His summing-up could hardly be called impartial. The scales were heavily tipped against Colonel Wardle. His Lordship observed that it was difficult to conjecture why Colonel Wardle had ever gone to the upholsterer’s warehouse. If a man did not go to such a place with a lady with the view of being paymaster, it was certainly a dangerous situation in which to trust himself. His Lordship told the gentlemen of the jury that the important issue between the parties lay in their hands, and he had no doubt they would do justice to both.
The jury, after a consultation of ten minutes, returned a verdict of “Not Guilty” for Francis Wright and Mrs. M. A. Clarke.
For the second time within five calendar months the member for Okehampton had been vanquished. The fêting was all forgotten; the tide had turned. The fickle public thumbed its nose and yawned. Nothing remained for Gwyllym Lloyd Wardle but the backbenches of His Majesty’s Opposition, from which obscurity he had so lately sprung.
“And you?” the Attorney-General asked his Client. “Have you had your full of the Courts, or do you want more?”
She smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
“That depends upon my friends, and how they treat me.”
“At least the verdict was a Christmas present.”
“But thanks to Mr. Stokes.”
“Not your learned Counsel?”
“The arch-juggler? Yes, perhaps… and the Lord Chief Justice. And some of it also to Scylla and Charybdis, and vicarious quicksands and navigators’ perils. I’m glad poor Francis Wright will get his money, but I’m no better off—which is rather a pity.”
“I thought you had vast sums from memoirs expunged.”
“Not vast enough… I sometimes regret the deal. Which gives me a sudden idea—you can advise me. Would the Government take it amiss if I published the facts that came out at the trial today about Dodd and Wardle? And the way I was bribed to appear at the House of Commons?”
“A blow to the Opposition—they’d be delighted. But your Whig friends will be furious, I warn you.”
“I don’t give a damn for them, except for Folkestone. And he’s become very cool and needs a lesson.”
“Then do your worst. The Ministry will stay mum.”
In January 1810 a board “To Let” appeared above the door at Westbourne Place. The Trustees for Mrs. Clarke and her two daughters had decided she could not afford so large a house. Expenses must be cut. She must retrench.
A cottage at Uxbridge? No, but a cottage at Putney, not far from Fulham Lodge, might prove amusing. The Duke still loaned the Lodge to current favorites and exercised his horses on Putney Heath, and no one could tell what stray nostalgic echo might cause him to take an early morning ride. Not that she had much hope, but the thought was distracting.
She settled down—ear cocked for the sound of hoofbeats—with paper and pen and a tin box full of letters, and late in the spring the result was printed and published by Mr. Chapple, 66 Pall Mall.
Title: The Rival Princes by Mary Anne Clarke.
4
The first edition of The Rival Princes was exhausted within three weeks. A second followed, with further remarks and additional letters, and a foreword thanking the gentlemen of the press for taking up the cause of an injured woman without any reference to party politics. The editors of The Times, The Post, The Sun, The Courier and The Pilot received their dues; Mr. Bell, of The Weekly Messenger, a blast, this editor having said that the scandalous volume deserved to be put to the flames by the common hangman. Mr. Bell, retorted the author, had never before been known to discharge a debt until he had been arrested; Colonel Wardle was therefore lucky in getting paid. The author knew several anecdotes, all of them curious, about the personal history of Mr. Bell, and if further provoked she might be induced to publish them—which was one sort of method of dealing with bad reviews.
The book had been fun to write. No one was spared. Messrs. Wardle, Dodd, and Glennie cut ludicrous figures; Sir Richard Phillips of Bridge Street fumed and fretted; the wine merchant, Illingworth, was caricatured. The visits to Romney Marsh and the Martello Towers, and evenings at Westbourne Place, were fully described. There were peeps behind the scenes at the Investigation, and the friendship of his Radical Lordship was lightly sketched. The book began with the first encounter with Wardle, and ended with his defeat at Westminster Hall.
The Duke of York was alluded to in the preface, but in such a way that no offence could be taken and thus the ten thousand pounds were still secure. The author said that her late royal friend was indebted for all his disasters to the descendant of one misled by Eve, in days long past, by means of an apple. She would mention no names, but the Household might think as they pleased. An envenomed tongue had poisoned the royal ear, for the royal heart was incapable of injuring anyone. The author had been forced to stand up for her rights, or else perish at the feet of her infant children.
His Royal Highness, the Duke of Kent, was not so spared. In answer to Mary Anne’s allegations he published at large A Declaration, consisting of questions put to Major Dodd, late in his employ as private secretary.
In this Declaration Major Dodd denied ever having mentioned his master’s name as encouraging any attack upon his brother. In fact the private secretary, now discharged, agreed that in his service of ten years, whatever the wounded feelings might have been, H.R.H. had never uttered a word of complaint. When pamphlets had censured his brother and praised himself, the Duke of Kent had shuddered and bowed his head. As to sanctioning measures to injure his brother’s honor, as described in a recent book The Rival Princes, such a foul aspersion could not remain unnoticed and must make every honest man recoil with horror.
In the first edition a single letter only was printed from Lord Folkestone to the author, but this was enough to frighten his Radical Lordship, who immediately scribbled a note of regret to Wardle, saying he had not read the work itself but that any opinion he may have expressed last year he wished now to disavow completely. Representations made by Mrs. Clarke were to blame for those opinions. He hoped that Major Dodd would understand, and, though he hated to see his name in the public prints, both gentlemen might make use of his present letter. It was published the following day, June 13th 1810, in the Morning Chronicle.
He did not publish a second more intimate note, written the very same day to his friend Mr. Creevy. An excerpt ran as follows: “Is the letter she printed a damned foolish one? Does it make me appear ridiculous? Is it the one where I say ‘It will do no good to the Family?’ Do other people think much of it, and do you? Pardon these enquiries, but after the excessive nervousness you witnessed last December you will not wonder at them. Does the bitch hint at my sleeping with her, or say anything else about me?”
It was just as well for his Radical Lordship that the author never set eyes upon that, or he might have suffered. As it was, the Morning Chronicle caught her eye, and in the second edition of her book she printed nine more letters from Lord Folkestone, with some cryptic comments of explanation.
The second edition of The Rival Princes was snapped up even more quickly than the first, the interest being not in the Wardle story but in who had been shown up and torn to pieces. Dog-eared copies were smuggled onto backbenches, scanned in smoke rooms, sniggered at in closets, and, though full fire was turned on the Opposition, Government members did not escape unscathed. Not a word was said against Sir Vicary Gibbs; but the Secretary to the Admiralty, Mr. Croker, who with the Attorney-General had shown himself most hostile to the author in 1809, received a twelve-page blast, exposing his humble origins and the odium into which he had come as a result of his unsavory activities as a tax collector in Ireland.
For three or four months the book was discussed and applauded—though derided by many as being in execrable taste—and then, as is the way with ephemeral topics, interest died and the subject was completely forgotten. Other matters arose to claim attention—the progress of the war and, in Royal Circles, the death of the King’s favorite daughter, the Princess A
melia. This was the last straw for the wavering monarch. His Majesty George the Third was pronounced insane, and in 1811 the Prince of Wales became Regent. One of the earliest measures he put into force was to restore the Duke of York as Commander-in-Chief.
The Investigation, the lawsuits, The Rival Princes became stale news and nobody cared anymore. Like last year’s comic song or a summer fashion, the scandal had had its day and could now be buried. The only person to regret interment was Mrs. Clarke herself. It made life dull.
She said, “I’ve got letters in my old tin box to provide a dozen volumes and make a fortune. Why let them go to waste, and not to posterity?”
This was before a meeting of Trustees, including Messrs. Dowler and Coxhead-Marsh. The ten thousand pounds had dwindled down to five; in a couple of years there wouldn’t be anything left.
“A sound reason for making authorship my profession. The girls will live on the income of the annuity, and I can rake in royalties. Don’t you agree?”
Charley Thompson nodded his head. He was third Trustee. Anything that augmented the sisterly funds had his brotherly approbation—she gave him half.
Messrs. Dowler and Coxhead-Marsh held a different opinion. Shocked to the core and aghast at The Rival Princes—a libel on every page—they feared a repetition. She had got away with it once but she wouldn’t again. There were heavy odds against hitting a target twice. Besides, no man was spared by her pen, and who knew what foolish scribbles from themselves reposed in that same tin box, tied up with ribbon?
“I think,” said Coxhead-Marsh, “you’d be better advised to lie low for a while and attend to the girls’ education.”
“That excellent school at Uxbridge,” said Bill Dowler, “only fifteen pounds a term, with French included.”
“Sums can be advanced for scholastic purposes, but not for a splash in society,” said Coxhead-Marsh. “Both Dowler and I are agreed upon that. If you want the girls to marry, and marry well, attention drawn to yourself will blot their chances. As it is…”
“As it is,” said Dowler, interrupting, “what happened in 1809 may tell against them. In fact, as I’ve told you over and over again, a quiet retreat to the country is your answer. A cottage at Chalfont St. Peter’s…”
She turned to blast him. “Are there courses for conjugal life at the school in Uxbridge? I’d rather prepare them myself, with French included… The girls must live in London, and so must I, with a pied-à-terre at Brighton, or possibly Ramsgate, and when George goes into the Army we’ll follow after him—there’ll be Cornets twelve a penny for Mary and Ellen, and some dashing Cavalry colonel for myself.”
There was silence at the mention of George’s name, but a glance between the Trustees was unmistakable.
She said, “Why, what’s the matter?”
Bill did not answer. Charley shrugged his shoulders. It was left for Coxhead-Marsh to break the pause.
“I might pull a string in the City,” he began, “and get George into some business. There’s plenty of time.”
“George is going into the Army,” she replied. “It’s his wish, and a standing promise.”
“It won’t be easy.”
“Why not?”
“The reason’s obvious. The son of the woman who broke the Commander-in-Chief isn’t likely to find a welcome in any regiment. Applications will be turned down. He hasn’t a hope.”
“I warned you,” said Charley. “I failed, and so will he. The Investigation ruined both our chances. If George cares to change his name he might strike lucky, but not in His Majesty’s Army, that’s very certain.”
Sudden fury seized her. Incompetent idiots, all of them.
“If anyone stands in the way I know how to fight. I’ve a letter from the Duke of York himself promising George a commission at fifteen. What if I produce it in Court?”
The Trustees sighed. Back to King’s Bench again and Westminster Hall? Publicity—damaging, dangerous, fatal to everyone. It would be the wreckage of George’s chances, and the girls’.” Could nobody persuade her to keep silent?
“If you attempt any sort of threat,” said Coxhead-Marsh, “you’ll utterly destroy your children’s future. The annuity for yourself and for the girls will be withdrawn and you’ll be left without a penny.”
“Except what I know I can earn with my wits and my pen, which might be considerably more than any annuity.”
She stormed her way out of the building and left them haggling. They could do what they liked with the funds of the dwindling capital, pinch and scrape and invest in the three percents; no one could launch an attack except herself.
It was not until she got home and searched through her box that she remembered—the letter referring to George from the Duke was no longer in her possession. She had sent it, ages ago, to James Fitzgerald for safe keeping.
She had heard nothing from either Fitzgerald for several months. James had retired from politics only that year and Willie had leaped into prominence very swiftly, becoming Chancellor of the Irish Exchequer and a member of the English privy council. She wrote to them at once. They were both in Ireland, Parliament having risen for the summer recess, and she had little doubt that Willie, in his new position, could obtain a commission for George against all opposition.
No answer from father or son. She wrote again. A few curt words from James arrived at last. “The letter to which you allude has long been destroyed.”
Destroyed, that most precious of her possessions! Did he think it would contaminate him? Or was he terrified of retaining a scrap of evidence of his relations with the notorious Mrs. Clarke?
A further appeal to Willie was unsuccessful, and a message implied that William Fitzgerald, Chancellor, had no wish to be remembered by Mrs. Clarke. Any acquaintance they may have had in the distant past was best forgotten by both, and not resumed. In addition, the Irish Chancellor refused to take action regarding the future of Mrs. Clarke’s son.
At first she was stunned. She couldn’t believe the truth. It wasn’t humanly possible that the Fitzgeralds, close friends of ten years’ standing, could turn against her, after so many secrets had been shared, and so many worries. Willie, who’d told her his troubles since Oxford days, running for help and assistance, as Charley had; James, who’d unburdened his heart on a hundred occasions, spilling political beans and personal problems. No wish for further acquaintance… a chapter closed… and nothing done for George—George was abandoned.
Emotion turned to anger, anger to fury, and fury to blind instinct for revenge. As in the past, she turned for advice to Ogilvie.
“What shall I do? How can I hit them hardest?”
During the past four years much had miscarried. Ogilvie’s hopes had failed him one by one. The Regency had damped all expectations of a country divided in two, of a revolution. The Tories were still in power with no prospect of change, and thus any weapon would serve if it discredited Ministers. Ill feeling between England and Ireland might be fostered; dissension always served a useful purpose, and here was something to seize upon and encourage.
“I told you,” he said, “when you published The Rival Princes, that you ought to have made it stronger. Now’s your chance. Start on a series of pamphlets attacking the Government, beginning with William Fitzgerald. Show him up. There’ll be an appalling outcry—he’ll have to resign. Remember what a fool you made of Croker? There was bitter disappointment in the country that you never followed it up by damning the rest.”
“You think what I say carries weight?”
“Of course it does. When you wrote The Rival Princes you’d got the public. But you let the moment slip, and so you lost them. You don’t realize the power you have in your pen, and for that matter in your tongue as well. Two men fell to disgrace because of you, the Duke of York and Wardle. Try for the third. Get the Irish Chancellor booted—the public will back you.”
The words were honey to her avid ears. Will told her all the things she longed to hear. His suggestion stirred her, excited h
er. A series of pamphlets attacking her world, the world she had known; once more a chance to prove she was not forgotten, that she still had the power to break a man.
The battle was on again, the idée fixe—men were a race apart to be subjected. She shut herself up in her room and began to write…
The letter to the Right Honorable William Fitzgerald consisted of some twenty pages or so, and was printed in pamphlet form by a Mr. Mitchell. Mr. Chapple of Pall Mall had turned it down. He advised against publication, scenting danger, but the author of The Rival Princes would not listen.
“Danger to William Fitzgerald, not to me.”
Mr. Chapple shook his head. The letter was vitriol, without the grace of humor or of wit.
“I am anxious to caution the Irish nation against one of the most vicious and profligate of men, who at present most mysteriously presides over the finances of that nation, and who is to be its organ in the Imperial Parliament.
“I am guided by the general principle that has regulated my whole life; never to suffer ingratitude, one of the blackest of crimes, to go unpunished, or hypocrisy unexposed. You, Mr. Fitzgerald, shall afford an additional example that none, be his rank ever so exalted, shall with impunity trifle with my feelings to suit his private convenience, and I wish to impress it upon your memory that when stung by injury I would enforce redress not only from the son of the King, but from the King himself. As yet I have shown up no one who did not richly deserve to be exposed to the public; this is the only revenge I am desirous of taking on those by whom I am ill-treated.
“The following circumstance affords us a striking illustration of the baseness and treachery of that subtle intriguer, your father, to whom I entrusted a letter from the Duke of York, written soon after our separation, in which he pledged himself by everything sacred to educate, protect and provide for my son as long as he lived.
“I wrote to your father requesting him to restore this letter. To this application he returned for answer: ‘I have destroyed it.’