by May Woodward
‘We don’t know for sure what happened to him,’ said Boscawen. ‘He might have escaped the Serbs for all we know.’
‘Hmm.’ Richard narrowed his eyes. ‘Clearly, you’re enchanted like everyone else, Mr Boscawen. Even my daft sister Lady Markham has been out to Vienna to meet him and is waxing lyrical about it. A long-lost wanderer returns. Does have a certain appeal to the romantic sense.’
‘Why are you so hostile?’
Richard went behind the desk and, with a sigh, eased his aching backside onto his cushion. He felt as if he’d been shitting bricks. If it wasn’t constipation these days, it was piles. Didn’t some blasted doctor warn him once that overuse of laudanum could do this kind of thing to you…?
‘He’s an impostor, Mr Boscawen! I just know it. I don’t have to meet him and have him remember what we had for dinner one evening in March 1848 to decide this. I don’t want him here; do you understand me?’
‘As you wish, sir. I assume you intend to take the matter to court?’
Yes, that would be less humiliating than repaying the Aubrey impersonator what he was owed.
And what if the man really was Aubrey…?
Richard’s look went to the miniature of his father, the elder Sir Richard Somerlee, which stood on the desk. The eyes glared right out at him. Displeased with everything Dickon ever did or thought. And young Aubrey? You make a pater proud, my boy. Please God he should be watching and weeping…
TWENTY-SIX
As Richard was sitting down to a luncheon of rabbit fricassée and a glass of Marbuzet, just over two hundred miles away in Shoreditch a cripple with a crutch was shuffling along on one and a half limbs. A scruffy pig snuffled in a heap of rotting fish. The infirm elder took no notice. He peered through the glass of one property where a sign hung.
Inside the unremarkable office, a lady was sitting at a desk, writing away. From her garments and appearance, she might have been a schoolmistress or governess. Her fair hair was worn in a topknot. Her muslin gown was a dove-grey colour. A plain, silver quatrefoil hung from a chain around her throat. In the fingers she was not writing with, this charm she twisted around and around.
‘Help an old sweat?’ The fellow gave her a hopeful beam as he limped through the door. ‘Veteran of Inkerman. Seventeenth Lancers.’
The lady looked up from her correspondence. A freezing smile was on her face.
‘Lost your wits as well, did you? Cavalry weren’t at Inkerman. How did you really lose your leg? In a dock fight?’
‘Yeah, madam, summink like that…’
The lady sighed and looked him over.
‘The credibility of my agency depends on reputation, I am afraid. I cannot offer you employment.’
She glanced outside. Rain clouds were gathering. London’s dregs were stooping towards the workhouse. Legless-one would be joining them no doubt when she turned him away. She went on, in a softer voice:
‘Go through to the kitchen. Take a bowl of broth and be on your way.’
The woman leaned her brow on one hand and went on working.
‘What time you want to close, Your Grace?’
Clemence looked up from her escritoire as her assistant put the question to her.
‘Perhaps when the daylight is gone, Meg, as long as there is no-one waiting. Or sooner, maybe. I am tired… Toiling beyond what a body can stand is bad! I learned to my cost once before.’
The employment agency was her own creation, the premises and small staff she’d hired paid for out of the allowance her father had left her. What would her money be spent on otherwise? Prettifying her senescent figure in fripperies and furbelows?
She had started with a dining-hall for the poor of East London. But as she’d dished a ladleful of good things into a bowl, the customer had sniffed and remarked to the next in line: ‘Ain’t as good as the Whitechapel soup kitchen. They do chops there.’ Anyway, filling bellies of indigent souls was dropping pebbles into a well.
Yet she could find those who had come upon hard times employment! A situation in service, even scouring dishes, was a step out of the vicious circle of destitution. A fallen woman with bastard issue, a Crimean veteran minus a body part – who would employ them? Snobs would, if the Duchess of Ardenne recommended them. And so Clemence had set up her agency, shamelessly exploiting her connections.
Even so, she had to be steely. Those she wrote her characters and letters of introduction for must be of integrity; she would lose the goodwill of her social-climbing and titled employers should she supply ne’er-do-wells or persons in liquor.
Her aunt had been against her scheme. But was it a knife in the ribs in the savage courts of Bethnal Green which Lysithea feared? Or that Clemence was in danger of overwork and another breakdown?
‘I’m not china, Aunt,’ she had snapped. ‘Sixteen years ago, I was barely out of pantalettes, and I’d just lost the man I loved!’
‘Here, take your testimonial.’ Clemence handed the document she had been composing to a woman who had come through the connecting door which led from the soup kitchen. ‘With this, Lady Percival should take you on.’
‘Thank’ee, Your Grace!’ The child-bundle under the woman’s coat also bawled its thanks.
Clemence watched the shabby mother crossing to the street door. Who was the blessed and who the unfortunate? This woman had no home, no means of income apart from prostitution – until Clemence had secured her a situation as a scullery-maid, lowest of the low in the servant hierarchy. But she had a child. Something Clemence did not.
The poor wives of the East End cried over where the rent was to come from; Clemence wept into her feather pillow for what most women took for granted. A child of her own. To Clemence, these flowers in life’s garden became more remote with every season plunging her deeper into barren middle-age.
Where was Philo these days? Clemence’s husband called sometimes when his dwindling coffers dictated. If only he’d divorce her.
What if Clemence was free of him? She was thirty-three last birthday. Still tolerably charming, and wealthy enough to be married for her money if naught else.
But she had spent three years in an asylum. Who would take a bride with insanity in her family? Well, Albert of Saxe-Coburg did it for a crown…
Yes, her prospects. Exit the Duke of Ardenne from Clemence’s life and another more unscrupulous still might take his place. The new groom would wed her, bed her, and report his fears over her renewed mental instability. Clemence would be locked away again, this time for life, and her spouse left to enjoy Lysithea’s inheritance unchallenged for the rest of his undeserving days. Strange to say therefore, but Philoctetes Consett was the best protection Clemence currently had.
Brandon Fanshawe was seldom far from Clemence’s thoughts. How rarely had she seen him, though, since he’d helped get her out of Dwellan House. Society functions where they might have met were rare territory for outcasts like Clemence Somerlee.
Now and then, Aunt Lysithea might remark something like ‘Oh! I saw Lady Fanshawe at the Marlboroughs’ dinner-party last night. Looking pale, poor creature, since the pneumonia laid her low last winter.’ Or ‘His Grace was telling me Fanny Fanshawe was in the Lords for the debate on Monday. Why, we haven’t seen him for years, have we, chicken? Perhaps we might invite him and Phyllis to dinner…’
But Lysithea never did. And the spectral sightings continued to dot Clemence’s landscape.
She’d heard once, the previous year, that Brandon was going to be at Viscount Van Schalten’s wedding, which she and Lysithea had also received invitations to.
‘I think we should go, Aunt Lizzy. The Viscount’s such an old friend of the family.’ Occasional acquaintance of Dickon more like. But it was worth a try.
‘Oh, I don’t think so, Clem. You’ve nothing decent to wear, dearest!’
And thus, Clemence had got the message.
> One thing her aunt had not reported was seeing the Fanshawes together at some occasion. Might it really not be a happy union, then? They had no family.
Clemence sighed and went to fetch her outdoor cloak and bonnet.
‘What is it?’ she asked the woman she employed to help run the agency, who was waiting to say something.
‘Beg pardon, madam, but I’ll not be back next week. Got a place in the match factory I have. Pays better, madam, with respect to you.’
‘Aye. Well, I wish you well, Meg, and I trust you’ll not be back in the soup queue when they’ve laid you off with phossy-jaw! Here, take the wage you’re owed.’
A light spring shower was in the evening air when Clemence went out into the street.
On the corner, a bespectacled socialist with an East European accent was bawling. His shrill voice competed with the boozy ruckus which was issuing from the Duke of Cambridge tavern behind him. A sailor and his chuckling, buxom Nancy were rodgering on the steps.
Three men who wore the pearly coats and flat caps of costermongers were performing something Mr Blake was unlikely to have composed as they staggered Clemence’s way.
‘Whassa matter, girl?’ one said, seeing Clemence looking. ‘Shockin’ you, are we?’ and burped.
‘I’ve been more soused than you on the chef’s sherry!’ Clemence retorted. She’d surprised herself – and Lysithea – with the coarseness she had brought back from the Crimea.
She caught sight of a young woman shivering by the railings and stepped over.
‘Do you need the fee for the nethersken?’ Clemence asked. She would hand over the three pennies with pleasure. But what good would it really do? Such an outcast might as well die of cold this night as the next. The workhouse – the spike as it was commonly known – would have closed its doors for the evening by now. Clemence asked her name. ‘Well, Martha, do you think you could work for me?’ she told the surprised girl. ‘Aye, I mean it.’
Clemence sat beside her in the doorway. The socialist’s shriek grew as he began to speak of the destruction of the ruling classes.
‘I’ve lost a worker today and I need someone to replace her. If I give you money for the nethersken for tonight would you come to my agency tomorrow? You’ll be sweeping up, serving in the soup kitchen, running errands. I will pay you enough to find regular lodgings. Then we can look out for a better position for you.’
Martha was just mumbling something, when a rattling sound made both women jump. They looked up to see a policeman looming over them.
‘You’ve been told once!’ he barked at Martha. ‘You ain’t soliciting outside this here pub! And you,’ to Clemence, ‘ain’t seen you before, but we’ll not have Judies on this beat. Go ply your trade down the docks.’
‘And if Martha and I refuse to move, what then?’ said Clemence.
‘Well! Let’s see if a night in Bishopgate Police Station gives you a civil tongue!’ He shook his rattle again. A policeman’s rattle was meant to summon a colleague to his aid.
Instead, the wheels of a vehicle clattered into the court. A barouche appeared. On its door was the coat-of-arms of the Juncker von Schwangli. A liveried coachman halted a pair of horses with their noses in the air.
The policeman’s chops dropped open.
‘Just one moment, Archer,’ Clemence told the driver. ‘I wish to see this young lady settled in her lodgings.’
‘Very good, Your Grace.’
‘Here, Martha.’ Clemence took a shilling from her reticule. ‘Try Nettle’s nethersken. I hear it’s not so bad. And if you want the job – be here tomorrow bright and early.’
When she’d sent Martha on her way, she returned to the sumptuous equipage which so did not belong here. Archer handed her inside.
She leaned out to speak to the speechless officer, who had possibly just ruined his career.
‘My aunt, the Countess of Schwangli, will be dining with the Chief Commissioner next week. I am sure she will mention you.’
Lysithea was waiting for her.
‘In the sitting-room, Your Grace,’ the maid told Clemence. ‘Mistress said you was to see her soon as you returned.’
‘Oh, really? I can’t imagine what I’ve done now, Gates,’ Clemence said. The maid took Clemence’s cloak. ‘Aunt doesn’t approve of my grubbing in the slums, but I fancied she was used to it by now.’
Lysithea rarely took her into society. Clemence was too wont to turn a drawing-room conversation onto what should be done about the spindly living shacks of Limehouse whose walls oozed dampness like they had pustules, and their starving occupants. There would be an awkward rattle of saucers by way of response.
All day, Clemence had been working up to: ‘Aunt, do you think we might spend the summer with Philo at Kingsmede this year?’ where we might get invited to the Fanshawes’ over at Woodmancote sometime. Now she might not get chance to ask if Lizzy was preoccupied with something else.
‘Your sister was here, Your Grace, until about an hour ago,’ the maid went on. ‘Lady Markham was waiting for you, she was, but got bored and left. But she looked real excited, Your Grace, when Mr Pickford let her in.’
‘Well I never!’ Clemence muttered. The only thing she and Isabella had in common was estrangement from Dickon and Eardingstowe and the enmity of their sister-in-law.
‘What did Bella want?’ Clemence said as she entered the sitting-room.
The countess was facing the hearth. She swung around. Her look was ashen.
‘Aunt Lizzy? What is it?’
‘Clem!’ Lysithea crossed the room as swiftly as her rheumatic pains would allow and took Clemence’s hands in hers.
‘Sit down, dearest. I have something to tell you.’
Her aunt eased her onto the ottoman and sat beside her. Lysithea heaved a massive sigh.
‘Be prepared for a tremendous shock.’
TWENTY-SEVEN
The candle-flames in the two branched, ormolu candelabra were the only heat-source at the dining-table. The atmosphere between the two diners was frigid. Three footmen were also present, so the baronet and his lady had to be polite to each other. Somerlee ancestors in ruffed, Tudor costume were looking on from within their picture frames.
‘Better send felicitations on the meal,’ Richard said after his first taste from the dish of compote of orange, ‘after that gaffe about Mrs Dean in the newspaper. I trust you were able to placate her, my dear, and persuade her to stay?’
‘With difficulty,’ Amathia replied.
Richard downed a few more mouthfuls. He must remember for his own future use brother Carswell’s bright solution for the disposal of Mrs Dean’s less successful offerings.
‘Might I enquire what business kept you in your study all afternoon?’ his wife asked.
‘Mr Boscawen, my notary, detained me. He can be a dreadful pettifogger when he chooses. I didn’t think I’d get away in time to dress for dinner.’
The entrée finished, Richard watched as the white-gloved footmen removed the plates to the pier table.
‘So! How are you, my dear?’ he asked, dabbing his lips with a napkin.
‘Suffering all the usual tribulations which a woman’s lot are,’ she replied, referring to her pregnancy. ‘We have received invitations to the Duchess of Manchester’s ball,’ she told him, ‘and Princess Louisa’s wedding.’
‘Splendid. Plenty to look forward to then! And how are the girls?’ He did not take in most of her reply. Her interest in their daughters, he knew, was as flimsy as his own.
‘How was Parliament since we last saw you?’ Amathia said.
‘Interesting. You’ll know about the new Reform Bill?’
‘Of course! Where will it end I wonder?’ Amathia shook her head as the footmen served the baked turbot. ‘I gather the outcome will be the enfranchisement of every artisan and coal scuttler in the land? Madn
ess.’
‘Quite. And not only working men,’ Richard said. ‘Do you know there’s talk of the vote for women too? And this isn’t merely the fancy of bluestocking spinsters. Some perfectly sane, scholarly men are in favour of female enfranchisement.’
‘Well! At least we women get to understand these things by proxy. We hear enough politics from our menfolk! But giving working men the vote… that’s unthinkable.’
‘Oh? How so?’
‘Really, Dickon! What can a hedge-mender know of politics? So how can he be trusted to vote in the best interests of the country? And it would make him forget his place.’
‘Hmm… revolution, eh? And the ruling classes pitch-forked into the ditches! I doubt our legislation will take things so far, Amathia, so don’t practise kneeling on the block just yet.’
Richard took a long sip of claret. He peered at her through the cut glass of his drinking vessel. With candles and a silver table centre separating the diners, and the chandelier twinkling over them, quirky physics distorted her image into a spotty goblin with flaming eyes and a billhook nose.
Some evenings, dining with her like this, he bethought of slipping something into her wine. The inkling set his mind on fire.
Then the thoughts – in this order – of some Liberal-supporting pathologist from the Home Office easily detecting Richard’s unsophisticated crime, the socialists’ jamboree when one of the landed gentry was hanged for murder, and the disappointment of his easy-going God, deflated the fantasy like a burst balloon making a rude noise.
He set down his glass with a thud. He narrowed his eyes as he gazed at her.
‘I suppose we must discuss the homecoming of our wandering Odysseus.’ Richard sat back and cupped his hands over his middle. ‘You know, I can barely picture Aubrey’s face any longer. I seem to remember his gleaming sword and cherry breeches rather better!’