London (137 page)

The bargain she had made with Jack Meredith had been in two parts. First, he must provoke the duel with St James and kill him; second, he must marry her. In return, she would discharge his debts with the fortune now at her disposal. “And then,” as she had put it, “we can live happily ever after.” So far he had certainly fulfilled his part of the bargain, but Lady St James was cautious. Before doing anything else, she took care of herself. Taking all the family jewels and a substantial quantity of money, she secreted them. Once married, her fortune would pass into the control of her new husband, and whatever else befell her, she did not intend to be dependent upon any man again. As for securing Meredith, she would leave nothing to chance there either. Before setting him free from prison by settling his debts, she would marry him. She decided to do it straight away. Then they would leave England for a year, travel in Europe, and return to life as normal.

True, there would be those who might find this speedy marriage to a man who killed her husband a little shocking; but she had already begun to take care of them. Rumours of St James’s cruel treatment of her had begun to circulate, thanks to her friends. She had let it be known that she had suffered in silence for years. One woman, who scarcely knew her, but hoped to, had described her as “a martyr, an angel”. She could marry safely.

But how do you marry a man in a debtors’ prison? And do it in a hurry? In 1750, in London, nothing was easier.

If the Clink and the Marshalsea were ancient houses for debtors, there was one greater still: the Fleet. The old prison house outside Ludgate had contained debtors of all kinds since the days of the Plantagenets. Small tradesmen, lawyers, knights and even peers might be found in there but its particular speciality was members of the clergy. They were often there by the dozen. And how should a clergyman in debt pay for his keep, or even attempt to satisfy his creditors? Why, by performing the function for which, despite his debts and his lack of a church, he was still licensed: he married people.

Anyone could get married in the Fleet. No banns were read, no questions asked. You might already have a wife, you might give a false name: but if you paid your fee, a regular priest would marry you and register you in the Fleet, and the thing was as valid as if you had been married in St Paul’s Cathedral. Some of these clergymen did so well that, paying a fee to the gaoler, they set up little shops outside the prison where they touted for custom to passers-by in the streets. This strange little side-show to the Church of England, carried out not half a mile from the Bishop of London’s great cathedral, had been going on quite unhindered by the Church authorities for several generations. It was known as a Fleet Marriage.

Lady St James had already made arrangements with one of the more venerable of these ecclesiastical gentlemen who would come, as soon as she summoned him, to the Clink and perform the ceremony there. Only when it was done, she had decided, should Jack come out, relieved of his debts, to play.

Only one thing irked her, as the days went by. The lack of social occasion. She was determined that Jack should remain safely shut up until she had her marriage. They also knew that discretion dictated they should instantly depart London for a while. And yet – she was a creature of society. That was what she was there for. Surely there must be some way that this all-important event could be marked by a social gathering. Without a party, it seemed to her, the business was not hallowed, was scarcely real. And it was while she was seeking for some excuse in her mind that she remembered Fleming.

He had seen her when her face was so swollen and bruised. His presence had infuriated her at the time, but now it suddenly occurred to her that he could be rather useful: a witness, the only one, to her ill-treatment. As she thought of it, she saw exactly what to do. A small gathering, a few friends, a wedding cake – something special, of course, worthy of remark – from Fleming. And a word to a friend or two:

“I always use Fleming. Quite the best. And a good little fellow. He saw me once, you know, after St James had . . .” She could hear her own voice trailing off. “But I feel I can trust him to keep his mouth shut, just as I trust you.” Her friends would be round at Fleming’s shop in a trice.

Secure now in the knowledge that a social gathering was truly needed, she had begun to plan a little gathering for a day or two after the marriage in the Clink. Just a few of her closest friends. Very select.

“I want a cake,” she told Fleming, “that will be remembered. Something quite out of the ordinary. If I am satisfied, I will perhaps even relent and recommend you.” She gave him a nod which, in so far as the vast social gulf between them made possible, was almost friendly.

All the time Fleming, a little wiser now in his dealings with the upper class, was wondering if he’d get paid.

“If I am pleased,” she remarked casually, “I shall even pay your present account as well. Shall we say, a total of forty pounds?”

Forty pounds. If she paid, he’d be almost in the clear. For the price of making one wedding cake, even the finest, he couldn’t afford not to take the chance. Which she knows very well, he thought to himself. But his concave face creased into a smile that seemed to indicate genuine delight and gratitude.

“That’s very generous, your ladyship,” he said. “We’ll see what we can do – to really surprise them,” he permitted himself to suggest. Lady St James departed in very good humour.

“And what sort of cake will it be?” his wife asked him afterwards.

“I haven’t an idea,” he confessed glumly. “And I bet she won’t pay me either.”

The marriage of Captain Jack Meredith and Lady St James took place quietly the following day. There were no bridesmaids. The elderly clergyman from the Fleet officiated. Ebenezer Silversleeves, who had changed into a magnificent coat which had belonged to a former inmate, since deceased, was best man.

“And now, Jack,” the bride announced, as soon as it was done. “I’m off to pay your debts.”

“So when do I get out of here?” he asked.

“Tomorrow,” she said with a bright smile. “I expect.”

There were few more fashionable places to be seen in London than the Foundling Hospital in Coram Fields above Holborn. That such a surprising venue should be so blessed was thanks mostly to the composer Handel who, during his long residence in London, had become an active worker for several good causes. In recent years, having taken an interest in the new venture for orphan children, he had not only donated an organ to the place but trained an excellent children’s choir there. He had already, that year, given several performances of his
Messiah
, to which all London came, and which raised the notable sum of seven thousand pounds – making the great composer one of the few to be remembered almost as much for his philanthropy as for his genius. And it was to one of these performances that Captain and Mrs Jack Meredith, as they now were, decided to go that very afternoon, from the house in Hanover Square.

Mrs Meredith, that day, was a happier woman than she had ever been before, and Jack had only been home from prison a few hours.

Only now could she feel sure that if life and love were a treacherous battle, she had won. She had got everything she wanted; she had caught her man and brought him safely in. Around her home she could see only peace and security. It was a new feeling; she supposed it would take some getting used to. Even the little party she had so carefully planned for the next day suddenly seemed unimportant; the year-long tour of Europe might be curtailed. Perhaps six months would do, she thought. Then I could have him all to myself at Bocton. This thought had been filling her imagination for several delicious minutes as she prepared to go out when the quiet of the house was suddenly disturbed by a shout, followed by a piteous cry.

“What the devil can that be?” Jack remarked as he went to the door and vanished down the passage.

He appeared, a minute later, grinning broadly at her, and holding firmly, by one ear, a boot-blackened urchin.

“Dear heavens, Jack,” she cried half in horror, half amusement, “don’t bring the filthy thing in here. Why are you holding it?”

“Why, because,” he informed her with a wink, “this is a dangerous criminal. Your footman’s just caught him stealing a shilling off the kitchen table. He was supposed to be sweeping the chimney.” He turned to the boy. “We’ll call the Bow Street Runners, you little monster. What do you think of that?”

“I never stole nothing,” the boy cried.

“You did.”

“Never before, sir. I promise. Please don’t be hard on me.” It was said with such conviction one would almost have believed him.

“Take the creature away, Jack,” the lady of the house pleaded, “whatever you do.”

But Jack Meredith, who hadn’t the least intention of doing anything more than boxing the boy’s ears and kicking him out, was rather enjoying the spectacle of all this soot threatening his wife’s spotless chamber. The urchin, who had now started to cry, most obligingly shook his head, scattering soot and causing my lady to scream in vexation. The tear streaks left white marks down his blackened cheeks. It had to be admitted that he looked a rather pitiful sight. Like a small animal caught fatally in the claws of some much larger predator, he seemed suddenly to give up, hanging limply at the captain’s side, and quivering with fear. Even the fastidious lady of the house began to feel a little sorry for him.

“What’s your name, boy?” she brought herself to ask more kindly.

No answer.

“Do you always steal?”

The head shook vigorously.

“Don’t you know it’s wrong?”

The head nodded with real conviction.

“Does someone tell you to do it?” Meredith asked.

An unhappy nod.

“Who?”

No reply.

Just then, as the two adults looked at each other and shrugged, the little boy made a sudden, desperate bid to escape. With a wrench that must have caused his ear agonizing pain, he jerked his head away, whipped round, and scuttled down the passage.

With three rapid strides and a long arm, Jack caught him this time by the hand, whirled him back to where he came from, and then exclaimed in surprise.

“Here’s a strange thing. Look at this.”

He held up the boy’s hand. Then he took the other hand, remarking that it was the same. He noticed also, at that moment, that the boy’s hair, out of which most of the soot had now fallen, had a curious white patch in it. “What an odd little fellow,” he remarked. “He’s got spirit, though.” And glanced back at his wife.

She stood transfixed, white as though she had seen a ghost, staring at the child speechlessly.

“What is it?” he cried in alarm.

But Lady St James, as she had become again in her own mind at that moment, could say nothing, except, “Oh, my God. It cannot . . . surely . . . oh, dear God.”

And Meredith was so flabbergasted that he scarcely realized that he had let go of the child who, seconds later, had vanished into the street, not to be seen again.

She would not speak. She would tell him nothing. Neither cajoling nor even, at last, a show of anger would get it from her.

“It was something about the boy, wasn’t it?” he demanded. “Shall I go and find him?”

“No! On no account,” she cried.

Whatever it was that had so shocked her, she would not speak of it. They drove to the recital in silence. Afterwards, she spoke of other things – the party the next day, their departure for the Continent – yet with a pale absence. Whatever the secret was that she had determined to keep locked inside her, he could see it was torturing her. Yet she still would not share it, even with him.

Until the dark and silent watches of the night.

Was it the suddenness of the shock? Was it the secret toll of the last three weeks’ events when she had so coolly diced with life and death? Was it, perhaps, that having at last secured love herself, her heart had begun to open, and soften? For it was not only horror and it was not only guilt that racked her body and tortured her mind in her sleep. It was the pain, the longing, the great, overpowering emotion of the mother that caused her, without knowing it, to cry out to her new husband, again and again in the early hours:

“The child. Oh, my God. My lost child.”

When she awoke, she found Meredith sitting quietly in a chair beside the bed. Gently but firmly he took her hand and asked her:

“What did you do with the child? Don’t deny it. You spoke in your sleep.”

“I gave it away,” she confessed. “But, oh, Jack, it was long ago. It is all over. There is nothing to be done now. Let us go away, today, and forget it.”

“Whose was it?”

She hesitated. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does. Was it St James’s?”

She paused. Then at last nodded.

“The heir to the estate, then?”

“Our son. We shall have a son. He’ll have the estate. The other was . . . you saw for yourself.” She shuddered at the old memory. He was . . . his hands . . .”

But then Captain Jack Meredith knew what he must do to save his soul, and hers.

“I’ve killed the father. But I’m damned if I’ll disinherit the child,” he said quietly. “If you don’t take the child back, I will leave you.”