by Janet Todd
Lady Susan breathed deeply. She must collect her thoughts. She pressed her fingers to her temples, closed, then opened her eyes. What could they both be doing here? She had explicitly told the one to stay away from London and the other was supposed to be estranged from her guardian. But the evidence of her eyes could not be doubted. Reginald de Courcy and Charlotte Manwaring were in the same street and about to be in the same house. It was as maddening a circumstance as could be imagined.
There was nothing to do but continue at a snail’s pace to her lodgings in Upper Seymour Street and await events. Better to try for explanations afterwards than join the fray now. The trip to Norfolk had been taken exactly at the wrong moment. How utterly irritating, she thought, especially since it had been unnecessary. What a web she’d been caught in. She’d always seen herself at the centre of any schemes: had she lost her touch?
Mr Johnson was not entirely surprised to hear of Mrs Manwaring’s arrival in his house. He had had much leisure to think; now he lay half reclined in his study, unsure quite how he intended to react. His foot throbbed and he would rather have received no one, but it would be too unkind to repulse his ward, however stupidly she’d behaved. So he sent to ask her to step up to his study. He intended to be cool and distant but not cruel.
When he saw her thin, drawn face and remembered how moderately pretty – not beautiful – she’d been as a young girl, he could not sustain the attitude. Charlotte Manwaring took one look at her invalid guardian and threw herself on her knees beside his couch. She had come to pour out the story of her wrongs, to appeal to the man whose warning she had so foolishly ignoring.
The tale ended with the present. She was now with her husband in town, at once hating and loving him. Mr Manwaring was no judge of servants and she’d had little trouble getting his man Robert to tell her where his master went every day. With this information she’d demeaned herself by following him in a hired chair – she blushed as she recounted it – only to find that he went up to the very house where Lady Susan lodged. She had to admit that he then walked away. But he could not have been repulsed – the lady must simply have been away from home. The act, the assurance, his ease and gaiety as he bounded up the steps, had filled her with more misery than she could cope with alone. She’d had had to seek out her guardian.
All this she poured out to Mr Johnson between sobs and much wringing of her hands and handkerchief. ‘Sir, you once cast me off for being so foolish as to marry a man you called a fortune-hunter,’ she paused to wipe her nose and eyes, ‘but I beg you now not to reject me. I am so very very distressed.’ When her guardian did not at once reply, she resumed, ‘Mr Manwaring has been unfaithful to me before, I know it – he’s so personable, everyone likes him – but this is different, that viper Lady Susan …’ She couldn’t go on; she was weeping uncontrollably.
Mr Johnson was more moved by the change in his ward’s appearance than by her story, which held no surprises for him. Neither the lady nor the gentleman had acted out of character. He’d always said that, with such a husband, his ward would be either kicked or kissed out of her fortune, however tight the settlements. But perhaps something might be salvaged.
He calmed Mrs Manwaring as much as he could, pressed her to tea, perhaps a restorative brandy, and then questioned her more acutely on how things stood between herself and her husband, exactly how he had behaved in the past and whether, in her love for him, she had signed more documents than the lawyers he’d introduced to her had advised. In all this he retained a moderate tone, but when he came to speak of Lady Susan he became agitated: his excess comforted Mrs Manwaring more than his talk of financial rights and wrongs.
Reginald had come to visit Mrs Johnson as Lady Susan’s particular friend to ask how long she intended to be in Norfolk. Since his mistress was out, the butler assumed the visitor would want Mr Johnson. So he showed the surprised young man into the library. While Charlotte Manwaring was drinking her tea and nibbling at a muffin, sniffing and occasionally sobbing between sips and bites, the butler interrupted to bring news to his master that Mr de Courcy waited below in the library. Mr Johnson had no idea why the man had come, but it was a wondrous coincidence.
For a moment he considered confronting one visitor with the other. Yet, as he looked at his ward sitting on a low chair close to his couch with her reddened, streaked face, he thought that just now she was not the best instrument to hand.
So he spoke to her kindly, called for her maid, and told her to see her mistress carefully to the carriage. She should go home and rest. They would meet again and talk when she was more herself and he had had time to think.
Privately he felt that a separation from her despicable husband would be best for her, the only hope of saving something from the wreck of his old friend’s large estate. But he feared that poor Charlotte was still lovesick. He had no great respect for women. They were too weak to act rationally. Lady Susan was cleverer than his ward but she had wasted her husband’s fortune. All in all, the only way to deal with the sex was to make sure they never controlled a purse, let alone an estate.
When he heard the front door close on his ward, Mr Johnson sent to Reginald de Courcy, who was striding up and down the library, impatient to be summoned by someone. He assumed from the delay that Mrs Johnson must be about a very elaborate toilet. The butler apologised for the delay in receiving him but requested him now to have the kindness to step along to Mr Johnson’s study, where as a poor invalid the master was confined.
Reginald was surprised. However he was courteous and went up the stairs with no particular expectations.
It was at this moment that Alicia Johnson arrived home with her new Bond Street bonnet in a large round box – just in time to see Mrs Manwaring’s carriage pull away from her doorway. She entered and learnt from the butler that her husband was closeted with a Mr Reginald de Courcy.
She repaired to her own room, sat down heavily, fortified herself with ratafia, then wrote a note to Lady Susan. She sealed it hurriedly. She was so shocked she had difficulty lighting the candle to melt the wax; when it was hot she dabbed the paper a couple of times. Then she ordered the under footman to rush the note around to Upper Seymour Street and deliver it personally.
Lady Susan was in her bedroom; it was just after midday. She had a visitor and had given orders that she should not be disturbed. Barton and Jeffrey knew well what their mistress was doing and agreed that it was indeed better to leave them alone. She had come home earlier in the day in a rather strange mood.
The Johnsons’ footman arrived with speed at the lodgings in Upper Seymour Street. There he encountered Barton. He had, he said, to deliver a note into Lady Susan’s hands: he was a slow lad but he was quite sure on this point for Mrs Johnson had twice repeated her instructions. He was resolute; it was not worth his place to disobey.
Barton was equally sure that her mistress must not be disturbed. A tussle ensued, which the maid won. She herself would give the note to Lady Susan she said, into her very hands as soon as ever she got up from her rest. There were noises as if furniture were being thumped on the floor, which suggested her rest was not peaceful but Barton ignored this and insisted. The poor man was still worried about leaving the note without delivering it personally, but the maid remained firm.
‘It will be delivered,’ said Barton yet again. ‘I promise you.’
One further attempt and the footman left, anxious as to what his mistress would say when he told her, and dimly thinking he might not exactly tell her what he had done. But he had no choice here: the woman before him was nearly as insistent as Mrs Johnson, and closer at hand.
When he was gone, Barton held the note by its edges. The seal was coming away from the paper: with a little agitation she could wrench it free. She did so, then carefully opened the folds. She read the contents scribbled across the central panel. They gave her much to think about.
Could the magnificent Lady Susan be at last a sinking ship? She, Sally Barton, had not been paid for some
time – for she didn’t count a few cast off dresses and a pelisse as payment, rather as the due of any good lady’s maid – but she had till now always believed in her mistress’s prospects. While these were good the arrears of wages were like savings in the bank. But if Lady Susan really were facing ruin – and the trip to Norfolk had perplexed Barton a good deal – then a maid had better look to herself and her future.
But, she reflected, it was not yet quite time to desert Lady Susan. She had seen her mistress extricate herself from many situations that would have sunk a less robust lady. Forces did seem to be combining to thwart her on this occasion, but it might be best to wait just a little longer. Barton had vivid memories of the staleness of country living and with Lady Susan the town would always be a draw. After reading the note she doubted anything could come of Mr de Courcy, and it would be as well if he were now out of the way. Then Lady Susan would look about her for someone equally appropriate.
As soon as he’d arrived in her apartment Manwaring had blurted out, ‘Charlotte is having me watched, I know she is, the bitch. She first said she was going to stay in the country but she had to come with me; she won’t let me out of her sight though she says she detests me.’
‘How provoking,’ replied Lady Susan. ‘Why could she not stay in Langford?’
‘Why indeed, my dear. But we will find a way to avoid her spies. And let’s not omit to benefit from this moment.’
Lady Susan’s nerves were still so stretched from the events of the last twelve hours that she didn’t at once know what he was saying. But soon she realised that the attentions of an ardent lover were exactly the remedy she required. If she could not erase what had happened and was happening, she could at least shut it out.
With different emotions but similar eagerness they had stepped into the bedchamber and Lady Susan was soon pleased to find herself in the uncomplicated arms of Manwaring, feeling and inflicting an entirely predictable pain.
When later they sent for refreshments – their particular love-making gave them both an appetite – Barton placed Mrs Johnson’s note on the tray. Lady Susan recognised the handwriting. She had managed during the last hour or so to banish the encounter in Edward Street from her mind; the note brought it back with a thud.
‘Well,’ she said as she kissed Manwaring’s ear while reading the note over his head, ‘this is unfortunate indeed. You must go at once.’
It was necessary to be selective with the letter’s contents; so she hastily got up and stuffed the paper into a drawer in her writing desk. Another one for burning at night, she reflected. ‘Your wife has arrived at the Johnsons and has just had an audience with her guardian.’
Manwaring leapt up in fury. ‘Has she, by God!’ He pushed away his coffee, put on his outdoor clothes and, after a quick embrace, left the apartment.
Lady Susan finished her drink in silence. There would of course be an outburst from Reginald when she next saw him. For she did not doubt that Mr Johnson had told him all that he knew and all that Mrs Manwaring had just poured out to him. Reginald would have seen that lady leave with his own eyes and know the source to be believable. He might rush round to her lodgings and demand an explanation. But she knew him well. He would not come at once – or she would never have risked her restorative time with Manwaring. Indeed, now she thought further, she rather expected that Reginald might wrap himself up in his hurt, for his pride would have been dented – then he would write a most bitter note.
Whatever he did, it would be all words, and Lady Susan fancied that she could cope with them. At the back of her mind lay the debt to Sir Philip. In the past a debt had rarely worried her but this one had been translated into power and Lady Susan didn’t care to be in anyone’s power. Marriage with Reginald could cancel the debt. Although she felt angry in anticipation of the young man’s fury, she would have to cozen him. Given her mood towards him, the prospect was fatiguing. She surprised herself: usually she enjoyed wheedling and manipulating because she was sure of success. It must be the tiredness from travel that ailed her – she never liked long coach rides, especially out of London.
She dashed off a reassuring note to Alicia Johnson, who she knew would be fretting at having allowed this debacle to happen. Had she been at home she could have got Reginald away and she must now be feeling guilty. But Lady Susan could not blame her. It was simply unlucky that she had timed her trip to the milliners to coincide with the arrival of two such inappropriate guests.
Lady Susan wanted to cheer her friend. So she wrote that she expected Reginald to rage and fuss and be pacified within twenty-four hours. If she was not quite as secure of anything as she had been before the journey to Norfolk and visit to Hans Place, she would keep up her character with Alicia.
The note did its work. Mrs Johnson believed at once. She had almost unlimited faith in Lady Susan and her power over men.
Alone in his friend Richard Marchmont’s lodgings in the Temple Reginald gave way to all the mortification of humiliated love. The blow to his self-esteem was immense. It was the first time he had loved and he had been fooled. He had heard of the wiles of woman but nothing he’d read, or that his sister or anyone else had said, could have prepared him for this moment.
When Mr Johnson had first begun to speak he’d resented the interference in his affairs and almost left the room. He’d stayed to be polite to an infirm old man. Then he’d listened against his will, then concentrated intently, until he realised he must believe. In all the fury of jilted passion he now sat down to write the bitterest note he had ever composed.
He wrote quickly, scratching the paper with the quill he was too agitated to sharpen properly. He wrote, he read, he crumpled the sheet and threw it to the side of the room. He began again, smudged the ink before blotting it – she would think him in tears: he would not give her the satisfaction. He tore that paper as well, and started again, trying to control his unsteady hand: ‘I bid you farewell for ever,’ he wrote.
But it was not enough. For a moment he felt the urge to abandon the attempt and dash round to her lodgings and scratch the word ‘whore’ – a word that had never before passed his lips – with a sharp quill on the serene, beautiful, deceiving face.
He tried to write again but then got up. A letter would not do. It was too good for her. He must see her. She must listen to his loathing. The thought overcame him: he knew he had to go.
Lady Susan was resting on a chaise longue in her drawing room when Barton knocked on the door with the news that Mr de Courcy waited below. Before the maid had finished giving the message, it was overtaken by the author, for Reginald could not wait. He burst in on Lady Susan, who rose as he entered. The light was behind her and she was more silhouette than real. He could not easily discern the expression as she moved towards him, saying, ‘Dearest Reginald, how wonderful and unexpected—’
He cut her off. ‘You deceive me no longer, madam. I have seen you as you truly are. I need only say “Langford”.’ He stopped and looked meaningfully at her. ‘Langford,’ he repeated. ‘It is enough. You know what I allude to. I have heard it all. Poor Mrs Manwaring, your supposed friend, poor lady, how she has suffered at your hands. I know it all. She has told her guardian everything.’
‘Reginald, what can you mean? Dear Reginald, do sit down. Take refreshment. Calm yourself.’
He ignored her invitation. ‘You ask what I mean, Lady Susan. I know you would love me to describe it to you, all of it. Now the scales have fallen from my eyes, I also understand what pleasure you would take in hearing of the misery you caused, the desolation you afflicted on an honourable house – and on me.’ His voice broke a little here but he swallowed and hardened his tone.
He had to go on at once. He dared not look at her, for she had moved a little from the window’s frame and he saw that lovely face, a little pallid indeed, but looking calmly at him. He was uneasy, but, no, he could not have been fooled this time. ‘You have taken the peace from two families and glory in it.’
She though
t to move towards him and put her hand on his arm, but it was too soon.
‘Do at least sit down, Mr de Courcy. You came to confront me. Do me the justice of listening as well as speaking.’
She sat down herself as she spoke and habitual politeness made him sit too, but he stayed on the end of the chair, fiddling with his shirt cuff, twisting and twisting it out of shape.
‘I think you can have nothing to say to me. It would be better if I left now.’ He was conscious that he’d slipped a little from the high ground, that he was expressing more misery than he’d intended.
‘Reginald, dear Reginald, believe me, I am quite bewildered by all this passion. I cannot imagine what Mr Johnson can possibly have told you that could have so conquered your mind and destroyed the love you were so kind as to impress on me a few weeks ago. Has it simply evaporated through the second hand words of a jealous woman? Surely you knew the rumours before we ever met. You knew how the jealousy of such a woman for her admittedly straying husband enveloped every lady of moderate beauty. I cannot imagine why you have been so imposed upon.’
She looked sadly at him and indeed, as the memory of her debts and Sir Philip’s power rose unbidden to her mind, an expression of true anxiety did for a moment cross her face. She raised her handkerchief and dabbed one eye. ‘None of this matters to me – I am used to it – except in what it has done to us. I cannot bear to feel that I have been so sunk in your opinion, for that is the dearest thing to me in the world.’
She had lowered her voice, but Reginald caught her words. Just for a moment he wavered. But, no, the tale he’d heard was too authentic, too detailed; Mr Johnson had vouched for it. He thought too of those letters, those many letters at Churchill which Lady Susan had said were from her friend Charlotte Manwaring. His brain reeled.
