Mary Anne

  “By all that’s strange and surprising. Mrs. Clarke!”

  “Mr. Burton! How delightful. Do you know Bill Dowler?”

  No Joseph mentioned. So that was the lie of the land. Burton grasped the situation and wasn’t astonished. She was bound to go off the rails, and why not Brighton?

  “Let’s meet tonight in the Assembly Rooms,” he said. “We’ll pick up each other’s threads. It’ll be quite like old times.”

  Old times? Nothing could be more different. How compare the glitter of the Rooms to Golden Lane, the creaking stairs of Black Raven Passage, and Burton making himself scarce for the playboy Joseph?

  She looked very well, he thought, and deuced attractive, and was it intentional the way she gave her escort Dowler the slip that evening so that he and she could have a chat together?

  She came to the point at once, straight and direct.

  “I want a house,” she said, “a house in London.”

  “How much can you afford? Do you want to purchase?”

  “A lease of ten years was what I had in mind.”

  He looked at her and wondered who would pay. This fellow Dowler, or had she other quarry?

  “You may as well know,” she told him. “I’ve left Joseph for good. I shall be on my own, with my mother and my children.”

  In that case the coast was clear. A shot into the blue might find its mark.

  “I’ve houses going up in Tavistock Place,” he said. “The lease would cost a thousand, or fourteen hundred.”

  “Rent paid in advance? Six months or quarterly?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “I won’t be trapped. Things can be arranged at leisure with an old friend like yourself.”

  “How soon could I move in?”

  “Some time next spring. If you’re put to it meantime, I can pull strings in Brighton. The season’s gay enough until December.”

  Time to look round, she thought, to make my mark. To be seen, to be met, to be known. Then London to follow.

  “I’d like the house in town soon after Christmas,” she said, “but keep the plan under your hat. For the moment, at least.”

  “You don’t want your friend to know?”

  “I’ll tell him later.”

  The vista, he thought, was even more alluring. Dowler was not provider after all. In which case business could be combined with pleasure.

  “And what about me?” he asked. “Any ‘perks’ for the builder? I ought to inspect the roof from time to time. The state of the paint, the need for ventilation. I’d drop you a line, of course, before I called.”

  The look in his eye spoke volumes. She knew what he meant. In other words, she could forget the rent. The fourteen hundred pounds might be overlooked. A ten-year lease in exchange for a romp on the side. Oh, well… he was a friend of ten years’ standing, presentable enough. Married not long since, he would give no trouble. Family life would claim him most of the time. If she lived rent free, there would be no need to approach uncle Tom. She could give Bond Street a miss and make her own connections. She lifted her glass to Burton and met his eye.

  “As architect,” she said, “you’ll have the entrée.”

  No more was said. She knew the lease was settled.

  “I’ve taken the plunge,” she thought, “and there’s no returning. I’m out for what I can get, and I’ll see that I get it. I’ll pay back in kind, I won’t cheat, I won’t be dishonest. No one will claim I haven’t earned my money. Value given for value received. It’s one trade like another, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. We’ve all got to live.”

  The point was, this way she’d make money. Not money to pinch and save, but money to spend. Hack writing never brought in enough. At last she could buy what she wanted—gowns and wraps, trinkets, ridiculous bonnets, clothes for her mother and Isobel, toys for the children. No guineas going to waste in Joseph’s pockets. A house of her own, with furniture to her taste. New faces, new people, new friends. A raffish enjoyment, begrudged by no one living and earned by herself.

  The months in Brighton brought their own reward. Acquaintances grew thick, the circle widened. When Bill Dowler came to claim her at weekends he found, for the first time, competition. Cards from Four-in-Hand coachmen graced her mirror. “See you at noon,” she would say, or “See you at supper,” and off she would streak to the races with Johnny Brunell; and then when noon came he’d find her with Charles Milner.

  “Who gave you this model of a whip in diamonds?”

  “What, that? Oh, Cripplegate Barrymore. He meant it as a joke.”

  “Expensive sort of joke.”

  “He can afford it.”

  She was always in somebody’s curricle, somebody’s phaeton. When questioned she passed it off lightly, evading the issue.

  “I’ve never before had amusement. I’m having it now.” In other words, he must lump it—or get out. They had had their moment and now the moment was gone. He could make his windfalls on the Stock Exchange or toddle home to Uxbridge, whichever he chose.

  The trouble was, the windfalls were too few. Markets were all to pieces, and he was losing money. He’d have to go home to Uxbridge, or go bust. It was late autumn when he broached his plan.

  “I know of a snug little cottage, not far from home. There’s just room for yourself and the children. How about it?”

  She thought, “Here we go. Face the facts. All cards on the table.” She stood up and put her arms around his neck, then kissed his eyes and his neck and his waistcoat button.

  “I’m moving to Tavistock Place,” she said, “in town. I’ve got a house from Burton, going cheap. I don’t want to live near Uxbridge, or hide in a cottage. I’m out to make a splash, and this may achieve it.”

  So… Brighton had been an experiment, a rehearsal. Now he must stand and watch the full performance.

  “Not to mince matters,” he said, “you mean you’re for sale?”

  “Winner takes all,” she said. “It’s the luck of the game. Your windfalls won’t last, you know it, there’s no use pretending. I must make my plans before that, and I must have my freedom.”

  “Freedom for what? To go jigging about in a phaeton?”

  “I do that already. There’s more comfort in Tavistock Place.”

  “With Burton providing the house, and Cripplegate calling? Spending the night and leaving you two hundred guineas?”

  “Two hundred and fifty, I hope, concealed in a dahlia.”

  She laughed and kissed him again. He knew he was beaten.

  “Did you ever hear of Kitty Fisher?” he asked. “Lucy Cooper, Fanny Murray? They took the same road, and ended all three in the gutter.”

  “Very low class,” she replied. “I aim rather higher.”

  “That’s why you’ve finished with me—I haven’t a title. My father was only a merchant. Wine, as I told you before, was the family business.”

  “But now sold, Bill, and father retired, so it doesn’t attract me.”

  “When he dies, I’ll inherit.”

  “You’ll inherit false teeth and a wig, and I’ll be bald-headed. I have to live now, and not count on some date in the future.”

  “And what about love?”

  “I’ll probably love you a lifetime. Love isn’t business.”

  “I’m to take my share, then, when Cripplegate’s had his? What will you put on your door? ‘Inspection Invited’? ‘Old Friends at Quarter-Cost’? ‘Music Included’?”

  “I thought of sending cards to all the clubs. ‘Mrs. Clarke, At Home. But not on Tuesdays. Tuesdays reserved for Mr. William Dowler.’ ”

  She kissed him again, making the whole thing a jest. But it wasn’t a jest, and he knew it, and so did she. Here at last, round the corner, were the better days, and the splendor, and the fairy-tale nonsense she’d spun in the past for Charley. She pretended to mock at it all and make fun of her suitors, yet deep in her heart she was flattered and gratified. Bill Dowler had never suggested champagne for breakfast, or given h
er roses at midnight, or diamonds at dawn; but the Four-in-Hand coachmen did their stuff with a flourish, and it pleased her to sit wrapped in furs with a peer for a driver, it all seemed so far removed from Bowling Inn Alley.

  Of course she would love Bill a lifetime, that wasn’t the point. The point was, a cottage at Uxbridge was out of the question. Her taste had matured, and ambition ran high, and to hell with emotion. Emotion was a thing of the past, except when the moon shone or somebody tickled her fancy at three in the morning.

  This new life was easy. No cares and no worries, and, the first shock to pride overcome, the next step was simple. Men were straightforward, direct, and grateful for little. Amusing to talk to at supper, but generally tipsy. After nine years with Joseph the last was really no hardship—a few clumsy embraces, followed by snores on a pillow. The snores of a peer grated less than the snores of a mason, and a peer was lavish with presents, which tipped the scales higher. The point was, she made her own choice and took whom she wanted. It wasn’t a question of waiting, and hoping for callers. Two dozen cards in the mirror, and all invitations, so what was the best proposition? It was as simple as that.

  A letter from the curate was answered briefly.

  “I shall never return to Joseph, nor will the children. Please explain this to him, in whatever way you please. If he ever attempts to find us, he won’t be successful. Thank you for all you did, but forget us in future. Yours in all sincerity, M.A.C.”

  The envelope was the last she ever closed by the simple method of stubbing the seal with her finger. The paper bore no mark and no address, simply a date in February, 1802.

  Next time she wrote to her friends—but not to the curate—her notepaper was headed “Tavistock Place,” and the seal upon the envelope wasn’t a finger, but the clear imprint of Cupid riding an ass.

  Part 2

  1

  A white front door, scrubbed steps, gay window boxes, the knocker a woman’s head with one eye closed—where had she come upon that, the stranger wondered? It gave the game away to those who knew. He knocked, and pulled the bell. The front door opened.

  “Is Mrs. Clarke at home?”

  Loud voices proved it. So did the greatcoats, the malacca canes, the cocked hats tossed upon a table and two or three other hats with curling brims. A growling bulldog, tethered by a leash, lay on the floor of the hall, his jowl between his paws. Beside him were a pair of overshoes, a sword in slings. Visitors in plenty, plainly male.

  The youth who had opened the door must be a servant. Yet he wore no livery and his face was familiar.

  “I’ve seen you somewhere before?” the stranger ventured.

  “Yes, sir. I used to live with Captain Sutton. He sent me here to wait on Mrs. Clarke.”

  So that was it. The stranger laid down his cane. The youth who passed as Sutton’s natural son, but was nothing of the sort—it sounded better. One way of getting rid of him, of course, passing him on as footboy to this house.

  “Please to go up, sir, and announce yourself.”

  It was all most informal, just as he’d been told, even to the sound of scampering feet and shrill delighted laughter. Children en évidence. This was to make the customer unbend—or to hoodwink innocents. He mounted the stair, and entered the drawing-room door. An elderly lady, thin and rather nervous, came towards him, bony hand extended.

  “I’m Mrs. Farquhar. Do make yourself at home. My daughter hasn’t yet arrived from Ramsgate.”

  A glass of wine was offered, and biscuits, handed by a gawky girl in middle teens who flushed to the roots when he thanked her, and then disappeared.

  “Isobel, the gentleman may prefer port to sherry.”

  “No, madam, I assure you. Sherry is delightful.”

  The babble in the room made talking difficult. The old lady was in a fluster—just as well. If he hadn’t known the truth, he would have sworn he had come to the wrong address, and this suburbia. The noisy children romping on the floor, straddling the sofas, climbing the backs of chairs; all the owners of cocked hats and curling brims (some of them he knew by sight, young blades about St. James’s) who romped with the children, too, gave pickabacks, tossing them on high—it lent the whole atmosphere a bourgeois setting, really most amusing to discerning eyes.

  He thought of old Tom Taylor and his message, scribbled from 9 Bond Street late one evening. “I tell you she’s the goods. Don’t fail to call. Between us we can mold her for you-know-whom.”

  There came a sudden stir. The whirlpool livened. The children rushed to the door and the young blades crowded. Through the commotion laughter teased the ear, and a voice to waken interest.

  “Darlings, don’t smother me… George, your disgusting hands. Coal’s great fun in the cellar, not upstairs. Ellen, your drawers need mending, run to Martha… Mother, you’ll hardly credit it, five hours from Ramsgate, it’s never been so long, two horses lame. I could have murdered Cripplegate. Where’s Isobel? I’m famished, I must have some food… Who’s here? Johnny, how are you? Lovely to see you… Harry, too… And Bobby… Fitzgerald, you’re a monster, you let me down last Thursday. We’d better have that party on Friday night… Let’s go to Sadlers Wells, Grimaldi’s back, and the jokes are unrepeatable, I love him so. Who’s that standing in the corner there? I don’t know his face.”

  The stranger was confronted, bowed, kissed hands, muttered a phrase or two and gave his name. He handed his card, begging to be excused for the formality.

  The blue eyes scanned the card, then searched his face. She’s wondering what the deuce I want, he thought. Old Taylor’s right, though; this is the type we need. Quick-witted, and a climber. Just our stuff.

  “Ogilvie? I think I know your name… I heard it quite recently, I can’t think where.”

  “You might have heard of me through Captain Sutton.”

  This puzzled her. She stared him up and down, measured the beef and brawn, then raised her eyebrows.

  “Forgive me. But you don’t look quite his type. He always has curly-headed boys about him. I have one as a footman, Sammy Carter.”

  “Madam, you mistake me. My business with Captain Sutton has been professional.”

  “For that part, so has mine.” Eyebrows still raised, she glanced at his card again, and read—beneath his name—his occupation.

  “Oh! Now I know where I am. An Army agent. That explains all. You must be very busy, with war any moment and young men shouting for commissions. I know dozens.”

  The dazzling smile shone out. His credentials, then, had been accepted. But the card, he noticed, was kept for further scrutiny.

  “A charming house,” he murmured. “Burton’s product?”

  She glanced at him coolly. She did not turn a hair, but she must have understood the implication.

  “Yes,” she replied. “He built it and he’s my landlord, too. Burton’s a Scot, you know, so is my mother. Burtons, Mackenzies and Farquhars, we’re all very clannish.”

  Clannish was putting it mildly; he knew the connection. Taylor had tipped him the wink that she was living rent free.

  “Tavistock Place is very central,” he said. “I always like Bloomsbury. The hub of the world all about you, yet quite an oasis. You must have a wide circle of friends who drop in of an evening?”

  He thought to himself, “If that doesn’t shake her, she’s tough.”

  Her glance never wavered. She helped herself to a biscuit.

  “Close friends are welcome,” she said, “but they come when invited.”

  A barb in the tail? Well… perhaps. He poured her some sherry.

  “Your door knocker’s most entertaining. Where did you discover it?”

  “A junk shop in Hampstead, chosen by George, my son. He was five on St. Valentine’s Day… just a little precocious.”

  “It gives quite an air to the house.”

  “Delighted you think so. Did you like the white paint on the door? It gets very dirty, of course, but shows up in the evening.”

  All right.
Tit for tat. He knew where he was, and enjoyed it.

  “You mean,” he replied, “stray callers can’t miss the color?”

  “Stray callers don’t come. Nor do hawkers, or gypsies with brooms. They might bring fleas to the children. I tell all my friends that the house is next door to the chapel. You must have noticed that too. Very handy for matins.”

  She smiled and passed on, leaving him stuck with the mother. Handy for matins, indeed! Very handy for Burton. For Barrymore, too, and the rest of the Four-in-Hand drivers. But the deuce of a drag from his Savile Row Agency office.

  “More wine, Mr. Ogilvie?”

  “Thank you, ma’am, no. I’ve sufficient.”

  “My daughter has so many friends. We’re quite flooded out on a Wednesday.”

  Flooded all week, so he’d heard, but nearer to midnight, the old lady in bed by that time, tucked up with the children. Just as well, too, if Cripplegate Barrymore called. He showed no discretion at all, so Tom Taylor lamented, in Bond Street—used to drive up in a tandem, blowing his horn and bellowing “Tallyho” for the windows to open, shocking the neighboring tradesmen and waking their wives. All Bond Street complained, and poor Tom Taylor nearly closed down. He was forced to lie low for a while and send clients elsewhere.

  “Do you want to help bath the children, Mr. Ogilvie?”

  Heaven forbid! He had not come for that. Some of the fellows were prepared for anything. Young Russell Manners was rolling up his sleeves, and the Irish lawyer, Fitzgerald, who should have known better, was gamboling with a child upon his back and making already for the stairs. Was this the customary routine upon a Wednesday? If so, Tom Taylor might have warned him.

  “The fact is, ma’am, I’m not very used to children.”

  This worked with the old lady. Not with the daughter. The blue eye fixed him from across the drawing room.

  “Nonsense, Mr. Ogilvie. There’s nothing to it. Soap in a lather, and a scrubbing brush. As an Army agent, it should be part of your job. Think of all those Cornets in the Light Dragoons.”

  Damn it, she put a brat into his arms. A wriggling little chap with sticky hands, who dug his heels into his ribs and yelled, “Gee up.”