A Catch of Consequence

by Diana Norman

  ‘Can you face it?’ he asked.

  ‘I can if you can.’

  He sighed. ‘Very well.’

  As a reward, she told him he was to become a father and watched the future unroll before him as if a curtain had been raised. It was almost painful; she’d never seen his face as naked.

  The phrase ‘halcyon days’ had always brought an image of summer to Makepeace’s mind but from that day, and in all the years that followed, it was replaced by the image of a blue-tan kingfisher flickering into a winter stream and out again, in the last hour of a dream.

  Chapter Ten

  ON her return from Hertfordshire in March, Makepeace went immediately to see the family solicitor in Lincoln’s Inn. It was more usual for gentry to insist that their lawyers come to them but she enjoyed any excuse to walk in London, unsafe though its streets had become.

  The poor harvest of the previous year had put up the price of bread which, in turn, had led to greater numbers of beggars and cut-purses. There were already riots in the Thames Valley where the destitute saw corn in barges passing their door on its way to be sold abroad and make large profits for its dealers and growers. Dapifer had advised Rockingham to put an embargo on grain exports in order to bring down the price but the Marquis, struggling to keep together his coalition government, had not seen to it.

  Makepeace, an inveterate early riser, held to the belief that beggars, cut-purses, and probably rioters as well, were in the sinful habit of sleeping late, and that therefore even London streets were safe of a morning. However, like a respectable woman, she took Fanny Cobb with her. Betty had stayed behind in Hertfordshire with Josh. At Dapifer’s insistence—he’d become very protective of her—Tom, the most reliable and muscular of the footmen, accompanied her in the place of Tantaquidgeon who, Dapifer said, was too noticeable and likely to attract brickbats.

  After a severe winter, this chill but sunny March morning with a green mist of buds forming on the trees was a tonic. So was Fanny Cobb, an authority on London and happy to inform.

  They passed Brooke Street where Dr Baines was now successfully installed, and the house where Handel had lived. Eastwards, the elegant houses of music and medicine gave way to dingy courts.

  ‘Shockin’ murder there,’ said Fanny. ‘See that door? Carried her out of it in bits, they did. Often wonder if she was my ma, poor thing.’

  Fanny, a foundling, spent much of her time speculating on whether newsworthy women of a certain age and of whatever class could be her mother. She wasn’t wistful about it but it was a constant theme. Makepeace, wondering what it was like to float in the world without an anchor, found the girl’s unvarying cheerfulness admirable.

  London was extraordinary. Having negotiated a narrow, urine-scented, turnstiled passage, they were confronted by the hidden, breath-taking surprise of space, trees and Inigo Jones frontages that was Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

  The chambers of James and Hackbutt, Solicitors, when they eventually found them, were like the Law itself: dark, fusty and forbidding.

  Mr Hackbutt, on the other hand, was another surprise, with the appearance of a middle-aged country squire come in from a shoot. His cheeks were ruddy, his coat fustian and cut away to reveal a comfortable velvet waistcoat with bulging pockets. He had clumpish boots and open-air manners; he hailed Makepeace as if he’d sighted her fifty yards off in a greenwood.

  But he was still a lawyer. ‘You do realize, Lady Dapifer, that even to you I can reveal nothing of Sir Pip’s affairs without his permission.’

  ‘He’s very busy just now, Mr Hackbutt.’ Makepeace held out the letter Dapifer had written to say that she was in his confidence. ‘The Stamp Tax debate’s coming up.’ Dapifer had gone to Bath to remind Mr Pitt, once more struck down with gout, of his promise to speak for the repeal in the House of Commons.

  ‘These colonials,’ Mr Hackbutt said, resignedly, then remembered. ‘But of course, Lady Dapifer, you yourself are from the colonies.’ He bowed to one of Mme Angloss’s most attractive walking dresses, ‘One would never guess, if I may say so. How may I help you?’

  She hoped he was a better lawyer than he was a diplomat. ‘This case my husband’s first wife’s bringing against us. We’re going to fight.’

  ‘Sir Pip’s not settling then? Splendid, splendid.’

  ‘How much damage can she do?’

  ‘She will be a difficult bird to bring down.’ Mr Hackbutt aimed an imaginary gun. ‘I will not hide from you, Lady Dapifer, that from the first I advised Sir Pip against seeking an American divorce as treading unknown territory in more ways than one. He did not take that advice and we are now presented with a situation that is unusual, not to say unique.’

  He settled himself in a chair and crossed his legs. ‘As you know, in Massachusetts, even in Scotland, to obtain a divorce, is considerably easier . . .’

  ‘And cheaper?’ asked Makepeace.

  ‘Cheaper, of course,’ said Mr Hackbutt. His tone suggested that so were war-paint and woad, ‘Since in England divorce can only be procured by an Act of Parliament, it is confined to . . .’

  ‘The rich?’

  ‘Let us say, those to whom it matters. The lower orders have more lax ways of solving their marital difficulties.’

  Divorce by Act of Parliament was a long process, Mr Hackbutt said. It had to begin with a successful civil action for ‘criminal conversation’ against the accomplice in adultery. ‘But that, Lady Dapifer, can only be brought by the husband, not the wife. The husband can sue his wife’s lover because, as you know, in legal terms a wife is the property of her husband. A wife has no property in her husband and therefore she has no grounds for suing any woman with whom he has sexual intercourse.’

  ‘But she’s suing us.’

  ‘Ah.’ Mr Hackbutt rubbed his hands, as if presented with a particularly good pork pie. ‘She is suing not simply for adultery but aggravated adultery, a course open to you ladies. That is, adultery aggravated by some circumstance such as bigamy, incest or, forgive the word, Lady Dapifer, sodomy.’

  ‘It ain’t bigamy,’ said Makepeace wearily. ‘Sir Pip divorced her. We’re married.’

  ‘Therein lies our defence to her action. But we are on untrodden ground, Lady Dapifer. Will an English court recognize a divorce decreed in Massachusetts and therefore a subsequent marriage?’

  ‘Will it?’

  ‘Impossible to say. The case may very well have to go to the House of Lords for a decision. We’ll be making legal history, Lady Dapifer.’

  It was a marvellous pork pie.

  ‘Expensive legal history?’

  ‘It won’t be cheap, it won’t be cheap. However, we hope, not as costly as the settlement the first Lady Dapifer is demanding as her price in order not to proceed with the matter. It is of considerable importance to you because in the event of Sir Philip’s death. . .’ He saw her flinch and went on more gently: ‘In the unlikely event of Sir Philip’s early death, his estates pass to his wife or, of course, a subsequent legitimate child. They are not entailed, he has no near male relatives and on his first marriage, he made the first Lady Dapifer his heir. He has since changed his will, leaving everything to you and any children you may have instead.’

  Makepeace shook her head; she couldn’t cope with that. ‘I don’t want to think about it.’

  ‘Let us hope you don’t have to.’ Mr Hackbutt stopped and became shifty, as if the words were being forced from him. ‘There’s another cost, of course.’

  ‘The scandal rags,’ said Makepeace, flatly.

  ‘Are you prepared? In human terms the price may be high.’

  Suddenly she liked him. ‘Not as high as paying blackmail.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  She grinned and stood up. ‘I’m an American, Mr Hackbutt, I ain’t prepared to be taxed.’

  He helped her on with her cloak. ‘If Parliament had met you, Lady Dapifer, it wouldn’t even have tried.’ As she and Fanny and Tom crossed the grass of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, Mr Hackbutt
leaned out of his window and waved them on. ‘Tally-ho!’

  ‘What’s that about?’ Fanny asked.

  ‘He’s scented fees,’ said Makepeace. ‘Nice man, though. For a lawyer.’

  But the cost of fighting Catty had already gone up.

  They were wandering back home through Clare Market. Fanny was speculating on the late and celebrated actress, Mrs Bracegirdle, who’d frequented the area. ‘She might have been my grandma. Could have—’ She stopped in mid sentence to point to a newspaper on a stationer’s stall. ‘That bloody Picknicks’s at it again.’

  Makepeace snatched up a copy. There she was, front page, a travesty of herself, tomahawk aloft, chasing caricatures of Rockingham and Dapifer, their names written across their back, both of them with rabbit’s ears, into the House of Commons. The balloon issuing from her mouth read: ‘Repeal the Stamp Tax!’ Underneath was a caption: ‘The American Wife.’

  She grabbed the stallholder by the throat. ‘Who prints this shite? Who prints it?’

  ‘Don’t think he’ll say, missus,’ Fanny said, happily, ‘you’re throttlin’ him.’

  Makepeace still had a rower’s hands. She let the man go; he was a boy, anyway, no more than fifteen. ‘Who publishes this?’

  ‘Not me,’ he said, rubbing his neck. ‘I jus’ stand in for Mr Grout when he’s sick.’

  ‘Tell Mr Grout he’s going to be sicker,’ Makepeace promised.

  ‘Here,’ the boy shouted after her, ‘what’m I going to do with this lot?’ Makepeace, in leaving, had swept all his papers to instant ruin on the mud-splattered, well-manured market cobbles.

  ‘Wipe your arse with ’em,’ was Fanny’s Parthian shot. She caught up and proffered a handkerchief for the tears of fury spurting from Makepeace’s eyes. ‘That’s where they’ll be tomorrow,’ she said, consolingly, ‘hangin’ from a hook in everyone’s shit-house.’

  In the meantime, half the House of Commons would have read them. Catty was ensuring she’d get her price from Dapifer by making Rockingham pay it too.

  ‘Where’s Great Russell Street?’

  ‘Bloomsbury.’ Fanny looked startled. ‘Here, you’re never goin’ to—’

  ‘Oh yes, I am. Where’s Tom?’

  ‘Arguin’ with the beadle.’

  ‘Tell him to find me a cab. We’re going right away.’

  ‘Oh, missus.’ Fanny was torn between alarm and admiration. ‘She won’t be up. She never got out of bed afore midday.’

  ‘She will today.’

  Face-to-face confrontation was what Makepeace understood, not these far-ranging attacks designed less to hurt her than others. If there was to be a battle, she had to be clear on the rules of engagement—and so must Catty. But before it came to that, before she declared war, her religion and her own conscience made it necessary to make a last try for peace.

  It was a short journey. The village of Bloomsbury lay to the north of town, separated from Holborn by farms and open land, crossed by milkmaids and other early risers; some boys were flying a kite in the gusty March breeze; a man was making a sketch of the countryside from a perch in a churchyard.

  Great Russell Street came up suddenly, a wide road bounded by tall, handsome houses with steps up to a portico. A maid polishing a brass knocker pointed out the house belonging to Lady Dapifer. Its curtains were drawn.

  Makepeace told Fanny and Tom to wait in the cab.

  The footman who opened the door to her was puzzled. ‘Did you say Lady Dapifer, madam?’

  ‘Lady Dapifer,’ said Makepeace firmly.

  She was helped out of her cloak and shown into a hallway with medallions picked out in white on its ochre walls, to be seated on an uncomfortable gilded chair. She had expected the footman to have to fetch Catty from upstairs but instead he opened the double doors of a room leading off the hallway, exposing candlelight and letting out stale air. She heard her title announced. There was silence, an outbreak of incredulous questioning, then a loud shout of laughter.

  Oh Lord, she’s got company. What’s she got company for this hour of the morning?

  Then it struck her: Catty hadn’t gone to bed. Some gathering had extended through the night and was still in progress. If Makepeace had needed confirmation of her enemy’s depravity, she had it now. Decent people did not carouse into the next day.

  ‘This way, please, madam.’

  She sat where she was for a moment, daunted. This wasn’t going to be the tête-à-tête she had envisaged. Then she thought: ‘I have put my trust in God and will not fear what flesh can do unto me.’ It was too long since she’d turned to the psalms; she was calmer now that she had.

  She stood in the doorway while twenty or so beautifully dressed people looked at her with amused hostility. Some of them had been sleeping in chairs and had only just woken up. One man had made himself a bed on the floor, his head pillowed on a cushion. A few of the women were adjusting their clothing, one deliberately tittered behind her fan. A group of men with salacious eyes commented to each other out of the corner of their mouths.

  Shaded candles cast downward light on a large table in the centre of the room and smaller ones round its sides; cards lay everywhere alongside scraps of paper and piled coins.

  They’d been having breakfast as they played—or perhaps it was the remains of last night’s supper. A chicken carcase lay on a Chinese rug; some biscuits spilled caviare onto a cloth; decanters, bottles and glasses were everywhere. Heat from a banked coal fire heightened the smell of wine, pomade, tobacco smoke and sweat-stained satin.

  ‘But how nice.’ Catty Dapifer came forward, arms held out. ‘How nice of you to come uninvited. I am delighted to see you. Ladies, gentlemen, may I present my husband’s Red Indian, Make Peace? Make Peace, my dear, this is the Countess of . . . No, no, so unfair to belabour you with titles; we mustn’t make you feel outclassed, we’ll take the introductions as said.’

  She belonged on her own mantelshelf, a Meissen figurine, rigid hoops at her hips exaggerating the little waist, porcelain skin interrupted by dark blue eyes, the rose of the mouth and two small, brown half-moons where the aureola of her nipples just showed above a stiff, pearled bodice. Her guests might be jaded, but their hostess was wide awake, with a febrility that belonged to audiences in places where animals were killed for entertainment.

  ‘Can we talk alone?’ Makepeace said, keeping her voice down. ‘I’ve come to make peace.’ The phrase sounded dull; Catty had preempted it.

  ‘Oh, she has.’ Even the shout was pretty, it rang out in arpeggios. ‘My dears, there’s actually to be a pow-wow. Christopher darling, your pipe. We do need a peace pipe, don’t we? Do we smoke one each, Make Peace? Or do we pass one back and forth between us?’

  She snatched an ostrich fan from one of the women, pulled out a feather and stuck it in her hair. Then she sat down on the floor, her hoops rising to the level of her elbows like the arms of a chair, her feet in their little gold slippers sticking out in front of her.

  One of the men gave her his pipe. Another, bowing, offered his to Makepeace, then took it away when she didn’t move.

  Outside this heavy, candlelit room there was fresh air; she wanted to run back to it. I don’t know what to do. The animosity around her was more than an effort to make her feel foolish; it was almost physical, like being stoned with jeers. She had to force herself not to cower. She was outclassed.

  Another man moved forward from the circle that had formed about them, put his arms under the first Lady Dapifer’s armpits and lifted her up. ‘Now, now, Catty.’

  She struggled. ‘Put me down, Sidney. I want to play.’

  ‘I know, me dear. But it’s got to be fair play.’ Still in a sitting position, Catty Dapifer was carried to a sofa and set on it. The man turned to Makepeace, took her gently by the arm and led her to the other end of the sofa. She sat down. He bowed to her. ‘Major Sidney Conyers, ma’am. First Regiment of Foot Guards.’

  He wasn’t in uniform and at the time the name was merely sound. Much la
ter, when figures other than Catty’s solidified in her memory of that ante-chamber to Hell, Makepeace was able to recall who he was and be surprised at how un-villainous he appeared. She’d thought of Catty Dapifer’s lover as sensual-lipped and dark, like the portrait of Charles II, not this still-boyish, pleasant-faced man.

  But, thinking back, she knew two more things about him with absolute assurance: that his courtesy to her was automatic, the skin-deep veneer of breeding and public school, and that even while he could estimate Catty Dapifer’s faults to the uttermost farthing, he was helpless, enslaved to her body and soul. He showed solicitude for the woman his paramour was tormenting but if Catty had stabbed Makepeace there and then, he would have wiped the knife and hidden the body without pause for thought.

  As it was, he took the pipe from Catty’s hand and shooed the other people away to the far end of the room so that the two women could talk in comparative privacy.

  The feather had curled over to hang above Catty’s nose; what would have looked ridiculous in anyone else gave her the appearance of a child. She protruded her lower lip to blow the feather upwards. ‘Well?’

  Makepeace had prepared a speech in the cab; now she couldn’t remember a word. What had she been going to say? Something about their situation being foolish.

  ‘Our situation’s silly,’ she said. ‘I wanted you to know. You’ve had a settlement, and there’ll be no more. You fight, I’ll fight. We fight each other, we’ll hurt each other. The lawyers . . .’ That was it. ‘The lawyers’ll be the only ones to profit.’

  The sentences were lumpen, not the graceful phrases she’d rehearsed in her impatience to get here.

  Catty blew at her feather again and turned to her audience. ‘It seems the situation’s silly,’ she reported. ‘She’s worried about the expense.’

  ‘Don’t do it,’ Makepeace pleaded. ‘There’s no money in it, I swear. Let him be. He’s been hurt enough. Let’s all of us live in peace, I’m asking you.’

  Catty told the room: ‘Apparently I’ve hurt my husband enough. What a saintly savage it is—for a bigamist.’