Mary Anne

  Heaven take all doctors with a bedside manner. A touch of migraine, a four-poster bed, changed every sickroom to a confessional. She remembered now the moments of indiscretion, hints dropped because of a sympathetic voice, murmurs of Dodd and Wardle, the Duke of Kent—a rosy future for all her intimate friends. She’d even asked him to dine one January night, he and his wife, to meet both Dodd and Wardle. There’d been some talk of affluence—the wine flowing freely—of patronage, a stir in the medical world. Dr. Metcalfe had seen himself no longer a humble practitioner bringing forth babies, but installed at Windsor, stethoscope to the lungs of grateful princesses.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “The truth is, we’ve been duped. Not only you and I, but others too. Those promises made before the Investigation were merely to get me to the House of Commons; without me they had no case, which they knew very well. And now it’s all over they choose to forget their promises. They’ve no further use for me, or for my friends.”

  “But, my dear Mrs. Clarke, Major Dodd assured me himself.”

  “He assured me a hundred things, but not on paper. The human voice, Doctor Metcalfe, can never be proven; only the printed word has legal value. I fancy I have some notes from him upstairs that will make him quake a little, one of these days.”

  “And Colonel Wardle?”

  “Is the public idol. But only for the moment—the phase will pass. There’s nothing like a little ridicule to bring a popular favorite to his knees and turn the crowd against him—you leave it to me.”

  “But my prospects, Mrs. Clarke, my dwindling practice? I admit I’ve let things slide the past few months, with such high hopes for the future; and then my wife, she’s not in good health, as you know, so many expenses…”

  The old, old story. The pill with the sugar coating. They were all going to flock like vultures to seize the pickings. She hastily scribbled a check and passed it to him, saw him to the door and patted his shoulder. Will Ogilvie was right again, as usual. Ten thousand was a beggarly sum, it should have been twenty.

  The next visitor was Charley, frowning, disgruntled, kicking the legs of the furniture not yet paid for.

  “Now it’s all over, what’s going to happen to me?”

  “I’ll see that you get a job.”

  “But what sort of job? I won’t lick anyone’s boots, I won’t be dependent. What about all that talk of reinstatement, quashing the court martial verdict, a new commission?”

  “Darling, we’ve got to face it. The brutes were bluffing.”

  “Well, can’t you do something about it, show them up?”

  “I haven’t had time to think… For the Lord’s sake leave me. First Wright, then Metcalfe, then you, all begging assistance. I thought Coxhead-Marsh had invited you down to Loughton?”

  “He said something about a job as estate agent, under his bailiff—the sort of thing for a servant. I’m trained as a soldier. I’m damned if I’m going to accept some menial position, when, with my qualifications, I ought to command. Surely there’s someone you know who would pull a few strings? By the way, I want some money. I haven’t a penny.”

  Thank heaven May Taylor was fixed—a public subscription for her and her sister Sarah had been started in the House by Samuel Whitbread, and subscribed to by all the Opposition members.

  And lastly George, no longer a Chelsea cadet, his uniform, loved and prized, packed away in a trunk, his blue eyes, large and trusting, fixed on his mother.

  “I don’t quite see what all the row’s about. Why have I got to go to some other school?”

  “Because, my angel, there’s been a big military scandal. His Royal Highness is no longer Commander-in-Chief, and therefore no longer head of the Chelsea Asylum. Your connection with him is known, and it just wouldn’t do. I must send you somewhere else where there won’t be gossip.”

  She saw a look of Charley, sulky, obstinate, more dreams of the clan Mackenzie bruised or shattered.

  “I bet you spoilt things with your silly quarrel. Nothing’s been the same since Gloucester Place.”

  “I know, my pet. But mother can’t explain. One day, perhaps, when you’re older, you’ll know what happened.”

  His answer was a drooping lip, a sullen boyish shrug, and suddenly the first glance of mistrust, of doubt, of apprehension in the eyes.

  “I can still go into the Army? You promised me that. On my fifth birthday you sat on my bed and swore it.”

  “I swear it still. I’ll never break my word.”

  Prison, the rack, the pillory, any ordeal—she would go to the stake for George and his heart’s desire.

  In the meantime, though, to business, and satisfaction from Wardle, Dodd and Co. Both gentlemen, summoned to dine, proved very evasive, stayed for an hour, then hurriedly made their escape. When pressed to call again they were noncommittal. She gave them three weeks’ grace, then penned her letter, dispatched on May 14th to Colonel Wardle:

  “Dear Sir,

  “When I sent for you the other day and you were accompanied by Major Dodd, to enquire what were your intentions with respect to putting your promises into execution, you seemed unwilling to admit that they were made unconditionally—I say they were.

  “The only construction I can put upon it is this, that you felt yourself under a heavy responsibility to me, which both you and Major Dodd thought to get rid of by future promises as futile as they were evasive.

  “I will here put you once more in mind of those promises and of my expectations, which, if you value yourselves as men of honor, you cannot but accede to, nor can you think I require anything but what I am fully entitled to—nothing less than five hundred a year; and as my children have been equal sufferers with myself in the public opinion, as being the daughters of so indiscreet a mother, they demand from me everything I can or ought to command. Therefore as five hundred a year for my own life, which may be short, would be of no advantage to them, I think that by letting you off for ten thousand pounds is not half your promises to me. I expect you and Major Dodd to enter into a joint bond as you did into joint promises, for ten thousand pounds, to be paid within two years, and till that be accomplished, to pay me five hundred a year, commencing from March last, and to pay Wright the remainder of his bill.

  “This is all, and surely it is not half the value of the promises made to me, which were these: As my son was then under the protection of the Duke of York, and of course would lose that protection as soon as I began on the Duke’s ruin, he was to have equal protection from the Duke of Kent. I withdrew my son, and I have him now on my hands.

  “The next was a situation for Captain Thompson, in some way, or enough to keep him, or in the event of the Duke of Kent coming in as Commander-in-Chief, to get him reinstated in the Army. He still remains as he was!! The next, the payment of the arrears of annuity, as promised me by the Duke of York, and the annuity to be continued to me during my life of four hundred; my debts to be paid, those contracted while I lived with the Duke of York and those since.

  “The debt of twelve hundred pounds which is owing to Mr. Comrie, my lawyer, for which he stops my jewels. My present house and furniture to be paid for, of which a part only is paid by you and Dodd.

  “Now, let me ask, if the ten thousand pounds is equal to half these promises, and for the fulfillment of which you pledged yourself in the most solemn manner to see performed? I shall add but little more, but even were this sum to come out of your own pocket, in view of the character you have acquired through my means it would not be more than I am fully entitled to. Take a fortnight to consider. After that time do not depend upon my secrecy. I shall consider myself at liberty to make what use I please of the copy of this letter.

  “I remain, dear Sir,

  “Yours, etc. etc.,

  “Mary Anne Clarke.”

  And that, she thought, Mr. Freeman of London City, you can put in your golden casket, or anywhere else, but you won’t feel so smug when you see it in print in The Times.

  2

 
“What have you done to Wardle?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I saw him in the House before coming here. I happened to mention your name and he turned pale gray, muttered a word I can’t repeat, and disappeared.”

  “A word beginning with b and ending with h?”

  “Well, yes—since you’re so perceptive. I nearly attacked him. After all you’ve done for the fellow, I can’t understand it. His absurd popularity’s due entirely to you, and the least he can do is to show some sense of feeling.”

  “That’s the trouble. He feels too much. I don’t wonder he’s pale.”

  “You mean he wants to make love and you’ve turned him down?”

  Lord Folkestone, his eyes on sticks, shifted position. He was one of those men who looked better fully clothed. A certain angularity of outline put him to disadvantage when in drawers. And yet in a velvet coat at about half past ten, his shoulders well padded, standing in a drawing room… Imagination painted a brighter picture.

  “No. Nothing of the sort. He owes me money.”

  She turned on her side and yawned, then drank some water. His Radical Lordship realized with disappointment that his night was over. Rien ne va plus, la suite au prochain numéro…

  “Then you were his mistress?”

  “Never in this world. He knew he couldn’t win his case without me. The same goes for all His Majesty’s Opposition, which said such pretty things two months ago, yourself, William Pleydell-Bouverie, included.”

  So that’s how the land was lying. How very distressing. “If you’d only published your memoirs…” he began.

  “My memoirs have nothing to do with promises made.”

  “Did Wardle really give you some guarantee?”

  She leaned on her elbow, turning up the lamp. “Now listen, my youthful protagonist. Was I likely to get myself smirched with the dirt of ages, to have my reputation torn to shreds, my personal history hiccoughed in every alehouse, unless I had something to gain when the thing was done?”

  His sharp thin face looked surprised in the sudden lamplight.

  “Well, no… But I thought some motive of revenge, your treatment by the Duke, and a common cause…”

  “What cause, ye gods?”

  “The British people’s welfare, the future of England…”

  “Future of England, nonsense! My future, you mean. L.s.d., plus a bonus, for Mary Anne Clarke. Thank God I’m not a hypocrite, like the rest of you. I know what I’ve always wanted, and tried to get it. At times I’ve succeeded with a splash, then taken a beating. I backed your friend Colonel Wardle, thinking it paid me. Now he’s ratted, like his master the Duke of Kent.”

  His eager eyes lit up. In an instant the disheveled hair was smoothed and immaculate, the vest buttoned over his narrow chest. Charm began to return—alas, too late.

  “Good God! Then the tale was true!”

  “Of course it was true. And only idealists like you and Francis Burdett swallowed the line of talk about England’s freedom. The thing was a put-up job from the very beginning. Kent hoped to sit at the Horse Guards as C.-in-C., with dear Colonel Wardle Secretary for War. As for Dodd, I really don’t know! Some perquisite, with a pension. For myself, any number of houses, carriages, coaches, thousands of pounds in the bank and more business than ever.”

  He was dressed. He was ready to go. The enchantment was over, the world of ideals crashing about his ears. It was just as well the House would soon rise for the summer recess. The rumors would then blow over and be forgotten, and he himself have a moment to feel his position. It would never do to be connected with any sort of scandal that might arise.

  “Are you going to take any action?” He put on his coat.

  “Ask Colonel Wardle. You said he was looking pale.”

  “Then you are. You mean to publish this in the papers?”

  She smiled and rested her hands behind her head. “I’m not yet sure. He hasn’t answered my letter.”

  “I can swear, in perfect honesty, I am innocent. My only thought has been for the public good.”

  He stood by the door, fully dressed and exceedingly nervous.

  “Your only thought? But what about compassion? Surely faith in a fallen woman came in somewhere?”

  She looked at him and laughed. He opened the door, but dignity was ruined by stockinged feet. He’d left his shoes in the hall as a matter of prudence…

  “When shall I see you again?”

  He seemed embarrassed. “I have to go to the country very soon.”

  “I’m sure you have. June is always delightful. Gardens and roses and strawberries—how I adore them.”

  “I’ll write, of course.”

  “But isn’t that rather risky? I might take it into my head to publish your letters.”

  He was gone. She heard him tittup down the stairs, grope for his shoes in the dark and creep from the house.

  Well, that was that. Another peer gone west, crossed off the slate and thrown in the paper-basket. Not that she really minded—the liaison bored her—but viscounts didn’t grow on gooseberry bushes and contact was useful, giving a certain cachet. Moreover, the future Earl of Radnor was a widower. However, there it was, never count the losses.

  In the meantime, not a word from Colonel Wardle. Francis Wright reported that when he called, with a humble request to see the popular member, the servant had slammed the door, saying his master knew no upholsterer of the name of Wright and was busily engaged on Parliament business.

  “So what do I do now?” asked the anxious tradesman.

  “Send in your bill, Mr. Wright, with this note enclosed.”

  The following note was left at the Colonel’s house: “Francis Wright’s respectful compliments to the Colonel, and he has taken the liberty to enclose his bill. As the articles were to be charged for ready money, having met with a most serious disappointment, will thank him to settle the balance, and for that purpose will call upon him tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock.”

  No answer, and no admittance. The member for Okehampton was not at home.

  “What now, ma’am?”

  “Off with the gloves, and see a lawyer.”

  Mr. Stokes, a partner in the firm of Comrie, Stokes and Son, known to Mrs. Clarke for many years, was ready to oblige. The case was clear. If dirty linen was washed, it would all be Wardle’s.

  On the second day of June, Francis Wright, upholsterer, sent notice of an action to be brought against Gwyllym Lloyd Wardle, of St. James’s Street, for recovery of the sum of two thousand pounds, owing to him for furniture bought and delivered to Mrs. M. A. Clarke, of Westbourne Place, and ordered by the aforesaid Gwyllym Wardle. The case was appointed to be heard at Westminster Hall, the following month, on the third day of July.

  Confusion, panic and horror sprang up in St. James’s Street. The newshawks blazoned the story in the papers. The lion of the British public trembled, seeing his popularity vanish in vapor, and the British public itself rubbed a puzzled eye. Could it be that the conqueror of corruption, who had battled for honor and truth, had feet of clay? That the people’s darling, Freeman of London City, had tried to sneak out of paying a tradesman’s bill? Forget the Peninsular War, here was juice for the jaded. The news brought an outraged Dowler up from Uxbridge.

  “Mary Anne… You must be insane.”

  “Why so? What’s the matter?”

  “Plunging into publicity once again, just when you had the chance to let scandal die.”

  “But I’ve nothing to lose, and the poor brothers Wright want their money.”

  “That isn’t the point. Their bill could be paid from your Trust—Coxhead-Marsh and myself could have settled it all in an instant.”

  “Pay Wright from the Trust? Good God, what a frightful suggestion, when somebody else can be tapped. I don’t owe Wright a penny. It was Wardle who ordered the furniture, all you see here, mirrors and carpets and curtains, it was none of my doing.”

  “My dearest girl, you expect me to swallo
w that story?”

  “It’s the truth, and my lawyer can prove it.”

  “With you in the box?”

  “Of course, if I’m called. I didn’t do badly before. Besides, the cream of the joke… No, I don’t think I’ll tell you!”

  “There’s no joke in the business at all, the action’s disgraceful. I’ve been down at Uxbridge—my poor father’s practically dying—and my one consolation was thinking of you and the children, now happily settled without any worries or troubles, and perhaps in the autumn, I thought, I might find a cottage, not far from my home, where you could be all quietly installed. And then, in the long winter evenings…”

  “Shut up, or I’ll scream. I’m not happily settled, I won’t lose myself in the country, and as for the long winter evenings I’m damned if I’ll spend them mooning around like a moron and yawning my head off.”

  “Very well. Then don’t call upon me when you find you’re in trouble.”

  “I shall call upon you just when, and as often as, I choose. Now come over here and sit down, and stop pulling that face—you look like a curate about to finish the Lesson. Doesn’t anyone rumple your hair in the backwoods of Uxbridge?”

  Apparently not. It was one of the pleasures discarded, belonging to happier times and the high spots of Hampstead. No more was therefore said about the action. Bill Dowler returned to Uxbridge mute but mellow. And she kept the cream of the joke to taste alone, which was, of course, that the Prosecutor against Wardle, in the course of his usual duties upon King’s Bench, would be her late antagonist—the Attorney-General.

  The introduction to his chambers in Lincoln’s Inn—her lawyer, Mr. Comrie, by her side, with Francis and Daniel Wright in their Sunday clothes—made up for every distress in the House of Commons. Sir Vicary Gibbs, his pince-nez on his nose, received them with cordial grace. Formalities passed. Questions were asked and answered. Notes were taken. Legal matters were tossed between legal minds.

  Mr. Comrie, having another appointment at five, took his leave at four with his partner Mr. Stokes, followed almost at once by the brothers Wright. The chief witness for the Prosecution lingered. The Attorney-General closed his door, and smiled, and rose to the top of his height, which was five foot four.