Mary Anne

  Rounds three and four of the contest—roughly equal. Advantage to neither side and no losses sustained.

  Towards the end of July, or at the beginning of August, the Prince of Wales, before proceeding to Brighton, received a scented note at Carlton House. The sentences were few and the note unsigned. The address was given as 14 Bedford Place. The scent intrigued him, also the allusion to his younger brother, the Duke of York. The thing that caught his eye was the seal at the bottom. Cupid riding an ass… the humor pleased him. He tossed the note to McMahon, his private secretary. “Go and see what she wants, but don’t go upstairs. If it’s who I think it is, she’ll tear off your breeches.”

  Colonel McMahon, used to such encounters, saddled with many before of a similar nature, called at Bedford Place with a certain assurance. The servant who opened the door was round and stolid.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Excuse me. Who does this house belong to?”

  “Mrs. Farquhar, sir.”

  The name was unfamiliar. His master had made a mistake. The house was respectable.

  “I should like to see Mrs. Farquhar.”

  “Please to come in, sir.”

  The parlor was rather untidy and not very clean, the chairs still round the table from last night’s supper.

  “What name, sir?”

  “I prefer to give no name.” He produced the note from his pocket. “I have called in answer to this, your mistress may know.”

  The round-faced servant stared at the scented note.

  “That’s right, sir. I put it in the post myself. I’ll go and tell the mistress you want to see her.”

  She spoke in a familiar tone, with no respect—she must be a servant of long standing in the family. He waited with some impatience in the parlor and finally, after nearly twenty minutes, was shown up to a drawing room.

  The sofa was à la Récamier, with a figure reclining, her hair in a Grecian knot, slim feet in sandals. The room was well screened… and no one within earshot. She rose with a brilliant smile to drop a curtsey, then saw it was not his master… and relaxed.

  “How do you do? I don’t think I have the pleasure?”

  “My name is McMahon. I have the honor to be the private secretary to the Prince of Wales. You are Mrs. Farquhar?”

  “I call myself Mrs. Farquhar from time to time.”

  “You are, I take it, a friend of Mrs. Clarke’s?”

  “Her closest friend. Nobody knows her so well. I may say, with perfect frankness, that nobody living has such a regard for Mrs. Clarke as I have. You don’t know her?”

  “No, ma’am. Her reputation, but not her person.”

  “Which speaks for itself, or doesn’t it? Please inform me.”

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Farquhar, if the lady’s your friend, but nothing I’ve ever heard is to her advantage. Her gross ingratitude to the Duke of York after extreme generosity is common knowledge.”

  “Is it gross ingratitude to give up your life to a prince, and after three years to be scuttled away to the country, on promise of a pension that isn’t paid?”

  “As to that, ma’am, I know nothing.”

  “Harassed by spies and creditors, threatened with prison, her brother disgraced from the Army—is that generous? Would the Prince of Wales treat Mrs. Fitzherbert so?”

  “I regret, I cannot discuss my illustrious master.”

  “I could—I think he’s delightful, and always have done, but that’s beside the point. Colonel McMahon, Mrs. Clarke cannot possibly communicate what she has to say to a third person, but only to the Prince of Wales himself.”

  “Mrs. Clarke must be disappointed, then. His Royal Highness left this morning for Brighton. He told me to receive any message and pass it on.”

  “If I’d known he was going to Brighton I’d have gone there.”

  Colonel McMahon twisted his gray mustache. “His Royal Highness will regret the missed occasion. In the circumstances, please make do with me. Am I guessing correctly—you are Mrs. Clarke?”

  She smiled and held out her hands, “Of course I am.”

  “A thousand pardons, then, for all I’ve said. Hearsay, please understand, and I’m not the painter. The picture in front of me now is very different from the portrait drawn by others.”

  “Drawn by Adam? And probably Greenwood, too? You shouldn’t have listened. Come and sit down beside me on the sofa.”

  It was rather a pleasant morning, by no means misspent. Biscuits and wine were brought at eleven, and then the session continued with this and that and the other till nearly twelve.

  “The thing I like most, of course, and so did the Prince, was the seal at the foot of the letter.”

  “I’ll give you one.”

  “Ah! but how many others have that promise…?”

  He dragged himself away at last, with an undertaking to act as intermediary. “You must understand, of course, that the Prince of Wales can’t possibly interfere between you and his brother, but anything I can do, any message I can send, I will gladly, next time I see the Duke—possibly at Windsor. As to the other matter, the letters you mentioned, far better burn them, my dear, they’d make bad blood. Any coolness between the princes is past and done with.” He patted her hand. “There, there, dear lady. All will come right in the end.”

  All right for whom, you fool? She smoothed her hair and tidied the cushions when he’d left the house. Round five had been attempted, and not much accomplished. Honors were still even. The world went out of town until October. Nothing more could be set in motion until the autumn, when members returned and Parliament reassembled, by which time Will’s Radical friends would have laid their plans.

  “I suggest,” said Will, “that you move away from Bloomsbury. Proximity to Adam might have its drawbacks. Wright can easily find you a house in another district, but don’t forget to use the name of Farquhar.”

  “And who,” she asked, “is going to pay for the house?”

  “Wright will continue to advance you money. He knows you’re a good investment; he’ll get it back.”

  She searched the papers for advertisements and saw a house to let in Westbourne Place, five minutes’ distance from the Chelsea school—George was still a pupil, not yet removed. The Duke when he drove to inspection would pass her windows. The thought was tempting; herself in an open carriage, the Duke in his, a smile, and a wave of her sunshade. Too good to miss. And May Taylor was round the corner, in Cheyne Row, after many vicissitudes. The girls could walk to school. They would all be together. She signed the lease, once again in her mother’s name, and if anyone asked any questions she’d plead her coverture. It was really the only service Joseph had done her, to stay alive, and so remain legally liable for any bill she hadn’t the cash to pay. The lease was signed on the eleventh of November, and during the move—a matter of two or three days—Will Ogilvie set a certain ball in motion, the result of which was a call from Colonel Wardle, at one o’clock on November the seventeenth.

  She received him in the partly furnished drawing room, apologizing for the great disorder.

  “I’ve only just moved in, as you can see. The whole house is upside down, a fearful upheaval.”

  She watched him closely as he kissed her hand. Long-nosed and sallow, most unprepossessing, brown hair curled by tongs, eyes close together.

  “Dear madam, I’ve wanted to meet you for six months, but you’re such an elusive lady, there was no getting at you. You know, of course, I am member for Okehampton. No doubt you followed my speeches during last session?”

  “I know who you are. I can’t say I’ve read your speeches.”

  “I’ll send you copies, I think they’d interest you. The truth is, Mrs. Clarke, I am a patriot. My only aim in life is to set my country free from abuse and corruption.” He paused to watch the effect.

  She asked him to sit down on a packing case, which he dusted first, gingerly lifting his coattails.

  “Corruption continues with us beyond the grave,” she said,
“and then plays merry hell with all ideals. Do you want some coffee? The saucepans have been unpacked, and a box of china.”

  “I want nothing but your attention, Mrs. Clarke. When this great country of ours, yearning for freedom, trammeled with outworn bonds…”

  “Suppose we cut that out, and get to business?”

  He paused. The narrow eyes came closer together. “Forgive me—I made the mistake of talking as I would to a constituent. I gather from a journalist friend of mine, McCullum, that you’re not prepared to assist him with his pamphlets, which have as principal target the Duke of York?”

  “You’ve gathered correctly.”

  “And yet, Mrs. Clarke, you’ve been very badly treated. I should have thought any woman of spirit would want revenge?”

  “Revenge, Colonel Wardle, is useless without security. Five pounds on the side for a pamphlet doesn’t guarantee the future for myself or for my children.”

  “I understand. You’d play for a higher reward? In which case I’ll place the relevant cards on the table. My friends—members on our side of the House—and I are determined to expose Army abuses during the coming session, with the ultimate object of turning the Duke out of office.”

  “Why? What’s he done?”

  “He represents a system we want abolished. By starting with him we may tumble a pack of cards and ourselves take over, using, as figurehead, a far more amenable person who will do what we tell him.”

  “How highly patriotic… Who is this person?”

  Colonel Wardle glanced over his shoulder. The door was closed. “The Duke of Kent,” he whispered.

  She laughed and stifled a yawn. “I’m disappointed. I’d hoped you’d promote a corporal from the ranks. That method proved so successful in France. You’re merely exchanging Peter for Pompous Paul.”

  “The people in this country are used to tradition. Not too many changes at once—they must be gradual. His Royal Highness the Duke of Kent is highly ambitious.”

  She noticed the covert sneer, the tone of voice. All this from the man who put his country first.

  “Perhaps you’d explain,” she said, “where I come in?”

  “You know, of course, the ill will between the brothers, the jealousy one of the other? We hope to fan it. McCullum’s pamphlet brings out some of the highlights—that’s where we wanted your help, you would know the details. Since you refuse, you can help in another direction, by giving me particulars of promotion traffic, which I understand was your only method of living when under the Duke’s protection, and which had his permission.”

  “And how did you hear it?”

  “The proverbial little bird… If I had the proof to lay before the House, he’d be kicked out of office.”

  “What good would that do me?”

  “Wrongs would be righted. The Duke of Kent would become Commander-in-Chief. He’s been known to say, to a personal friend of mine, that anyone who helped him to this position would have full recompense and more beside. Incidentally, he’s much appalled at your shocking treatment; not only yours, but the affair of the court martial. I understand he would make it his personal business to reinstate your brother and give you a pension; no beggarly three or four hundred, but several thousand.”

  She said, “I’m rather tired of promises, especially from princes. I’ve heard them too often.”

  “If you need further assurances, I can give them. The personal friend I spoke of is Major Dodd.”

  “The Duke of Kent’s private secretary?”

  “Exactly. He is extremely anxious to meet you, and the sooner the better. If you want to know what he says, you can read his letter.” He took a sheet of notepaper from his wallet and gave it her to read.

  “My dear Wardle,

  “The more I reflect on the conversation we had this morning, and which had for its object the pure honor and interest of our country, the more I feel convinced that every individual who is assisting in the great cause is entitled, not only to our private, but to public protection. If this assurance from me can be of any service, you have my authority to use it as you please. From what you mentioned of a certain female, I have no hesitation in believing that her cooperation will be more material than that of any other human being. God knows she has been infamously and barbarously treated by an illustrious great beast; but she may now have an opportunity of redressing her wrongs; and by serving a generous Public, most essentially to benefit herself.

  “I remain, my dear Wardle, ever,

  “Thomas Dodd.”

  “Plausible,” she said, “but it’s only paper.”

  “Then I beg your consent to meet him, and hear for yourself. I need hardly say that whatever you care to ask for he will pass on, in confidence, to his master; the Duke of Kent is most liberal in every way.”

  “He wasn’t very liberal at Gibraltar, putting the troops on rations and closing the wineshops.”

  “Discipline, Mrs. Clarke, the iron hand. Just what this country needs at the present time.”

  “Does he take an iron hand to his old French mistress? Perhaps he wears velvet mittens down at Ealing. I hear he waters the plants and keeps canaries. You can tell Major Dodd from me that my tastes are extravagant. I shall require, besides a pension, a coach-and-four, a turreted mansion, and two or three lakes in the garden.”

  “I’ll pass the message on.”

  Good God, he believed her! He was more of a fool than he looked, which was saying something. “Tell me, Colonel Wardle, when the Government falls and all your designs are accomplished, that is to say, when the people of England are freed from taint and corruption, what post do you hope for yourself, what final reward?”

  He answered, without flinching, “Secretary for War. At least, that is what the Duke of Kent suggested.”

  “How noble, a drop in the ocean. I can’t wait to meet your friends, especially Dodd. When shall the meeting take place?”

  He consulted a notebook. “In a few days’ time I intend going down to Kent. Dodd will be coming with me, and Major Glennie, who is writing a memorandum on fortifications. He intends to discredit the present coast defenses and we have a pass to visit the Martello Towers. How about joining the party?”

  “Delighted. We can picnic on Romney Marsh, and decide upon the best place for invasion.”

  “You’re not suggesting…”

  “That your sympathies lie the other side of the Channel? Dear Colonel Wardle, the thought never entered my head. I realize only too well how you love your country.”

  It proved a most amusing, instructive expedition. First stop at Maidstone, the second night at Hythe. One lady with three embittered, ex-military gentlemen, all of them proven failures in their careers and talking as if they had led the Guards into action. She hadn’t enjoyed herself so much for years.

  They drove along the coast for twenty miles, the weather fine and frosty, while Major Glennie, the fortification expert, jotted notes, and Major Dodd (ex-artillery captain, but his knowledge of gunfire mainly salutes ceremonial) extolled the virtues of his royal master: capable and brave and uncomplaining, a pattern of what a Commander ought to be.

  “So odd, then, if that’s the case,” murmured the lady, “that he’s had no administrative job for over five years?”

  “Jealousy, Mrs. Clarke, on the part of his brother.”

  “I see. Of course. What a pity! Such wasted talent—Kent’s vast experience of battle thrown away. All those tiring field days down at Salisbury, with Irish stew for dinner and clouded ale.”

  Colonel Wardle watched her, extremely puzzled. For a woman who ought to be burning with revenge, she handled this meeting with Dodd in extraordinary fashion. As for himself, he wasn’t a mathematician and needed all his powers of concentration to understand the figures Glennie gave him and why the Martello Towers made poor defenses. He’d muff his speech to the House unless he knew.

  Over dinner, at Hythe, the others drew diagrams and the lady of the party sipped her wine.

  ??
?My son George has a little book at home. He’d be delighted to lend it to you, Colonel Wardle. It shows the difference—on I think page three—between an octagon and a triangle, first step for beginners… Do tell me more, Major Dodd, about Madame de Laurent and her devotion to the Duke of Kent?”

  “She knows she is in safe keeping, Mrs. Clarke. The only prince with a loyal, with a faithful heart, tender towards her, grateful for what she gives him.”

  “He sounds a dream… except for the bushy eyebrows. Have you told him what I expect, if I help your cause?”

  “Five thousand down, an annuity for life, debts all discharged, a settlement on your daughters. All that I can promise, and more; and, in the meantime, Colonel Wardle no doubt will furnish you with assistance. What we need from you are letters and proof of corruption, the names of officers promoted through your influence, the names of friends you can produce as witnesses. Then Wardle can quote them in the House without contradiction.”

  “And have us all put in the bughouse?”

  “The law can’t touch you. By exposing the Duke of York, you’ll have the country behind you. Public opinion will rally to our cause and you, Mrs. Clarke, will be the heroine of the day. Another Joan of Arc, the people’s champion.”

  “You have your history muddled; Boadicea—riding a chariot over dead men’s bodies. I’ll think the matter over, Major Dodd.”

  Back to London and to Westbourne Place, with one or the other calling every day and notes on the side from Will. “What other hope have you? What happens to your children if you refuse? At least it’s worth a gamble, a final fling. There’s no danger to yourself, Dodd is perfectly right. They can’t put you in prison, or prosecute you. If the whole shoot misses fire you don’t stand to lose.”

  All right, then, she would go ahead, sort through the letters, reawaken the memories of the past few years. So many letters had been burned, and those remaining were better for personal reasons than for official ones. Where were the various chaps who’d paid the cash? Most of them overseas, or lost, or forgotten. Colonel French… Captain Sandon… Sandon was somewhere in England. Donovan might remember other names. Corri, the music master, he might come forward, and somebody called Mr. Knight, Doctor Thynne’s patient. It had never entered her head to keep this information: love letters were tied in the ribbons, not military business.