The Petticoat Men

by Barbara Ewing

  Blooming pig. I turned to Mr Flowers on the bench. ‘Mr Flowers, could you ask him not to cast further aspersions on our very respectable home?’

  Mr Flowers looked at Mr Poland over his spectacles. Mr Poland bowed in apology and Mr Flowers indicated courteously to me to continue.

  ‘—because my mother and I run a very busy lodging establishment and very many people visit us from time to time, including many cotton salesmen from the North of England who are also regular patrons which perhaps you would like to verify. Possibly the person you mentioned came to the house but I cannot be absolutely certain and if he did it was a long time ago.’

  And I folded my arms, making it clear that was the end of that. Take that, Mr Poland.

  ‘You say the defendants always came to your house dressed as men. Did they leave always as women?’

  ‘Course not. In fact’ – I suddenly had this idea – ‘Mr Frederick Park had a moustache a while ago as a matter of fact, for months actually, so he wasn’t always dressing as a woman, though they did quite a lot.’

  Mr Poland looked at me very suspiciously. ‘Thank you, Mrs Stacey, that is all.’

  Again I found it hard to get down but there was the noble lady from yesterday near by, beckoning me, again she squashed up and made room for me on the end even though we were all hot, while the policeman read out a list of the things that had been found in our house. The more the list was read out in the policeman’s flat voice the more the people in the court laughed and sort of applauded and Ernest seemed quite cheered at this and looked at the audience pleasedly, and sort of fluttered.

  ‘Sixteen dresses, silk. Moiré antique, ditto, white Japanese silk trimmed with white lace and swansdown, pink stripes, green cord silk. Thirteen petticoats in tulle, tarlatan, white frilled cambric, white book muslin. And a crinoline. Nine coats, ermine jacket and muff, crimson velvet shawl.’

  The lady I was sat next to found this all very funny and laughed – her laugh sounded like a bell, ding-dong-ding-dong – in an elegant sort of way, other people laughing too of course, and Ernest looking coy. And she laughed even more at the next things.

  ‘Ten pairs of stays. Two pairs of drawers; garters, stockings, eight pairs of boots, shoes, etc. Curling tongs. A bottle containing a quantity of chloroform.’

  ‘Did you see these?’ the lady asked me, tears of laughter in her eyes now.

  ‘I did,’ I whispered back, ‘and some of the gowns were beautiful though some were a bit battered. But I never saw any chloroform, whatever that looks like.’

  ‘Now listen, if they ever ask you about chloroform, say it is for toothache,’ she whispered.

  ‘Is it?’ I said, surprised.

  ‘Never you mind,’ she whispered back, laughing still.

  ‘Seven chignons of different colours, chiefly of the prevalent golden hue. Two long curls. Ten plaits for hair and a grey beard.’

  Here the court erupted and Mr Flowers made a banging noise with a hammer thing. Still the policeman hadn’t finished his list.

  ‘Artificial flowers and a great quantity of wadding, used apparently for bosom padding. Four boxes of powder and two of “Bloom of Roses”.’

  Mr Flowers leaned forward. ‘Is it suggested by the prosecution, Mr Poland, that the aforementioned grey beard is an article of female attire somehow to be worn with “Bloom of Roses” which I presume is some sort of ladies’ powder?’

  ‘No, sir. Rather it is my opinion that the beard would have been used as an article of disguise. It is possible that the moustache mentioned by Mrs Stacey was a disguise also and she did not recognise it as such.’

  I went to stand but the lady stopped me with her gloved hand. ‘It’s all right,’ she whispered.

  And again I thought, they will be let out on bail today and then we can all laugh about it together, it will be all right.

  But it wasn’t all right. It was terrible. Because we realised that it wasn’t just ladies’ clothes that that horrible lawyer was going to tell of. Or even photographs. Well they were just photographs of them dressed as women, I’d seen them plenty of times when I cleaned their room, both of them dressed as ladies in all sorts of different gowns, and often photographs with Lord Arthur Clinton – he was always playing the man and they were playing women – theatrical photographs, that’s all, and never Lord Arthur dressed as a woman, I couldn’t see how such photographs could matter in the least.

  But it was the letters they’d talked about yesterday. They must have been in a drawer. (Well I didn’t look in their drawers when I was cleaning, I’m not a blooming spy.) And Mr Poland had kept the letters for his grand finale.

  ‘We have seized letters from several addresses, including 13 Wakefield-street,’ he said triumphantly, ‘that are very relevant to this case.’

  ‘You implied yesterday there was something in the letters we should know about,’ said Mr Flowers.

  And the prosecutor held up a packet of them and then he said: ‘I would like to read just one of these letters to the court.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Mr Flowers.

  And he stood there, that prosecutor, and he was smiling in a nasty way and all the laughing and gossiping people in court suddenly went very quiet, taken by the look on horrible Mr Poland’s face.

  He started reading. It was from Scotland where Ernest had gone to stay.

  My darling Ernie

  And my heart did sink at once, because men dont write like that to other men.

  My darling Ernie,

  I had a letter last night from Louis. He tells me that you are living in drag. What a wonderful child it is! I have three minds to come to London and see your magnificence with my own eyes. Would you welcome me? Probably it is better I should stay at home and dream of you. But the thought of you – Lais and Antinous in one – is ravishing.

  There was another funny gasp in the audience then, not a laugh. I looked at the lady who I sat next to, I wanted to ask her who Lais and Antinous are but she was looking serious now and muttered something to the lady next to her on the other side.

  Let me ask your advice. A young lady, whose family are friends of mine, is coming here. She is a charmingly dressed beautiful fool with £30,000 a year. I have reason to believe that if I go for her, I can marry her. You know I should never care for her; but is the bait tempting enough for me to make this further sacrifice towards respectability? Of course, after we were married I should do pretty much as I pleased. People don’t mind what one does on £30,000 a year, and the lady wouldn’t much mind, as she hasn’t brains enough to trouble herself about much beyond her dresses, her carriage etc.

  What shall I do?

  You see I keep writing to you and expect some day an answer to some of my letters. In any case, with all the love in my heart,

  I am yours etc

  John

  There was a funny feeling in the courtroom in the silence and I thought it was mainly because the letter was so cruel, but maybe it was the all the love in my heart bit.

  But Mr Poland hadn’t finished. He turned to Mr Flowers and said: ‘There are many more letters of this ilk and much, much worse, Mr Flowers. I have another which I think will persuade you, but I do feel, sir, that I cannot read it aloud as its contents are much too shocking, and mention is made of – a certain lord – who has not yet been called to give evidence. I do suggest that you retire to read it, before you make any further decision about the prisoners.’

  ‘I think if the public can be saved the reading of them it will be beneficial,’ said Mr Flowers in a dry tone and he slowly got down from his big bench and disappeared, clutching the letter he had been given.

  The good feeling in the court wasn’t so good now. I looked at Freddie and Ernest and I suddenly thought, very clearly: all this is Ernest’s fault. Whatever Lais and Antinous might mean it was quite clear to me that most of this was about Ernest, and not Freddie. Even Ernest looked pale now and had stopped smiling and nodding, he was in men’s clothes, yes, but it was true, he did look
as if he was a woman trying to be a man. Whereas to me Freddie looked like – Freddie.

  After a while Mr Flowers came back. He didn’t say anything at first but he looked serious. Again I wondered if he knew that Freddie’s family were important in the law. Surely that would count, surely?

  ‘I have decided to keep the defendants in custody,’ he said rather shortly. ‘This court is adjourned for a week.’

  A week? They’d already been incarcerated for blooming ages.

  Now they both had their heads down and looked really distressed as they were escorted out to the van. There were such huge crowds waiting outside now, even bigger than before, it truly looked like thousands now, stretching way back down to the Strand, all yelling and peering and craning to have a look, it was like a Royal Procession or something. Ernest and Freddie couldn’t get to the van, the police had to move people, some were cheering and some were shouting. Ernest and Freddie did manage to wave and took off their hats. Before he entered the van Freddie spoke briefly to a man in a suit, I looked carefully but it wasn’t anyone I’d ever seen, maybe it was someone from his family; they shook hands. And I thought, his family will be looking after him, of course they will, both of them, Freddie and Ernest are gentlemen and their families will know what to do and then as he was stepping into the van Freddie saw me, and gave a small wave and I waved back.

  When we got home I told Billy that they’d gone back to the House of Detention and a letter had said that Ernest was Lais and Antinous in one and that it made a funny feeling in the court and what did it mean?

  ‘They’re getting a bit literary down there at Bow-street,’ said Billy in that droll voice, like Ma. ‘Lais and Antinous were both famous lovers in history. Antinous was a man and Lais was a woman. Lais was loved by many men.’ He looked at me. ‘Antinous was loved by men also.’

  And Ma said, surprising us the way she does so often: ‘And if I remember rightly, both of them died in mysterious circumstances.’

  14

  In Paris, Susan Opdebeck (once the young and beautiful putative Duchess of Newcastle, now banned from English society and married to – English society found it hard to forgive this also – a Belgian courier) stared with incomprehension at the telegraph message from her daughter, also named Susan. It required her to keep Arthur with her at all cost, should he turn up, because he was in extreme trouble should he be found in London. She shrugged in exasperation.

  Her son Arthur was not with her.

  None of her five children was with her.

  Her children were a disappointment to her. They were all somehow flighty; bereft of money, unable to support her in her old age (she was fifty-six, but still beautiful). She had thought that at least, when Linky became the sixth Duke of Newcastle on his father’s death, proper allowance would be made for her at last. But he was too busy selfishly gambling: a disappointment indeed.

  A disappointment, as was her first husband, Henry, Lord Lincoln, who became later – without her at his side – the noble, honourable fifth Duke of Newcastle. But only she knew what that paragon was really like: upright, religious, tedious, selfishly sexually demanding. Serious. Boring. No fun. Like all those religious hypocrites among his friends.

  A disappointment, as was her lover Lord Walpole, who had deserted her after they had run away to Italy together over twenty years ago, and she had borne him a son. They had put it about that the baby, Horatio, had died but she knew perfectly well that he lived in Italy still, in rude health, having been educated by nuns in a convent there.

  A disappointment, as were her loving, extremely indulgent parents who had both died, unbelievably leaving her as short of money as ever, and no one with the grace to at least bring to Paris her mother’s furs.

  And for her cruel fate she still blamed the long-ago actions of Mr William Gladstone, her husband’s best friend, who had, in their youth – she was well aware – been a little in love with her himself (and had written her dreadful poetry).

  She had run away several times before: that is, before the last, fatal adventure. Her tedious husband had always taken her back after her escapades, as long as she wept many tears and grovelled with sufficient repentance (she had known the routine by heart): ‘Henry, dearest Henry, my darling, forgive me, forgive your penitent wife. How could I have been so stupid, I believe I must have been ill, I am losing my mind, I believe I shall die, Henry,’ tears pouring down her face as she clasped his knees. ‘You are the only man for me, you, Henry darling, I will be good, I promise you I will be good, you know, my darling, how very good I can be, I kiss your feet and ask your forgiveness, feel my heart, Henry, feel it, feel how it beats so fast’ (and she would at this point take his hand and place it upon her heaving bosom). ‘I know I will die if you do not forgive me,’ and she would cling to him and her gown would somehow fall and she would once again endure his gross and greedy (and unfulfilling to Lady Susan, who knew very well how fulfilling sexual encounters could be) sexual appetites. After which, there she would be again, on her husband’s arm, part of British nobility and society, curtseying to the Queen. And, of course, soon pregnant once more: Linky, Eddy, Susy, Arty, Alby.

  And to this day she knew still that if the sanctimonious William Gladstone had not come running after her that last time, bringing God and Duty, she could have left the illegitimate Horatio abroad, gone back to England and performed the usual grovelling apology, Henry would have forgiven her surely, and she would have become the Duchess of Newcastle. With nobody any the wiser.

  Her family background was immaculate: daughter of the Duke of Hamilton, no less. Queen Victoria was fond of her children; why, her daughter, also called Susan, had been bridesmaid at the wedding of the Princess Victoria after the scandal! Of course I could have returned. Susan Opdebeck could never believe that it was actually her dreary husband, the fifth Duke of Newcastle, of whom Queen Victoria was so very fond and, therefore, the children. When Susan Opdebeck had heard that Queen Victoria had actually travelled from the Palace and visited him on his deathbed, she was amazed.

  But the interfering, moralising, tedious, holy Mr William Gladstone had come charging across the Channel on a steamer as if it were a white stallion, to find her and spy on her; to take the news of her condition back to England; and later to have the effrontery and hypocrisy to say that God had led him to her, eight months with child to another man, on the banks of Lake Como.

  As she thought of the past, Lady Susan (no one could take her own family title from her) Opdebeck sipped laudanum, which she had had to have in large doses for many years on account of her fragile nerves. For if things did not go her way she became – literally – ill: suffered from nervous prostration and spasms; her life could hang by a thread. (Only that last, fatal time had these often useful symptoms made no difference to her fate.)

  In Paris now, Lady Susan Opdebeck let the telegram from London about her son Arthur flutter to the floor. She observed that the hand that let the message fall, and the arm above it, were still firm, still elegant.

  The only person not a disappointment to Lady Susan Opdebeck was herself.

  15

  ‘…my ghost will haunt you…’

  The English weather that year had suddenly become even warmer – most unseasonably warm – but Mrs Catherine Gladstone shivered slightly as the words echoed round and round in her head: my ghost will haunt you my ghost will haunt you…

  Mrs Catherine Gladstone was not a fanciful woman in the least, but she could not shut out these words this evening as she walked with her husband. She suddenly shook her head slightly: puzzled, anxious, as if the ghost from her past was too near. William Gladstone walked, with his stick, beside her slowly, as if he was older than his sixty-one years, but he was recovering from his nervous exhaustion.

  There was no proper garden at Carlton House Terrace. Mr and Mrs Gladstone were walking together, as they occasionally did, in the garden at the back of 10 Downing Street. The official residence was used for offices, and the occasional off
icial reception; the garden was tended carefully. Tonight the evening was lowering and humid, rosebuds already bloomed and the scent of lilac lay on the air. In the distance, the sound of passing carriages; here, small birds sang and conversed as they came like a dark chorus to settle in the trees. The couple walked now in silence but they had been discussing the scandalous newspaper coverage of the trial that was the talk of London.

  And they were both thinking about the same woman.

  They had been, long ago when they were young, such close friends, the four of them. Lady Susan Hamilton had married Mr Gladstone’s dear friend, Henry, Lord Lincoln, who one day would become the fifth Duke of Newcastle. The aristocratic Miss Catherine Glynne married Mr William Gladstone, who would one day become Prime Minister of Great Britain. The men had been to Eton together, Oxford together, served under Peel and Palmerston together. The couples spent much time in one another’s company, lived as neighbours in London, visited one another’s country residences. Mr Gladstone had, indeed, written Lady Susan poetry – courtly poetry only of course – for he had found it hard to take his eyes from her on those long-ago memorable evenings in the noble Newcastle country mansion, when the beautiful and charming Lady Susan stood beside the piano in the lamplight, and sang so sweetly.

  But all had turned to dust and ashes more than twenty years ago and the runaway wife had not only blamed Mr Gladstone for all her troubles to anyone who would listen, but had threatened, in a letter to a mutual friend, to haunt Mrs Gladstone if she ever spoke badly of her to her bereft children.

  Mrs Gladstone had tried to care for the lost young people; never once had she spoken disloyally to the children about their mother – yet tonight the mother seemed hauntingly here anyway, drifting through the darkening leaves, blaming and accusing still.

  The birds had settled now. It was almost dark.

  Mrs Gladstone spoke at last. ‘Dearest William. I have said this to you many times: we cannot rewrite the past, neither our own nor other people’s. This is all twenty years ago! You did as you thought wisest, and I agreed you should go. Henry asked you to look for his wife and Sir Robert Peel himself concurred that you should and so you went to Italy. It was a most honourable quest: to bring her back and save her marriage and her reputation – you did that for them both because they were our friends. How can it be your fault what you found!’ She sighed in the falling dark for what, indeed, had been found. ‘But those motherless children were damaged by everything that happened between their parents. Perhaps Arthur most of all.’