by Ewan Lawrie
Blinking like a bat before a raised candle, he looked from Miss Pardoner to myself and back again. Not for the first time, my own reactions were anticipated by the unladylike sardonicism of Miss Pardoner.
‘No knowledge of Cobles, Mr Allan? Really, I would have thought a newspaperman employed by Northumbria’s finest sheet would have a vast supply of information on such influential personages.’
Mr Allan’s crest had quite fallen, and I suspected that he knew himself that the Alnwick Mercury’s most utilitarian moments came when wrapped around the fresh produce of the town’s market on Saturdays. Nevertheless, one would have thought that a reporter would have known something of the Cobles, therefore I asked him, ‘How long have you been reporting for the Mercury, Mr Allan?’
He made an unattractive and petulant-looking moue and said, ‘Eight days.’
This time I joined my ward in the unattractive snickering.
She recovered herself somewhat quicker than I. There was a glint of mischief or even devilment in her eye as she said, ‘Miss Arabella Coble was a renegade, a strumpet, a wilful woman and a faithless wife. For all that I know she may have been a thief and a murderess.’ She paused and moistened her lips as though suddenly dry-mouthed. ‘I wish that I had met her before she died.’
The last of Allan’s pen-scratching died away, whereupon the three of us sat in silence, and only one of us was quite comfortable in it.
Chapter Twenty-two
The warm spring sun was making me feel most drowsy. The reporter, surprisingly, seemed able to bear the vacuum without filling it with questions; Miss Pardoner, being quite the most self-possessed woman I had ever had the fortune to meet, was contenting herself with a facade as enigmatic as that of any sphynx. I had learned, where safe, to take the balm of lethe where I could. Therefore, I cannot say if what I remembered next was truly a dream or a simple reverie: suffice to say it was faithful to memory – although who can say how faithful memory is to truth?
Arabella and I had had our secrets; of course we had. She knew me only as Moffat, after all. I in my turn had but recently learned of the existence of a previous husband, viz one Cadwallader. My feelings for her had not conformed to any ideal of romantic love such as might be found in Lombardy troubadours’ parchments. Though she did stir my passions, others had done so more violently. It were rather as though in Miss Arabella Coble a bond beyond consanguinity or sense could be found with my own obsessions. I knew it, and I knew it at once on the dockside the day that we met.
My peculiar education and subsequent reading had introduced me to the idea of the human soul. It was my belief that, if such a thing existed and if it were the seat of compassion and other noble virtues, then I was deficient this essential part of humanity. The sense of a similar void in Miss Coble bound me to her more strongly than ever any vow of love could have done. She was a woman as hollow as I.
Truly, she showed no affection for the mite who was holding her hand on the day that we met. Do not think that she was cruel. The child was ever clothed and fed as well as we; but she received not a caress or buss that other mothers might casually have bestowed with every hour. I did not feel undue sympathy; the girl was nothing to me, of course.
Nevertheless, I was not prepared for the grieving after the episode with the lucifer matches.
We had been doing tolerable well with some business involving breach of promise, mostly among gentlemen of trade, whilst we awaited one large fish that would set us up for some time.
One evening, during late summer 184_, Arabella and I were attending a programme of varieties in the song and supper club known as the Mogul Saloon, in Drury Lane. At the table adjoining was an oldish fellow of plain looks in the company of two rather younger male companions. The fellow was quite drunk, florid of cheek and rolling of eye. The younger fellows’ clothes were frayed and shining in parts, although the cut was good. I saw the one slap his patron on the back as his confederate began the dip for the older chap’s valuables.
I dashed to the table and seized the offender’s hand. It was obvious to all what the two men had been about.
‘Leave,’ I urged him. ‘Unless you wish me to call the Peelers?’
The two younger men left. The older man offered his hand. ‘C-c-apital,’ he hiccoughed. ‘Johnny Brougham, fifth Earl of B__________, call me Johnny, cahn’t thank yew enough.’
I pumped his hand, thinking that he was correct in that at least.
‘Ah... yew and yer lady could join me, p’raps, hmm?’ he asked, with all the diffidence of his class.
‘Allow me to introduce my sister Arabella,’ I said. ‘Captain Crawford, at your service.’
Brougham held out a chair for Arabella. There were other women in the Mogul; at that time there were several ladies in society with a taste for the lower entertainments, but there were few in evidence that night. A certain kind of woman would ape the fashions of these adventuresses with far less panache than Arabella was able to manage. Still, Arabella’s origins were much closer to these members of the quality than those of the bawds in the company of the moneyed and the meretricious.
We took our seats to the sounds of a singularly bronchitic and less than tuneful squawk. The assembled audience had begun to laugh the moment a man appeared on the raised dais in front of them. Brougham gave a loud whisper in Arabella’s direction. ‘Sloman, usually on at Evans’, jolly good.’
It was a matter of taste, I assumed. Every song seemed to include a sketch of one of the regular habitués of the Mogul. One fellow with a writerly look – and a notebook clutched to his chest – stood up to bow at the mention of Makepeace. I reflected that one ought never to underestimate the vanity of writers. An hour later our new-found boon companion beamed beatifically during a song lauding the exploits of one Supper Club Johnny, although I imagined a few of those watching merited the epithet.
Arabella struck exactly the right note in her performance that evening. For a performance it was; I myself, who knew her to be eight and twenty, would have believed her no more than of majority age. Again, she hid the boldness and self-assurance that I found so attractive behind a flirtatious and, yes, inane chatter. Brougham cut a figure that was testament to the louche and dissolute existence enjoyed by more than one or two of his peers. His swelling abdomen told of port and too many suppers in places like the Mogul.
Naturally, despite the affectation of diffidence, he possessed the supreme self-confidence of all his class: a certain knowledge of the strata of society and his own elevated station within them. Above all, he knew himself to be irresistible by dint of his status and wealth.
Equally naturally, Arabella resisted him with great skill and feigned reluctance.
She resisted Brougham that night, in Evans’ the next night, at Regent’s Park Zoological Gardens the following week and on the Serpentine after that. On every occasion I played the chaperone, the doting and indulgent elder brother. As with any man accustomed to having every wish gratified, the denial of one impelled him to strive to attain it. Arabella refused all gifts, as a player at Speculation will spurn a trick in the hope of greater gains. The proffered gifts became more outrageous; we were both sorely tempted by a sapphire and ruby brooch of Indian origin in the shape of a butterfly. However, we remained strong.
The game continued for several months and I despaired of Brougham ever closing his wet mouth on the hook.
Finally, Brougham came to call at a house on Cadogan Square that the fool believed to be ours. A fortunate en-counter with the rich and effete son of a cotton merchant in an alley in Limehouse had offered an opportunity for ex-tortion and blackmail, but I had saved the coin for a later day and extracted the use of his London address after his departure for the Grand Tour. A man’s reputation in society is a precious thing and, as such, a marketable commodity.
A sham sufficient unto the dupe was maintained by myself, Arabella, and two confederates I had had occasion to use in the past. The office of butler in the service of Arabella and Captain Art
hur Crawford was filled by one Crabbit. This gentleman I had encountered one evening in the foyer of a house in East Cheap. He was leaving, having been disappointed in the matter of employment: the man had lost his position due to a leave of absence in the Newgate Gaol occasioned by a discounted bill.
He would hear not a word against his former employer – a noted Whig – as he had settled the debt and turned him onto the streets at one remove. He stood a head taller than I, and retained an air of servility whilst remaining imposing. His age was indiscernible: he might have been thirty or sixty. A butler he looked, a butler he had been, and – for a while – he played the butler again.
One of the younger molls at that same house I engaged to play the maid. With the paint removed, her East End vowels lent her an air of authenticity, especially when she affected the accents of her betters, as many real servants were wont to do. The two of them were an expense indeed, since they had been in my employ since the first week of our machinations, but it was uncertain how long it would take Brougham to bite.
Brougham’s call at the Cadogan Square residence was conducted according to etiquette: that is to say, he arrived in a hansom, which he engaged to wait while he presented his card. As was the custom, Crabbit removed this item of stationery atop a fine salver for delivery to the supposed master of the house. Brougham awaited any reply in the vestibule. Crabbit loured down at Brougham. ‘The captain has intimated that you may call at four this afternoon. At which time he will be pleased to take tea with you.’
Through a second-floor sash, I observed the simpering fool withdraw to the carriage to wait. I wished him the joy of six hours at the roadside, with – as like as not – only a contentedly snoring driver for company.
Crabbit was despatched to a bakers for fancies and the like; Arabella instructed the jade in the preparation and presentation of tea. I stood outside the kitchen, enjoying the periodic sound of a hand on flesh and the young woman’s vituperative reaction to her schooling in the matter. At length, I repaired to the library, pleased that Crabbit and I had thought to remove some of the very best vintages from the cellar to the book-lined room.
It had been no surprise that not a page of a single book had been cut and I had been still less surprised, on using my own knife, to find that whole runs of shelving contained row upon row of blank-paged books. A man so easily blackmailed clearly had received no sort of education: therefore, he owed me a modicum of thanks for the lesson I had taught him.
I settled in a peacock chair to wait for Brougham’s arrival.
Came he at last, preceded by Crabbit’s second delivery of his calling card. I felt a simple satisfaction at this defrauding of the social niceties. The earl demeaning himself so far as to call on a mere captain – how much more debased would he have felt to know his obsequies were squandered on an adventuring imposter?
On the card’s arrival, I dismissed Crabbit with a wave of my fingers. Johnny Brougham’s card bore only the appellation appropriate to his earldom. Plainly, as with many of the blood, the surname bare was sufficient. Said card was impressively stiff, as rigid as the rules of its presentation. It was devoid of the déclassé scalloping of edge that the cards of many of those exalted by success in trade affected. The print of an inky thumb may well have been the affectation of Brougham himself, or indeed a mark of Crabbit’s descent from his former position.
Brougham was as nervous as a curate among bishops. Do not think he hopped from foot to foot, rubbing one hand on the other in serpentine style; no indeed, he was as stiff and formal as ever I had seen him. He stuttered painfully over the C of captain – and excruciatingly over that of Crawford – all the while executing such a bow as would disgrace the least ingenious of automata. Still more painful were his overtures: the politenesses required before broaching the business of the matter at hand. The man enquired of the current strength of my regiment, my phantastical prospects of promotion within it and of my imagined exploits under its standard. The trick, of course, was to make as little of all three whilst offering not a whit of detail, much in the manner of a Cardigan or a Raglan.
Much as I enjoyed the ridiculous nature of this preamble, it was some relief when I realised he was approaching the purpose of his visit, admittedly in the manner of a cautious dog toward an intemperate feline. However, he had scarce mentioned my sister’s name, when I held up a hand and interrupted. ‘Modern though it might be, Brougham, my sister and I are not so disparate in age that I would presume to dispose of her prospects in her absence.’
I rang the bell and instructed Crabbit to fetch Arabella.
‘And also, if I might so presume,’ I went on, ‘I am in the hope that you would not consider it an imposition if our friend and advisor were also present?’
He spluttered his assent.
Arabella returned, on the arm of a man whom I respected as an exemplar of his type. Whitscrape, Malachi Whitscrape, attorney-at-law, as full of scruple as need be: he trod a line as thin as his own corporeal form. As yellow as the parchments he signed with conviction and impunity, only the burning coal of his eyes betrayed his true passion: the acquisition of guineas by whatever means. A useful man indeed.
Arabella took the peacock chair that I had vacated on standing for her entry, as politeness dictated. I stood, legs crossed at the ankle, and leaned one arm outstretched along the mantelpiece – a poor imitation of Mr Adam’s. There was little warmth emanating from below it: a meagre log fed a feeble flicker in the grate. Brougham, having executed his stiff approximation of a bow in the direction of Arabella, stood, hands behind his back, clearing his throat as if some blockage would hold him silent for ever. Whitscrape, being an insubstantial, pallid fellow, faded until he no more caught the eye than an artfully arranged coat stand.
Brougham began diffidently, with much circumlocution and further adjustment of buttons, cuffs, waistcoat and the irritating bolus in his gullet. I silently wished he would out with his proposal; Arabella sat demure with eyes downcast.
‘And so... Captain, not to delay further – and I hope I am not indelicate in my haste – I have the honour this propitious day to ask for the hand of your sister Arabella in marriage.’
He let out a huffing sigh as if these very words had been the obstruction that had caught so in his throat. And perhaps they were: we had presented Arabella as a woman of few prospects, being only my sister-in-law and as such having no claim on the house in Cadogan Square and little more than fifty pounds per annum, thanks to a legacy on the distaff side. In short, his prospective bride had been bound for a life of genteel poverty. It said little for his own desirability amongst his peers that he was yet a bachelor, or that he would be tempted so far beyond his circle, no matter what the prize.
A glint in Whitscrape’s eye signalled his continued presence in the world of men and I took it as a sign that Brougham had said enough.
‘You have chosen well, Brougham. My sister will make you a fine consort. We accept your proposal. It does us both great honour, I’m sure.’
He gave another of his stiff courtesies to Arabella, this time accompanied by a most repulsive leer. It was time to spring the gin and see how much the ermine would forfeit to escape its jaws. ‘And we are both, I am sure, cognizant of your extreme generosity in the matter of the responsibility.’
He nodded, still mooning at his prize.
‘For indeed,’ I went on, ‘a man might marry many women, even at an age as advanced as my sister’s own... ’
Brougham’s head swivelled, perhaps he felt the trap around his legs and could not turn to face me.
‘But only a rare individual would take a widow... ’
The eyes bulged; mayhap he was wriggling his leg and the teeth of the gin were paining him somewhat.
‘And she the mother of a poor fatherless child.’
Brougham let out a bellow of pained rage and threw a look of venom toward a suddenly more visible Whitscrape, who gave him a very satisfied nod. Brougham did not address his enquiry to me, but to the
lawyer: ‘How much, you viper?’
Whitscrape named a sum, not inconsiderable. It seemed that Brougham’s reputation, though of some pecuniary value to himself, would not have withstood a suit for breach of promise.
Later that evening, in possession of the earl’s bill, we wound the enterprise up in style. Several colleagues of the maid’s more normal place of employment were enjoined to attend an evening of libation and dancing. Crabbit disported himself shamelessly with several of these. Arabella invited some blades of her acquaintance, who, naturally, brought along acolytes and parasites in equal measure. Only Whitscrape and I disdained to invite friends to celebrate the success of our venture: the lawyer, I presumed, because he saw no profit in it, and I because there were none to whom I cared to extend an invitation.
The most satisfactory outcome of the evening was the despoliation of the house in Cadogan Square; it filled my soul to know that I had extended a little more in the way of education to the owner of so many blank-paged books.
Less satisfactory was the scene in East Cheap. The house in which, prior to the gulling of the earl, Arabella, the child and I had taken the attic rooms was a blackened gap between the grey teeth of the rest of the terrace. It was smoking still. Several bare-chested men, quite blackened by the smoke, stood exhausted in front of the ashes. There had been no hope, of course, of any timely extinguishing of the inferno. These men were neighbours and relatives of those who had undoubtedly perished. The London Fire Engine Establishment did not venture into East Cheap: for who there would – or could – pay premiums on the least expensive of policies available from such as the East London Fire Insurance and Mutual?
Arabella was already pale, fatigued by the attentions of several of her invited blades and not a few of their coterie. She stood motionless before the pyre, at once beautiful and terrifying. Caring not for her clothes or shoes, she ran into the pile of ashes and fell to her hands and knees, scrabbling in the ash. By outrageous fortune her hand clasped around a blackened metal object just as two of the brawny fellows seized her and bore her away.
