A Marriage of Convenience (43 page)

‘I’ve finished with the subject,’ Mason replied blandly.

‘You may depend upon it that I have not,’ remarked Serjeant Alderson.

‘Now, madam, will you tell us what was done at the altar with the defendant kneeling by your side?’

Serjeant Alderson, who had only just resumed his seat, rose again.

‘I have no desire to keep interrupting my learned friend but this is quite improper. The witness has said nothing about the altar or the defendant doing anything by her side. He may have been by the font and she in the vestry for all I know.’

The judge turned to Theresa.

‘State all that occurred in reference to the ceremony from the time you entered the church.’

When Theresa had finished an account which almost exactly coincided with Clinton’s recollections, Mason put questions to establish that cohabitation had followed the ceremony and that for six months Theresa had thought herself the defendant’s wife.

‘And during these months, you never thought of yourself as his mistress?’

‘No.’

‘Bearing this in mind, let me read you this memorandum which you gave the defendant in September 1867. It begins: “I abhor what
you did …” Did you give him that letter at the date stated?’

‘Yes. Shortly before we parted.’

‘In it you wrote among other things: “I will release you and remain silent only if you send me a denial of our marriage in Father Maguire’s hand.” You also insisted that he should prove to you, if he wished to marry another woman, that this lady was shown this letter before he made any proposal to her. Why did you write this to the defendant?’

‘Because I believed him when he said there was an Act of Parliament that made our marriage legally void.’

‘Otherwise you would have felt that you had no right to release him?’

‘That’s true.’

‘I have no other questions.’

When Serjeant Alderson rose to cross-examine, the nerves seemed to tighten around Clinton’s heart. Though he knew that Alderson had decided to reserve for his examination of Esmond all questions about what she had learned in York, there were other issues of great importance to Clinton, which he hoped would be made clear—not least whether she would support her counsel’s claim that she had remained chaste until after the ceremony. Longing for an end to his uncertainty, Clinton nevertheless dreaded seeing her humiliated by his advocate—especially since he believed nothing conclusive would be proved until Esmond was called.

He had supposed that Serjeant Alderson would attack from the beginning, but instead his tone was gentle, even friendly, as though all he wanted to do, was clear up a misunderstanding that might have nothing to do with her.

‘Madam, I think you told my learned friend that you have a clear idea of what constitutes a marriage?’

‘I did.’

‘Would you agree that you pledged yourself before God to honour certain vows?’

‘Yes.’

Alderson looked confused.

‘I admit this puzzles me. You see a moment ago you said that because of an ancient Act of Parliament you considered your marriage void. I heard you correctly?’

‘You did.’

‘You also told the jury that you believe in God.’ Alderson frowned. ‘And you swore that you thought your marriage was a true one in God’s eyes …
and
yet
you took it upon yourself to release the defendant.’ The slight smile on Alderson’s lips faded and was replaced by his familiar sneer. ‘Madam, are you asking the jury to
believe that a sincere God-fearing Catholic would risk damnation by knowingly overturning what Serjeant Mason insists is a holy union because of a man-made statute?’

A second or two passed and Clinton felt his heart begin to race. Then with an unhurried graceful movement, she lifted her veil, as if to show counsel she was not afraid of his eyes.

‘I did what I did,’ she said, ‘because when Lord Ardmore told me about the statute, I was forced to believe that he had never meant to give his consent. I thought that my own consent had no effect without his.’

The judge said:

‘I must remind the jury that they must take the law from me. Later I will tell you what amounts to a lawful marriage and you will have to decide on the evidence before you, whether a lawful marriage took place. The witness’s opinion about the validity of the ceremony
after
its performance, can have no bearing whatever on its legal effect or lack of it.’

‘Mrs Barr,’ asked Alderson sharply, ‘do you expect me to believe that you accepted what the defendant said without question, although his saying it was proof that he had lied to you before?’

‘I believed him.’

‘You had just heard from the defendant that he had deceived you at the altar, and you believed everything else he told you?’

‘The main point … yes.’

‘On the word of a man who had done something so abominably dishonest, you decided to dash aside a union, which only moments before you had thought binding in the eyes of almighty God?’ Alderson’s derision was blatant.

‘I told you my reason.’

‘I heard it, madam. I have attempted to show why I find it inadequate.’ He paused. ‘I put it to you, that it is inconceivable that you would have agreed to desecrate and deny your marriage so readily, unless you had known it was an imposture from the start.’

‘I never thought it an imposture before Lord Ardmore left me.’

‘We will see, madam. In December 1866 you wrote a letter to the defendant. Members of the jury will find it on page four of the printed documents.’ The serjeant paused a moment while the original was handed to Theresa.

‘Did you write that letter within a week of going to Ireland?’

‘Yes.’

‘Attend to this. You wrote: “I think it is a great shame one cannot go on trial with marriage as with other things. It is a formidable affair for life. Enough of it. For us at least, it will never raise a problem, being impossible.” So, eleven days before the
ceremony in the chapel at Rathnagar you wrote saying that marriage was impossible. Listen to how you continued: “Since I am no lover of convention, I like getting off the beaten track, and am proud rather than ashamed that we cannot do as others can, or follow rules to the letter. What cannot be got straight, must be enjoyed crookedly.” I put it to you, that because you already knew that marriage was impossible, you were hinting at another way—a way in which the strict rules could be disregarded, and the advantages of marriage enjoyed, in your own words, “crookedly”. By virtue of your oath, madam, were you not referring in this letter to a church ceremony that would be less than a marriage?’

Up to this moment, Theresa had seemed at ease, but now the letter trembled in her hand. Her cheeks were flushed.

‘The meaning’s perfectly clear to anyone who wants to see it. I was telling Lord Ardmore that I was ready to be his mistress, and that he need not fear that I’d end our relationship if he didn’t marry me. I was scared that his uncle would disinherit him if he married me. I was scared on his account.’

Alderson smiled condescendingly.

‘But the marriage was secret, was it not?’

‘He only told me it would be secret when he proposed to me. Otherwise I would have refused him.’

‘You are an actress, madam. I believe secret marriages are common enough in modern plays.’

‘I can think of two plays like that.’

‘If you weren’t ashamed to offer to be his mistress, why were you so modest about suggesting such an obvious way out of your difficulties as a secret marriage?’

‘It was for him to make suggestions about marriage.’

Alderson nodded solemnly.

‘And for you to make other sorts of suggestions … I appreciate these niceties of etiquette. But, madam, you wrote that marriage was impossible. Are you now telling me that what you actually meant was
perfectly
possible
?’

‘I explained what I meant,’ she replied in a shaking voice.

‘Can you swear that only your sense of etiquette prevented you making a suggestion which could win you a coronet?’

‘Etiquette was your word, sir. I said that in our situation it was for him to make that sort of suggestion.’

‘I suggest to you, Mrs Barr, that the real reason why you didn’t make that obvious suggestion was the knowledge that Lord Ardmore had no intention of making you his lawful wife. Wasn’t that why you conceded that it was
impossible
?’

The judge said quietly:

‘The witness has given her answer. You may not be satisfied by it, Serjeant Alderson, but you can’t go on rephrasing the same question.’

‘If your Lordship pleases.’ Serjeant Alderson drank some water and said harshly: ‘Did you or did you not become the defendant’s mistress in York? I warn you that I can call witnesses to …’

Serjeant Mason shouted:

‘This is outrageous. The jury are being tempted to believe that any answer the witness gives now, is given because of that threat. We will see what these witnesses are worth when they’re called.’

‘Gentlemen of the bar,’ said the judge, ‘I am endeavouring to discharge a difficult and unpleasant duty, and I must beg of you not to turn my court into a bear garden. The witness may answer now.’

‘I first became his mistress at Kilkreen Castle in October. I was his mistress in York too. I never intended to deny it.’

A strange murmur rose from the gallery; a sound which seemed to Clinton like a drawn-out sigh of disappointment. In this at least, she had not betrayed him. The pity he had felt when Alderson had quoted from her letter, wrung him more fiercely now; her ordeal had become agony to him.

‘As a Catholic, madam, did you feel guilt?’

‘I wasn’t practising my religion at this time.’

‘Because you believed you were living sinfully?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your conscience troubled you?’ Theresa made no reply; she seemed drained, stricken. ‘I won’t press the question. Let me put another. Were you not in a position where any ceremony, that might quiet your conscience, would have been a great help to you?’

‘How could a fraudulent ceremony have eased my conscience?’ she cried.

‘With respect, madam, if the priest intended the ceremony as a blessing, and you and the other party shared that view of it, how could it be fraudulent?’

‘It would have been futile self-deception. I pledged myself sincerely. Can’t you understand that I’ll never say anything else?’

‘That may be so, madam, but it remains my duty to ask you questions. When Lord Ardmore came to York, he left a letter for you at the theatre; or his valet left it for you. The jury will see it as item one.’ The clerk of the court’s assistant gave the letter to Theresa. ‘Lord Ardmore accused you of dragging him across the Irish Sea like a monkey on a chain, he described theatrical offices as greasy and theatre agents as posturing men. If you refused to see him, he offered to break the heads of more actors and theatre staff than there were seats in the theatre. Madam, would a gentleman
write to any woman who he considered might one day be his wife in those terms?’

Theresa looked wearily at the advocate.

‘The letter demands a sense of humour, sir.’

‘Was it humorous to insult your profession?’

‘Possibly the joke is a little laboured.’

‘I put it to you that under a veneer of humour, the tone is hectoring and rude. The way a nobleman might address his mistress, but not his future wife. What do you think?’

‘I don’t know enough noblemen to make a reliable guess.’

‘This trial is not an amusing matter for the defendant, madam.’

‘I meant my answer seriously. You mistook my tone.’

‘I shall endeavour to do better. I would like to ask you some more questions about that letter on page four of the printed documents.’ Clinton’s letter was taken from her and she was once again handed the letter Serjeant Alderson had already quoted from. ‘Eleven days before the ceremony, you wrote to the defendant that you would like to be a vivandière. Of course this was meant humorously; but how would you describe the life led by these women in the French army?’

‘My Lord,’ said Theresa, ‘I find this intolerable. The question’s absurd and insulting.’

‘Serjeant Alderson,’ asked the judge, ‘how can it be material what the witness thinks about cooks and camp-followers in the French army? They have a reputation for immorality, but many were killed in front of their regiments in the Russian War, leading them as our pipers do in the Highland regiments. It may be strange that the witness should in any way compare herself with these women, but she could hardly wish to be one. The witness need not answer.’

‘If your Lordship pleases. A little earlier in the same letter, you wrote: “You know where I am in London, so all you will need do is whistle and I’ll come to you my lad. You know the rest of that verse I’m sure.” Well, Lord Ardmore may have known it, but can you recite it for me?’

‘The author is Robert Burns. It’s well known.’

‘That is not an answer, madam.’

‘I can’t remember the precise words.’

‘Are they not to this general effect? The girl narrator says that she will come to her lover if he whistles for her. Though her father and mother may go mad, she tells him that she’ll leave her back gate open, and asks him to be careful and come as if he were not coming to see her. “Come as ye were na comin’ to me.” Is that a fair rendering?’

‘The girl ends by asking him to be faithful to her.’

‘Would you say the poem is a moral one?’

‘It starts worse than it ends.’

‘Is it moral?’

‘No.’

‘But you forced it on the defendant, days before the ceremony. Again, madam, is that the way a woman would write to the man she might soon marry? Doesn’t it suggest that you envisaged a very different relationship?’

‘I didn’t expect to marry him when I wrote the letter.’

‘Of course. You were too shy to suggest secrecy. “Come as ye were na comin to me.” I’ve finished, madam.’ Theresa stood very still as if she had not heard him. Alderson said: ‘You may leave the stand now.’ She remained a moment longer and then followed the usher from the courtroom. Clinton shut his eyes.

There was a delay of several minutes before counsel for the plaintiff called his next witness, and Serjeant Alderson took
advantage
of it to encourage his client. Sitting down beside him, the serjeant murmured to Clinton.