Harley Street

by Lynne Connolly

  I was surprised when we received an invitation from Bow Street to take dinner with the Fieldings but Richard wasn’t. “I have some acquaintance with them and Smith will have told them that we know something of Lucy. We should accept, because they won’t give up. We might as well get it over with.” Since we had no other dinner engagements for the evening in question except another fraught family one, we accepted.

  We agreed to let them know that Lucy used to work for the family and that Richard had recognised her from that time but no more. The rest was our concern.

  I dressed simply for the dinner but Richard was his usual magnificent self, resplendent in crimson cut velvet. We took the carriage to Bow Street and during the short journey Richard explained in succinct terms, what the Fieldings saw as principal interests in life—the pursuance of law and the development of a reliable non-military device for upholding it. Perhaps we could distract them from their purpose by discussing cases they had found of particular interest in the past. And, of course, Mr. Henry Fielding’s popular books. Richard warned me that Mr. Henry Fielding’s health was not good these days and he’d been forced to give up his magistracy, so we might be required to excuse him at some point. He was a widower and his brother was single, so a Miss Fielding was acting as their hostess but whether she was a daughter, sister, or aunt, we did not know.

  When the introductions were made, I would have favoured sister, though I wasn’t sure. Miss Fielding was a colourless female of indeterminate age and in her I recognised myself. As a single female, a spinster, I would have lived in a grander house but I may not have been much different to the lady before me.

  The Fieldings looked alike, although in fact they were only half-brothers. They were both on the short side, portly with a brisk, businesslike manner and John Fielding, the blind one, wore dark spectacles to remind onlookers of his state. In court, he wore a broad black ribbon over his eyes, fostering the popular conception of the “blind beak”.

  Poor Henry Fielding did indeed look unwell: pale and occasionally; when he thought no one was looking, he would close his eyes. I was sorry to see it. I had loved the book Henry Fielding wrote and had hoped for many more. Tom Jones was considered racy but I read it as soon as I could get hold of a copy and enjoyed it hugely.

  When we sat at table, I began by complimenting him on it, although he must have heard it many times before.

  Indeed I felt most comfortable in this dining room, modest but comfortably furnished, more like the surroundings I had grown up with than anything I’d known lately.

  Mr. Fielding smiled and accepted my compliment. “I’m sure you’ve read better, my lady.”

  “I don’t think I’m competent to judge, sir but I found it one of the most enjoyable books I’ve ever read.”

  “You’re very kind. You didn’t, then, prefer Richardson’s epic?” He was referring to Pamela, the book that had made Richardson a prosperous publisher and extremely rich. It was the story of a servant girl who married her employer through a great display of virtue. “I enjoyed it when I read it,” I admitted, “but there are some aspects of it I found disquieting when I thought about it later.”

  “What would those be?” His tone was kindly but it didn’t fool me. It was well known that Mr. Fielding disliked the book; he had even written a parody of it, Shamela, in which he had voiced some of my uncertainties.

  “The housekeepers, mainly. They should surely be of better moral probity than Mrs. Jewkes and Mrs. Jervis. I would hate to think any housekeeper of mine was busying herself about the intimate concerns of the housemaids, unless there was evidence of moral turpitude in the maid.” I meant that they acted like brothel madams.

  “A proper concern for a lady running a decent house, your ladyship.” There was a twinkle of intelligence in his grey eyes. Although I’d carefully prepared my opinions for this dinner, they were sincerely felt. Pamela had been amusing but not, despite the much vaunted good morals of the heroine, uplifting.

  “It cannot be seen as a good example to domestic staff.” I accepted some fricasseed rabbit and picked up my knife. “They’ll run away with the idea that if they allow certain liberties to the master and then refuse him at the final hurdle with a great deal of screaming and fuss, the master will become enamoured of them and marry them. The chances are, if he is inclined to affairs with servants, he will turn his attentions elsewhere or rape the poor girl.”

  With great deliberation, Mr. Fielding turned to my husband. “Lord Strang, I never thought you would marry a woman of such good sense.”

  Richard accepted the compliment on my behalf. “She has good qualities in abundance, sir. I count myself extremely fortunate in many ways.” His eyes narrowed. “What sort of woman did you think I would marry?” It was typical of him but Mr. Fielding wasn’t in the least abashed.

  “Why, sir, it’s not my position to wonder about your private concerns but if I had, I would have guessed at a beautiful woman with few brains, polished but empty.”

  Richard laughed. He seemed far more himself here than at the more formal dinners we attended. “It was my intention, but who could refuse a treasure like my lady here?”

  I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The appreciative gleam in Richard’s guileless blue eyes was matched by a similar expression in Henry Fielding’s. Neither showed any inclination to back down and I feared compliments would rain down on my head thick and fast before they were done. “I can only be thankful I wasn’t born to domestic service. Else I might have been accused of ensnaring my lord with pretty refusals.” It did the trick.

  John Fielding, silent until now, joined in the conversation. “My brother has written more than one book.”

  “Indeed, sir. I confess I haven’t read Amelia yet. I’ve had a busy time of late. And we take the Covent Garden Journal at Southwood House.”

  “Amongst others,” Richard put in. “I try to read it whenever I can. We’ve discussed our differences before, but essentially, we’re on the same side.” I knew he read every copy.

  “Naturally we are, my lord.” John Fielding gave a sweet smile. “Lady Strang.” He turned his sightless eyes towards me. “Your husband has professed to believe that if we tried to alleviate the symptoms of poverty, we would have less crime. I say whatever the situation, wrong is wrong and must be punished. How do you stand on this?”

  I was surprised to be asked and flattered that they would want to listen to my opinion. I thought about my answer carefully. “Both opinions have their merits. It is true, wrongdoing must be punished but many people are driven to crime by their situations, like the mother who steals a loaf to feed her starving children.”

  John Fielding frowned. “Institutions exist to help with such people. They shouldn’t steal, it is wrong. The courts have the powers to deal with such problems and in practice, the woman wouldn’t be unduly punished, since then her children would be left on the parish. She would probably be allowed benefit of clergy and released.” This was where, on a first offence, if the accused could read a proscribed passage of scripture, he or she would be released with a warning. “The appearance in court would give her pause and show her the error of her ways.”

  “What else could she do if she couldn’t get work?”

  “If she had no husband to look out for her? There is the new workhouse at Hyde Park and there is always work for an able bodied, healthy female,” the magistrate answered firmly.

  “But of what kind?” Richard lifted his glass to his lips. He wasn’t laughing now.

  “You’re referring to an unfortunate condition of woman,” John Fielding said, “for which I believe the current state of morals has its explanation. These women are of a certain type, their good morals destroyed, often by exposure to the evils of the Metropolis. They come up fresh from the country and instead of heading for establishments such as your registry office, they are corrupted by people—often of their own sex, who lay in wait for them.”

  Richard put down his glass. “Sadly we don’t usual
ly take girls fresh from the country on our books. Our agency tends to specialise in the superior servant. But I understand your meaning. Some people who wait for the coaches from the country especially to deter these girls from entering a life of vice. I fear, however, if I were to take an interest in that side of the business, I might be regarded as somewhat hypocritical.” His eyes gleamed with suppressed humour.

  There was a short pause but Mr. Henry Fielding, glancing at me, burst out laughing. “Why, brother, you must admit the truth in that. Hypocrisy, above all things, is what we most hate in the world, the vice that condones all other vices.”

  The laughter lifted the mood and as long as we kept the conversation to lighter matters, we enjoyed a good, convivial meal with a high level of intelligent discourse. The Fieldings disliked the racier element of the theatre, feeling it fed the baser nature of the poor, especially The Beggar’s Opera, a story of highwaymen and their women. I’d read and enjoyed it and hoped to see it now that I was in London, where it was still frequently staged.

  We discussed other, more improving works, and music was a safe topic. The only controversy there raged between Italian opera and English music, something that was less about morality, more about nationality and a sense of mischief amongst certain people. My love of music encompassed most types, depending on my mood and the quality of it. In my opinion, Bach outshone them all but I was more circumspect in venturing an opinion, not wanting to draw any more attention to myself than I had to.

  A friendly competition continued between Richard and John Fielding, a verbal duel both seemed to relish, leading them to the brink, then one would step back, acknowledging a hit. The mention of prostitutes in the presence of ladies and Richard’s oblique reference to his previous way of life was a typical example. Once or twice, he brought John Fielding to the brink of admitting something ridiculous, then the magistrate would step back, only to come back at my husband from another angle. They seemed evenly matched and both enjoyed the exchange. The rest of us could watch and join in as we pleased, which seemed to suit Mr. John Fielding.

  John Fielding asked my husband a question that had puzzled me once or twice. “You say politics bores you and yet here you are conversing knowledgeably on matters which must be considered political. You have no parliamentary ambitions?”

  Richard twirled the small amount of liquid left in his glass. He had refused a refill. “I suppose I say such things to deter certain parties.” He paused. “I will not enter the public sphere as anyone’s ‘man’. I am myself and while many of my opinions may chime with one person’s or another’s, I won’t be used or have my name used. And I won’t have Thompson’s used, either. It was the best thing to come out of the years before I reached thirty.” He looked up at John Fielding and smiled. “You, I know, sir, are one of the few people who know what Thompson’s really is. Believe me when I say I will not have it used by anyone else, for any purpose. Mr. Fielding”—turning to Henry—“you were in charge of just such an agency once. You understand the power of it, properly organised. So if I enter Parliament, it will be as my own man.” He was creating his own power base, wider and more far-reaching than the usual, already broad, sphere of influence an aristocrat could expect to control.

  When Miss Fielding and I retired after the meal, it wasn’t long before the gentlemen joined us in the comfortable drawing room. It was wonderful to see how easily John Fielding found his way around the house, despite his affliction. The furniture must be carefully placed and he must have spent some time learning its disposition to be so easy here. We sat and talked over tea and wine in a most pleasant way. The evening was drawing on and we knew we must leave soon and the subject I dreaded still had not been broached. It had to come.

  John Fielding began it. “You are involved in an unfortunate matter that occurred in Harley Street last month?”

  Richard readily admitted we were. “The murder occurred in the house of my wife’s aunt. In fact, my wife was there when the body was discovered.”

  John Fielding was quick on the uptake. “You were not, my lord?”

  “Sadly, no. I arrived to collect Lady Strang and she informed me of the sad circumstance. Your representative arrived shortly afterwards.”

  “So you helped to order the scene?” Henry Fielding asked.

  “I must defer to my wife in that.” Richard smiled at me over the rim of his glass, then took a sip. “She sent all the servants to sit in the kitchen and wouldn’t let anyone touch anything until Smith arrived.”

  “Very perspicacious.” John Fielding nodded in my direction. “My lady, if you weren’t nobly born and female, I would consider you a doughty recruit to my service.”

  “I wasn’t nobly born,” I protested, “my brother only came lately into his title. Ladies would help you greatly in your work. You say many of the offenders you see are female, so to have some females on your side would even things up a little, would it not?”

  Other men would have dismissed that out of hand but to do the man justice, he considered it, his head on one side while he thought, a restorative glass of wine in his hand. He took a draught of it before he replied. “It’s certainly an interesting suggestion. Perhaps a woman could gain access where a man may not. But even if I were to search for suitable applicants, I fear women with your presence of mind are few and far between.”

  He offended commonsense with that remark. “Nonsense. Great households are held together by women, women have been the reason many men have achieved so much, either by inspiration or support. Give us a chance, sir and we’ll rule the world.” I could have added that Thompson’s employed more women than men.

  “Fighting talk,” said Mr. Fielding as Richard laughed out loud.

  “I wouldn’t back many men against you, my lady, if it should come to it.” I smiled back at Richard, already ashamed of my outburst but it seemed to divert the brothers, until John Fielding returned to his subject like a terrier at a bone.

  “So you helped materially at Harley Street, your ladyship,” he continued affably. “But one thing puzzled Smith. He is a reliable man, my lord, not given to fancies, you understand but he was sure he heard you refer to the wench by a different name. Could it be you recognised her?”

  Richard’s face turned grave but he showed none of the turmoil he must have been feeling. “I knew her as Lucy Gartside. She worked at my father’s house—Eyton, in Derbyshire—when I was a boy. I hadn’t seen her since. I was surprised by the coincidence, that she should turn up at the house of my wife’s aunt, that’s all.”

  “It’s a long time to remember a servant,” said the magistrate. “And this woman was dead, covered in blood as I understand the matter.”

  “No.” Richard glanced at John Fielding’s still, listening expression. He continued without a tremor. “Her face wasn’t marked and I recognised her as soon as Smith moved her hair away from her features. I was brought up at Eyton, I rarely visited London and Lucy worked there from girlhood.” He’d nearly let his closer relationship with her slip but I don’t think the brothers noticed. At any rate, they didn’t comment.

  “I cannot see this has any bearing on the case,” John Fielding remarked. “I must thank you for being so frank with us, my lord. Did the woman have any family in Derbyshire?”

  “She was a farmer’s daughter, I believe. My mother preferred to employ local people for ordinary domestic staff.” We knew very well, but Lucy’s family hadn’t heard of her since she left for France. And she had left no forwarding address.

  We left soon after that, as much for consideration to Henry Fielding, who looked distinctly pale and fatigued as from any desire to get away. “Do you think they’ll be satisfied with that?” I asked Richard when we were in the carriage together.

  Richard stretched his legs before him. “I hope so. It seemed to satisfy him but John Fielding doesn’t let things lie. He’ll want an answer to this one, I’m afraid, so it can’t be a Thompson’s solution. We have to work with him and, at the same time, stop him
from finding out too much. We must just pray that this murder had nothing to do with any past history.”

  I took his hand. We were due to go on to a ball, after stopping at Southwood house so that I could change into something more appropriate. “Would you like to stay in tonight?”

  “More than anything,” he breathed in the intimate darkness of the carriage, “but I fear our absence might be missed and either John Fielding would get to hear of it and come to his own conclusions, or people will begin to realise why you need to sit down so often.” I heard the tone of his voice lighten at the last comment and I was glad something brought him pleasure in this dark time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A FEW DAYS AFTER THE dinner at the Fieldings’, we officially moved house. To all intents, we were setting up our own establishment and nothing was mentioned about the recent revelations under the roof of Southwood House hastening our departure.

  Our butler, Jervis, met me in the hall and bowed low. “Your ladyship will find all in order, I hope.”

  I looked around the hall. It was mine, this house. A glow suffused me because I had always dreamed of having this. “I’m sure I will. Have you informed the staff of our particular rules?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Have the two cooks arrived?”

  “The chef and the pastry chef, my lady. Everything is as it should be.”

  “Then if you could have tea served in the morning room, I’ll put my feet up for an hour.”

  Another bow. “Yes, my lady.”

  Sitting at my ease in the morning room, a pot of tea on the table at my elbow, I felt smugly content. The straw-coloured brocade on the excellent mahogany furniture was all new, with no history. The portrait over the mantelpiece was of the family home, Eyton, a place I’d visited only once. Lady Southwood had given the painting to us and it seemed to go well in this room, a warm, sunny vista with a substantial house in the background.