‘So I understand.’ Lord Granville was frosty. ‘Fortunately, Exford is Mr Wolfe’s friend, which ought to put a damper on too much unpleasant speculation. Erskine has told me that he has instructed both Babbacombe and Wolfe not to discuss the matter with others either in public or in private before the enquiry is held.’
‘And a blessed relief that is,’ said Mr Canning, agreeing with Madame and Susanna, who were saying the same thing to Ben when they were picnicking by the Thames at Richmond one sunny afternoon.
Susanna was charming in a simple white high-waisted frock with a pale blue sash, and a small blue bow at her neck. Ben was more formally dressed and had already complained that ‘the ladies are more able to endure the sun than we are, seeing that they wear about half the quantity of clothing with which we are encumbered.’
They had been speaking briefly of Lord Erskine’s interdict. ‘Not that Ben has been giving anything away,’ said Susanna, laughing up at him. ‘He’s been keeping mum, but I believe that he has been thinking quite a lot.’
She knew that he had been closeted with Jess Fitzroy that morning, going over evidence which he had been collecting in Buckinghamshire.
‘None of it is substantive,’ Ben said wryly. ‘We shall be trading in gossip and hearsay, and how the truth can be arrived at in such a climate is beyond my comprehension. Jess has heard that Babbacombe has been secretly claiming that he has two witnesses who will win his case for him, but he cannot discover who they are. Neither can Jackson, the ex-Runner I have been using, so perhaps it’s nothing more than Babbacombe’s flimflam.’ He added, still wry, ‘At least, I hope so.’
‘I wish that we could be there to support you,’ said Madame. ‘But I believe that the Duke is probably keeping the ladies away in order to ensure that the audience will be small and informal—which is probably wise.’
They had finished eating their cold collation and were reclining on the grass. Ben took Susanna’s hand in his. She pressed it gently, both of them wishing that this wretched business had not arrived to delay their wedding. Each ached for the other. For the first time Susanna understood what the poets meant when they spoke of love as a flame. It was burning strongly inside her breast—and in Ben’s.
Madame, watching them, suddenly declared that she was drowsy and would like to rest. ‘But you, on the other hand, are both young and lively, so I suggest that you go for a stroll. There is a fine promenade by the Thames called Cholmondely Walk which will offer you some splendid views of Twickenham Bridge in one direction and Richmond Bridge in the other. Or you may meander into the pleasant grove which lies behind us. Arcadia is another name for the river at Richmond.’
And so it proved. First they wandered along the promenade, admiring the ducks and rails who were taking their ease on the river, before striking off into the trees where they found themselves alone.
‘At last,’ murmured Ben, taking her into his arms. ‘I think that Madame knew what a temptation you presented to me in your pretty summer frock and provided us with an opportunity to indulge ourselves.’
He ran his right hand through her hair before gently kissing her as passionlessly as he could.
‘I must restrain myself,’ he muttered into her ear, ‘for I am in danger of celebrating our wedding night, here on the grass, before the parson has made all legal and proper.’
Susanna knew how he felt for she was experiencing the same wild desire as Ben was. She had not truly known herself, she decided ruefully, for always in the past she had thought of herself as cool and contained and now her whole body was throbbing, demanding a fulfilment which it had never known before.
‘Alas, this is not the time or the place,’ she said sadly, breaking away from him. ‘If we were simply a shepherd and his love in the Arcadia of which Madame spoke, then we might have met and loved in innocence—with no consequences. But we are not—and must wait. Fortunately, we may not have to wait long.’
‘Yes,’ he said, standing back. But he could not prevent himself from putting out a tender finger and running it along her upper lip. Susanna turned her head to kiss the caressing hand.
Ben stood spellbound. For one brief mad moment he thought that both Madame and propriety must wait. And then sanity returned. He dropped his hand to take hers again, to swing her towards the path back to the world where duty waited for them.
‘Not long,’ he agreed with her. ‘Next Monday we meet at St James and, please God, matters will be settled once and for all.’
The sun made shifting patterns of light on the river and threw a golden glow over everything. Men and women in their summer finery passed them chatting happily. A dog ran towards them and barked defiantly at Ben, who bent to stroke it behind the ears. It stood passive, allowing him to caress it, and when he stopped nuzzled at his boots asking for more.
An elderly lady walked up to claim him, smiling at the handsome pair Ben and Susanna made in the peace and quiet of the early afternoon. When they reached her, Madame was resting on the grass, half-asleep. One of the footmen was standing guard.
She opened her eyes as they walked up. ‘Back so soon,’ she murmured drowsily, ‘I would have thought that you’d have been away longer.’
‘Another time,’ said Ben gently, ‘another time. We shall soon return, I trust, to pay the river homage. Now, I fear, we must leave for Jess told me that Jackson would be back later this afternoon, and I must not keep him waiting. Duty calls.’
It would always call Ben, and he would always answer it, thought Susanna as they were driven home. Which is one of the reasons why I love him.
Chapter Thirteen
‘Nothing so far,’ said one disgusted gossip to another of what was now known as Lord Erskine’s enquiry. ‘My information is that so far it has been all guesswork, rumours and hearsay. First Lord Erskine addressed them all on the rules of the court and then the attorneys spoke at length—and so two days were taken up. Then some affidavits were read when Lord Babbacombe’s action began, mostly from those too old and stupid to appear in court. Lord Erskine ruled that their evidence should be struck out as it consisted merely of country gossip. Lord Babbacombe made no objection as he said that there was better evidence to come.’
‘And that was that?’
‘So I understand.’
‘Much ado about nothing, then?’
‘So far,’ agreed the first speaker, ‘but we are only at the beginning. My informant said that Ben Wolfe looked ready to sleep by the end of the day.’
‘He’s confident, then?’
‘Appears to be—which is not the same thing.’
Ben, whom Madame had invited to stay with her for the duration of the enquiry, but who had refused on the grounds that he wished to give his enemies no ammunition with which to accuse him of impropriety, chose instead to call at the end of each day with the latest news.
‘So far,’ he told them at the end of the third day, ‘you have missed nothing. We are proceeding as in a normal trial. First Lord Babbacombe will state his case, and then I shall state mine. At the end, after due consideration, Lord Erskine will give his judgement. So far it seems likely that we shall remain at point non plus for Erskine has so far heard nothing to enable him to come to a conclusion. On the other hand…’ He paused and frowned.
‘What is it, Ben?’ Susanna said as calmly as she could. She thought he looked ill, and wondered how well he was sleeping.
‘Nothing? No, that is a lie,’ he said energetically. ‘The evidence today from some old woman who used to work in the kitchens at The Den had a strange effect on me. Of course, I can have no knowledge of what my father may or may not have done at the time of my birth, since I was then a newborn babe. But…’
He paused again. ‘The oddest thing is happening. I have never been able to remember much of my childhood and virtually nothing of what happened when my mother disappeared, but suddenly memories of that time are flooding back. I remember playing battledore and shuttlecock with her on the terrace at The Den, that she watch
ed me when I was taught to ride. I remember my father praising me because I learned so quickly…All that had gone, apparently beyond recall.’
Again, he fell silent. Neither Susanna nor Madame said anything. He turned away from them for a moment before turning back to continue. ‘I could not even remember her face, or whether I grieved at her disappearance, but now I know that I did, and that from his behaviour my father became a broken man. It is as though what happened was too terrible for me to hold on to. Now, even as I speak, more and more of the past comes to life again. Yesterday I could not have told you what my mother looked like—my father destroyed all her portraits, he could not bear to look at them—but today I could see her in my mind’s eye, a woman younger than I am now, who would be in her fifties if she had lived…I am convinced that she died either on that day, or soon after.’
There was such a look of anguish on his face that Susanna rose and went to him, to put her arms around him, regardless of Madame. She felt him shudder at her touch and, when he bent his head, his hot tears fell on the hand which she put up to comfort him.
‘I never cried then,’ he said, ‘and I suppose that I forgot because it was too painful to remember. Besides, my life was hard once my father died and it took me all my time to endure and survive in the present without grieving for the lost past.’
He took the tiny handkerchief which Susanna offered him, and dried his eyes with it.
‘You will think me maudlin and unmanly,’ he said ruefully, ‘but I cannot ever remember crying or grieving before—it is a new sensation for me. Perhaps I should try to forget the past again.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Susanna and Madame together.
Susanna, indeed, added her gloss. ‘You surely do not wish to lose your mother for the second time. It cannot be hurtful to remember past happiness with her and your father—and if the enquiry has restored them to you, it cannot be a bad thing.’
‘Wise girl,’ he said, his eyes dry again, and he bent his head to kiss her tenderly on the cheek. ‘You have a touch of my mother about you and I never knew that until today. You are not at all like her in looks but in your brisk, but loving-kind, manner.’
He guided her to the sofa where they sat decorously side by side. ‘Jess tells me,’ he said at last, ‘that one of Lord Babbacombe’s two key witnesses will be on show tomorrow. She worked in the nursery when I was born, and later married one of the workers on his estate. She refused to talk to Jess and told him that what she had to say was for m’lord Erskine and no one else. He thought that she was extremely hostile when speaking briefly of my father. Jess joked that his own famous charm made no dent on her patent dislike of him. Jackson had a go at her and fared no better.’
‘If Jess cannot charm her, then no one could,’ Susanna declared. She could see what attracted other women to Jess even if he did not in any way affect her as Ben did. She had long ago decided that she liked large, dark and fierce men more than smooth, fair and mild ones.
‘So tomorrow may be a crucial day,’ commented Madame.
‘Very much so. It will be the first hard evidence offered. On the other hand—’ he paused again ‘—on the other hand, what has passed so far is difficult to refute—or prove—simply being rumours which left Babbacombe with little hard ammunition to shoot at me. Still, we shall see.’
‘And you will stay for supper?’
‘If I may?’ His eyes were on Susanna as he spoke. ‘I must tell you that I never valued the company of women until I enjoyed that of yours and Susanna’s. You may both take the credit for civilising me.’
It was plain that he meant what he said. Susanna, remembering what he had hinted earlier about his hard life, understood that the softer side of human intercourse had been missing from it. The women whom he had met as a common soldier and then, later, as a hard-working merchant were unlikely to have had the same interests—and advantages—that she and Madame had been blessed with.
Hard though her life had been after Francis had jilted her, she had always remained in polite society, even if only at the edge of it—Ben, on the other hand, had been banished to the outer depths.
Supper over, Madame offered him a bed for the night because she thought that there was a desolation about him. He shook his head at her. ‘No ammunition for Babbacombe,’ he announced, more cheerful than he had been all evening. ‘I shall call on you tomorrow—and with good news, I hope.’
Ben had no real hope of any such thing. Both Jess and Jackson had prepared him for the worst well before the enquiry.
‘The woman was undoubtedly present at your birth. She is the only reliable witness that they were able to find. Your father’s steward agreed that Mrs Harte was indeed the Joan Shanks who assisted at your mother’s accouchement. We can’t attack her as an impostor coached by Babbacombe and his men—only as a possible liar.’
Ben’s attorney had agreed with them. ‘We have to break her,’ he advised. ‘Try to catch her out, suggest that Babbacombe has bribed her. She is their strongest card.’
She was to be the first—and possibly the only—witness of the day. It was cold and grey for summer: rain was sliding down the panes of the long windows. Inside, the candles in the chandeliers had been lit and a fire was blazing in the large hearth. Lord Erskine was seated at a long table covered with law books, his clerk by his side busily taking down every word.
A large armchair placed at an angle to the table accommodated the witnesses. The major participants in the action were seated on each side of a gangway which ran the length of the hall. Behind them was the small audience of gentlemen and noblemen, all of them grave and reverend signiors, who behaved themselves impeccably throughout the hearing as befitted their station and their years. Lord Granville was on the front row. When he cared to attend, the Duke of Clarence and his suite were seated in a gallery at the back of the room from where they could look down and see all that passed.
An usher called out in a loud and important voice, ‘Mrs Thomas Harte’, and a stout woman of middling years was escorted to the witness stand by a footman. She was dressed in a decent black gown with a white linen fichu, edged with lace and fastened by a small brooch, her only piece of jewellery. Her answers were given in a clear, composed voice touched with a rural accent. Any hope that she might be awed into making mistakes by her grandiose surroundings and the presence of the great men who were listening to her soon disappeared.
Lord Babbacombe’s attorney, a Mr Gascoyne, took her gently through her story.
‘You are Mrs Joan Harte, are you not, formerly Miss Joan Shanks?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Mr Herriott, Ben’s attorney, leapt to his feet. ‘M’lud, may we have evidence before us that this woman is who she claims to be?’
Lord Erskine looked towards Mr Gascoyne. ‘You have this evidence, I assume, Mr Gascoyne.’
‘Indeed, m’lud.’
‘And it has been shown to Mr Wolfe and his attorney?’
‘Indeed, and I believe that Mr Wolfe remembers this woman as being part of the household when he was a boy.’
Lord Erskine addressed Ben. ‘Do you confirm that, Mr Wolfe?’
Ben remained silent for a moment. He was staring at Mrs Harte. Something about her troubled him, but he could not say what. He was silent for so long that Lord Erskine said testily, ‘Did you hear me, Mr Wolfe? Do you remember this woman? Can you confirm that she was Miss Joan Shanks, who is now Mrs Thomas Harte?’
Ben jumped. More than one of those present thought that it was unlike him to be so distrait.
‘Forgive me, m’lud. Yes, I believe her to be who she says she is.’
If his answer was a trifle equivocal it was deliberately so. He could not say what it was about her which troubled him, but something did. An elusive memory rode at the borders of his mind and refused to be identified.
‘You may continue questioning the witness, Mr Gascoyne,’ snapped Lord Erskine, not best pleased by Mr Ben Wolfe’s absent-mindedness which he considered derogated from his c
ourt’s dignity.
Mr Gascoyne smiled reassuringly at Mrs Harte and began his examination.
‘You were employed as an assistant nursemaid to Mrs Wolfe before her accouchement?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you were present throughout the delivery of her baby boy?’
‘Yes, sir.’
She had been well coached. Her answers to Gascoyne’s questions were all brief and to the point, without embroidery.
‘What happened after the baby was delivered?’
‘The doctor and the midwife were alarmed because it was not breathing properly. It was the wrong colour they said. Blue, not pink.’
Listening to her, Ben found that it was difficult to believe that they were talking about him in the long ago, before he had either memory or real consciousness.
‘And did this condition continue?’
‘It did.’ Again the brief, stark answer giving nothing away.
‘Were the doctor and the midwife alarmed?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long did this go on?’
‘For two days. The little boy, Ben, they called him, could scarce suck his mother’s milk because of his difficulty in breathing.’
‘And what happened at the end of two days?’
‘The child began to fail. The doctor said that he was not long for this world.’
‘But the child did not fail—or so the gentleman calling himself Mr Ben Wolfe claims.’
Mr Herriott jumped to his feet and protested at this. ‘That is a most improper statement. I must remind you, m’lud, and Mr Gascoyne, that nothing has yet been proved affecting Mr Wolfe’s legitimacy.’
‘Very true,’ said Lord Erskine. ‘Please refrain from making such statements, Mr Gascoyne, and address yourself solely to your witness’s evidence.’
‘I obey you, m’lud. And did the boy die, as the doctor prophesied?’
‘He did, sir. On the third day.’
For the first time there was noise in the court as this stark answer sank in.
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