The first request was easy. Something for Charley. Charley, whose eyes now shone at the turn of fortune, who saw himself Field Marshal in three years.
“Do you think His Royal Highness… Could you ask him?”
A family matter, private, quickly fixed.
“Sir, my brother’s mad to join the Army. He’s played at soldiers since he was six years old. Might I present him to you, perhaps—one evening? He’s rather young and shy, but desperately keen.”
Charley Farquhar Thompson, therefore, was duly gazetted, cornet in the 13th Light Dragoons, on the 25th of February, 1804.
Sam Carter, footboy, was jealous at Charley’s promotion. If Mr. Thompson joined the Army, why couldn’t he? Captain Sutton had always told him a red coat would suit him.
“Ma’am, I’ve been happy in your service, and you’ve been so kind. But now Mr. Thompson’s gone it’s just a bit lonely, and what with the war and all, and everyone busy. I’d hate you to bother His Royal Highness, but maybe a word…”
“Dear Sam… Of course if you want it, though I can’t bear to lose you.”
Such fun, though, to give her friends what they most desired. Sam Carter was hardly a friend, but he had served her well, and he looked such a lamb in the pantry, cleaning the knives.
“Sir, you know my Sammy, who waits at table?”
“The youth who bends at the waist like a daffodil?”
“Yes. You’ll hardly believe it, he wants a commission. I sent him to school, you know, he’s quite educated. A lovable lad, but he’s wasting his time as a footman.”
“Let me have all the particulars, then, and I’ll see.”
Samuel Carter was commissioned an ensign, 16th Foot. Gazetted around April, 1804. This sort of thing was easy, one name at a time: it was still more or less in the family, and no money changed hands. The test was to come once she started to play with promotions. Each day she made some excuse… but Ogilvie waited.
The clock struck nine, and here was Martha with the breakfast tray. The engagement list was brought, and the slate as well.
“Ma’am, that fellow Few is here again.”
“Who’s he?”
“He had a shop in Bernard Street. You bought a lamp from him for Tavistock Place, nearly a year ago, he says.”
“That Grecian thing Lord Barrymore smashed to pieces? I remember. Well, what does he want now? Selling more relics?”
“No, ma’am, he says the lamp was never paid for. It cost him twenty pounds to get it fitted.”
“Nonsense! He did it in his own back room. Send him away.”
Ridiculous, to pester her at this juncture with a twelve-month-old account from Bloomsbury. Those days belonged to limbo. So did the debts.
“How’s Master George’s cold?”
“He says it’s better, and he doesn’t want to go to school today. He wants to watch the Life Guards in the barracks.”
“Bless him, so he shall. You take him, Martha.”
“But what about Miss Mary and Miss Ellen?”
“They don’t have colds, so they must do their lessons.”
She had a lesson, too—Corri, the music master, at half past ten. Like Sam, he had been a protégé of Sutton’s, but more like a lily than a daffodil, and overblown at that.
“Martha, I have Mr. Corri coming this morning. See that the drawing room’s ready, and my harp uncovered. Mr. Ogilvie at twelve. Miss Taylor said she might call this afternoon. If she does, and I am busy with anyone else, she can go to the children; they’ll be home by then. Tell Parker I shan’t want the carriage before four. Tell Pierson we shan’t be dining until seven, but cook must have all ready by half past six, in case His Royal Highness should be on time. We know he can’t bear waiting for his dinner. What’s on the slate?… Roast duck?… We had it on Sunday.”
“I heard Ludovick mention that the cook at Portman Square had a salmon. If His Royal Highness don’t dine there, it will go to waste.”
“Not if I know it. Send Pierson there to fetch it. But it must be dressed by the oil man round in George Street—the cook can’t do it here, he doesn’t know how. Where are my slippers?”
“There, ma’am, under the bed.”
“What’s in that box?”
“Capes, ma’am, from the dressmaker’s. They’ve sent several for you to try, you can wear them in turn.”
“I don’t like capes, the gossips will say I’m pregnant. Get Pierson to take them back when he fetches the salmon.”
A morning wrapper would do for the music master, hair twisted into a topknot, curls in ribbons. A touch of blue on the eyelid, nothing more.
“Mama… Mama…”
“George, my love, my angel.”
A handkerchief to his nose. “Now run to Martha.” The girls aggrieved and prim: “Why is George excused?” “Because, my darling geese, he’s only six, and if you’re good I’ll take you in the carriage. Now disappear, and leave me to get dressed.”
Down in the drawing room Mr. Corri waited, his face round and waxen on a drooping stem, framed by an aureole of silken hair. He posed by the harp, the door of the drawing room open, in case the inconceivable should happen and His Royal Highness had not left the house.
No use. The hope was doomed to disappointment. Mrs. Clarke ran down the stairs alone, waving her hand.
“Good morning, Corri. Have I kept you waiting? I’m always late, I never get dressed in time.”
“Dear madam, in this house time has no meaning. To breathe the air you breathe is paradise. I passed your fairy children on the stairs.”
“I hope George didn’t kick you on the shin.”
“Dear madam, no. He pursed up his tiny mouth and made the most amusing face at me, for fun.”
“I’m glad you thought it funny. When he does that at me I generally beat his bottom. What shall we sing today?”
“A little Mozart?”
“If it will loosen up the voice, we will. But only as an exercise, no more. His Royal Highness doesn’t care for Mozart. He likes to hear something with a tune, he says.”
“A tune… my dearest madam…”
“Come off it, Corri. You know what I mean. Not tra-la-la, all wind and too much of it, but a song hit from Vauxhall, the broader the better.”
She flipped the pages of the music while he stood by shrinking, a little pained. “These won’t do. I’d sound like a cow in labor. His Royal Highness likes to laugh, not stop his ears.”
She threw his music on the floor and found her own. “Here, let’s try this, we heard it last Thursday night. ‘To London Town I’ll haste away’—here’s something he can beat time to on the floor. And what about this, ‘When Sandy told his Tale of Love’? The third verse is a real shocker.”
“If you insist, sweet madam, if you insist.”
She rippled the harp. Their voices filled the air. Hers true and clear; his throaty, passionate. A knock on the door disturbed the solemn lesson.
“Mr. Ogilvie to see you.”
“Tell him to wait.”
Just one more song, which Ogilvie should hear through the double drawing-room doors and comprehend: “Young William Seeks my Heart to Move.”
She heard the discreet applause at the conclusion. “Now, Mr. Corri, that must be all for now. The same time tomorrow.”
He gathered up his things. “Madam, forgive me mentioning it again, but those gentlemen who are so anxious to make your acquaintance, a Colonel French and a Captain Sandon—would it be possible for one or both of them to call this afternoon?”
“What do they want?”
“I cannot say exactly. They are friends of a friend… I said I would act as intermediary.”
The usual thing, of course. Some favor to be requested. Corri would get a percentage on the deal.
“You mean,” she asked, “some military matter?”
“I think so, dearest lady. Your influence is known. A word in the right quarter, you understand.”
She understood. It happened every day. Le
tters, notes, from strangers or from friends. “Dear Mrs. Clarke, if you could see your way to putting forward my name… A word from you to His Royal Highness would carry more weight than any application to the War Office… and I need hardly say, any recompense you ask I would gladly pay.”
She shrugged her shoulders and handed Mr. Corri his sheets of music. “I can’t promise anything, Corri. These things are very delicate and difficult. Your friends can call, but they may not find me at home.”
“That is for them to risk, dear lady, naturally. But I believe two thousand guineas was the sum they mentioned.”
She turned her back and pretended to rearrange flowers. Just as he moved towards the door she said casually: “For whom, two thousand guineas?”
He sighed with a pained expression, his drooping shoulders emphasizing that he himself had no concern in the matter.
“Sweet madam, you have direct access to His Royal Highness. Need I say more—but use your own discretion?”
He bowed from the waist, and was gone. Two thousand guineas… Double the annual sum the Duke had promised her, which came, at the moment, a dribble month by month, enough to pay the servants and no more.
She opened the double doors and called to Ogilvie, “Well, did you hear me sing?”
He sauntered in with a smile and kissed her hand. No flattery from him, no admiration. He was the only man among her male acquaintances who never once presumed, who kept his distance.
“ ‘Young William seeks your heart to move’? The words intrigued me. I don’t seek to move your heart. Only your head.”
“Which prefers to think for itself, without your assistance.”
She offered him refreshment. He refused. She motioned him to a chair and then sat herself, with her back to the window, watching him.
“You’re like an evil shadow in the background. Why can’t you leave me alone? I’m perfectly happy.”
“Are you?” he said. “I doubt it. No woman’s happy unless she has her man under lock and key. Which your prince isn’t.”
“I keep the cage door open. He’s free to fly. But he always comes home to roost, like a faithful bird.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Domestic bliss is touching. Providing, of course, the bliss continues to last.”
Always the sting, the probe, the innuendo that nothing was permanent.
“Did you ask him about the defenses south of London?”
“No, and I’m damned if I’m going to. I’m not a spy.”
“A spy is a stupid word for a woman of your intelligence to use. It happens that the information can be useful, not necessarily now, but in the future.”
“Useful to whom?”
“To you, to me, to both of us. We’re partners, aren’t we, in this little game? Or were, when we started out.”
The hint, the guarded threat. She was not keeping to the pact agreed.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “He’s honest, direct. The things he tells, he tells in confidence. If I repeated them, I’d call it betrayal.”
“How noble you’ve become, in the last six months. It must be the effect of Gloucester Place. You see yourself established here for good. Perhaps I should remind you of Wolsey’s speech: ‘Put not your trust in Princes’—or am I a cynic?”
“I think you’re a cynic and a traitor too. I shouldn’t be surprised if you left this house and went straight to some French agent with all I’ve said. All right. Go to them. Tell them what we eat and what we drink, what time we go to bed and when we get up. The Paris press can lampoon us if they please; they won’t hear any secrets.” She pulled a face at him, the selfsame face that George had pulled at Corri on the stairs, then stared at him, defiant.
He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t tell me you’ve done the one unforgivable thing, fatal to business and fatal to peace of mind—I’d expect it of some other woman, but not of you—don’t tell me you’ve fallen in love with your princely protector?”
“Of course not. Don’t be absurd.”
She rose and moved about the room. He watched her, thoughtfully.
“I wouldn’t be so sure. It’s insidious, isn’t it? Gives rather a settled feeling, to stick to one man, who isn’t ill-looking and holds his exalted position. It must whip up your response in remarkable fashion.”
Trust Ogilvie to smear trust and gratitude, and probe a hidden, unadmitted weakness. Love was a thing forgotten. Love was over, but not entirely dead when His Majesty’s favorite son was on the pillow.
“I wish to heaven,” she said, “you’d go away. You come here day after day. I have nothing to give you.”
“A little cooperation is all I require.”
“I won’t become a spy. Take that as final.”
“Nothing is final in this shifting world. Remember that; it may be of use someday. But, for the moment, other things are pressing. I closed my business, you know, to become your agent. When do I start?”
“I tell you, I’ve nothing for you.”
He took a folder from his pocket, opened it, pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to her.
“Here’s a list of names,” he said, “a list of officers, in various regiments, all requiring favors. Some of them want promotion, others exchanges. If they go through the ordinary channels, it takes three months.”
“Well, can’t they wait?”
“Of course they can wait, but it isn’t to our advantage to let them do so. You give this list to the Duke, and we’ll see what happens. You know what time to choose, what mood, what moment.”
“He’ll probably refuse.”
“Too bad. We think again. But let me make one suggestion, if I may. Before you give him the list, ask for money. Tell him this house is costing much more than you thought; that you don’t know what to do; that you’re very worried. Then let an hour elapse, and hand it to him.”
“Why an hour?”
“The alimentary tract is delicate, the princely organs slow when digesting medicine. By the way, your story is true, so you won’t tell a falsehood. The house is costing you money. You are very worried.”
Useless to protest. He knew too much, knew her basic fear also, the root of the trouble: “If I should fail, what happens to the children?”—that bogey, lurking in the background of her mind.
She stood there, looking at the list of names.
“Will?”
“Yes, Mary Anne?”
“I’ve had an offer of two thousand pounds. I don’t know yet who from or what it’s all about. They may be calling here this afternoon.”
“See them, have it confirmed, and report to me. Don’t look so solemn, my dear. It’s all very simple. You’ve nothing to lose and everything to gain. The easiest game in the world, when you’ve learned to play it. Two thousand guineas the richer for playing it well.”
“You swear there’s no danger?”
“I don’t follow you. Danger to whom?”
“To the Duke… to me… to all of us… to the country?”
The sudden panic of a cockney child… look out, the beadle’s after you, get under the barrow, quick, or up the alley… don’t you let on to mother where you’ve been.
He said, “This country has been run on graft since the Norman conquest. From the highest bishop down to the lowest low-paid clerk, we’re all in the same line of business. You needn’t worry. Remember your first job with your father’s printer? You fooled the dull-witted then, you can fool them today.”
“But this is different.”
“Oh no, it’s not. The game’s identical. If you hadn’t played it then, you’d have been in the gutter; but you seized your chance and saved your family. If you lack courage now…” he paused; the front door banged, a small boy shouted, the sound quickly followed by scrambling on the stairs “… If you lack courage now, what happens to him?”
“George is to go to the Chelsea school in the autumn, and on to Marlow in a year or two. His future’s quite assured, the Duke has promised.”
&
nbsp; Will Ogilvie smiled, and gestured with his hands.
“A godfather with a wand? How very delightful. Yet wands have a trick of vanishing, and so do promises. If I were George, I’d rather rely on mother.”
The child burst into the room, excited and noisy. “Martha took me to see the Life Guards doing their drill. You will let me be a soldier, won’t you, and ride on a horse after Boney, and cut him to pieces? Hullo, uncle Will. Tell Mama to make me a soldier.”
“I gather from your mother the matter’s in hand. Goodbye, you horrible child. Don’t touch my breeches. Well, Mary Anne, will you send a report in the morning?”
“I don’t know… I can’t promise.”
He left her with the child and she watched him walk away up Gloucester Place. Confidant and friend, or evil counselor? She couldn’t make up her mind. She couldn’t be sure.
“What are you reading, Mama, can I see?”
“It’s nothing, darling. Only a list of names.”
The children were home from school, May Taylor had come to visit. They all went for a drive in the carriage round the park. Should she confide in May and seek her advice? But that would mean an admission of former lies, destruction of the fable built for her family, and for her friends as well, as to how she met the Duke on the first encounter.
“I’ll tell you what happened. I went to an evening party. Someone came up and said, ‘His Royal Highness wants to be introduced,’ and from that moment…” Swallowed by all, accepted and taken for granted. How could she turn to May in the carriage, blurt out the truth and explain, “Your uncle’s a pimp, and so is Will Ogilvie. They hatched up this business between them, with me for investment, and now they’re itching for the dividend”—how could she?