A Marriage of Convenience (35 page)

On opposite sides of a great shining mahogany table covered with grapes, pineapples and various kinds of cake, the Honourable Richard Danvers and his nephew sat reading—Clinton cursorily leafing through a leather-bound volume of
Punch
for the year 1860, while his uncle devoted his attention to a book of eighteenth century architectural drawing. No stranger to his uncle’s habit of reading during meals, Clinton was not insulted by it.

Like many wealthy men, living alone, and completely insulated from any kind of criticism, Richard Danvers saw nothing untoward in subjecting his infrequent house guests to his normal routines—his sole concession being to make himself available for conversation three times a day: during his regular morning walk, while taking the short carriage ride which always followed his afternoon nap, and finally for half-an-hour in the smoking room after dinner. The bulk of his time was given to his model farm and to omnivorous reading. Few scholars could have claimed to occupy their time with greater exertion than this gentleman of leisure.

By the end of his second day in his uncle’s house, Clinton had still not broached the crucial subject that had brought him there. There were still moments when he found it scarcely credible that his elderly host could wield such power over his future. And all because Richard Danvers had married a rich woman, who had not survived her first pregnancy.

Clinton’s father had not got on with Richard, and Clinton himself still shared this difficulty. The man’s frequent smiles and aphoristic way of talking gave an impression of joviality that was frequently belied by the gravity of his eyes. Usually mild-mannered, he possessed a quick temper. Invariably their conversations had an edge of combat about them. Danvers, who made a point of never talking about himself, would select a subject and invite Clinton’s views which he would then dismiss. Before his marriage he had been a barrister. He seemed neither to want nor expect more from people than could be gained in a game of chess or cards. His rare contacts with other people resembled little sips of spa water, taken for his
health, like medicine only when he chose. The idea of seeing his uncle swayed by his emotions, seemed as improbable to Clinton as watching him jumping fully dressed into a river. To date he had contented himself with assessing the scale of his task, but that evening, while they were drinking madeira in the smoking room, his uncle offered the kind of oblique lead which Clinton knew had to be followed.

Clinton had mentioned his reasons for leaving the army on the first day of his stay, but the subject had met with an emphatic lack of response. So he was considerably surprised when suddenly asked what sum he would need to buy back and how he had ever got into a scrape in the first place. His uncle’s apparent sympathy aroused definite hopes. But, just when Clinton believed an offer was imminent, he was met with a sudden change of tack.

‘You know what I’ll never forgive your father?’ Clinton shook his head, masking his annoyance. ‘He wasted himself.’

‘By marrying my mother?’

‘He made other mistakes, but that was his worst.’

‘What else could he have done? He’d compromised her and had to pay the price.’

‘So did his family—you in particular. Delicta maiorum immeritus lues.’

‘I’m sure it’s well known,’ murmured Clinton, ‘but I still don’t know it.’

His uncle smiled and brought his fingertips together below his chin.

‘Though guiltless you must expiate the sins of your fathers.’ He reached for the decanter and filled both their glasses. ‘Don’t know about you,’ he went on, ‘but I’ve never been able to see any possible reason for plumping for a poor woman when rich ones are so plentiful.’ He stared at Clinton from beneath thick white eyebrows. ‘I gather you’re letting Markenfield go?’

‘Not by choice.’

Richard Danvers looked at him impassively: a slight nod the only sign of his derision.

‘You’ve your father’s looks … a sound head. Marriage always helps a man’s career and never stops him taking mistresses.’

Seeing his opportunity, Clinton took it.

‘But mistresses can sometimes make it hard to take a wife.’

‘You mean threats of scandal?’

Clinton nodded gravely.

‘I don’t think it’d ever get that far. A woman to woman talk at an early stage usually proves more than most young ladies can stomach. The lady in question is an actress with a very caustic turn of phrase.’

‘Does this creature …?’

‘Want me to marry her?’

‘Well?’

‘No. But she wants to make sure that if I marry anybody else she isn’t the loser by it.’

‘How much is she after?’

‘A great deal more than I can raise. At least two thousand.’

‘You can’t believe she wouldn’t settle for less?’

‘I
know
she wouldn’t.’

His uncle closed his eyes and a heavy sigh stirred the ends of his wispy moustache.

‘A devil of a lot of money.’ He paused to fortify himself with a sip of wine. ‘I’ll not help you now, I tell you that. You find the right girl, tell me when you’re ready to propose, and I’ll state my terms.’

‘That’s very generous, but I can’t put the question after one or two meetings; and frankly I’d be sure to be found out. Best settle old scores before trying new ventures.’

Danvers leant forward impatiently.

‘Can’t part with money like that. What if she came back for more? What could you do?’

‘She’s honest.’

‘Honest? God alive, do you call blackmail honest?

‘I’m afraid the boot’s not on my foot.’

‘Because you’re as big a fool as your father. Send her to my lawyer and he’ll draw up something … an agreement to pay her something when you get married and not a day before. And on condition she behaves herself. Try her with five hundred to start with.’

Clinton shook his head.

‘She won’t sign anything.’

‘Of course she will.’

‘She’d think I might try to use it against her later … supposing she had plans to marry.’

‘Then send her here and I’ll din some sense into her. Thinks she’ll get two thousand pounds at the drop of a hat … without conditions. Let her think again.’ He got up abruptly, and stood tugging at the points of his waistcoat.

‘If she won’t see you?’ asked Clinton mildy.

‘I’ve had enough of her for one day. You’ll know my decision before you leave.’ He picked up his glass and drained it; then, without another glance at Clinton, left the room and went to bed.

*

Dejected to have come within measurable distance of success, only
to see his goal recede still further, Clinton had the added anxiety next morning of not being summoned by his uncle’s manservant to accompany his master on his usual walk. He now had no idea whether the deception he had committed himself to had been a miscalculation.

His first sight of his uncle that day was at lunch, which as always passed largely in silence. Danvers was reading Lucretius. Behind gold-rimmed spectacles, his uncle’s eyes remained inscrutable. After dessert, Danvers put a marker in his place and flicked back a few pages, searching for a particular passage. A moment later he smiled at Clinton.

‘Suave mari magno … I shan’t trouble you with the original. Sweet it is, when the winds lash the sea with high waves, to gaze from the land at another’s troubles.’

He snapped the book shut and tweaked off his glasses, which he slipped into his breast pocket.

‘Not a sentiment that would appeal to mariners,’ remarked Clinton, ‘Is that how my situation strikes you?’

‘Hubris, dear fellow. You’re such a positive man that I can’t help finding a little humour in it. The biter bit … that sort of thing.’ He folded his napkin and secured it in a silver ring. ‘I hope you’ll come with me this-afternoon. I’m going collecting. Something more rewarding than bugs and beetles.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘I’ve a few things to get ready first.’

Though suspecting a joke at his expense, Clinton did not see how, with the limited time left to him, he could refuse the invitation. Already his anger at his uncle’s ironic amusement had given way to the familiar and draining fear of failure that had oppressed him from the hour of his arrival. In a moment of optimism he wondered whether the afternoon’s proceedings might turn out to be some sort of test, which, if passed, might yield him everything he wanted.

Getting into the open landau, Clinton was puzzled to see the dog-cart also drawn up in readiness, but aware that his uncle was enjoying bemusing him, he expressed as little interest in the expedition as he could contrive without rudeness. Whatever the object of their journey, it was evidently important enough to supplant his uncle’s normal afternoon sleep.

Their carriage ride lasted just over an hour and ended rather lamely in front of a nondescript village church. Pausing under the porch, Richard Danvers listened anxiously for a few seconds, but smiled to himself as soon as he heard the sound of hammering coming from within. With a finger raised to his lips, he opened the door. The cause of the noise was immediately apparant: a
carpenter
was at work, replacing the pulpit steps. Looking around,
Clinton saw nothing of interest Moving very quietly, his uncle edged his way closer to where the workman was crouching.
Within
ten feet or so, he sat down to watch. Clinton soon joined him in the same pew and gazed at the royal coat of arms above the chancel arch. He was considerably surprised when Danvers tugged at his sleeve to gain his attention, and then, with another
admonishment
to silence, pointed to the man’s rule and the way he was using it. Instead of bearing figures, the rule was marked out with pins: a different number for every inch. At that moment the carpenter looked up and Clinton saw that his eyes were completely white and partially concealed by deformed upper lids. He got up in disgust.

‘He’s blind.’

Richard Danvers smiled.

‘Truly remarkable. The only blind joiner in the county. I’ve noticed he holds his chisel very near the end and marks his wood with it instead of with a pencil. Otherwise, apart from that rule of his who could tell?’

Outside in the sunshine among the graves, Clinton saw the servants, who had come in the dog-cart, screwing a cumbersome square camera onto a massive tripod. Their answers to a few questions made it plain that his uncle’s ‘collection’ consisted not merely of people remarkable for their resourcefulness but of every imaginable human oddity that came to his notice either by word of mouth or through a wide range of local papers. Last month had seen the addition of three fine examples: a man who had not left his bed during the eight years since his wife had deserted him, a woman famous for predicting the dates when people were going to die, and a watchmaker who had cut off all his toes for no reason anyone could discover. Clinton sat down on a box-tomb and started to laugh, though deep down he felt something the reverse of
amusement
.

On their way home Richard Danvers was in an excellent mood. The carpenter had more than lived up to expectation, counting among his accomplishments, making fishing nets and playing the violin in public houses.

‘An example to us all, wouldn’t you say?’ asked Danvers. ‘Best instance of self-reliance I’ve ever come across.’

Clinton smiled imperturbably, aware of the invidious
comparison
being invited.

‘You may do better … a limbless sailor who puts ships in bottles with his teeth?’

‘Nothing’s too strange to happen.’

The landau rolled along opulently on well-oiled springs, through
a beech wood where the first yellow leaves were apparent, and out again across open downland dotted with sheep. After a silence, broken only by the horses’ breathing and the thud of hoofs, Danvers said reflectively:

‘I’ve a curious disposition, so perhaps I’ll get some pleasure out of it?’

‘Out of what?’

‘Helping you.’ As Clinton’s heart raced, his uncle looked at him closely. ‘You’ll have to give a good account of your wooing … the failures too. And I want to meet the front runners in the marriage stakes, when you’ve narrowed the field.’ He smiled to himself. ‘The actress must come here to argue her case. I’ll know what she’s worth.’

‘If she won’t come?’

‘No money.’

An unmistakable glint of mockery in his uncle’s eyes made Clinton freeze. Suspicion turned to certainty.

‘You didn’t believe anything I said.’

Danvers raised apologetic hands.

‘People who want money aren’t always particular how they come by it. It was a clever idea, I grant you.’

The ground had opened beneath him, and in Clinton’s stomach a ghastly sensation of falling—the breathlessness, the fear. Outside the carriage, drowsy high summer; sunlit clouds, soft green hills. And still he fell.

His uncle said quietly:

‘If you love someone you can’t marry I’m sorry, but I’ll not abet you in your father’s mistake. Forget about sending your mistress here. Propose to a suitable woman and I’ll pay your debts without condition.’ He paused and looked at Clinton with sudden concern. ‘Think of your father. Was there a thing he couldn’t have done? But how did it end?’ His voice had become very low. ‘You’ll not start on that path while I can stop you. If you won’t help yourself by marrying well, I’ll cut you off.’

Sweat had broken out coldly on Clinton’s forehead; in an effort to calm himself, he took out his watch but hardly saw it. His whole personality was crumbling. He thought, this is how it feels to lose all hope—to struggle almost to the shore only to be dragged out again by the tide.

Arriving in London, Clinton soon suffered another reverse. At his bank, where he had hoped to draw out several hundred pounds by pledging the plate and jewellery held for him in the vaults, he was told by the chief partner that since this property was the bank’s only security for his overdraft, it could neither be sold, nor used as
collateral
for a further loan. Since he would have to pay three hundred into court in Lancaster by the end of the week to comply with the conditions of his discharge, Clinton had no illusions about his position.

Apart from meeting this legal obligation, Clinton’s other
objective
was simple—to survive without service of more writs, until he could sell the lease on Hathenshaw, raise what he could on his disposable chattels, and leave the country with Theresa. By failing to meet the court’s requirement, or suffering a second arrest on mesne process—no unlikely event while his bank continued to dishonour his cheques—he would find himself in the hands of the Commissioners in Bankruptcy.

At all costs he had to make a large enough payment to his bank to restore his credit for a few more weeks. Though depressed as never before, Clinton found a crumb of comfort in having reached the point where no remedy offering relief could be discarded, however dangerous. His initial steps seemed harmless enough. Three weeks earlier, he had sent Esmond’s letters to his solicitor for his opinion. Now he retrieved them, and after making some purchases at a stationer’s set out for Jabez Norton’s premises.

Again he was received by the money lender’s clerk and not by the great man himself. Clinton had expected hypocritical sympathy and he got it in full measure. Never for a moment had Mr Norton expected Mendoza to act with such precipitate ferocity, in fact he had pleaded with the man to be allowed to buy back the bill. Clinton suffered these lies patiently.

‘Perhaps he neglected to offer what he got for it,’ he remarked affably. The clerk, who had obviously expected furious indignation, looked at him doubtfully.

‘I wouldn’t know the precise sum; but he was very upset about it. We both were, my lord.’

‘So of course you want to make amends. You offered a loan if my brother underwrote it. I’m glad to say he’s agreed to.’

The clerk went over to the ledger table and picked up a pen.

‘How much might he guarantee?’

‘Two thousand.’

Clinton watched him dip his pen in the ink and write this down as though indifferent to the magnitude of the sum. The wen on his eyelid made it impossible to judge what he was thinking.

‘For how long, my lord?’

‘A year.’

Again the quill pen scratched loudly across the paper.

‘Over six months Mr Norton always requires interest in
advance
.’

‘I want the two thousand in hand.’

‘Then you must accept extra bills to cover it. I can’t do better than twenty per cent. Mr Danvers must endorse all your
acceptances
, including those for interest.’

Clinton frowned.

‘Can’t you draw one bill for the whole sum?’

The clerk opened a drawer and took out a bundle of docketed bills, which he untied and started to glance through.

‘In this instance I feel Mr Norton would prefer you to take up debts of his own dated a year hence. Mr Danvers’s endorsement will be very soothing to several of our creditors.’

‘You can’t mean there are people who doubt the soundness of your master’s acceptances?’

‘A sad reflection on the times we live in. There are gentlemen who expect the best rates to be had in London, and still complain about trifling delays … I needn’t tell your lordship how it can take a week or two to recover from a client in difficulties.’ He had now taken out what looked to Clinton like a dozen bills from the larger pile and placed them on top of a closed ledger. He smiled
obsequiously
. ‘But, need I say, any bill endorsed by a broker with Mr Danvers’s reputation feels as good as money in the hand to the most sceptical depositor.’

‘I won’t take a great wad of those things. Three or four at the most.’

The clerk nodded reluctantly.

‘Perhaps we can’t really expect him to endorse anything under five hundred.’ He jotted down some figures and then made a final choice of bills. ‘We’ll make it four then. The total’s a pound or two over what you want but that’s a fault in the right direction.’ He put
them in an envelope and gave it to Clinton. ‘Bring them back tomorrow and you’ll have the money by Tuesday.’

‘Why the delay?’ Clinton asked sharply.

‘Mr Norton has to get the money. No help for it … unless you’d care to take it in tea. We’ve a lot on our hands at the moment. Best quality orange scented Pekoe …’

‘I’m not a tea merchant.’

‘A joke, my lord. We levied execution on a tea importer last week. Should raise a fair price at auction; but you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with trade.’

‘Borrowing’s more my line,’ replied Clinton, ignoring what had looked very like a sneer; but with a man afflicted by a perpetual wink, it was hard to tell. Clinton left the premises to the
accompaniment
of effusive expressions of how pleased Mr Norton would be to be able to render his services.

An hour later in an hotel bedroom, Clinton dragged the dressing table across to the window and drew aside the net curtains to improve the light. Then he took out Esmond’s letters and the purchases he had made at the stationer’s shop before going to Norton’s. He was disappointed by the way matters had gone at the money lender’s, but still intended to go through with his plan. His worst anxiety was that Norton might write to Esmond about the endorsements during the two day interval between delivery of the bills and production of the money. But on consideration, he thought the likeliest explanation of the delay was that Norton would need to use the endorsed bills to raise the money for the loan. Nor was the money lender likely to consider the forgery of negotiable instruments a credible occupation for a nobleman, given the severity of the penalties.

He had hoped only to have to produce a single signature, thereby giving Norton no opportunity for comparison. But four autographs would make the smallest discrepancies perfectly apparent. From the outset Clinton faced another formidable difficulty: when writing to him, Esmond had signed with his christian name alone. And while Clinton was certain that his brother never adorned his full signature with any loops or flourishes, he was far from happy to have to construct ‘Danvers’ piecemeal, taking a ‘D’ from the opening ‘Dear’, ‘an’ from ‘and’, and ‘vers’ from a sentence containing the expression ‘chapter and verse.’ These elements he assembled on tracing paper, joining them as best he could, after a careful study of the way in which similar combinations of letters were linked in other words.

His first efforts at making a freehand copy of his tracing in pen and ink brought him very close to giving up; but thoughts of the
consequences of failure compelled perseverance. Nor could he bear to think of returning to Theresa in utter hopelessness.

If he could keep his nerve, he might yet survive. The everday normality of his surroundings made him momentarily light-headed—the commonplace furniture, noise of passing carriages in the street, the sunlight on the drab brickwork of the houses opposite, and the innocent sheets of paper on the table. How could this be the setting for a serious crime? With a steadier hand, he set to work again. Esmond owed him reparation.

Though the shopkeeper had assured him that the pen he had bought was much favoured by cartographers because it spread the ink evenly however hesitantly the nib were moved, Clinton found that he could not entirely prevent irregular edges to the letters wherever he paused in his laborious imitation. Looking at his work under a magnifying glass, his dissatisfaction grew. Clearly it was hopeless to try to produce a signature stroke by stroke. The tiny blobs, and occasional fluctuations in the ink flow, suggested the writing of a drunk, who though concentrating for all he was worth, still needed to break off for numerous rests. Success would only be achieved by practising the signature again and again until he could produce it spontaneously without hesitation. He therefore devoted the next half-hour to tracing over his original construction of the signature several hundred times; interspersing this activity with freehand attempts. Only when he could produce a run of
half-a-dozen
copies with his eyes shut, of a quality little worse than those made with them open, did he feel sufficiently confident to take out the bills. But once again his heart started to thump and he could no longer maintain the relaxation essential for fluency. His hands were sweating and the pen felt slippery. Afraid to get up and walk about in case he lost the automatic, almost hypnotic response induced by so many tracings, he was equally scared to touch the bills. And if the will-power required for a single signature was all but beyond him, how could he hope to go on and execute another three? He breathed deeply and wiped his palms on his trousers, ashamed of his weakness but unable to remedy it. An error on one bill could be concealed by a blot, but there could be no second chances granted with any of the others. Yet the thought that he had this single reprieve calmed him. The first bill would not be the all important one; and if he succeeded with it, nor even would the second.

He dashed off three more signatures on rough paper, and, having satisfied himself that they compared well, swept all the papers from the table except for the four bills of exchange; these he placed close enough to each other to be able to pass from bill to bill with the least possible delay. At a ground-floor window across the street, a
maid was beating a carpet; hundreds of them in London doing the same. Every possible human activity happening somewhere at that moment: murders, thefts, kisses, marriages … acts of forgery; one or two men sitting undecided in the afternoon heat … somewhere.

He picked up the pen, dipped it in the ink, drained off a little with a scrap of blotting paper and signed the bills. Two hours before, he would have thought the speed and accuracy of his achievement impossible. Since even in authentic signatures, no two were mechanically identical, he was inclined to consider that two slight lapses added veracity rather than detracted from it. When he had turned the bills over and written his own signature under the word ‘accepted’ on their faces, he threw himself on the bed.

He felt happiness but also a peculiar detachment, as though next day he might wake to find that quite different events had happened. One of the net curtains had fallen back across the window and cast a shadow on the ceiling. A slight wind lifted the edges of the bills. A moment later it came to Clinton that the moment of crime lay not in signing but in handing them to Norton. The worst test of all would not come until he returned for the money. That trial would have to wait its turn, but the other, Clinton met at once by posting the bills with a brief covering letter.

*

The candelabra, console tables and matching buhl cabinets in the ante-room, where Clinton had been asked to await Norton’s appearance, had never disquieted him before; but he was so tense that these spoils from past foreclosures deepened his foreboding. Their sometime owners would have sat in this very room—many of them more confident than he of ultimate salvation. The clerk had been more welcoming than on any previous occasion, but in his agitation Clinton was inclined to see this as sinister.

He folded his arms, forcing himself to be still, trying not to start when he heard footsteps outside. Within minutes he would have in his hands two thousand pounds or a warrant for his arrest.

When Norton at last came in, Clinton stood up and moved forward; his legs felt soft and strangely elastic, and he could not keep his eyes on anything. The man’s grey moustache, cavernous nostrils and mottled cheeks stood out in isolation and would not cohere into a whole face—other details: an embroidered waistcoat, velvet lapels, a ringed hand.

‘I’ve some money for you, Lord Ardmore.’ Dazed with relief, Clinton merely nodded, fixing his eyes on the dragons worked in silver thread on Norton’s waistcoat. ‘Didn’t think I was going to be able to do it. My clerk had no right to agree to cover interest with an
additional acceptance, even at a higher rate.’ Clinton guessed from the man’s tone that he was expected to ask how the matter had been settled, but he could not think of any words. He wanted to take the money and go. Norton said briskly: ‘I’d have liked to deduct it from the loan and set aside the covering bill, but then I heard that you’d been promised the full sum. Of course it was unthinkable after that dreadful business to have you come here expecting one thing, only to be told another.’

‘So you stuck to the original arrangement?’

Norton chuckled; a strange noise, closer to a phlegmy cough than a laugh.

‘Out of the question. I’d be ruined if I waived interest beyond a quarter on large sums. Time’s money, don’t you see?’

‘Of course.’

‘It’s all ready; never fear. Got to tell you how I got round it. You left no address except your club and nobody there knew where you were staying. Quite a problem. I admit I was most reluctant to ask Mr Danvers to help, but in the circumstances … not wishing to disappoint, you understand … I threw myself on his mercy.’

A feeling of faintness entered him from all sides like an invisible fog. Afraid that his legs would not support him, Clinton grasped the back of a chair; the suddenness of the movement jerked the room back into focus. Norton’s face seemed larger; the hairs in his nostrils moved as he breathed.

‘What did he say?’ Clinton asked.

‘I sent a man with a letter. His reply couldn’t have been more helpful. Without any prompting from me, he offered to let me have a draft for the interest … said he’d bring it round when I paid over the money.’

No longer caring what Norton thought, Clinton sat down heavily. Frozen laughter died in his throat.

‘Is he here now?’

‘Indeed he is, and most eager to see your lordship. He said to me … purely in fun of course—that he’d not part with the draft till he saw the loan in your hands.’