The Petticoat Men

by Barbara Ewing

  ‘Good God above, I’d love that! It would be – easier.’

  Tea was brought in by Tussie Heap, who did not of course acknowledge her old friend Isabella Stacey. Mrs Gladstone and Mrs Stacey talked briefly of the pleasant weather. When they were alone they sat in silence for a time.

  Mrs Gladstone said at last: ‘Arthur was always so. From a boy. His mother – had to leave her children.’ She poured tea.

  ‘She came to the theatre once,’ said Mrs Stacey. ‘His mother. Years and years ago when she was young. To see one of the actresses, and I met her briefly. She was very lovely.’

  It would seem that Mrs Gladstone could no longer be surprised by anything in this strange conversation. If Mrs Stacey said she had met her friend of long ago, Lady Susan – Lady Susan Opdebeck as she was now – Mrs Gladstone was sure it was true.

  She passed a cup and saucer of immaculate heritage to the other woman, who continued: ‘My children went to see Lord Arthur in Mudeford. Lord Arthur told my son and daughter that Mr Gladstone was made his guardian when he was a boy. That is why I came to see you, to ask for help, because I understood you had some involvement in this matter also.’

  Very slowly Mrs Gladstone put her cup and saucer back upon the table.

  ‘Has your daughter – forgive me – is your daughter crippled?’

  Mrs Stacey was caught between anger and surprise. Every time she heard the word cripple used about her beloved daughter she wanted to hit someone. Mattie was not crippled. She ran, almost; she could walk for miles.

  ‘She has a limp. Yes.’

  ‘I believe she accosted my husband.’

  ‘What?’

  Mrs Gladstone had recognised that the other woman was slightly deaf; she raised her voice a little. ‘I believe your daughter accosted my husband in the Strand.’

  Now it was Mrs Stacey’s turn to look stunned. ‘Blooming hell! Did she ask for Billy’s job back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you knew something of this story and you never said? Mattie never told me, the foolish, foolish girl, on her own down the Strand in the middle of the night. I suppose it was late at night?’

  ‘Yes. About one o’clock in the morning, I believe.’

  ‘What was she thinking of!’ Isabella gulped her tea. ‘Well, of course I know what she was thinking of – Mattie loves her brother. She’d do anything for him.’

  Now both women were silent again, glad of the tea.

  ‘Why did your children go to Mudeford in the first place?’

  ‘Billy was desperate to get his position back, he loved working in the Parliament so much, especially for your husband who he admired very much. Elijah told him where Lord Arthur was – hiding, waiting for someone to give him financial help, and Billy had already understood there was some connection with you and your husband. He wanted to find out what it was. Lord Arthur told him.’

  Silence.

  At last Mrs Gladstone said, ‘Can you tell me of Arthur’s death?’

  ‘I don’t suppose you can tell me of it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ and Isabella saw at once the genuine surprise. Of course Mrs Gladstone would know nothing. ‘Mrs Stacey, he died almost a year ago today. That much I know. Which is why I am wearing the handkerchief. Just my own thoughts for someone I was fond of when he was a small child, and so miserable.’

  ‘Oh. Oh of course. A year ago. For days I was terrified my children had scarlet fever.’ For a moment Isabella was silent. ‘But I think Lord Arthur didn’t die of scarlet fever, Mrs Gladstone. Mattie and Billy were close with him in the tiny room where he was hiding. None of the people who were looking after him got scarlet fever. He said he had the means to take his own life if he couldn’t get to his mother in France.’

  Mrs Gladstone’s eyes filled with unexpected tears at the mention of people she had known and loved long ago. Automatically she felt for the handkerchief. Girls’ voices called from the lane: ‘We’re late, Effie, we’re late!’ Footsteps clattered, and laughter.

  ‘How did you come by the handkerchief, Mrs Gladstone?’

  Mrs Gladstone sighed. The handkerchief was in her hand now and she looked down at it: the cream square, the beautifully embroidered pink roses.

  ‘Lord Arthur’s solicitor had gone to Mudeford. When Arthur died Mr Roberts brought it back to London and gave it to the solicitor of the Newcastle Estate, thinking it might be’ – she shrugged, knowing how it sounded – ‘some sort of evidence perhaps to show Arthur’s partiality to women. Finally Mr Ouvry gave it to me as a – memento. He knew I had been very fond of that sad little boy long ago.’ She looked up at her visitor. ‘Are you suggesting that – that it was suicide?’

  ‘My children believed—’ But Isabella knew she did not want to say more to the wife of the Prime Minister of England. ‘Well, it is possible. They said Lord Arthur was distressed and frightened. Not dying. And then he died.’

  ‘There were rumours he had got away. Perhaps he did.’

  ‘No, Mrs Gladstone,’ said Mrs Stacey gently. ‘I know one of the men who put him in the coffin, which was made by the local carpenter.’

  Another long, long silence.

  Then Mrs Gladstone said, ‘I used to take him to the zoo when he was young.’ A sigh. ‘God will judge, but I will not.’

  Silence.

  ‘Is there any proof that Arthur killed himself?’

  ‘There is no proof of – anything.’

  Silence.

  ‘Mrs Stacey, I believe many people were made uneasy about Lord Arthur’s involvement in the – the scandal of the court case. Possibly others have also been made uneasy by his death. But – as he is dead I myself would leave poor Arthur where he is.’

  ‘As it happens, I couldn’t agree with you more, Mrs Gladstone. You asked me about his death, so I told you – something of the things that people say.’

  If the wife of the Prime Minister of England noticed the particular choice of words, she did not say. For just a moment they sat there in silence together, then Mrs Gladstone spoke.

  ‘I am certain I can arrange for Elijah Fortune to get his position back. I know my husband will be shocked by his story. I do not know your son, but I will – I will remind my husband again about his fate.’

  ‘Billy does not want to return, Mrs Gladstone. He does not have the – respect – for the place that he once held so dear. They have lost a good man, but he has decided to become a teacher.’

  ‘It seems then that the teaching profession will be fortunate. I will tell my husband that too – you may know of his passion for education.’

  Mrs Gladstone rose again now, to close one of the strangest interviews she had ever conducted.

  ‘And, Mrs Stacey, your son may, in his new profession, come to understand one day that the Houses of Parliament of this great country are run by men who were born and educated to rule and are indeed deserving of his respect.’

  Mrs Isabella Stacey rose also. ‘Like Lord Arthur Clinton.’

  ‘Like the late Lord Palmerston, like the late Sir Robert Peel, like the late Duke of Newcastle, Lord Arthur’s father. Like the late Earl of Clarendon, like Earl Granville, like the Duke of Argyll, like the Earl of Kimberley, like Baron Aberdere, like the Marquess of Hartington, and I name only a few. And, most of all, like my very honourable husband. We do not really know each other, Mrs Stacey, we live in different worlds, and it is mine that rules this country. I do not believe that you will find a dishonourable man among those I have mentioned. I have listened to your story with respect and discretion. You must treat me in the same manner.’

  Isabella Stacey saw the honour, if not the truth, in this. Elijah anyway would get his old position back. Now it was she who nodded, and put out her hand graciously. ‘Thank you, Mrs Gladstone,’ she said. ‘This is an encounter I will certainly remember always.’

  ‘I shall remember it also,’ said the wife of the Prime Minister of England. ‘May I keep the handkerchief?’

  It had remained in her hand
while they talked.

  ‘I’ll be glad to know that you have it,’ said Isabella Stacey.

  53

  Today they were in Whitehall at the home belonging to the discreet friend as his available time was very short.

  They never spoke of Arthur. But she believed he had been in some way involved in the way the trial had ended so quietly and so quickly, with her brother spoken of so respectfully, and she had rewarded him for his kindness in this matter in the ways that she knew pleased him.

  She had been holding back from telling him her news. She knew he would be out of London for most of August as absolutely everybody would be; this perhaps was the time to advise him of her condition, for it was now indeed advanced; she thought he might even have noticed. She waited till he was relaxed and mellow: a last cigar, his arm lightly resting on her breast before he returned to Marlborough House to prepare for the evening’s entertainment. The late-afternoon sun of high summer slanted across the borrowed bed that supported their noble forms.

  ‘Your Royal Highness.’ She stroked his royal face. ‘I shall miss you while you are gone, and I adore you as I have done since you were ten years old!’ He smiled lazily at this woman who had known him always, and moved his hand slightly across her breast.

  ‘Your Royal Highness. I have found that I am – with child.’

  His relaxed, gentle, loving demeanour changed in one single, absolute instant. He removed his arm and sat up.

  ‘Go to Dr Clayton now.’

  ‘I will, sir, of course.’

  His face was red with immediate anger. ‘This is most inconsiderate and inconvenient, Susan. You know that.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How long have you known?’ For a moment he looked carefully, but already with distaste, at her body. ‘Is it advanced, and you did not tell me?’

  ‘I – I have not been certain.’

  He angrily fastened his garments, gesturing to her to assist him. ‘Go to Dr Clayton and deal with it at once, this evening. – and do not under any circumstances come to Marlborough House. I do not know this. I have no knowledge of it. It is nothing at all to do with me. Only you and Dr Clayton will be involved – not one other person.’

  She dealt with his buttons. ‘Of course.’

  The cigar was already stamped out on the carpet on the floor of the discreet friend’s bedroom, a sign of terrible displeasure indeed.

  ‘I am going away,’ he said, averting his eyes from her still partially naked body. ‘It is your responsibility. I expect it to be dealt with.’

  ‘But – my dearest sir – just one warm word from you! We are such friends – you are always so kind.’

  And it was true that he was kind, many said so, and he had been kind to her a hundred times.

  But he was also the Prince of Wales and the heir to Queen Victoria. One day he would be King. Lady Susan could not have chosen a worse time to reveal her condition; she knew many of his secrets but she was not aware, as he was, that his private secretaries were already trying to deal with a dangerous blackmail attempt from his adventures in Europe. And now this. Public scandal was to be avoided at all cost.

  The cost of this would, of course, be Susan.

  ‘Susan. The public humiliation of my being called in the Mordaunt divorce case last year cannot under any circumstances be repeated. I was booed and shouted at, at the races, damn them! Booed by my own subjects! – my own one-day subjects if my mother ever leaves this earth, which is sometimes doubtful. Your idiotic, stupid, impecunious, sodomite brother is gone but not forgotten – never, ever can there be any hint of any scandalous connection between Arthur Clinton’s sister and myself! You have always known that, always!’

  He saw her devastated, disbelieving face.

  ‘But – I am not my brother. I am not Harriet Mordaunt, Your Royal Highness. I am myself.’

  He kissed her cheek very briefly. ‘I know. And you will deal with it, I know. You are not the daughter of the Duke of Newcastle for nothing. You are one of us.’

  And he was gone.

  Lady Susan Vane-Tempest emerged alone some time later from the premises in Whitehall. A carriage was waiting for the extremely pale – nay, trembling – lady. She sat back, hidden, as the carriage delivered her through the busy central London traffic, to her home in Chapel-street.

  She knew it was now too late for anything to be safely arranged by the pomade-scented Dr Clayton or anybody else.

  That is what she had done.

  54

  SCRUBBING THE STEPS in early autumn was still scrubbing, but the mornings were only crisp not cold, and sometimes a bit of cloudy sun still, and it wasn’t so hard for my hands like in dark winter when I had big chilblains and sores under the mittens Ma knitted me. And I always made our steps really really clean and we didn’t get no words like SODOMITE LOVERS writ the second time, so 13 Wakefield-street even if it couldn’t ever be quite respectable again, could be very, very clean.

  And I was singing actually.

  A jolly shoemaker, John Hobbs, John Hobbs

  A jolly shoemaker was he

  He’d married Jane Carter, no damsel looked smarter

  But he’d caught a tartar, yes he’d caught a tartar…

  I was singing because I was happy. Because Mr Tom Dent of Mr Lewis and Lewis obviously didn’t find 13 Wakefield-street like a bordello and didn’t seem to care that I limped and – he’s been courting me. And he’s so nice and so clever and so dear, and it is the loveliest feeling and we’ve even been reading Moby Dick to each other, what a hard book! But wonderful too and we talk about it as we read along. And Ma likes him and Tom and Billy talk about laws and voting and the Parliament, you should hear them! And Tom holds my hand.

  I got a big surprise at the pair of feet that came up to me scrubbing this singing day, it’s funny seeing feet and judging who they belong to – these were neat and smallish and Ernest.

  ‘Hello, Mattie.’

  Because almost always he’d been with Freddie (except that night coming home inebriated from the Holborn Casino) it was almost odd to see him by himself. ‘Hello, Ernest. Welcome to the Bordello of Wakefield-street,’ but I was smiling and just teasing.

  He was still pretty, but was in gentlemen’s clothes of course and not even a cutaway jacket. ‘Can I talk to you for a minute?’ he said politely.

  Getting up from scrubbing is that hard thing, because of the steps, I remembered Freddie helping me up once or twice. I remembered Mackie helping me up when he first arrived, and Tom Dent the very first time he came. But Ernest didn’t think like that, he waited for me to get up, looking about Wakefield-street, wondering if people were staring at him I suppose.

  ‘Ma’s not home.’

  ‘Then she will not rebuke me!’ He was only half joking.

  ‘Do you want tea?’ I said as we went into the hall.

  ‘No, no we dont need to go down there, let’s just sit in your little parlour. Who’s here? Where’s that man with the beard?’

  ‘He comes and he goes.’

  He does too, Mackie, and he insists on paying rent still even though Ma doesn’t want him to pay anything at all. But he and Ma have the big front room downstairs now that Dodo and Elijah have gone, Mackie painted it blue like the sea.

  Ernest came into the parlour, saw the piano at once, sat at the piano stool, ran his fingers over the keys. ‘Where’s that old lady who used to be in the music halls?’

  ‘They got their rooms back in the Parliament, Elijah, that was her husband, is the Head Doorkeeper again.’

  ‘Because of our acquittal.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  He looked quite pleased and proud. Of course we knew it was because of Ma’s visit to Mrs Gladstone but I didn’t tell him that. Dodo and Elijah had worried we might not be able to manage if they left but we all laughed, ‘We always manage,’ we said and we helped them – even kind Billy came with us, came back at last, to his once beloved workplace, the Houses of Parliament – to settle them back int
o that dear dark little place under the scurrying floors of the government, the red was still on the walls, and we put up the red curtains me and Ma had made and the bedcover on the bed, and we scrubbed and scrubbed till the smell of the other people was gone and Billy and Mackie painted another big table from the market red and Elijah was welcomed back by so many people like a blooming hero! And Dodo told us she missed us, but she felt happy because she had got the real Elijah back.

  And you know what? We knew a way to get into the Parliament now, if we sent Elijah a message first, through some dark alleys and a small door left unlocked, and down some corridors and sometimes we went and had cake and gossip and heard the rumbling of the drains in the basement. But we did miss them, although we all got a bit thinner.

  ‘Mattie,’ said Ernest now, ‘there were a few of our things left here I think. Maybe a gown or two?’

  ‘Oh – well, well I dont think there’s much, Ernest, well, you know the policeman took most, even your old ones. A few skirts maybe, and a petticoat and some hairpins and some “Bloom of Roses”. And a corset I think. I packed them up in one of your little bags. But that was – ages and ages ago!’ (And I had a sudden flash of memory of all the sad packed-up dresses the rude policeman took, laid out in the courtroom months and months later. Freddie’s discarded yellow dress covered in my blood.)

  Then I realised what he was asking and looked at him in amazement. ‘Are you going to dress up again? You’re mad!’

  Ernest tossed his head, that way he had. ‘I’m an actor. An actress. I’m famous – that’s what brings in audiences. I’m going on tour. I shall go about the country—’

  ‘With Freddie?’

  ‘No, not with Freddie. He is no longer interested he says. He was always best at character parts, and so now he is wearing his Matron’s costume—’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘He’s become all sombre and spends most of his time’ – here Ernest almost shuddered – ‘in Isleworth!’