The Petticoat Men (8 page)

Susan’s mother had run away for the last fatal time from her husband – and from her five children – when Susan was nine years old; the girl wept night after night at this abandonment. Mrs Catherine Gladstone, who lived next door to their London town house, sat beside the bed trying to comfort the weeping, trembling little girl, whose mother never returned.

For years, Prince Albert, impatient at what he saw as his son’s stupidity, at how easily he was swayed by other people, insisted that Bertie be educated alone, with no companions. For years also, in another stately home, the cold and cuckolded Duke of Newcastle watched his growing, only daughter sternly, over-anxiously; all the time wondering if she had inherited not just the name, but the proclivities, of her dangerous, degenerate mother.

Lady Susan, aged twenty, rebelled first. Perhaps tired of lovingly and respectably mothering her motherless brothers, just as she sometimes mothered the unmothered Prince, she insisted to her father that she wanted to marry a wealthy and exciting (but extremely unstable) nobleman, Lord Adolphus Vane-Tempest, who had declaimed to her, passionately and with much extremely expensive jewellery, that he was unable to live without her.

‘I absolutely forbid this marriage, Susan. You will do nothing so ridiculous. The man is an inebriate. And he is mad, apart from any other consideration.’ The unbending Duke of Newcastle brooked no further discussion with his daughter as they argued in the town house next door to the Gladstones, in Carlton House Terrace. ‘I unequivocally forbid it!’ said the Duke, and he left the room.

In a few moments his children heard the front door slam.

Susan addressed her eldest brother imperiously. ‘I shall walk to St Mary’s tomorrow morning, Linky. If Papa will not give his blessing – not even make a settlement upon me, I shall simply place my life in dear Dolly’s hands.
You
must give me away, Linky, instead of Papa!’ She put her hand to her forehead in a dramatic manner, as she remembered her mother doing, so long ago. ‘Take a message to Dolly, with my heart. Tell him my plan and my wishes.’

There was nobody to even suggest caution: certainly not her brother Linky. He may have been heir to the Newcastle dukedom but he owed an extremely large amount of money in gambling debts, both in London and in Paris; he knew that the very wealthy Adolphus Vane-Tempest, who was so wild about his sister, would “lend” him money when he became part of the family.

‘Tell Dolly: eleven o’clock tomorrow morning!’ And her eldest brother sped to do her bidding.

The next morning Lady Susan Clinton arrived at the church on foot, with her governess, and married Lord Adolphus Vane-Tempest (who was somewhat the worse for wear by eleven o’clock, and singing).

The whole of noble London buzzed with the scandal: the mad Adolphus Vane-Tempest and one of the Princess Royal’s bridesmaids, after all! At society dining-tables bets were placed, amid much laughter, as to whether the bride or the groom would be confined – by a surgeon of lunacy or a surgeon of maternity – first.

Queen Victoria who had always thought Susan such an agreeable and attractive girl was shocked also. She consoled Lady Susan’s father, the Duke of Newcastle, for his continuing misfortunes by sending him to accompany the eighteen-year-old Prince of Wales on a visit to Canada and America.

Lady Susan’s marriage was indeed dramatic, as so many had foretold. Lord Adolphus drank riotously and threw expensive ornaments and sharp knives at his beloved bride. Her father having disowned her, she several times had to hide for safety with her quite horrible mother-in-law, who resented having to support her daughter-in-law in the manner to which she was accustomed and complained loudly to anyone who would listen of her extravagance. (In the meantime the Prince’s royal tour, with Lady Susan’s father as escort, was a great success.)

So it seemed for a moment that Lady Susan may have been damaged by her unloved childhood, but that the unloved Prince of Wales was made of sterner stuff.

Alas, no.

The young Prince had been briefly permitted to be attached to a military camp. Bertie’s first sexual activities – with a lady who had followed the brigade – had been discovered, causing great trouble between father and son, and very soon thereafter Prince Albert had died – it was said to be typhoid but Her Bereft Majesty insisted that her beloved Albert had passed away from distress over his eldest son’s behaviour.

The Queen could not bear to have the Prince of Wales near her. The suitable marriage that was already being arranged with a Danish princess soon provided annual children. And Lady Susan became a young widow, perhaps providentially: her late husband had, before his death, thrown at her many more heavy items, including himself; had broken a bed in half in Paris, and had finally been escorted to a hospital for the insane where he died.

And here they were, this Sunday afternoon, these two lucky, unlucky people, together in her house in Westminster, smoking together still, conjoined by their background, and their childhood, and – perhaps – their mothers.

Lady Susan Vane-Tempest, widow, sister of Lord Arthur Pelham Clinton, had a certain kind of confidence with His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales that others did not. She knew perfectly well of his passing actresses and courtesans and foolish young married women; she was his confidante as well as his mistress.

She even knew of the Prince’s personal and private physician, Dr Oscar Clayton, who was called upon should any of these alliances become medically troublesome, and not many people except the Prince’s private secretaries knew about this man. The Prince did not know that Lady Susan had even met him. Quite by chance she had arrived early at a soirée at Marlborough House just as the doctor was being discreetly and hurriedly shown out; she heard him being quietly addressed, so she addressed him herself with some curiosity.

‘Dr Oscar Clayton, I think,’ she had said.

The man had bowed over her hand – and from his dark oily hair she was almost overpowered by the emanation of strong-smelling pomade of roses, something the lower classes were apt to wear. (The idea of such a man bending over ladies filled her with distaste: she ever after felt sorry for any of the Prince’s women medically attended by Dr Clayton.)

Lady Susan Vane-Tempest knew many of the secrets of the Prince of Wales.

Now, this Sunday, she suddenly stubbed out her long thin cigarette and laughed. ‘My dear Sir! You know my brother perfectly well!’ She leaned towards him and put her hand to his cheek. ‘Arty will surely have flown away if there is the likelihood of danger to himself of any kind!’

He looked at her, so beautiful there before him, her familiar, knowing face; he took her hand in his for a moment. ‘Arthur never has the funds to fly away, dear Susan, and he is bankrupt still! Have you had contact with him lately?’

‘Your Royal Highness knows very well I hardly ever have contact with him. I have not seen him for months. Perhaps he is in Paris with our mother.’ (She never told the Prince she did sometimes meet Arthur; she gave him money: whatever her brother’s predilections, she had brought him up, and she loved him.)

‘Have you ever seen these particular female-dressing gentlemen?’

‘Of
course
not!’ she answered immediately (remembering the pretty, pretty boy, who sang).

‘I have seen them,’ he said. For a moment he leaned back in her comfortable armchair and smiled slightly. ‘Across a crowded theatre only, I need hardly say! One of them was most attractive, hardly seemed a man at all!’ But then he shook his head and sat upright again. ‘Arthur is of course, as we know, unreliable and unpredictable, as he has been since he was a child, and his choice of friends is not always what one would wish. You know I do not want to lose you – I absolutely do not – but I would have no option but to do so if scandal threatened. You must obey me in this matter while all is uncertain. You will attend the
court soirées
as usual for I will not be deprived of the sight of you. But that will be our only contact.’

Immediate tears formed in her eyes.
I cannot not lose him now
. The Prince of Wales might have had no real power while his mother lived on, but in his own Marlborough House circle his authority was absolute.

‘I must insist on this,’ he said. ‘For a short time at least. But I will speak to Mr Gladstone. He will, of course, be disturbed by this news.’

She pulled herself together with an effort. ‘Arty was always Mrs Gladstone’s favourite when he was a small boy. And she was so good to me also.’

‘I will talk to the Prime Minister, my dear Susan. Something must be done.’

And she smiled at him. ‘Your Royal Highness is always so very, very kind.’ Her voice was demure but her eyes offered something entirely different. ‘Kind, although often
very
naughty…
’

She looked so lovely, and so – willing, and just a little wild, as she had always been. He took his watch from his waistcoat. ‘However, since I am here…’

Lady Susan smiled at the Prince of Wales in a certain way that promised much.

And knelt before him.

To – among certain other things that pleased him – undo his boots.

6

I
LAY
WIDE
awake after I first started writing all that stuff, about Ma and me and Billy – our life. That was all I cared to write. Some things are just our business.

But – oh… well…—

Well, I missed out some things. But I knew I would have to write at least one more bit down. Because of Freddie. I dont really want to write this next bit, it’s my private story.

But also it’s about Frederick William Park. One of the Gentlemen in Female Attire. So I put my shawl around my nightdress and lit the lamp again and went back to sit by Hortense with her big painted eyes.

When I spewed that time when the man smoked all those cigars in the carriage when we went to see them acting in Clapham, I was pregnant. I was seventeen by then, but should’ve known better, me, course I should’ve, because I’d tried and tried to get a baby when I was younger and I didn’t, so I thought I couldn’t. I have to keep explaining in case you’re getting the wrong picture, I’m not
stupid
, I’ve just got something wrong with my foot that’s all, that hasn’t stopped me having all sorts of adventures in my life. Neither however am I a crippled whore, and nor was our house at 13 Wakefield-street a bordello. And I hadn’t fallen pregnant when I’d so wanted to, so I thought I wasn’t going to fall pregnant at all in my life. Well then.

Ronald Duggan had a room at 13 Wakefield-street. Ronald Duggan. He worked at the railways and kept odd hours because of bringing a train back from Liverpool or wherever. He actually
drove
a train, that was his work, and one day he took me all the way to Birmingham and back again, it was wonderful, you should’ve seen that engine with all the steam puffing out like big white clouds, and the coal to heap on to the fire to make the engine go blazing, and the chuffing huffing sound as we raced along – Ronald said
sixty miles an hour, easy
, well that was the fastest speed my body had ever, ever been – oh it was a lovely exciting adventure, rushing past the country. I wished I could have stayed on the train for ever, the bell ringing, people crowding on at all the different stations, other people waving from the roads and the fields. Ronald had put me in a first-class compartment (with the guard knowing), I wore gloves and one of my nicest hats, and waved to people all day, even Ma and Billy were impressed when I told them all about it, for when you live in the centre of London you dont have much call to go on a train, people come
to
London, but we’re already here, in our funny lovely old city.

London’s where me and Billy was born and our Ma and Pa too, he was a stage carpenter and painter (and magician we called him), he built rooms and mountains and rooftops on stage and he painted big white clouds that he could make blow across from one side to the other. And he always had this one particular idea: always he wanted to make
real
doors and windows on stage, doors that opened and shut, not pretend painted ones. But the theatre managers always said the doors would only get stuck, something about the way the scenery was hung, so our beloved Pa was dead before proper doors got used on stage.

But we
have
seen real doors now, Ma and me and Billy went to the Prince of Wales Royal Theatre to see this new play with ‘real doors’ – Ma knew the manager of the theatre and he specially gave us tickets to a performance because of knowing our Pa and we sat there in the audience and saw doors opening and shutting, and a blind going up and down at the window, and everyone clapped and clapped at it all being so lifelike. But then sure enough, after the interval, one of the doors
did
get stuck, with an actress trying to get out, she’d said goodbye to the others and she was rattling the doorknob over and over and the other actors who were on stage tried to pull it open or push it open and all the time making up lines, ‘
Oh aren’t you leaving, Polly dear? Thought you were going! Here, Polly dear, let me help you!
’
and they banged and pulled the door and finally a man had to come on stage with a big hammer to move it and everyone in the audience was laughing by now, big huge laughs and Ma and me and Billy was laughing loudly too, and thought of our dear Pa who thought of this first.