Mary Anne

  “A masterstroke,” he said, “my congratulations.” And removing his pince-nez, he opened a bottle of brandy. “Too early in the day?”

  “No, rather too late. I could have done with some of that on the first of February.”

  “I’d have sent you round a bottle had I known. But I thought you were well supplied by the Opposition?”

  “They never got further than coffee and glasses of water.”

  “That’s the worst of the Whigs, they won’t put their hands in their pockets. Surely Folkestone treated you well?”

  “He said it with flowers.”

  “No use on an empty stomach, with nerves in pieces. No Radical has the smallest ounce of perception; but I’m rather surprised at Folkestone, brought up in France, I’d have said he’d conduct his business with more finesse. The fault of youth, these things need a riper judgment.”

  “Si jeunesse pouvait…”

  “Oh, can’t it? How very lamentable. I thought that was youth’s only possible stock-in-trade. The Tories will be delighted. May I quote you?”

  “Rather unfair, don’t you think? We all have our failings.”

  “To give them their due, the Whigs usually have the muscle. We muster the brains, that’s why we govern the country. Tell me, were you exhausted by your ordeal in the House?”

  “I lost half a stone.”

  “I don’t wonder. We kept you hard at it and gave you no quarter. I was fairly exhausted myself—but you look very well.”

  “I have powers of resilience.”

  “You must have. I used to know Barrymore—where is he now?”

  “Dear Cripplegate? Somewhere in Ireland. Bogged down by marriage, of course, and harnessed to horses.”

  “Jamie Fitzgerald’s another I used to know well.”

  “James is disgruntled. He lives in perpetual panic that I’m going to publish his letters and keeps writing from Dublin.”

  “Would they be entertaining?”

  “To the Government, not to the public. The Protestant outlook, as seen by an Irish M.P.”

  “Try Christie’s. I’ll put in a bid.”

  “He’s got most of them back. I’m not grasping by nature, it’s just that I’ve children to keep.”

  “More brandy?”

  “Why not?”

  A knock at the door of the chambers. Sir Vicary Gibbs readjusted his gown and his wig.

  “Who’s there?”

  A voice from without, “Lord Chief Justice Ellenborough, sir, below in his carriage, come to collect you. You’re dining with him in the Lords, he says have you forgotten?”

  “No, no… Tell his Lordship to go, I shall follow on foot.”

  He turned to his visitor. “Can you give me a lift in your carriage? It’s all on your way back to Chelsea, if it’s not inconvenient.”

  “Delighted. Whenever you please.”

  “That’s exceedingly good of you. The bishops are giving a dinner in honor of Ellenborough. I mustn’t be late, but as long as I’m there by six thirty… It’s not every day that I have an encounter like this.”

  He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and finished his brandy.

  “This upholsterer business,” he said, “is it all aboveboard?”

  “We’ve got Wardle on toast,” she replied, “he can’t wriggle out of it.”

  “Did he promise to pay?”

  “There was no limit to his promises last November.”

  “The earth and its contents, oh, quite… but the matter before us?”

  “I used what finesse I possess, and so fixed him completely.”

  “That’s fine, all is well. I imagine he’ll give us no trouble. A verdict for Wright, and the popular patriot deflated. There’s nothing in it for you, I’m afraid, except more notoriety. Is that why you do it?”

  “Good God, no. I’ve had all I need.”

  “Then why?”

  She put down her glass, smoothed her gown and glanced out of the window.

  “I wanted to meet you,” she said. “There was no other way. Mrs. Clarke and Sir Vicary Gibbs make a good combination.”

  The Attorney-General was half an hour late at the Lords…

  As June progressed, the member for Okehampton endeavored to settle the action out of court. He was unsuccessful; plaintiff would not withdraw. And plaintiff’s witness found preparation pleasant, the visits to Lincoln’s Inn extremely rewarding. All things considered the summer proved amusing; it was a novel event to provide light relief for the Bench. And far less fatiguing than punching those pillows for Folkestone. His Radical Lordship still styled himself an admirer, but wrote from a distance—pen-friendship was safe, within limits.

  He forgot it was always incautious to write after dinner. The pen ran more freely, the thoughts flowed at ease and at random. A note scrawled at midnight was never the same in the morning, when read at breakfast by a lady who kept correspondence, and that letter of June 27th might damn him one day. Her discerning eye passed rapidly over the pages, written from Coleshill House one idle evening.

  “… I wish I had some news to send you in return for your entertaining letter, but from this sequestered spot you can expect none, indeed since I came here I have done nothing but wander about the fields by myself, and eat strawberries, things which are very wholesome, but altogether uninteresting to relate. Your letter, on the contrary, is full of interesting matter, whereon such a hermit as I am at this place, whether he be of a contemplative turn of mind or not, might chew the cud of reflection for many a day. I think, from what you say, there will be hell to pay, when the matter comes on for trial. The whole affair must out, and the Royal Brother, Dodd, and Wardle will be exposed. I lament that they do not foresee this, and prevent the éclat. I do not guess what Wardle means to do, I suppose he will trust to his popularity to bear him through, but that will not do—for after all, though his part has not been so base as that of the other two, it has been a dirty one, and he has suffered himself to be made an instrument of by them.

  “The thing, however, will do no good to the Royal Family in general, for though the Duke’s friends will attempt to invalidate your testimony, there is so much evidence in your statements, so many corroborating circumstances, and so many people know so many instances of this kind, that the public will not be induced to believe your testimony false.

  “I suppose the public prints will endeavor to mix me up with the prenamed trio, but this is quite impossible. Whitbread, Burdett, and myself can in no degree be involved—at least I have no doubt but that they are as clear as I know myself to be.

  “I could contemplate with amusement, and observe all these intrigues at work with philosophical indifference, were I not fearful you would be the sufferer. I tremble for the settlement of your affairs, which I should presume to be now more distant than ever?

  “I am afraid that you will be tired of this scrawl, which is nearly illegible. Pray let me hear from you again when anything occurs, and you have a moment for writing. Your letters sent to Harley Street, as usual, will meet me. Adieu!

  “Ever sincerely yours—Folkestone.”

  Into the box with the others, and tied up with tape.

  On the third of July, at the Court of Common Pleas, Westminster Hall, before the Lord Chief Justice, the action Wright v. Wardle was heard and tried. Excitement was in the air. The court was packed. It might have been Drury Lane on an opening night.

  Mrs. Clarke, in white, with a hat of flimsy straw cocked at an angle, made her appearance to subdued applause. Her audience, mostly male—for daughters and wives were still struggling in the queue in Palace Yard—leaned forward, eyes agleam and shoulders touching (they were chiefly members of the House of Commons, and Tory ones at that), but what surprised them was the Attorney-General’s strangely youthful bearing. The man had lost twenty years, had become debonair. A dog with a dozen tails could not surpass him. As he rose to open the case for the Prosecution he might have been Lancelot himself at Lyonesse. The voice that had sent a c
hill to so many spines, hard and forbidding, held a new liquid quality. Lush notes came forth like a nightingale’s in spring.

  “An honest, working tradesman has been defrauded. A woman and mother has been wronged.”

  Good heavens! Lord Chief Justice Ellenborough wiped his forehead. Had old Vinegar Gibbs got religion, or was he dreaming? A hot July, of course—he might have been drinking. But what was all this about rats and feminine frailty? Asps at Cleopatra’s bosom… venom… ingratitude? Women who gave their all? Babes in the gutter? The Lord Chief Justice winced—what a volte-face. How different from February last, in the House of Commons. His friend the Attorney-General must be slipping. Rhetoric passed to banter, and his Lordship relaxed. This was more like it, the old familiar sneering, covert suggestions, polishing of the pince-nez, a tongue like a two-edged dagger probing defenses. The wretched defendant had shrunk to the size of a sparrow, and serve him right for bringing those shocking charges—the fellow deserved to be horsewhipped and sent from the country—but even so it pained the Lord Chief Justice to see the Attorney-General quite so flamboyant, so lavish of eye and of gesture, a peacock in plumage; it lowered the tone of the Bench and was rather distasteful. If this was the result of contact with the plaintiff’s chief witness, an encounter or two prior to action, the Judge disapproved. And those grins from spectators, those nudges and diggings of elbows, suggested a spirit of levity highly misplaced.

  His Lordship called “Order,” tapped sharply, and made himself felt. A frown at Sir Vicary Gibbs brought the speech to a close. A word or two later in chambers would settle ill feeling, and in the meantime the Court must observe that the Judge held the scales. An opening sting to the witness would show his position, and perhaps bring a blush to her cheeks, and so restore balance.

  She flaunted her way to the box amid smiles of approval, whispers and murmurs, then somebody shouted, “Go get him.”

  The Lord Chief Justice stiffened, tapped again.

  “The Court will be cleared unless there is absolute silence.”

  The murmurs died down. The witness was sworn and stood waiting. His Lordship observed her and said with emphasis, “Under whose protection, madam, are you now?”

  The witness raised her eyes and answered softly, “I thought, my Lord, that I was under yours.”

  It was this, more than anything else, that settled the action. Laughter, led by the jury, set the tone, and the case, like a river in spate, rippled on to conclusion.

  The Attorney-General spooned his witness bait, fed her with frivolous sop… The Court applauded. The Lord Chief Justice could not interrupt them. The pair were playing a game that defied intervention, they were matched like reel and rod and there was no unwinding. They juggled in jargon, dabbled in double entendres, wallowed in each other’s witticisms, and all at the expense of the defendant.

  Colonel Wardle went to the warehouse, Mrs. Clarke? Then tell us about him, what was the furniture chosen? Colonel Wardle praised a sideboard—was it mirrored? And what about the bronze-and-scarlet carpet that Colonel Wardle insisted on for the bedroom? It was too large for Westbourne Place—alterations were needed, a piece cut off the end on Colonel Wardle’s orders. Some trouble with the bed? The legs were missing. Colonel Wardle suggested lampstands upside down. It was perfectly safe if pressure was not used. Had Francis Wright concurred in the suggestion? Francis Wright was unmarried and lived with his brother, Daniel; they both slept in single beds, and could not say. But Colonel Wardle knew that lampstands served, he had stayed in a coffeehouse in Cadogan Square—persona grata—where such things were used. With ordinary precautions, there could be no disaster. Had Colonel Wardle admired a marble statue? Yes, Aphrodite rising from the foam, and a miniature one in bronze of Leda’s swan. Both were highly ornamental to a mantelpiece, when viewed from the side, or so Colonel Wardle said. Mrs. Clarke was reluctant to have them, because of the children—young minds were so quick to seize upon ideas—but Colonel Wardle was exceedingly temperamental and couldn’t compose a speech without inspiration.

  Then Westbourne Place had been a home from home? Oh, very decidedly. Not at the request of the witness. The Colonel was always appearing at awkward hours. He was found by the maid one morning at eight o’clock examining Leda’s swan with a microscope. And so on, until the outraged Lord Chief Justice raised his hand for silence and cleared the Court.

  The witness withdrew and the proceedings settled down. Brother Daniel Wright gave sober, solemn evidence, and when the Defending Counsel, Mr. Park, rose to speak, he knew he had lost. His client was beaten before he reached the box. Colonel Wardle faltered, fumbled, failed; his “That I deny,” repeated again and again, was scarcely heard.

  Notes of despair were passed between the lawyers. Witnesses Glennie and Dodd were never called—their evidence was deemed too damaging to help the cause, when the cause was already dead. The concluding speeches were brief; there was no need for eloquence. The scales were tipped and his Lordship threw in his hand.

  The jury gave a verdict for Francis Wright. His Lordship found the defendant, Gwyllym Wardle, guilty of owing the plaintiff two thousand pounds, this sum to be paid within three months.

  The patriot had lost and Old Palace Yard, the scene of his former triumph, was deserted. The crowds that had cheered him in April had all gone home. Colonel Wardle drove away, his carriage closed.

  The Attorney-General escorted his witness to chambers.

  “He’ll appeal, of course, or bring a case against you.”

  “What then?”

  “I shall defend you.”

  “How can you, if you’re Public Prosecutor?”

  “My dear, I do as I please. I can switch my role.”

  “But isn’t that rather unfair?”

  “It makes for variety.”

  “Attorney-General turned into Learned Counsel?”

  “Yes, it mellows the mood, and helps to broaden judgment. If you’d rather have someone else by all means do so.”

  “Oh no… united we stand. Shall we get the same Judge?”

  “Eddie Ellenborough? Very probably. And if we do we’ll have to mind our manners. We mightn’t be so successful a second time. As it is, I foresee a certain coolness coming; it was only his Tory principles today that prevented him leading the jury in favor of Wardle.”

  “Those shaggy eyebrows… What is he like at home?”

  “Petulant and proud, and damned intolerant.”

  “Perhaps that’s just a façade and he needs understanding.”

  “You’re welcome to try your powers, he’s a frigid old fellow.”

  “All judges must be cold-blooded, it goes with their nature. If they weren’t, there wouldn’t be any British justice. I suppose when they’re promoted to the bench they turn monastic… Now, when a man takes silk…”

  “Must we discuss it now? Am I taking you home?”

  “But I love legal chat…”

  “I detest it. My question’s repeated.”

  “Your question was not understood. You must alter the phrasing.”

  “Does witness permit Learned Counsel to give her instruction?”

  “Chez-vous, or chez-moi?”

  “Chez wherever you please.”

  “Then how about coming to dine at Westbourne Place and giving Counsel’s opinion on Leda’s swan?”

  In St. James’s Street the defendant, Gwyllym Wardle, alone and embittered, sat down to compose a letter, which he addressed to the people of the United Kingdom.

  3

  “Honored as my Parliamentary conduct has been by the approbation of so many of my countrymen, I feel myself called upon, in consequence of an event that yesterday took place, immediately to address you, and that in vindication of my character, rendered open to attack from the verdict of the Jury, upon the evidence of Mrs. Clarke and Mr. Wright, the brother of the Upholsterer, in a cause in which I was defendant, in the Court of King’s Bench.

  “The detail of the evidence the public prints will afford. It
is with me to state that my Counsel, satisfied in their own minds that the jury would not, upon such testimony as had been given by the plaintiff’s brother and Mrs. Clarke alone, find a verdict against me, did not comply with my earnest entreaty, repeated to them in writing during the trial, in the strongest terms, that Major Dodd and Mr. Glennie and other respectable witnesses might be examined, as I knew their testimony would be founded in truth, and in direct contradiction to what had been sworn against me.

  “Under such circumstances the verdict was obtained.

  “There only remains for me now, before my God and my Country, to declare that it was obtained by perjury alone; and I do pledge myself to prove that fact the earliest moment the forms of the law will allow me to do so.

  “Anxiously, therefore, do I look forward to that period; and I trust that till then the public will suspend their judgment upon the case. With sentiments of the deepest gratitude and respect, I remain your ever faithfully devoted Servant,

  “G. L. Wardle.”

  The letter was published in every newspaper on July 5th, and at once discussed with avidity. The question was, would anyone reply?

  On the sixteenth of the month, Mrs. M. A. Clarke published an Address in the National Register.

  “To the People of the United Kingdom.

  “Honored as my testimony before the House of Commons has been with the confidence of the country at large, and sanctioned as my evidence has been in a recent instance by a jury of my Countrymen, I feel myself called upon (after affording time for the most deliberate reflection) to address you, in consequence of a circumstance which has arisen out of the Cause in which Mr. Wright, an Upholsterer, was plaintiff; Colonel Wardle, defendant; and Mr. Daniel Wright, brother of the plaintiff, and myself were witnesses.