Consequences

by Nancy Carson

  ‘We can all be a bit hot-blooded, as you put it, Clarence. A standing cock has no conscience, they say, and I reckon there’s some truth in it, but where honour is at stake…Where interfering with another man’s wife and family is concerned…’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, Ben. It’s appalling. If there’s anything I can do—’

  ‘There might be,’ Benjamin interjected. ‘I’d hate for the same thing to happen to you, Clarence, or anybody else for that matter. So just remember, Algie Stokes is being cited as co-respondent in my divorce. If you ever get the chance to do him a bad turn…’

  ‘Well, I must confess, Ben, that I might already be in a position to do just that now you mention it. As of this moment, Algie Stokes is not exactly my favourite person.’

  * * *

  After the cricket match, Benjamin deigned to give Clarence a lift in his cabriolet; it was good to have an ally, even though this was an unexpected ally. He dropped him off on the corner of Bell Street, and then headed for another delectable tryst with Maude.

  Clarence was bursting to pass on to Harriet the astounding news he had heard, and hurried over the brow of Bell Street’s hill carrying his cricket gear, then down the other side to their rented house. To his dismay, Harriet had not yet returned home from Eli Meese’s Drapery, Mourning and Mantles Establishment, where she still liked to help out, despite the novelty of independence from her father.

  He went to the table that stood under the window in the front room, which overlooked the graveyard of St Michael’s Church on the left, and the grim brickworks with its attendant smoking chimney stacks on the right. By the low sun in the western sky flooding yellow light through the window, he pored over the plans he had drawn up for a large and superb new house. This creation, which he intended to build when his late uncle’s vast inheritance materialised, was set to be his new marital home. It would be magnificent, and greatly envied, designed as it was in the fashionable mock-Tudor style. The plot of land on which to erect it had already been earmarked and a deal struck. It stood on Church Street between Silver End and St Michael’s Church, and had a view over the Delph to an ironworks, several collieries including a dilapidated, disused one, the town’s gasworks, and the Stourbridge Canal. It was not the most salubrious spot on the planet for a fine house, but Clarence knew the owner of the land, and in his eagerness to acquire the first plot to come to his attention they shook on the deal, which would be concluded when the late Uncle Septimus’s legacy was finalised. The parcel already housed some ancient and ramshackle buildings still being used for manufacturing, but the owner had assured him he would be able to clear them easily.

  He was pondering how he could incorporate another bathroom without radically disturbing the already excellent layout, when he heard the back door open and Harriet’s footsteps on the quarry-tiled floor of the scullery.

  ‘I’m home.’

  ‘I’m in the front room,’ he answered.

  She put down a shopping basket that contained provisions, took off her modish hat and opened the front room door.

  ‘Hello,’ he greeted with a smile.

  ‘How was the cricket match?’ She approached him and they kissed cursorily. ‘Did you win?

  ‘Yes, we won.’

  ‘Glory be. And the weather was set fair, so I daresay you enjoyed yourself.’

  ‘I did. I scored thirty-seven runs…And…’

  Their eyes met. ‘And what?’

  ‘I had a chat with Benjamin Sampson.’

  Harriet’s eyes lit up, with the anticipation of relishing the resolution to a mystery about Aurelia that had been consuming her and Priss.

  He nodded and smiled self-assuredly.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It is divorce,’ he affirmed. ‘But Aurelia is not divorcing him, he’s divorcing her.’

  ‘Crikey! Did he say why? I would’ve thought she’d got grounds enough to divorce him.’

  ‘He’s divorcing her, for her adultery.’

  ‘Her adultery?’ Like Clarence had been, Harriet, too, was dumbfounded. ‘Adultery with whom?’

  ‘None other than your erstwhile beau, Algie Stokes,’ he told her, disdain evident.

  ‘Algie Stokes?…Algie Stokes?’ she repeated with astonishment.

  ‘What’s more, it turns out that Algie Stokes is the father of that second child.’

  ‘Little Christina?’

  ‘If that’s the child’s name.’

  ‘Oh, my goodness! Are you sure?’

  ‘That’s what he told me.’ He shrugged. ‘He reckons she’s admitted everything.’

  ‘Well…I’m…I’m flabbergasted,’ Harriet declared. ‘I knew Algie was smitten when he first met her, but I didn’t know he’d had the gall to take it that far. Wait till our Priss knows.’

  ‘It might be better if Priss didn’t know yet,’ Clarence counselled, recalling Benjamin’s entreaty for discretion meanwhile. ‘She’ll find out soon enough. It’ll be in all the newspapers.’

  ‘Crikey, Clarence. Imagine the scandal.’ She rolled her eyes gleefully at the appealing prospect. ‘That’ll keep the gossipmongers’ tongues wagging for weeks.’

  ‘I don’t admire what Algie Stokes has done, you know, Harriet,’ he said in all seriousness. ‘I’ve no great regard for Benjamin Sampson – he’s a bumptious twit – but I really don’t admire Algie Stokes for that. You don’t go round seducing another man’s wife and turning his family upside down. It’s deplorable.’

  ‘I must confess, I don’t feel sorry for Benjamin Sampson,’ she responded. ‘It’s no more than he deserves. He’s a rat, Clarence, and nobody should realise it better than you. He’s been having it off for ages with the young woman who used to be their nanny – and I believe she’s had a child by him. What sort of a life can she and her child look forward to? So don’t you think he’s being a complete hypocrite?’

  ‘Since you put it like that, maybe. All the same, two wrongs don’t make a right. Algie should not have done what he’s done.’

  ‘The person you have to feel sorry for is poor Marigold, Clarence. I do. She’s bound to suffer in all sorts of ways over this, yet she’s done nothing wrong.’

  ‘True. Algie deserves his comeuppance, all the same. Benjamin reckons if I can do him a bad turn, I should. I daresay he’ll do his best.’

  ‘No doubt he’ll try, because he’s a vindictive rat. But it’s not your battle, Clarence, so there’s no reason for you to try. You wouldn’t, would you?’

  ‘I might have done already – unwittingly,’ he admitted. ‘I struck a deal with some land for our new house…’

  ‘Our new house? So what’s the connection?’

  ‘I’ve since learned that Algie’s little bicycle factory is on it. I wasn’t aware of it when I struck the deal. It will have to come down of course. He’ll have to find new premises. That should cost him dearly.’

  ‘I know very well the land you mean. I didn’t know you’d arranged to buy that plot for our new home. You never said.’

  ‘I was keeping it as a surprise.’

  ‘But, Clarence…’ She hesitated. She had no wish to disrupt Clarence’s plans, had no desire to go against him, quell his enthusiasm or seem ungrateful, but for her it was a problem, a problem that Clarence evidently had not foreseen. Better to say what she thought now than to compound the issues by delaying, for the issues would not go away and might incur unnecessary extra costs. ‘You surely don’t expect me to live there?’ she said.

  ‘Why not? It’s a start.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Clarence, my love, but I wouldn’t live there for a pension, surrounded by all that muck and the stink of the gasworks. Isn’t there some decent house-building land for sale, in Kingswinford, say?’

  ‘We have to start somewhere, Harriet,’ he answered defensively.

  ‘Maybe so, but surely not there. Don’t be impatient, Clarence. We’ll find something better. After all, when your inheritance comes through…’

  ‘But I’ve made the arrangem
ent. We shook on it.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to go through with it, as a man of your word. It’s not the end of the world. Rent it as it is, or develop it as industrial land. Build new factories on it if you must, it’s all that piece of ground is good for. It can be the start of your career as a landowner.’

  ‘Yes,’ he mused, trying not to look sheepish that his wife had been smart enough to realise what he had not. ‘Maybe I should build new factories…’ He smiled. ‘Either way, it will cause Algie Stokes some grief.’

  ‘Poor Algie,’ she complained. ‘That does sound vindictive, Clarence. After all, Algie Stokes has done nothing to harm you.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘I should think he’ll suffer enough at the hands of Marigold. Despite her lowly upbringing, she’s a lovely, bright girl. And anyway, why fight Benjamin Sampson’s battles?’

  ‘I’m not about to fight any of his battles.’

  ‘So why are you so keen to cause Algie Stokes “some grief”, as you put it?’

  ‘Because he deserves it.’

  Harriet sighed. This was taking another twist – she perceived spitefulness. She was seeing a side of Clarence she did not know existed, an aspect she did not like. ‘But whatever Algie has got up to with Aurelia Sampson has got nothing to do with you. It’s not your concern.’

  ‘All the same…’

  ‘Ah…’ She sighed with unease. ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that you were once engaged to Aurelia, does it? Oh, tell me it’s not so, Clarence.’

  ‘Of course it’s not, Harriet. Don’t be absurd.’

  * * *

  Algie Stokes duly attended the drab and dusty chambers that constituted the working premises of Round & Round at a mutually convenient time arranged by letter a few days earlier. He was led to Mr George Round’s room, whereupon the solicitor rose from behind his desk, which was strewn with loose documents. He reached over and shook Algie by the hand.

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ George Round said conversationally.

  ‘Likewise,’ Algie responded with a smile.

  Mr Round gestured for Algie to sit down, and resumed his own chair.

  ‘Messy business this. Always a lamentable business, divorce, but quite straightforward in this case. I understand from Mrs Sampson that you do not intend to defend the action.’ As he spoke, he reached for a bundle of documents tied together with ribbon.

  ‘Yes, that’s so, sir.’

  ‘I have drawn up the brief, Mr Stokes, rather than letting our London agents do it. Cheaper that way from the point of view of your costs.’ He looked up and smiled, taking delight in his thrift on behalf of his unfortunate client.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I had a letter from agents yesterday informing us they are in possession of the registrar’s certificate. So the case is in order and set to be heard.’

  ‘I see,’ said Algie. ‘I presume I shall have to appear in court?’

  ‘It is almost certain you will be called as co-respondent to give evidence, Mr Stokes. So you had best steel yourself.’

  ‘I’m prepared for all that, Mr Round, although I can’t say that I’m looking forward to it.’

  Mr Round untied the bundle of papers leisurely. Algie saw that it was labelled Sampson v Sampson and Stokes. As Mr Round sifted through the papers, Algie spotted what looked like a marriage certificate – Aurelia’s, he imagined – and correspondence from Craven’s, Benjamin’s solicitors.

  ‘I’m going to show you the draft brief, Mr Stokes. Perhaps you would just look through it, to make sure you are happy with it, and that I haven’t missed any points.’

  Algie read the document and handed it back. ‘It looks all right to me,’ he said. ‘I’m glad you have stressed that Mrs Sampson is anxious to retain custody of her son.’

  ‘That might well turn into a battle royal, Mr Stokes, but much will depend on the efficacy of the barristers appointed on both sides. But let me state quite clearly that there is no certainty of an outcome in Mrs Sampson’s favour.’

  ‘So I understand. But do we have a date for the case to be heard?’

  ‘Not yet. I will of course notify you both as soon as a date has been set.’

  * * *

  ‘So, what did Mr Round have to say?’ Marigold asked when he returned home later that day.

  ‘That there’s no guarantee that Aurelia will be granted custody of little Benjie.’

  ‘It will kill her,’ she remarked.

  ‘Yes, my flower…And that means she’ll need your support more than ever. It’s lucky for her – for all of us – that you’ve been so forgiving. Not many women would have been.’

  ‘It would have been dead easy to just cut her off, Algie,’ she answered. ‘I was so angry…But that would’ve solved nothing and drawn out the bitterness. I didn’t see the point. She’s got nobody else, has she? I could no more see her go through the hell she’ll have to go through alone, than fly in the air.’

  ‘You’re a treasure,’ he asserted, and reached for her hand. ‘You’re one in a million.’

  ‘That’s what Aurelia said.’

  They were silent for a few seconds, both mulling over Aurelia’s forthcoming tribulations. At length, Algie said, ‘It seems I shall be called to give my evidence in the divorce court in London, my flower. I take it you’ll go with me.’

  ‘I’d like to, but I don’t see how I shall be able to. When’s it likely to be held?’

  ‘Don’t know yet, but probably months away.’

  ‘Then most likely my belly will be too big if it’s months away. And London’s a long way off to travel with a big belly. So you and Aurelia might have to go together, just the two of you.’

  ‘And you trust me to be faithful? Just me and her together – in London?’

  ‘You’ve been faithful to me since we got wed, ain’t yer? You told me you had.’

  ‘Course I have.’

  ‘Well, I trust you both, Algie. I can’t see as how either of you would be mad enough to start it up all over again, after all the trouble it’s caused the first time.’

  He smiled at her quaint but pure logic. ‘Nor would we be. You can rest assured on that point. Even so, for your own peace of mind it might pay you to travel with us.’

  ‘There’s no need, Algie.’

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  1893

  On a bitterly cold, frosty morning early in January 1893, Benjamin Sampson’s petition for divorce was due to be heard at the Royal Courts of Justice. He had arrived the day previous and, disinclined to walk through London’s cold streets on the morning of the hearing, he took a cab. He was no connoisseur of architecture, but the building he saw once he’d paid the cab driver overawed him. Never had he seen such a magnificent edifice. The elaborate yet asymmetrical frontage of that immense grey building stirred him. If the superiority of this stone creation were any yardstick, English justice, which earned the reverence of the world, would ensure he won the day.

  He entered through the vast arched portal and was spellbound. The Great Hall had the majesty and gravity of a cathedral. Hordes of barristers, solicitors, clerks and witnesses peopled it, all rushing hither and thither, each seeking their own particular side chapel.

  After wandering at random through endless corridors, he spotted Aurelia and Algie Stokes, adulteress and adulterer, in conversation with three men. Unknown to Benjamin, one was the portly George Round, her solicitor, a bewigged barrister, and Round’s London agent. They stood in a tight group to the side of the corridor. All three men, as well as Algie Stokes, appeared cheerful in Aurelia’s company.

  He had to concede that Aurelia looked radiantly beautiful as she smiled up at the barrister, who returned her smile with a distinct look of admiration in his eyes. Benjamin knew that smile of hers better than anybody. It was appealing, trusting, affable, the smile of an adulteress, and she used that smile to captivate, but it no longer had any such effect on him. She certa
inly knew how to enchant others. That smile could open doors – especially bedroom doors – and he wondered if she and Stokes had shared the same hotel and the same bedroom last night; after all, Marigold seemed to be absent.

  By dint of their presence he felt the courtroom must be nearby, and duly came upon a sign painted on a wall identifying ‘Divorce Court No. 2’. He approached the swing doors, which were in the charge of an official.

  ‘I’m due to meet my solicitor and barrister here,’ Benjamin said to him.

  ‘What case is it, sir?’ the usher enquired politely.

  ‘Sampson versus Sampson and Stokes.’

  The usher checked his list and allowed him in. Benjamin entered through the double swing doors. Edward Craven, his own solicitor, was there, in conversation with two other men, one wearing a wig and gown, the other wearing a black suit, sombre necktie and gloves. Craven saw him enter and beckoned him to join them. They shook hands and Craven introduced him to Mr Lofthouse, the firm’s London agent, and Mr Philip Abercrombie, the barrister appointed by the agent on his behalf.

  ‘It seems a rather clear-cut case, on the face of it, Mr Sampson,’ the barrister remarked. ‘Your wife is not defending the petition, I understand, and neither is the co-respondent.’

  ‘I should think not,’ said Benjamin brusquely, ‘but I understand she is about to plead for custody of my son. I demand custody of my son, as you must know.’

  ‘If the respondent is pleading for custody, then all will depend upon His Lordship,’ Philip Abercrombie said. ‘However, if we can demonstrate to his satisfaction that she is unworthy of bringing up your son, there should be no difficulty.’

  They continued their briefing for some few minutes, after which the barrister smiled and said, ‘Are there any other pertinent facts relevant to your petition that I should know about before battle commences?’

  ‘Can’t think of any more, no.’

  ‘Then we should expect a satisfactory outcome, Mr Sampson.’

  ‘Well, I’m counting on you, Mr Abercrombie. It’s what I’m paying you for.’ Benjamin also smiled, but merely to soften his comment.

  ‘Rest assured, Mr Sampson, you will get value for money.’