by Clare Clark
Maribel had found that, as long as she was careful not to think about it, it did not matter so very much. Edward was a good husband. She had not had to endure, as William Morris had endured, while his wife conducted an impassioned affair with his dearest friend in the house the Morrises had rented as a summer retreat, or come home, like Jennie Churchill, to find naked girls in her bathtub. She knew she was fortunate. For all their disdain of the ordinary conventions of marriage their friends longed to be happy. They envied Edward and Maribel their ease and affection, the evident pleasure they took in one another’s company, the freedom of their lives unencumbered by children. Everyone knew that the Campbell Lowes were devoted to one another. If Maribel had a rival it was only the Houses of Parliament, who proved too frequently a demanding and ill-tempered mistress. As for the other – well, such places were not so very different from the Reform Club or the Athenaeum, private clubs where gentlemen might seek some relief from the heavy responsibilities of work and family. The wife that refused her husband the freedom of such establishments was either a duchess or a damned fool.
5
ON THE DAY THAT they were to attend the Wild West Edward woke in good humour, unable to conceal his enthusiasm. The show had opened its rehearsals to reporters and the newspapers had been full of breathless accounts of its wonders: of trick-riding and sharp-shooting, of buffalo-hunting and steer-roping, of the blood-curdling spectacle of a whooping stampede of war-bonneted Indians as they attacked the Deadwood Stage. They raved about the doll-sized Annie Oakley who could shoot the ash off a cigar while standing on her head and whose coup de maître was to stand with her back turned to a man holding up a playing card in his fingers which she then shot, a mirror in one hand and her inverted rifle in the other, straight through the centre of the card. As for the cowboys dared with mounting the wild, unbroken horses in the ring, it was plain that Edward would have given anything to have the chance to do just the same himself.
As usual Alice brought the post and fresh tea. Edward glanced at the envelopes, separating their piles. Maribel emptied her teacup and lifted the lid of the pot. It was not yet strong enough. Opposite her Edward frowned, tapping one of the envelopes against his fingertips. Then he set it on the top of her pile and handed it across the table. It had been addressed to Mrs Edward Campbell Lowe, care of the House of Commons. Someone had forwarded it to Cadogan Mansions. The words PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL were printed across the envelope in capital letters.
‘It is one thing to send love letters to a married woman,’ he said with a raised eyebrow. ‘It is quite another to expect his clerk to act as go-between.’
The letter was written on the same heavy stationery as the first, the familiar handwriting once more positioned precisely in the centre of the envelope. Maribel stared at it, her tea forgotten.
Edward went back to his newspaper. Without raising his eyes, he poured milk into his tea and stirred, setting the spoon back in his saucer. Then he lifted the cup and took a sip. Maribel rested her chin on her cupped hands. The sour smell of the marmalade was making her feel sick.
‘How marvellous,’ Edward said. ‘After the Wild West preview the Times reporter asked Chief Red Shirt what he had thought of the British Parliament. The Indian pondered for a while and then answered that he had not thought it very magnificent. “Laws,” he said, “could be made much more quickly in my country than in England.”’
Maribel tried to smile. Her face felt stiff. Her mother had written to her at the House of Commons. Whatever it was she had to say it was plain that she intended to say it.
Edward put down his newspaper and wiped his fingers on his napkin.
‘It is time I was going,’ he said, pushing back his chair. ‘I shall pick you up at four.’
‘Don’t go, Red. Not quite yet.’
‘Oh?’
‘There is something I have to talk to you about.’
‘Ah. So it is an admirer.’
‘What is?’
‘The letter. I notice you haven’t opened it yet.’
Maribel clasped her hands together, pressing her knuckles hard against her chin.
‘It’s not from an admirer. I wish it was.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s from my mother.’
Edward stared at her.
‘Your mother? Are you quite sure?’
‘She is coming to London. She wants me to call on her.’
‘And you know all this without opening the envelope? I’m impressed.’
‘Don’t. She wrote before. A week ago, perhaps two. I didn’t tell you. I – I didn’t know how. She knew about us. I wrote years ago, when we were first married. I should have told you then, I know I should, but I was ashamed. It was such a stupid, reckless thing to do. I thought – it was just that I wanted her to know that I was not dead. Or worse. I never thought she would ever write back. I am sorry.’
‘Bo, look at me.’
Maribel sighed. Then slowly she lifted her gaze from the tablecloth.
‘I shan’t see her,’ she said quietly. ‘You needn’t worry about that.’
‘What is it that she wants?’
‘She doesn’t say. Only that she would not ask if it were not important.’
Edward considered his plate, one finger tapping out a rhythm against its rim. Then he looked up. Reaching across the table, he put his hand on hers.
‘Then you should go,’ he said.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Bo, your mother was willing to sacrifice her own daughter to avert a scandal. She would not ask if she did not think it essential.’
‘To her, perhaps. If the truth were to come out it would finish your career.’
‘I seem to be doing a pretty decent job of that without your mother’s assistance.’
Maribel smiled faintly.
‘There is no reason why anyone should find out,’ he said firmly. ‘Not if you are both careful. I don’t imagine you intend to make a habit of it.’
‘No. But why now? And why risk meeting? What is wrong with writing a letter?’
‘There are some things that cannot be said in a letter.’
She looked at him, the fear passing over her face like a shadow.
‘You don’t think – ?’
‘There is no purpose in guessing,’ he said gently. ‘Go and see her. Let her say whatever it is she has to say. It will not be happy news, I fear, but if she has asked to meet you I do not think you can refuse her. How should we live with ourselves if we were to prove ourselves more cowardly than her?’
Major Burke escorted Maribel and Edward to the rear of the tent, where Cody was welcoming his guests. Unlike the inverted cones of the Indian tepees, Buffalo Bill’s tent was large and luxuriously appointed, its canvas walls hung with trophies and the floor spread with animal skins upon which were arranged a number of comfortable armchairs fashioned from hide and buffalo horn. Waiters moved among the crowd with trays of drinks, plates of sandwiches and biscuits. The room was already very full.
‘I’ll leave you here if I may,’ Burke said with a bow. A portly man, he wore a wideawake hat tipped to one side, beneath which tightly curled hair spilled in dark profusion over his collar. He had a long scar on one plump cheek and a magnificent stomach which he advertised with a startlingly extravagant waistcoat of gold and purple brocade. His moustaches reached almost to his chin.
‘Major Burke is the reason every baronet and beggar in London has heard of Buffalo Bill,’ Edward murmured to Maribel as they waited to shake Cody’s hand. ‘They say that in America he musters more press attention for Cody in a day than President Cleveland’s staff can manage in a month.’
The show had been a triumph. From the very first procession, with the full company on horseback galloping around the arena at breakneck speed, yelling and whooping, to the final defeat of the Indians by the newly established pioneers, the audience had sat transfixed. They had marvelled at the skill of the shooters, the pluck of the cowboys as they raced their
horses and roped wild steers and held on for their lives as their wild ponies bucked and plunged about the arena. But it was the Indian attacks that kept them on the edge of their seats. As a train of covered wagons was attacked by hostile Indians on horseback in full warpaint, brandishing tomahawks and firing rifles into the air, the round-eyed spectators had gasped as one, and when, in the nick of time, Buffalo Bill on his white stallion dashed to their rescue, his company of scouts behind him, the entire grandstand had erupted in wild applause. Even Maribel had found herself clapping, caught up in the thrill of it. Beside her Edward had cheered like a schoolboy, his hair standing up from his forehead in eager tufts.
Cody greeted Edward like an old friend, grasping his hand and pumping it hard. When Edward was able to extract himself he drew Maribel forward so that he might introduce her. Cody took her hand, bringing her fingers to his lips, and bowed, his eyes sweeping appreciatively across her throat and chest.
‘You never told me your wife was so beautiful,’ Cody said to Edward, who smiled and gingerly flexed the fingers of his right hand.
‘My husband pays me not the least attention at the moment and you are entirely to blame,’ Maribel said, laughing. ‘He has eyes only for the Wild West.’
‘Ma’am, if that is even a little bit true then we are set for success beyond my wildest dreams.’
‘Is there any question of that? You are the toast of the town.’
Cody grinned.
‘This week maybe. Till the next new excitement comes along.’
‘Whoever that is will have their work cut out. Your show is perfectly thrilling.’
‘Well, ma’am, it’s the truth and that, I think, is the secret to it. No acting or sham, just an exact reproduction of life on the frontier as we have lived it.’
‘A romantic version, though, surely?’
‘There’s fewer chimneys in the West, that’s true, and not such a crowd of Englishmen either, but all else wise it’s the genuine article.’
Maribel smiled. To her surprise she had enjoyed herself enormously. She had not wanted to come, had complained several times to Edward when he collected her that she had not the faintest interest in cowboys. As they inched their way through the traffic to Earls Court her mood had worsened. From South Kensington railway station the crush of carriages had choked the Old Brompton Road, the press of pedestrians seething among them like boiling porridge. The shouts of drivers and the rattle of conveyances and harnesses and the smell of drains and unwashed bodies had thickened in the unrelenting glare of the afternoon. Never had London been less congenial. And then, as if by magic, the coal smoke and the choke of mean housing had cleared into a wide expanse and the city was gone. Beneath the blue sky the spacious prairie swept upwards in waves of undulating green. At the foot of the hill were pitched clusters of white tents with pathways winding between, and dotted about them, the shrouded figures of Indian braves, their shoulders swathed in blankets of scarlet and blue. Behind them masses of shrub-choked rock rose cliff-steep over thick copses of trees, and further still, in the distance, colossal mountain ranges shimmered purple and gold, like a heat haze. If one disregarded the distant shriek of railway engines and the smoke that rose from one hundred hidden chimneys to smudge the cerulean sky, one might imagine oneself in the New World.
Beside Cody Major Burke gave a discreet cough. He had with him a tall, well-built gentleman with thick dark hair and whiskers, who, despite the hour and the occasion, wore an old-fashioned tweed coat of the kind favoured by prosperous provincials on market day. In demeanour, however, he could not less have resembled a country tradesman. Though he did not speak, there was a vitality to him, a heat that quickened the air about him. Maribel had never seen him before, and yet there was something familiar about his appearance that she could not quite put her finger on. Perhaps he was simply the kind of man who expected to be recognised.
‘Colonel, if I may introduce Mr Alfred Webster?’ Burke said. ‘Mr Webster is the editor of the City Chronicle, one of London’s most prominent newspapers.’
Maribel blinked. Like everyone else in London she knew of Alfred Webster. She looked around for Edward but he had drifted with the tide of the party and was conversing some distance away with a cowboy of immense height whose ruddy good health made Edward look positively anaemic. Beside him a stand bore a wooden hoop, like an embroidery frame, from which hung a shock of human hair, stuck with feathers. Edward leaned close, examining it, and Maribel shuddered. She wondered what Charlotte’s boys would give for the chance to touch such a thing.
‘Delighted to meet you, sir,’ Cody said, pumping Webster’s hand. ‘I am so glad you could join us.’
‘The privilege is all mine. I thought your show marvellous.’
‘Then I shall hope that you make a habit of printing your views in large letters in your newspaper.’
‘Oh, I do. It is something of a weakness of mine.’
Cody laughed. His was a face made for laughter, Maribel thought. As soon as he smiled, the planes of it folded neatly into place, like Japanese origami.
‘Mr Webster, are you acquainted with Mrs Campbell Lowe?’ Burke asked him.
‘Regretfully I have not had that pleasure.’
The newspaper editor turned to Maribel, fixing his gaze upon her as he bowed. While his face was handsome in the ordinary way, his eyes were astonishing, a brilliant blue-white that was both piercing and milkily myopic, like the eyes of an old cat. They gave the unsettling impression of both seeing into the very heart of her and not seeing her at all. She was the first to look away.
‘I am, however, acquainted with your husband,’ Webster said, like Cody unable to keep his eyes from sweeping the curves of her figure. Unlike Cody’s, however, his study was of the utmost seriousness, devoid of the blandness of ordinary propriety. He did not smile. Maribel, who was accustomed to being looked at, was not accustomed to being looked at in that way. Despite herself she flushed.
‘Is that right?’ she said, pricklingly aware of her hand still clasped in Webster’s. Abruptly Webster let her go. He did not take his eyes from her face.
‘Did you enjoy the show?’ Maribel asked.
‘I thought it magnificent. Until two minutes ago, I had imagined it the most remarkable thing I’d see all year.’
From another man such a remark might have been impudent, even improper, but in Webster’s face there was no prurience, only wonder. He gazed at her, running his hands through his thick hair. It stood up on end as though electrified.
‘You are a flatterer,’ she said softly.
‘No, I am a newspaper editor. It is my job to tell the truth.’
A waiter brought a tray of champagne. Maribel took a glass. Webster did not. He watched her as she fumbled for her cigarette case, the glass held awkwardly in her fingers, and, though he hardly moved, the energy rose up from him like a race horse, charging the air. Awkwardly she snapped open the case and offered it to Webster. He shook his head.
‘Please tell me you are not entirely devoid of vices, Mr Webster?’ she asked, attempting gaiety.
‘Oh, I have plenty. I am flesh and blood, after all.’
Extracting a cigarette she put it between her lips and hunted for matches. Webster took a box from his own pocket.
‘May I?’ he said.
Leaning towards her he struck one. The flame was sudden and startling. When she bent down towards it he cupped it with both hands, his fingers brushing hers. The shock of it made her dizzy. She drew deeply on the cigarette, pulling the smoke down into the shiver of her stomach. Webster watched her, turning the spent match over and over in his fingers. His palms were square, his fingers blunt and capable. On the edge of his left cuff there was a smut.
‘I hope you do not disapprove of women smoking?’ she said.
‘Disapprove? No, why should I?’
‘Some men do.’
‘Some men are idiots.’
Maribel smiled.
‘I smoke myself,’ he said. ‘I can�
�t seem to keep a pipe alight but there is nothing to beat a fine cigar. Useful in interviews, too. A smoking man is more open, I find, he talks a great deal more freely.’
‘Oh.’
Webster considered her. She could think of nothing else to say. Then he smiled, the skin crinkling around his eyes.
‘Its effect upon the gentler sex, however, requires further study,’ he said and he gazed at her, his smile half forgotten, all the vigour in him trained upon her like sunlight through a magnifying glass. She could feel herself burning.
‘Why do you smoke?’ he asked and she hesitated, considering her answer. It startled her, how much she wanted him to understand.
‘It is not about talking,’ she said at last. ‘I think it is the opposite. When one talks one disperses a little, the words, the breath, it is as though one is making space inside oneself for whatever might be said in return. When I smoke, I become more – myself. The essence of myself. It is as though the smoking concentrates the me-ness, distils whatever I am thinking, whatever I am feeling, to something more powerful, something closer to poetry.’
She faltered, fearful that he might laugh. He did not laugh. He looked at her, his milky eyes bright and curiously still. Above his ears his hair was faintly streaked with grey.
‘So you smoke to feel more deeply yourself ?’ he said.
‘Yes, I think I do. Is that strange?’
‘No. I think it is – wonderful.’
Behind her a man in an evening cape staggered, knocking her elbow and upsetting her glass of champagne. Maribel gave a little cry of surprise.
‘For God’s sake, man, what do you think you are doing?’ Webster shouted, putting out a protective arm. Beside them several people stopped talking and looked round curiously. A balding man with a sweaty face nudged the gentleman next to him, jerking a thumb towards Webster. The man in the cape doffed his hat and performed a jerking little dance to his companion, who laughed uproariously and dragged him away through the crowd. There was a pause. Then the buzz of conversation resumed.