A Marriage of Convenience (33 page)

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The time of her mother’s convalescence was a trying period for Louise. Their walks together ceased and she spent almost all her time with her governess. But by the middle of August Theresa was better and Louise had been given a pony chaise by Clinton. It soon became one of her favourite pastimes to drive herself around the estate.

One afternoon she went to the stables to tell Harris to get her chaise ready and harness the pony. She found the servant talking to a boy outside the saddle room. Harris called her over.

‘The lad here says he’s got a letter for your mother, Miss Louise. Has to give it to her himself. Could you take him while I get Quickstep harnessed?’

Though feeling it rather beneath her dignity to play escort to an errand boy, Louise’s curiosity got the better of her.

‘Come on then,’ she said, looking critically at her charge. The boy’s face was a mass of freckles under his thatch of butter-coloured hair. She noticed that his nose was peeling, and that an immense pair of boots made his legs look like sticks where they showed under his ragged knee-length trousers.

Walking towards the house, she twirled her little parasol over her head, as she took sideways glances at this improbable messenger. The boy’s tattered clothes made her feel like a princess; but memories of the scant respect shown her by the doctor’s children made her suppress her regal instincts.

‘Why can’t you let me take the letter?’ she asked in a friendly voice. ‘I could give you a tip, you know.’

‘Keep thy brass. Miss Waller says I’m to gi’ it to the lady herself, and I will that.’

‘Who is this Miss Waller?’

‘Dressmaker in Sowerby, miss.’

‘That’s where we go to mass.’ Louise looked thoughtful. ‘Is she small and rather pink?’

‘Happen she is.’

‘I wonder she can’t use the post office like anybody else.’ The boy said nothing, but scuffed his boots on the gravel, kicking up dust. ‘Don’t you think it unusual?’

‘Mebbe ’tis. Mebbe ’tain’t.’

His brusque tactiturnity amused Louise.

‘You don’t say much.’

‘Nowt to say.’

Louise smiled at him kindly.

‘Would you like something to eat in the kitchen? You must be tired.’ He shook his head and walked on with hunched shoulders. She said sweetly: ‘Won’t you show it me?’

‘It’s nowt but an envelope, miss.’

‘I’d still like to see it. Perhaps you haven’t got a letter at all. Could be just an excuse to get into the house so you can take something.’

They were only yards from the door, and the boy stopped, rigid with anger.

‘Shut thy gob,’ he muttered under his breath, pulling a crumpled envelope from his trouser pocket.

Concealing her anger at his rudeness, Louise looked away.

‘So you brought an envelope,’ she said quietly. ‘They’re not hard to buy.’ She turned and met his eyes calmly. ‘Tell me the name on the letter.’

He looked down at his dusty boots, blushing fiercely.

‘I can’t figure it … Lady of the house I been told.’

‘Better let me read it then.’ She held out an unhurried hand, but he stood there stubbornly refusing to relinquish it. His sullen defiance enraged her—an illiterate village boy refusing what she asked and proud of his stupid obstinacy. With a speed of movement that took her adversary completely by surprise, she snatched the envelope away from him and ran as fast as she could towards the door. Hampered by his heavy boots, the boy, though bigger, could not overtake her before she reached the house. Hearing him close behind her, and knowing he would catch her before she could cross the hall, she hit the dinner gong with the handle of her parasol, and turned to defend herself until help came.

‘Gi’ it back,’ the boy gasped, coming at her.

‘It’s for my mother. I’ll …’

He lunged forward and she fenced at him with the parasol, catching him in the ribs with the point.

‘I told Miss Waller … She made me promise.’ He was desperate
rather than angry, and for a moment Louise almost relented, but by now his determination to recover the letter had increased her curiosity to discover what it was. She saw him surreptitiously move to his right, and held up the parasol to parry any sudden move.

‘Do you want Miss Waller to hear how rude and silly you’ve been?’

The boy grabbed at the end of the parasol. Because the letter was in her right hand, Louise was badly handicapped in the tug of war which followed, and was soon disarmed. As he lunged for the letter, she hit him hard across the face, screaming as she cut her knuckles on his teeth. Stunned by pain, and by the noise she was making, he hesitated a fatal moment. A second later a maid and a footman came in.

‘Put him out,’ cried Louise.

‘She took my letter afore ye came,’ said the boy, appealing to the footman who was advancing on him.

‘It’s for my mother. Of course I took it. She’d hardly want to see a village boy.’

The footman took the boy’s arm and led him firmly to the door.

Louise sat down on her bed and looked at the dirty envelope. Her hand shook a little as she held it up to the light, but the paper was far too thick for her to learn anything about the contents. The memory of the boy’s face after she had hit him, made her feel horribly guilty; especially since she now had no idea what to do with the letter. She wondered whether he would be sensible and say nothing, or whether next Sunday at Mass, if her mother were well enough to go, Miss Waller would angrily tell her what had happened to her errand boy. Re-examining the envelope to see if she could open it and then glue it again with no damage to the paper, she was horrified to see that she had managed to smear it with blood from her knuckles. She dabbed a handkerchief into the water jug on her washstand and tried to clean away the stain, but the paper was porous and she only succeeded in making the marks worse. The only remedy would be to use a new envelope and write her mother’s name in capital letters. Louise lost no time in opening the old one. To her disappointment, the only enclosure was another sealed envelope, directed to Mrs Barr, Care Of Miss E. Waller, Sowerby, North Lancashire. The postmark intrigued Louise:
Ballygowan.
She suspected the name was Irish. She turned the envelope over, and was relieved to find that the sender had not sealed it with wax. Who could have written to her mother and yet been scared to send it directly to Hathenshaw? Her heart was beating faster as she stared at the cramped handwriting on the envelope; with a shudder of fear and excitement she hid the letter under her pillow. Already she knew
that she was going to open it. Since the servants, who had rescued her, might tell her mother that she had a note for her she realised that she would have to be quick.

She left her room and went down to the kitchen by the
back-stairs.
Though a maid was rolling pastry at the table, Louise
managed
to take one of the large metal ladles from the row of hooks by the dresser without being seen. The servant’s back had been turned and the dresser had helped conceal her. Next Louise took a box of lucifers from the smoking room, and returned to her room, once more by the back-stairs. Having placed a chair against the door, she took two candles of the same length from the candelabrum on the dressing-table, and lighting one, dripped two blobs of wax onto the marble top of the washstand. Setting the base of the candles side by side in the warm wax, she then lit the second one, and, taking the letter from under her pillow, placed it on the edge of the washstand. When she had half-filled the ladle with water, she held it over the candle flames. It took longer than she had expected for the water to get hot, but as soon as it was, she picked up the letter gingerly and proceeded to steam it open.

Inside were two sheets of paper. The first Louise read was headed, ‘The Presbytery, Rathnagar July 15th 1867’.

The second sheet was written more elegantly, as though by a
clerk, in copperplate script; the priest’s signature being the only part in his hand.

Louise dropped the letters and stood motionless, staring at the white squares of paper on the patterned carpet. At first she was too dumbfounded to react; then a surge of happiness swept through her. It was not long before this mood passed. She felt disquieted. There was so much she did not understand. Too much. If they were married, why had Clinton lied to her? And why had her mother said nothing? Not even anything about the baby or her illness. Louise sat down on the bed feeling suddenly scared. What was the promise Clinton had made the priest swear and what was her mother’s secret?

She rolled back on the bed and tried to lie still but could not stop shivering. New thoughts battered her like waves. Esmond had hated Clinton and her mother had always refused to say why. Why had the priest been afraid to send his letter to Hathenshaw? Still confused, Louise became angry. She had thought her mother trusted her, but all the time these secrets had been kept from her—the child who could be told nothing. She bit her lip to keep back tears. Her eyes returned to the two white squares of paper. At any moment someone might come in. Moving swiftly to her davenport desk, she took out a new envelope, and pausing to steady herself, wrote out her mother’s name in large bold letters. Then she carefully replaced the contents of the priest’s letter, and with a few spots of glue stuck down the flap. Though feeling herself wronged by Clinton and her mother, Louise could not help experiencing sharp pangs of guilt. She would have been uneasy about opening any letter intended for somebody else; but to have opened one sent by a priest was far worse—perhaps sacrilegious. She knelt down and whispered an Act of Contrition, before hiding the ladle under the bed and replacing the candles in the candelabrum.

Afraid to hand the letter to her mother, in case she gave herself away, Louise found her maid and implored her not to give it to her mistress unless she was alone; she also persuaded her to promise she
would say she had been given it by a boy from Sowerby. Feeling calmer, Louise returned to her room.

That evening she saw from her window a dull red point of light moving in the darkness on the lawn. On many other nights she had seen Clinton walking alone in the garden, cigar in hand, and had felt reassured and safe. Eyes filling with tears, she turned away and drew the curtains. For hours she lay twisting in bed, longing to confess to her mother, but not daring to. The lie she had asked the maid to tell now scared her. The boy might admit to the dressmaker that he had been tricked out of the letter. In her misery one thought sustained Louise, if nobody else could be trusted, she could still confide in her grandfather. He would explain everything to her. Reluctant to risk asking a maid to post a letter for her, Louise decided to wait till Harris next took her to Browsholme, where she might manage to elude him long enough to post one herself.

The arrival of her marriage certificate was soon almost forgotten by Theresa in the press of new events—each one of which seemed more important than the nebulous fears which had first led her to write to the priest. In the past few days, Louise had started to behave with a wayward instability that made her previous shifts seem trifling. Withdrawn for long periods, she would suddenly give way to outbursts of rudeness or tears. Finding herself, just as often as Clinton, the target for her daughter’s displeasure, Theresa wondered whether Louise might be infatuated with Clinton and therefore jealous; but she felt no certainty about this. More perplexing to her was the girl’s adamant refusal to come to Mass, in spite of other signs of increased piety. But worries about Louise were soon eclipsed by concern for Clinton.

His gentleness and patience during her illness had deepened her love for him; and it caused her poignant pain to see fatalism begin to wear away his old gaiety and nonchalance. When he announced his intention of seeing his uncle before the month ended, he sounded confident of success, but his optimism seemed a shadow of other days and did not hide from her his underlying mood. Too detached to be described as stoical, there was something disdainful about his attitude to his misfortunes: a quality that chillingly reminded her of stories of the French nobility’s proud refusal to fight to stay alive in a world they could no longer control. But when the myth of Clinton’s invulnerability died for her, Theresa felt not disillusion but relief. If they faced hardships, she would be able to contribute far more to their lives. Used to the sudden shocks of theatrical failure or success, with no intervening hinterland of moderate security, she believed she would not easily be intimidated by anything they might have to face. Her first test came sooner than she thought.

On a grey and windy morning, still several weeks before Clinton was due to see his uncle, Theresa was sitting in the library when Harris burst in without knocking.

‘There’s a sheriff’s officer asking for his lordship.’

‘You saw his warrant?’

Though her voice was sharp, Theresa was hard put to master a suffocating wave of faintness. Harris looked at her with exasperation.

‘I know what he is… Gentleman, says he; you just fetch him here. He’s a bailiff plain as if he had Queen’s Bench stamped on his forehead.’ Harris came up to her and said gruffly: ‘You go tell the “gentleman” his lordship’s in Lancaster and won’t be back today.’

Though badly shaken, the servant’s peremptory manner stung her.

‘What possible good would that do?’

‘Give the master time to meet his debt or make himself scarce till he can. That man’s come on a judgment summons or I’m a bleeding bashi-bazouk.’

Theresa closed her book and stood up.

‘If he can meet his debt, he’ll meet it. A day or two can’t make the least difference.’

‘Let me be the judge of that … I know what I’m about. Do as I say, and I’ll see he steers clear when he gets in from his ride.’

The man’s urgency was so great, that after a moment’s thought, Theresa nodded silent assent. Though sure that Clinton would have told her if he had had notice of a writ, it was possible that his bank had stopped payment without his knowledge. She left the room in a daze.

Outside the library, Harris hurried away in the direction of the back-stairs, while Theresa made for the hall at a more leisurely pace. The sheriff’s officer was portly and cheerful-looking; a loose-fitting Ulster partly concealed his considerable girth. He had already made himself comfortable in the deep leather porter’s chair by the door, and was smoking a pipe. Theresa stared down at him from the stairs, amazed that this buffoon-like figure could pose any threat to Clinton.

The man rose, as he saw Theresa, and removed his brown bowler.

‘Forgive the liberty,’ he said, waving his pipe, and coming close enough to Theresa to give her the full benefit of the smoke. Ignoring his jocular deference, she quietly asked him his business.

‘That’s with the gentleman himself, madam.’

‘Lord Ardmore’s in Lancaster. Perhaps you could come back another day, Mr …?’

‘Lock, madam.’ He grinned, revealing a number of broken teeth. ‘They often remark on it.’

‘Do they? A better name for a turnkey than a bailiff.’

‘Sheriff’s officer, ma’am,’ Lock replied with feigned reproach. ‘I like a joke though … better for a turnkey. Very good that. Better laugh than cry; that’s what I tell them.’

‘Why not come back in a day or two?’

The bailiff smiled at her sadly.

‘That’s what they often say.’ He puffed on his pipe. ‘Never, “come in and make yourself at home.”’

‘You seem to know how to without any help.’ She fanned away a cloud of pipe-smoke with her hand. ‘If you wish to waste your time, please do so outside or in our smoking room.’

Lock bowed stiffly and replaced his hat.

‘Breath of air, I think.’

As he was leaving, Theresa heard scuffling coming from the servants’ corridor. A moment later Harris was dragged in by two constables. One of his eyes was closed by a livid bruise.

‘Let him go,’ muttered Lock, jerking his head meaningfully in Theresa’s direction. While one of the constables sank down on a small upright chair and gingerly rubbed his ribs, his colleague maintained a firm hold on Harris’s pinioned arm.

‘Best ’ang on to ’im, Mr Lock. He were sneakin’ out by t’ back. Wouldn’t say where and slings a haymaker as Tom tries to stop ’im.’

Lock turned gravely to Theresa.

‘I like loyalty, ma’am. But obstructing a law officer in the exercise of his duty comes under a different head.’ He sighed, and turned to the seated constable. ‘What about the others?’

‘Shut in the servants’ hall.’

‘You’ve no right to terrify Lord Ardmore’s servants,’ cried Theresa, still shocked by what had been done to Harris.

‘For their own good, ma’am. Don’t want to have ’em charged with preventing execution of a writ. Not easy these large houses … a sight too many doors.’

No longer in any doubt about the bailiff’s determination, his good humour now seemed obscene to her.

‘I told you Lord Ardmore’s in Lancaster.’

‘Happen he’ll come back sooner than expected.’

When Lock had told the uninjured constable to put Harris in the servants’ hall, and keep an eye on the back of the house, he sent his still complaining companion to the stables to join another man already waiting there.

‘A nobleman isn’t likely to run into the woods like a common thief.’

‘I’ve known ’em quite elusive, madam,’ replied Lock, sucking hard at his teeth, as though to dislodge a recalcitrant scrap of meat. ‘I wonder if I have the honour of conversing with Lady Ardmore?’

‘Find somebody fit to introduce you before asking who I am.’

A badly suppressed smirk spoiled Lock’s pretence of cowed humility.

‘A very proper answer, I’m sure. My interest was uh …
humanitarian
rather than social. As the gentleman’s wife I could stretch a
point … agree to your accompanying his lordship in my chaise.’ He re-lit his pipe, and drew on it thoughtfully. ‘I’m afraid the governor’s against all visitors ’cept family.’

Theresa turned away with smarting eyes. She badly wanted to ask who had brought suit against Clinton and for how much, but could not face the rebuff which her earlier hostility now made likely. Every minute her suspicion was strengthening that Clinton had expected to be arrested, and knowing he could not prevent it, had kept it from her. On the point of leaving the hall, she froze. The bailiff also heard the sound of hoofs on the carriage sweep and smiled to himself.

Clinton did not at first see the sheriff’s officer, but tossing aside his whip came towards Theresa.

‘Not waiting for me, love?’ His cheeks were glowing after his ride and he looked happy and relaxed. She drew back; fears that he had misled her, overwhelmed by a desire to reduce the impact of what lay ahead. She wished that he could have come in bad-tempered or indifferent—anything but happy. As Lock coughed discreetly to draw attention to himself, Clinton saw him and started. Before he could speak, Theresa took his arm.

‘He’s a bailiff … there are other men.’

For a moment she wondered whether he had heard her, so sudden was the transformation of his expression; not knowing what to expect she sighed with relief as she saw his compressed lips relax into a smile.

‘So those were your men loafing about my stables?’

‘Doing their duty, I hope, sir.’

‘In the nursery that means another thing.’

He moved closer and folded his arms. ‘So what’s yours?’ The man looked at him blankly. ‘Your duty?’

‘Ah yes, sir,’ murmured Lock, putting down his pipe and pulling a folded document from his pocket. He cleared his throat.

‘Are you Lord Ardmore, sir?’

‘I am.’

‘Then I’m sorry to inform your lordship I have a writ against you which I am charged to execute. I must request immediate payment of three hundred pounds at the suit of Messrs Mendoza & Nathan, or the pleasure of your company elsewhere.’

‘Do many people carry such sums about with them? I’ll give you a note for it.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, but that won’t answer.’

‘Don’t be absurd. By the time we get to Lancaster it’ll be too late to telegraph instructions to my bank. The creditor can’t be as vindictive as you’re making out.’

‘Says he’s been used shamefully, sir.’

‘That old phrase … Have you ever
not
heard it trotted out when harsh measures are taken without warning?’

‘Mr Mendoza’s not one who wastes his time. He bought your lordship’s acceptance from Mr Norton in good faith. Your bank wouldn’t pay when it fell due.’

‘Norton’s clerk told me the purchaser would renew.’

‘I can’t help that, my lord. Pay the money and there’s an end. Otherwise I must arrest you.’

‘I want to speak to the lady in private. Lock the door if you must.’

‘Against sheriff’s orders.’

‘Upstairs? You don’t think I’d try jumping forty feet?’

‘Several gentlemen have made away with themselves like that.’

‘For three hundred pounds?’ exploded Clinton.

‘Less as I recall.’ Lock phlegmatically knocked out his pipe against the plinth of a classical bust. He caught Theresa’s eye. ‘Perhaps if you’d introduce me to the lady, I could oblige you. The name’s Lock, my lord.’

‘Don’t,’ whispered Theresa vehemently. ‘If he wants to spy on us, let him.’

‘To hell with that,’ said Clinton, picking up his whip and advancing on the bailiff. ‘Will you take my word that I’ll come with you in an hour?’

The sheriff’s officer glanced warily at the whip and then at Clinton’s face.

‘Half-an-hour.’

‘Very well. Now get out.’

Alone, they embraced in silence, tightly clasped, imprinting the memory of warmth and touch.

‘How long?’ she murmured at last, moving from him.

‘Only days. They can’t hold me on mesne process after disclosure of my assets in court. Harris will telegraph my solicitor.’

‘Why not me, Clinton?’

‘It’d only hurt you to come to Lancaster. He knows what has to be done. His last officer was in and out of Cursitor Street and the Queen’s Bench for all of two years.’

‘Two
years?
How can you make a joke of it?’

‘Because it won’t happen.’

‘If your uncle turns you down, Clinton?’ Doing her utmost to remain calm, Theresa could not stop trembling.

‘I’d rather think about that when I’m out of Lancaster Castle.’

‘You
know the possibilities. Don’t
I
have a right to know them too? Must I sit here when you’ve gone just as ignorant as I was before that man came?’ Her voice had become loud and hectoring,
but she felt so passionately that he had kept things from her, that she could not hold back. ‘You must be honest with me … you must.’

‘I’ll assign this place; sell what I can. We may have to leave the country.’ He spoke rapidly as if these things scarcely affected him, then flicked his fingers noiselessly. ‘Esmond did for me with the trust; that’s the truth of it.’

‘I can’t accept that,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘I can influence him; I know I can.’

He turned away wearily.

‘What do you think he’d claim as his reward?’

‘He’d do what I ask. Let me try.’ She pressed his hands urgently, but he pulled away at once.

‘Swear you won’t see him.’

‘Why?’ she asked, shaken by his anger.

‘It wouldn’t be enough for him to have us in his debt. He wants to drive us apart.’

‘How could he?’

‘Lies, threats. Things are grim enough without that.’

‘What kind of lies?’ she insisted.

‘This is not the time,’ he said quietly, stressing each word; his hostility piercing her.

‘If you won’t let me do anything,’ she murmured, ‘tell me this. Did you foresee today?’

‘I promise you—no. I thought the bill would be renewed … was sure of it.’ He broke off and said with sudden tenderness. ‘You must listen to me. When I’ve disclosed my assets in court, they’ll let me go and I’ll be given time to pay. The real fight comes later. We’ll have time to plan.’

‘I’ll get an engagement. I could get work within days, my love.’

He looked down at his riding boots and let out his breath in a long sigh.

‘Shall we leave that till I’ve got out of prison and seen my uncle?’

She had spoken eagerly and his dismissive tone hurt her with the force of a rebuke. He kissed her gently on the cheek.

‘I must get some things.’

When he had gone, Theresa’s mind felt paralysed as she recalled the weary sadness of his answers. What had been gained by forcing him over ground he must already have explored a hundred times? Of course he would do what he could. When she ought to have expressed unwavering faith in him, her questions had merely underlined his helplessness. In a few hours he would be in a cell as if he were a criminal, and had she even expressed sympathy?

When she opened his dressing room door, Clinton was leafing through papers in his writing box and did not see her. On the other
side of the room Harris was packing clothes. Theresa stepped back, leaving the door ajar. Even when the two men were out of view she could hear them.