by May Woodward
‘Well now,’ said the Duke of Ardenne. ‘Supposing it is bad news. And Clemmie has escaped across the sea or something of that ilk. What are we going to do, Amathia?’
‘We, Philo?’
‘Well, I cannot stay tied to the woman forever, can I? Either we have the marriage annulled on grounds of my wife being a certified lunatic – and lose her inheritance with it – or we must agree to her release. It don’t bother me if I don’t leave an heir, you know – I’ll not be here to care – but the hassle I get from the sisters and old aunts! Prefer a bit of peace, sissy.’
Amathia turned her eyes to the view outside. St Paul’s dome wore a half-hearted rainbow like a jaunty hair comb. The cupolas and towers of Southwark on the further shore of the river gave off a violet and greenly glow in the sunlit rain. Garlands hanging from the boughs in Temple Gardens billowed and tore at their fastenings in a fierce wind.
When she’d had Clemence put away three years ago, it was in the belief that Lysithea was at death’s door, and the inheritance would be coming Philo’s way pretty quick. That had turned out not to be so.
What else should you do, pray, with a relation who sat on the stairs on the night of the Sebastopol ball, showing her drawers to the assembled county set, screaming that she’d seen her deceased brother Aubrey out by the lake – except see she was dispatched to a place where, for decent fees, she would be softly treated?
Little doubt had Amathia, though, that Richard hated his wife for what she’d done to his sister, however justified Amathia believed she’d been. She saw it in his eyes when he was what was laughingly called making love to her.
Should she agree to let Clemmie out, then?
‘Jumpy, ain’t you, miss?’ the serving girl said as she poured Clemence coffee at her corner table.
‘Weather looks a bit threatening, Susannah,’ Clemence said. ‘We mayn’t be able to sail this afternoon.’
‘Be anuvver boat tomorrow, won’t there, miss?’
‘Yes… but my aunt is expecting me in France tonight.’
After days of pacing, trying to decide what to do, she was taking a chance on Brandon Fanshawe. Lizzy trusted him… apparently. There was no love lost between him and Amathia. And however she tried to flee the country she was up against the odds. Might as well take Fanny up on his offer. As much risk, trusting him, as going any other way.
Clemence sipped her coffee. She looked out from the Harvester’s front parlour. A pear tree was tapping its blossomy bough against the glass. She watched a sparrow in the branches, tweeting as she went about her construction work. Happy little homebody building your nest – you may just fly away.
She could make out one edge of Seaford’s marina. Four yachts bobbed there at anchor.
Clemence glanced at the timepiece which stood on the mantelpiece. Ten minutes past the noon hour. Willing those hands to move faster, just as she had in Taunton the morning after her escape – waiting for the bank to open. Fanny had told her to be at the marina at one-thirty. A private boat called the Pyramus would be waiting there. She should board. Fanny would be there. They would sail at once. And be in Calais by nightfall.
Out on the marine parade she could see one policeman on patrol. Maybe the waterfront was just his regular beat. Clemence had dyed her hair black. But she couldn’t alter her age or build.
Could her hostelry be under surveillance? Such a small place Seaford was – why Fanny had chosen it. But how could they know for sure?
Some eight or so other people were taking luncheon at the Harvester. No-one was looking her way, though. No innocent bystander parked on the garden wall, seeming to be reading a newspaper, but eyeing the wayfarers’ halt where Clemence was lodged. No flash of sunlight came from a window opposite to give away a watcher there with a telescope trained.
She relaxed, however, as the lawman went out of sight.
‘I was thinkin’ of the last time I was down ‘ere on the south coast,’ she told the serving girl next time she stopped by. ‘During the last war. We sailed from Portsmouth. My sweet’eart was a soldier. And my brother. I went out east with ‘em. They died. Both.’
‘How very sad for you, miss. You must miss ‘em.’
‘Yes. Yes, I do. Very much.’
‘Was you scared, miss?’ the girl asked. ‘Travellin’ into a war?’
‘No. No, not scared. Back then I was a Judy O’Grady – a soldier’s woman,’ Clemence said. ‘I ‘ad a document called a passport. It means that when you goes abroad into foreign parts, you’re still under ‘Er Majesty’s protection. I’m more scared now,’ she said, smiling up at the girl. ‘No such protection for me this time. Couldn’t afford a passport.’
For what Her Majesty’s protection is worth she thought, as the girl went about her business.
What o’clock now? Twenty-five minutes to one.
Just how chancy was this – trusting Brandon Fanshawe?
Suddenly, the outer door swung open. A sea-breeze blew in. A heavyset man with a greying moustache stood there. He wore a Chesterfield coat and deerstalker hat. His eye swept the tavern’s interior.
Clemence’s heart gave a lurch. Not a Customs official. Nor a sailor. Too well-dressed to be the sort of holidaymaker who frequented a lowly establishment like this – he looked as if he could afford to stay at the railway’s Grand Hotel which overlooked the seafront at Dover.
The man ducked under the low lintel. He ambled through the dining-tables, scanning the faces around him. He had a word with the serving-girl, Susannah. Who turned and looked towards the corner table where Clemence was seated. The man looked too. Susannah appeared to point her out to him.
A long-suffering organ had gone from lurch to pained thump. He was coming over. And yes – his eye was for sure focused on Clemence. Not the old sailor sitting at the next table. Her.
‘Might I have a word please, madam?’ the stranger said.
Clemence hid her trembling hands inside her cape. The man, meanwhile, took an identity card from the pocket of his overcoat.
‘I’m Detective McCready from the Sussex Constabulary.’
‘I’m seeing the Commissioner at four,’ Richard told his relatives as he joined them at table. ‘Oh, miss! Fresh coffee and teacakes, please.’
‘Three hours to fill, then,’ Philoctetes pointed out. ‘What shall we do in the meantime?’
‘Well,’ Richard said. ‘How do you fancy an anti-slavery debate in Exeter Hall? You pair can proudly tell the audience about your grandsire.’
‘Actually, Dickon,’ said Amathia, ‘I believe the Sacred Harmonic Society is giving a concert this afternoon. Or why don’t we go to St Clement Danes? There’s a performance of Hässler’s Grand Gigue in D minor.’
‘And we’re missing it? Oh, boo-hoo!’ said Philo. ‘How about the cider-cellars in Maiden Lane? Now – that’s my idea of my entertainment.’
‘Oh, how deplorable you are, Philo!’ said his sister.
‘What about a stroll then? I hear there’s a magnificent view of the city from Waterloo Bridge. St Paul’s looks rather heavenly, they say. How much do they charge to take a walk on the bridge?’
‘Halfpenny, Philo,’ his brother-in-law replied. ‘Each.’
‘Damned highway robbery if you ask me,’ the Duke of Ardenne muttered. ‘Pay the blackguard gatekeeper, Dickon. I’ll pay you back when I’ve seen my bank manager!’
‘Oh, how absurd!’ hissed Amathia. ‘I cannot go out in the open air in my condition!’ Actually, she wasn’t showing that much yet. So, she could still decently appear in public for now. But it was a good excuse.
‘You obviously don’t have the salt blood of the sea in your veins, my dear wife,’ said Richard. He swelled out his chest as he looked out at the river. ‘One of my ancestors served in Drake’s navy, you know.’
‘You have mentioned it once or twice, I believe, Dickon,’ snapped Amat
hia.
Great families all decline eventually, she thought. A little further along the Strand lay Savoy Street, site of John of Gaunt’s stupendous palace of that name. The ruins had been cleared to construct this bridge. In her dreams, she saw Eardingstowe crumble too, and go tumbling over Kilve Cliff. And Kingsmede rule supreme in its stead.
The girl arrived with the refreshments. She set fresh china before the three of them, coffee and a plate of warm teacakes.
Of course, the demise of the Somerlees was naught but a fantasy. Amathia was bound to Richard, like it or no. If he fell, so did she. And her children.
At times, she felt as enslaved as the wretches her grandfather had bound in chains and dispatched across the Atlantic. Richard and his siblings had never known the dread of poverty as had she. Her father the old duke had been teetering on the brink all through her childhood. Next knock on Kingsmede’s great door might have been the creditors to take all away and cast the Consett children adrift on the chancy ocean. And that was a fear which never quite freed you.
Dickon had assured her he was doing fine. Something about shares in a mine he was acting as a broker for. And for sure he was not stinting on her pin-money. Expense was no bar whenever she wished to entertain at Eardingstowe. There was even talk of a royal visit.
Amathia spooned her sugar into her cup.
She just wished she had means of her own for once in her life. Even if an aunt like Lysithea or an uncle like George bequeathed a tidy nest egg to her, by law it would be Richard’s. Anything a woman owned became her husband’s.
‘What do you suppose Clemence is doing now?’ asked the duke. ‘I’ll roll a dice if she’s not having more fun than are we.’
‘She might be in danger, you know,’ Richard snapped.
‘Clemmie? Oh, I very much doubt it. She’s a survivor, that one. Now if it was you, Mathy…’ Philoctetes said. ‘Can’t imagine you climbing down the ivy, love.’
‘Clemence did not escape that way either! She was in one of those “I’ll throw a tantrum if you make me go outside” hissy phases of hers. So, she couldn’t have got out alone. Someone assisted her! I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it turned out to be either of you pair.’
‘Only wish I’d thought of it,’ Philo mused, buttering a teacake. ‘Do you realise I’ve celebrated my third wedding anniversary? I must be the world’s loneliest bridegroom! And she’s rather winsome, is Clemence.’
‘She isn’t what is usually counted handsome,’ Amathia said.
‘On the contrary! I think she’s lovely… in a fairy princess kind of way. Not as charming as you of course, sissy.’
‘The woman is sick, Philoctetes – sick in the head! And a danger to decent people. Yes, a danger!’
‘You should be careful, Amathia,’ said Richard. ‘You’re beginning to sound hysterical when you talk about Clemmie. Who knows… maybe I’ll recommend my unbalanced wife to the excellent ministrations of Dr Warburton and his staff.’
‘You’d not dare, husband. What if I were to tell the world where the demon in the chamber is?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘We all have our demons,’ Amathia said. ‘Shut away in the chamber of our minds. You have your secrets, Richard, same as any man. And you’d prefer me to keep my mouth shut about them, I daresay.’
‘Men are simpler than you think, my dear. I’ve been a Member of Parliament since 1848, and like any politician I’ve had my enemies who would have dished up dirt on me if they could.’
‘Oh, you can be infuriating, Dickon!’ Actually, she knew very little about his private business, so if he was up to anything scandalous or illegal, she wouldn’t know. And he was right, damn him. He could get her committed as she had Clemmie if it suited him. It was unbearably easy to do. ‘Well, we never settled our earlier argument, did we? I’m going to listen to the Grand Gigue. Alone. I don’t need either of you boobies making exhibitions of yourselves by falling asleep and snoring through it.’
‘Tol-lol, sissy dear,’ Philoctetes said, and took a bite of teacake.
‘Would you mind telling me your name, madam?’
The plain-clothes policeman loomed over her corner table, blocking out the light. Clemence felt the eyes of the serving-girl, Susannah, and some of the other diners darting her way, and ears straining to listen.
Should Clemence bother trying not to look scared? Who wouldn’t be – under the pitted red nose of a blooming great crusher?
‘Miss Mary Carswell, officer,’ she said. ‘I’m goin’ over to France to visit my auntie. I’ve not done nothin’ wrong – I swear on me mother’s soul!’
Officer McCready looked taken-aback.
‘No-one’s said you have, young woman.’ He blinked several times in surprise. ‘How have you paid for your coffee this morning might I ask?’
‘With a few coins I had in my pocket,’ said Clemence, also surprised.
‘I thought so. Haven’t missed this yet, have you?’
The man produced a black cambric reticule from the pocket of his Chesterfield. He dangled it before her on its ribbon.
Clemence let out a small gasp.
‘May I?’ he asked. He laid a hand on the second chair at her table, and then accepted his own invitation to sit down.
‘Jeremiah Fishbone was picked up this morning,’ he told Clemence. ‘Had on him three wallets from the Grand at Dover, as well as one or two pieces from this here establishment. Must have been into your room while you slept, love. Lucky your notebook’s got your name writ in the front, isn’t it, miss, and the address of the Harvester, so’s I could trace you – else you’d not have been going anywhere today.’
Clemence began to weep. She extended a hand towards her pilfered property. She opened the little bag. Drew out her notebook where she’d been scribbling train and steamboat times and ticket prices as she’d ruminated on her best means of escape, and most of the rest of her money drawn from Almond’s.
‘Thank you, officer,’ she squeaked. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Not at all, miss.’ He raised his hat. ‘We’ve been hoping to catch Fishbone red-handed for months. A good long trip to Australia is on the cards for him now, I think. I’d ask you to give a full statement at the station, miss – but I see from your notes,’ he nodded to the notebook, ‘that you are due to sail in just under an hour.’
She wiped both eyes.
‘Yes… yes I am,’ Clemence stammered.
1870
Eight years later
TWENTY-FIVE
In the lounge of the Carlton one afternoon, two dozen club members read their newspapers, chatted, or just dozed in the late spring sunshine which slunk through the half-closed drapes. A whiff of manure wafted through the open casements, and you could hear the hoof-beats and wheels grinding by outside in Pall Mall.
Many had been discussing the battle clouds gathering across the Channel. The King of Prussia and Emperor Louis Bonaparte had been at fuming loggerheads all year. War was on the way, for sure. Should Britain stay out of it?
One stout, middle-aged gentleman-politician, however, was engrossed in a broadsheet, and his mind seemed to be elsewhere.
The Baronet of Eardingstowe looked up from the print, gave his reading spectacles a wipe, and tried to compose his thoughts. After an interval, he began reading once more.
RETURN FROM THE VALLEY OF DEATH!
A war hero, lost in action during the Charge of the Light Brigade, has been found alive.
Cornet Aubrey Somerlee of the Eleventh Hussars, assumed dead, has been discovered wandering in confusion around Vienna. It transpires that the brave soldier had lost his memory. Barbarous Serbian captors, he has claimed, had held him prisoner for many years in a castle.
Naturally, there will be those who might question the authenticity of a man claiming to be the long-lost cavalryman. Let any doubters heed the
words of the hussar’s own sister: “I’m absolutely convinced he is my lost brother Aubrey,” Lady Isabella Markham told this newspaper last night. “He remembered the name of my pet rat, Bickerstaff.”
Well, really! Wasn’t that just typical of Bella! Richard slapped down the newspaper. He gulped his brandy. When the butler called, Richard asked him to leave the bottle.
After a further swig from his drinking glass, he took up the story again.
Aubrey Somerlee was taken prisoner at Balaclava sixteen years ago during that battle of illustrious fame.
It has now emerged that the missing officer was, in fact, first located three years ago. His former colonel, the late Earl of Cardigan, was visiting Vienna when he stumbled across a man without a memory.
The unfortunate soul was being cared for by the holy brothers at Klosterneuburg Priory. Where he had come from, no-one knew. But the earl, who led the cavalry charge which Lord Tennyson immortalised in verse, noted that the gentleman unknown possessed a sword which bore the inscription of the Eleventh Hussars.
“He did not know his own name or where he belonged, nor did he know me,” Lord Cardigan reported in private correspondence which this publication has seen, “but I was sure he was Cornet Somerlee, and the sword was certainly genuine. Perhaps I scared the poor fellow, however, for when I returned – in great excitement – sadly, he had vanished again.”
It seems His Lordship decided not to inform the cornet’s family immediately for fear of raising their hopes unnecessarily. Then the earl’s untimely death in a riding accident two years ago left his discovery unreported until now.
Cornet Somerlee is now in the care of Vienna’s City Hospital. He has been able to advise that he sustained a severe blow to the head when he fell from his horse in the infamous Valley of Death. Only after many years did memories gradually return.