London

by Edward Rutherfurd

  It was an evening of masquerade. Some wore only a black half-mask that covered the upper half of the face. One or two women had chosen to dress in veils. Usually, of course, people in society recognized each other, but not always: Meredith had enjoyed some delicious surprises. He glanced in at the rotunda, but did not see him there. He went down the long avenue where numerous couples were strolling. Off to the side were darker, tree-lined alleys where meetings of a more clandestine kind sometimes took place. When finally he saw him, it was in a group of gentlemen talking and laughing in a semi-circular arbour, enclosed by a little arcade of classical columns.

  It was simple enough to attach himself to the group. Lord St James had been easy to spot, but Meredith pretended not to recognize him behind his mask. Two or three of the gentlemen there he really did not know. The talk was of politics, and he took no part. But after a time they moved on to gossip; and then, at a moment that seemed natural, he added his own voice.

  “They say that the latest scandal concerns Lord St James.”

  There was a hush. He saw one of the gentlemen glance towards the earl enquiringly, before quietly asking: “And pray, sir, what is that?”

  “Why,” he continued to sound like a foolish fop, “they say, gentlemen, that the earl has taken to beating his wife.” He paused for effect. “The joke is that he does not know why. For in truth, he has more to complain of than he understands.” Here he let out an insolent, braying laugh. “As those, like myself, who have enjoyed her favours should know!”

  It was done; and nicely done, he thought. The earl, if he was to retain any kind of honour, was left with no possible alternative. With a pale hand that quivered only a little, St James removed his mask.

  “May I know the name of the blackguard I am addressing?”

  Meredith removed his mask in turn.

  “Captain Meredith, my lord. At your service,” he answered stiffly.

  “My friends will wait upon you, sir.”

  “I shall be at my house in Jermyn Street within the hour,” Jack answered; then made his bow and turned upon his heel.

  It was the privilege of the party challenged to choose the weapons to be used. When the two gentlemen from the earl called upon him that night, therefore, Meredith told them.

  “I choose rapiers.”

  He had already got his own two seconds from the club. It was agreed that the matter should be settled straight away, at dawn.

  Lord St James had half expected his wife to be asleep when he got back, so he was surprised to find not only that the door of her chamber was open, but that she was waiting for him.

  All the way back from Vauxhall he had been wondering: should he confront her, or should he go to the duel without a word? There was also another matter on his mind. If by any chance he died, the whole St James estate, as things stood, would devolve upon his wife; for until he had a son, there were no surviving heirs. Yet did he really want to leave all his fortune to a faithless wife? If not, should he summon a lawyer, even though it was the middle of the night? Yet how would he change his will? He was not sure. It was with all these doubts in his mind that he found himself face to face with Lady St James who now beckoned him into her chamber and closed the door.

  She looked better than she had earlier. Her face was no longer swollen. Careful application of paint and powder had nearly hidden the black eye. And still more to his surprise, it seemed she wished to try for a reconciliation.

  “My lord,” she began gently, “you used me very ill last night. All day I have waited for some word from you – an apology, some message of tenderness. None has come.” She shrugged, then sighed. “But I know I gave you cause. I loved society instead of my husband. I put my pleasure before my duty to give you children, and I am sorry for it. Can we not be reconciled? Let us go to Bocton at once.”

  He stared at her.

  “And give me an heir?”

  “Naturally.” She smiled a little grimly. “It is possible that you already have one after last night.”

  St James looked at her thoughtfully. Was this a subterfuge of some kind?

  “There is something, my lady,” he said slowly, “that I must tell you. A certain person has informed me that he has been your lover. Naturally, I have defended my honour, and yours. What have you to say?”

  If it is possible to register shock and disbelief and innocence with a single facial expression, Lady St James did so, without a hint of overacting.

  “Who? Who could say such a thing?” she gasped.

  “Captain Meredith,” he answered coolly.

  “Jack Meredith? My lover?” She stared in astonishment. “And you mean you are to duel?”

  “How could it be otherwise?”

  “Dear God!” She shook her head. Then, almost to herself. “That poor well-meaning fool.” She sighed. “Oh, William. This is all my fault.”

  “You mean he was your lover?”

  “Dear Heaven, no. Never in my life. I have had no lovers.” She paused. “You see,” she went on softly, “Jack Meredith pretends to be a rake, but the truth is different. In secret, he is a kind man who long ago confided his unhappiness in love to me. He became a friend. And when yesterday you had used me so cruelly, and I did not know what to do, I went to seek his advice. He was very angry, William. But I did not know he would go to attack you as he did.”

  “Why tell me he was your lover then?”

  She looked genuinely perplexed. “I suppose to make you fight him. He must think I need defending. Surely you do not believe him?”

  Lord St James shrugged.

  “After all,” she continued, “consider it, William. Whatever Meredith is, he is certainly a gentleman. If such a thing were true, can you imagine him crying such a thing out to a group of strangers in Vauxhall?”

  This, St James had to admit, was true. Even in his angry state on the way home, the thing had struck him as odd.

  “He is a gallant fool,” she added. “And the fault is mine for making him think you a brute.”

  St James still said nothing.

  “William,” she cried, “this foolish duel must be stopped.”

  “The insult was offered, and in public. I’d be the laughing stock of London if I did nothing.”

  She considered. “Honour,” she suggested, “may be satisfied with a prick, may it not? A drop of blood will do?”

  “I suppose so.” Many duels resulted in only a small wound, often in the arm, at which both pairs of seconds would hastily end it. Deaths happened, but were rare.

  “Then I beg you,” she cried, “do not kill him, for he has certainly not deserved it. I shall write to him now to scold him and to tell him we are reconciled and that he has no cause to defend me in this foolish way any more.”

  “You do not think you need defending from me?” he asked.

  “That is forgotten. We are reconciled, are we not?” She kissed him. “I have never betrayed you, my dear lord, and I never shall.” She smiled. “Go and rest now, while I write my letter.”

  Soon afterwards, the swift footman was carrying her sealed missive to Jermyn Street. As for Lord St James, he did not sleep; but in due course came and lay by his wife who held his hand for several hours. She had dozed off when he kissed her and, a little after dawn, he went out with a lighter heart.

  It only took him five minutes to reach Hyde Park.

  For centuries the old deer park, which lay immediately west of Mayfair, had belonged to the monks of Westminster, until King Harry took it from them when he dissolved the monasteries. The Stuarts had opened the place to the public, and the long carriage drive round it, the route du roi (or Rotten Row, as the common people soon pronounced it), was nowadays a fashionable place for a lady to be seen in her carriage. A still more charming addition had been made when the little Westbourne stream was dammed, to make a large, curved pond called the Serpentine. But in the early hours of the dawn, its ancient oaks and quiet glades were convenient for another purpose: the fighting of duels.


  The issuing of challenges between gentlemen had an ancient history, from the days of medieval combat and long before. But it was only in the elegant eighteenth century that arranging private duels became fashionable. Why this was so is hard to know. Perhaps the West End of London, where huge numbers of people with leisure, and all claiming gentility, lived close together, provided a breeding ground for social disputes. Perhaps it was the influence of the increasing number of regiments, with their chivalric military ethos. Or perhaps the upper classes, led by the aristocrats who had made the European Grand Tour, were aping the customs of the French and Italians. Whatever the reason, they duelled upon points of honour and courtesy. And though, to later and more timid ages, the practice seemed barbarous, it certainly provided an incentive to be polite.

  The law was mild concerning duels. The courts, after all, were run by gentlemen who understood these matters. There was no question of murder, since, by definition, both parties were consenting to the business. If you killed your opponent in a duel, you risked a fine, or perhaps a nominal three months in jail. That was all.

  There were seven men present: the duellists, each with two seconds, making six, and a doctor being the seventh. The carriages remained a little way off. The place the seconds had chosen lay in a dell, screened from view, additionally, by the spreading oaks all around. Though there was not a soul in the park, St James was keenly aware of the company of the birds, whose morning chorus filled the air. The seconds had inspected the swords. He took off his cloak and handed it to his second, then took the rapier. He was wearing a linen shirt with loose sleeves: a sensible choice, just heavy enough to keep out the slight chill that was still in the morning air. He noted a little dew on the grass. He must take care not to slip.

  As the two men, facing each other, each made a courteous bow, lowering their swords, the sun was just touching the tops of the oak trees, causing them to glisten. Now the two sword points rose, and hovered, very still, close to each other, like two silvery snakes involved in some silent dance whose true meaning is known only to them, before darting towards each other, with a rasp of steel.

  St James was a fair swordsman, but Meredith was far better. It surprised Jack, nonetheless, that his opponent did not seem to be pressing him very hard and he concluded that this was probably a ruse. He waited cautiously, therefore, almost a minute before he saw his chance, and then, with a single swift and deadly lunge, he shot his rapier straight into Lord St James’s heart.

  The seconds cried out. The doctor ran over. But within seconds, the earl was dead.

  “My God, sir, was that necessary?” the doctor exclaimed.

  But Meredith only shrugged. That had been the bargain he made with Lady St James. And even if he might, faced with his man, have changed his mind, the note he had received from her in the middle of the night had made sure he would not.

  “For God’s sake take care, Jack,” it read. “He means to kill you.”

  It was late that night, after he had blown out the candle, that Jack Meredith became aware of the door to his room in the Clink quietly opening and a figure softly stealing in.

  Though he could only just make out her pale form in the darkness, he could tell who it was immediately by the scent she wore. She came over, touched him gently on the lips with her finger, then kissed him on the forehead.

  “We cannot be seen together for a little while,” she whispered, “but I have been active on your behalf. Since it was St James who called you out, and I told them he meant to kill you, they will take a lenient view in your case.”

  She went over to the window, where there was a chair. He could hear her starting to take off her clothes. He offered to strike a flint to light the candle, but she did not want him to. When she came to his narrow bed, she had on only a short nightdress, as far as he could see. It seemed to be of a coarse material of some kind, which rather surprised him; but soon he thought no more about it.

  Then Lady St James, dressed in the linen shirt, still spotted with blood, in which her husband had been killed, made love to his killer and so completed her revenge.

  As the pleasant month of May progressed, the only thing Sam and Sep could not agree about was the stealing.

  The chimney-sweeping venture was going very well. As their partner, they had found a young man, a little simple in the head, but whom they taught to perform well enough for their needs. Calling at a house with one of them, he would send the boy up the chimney with a few rough words, then leave him up there while he went round to the next house with the other brother and did the same thing. Returning to the first house, he would wait until there was someone by, then curse Sam or Sep, whichever it was, for taking so long and promise them a whipping; and they, in turn, would cower, and look so pitiful that there was scarcely a house where they did not get an extra tip of some kind. Covering two houses at a time in this way, they were splitting the payment, but not their tips, with their simple-minded partner and making a handsome living.

  But, as Sam pointed out, they could do better.

  “It’s the little things you want,” he’d explain. “Don’t take anything too valuable or they’ll see it’s gone. Just something small they won’t even miss. If you see a golden guinea and some small change on the table, leave the guinea but take a piece of silver. They’ll think they lost it if they ever notice.” But a silver coin here and there, an ivory comb, a gold button – these things mounted up. And Sep’s reluctance to avail himself of this obvious opportunity was trying Sam’s patience.

  How could Sep explain? He did not understand it himself. Some deep instinct inside him seemed to say that property must be respected, even though he himself had none. Perhaps it was the ancient voice of the Bull ancestors of whose existence he was so profoundly ignorant. Perhaps it was something else. But he did not want to do it. Only after two weeks of listening to Sam’s complaints did he finally agree.

  “All right. If I get the chance.”

  “Good,” replied his brother. “Because tomorrow we’re going to those big houses, in Hanover Square.”

  Isaac Fleming the baker was never more astonished in his life than the morning in mid-May when the door of his shop opened, and Lady St James walked in. He was astonished not only to see her at all, but by the fact that her face was as serene as if their hideous encounter had never happened.

  There was not a mark on her face. The death of her husband, which had been in all the London papers, had seemingly left her untouched. She even smiled as her eyes rested upon him with the same calm indifference as if he were part of the landscape on a sunny day.

  “I need,” she remarked casually, “a wedding cake.” And, since no other explanation of either her presence or the need for the cake was offered, Fleming bowed low, and wondered what to do.

  For Lady St James, things were going nicely to plan. The magistrates, as she had supposed, had taken a lenient view; and since Meredith had no money to pay a fine, and was in prison anyway, they had decided to bring no charges and let the matter drop. There remained only one thing to do then: she must make sure of her man.

  The bargain she had made with Jack Meredith had been in two parts. First, he must provoke the duel with St James and kill him; second, he must marry her. In return, she would discharge his debts with the fortune now at her disposal. “And then,” as she had put it, “we can live happily ever after.” So far he had certainly fulfilled his part of the bargain, but Lady St James was cautious. Before doing anything else, she took care of herself. Taking all the family jewels and a substantial quantity of money, she secreted them. Once married, her fortune would pass into the control of her new husband, and whatever else befell her, she did not intend to be dependent upon any man again. As for securing Meredith, she would leave nothing to chance there either. Before setting him free from prison by settling his debts, she would marry him. She decided to do it straight away. Then they would leave England for a year, travel in Europe, and return to life as normal.

  True, there would be
those who might find this speedy marriage to a man who killed her husband a little shocking; but she had already begun to take care of them. Rumours of St James’s cruel treatment of her had begun to circulate, thanks to her friends. She had let it be known that she had suffered in silence for years. One woman, who scarcely knew her, but hoped to, had described her as “a martyr, an angel”. She could marry safely.

  But how do you marry a man in a debtors’ prison? And do it in a hurry? In 1750, in London, nothing was easier.

  If the Clink and the Marshalsea were ancient houses for debtors, there was one greater still: the Fleet. The old prison house outside Ludgate had contained debtors of all kinds since the days of the Plantagenets. Small tradesmen, lawyers, knights and even peers might be found in there but its particular speciality was members of the clergy. They were often there by the dozen. And how should a clergyman in debt pay for his keep, or even attempt to satisfy his creditors? Why, by performing the function for which, despite his debts and his lack of a church, he was still licensed: he married people.

  Anyone could get married in the Fleet. No banns were read, no questions asked. You might already have a wife, you might give a false name: but if you paid your fee, a regular priest would marry you and register you in the Fleet, and the thing was as valid as if you had been married in St Paul’s Cathedral. Some of these clergymen did so well that, paying a fee to the gaoler, they set up little shops outside the prison where they touted for custom to passers-by in the streets. This strange little side-show to the Church of England, carried out not half a mile from the Bishop of London’s great cathedral, had been going on quite unhindered by the Church authorities for several generations. It was known as a Fleet Marriage.