by Steven Neil
***
Nicholas Sly does not forget about Harriet Howard. He has other things under consideration, but today she tops his list of subjects requiring attention. His instructions have been carried out, but he is shouting at the two men in front of him. The colouring in his face reaches the purple end of the scale and one of the men flinches every time Sly bangs the table.
‘I want more,’ he says. ‘This is intolerable. This woman plays us for fools. I want her backed into a corner. The softening up process is one thing, but we need something that clinches our deal. She has proved remarkably resilient. And so has her sideman, Mason. I don’t just want them on the ropes, I want a knockout blow, do you hear me? Do whatever it takes. Time is still on our side. Developments abroad are moving more slowly than we thought. Nevertheless, I want to be sure that next time I invite her to a meeting there will be no room for error. Keep me informed of your progress.’
***
The year does not improve. At the beginning of March, the Grand National Steeplechase comes round again. Jem rides Lottery, out of loyalty to the old horse, but he is not the horse he was and the handicapper gives him thirteen stones, four pounds to carry. It is too much and Lottery pulls up. To add insult to injury, George Dockeray trains Gaylad to win, owned, like Lottery, by John Elmore and ridden by Tom Olliver. Later in the month, Jem has a bad fall at Leamington. Inexplicably, the girth leathers split on his saddle. No one has ever seen such a clean break before. He proves an ill-tempered patient. Men usually are. When he doesn’t ride, he doesn’t earn. The Scottish play goes badly. The reviews are poor. The leading actress is not up to it and there is talk that the run will end early. The more time Jem and Harriet spend together, the more they bicker. And now there is a new development. She thinks she may be expecting a child. No, she knows she is. She spends a restless night considering her options, but in the morning she feels there is only one course of action open to her.
***
My dearest Jem
I am sorry to write like this but I can’t say these things to you face-to-face. I couldn’t stand it. You deserve better than me, Jem, and I can only say that I hope you will forgive me.
We can’t see each other again. I am going away for a while and when I return you mustn’t contact me. I can’t tell you everything, but please trust me that what I am doing is in both our best interests.
We’ve had good times together and bad and I’m truly sorry that I can’t carry on. We have both been foolish and our habit of punishing each other when we fall out has taken its toll.
My career has faltered and I’ve taken the decision to give up acting, at least for the foreseeable future. I’ve always wanted to be independent and to pay my own way and it’s clear that I don’t have the means to achieve that. I won’t be a drain on you, Jem. I couldn’t bear it.
You will be better off without me. I fear that your relationship with me may have cost you some support among the owners and I won’t be responsible for that. You are the best of the best and there is no one who can ride a racehorse like you.
I want you to know that I love you more than I can say and always will. Sometimes we have to accept that destiny is against us and we have to choose another path. Please don’t hate me.
Your Eliza
***
A note arrives for Lavinia from Harriet along similar lines. Harriet is sorry for everything. She is going away to deal with things herself. Within the week, Lavinia is sent to Ireland by her parents. Her father is unhappy with the company she keeps and wishes to make a match for her as far from London as possible. Where Harriet’s father’s threats to disinherit her amounted to nothing, Lavinia’s parents have more leverage. A small but not insubstantial trust fund hangs by a thread. Lavinia is fond of Tom, but she knows he strays occasionally. With Harriet beyond help, she feels she can leave without guilt. In the end, the decision to accept her parents’ wishes is the only sensible course.
Nine
No Way Out
London, England
1843
Of course, Her Majesty’s Government does not have a secret service. That would be absurd. It is rumoured, however, that there is an organisation called State Services. And State Services’ role and reporting arrangements, even its existence, seem to be, well, secret. Home Secretary Sir James Graham thinks that State Services, if it exists, probably works for the Ministry of War and the Colonies. A similar enquiry of Secretary of State for War and the Colonies Lord Stanley would draw the opinion that State Services, if it exists, probably works for the Home Office. And so it goes.
In the meantime, Nicholas Sly, who would be the head of State Services, if it existed, gets away with a lot, which is convenient for him.
In a secret location, on a secret day, with a man whose identity must remain secret, the following conversation takes place.
‘What do you have for me concerning Miss Howard?’ says Sly.
‘I think you will be pleased.’
‘I will judge that.’
‘We have news about her situation with Mason, a child, her parents and her attempts to revive her acting career. It will be enough.’
‘And if it is not enough?’
‘If we need more, we can arrange for Mason to have another accident. We put him out for three months last year. His future is in the balance. But it won’t be needed. The threat is enough. There is no way out.’
‘Very good. By the way, I wanted to ask you about Mason’s accident. It was a very pretty piece of work. Credit where it is due. How was it done? I’m interested.’
‘You want me to give up our secrets?’
‘Just between us.’
‘It is straightforward. Security varies between the racecourses. Leamington is weak and what exists there can be bribed. There is always an opportunity when the jockeys weigh out. The weight cloths are made up with the lead weights and the jockey stands on the scales. The stewards verify the weight to be carried and the saddle and weight cloth, with number cloth, where used, are passed to the valet. In turn, the valet passes the whole tack to the trainer, or trainer’s assistant, who saddles the horse up, before it goes into the parade ring. The saddle is out of the jockey’s possession from the time he weighs out until he is legged up on the horse, just before the race. Here is the opportunity.’
‘I see. So it is the valet who is bribed?’
‘Yes. We need the saddle for only a few minutes. It is a delicate operation. The girth strap is sawn almost through on one side with a blade. It is a matter of delicate judgement. The straps must hold the girths in place and must be robust enough to canter to the start and be retightened, without breaking. Once the race begins, the combination of the movement of the horse, the pressure from the rider and the brushing of the girth on the top of birch fences conspire to weaken and then split the strap. It usually takes five or six fences, which is no problem in a three-mile chase of twenty or so fences. There is a margin for error. Our man learned his trade in Ireland. He is a fine craftsman.’
‘Excellent work. Having said that, I must ask how you knew our target would be injured, rather than killed.’
‘We didn’t.’
***
February sees London in the snow. A phosphorescent whiteness gives way to muddy brown, as the drifts stack in the lanes and a few carts and carriages spatter the doorways, walls and windows. It is impossible to navigate on foot without garments taking on the stinking sludge of horse droppings and snow-melt as it turns to slush. A fog drifts up from the Thames and shrouds the rooftops along Whitehall Place. At some of the entrances, swathes have been cut through the snow and two men in oversize greatcoats are pushing wide brooms in an effort to clear away the slurry. The normally busy thoroughfare is quiet today, with only a few visitors. A solitary hansom cab clatters in the lane and draws up at one of the buildings. Harriet Howard is met by a
footman and escorted to the door.
In Nicholas Sly’s office, a few dying embers glow in the fire grate. Neatly chopped kindling and logs flank the hearth, but Sly makes no move to use them. A single candle flickers on his desk and lights up his face. He has the look of a man with a brag hand with three threes. He knows he must win, but he is determined to savour every moment of the game. In his excitement, though, he opens boldly.
‘Shall we cut to the chase?’ he says. ‘I will make you the offer I made when we met before and you will refuse me. Is that correct?’
‘You are,’ she says.
‘Very well, then, Miss Howard,’ he begins again. ‘There is a gentleman acquaintance of yours, a certain Jem Mason. We believe he is, how shall I put it, someone with whom you have had a rather intimate liaison. I do not wish to be indelicate.’
He looks for a response but there is none.
‘We understand that this liaison began some time before your sixteenth birthday. I know it is the fashion these days to overlook such detail. The law appears rather vague on the subject, as I am sure you are aware. But attitudes are changing. I know Her Majesty wishes her government to take a stronger lead on the matter. At the very least, this information could attract some scandal and some of Mason’s well-connected patrons might decide to withdraw their support. The word “kidnap” has been mentioned. We believe he has a promising career as a jockey, but, of course, he follows a very dangerous profession. I understand he was unfortunate enough to have a fall last year, which lost him some important rides. One never knows when these things could happen again. It would be a shame, would it not, Miss Howard, if his career was cut short for some reason?’
She does not respond, but there is a visible colouring at her cheeks and the hint of a tear. He looks her up and down and thinks back to the young woman he met two years earlier. The elegance and poise are still there, but now her clothes are frayed and stained in a few places. She is only in her twentieth year, but there is something careworn in her face, an emptiness around the eyes. He smiles inwardly and warms to his task.
‘Then we come to the self-styled Squire Joseph Gawen Harryet. He is your father, we believe. We understand that he has spent his way through a not inconsiderable fortune and can now be found residing in two rooms above the Black Bear in Norwich. Your mother, Elizabeth, keeps your father and herself from the poorhouse by working as a maid. Your father is a drunkard, Miss Howard.’
She weeps openly now and her shoulders drop. She picks at the stitching of the muffler in her lap.
‘Sir, can you show me no mercy? I have a child.’
‘Ah, yes. I was aware of that. I must admit we were somewhat disconcerted by this news. It seems you have gone to great lengths to conceal the fact. There is a Martin Harryet, born on the sixteenth of August last year. The registered parents in the parish records are your parents, Joseph and Elizabeth Mary Harryet, yet you now wish us to believe that he is your son. Am I correct?’
She nods and looks away.
‘While unfortunate, it does not disqualify you from helping us. In fact, we see a way that this can provide us with a credible alternative background for you. There are some aspects of your family history that we may wish to, how shall I say, reconstruct.’
‘It seems I’m to lose my freedom.’
‘Freedom, you say. Why it is the merest loss when set against the life that will be before you. Let me elucidate for you, Harriet. We will make any problems that young Jem Mason might face go away. We will rescue your parents from their current unfortunate circumstances and restore them to a comfortable living. We will provide you with a house, where you and your son will live under the guardianship of my colleague, Major Mountjoy-Martin. It may be imagined that he is the father of your son. It is serendipitous that you have named the boy Martin, I think.’
‘Are there conditions?’
‘Yes, there are two. They are not onerous, given your present circumstances. You will not see Jem Mason again and you will give up the folly of your so-called career as an actress. We understand that parts are harder to find, your star a little faded. Is that not so?’
‘You are contemptible. A disgrace.’
‘I think that a trifle unnecessary. The newspapers are a very reliable guide, I always think.’
‘When you have told them what to say.’
‘Bitterness is such an unattractive quality. Our conversation is at an end for now. As I explained to you before, we will arrange for Lady Blessington to look after you. We will be in contact when we need you. Think of it as the closing of one chapter of your life and the opening of another. Good day.’
Harriet feels defeated, as if nothing she could do could alter her situation. Perhaps Jem was right, she thinks. Fate is against me.
***
Sly wastes no time in moving things along. In the afternoon, another meeting takes place in his office. A thaw is under way outside and carriages are moving more freely again. He sits in a leather armchair in front of a blazing fire, his feet resting on the edge of the fire surround, his hands clasped across his stomach. He is smiling and he hums tunelessly to himself. When Lady Blessington comes in, he rises abruptly to his feet and makes a low, extravagant bow. She joins him and they sit opposite each other at his desk.
‘Our bird is caged. Now we need to teach her to sing,’ he says.
‘And you would like me to take this on?’
‘If you would be so kind. She will need work, but I think she can be whipped into shape, so to speak.’
‘And the timetable?’
‘It is not urgent. Send her away for a while. We will need to sort out the details.’
‘Do you have any news from France?
‘Lord Malmesbury tells me that diplomatic moves are still continuing. That must be the preferred route. Our Frenchman remains imprisoned at Ham, but we detect a softening of attitudes. If all else fails, he will have to be sprung.’
‘And the practical arrangements for Miss Howard?’
‘We won’t trouble you with those. Major Mountjoy-Martin will be her guardian. He is new to the role, on secondment from a Guards division. Unofficially, that is.’
‘I know him, of course. I would not have thought this was his line of work.’
‘No, indeed, he took some persuading, but his wife has been very sick and we helped him understand the benefits.’
‘As only you can.’
‘How kind of you to say so.’
And that signals the end of Nicholas Sly’s appointments for the day. He relaxes into his fireside chair and begins to whistle to himself.
Ten
The Choice
London, England
1844
St John’s Wood is rather “up and coming” these days and the new stuccoed “town villas”, with their regular features and symmetrical doors and windows and pristine white paintwork, glisten in the sunlight. Blue and white lavenders are planted in neat rows along the entrance paths. The warmth of the summer air draws the scent from the lavenders, and bees and butterflies hover and flit between them.
Rockingham House is larger than the other houses and is also marked out by the additional columns, flanking the main door and the carved balustrade above. Wrought iron gates and railings add to the feeling of exclusivity. There is a flurry of activity at the entrance. Hansom cabs come and go and a number of mounted gentlemen arrive, one in uniform, their horses led away by grooms to the stables in the mews beside the house.
Inside the spacious drawing room, introductions are made. It is clear that the house is not yet a home, devoid, as it is, of any personal items or ornamentation. After a brief exchange, one man signals an end to the discussion, instructions are issued to the servants and the group of apparent strangers breaks up. Eventually, only two people remain. The woman is young, early twenties, elegantly dr
essed and quite strikingly beautiful. The man, in Guards officer’s uniform, is in his early thirties, tall, slim and fair-haired.
‘You,’ she says.
‘Do not say anything here, Harriet,’ he says. He puts a finger to his lips. ‘I will explain everything. This is awkward, I know.’
The two figures move away into the gardens at the back of the house. Lawns and newly planted perennials combine to bring the country into the town – at least that is the intention.
‘You are not quite what you seem,’ she says. ‘Is Mountjoy-Martin your real name or is it the name you gave me before?’
‘You have the truth now and you will continue to have the truth. But we can never discuss the time we met before and, in particular, Sly must never know.’
‘Oh dear. Would that be inconvenient for you?’
‘I think it would be inconvenient for both of us. I want to be honest with you. I am to be your guardian. That is my job. I am under orders from Her Majesty’s Government. Nicholas Sly is my superior. You and I will be taking instructions from him. If I disqualify myself from this task – and an admission that we know each other, especially under the circumstances of the meeting, would surely achieve that – you will be assigned someone else. It will be bad for me and my career, but bad for you as well. I am on your side. Be sure of that. If I can help you, I will. I know that you didn’t want this and neither did I. This is our fate and we must make the best of it. You can do this with me or with someone else, who will not be as sympathetic. It is your choice.’
‘A fine speech, sir. I almost believe you.’
‘It is true.’
‘Truth. You seem very much taken with the idea. The truth is, Major, you are to be my pimp. Mr Sly will be my procurer. I will be “entertaining the company of certain distinguished gentlemen”. Do you know what that means? I will be the Queen’s prostitute. I will be available to any old lecher with whom the government wishes to curry favour. It is disgusting.’