“Do you know a Doctor O’Meara, sir?”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s some sort of deacon in Ireland, and wants to become a bishop. He’s begged me several times for an introduction to you.”
“Not my department. I don’t deal with the Church. Besides, if I did, I don’t like the “O” in his name.”
“He’s a Protestant… Loyal as yourself.”
“No Irishman’s ever loyal, except to his skin. Tell Master O’Meara from me he can stick to his bogs.”
Oh well… if that was the form, no rise for the deacon; and no billet-doux of gratitude, smelling of incense. What would be the price of a bishopric? The same as a colonel? Will Ogilvie wouldn’t know, but Donovan might.
“If you won’t let me come to Weymouth, I’ll go to Worthing.”
“Why Worthing, my precious? Why can’t you stay at home?”
“London, the end of July? The place is dead.”
Coxhead-Marsh was at Worthing, and so was Willy Fitzgerald, the son of the Irish M.P. and rather amusing. The place was all the rage, and rivaling Brighton. Worthing was the answer to the moment’s pique, the children installed at Weybridge with her mother. Even the cash was to hand, and had come that morning: two hundred pounds from Mr. Robert Knight, brother of the colonel who’d got his exchange (per favor of Dr. Thynne) and was prompt in payment.
“Very well, then, go to Worthing. Just as you please. How are you off for money, can you manage?”
Astounding question! A matter so seldom discussed. A prick of the conscience, perhaps, had made him uneasy. And it was not to be wondered at, all things considered. Her allowance had not been paid since the first of May.
“As a matter of fact I’m rolling, thanks to the doctor.”
“What doctor?”
“Doctor Thynne, not the Irish deacon. A small matter of exchanges, do you remember? The names were gazetted today. It is beneath your notice. The only trouble—he’s sent two notes of a hundred, and it’s no use waving them at a lodging-house keeper.”
“Pierson will get ’em changed.”
“What, at this hour?”
“Of course. If he says who it’s for, any tradesman will do it.”
In point of fact, she was thinking, I won’t need much money. Coxhead-Marsh and Fitzgerald between them should take care of that. Rooms at the inn on the front, and both dancing attendance.
“Pierson, get change for this, in tens and twenties.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The Duke rose from the table and took hold of her hand. “Is my darling going to miss me?”
“You know that I am.”
“I’ll try not to be away for more than ten days.”
“Too long by nine… Think of me sitting at Worthing, all alone.”
“Ask little May to go with you.”
“I might. It depends.”
Depended on what? Whether Coxhead-Marsh was amusing, whether Willy Fitzgerald lived up to his Irish eyes.
A long, long kiss. “Take care of your Royal person.” The head caressed, the ears stroked and fondled.
“Damn it, I’d take you to Weymouth if I could. Blast Chesterfield and his brat.”
“I know… I know…”
Two hours to reassure him, and then the horses. He intended to drive through the night, and couldn’t linger. A fond farewell from the window, handkerchief waving.
“Madam, Pierson has brought your change.”
“Oh, Martha, thank you.”
“And, madam, a Doctor O’Meara has called to see you. He said he had hoped to catch His Royal Highness before he left. He expects to be in Weymouth himself this Sunday.”
“Then hope can take him there, and keep him buoyant. If he changes the ‘O’ to ‘Mac’ he might do better.”
“He asked me to tell you, ma’am, that he’s brought a present.”
A present! It was a trifle premature. Nor could she receive a deacon clad in negligee and after midnight.
“Tell Doctor O’Meara I’ll quickly scribble a line to His Royal Highness, which, as he’s bound for Weymouth, he can take with him. Tell him, too, that I’m much obliged for the present, and bring it upstairs.”
Money without guarantee was rather unusual. Deacons had greater faith than serving soldiers. “The deacon’s called,” she wrote, “and brings a compliment. I leave the rest to royal grace and favor. Your pillow looks forlorn. I’m very lonely.” Signed M.A. Dated the 31st.
Martha appeared once more at the bedroom door, bearing a package wrapped in stout brown paper.
“Unwrap it, Martha, but first take the note to the deacon.”
She wrestled with the string, splitting a fingernail, until Martha came to her aid with a pair of scissors. It could be an altar cloth with the money inside it, but felt too hard for that; it must be a stave. She tore off the final wrapping. Martha spoke.
“A set of cricket stumps for Master George.”
The deacon’s handwriting was across the parcel. “These for your bonny boy. Dolls for the daughters to follow. My humble duties.”
It was too late to retrieve the note. The deacon had gone.
“All right, Martha. Cart all this stuff away and take it with you to Weybridge in the morning.”
“Kind of the clergyman, wasn’t it, ma’am?”
“Very thoughtful.”
So much for the Church. The deacon could stay a deacon. And how he’d got as far as that would take some guessing. A tennis bat to the Queen? Or a set of croquet? Really, the Protestants! No wonder the Catholics wanted emancipation.
Cricket stumps for George… could it have two meanings? A hint, perhaps, that games should be encouraged. Some Irish innuendo, some play upon words? Willie Fitzgerald would know, she’d ask him at Worthing.
Yawning and sleepy, she settled herself on her pillow. It was pleasant to have the space empty for once in a while, with a chance to sleep on until ten without any disturbance. Tomorrow the drive to the sea would blow away cobwebs, blow away boredom, rub up her knowledge of cricket… Willie could read her the rules, he was just down from Oxford… The Duke was always rushed, always busy, and Willie was amusing—undergraduates out of the egg were as good as a tonic. It was high time for a pat on the crease and a change in the bowling.
7
The invasion scare was over for the time—Nelson had seen to that, and lost his life. The glory of Trafalgar swept the country and the patriotic tempo rose to fever pitch, only to be damped down by Austerlitz. The enemy were unbeatable on land, or so it seemed.
The Commander-in-Chief had little time for dalliance. His hours were nine till seven at the Horse Guards, and life was a constant battle to get things done. On the one hand his army was screaming for equipment, priority for weapons, clothing, guns, the proposed Expeditionary Force half-trained, not nearly ready; and on the other the politicians were clamoring that a token force should be sent without further delay and Lord Cathcart packed off to the Elbe to join General Don—never mind if the business was skimped, get the men overseas.
The Duke refused to be bullied. His letters to the Prime Minister were firm and concise. “The Expeditionary Force is not yet in a fit state to go to war.” All very fat and fine for Pitt to agitate—he’d be the first to explode if the men were slaughtered, and so would the country too. “Another defeat,” fault of the C.-in-C., the job mismanaged. Let the Ministry shift to the Horse Guards and run the Army: they’d soon throw in their hands and ask for release.
The Prime Minister’s state of health did not help matters. The judgment of a sick man was seldom sound. If he should go, there was no one fully capable to take his place and gain the country’s confidence. The breach would have to be healed between the parties, Fox given a place in the Cabinet, tempers appeased, and if the King protested the King must give way. It was still touch and go with him—another problem. One moment as bright as a button, and balmy the next.
“If anyone wants my job, they’re welcome to it.?
?? The Duke said this one autumn evening when late for his dinner, the edge off his appetite and his temper doubtful. He’d had an interview with Pitt that had got him nowhere; half an hour with the King, who wouldn’t sign a paper but pottered about in a dressing gown playing whist; sneering reports in the papers calling for “action”; a Leader in The Times that made no sense, with uncomfortable allusions to the Melville business, the scandals of last spring still not forgotten—if the First Lord of the Admiralty had to resign, how about probing into Army methods? And then, to crown all, waiting in the hall at Gloucester Place a sneering anonymous letter. He brought it out of his pocket after dinner and, back to the fire in the drawing room, read it aloud.
“Your Royal Highness, and Adulterer. You know the law, no doubt, but if you don’t there are professional men who do, and make it their business. It counts as a criminal offence to steal a wife from her husband, and to alienate the affections of the children from their father. You have done both. So await the consequences.”
The Duke threw the note onto Mary Anne’s lap and laughed. But the laugh was not one of dismissal. It sounded forced. “Some madman, I suppose, from your remote past?”
She recognized the writing instantly, and something touched her heart and turned to stone. Joseph… The letters smudged, the sentences blurred, but his without any doubt, quite unmistakable. Joseph, who’d been removed, so she’d last heard, to some place in the country near Northampton, cared for by relations, hopeless, ailing, no questions ever asked, her name not mentioned.
“Either mad or drunk,” she answered, “probably both,” and tore the note in pieces.
“What does the fellow mean about stealing a wife? A widow can’t keep her affections in the grave.”
“This man expected me to, that’s evident, and has heard our names coupled together. I wouldn’t worry. Throw the bits into the fire where they belong.”
He did so, his expression baffled, rather gloomy. The note had touched some chord in memory. He’d never listened to the yarn she’d spun him: her husband a rotter, dying of D.T.’s, herself thrown on the world with her four young children, and helped, after a struggle, by the builder Burton.
“Do you ever see any of your husband’s relatives?”
“No, never… they live in the country. The family’s scattered.”
He yawned and changed the subject. The matter was closed. She watched the scraps of paper blacken and burn. Was the opportunity missed? Should she confess? Should she say, “The fact of the business is, I’m not a widow. My husband’s still alive, but I don’t know where. I left him; he couldn’t support me or the children.” It was a simple sort of admission, amounting to nothing and hardly at variance with the version told him, yet something had held her back, she didn’t know why. Was it a fear of seeming foolish, of appearing dishonest, thereby dragging the question from him, “Why bother to lie?” There was still time to say, “That handwriting’s my husband’s.” He sat by the fire and dozed while she played the piano. At half past nine she thought, “I’ll broach the subject… I’ll say I always believed myself a widow, then heard through some report that the belief was unfounded, that Joseph lived, insane, in an asylum.” The clock ticked on and passed to a quarter to, chimed ten; and then he stretched, and talked of bed. Too late tonight; tomorrow, perhaps, or next day.
A week went by. And then came another letter, this time sent to the Horse Guards, not to the house. “I want my wife and children. Send them back. If you don’t choose to return them, I’ll take proceedings. A charge in the criminal courts for flagrant adultery would look very well at the moment, with the country in peril.” Signed, and no bones about it, Joseph Clarke.
He gave it to her that evening. “How about it?”
One second’s hesitation. Tears, or laughter? Tears would be an admission of guilt, so laughter was best. Treat the whole subject lightly, brush it aside.
“Then he is alive. I couldn’t decide, last week. The writing had altered so, but now I’m certain. They all swore to me he was dead, and I believed them.”
“But you told me you sat by his bed and watched him die!”
“Did I? I don’t remember, it’s so confused. I was nearly out of my mind, my boy was ill.” It was impossible to recollect the tale she had told. “His brother, the curate, begged us to go away, the children and myself, or we’d never recover—it took two keepers, you see, to hold him down. Then they wrote to me at Hampstead that I was free.”
He was standing in his nightshirt by the bed. The moment was inopportune, ill timed. She was at the dressing table, doing her hair in a ribbon.
He said: “Well? What are you going to do? Return to the fellow?”
“Oh! heavens, what a question! Of course I’m not! Ten pounds will keep him quiet. I’ll write in the morning.”
There was constraint between them, silence on either pillow.
“As if,” he said, “I hadn’t enough on my mind without this damn fool business cropping up.”
“Darling! Don’t worry. I promise you I can deal with him.”
“I’ll show the letter to Adam.”
“Why on earth do that?”
“He’s my personal adviser, he’ll know what to do. He reads fifty threatening letters every day. He and Greenwood between them will fix the fellow.”
Her heart sank. Greenwood… Adam… The men who handled all his official business, who viewed her with suspicion, dislike and mistrust. She knew too well, she’d heard it from all his friends. “Watch out,” James Fitzgerald had warned her often, “those men are out to get you, especially Adam.” She put out her hand to touch him. He was cold, unresponsive.
“Please leave it all to me. I know my Joseph. Ten or twenty pounds will keep him quiet.”
“I wonder… I don’t care for his language. Criminal adultery. I know how these things sound in a court of law. I’d best put Adam onto it.”
A fine start to the winter. The luck had turned. Every day brought some pinprick, some new trouble. There were ridiculous rows with servants, disorganization, the staff all complaining of Martha who gave herself airs. “We won’t take orders from her. We must have them direct.”
“Mrs. Favoury’s been my housekeeper now for thirteen years. Of course you’ll take orders from her, or you’ll have to go.”
Martha was sullen, in tears. “I’ll go myself rather than cause all this fuss from morning till night. Besides, I want to get married.”
“My God, to whom?”
“Walmsley, the coalman. He’s courted me now six months.”
“But Martha, I can’t do without you!”
“You don’t ever say so, and now the young ladies have gone to school at Miss Taylor’s, and Master George to Chelsea, I don’t see that I’m of use to anyone, what with the servants bickering, so spiteful, and all hands turned against me.”
Oh, be quiet!… Get out and stop your blabbing. Let me think. More bills, more endless bills, mostly from Weybridge. The stable beams were rotten, the stalls must be renewed, a new set of rooms built over for the coachman. Bills for potatoes, enough to feed a regiment. A herd of Jerseys bought that gave no milk, caught some disease and died, so she must buy another. Her own little man of business was called to assistance, Mr. Comrie, an attorney, able and very willing.
“Mr. Comrie, disaster threatens!”
“So it appears.” He adjusted his glasses and sorted through her papers, ten, twenty, thirty, tossed on the drawing-room floor. Bills from a hundred sources, all unpaid. “Does His Royal Highness make you no fixed allowance?”
“Eighty a month. What can I do with that?”
She couldn’t explain the promotions on the side, dwindling month by month, with Gordon in office. “You must plead your coverture. That is your only excuse. Admit you are not a widow to all the tradesmen.” Comrie knew—he had done this for her before and settled a case out of court with no one the wiser.
“What happens if I do that?”
“The law can’t comp
el you to pay.”
She had heard the words before, an age ago. It was the advice they’d given her mother, when Bob Farquhar left her. Back to the old, old story.
“Will the bills be sent to my husband?”
“If they can find him. Do you know where he lives?”
“No… no, I’m not certain.”
A hundred bills to Joseph, who could not pay? The bills sent on to the Duke, with a threatening letter? And the bills returned to her. There was no solution.
“I’ve had another letter from your drunken husband,” the Duke would tell her.
She dreaded the words, now sometimes once a week. “I hope you threw them in the litter basket?”
“On the contrary, I’ve given them all to Adam. He’s putting some enquiries into motion.”
Enquiries… What did he mean, what sort of enquiries? She dared not ask. His mood was strange, preoccupied, his manner evasive, as though the guilt was his. Her nerves were as taut as a fiddle string, ready to snap. Something was going on, and he did not tell her. He used to send word by his servant: “Don’t wait dinner. I’m not sure whether I shall be home tonight.”
It was odd, unlike him. He had always been relieved to shake off the dust of the Horse Guards and relax.
There was no one in the house to make a distraction. It had fallen silent, without the children. Mary and Ellen had gone to the Taylor school (largely kept in action by her contributions), and George, now eight, was lording it at Chelsea, a miniature cadet before going to Marlow.
She continued to entertain, but alone, without host or master: the Fitzgeralds, father and son, and Russell Manners, Coxhead-Marsh, the usual crowd of devotees, but the zest had gone out of the game. It was forced, she was acting. Her laugh was a sham, her smile was a façade, the flow of conversation automatic, and always, now, there was a new fear at the back of her mind, “My power isn’t what it was… It’s gone… It’s slipping.”
One morning Mr. Adam called to see her, stating he had been commanded by the Duke of York to make certain enquiries regarding the date of her marriage, the quarter where she had lived prior to marriage, every circumstance, in fact, of her early life.