Mary Anne

  “Have you been through all your trunks?” asked Colonel Wardle. The thin, inquisitive fingers were probing, peering.

  “I’ve moved half a dozen times since 1806. It will take me weeks to sort through the stuff in store.”

  “Where is it stored?”

  “With Wright, in Rathbone Place.”

  “Can I go there with you?”

  She looked at the close-set eyes, the twitching hands.

  “I owe Francis Wright a fair amount of money. This house isn’t furnished fully, as you can see. He’ll hold on to what he has unless I pay him.”

  “Then you’d better explain what hopes you have for the future.”

  “Guaranteed by you?”

  “Why, naturally.”

  She took him to Rathbone Place, where they discovered that Francis Wright was in bed, with an injured leg. The brother Daniel received them, apologizing. Was there anything he could do, anything he could show them?

  “Yes, Daniel. Show Colonel Wardle some of my stuff, the curtains and carpets and chairs that I want out of store for the new house in Westbourne Place. What do you think of that mirror, Colonel Wardle?”

  “Very handsome indeed.”

  “And those dining-room chairs? Hand-painted, you know, by me, at Gloucester Place. Take the Colonel through to the warehouse, Daniel, and show him the rest. He is anxious that I should have everything moved out of store and taken to Chelsea, with anything else I may order. I’ll go and enquire for your brother and leave you together.”

  Protestation out of the question—Wardle was floored. It was a pistol-shot to the head. Have the furniture moved, en bloc, to Westbourne Place and damn the cost, or lose the chance of letters and valuable testimony? He wandered through the warehouse, trapped and angry, with the upholsterer marking items on a list. “Do you mean she had all this at Gloucester Place?” he asked, prodding the lavish carpets with his stick.

  “Oh no, sir; these are new; they’ve taken her fancy.”

  “A damned expensive fancy, I’ll be bound.”

  “Well, sir, you know how it is with Mrs. Clarke. She’s gay, likes living well and in good style. I hear she has influential friends behind her.”

  “Oh, do you?” Damn the woman, she’d been talking.

  She came down the stairs behind them, wreathed in smiles.

  “Poor Francis Wright, I’ve advised an embrocation. So everything is settled? You approve my choice?”

  “We’ll talk about that later.”

  She turned to Daniel. “Colonel Wardle means he approves. Have everything shifted. And don’t forget the duc de Berri’s service…”

  Silence outside in the carriage, at least from the colonel. She prattled gaily on without discomfort. “It will be so lovely to live in luxury once again. I can’t thank you enough for your kindness, so very generous. As soon as they bring my desk I’ll look for those letters.”

  “Desk be damned!” she thought. “The letters are at home.” What rapture, though, to twist the patriot’s tail, and sting him for all the furniture, carpets included! No wriggling out of the business, she had him nailed. The stuff was all delivered the next afternoon, and a fortnight later Francis Wright, recovered, called to see Colonel Wardle at Westbourne Place. “I believe, sir, you’re the influential gentleman who has made so many promises to this lady. She gave me to understand you were one of her backers. That being so, I’d be very much obliged for five hundred pounds on account of a sum outstanding.”

  The lady in question smiled and looked innocent, murmured something about the House of Commons and a brave new world for all, Wardle included. The right honorable member for Okehampton tried to bluster. “I haven’t the money,” he said. “I can’t sign a check. I gave Mrs. Clarke a hundred the other day.”

  “But that,” she said, “only covered the tradesmen in Bloomsbury. Poor Mr. Wright has to live, the same as the rest of us. Besides, it won’t have to come from your own pocket, those friends of yours in Ealing…” She didn’t finish, seeing his look of alarm, of apprehension.

  “I’ll see that you’re paid,” Wardle stammered to the upholsterer; “but please understand that my name mustn’t appear. With this delicate business ahead of me in the Commons, revelation would be disastrous to my plans. I’ll endeavor to arrange things through a tradesman.”

  She winked at her upholsterer through the looking glass. “I’m sure Mr. Wright has no wish to be difficult, as long as he has some sort of guarantee.”

  The guarantee was produced, just after Christmas, by Illingworth, Wine Merchant, 10, Pall Mall (wine merchant to His Royal Highness, the Duke of Kent), in the shape of a promise to accommodate Francis Wright with the sum of five hundred pounds in three months’ time. A case of wine was delivered to Mrs. Clarke, with Mr. Illingworth’s compliments, and a wish that he might be able to serve her in the future, with a copy of Wright’s receipt concealed in the straw: “Received of R. S. Illingworth, January 2nd, 1809, a Bill of Acceptance, this date at three months, value five hundred pounds which, when paid, will be on account of household furniture delivered to Mrs. Clarke, 2 Westbourne Place.”

  The wine came in very useful for a party which she gave on Twelfth Night to a group of friends, a mixed bag—rather amusing, as it happened—ranging from Mr. Corri and some boys, Charley, of course, May Taylor and uncle Tom to McCullum the pamphleteer, Dodd and Wardle. All were introduced by pseudonyms and handed a glass of brandy on arrival, which set the party going with a roar, and while the singing boys made eyes at Charley and Dodd sat down to draughts with uncle Tom, Corri the music master, in seventh heaven, was pumped by Colonel Wardle about the levy raised by Colonel French in 1806.

  Tongues babbled on… heads swam… nobody minded… the cake was brought in, McCullum had the bean.

  “Who are these other gentlemen?” whispered Corri, his mind on fire with brandy and excitement. “I fear I’ve let things slip, been slightly indiscreet.”

  “Don’t worry, they’re sworn to secrecy,” murmured his hostess. “They are all men of great integrity and principle. The one standing there, with the bean, writes newspaper articles, but all for church magazines and diocesan papers. The gentleman on your left is a member of parliament. Name of Mellish, sits for the county of Middlesex, the most highly respected member in the Commons.”

  She wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes, and thought of the real Mr. Mellish—she’d seen him once, red-faced and pompous, stalking down St. James’s. The music master gaped, his eyes on sticks.

  “So kind of you to ask me… so very exclusive.”

  She moved to see how the game of draughts was progressing. Uncle Tom, having beaten Dodd twice, was proving loquacious and giving away royal secrets by the dozen. She filled their glasses and watched them, inwardly choking. “I’ve fitted ’em all for years,” uncle Tom was saying, “not only with boots and shoes, I can promise you that. Each one of the princes came to me in turn.”

  “Except,” said Dodd stiffly, “the Duke of Kent.”

  “Prince Edward?” spluttered Taylor. “Why, he was the worst, before he got caught up in this French affair. So afraid he’d be found out that he came disguised, wearing a borrowed wig and a coachman’s hat. His brothers used to nickname him Simon Pure.”

  Dodd pushed aside the draughtboard and made his excuses. Uncle Tom, eyes squinting, saw his coat. Jesus! The man was wearing Household buttons. Had the world gone topsy-turvy or was he mad? He pulled his hostess’s gown. “Who is that fellow?”

  “Don’t worry, a secondhand-clothesman, deals in apparel.” Uncle Tom heaved a sigh of relief and finished his brandy.

  “Did you give my message to the Duke of York?” she asked him.

  “I did, my dear, and I’m sorry, there’s nothing doing. If you dare write a word against him, he’ll put you in prison.”

  The last effort for a settlement had failed. On, then, to battle and to victory. The method didn’t matter, as long as she won. Witnesses must be found for corroboration: Dr. T
hynne, Mr. Knight, even Bill—Bill on his way back home again from Portugal. All must be begged, or induced, or even subpoenaed, so that Wardle could present his case at the end of the month. Some of them would protest and deny all knowledge, but certainly not friends like Bill. Wardle would have to take his chance with the others: if they lied and protested innocence, so much the worse.

  “Must I appear in the House as well?” she asked him.

  “But of course,” he replied; “you’ll be the leading witness.”

  A sudden pang filled her heart, and apprehension. It was too late now to turn back, the ball was in motion.

  “What questions will you ask me?”

  “Nothing alarming. We’ll rehearse them here at home in your drawing room before you’re called. You merely tell the truth about the transactions.”

  “But you won’t be the only one to question me. What about Government members, protecting the Duke? Won’t they try to trip me up and discredit my story?”

  “They may do. But you have wit enough to handle them.”

  She did not trust him. She trusted no one, with the exception, perhaps, of Will, the mastermind. The night before the motion was put to the House he came alone to dinner, to wish her courage.

  “You mean,” she said, “I shall need it?”

  “Every ounce.”

  Here was the truth at last. He looked at her steadily. She felt her hands grow cold as she touched her glass.

  “If you keep your head you’ll survive. Here’s the position. There’ll roughly be three parties in the House. First the Government, practically solid behind the Duke, though some are bound to waver during proceedings, especially when the facts are brought to light. The Opposition will support the charges and do everything they can to help you out. If Wardle goes back on us, as well he might, Francis Burdett and Folkestone will stand by you. The sobersides will compose the third and remaining party, the moralists and the rest, led by Wilberforce. The fact that the Duke had a mistress is all that concerns them; they’ll side with the Opposition to have him removed. The chaps you want to watch for are Spencer Perceval, Leader of the House, and Vicary Gibbs. Vicary Gibbs is the Attorney-General. They’ll try to tear your evidence to shreds, not so much by disproving the actual transactions as by raking every bit of mud they can from your own personal past, in order to discredit you. In other words, ‘This woman is a whore, a liar from start to finish, and we can prove it.’ They’ll do the same to William Dowler, though he won’t be so easy. They’ll bring witnesses to speak against both of you, all of ’em bribed by Adam. So now you know. Chin up, my dear, and smile… We’re going to win.”

  Win what? The doubtful pleasure of revenge? Kicking a man once honored, loved and respected? A sop to damaged pride, to lost position?

  “Remember,” murmured Will, “your children’s future. Your brother too,” he added. “He stands to gain. Once the Duke has lost command, the court martial verdict will probably be quashed and Charles reinstated. I’ve never seen a boy with such altered looks. He knows he has nothing to live for unless you help him.”

  Gently he took the wine and filled her glass, watching her look of doubt, of indecision. Where was she now, he wondered, past or future? Hiding beneath a fruit barrow in the alley, stealing the apples one by one for Charley? Or standing before the bar of the House of Commons, the only woman in a world of men?

  Suddenly she smiled and raised her glass, then snapped it over her shoulder. It fell in pieces.

  “I did that once before,” she said, “in Fulham. Here’s to the clan Mackenzie. The game continues.”

  Part 3

  1

  On the 27th of January 1809 Colonel Wardle, Radical member for Okehampton, rose in the House of Commons to submit a motion enquiring into the conduct of His Royal Highness the Duke of York, Commander-in-Chief of the Army, respecting promotions, the disposal of commissions and the raising of new levies for the Army.

  “To stand forth the public accuser of a man of such high rank as the Commander-in-Chief,” he said, “may be deemed an arduous and presumptuous undertaking. However arduous and presumptuous it may be, nothing shall divert me from the performance of my duty; and I trust he will feel that, however high he may stand in point of rank and influence, the voice of the people, stated through their representatives, will prevail over corruption, and that justice will be done to a suffering nation. Unless corruption be attacked, and attacked strongly too, this country will fall an easy prey to an inveterate enemy.

  “I hope that no man will think that I have taken up this matter lightly. I have pressed it upon sure grounds, and am prepared to prove these assertions; and in order that they may be investigated, I beg to move that a Committee be appointed to investigate the conduct of His Royal Highness the Duke of York.”

  Spokesmen for the Government rose to protest vehemently that the illustrious Commander was ready to go into a full investigation of the charges brought against him. They begged the House to consider whether the manner in which the Army had been fitted out that was lately sent to Portugal was not a striking mark of the superior military talents of the Duke of York, totally refuting the Opposition’s accusations; and gave it as their opinion that the stream of scurrility which had recently been poured forth against the various branches of the royal family could be viewed only as a vile conspiracy against the illustrious House of Brunswick. (Loud cries of “Hear! Hear!” from all parts of the House.)

  The debate wound up with a suggestion by Mr. Spencer Perceval, Chancellor of the Exchequer and Leader of the House, that the Committee to investigate the matter should be a Committee of the whole House—a motion which was carried without a division. It was ordered that the Committee should sit in five days’ time, on February 1st.

  The few days’ grace allowed the news to spread—the front page of every newspaper told the tale—and when the day came the House was crowded. Members from the country who let a session pass without attendance jostled for places on unaccustomed benches, the galleries were crammed, the lobbies swollen.

  Colonel Wardle began the proceedings by announcing that he would bring evidence to support his opening charge, relating to an exchange effected between Lieutenant Colonel Brook and Lieutenant Colonel Knight, and he called his first witness, Dr. Thynne. A tall, gray-haired, elderly man stood before the House and testified that in 1805 he had applied to Mrs. Mary Anne Clarke (whom he had attended professionally for the previous seven years) on behalf of an old friend of his, Mr. Robert Knight, brother of one of the two gentlemen concerned. He had been authorized to tell Mrs. Clarke, he said, that if she would use her interest to expedite the exchange she would receive compensation to the sum of £200. He agreed, in reply to Colonel Wardle’s questions, that the application was made to her solely because she was under the protection of the Duke of York. Dr. Thynne’s evidence was confirmed by Mr. Robert Knight himself, who added that after the exchange had been gazetted he had sent Mrs. Clarke, by his servant, £200 in banknotes.

  Now came the witness for whom the House was waiting—Mrs. Mary Anne Clarke. “Dressed as if she was going out to an evening party,” the Morning Post reported next day. “in a light blue silk gown edged with white fur, white muff, white cap and veil, her dazzling smile, slightly retroussé nose and lively blue eyes entirely captivated the House.”

  Colonel Wardle put the following questions to her:

  “Did you reside in a house of His Royal Highness the Duke of York in Gloucester Place in the year 1805?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you then live under his protection?”

  “I did.”

  “Was an application made to you respecting Colonels Knight and Brook?”

  “There was.”

  “Did you speak to the Commander-in-Chief on the subject?”

  “I did.”

  “How did you mention the business?”

  “I told him of the matter, and gave him the slip of paper which Doctor Thynne gave me.”

  “How
much pecuniary compensation did you receive?”

  “Two hundred pounds.”

  “Did the Commander-in-Chief know the amount?”

  “Yes, I showed him the two notes for a hundred each. I think I got one of the servants to get me the change of them.”

  Mr. Beresford, for the Government, rose to question her.

  “Where were you immediately before you came to the bar of this House?”

  The witness turned and stared. A titter ran round the House. Mr. Beresford reddened. Slightly raising his voice, he repeated his question.

  “Where were you before you came to the bar of this House?”

  “In some room adjoining.”

  “Who was with you?”

  “Captain Thompson, Miss Clifford, Mrs. Metcalfe, Colonel Wardle.”

  “Had you any conversation with Doctor Thynne?”

  “Yes, he was sitting beside me.”

  “What was the purport of his conversation?”

  “It was addressed to the ladies that were with me.”

  “What was that conversation?”

  “I can’t repeat it. The subject was indelicate.”

  Loud laughter rang through the house. Mr. Beresford sat down. Sir Vicary Gibbs, the Attorney-General, rose to his feet, and folding his arms in front of him, eyes on the ceiling, began to question the witness. His manner was diffident, gentle, the House knew it well, and settled down to listen, respectfully silent.

  “At what time of the year was the application about Colonel Knight gazetted?”