Mary Anne

by Daphne Du Maurier

  “Don’t go. It isn’t morning.”

  “It is. And Ludovick’s here.”

  “Throw him downstairs.”

  Regrets and protestations were of no avail. Obligations came first, and dalliance must wait on duty. The bugle called.

  “Goodbye, my sweetheart. I’ll try and be home by Saturday.”

  “Don’t go to Oatlands. Spend the weekend with me.”

  Back to the pillows and a vanished dream, to what great depth of slumber heaven knew. Chasing forbidden strangers up the alley, Charley in tow and Eddie on her shoulder. Street sounds, street cries, the smell of onions cooking, cabbages in drains, the sound of water.

  When she woke at nine the sun was shining. She felt above her head. The list had gone.

  5

  Will Ogilvie was right. It was all so simple. And once the word got round that promotion could be obtained through personal channels, requests increased.

  “Draw up a regular tariff,” said Will, “not too high. I’ll put it about that with your influence you can obtain a Majority for nine hundred, a Company for seven hundred. And say a Lieutenancy for four hundred quid, or it’s not worth your while; and two hundred quid for an Ensign—that’s about fair. Make it a point that you’ll merely put forward the name by word of mouth only, with no letters backwards and forwards. Once the names are gazetted, the purchasers pay the cash to you. Don’t have it in bills—a bill can be traced, and that’s fatal. Insist upon cash, in banknotes, and not in large numbers.”

  “You’ll manage that for me?” she pleaded.

  “I’ll do what I can, but my name must on no account appear. I’m simply the friend-of-a-friend, who has heard you are generous.”

  On thinking it over, she decided the game was humane. Patriotic and loyal, she was saving the country, flooding the Army with officers, all of them burning to serve. She would get what they asked and charge only a reasonable figure, and of course they would be grateful, and no one would obtain a commission without a good record.

  The money they paid was a godsend. Driving to Weybridge that summer, she counted the cost. The house at the end of the park had once been a farm, and no one could live in a farmhouse unless it was gutted first. The stables must be pulled down and rebuilt, a wing for the servants added, new tiles for the roof, and two other rooms turned into one. The staff had to be fed, there would be the grooms and the coachman to house, two men and a boy in the garden—she couldn’t have done it but for the patronage business, the game on the side.

  The letter of service went through and French sailed for Ireland. But Sandon, his friend, proved an ally, and frequently called. She had to be careful with this—there might be some clashing. He used to bring lists from his pocket as Ogilvie did, and if Ogilvie guessed there was somebody else in the offing who asked a percentage there could be an awkward debacle. As it was, once or twice they produced duplicate lists, with the same names on each of officers wanting promotion. And then, when she’d passed the names on and the men were gazetted, she was forced to give double percentage, at loss to herself.

  All went very smoothly, however, and the Duke asked no questions. She would mention a name—Captain So-and-so wants a Majority—or jot the particulars down, and let them lie handy. He’d remember the name or pocket the small scrap of paper. The matter was never discussed; discretion was mutual.

  Bill was the only dissentient, the fly in the ointment. He called, as ill luck would have it, at the same time as French, the very morning, in fact, when old French produced the five hundred, the sum on account to facilitate his letter of service.

  She was upstairs, dressing, and Pierson sent word by Martha, “Mr. Dowler is here, he’s gone straight up to the drawing room,” while Colonel French had already arrived and been waiting ten minutes. She hurriedly finished her toilet and ran down the stairs, but one glance at Bill’s face was enough to show what had happened. French, voluble, rather excited, had hinted his mission, once Bill had introduced himself as an intimate friend, and the cat—or part of the cat—had leaped out of the bag.

  “They must get a move on,” she heard as she entered the drawing room. “How the devil can they expect recruits, if they dillydally over letters of service for the people who want to raise them? I’ve explained this again and again in official letters to Colonel Loraine, the A.M.S. at the War Office. He just ignores them, and the request gets pigeonholed. Mrs. Clarke says she’ll do what she can, and I hope for results.”

  “Colonel French, I’m delighted to see you. And Bill, what a stranger!”

  Small talk to cover the issue, to make a diversion, but the stout little colonel yapped on and wouldn’t be muzzled.

  “There’s so much obstruction high up. General Hewitt’s the trouble. He’s the Inspector General, and blocks every demand. He has a prejudice against what he calls ‘recruiters,’ officers on half pay like myself, whose only desire, you may be sure, is to serve my country. If Mrs. Clarke would but mention to the Commander-in-Chief how Hewitt obstructs us…” and so on and so on, while Bill’s face got longer and longer.

  And then—the final embarrassment—banknotes were produced. “Will your friend Mr. Dowler excuse us? A financial transaction,” and French drew her into a corner and chatted in whispers.

  It couldn’t have been more distressing. She was livid with rage. The only way to surmount the whole situation was by seeming offhand and treating the business as natural. French finally took himself off and Bill, with a face like a parson mounting a pulpit, stared at the ceiling. Attack was the best form of defense, so she rounded upon him.

  “Good God, what a face! What’s the matter? Have you come from a funeral? I don’t seem to have seen you for days, and this is what happens. It wasn’t my fault that fat little bore came to call.”

  Silence. Then Bill, in schoolmaster fashion, “He may be a fat little bore, that doesn’t concern me. What does concern me—as someone who happens to love you—is to see you playing a game that you don’t understand. Getting yourself mixed up in military matters.”

  “Oh, don’t be absurd. You’re always so disapproving. Of course people pester me—I expect it in my position. The Duke told me himself it would happen, and he ought to know. I’m only too glad to help anyone wanting assistance. Genuine people, who show that they’re really sincere.”

  She worked herself up into anger, self-righteous, indignant.

  “You don’t live in the world,” she went on, “stuck down at Uxbridge, pottering about like a rustic from morning to night. I daresay I meet more people, and help them too, in the course of a morning than you ever do in a week. Not only soldiers like French, but from every profession. I’m applied to for all sorts of jobs, you wouldn’t believe it. It isn’t my fault, it just happens, and that’s all there is to it. If the Duchess showed a little more spirit, and behaved like a wife, they’d suck up to her and then I shouldn’t be bothered. But they know she’s no one, that she’s as helpless as one of her lapdogs, so they all come to me. I get the brunt on my shoulders.”

  He let her run on, but with Bill it was never much use. He wasn’t deceived for a moment, she saw from his eye.

  “I may live like a rustic,” he said, “but I’m not quite a fool. By all means use your influence to help, but don’t take bribes. You’ll get yourself into trouble, and him as well.”

  “I don’t take bribes.”

  “What were those notes just now?”

  “Merely a compliment, a sort of present, for furthering matters for him. You heard what he said—obstruction at the War Office, nothing gets passed. I’m simply another channel, and more direct.”

  “Are you prepared to go to the Horse Guards and say so?”

  “I wouldn’t mind. It might give them the jerk they need.”

  “Bravado, and you know it. What you’re doing is strictly illegal, and stinks of corruption. For God’s sake give it up and keep your hands clean. Can’t you be content to remain his mistress? That’s triumph for you enough, without p
laying with muck.”

  “How dare you attack me like this…”

  “I don’t attack you. It breaks my heart to see you behave like a fool.”

  “All right. Well, get out of the house. Go back to the pure air of Uxbridge where you belong. I don’t ask for advice, nor for approval. I expect my friends to accept what I do, and keep silent.”

  “That’s not what you said at Hampstead.”

  “Hampstead was different. The whole world’s changed since then.”

  “For you, perhaps.”

  He went to the door. She let him go and then, before he reached the stairs, cried, “Bill… come back.”

  He came, and stood in the doorway. She held out her arms.

  “Why do you treat me so, what have I done?”

  It was useless to argue and plead, to give advice. All she asked for now was approbation, soft words, a kiss of comfort, understanding.

  “I have to do it, Bill. I need the money.”

  “He gives you an allowance, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, but it’s never enough… The expense is appalling. This house alone costs treble what he gives; and now there’s the one at Weybridge to add to it all. Horses, carriages, food, furniture, clothes… Don’t tell me ‘cut it down,’ it isn’t possible. I’m forced to live in this fashion because of him; it’s what he’s used to, it’s how he expects things done. He’d never be content with some backstairs room, a hole-and-corner affair, in slapdash style. This is his second home. He calls it that. His only home, if the truth were told.”

  “You’re fond of him, aren’t you?”

  “Perhaps… that isn’t the point. The point is that I can’t, and won’t, ask for more money. He hasn’t it to give me, so I’m driven to this.” She held up the notes that French had given her. “Corrupt if you like, well, so is every business, and every profession too: it’s part of life. Politicians, parsons, soldiers, sailors, they’re all the same. Have you heard the latest gossip and read the papers? What do you suppose Lord Melville’s been up to at the Admiralty? There’s going to be a Commission of Enquiry to look into his affairs.”

  “All the more reason for you to be wary with yours.”

  “Oh, they’ll sit for about a year behind closed doors, and nothing be proven at the end of it, so the Duke says.”

  “I wonder. I very much doubt it. The Radicals won’t let it drop, depend upon that.”

  “Let us all be convicted of fraud, what on earth does it matter? I’ll keep my head above water as long as I can.”

  He kissed her and went. She sensed the condemnation. The kiss was a kiss of rebuke, of stricture, of blame. Oh well… if that’s how he felt, no more to be said. He must just keep away from the house and not call anymore. He punished himself more than her; she could manage without him. Her life was already so full that there just wasn’t time to be bored by displeasure from friends, from ex-lovers like Bill. Sympathy, yes; but no chiding, no passing of censure. That schoolmaster manner jarred, in her present position. He treated her still like the child who had run from her husband, without seeming to realize how she had changed and matured.

  The men she knew now were men of the world, of fashion, and beside them poor Bill seemed a stick… attractive, but dull. James Fitzgerald, the Irish M.P., was one of her favorites, a great gift of the gab and a lawyer, with a tongue like an asp. He liked to whisper the scandals of Ireland over his brandy, with a skeleton in every Protestant cupboard. William Coxhead-Marsh was another who lurked in the background, a friend of the Duke’s, often invited to dinner. He said he adored her, she’d but to command, he’d obey. If she tired of the Duke he’d fit up a mansion in Essex, any day, any night, she had only to murmur the word. This was all said sotto voce, knee pressing under the table. Will Boodle, Russell Manners and others hinted the same. They flattered her, petted her—lighthearted nonsense, of course, received with a smile and five grains of salt, but fun all the same.

  It was a pity the royal lover was not more sociable. The lavishly furnished house was so right for receptions. Dinners, and parties, and music—she loved entertaining. He liked a few friends now and then, but never a rabble, and preferred to sit quietly after dinner while she sang to him, or play cards with a handful of cronies, or even May Taylor! He put her in mind of Bob Farquhar, his tastes were so humdrum, in a way almost middle-class; it seemed so strange. A raffish joke or song, then a burst of laughter—a servant spilt the soup, and he split his sides. Racing was a topic he found congenial. He was happy to sit a whole evening discussing form with a few horsey friends, a glass of port at his elbow. While the Prince and Mrs. Fitzherbert… however, dismiss it. That milieu was different. The Prince had his own special circle, Charley Fox and the rest, the cream of high Whig society, all glitter and show, and assuredly more entertaining. But still, there it was; if he liked to come back from the Horse Guards and get down on his knees with the children, she couldn’t prevent him. Better piquet with May Taylor at Gloucester Place than lolling with Lady Hertford at Carlton House.

  It gave her a pang, though, that cards were not sent out more often. “Mrs. Clarke At Home. An evening party. Carriages at eleven,” and in small letters, casually scribbled in, “To meet H.R.H. the Duke of York.” He used to brush the suggestion aside when she put it to him. “If you’d sat on your arse from nine until seven, running His Majesty’s Army, you’d want to relax, not fill your belly with food and blab to idiots.”

  “The Prince of Wales entertains, with Mrs. Fitzherbert…”

  “He hasn’t a job, that’s why. He has to kill time.”

  “You could find out so much if we gave a series of dinners. Politicians and people—not riffraff, but interesting men.”

  “Politicians are rogues; I prefer to leave them to my brothers. And there’s nothing I want to find out; I don’t choose to intrigue. What’s the matter, my angel? Are you bored, are you sick of my company?”

  “Of course not… It’s only…”

  “Have them here when I’m out… I don’t mind. You can do as you please.”

  But that wasn’t the point. She wanted the kudos, the glamour, to stand by his side in the drawing room, to bow and to smile, with the house filled with guests and all of ’em plastered in diamonds and stinking of titles, not one of them less than an earl. Smirking and grinning and fawning, at her invitation, the girl from the alley, who’d hooked the big fish from the stream.

  Occasionally, yes, he’d consent. He would give a dinner. Ten people or twelve, but no more, and they’d have to go early. Then there’d be fun and excitement, with two cooks in the kitchen, a man to help Pierson beside the ordinary footman, and four or five courses served, the silver plate gleaming (paid for, thank God, with the notes from Colonel French), and then music to follow, herself at the harp and the whole crowd applauding. This really was living, this truly was heaven, and nothing else mattered. The faces, the smiles and the laughter and clamor of voices, and him overtopping them all, with his hands clasped behind him, winking, indulgent, hearty, and loud in her praises. “I tell you, by God, she’s got ’em all beat at Vauxhall!” Throwing a kiss, which they saw—she could see their expressions. This was power and enchantment in one, it was bliss, it was nectar. And when they had gone and she looked at the mess and the debris, the stem of a glass in a chair, the stains on the carpet, they turned into symbols of triumph, reflecting her glory.

  “Oh, sir… I’m so happy. I do so enjoy it.”

  “What, playing the hostess?”

  “When you are the host. Without you it’s nothing.”

  And lying beside him, nerves strung to high tension, too wrought up to sleep, she looked into the future, wove fantasies, mad ones, of things that might happen, of people who’d die: the Prince of Wales, never said to be strong, Princess Charlotte, so sickly, the Duke heir presumptive and close to the King, and the King always ill, always mad, always something… The Duke might so easily reign, in twenty years’ time. Then… what a blaze! What a future!

&n
bsp; Meanwhile, the little sips of power were heady and pleasant, the dabble in promotions and exchanges, the boosting up of majors into colonels; small fry, perhaps, but very lucrative. It was exciting to send the notes penned to Sandon, rattled off at breakfast: “Be so good as to look at the Gazette tomorrow evening, as I rather expect some of the names to be inserted; I have others, I assure you on my honor. The present for my trouble for the Majority is seven hundred guineas, so if you have any more this must be the same. I shall be in town Monday if you have anything to communicate…”

  Followed by another: “I am thoroughly convinced of the money being too trifling, and I have mentioned it to a person who knows the full value of these things, so you must tell Bacon and Spedding they must give each of them two hundred more, and the Captains must each give me fifty more. I am now offered eleven hundred for an older officer. I must have an answer to this, as I am to speak with Him on it. I have mentioned you as being concerned for me… I go to the Little Theater this evening.” With an afterthought added later: “Mrs. Clarke’s compliments await Captain Sandon, thinks it best for him not to come to her Box this evening, as Greenwood goes with both the Dukes, and of course will watch where your eyes direct now and then; and should he see and know Captain Sandon may make some remark by saying or talking of the levy business, and it may be hurtful to his and Mrs. Clarke’s future interest.”

  But things did not always go according to plan. The names would be put forward and the bearers botch promotion by their own mistakes.

  Again to Sandon: “I am vexed to death, you will know the state of my finances, and I hit upon Spedding for Tuesday, when, behold, the regiment he is in did their exercise so bad that the Duke swore at them very much, and has stopped the promotion of everyone in it! He said so much to Colonel Wemyss that if he had been a gentleman he would have given up—but he intends looking over the Memorial today, as Spedding has not been long in that regiment, and he is an old officer; so that you see if he gets his promotion how very much he ought to be indebted to my good offices. I must beg hard for him, the Duke is very angry with you, for, when he last saw you, you promised him 300 foreigners and you have not produced one—oh yes, master Sandon is a pretty fellow to depend on. I told you I believe that things must be done gradually, his clerks are so cunning. Get Spedding to write out a list of his services, and send it to me as a private thing to show him, not addressed to anyone. Adieu.”