She tried her best to please him; was modest and reticent. She was rarely guilty of pretending to a maturity she did not possess, and her reliance on his opinion over quite trivial things: the choice of a dress or present, produced feelings not far short of affection. The way her face changed when he entered a room, restored him. To be valued so highly when feeling himself worthless, was both strange and affecting. She was proud to be seen with him, and in spite of everything he had done to discourage her, adored him without reservation. Though nervous with him, she could still be amusing and spirited. The growing solicitude and responsibility Clinton felt for her, might have been more appropriate to a father than a husband to-be, but they were sincere emotions. When he had first proposed to her and been accepted, his debts and the fear of a breach of promise action had been the ropes binding him to a future marriage. Now, respect for her feelings was his only concern. In loyalty to this young girl, he saw a measure of redemption.

  He did not return to the theatre, but sent a cheque for the precise sum raised on the Hathenshaw lease, with a letter begging Theresa to accept it for his sake rather than hers. It was never presented at his bank. When the play was taken off, Clinton made no attempts to discover where she had gone.

  37

  During the two months after his brother’s betrothal, Esmond weathered the worst financial crisis of his life, and did it by pure audacity: splitting his shipping company and creating the Southern Steamship Line thus enabling himself to pay the Greek & Oriental’s shareholders their long overdue dividends out of the new company’s subscriptions. He also formed two other ‘paper’ companies to raise the short-term capital needed to consolidate first successes in the transatlantic grain trade. Esmond overcame his fearsome liquidity problems by blandly transferring nominal assets from company to company as the need arose—one company ‘selling’ to another and advancing the money at a high rate of interest. The interest was then entered in the books as increased value, and, when a premium had been paid, this was described as earned profit. Though cheques passed round the companies, never a penny of actual money changed hands. So long as the public continued to subscribe, he knew his depredations could continue undetected, giving him the time he needed to recoup his previous losses.

  The constant risks he had needed to take almost daily to survive, had not been without effect on Esmond. Far more confident than before, Clinton’s threats did not prevent him considering when the time would be ripe to renew relations with Theresa. If he had lost her by seeming weak, he would not make the same mistake again. This time nothing would deter him. When Clinton was safely married, Esmond intended to begin his campaign in earnest.

  *

  In the third week of February, just over six weeks before the day fixed for Clinton’s wedding, Esmond’s hopes were shattered in so unexpected a manner that for some time afterwards he could hardly believe that the blow had been fatal. On the day in question, Major Simmonds came to his house and told him that he intended to bring an action against Clinton in the courts, unless he received conclusive assurances. Since Esmond had already given considerable thought to the major’s possible recourse to law, and had confidently concluded that he was completely powerless without Theresa’s active co-operation, Esmond was not unduly alarmed. In fact to begin with he adopted a manner of polite scepticism, in keeping with a growing belief that the threat was a thinly disguised attempt to extort money.

  ‘This action,’ Esmond asked agreeably, ‘would it be for restoration of conjugal rights?’

  ‘How could it be?’ demanded the major brusquely.

  ‘Very easily, I’d imagine … if Theresa brings it.’

  ‘Well, she won’t.’

  Esmond smiled sympathetically.

  ‘I can’t quite see what you can do without her testimony.’

  ‘That’s what the first two lawyers I saw told me. Luckily the third had more sense.’

  The man’s obvious confidence had started to worry Esmond, but he said lightly:

  ‘I suppose lawyers can afford to be philosophical about starting proceedings, Win or lose, their fees are paid.’

  A curious expression crossed the major’s face; it became smooth and arrogant.

  ‘The man’s prepared to act for me for nothing.’

  Esmond glanced at him with suavely raised eyebrows.

  ‘Nothing? What about the public notice that scandals usually attract?’ His heart was beating fast, but he managed to maintain a front of contemptuous amusement. ‘I think the best person to talk to is my brother. Perhaps you’d like his address?’

  The major pulled at the loose skin above his tight stand-up collar as if seriously considering the suggestion, then shook his head.

  ‘I think you’d be better at persuading him. He’d only lose his temper with me. I want to give him a proper chance.’ Looking at the old man’s stubborn forehead and pale curiously opaque eyes, Esmond no longer supposed that money was his objective. He said harshly:

  ‘You’d best tell me what I’m supposed to say.’

  ‘Nothing easier, dear fellow.’ A flicker of irony moved across the wrinkled face, like a shadow over ruffled water. Like a card player with a good hand, he seemed in no hurry to finish the game. ‘You see I lent Theresa some money a couple of months back … nothing very much; in fact a trifling sum. I’m told I’m perfectly entitled to get it back from your brother … husbands being liable for their wives’ debts.’ His tongue flickered over his upper lip as he watched Esmond attentively. ‘The action will only be for the recovery of a few pounds, but the real issue being tried will be your brother’s marriage. If he’s her husband I get the money, if he isn’t, I don’t.’

  ‘I did make the connection,’ Esmond replied drily. He moved away to the window and turned sharply. ‘Suppose I settle the debt for my brother?’

  ‘I won’t let you.’

  ‘Has Theresa tried to pay you?’

  ‘Indeed she has. Of course I wouldn’t take anything.’ He smiled at Esmond. ‘By law a wife can’t contract debts of her own.’

  ‘In practice wives frequently incur personal debts and honour them.’

  The major nodded affably.

  ‘But when a wife defaults, her creditors can’t enforce payment against her personally. They can only sue her husband for recovery.’

  ‘How can that be relevant if she’s perfectly ready to settle?’

  Simmonds frowned as if perplexed by his obtuseness. He said reasonably:

  ‘Ask yourself why her debt isn’t enforceable against her. I’ll tell you—it’s because she’s pledged her husband’s credit. She can’t make a valid contract on her own. The real contract’s between her husband and the creditor. That’s why her husband is the one who has to be sued if she defaults.’

  The major’s assurance made Esmond shudder. Longing to argue, he could think of no way to refute his argument.

  ‘What I’m saying,’ Simmonds went on pleasantly, ‘is that when I lent Theresa money, the real contract was between your brother and myself; so I’m entitled to get my payment from him. No creditor has to accept settlement of a debt from anyone except the person legally answerable for it. If Theresa gives him the money and he passes it to me, that’s a different matter. I’d settle at once.’

  ‘Has it crossed your mind,’ Esmond burst out, ‘that if Theresa denies everything under oath, the case will be thrown out in minutes? If you can’t prove a marriage, Clinton’s going to sue you for defamation.’

  ‘Theresa won’t perjure herself.’

  ‘You mean you’ll subpoena her to give evidence against her will?’

  ‘If I have to. In any case she won’t be the only witness. My solicitor’s in Ireland taking proofs of evidence.’

  The old man had spoken with a lightness that was almost jovial. Esmond felt sick. His own relationship with Theresa would come out in court. Public prejudice against the theatre being what it was, she would be represented as little better than a courtesan; Clinton would be socially ostracized for life, and Sophie made virtually unmarriageable. And yet the man was smiling with the self-righteous air of a moral fanatic.

  ‘Will Theresa thank you for doing this?’

  The major sighed, his breath coming thinly, like a thread of air blowing through a crack. The sudden change of mood astounded Esmond.

  ‘She’s said she’ll never speak to me again.’

  ‘Then why?’ cried Esmond in amazement.

  Standing by a lamp, one side of the old man’s face was in shadow, the other eye-socket sunk in deep relief. He raised his thin hands in a gesture of simple regret.

  ‘She’s no longer capable of rational thought.’

  ‘You mean she won’t ruin three lives?’

  The major turned on him with flashing indignation.

  ‘You’d rather it came out later? These things do … Louise knows already. How do you know who she’s told? Who saw them at the church? The priest may be a drunkard for all I know. And what if the truth was ever printed? A libel action, imputations of bigamy … and the girl he’s going to marry … would you have her disgraced, her children made bastards?’

  After a long silence, Esmond managed to rally.

  ‘The marriage can’t be proved,’ he murmured dully.

  ‘I think it can.’

  Esmond shrugged his sholders.

  ‘Just tell me your terms for dropping the action.’

  ‘Lord Ardmore must break off his engagement.’

  ‘And acknowledge Theresa?’

  The major puckered his lips and was silent for a moment.

  ‘I won’t insist on that. He can sign a confession.’

  ‘To stop him marrying anyone else?’

  Major Simmonds nodded and picked up his hat. As he moved to the door, Esmond walked after him. He felt as if he was suffocating. Clinton would believe this was his final act of vengeance; nothing on earth would persuade him otherwise. How could anybody who did not know this old man, with his moth-eaten old fur coat and battered stovepipe hat, ever credit that, on his own, ignoring his daughter’s pleas, he would embark on such a course? Every external frailty denied the strength of his inner will.

  ‘See him yourself,’ groaned Esmond. ‘Get your solicitor to write … I can’t do it.’ He rang the bell violently and leant against the wall. When the footman came, he said faintly: ‘This gentleman is leaving. Never admit him again.’

  Alone, Esmond gazed around the room as though he had never seen it before. With hallucinating clearness he saw Clinton holding out a scrap of lace from a child’s cuff—the precise expression of nonchalant inquiry—and suddenly Esmond was weeping, not just for his brother, but for himself, Theresa, and for everything that had happened since the day when Clinton had come back on his first leave from Ireland.

  38

  When Clinton first learned that Major Simmonds intended to sue him, he immediately suspected that Esmond was involved. But a single conversation with his brother was enough to change his mind. Far from showing alarm when he suggested that they both went to question Simmonds, Esmond obviously welcomed this chance to clear himself. He was also so clearly alarmed by the possible effects of a family scandal on his business interests that Clinton soon felt he had misjudged him. Throughout their meeting, Esmond’s distress impressed Clinton as forcibly as any of the arguments he advanced in his defence.

  Not trusting his temper enough to risk going to see Simmonds, and in any case knowing that his lawyers would deplore anything done without advice, Clinton went on from his brother’s offices to the Cavalry Club. He did not particularly want to go there, but he wanted to be alone even less. Luncheon was being served as he came in and during it he witnessed a scene that increased his depression. A young officer ordered a bottle of burgundy, which the wine waiter refused to bring. The servant tried to do this tactfully, but the officer flew into a rage and began shouting abuse so that the whole room could hear. After an interval the steward was fetched, and the officer, and all those at his table, learned that the treasurer’s instructions were that he should have nothing else on credit until he had paid what he owed. Without a word the young man jumped up and ran from the room. Later, Clinton went out and found him white-faced and trembling on the stairs.

  ‘Can’t I pay for your wine?’ he asked softly. ‘I’ll have a word with your waiter who’ll say a mistake was made.’

  The officer shook his head vehemently and covered his face.

  ‘The disgrace,’ he muttered, ‘how can I ever go in there again?’

  Clinton did not reply and after a few seconds went back into the dinning room. Almost every week of the year, one member or another would feel that he had been disgraced by some trivial injury to his pride: inability to pay a gambling debt, failure to raise his stakes with the rest during a game, a feeling that some disagreeable remark, ignored at the time, had really been an insult requiring an apology. And what was any of this nonsense in comparison with real disgrace?

  That afternoon Clinton’s lawyers were to meet Major Simmonds and his advisers to see if any compromise could be achieved. The results of failure were very clear to Clinton. He would still be able to avoid fighting Simmonds in the courts by breaking off his engagement with Sophie—in effect choosing to be sued for breach of contract by Sophie’s father as the lesser of two evils. Even though he would be unable to meet the costs and damages of the case, the public disgrace in store for him would be mild in comparison with the hysterical execration he could expect if he tried to disprove the Irish marriage in court. Actions for breach of promise were numerous enough to be forgotten within a year or two; not so a case that would inevitably become an instant cause célèbre.

  Yet almost from the beginning Clinton knew he would rather suffer anything than renege on his engagement. Pride and honour had little to do with it; nor was he worried by the thought of people supposing he had shirked a challenge. He had never admired the obstinate pride that still led to occasional duels. There were many forms of cowardice, and one was the terror of being called a coward. More important to Clinton was a purely intuitive sense of what seemed just. If he were to be punished, then let it be for his real fault and for no other reason. Deeper still, he was blindly angry. Although Esmond had warned him about Simmonds’s obstinacy, Clinton could not believe that any man alive could stand firm against Theresa’s most passionate persuasion.

  It seemed impossible that she had done her utmost to dissuade him. Esmond had said that the major was one of the only men he had ever met, who might, for the sake of a principle, have his daughter subpoenaed to give evidence against her will; but this had not entirely convinced Clinton.

  He could not bring himself to believe that when he had parted from Theresa, she had entertained thoughts of one day going back on her assurances. And yet resentment had been known to change the firmest resolutions. She had met Sophie. Perhaps only when seeing the engagement in the papers, had she found herself unable to endure the thought of his marriage to her. If so, Theresa probably thought that the threat of court proceedings would be enough to make him abandon Sophie. Of course Simmonds alone might be responsible, but either way, both of them would feel sure that he would not dare let the case proceed. Theresa would hardly be touched by the notoriety of a public trial. What would ruin him beyond all hope of recovery, would merely increase the size of her audiences. Though shocked with himself for thinking her capable of such betrayal, he had to know.

  ‘My thoughts and general state of mind are probably of little concern to you,’ he wrote, ‘but in case you are in any way counting on my nerve breaking before we renew our acquaintance in court—I solemnly swear that I will defend a dozen actions rather than accept your terms.’

  Above the blazing fire in the club library, a handsome gilded clock, once the property of Napoleon, ticked portentously. Another day and he would know whether Major Simmonds was going to make concessions. At that moment, Clinton thought it as likely as the assassination of the entire royal family or a mutiny in the Brigade of Guards. After finishing his letter to Theresa, he wanted to weep.

  *

  The following morning Clinton went to Lincoln’s Inn for his first conference in the chambers of Mr Serjeant Alderson, a Queen’s Counsel with a formidable reputation in matrimonial disputes. Mr Yeatman, Clinton’s solicitor, also attended with his managing clerk. Clinton was not surprised to learn that a compromise with the other side had been brought no closer by the previous day’s meeting.

  Alderson was a slight, dapper man, who reminded Clinton of his boyhood dancing master. A wave of dyed black hair swept across his forehead like a frizzy breaker. But there was nothing amusing about the lawyer’s manner. He smiled with his lips but not his eyes, and his carefully framed sentences often ended in a peculiar nasal sneer. His occasional pauses suggested the calculated naturalness of a skilful actor rather than genuine hesitance.

  Already acquainted with the facts by Yeatman, who had taken a lengthy deposition from Clinton, Alderson did not question him, but instead studied him in silence with a gaze that was both searching and detached.

  ‘If this action is brought,’ Alderson began silkily, ‘we have broadly two lines of defence. If I can persuade the jury that Mrs Barr went to church knowing the ceremony would be no more than a device to ease her conscience, then we needn’t bother with our second resort … I mean that deplorable Irish Marriage Act.’ He paused and moved some papers on his desk. ‘Frankly, my lord, if you gain the verdict by invoking that statute, the damage to your reputation will cancel out any advantages in winning.’