A Marriage of Convenience (37 page)

‘I wish … wish you didn’t look the same. You aren’t, but you still look it.’ A reminiscent tenderness furred her voice, making him long to call to witness every mitigating circumstance, to say that he still loved her, but he averted his face and said nothing. She sat down next to him on the chesterfield. ‘I never trusted anyone as I trusted you … I knew that you lied about money to be kind to me. Perhaps it made you feel stronger to be facing things alone … I could understand that. But the other …’ She broke off and looked down at the signet ring on her finger. ‘Love’s very inconvenient … stopping for no reason when everything seems perfect for happiness, or going on when there’s no possible reason. Perhaps I ought to hate you; perhaps I will. But now … I don’t see why I should make anything easier for you. I could very easily stop you marrying that girl.’

‘And would we have a moment’s happiness if you did? Dodging the bailiffs from lodging house to lodging house. Wouldn’t the day come when you wished you’d …’

‘That I’d agreed to share you with a rich woman?’

‘Anything would be better than losing you entirely.’

‘Better for who?’ she whispered, brushing his cheek with her fingers, drawing him to her and then kissing his lips. With her head resting on his shoulder, she slipped a hand under his shirt. ‘She’s young, isn’t she, Clinton? How she’ll tremble in your arms … first joys … How do you think we’ll compare? Youth against
experience
. For a year or two we might be fairly matched.’ She moved away from him, and held up a candle to her face. ‘Look at the corners of my eyes … my neck. There, I lift my chin a little, smile, and who’d ever know this year, next year? Standing straight, a slight elevation of the arms when naked, my breasts won’t offend you … till you compare. Will you use the same endearments? Never on purpose, I’m sure, but you will in time. She’ll have your children … a son and heir. Perhaps she’ll buy back Markenfield for you. Esmond said you lacked imagination.’ She rose abruptly and went back to the table. ‘You’d better go before I decide I ought to keep you. I love you, but I haven’t the will to fight. I couldn’t endure your resentment for every misfortune. If you didn’t reproach me, it would be as bad. You speak of breaking vows … kept what you did from me—how can I hold you to an oath you broke even when you made it?’ She lifted her pen but paused after writing a few words. ‘Don’t look so sad. The theatre’s an excellent school for making last speeches. My real husband died beautifully. Put everything in order calmly, saw old friends, and only wept when they’d gone. So cruel
we can’t buy things with love—long life, toys for a child … truth.’

He made no answer, but watched woodenly as she went on writing. At last she looked up.

‘You must send me a written denial of our marriage, signed by the priest … with his reasons. If Miss Lucas is shown a copy, you may depend on my silence.’ She blotted the paper in front of her and stiffly held it out to him. ‘So there can be no mistake, I’ve written this down; also an address.’ Though her voice was firm and her courage unshaken, he sensed her overwhelming need to finish quickly. Knowing he should go at once, he could think of no parting words. She stood up, and as she passed him, he felt her hand against his coat. He wanted to tell her that he could not imagine surviving the waste of days to come. But what use were words now?

After she had gone, searching in his pocket for a handkerchief, his fingers closed on the ring he had given her. He took it out and looking at first as if he would dash the little oval bloodstone against the wall, he paused and with a heavy sigh placed this dismal badge of defeat on his own hand.

On a wet and stormy October morning, when gusts of wind sent people scudding along the streets like paper figures, and turned umbrellas inside-out with spiteful unconcern, Theresa made her way to Deacon’s Place for the first time in several weeks. She was admitted by her father’s wizened maid-of-all-work, who for thirty years had mended costumes in the wardrobe at the Adelphi. In days of greater prosperity, the major had also employed out of kindness the arthritic old property man as his valet. The maid went up to knock on her master’s bedroom door, leaving Theresa amongst the debris of the previous night’s supper party: fragments of lobster shell, empty wine bottles, dirty plates. After a brief interval the old woman returned to tell Theresa her father would see her in his room.

Dressed in a crumpled frockcoat put on over his nightgown, the major was shaving by the window; his bowl of steaming water increasing the foetid dampness of the room, beading the
windowpanes
with heavy drops of condensation. The bedclothes were flung back, revealing a sagging mattress. His white locks hitched behind his ears, her father ran his razor carefully down his cheek, following the line of his whiskers. In the grey light his skin looked pinched and sallow.

‘A good party?’ she asked quietly.

‘Just the baron and Anderson.’ For as long as Theresa could remember, Baron von Merck, a penniless German émigré from the troubles of ’48, had been her father’s favourite butt and toady; while, for as many years, Ben Anderson, the once famous comedian, had loyally helped the major relive past triumphs.

She caught his eye in the shaving mirror and recognised the mixture of baffled anger and sorrow she had grown so used to during the month she had spent with him after leaving Hathenshaw. There was nothing abstract about his bitterness; it was as thick and indigestible as slabs of Christmas cake; and though he clearly felt pity for her, his every mention of her abandonment was loaded with reproach that she should ever have let it happen.

When he had finished shaving, Theresa began telling him about the progress of rehearsals for the play she was soon to open in. With an angry gesture he tossed his razor into the bowl and interrupted her.

‘Did you bring the letter?’

Without replying, she reached under her cape and produced the document her father had been demanding ever since learning that Clinton had promised a letter of explanation from the priest. He took the envelope and went down to the sitting room with it. The page shook in his hand as he read.

When the major had finished, he put the letter in his bureau and stood staring out of the smudgy little window at the
sad-looking
sky; across it, dark clouds ran into one another like ink stains on wet paper.

‘I wonder how much he had to pay the man to write that.’

‘I’m sure it’s the simple truth.’ She moved towards the desk, but he stood in her way. ‘I’d like it back.’

‘Not till my lawyer sees it.’

‘If you’re hoping to get money out of him, you’ll have to wait your turn with the rest.’

‘I want justice, not money,’ he shouted. The noise of water drumming in a metal basin came from the kitchen. The major crossed the room and slammed the door. Theresa sat down by the smouldering fire and said gently:

‘Even if you managed to prove a marriage, it still wouldn’t comply with the Irish Marriage Act. You admitted your lawyer told you that.’

‘He said,’ replied her father, stabbing at the fire with the poker, ‘that it wouldn’t be binding
if
Ardmore can show he was a professing Protestant at the time.’

‘You know it’s a formality,’ sighed Theresa, saddened and exasperated by the old man’s doggedness. ‘We both read your man’s opinion. Why not get it?’ When he made no move, she said patiently: ‘All right, stop me if I misquote … Any baptised Anglican is considered a professing Protestant, within the meaning of the act, unless he proves himself something else by contrary religious observance—and the example given was regular attendance at Catholic Mass. It’s hardly ambiguous, is it?’

The major was labouring with the bellows to make the damp coal ignite.

‘I don’t care if we lose. He dishonoured you and ought to pay for it.’

‘At law the loser does the paying.’

‘It’d finish him though. He’d be hounded out of the country … Yes,’ he gasped, still pumping at the fire, ‘thousands would be up in arms against an archaic law that permitted such a thing—even if it only happens in Ireland.’ He straightened up, wincing a little as though his back hurt, and then looked at her beseechingly. ‘If you’d only bring an action for restoration of conjugal rights, he wouldn’t dare contest it.’

‘But I agreed to let him go … How many more times must I …?’

‘Why?’ he groaned. ‘Why?’

‘Because, whatever the law says … whatever he intended, his lies made it a sham. How could there be any happiness for us after that?’

‘Happiness?’ he burst out. ‘What about justice?’

‘Do you think he isn’t punished?’ she cried, beginning to lose her temper.

‘I expect he’s laughing at his success. By God, I’d go to court without you if I could.’ He coughed harshly as an eddy of wind from the chimney blew smoke into the room. Abandoning belligerence he eyed her sadly. ‘Try to explain it to me. I want to understand. You went to church, exchanged vows, the priest went through the marriage service, you signed your name afterwards as Lady Ardmore. He said you’d become his wife.’ He raised his monocle. ‘Surely you believed you’d married him?’

‘I’d never been more certain of anything in my life.’

‘Then why,’ he burst out, throwing up his arms, ‘don’t you still believe it? Because of that damn fool law?’

‘No, not by itself.’ Theresa paused a moment. ‘There were three of us at the altar. Take the priest first—he believed he was salving my conscience … conferring a blessing. He spoke the words because Clinton had told him we were already married. He thought I wasn’t happy with a civil ceremony, so he read the service in church for my peace of mind. That’s what his letter says. He didn’t intend to marry us.’

‘But he spoke the words, and so did your husband.’

‘Clinton spoke them,’ murmured Theresa, ‘knowing there was a law that made them void. He didn’t believe he was marrying me. He knew the priest only intended a blessing. How can I think myself married now I know he never meant to give his consent? He lied to the priest and lied to me. He never told me about the law, never said a word about what he’d told the priest. He knew his vows were worthless.’ Her voice had risen and she was close to tears. ‘I was the only one who believed in it. It was a fraud not a marriage.’

Her father raised a conciliating hand.

‘He may have meant every word he said at the time. Suppose he learnt about the law later? He could have dreamt up all the lies to get you to release him.’

‘There’s the priest’s letter,’ Theresa replied wearily, ‘and I don’t believe any priest would accept money to deny what he thought was a perfectly good marriage, so don’t suggest that again.’

‘He sent you a marriage certificate.’

‘Because he thought we were already married. Of course he didn’t want to deny the child a proper baptism. He said in his letter I shouldn’t use the certificate for any other purpose.’ She looked up reproachfully. ‘I have given it all a lot of thought.’

‘So have I,’ the old man replied quietly, ‘and I think he’s your husband.’

‘There’s no point in arguing about it.’

‘None.’

Theresa had very much hoped that Maguire’s letter would finally persuade her father to abandon his persistent efforts to get her to reconsider her position. Seeing she had failed to change his mind, she nonetheless decided to make one more effort to settle another matter.

‘I’ve brought the money to repay what you lent me.’

‘I’ve told you I won’t take it. A husband’s responsible for his wife’s debts. Get
him
to pay me or forget about it.’

‘The loan was to me. I have a right to repay it.’

Simmonds shook his head and smiled.

‘A married woman can’t make an independent contract. If she borrows money, the legal debtor is her husband and not herself. You pledged your husband’s credit, not your own.’

Theresa got up and walked to the door; beside it the broken barometer still pointed to “fine and dry” as it had done for a decade. Without turning she said:

‘You took some papers of mine when I was here. I want them back.’

‘I don’t deny it. I was surprised he had the decency to return the letters you wrote him. Do you want to burn them?’

‘They’re mine.’

When she faced him, he did not look away.

‘They’re evidence.’

‘Which you can’t possibly use.’

‘Unless you change your mind about going to court. It’s my duty to see the choice isn’t thrown away in case you ever want to take it.’

He followed her into the dark little hall and stopped her.

‘I’ll give them to you when they’ve been copied.’

She turned on him furiously.

‘Can’t you understand what I said? I’ve finished with it all. Finished.’

Before he could answer her, she was walking down the court towards the mews, the wind catching her bonnet ribbons and puffing out her skirt. He stood watching her from the doorway, until she turned the corner and was gone.

Around him décolleté busts and jewelled dresses contrasting with black evening coats; a hubbub of conversation punctuated by the discreet popping of champagne corks; footmen and waiters moved silently behind the chairs, as course followed course in stately progression; and all the time, Esmond could not help admiring the Lucases’ spirited hypocrisy. Clinton had treated their daughter abominably, yet here they were, laughing and smiling, marking the day of Sophie’s betrothal to her former tormentor with a
magnificent
celebratory dinner, and appearing for all the world to be as proud and pleased as if the girl had been accepted by a royal duke.

From the moment he had received his invitation, Esmond had looked forward to this December evening with keen anticipation. The wedding itself would not take place until the spring, but for all the chances of escape now open to him, Clinton might just as well have undergone ten marriages. Yet somehow this event, which Esmond had so often lived through in imagination, in reality brought only a fraction of the happiness he had expected. Ever since losing Theresa, he had made the present endurable by looking to the future, and the habit had become so engrained that even Clinton’s downfall could not prevent him running on towards the days to come when he would make his bid to win Theresa back.

Looking down the long table between the branched candelabra and flower-filled epergnes, Esmond caught occasional glimpses of Clinton’s face. And though he could feel no sympathy for him, at moments when Clinton’s mask of brittle gaiety slipped, Esmond sensed an emptiness of feeling so ghastly that he could not look at him without shuddering. After dessert, before the ladies withdrew, Mr Lucas rose, his face very red above his white ruffled shirt. As the sounds of conversation subsided, faint chords of music came from the ballroom beneath, where the orchestra was getting ready for the dancing. Through all the clichés of his future father-in-law’s speech, Clinton’s smile did not falter.

‘I have the good fortune to have known Lord Ardmore since boyhood, and if as the poet says, the child is father to the man, any
defects of character would long since have been apparent to me.’ He paused briefly to mop his forehead with a napkin, while the ripples of polite laughter died away. ‘Until Cromwell fought the King, Ammering and Markenfield were part of one estate. The Lucases were Roundheads, the Danvers Cavaliers. Well, you know who won that battle. The third viscount lost half his land and was lucky not to lose his head. We Lucases got the land on that occasion and kept it. We’re all royalists now, so I’m not complaining that the time of restitution is at hand. When Sophie weds Clinton, Ammering comes home to Markenfield, ladies and gentlemen … if not at once, it will when I join the majority. I make bold enough to say that I predicted this years ago when his lordship first entertained Miss Sophie in his nursery …’

As the speech ground to a close, Esmond looked up and met Clinton’s gaze. The glance was brief, but Esmond read the ironic complicity, as though his brother were once again saying those well-remembered words: ‘I, mortgaged acres, take thee, money in the funds, to have and to hold …’ A moment later, Clinton got up to reply and did so with a perfectly judged blend of banter and seriousness ideal for such occasions.

If Ammering coming to Markenfield sounded a bit too much like High Birnam wood coming to Dunsinane for his taste, it was not spears and branches that had brought him to his knees, but two far more formidable weapons—the character and beauty of an English lady. And for Esmond, almost every word his brother spoke rang with irony. Afterwards amid prolonged applause, Clinton solemnly lifted his glass to Sophie, who rose by his side like Aphrodite from a foaming sea of tulle and muslin. The sight of the betrothed couple raising their glasses to each other was one that would haunt Esmond for many weeks to come.

*

Shortly after midnight, a footman attracted Clinton’s attention as he was dancing with Sophie. Minutes later, having murmured his apologies, Clinton left Sophie dancing with a cousin, and hurried from the ballroom to the hall. Already dressed in hat and cape, Esmond was waiting for his coachman to drive round from the mews.

‘I’m sure you won’t refuse me a favour on this night of nights,’ murmured Clinton, placing a hand on his brother’s shoulder. ‘I’d like to leave with you.’

*

Under the portico of the Lucases’ town house, Clinton moved
away from his brother and looked up at the overhanging balconies and tall lighted windows.

‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘that Judas would have killed himself if it’d been thirty thousand pieces of silver?’

Esmond stared in silence at the bare black branches in the square; beyond them, on the other side, carriage lamps and gaslights showed indistinctly through the fog. Clinton laughed as they got into the carriage.

‘Poor Esmond, you never had much humour.’ As the coachman spread rugs over their knees, Clinton chuckled to himself. ‘You know something, Esmond? There’s not much to separate one woman from another when all’s said and done … I mean take Sophie and Theresa …’ He paused as the landau swung forward and began to gather pace. ‘Sophie hasn’t quite managed the queenly dignity, but she’s good at pretending to be languishing and
sentimental
; they’re as tough as each other in different ways. There aren’t many who’d have shrugged off the humiliations I dished out to Sophie over the years. Between the two of us, I even told her about Ireland. Of course she was upset. But I think it’s going to help her in the long run. She can despise me, which should take the edge off her worries about buying me … She’s also vain enough to believe that I’ll come to love her for herself. Actually I’m already giving her definite signs that …’

‘I can’t listen to this,’ cried Esmond.

‘Because you’re to blame? Don’t be so sensitive. I’m going to be an excellent husband. I admire her … the way she stood out for what she wanted against every kind of opposition. I don’t love her, but that isn’t my fault. Anyway I’ll give a very creditable
performance
… the best sort of distraction.’

As they passed the gates of Apsley House and clattered into Piccadilly, Esmond glanced at him.

‘What did you want to say to me?’

Clinton looked at him intently as they passed a street lamp, but said nothing until the carriage drew up outside his hotel in Half Moon Street. His face no longer bore traces of ironic
insouciance
.

‘She’s in a new play.’

The tight harshness of his voice did not escape Esmond.

‘You don’t mean you’ve been to see it?’

‘Certainly. Can’t say I cared for her kissing that actor but I stayed in my seat. What about you?’

‘I haven’t seen it.’

‘Good,’ he breathed with chilling quietness.

‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Esmond, affecting not to feel
the powerful pressure of his brother’s hand on his arm. Clinton released him and flicked aside the rug on his knee.

‘Only that if you try to wheedle your way back into her favour by acting the faithful friend, I’ll put a bullet through you.’

A moment later he was walking briskly to the door of his hotel.