The Petticoat Men (54 page)

‘I can make use of some of this,’ he said finally. ‘My mother will help. She is very neat with a needle.’

I wondered if that stupid, pretty little lady
I do not have a retentive memory
(though of course perhaps she was not stupid at all, but clever) thought about Ernest resuming his career. But I thought perhaps that they didn’t have any money – for of course I had now realised that many people from different classes than ours had money problems also, just – different kinds of problems.

As if he knew what I was thinking Ernest said, ‘What else can I do, Mattie?’ in a rather dramatic voice.

I shrugged, understanding that even if, in the most unlikely circumstances, he had wanted to go back to a bank again, no bank would have him now.

‘And Freddie becoming a nurse!’ His voice had a bitter little tone to it and just for a moment I think I saw that he missed Freddie, but certainly wasn’t going to say so. ‘I think it is better,’ he continued, ‘to strike while the iron is still hot and people are interested in seeing me and will – or so I believe – queue to see me.’ Then he fluttered his eyelashes just a tiny bit. ‘Mattie. Would you make me – just one – really lovely hat? A lovely hat can make all the difference! You know I cant pay you now but when we have made some money I would of course pay the bill then.’ He must’ve saw my somewhat astonished face. He added: ‘For Freddie’s sake.’

‘What do you mean, for Freddie’s sake?’

‘I suppose I mean for all the – you used to like us staying here, Mattie, in the old days, and you were fond of Freddie.’

‘He was very kind to me.’

‘He is indeed kind, he’s even nursed me! As I said he is no doubt dashing about in a Matron’s costume even as we speak, dispensing kindness to the old man and Harry. I meant – for the old days, Mattie.’ And then all the optimistic bravado fell away for a moment. ‘I
have
to do public performances of some kind, Mattie. I dont have as many – supporters – at the moment, as I used to.’

‘What happened to those other two men in court with you who wrote you all those love letters?’

The old Ernest, tossing his head. ‘I believe the American consul for Edinburgh left the diplomatic service and went back to his rich family in America. I believe Mr Hurt left the Post Office and went to escort his rich mother round Europe somewhere, France I expect.’ He shrugged. ‘So much for Lais and Antinous!’

‘And where’s Mr Amos Gibbings? Where did he disappear to so suddenly after the first trial?’

‘Oh Amos Gibbings, he went away with his rich mother too, I believe.’ He sighed. ‘Very many people went away, Mattie. Although I hear Amos still plays dowagers discreetly when he can!’

‘I’ll make you a hat, Ernest. I’ll take the measurements now and I’ll make it as soon as possible.’

We talked about how it might look and he looked again in the glass as he always did, studying his face from different angles.

He wrote his address in Peckham, very neatly in his almost childlike handwriting, on one of my hatboxes and went off to see if he could take the world by storm.

55

Lady Susan Vane-Tempest was unable to stop weeping.

The band of tension around her head felt as if it was crushing her mind. The constriction around her breast felt as if it was crushing her heart. Without the laudanum she took, she believed that both her mind and her heart would explode.

‘I was not my brother’s keeper! The Prince needed me, always! I shall go to Scotland! I shall go straight to the Royal Household and I shall show my condition! He cannot do this!’ Tears falling, Lady Susan threw the very short, cold, royal note she had just received across the room of her house in Westminster, together with a copy of
The
Times
.

All mistresses of famous men know how to correspond with their lovers in a discreet and private manner. Lady Susan Vane-Tempest was no exception; since she last saw him, over a month ago, she had written him distraught letters (saying only of course that she must see him urgently).

Nobody who was anybody had stayed in London over August, except, for every day of that particular August, Lady Susan Vane-Tempest. She had stayed, in disarray, and needing her lover to make some contact. For days and nights she had waited there, in her house in Chapel-street – waiting in vain, as the sun rose over London in the morning and set over London in the evening, for just one kind message from her kind and holidaying lover – but no message came.

Nor had he come to see her on his return from his summer travels with his family, although she was humiliated to discover – not from himself, but from the newspapers – that he had indeed returned. And yesterday he had sent the short note, saying he was just leaving again, for autumn shooting in Scotland, and would be away for some time.

Her situation was not mentioned.

He had instructed her; he expected her to carry out his instructions.

He would know that she had not been to Dr Clayton.

The Prince of Wales avoided her, and any scandal.

Her present position was now very much more difficult because her condition had become more obvious. It was much too late for the pregnancy to be terminated safely; it could be terminated now only with great danger to herself. Susan, distraught with anger and unhappiness, turned, at last, to her old and trusted friend, Mrs Harriet Whatman.

She and Harriet talked and talked and talked together.

‘He cannot do this!’ Lady Susan cried again, still weeping. ‘I have my own doctors who have all told me it is far too late! Why should I be poked about by that horrible man and have to breathe in pomade of roses? I should never be able to breathe it out again and I should probably die anyway if I am forced to go anywhere near him! I shall present myself to the Prince in public and tell him so!’

Harriet passed the laudanum. Susan was wild, but not that wild.

Harriet knew that Susan would not embarrass Royalty.

Harriet knew how Susan had grown up: in that mournful house of her childhood with a series of governesses and sad maiden aunts while her brothers had been sent away to school to be educated. Harriet knew that Susan’s strict and humourless father (but who would have been humourful in such a situation?) might possibly have been a good Secretary of State for War (though there were some after Crimea who queried that) but he had been an unhappy man, ill fitted to deal with a small girl. Her flight to a mad nobleman had shown the world that she had inherited – just as her father had feared – the same wantonness as her mother; many had said it: almost everybody said it:
just like her mother.
Harriet knew that only a few kind souls had said:
because
of her mother.

But there were rules to be obeyed nevertheless. Susan had grown up as a young woman of exceptional bravery, or wildness, or stupidity, depending on one’s point of view, but Mrs Harriet Whatman knew Susan would not follow the Prince to Scotland.

She would not embarrass Royalty.

‘We must make a sensible plan,’ said Harriet.

Susan tried to pull herself together. ‘He obviously will
never
give me the protection and position I had planned and hoped for.’

‘Then he must be induced, Susan, to give you money at least.’

‘But he never, ever answers my letters, or visits me – not even one single visit to at least discuss what is to be done! I cannot stay here much longer – my condition is obvious now!’

Finally Harriet said crisply: ‘If the Prince is so afraid of scandal, then I’m afraid scandal must be placed in front of his eyes. But not in person,’ she added hastily. ‘I think, Susan, that the best plan is that
I
write to him. I shall explain your predicament.’

‘He knows my predicament!’ cried Susan wildly, tears now pouring down her face once more. But once again she tried to control herself. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You write, Harriet.’

Finally the two women discussed how this letter from someone else, a concerned and discreet friend, should be written. The biggest scandal in his life had been the Mordaunt divorce case when the pregnant lady in question had run wild and mad. Very well. They decided it would therefore be best to threaten that Lady Susan Vane-Tempest, in her present situation, might run wild and mad also.

Harriet sat at Susan’s
escritoire
and dipped the quilled pen into the ink
.

‘And there is no need to go over the obvious details,’ said Susan. ‘He knows all that. Just tell him I need assistance in the present circumstances.’

Harriet wrote carefully and dutifully and respectfully to the Prince of Wales but made Lady Susan’s Vane-Tempest’s present emotional and financial predicament very clear. (She did not mention in words her physical predicament of course.)

‘And I might become insane,’ said Susan coldly.

Harriet wrote carefully and dutifully and respectfully. ‘Shall I say you keep calling your dead brother’s name?’

‘Perhaps not that,’ said Susan. ‘Mention members of his family, not members of my family. Make him nervous of scandal.’ Mrs Harriet Whatman wrote carefully and dutifully and respectfully. ‘Ask for a sum of money. He knows perfectly well that I—’ but then Susan’s control broke once more. ‘If he had only come to see me himself I would have talked all this over with him in strictest privacy,’ she said in tears of such distress that Harriet moved to comfort her. ‘I cannot believe he is so changed!’

And Harriet, holding her, felt that Susan shook with what might have been rage or fear. But which, in truth, was heartbreak.

Harriet renewed her efforts; wrote that it was now necessary for Lady Susan to leave London urgently or the secret would be out, and that it would cost money. She signed the letter, addressed it, and looked at the time.

‘I must go darling,’ she said, putting her arms once more around her shaking, weeping friend in real concern . ‘Remember! You are a brave person! You survived Lord Adolphus throwing knives at you!’ and they both tried to smile. ‘Be strong and brave, darling Susan!’

‘I will,’ said Susan. ‘I will.’

But when Harriet had left and Lady Susan Vane-Tempest was alone again, she held the letter to be posted to Scotland in her hands and stared at the envelope. And her courage, if it was courage, deserted her and she wept again.
This is not my fault! This is the Prince’s fault! This my mother’s fault! No – this is Arthur’s fault – I was not my brother’s keeper!
Yet memory rebuked her:
perhaps Arthur’s wicked life was her fault? Who had been her dead brother’s keeper if not his nine-year-old sister, when they were, so young, forsaken?

Forsaken.

With tears pouring down her face she slowly picked up the pen, dipped it into the ink, and wrote a love letter. She asked her lover to see her, just one more time.

She gave the two letters to her maid and they were sent to the Prince of Wales in Scotland (through his private secretary) by the same post.

His Royal Highness would not see her.

Arrangements were coldly made, with money.

She was sent to Ramsgate.

There the Prince’s private doctor, Dr Oscar Clayton, attended her.

He advised her of her Duty.

There is no record of this child.

While Lady Susan was living alone in Ramsgate, the Prince of Wales was struck down with typhoid and for some time not expected to live.

Bulletins were posted almost hourly by early December, and churches prayed for his life.

On the Prince’s recovery, Mr Gladstone conceived the idea of a thanksgiving service at St Paul’s Cathedral. He was certain it would bring the monarchy, and indeed the Prince, once more into the hearts and minds of the people. Queen Victoria was violently opposed, but Mr Gladstone won this battle.

And Mr Gladstone was correct.

The Royal Procession to St Paul’s Cathedral – including the almost-never-glimpsed Queen Victoria – passing through the crowded, cheering, weeping streets of London was a monarchical triumph. Isabella rolled her eyes at Mackie, and Billy looked for
Reynolds News.
But the incipient republican movement was for the moment, dead, and even the
Reynolds Newspaper
knew when it was beaten.

The Prince of Wales sent a ticket for the thanksgiving service to Lady Susan Vane-Tempest.

Perhaps he thought that, now, the crises over, she would like to be thankful also in St Paul’s Cathedral, for his deliverance.

But ill health made it impossible for her to attend.

1882