by Clare Clark
Spencer instructed Edward to keep his head down. He urged him to spend the seven days of his exile from the House in his Scottish constituency, addressing matters of local concern. Edward nodded, shook the peer’s hand, and spent the next seven days in a frantic whirl of activity, addressing clubs and societies across London on the promotion and protection of the political interests of the working class. Government figures had shown that the previous winter, more than two thirds of dock labourers, building craftsmen, tailors and bootmakers had been out of work for at least a part of that time. Many had not worked at all. The approaching winter looked set to be just as bad. With a third of the country’s population living in chronic poverty, and the working classes forming a majority in perhaps two-thirds of London’s constituencies, Edward had hoped for an eager response to his petitions. He was enraged by the apathetic response that greeted him.
‘It is like crying into the wilderness,’ he fumed to Maribel after one meeting in Clerkenwell. ‘These men may be desperate but they haven’t a radical bone in their bodies. The entire meeting added up to nothing more than a knitting circle of down-and-outs grumbling about the rheumatism.’
‘They cannot all be like that.’
‘Can’t they? They seemed to me more insular, more backward-looking, more in love with the old order than a gaggle of tweed-clad Tories. It is them I strive for, always them, and yet not one in five believes a word I say or even understands it.’
‘You have John Burns and that other one you introduced me to the other day, what’s-his-name, Harry Quelch,’ Maribel said, thinking of Quelch’s bright bird eyes, the sharp creases etched between his eyebrows. Afterwards Edward had told her that, because there was no English translation of Kapital, Quelch, one-time tanner and packer in a paper factory, had taught himself French from a dictionary so that he might read Marx’s words for himself.
‘Yes,’ Edward agreed. ‘We have them. And there it stops. The rest of the sorry lot squirm and cringe their way off the bottom rung of the ladder until their feet are clear of the muck and there they remain, clutching at the straws of their respectability and wiping their shoes on the heads of those who would follow them. Believe me, no one is quicker than the English working man to drop Socialism at the first whiff of social advancement.’
Maribel sympathised with her husband but she could not help wishing that he had taken Spencer’s advice and travelled north. Ejection from the House had brought out in him all the contrari ness in his nature and extra measures of pig-headedness to boot. He was wild with energy. As the days went on his attire grew more flamboyant, his gaucho swagger more pronounced. He wore bandannas knotted about his neck and, when he rode Pampa about London, he had her wear the bridle he had brought home from Argentina which was made of elaborately tooled leather with heavy silver badges on the reins and browband.
Often he went out without explanation. The flat was empty without him, his absence like a bruise in her chest, but when he was at home she wished he might find somewhere else to go. Whatever his adventures they did not calm him. He paced the flat, circling the sitting room until she thought they would both go mad with the monotony of it. She did not think he intended to provoke her but he could not help himself. He ground his anger against her like a flint.
She could muster little heat in return. A low dreariness had settled upon her which she could not shake. She did not write. Months before she had agreed with Mr Morris that she would lecture for him at Kelmscott House on her childhood in Chile. The date drew closer but she did nothing to prepare her talk. The thought of it filled her with a light-headed kind of contempt. Instead she sat with a novel open on her lap on the sofa at Cadogan Mansions and, while her eyes moved across the lines of words, her head returned again and again to a whitewashed room with a crucifix on the wall. Mostly it was empty. Sometimes Ida was there, eight years old in rag curlers and a grass-scuffed pinafore, her legs stuck out in front of her, and, on her lap, a baby in knitted garters, its eyes glassy with astonishment. Beyond the tiny window the orange trees were covered in dust.
‘When are you going to photograph those Indians?’ Edward demanded of her one morning as he passed his teacup for her to fill. ‘It says here in the paper that the show leaves for Birmingham at the end of October. You are running out of time.’
Maribel shrugged.
‘It can’t be helped,’ she said.
‘Of course it can be helped. You are not to let that expensive camera rot. Or your mind, for that matter. You are bored, Bo. There is nothing that becomes you less than boredom.’ Edward gulped his tea, then pushed back his chair. ‘I have to go.’
‘I am not bored.’
‘Then I don’t know why not. You’ve done nothing but moon about for days. Take some photographs. Write. Investigate your gold mine, for heaven’s sake. Only do something. Inertia might kill slowly but it kills all the same.’
Soon afterwards he left, banging the door behind him. Maribel sat for a long time at the table, her teacup cradled in her cupped hands, as the silence crept back into the room. When Alice came in to clear the breakfast dishes she pleaded a headache and went back to bed.
15
MARIBEL LEANED TOWARDS THE mirror to fasten the clasp on her necklace. It was a becoming piece, the dark red stones glistening against her pale skin setting off the darkness of her hair, and the sight of it lifted her spirits a little. That morning, his seven days’ suspension complete, Edward had returned to the Commons. He had been too long in the House to hope to be garlanded for his outburst but he had not anticipated the chilliness of his reception. There had been, he told Maribel, a palpable silence as he entered the Chamber, a thickening of the air into which the ordinary shuffles and creaks and clearings of throats dropped like stones. When he took his seat on the Opposition benches several of his fellows had glanced away, turning to their neighbour or rummaging with papers on their laps.
‘As though they might catch something by looking,’ he said.
Maribel said nothing. She had kissed Edward goodbye that morning, had observed as he fastened about his shoulders a black cape edged in silver braid and set on his head his broad-brimmed Spanish hat, and she had known that trying to keep Edward in check was like trying to tame the weather.
‘You should dress,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder. Edward stood in his shirtsleeves in front of the fire, staring into the flames. ‘We are expected at eight.’
Autumn, so slow in coming, had blown in on a sudden flurry of leaves. The wind rattled the windows in their sashes and whistled in the chimney, so that the fire writhed in the grate. At night there was a chill to the air and the fog snagged in the gaslights like twists of sheep’s wool. Alice had brought the velvet cushions and the heavy silk counterpane out of storage, and the bed and the chaise were plump with them, as though readied for hibernation. It was snug with the curtains drawn, the lamps and the bright fire spilling their pools of warm light on the thick carpet, and for a moment Maribel wished that they did not have to go out.
Edward turned, running a hand through his hair so that it rose from his brow like a coxcomb.
‘Remind me again why we agreed to this?’
‘We?’
‘It is always “we” when I regret a decision, you know that. If I meant not to go I should have said “you”.’
It was his first attempt at a joke in many days. Maribel smiled at him in the mirror, adjusting the diamond clasp in her hair. The clasp had been Alice’s idea. It was encouraging to see how clever with hair the Yorkshire girl had become. The dress was becoming too, though not quite as modish as she would have wished. The gowns in the fashion plates in the French magazines were wider in the shoulders this season, exposing the full length of the collarbone, and the skirts were narrower over the hips. She would go to Paris in three weeks. The thought cheered her further.
‘Get dressed,’ she said.
They were dining with the Worsleys. John Worsley, properly Viscount Worsley of Stoke, was a senior Lib
eral who had been Chief Secretary for Ireland until the Gladstone government had fallen. He had also, until he retired and ceded the position to Mr Webster, been for many years the editor of the Chronicle. He and Edward were colleagues, not friends, and the Worsleys had never before asked the Campbell Lowes to dine with them at home. It was evident that the timing of the invitation, to coincide with Edward’s first day back in the Commons, was no accident of fate. The dinner, while an entirely private affair, constituted a public gesture that would not be misunderstood by those in the Liberal Party who wished Edward’s exile to continue beyond the term of his suspension. Edward Campbell Lowe was to be forgiven.
The conspicuous generosity of the act infuriated Edward and his instinct was immediately to refuse it. It was Maribel who had, in the end, persuaded him that they must accept, if not for John then for Rose, his wife, who had always been kind to Maribel. The Worsleys had met years ago, while Rose was married to a Mr Atwood, and they had been obliged to wait for him to die before they were able to marry themselves some years later. It was generally agreed among his friends in the Liberal Party that, were it not for Rose Atwood and her unpardonable circumstances, John Worsley might one day have become Prime Minister.
She had known that he might be there. Though Mr Webster’s Chronicle was a good deal changed from its days under Lord Worsley, Worsley remained chairman of the newspaper’s board and was known to admire, if not always appreciate, the journalistic dash of his successor. Besides, Mr Webster remained a staunch supporter of the Member for Argyllshire. While he acknowledged that the Speaker had had no option but to suspend Mr Campbell Lowe he had nonetheless published an editorial echoing Edward’s frustration with the filibustering intransigence of an unelected Upper House. Most of the other newspapers had called for Edward to resign.
After the raw swirl of the street the Worsleys’ high-ceilinged drawing room was imposingly patrician, the air vibrating like a struck glass with the refined hum and clink of cultivated society. They were late. Several people turned as they entered. Beside her she felt Edward stiffen a little, and she realised for the first time that perhaps this was difficult for him. It was not something that occurred to her often, that there were things he might find difficult. She gave his elbow a tiny squeeze.
Rose Worsley greeted them warmly, gesturing at a waiter who offered a tray of champagne. Maribel took a glass and sipped. When she looked up she saw him and, despite everything, the shock of it was electric, shrivelling the soles of her feet.
He stood by the fireplace in a posture of exaggerated ease, one elbow on the back of a leather wing chair, one foot on the brass guard that ran around the grate. His other arm was crooked outwards, the tips of his fingers dipped into his coat pocket. He was looking directly at her. Immediately she turned away, swallowing champagne and the rush of her pulse. He looked like a bad actor, she thought. Even his dinner suit, with its faint sheen, had a whiff of repertory wardrobe about it. She looked up at Edward, elegant and sardonic in his perfectly cut coat, and the warmth in her face shamed her. She leaned towards Rose, laughing at something the older woman said. And still her heart raced. She pressed a hand to her breastbone, feeling the shape of the garnet necklace beneath her fingers, and she knew, though she did not look in his direction, that he watched her. She could feel the heat of his eyes on the back of her neck. Despite herself, she wanted it to be so.
With an effort Maribel forced herself to join her husband’s conversation with their hostess. Soft-faced and plump-wristed, it was widely acknowledged that Rose Worsley’s pink-and-white complexion belied a piercing intelligence. Though John Worsley was agreed to be a clever and cultured man, it was whispered that the best parts of his monographs were all written by his wife. Certainly she was crisply intolerant of any kind of intellectual sloppiness. Maribel knew her only a little but she had liked her immediately. She seemed to Maribel the kind of woman who might rescue an injured hedgehog, feeding it warm milk with a dropper while recalling amusing observations on the spiny creature from Pliny and St Antony of Padua. She had no children. Once, at a tea party, when she and Maribel had found themselves stuck with a group of parliamentary wives who could talk of nothing but their offspring, Lady Worsley had reached into Maribel’s lap and squeezed her hand. Then she had taken her hand away. Maribel had been startled by the gesture but afterwards curiously touched. They had never spoken of it again.
It was a few moments before Lord Worsley detached himself from a group on the other side of the room and crossed to greet them. He shook Edward’s hand.
‘Remember Candide,’ he said. ‘“In England it is thought well to kill an admiral from time to time to encourage the others.”’
‘Then it is fortunate I have no sea legs to speak of,’ Edward said.
Worsley chuckled. Then, begging the ladies’ pardon, he asked if he might borrow Edward for a moment before dinner.
‘Fifteen minutes,’ Lady Worsley said. ‘No longer. Coddled eggs don’t wait.’
Her husband tugged his forelock.
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Lady Worsley smiled as he escorted Edward away.
‘I suppose I should be glad of the naval allusions. It has been nothing but Robert Walpole here for months. Now who here do you know? Mr Webster, who succeeded John as editor of the Chronicle? Everyone in London seems to be acquainted with Alfred Webster. He is the Buffalo Bill of pressmen.’ She made a funny little shape with her lips. ‘But I shall not permit you to talk to him now. You are seated beside him at dinner.’
***
Maribel was escorted to her place in the dining room by Sir John Billington, a gentleman of florid complexion and military moustaches. Mr Webster was waiting for her, his hands on the back of his chair. Against the snow-white napery and gleaming silver his ill-fitting suit looked clumsier than ever. He made little pretence of listening as on his other side Mrs Van den Bergh, the wife of a visiting American writer, endeavoured to distract him with admiring comments on the flowers. Instead he watched as Maribel made her way around the table towards him, one finger tugging at his collar as though it choked him. When at last she reached him Maribel extended her hand. He seized it with a jumpy eagerness that caused her to flinch, her alarm shot through with a bright thread of excitement.
She glanced at Edward, who had taken his place on the other side of the table beside Lady Worsley. He glanced back, the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his mouth. Composing herself, Maribel turned her shoulders firmly away from Mr Webster, nodding with a tremendous show of interest as Sir John described for her in exhaustive detail the improvements he was making to the country estate he had recently inherited from his father. It was only when Sir John’s neighbour on his other side embarked upon a long anecdote about a family she was sure must be Sir John’s nearest neighbours that she reluctantly allowed her attention to return to Mr Webster.
His milky eyes were fierce as he contemplated her.
‘Mrs Campbell Lowe, there is something I must talk to you about,’ he murmured. ‘It cannot wait.’
Maribel hesitated. Then she unfolded her napkin, smoothing it over her lap.
‘Goodness,’ she said lightly, swallowing the squirm in her stomach. ‘How fearfully cloak and dagger you sound, Mr Webster. I thought we were in Mayfair, not a French novel.’
Mr Webster stared at her. Again she felt the heat spread in her skin like blotting paper. Frowning, she glanced uneasily across the table towards Edward. Deep in conversation with Lady Worsley he did not look up. Mr Webster followed the direction of her gaze. Then, lowering his head, he stared at the tablecloth.
‘Mrs Webster,’ Maribel said. ‘Is she here tonight?’
Mr Webster shook his head. Maribel watched as with his thumbnail he pressed a long gouge into the tablecloth beside his side plate. Now that he did not look at her she wished that he did.
‘Regrettably my wife is not blessed with good health.’
‘I am sorry to hear that.’
‘Yes,
well. You are fortunate not to suffer as she does. You look radiant.’
How can you know, she wanted to say, when you will not look at me? Instead she inclined her head.
‘Thank you.’
There was a silence. Footmen moved around the table, pouring wine, setting cocottes on little gilt-edged saucers in front of each guest. A mass of candles burned in branched silver candelabra and drops of molten light caught in polished silver and cut glass and silky white porcelain. On the other side of the table Edward’s hair glinted red-gold. He murmured something to Rose Worsley, who laughed. Beside her Mr Webster fiddled with his cutlery.
When the decanter reached them Webster put his hand over his glass and asked for barley water. Maribel took a sip of sherry, inhaling the sun-toasted smell of Valquilla, and contemplated her cocotte. She wondered what it was that Mr Webster so urgently desired to tell her. He was hot-headed, that much was plain, but he was a man of business, surrounded at the table by his fellow pressmen, a married man with, it seemed, strong Christian principles. What on earth could it be that he wished to say?
‘I wanted to thank you,’ she said for something to say. ‘For supporting Edward as you have. It has been a great comfort to him to know that there are people on his side.’
Mr Webster shook his head impatiently. He took up his spoon, plunging it into the cocotte. In France, Maribel thought, the word cocotte was slang for prostitute. She wondered what Webster would say if she told him.
‘That there can be another side is the great outrage of our times,’ Webster said. ‘I don’t know how the Home Secretary sleeps at night.’
