‘That’s with the gentleman himself, madam.’

  ‘Lord Ardmore’s in Lancaster. Perhaps you could come back another day, Mr …?’

  ‘Lock, madam.’ He grinned, revealing a number of broken teeth. ‘They often remark on it.’

  ‘Do they? A better name for a turnkey than a bailiff.’

  ‘Sheriff’s officer, ma’am,’ Lock replied with feigned reproach. ‘I like a joke though … better for a turnkey. Very good that. Better laugh than cry; that’s what I tell them.’

  ‘Why not come back in a day or two?’

  The bailiff smiled at her sadly.

  ‘That’s what they often say.’ He puffed on his pipe. ‘Never, “come in and make yourself at home.”’

  ‘You seem to know how to without any help.’ She fanned away a cloud of pipe-smoke with her hand. ‘If you wish to waste your time, please do so outside or in our smoking room.’

  Lock bowed stiffly and replaced his hat.

  ‘Breath of air, I think.’

  As he was leaving, Theresa heard scuffling coming from the servants’ corridor. A moment later Harris was dragged in by two constables. One of his eyes was closed by a livid bruise.

  ‘Let him go,’ muttered Lock, jerking his head meaningfully in Theresa’s direction. While one of the constables sank down on a small upright chair and gingerly rubbed his ribs, his colleague maintained a firm hold on Harris’s pinioned arm.

  ‘Best ’ang on to ’im, Mr Lock. He were sneakin’ out by t’ back. Wouldn’t say where and slings a haymaker as Tom tries to stop ’im.’

  Lock turned gravely to Theresa.

  ‘I like loyalty, ma’am. But obstructing a law officer in the exercise of his duty comes under a different head.’ He sighed, and turned to the seated constable. ‘What about the others?’

  ‘Shut in the servants’ hall.’

  ‘You’ve no right to terrify Lord Ardmore’s servants,’ cried Theresa, still shocked by what had been done to Harris.

  ‘For their own good, ma’am. Don’t want to have ’em charged with preventing execution of a writ. Not easy these large houses … a sight too many doors.’

  No longer in any doubt about the bailiff’s determination, his good humour now seemed obscene to her.

  ‘I told you Lord Ardmore’s in Lancaster.’

  ‘Happen he’ll come back sooner than expected.’

  When Lock had told the uninjured constable to put Harris in the servants’ hall, and keep an eye on the back of the house, he sent his still complaining companion to the stables to join another man already waiting there.

  ‘A nobleman isn’t likely to run into the woods like a common thief.’

  ‘I’ve known ’em quite elusive, madam,’ replied Lock, sucking hard at his teeth, as though to dislodge a recalcitrant scrap of meat. ‘I wonder if I have the honour of conversing with Lady Ardmore?’

  ‘Find somebody fit to introduce you before asking who I am.’

  A badly suppressed smirk spoiled Lock’s pretence of cowed humility.

  ‘A very proper answer, I’m sure. My interest was uh … humanitarian rather than social. As the gentleman’s wife I could stretch a point … agree to your accompanying his lordship in my chaise.’ He re-lit his pipe, and drew on it thoughtfully. ‘I’m afraid the governor’s against all visitors ’cept family.’

  Theresa turned away with smarting eyes. She badly wanted to ask who had brought suit against Clinton and for how much, but could not face the rebuff which her earlier hostility now made likely. Every minute her suspicion was strengthening that Clinton had expected to be arrested, and knowing he could not prevent it, had kept it from her. On the point of leaving the hall, she froze. The bailiff also heard the sound of hoofs on the carriage sweep and smiled to himself.

  Clinton did not at first see the sheriff’s officer, but tossing aside his whip came towards Theresa.

  ‘Not waiting for me, love?’ His cheeks were glowing after his ride and he looked happy and relaxed. She drew back; fears that he had misled her, overwhelmed by a desire to reduce the impact of what lay ahead. She wished that he could have come in bad-tempered or indifferent—anything but happy. As Lock coughed discreetly to draw attention to himself, Clinton saw him and started. Before he could speak, Theresa took his arm.

  ‘He’s a bailiff … there are other men.’

  For a moment she wondered whether he had heard her, so sudden was the transformation of his expression; not knowing what to expect she sighed with relief as she saw his compressed lips relax into a smile.

  ‘So those were your men loafing about my stables?’

  ‘Doing their duty, I hope, sir.’

  ‘In the nursery that means another thing.’

  He moved closer and folded his arms. ‘So what’s yours?’ The man looked at him blankly. ‘Your duty?’

  ‘Ah yes, sir,’ murmured Lock, putting down his pipe and pulling a folded document from his pocket. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Are you Lord Ardmore, sir?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry to inform your lordship I have a writ against you which I am charged to execute. I must request immediate payment of three hundred pounds at the suit of Messrs Mendoza & Nathan, or the pleasure of your company elsewhere.’

  ‘Do many people carry such sums about with them? I’ll give you a note for it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but that won’t answer.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd. By the time we get to Lancaster it’ll be too late to telegraph instructions to my bank. The creditor can’t be as vindictive as you’re making out.’

  ‘Says he’s been used shamefully, sir.’

  ‘That old phrase … Have you ever not heard it trotted out when harsh measures are taken without warning?’

  ‘Mr Mendoza’s not one who wastes his time. He bought your lordship’s acceptance from Mr Norton in good faith. Your bank wouldn’t pay when it fell due.’

  ‘Norton’s clerk told me the purchaser would renew.’

  ‘I can’t help that, my lord. Pay the money and there’s an end. Otherwise I must arrest you.’

  ‘I want to speak to the lady in private. Lock the door if you must.’

  ‘Against sheriff’s orders.’

  ‘Upstairs? You don’t think I’d try jumping forty feet?’

  ‘Several gentlemen have made away with themselves like that.’

  ‘For three hundred pounds?’ exploded Clinton.

  ‘Less as I recall.’ Lock phlegmatically knocked out his pipe against the plinth of a classical bust. He caught Theresa’s eye. ‘Perhaps if you’d introduce me to the lady, I could oblige you. The name’s Lock, my lord.’

  ‘Don’t,’ whispered Theresa vehemently. ‘If he wants to spy on us, let him.’

  ‘To hell with that,’ said Clinton, picking up his whip and advancing on the bailiff. ‘Will you take my word that I’ll come with you in an hour?’

  The sheriff’s officer glanced warily at the whip and then at Clinton’s face.

  ‘Half-an-hour.’

  ‘Very well. Now get out.’

  Alone, they embraced in silence, tightly clasped, imprinting the memory of warmth and touch.

  ‘How long?’ she murmured at last, moving from him.

  ‘Only days. They can’t hold me on mesne process after disclosure of my assets in court. Harris will telegraph my solicitor.’

  ‘Why not me, Clinton?’

  ‘It’d only hurt you to come to Lancaster. He knows what has to be done. His last officer was in and out of Cursitor Street and the Queen’s Bench for all of two years.’

  ‘Two years? How can you make a joke of it?’

  ‘Because it won’t happen.’

  ‘If your uncle turns you down, Clinton?’ Doing her utmost to remain calm, Theresa could not stop trembling.

  ‘I’d rather think about that when I’m out of Lancaster Castle.’

  ‘You know the possibilities. Don’t I have a right to know them too? Must I sit here when you’ve gone just as ignorant as I was before that man came?’ Her voice had become loud and hectoring, but she felt so passionately that he had kept things from her, that she could not hold back. ‘You must be honest with me … you must.’

  ‘I’ll assign this place; sell what I can. We may have to leave the country.’ He spoke rapidly as if these things scarcely affected him, then flicked his fingers noiselessly. ‘Esmond did for me with the trust; that’s the truth of it.’

  ‘I can’t accept that,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘I can influence him; I know I can.’

  He turned away wearily.

  ‘What do you think he’d claim as his reward?’

  ‘He’d do what I ask. Let me try.’ She pressed his hands urgently, but he pulled away at once.

  ‘Swear you won’t see him.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked, shaken by his anger.

  ‘It wouldn’t be enough for him to have us in his debt. He wants to drive us apart.’

  ‘How could he?’

  ‘Lies, threats. Things are grim enough without that.’

  ‘What kind of lies?’ she insisted.

  ‘This is not the time,’ he said quietly, stressing each word; his hostility piercing her.

  ‘If you won’t let me do anything,’ she murmured, ‘tell me this. Did you foresee today?’

  ‘I promise you—no. I thought the bill would be renewed … was sure of it.’ He broke off and said with sudden tenderness. ‘You must listen to me. When I’ve disclosed my assets in court, they’ll let me go and I’ll be given time to pay. The real fight comes later. We’ll have time to plan.’

  ‘I’ll get an engagement. I could get work within days, my love.’

  He looked down at his riding boots and let out his breath in a long sigh.

  ‘Shall we leave that till I’ve got out of prison and seen my uncle?’

  She had spoken eagerly and his dismissive tone hurt her with the force of a rebuke. He kissed her gently on the cheek.

  ‘I must get some things.’

  When he had gone, Theresa’s mind felt paralysed as she recalled the weary sadness of his answers. What had been gained by forcing him over ground he must already have explored a hundred times? Of course he would do what he could. When she ought to have expressed unwavering faith in him, her questions had merely underlined his helplessness. In a few hours he would be in a cell as if he were a criminal, and had she even expressed sympathy?

  When she opened his dressing room door, Clinton was leafing through papers in his writing box and did not see her. On the other side of the room Harris was packing clothes. Theresa stepped back, leaving the door ajar. Even when the two men were out of view she could hear them.

  ‘Better put in some candles. They may give us mutton dips for all I know.’ As Harris picked up his razor, Clinton laughed drily. ‘Think I’ll be allowed to keep that? Isn’t Lancaster said to be the worst debtor’s prison in the country?’

  ‘Quite comfortable after Peking, I’d imagine, sir.’

  ‘Or the black hole of Calcutta.’ After a silence, Clinton said: ‘What happens if the judge is a tartar?’

  ‘You can apply for habeas corpus to bring you up to the Queen’s Bench. Wherever you are bail application takes six days.’

  ‘And I’ll get it on disclosure?’

  ‘Captain Haswell always did.’

  ‘They give him a room of his own?’

  ‘Most times. Surprised if you don’t dine with the governor. Great ones for peers, my captain used to say.’

  Theresa heard them talk about what food to take and how much china and linen. Then the valet went out into the bedroom. Listening to them, Theresa could not help comparing the man’s reassuring matter of fact manner, and efficient attention to detail, with her own fruitless anxiety. Together, master and servant had sounded as unruffled as if planning a stay in a badly equipped hotel or a posting to a new barracks.

  Feeling an intruder as she entered, Theresa dreaded that her presence would only drag out the pain of parting. A waiting emptiness seemed to hang about the room. Deep lines across his forehead made him look stern and inaccessible, as if, she thought, only by deliberately denying memory could he endure the future. She walked past the table where he was sitting, aware of the creaking of the wardrobe door. She saw herself briefly in the cheval glass, protective hands clutching her elbows tightly, like a coatless woman in a wind. Glancing at him, her momentary awareness of his personality was so sharp that her own seemed to fade. She stared at the rosewood clock on the mantelpiece: nearly noon. She would not have been surprised to have found it hours later.

  Under his silent scrutiny, she let her arms drop, trying to seem more composed, but could not help clutching her hands together, nails driven against knuckles; her whole body ached with tension. On the dressing table was a vase of roses; without thinking she brushed a scattering of petals to the floor.

  ‘Please.’ he murmured, ‘stop looking as if we’re going to be fed to the lions. Bailiffs are serving writs all over the place. It’s really very ordinary.’ The window was open and the wind bellied in the green curtains with a sudden rattling of rings. Torn rags of blue had opened between the heavy clouds. He stood up, resting his hands on the back of his chair. ‘Such a wind. At Markenfield the stables’ weather vane was a ship; I used to shoot at it when I was bored. God, how it used to spin.’

  ‘You needn’t say anything. I only wanted to be with you.’

  ‘It’s like being in a train,’ he said, ‘nothing to be done till the next station. Perhaps life shouldn’t have gaps, but it always seems to.’ He smiled. ‘Like intervals in a play. We used to laugh a lot about melodrama. The hero saved in the nick of time. Imagine … at this moment, a solicitor’s clerk spurring up the drive, leaping breathless from the saddle. “Your uncle’s dead, Lord Ardmore. I have five hundred guineas in this purse.”’

  He reached out a hand and touched her hair, but she drew back, not knowing whether his light tone was intended to comfort or prevent her speaking from the heart.

  ‘Just a gap,’ she repeated softly, looking at the portmanteau and the trunk by the door, imagining them roped to the bailiff’s chaise. In Clinton’s mind, she fancied he was already looking out across windswept cornfields while the carriage rattled south. For the first time she had no wish either to hasten or prolong the moment. Grief spread through her like a slow stain. ‘I don’t want to see you go,’ she whispered, thinking how much easier it was to go than be left behind. She kissed him and walked away.

  *

  Two days after his committal to Lancaster Castle, Clinton was visited by his solicitor and the barrister briefed to argue his case for discharge before the judge later that week. A complication, he was informed, had arisen. News of his arrest had reached the ears of several of the tradesmen in the town who had supplied him with goods on credit. In alarm, they had lodged detainers with the sheriff, which would prevent his release even should the judge be satisfied with the measures proposed by counsel for settling the original debt. Since judgment could not be expected on new proceedings in anything under three weeks, Clinton was advised to enter an application for bail. Well aware that any delay would expose him to the risk of items in the local press being picked up by London papers with a nose for aristocratic scandals and misfortunes, Clinton did not need his lawyers to tell him that this could alert his metropolitan creditors, and so lead to service of further writs.

  A post-dated mortgage deed secured on the Hathenshaw lease, and affidavits disclosing his assets, would, in his lawyers’ opinion, get him bail in spite of the detainers, since the unexpired period of the lease was worth considerably more than all the debts which had so far been brought to the court’s notice. But any intimation of heavier liabilities would extend his imprisonment until a general settlement with all his creditors could be contrived—a process which the transfer of stock and the sale of chattels would inevitably make lengthy. Even if bail were granted, another judgment summons could see him back in prison in a worse predicament than before. Yet bail, albeit achieved by the forced sale of his present lease, was now essential. A visit to his uncle could not safely be postponed by as much as a fortnight.

  After the departure of his legal advisers, Clinton flung himself down on his bed. He had slept very little the night before; and, though his room was in few respects like a cell—having been comfortably furnished a year ago by the extravagant younger son of a marquess—the silk curtain concealing the iron door did not palliate the fact of being locked in. At times Clinton came close to dashing his head against the wall. When waking from brief periods of sleep, he was scarcely aware of having lost consciousness.

  Because bail could not be obtained before the middle of the following week, Clinton knew that he would have to offer some explanation for his continuing detention to Theresa. Longing to see her, he also dreaded such a visit. Her pity would emphasise the wretchedness of his predicament and perhaps, worse still, fuel his bitter fears that all his happiness with her had been possible only when shielded from everything that might have challenged it. In the past, happiness for him had been perfect or nothing. His present mood and the strangeness of the prison, especially in the hours of darkness, left him so low that he was soon convinced it would be folly to allow himself to see her through the distorting glass of his present uncertainties. Beyond the possibility of failure with his uncle, loomed the shadow of events that made his imprisonment seem a trivial affliction.

  When later he began to write, he betrayed nothing of this. Optimism alone would prevent her coming, and this was the mood he grimly sustained.

  ‘My dearest,’ he began, ‘If stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage, I can only assume the poet had no knowledge of this place. The walls are not only stone but ten feet thick, if my jailer is to be believed. The bars are backed by clouded glass, designed to confine the eye as well as the person. Until I saw the gatehouse here, I thought ‘frowning portals’ as poetically improbable as ‘pearly gates’. The second-class debtors (here status is conferred by the scale of a man’s financial failings) can be seen behind a vast grating in John of Gaunt’s banqueting hall. I once passed by in the evening and all were in nightshirts and caps, singing choruses to the music of a fiddle. The sight made me think myself in Bedlam a century ago.