by Steven Neil
‘At the Sadler’s Wells. Opposite Samuel Phelps, in Romeo and Juliet. It was sublime. You were quite perfect.’
‘Was that the only time?’
‘Yes… yes, I am sure.’
‘I am ashamed that women are so simple
To offer war where they should kneel for peace;
Or seek for rule, supremacy and sway,
When they are bound to serve, love and obey.
Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions and our hearts
Should well agree with our external parts?’
‘What are you talking about? Are you mad?’
‘You never heard me say those lines? Tell me the truth.’
Lady Blessington looks down at the floor. She begins to weep, softly at first, but the tears flow and she bends forward, holding her face in her hands. Eventually, she recovers herself.
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘You were there, weren’t you? At the audition for Taming of the Shrew. At Haymarket. I was to be Kate.’
‘Can you ever forgive me?’
‘You are forgiven. I know that Sly had some hold over you, as he does over me. And I know more than you think about what goes on behind closed doors. I am not stupid.’
‘If there is anything I can do to make amends…’
‘There is. I have been biding my time. Now, I need your help. Kate will have her revenge. She will not be tamed.’
Part Two
Fifteen
Putting the Pieces Together
Newmarket, England
1862
Martin was back in England and he sent word that he was on his way to see me again, at my racing yard in Newmarket. As I waited for him, there were snowflake clouds scudding fast across a blue sky. Swallows and swifts arced and dived high above me. The hay cutters were out and I saw the small conical hay ricks, characteristic of the area, scattered like scarecrow sentinels at the edges of the heath. The sweet smell of the hay mingled with the heady scent of the wild rosemary, thyme and mint, caught up by the scythes at the field headlands. On the horizon, a heat haze shimmered and the whole scene conspired to produce a positive feeling inside me. The last season with the steeplechasers proved successful and we continued our winning vein into the summer flat racing. I was suffused with a sense of goodwill. I thought to myself that days like this should be cherished and remembered because they can’t always be like this. We shouldn’t take them for granted. By the time Martin’s brougham skittered into the yard, my heart jumped with anticipation.
He told me that more information was to hand. He was able to fill in more gaps in the story I outlined at our earlier meeting. He reminded me that, as I had recalled, Jem and Harriet, still called Eliza by her close friends and family, were the golden couple for a while. She went from strength to strength and made her name in the Shakespearean repertoire: The Tempest, Othello and Anthony and Cleopatra. Jem followed up his Grand National win in 1839 with several more big race wins and finished up champion jockey in 1840 and 1841. Lord Strathmore and Lord Beauclerk retained his services and he had the pick of the top horses.
It seemed, at the time, that they were leading a charmed life. Then, at some point in 1841, leading into 1842, things went wrong for them both. A few bad theatre reviews appeared, even though this was at odds with the sell-out houses. Whatever happened, Harriet went out of fashion and her roles dried up. I was sorry to hear that Harriet herself went into a decline. Martin didn’t flinch when he told me what he found out from his latest detective work. Apparently, the rumour was that she, in her desperation to secure employment, gained the reputation of being free with her favours in return for acting roles.
This, unsurprisingly, put a strain on the relationship with Jem, who himself suffered some reverses during the same period. Lord Strathmore sacked him as first jockey, even though he rode a string of winners for him. The Sporting Magazine carried a story suggesting Jem had thrown a race at Northampton in return for a bribe, which I knew couldn’t be true. I rode in the race and he was spitting teeth that I beat him a short head after his horse rooted the last fence and lost at least three lengths. Just after the 1842 Grand National, Jem had a bad fall that nearly killed him.
Of course, I knew many of these facts, but I couldn’t put the pieces together in the way that Martin could. Hindsight, the distance of the years and some important new snippets of information combined to make some things clearer.
In the same year, Harriet disappeared from public view and wasn’t heard of again in the theatre, apart from a brief, but ill-fated, attempt at a comeback a year later. Jem’s career seemed to tread water. He was still highly regarded by the racing public, but the sporting press was cool on him. John Elmore and George Dockeray stood by him and made sure he rode plenty of winners. All the jockeys knew he was still the best.
Throughout this time, I remembered that Jem was tight-lipped about Harriet. He refused to answer questions about her and I gave up after a while. In late 1844, the news came that Jem would marry Emily, John Elmore’s daughter. I attended the wedding and a pretty couple they made, but the faraway look in Jem’s eyes gave me the feeling his thoughts were elsewhere.
I asked Martin if he was any nearer succeeding in his quest for the name of his father. I found some of the information he related quite upsetting. He found a story that Nicholas Sly had raped Harriet. He couldn’t substantiate it, but he couldn’t rule it out either. Sly’s whereabouts were unknown. There was more information about Francis Mountjoy-Martin. It was confirmed that Harriet did meet him before his appointment as her guardian. Apparently, during one of the numerous tiffs between Jem and Harriet, she left a masked ball with a tall Guards officer. Martin had it on good authority, from a former Guards colleague, that it was Mountjoy-Martin. He was now rumoured to be in India.
Louis Napoleon continued as elusive as ever. He could be placed in London at Number One Carlton Gardens in 1838, but after a failed coup in France he found himself in prison. This didn’t stop him fathering two children during that time – the mother, apparently, was Eleonore Vergeot, the laundry maid at the prison. Evidently being a Bonaparte brought with it certain concessions, even when incarcerated. Martin still couldn’t rule him out. Some things were clearer, but some things were not.
‘You know it is not me,’ I said. I wanted this to be unambiguous this time round. I missed out the details of my relationship with his mother and I decided it would be unhelpful to add that the lack of any close engagement was not for want of trying on my part, at least in the early days of our acquaintance. Jem and I vied for her affections and he won fair and square. He was my best friend and I left it at that. Harriet became a good friend, too, but that was it.
‘I believe that,’ he said.
‘So what is next?’ I said. ‘At least you have narrowed down the list, marginally.’
‘That is what I thought, but there are new additions.’
‘There are?’
‘The Duke of Beaufort, Lord Normanby and Count D’Orsay.’
‘That is extraordinary. You lose an old jockey, but gain a duke, a marquis and a count.’
‘I am not taking the allegations about Beaufort and Normanby very seriously. They certainly showed a great interest in my mother, but I will have a very long list if that is the benchmark.’
‘And it would not do to make those statements without firm proof.’
‘Exactly. D’Orsay is an interesting one, though. I must find out more about him. The dates work out for him, as they do for Sly and Mountjoy-Martin and Mason, if my information is correct. I was born on 16th August, a few weeks prematurely, I believe.’
‘Are there any other thoughts?’
‘I will stay on my present course. I must res
olve the question of the dates for Louis Napoleon. I need to find Nicholas Sly and Francis Mountjoy-Martin. I think this will not be easy. I need to talk to Jem Mason. I hoped you would help me meet him.’
I wanted to help, but my loyalties were torn. I was back in touch with Jem, who was now living at Clarendon Place in St John’s Wood. We met infrequently and, although we spent time talking about the old days and going over the old stories, I felt the camaraderie, the closeness between us, was gone. Since my first meeting with Martin, I talked with Jem about him, but I didn’t get very far. Jem wouldn’t talk about Harriet and was vague about Martin. It was as if he wanted to shut that part of his life away forever. His health was fragile, it seemed to me. I wondered if Jem’s personality was in some way shaped by all the injuries over the years. It can’t be easy to live with that amount of pain. Even though he still rode out most days and even rode in the odd race, I began to doubt he would make old bones.
I asked Martin about Harriet.
‘We are reconciled. Up to a point. We are talking, which is good, although not about anything I want to talk about.’
‘How does she seem?’
‘She is calmer, more settled.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘She has finally rid herself of that mountebank Trelawney, for one thing. She seems resigned to living a simpler life. There are few visitors at the château. She tends the gardens, arranges the flowers in the chapel, visits the poor. The people in the village love her. I think she has found some contentment, perhaps. It is hard to know with her.’
It occurred to me, as he spoke, that the same could be said of Martin, compared to our first meeting. He was again calm, measured in his manner, but there was no added sense of urgency about him now. It was as if he knew that he was closing in on his goal and was happy to let things take their course. I watched him as he talked, rather in the way he had scrutinised me for clues when we first met. Six months ago, he seemed youthful, boyish, but now he was a man. His shoulders were broader, his handshake firmer, his jaw line more defined. His features seemed to have darkened, his eye sockets were more sunken and the black sideburns extended well below his ears. His demeanour, though, seemed lighter. He was no longer inclined to look at the floor or away, as he was prone to do before when talking. His habit of pinching his nose, between his eyes, had all but disappeared.
We talked all day and late into the night. I persuaded him to stay on, rather than rush back to London. We shared a bottle of port. He told me his plans. It was apparent that he was achieving notice as a promising rider. He enjoyed his time hunting the wild boar in the Fontainebleau forests and he was winning races at the smaller steeplechase meetings, springing up around Paris at the time. He harboured thoughts of becoming a huntsman or perhaps a jockey. He asked me again about Jem and whether the stories about him were true.
I didn’t know what he’d heard, but I told him one of my own.
‘He was sharp as a hussar’s sabre when it came to taking advantage of the rules. One new idea at the regulated tracks, in the early days, was the introduction of a flag man, who would stand halfway between the starting gate and the first fence. If the starter felt that there wasn’t a fair, level break, he would signal to the flag man, who would wave a large white flag, indicating a false start, and the jockeys would return to the start and line up again. Failure to obey the flag man and the starter could incur a fine and repeat offenders faced suspension. One day, at Bedford, there had been false starts in the first two races, with some of the keener lads trying to steal a few lengths. All the jockeys were getting a bit jumpy at the gate, going into the third race. The starter was an irascible old sod and he warned them, in no uncertain terms, that if anyone tried it on again he would have them before the stewards for a hefty fine. This time, they jumped off level enough, but as the flag man ran back to the side he tripped in a divot and the flag shot up in the air. Jem, sensing indecision, shouted out: “False start, boys”. The jockeys pulled their mounts up and turned back. In the meantime, the flag man had gathered up his flag and was back standing by the hedge. Jem gave his mount a kick and headed off towards the first fence, hell for leather. The remaining jockeys stood arguing with the starter, who shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t signal a false start”, he said. By the time they realised they’d been tricked, Jem had jumped two fences and stayed that distance clear all the way to the finish, despite the best efforts of his rivals to reel him in. Later on, he sent a case of champagne into the weighing room for the jockeys, with a card saying: “Thank you for all your help. Jem”.’
The next morning I was able to see for myself what Martin was made of. It was a cruel trick when I thought about it later, but I couldn’t resist it. Kingdom was a hard puller and he had a buck in him, too. All the lads avoided riding him out, but when they had to ride him, they put a variety of cross nosebands and curbs on him in an effort to anchor him. Even then, he had a habit of bolting and there were many times when he came careering back into the yard alone, stirrups flying and reins flapping, his rider deposited out on the heath somewhere. We persevered with him because he was a talented racehorse and won his share of races, but he needed a special kind of rider on him.
‘You ride the bay horse, Martin,’ I said. ‘He’s a bit of a quirk on him.’
I put him in a plain snaffle and crossed my fingers. I jumped up beside Martin on my grey, lead horse and we headed off to Long Hill. All the lads were craning their heads out of the boxes to get a look at what was going on. I knew there were wagers being laid about how long it would be before a riderless Kingdom was back in the yard.
It was another beautiful morning out on the heath and my positive mood continued as we reached the bottom of the gallops.
‘Let’s do a long, swinging canter up by the white posts and then we’ll quicken up half speed over the last three furlongs and have a blow up to the top,’ I said.
I needn’t have been concerned. Kingdom was as quiet as an old hack. Martin had it all: the relaxed hands, the long rein, the easy elegance. He was a natural.
We walked back slowly across the heath. We let the girths out and allowed the horses to stretch their necks low on loose reins. We stopped on the knoll and jumped down to let them have a pick of grass. We lit up cheroots and sat on a fallen log, watching the long lines of second lots, snaking across the heath in the distance.
‘If you decide to settle back in England, there is a job for you here.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said.
After breakfast, we said our goodbyes and Martin’s brougham departed in a trail of dust down the lane. I realised how much I enjoyed his company and how much we shared in common. I was determined I would help him in his quest and I started racking my brains to see if I could find anything in my memories that might provide a missing clue.
Sixteen
Changing of the Guard
Paris, France
1849
Paris in springtime has a resonance through the ages, but Paris in early 1849 is a squalid affair. Everywhere there is disease and desolation. The French know what they don’t want and the monarchy is swept away, but they seem unsure what they do want. Uneasy alliances ebb and flow, as Louis Napoleon marshals his supporters, but in the meantime Paris founders under a debilitating paralysis. The wealthy have left or are in hiding. The poor and the destitute fight among themselves for what little food is available. Sewage runs in rivulets in the streets and leaches into the Seine.
Harriet Howard can bear the uncertainty. After all, she is largely protected from it, now installed in her lavish apartments on the rue du Cirque. However, news of a different kind comes, which cannot be borne easily.
Lady Blessington is dead. The rumour buzzes around Paris and London for days, before the London newspapers confirm the facts. The facts, if they can be believed, are that Lady Blessington was found alone in her rooms at t
he Hotel Meurice, early in the morning of Monday the fourth of June. A waiter, bringing a breakfast tray, could not gain access and the manager was alerted. He summoned a doctor, but nothing could be done. The cause of death was reported as heart failure.
***
Lord Normanby hopes to be first with the news to Harriet, but he is already too late. He senses it as soon as he enters her drawing room.
‘I’m very sorry. I know you were very close,’ he says. ‘She was a remarkable woman.’
‘Indeed, she was – even more remarkable that she is dead. I was with her only a few days ago. She was in the best of health.’
‘None of us can know when our time will come. She led a full life.’
‘You are intent on seeing nothing suspicious in all of this?’
‘I am guided by the information I have been given.’
‘I see you are determined.’
‘I see you are upset. Naturally. But nothing can be gained by subscribing to conspiracy theories. The dead cannot be brought back. I suggest you leave well alone. Mountjoy-Martin is on his way from London. I trust that will be some comfort to you.’
***
Later that day, Francis Mountjoy-Martin arrives. Harriet has had time to think things through. She tests her theory with him.
‘This has Sly’s hand on it. You know it as well as I do.’
‘Sly is missing. He has not been seen since last Sunday.’
‘How convenient.’
‘I think you are on the wrong track this time. Sly has others do his work for him. He would not be implicated.’
He misses the opportunity for a flat denial and Harriet senses that he doesn’t have his script fully rehearsed.
‘I am sure, but I think you accept my doubts? This is not “natural causes”.’
‘I accept nothing of the sort,’ he says, recovering. ‘Normanby’s advice is sound. If there is anything to be discovered, I will let you know.’