Mary Anne

by Daphne Du Maurier

  “Four hundred a year and the lease of the house. Nothing more.”

  “Just about the dirtiest deal a woman could have, and typical, if I may say so, of royal largesse. Incidentally, yours is not the only nose out of joint. The Prince of Wales is living with Lady Hertford, and Maria Fitz has lost a stone in weight.”

  “He’ll go back to her in the end. He always does. She caught him young. I believe that’s the only answer.”

  “Rot. The more pulpy the fruit, the more smashing the fall. If you don’t get York back, I’ll find you a substitute. Five other brothers, you know, and all very hearty.”

  “Thank you. Once bitten… I’d rather make do with the peerage. I’ll remember what you said about the Whigs. Do you know Lord Folkestone?”

  “William Pleydell-Bouverie, his Radical Lordship? Spent his early days in France and talks revolution? I’ve seen him two or three times. Intense, but engaging.”

  “He came to my box at the theater a few weeks ago, before all this happened. I haven’t thought of him since, but we did rather well in the time… He was very attentive.”

  “Keep him hooked if you can, then; he might prove a valuable ally. What other admirers are likely to spring to assistance? The worthy Dowler can’t be far afield.”

  “Bill’s going to Buenos Aires, he’s out of the running. There’s Coxhead-Marsh in Essex, but hampered, as all the chaps are, with a wife. He’s stiff with property, though, and could be helpful; I might molder away six months or so with him. My Irish contingent have rather let me down, otherwise Dublin would have been amusing. Immediate response, of course, is easy. General Manners’ son, Russell Manners, another M.P., is dying to put himself at my disposal. His house in Old Burlington Street is mine for the asking.”

  “Seize hold of it, dear, if it’s empty.”

  “It’s not. That’s the trouble. He’d expect to be there in attendance, and have his reward.”

  “You could always plead nerves.”

  “For three nights, yes, but not for a fortnight. I’d rather go through the performance, his snuffles and all, than think up a different excuse for fourteen days… Yes, Burlington Street could be my pied-à-terre. And he’s got a rich brother-in-law called Rowland Maltby, who backs all his bills and is a City merchant at Fishmongers’ Hall. We might make some money through them—they know lots of people, all with their noses rammed to the right hind-quarters.”

  “Press on, press on. The temperature’s steadily rising.”

  “My God, I’ve forgotten Lord Moira… He’s clay in my hands, or was, when I saw him in April; two months make a difference. But all aboveboard and correct, no rough-and-tumble. He took a great interest in George, and played with his soldiers. Sobstuff would get him, I fancy, a woman distressed.”

  “Keep that in reserve, Mary Anne. The last card in the pack.”

  “When all else has failed?”

  “When the ultimate pip has been squeezed. Now, take my advice and relax, and get out of London. Forget H.R.H. for six months. That’s all I demand.”

  It was strange how morale rose to heaven because of his visit. Before, she’d felt senseless and numb, and there wasn’t an answer. Her spirits were at zero, she hadn’t a hope in the world. Now, because of his chat, she was singing again. Despondency vanished, gloom was flung out of the window. Ill luck was an imp to be spat at, fought with and vanquished; fortune a sprite to be seized, held on to and guarded; life an adventure, an ally, and not an antagonist. She moved among her possessions, cool and clearheaded, wasting no sentiment, sorting the good from the trash.

  “Those can go, and that, and these as well.”

  Chandeliers and lamps and fitted curtains—a better price for the house with the fittings thrown in. “But that I’ll keep, and this, and the dozen chairs.” It might have been six years back in Golden Lane, the bailiffs in and Joseph in a stupor. Only six years ago? An age. Eternity. And Joseph to blame for this, as in Golden Lane. Joseph and Adam between them, with lies and cunning. “Yes, sell the curtained bed. It will fetch a price, especially when it’s known who slept in it. The mattress, too, it’s seen a bit of service. But not the sheets. I’ll keep the monogram.”

  Sentiment? No… a business proposition. They might suit the Duchess at Oatlands, when closets were bare. An offer to sell would have to bring an answer. “May it please Your Royal Highness, I have some sheets. Part worn, but in good order and monogrammed. If the purchase is refused, then they will be publicly offered at Christie’s, with full details of when last used and by whom. The motive for giving Your Royal Highness the first refusal is sheer delicacy, thus avoiding any offence to taste.” Good for a hundred guineas? The Duchess could spare it. She might buy the sheets, and hem them short for the lapdogs.

  “What price a stout commode?” No, not for auction. Another private deal, with Colonel Gordon. “Knowing the shortage of fittings at the Horse Guards, the scarcity of materials due to war, Mrs. Clarke is pleased to offer, item—one large commode, solidity guaranteed. For use of Colonel Gordon, Military Secretary. Lately installed at 18, Gloucester Place, and tested by the Commander-in-Chief himself. If private sale is refused, then to be offered at Christie’s, or at the Royal Exchange for double value.”

  Gordon wouldn’t dare to let it go. He’d have to stump up the cash to squash the story. What other souvenirs would pay their way, lift pious hands and shock the eager eye? A nightshirt back from the laundry girl, and torn? Dispatched to Mrs. Carey, along with a cake of soap and a reel of cotton.

  A pair of underdrawers, perhaps, to the Queen? “Being aware of Your Majesty’s deep affection for Prince Frederick Augustus, Duke of York and Albany, I, Mary Anne Clarke, most devoted of your servants, do humbly dare to send you this touching token, that clothed the nether limbs of your second son, just found, to my great surprise, on the drawing-room divan.” That ought to cause a flutter down at Windsor, and a frisson among the ladies of the bedchamber.

  Will Ogilvie was right. The game continued. There were fools still willing to pay for place and position, believing she pulled the strings in the right direction. The friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend—and money changed hands. Burlington Street was the center of operations, once Gloucester Place was sold and the furniture stored, and Russell Manners, M.P. (with a sweet young wife in the country, somewhere in Wales) was her host in spite of his snuffles. When Parliament dissolved for the summer recess and husbands were claimed by wives, she changed headquarters. Cash was getting short and rest was imperative. The snuffles had been endured, but nerves were fraying. In a moment of madness she scribbled a note to the Duke, “I must have a hundred pounds to get out of town. My debts are still unpaid, and my creditors are after me. Everything I got for the house has gone in paying off the poorer tradespeople. If you fail me with this, I’ll come and camp on your doorstep.”

  She received a reply by return, and banknotes for two hundred. The letter was brought by a servant from Portman Square, who said His Royal Highness had been alone, and that neither Mr. Adam nor Greenwood were with him. So… when the spies were absent, conscience pricked. The letter said he hoped she was well, and that her children were with her. She need have no fear for George: his schooling was settled, his future was well assured, he gave his promise. As to herself and the very immediate future, a grace-and-favor house was at her disposal, standing empty at present while awaiting a suitable tenant, and she might use it until the tenant appeared. The house was rather far from London, at Exmouth, but doubtless sea air would benefit her and the children, and he hoped that her stay would prolong itself through the winter. He was hers, in all sincerity, Frederick P.

  Had Fulham begun to pall? Not yet, she decided. If it had been so he would never have sent her to Devon. Two hundred miles from town gave him breadth and freedom. What a contrast to his letters a year ago! She took one from the packet, written from Weymouth. “How can I sufficiently express to my sweetest, my darling love, the delight which her dear pretty letter gave me, or how much I feel
all the kind things she says to me in it? Millions and millions of thanks for it, my angel, and be assured that my heart is fully sensible of your affection, and that upon it alone its whole happiness depends.” Etcetera… etcetera… and finishing with, “God bless you, my own dear, dear love. I shall miss the post if I add more; oh, believe me ever, to my last hour, yours and yours alone…”

  Back to the ribboned pile and the black tin box, placed in the depths of her trunk for full security. And so to Exmouth, sand in the toes and freckles, with the children, her mother, Isobel, Isobel’s husband; with Charley, on sick leave again from another new regiment, having left the Dragoons and exchanged to the 59th Foot; May Taylor and her sister, term over and nowhere to go; poor Mr. Corri, ordered sea air by his doctor and nobody asking for music lessons in London; and Martha—thank God for Martha, fed up with the coalman and bigamy in a bed-sitting-room at Woolwich, eager to housekeep once more for a dozen-odd people. The whole world was welcome to grace and favor at Exmouth. Manchester House was enormous; it could shelter the lot, and the bill for the food could be sent to the Duchess at Oatlands… Repose, then, relax, forget the past and the future. Lie in the sun all day long and play with the children.

  And what of the winter, when everyone scurried for shelter, and the mist and the rain in the west drove spirits to zero? Back to Old Burlington Street or eastwards to Essex, the loan of that house at Loughton and Coxhead-Marsh?

  At least one of the chaps could afford to turn out his pockets, considering what she had done for them all in the past: places, promotions, jobs on the side. In other words, pick up a flat, and keep the ball spinning.

  9

  “I tell you it’s true.”

  “But darling boy, it’s quite incredible.”

  “Incredible perhaps, but you don’t know Fane. He hated me from the first, and so did the others. As soon as I joined the regiment I knew I had blundered; they made life as damned unpleasant as they could. Their orders came from higher up, that’s obvious—I heard as much from a rumor in the Mess. ‘Watch out, Thompson, the C.O.’s out to break you!’ I said, ‘What’s the reason?’ At first they wouldn’t answer, but after I’d pressed the point they let me have it. ‘It’s too bad your sister split with the C.-in-C. Her name’s mud at G.H.Q. and everyone knows it. Anyone connected is going to be booted. Some fellow saw it in Orders, I can’t tell you who.’ Then I got sick, you know how ill I’ve been… three doctors told me I was unfit for duty. I applied for sick leave. The C.O., Colonel Fane, wrote it was out of his power to grant it, that I had to apply to the Inspecting Field Officer, sending a doctor’s chit. The I.F.O. was at Newark, I was up at Leeds. I was distraught with pain, I couldn’t delay, I simply had to get to London for the best medical advice. So I went off, and sent a doctor’s chit when I got to town. And while I was being nursed by you at Loughton, with double mastoid, practically off my head, they plotted this.” The Gazette was thrown at her feet—“Captain Charles Farquhar Thompson, 59th Regiment of Foot, superseded.”

  She looked at his blazing eyes and his trembling hands. He was no longer a man but a little boy in the alley, saying, “It isn’t fair. The big fellow hit me. He’s stronger than me, he kicked me into the gutter,” and she was wiping his nose and drying his tears, saying, “I’ll look after you, don’t be afraid,” raging, boiling, seizing the nearest implement to hand—a broken saucepan, a poker, a headless broom—and running down the alley after the bully. She took the Gazette and read the statement again.

  “Don’t worry, Charley, I’ll have you reinstated.”

  “How can you? You haven’t the influence anymore. You’ve lost your job and so have I. We’re finished.”

  He threw himself on a chair, his hair disheveled, his tunic soiled, unbrushed, the buttons unpolished. “I tell you I haven’t a chance. I’ve known it for months. You’ve known it, too, but you’ve tried to fool yourself. Those weeks at Exmouth, pretending all was well, that H.R.H. had lent you the house for the summer and couldn’t wait for the autumn to see you again. What happened when autumn came? You flitted to Loughton, saying you’d got yourself used to country air, and that Coxhead-Marsh had been asked by the Duke to look after you, that Rowland Maltby and Manners were paying the bills. Have you seen H.R.H.? Not a glimpse. Not even a letter. He’s broken with you for good, and the whole world knows it. Not content with that, he’s put his spies on me, and I’m to be broken, too, kicked out of the service. And as for George, he’s for the boot as well. No new cadets at Marlow, the lists are closed. I had it from some fellow on the staff.”

  He laughed, and all the past was in the sound. The heat of the alley, the stench of the running drain, the cries of children, the taste of flyblown food, their mother’s weary call from the back kitchen, Bob Farquhar’s jug of ale spilt on the table.

  “For God’s sake hold your tongue…”

  “Why should I hold it? You’ve brought me up, I’ve followed you all my life. You taught me what to expect, and what to look for. ‘Aim high,’ you said, ‘and if you don’t get what you want, I’ll get it for you.’ That’s been your talk from the start. My first commission, my first exchange, promotion; everything coming easy, I was bound to succeed. And then, because of some footling Goddamn quarrel, you muck things up with the Duke and mess my life. I have to suffer through your stupidity. Not only me, but George, the girls, and all of us.”

  He started to sob, hysterically, like a child, reverting to the days when tears brought kisses, comfort and a box on the ear, a slap and a toffee apple, tales of the silver button, the clan Mackenzie. Now they brought silence, eyes that were suddenly stricken, a hand that touched his hair in a known caress, a voice that sounded distant, strangely frightened. “I never knew it meant so much to you, my living with H.R.H., and Gloucester Place. I thought you looked upon it as a business, a place where you could stay when you came on leave.”

  “A business? What sort of business? It was my world. The world you’d promised me when we were children. Remember my hero worship for Prince Charlie? You made it all come true, or so I thought. He used to smile and chat to me after dinner, those times I stayed in the house—you wouldn’t remember—and I’d go back to duty as proud as a king, feeling I’d talked to God… You don’t understand. You were only a woman, his mistress, but we were men; we spoke the same language; he asked me about the regiment. I honored him more than anyone I knew. He stood for something that I can’t explain, a dream at the back of my mind that came to life. And now it’s all over. There isn’t anything left.”

  She watched him tear the Gazette into tiny strips and throw it in the fire where it blackened and smoldered.

  She said, “Do you think that George feels the same as you do?”

  He shrugged. “How should I know? He’s still a child. At nine years old he might think anything. I only know he believes the Duke’s his father.”

  She turned and stared at him, her eyes bewildered. “Who told you so?”

  “George did himself. Ellen believes it, too. Some tale of Martha’s. Mary knows better, she remembers Joseph, but he’s rather dim in her mind and will soon be forgotten. They won’t forget H.R.H.—he’s implanted for life. And the rooms at Gloucester Place, and all the splendor. Nothing will equal that in the whole of their lives. You’ve spoilt the future for them, and you might as well know it.”

  Every word he said disclosed her hidden feelings. The past eighteen months, tedious and trivial, spent between Exmouth and London and Loughton Lodge, with any friend who offered to pay a bill—Russell Manners, Coxhead-Marsh, Jamie Fitzgerald—a means of marking time, to postpone decision, now rolled away as though they had never been; and she was standing once more in Gloucester Place, stacking the furniture, this to be sold, this to be kept, Will Ogilvie at her side saying, “The game continues.”

  The game in the lower brackets, fiddling, foolish, never worth the candle—that was a game for amateurs. A game for office clerks in a third-rate store, who counted a ten pound bill as the height o
f ambition: no pride, no power, no juggling with high names. “Mr. Rowland Maltby can get you a place as a waiter,” no longer “His Royal Highness will recommend…” Lolling about at Loughton with Coxhead-Marsh, yawning at tales of woodcock, partridge, pigeon, telling herself the autumn was pleasant in Essex, and all the while the fever under the skin, “I want him back. I want the power, the position.” The well-remembered whisper round Vauxhall, “Look! There’s Mrs. Clarke… Watch for the Duke”—a bustle, smiles and nods, and a sea of faces.

  It was all gone, a bubble burst, the running stream a patch of stagnant water.

  “What’s beaten me,” said Charley, “is the way you’ve taken the whole thing lying down. No sort of fight. Is it that you’re getting old and just don’t care?”

  This time he might have got a box on the ears, or a strangle grip on the throat—two children punching noses in the gutter, tearing each other’s hair, shouting “Stop, or I’ll kill you!” Instead, she went and looked out of the window at the neat box garden, the gravel drive, the trim smug Essex landscape.

  She said, “Go and pack your things. We’re going to London.”

  “Why? What for?”

  “Don’t ask me questions. You trusted me as a child, you can trust me now.”

  “You’ll get me reinstated?”

  “Yes. And then you’ll report for duty. On your C.O.’s reaction to that depends your future. If he’s really out to break you, he’ll show his hand.”

  Here was action at last, something to bite and tear. Her fury was projected onto Colonel Fane, a stuffed dummy representing law and order, emissary of Adam, of Gordon, the War Office, hatred begetting hatred, a world in arms. One woman alone against a race of men, antagonistic because they knew her worth. Keep out of our ranks, don’t poach on our preserves. That was why they hated her—she’d proved equality. They didn’t hate Mrs. Carey down at Fulham, or standing tiptoe on the theater boards—art was accepted, artists didn’t meddle. But once a woman stole the initiative, plundered the perquisites and took the lead, what happened to the globe? The fabric cracked.