by Roy Lewis
‘I am indeed being kept busy,’ I murmured. ‘I keep a toehold in the Bankruptcy Courts, but other briefs have recently been coming in and I spend a deal of time in the Old Bailey’
Sir John sucked thoughtfully at his teeth. ‘So I understand. And I gather you are interested in the matter of Reform.’
I took a deep breath. ‘That is so, Sir John.’
He frowned slightly, thoughtfully. ‘I believe you are recently a member of the Reform Club.’ He sipped at his Marsala. ‘This is not the occasion when one should discuss matters of business, but I wonder whether you would find it convenient to dine with me on Thursday next at the club?’
I was quick to assent, even though I knew it would mean a hasty retreat from Guildford Assizes where I was to be engaged with a breach of promise action that day.
Jervis smiled pleasantly. ‘Ha. Good. We’ll leave further discussion of the proposition I wish to make to you until then. Meanwhile, we’ll say no more.… Here are the ladies. We must make ourselves available.’
In they were sailing, the first wave bearing Lady Beauvale and Lady Yarborough, the bosomy Lady Dacre just behind them. And a moment later, to my amazement, I realized that among those ladies who followed there was an old acquaintance.
Marianne Hilliard, formerly Miss Edge, the Sheffield banker’s daughter.
It was several years since I had last set eyes on her. My brother Henry, who now had a medical practice in Harley Street, had met her from time to time in some professional matter or another. Henry, by the way, is the only member of my family who remains in touch with me now I am reduced to penury, even though two others have made their way in the Law, albeit not with such distinction as I. But that is beside the point.
When Marianne caught sight of me her eyebrows rose, and she smiled. Brother Henry had told me that since her marriage to that fool Crosier Hilliard, she had given birth to two children. The accouchements had done little to affect her attractiveness: her waist had thickened a little, no doubt, but her bosom had become even more magnificent and there was a new assurance in the tilt of her head … even though, as I recalled, she had never been lacking in the matter of self-assurance. She was wearing a cream gown that set off her shoulders impressively, a hint of lace maintaining the proprieties at the shadow between her breasts, and when she looked at me I detected the light of surprise, followed by a certain sparkle of pleasure in her eyes that made me feel … prospects?
I often had that almost instant effect on women, you know, even if I did look like a prize-fighter. Or perhaps it was because I had that rugged appearance. A lived-in face.
The swirl of the gathering meant that for the moment we were unable to have anything other than a brief acknowledgement and a polite query as to family. I cast my eyes around the room when she made only an offhand reference to her Hussar husband. He was not present. I was then engaged in conversations with Lady Beauvale and her group: it seemed they had been following my recent progress in the courts with some attention. The law courts were always a great attraction for the ladies in high society, you know, particularly where the hearing concerned some of their own and involved scandalous behaviour, such as rocking gondolas, rustling skirts, private detectives hiding behind curtains and the evidence of servants observing events through bedroom keyholes. If ladies carried enough influence they could manage to obtain an invitation to sit on the bench beside the judges and follow matters at first hand. There would be much fluttering of fans and the occasional fainting fit when scurrilously sexual behaviour was exposed, and proceedings were often halted while a lady was assisted from the courtroom, overcome by her corsets and the sinful revelations from the witness box. Most managed to stick things out, however, and come back next day for more discussions of keyholes, and stained sheets and unusual sexual positions. And since many of the briefs that were now falling into my hands concerned breach of promise, criminal conversation or liaisons between actresses and sons of peers, you can imagine that I was quickly surrounded and detained by the female set, eager for salacious gossip.
Cockburn, I noticed, was in similar demand that evening. But then, he was always known to be a ladies’ man. And it was rumoured that he had fathered two children by a butcher’s wife in Cambridge. Such gossip was a matter for shivery attraction to the ladies.
Then there were introductions to other members of the party, a period listening to the sharp gossip of Greville on political rivals and a kindly word from our host, Lord Yarborough. It was, incidentally, on that occasion that I was introduced for the first time to the Earl of Yarborough’s son, Lord Worsley.
I can see that boy in my mind’s eye now: fourteen years old, tall, slender in build, narrow, handsome, moustachioed features and grey eyes that seemed to glow when they looked at me. I had been narrating the facts behind one of my recent cases of sensation and he was hanging on every word: I realized swiftly that the young man had hero worship in his glance and that … well, that’s best left for another time. Suffice it to say at this point, that the meeting with Lord Worsley that evening was the first of many, it developed into a close friendship later and was, ultimately, to play a major part in my destruction.…
But to return to Marianne.
Pure chance led to our being seated side by side at dinner, although placing me, a célibataire, next to a married lady was a little surprising. Normally, it would occur only if her husband was present, of course. It was a sumptuous spread that was laid before us, with a choice of five fine wines during the course of the evening. Viscount Palmerston sat almost opposite me and I was regaled by his political comments on the foreign affairs scene, notably over the Guizot business. But I also noticed that he paid very little attention to the lady on his left: Lady Dacre. Initially, this was a surprise to me. Her placement next to Viscount Palmerston might have been due to a little malice from our hostess. Gossip had it that the Viscount and Lady Dacre had known each other a long time. Since she had been Mistress Brand, in fact, in the days when she had been a lady-in-waiting to the Queen.
The story was, it was the reason why little Vicky disliked Palmerston so much. Her own gaiety and love of dancing had deserted her after she got married to that priggish Prussian Prince Albert: she had taken on board his own view of the undesirability of enjoying oneself too much, other than in the romping privacy of the bedroom, and she was much incensed by the scandal that was visited upon her own palace at Windsor. After dinner on a famous occasion some years earlier, it seems that Lord Palmerston had entered the boudoir of the lady-in-waiting, Mistress Brand, at two in the morning. He had tapped on the door, and when foolishly she had opened to him he had stepped inside, barred the door and commenced to make physical advances to the lady in question.…
All under the roof of the Queen at Windsor!
Of course, old Pam had always had a reputation as a Cupid, and was well known to wander the corridors at night when invited to dinner. And quite why Mistress Brand opened the door to him.… However, she had screamed, of course, fought off the attentions of the 55-year-old statesman who was just about to get married anyway, and though the scandal was hushed up, the Queen had sternly demanded the dismissal from Government of the corridor-wandering Viscount. The Government of the day resisted it and the incident didn’t seem to have damaged his political career much. Or his inclinations towards late-night peregrinations.
However, here they were some years later, Lady Dacre and old Pam, seated side by side and largely ignoring each other. Their studied indifference to each other could have been due to that unfortunate incident at Windsor, but I began to consider a different theory in my head. I was interested in watching them. The coolness they demonstrated to each other seemed odd, and somewhat suspicious to my trained eye. But my attention was distracted for a while, when Marianne broke away from a conversation with her other neighbour, Lord Esher, and lightly touched my arm to attract my attention.
‘Mr James, have you heard the news about Lester Grenwood?’
I had not.
Since my former friend had fled to the continent after the Running Rein affair, to avoid creditors and perhaps a charge of murder I had lost interest in his affairs. He still owed me money, of course, but the days were long since past when I would have hoped that he would honour his debts. I had removed him from my mind, not least because unpleasant memories clung to that whole business: a drowned woman, a disinterred horse, and a man crushed to death on the dockside.…
Marianne frowned prettily. She had mastered certain feminine skills since last I had seen her. Now she teased at the lace on her bosom, showed me a little more of the valley between her breasts, turned her large violet eyes on me, held my glance. ‘You are aware that I never held Grenwood in high regard. And much disapproved of his friendship with my husband Crosier.’
She had once made her feelings clear to me, before she and Crosier Hilliard had married. I nodded, covertly eyeing the shadowed valley. ‘Grenwood, last I heard of him, was in Belgium.’
‘Alas,’ she sighed theatrically, and unfeelingly, ‘he is no longer of this world.’
I grimaced, forgetting the heaving bosom. Grenwood’s death meant any tiny hope I had retained of getting my money back had evaporated.
‘What happened?’
‘It was in Bruges. He fell in the canal. Drowned.’
I was silent for a little while. The irony of his death did not escape me: I still remembered the image of his pregnant mistress being dragged from the Thames by Inspector Redwood. She had committed suicide. Drowned. And now Grenwood had suffered the same fate. I wondered which would have been the dirtier end: the choking black sludge of the Thames, or the clogging muck of a dark canal in Bruges.
‘He would have been inebriated, of course,’ she said in a muttered tone. ‘Why is it that men will so degrade themselves?’
I stared at her. Her eyes met mine. There was a strange glitter in their depths. I had the sudden feeling that she was not speaking of the deceased Lester Grenwood.
We said little more as Lord Esher once again claimed her attention. Across the table, Viscount Palmerston continued to ignore Lady Dacre. She did not seem concerned, though during the course of the dinner there were occasions when her eyes flickered in consternation about the table, and her colour seemed to heighten. There was also the occasional inadvertent twitch of her mouth, a parting of the lips, and from time to time she gave a little jump as though she had been pinched. I noted that these tended to coincide with the occasions when I was unable to see Palmerston’s left hand, which from time to time dropped beneath the table while he conversed with the lady on his right.
‘So your husband is not able to attend this evening?’ I inquired of Marianne, eventually, dragging my attention from the curious events at the other side of the table.
‘We were to meet here,’ she replied, a little tartly. ‘Then I received a note this evening. It seems he is forced to attend to certain military matters in his regiment.’
If I knew Hilliard, they would be taking place in a bordello in Panton Street. I did not advise Marianne of my suspicions. She probably held similar suspicions of her own.
The evening proceeded well enough. After dinner we moved into the ballroom, where there was some playing of cards and a little discreet music. Viscount Palmerston sat well apart from Lady Dacre, paying close attention to a much younger woman whose name I have now forgotten. And Lady Dacre seemed not in the slightest interested in conversing with him.
Now, I’d always been of the view that if you wished to maintain secrecy in a liaison, it’s a mistake to completely ignore the lady in question even if you think you are being clever in doing so, to avoid suspicion. Particularly if the liaison is the subject of common gossip. I could see that Charles Greville was of the same opinion as me as he cast a worldly eye over the couple. But even Cupids as experienced as old Pam can get things wrong from time to time. The Viscount and the Lady were fooling no one. They would have been wiser to hold occasional conversations: turning their backs on each other only heightened my curiosity, and sharpened my amused suspicions, as well as those of Greville. Particularly after recalling the quickened breathing and the little jumps that had earlier occurred when the Viscount’s hand had wandered under the damasked table.
As for myself I took the opportunity to move around the assembly and made sure that I engaged myself in conversation with those whose acquaintance with me was of a narrow nature, but who might be of assistance to me at some time in the future. But rather late in the evening I became aware that there was one person missing from the gathering.
Marianne Hilliard.
I found her on the terrace, beyond the open French windows. She was alone in the cool night air, staring out over the lawns that extended into the darkness. The light from the room fell on her bare shoulders, and the necklace at her throat glittered as I walked towards her.
‘Madam, are you well?’
She turned her head slightly, and one hand rose to her throat, as though to caress the necklace, or perhaps to draw attention to the rise of her bosom. The scrap of lace seemed to have disappeared. ‘Mr James. I am quite well, thank you. But the heat in that room … I thought I would like a little air.’
‘Not without a gentleman in attendance,’ I replied gallantly.
‘I had a desire to be alone.’
‘Then I shall withdraw, if you wish.’
She looked directly at me. Her gaze was fixed on mine. There was a certain deliberation in her eyes, which gave me pause. Her slim fingers teased at the necklace. ‘No, that would not be my desire, now that you are here.’
I moved towards her, stood at her side, placed one hand on the stone balustrade in front of us. The silence extended; the moon was bright above us, the shadows ahead dark and deep. I felt that there was something in the air, a palpable tension, an uncertainty. And a thought came stealing to me: had Marianne Hilliard stepped out onto the terrace knowing that I would follow her?
‘You know my husband well, I believe, Mr James?’ she asked quietly after a little while.
The question was unexpected. I was somewhat breathless with anticipation. ‘I have known him for some years … though not intimately,’ I stammered.
‘And you knew his boon companion, the unfortunate Lester Grenwood.’ There was a bitterness in her tone. After a few moments she added, ‘Would it shock you if I were to tell you I do not grieve at Grenwood’s demise?’
I was certainly surprised at her expressing the feeling, but I remained silent. The only personal regret I felt over Grenwood’s drowning in Bruges was that he had died still owing me money.
‘I put it to Grenwood’s account that my husband has turned into a dissipated drunkard,’ she said with a sudden violence.
The stone of the balustrade was cold under my hand. ‘Madam …’ I began
She turned to face me. ‘My husband will not be at his club this evening, will he, Mr James? The meeting he attends will be of a dissolute nature, a disgraceful, immoral activity which he chooses to undertake rather than join respectable company.’
I had no idea how I should respond, so remained silent.
‘For my part,’ she said in a strained tone, ‘Our marriage began in hope. I was aware of his weaknesses, indeed I was specifically warned about them. But I thought I could draw him away from such companions as Grenwood: I thought I could prevail upon him to give up lascivious pursuits. But as soon as our first child was born I saw less and less of him; a second child did nothing to draw us closer together.’ She was silent for a little while. ‘My father died two months ago.’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hilliard. I did not know.…’
‘He was never a man for Society. But he was a wise and careful man. He had successful investments in banking. And he loved me dearly. The settlements he made … Crosier was much disappointed. I know now he married me merely for my … prospects. The settlement disappointed him, but I imagine he still had hopes of future inheritances. But my father’s will dashed such hopes. My father’s death has le
ft me a wealthy woman. And through trustees I can control my own destiny. My husband is unable to interfere, or get his hands on the funds available to me.’
I shuffled, uneasy at the bitterness in her tone. But as she stared at me I felt there was an underlying tension that I found disturbing. And I could not understand why she was speaking of such personal matters in this manner. Then her next words completely sank me.
‘I have decided that I shall leave my husband. He shall have an allowance. But I intend to be a free woman.’
My mouth was dry. ‘I am sorry to hear of this, Mrs Hilliard. Surely, arrangements can be made for a reconciliation—’
She shook her head. ‘It is far too late for that. I am decided. Oh, I’m aware that once I have separated from my husband invitations to evenings such as this will no longer be extended to me. Society will close its doors. It matters not. I intend to take my children and live in Paris. And I shall regard myself as a liberated woman.’
Her eyes held mine. ‘A liberated, if occasionally lonely woman.’
Now I’ve already made it clear to you that I was not a man inexperienced in dealings with the tender sex. I had not lacked for relationships with bored wives, thrill-seeking widows or good-time-hunting dollymops. And I was also aware that words between a man and a woman are not necessary in certain situations: it is as though thoughts can be communicated in the ether, intentions laid bare, offers made and accepted without being openly expressed. This was one of those moments. Marianne Hilliard had told me about the collapse of her marriage and her dislike of her drunken, dissolute husband; she had exposed her intention, the manner in which she now intended to conduct her life in future; and buried within this unexpectedly intimate confession was something else, a possibility, an invitation, unexpressed, but there nevertheless.
It was the reason why, some hours later, I was seated in the bedroom assigned to me, with my body on fire, my eyes on the clock, waiting until the house was quiet, the last servants gone to bed, the silence settling on the creaking walls of the old house. She had said nothing direct to me, she had issued no verbal invitation, we had come to no expressed agreement, but I knew in the depths of my soul that she would be expecting me, she would be waiting there silently, in the warm darkness of her room until I came to her.
