Mary Anne

  Once again all heads turned to the right-hand box and waved and laughed and shouted. Triumph was complete.

  On the Saturday morning, His Royal Highness the Duke of York tendered his resignation as Commander-in-Chief of the Army, which His Majesty was graciously pleased to accept. The excitement that followed lasted over Easter, and speeches by the Opposition at Westminster Hall were cheered wildly. On April 1st Colonel Wardle was voted a Freeman of the City of London, and the Lord Mayor, who had spoken against the suggestion, was howled at by the mob and mud thrown at his carriage.

  On that same day, the chief witness for the Colonel’s charges against the Duke of York had a meeting with three gentlemen—the Earl of Moira, the Earl of Chichester and Sir Herbert Taylor, private secretary to His Royal Highness the Duke of York.

  At this meeting Mrs. Clarke, attended by her lawyer Mr. Comrie, her brother Captain Thompson, and two friends, Mr. William Dowler and Mr. William Coxhead-Marsh, agreed to suppress her memoirs, parts of which had already been printed to the tune of several thousand copies and were in the hands of the publisher Mr. Gillet, who would receive £1,500 indemnity as soon as he had destroyed every single copy.

  For the suppression of the memoirs, and for agreeing to hand over to the Earl of Chichester all the letters from the Duke of York that were still in her possession, Mrs. Clarke was to receive the sum of ten thousand pounds, with an annuity for life of four hundred pounds, and two hundred pounds for each of her daughters. Her own annuity was to pass to her daughters on her death. The three gentlemen who attended Mrs. Clarke would be trustees for her annuity; and the Earl of Chichester and Mr. Cox, of Cox and Greenwood, guaranteed the payment.

  Mrs. Mary Anne Clarke then sat down and signed the following agreement:

  “In consideration of the Terms proposed and agreed to, I, Mary Anne Clarke, of 2 Westbourne Place, London, promise to deliver up every Letter, Paper, Memorandum and Writing, in my power or custody, respecting the Duke of York or any other of the Royal Family, and particularly all Letters, Memorandums or other writings written or signed by the Duke. I also promise to procure all the Letters not in my custody entrusted to me by others, and deliver them to the Duke’s friend.

  “I also agree that I will, when required, make a solemn declaration on oath that I have delivered up all the Letters and other writings from the Duke to me, as far as is in my power or possession, and that I know of no other, and I promise to procure from the Printer, and the persons employed to print a publication of my Life, every document in their possession, and all such parts of the work as may have been printed.

  “I further promise not to write, print, or publish any article respecting the connection between me and the Duke, or any anecdote, either written or verbal, that may have come to my knowledge from the Duke.

  “I further consent that, on failure of my complying with the several stipulations above stated, the Annuity agreed to be paid to myself for my life, and to my daughters after my decease, shall become absolutely forfeited.

  “I will deliver up all the Letters, but the Manuscripts and all that is printed thereof shall be burned before any person appointed for that purpose. I also promise to keep no copy, or copies, of any of the Duke of York’s letters, or of any Manuscripts, or of any part thereof.

  “Dated this first day of April, 1809.

  “Signed: Mary Anne Clarke.”

  Her lawyer, Mr. James Comrie, witnessed the document.

  She drove home to Westbourne Place and gave a party… but thought of the empty chair at the Horse Guards office.

  When her friends had all gone she stood at the drawing-room window. Only Bill remained, and Charley, and May Taylor. Bill came and stood beside her, and took her arm.

  “The end of an era,” he said. “Forget all about it. An unfortunate side of your life that’s over and done with.”

  “Not over and done with at all. What of the future?”

  “You’ve got what you wanted. The children are secure.”

  “I’m not thinking of that. I’m thinking of Wardle’s promises.”

  “What did he promise you?”

  “Castles and coaches-and-four, with the Duke of Kent as a driver holding the whip.”

  She laughed and would say no more. They finished the wine, the last of Mr. Illingworth’s handsome present.

  “Did you notice,” she said, “a very strange omission in that pompous document I signed today? I promised I would not publish a word about myself and the Duke and our life together. But the promise bound only myself, and not my heirs.”

  “Do you think the children…” began Bill.

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “I find the omission intriguing,” she said, “that’s all.”

  She drank a toast to the future, and drained the glass.

  Part 4

  1

  They came to her in turn, heaping recrimination on her head: Wardle, Dodd, Folkestone, and lastly, of course, Will Ogilvie—all asking the same question, “Why? What for?”

  To each of them she answered, “Security. The children.”

  “But we held the cards,” persisted Wardle. “Our triumph was complete, and the publication of your memoirs, including the Duke’s letters, would have been an enormous advantage to our cause.”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Your cause does not interest me,” she said. “I fought for you on the floor of the House, and that was enough.”

  “The letters,” moaned Major Dodd, “the precious letters! The bare hint you gave me of their contents would have degraded the Duke of York for life in the eyes of the public, not to mention his own family. The Duke of Kent would have stepped into his shoes, and because of his sober, upright character turned overnight into a revered and adulated figure, whereas now…”

  “Whereas now,” she said, “he’s still sitting on his backside down at Ealing, and Sir David Dundas has the job of C.-in-C.”

  His Radical Lordship, solicitous and tender, bent close to her, shaking a doubtful head.

  “You promised you would consult me on every point,” he said reproachfully. “I understand your longing for security, but to throw away that ace was utter madness. The publication of those memoirs and the letters could have had a profound effect upon political life, not only splitting the entire Tory party, dividing the Ministry and bringing the welcome Republican breath onto the benches, where…”

  “Where, good God, a change of air is needed,” she finished for him. “Sweep your House clean, but do it for yourselves. I’m not, and never want to be, a politician. Go home. Your faces bore me.”

  They went and left her alone, solitude bringing, as it did too often, a swing of the pendulum and aftermath. No doubt she had been a fool—only time could tell—but at least there was money in the bank for Mary and Ellen, and a nestegg for herself. She was no longer dependent on male magnanimity. The eternal fear was banished, and forever. But what remained? Sit back, and do damn all at thirty-three? Doubt took possession of the shifting mood, clashing, as it did so, with Will Ogilvie.

  He said at once, without preliminaries, “You’ve let me down.”

  She answered, “I told you long ago—whatever I do in life I do for my children.”

  “Rubbish! You’d have made a packet from your memoirs and turned the girls into little heiresses. Now you’ve merely secured them two hundred each for life, a beggarly pittance; and as for your own ten thousand, knowing the way you live and your eye for color, you’ll run through the whole amount in a couple of years. As to the larger issue…”

  “The larger issue being Buck House empty and the Brunswicks scattered?”

  “Put it like that if you choose.”

  “Quite frankly, Will, I like my pageantry. Red coats and bright cuirasses, polished brass, the King with a crown upon his head—even if he’s dotty and wears straws beneath it. I’m romantic about blue blood and God’s anointed.”

  “Oh no, you’re not. That’s simply your excuse. I
n the depths of your feminine soul you want him back.”

  “Want who?”

  “Your Duke of York. That’s why you gave up the letters and burned the memoirs. You think, in your devious, womanly way, that by doing this you’ve made some sort of gesture. That his heart will be touched, that he’ll shed a nostalgic tear, and that one of these days his carriage will stop at your door and he’ll pull the bell.”

  “It isn’t true.”

  “Don’t lie. I know all your thoughts. Well, put that bonfire out and stamp on it fairly quick. He won’t come back; he’s sick at the sound of your name. Disgraced in the eyes of the world, and all through you.”

  This set the light to temper and sent it flaring.

  “Advised by a blackmailing, bankrupt Army agent… My God, you’ve meddled enough in my affairs. I wish to heaven I’d never set eyes on you.”

  “And where would you be now if you had not? On your back at Brighton, in some squalid lodging? Thrice nightly, to tipsy weekenders, five bob a time? Or, faute de mieux, installed by the faithful Dowler in a hideout near his home, very pinched and poky? Doing the cooking yourself, become rather blousy, begrudging poor Dowler his dues on a Saturday night.”

  “On the contrary, I’d have cut out Mrs. Fitz and queened it at Carlton House—or gone out of business. Oh! Heaven, I hate you, Will, you’ve been my devil.”

  “I’ve been your savior, but you won’t admit it. The question is, what next?”

  “Rest on my laurels. Teach my daughters manners.”

  “And marry them to parsons with twopence a year. Your blameless life will pall… What about lovers?”

  “I don’t need ’em with ten thousand down and four hundred per annum. Besides, I’m sick of men, they’re too demanding.”

  “Meaning his Radical Lordship?”

  “Meaning no one—only the race in general. I’ve won my security through my own sweet efforts, not thanks to you, or Wardle. Where, incidentally, is the promised bonus? The turreted mansion and the coach-and-four?”

  “You’d better ask the member for Okehampton. He’ll say, as I do, that you’ve let him down, and by suppressing those memoirs at this vital moment thrown away weapon one, on which he depended. In other words, you’re no further use to him.”

  “And Kent?”

  “Oh, Kent’s in a holy terror that he’ll be unmasked. I admit I misjudged the man, I thought he had quality, but it’s all run to his boots in Germanic fashion. He won’t get his brother’s job or anybody else’s.”

  “So we’re all where we were before?”

  “You’ve hit it precisely. Though Wardle’s a popular hero, and you’re notorious… If not the face that launched a thousand ships, at least your features are stamped on Staffordshire jugs. Cartooned, in bed, in every printer’s shop—what more do you ask?”

  “A word of thanks for filling the House of Commons. For taking people’s minds off the war in Spain.”

  “You’ve done that most successfully. All credit to you. The whole of England rings to the name of Clarke. The pity is, it’s not going to ring much longer. With the memoirs burned, you’ll merely fade from fashion. There’s nothing so dull as living in retirement.”

  She watched the impassive eyes that never flickered. How much did he say to draw her, to egg her on, what genius lay in his mind for brewing poison?

  “I hate ingratitude,” she said, “and broken promises.”

  “When sworn by fools,” he suggested, “with swollen heads.”

  So he disliked Wardle too? She understood. His game had not come off, his plan had miscarried. Somewhere, amid the turmoil of intrigue, Wardle had blundered badly; and Ogilvie, weaving his spider’s web in secret, had seen the grubs escape… The web was shattered.

  “If,” she said, “you’d only be active yourself, instead of employing pawns, you might be successful.”

  “My physical makeup is such that it irks me to move.”

  “Is that it? I’ve often wondered…”

  But no admissions would follow, no revelations of the hidden life. Where did he go for pleasure or fulfillment? At least, she thought resentfully, never here. Which made at once a bond—and a division. Perhaps, as was his habit, he read her thoughts, for he laughed, and kissed her hand, and said goodnight.

  “All right, I forgive you,” he said, “for burning the memoirs. But ten thousand down has a way of disappearing. Try and double it while you have the chance. Besides, you’ve only provided for your daughters. Don’t the whole of the clan Mackenzie need largesse?”

  And with this he took his leave. But he’d pinned her mood, turned it to the angle opportune, most useful for his purpose, and she knew it.

  The turbulent thoughts he had left her with ended in a shadowy, sleepless night, salts in the morning, angry words with Martha.

  “The blue gown, not the white.”

  “The blue gown’s torn.”

  “Then why the devil haven’t you had it mended?”

  “There’s been no time, ma’am, when you wore it yesterday.”

  “The blue silk, not the satin… Don’t take my tray, I haven’t finished yet. Has the post come? Who’s called? Where are my letters?”

  “All here, ma’am. On the tray. You’d pushed them aside.”

  “I thought they were bills. They are bills. Take them away. What, may I ask, is this bunch of withered daisies?”

  “Flowers from Mr. Fitzgerald, come this morning.”

  “Fitzgerald father or son?”

  “Mr. William, ma’am.”

  “At twenty-six he ought to do better than that. His father used to send roses. The stock’s declining or Irish blood’s run cold, one or the other. Has no one called?”

  “Mr. Wright’s below.”

  “Wright the upholsterer?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Been here since seven.”

  “Whom did he think he’d catch at that unchaste hour?”

  “He didn’t say… He said something about Colonel Wardle.”

  “God forbid I’d keep him here till seven. Have you ever seen Colonel Wardle on my pillow?”

  “No never, ma’am… How shocking…”

  “Shocking’s the word. One touch of his hand would give me rigor mortis. You can tell Wright so, with all my compliments. Now go and fill my bath and stop your gossiping.”

  Francis Wright had read the papers like everyone else. Ten thousand pounds paid down to Mrs. Clarke. All snug and safe and secure, said the Morning Post. So trade was brisk, or at any rate looking up, and he had not yet been paid for all the furniture.

  She floated into the drawing room, hands extended.

  “Dear Mr. Wright, what can I do for you?”

  “Well, Mrs. Clarke, it’s really about the house.”

  “About the house?”

  “You’ve had it now five months.”

  “I know. It suits me well.”

  “I thought perhaps, with the change in your circumstances, you might want something larger, something grander?”

  “Oh no… My tastes are humble, as you know. Besides, there’s been no change. Only a little pin money for my daughters.”

  “I see. Well, if that’s the case…” He produced his bill. Pages and pages, all the items neatly printed. “This is going back to October of last year, not to mention, of course, the storage before that. Would you like me to read the details one by one?”

  “I should hate you to lose your voice, you sound rather husky. That comes of walking abroad at an early hour—quite fatal to queasy throats. You must have some wine.”

  Mr. Wright was not used to wine at a quarter to ten. By half past he was puffy and apoplectic, bemused, and talking of boyhood days at Greenwich, the bill thrust back in his waistcoat pocket. And yet he had called for something. Had called for what? He stared at his customer, puzzled, and struggled for words.

  “My brother and I agree we must have our dues.”

  “Your brother’s entirely right, and you have my backing. Apply to C
olonel Wardle, he promised to pay you. Wasn’t there some agreement with a wine merchant called Illingworth?”

  “There was. But it’s not been honored.”

  “How very remiss… I can tell you in the strictest confidence, entre nous, that Colonel Wardle has acted disgracefully, and not only to you. He has not kept a single promise he made to me. You remember all he said in November last?”

  “I think I do. I can’t be very sure.”

  “Oh yes, you can. Those influential friends, a new day to dawn for England—you must remember?”

  “I believe he admired the furniture in my store, but he said it was very expensive, I recollect that.”

  “Expensive, perhaps, but vital to my needs and vital to the role he wished me to play. That’s why he promised to pay, and gave you his word.”

  Wright shook his head. His brain was beginning to clear. “I’m doubtful if we’ll get a penny out of him.”

  “Are you willing to go to law?”

  “If our case is clean.”

  “Of course it’s clean. Open and honest-to-God. Write and demand your money, and if he refuses you leave it to me. I’ll see that he won’t get away. The popular lion, Mr. Wright, is due for a fall.”

  Mr. Wright was dismissed, declining further sherry. The next caller was Dr. Metcalfe, her physician. He’d attended her on and off for the past ten months, and seen her through the strain of the Investigation, besides hearing bits on the side during moments of stress.

  “Mrs. Clarke, your servant, ma’am. Congratulations.”

  “But on what?”

  “On this morning’s news. I see that some friends of the Duke have paid you ten thousand pounds, and an annuity for life for you and the girls.”

  “Oh, that… A fleabite in trust, to keep us from starving.”

  “I see. Not quite what you hoped. How disappointing. The fact is…”

  “Yes?”

  “I’d pinned faith on your future myself. You told me some months ago you had expectations, or shall we say hopes, of rather a different kind, in which I might have a share when they came to pass.”