Clinton bowed his head.

  ‘I can’t possibly claim that she thought the marriage was a sham. I know she believed in it.’

  Alderson’s expression softened.

  ‘Nobody can ever be sure of knowing what someone else believes.’

  ‘In this instance I have no doubts.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Alderson sharply, ‘to suspect something, however strongly, is not the same as to know it.’

  ‘All I meant,’ murmured Clinton, ‘is that if you ask me on oath what I thought she believed, I could only repeat what I’ve just told you.’

  ‘Very well,’ the serjeant replied briskly. ‘Consider what I have to say carefully, Lord Ardmore.’ He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. ‘A Catholic woman—call her Mrs Barr—falls in love with a man who for various excellent reasons would be unwise to marry her. She understands these reasons so well that she actually writes to him admitting that marriage is out of the question. That’s what you told Mr Yeatman, Lord Ardmore. Anyway, barely ten days later, this same lady goes through a ceremony with her lover in an isolated church. Were all the man’s difficulties magically removed? What could have happened to explain so sudden a volte face? Who better to tell us than the officiating priest? And some months later he does just this when he describes the ceremony not as a marriage but as a blessing.’ Alderson brought his hands together noiselessly. ‘So how does the impartial juryman suppose the ceremony came about? “Ah,” says he, “because the man and woman knew a proper marriage would have disastrous consequences, they put their heads together and worked out a way of giving their liaison an aura of matrimony without the legal reality.”’ Sensing that Clinton was about to speak, the lawyer raised a hand. ‘Unfortunately a dispute arises at a later date, and it comes to court. The lady swears she is a lawfully wedded bride, the gentleman that nothing more than a blessing had been intended. A simple matter of her word against his. Somehow the jury must decide who to believe: the lady with a coronet to be won by perjuring herself, or the gentleman, who by facing his blackmailing mistress in open court, loses his good name whatever the verdict.’ Alderson broke off and looked at Clinton agreeably. ‘I’m not a gambler, my lord, but my money’s on the gentleman.’

  Clinton’s eyes moved from a discoloured print of a late Lord Chancellor to the narrow window overlooking Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

  ‘And where would your money be,’ he asked quietly, ‘if no heads had been put together?’

  ‘In my pocket, save several shillings on the other horse.’

  ‘No help for it,’ said Clinton curtly. ‘It’s not a point I intend to lie about.’

  ‘All right,’ sighed Alderson, ‘let’s suppose we don’t argue when the lady tells the jury she thought her marriage was good. Well, what can I tell the court?’ He glanced up at the ceiling with half-closed eyes and then leaned forward. ‘Gentlemen of the jury, my client does not deny that he deceived the lady and lied to an ordained minister of God, nevertheless he claims immunity from the consequences of his behaviour by virtue of an enactment of the reign of George II. Gentlemen, that statute I agree was framed solely to restrict the spread of Catholicism in a more bigoted era than our own, but odious and archaic though many of you may think it, I must remind you that it remains the law of the land. If I can prove that my client was a Protestant at the time of the ceremony, his marriage can have no validity and so he is entitled to your verdict.’ He shrugged, and turned down the corners of his mouth. ‘I daresay I could dress it up more decorously, but opposing counsel would soon reduce it to its naked form.’

  Clinton swallowed hard; he could feel his cheeks burning. Only now was he beginning to see precisely how it would turn out. The man’s tone of voice; the mixture of sarcasm and virtuous indignation he could expect from the other side. He said rapidly:

  ‘Can’t you conceive of a jury believing that a man might intend to honour vows which he knew weren’t legally binding? I meant to go through a civil marriage afterwards. You know the problems that prevented me. Only fools wouldn’t understand why I retracted … as much for her sake as my own.’

  Alderson let out his breath and looked steadily at Clinton.

  ‘Lord Ardmore, if you claim in court that you meant to honour your vows, mutual consent is proved, and the law will strongly presume that the legal requisites for a valid marriage were complied with. Even if we rely on the Irish Act, you still weaken your case by claiming you meant to do anything other than deceive the lady.’ He had spoken with quiet sympathy and added gently: ‘Perhaps you now appreciate why it would be wiser to adopt the first approach I mentioned to you.’

  ‘Can’t you understand me?’ groaned Clinton. ‘I’m finished whatever happens. I don’t care if I win or lose. All I want is to explain how it came about.’

  ‘I wish,’ murmured the Serjeant, ‘I could believe your opponents will have such honourable intentions.’ He sat thinking for over a minute and then said slowly: ‘I ought to ask Mr Yeatman to find another man for his brief; but I’m not going to. You see the lady’s trust in you isn’t a fact to me.’

  ‘It will be the moment she opens her mouth in court.’

  Alderson surprised Clinton by grinning broadly.

  ‘I’ll be opening my mouth too. Let me tell you the order of things. Opposing counsel will open. Then Mrs Barr will give her evidence. After that I cross-examine her.’ The serjeant smiled apologetically. ‘Forgive my arrogance, but I think by the time I’ve finished with her you may change your mind about your own evidence. It’s providential that you won’t be called till the second or third day.’ For the first time Alderson’s eyes entirely lost their coldness. ‘Don’t let ’em destroy you, man. She agreed to release you. Even put it in writing. Would a conscientious Catholic have done that if she’d thought herself truly married?’

  ‘She’ll explain it perfectly.’

  ‘We’ll see about that, my lord.’

  He thrust out a hand to Clinton, who found himself smiling as he took it. Serjeant Alderson accompanied them to the oak door of his chambers. Going down the uncarpeted stairs, Clinton’s solicitor, who had listened in gloomy silence to everything that had been said, turned diffidently to his client.

  ‘I’m surprised he’s agreed to act for us. Outspoken, but believe me a very …’

  ‘His qualities are obvious, Mr Yeatman.’

  ‘I presume you want me to retain him?’

  ‘Please do.’

  Outside, Yeatman looked at the sky apprehensively.

  ‘Looks like snow, my lord.’

  ‘Better than blood,’ replied Clinton, putting on his hat.

  Yeatman chuckled half-heartedly as they came out into Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

  *

  A few days later, Clinton received Theresa’s reply to his letter.

  Clinton—Are you mad or am I? In the name of everything we did and said, how can you think me guilty? I will testify only under threat of contempt of court. I have done everything in my power to stop my father, even refusing to see his lawyers. If the worst happens, I will say what I can for you, helping you in every way short of perjury. Since no memories seem to weigh with you, I beg you to ask your lawyer one question. Why if I am really the prime mover, am I not suing for restoration of conjugal rights? Should my father win his action, the court will only compel you to pay what is claimed. It cannot force you to maintain me. I am also told that the verdict cannot be evidence in any other proceedings. In a successful suit for conjugal rights I could claim thousands from you, and the jury’s decision would not be reversible on appeal. Ask yourself why I have refused to do something so obviously to my advantage, and never, never accuse me so unjustly again. Though you disbelieve it, I remain, as always the woman you once loved.

  Theresa

  Pained by the letter, but thankful to be able to exonerate her, Clinton showed it to Serjeant Alderson at their next interview. The lawyer’s sceptical response surprised him. Certainly restoration of conjugal rights would be of greater value to the lady. But she could still sue him for them afterwards. And if she did, though the first trial could not be referred to, it would be most unlikely that a later jury could be entirely ignorant of the earlier proceedings. The lady would also know that by appearing in an action brought by her father, she could seem reluctant to testify, and this would win her the immediate sympathy of the jury.

  Unimpressed by these remarks, another of Alderson’s suggestions did disconcert Clinton, since it arose from questions that had already troubled him. Why had Theresa never spoken to him before writing to the priest for the wedding certificate? And how had it then been allowed to fall into Louise’s hands? Alderson’s inevitable explanation was that Theresa had always doubted the validity of the marriage and had therefore set about strengthening it. As soon as her father and daughter were persuaded that a genuine marriage had taken place, the later chances for retraction would be greatly reduced. Clinton rejected this at once, but still could not satisfactorily explain why she had at first kept the certificate a secret from him. But remembering how fears of her reaction had originally discouraged him from quickly disclosing the true basis of their marriage, he did not feel inclined to leap to definite conclusions.

  Nothing said by Alderson against the other side, made Clinton as bitter as the humiliating interviews he had with Sophie and her father later that week. The wedding invitations had not been sent out, but Sophie had already discussed her dress with her dressmaker, and the bridesmaids and pages had been chosen. Worse for Clinton than Sophie’s grief, had been her unshakable belief that the court would vindicate him. He did his best to warn her what to expect, but her powers of self-deception seemed invincible. He tried to persuade her that they ought not to be seen together until the case ended, but she hotly disagreed. He had told her about Theresa before proposing, and she had not rejected him then. Should she do so now because he was being threatened by the woman? The girl’s unswerving faith in him hurt Clinton more than any indignation could have done.

  Sophie had listened in stricken silence while he had explained matters. Her normally phlegmatic father wept, and later became uncontrollably angry. He told Clinton that if Sophie refused to break off her engagement, it was his duty to break it for her. Clinton refused; offering to retract only if it were put in writing that he did so solely to avoid involving Sophie in his public difficulties and had stated his willingness to honour his contract with her. Clinton suspected that Lucas wanted to sue him for misrepresentation, but since this would be impossible to prove until judgment in Simmonds’s case, there was nothing further the outraged father could do, except to forbid all further meetings with his daughter till the conclusion of the case.

  Two days later, The Times carried a terse statement on the Court page to the effect that the marriage between the Viscount Ardmore and Miss Sophie Lucas, previously announced for April, had been postponed. From the country, Sophie sent Clinton a miniature of herself, but in spite of the note enclosed with it, promising never to give him up, Clinton was sure that her father would cut her off rather than let her keep her pledge. If she did not realise this now, newspaper accounts of the proceedings would soon persuade her.

  39

  In late June Theresa was served with a subpoena to give evidence in the forthcoming trial of Simmonds v Ardmore. A month earlier she had warned her father that if he went ahead, she would reveal in court that she had been Clinton’s mistress before her supposed marriage, and had also stood in the same relation to his brother. But the old man had remained unmoved—his composure evidently founded on his absolute certainty that Clinton was bluffing and would back down before the trial opened. Convinced by his lawyers that Ardmore had no chance of winning, the major thought it out of the question that he would risk adding a galling public defeat to his other humiliations.

  With the trial still a month away, Theresa accepted a part in a burlesque at the Marylebone Theatre; anything seeming better to her than sitting thinking about what lay ahead. During the first private dress rehearsal, just as she was leaving the stage at the end of the second act, she was astonished to see her father arguing with the prompter and several stagehands. She led him away from the scene flats to the back of the wings. Above them shaded gas-lights burned blankly against bare brickwork. The property man and a carpenter pushed past, dragging a large table towards the stage. Her father said dully:

  ‘He’s going to go through with it.’

  ‘It’s what I’ve always told you. What’s finally changed your mind?’

  ‘His counsel’s made an application for a change of venue. He wants the case tried in Ireland.’

  Theresa’s eyes conveyed faint derision.

  ‘I thought your lawyers told you he’d never dare invoke the Irish Marriage Act.’

  ‘It won’t help him,’ he replied sharply; his confidence belied by the nervous movements of his hands. ‘He’ll outrage every Catholic in court, and lose any chance of a fair trial.’

  Theresa said mildly:

  ‘Possibly his counsel has other ideas?’

  ‘Just shows the funk they’re in. They can’t deny a marriage took place, so they’re reduced to that despicable Act of Parliament as a last resort.’

  A crowd of loud-voiced perspiring girls in short fancy petticoats clattered past them in the direction of the dressing rooms. A call boy came up and told Theresa that her dresser was looking for her. She turned to her father, whose face seemed grey in the dim light. He looked haggard and very frail.

  ‘You’d better say what you want,’ she said gently.

  He did not answer at once, but looked at a group of men clustered around the limelights, changing the glass filters to red. Smoke braziers were being put in place. The last act started with the hero escaping from a fire.

  ‘Father, please,’ she whispered.

  He nodded and raised his hands.

  ‘I know … I know. The fact is … though there’s still plenty of time for him to throw in the towel … he may not.’

  ‘He won’t. He thinks I’ve betrayed him.’

  The major flapped the loose sleeves of his cape like some enormous bat.

  ‘You did … that’s good, very good.’ The smoke had started to swirl about and made him cough. He moved closer to her and took her hand tenderly. ‘You’ve got to see my counsel. They’ll try to blacken your character … he’s got to take you through the sort of questions you’ll face in cross-examination.’

  ‘I won’t deny what happened in church.’

  ‘They’ll try to make out you knew it was a fraud.’

  ‘Then I’ll disagree.’

  ‘Just one interview with the man … just one,’ he implored.

  She hesitated a moment before shaking her head. He said flatly:

  ‘I’m done for if we lose.’

  ‘Then stop it now,’ she cried. ‘You can’t owe counsel much yet.’

  ‘I can’t stop. Do you think I haven’t been tempted to? Haven’t seen myself as a fool for my pains? I’m not just fighting him, but you too … and that damned Act gives him a chance of a verdict. Listen, if you let yourself down in the witness box …’ He broke off and hung his head.

  ‘Give it up then,’ she said coaxingly. ‘None of us gain by it. Why should we be estranged from one another … you and I?’ Somewhere above them a bell clanged noisily.

  ‘But you married him,’ he burst out at last. ‘You still believe it. I’m not blind … I know that.’ His voice had sunk very low. ‘You might have had his child, and he deserted you … Did that, and you still want to protect him.’ He shook his head helplessly, and she saw tears glistening in his eyes. He turned away abruptly and said in a shaking voice: ‘He’ll not dishonour you. Not while I’ve strength left to prevent it. How can I let you cheat yourself? See another woman’s child get everything yours should have had?’ As she moved away he came after her. ‘If you prove yourself his wife you won’t have to live with him. There’ll be a judicial separation.’

  ‘I want to forget,’ she shouted, suddenly distraught.

  He leant against the wall, apparently drained; but as she hurried away, he still pursued her.

  ‘Would you rather see him tried for bigamy in a few years time?’ Again the smoke caught in his throat and he doubled up coughing. ‘It’ll come out in the end,’ he gasped as his parting shot, but she was already too far away to hear. One of the men near the limelight clapped him on the back.

  ‘Don’t you worry about bigamy, old man. Just you keep asking.’ He broke into a spluttering laugh. ‘Ain’t it bloody marvellous … at his age … and with that one too.’

  All around him people were laughing. The major looked at them in disbelief.

  40

  Clinton’s counsel’s application to the High Court to have the trial conducted in the Irish Courts—on the grounds that they alone had jurisdiction in cases involving points of law arising from specifically Irish statutes—was contested by the other side. Because of the complex judicial and constitutional relationship of the two countries bequeathed by the Act of Union, three months were to pass before the legal argument was finally resolved in Clinton’s favour.

  Before embarking on this preliminary litigation, Mr Serjeant Alderson had been at pains to give his client vivid examples to show the weight of public prejudice that would be arrayed against him if he claimed immunity under the Irish Marriage Act. He would probably need protection during the trial, and it would be unsafe for him to stay in a hotel or visit any public resort. To the serjeant’s surprise, Lord Ardmore had seemed entirely undismayed by the prospect of events which the barrister himself viewed with such apprehension. Nevertheless, after careful consideration of Father Maguire’s proof of evidence, the serjeant had felt that opposing counsel’s chance of establishing the fact of a marriage was too good to justify pinning the defence too tightly to that issue. If the judge seemed likely to rule that a marriage had taken place, then its legal validity could only be challenged under Irish legislation. Alderson prided himself on having won cases for a number of exceptionally unpopular defendants.