by Robin Paige
Manfred had also sent several recent press clippings with the manuscripts. One, from Town Topics, was highly positive about her efforts, but the others were the usual carping criticisms that were aimed at any new thing—especially a new thing that was thought of by a woman. One critic wrote that it was “presumptuous” to think that a mere woman could bear so significant an editorial burden. Another thought that while Lady Randolph was “splendidly fit” to handle the editorial side of The Review, her management skills would be proven sadly lacking. Jennie bridled at both these criticisms, but she did not take them personally. They were the sort of thing that small-minded men wrote about large-minded women. In fact, criticisms and oppositions such as these only strengthened Jennie’s commitment to dear Maggie, and her resolve to make the magazine the very best in the entire world.
But neither the manuscripts nor the press clippings could hold her attention. Instead, she found herself drawn to the passionate, pleading note she had received from George, less than an hour ago, hand-delivered by a messenger. It lay beside her on the desk now, carefully typed, as if George did not trust himself to write for fear that his emotions might overpower his hand. She took it up to read it for the third time.
My dearest, darling Jennie—
I respect your wish not to see me, sweetheart, just as I respect your every wish and desire. But I must plead my case & try to persuade you to reconsider.
By now, Lord Charles has most likely told you what happened, but I need to be sure that you understand that I never intended to spy on you. When I discovered that you were going to Cleveland Street, I fell into the disgraceful misapprehension that you were going to visit a lover. I cannot explain how this wrong idea came into my head, except to say that I was seized by a jealousy so intense that it blotted out all reason. I left your house and rushed to Cleveland Street. I found a place where I could watch, and after you came out and got into your carriage, I went up the stairs and came on the same appalling sight that must have greeted you—a man, dead, with a knife in his back.
You can imagine my shock and horror, dear Jennie. Not that I thought that you had committed the deed! No, never in my wildest imaginings could I think that! But I was nearly overcome by the fearful apprehension that you might have been seen by others, and I have scarcely been able to sleep a wink since—especially because I did not know where you were and could not assure you of my undying love and support!
I know how intolerably I behaved last night, and I can only beg you to think of my anguish in the past few days, knowing that you are in trouble and finding myself powerless to help. Forgive me, my own precious Jennie, and take me back into your heart and your arms, for the thought of life without you is appallingly hateful. Neither of us can ever be free of the other, my dear. I remain, eternally, devotedly,
Your own George
Should she, would she, forgive him and take him back? Jennie’s sigh was a mixture of frustration and perplexity and she threw down the note with an impatient gesture. Since she had known George, her life had not been her own. He had pursued her, written to her, sent gifts and flowers, and embarrassed her with his attentions. But whatever his jealousies, she knew that George could not have killed Finch. The man had been newly dead when she found him, and George had been with her since the evening before. Anyway, George would never have stabbed Finch in the back. If he had raced to Cleveland Street before her to confront the man, he would have insisted on having satisfaction, however illegal dueling might be. As far as the Finch affair was concerned, there was, in Jennie’s opinion, not a very great deal to forgive except for a moment’s impetuosity.
But that wasn’t the entire question, was it? Jennie sat back in her chair, frowning. Forgiving George was one thing, but taking him back was quite another. If she were going to break off the relationship, now was the best time to do it, when she could justify her decision by citing his jealousy. And there was certainly enough good reason to break it off. None of her friends thought the connection a suitable one, and even the Prince (who, God knew, had had enough unsuitable liaisons of his own!) had taken it upon himself to warn her that she risked social censure if she continued to be seen in public with a young man the age of her son. Already the invitations to country-house weekends were beginning to taper off, as people understood that an invitation to Lady Randolph meant as well an invitation to her young lieutenant. Randolph’s family were clearly distressed at the thought of her being connected with a man with no fortune of his own. And even Winston, who had supported her so wholeheartedly in other family crises, had made a point of stating the obvious: that whatever George’s merits, the ability to support a wife was not among them. “We must frankly face the fact that we are poor, Mama,” he had written. “If you marry a young man with no prospects, who cannot help you to pay that seventeen-thousand-pound note, you are both likely to be dragged down by the debt.” And of course, her connection with George held the very real possibility of social embarrassment for Winston, whose political career was in that vulnerable period of incubation. From that point of view, he was right to point this out.
But it was exactly this attitude on the part of her family and her so-called friends that made Jennie angry—angry enough, at this moment, to toss her pen onto the desk and begin pacing up and down in front of the sofa where she had rejected George the night before. Her spirit recoiled from the idea that she must choose a husband from the ranks of the men who could afford to marry a lady of her standing. Even more, she was repelled by the thought that Society believed it could dictate to her what she might or might not choose to do. The gall of Daisy Warwick, of all people, advising her to look for more suitable lovers of her own age, as if her heart could be subject to her intellect! The audacity of the Prince, kind-hearted and well-meaning as he was, to write to her that a liaison with George would be both mischievous and foolish, and that it would cost her the royal friendship! Couldn’t they see, these “frightfully concerned” friends of hers, that their very opposition propelled her in a direction exactly opposite to their wishes? Couldn’t Winston, who was so much like her, understand that to contradict his mother was to ensure that she would become even more fixed in her resolve?
For Jennie Churchill knew herself well enough to know that she was compelled by contraries, and that when her will was opposed, her will grew diabolically strong. It had happened when she first met Randolph, so many years ago at the Cowes regatta, when she was scarcely nineteen. When he proposed after only three days’ acquaintance, her mother had positively put down her foot, and the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough had adamantly refused their permission, even going so far as to threaten to cut off Randolph’s allowance. But of course, these refusals had accomplished the opposite purpose, hardening Jennie’s resolve to have the man she loved, whatever the opposition and whatever the cost. The same thing had happened a good many other times since, whenever she wanted to do something or go somewhere or become someone, and was denied. At these times, something inside her rose up ferociously to defend her right to make a fool of herself, if that was what it amounted to. But it was her right, and she would have it, and that was all there was to say about it!
And in that spirit—knowing that she was very likely making a blunder from which she might never recover, knowing that she was acting out of willfulness rather than wisdom and that her action should certainly have strong negative consequences for Winston and Jack—Jennie sailed back to the desk, shoulders straight, chin high, and picked up her pen to write:
Dear foolish, impetuous George,
Of course you are forgiven, from the bottom of my heart. You write so passionately and with such force that I can deny you nothing. Only wait a little while, until Lord Charles has ended this ugly business, and I promise you that all shall be right between us.
God bless you, my love, my own,
from your loving Jennie
29
Letter from Colonel J.P. Brabazon to Winston Spencer Churchill upon the successful conclusion of
Winston’s suit for slander against A.C. Bruce-Prycer 9 March, 1896:
My dear Boy:
I cannot tell you what intense pleasure your telegram gave to me & what a very great relief it was also .... For one cannot touch pitch without soiling one’s hands however clean they may have originally been and the world is so ill natured & suspicious that there would always have been found some ill natured sneak or perhaps some d—d good natured friend to hem & ha! & wink over it—perhaps in years to come, when everyone even yourself had forgotten all about the disagreeable incident ...
Ever my dear boy Yrs,
J.P. Brabazon
Carrying a small bag containing a clean shirt and his shaving things, Winston turned out of Great Cumberland Road and headed in the direction of Paddington Station, which was so near that there was no sense going to the bother of a cab. He was on his way to Bath to address a gathering of the Primrose League sponsored by a Party man named H.D. Skrine, a one-night stay only, but no less important for that. It was his maiden effort for the Tories—officially, that is, for he had already made several other informal speeches, to see what response there might be to his entry into the political arena. Ordinarily, the event should have brought him great joy in the anticipation, but what had happened the night before had changed all that. And even though he tried to push the memory of what his mother had told him out of his mind, it kept rearing up like a savage dog, to chew away at him.
It was too damn bad she couldn’t have saved the news until he’d delivered his address at Bath, Winston thought, resentment mixing with his fear and sadness. As it was, it would be bloody hard to keep his mind on his speech. And so much was riding on this showing of his! Oliver Borthwick at the Morning Post was sending a reporter, which meant that the small and relatively unimportant local event would receive full coverage. This news—which had thankfully come before his mother told him about the fraudulent accusations against his father, or he could not have properly concentrated on writing his speech—had raised both Winston’s sense of anticipation and his level of anxiety, and he had spent a great many hours working out his thoughts. He was especially proud of the combative tone of the piece and sure that one sentence, in particular, would catch the Post’s attention: “England will gain far more from the rising tide of Tory Democracy than from the dried-up drain-pipe of Radicalism.” He repeated this splendid sentence to himself as he strode up Baker Street, thinking how much his father would have appreciated the sound and the sense of this pungent assessment of the Radicals. But the thought of his father brought back the ugly memory of his mother’s revelation, and he fell into an even darker despair that still held him in its clutches as he turned off Praed Street into the station.
Paddington was crowded, as usual. It was the terminus from which Society embarked on special trains for royal functions at Windsor and holiday-seekers took second- and third-class carriages for the Cornish coast. It was also an Underground station, having initiated the first service of the Metropolitan Railway, so there was a great deal of City traffic. But for all the crowds and hurly-burly, Winston had no difficulty identifying the top-hatted, frock-coated reporter, a Mr. Reginald Carlson, who had stationed himself under the three-sided clock above Platform One. They were to travel down together, so they consulted the departure board and purchased tickets for Reading, where they would change for Swindon and Bath.
Winston had never been very good at dissembling, but knowing that he had better do his best to impress Carlson, he put on a cheerful face. He had expected that there might be a bit of introductory chitchat with the reporter, but that he should soon be left alone to read through his speech. When they were settled in the cream-and-chocolate railway carriage, however, he discovered that the journalist—who appeared to be a cross between a political reporter and a Society columnist—wanted to talk, and that he had already selected a topic of conversation. They were scarcely out of the station when he broached it.
“I understand,” he said, “that your mother means to marry young Comwailis-West.” He leaned forward and tweaked Winston’s sleeve. “What d’you think of the match, eh, Churchill? No older than you, is he?”
The question caught Winston completely off his guard. Stammering his surprise, he managed, “Means to marry! Well, sir, you know more than I do, I must say! I saw Lady Randolph just last night, and she never mentioned it. In fact,” he went on, rapidly inventing, “I understand that she has a much different romantic interest these days, although of course I am not at liberty to speak of it.”
“Not at liberty, eh?” Reginald Carlson said indignantly. “Well, I like that! Lady Randy is the most-talked about lady in this kingdom. Everybody is demanding to know who she means to marry, and when. It’ll be quite a story when it breaks.” He folded his arms with a hard look. “Here I am, going to all the trouble of covering this little political rally in Bath, giving you a good angle in the news and all that—and you won’t even let me in on your mother’s marriage plans?”
“Perhaps she doesn’t plan to marry at all,” Winston said sharply, incensed by this irritating bit of blackmail. “She is fully occupied with her launch of The Anglo-Saxon Review. If you want to write of anything concerning my mother, write of that.”
“The way I hear it, she is occupied with her launch of yet another Churchill into politics,” Carlson replied. “It must be a nerve-wearing bit of business, all those dinner parties and string-pullings and bread-butterings.” He broke into a horsy laugh. “But she’s done a commendable job, by all accounts, to get you ready for politics. ‘Young Randy’ is what they’re calling you.” He gave Winston an arch look. “A chip off the old block, is that what you fancy yourself? Think you can measure up, do you?”
This incredible cheek was enough for Winston, whose temper was beginning to rise. “I believe, sir,” he said haughtily, “that I should prefer to go over my speech. Perhaps you shall give me leave to attend to it.”
Carlson laughed again, more offensively. “Well, then,” he said, “I s’pose I’ll just have to read the newspaper.” He unfolded a copy of the Post. “Did you see this morning’s story about the racing scandal at Aldershot?”
Winston had already taken out his speech, but the question caught him short. “The ... racing scandal?” he asked. A chill went through him.
“Right. The Fourth Hussars Challenge Cup.” Carlson looked over the top of the paper, his eyes glinting. “Wasn’t there a similar problem with one of these Challenges when you were with the Fourth at Aldershot? Seems to me I remember reading something about it in Labouchère’s rag. Wasn’t it a rigged race?” He paused. “And wasn’t there something else, too? Something about harassment or bullying or some such? Bruce-Pryce, I believe the man’s name was.”
Carlson’s questions now seemed not just irritating and offensive, but sinister, for he had, intentionally or unintentionally, happened upon one of Winston’s guilty secrets. Three years before, he had been implicated in a regimental racing scandal—and then, scarcely a month later, in a much more disgraceful episode involving the bullying of another Aldershot subaltern named Bruce-Pryce, who was in consequence drummed out of the regiment. The elder Bruce-Pryce, blaming Winston for this reprehensible treatment of his son, wrote an angry letter accusing him of acts of gross immorality of the Oscar Wilde type. The War Office had not acted in either the racing or the harassment matters and had thankfully turned a blind eye to the accusations of immorality. Winston had immediately engaged George Lewis, a solicitor who was particularly sought after because of his ability to settle seamy matters out of court, and for often quite astounding sums. Lewis had sued the elder Bruce-Pryce for libel and forced him to pay damages. But it had been a near thing—a very near thing—and Winston trembled still to think of it.
Pretending that he hadn’t heard Carlson’s questions, Winston rattled his papers, settled himself into the window corner,and affected a deep preoccupation with his work. But he could no more keep his mind on it than he could fly to the moon. It wasn’t
just Carlson’s outrageous and disrespectful allegations about his mother that distracted him, or even last night’s shocking story about a forged photograph of his father with one of the Ripper victims and his mother’s payments to some person named Byrd or Finch or some such, who had got himself murdered—a murder of which she might yet be accused.
No, no. Far worse than these were Carlson’s other questions about that desperate business at Aldershot. Oh, God, why had this happened now, when his political prospects seemed so perfectly ripe, so ready for the plucking? If Carlson resurrected any of that shameful conduct of which he’d been charged—rigging a Cup race, harassment, immorality—it would be enough to sink him, on the spot and without a trace. Worse still, it would invite the attention of that other man, who by his testimony could destroy Winston’s entire life simply by revealing what he alone knew, which was much blacker than any of the black marks yet struck against his record. And now that this man was so intimately involved with his mother’s affairs, it seemed to Winston that the risk of betrayal was growing daily. He had to do something to silence this possible Judas. But what could he do?
What could he do?
30
“Fancy living in one of these streets, never seeing anything beautiful, never eating anything savory, never saying anything clever.”
WINSTON CHURCHILL to Eddy Marsh
while walking in the slums of Manchester