Fell the Angels

by John Kerr

  ‘I’m inclined to say nothing, of course. But with all the vituperative gossip-mongers about, in particular that wretched sister of Throckmorton, there’s always the risk …’

  At the mention of the solicitor, Gully swallowed hard with the expression of someone who’s taken a bite of rotten fish. ‘Well,’ he said after a moment, ‘I think it almost inevitable that after the announcement of your betrothal, which will no doubt be widely reported in the society pages, someone or other will come forward and inform Cranbrook of our affair in the most scandalous terms, intending, of course, to destroy your engagement.’

  ‘Oh, it’s too dreadful,’ said Cecilia with a groan. ‘If I tell him about us he’s almost certain to reject me.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Gully with a nod, considering that such an outcome would suit his own interests very well. ‘But better to take that chance, my dear, than to run the risk that he discovers it after you are married.’

  That eventuality had not occurred to Cecilia. ‘Oh,’ she said, placing a hand on her brow. ‘I suppose he would be quite spiteful.’

  ‘True,’ said Gully, ‘though I have no idea whether he’s a harsh or a gentle man.’

  Harsh, considered Cecilia. Very harsh.

  ‘In our society,’ continued Gully with the air of a distinguished lecturer, ‘there are public mores and private mores, and especially among the upper classes, the two are frequently in conflict.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The gentleman would no doubt react to news of our affair with shock and censure, whereas privately he may very well have engaged in such conduct himself.’

  This was the second possibility that had not occurred to Cecilia. ‘How very wise of you,’ she said. ‘I knew I could depend on your sagacity. My mind is made up. If Charles should propose, and I should accept, I shall make a clean breast of it and inform him of our affair, that it’s a thing of the past.’

  ‘The soundest course,’ said Gully with a nod. ‘However, I must repeat my deep reservations, Cecilia, about entering into a marriage to a man who doesn’t truly love you and whose motives may be largely pecuniary.’

  Seated in an armchair in her bedroom with her feet on a footstool, Cecilia gazed down at her fancy mauve satin boots, tightly laced up to mid-calf, with patent leather toes and one-inch heels. Intended to distract men’s attention from a lady’s comely ankles, she considered with a smile that they had the opposite effect. Returning to the sheets of stationery in her lap – the latest letter from Charles – she reread his humorous description of a lawn tennis match and his boasts of triumphing in the weekly chess tournament at White’s, the venerable gentlemen’s club on St James’s, closing with professions of love for his ‘dearest Cissie’. Did he love her, and what, exactly, was love? Something more than physical attraction or mere affection, she was sure of that. She’d never loved her husband, nor had she really been in love with James but rather had deeply revered him and found his physical, sexual qualities irresistibly seductive. Putting the letter aside, she picked up her pocket calendar and turned to the month of January, the date of her visit with Mrs Clark to the Cranbrook mansion on Palace Green. Almost eight months had passed since she first met Charles. Eight months and tonight she expected matters would come to a head. What should she wear?

  Arriving at The Priory punctually at seven o’clock, Charles Cranbrook was welcomed by the butler and shown into the drawing-room, where Cecilia was seated in one of the rosewood armchairs. ‘Hallo, darling,’ he said as he walked up to her. Rising, she took his hand and turned her cheek for a kiss.

  ‘How pretty,’ she said, glancing at the nosegay he was clutching.

  ‘You’re the pretty one,’ said Charles, looking admiringly at her décolletage, tightly corseted red dress and the spectacular sapphire pendant at her throat and matching ear-rings.

  ‘Sawyers,’ said Cecilia, ‘would you bring us two glasses of champagne?’

  Cranbrook, who as usual was impeccably dressed in a black frockcoat, cream-coloured waistcoat, and dove-grey trousers, waited for Cecilia to sit and then settled comfortably on the settee. Crossing one leg over his knee, he said, ‘I came directly from Gray’s Inn, without stopping at my flat. A journey of precisely forty-six minutes.’

  ‘Not so long, really,’ said Cecilia.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Charles. ‘One could easily become accustomed to it.’ The butler reappeared and served their champagne from a salver. Holding up his glass, Charles said, ‘Cheers’, and took a sip. After waiting for Cecilia to sample her drink, he said, ‘I believe the time has come, darling, to discuss our plans.’

  ‘Not now,’ said Cecilia. ‘But after dinner. For now, I’d like you to finish that amusing story about the judge who fell asleep in the middle of the trial.’

  Cecilia had arranged a sumptuous, three-course dinner of vichyssoise, stuffed goose with French beans, and a chocolate soufflé, accompanied by more champagne and a bottle of vintage claret. She was careful to steer the conversation to banalities during the drawn-out affair, so that when dessert was served, the mood was pregnant with anticipation of the unspoken topic of their future. Pushing back from the table, Cecilia said, ‘Let’s take our coffee or liqueur in the drawing-room.’ Helping her up, Charles walked wordlessly with her to the adjoining room, illuminated by flickering gaslights on sconces, and helped himself to a glass of brandy as Cecilia sat in her favourite chair.

  Standing before her, he said, ‘I feel as I often do when making a closing argument to a jury.’ Cecilia smiled encouragingly. ‘Having rehearsed all the things I want to say,’ he continued, ‘at least a dozen times.’ Taking a sip of brandy, he began to pace. ‘You may recall,’ he said, ‘when we were first together in Brighton, I expressed my desire one day to have children.’

  ‘A brood of them,’ said Cecilia.

  ‘Yes,’ said Charles, halting with a crooked smile. ‘And you said, “but first you must find a wife”.’ She nodded. ‘My dear Cecilia,’ he said, looking her in the eye. ‘I want you for my wife.’ Dropping to one knee, he said, ‘Will you be mine?’

  ‘Oh, Charles,’ said Cecilia, rising from her chair. ‘Nothing would make me happier.’

  Standing, he put his hands on her shoulders and then kissed her and held her close. ‘Charles,’ she said softly after a moment.

  ‘Yes, dear?’

  Pulling away, she took his hands and said, ‘There’s something you must know.’ He gave her a puzzled look. ‘About my past …’

  ‘Your previous marriage—’

  ‘No. Something that may cause you to change your mind.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish,’ he said. ‘Nothing could cause me to change my mind. I’m quite in love with you.’

  ‘Oh, Charles,’ she said in an anguished voice, slumping back down in her chair and moving her knees against the silks of her petticoat. ‘If only I could spare you.’

  ‘What? Spare me?’

  Cecilia nodded, wiping away a tear. ‘Please sit,’ she said. Once he was seated on the sofa, she said, ‘I was involved in … well, in a love affair. With an older man.’

  ‘I see,’ said Charles with a frown. ‘But I don’t see the point….’

  ‘A man named Dr James Gully. A very distinguished man. The personal physician to Lord Tennyson and Charles Darwin.’

  ‘Gully,’ repeated Cranbrook. ‘I seem to have heard of him.’

  ‘It was during the time I was separated from my husband.’

  ‘Separated?’

  ‘Yes. Robert suffered terribly from alcoholism. Life became unbearable; we separated, and I was sent by my father to Dr Gully’s hydro for treatment. And then Robert died.’ Though determined to confess her transgression, she saw no point in admitting to adultery.

  ‘I see,’ said Cranbrook with a shake of his head. He took a large swallow of brandy.

  ‘Doctor Gully was exceptionally kind to me,’ explained Cecilia. ‘And I was very, well, vulnerable, I suppose. We had an affair.’

  ‘We
ll, damn it all,’ said Cranbrook, suddenly rising from the settee. ‘Damn it all to hell.’

  ‘There’s more,’ said Cecilia quietly. ‘Doctor Gully, you see, is in his mid-sixties. And married.’

  ‘What?’ Cranbrook’s eyes flashed with anger.

  ‘His wife is quite elderly and confined to an insane asylum. He hasn’t seen her for years.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Cranbrook, downing his drink and walking over to the sideboard to pour another.

  ‘We tried to be very discreet, of course,’ said Cecilia, fidgeting with her cuffs. ‘But my solicitor found out, and has spread the most vicious rumours. All lies, of course,’ she said looking up into Cranbrook’s eyes. Suddenly bursting into tears, she muttered, ‘It’s over now, I swear it.’

  ‘An affair with an old man,’ Cranbrook muttered. ‘And word of the scandal spread around town. Damn.’

  Cecilia wiped the tears from her eyes, rose from her chair and took a step toward Cranbrook, who eyed her warily. ‘I think I should leave you alone to your thoughts,’ she said calmly, obviously having anticipated his surprise and outrage. ‘You may help yourself to another drink, or coffee, if you prefer. In a while I shall return, and you may give me your decision.’

  Cranbrook nodded, sipped his drink, and said, ‘All right.’

  Cecilia went to her bedroom to undress, satisfied that Mrs Clark had retired for the evening. Half an hour had elapsed when she emerged from her boudoir, wearing an elaborately embroidered silk dressing-gown and slippers. With a final, resigned glance at her reflection in the mirror over the dressing-table, she left the room and quietly descended the staircase. She found Charles where she had left him, standing before the fireplace with a glass in his hand, his face a blank mask. ‘Well,’ she said as she walked up to him. ‘Have you reached a decision?’

  Cranbrook placed his glass on the table at the end of the sofa, raised his chin, and said, ‘Yes, I have. The fact of the matter, Cecilia, is that I too have been guilty of this sin.’ Cecilia responded with a searching look. ‘In my anger, or jealousy, regarding your affair with this man Gully, I very nearly failed to consider my own past.’

  ‘I see,’ said Cecilia, lowering herself to the sofa.

  ‘I had a kept woman in Maidenhead for a number of years,’ he continued, ‘with whom I was engaged in an illicit affair. And so’ – Cranbrook took a step toward her – ‘who am I to condemn you?’

  ‘Oh, Charles,’ said Cecilia, jumping up and throwing her arms around him. ‘Please, please forgive me.’

  Holding her by the shoulders and looking in her eyes, he said, ‘I shall marry you. But on one condition: you must never, never see that man Gully again.’

  Chapter Eleven

  JAMES GULLY SAT in his parlour at Orwell Lodge watching the rain. Having treated patients suffering from melancholia for decades, he was well aware of the effects of foul weather on the human mind; oppressive, dreary, dull, an anchor on the soul. And yet, he considered, it was far more than the cold, steady rain beading the windows that induced his gloom and ennui. He lowered his eyes to the simple handwritten announcement that had arrived in the morning mail. Miss Cecilia Henderson, he read, will be married to Charles Spencer Cranbrook, Esq. at 11.00 a.m. on Saturday, 7 December, 1871, All Saints Church, Borough of Kensington, London. No more, not even the briefest note of regret. Glancing at the handwriting, clearly not Cecilia’s, he picked up the envelope and studied the return address on the flap: Mrs Jane Clark, The Priory, Balham. What a damnably thoughtless way to inform him that he was losing the only woman he had truly loved. ‘Humbug,’ he muttered, tossing the note on the carpet. Rising from his chair, he walked to the window, gazed out at a passing carriage on the rain-slick street, and then moved to his writing-desk. Taking a sheet of paper from the drawer, he dipped his pen in the inkwell and wrote:

  15 October 1871

  Orwell Lodge, Balham

  My dear Mrs Clark

  I am in receipt of your note concerning the marriage of Miss Henderson. Please advise your employer that while I appreciate having been notified, I cannot congratulate her on what I regard as an ill-conceived and potentially ruinous union. She may rest assured, however, that I have no intention of attending the nuptials.

  Furthermore, it is my considered judgement that you have greatly influenced, I daresay manipulated, Miss Henderson in this matter for reasons as to which I may only speculate, though I am cognizant of the relationship that has existed between you and the family of the groom. I believe you have acted at least in part out of a desire to cause me pain, and it may give you some satisfaction to know that in this you have succeeded admirably. As I fear there are certain persons, perhaps including yourself, who are motivated in this matter by avarice and Miss Henderson’s fortune, rest assured that I, as her one time guardian, will do all in my power to ensure she is protected. I remain

  Yr obedient servant

  J. M. Gully

  With a smile of grim satisfaction, Gully lifted the page, blew softly on the drying ink and then carefully folded it in an envelope. After addressing it and affixing a stamp, he donned his top hat and ulster, slipped the letter in his pocket and headed out in the rain to post it.

  Cecilia stood by the casement window in the drawing-room, gazing out on the lawn, littered with fallen leaves, and the green fields and woods of Tooting Bec Common in bright sunshine. Wearing a long-sleeved white batiste blouse, buttoned up to her neck, with a forest green wool skirt, she turned toward Mrs Clark, who was seated in an armchair with a thick ledger open in her lap. ‘Where were we?’ said Cecilia, fingering the brooch on a gold pin at her bosom.

  ‘Your expenditure,’ said Mrs Clark, ‘over the past month, of which, as you know, I maintain careful accounts—’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Exceeded your income. You must cut back.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Cecilia with a short laugh. ‘My income is merely the amount I instruct my banker to deposit in the account, dear Mrs Clark. I shall simply instruct them to increase the allowance. An extra fifty pounds should suffice, don’t you think?’

  ‘You must learn to practise thrift,’ said Mrs Clark with a frown, as she closed the ledger and put it aside. ‘Your profligate spending will one day get you in trouble.’

  ‘In trouble? With whom?’

  ‘With your husband.’ Mrs Clark rose from her chair and approached Cecilia. ‘Mr Cranbrook,’ she said, ‘strikes me as a man who’ll take a hard line when it comes to the household budget.’

  ‘Well, it’s my money,’ said Cecilia with a flippant air, ‘and I shall spend it as I please.’

  ‘Not after you’re married,’ countered Mrs Clark. ‘Then it shall be his money.’

  A concerned look clouded Cecilia’s face. ‘His money?’ she repeated. ‘Charles will control my income, what I can spend?’

  ‘Under the law,’ said Mrs Clark, ‘a married woman is a slave to her husband.’

  ‘I shall see about that,’ said Cecilia. ‘I’m certain Mr Jenkins at Coutts can refer me to someone in the City for advice on such matters. Before the wedding.’

  Seated in a second-storey outer office overlooking the Strand, Cecilia studied the stacks of documents crammed into the shelves of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. How, she wondered, as she waited for her appointment with the solicitor, could anyone keep track of his cases, if that was the proper term, amid such hopeless clutter? After the lapse of another five minutes, the oak door beneath the transom opened with a creak, and the lawyer’s wizened secretary appeared. ‘You may come in, miss,’ he said, holding open the door and beckoning with a crooked finger. With a pretty smile at the white-haired gentleman, who stood no taller than she, Cecilia entered a dim, narrow passageway that led to the solicitor’s office. Edmund Thistlewaythe, an attorney highly recommended by the bankers at Coutts, was a portly, apple-cheeked gentleman of the old school, whose attire – black frockcoat, embroidered crimson waistcoat, and old-fashioned knickerbockers with stockings that r
eached his knees – was unchanged since his days at Cambridge in the 1820s. ‘Come in, come in, my dear Miss Henderson,’ he said with a smile, gesturing to a red leather armchair before his mahogany desk, which, in contrast to the outer office, was free of papers except for a writing tablet and pen. Cecilia sat, gazing beyond the desk at the arched windows with their view of the Georgian buildings lining the busy thoroughfare.

  ‘Very well,’ said Thistlewaythe once he was seated at his desk, ‘I understand from Mr Jenkins that you’re engaged to be married.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Cecilia, ‘to Mr Charles Cranbrook, a barrister at Gray’s Inn.’

  ‘Why, congratulations, Miss Henderson. How may I be of assistance?’

  Thinking that Thistlewaythe’s genial manner was as different as could be imagined from the severe Throckmorton, she said, ‘At the death of my first husband, I inherited a large fortune—’

  ‘So I was advised by Mr Jenkins.’

  ‘And, as I am soon to remarry, I desire to understand my legal rights in respect of my property.’

  ‘I see.’ Folding his hands on the desk, Thistlewaythe said, ‘Has not your father advised you regarding this matter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, then, as a general rule, under the common law a married woman’s rights are governed by the doctrine of coverture. Whereas a single woman is a feme sole, a married woman is a feme covert.’

  ‘And the difference…?’

  ‘In marriage,’ said Thistlewaythe, ‘in the eyes of the law, husband and wife become one.’ Reaching for a thick volume from a nearby shelf, he leafed through its pages and said, ‘As Blackstone put it: “By marriage, the husband and wife are one person in law: that is, the very being or legal existence of the woman is incorporated or consolidated into that of the husband, under whose wing, protection, and cover she performs every thing”.’ Closing the volume and returning it to the shelf, Thistlewaythe explained, ‘All property theretofore owned by his wife is his, all income belongs to him, all rights to enter into contracts, etc may be exercised exclusively by him.’