Mary Anne

  Detained? Nonsense! Gone to the theater, rather. Gone to Fulham Lodge to prepare the bedroom. Slippers laid out, the scent on the dressing table, pillows side by side behind the curtains.

  “Pierson, send someone again, just before nine. It may be that you’re right and he’s detained.”

  At half past nine Pierson was at her side. “His Royal Highness has returned to Portman Square. Mr. Greenwood is with him, and Mr. Adam too. They’re sitting down to dinner. His Royal Highness’s servant asked me to give you this.” He handed her the letter, and she tore it open. It was the Duke’s handwriting, but not his composition—stilted, formal, it was a lawyer’s letter, couched in legal terms:

  “You must recollect the occasion which obliged me to employ my solicitor in a suit with which I was then threatened on your account; the result of those enquiries first gave me reason to form an unfavorable opinion of your conduct; you cannot therefore accuse me of rashly or hastily deciding against you; but after the proofs which have at last been brought forward to me and which it is impossible for you to controvert, I owe it to my own character and situation to abide by the resolution which I have taken and from which it is impossible for me to recede. An interview between us must be a painful task for both, and can be of no possible advantage to you; I therefore must decline it.”

  The panic and the fear went instantly, and in their stead a sort of fury seized her. She ran upstairs, found herself a cloak, threw it around her shoulders and opened the front door. It was a warm May evening, the sunset gold and gleaming. She ran along Gloucester Place to Portman Square. She didn’t care who saw her, who turned their heads. There was only one thought in her mind, to see him, confront him. No use until after Greenwood and Adam left. She stationed herself at the corner of Portman Square in sight of the pillared doorway, watching the fanlight. An hour went by. She didn’t care; she waited. Let passing strangers think whatever they chose.

  At last dim figures appeared on the doorstep, leaving. It was dusk by now, the whole square was in shadow. Presently his carriage came to the door. That proved it. No single bed at Portman Square tonight, but a ten-foot stretch of thistledown at Fulham. She crossed the square, and as the front door opened, disclosing his servant with his traps and baggage, she mounted the steps and walked into the hall.

  “Good evening, Ludovick.”

  The servant started, stammered, “Good evening, ma’am.”

  “Where is His Royal Highness?”

  “Madam, I hardly know.” Shaken and pale, he looked towards the stairway. She gathered up her gown and mounted, calling aloud in clear and ringing terms, “All set for the rough-and-tumble down to Fulham?” A valet she’d never seen appeared from a bedroom. “Get out, and let me pass.” She pushed him aside and the man, too surprised to seize her, let her go.

  “So this is the bachelor bedroom. I’m glad to see it.” She stood in the doorway, smiling, wrapped in her cloak. The Duke was bending down to change his breeches, one leg uplifted, his foot balanced on a chair.

  “Caught with your breeches down. I beg your pardon. But it isn’t for the first time, after all. That’s how the French observed you once in Holland. And Flanders, too, if memory serves me right.”

  He reached for a dressing gown, his face dull purple. She slammed the door and leaned against it, laughing.

  “Oh, God, don’t blush for me. I’m used to drawers. I’ve seen that pair fifty times at Gloucester Place, washed by the laundry maid and hung to dry. Well, here’s to your evening.”

  She motioned with her hands in gesture of drinking. He pulled on his dressing gown, restoring dignity.

  “I implore you,” he said, and his voice was low and hurried. “Leave this house instantly, before my servants throw you out. For the sake of the past, and all that we’ve been to each other.”

  “For the sake of the past,” she mimicked; “a fine reminder. I’m to remember, and you’re to slip off and forget. My God, you’ve got some recollections coming. At least you’ve dined, or so your servant said, so you won’t have to wolf the food that’s waiting at Fulham. Cold soup, if I remember, followed by mutton. Does Mrs. Carey like her lamb with spinach? Pastry hard or puffed? Or daren’t she eat it? I’m glad she’s up to your weight, it should keep her in training. If she pirouettes in the sheets she’ll damage the linen.”

  “Take her away,” he said, to the waiting servants.

  She’d used the words herself a few nights before. “Take him away,” she had said, at Gloucester Place. The victim was Joseph. And her staff had obeyed. This time she stood alone at the top of the stairs. Nobody touched her. Smiling she bowed to the Duke and, for the last time, curtseyed.

  “I’m going. But I can tell you one thing first. If you take away your protection from George, from the children—never mind me; I can fend for myself, I’m a woman—you’ll suffer for it, and regret it always. I’ll see that your name goes down to posterity… stinking. Remember… Well, I wish you luck.”

  She walked down the stairs, waving her hands to the servants, and crossed the square. Her own house was in darkness, the lights extinguished. She knocked and rang three times; nobody answered. Rats and the sinking ship? She shrugged her shoulders. Presently she heard the sound of horses—it was the carriage driving away from Portman Square. The night was still and warm, and the stars were shining.

  8

  Reaction was swift and sudden. It had not happened. Five hours of feverish sleep, and it seemed to her all a dream, Adam an evil spy who had come between them. Everything could be explained: another interview—forget about last night’s—would smooth away mistakes and misunderstanding. He had not meant what he said; she’d win him back. Notes were dispatched to Portman Square, to Fulham, to Oatlands on the Friday, even to Windsor. Two laconic scraps came in return.

  “If it could be of the least advantage to either of us, I should not hesitate in complying with your wish to see me; but as a meeting must, I think, be painful to both of us under the present circumstances, I must decline it.” The style was not his own but Greenwood again. Greenwood and Adam between them, standing behind him.

  “I enter fully into your sentiments concerning your children, but cannot undertake what I am not sure of performing. With regard to Weybridge, I think that you had better remove your furniture.”

  And leave the house stripped and bare for Mrs. Carey? Was it too far to drive from Oatlands to Fulham Lodge?

  She sat with the notes in her hands. The bluff was over. It wasn’t a dream. She had merely joined the throng of his discarded mistresses, women who’d served their time, and the time was done. He hadn’t the courage to tell her so to her face. Therefore the lame excuse of enquiry into her conduct, and the trumped-up charges of Adam, saved his conscience. A woman who pleased no longer was an encumbrance. Out… and the faster the better… make way for the next. If you want redress then send for a lawyer, but bid the lawyer beware before he attacks. A prince of the blood royal doesn’t submit to blackmail. The lawyer and the client can go to jail. So… accept your congé with a smiling grace or find yourself in Newgate… take your choice.

  She put the notes among the hundred others, love letters all of them, bound with scarlet ribbon, then sent for her attorney, Mr. Comrie. She told him the truth (she knew him too well to beg for pity), and then she said, “Is there any redress, any claim I can make upon him?”

  “None. You have no bond in writing.”

  “His promises in the past? His frequent vows that nothing and no one would separate us, that if anything happened to me he’d look after the children?”

  “Verbal promises only. Nothing is documented.”

  “I’ve kept all his letters. I have them here, you can see them.”

  He shook his head, pursed up his mouth, and declined. “Intimate letters between a man and his mistress, without any promise of settlement, allowance or annuity, would have no sort of value in a court of law. I’m sorry, Mrs. Clarke, but there’s no redress. The only thing I can do is
to see Mr. Adam, and make some arrangement for the payment of your annuity. Four hundred a year is small, after all this splendor, but that of course can’t be helped: you must live accordingly.”

  “What about my debts? Who’s to pay them? I must owe you a thousand pounds at least.”

  “His Royal Highness may allow you to sell the house. I would estimate the worth at four thousand pounds. This sum would cover a part of the debts outstanding.”

  “And these letters?”

  “What letters, Mrs. Clarke?”

  She pointed to the bundle tied up in ribbon. “These love letters. What are they worth to the world? They aren’t all passionate scribbles, you know, Mr. Comrie. His Royal Highness was frequently most indiscreet. There are references here to His Majesty and to the Queen, to the Prince of Wales, the Princess, to the Duke of Kent. I rather think that if the royal family saw them…”

  Mr. Comrie looked very grave. He held up his hand. “My advice to you, then, is to burn them, and burn them at once. Any attempt to threaten His Royal Highness, or any of his family, would be disastrous to you and to your children. That I assure you.”

  The lawyer mind. All right, she wouldn’t press it. She’d pass the matter over but keep the letters.

  “Thank you, Mr. Comrie. I rely upon you. Then you’ll see Mr. Adam at once?”

  “I will see him today. In the meantime, what are your plans? You intend to stay here?”

  Her plans? She had no plans. Her world was cracked. There was no need for Mr. Comrie to know it, though. Finance was his affair, not shocked emotions, nor humbled pride, nor outraged sense of justice.

  “I expect I shall go out of town, to stay with friends.” Which is where, she thought to herself, the pudding gets proven. How many of the flatterers would remain, or were they all in attendance down at Fulham? Less than a week would show, as the word got round. Buzz… buzz… have you heard?… it’s true… H.R.H. has sacked her… serve the slut right, it was time he sent her packing… every bitch has its day, and hers was waning.

  Roll up the carpets, get out the boards “FOR SALE.” But no one must ever know how much it rankled, what it meant to her: the loss of face, position, style and favor, apart from the loss of a man, and that man a prince—when a pillow was royal, embraces had a pedestal value, but any experience shared, prince or no prince, produced emotion. Shifting, transitory, lasting, what did it matter? All flesh felt the same, for three hours, or for three years; but after three years individuality, the very pigment, had impressed itself. Hands and thighs and shoulders became known, and so did moods, and temperament at breakfast: laughter for no reason after midnight, ease of intimacy, pride of possession, the glow beneath the heart, the knowledge “This man is mine!” Now all that was over. She had been kicked out of bed, like a scullion from a kitchen. Therefore she must pretend, show the bold front to the world, the careless shrug, tell the blackest lie, if black lies eased the shame.

  “H.R.H. is up to his neck in debt. (Pepper a fib with truth, it always paid.) I haven’t the heart to be a burden on him, so I’m planning to leave the house in Gloucester Place, sell most of the furniture and store the rest, and do the same with Weybridge—he can’t afford it. It’s miserable for us both, but it’s really better. I shall move down to the country with the children, and then, if things improve, return to London. Poor darling, he’s so involved with this Goddamn war, he practically sleeps at the Horse Guards. I never see him.”

  If she said it often enough she’d really believe it, and so would her friends, or those who mattered most—her family, above all her mother and Charley. And Bill, in case Bill should say, “I told you so. I warned you again and again, I knew this would happen,” and then offer her once more that Uxbridge cottage, diffident and shy, but newly confident. “It’s all I can do at the moment, but later on…”

  Bill, in fact, must be the last to know. The closer the friend, the worse the sting of shame. With relief she heard he was due to sail in the expedition to Buenos Aires early in June. It would be time enough to tell him when he returned.

  The children—how deal with the children? Mary, at thirteen, had intuition, and Ellen, at ten, was sharply inquisitive. May Taylor’s little boarding school sufficed, but holidays must be thought of, arrangements made, questions fobbed off. “But why must we leave Gloucester Place?” must be answered with, “London is so expensive, darlings, it will do us all good to rusticate.” When the moment came, she would borrow somebody’s house.

  Ireland. What about Ireland, and the Fitzgeralds? Both father and son had sworn friendship again and again. “If ever you want any help just call upon us.” She put out a feeler, and found that St. George’s Channel made a very effective division when crisis occurred. Protestations came from both, but also excuses: the climate was so damp in Ireland, they knew she would hate it, and Jamie Fitzgerald’s wife was inclined to be tricky, and Willie was working very hard, and life was a problem, and so on, and so on, but perhaps they might meet in the autumn?

  In other words, Mrs. Clarke, there’s nothing doing. Not at the moment, anyhow. Members of Parliament have to watch their step, even an Irish member and a Radical, but time may show which way the cat will jump. She thought of the letters Jamie Fitzgerald had written after three glasses of port at Gloucester Place, and of the things he’d whispered during dinner. No wonder his wife was tricky, it didn’t surprise her; she’d be even trickier still if she read the letters, which were all in a neat little box, tied up with tape. Who else had vowed fidelity and friendship? Will Ogilvie, but not with his hand on his heart. As man to man, as partners sharing a business. The business had bust, she awaited the curt farewell. She might fool the others, she didn’t expect to fool Will.

  He called, his usual urbane, casual self, the morning she was trying to decide what furniture to sell and what to store.

  “Don’t panic,” he said coolly; “keep the best. Possessions are an investment, and you’ll need them. Throw out the junk, the flashy gimcrack stuff. That’ll have a certain notoriety value at the moment, and will sell well.”

  She looked at him closely. His manner had not changed.

  She said, “I didn’t think I should be seeing you. I rather imagined you’d have moved to Fulham.”

  “No business there,” he replied; “she’s not the type. She won’t last long. I give her about six months.”

  “And then?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “In point of fact, my cards are still on you. I think it’s extremely likely you’ll get him back.”

  The turn of the tide. She felt a rush of hope to her heart.

  “What makes you think so? Have you heard any rumors?”

  “Only that Adam and Greenwood between them cooked your goose. They knew what we’ve been working at, of course. Our business spoilt their private money market, so you had to go. It’s been boiling up for months, ever since Gordon took over as M.S. from Clinton. It was Adam, by the way, who introduced H.R.H. to Mrs. Carey. She hasn’t a brain to her head, so she’s no danger.”

  “But the Duke’s in love with her, Will?”

  “A flash in the pan. A fillip to a jaded palate. He’s working too hard. And he’s sensitive as an eel to criticism. There’s plenty of it coming, you wait and see. Watch Parliament during the approaching session. The Whigs are out to get somebody’s blood, and no one would suit their purpose better than the Commander-in-Chief of an army on the hop.”

  The turmoil in her mind was suddenly quietened. Will’s values were realistic, down to earth, his spades were ruddy shovels, razor-edged, so different from Bill’s moral inhibitions. There would be no sympathy from Will, no cottage at Uxbridge, but a brace to the sagging shoulders, a kick on the buttocks.

  “All right,” she said, “you landed me into this, you and Tom Taylor between you. Now what’s the betting?”

  He put out a professional hand and touched her face, lifted the contours where the telltale lines, deepened from loss of sleep, betrayed their presence.
r />   “You want it straight?”

  “For God’s sake, yes. I’m sick of flatterers.”

  “Lie low, then, for a year and get some rest. Anxiety can play hell with a woman’s looks, especially when she relies, like you, on charm and humor. You haven’t a decent feature in your head. The expression in your eyes is all that matters.”

  “What do you suggest, a nunnery?”

  “No. Boredom for six months, and a bed to yourself, unless you’ve some fancy fellow up your sleeve you can whistle along to amuse you now and again. Don’t worry about expenses. The game continues.”

  She looked at him and smiled. “You’ve missed your vocation. You ought to have been a physician mixing medicines. No pills to a woman past thirty, only champagne. How does the game continue? Where, and when?”

  “The split’s only gossip so far, and hasn’t spread. The small fry all believe you still have influence. Army promotions are out, but there’re plenty of government departments I know how to handle, and you can fool the clients if you have royal backing. The cash will still come your way, make no mistake. Then, when Mrs. Carey’s run her race and you’ve got back your complexion, we’ll see how the land lies. By the way, you kept his letters?”

  “Every one.”

  “Good girl. They may be needed. Lock ’em up. Meantime, if you have any Whigs among your friends cling on to them and let the Tories go. This Coalition won’t last another year.”

  “You don’t mean the Whigs would get in? The King wouldn’t have them.”

  “They won’t ‘get in,’ as you put it, but as a strong Opposition they can make themselves unpleasant, and will nose out any scandal to suit their cause. In which case you and I might find them useful. But never mind that for the moment; one jump at a time. I take it your lawyer Comrie represents you officially, and has squeezed all he can out of Adam and Greenwood and Co.?”