He dashed off three more signatures on rough paper, and, having satisfied himself that they compared well, swept all the papers from the table except for the four bills of exchange; these he placed close enough to each other to be able to pass from bill to bill with the least possible delay. At a ground-floor window across the street, a maid was beating a carpet; hundreds of them in London doing the same. Every possible human activity happening somewhere at that moment: murders, thefts, kisses, marriages … acts of forgery; one or two men sitting undecided in the afternoon heat … somewhere.

  He picked up the pen, dipped it in the ink, drained off a little with a scrap of blotting paper and signed the bills. Two hours before, he would have thought the speed and accuracy of his achievement impossible. Since even in authentic signatures, no two were mechanically identical, he was inclined to consider that two slight lapses added veracity rather than detracted from it. When he had turned the bills over and written his own signature under the word ‘accepted’ on their faces, he threw himself on the bed.

  He felt happiness but also a peculiar detachment, as though next day he might wake to find that quite different events had happened. One of the net curtains had fallen back across the window and cast a shadow on the ceiling. A slight wind lifted the edges of the bills. A moment later it came to Clinton that the moment of crime lay not in signing but in handing them to Norton. The worst test of all would not come until he returned for the money. That trial would have to wait its turn, but the other, Clinton met at once by posting the bills with a brief covering letter.

  *

  The candelabra, console tables and matching buhl cabinets in the ante-room, where Clinton had been asked to await Norton’s appearance, had never disquieted him before; but he was so tense that these spoils from past foreclosures deepened his foreboding. Their sometime owners would have sat in this very room—many of them more confident than he of ultimate salvation. The clerk had been more welcoming than on any previous occasion, but in his agitation Clinton was inclined to see this as sinister.

  He folded his arms, forcing himself to be still, trying not to start when he heard footsteps outside. Within minutes he would have in his hands two thousand pounds or a warrant for his arrest.

  When Norton at last came in, Clinton stood up and moved forward; his legs felt soft and strangely elastic, and he could not keep his eyes on anything. The man’s grey moustache, cavernous nostrils and mottled cheeks stood out in isolation and would not cohere into a whole face—other details: an embroidered waistcoat, velvet lapels, a ringed hand.

  ‘I’ve some money for you, Lord Ardmore.’ Dazed with relief, Clinton merely nodded, fixing his eyes on the dragons worked in silver thread on Norton’s waistcoat. ‘Didn’t think I was going to be able to do it. My clerk had no right to agree to cover interest with an additional acceptance, even at a higher rate.’ Clinton guessed from the man’s tone that he was expected to ask how the matter had been settled, but he could not think of any words. He wanted to take the money and go. Norton said briskly: ‘I’d have liked to deduct it from the loan and set aside the covering bill, but then I heard that you’d been promised the full sum. Of course it was unthinkable after that dreadful business to have you come here expecting one thing, only to be told another.’

  ‘So you stuck to the original arrangement?’

  Norton chuckled; a strange noise, closer to a phlegmy cough than a laugh.

  ‘Out of the question. I’d be ruined if I waived interest beyond a quarter on large sums. Time’s money, don’t you see?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s all ready; never fear. Got to tell you how I got round it. You left no address except your club and nobody there knew where you were staying. Quite a problem. I admit I was most reluctant to ask Mr Danvers to help, but in the circumstances … not wishing to disappoint, you understand … I threw myself on his mercy.’

  A feeling of faintness entered him from all sides like an invisible fog. Afraid that his legs would not support him, Clinton grasped the back of a chair; the suddenness of the movement jerked the room back into focus. Norton’s face seemed larger; the hairs in his nostrils moved as he breathed.

  ‘What did he say?’ Clinton asked.

  ‘I sent a man with a letter. His reply couldn’t have been more helpful. Without any prompting from me, he offered to let me have a draft for the interest … said he’d bring it round when I paid over the money.’

  No longer caring what Norton thought, Clinton sat down heavily. Frozen laughter died in his throat.

  ‘Is he here now?’

  ‘Indeed he is, and most eager to see your lordship. He said to me … purely in fun of course—that he’d not part with the draft till he saw the loan in your hands.’

  Sharp blades of fear reached Clinton through the insulating numbness of shock.

  ‘I know this is awkward for you.’ He tried to smile at Norton but his lips felt too stiff. ‘As it happens, I’ve a personal and rather pressing reason for not wanting to see him today … Something I promised, which I haven’t had time to do.’

  ‘Mr Danvers has come here in person.’

  ‘Tell him you tried to stop me going.’

  Norton seemed embarrassed.

  ‘I really don’t like to, Lord Ardmore.’ He cleared his throat uneasily. ‘The fact is, though I’m sure he meant it in fun … he still hasn’t given me that draft.’

  ‘I’ll sign a receipt for you to give him.’ Trying to be authoritative, Clinton was horrified by the brittleness of his voice. Norton compressed his lips.

  ‘I’d like to please you, but I’m placed in a most …’

  ‘How was I placed with Mendoza?’

  ‘If I’d had any idea that you intended not to …’

  ‘Good God, man, I told your clerk I couldn’t meet it.’

  Norton hesitated a moment but then moved abruptly to the nearest bell-pull. When a clerk came in answer, he was told to show in Mr Danvers. Without raising his eyes, Norton murmured an apology.

  One look at Esmond’s pale tight-drawn features convinced Clinton that he would betray him and had only delayed in order to deliver the coup de grâce in person. Never could he have expected such a perfect opportunity. Certain he could now do nothing to save himself, Clinton faced his executioner. Esmond nodded to him as if acknowledging a routine courtesy and turned to Norton. Clinton braced himself, but Esmond only asked Norton to excuse them for a few minutes. When the money-lender had left, Esmond said quietly:

  ‘You’re going to tell me some things now, Clinton.’

  ‘You’ll repudiate those bills whatever I say.’

  ‘Not if you’re honest with me.’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  Esmond smiled derisively and nodded to himself as though the response had been exactly what he had expected.

  ‘I don’t believe you’re stupid enough to prefer ten years in jail to a little loss of face with me.’ Esmond picked up a pair of silver-handled glove-stretchers from a table and examined them. ‘Somebody came to see me on Sunday evening and told me something rather surprising. Guess what it was.’ Clinton turned his back. Esmond stood snapping the stretchers open and shut. ‘All right, I’ll come back to that when I’ve got your interest.’ He paused. ‘Quite unintentionally this person reminded me of something else … something I hadn’t thought about for months. Perhaps you remember mother’s story about the Protestant lady and her footman? The marriage that wasn’t a marriage?’ When Clinton did not react in any way, Esmond said sharply: ‘If you want my help over those signatures, you’d better answer me.’

  Clinton shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I remember it. Sounded like something she’d made up to amuse us.’

  ‘But she didn’t make it up, did she?’ Esmond folded his arms and smiled easily. ‘You must know that, Clinton. You see my visitor was sure you married in Ireland.’

  ‘Make your point,’ murmured Clinton, turning. Apart from the whiteness of his face, he showed no emotion. Esmond put down the glove-stretchers.

  ‘Have you told Theresa the implications?’

  ‘Of marrying her in Ireland?’ asked Clinton. His brother nodded.

  ‘There aren’t any.’

  Esmond clapped his hands together as though delighted by Clinton’s reply. ‘I wonder if she’ll agree when you tell her mother’s story. I have to admit it, Clinton … I underestimated you. Not many men would do what you did in cold blood.’

  ‘What would you say that was?’ asked Clinton stiffening, his pent-up fury obvious now.

  ‘Deceived her for your own convenience. Don’t look so shocked. Why else would you have married her in Ireland? Unless you thought you might need to get out of it later?’

  ‘I was stationed there,’ Clinton shouted. ‘If I’d delayed marrying her, I’d have lost her.’

  ‘You could have come to England. Steamers leave Dublin with tolerable regularity.’ He looked at Clinton with mocking sadness. ‘All you said about treating her honourably … just a bellyfull of cant.’

  ‘Did I abandon her when you robbed me of my income?’

  Esmond backed away as Clinton came at him.

  ‘You still haven’t told her the truth, have you? And till you do, you’ll go on betraying her every day.’

  Clinton stood motionless, staring at the floor.

  ‘How could I tell her straight after the marriage? Then she was pregnant. Should I have told her the moment she gave me that news? Or when she lost the child and nearly died? After that I had plenty to attend to.’ He met Esmond’s eyes. ‘I looked on it as marriage. Why should I think I betrayed her?’

  Esmond looked at him disdainfully.

  ‘Because you knew the law. Must have known it. Any priest would have told you.’

  To Esmond’s surprise, Clinton no longer seemed interested in justifying himself. After a silence, he said with anxiety rather than hostility:

  ‘Who told you I married her there?’

  ‘Did you swear her to keep it quiet? Of course you did.’

  ‘Just tell me, Esmond.’

  ‘Later.’ Esmond rang the bell and said quietly: ‘I never intended to give you away over those bills. There’d have been a kind of dignity in going to prison for forging them. Love’s last resort.’ He smiled to himself. ‘But I won’t make you a present of the money either; so don’t try running off with it.’

  Esmond treated Norton to a roguish grin as he came in.

  ‘Just a family conference about ways and means.’

  ‘A happy resolution, I trust?’

  ‘Entirely.’ Esmond took an envelope from his frockcoat and handed it to Norton with a slight bow. ‘The draft I promised.’

  The money lender held out a bulky packet to Clinton.

  ‘Your money, my lord. Shall I count it?’

  Clinton tossed the packet to Esmond.

  ‘My brother looks after my affairs.’

  ‘I hope he’s well paid for it,’ returned Norton with elaborate gravity.

  ‘Pure philanthropy,’ returned Esmond, already on his way to the door.

  ‘Who told you?’ urged Clinton wildly as they emerged in the street.

  Esmond glanced in the direction of his waiting carriage. A footman had already jumped down from behind and was lowering the step.

  ‘Perhaps I can drive you somewhere?’

  ‘Anywhere you’re going.’

  Ignoring Clinton’s exasperation, Esmond gave instructions to the coachman and climbed in after his brother.

  ‘Who?’ whispered Clinton.

  ‘Her father. I don’t suppose you’ve met him?’

  ‘Damn you. Just tell me what he said.’

  ‘He turned up a couple of evenings ago. Tried to get me to tell him if you were as poor as Theresa thought.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Told him the truth … more or less. He wanted me to talk about you and Theresa, but I refused. Anyway, when he’d drunk a fair bit of sillery, he asked me point blank whether I thought you’d married her. I said he was out of his mind. Where was his evidence? He wouldn’t say till I poured such scorn on the idea that he lost his temper. He’d seen a marriage certificate. Where? No answer. Who showed it him? Nothing. Could he remember the wording? He told me a place with an Irish name. Priest called Maguire. I forget what else.’ Esmond glanced sideways at his brother’s frozen face. ‘It may be worthless legally, but why the hell didn’t you destroy it?’

  Clinton stared out in silence at the trees in Golden Square with an expression so distant that Esmond wondered whether he had listened to anything he had said. At last Clinton murmured thickly:

  ‘Did he say how he got hold of it … anything at all?’

  ‘Not really. I suppose he must have wormed it out of Theresa. He’s as persistent as they come.’

  When he looked at Clinton again, Esmond saw tears on his cheeks. Seconds later, as the carriage slowed down at a corner, Clinton flung open the door and jumped out. Esmond called after him and started in pursuit, but with twenty yards still between them, Clinton hailed a hansom which set off at once.

  33

  Though the day had been hot, the elderberries in the dusty hedgerows foretold autumn. On the fells, heather was in flower and the glory of broom and furze was past. Few birds sang in the still countryside. It was early evening before Clinton dismounted at Hathenshaw after travelling all day. The beech trees cast long shadows on the lawn. Past borders mellow with russet and ochre of early crysanthemums, he walked towards the garden door. His first sight of the house moved him not at all, but crossing the soft moss where the lawn ended, the air seemed distended with grief. A feeling that often came to him for no reason he could understand—a warm evening, the smell of leaf smoke, a fox barking at night.

  Entering the hall he felt like a ghost returning to a place last seen not weeks but decades ago. A moment later Harris came in behind him, having seen him crossing from the stables to the house. When the servant told him that the bailiff had been back again with another writ, Clinton’s heart seemed to stop. The same tightness in the chest, the same sensation of falling he had known when he realised he had lost all hope with his uncle. For a while every notion of what he had been about to do fell away from him. Harris had moved closer.

  ‘You musn’t stay long, my lord.’

  Clinton touched the man’s arm, moved by his obvious sorrow. Minutes earlier he had imagined going to Theresa’s dressing room, searching for the certificate and handing it to her in silence. Now he merely rang for a maid, asked the girl where her mistress was, and went there at once.

  Mother and daughter were making plum and damson jam in the kitchen; their hands and lips stained by the fruit, now simmering in preserving pans on the range. For several seconds Clinton watched Theresa from the corridor. Her hair was charmingly pinned up with a tortoiseshell comb and she wore a maid’s apron over a pale yellow dress. He stood very still; angry, sorrowful, yet wanting to embrace her, held back by the barrier of their time apart and the sapping consciousness of betrayal—his own and hers.

  As he went in, Theresa cried out and ran to him with outsretched arms, hesitating as she saw the coldness of his expression. She asked Louise to leave them and said faintly:

  ‘He wouldn’t help you?’

  ‘No, he turned me down’. He moved closer, and though his eyes were fixed on her face, they seemed to be looking beyond her. ‘Your father knows.’

  His calm impersonal voice was death to her; worse than any anger—as if she had already been condemned, and this opportunity to speak was offered only as formal justice.

  ‘I didn’t tell him,’ she whispered, trying to contain a rising wave of hysteria.

  ‘But he knows.’

  ‘You’d gone to London … the first time. You sent that telegram. I’d never felt so alone, Clinton. I was frightened.’ Ashamed of her pleading tone, she could not help it. She could see that he was relentlessly killing the emotion in himself.

  ‘I repeatedly asked you to come with me.’

  ‘I was afraid to be possessive. Then the telegram and Hopkinson. You lied about seeing your trustees. I remembered others … In York, when I saw the letter from your bank you said it was nothing. You refused to admit anything until things had gone too far to remedy. I needed reassurance.’

  ‘So you asked your father for it?’

  ‘No, no,’ she cried. ‘I wrote to Maguire. I needed a certificate for the baby’s baptism.’