by May Woodward
She hurried through the park towards the news vendor’s stall.
The evening edition had just arrived. She watched as the newsboy unloaded the bundle from his cart. Should she go, then… now? See what it said? Would it be better not to know what the press was saying about her? No, she had to know – for better or worse. She took a firm step forward.
Clemence eyed the pile of print. She handed the boy a penny. He cut the newspaper’s corner, and then handed it to her. Could not bring herself to read the headline; she blurred her vision.
Across the park she dashed. Her purchase was under her arm, unlooked at. In her haste, she splashed in two puddles.
Back at the bench, as the first lights of late afternoon flickered on behind the Kensington Palace windows, she plucked out her newspaper. All the birds seemed at once to cease their twittering. A yapping dog suddenly shut up.
Clemence peeked at the headline.
Funding Threat to New Underground
She almost swooned. Then began a knuckle-gnawing read.
Palmerston had told an angry Commons that the planned opening of the capital’s new underground railway network, currently under construction, might be delayed.
Clemence turned the page. Would the runaway duchess story be on page two, or three, then?
The Union army had defeated the Confederates on the bank of the Tennessee River after a two-day battle at a place called Shiloh. As many as four thousand men on both sides were feared dead.
Her trembling hand turned another page. And another.
The Earl of Elgin had been appointed Governor-General of India. In Lancashire they were rioting over the cotton recession.
Clemence let the journal fall into her lap.
Diddleysquat. Not a word. A duchess escaped from a nuthouse was so un-newsworthy then?
It was an insult… wasn’t it?
The group of three settled at an alcove table in Westminster’s Strangers’ Gallery. Richard sent away the waiter with an order for two cognacs and, for the lady, a syllabub.
Amathia spied around the lounge where, in its discreet bays, MPs dined constituents. Below the hum of conversation and clatter of cutlery came the soft notes of Mendelssohn being played on a piano in one corner. Every Prime Minister Great Britain had ever had was looking on in bust form from all sides of the room. The Duke of Newcastle was frowning from his marble plinth as if he didn’t like her.
‘Very well, this is what I have been able to glean,’ said Richard. ‘A wardress named Miss Cummings, who Clemmie was on good terms with, was summoned to my sister’s room late on Thursday evening. Finding the space apparently devoid of occupant, Miss Cummings made a frantic search – this, you will understand, is Miss Cummings’s own version of events given later, of course.
‘While she was looking in the closet, where a frightened patient might find refuge behind the hanging garments, Miss Cummings received a blow to the head. It was the last the brave woman remembered before she woke – to find her keys and uniform gone. Clemence had purloined both.
‘Before her spectacular exit from Dwellan, Clemmie also relieved Dr Warburton of the contents of his strongbox.’
‘My God!’ breathed the Duke of Ardenne. ‘Got to admire her spirit, what?’
His sister gave him a sharp tap on the wrist.
‘The woman is a menace, Philo, to herself as well as others.’
‘I say, Dickon,’ said Philo, ‘is it true that she also battered the gatekeeper and nicked his coat?’
‘Yes, and that poor maltster person left half dead when she stole his horse and trap?’ said Amathia.
‘She did indeed relieve this worthy tradesman of his transport.’
‘How right we were to have her put away!’ said Amathia. ‘She must be found! Before she kills someone.’
‘She’ll not get far,’ Richard said. ‘Why – she has no money once whatever she took from Warburton runs out – and I doubt it’s very much. And the dray she stole was found abandoned near Taunton.’
‘Given her earlier escapades,’ said Philo, ‘who is to say she’ll not turn corsair on the open highway, and rob some poor traveller of his purse?’
Was Philoctetes enjoying this as much as Amathia suspected Richard was?
‘Now!’ said Richard. ‘I’ve had to grease a few palms to keep this out of the press.’
‘It’s more than she deserves!’ said Amathia.
‘Quite. But would you care to ride Rotten Row, Amathia, and be pointed out as the sister-in-law of an escaped lunatic? Although it might not be our secret any longer, now that the whole of Westminster might have heard it!’ Richard glanced around the lounge where other diners had looked their way more than once during the conversation. He steepled his fingers on the tabletop and leaned towards his listeners.
‘If Clemence knew she was being pursued – who by, where and how – she would be forewarned. But this newspaper silence means that she cannot, now, acquire this intelligence. Thus, she might grow bold and careless.’
Somehow, somehow, Amathia suspected Lysithea’s hand in this. Swooping bat-like from her Galician mountain retreat.
‘I say, Mathy!’ Her brother laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘You look rather pale, dear. Don’t take on so. It ain’t likely Clemence will really get far, you know.’
Richard smiled, and gave her hand a pat.
‘Philo’s right, my dear. The police have been sent her description. And when they find her – she’ll never, ever, be released after this.’
But Amathia knew that mocking eyebrow of his.
‘You don’t believe she will be caught, do you, sir? Do you even wish it, I wonder?’
‘Now, now, sweet one,’ Richard said in cooing tones. ‘You really mustn’t upset yourself so. Think of your nerves – and our son.’ He laid a gentle hand on the small hillock beneath her gown.
Amathia was about to retort… but the waiter arrived with the refreshments, and all three fell quiet.
TWENTY-THREE
The Harp Tavern stood in a sidestreet close to Covent Garden. It was early in the evening, a week after she’d come to London. Clemence paused by the nearest lamp and looked up at the place where Brandon Fanshawe had asked to meet her.
A three-storey Georgian building with slender windows, white-stuccoed frontage and jutting tracery and small portico. A cigar-shaped shadow was cast across the cobbled street from a poplar which grew in its tiny front yard. Not very fashionable. She would be unlikely to meet anyone she knew here. But not a disreputable locale either, where a gentleman like Lord Fanshawe might fear for a young lady’s safety.
Still time for her to return the way she’d come. Could she be sure it was Fanny who’d asked her out here? Was it a trap?
Eventually, she’d asked Mr Almond to describe the man who’d left her the note. Average build; mid-thirties in age; hair of a reddish-brown colour just beginning to turn silver at the temples. Probably was Brandon, then. Not Dickon or Philo, anyway. Even then… could she trust Brandon Fanshawe? Well, Aunt Lizzy must. He wouldn’t have been admitted to the conspiracy otherwise.
She drew the rim of her bonnet down so that most of her face would be hidden and stepped across the threshold. She’d never entered a hostelry alone before. Still, she’d done rather gutsier things in the last few weeks.
A man who looked like the host was there in the front room.
‘I believe a gentleman might be expecting me,’ Clemence ventured. ‘Lord Fanshawe?’
Over by the hearth, a newspaper rustled. Brandon Fanshawe appeared from behind it.
‘Thank you, Jobson. I’ll take Miss Carswell to the parlour. You may bring us a warm posset. But then we’d prefer not to be disturbed unless we call.’
‘Very good, My Lord.’
Brandon got up from his easy chair. He reached out a hand to Clemence in greeting.
‘Thank you, Lord Fanshawe,’ she said, aware that the publican was still in hearing. ‘Lead the way, sir.’
She followed him along a dimly-lit stone corridor. There had been a handful of customers sitting in the bar-room when she’d entered. No-one had taken much of a look at her. She knew what they’d all be thinking, landlord too. A peer’s clandestine tryst with his femme galante. Amusing thought. No doubt these places catered for such assignations, and it would be kept quiet about in exchange for a greased palm.
‘Clemence. You’re safe. Thank the Lord!’ Brandon said as soon as the parlour door was closed behind them. ‘So, you’ve been living at Mrs Bonney’s for a week?’
‘Yes. It’s quite a decent lodging really. I’m comfortable there, for now.’
‘For how long?’
‘Until I can leave the country.’
Good, bright flames were prancing in the hearth. And an oil lamp burned on the bureau close by. Golden tapeworms of firelight flickered in Brandon’s sideburns. Shadows lay in the curve of his cheekbones, and the edges of his heartbreaking smile.
She turned her eyes away. The window frame had a yellowy-amber glow from the light of the streetlamp which was just out of view. In the sky above the rooftops opposite was a feathery crescent moon.
‘Have a seat, my dear, and take off your bonnet and cape.’ He went behind one of two leather armchairs which stood either side of the hearth.
Clemence sat and eyed him before striking up talk again.
‘Aunt Lizzy wants me to go to her house in Geneva. I assume she’ll meet me there.’ She eyed him during the following pause as he moved to take up the other seat. ‘How did you know how to find me? Did Lysithea take you into her confidence?’
‘Yes… it was me who made up the food hamper. You don’t imagine that came all the way from Pressburg, perishables and all, do you? Although I don’t believe Lizzy really wished to involve me. Doesn’t entirely trust me.’ Brandon inclined towards her and smiled. ‘I get the impression you don’t either.’
‘Why should I? You’re Dickon’s friend.’
‘I hope I’m yours too!’ In the quietness, out in the street a hurdy-gurdy man could be heard playing a barrel-organ. ‘I don’t believe you deserved to be in Dwellan still. One doesn’t have to be an expert on mental disorders to see you’re well again. It’s scandalous that Warburton vetoed your release. No doubt on Mathy’s and Philo’s request. There – does that satisfy you?’
Clemence averted her eyes, to take in instead the brassware gleaming on the fireplace. ‘You didn’t stop them sending me there in the first place, Fanny. They got their pet doctor to certify me insane. Haven’t you a family doctor of your own who could have put in a word for me?’
‘Clemmie,’ Brandon said. ‘I don’t think you appreciate that you were ill. Really ill. Not now. You’re well again now. I see that. But you were very sick, my dear. Maybe the way Amathia went about having you certified was a bit underhand…’
Clemence made a sound of annoyance. Trouble was… those very dark thoughts had occurred to her also. So, he wasn’t really in the wrong.
‘How do you propose to quit the country?’ Brandon asked.
‘I’m not going to fly, am I? How do you imagine?’
‘Your description has been sent to every police force in the land. They’re watching all the main ports.’
So, they were on her trail after all, despite the newspaper silence.
‘You’re not wanted just for escaping from the asylum. Warburton says you coshed a wardress named Miss Cummings senseless and robbed his strongbox.’
‘I see!’ said Clemence. How flattering that he thought she’d know how to. ‘Well, I didn’t, Fanny. My only income comes from the account at Almond’s which my aunt set up. I have a bank account in the name of Clemence Somerlee, but of course I cannot access it just now.’
So, how was she going to get out of the country? Could she sail in a fishing vessel from some remote harbour which was unlikely to be under surveillance? It would only make her more conspicuous. And probably that was the way fugitives usually fled abroad. If she was a fisherman… she’d wonder whether the reward on this woman’s head might be more valuable than whatever sum she was offering for her passage to France.
Brandon sat back, making the leather creak, and crossed his limbs. She looked down at the black cambric reticule lying in her lap.
‘Where did you spend your first night before you arrived at Mrs Bonney’s?’
‘Seven Dials,’ Clemence replied. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it, have you?’
‘On the contrary! But how did you end up in that bijou neighbourhood?’
She sighed and told him what she believed had happened.
‘Dickon was right when he said he thought they were giving me narcotics of some sort at Dwellan. I suffered withdrawal symptoms, Fanny. Sweating… feverish. Only reason I know about such things is because we once had a footman who was on that stuff – opium. I saw what it did to him, miserable fellow.
‘Well, I must have stumbled through the lanes and courts, possibly for miles, with no idea where I was going – in a state because I hadn’t had my “shove.” And finished up in Holborn. Seven Dials to be precise. I’d heard of it because a clergyman named it once when he came collecting for charity! I paid three pence for a squalid berth in a nethersken. I’d no idea such places existed!’
Brandon gave a quick laugh.
‘I’ve had my concerns about slum districts – rookeries, they’re called you know – like Seven Dials for years.’ He leaned his elbow on the wing of the chair, propped his cheek against it, and went on looking at her. ‘So, go on – your plans to quit the country?’
‘Perhaps I could go in disguise?’ A moment’s gazing at the moon while she thought it through. ‘You know how I might pass incognito, Fanny? If I wasn’t alone – part of a group. In the train of a family, say… as a servant of some kind. Abigails, linen maids, valets – they pass unnoticed among the luggage.’
Brandon gave a wry chuckle.
‘You tried your dainty hand at nursing. Now you think you can become a lady’s maid as glibly?’
‘Look! I’ve lived with servants all my life. I know what they do, for heaven’s sake! Good Lord – I used to think I could do a better job with the mending than our linen maid Rosanna.’
‘What do you want me to do? Write your character to land you your new situation? Of course – you know what they’ll think?’
‘That I’m some doxy of yours you’re doing a favour for? Fiddlesticks, Brandon Fanshawe. You think I’d care after what I’ve been through?’
But she’d thought it through now, anyway. Finding a well-to-do household which just happened to be tootling off to Marienbad to take the waters in the next fortnight or so, all their servants in tow, and who didn’t happen to know the Somerlees or Consetts? And wouldn’t therefore recognise their new maid? Oh, yes, lillibolero bullen a la!
Should she try her luck on a fishing vessel, then? Or just lie low for six months? She could stay at Mrs Bonney’s, living off the income Lysithea sent her… and after so long those watching the ports might have lost their keenness, and have melted away to more pressing business.
‘I could help,’ Brandon said.
‘What, you mean keep an ear out for someone travelling abroad, who is also seeking a new maid?’
‘No, dear.’ He kept his eye on her during a pause. ‘I mean… I could hire a vessel and take you over to France. It would only need the co-operation of a captain who could be trusted. No-one else need be involved.’
‘Gosh…!’
‘I suggest we sail from a small place like Seaford. I know it, and there’s a decent hostelry called the Old Harvester where you’d be safe to stay t
he night before. They’d not be watching such a place.’
‘I couldn’t ask it of you, Fanny! What about your friendship with Dickon?’
‘You objected that I didn’t help you when they locked you away!’
‘Yes, yes!’ She gave it all some thought. ‘What about Phyllis? Would she have to know?’
He hadn’t needed such an out-of-the-way place as the Harp for his assignation with Clemence. She’d have been safe enough going cloaked, at night, to his townhouse. No-one would be watching to see or recognise her. So, did he not trust his wife?
‘No need for Phyllis to be troubled with this, Clemence. I can say I’ve been dispatched on some commission on behalf of the Lords, and I’ll only be gone a day at most. And Clemence – Richard is more on your side than you imagine. He’s very worried about you! But, yes, I do agree that you are probably safer out of England right now. But… ah!’ Brandon cocked an ear towards the sound of footsteps approaching along the passage. ‘That sounds like mine host with the warm beverage I ordered!’
TWENTY-FOUR
Amathia and her brother sat at a table in a coffee-shop overlooking Waterloo Bridge. Richard had said he’d meet them at noon. It was ten minutes past according to the nearby clockface on the tower of St Clement’s.
‘Well, he cannot have good news,’ she said after a lengthy silence. ‘Otherwise he’d have come straight here! Of course, he might just have stopped off at a parasol-shop with his light-o-love and that’s what’s keeping him!’
‘Hmmm,’ said Philoctetes Consett. ‘More coffee, dear?’
‘I shouldn’t be fretting like this, Philo,’ she said as he poured from the pot. ‘Not in my condition. And the rain isn’t keeping off,’ she added. ‘If I miscarry the precious Somerlee son and heir, really, it will all be Dickon’s own fault for putting me through such discomfort.’
Richard was to meet with the Chief Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police later that afternoon. Would learn the latest in the hunt for Clemence. Did he even want her caught, though? Did Philo? Amathia had her doubts. An embarrassment Clemence was, who had made the Somerlees gossiped about, and therefore the Consetts too by association.