The Petticoat Men (52 page)

‘Good morning, Mrs – Stacey, is it?’

‘Good morning, Mrs Gladstone.’

Although they were so many worlds away from one another, they were both, in their own way, strong and confident women. Both were dressed well and unfussily although Mrs Stacey was in brighter colours. Their voices, of course, denoted their very different lives.

‘Please sit here.’

There were comfortable chairs. But for a moment Isabella Stacey simply stared in amazement. Mrs Gladstone was wearing a plain but elegant gown but from a pocket at her breast an embroidered handkerchief could be clearly seen. And the woman from Wakefield-street recognised it at once – for she herself had sewn it; it was a material sample that one of the salesmen had given her, and in the corner she could see the tiny pink embroidered roses that Mattie had loved.

‘What can I do for you, Mrs Stacey? Tell me about yourself. What did my husband suggest for you?’

It was unlike Isabella to be lost for words. She sat down slowly, still looking at the handkerchief. The summer day made the small room warm; Isabella looked for inspiration to the pictures on the wall; even the less sentimental and more artistic ones were mostly of fallen women redeemed, presumably by the Lord, or the Gladstones.

Then she looked back at the woman sitting so confidently across from her; if there was such a thing as an aristocratic mien, Mrs Gladstone possessed it. She was not neat and tidy and removed; she seemed warm and sympathetic and somehow unpatronising. But she was from another world.

Isabella moved her chair slightly so that she was directly opposite the other woman in order to be sure to hear her. And then plunged in.

‘I’m sorry to start with a surprise for both of us, Mrs Gladstone, but I made the handkerchief that you wear – the cream silk was given me and you will know it has three pink roses in one corner and one in the middle, which I embroidered myself. My daughter gave it to Lord Arthur Clinton in Mudeford when he was – distressed.’

Composed and confident as she was, Catherine Gladstone could not have been more thrown. Her hand had automatically flown to the handkerchief; confronted with this introduction, and with her hand still at her breast, Mrs Gladstone was momentarily speechless. Finally her eyes turned to the little bell on the table.

‘I didn’t come here to cause you any trouble, Mrs Gladstone, be sure of that. I didn’t know you’d be wearing my handkerchief.’

‘What have you come here for? How did you get in?’

‘How did you get my handkerchief?’

They stared at one another until Isabella pulled herself together and said: ‘Do you know Elijah Fortune?’

‘Elijah? Of course I do.’ This subject was somehow reassuring to Mrs Gladstone, yet also even more bizarre.

‘Have you seen him lately?’

‘No, and I was so sorry when he left. He was Head Doorkeeper at the House for so long – I often go of course to hear my husband speak. Elijah had reached retirement age, they told me.’

‘He’s exactly the same age as your husband, Mrs Gladstone. He didn’t retire, he was evicted from his position and his home very early one morning about a year ago by some new doorkeepers who had suddenly been appointed. They almost literally threw Elijah and his wife into the street. It is for Elijah I have come to see you this morning. He’s never been allowed back in the building since.’

‘I cannot believe that!’

‘I think you’ll find that that is exactly what happened.’

‘But why?’

‘Because he was trying to collect money from Members of Parliament to help Lord Arthur Clinton get to France, that’s why. Elijah’s actions were – disapproved of by some.’

‘But – Mr Gladstone does not know this, of course. He would never have allowed such a thing!’

‘Elijah believed his dismissal was arranged by some of the bishops in the House of Lords. A year ago, during the first trial, it was dangerous, if you remember, Mrs Gladstone, to be connected with Lord Arthur under any circumstances. I am sure you and the Prime Minister were aware of that also because of your own relationship with him.’

Mrs Gladstone rose majestically. ‘Surely, Mrs Stacey, you understand it is deeply impertinent of you to speak of such things to me.’

The other woman did not rise. She bowed her head for a moment before she began speaking again. It may have looked like penitence for impertinence; it was actually Isabella trying to control her anger.

‘My clever, beloved – much better educated than me – son, William – like your son, I believe, Mrs Gladstone – was a clerk in the Parliament, and much admired. He loved his work, he had been there ten years, he even worked sometimes in your husband’s office when there were extra letters to be written, so highly was he thought of. He was dismissed at the same time as Elijah.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I am the landlady at 13 Wakefield-street, of which you have probably heard.’

‘I see.’ Icy now at once.

Still Isabella Stacey did not rise. ‘It is a lodging house, Mrs Gladstone. Just like a thousand lodging houses in London. We are by Kings Cross Station and we used to have a lot of cotton cloth salesmen from the North as lodgers – which is why I recognise the handkerchief – they used to bring their samples to show to big businesses in London. One of them gave me that beautiful cream silk square you are wearing.’

She too rose at last.

‘They had been coming for years. It’s changed now of course – we lost many of them after the first trial, my daughter, who had to give evidence, was called a whore and we had SODOMITE LOVERS writ on our walls, which I do not expect was your own experience. Mr Boulton and Mr Park – let’s not pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about – told me they were actors and needed somewhere to keep their costumes for private theatricals. I worked at the wardrobes in Drury Lane and the Haymarket for many years, so I know actors often have to provide their own costumes.’

Mrs Stacey moved towards the door, but turned back.

‘Now at least you know truthfully why Elijah Fortune and my son lost their positions in the noble Parliament of Great Britain: because of their connection – however indirect and Elijah’s through nothing but kindness – to Lord Arthur Clinton, someone you were connected with also.’

Quickly Mrs Gladstone put out a hand to stop her leaving. ‘Please, Mrs Stacey.’ Mrs Gladstone took a deep breath. ‘Let us both sit again.’ She gestured graciously. Almost reluctantly the other woman came back; they both sat.

There was something about Isabella Stacey: it was quite clear to Catherine Gladstone that she was speaking completely honestly. Mrs Gladstone, who had experience of listening to women from a different class than her own, got caught up in the story despite herself, and believed it. Besides, she realised now she knew part of this woman’s story already, but did not yet say so.

‘You – you may have – met Arthur, Lord Arthur, perhaps?’

‘We did, yes.’

Mrs Gladstone looked down at her own hands for a moment and then said: ‘Would you like it if I ordered tea?’

‘Good God above, I’d love that! It would be – easier.’

Tea was brought in by Tussie Heap, who did not of course acknowledge her old friend Isabella Stacey. Mrs Gladstone and Mrs Stacey talked briefly of the pleasant weather. When they were alone they sat in silence for a time.

Mrs Gladstone said at last: ‘Arthur was always so. From a boy. His mother – had to leave her children.’ She poured tea.

‘She came to the theatre once,’ said Mrs Stacey. ‘His mother. Years and years ago when she was young. To see one of the actresses, and I met her briefly. She was very lovely.’

It would seem that Mrs Gladstone could no longer be surprised by anything in this strange conversation. If Mrs Stacey said she had met her friend of long ago, Lady Susan – Lady Susan Opdebeck as she was now – Mrs Gladstone was sure it was true.

She passed a cup and saucer of immaculate heritage to the other woman, who continued: ‘My children went to see Lord Arthur in Mudeford. Lord Arthur told my son and daughter that Mr Gladstone was made his guardian when he was a boy. That is why I came to see you, to ask for help, because I understood you had some involvement in this matter also.’

Very slowly Mrs Gladstone put her cup and saucer back upon the table.

‘Has your daughter – forgive me – is your daughter crippled?’

Mrs Stacey was caught between anger and surprise. Every time she heard the word
cripple
used about her beloved daughter she wanted to hit someone. Mattie was not
crippled.
She ran, almost; she could walk for miles.

‘She has a limp. Yes.’

‘I believe she accosted my husband.’

‘
What?
’

Mrs Gladstone had recognised that the other woman was slightly deaf; she raised her voice a little. ‘I believe your daughter accosted my husband in the Strand.’

Now it was Mrs Stacey’s turn to look stunned. ‘Blooming hell! Did she ask for Billy’s job back?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you knew something of this story and you never said? Mattie never told me, the foolish, foolish girl, on her own down the Strand in the middle of the night. I suppose it was late at night?’

‘Yes. About one o’clock in the morning, I believe.’

‘What was she
thinking
of!’ Isabella gulped her tea. ‘Well, of course I know what she was thinking of – Mattie loves her brother. She’d do anything for him.’

Now both women were silent again, glad of the tea.

‘Why did your children go to Mudeford in the first place?’

‘Billy was desperate to get his position back, he loved working in the Parliament so much, especially for your husband who he admired very much. Elijah told him where Lord Arthur was – hiding, waiting for someone to give him financial help, and Billy had already understood there was some connection with you and your husband. He wanted to find out what it was. Lord Arthur told him.’

Silence.

At last Mrs Gladstone said, ‘Can you tell me of Arthur’s death?’

‘I don’t suppose you can tell
me
of it?’

‘What do you mean?’ and Isabella saw at once the genuine surprise. Of course Mrs Gladstone would know nothing. ‘Mrs Stacey, he died almost a year ago today. That much I know. Which is why I am wearing the handkerchief. Just my own thoughts for someone I was fond of when he was a small child, and so miserable.’

‘Oh. Oh of course. A year ago. For days I was terrified my children had scarlet fever.’ For a moment Isabella was silent. ‘But I think Lord Arthur didn’t die of scarlet fever, Mrs Gladstone. Mattie and Billy were close with him in the tiny room where he was hiding. None of the people who were looking after him got scarlet fever. He said he had the means to take his own life if he couldn’t get to his mother in France.’

Mrs Gladstone’s eyes filled with unexpected tears at the mention of people she had known and loved long ago. Automatically she felt for the handkerchief. Girls’ voices called from the lane: ‘
We’re late, Effie, we’re late!
’ Footsteps clattered, and laughter.

‘How did you come by the handkerchief, Mrs Gladstone?’

Mrs Gladstone sighed. The handkerchief was in her hand now and she looked down at it: the cream square, the beautifully embroidered pink roses.

‘Lord Arthur’s solicitor had gone to Mudeford. When Arthur died Mr Roberts brought it back to London and gave it to the solicitor of the Newcastle Estate, thinking it might be’ – she shrugged, knowing how it sounded – ‘some sort of evidence perhaps to show Arthur’s partiality to women. Finally Mr Ouvry gave it to me as a – memento. He knew I had been very fond of that sad little boy long ago.’ She looked up at her visitor. ‘Are you suggesting that – that it was suicide?’

‘My children believed—’ But Isabella knew she did not want to say more to the wife of the Prime Minister of England. ‘Well, it is possible. They said Lord Arthur was distressed and frightened. Not dying. And then he died.’

‘There were rumours he had got away. Perhaps he did.’

‘No, Mrs Gladstone,’ said Mrs Stacey gently. ‘I know one of the men who put him in the coffin, which was made by the local carpenter.’

Another long, long silence.

Then Mrs Gladstone said, ‘I used to take him to the zoo when he was young.’ A sigh. ‘God will judge, but I will not.’

Silence.

‘Is there any proof that Arthur killed himself?’

‘There is no proof of – anything.’

Silence.

‘Mrs Stacey, I believe many people were made uneasy about Lord Arthur’s involvement in the – the scandal of the court case. Possibly others have also been made uneasy by his death. But – as he is dead I myself would leave poor Arthur where he is.’

‘As it happens, I couldn’t agree with you more, Mrs Gladstone. You asked me about his death, so I told you – something of the things that people say.’

If the wife of the Prime Minister of England noticed the particular choice of words, she did not say. For just a moment they sat there in silence together, then Mrs Gladstone spoke.

‘I am certain I can arrange for Elijah Fortune to get his position back. I know my husband will be shocked by his story. I do not know your son, but I will – I will remind my husband again about his fate.’

‘Billy does not want to return, Mrs Gladstone. He does not have the – respect – for the place that he once held so dear. They have lost a good man, but he has decided to become a teacher.’

‘It seems then that the teaching profession will be fortunate. I will tell my husband that too – you may know of his passion for education.’

Mrs Gladstone rose again now, to close one of the strangest interviews she had ever conducted.

‘And, Mrs Stacey, your son may, in his new profession, come to understand one day that the Houses of Parliament of this great country are run by men who were born and educated to rule and are indeed deserving of his respect.’

Mrs Isabella Stacey rose also. ‘Like Lord Arthur Clinton.’

‘Like the late Lord Palmerston, like the late Sir Robert Peel, like the late Duke of Newcastle, Lord Arthur’s father. Like the late Earl of Clarendon, like Earl Granville, like the Duke of Argyll, like the Earl of Kimberley, like Baron Aberdere, like the Marquess of Hartington, and I name only a few. And, most of all, like my very honourable husband. We do not really know each other, Mrs Stacey, we live in different worlds, and it is mine that rules this country. I do not believe that you will find a dishonourable man among those I have mentioned. I have listened to your story with respect and discretion. You must treat me in the same manner.’