Sometimes she scribbled “Burn this” at the top of her notes, but sometimes she forgot; when things went well precaution seemed unnecessary. At the end of July she had a moment’s panic. Colonel Clinton, Military Secretary at the War Office, was succeeded by Colonel Gordon, more watchful, more alert. Rumors abounded: the new M.S. was tricky, he intended to look into things, had found his department slack. A hurried note to Sandon went on its way: “Ere I leave town I scratch a few lines, begging you to be on your guard in every point; but of my name in particular, for the future never breathe it. I am confident you have a number of enemies, for yesterday the D. was assailed from seven or eight different persons with invective against you. He is a little angry at something, but will not tell it me.”
Angry, she wondered, because Gordon was asking questions, and poking his nose into matters that Clinton had skipped? There had been some yap about the levy business, gossip was rife on that and other things. There were too many go-betweens and whispering tongues. Not Ogilvie, of course, he could be trusted; but French, perhaps, in Ireland, or even Corri?
“Have you been talking?”
“Sweet madam, I protest…”
“Some rumor’s got around, and His Royal Highness knows it. If you’ve kept any notes about that recruiting affair—you know to what I allude—for God’s sake burn them.” She sent him flying home with ashen lips.
“Keep calm,” said Will. “The wind will die down in time. New brooms are always officious, give Gordon his head.”
“You swore there was no danger…” she began.
“Nor is there any. We’ll let him settle in.”
Gordon settled in with a vengeance and seized the reins. One of the first results of the new régime was a letter circularized to all Army agents, dated Horse Guards, September 28th, 1804:
“Gentlemen, His Royal Highness the Commander-in-Chief, having the strongest reason to believe that an extensive correspondence is carried on with the officers of the army, by persons styling themselves army brokers, to induce them to enter into pecuniary engagements for the purpose of obtaining commissions, contrary to the established regulations, and it being the earnest desire of the Commander-in-Chief to check, as much as possible, a practice so extremely prejudicial to the service; I am commanded to draw your attention to this important point, and to impress upon you the necessity of the utmost vigilance in preventing, as far as may be in your power, any communication whatever with those persons and the officers in your agency. And should it at any time appear that any such commissions should have been negotiated through your office, the Commander-in-Chief will consider it his duty to recommend to the Colonels of the respective regiments to notice such irregularity, by withdrawing their regiments from that agency, and placing it in other hands.
“I have it further in command, to desire that you may be pleased to convey to the officers commanding regiments in your agency, the most marked disapprobation of His Royal Highness of this improper and secret traffic and to assure them, that if subsequent to the date of this letter any commissions shall be discovered to be so obtained, such commission will be immediately canceled, and the officer be reported to the King, as having acted in direct disobedience to the orders of the Commander-in-Chief.
“Signed, J. W. GORDON.”
And how do we laugh that off? wondered Mary Anne, watching the autumn leaves from her house in Weybridge, while she awaited the Duke’s return from his Duchess at Oatlands, a grateful scrap from a captain tossed into the fire and four hundred pounds, in banknotes, in her bosom.
6
The game continued, but slowly, with greater stealth. She had gone too far to retract; she was up to her neck. For a time applications cooled—the fish were frightened; but with the turn of the year they nibbled again. There was no other way to live. She was desperate for money. The upkeep of both the houses doubled and trebled, she did not know how to retrench or how to save. Every day Martha would come to her with complaints.
“The butcher’s not been paid, ma’am, for three months. He says he won’t supply us anymore, not unless he’s paid part of what’s owing.”
“Martha, don’t tease me, I’ve got a painting lesson.”
Always some lesson, singing, painting, dancing, to keep abreast of the latest craze in town. Painting on velvet was the rage at present.
“If I don’t tease you, ma’am, they go for me. The butcher says it’s me that keeps the money, and I don’t let him have it.”
“Here, take this.”
There were some notes thrust in a drawer, intended for the jeweler—a pair of earrings fabulous on white, she had to have them—part of this must go to appease the butcher.
“The coal merchant’s turning nasty, ma’am, as well. He grumbled last week when he delivered. We’re due for another load in a few days’ time, what with all the fires in every room.”
More notes, found in a box, to feed the coalman. The smaller tradesmen must come first, it was only fair. The jeweler could always wait, or retrieve his earrings. “Martha, it’s the kitchen that eats the meat.” The kitchen was generally scapegoat at these times. “His Royal Highness and I have the smallest appetites. Great joints go down to the basement. I know, I’ve seen them.”
“Well, ma’am, what can you expect? We’re ten in the kitchen. The men have appetites and must be fed.”
Ten in the kitchen—had it reached those proportions? There was always somebody new, to wait on another. The cooks wouldn’t sit down with the scullions, or the maids with the footmen; whoever made the beds wouldn’t wash the dishes.
“Oh, Martha, see to it. I haven’t time.”
Back to the velvet painting and then on to Kensington, the theater that night, Weybridge the following day—and further demands for cash from the staff in the country. She’d had a whim in the summer to grow vegetables, but instead of a small garden behind the house three fields had been fenced in, the fault of someone—orders mistaken, the job mismanaged—and now she had two draft horses to pay for and feed. This meant, of course, a man for them alone. Her grooms would only touch the carriage horses. “But where’s the man to live? He must have a cottage—he’s got a wife and four children.”
So it went on, a crazy whirligig. The top, once set in motion, never stopped. There were family claims as well, besides the tradesmen and the servants. James Burton, heaven be praised, never asked for rent, but the house in Tavistock Place must be kept for her mother and for Isobel, now engaged to a Taylor brother, with the Taylor circumstances suddenly not so good. May’s father was failing on the Stock Exchange, and poor May was in tears. Obliged to leave their house, she and her sister were thinking of setting up school, but it was out of the question unless they had some help.
She must delve in the drawer once more, and somehow find another five hundred to install poor May and her sister in Islington. Then another two hundred to pay for Isobel’s wedding. The thing was, money went… She could not keep it.
Next Charley decided to turn himself into a problem. He wasn’t happy in the 13th Light Dragoons and wanted to exchange. Could his sister fix it? This came at an awkward moment, when things were sticky, but she managed it, however, and had him transferred to the 7th Regiment of Foot, the Fusiliers. Six months later he came running to her again.
“I loathe it in the 7th, I want to exchange.”
“But darling boy, you said that in September!”
“I know. It was all a mistake, I wish now I hadn’t. The 7th is absolute hell, I prefer the cavalry. I’m told I can get an exchange into the 14th Dragoons, but of course it will have to be wangled. Can you do it?”
“I’ll see… but you must understand, you can’t play at soldiers.”
“I’m more likely to get to the top in the Dragoons.”
She felt uncertain of that, but did not say so. The fact that she lived with the Duke had gone to his head, and rumor had reached her ear that he was not liked. “Tell that brother of yours to shut up, or fellows won’t stand it.
He’s far too big for his boots, and doesn’t he show it!”
When Charley was fixed, there was a wail from Sammy. Poor Sammy Carter, she’d hoped he was overseas, delighted at being an ensign and dressed to the nines. Not a bit of it—he was stuck in a troopship, lying off Spithead.
“Honored Madam,” he wrote from the transport Clarendon, “impelled by my dreadful situation, and my perfect knowledge of your goodness, I trust you will pardon the liberty of addressing you again. Since my last, the embarkation has taken place, and I am now on board in a situation not to be described. I have no stock for the voyage, neither have I any money to purchase those little things that are absolutely necessary. I have to keep watch four hours every night, and have nothing to eat but salt meat three times a week, and water to drink, the rum being so bad, it’s impossible to drink it.
“Your goodness to me has ever been such as leaves not the smallest doubt you will not suffer me to starve in the situation you have been pleased to place me, and which is such as will ever tend to make me the most grateful and happy of beings. Should, madam, you be induced to take into consideration my wretched case, and by a little pecuniary aid save me from everything that is horrible, it will be an act worthy of yourself, and that imprint upon my heart which will never be erased.
“I am, Madam, your grateful servant,
“SAM CARTER.”
Poor pet of a Sammy, languishing on salt meat. She sent fifty pounds at once to build up his strength. What a mistake that he had ever left her service—he wasn’t cut out for a soldier, she always knew it. He thanked her profusely, enclosing a bill for his clothes. Swords and sashes, belts and feathers, jacket and trimmings, gloves and stockings, even a watch from pledge at two pound ten, the whole thing totting up to another forty. Oh well, it couldn’t be helped, poor Sam must be saved. She hoped he would settle down, and not write for a transfer.
“Madam?”
“Martha… what now?”
“Doctor Thynne to see you.”
Dr. Thynne, at least, did not want money. He had been paid for his services, thank heaven—the children’s colds in the winter, her mother’s rheumatics, a queasy moment herself lasting forty-eight hours (attended to with skill and discretion, the Duke’s hopes dashed), a poultice for Martha, a cupping for Parker the coachman.
“Dear Doctor Thynne, and what can I do for you?”
“Nothing for me, Mrs. Clarke. Just a word for a friend…”
The same old racket… but Thynne hadn’t tried it before. Off with the bedside manner, the patient’s smile (“Thank you, I’m better today, I’m doing well”), and on with the business face, the office status.
“What are the particulars?” The routine formula.
“A patient of mine, a lady, has a husband. The husband has a brother, a Colonel Knight.”
“In words of three syllables, Knight is the applicant?”
“Yes, Mrs. Clarke. Colonel Knight hopes to make an exchange with a brother officer, a certain Colonel Brook. The matter has been sent up by the regular method, but there is endless delay…”
“I know, I know.” The usual words, she knew them by heart. “I’ll do my best. Did they mention the compliment?”
“Two hundred pounds, I think my patient said.”
She had got three hundred and fifty for an exchange, but that had been in the past, before Gordon took over. Two hundred was not to be sneezed at, all things considered.
“Two hundred is rather small, but as you’re a friend I’ll make an exception. Banknotes, of course.”
“Whatever you wish, Mrs. Clarke. My friend will be grateful.”
“The notes to be sent to the house when the names are gazetted. I’ll try and get it through by the end of this month.”
God, the heat in July. London was stifling. There was hardly a breath of air, even in Weybridge. The sea was what she needed, complete relaxation. If she didn’t ease off she’d go mad, as crazy as the King. They’d packed him off to Weymouth to take salt baths. Salt baths were the latest answer to straws in the hair. She would go to Weymouth too, if she had the money. The two hundred pounds from Knight might come in handy. Round and round went the mind, in a dizzy tangle.
War fever had the country again this summer, and invasion was the only topic ever discussed. Would Boney dare? He had the men, he hadn’t got the ships, the weather was not right, fog in the channel, one chap can whack ten Frenchmen any day, but if he landed what was the plan for London?
“In your position, you must hear so much. Please tell us, what does the Duke intend to do? And is it really true what Lord Stanhope says, that the French have a secret device to sink our ships?”
As if she knew… or knowing, would have told. So many spiteful tongues awaited the chance to start a smear campaign and discredit the Duke. Those letters in the Morning Post, signed “Belisarius”—she tried to track the author, but couldn’t find him. Sutton swore it was a man called Donovan, some veteran on half pay who bore a grudge, but Donovan called and proved his innocence and even undertook to send her clients (getting the usual rake-off on the side).
The greatest surprise of the spring had been Bill’s assistance. Since the argument in the drawing room a year before she had barely seen him, for he had chosen to keep his distance. And then the invasion scare had caught him too. He admitted the fact at Isobel’s wedding reception, stung to patriotism and rather pompous.
“With the country alarmed as it is, I can’t stay idle. I intend to look for a job as soon as possible.”
“What sort of a job?”
“It’s hardly for me to say. Whatever I can do to most benefit. I’m prepared to offer my services to whichever government branch sees fit to employ me.”
She thought of the wedding reception still to be paid for… “Appointments aren’t easy to get. The plums are all taken.”
“I’m well aware of that,” he said. “I’m not out for a plum. Like others, I merely wish to serve my country.”
“You may have to pay for the privilege.”
“I’m aware of that, too.”
“In which case I’ll find you a job, and you can pay me.”
She said it with a smile. He turned away. But when the bride and the groom had left in a shower of rose leaves and the guests had all departed, she caught him, alone—this time without a smile on her face and with tears in her eyes.
“What’s the matter?”
“Isobel looked so happy, I’m crying for her. My own wedding, thirteen years back, was very different. No wedding guests for me, and no rose petals. This will have to be paid for somehow, God knows when.”
“Finance still difficult?”
“Worse than it’s ever been, but I needn’t bore you… I hope you succeed in finding yourself an appointment.”
He knew what she meant. He looked at her, torn in two. Standards, principles, all the things he cherished, swayed in the balance against her necessity.
“Just exactly what do you want?” he ventured to ask her.
“If you’d like it straight from the shoulder—a thousand pounds. Five hundred to pay for this wedding. And the rest? To stop the mouth of a jeweler who’s started to press. In return for which I’ll find you an appointment, and nobody but ourselves need ever know.”
“I’d have to tell my father. I haven’t the money.”
“Tell your father, then. He knows the world. Appointments don’t hang on trees, merely for asking. Someone will have to play the go-between. Why not your closest and your dearest friend? Or aren’t I? Is that finished?”
There was no argument, after that, no hope of withdrawal. She had him on a string, hanging and helpless, and before three months had passed he was serving at Colchester, Assistant Commissioner of Stores to His Majesty’s Forces. The wedding expenses were cleared, the jeweler pacified.
“Sir?”
“What is it, my darling?”
“Can I come to Weymouth?”
“Impossible, my angel. The King will be there.” br />
“The King won’t be in a lodging at two in the morning…”
“Nor shall I be, either. My visit’s official. And there’s a christening on the Sunday, Chesterfield’s boy. I’m to be a godfather, a tremendous to-do. If you come to Weymouth I shouldn’t so much as glimpse you.”
Always that firm line drawn between what was official and what was private, and never by any chance the smallest attempt to bridge the gap; whereas with the Prince of Wales and Mrs. Fitzherbert… with the Duke of Clarence and Mrs. Jordon… even with Kent and his old French mistress… She supposed it was a sense of duty, to spare the Duchess.
“You’re not ashamed of me, by any chance?”
He stared at her across the dinner table. “What’s troubling you, my sweet, a touch of colic?”
“No… thunder in the air; I’m out of sorts.”
He wouldn’t understand the sudden urge that came on her at times to have more power, to plan, to make decisions, to share his life; not in the way she did, but as an equal. She thought of the fatal breach of tact one Sunday at Weybridge. Careless, not thinking, she had installed herself in a pew, and had preened and smiled as he entered the church with the Duchess. Black as a cloud, he had looked the opposite way, but that night the anger exploded.
“What the devil did you mean by flaunting yourself in church before my household? You dare do that again, and I’ll have you whipped.” My God… and he meant it, too. She hadn’t forgotten. And yet her presence in Weybridge was known to all, his visits to her of an evening shrugged at, accepted. The dividing line again. In private, it was permissible. But to sing Glory Be with the Duchess brought instant pollution. Not to the Duchess, however, went pleas for preferment.