divorcing spouses, in the absence of which Judge Wilde will then pronounce a decree absolute.

  ***

  The late October afternoon is cold. Harry's been motionless in a wing chair for hours, near one of the six fireplaces in the Rag Club's famous coffee room. He's brooding over his daughters: what to tell them next week when he collects them from Mrs. Watson's house and takes them home to Eccleston Square. He's trying out lines in his head.

  Mama did some very wrong things, and has gone away. Feeble, childish.

  Your mother doesn't deserve to be a mother anymore. Unnecessarily cold.

  It may be best to think of her as dead. Dead to us. No, Nan and Nell will start to shriek. He won't be able to bear it.

  A divorce means that your Mama must go and live far, far away. In fact he has no idea what'll become of Helen: where she'll go, or what she'll do with herself. In his concluding interview with Bird, yesterday, Harry almost weakened and proposed making her some kind of allowance—but then he got hold of himself again.

  Your mother... Need he say anything to them? The wrong words might be worse than none. Girls are quick to pick these things up without anything being spelled out. Should he perhaps simply bring them home in a cab, chatting about their zoetrope all the way, and make no reference to their missing mother, that day or ever again?

  Two members come in and take a table behind him; he doesn't recognize their voices. It's the word poker that catches his attention. "In his nightshirt, poker at the ready," one is muttering. "Stiff as the proverbial!"

  "Well, he was afraid the ladies would take a chill if he didn't rouse their flame," puts in the second man with a snigger. "When all the time the joke was on the ancient mariner, because they'd no need of his ministrations."

  "Not those gels. Things were warm enough in the nuptial bed already—without him!"

  Harry's hands form fists in his lap.

  "The friend must be not just strong-minded, but strong-armed too, if she could beat off such a giant while she was doped to the gills," says the first man with a guffaw. "She was too many for the admiral. Oh yes, thank you, three lumps."

  Drop it, Harry commands himself, as the two are served their coffee, a few feet behind him. He has no power to stop people having private conversations. He's become what the managers of great concerns call a household name.

  But that first needling voice carries on, once the waiter's gone. "To my way of thinking, it was no more than the old buffer deserved."

  "Oh really?"

  "Well, for years before the wife started straying, he hadn't been much of a husband, by the sounds of it."

  "She was bold as brass," objects the second.

  "Still, he oughtn't to have stood for it, like the judge said. Stands to reason, she must have been thwarted in her normal appetites, to turn to the other thing."

  What have I done? Harry asks himself. In those small, cramped chambers of Bird's, Mrs. Watson made up the most revolting rumour, and Harry agreed to spread it, and now the public takes it as gospel. Imaginary monsters walk the streets.

  "Hm," says the second man, as if they're discussing a great question of the day, such as sewer construction or Irish tenant right. "But by all accounts she has more than the usual quota, when it comes to appetite."

  "Notwithstanding. My wife's of a warm enough constitution, but you wouldn't catch her resorting to such folderols, not unless I'd left her in a very sad state of frustration!"

  Harry can bear no more. He rears up so fast the chair skids, and spots appear before his eyes. He takes two steps, towers over the two men. "Do you know me, sir? Or you?"

  One looks bewildered, the other, queasy. The one who hasn't guessed begins, "I don't believe I've had the honour..."

  "My name is Henry John Codrington," he growls. I loved my wife as best I could, he wants to shout. I was not a brute and she was not a freak. "I don't know yours, but I can say with confidence that you're no gentlemen."

  "Come, now, Admiral—"

  "Everything all right?" The porter is at Harry's elbow.

  Harry ignores him. "Such scurrilous indecency! You dare to sit here, soiling the name of a lady you've never met—" His head's a whirl of confusion. Can he really be defending Helen's honour—he, who to destroy that honour has squandered thousands of pounds and the long, impeccable patrimony of the Codrington name?

  One of the men manages a half-smile. "We only repeat what's said in the papers."

  "That's a worm's excuse."

  The porter's put his hand on Harry's elbow. "Now, now, Admiral. No altercations in the club."

  "In our fathers' day," says Harry, waving a finger in their nervous, smirking faces, "I'd have had you out. I'd have taken you by the throat and caned you like the curs you are."

  "No altercations in the club," repeats the porter, leading him away.

  Feme Sole

  (in law, an unmarried woman)

  Rise! If the past detains you,

  Her sunshine and storms forget;

  No chains so unworthy to hold you

  As those of vain regret:

  Sad or bright, she is lifeless ever.

  Cast her phantom arms away;

  Nor look back, save to learn the lesson

  Of a nobler strife To-day.

  Adelaide Procter,

  "Now" (1864)

  NB—letters from applicants for employment being not infrequently sent to the Victoria Press, under the mistaken impression that its proprietor, Miss E. Faithfull, represents SPEW and is the right person to apply to for situations, it is thought advisable to explain the real state of the case here.

  It was at one time contemplated by the society to establish a women's printing press, but the committee came to the conclusion that the undertaking would be more likely to succeed if left to private enterprise; accordingly, Miss Faithfull took up the project entirely under her own aegis and on her own behalf. The society wishes to clarify that it has no contractual or organizational connections with the Victoria Press. Miss Faithfull has not for the past four years had any share in the management of SPEW or the English Woman's Journal, and correspondence intended for her ought accordingly not to be addressed to the society's offices at 19 Langham Place.

  It is hoped that with this clarification the subject may be considered closed.

/>   Alexandra Magazine and English Woman's Journal,

  Number 1 (Autumn 1864)

  ***

  Langham Place

  October 30, 1864

  Dear Miss Faithfull,

  I enclose the final draft of the first issue of the Victoria Magazine, and look forward to seeing the galleys as they come off the press.

  As you cannot be unaware, however, your unexpected absence for several weeks caused me many difficulties with regard to readying this issue for publication. That task for additional reasons proved more onerous than I expected; I must tell you that I have found it well-nigh impossible to reach the high standards to which we both aspire, with the budget you have made available to me. I do appreciate that investment must grow gradually, but at present, without the funds to pay the best writers, I am doubtful of what real improvement is possible.

  It is not without much hesitation that I have decided to withdraw as of next month from the challenge you so kindly offered me, that of shaping aperiodical which I have no doubt will in time, under your own editorship or another's, become an important one, and an eloquent organ of our Cause.

  Certain extraneous factors have, of course, played their part in my decision. We need not discuss them.

  Believe me, Miss Faithfull, I mean no personal offence—will always have the highest respect for your work—and regret the necessities of the times.

  Sincerely,

  Emily Davies

  ***

  Fido lies in bed, curtains straining the pale yellow light. She's shocked to find herself wishing she'd never left Headley. But it does attract her, the novel idea of being an ordinary woman. A daughter at home, whose duties are limited to practising the piano and helping her mother clothe the village children.

  Esther didn't stay to speak to Fido, after the trial. Fido caught a glimpse of her sister outside Westminster Hall, staggering along as if she were ill. How will she sum up that long day, when she returns to her husband, when she visits the Reverend and Mrs. Faithfull in their rectory?

  Fido can't bring herself to care very much. How tired she is after six years of meetings in stifling rooms with dissatisfied faces; six years of dusty efforts to uplift her sex (who seem, as a rule, more interested in ribbons). She's spent all her strength, all her patience, all her sympathy. And what's come of the great projects she's joined in, to date? A couple of dozen girls who are setting type or keeping accounts instead of—or as a prelude to—having babies. Infinite numbers of words scattered on the wind. Not a single substantial law has changed.

  I'm not that kind of woman, Helen said, when Fido had suggested she think of working as a proofreader. Only now does Fido register the full weight of the insult. Helen didn't mean that she lacked the capacity or talent, not at all. Her implication was that work is a humiliating recourse for those surplus females whom no man is willing to support.

  Fido lies very flat in her bed. There's nothing left in her tank; she's used up all her reserves. I could sell the press, she thinks, darkly tempted, or close it down. Go abroad: draw on my funds; the family would prefer it. (Paris? Amsterdam? Rome?) Quite understandable; who could blame her after all that's happened?

  She turns her head away from the window. She lies very still. In two more minutes, she tells herself, she'll get up and take a cold shower.

  ***

  An hour later she's at the press on Great Coram Street, working through the backlog. She corrects proofs all morning, working too fast. She knows she's missing some errors, but never mind: the important thing is to press on.

  How on earth is she to manage the Victoria Magazine now that Emily Davies has pulled out? Advance orders are not what she'd hoped for—not bad in London, but a dead failure in the countryside. She shouldn't have paid top rates for Tom Trollope's second-rate novel; next time she'll know better. She must be publisher, editor, sales agent, everything now. She'll be obliged to economize, and—under various names—write as much of the magazine herself as she can. Hm, where will she find some promising writers willing to contribute for practically nothing?

  At intervals Fido sifts through her post, the letters that are there and those that are significantly absent. She reads the signs like a priestess deciphering entrails: counts friends, enemies, and of course fence-sitters who're waiting to see what becomes of the once mighty Fido Faithfull. She hasn't received an invitation to address the Social Science Association's conference this year—but on the other hand, they've made no move to cancel her contracts to publish their pamphlets and proceedings. Apart from Bessie Parkes, none of her customers has withdrawn any business yet, in fact.

  Not so much as a note from Isa Craig, or Jessie Boucherett, or Sarah Lewin. Does this mean that the whole of the Reform Firm has gone along with Emily Davies and Bessie Parkes in casting Fido into the dark?

  She won't let herself brood. She writes to no one to demand support. For now, she'll pay no calls, leave no cards, attend no occasions, in case she'll be snubbed. A temporary, strategic withdrawal. Bovill did all he could to cobble her reputation back together, by the time she got down from the witness box, she reminds herself. Fido will be meek, for a while, but she won't despair. Above all, for her own self-respect, she won't shut up shop.

  Lunch is cold ham at her desk, as she works closely through the press's accounts. They're quite a bit worse than she feared. She stares into space for a few minutes, then comes to a decision and calls in the head clicker.

  "I'm becoming aware of my failings, Mr. Head."

  The young man puts his head on one side in polite enquiry.

  "I'm tired of being cheated, and fobbed off. To keep the kind of close eye on the press's finances that I've neither the time nor the technical experience to do, I require a responsible manager. Will you take the job?"

  "At an appropriate consideration," he says promptly.

  "Of course. Also, I must tell you in confidence that the press is in desperate need of capital. I've decided—reluctantly—to sell off the steam press, as we really don't have enough newspaper work to require it." (And, incidentally, she never wants to walk down Farringdon Street again.)

  "I wonder, Miss Faithfull, have you ever thought of taking on a partner?"

  His tone makes her sit up a little straighter.

  "My father has a sum of capital he intends to settle on me when a suitable opportunity arises," murmurs Mr. Head. "A thousand pounds."

  Fido grins at him. "Such an investment would buy you a quarter of the business."

  "A third, I think."

  Her eyebrows jump.

  "The last evaluation of the press came to three thousand pounds, didn't it?"

  "Oh, but since then our reputation has grown considerably," she says, bluffing.

  "Well." He pauses to let them both consider what's happened to her own reputation in recent weeks. "In consideration of my acting as manager, instead of a salary—shall we say a third share in the press, and an equal share in all profits?"

  Is this young man her saviour, or a profiteer taking advantage of her weakness? No matter. There are no saviours. After a moment, Fido nods, and he extends his long cool hand for her to shake.

  It will be strange, being on terms of equality with her subordinate, but Fido imagines she'll get used to it. People are more adaptable than they believe.

  When Head's gone back to the press room, Fido sits looking around her office. The air still smells slightly of cayenne. History moves by fits and starts; certain battles must be fought again and again.

  ***

  Instead of going home, she finds her feet taking her to Langham Place.

  When she reaches Number 19, it occurs to her to knock, so no one can accuse her of rudeness. But she still has her key, so on second thoughts she lets herself in.

  No one in the reading room, or the committee room; no one to greet her or bar her way. She taps on the door of various small offices, and the last she tries is Bessie Parkes's.

  "Miss Faithfull." Bessie Parkes doesn't get up; s
he regards Fido tiredly across her orderly desk.

  Fido finds she can't speak for a moment. Instead, she holds out the Alexandra Magazine, open to page eight. "I've come to insist you set the record straight." She takes a breath. "In this entirely gratuitous notice inserted in your new magazine, you distort the facts at every point. You claim I haven't had any share in the management of SPEW or the journal in four years—"

  "You don't hold a position on either committee," Bessie Parkes reminds her.

  "You know very well I've been at most meetings and involved in all the campaigns. I've set up branches of SPEW in Dublin and Edinburgh—run one of the employment registers—not to mention all those letters to the Times promoting our activities—" Fido is almost spluttering; she steadies her voice. "And if I haven't held a formal position, it's understood that's because I've been busy running the Victoria Press, which for all your feeble attempt to dissociate it from SPEW, is the one shining example, the great demonstration of women's capacity for skilled labour!"

  A long sigh. "Is this conversation really necessary? What good do you imagine it can do?"

  "Was it necessary to renounce me so publicly, to make a scapegoat of me?" roars Fido.

  "Hardly a scapegoat," snaps Bessie Parkes. "You've brought notoriety on yourself as well as the Reform Firm: it's we who have a grievance. All the enamel's already been rubbed off your name, professional as well as personal. The SSA can hardly continue publishing with you, and if you brazen it out, no doubt the Queen will be obliged to withdraw her patronage from the press."