A Marriage of Convenience (39 page)

When Clinton first learned that Major Simmonds intended to sue him, he immediately suspected that Esmond was involved. But a single conversation with his brother was enough to change his mind. Far from showing alarm when he suggested that they both went to question Simmonds, Esmond obviously welcomed this chance to clear himself. He was also so clearly alarmed by the possible effects of a family scandal on his business interests that Clinton soon felt he had misjudged him. Throughout their meeting, Esmond’s
distress
impressed Clinton as forcibly as any of the arguments he advanced in his defence.

Not trusting his temper enough to risk going to see Simmonds, and in any case knowing that his lawyers would deplore anything done without advice, Clinton went on from his brother’s offices to the Cavalry Club. He did not particularly want to go there, but he wanted to be alone even less. Luncheon was being served as he came in and during it he witnessed a scene that increased his depression. A young officer ordered a bottle of burgundy, which the wine waiter refused to bring. The servant tried to do this tactfully, but the officer flew into a rage and began shouting abuse so that the whole room could hear. After an interval the steward was fetched, and the officer, and all those at his table, learned that the treasurer’s instructions were that he should have nothing else on credit until he had paid what he owed. Without a word the young man jumped up and ran from the room. Later, Clinton went out and found him white-faced and trembling on the stairs.

‘Can’t I pay for your wine?’ he asked softly. ‘I’ll have a word with your waiter who’ll say a mistake was made.’

The officer shook his head vehemently and covered his face.

‘The disgrace,’ he muttered, ‘how can I ever go in there again?’

Clinton did not reply and after a few seconds went back into the dinning room. Almost every week of the year, one member or another would feel that he had been disgraced by some trivial injury to his pride: inability to pay a gambling debt, failure to raise his stakes with the rest during a game, a feeling that some disagreeable
remark, ignored at the time, had really been an insult requiring an apology. And what was any of this nonsense in comparison with real disgrace?

That afternoon Clinton’s lawyers were to meet Major Simmonds and his advisers to see if any compromise could be achieved. The results of failure were very clear to Clinton. He would still be able to avoid fighting Simmonds in the courts by breaking off his engagement with Sophie—in effect choosing to be sued for breach of contract by Sophie’s father as the lesser of two evils. Even though he would be unable to meet the costs and damages of the case, the public disgrace in store for him would be mild in comparison with the hysterical execration he could expect if he tried to disprove the Irish marriage in court. Actions for breach of promise were numerous enough to be forgotten within a year or two; not so a case that would inevitably become an instant cause célèbre.

Yet almost from the beginning Clinton knew he would rather suffer anything than renege on his engagement. Pride and honour had little to do with it; nor was he worried by the thought of people supposing he had shirked a challenge. He had never admired the obstinate pride that still led to occasional duels. There were many forms of cowardice, and one was the terror of being called a coward. More important to Clinton was a purely intuitive sense of what seemed just. If he were to be punished, then let it be for his real fault and for no other reason. Deeper still, he was blindly angry. Although Esmond had warned him about Simmonds’s obstinacy, Clinton could not believe that any man alive could stand firm against Theresa’s most passionate persuasion.

It seemed impossible that she had done her utmost to dissuade him. Esmond had said that the major was one of the only men he had ever met, who might, for the sake of a principle, have his daughter subpoenaed to give evidence against her will; but this had not entirely convinced Clinton.

He could not bring himself to believe that when he had parted from Theresa, she had entertained thoughts of one day going back on her assurances. And yet resentment had been known to change the firmest resolutions. She had met Sophie. Perhaps only when seeing the engagement in the papers, had she found herself unable to endure the thought of his marriage to her. If so, Theresa probably thought that the threat of court proceedings would be enough to make him abandon Sophie. Of course Simmonds alone might be responsible, but either way, both of them would feel sure that he would not dare let the case proceed. Theresa would hardly be touched by the notoriety of a public trial. What would ruin him beyond all hope of recovery, would merely increase the size of her audiences. Though
shocked with himself for thinking her capable of such betrayal, he had to know.

Above the blazing fire in the club library, a handsome gilded clock, once the property of Napoleon, ticked portentously. Another day and he would know whether Major Simmonds was going to make concessions. At that moment, Clinton thought it as likely as the assassination of the entire royal family or a mutiny in the Brigade of Guards. After finishing his letter to Theresa, he wanted to weep.

*

The following morning Clinton went to Lincoln’s Inn for his first conference in the chambers of Mr Serjeant Alderson, a Queen’s Counsel with a formidable reputation in matrimonial disputes. Mr Yeatman, Clinton’s solicitor, also attended with his managing clerk. Clinton was not surprised to learn that a compromise with the other side had been brought no closer by the previous day’s meeting.

Alderson was a slight, dapper man, who reminded Clinton of his boyhood dancing master. A wave of dyed black hair swept across his forehead like a frizzy breaker. But there was nothing amusing about the lawyer’s manner. He smiled with his lips but not his eyes, and his carefully framed sentences often ended in a peculiar nasal sneer. His occasional pauses suggested the calculated naturalness of a skilful actor rather than genuine hesitance.

Already acquainted with the facts by Yeatman, who had taken a lengthy deposition from Clinton, Alderson did not question him, but instead studied him in silence with a gaze that was both searching and detached.

‘If this action is brought,’ Alderson began silkily, ‘we have broadly two lines of defence. If I can persuade the jury that Mrs Barr went to church knowing the ceremony would be no more than a device to ease her conscience, then we needn’t bother with our second resort … I mean that deplorable Irish Marriage Act.’ He paused and moved some papers on his desk. ‘Frankly, my lord, if you gain the verdict by invoking that statute, the damage to your reputation will cancel out any advantages in winning.’

Clinton bowed his head.

‘I can’t possibly claim that she thought the marriage was a sham. I know she believed in it.’

Alderson’s expression softened.

‘Nobody can ever be sure of knowing what someone else believes.’

‘In this instance I have no doubts.’

‘My lord,’ said Alderson sharply, ‘to suspect something, however strongly, is not the same as to know it.’

‘All I meant,’ murmured Clinton, ‘is that if you ask me on oath what I thought she believed, I could only repeat what I’ve just told you.’

‘Very well,’ the serjeant replied briskly. ‘Consider what I have to say carefully, Lord Ardmore.’ He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. ‘A Catholic woman—call her Mrs Barr—falls in love with a man who for various excellent reasons would be unwise to marry her. She understands these reasons so well that she actually writes to him admitting that marriage is out of the question. That’s what you told Mr Yeatman, Lord Ardmore. Anyway, barely ten days later, this same lady goes through a ceremony with her lover in an isolated church. Were all the man’s difficulties magically removed? What could have happened to explain so sudden a volte face? Who better to tell us than the officiating priest? And some months later he does just this when he describes the ceremony not as a marriage but as a blessing.’ Alderson brought his hands together noiselessly. ‘So how does the impartial juryman suppose the ceremony came about? “Ah,” says he, “because the man and woman knew a proper marriage would have disastrous consequences, they put their heads together and worked out a way of giving their liaison an aura of matrimony without the legal reality.”’ Sensing that Clinton was about to speak, the lawyer raised a hand. ‘Unfortunately a dispute arises at a later date, and it comes to court. The lady swears she is a lawfully wedded bride, the gentleman that nothing more than a blessing had been intended. A simple matter of her word against his. Somehow the jury must decide who to believe: the lady with a coronet to be won by perjuring herself, or the gentleman, who by facing his blackmailing mistress in open court, loses his good name whatever the verdict.’ Alderson broke off and looked at Clinton agreeably. ‘I’m not a gambler, my lord, but my money’s on the
gentleman
.’

Clinton’s eyes moved from a discoloured print of a late Lord Chancellor to the narrow window overlooking Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

‘And where would your money be,’ he asked quietly, ‘if no heads had been put together?’

‘In my pocket, save several shillings on the other horse.’

‘No help for it,’ said Clinton curtly. ‘It’s not a point I intend to lie about.’

‘All right,’ sighed Alderson, ‘let’s suppose we don’t argue when the lady tells the jury she thought her marriage was good. Well, what can I tell the court?’ He glanced up at the ceiling with half-closed eyes and then leaned forward. ‘Gentlemen of the jury, my client does not deny that he deceived the lady and lied to an ordained minister of God, nevertheless he claims immunity from the consequences of his behaviour by virtue of an enactment of the reign of George II. Gentlemen, that statute I agree was framed solely to restrict the spread of Catholicism in a more bigoted era than our own, but odious and archaic though many of you may think it, I must remind you that it remains the law of the land. If I can prove that my client was a Protestant at the time of the ceremony, his marriage can have no validity and so he is entitled to your verdict.’ He shrugged, and turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘I daresay I could dress it up more decorously, but opposing counsel would soon reduce it to its naked form.’

Clinton swallowed hard; he could feel his cheeks burning. Only now was he beginning to see precisely how it would turn out. The man’s tone of voice; the mixture of sarcasm and virtuous
indignation
he could expect from the other side. He said rapidly:

‘Can’t you conceive of a jury believing that a man might intend to honour vows which he knew weren’t legally binding? I meant to go through a civil marriage afterwards. You know the problems that prevented me. Only fools wouldn’t understand why I retracted … as much for her sake as my own.’

Alderson let out his breath and looked steadily at Clinton.

‘Lord Ardmore, if you claim in court that you meant to honour your vows, mutual consent is proved, and the law will strongly presume that the legal requisites for a valid marriage were complied with. Even if we rely on the Irish Act, you still weaken your case by claiming you meant to do anything other than deceive the lady.’ He had spoken with quiet sympathy and added gently: ‘Perhaps you now appreciate why it would be wiser to adopt the first approach I mentioned to you.’

‘Can’t you understand me?’ groaned Clinton. ‘I’m finished
whatever
happens. I don’t care if I win or lose. All I want is to explain how it came about.’

‘I wish,’ murmured the Serjeant, ‘I could believe your opponents will have such honourable intentions.’ He sat thinking for over a minute and then said slowly: ‘I ought to ask Mr Yeatman to find another man for his brief; but I’m not going to. You see the lady’s trust in you isn’t a fact to me.’

‘It will be the moment she opens her mouth in court.’

Alderson surprised Clinton by grinning broadly.

‘I’ll be opening my mouth too. Let me tell you the order of things. Opposing counsel will open. Then Mrs Barr will give her evidence. After that I cross-examine her.’ The serjeant smiled apologetically. ‘Forgive my arrogance, but I think by the time I’ve finished with her you may change your mind about your own evidence. It’s providential that you won’t be called till the second or third day.’ For the first time Alderson’s eyes entirely lost their coldness. ‘Don’t let ’em destroy you, man. She agreed to release you. Even put it in writing. Would a conscientious Catholic have done that if she’d thought herself truly married?’

‘She’ll explain it perfectly.’

‘We’ll see about that, my lord.’

He thrust out a hand to Clinton, who found himself smiling as he took it. Serjeant Alderson accompanied them to the oak door of his chambers. Going down the uncarpeted stairs, Clinton’s solicitor, who had listened in gloomy silence to everything that had been said, turned diffidently to his client.

‘I’m surprised he’s agreed to act for us. Outspoken, but believe me a very …’

‘His qualities are obvious, Mr Yeatman.’

‘I presume you want me to retain him?’

‘Please do.’

Outside, Yeatman looked at the sky apprehensively.

‘Looks like snow, my lord.’

‘Better than blood,’ replied Clinton, putting on his hat.

Yeatman chuckled half-heartedly as they came out into Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

*

A few days later, Clinton received Theresa’s reply to his letter.