She was first struck by his kindly eyes, not that she trusted appearances. His oblong face, his dimples, yes he had dimples and they were so fetching. He too had been immediately attracted to her when they first met in Belgrave Square. Charles was giving a feast to commemorate The Glorious First of June, when his ancestor the inept Lord Howe defeated the even less gifted French Admiral Villaret in a decisive sea battle.
The conduct of the man could not be faulted, Harriet explained. Having noticed how she was following his every movement with her eyes, he bowed, smiled and casually mentioned his “dear wife Charlotte Marion”. He took great care to avoid being in Harriet’s orbit, striving to be never more than three steps away from the afore-named Charlotte.
‘But you know my perverse nature, Irene, I took that as a challenge. I think it was at Marlborough House that I finally got him all to myself. Charlotte Marion had gone to her family in Scotland. The poor fellow who was so much in love with his wife needed comforting, I told myself.’ Harriet said she also wanted to show Bertie that there were other men she preferred to him.
‘Anyway we ended up in Belgrave Square and as I had no idea where Charles was, we ... well, actually I seduced him. The poor man was in all states afterwards. What had he done? How was he going to look Charlotte Marion in the eye? “Don’t,” I advised, “look at her fat legs” ’.
Harriet realised that for the first time in her life she had fallen in love. Dimples was just as besotted with her. He could not stay away from her. ‘I was like the moth, unable to move away from the flame all the time knowing that it was bad for my wings.’ She had no compunction. She stopped feeling guilty.
‘I kept telling myself that Dimples had been put on earth for my sole benefit,’ she said. ‘Charlotte Marion was not the first woman who was going to lose her husband to another woman. I had lost mine to a horse. She was young and pretty—as long as she hid her dumpy legs—and rich beyond belief. She’d have no end of new suitors. I was determined to get them divorced in order to usher in a new dawn for me, for us.’ Yes, she contemplated divorce.
The Viscount agreed. ‘Yes, I’ll talk to Charlotte, and ask her for a divorce even if it would damage my prospects.’
‘Did he say that?’
‘What’s wrong with that, Irene? We live in the real world, not in Mr More’s Utopia. Why can’t a man aspire to honours?’
‘Well, you didn’t always think so.’
‘That’s what being in love means. I learnt to put him first.’
Anyway they gave themselves wholeheartedly to each other, and-
‘And you became pregnant.’ I ventured a guess.
‘They won’t let me see Victoria now,’ Harriet said tears streaking down her cheeks with the suddenness and speed of a summer storm. The pregnancy, which Harriet had once thought was going to solve all her problems, was the trigger that shot the bullet that breached the dam that overpowered her with all the force of its cataclysm carrying away all her dreams of happiness in its wake.
‘Every night, I’d dream I was in this field I used to saunter around in my childhood, admiring flowers and butterflies. The flowers had all gone and instead there were marshes full of excrement everywhere. The butterflies had changed into angry wasps attacking me from everywhere, stinging me on the neck, on my arms, my face, penetrating my bodice and sticking needles into my breasts.’
After the birth, she continued, they took Victoria away without even letting her hold her. Dimples did not to contest the paternity claim and sent word that he would look after her with care and devotion. Charles informed Harriet that he was starting divorce proceedings, urging her to keep quiet about her liaison with Bertie. The reputation of the monarchy must be preserved at all costs, he said solemnly. Harriet angrily replied that Bertie could do that himself by stopping indulging his lust with underage girls. He finally sent for Father to discuss matters with him.
‘My poor father,’ Harriet lamented. ‘Whatever his failings, he could not be said not to love his children, all sixteen of us. His chief preoccupation in life was to get us girls advantageously married. He entertained great hopes to the effect that my own union to Mordaunt would have enhanced the prospects of the others.’ Now, having an acknowledged adulteress in the family, one who had borne a child out of wedlock to boot, his paternal aspirations had taking a wrong turning and found themselves in a dead-end. So it was with trepidation that he took the Great Northern Railway for London.
Charles received him with great courtesy at Belgrave Square. When the old man had dined and rested, the two men were closeted in the library with a decanter of cognac, cigars and mints. Harriet owes the intelligence of what transpired to Jonas the butler and his wife Bertha who were both devoted to her.
‘You can’t do this to us, Charles my boy,’ Sir Thomas said. ‘You can’t have thought of her sisters... why they’re your sisters too old chap. Who will marry them now?’ Jonas told her that Mordaunt was the epitome of courtesy and was very sympathetic to the family’s plight. He never once reproached the baronet for Harriet’s trespasses, something which might suggest a lack of vindictiveness on his part. However, on mature reflection, Harriet understood that sire and spouse had joined forces in order to stop a messy court case which might drag the good name of the royal heir into the mud. This was seen as something which would have been damaging to both men, for the arm of the monarchy is very long and the fist at its end can dispense with a punitive punch.
They discussed the situation late into the night and in the end found a compromise. An adulteress in the family was unacceptable, but strangely, mental deficiency was not deemed to be a family trait.
They would both have liked her confined at the Sacred Bough, in a locked room, but in the end they agreed that there was enough malevolence in the world for people to begin whispering that it was a ploy to cover for her “innate wickedness”. Mordaunt knew of an asylum in Chiswick near London and offered to arrange everything. If Harriet was committed and this was made public, the prospects of the other Moncreiffe girls would be much improved.
She was much perturbed by this intelligence imparted to her by Jonas. Anything was better than being locked up in an asylum for the rest of her life. One clear option was to bolt and disappear in the big city and earn her crust as an actress. Arabella would obviously be under pressure to shun her, something she may or may not agree to, but Harriet would take a chance. How would she live with herself if her dear sweet Caroline was rejected by her Paul Percy, or if the other sisters whom she loved equally dearly were left on the shelf because the Moncreiffe blood was deemed tainted with infamy? Before the first ray of dawn began to filter through the sycamores, her mind was made up. Our Lord gave up everything to save the world. She, Harriet Moncreiffe who had been guilty of so many corruptions, will sacrifice herself for the happiness of her sisters and agree to the terms suggested by the two men.
Sir Charles had then agreed not to sue for the divorce on the grounds of adultery with a number of co-respondents which included Bertie, but cited mental aberrations instead. Although he had fallen out with the prince over a horse that Charles had bought for himself even after having heard the prince expressing an interest in it, he was not going to allow the name of his erstwhile friend dragged into court. He had instructed his lawyer to claim that his wife had acted in a manner that clearly demonstrated mental weakness. After the shortest of formalities, the judge saw no impediment to the severance of the bonds of matrimony. The baronet then took his disgraced daughter to Edinburgh by train and thence to the Hills of the Sacred Bough by hansom.
When the time came, Sir Thomas summoned all her brothers and sisters and her mother as well as the servants who were all devoted to her and solemnly told them to imagine that Harriet was going into a convent for the rest of her life. It had been confirmed by expert doctors in London that she suffered from a form of madness. She remembered thinking, why is he carrying out this charade when everybody knew all there was to know about the situation. She kis
sed everybody, even the male servants, with dry eyes.
In Chiswick she underwent tests and was put under observation. She was duly diagnosed by no less than three experts in the field as suffering from manie sans délire as well as morbid perversion which carried with them the risk of dangerous self-harm. This necessitated a round the clock surveillance.
‘But I found that the nurses and maids were very nice to me,’ she said. This came as no surprise to me. The Thelma that I knew at the Alhambra would probably have nothing to fear if the door of the Tiger House at the London Zoo were left open. She could charm anybody, anything, effortlessly. That new fashionable word charisma would aptly describe that little je-ne-sais-quoi which people instantly recognised in her.
‘They would do anything for me the moment they knew what I wanted, even before I opened my mouth,’ she said merrily. ‘It was very comforting. I made a big effort not to let despondency or anger rule my life. I meant to lead a meaningful life, but knew that it would not take long for me to become possessed by that frenzy which has given me so many hours of sexual bliss and, simultaneously, so much torment.’
There was only one thing to do. Return to God whom she had forsaken but who she hoped had not forsaken her. She had her books and spent hours reading and re-reading them under the large chestnut tree in the garden. The austere Regency building itself was not huge, nothing like the Sacred Bough, let alone Walton Hall, but it was surrounded by a high wall. She was allowed to sit under the tree, and when it was not freezing, she would spend hours there reading or just staring at the trees and flowers. Sometimes little birds and butterflies would flit by to say hello and she found that filled her with happiness and peace. There would usually be one nurse with her, often her favourite Maggie, a small giggly harmless thing.
Every morning she would shut herself in her room—she was given her own room— ‘I expect Father was paying a lot for my upkeep, but I never asked’—and would lie prostrate on the cold floor, her hands outstretched in front, doing penance, emptying her mind of everything. She took up knitting and made socks for her sisters in the hope that she might be allowed to send the finished product to them some day. She had been told not to expect any contact from anybody.
Thomas à Kempis’ tomes, Imitation of Christ kept her company in the night. The halls were lit by Mr Swan’s electric bulbs but the bedrooms were only lit by candles. She had picked a copy of Mr Stevenson’s Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde in Perthshire and never tired of rereading it. The theme reminded her of her own plight, how she had always tried to be good and chaste, but always failed, allowing corruption to possess her soul. She was two persons in one, each struggling to get the upper hand. She hoped that deep down she was that innocent little girl who used to run circles round her nanny at the Sacred Bough, whom everybody called “our Little Ladyship.”
At sunset Harriet was usually overcome by melancholia, and often found herself on the verge of tears. She took great care not to let on to anybody about this. Whenever she felt that she could hold in her tears no longer, she would rush to the powder rooms, sit on Mr Crapper’s bowl and cry her heart out. This usually brought some solace. She also found that tears diminished her sexual cravings.
This was Harriet’s life for the first nine months of her incarceration. She never once attempted to seduce anybody, but lived in fear of being unable to keep this up. ‘I was beginning to watch gardeners and handymen. My family had made no attempt to get in touch, it was as if I never existed,’ she said sadly. ‘Father had warned me about this: “It’s for your own good. The sooner you forget us the better for everybody.” He meant there was no way I could regain my foothold in society. Even Robinson Crusoe, after all those years on his island, managed to find his way back to England, so I never lost hope.’
‘One afternoon, instead of shutting myself in the powder room for my weeping session, which was becoming more frequent, I started thinking of means of escape. I remembered how well we got on, you and I,’ she told me. She wrote a letter to my old address in Bethnal Green, but obviously there was no response, as I had moved to Water Lane. She had vaguely entertained a hope that the theatre would be her ultimate salvation, and prayed that I would be able to help her re-entry into that world. Not getting a response from me, she began to entertain thoughts of suicide.
She had been interested in the act of suicide from an early age. Her interest in theology had made her aware of the many philosophical questions facing humanity, but with her optimistic outlook on life, she had never really considered it as a solution to life’s crises. Until now, that is. Whilst Saul and Sampson had recourse to self-immolation and this was not seen as sinful, St Augustine stated that it went against the “Thou shalt not kill” commandment. Thomas Aquinas shared this view, calling it unpardonable. For a while, her opinion was finely balanced. She would make another attempt to get herself on an even keel first, before making up her mind. She had already started considering the means of achieving her end.
‘But it’s too gruesome, so let’s not talk about it.’
Against all odds, some dear soul in Bethnal Green forwarded her letter to the Alhambra, and it finally got to me. I replied immediately, care of Maggie Hardy as directed. Of course I’ll find a way to visit you, I rashly promised, knowing that there was an interdiction on visits.
I posed the conundrum to the Club, and it was again Bartola who found the solution. The following Monday, a hansom cab arrived at the secure gate of the Asylum in Chiswick and demanded entry.
‘Dr Herman Von Ernst from Vienna and Nurse Adelheid Freud to visit Lady Mordaunt,’ Vissarionovich said in an unconvincing German accent, but it passed muster nonetheless, and we were allowed in. Matron came to greet us, and seemed delighted when the faux Viennese savant kissed her hands. He explained that Lord Mordaunt was worried about his wife, and had arranged for us to come all the way from Vienna to see her. Matron, overwhelmed by the foreigner’s charm, did not even wonder why his Lordship had not informed her about it. She said that she was indeed worried about her charge and that our visit was very timely as she had never seen her so depressed since she arrived in Chiswick.
The moment we were closeted in Harriet’s room she cried and laughed at the same time. We hugged and kissed and jumped in the air like real demented folks in an asylum.
We asked Matron for permission to walk with her in the garden and we expounded our plan to her. As we were leaving Matron came to say good-bye and promised to write to both Lord Mordaunt and Sir Thomas about our visit.
‘Matron,’ Vissarionovich said holding her hand in his for longer than may have been deemed proper, ‘with your heavy schedule, spare yourself that trouble. I will write a long report myself to Lord Mordaunt, copied to Sir Thomas and to your good self. I’ll never forgive myself if I let you use your valuable time in that superfluous task. Your mission is too important. Promise me you won’t.’ The good woman giggled happily and duly promised.
‘We have made some progress,’ the Viennese specialist explained, but we need to come for a second visit.’ Matron was delighted. ‘Please do, Herr Doktor Von Ernst, we will be expecting you, guden arbend, bitter shun...’ she cackled merrily.
‘Absolutely, ma’am we could do with a bit of sun,’ said my Russian companion who had very little German, but this had Matron in hysterics as she spluttered. ‘What marvellous sense of humour you Germans have. Bit of sun indeed.’
Naturally we were warmly received when we returned three days later. We had thought that even if Matron had not kept her promise, three days would not have been enough for her to have discovered our little fraud. This time, the Herr Doktor said that we would take Harriet for a short visit to the outside world. He took full responsibility for this. Matron laughed.
‘Whose hands could be called safer than yours, Herr Doktor?’
We had arranged a big welcome for Harriet in Water Lane, where all the members of the Club had assembled, to celebrate her rescue in style. We had previously discussed the arrangements with
our kidnappee and she had been very keen on it. She was to stay in Water Lane and not move out except after watertight measures ensuring her safety had been taken.
For three weeks we did not allow her to venture outside, not even after dark. As we had expected, the moment they were apprised of the disappearance, Sir Thomas and Lord Mordaunt joined forces in an attempt to locate her. We heard that the police had questioned the staff at the Asylum at great lengths, to no avail.
Unsurprisingly, Sherlock Holmes was drafted in on the act. By a happy coincidence I had gone to the Alhambra to talk to PQR about a part and was next door when I heard Joe come into his office, separated by the thinnest of walls from where I was waiting, to announce Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. I stealthily twitched the curtain to see the great man. He was exactly as I had seen him at Baker’s Gallery when we had stolen the Millais painting. I daresay he was even wearing the same suit. Dr Watson looked lugubrious with his half-closed eyes firmly directed towards his shoes, but when he raised his head and opened them, you saw that they sparkled with kindness and good humour. Once they were closeted with the theatre director, I approached my ears and listened. It appears that Sir Thomas had come down to London and visited Holmes in Baker Street. He had entrusted him with the task of locating his wayward daughter and taking her back to Chiswick. ‘I don’t need to tell you that I suspect that she has been kidnapped by some foreign gangs and won’t be surprised to get a ransom demand soon,’ Sir Thomas seemed to have told Holmes. At first Paul Quentin truthfully said that he had no recollection of the Scottish noblewoman, since he knew her as Thelma, and Holmes had to explain it to him.
‘I am of course quite determined to find the errant lady,’ Holmes told PQR. ‘If you have any intelligence of her whereabouts, I shall be grateful to hear it.’
The Memoirs of Irene Adler: The Irene Adler Trilogy Page 17