‘You also told the jury that you believe in God.’ Alderson frowned. ‘And you swore that you thought your marriage was a true one in God’s eyes … and yet you took it upon yourself to release the defendant.’ The slight smile on Alderson’s lips faded and was replaced by his familiar sneer. ‘Madam, are you asking the jury to believe that a sincere God-fearing Catholic would risk damnation by knowingly overturning what Serjeant Mason insists is a holy union because of a man-made statute?’

  A second or two passed and Clinton felt his heart begin to race. Then with an unhurried graceful movement, she lifted her veil, as if to show counsel she was not afraid of his eyes.

  ‘I did what I did,’ she said, ‘because when Lord Ardmore told me about the statute, I was forced to believe that he had never meant to give his consent. I thought that my own consent had no effect without his.’

  The judge said:

  ‘I must remind the jury that they must take the law from me. Later I will tell you what amounts to a lawful marriage and you will have to decide on the evidence before you, whether a lawful marriage took place. The witness’s opinion about the validity of the ceremony after its performance, can have no bearing whatever on its legal effect or lack of it.’

  ‘Mrs Barr,’ asked Alderson sharply, ‘do you expect me to believe that you accepted what the defendant said without question, although his saying it was proof that he had lied to you before?’

  ‘I believed him.’

  ‘You had just heard from the defendant that he had deceived you at the altar, and you believed everything else he told you?’

  ‘The main point … yes.’

  ‘On the word of a man who had done something so abominably dishonest, you decided to dash aside a union, which only moments before you had thought binding in the eyes of almighty God?’ Alderson’s derision was blatant.

  ‘I told you my reason.’

  ‘I heard it, madam. I have attempted to show why I find it inadequate.’ He paused. ‘I put it to you, that it is inconceivable that you would have agreed to desecrate and deny your marriage so readily, unless you had known it was an imposture from the start.’

  ‘I never thought it an imposture before Lord Ardmore left me.’

  ‘We will see, madam. In December 1866 you wrote a letter to the defendant. Members of the jury will find it on page four of the printed documents.’ The serjeant paused a moment while the original was handed to Theresa.

  ‘Did you write that letter within a week of going to Ireland?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Attend to this. You wrote: “I think it is a great shame one cannot go on trial with marriage as with other things. It is a formidable affair for life. Enough of it. For us at least, it will never raise a problem, being impossible.” So, eleven days before the ceremony in the chapel at Rathnagar you wrote saying that marriage was impossible. Listen to how you continued: “Since I am no lover of convention, I like getting off the beaten track, and am proud rather than ashamed that we cannot do as others can, or follow rules to the letter. What cannot be got straight, must be enjoyed crookedly.” I put it to you, that because you already knew that marriage was impossible, you were hinting at another way—a way in which the strict rules could be disregarded, and the advantages of marriage enjoyed, in your own words, “crookedly”. By virtue of your oath, madam, were you not referring in this letter to a church ceremony that would be less than a marriage?’

  Up to this moment, Theresa had seemed at ease, but now the letter trembled in her hand. Her cheeks were flushed.

  ‘The meaning’s perfectly clear to anyone who wants to see it. I was telling Lord Ardmore that I was ready to be his mistress, and that he need not fear that I’d end our relationship if he didn’t marry me. I was scared that his uncle would disinherit him if he married me. I was scared on his account.’

  Alderson smiled condescendingly.

  ‘But the marriage was secret, was it not?’

  ‘He only told me it would be secret when he proposed to me. Otherwise I would have refused him.’

  ‘You are an actress, madam. I believe secret marriages are common enough in modern plays.’

  ‘I can think of two plays like that.’

  ‘If you weren’t ashamed to offer to be his mistress, why were you so modest about suggesting such an obvious way out of your difficulties as a secret marriage?’

  ‘It was for him to make suggestions about marriage.’

  Alderson nodded solemnly.

  ‘And for you to make other sorts of suggestions … I appreciate these niceties of etiquette. But, madam, you wrote that marriage was impossible. Are you now telling me that what you actually meant was perfectly possible?’

  ‘I explained what I meant,’ she replied in a shaking voice.

  ‘Can you swear that only your sense of etiquette prevented you making a suggestion which could win you a coronet?’

  ‘Etiquette was your word, sir. I said that in our situation it was for him to make that sort of suggestion.’

  ‘I suggest to you, Mrs Barr, that the real reason why you didn’t make that obvious suggestion was the knowledge that Lord Ardmore had no intention of making you his lawful wife. Wasn’t that why you conceded that it was impossible?’

  The judge said quietly:

  ‘The witness has given her answer. You may not be satisfied by it, Serjeant Alderson, but you can’t go on rephrasing the same question.’

  ‘If your Lordship pleases.’ Serjeant Alderson drank some water and said harshly: ‘Did you or did you not become the defendant’s mistress in York? I warn you that I can call witnesses to …’

  Serjeant Mason shouted:

  ‘This is outrageous. The jury are being tempted to believe that any answer the witness gives now, is given because of that threat. We will see what these witnesses are worth when they’re called.’

  ‘Gentlemen of the bar,’ said the judge, ‘I am endeavouring to discharge a difficult and unpleasant duty, and I must beg of you not to turn my court into a bear garden. The witness may answer now.’

  ‘I first became his mistress at Kilkreen Castle in October. I was his mistress in York too. I never intended to deny it.’

  A strange murmur rose from the gallery; a sound which seemed to Clinton like a drawn-out sigh of disappointment. In this at least, she had not betrayed him. The pity he had felt when Alderson had quoted from her letter, wrung him more fiercely now; her ordeal had become agony to him.

  ‘As a Catholic, madam, did you feel guilt?’

  ‘I wasn’t practising my religion at this time.’

  ‘Because you believed you were living sinfully?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your conscience troubled you?’ Theresa made no reply; she seemed drained, stricken. ‘I won’t press the question. Let me put another. Were you not in a position where any ceremony, that might quiet your conscience, would have been a great help to you?’

  ‘How could a fraudulent ceremony have eased my conscience?’ she cried.

  ‘With respect, madam, if the priest intended the ceremony as a blessing, and you and the other party shared that view of it, how could it be fraudulent?’

  ‘It would have been futile self-deception. I pledged myself sincerely. Can’t you understand that I’ll never say anything else?’

  ‘That may be so, madam, but it remains my duty to ask you questions. When Lord Ardmore came to York, he left a letter for you at the theatre; or his valet left it for you. The jury will see it as item one.’ The clerk of the court’s assistant gave the letter to Theresa. ‘Lord Ardmore accused you of dragging him across the Irish Sea like a monkey on a chain, he described theatrical offices as greasy and theatre agents as posturing men. If you refused to see him, he offered to break the heads of more actors and theatre staff than there were seats in the theatre. Madam, would a gentleman write to any woman who he considered might one day be his wife in those terms?’

  Theresa looked wearily at the advocate.

  ‘The letter demands a sense of humour, sir.’

  ‘Was it humorous to insult your profession?’

  ‘Possibly the joke is a little laboured.’

  ‘I put it to you that under a veneer of humour, the tone is hectoring and rude. The way a nobleman might address his mistress, but not his future wife. What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know enough noblemen to make a reliable guess.’

  ‘This trial is not an amusing matter for the defendant, madam.’

  ‘I meant my answer seriously. You mistook my tone.’

  ‘I shall endeavour to do better. I would like to ask you some more questions about that letter on page four of the printed documents.’ Clinton’s letter was taken from her and she was once again handed the letter Serjeant Alderson had already quoted from. ‘Eleven days before the ceremony, you wrote to the defendant that you would like to be a vivandière. Of course this was meant humorously; but how would you describe the life led by these women in the French army?’

  ‘My Lord,’ said Theresa, ‘I find this intolerable. The question’s absurd and insulting.’

  ‘Serjeant Alderson,’ asked the judge, ‘how can it be material what the witness thinks about cooks and camp-followers in the French army? They have a reputation for immorality, but many were killed in front of their regiments in the Russian War, leading them as our pipers do in the Highland regiments. It may be strange that the witness should in any way compare herself with these women, but she could hardly wish to be one. The witness need not answer.’

  ‘If your Lordship pleases. A little earlier in the same letter, you wrote: “You know where I am in London, so all you will need do is whistle and I’ll come to you my lad. You know the rest of that verse I’m sure.” Well, Lord Ardmore may have known it, but can you recite it for me?’

  ‘The author is Robert Burns. It’s well known.’

  ‘That is not an answer, madam.’

  ‘I can’t remember the precise words.’

  ‘Are they not to this general effect? The girl narrator says that she will come to her lover if he whistles for her. Though her father and mother may go mad, she tells him that she’ll leave her back gate open, and asks him to be careful and come as if he were not coming to see her. “Come as ye were na comin’ to me.” Is that a fair rendering?’

  ‘The girl ends by asking him to be faithful to her.’

  ‘Would you say the poem is a moral one?’

  ‘It starts worse than it ends.’

  ‘Is it moral?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you forced it on the defendant, days before the ceremony. Again, madam, is that the way a woman would write to the man she might soon marry? Doesn’t it suggest that you envisaged a very different relationship?’

  ‘I didn’t expect to marry him when I wrote the letter.’

  ‘Of course. You were too shy to suggest secrecy. “Come as ye were na comin to me.” I’ve finished, madam.’ Theresa stood very still as if she had not heard him. Alderson said: ‘You may leave the stand now.’ She remained a moment longer and then followed the usher from the courtroom. Clinton shut his eyes.

  There was a delay of several minutes before counsel for the plaintiff called his next witness, and Serjeant Alderson took advantage of it to encourage his client. Sitting down beside him, the serjeant murmured to Clinton.

  ‘I assure you I was kindness itself in comparison with what Mason’s going to try to do to you.’

  ‘It was hateful reading those letters.’ He looked away. ‘Do you know something? I wish to God she’d lied.’

  ‘But she did,’ said Alderson, wiping his forehead just below the line of his wig. ‘Not about being your mistress. But how could she? Must have known we could call half-a-dozen maids from York and Dublin to swear that only one bed was slept in. They wouldn’t all have been disbelieved. Her counsel knew that.’ Alderson glanced at his downcast face. ‘She lied, I’m telling you. You said your brother didn’t want her to marry you. He must have warned her against marrying in Ireland.’

  ‘But if he did,’ whispered Clinton urgently, ‘why did she ever agree to go through the ceremony?’

  ‘She decided to take a risk. She wanted to be Lady Ardmore, and any kind of marriage seemed better than none. She obviously thought she could hold you to it. Remember the certificate.’ Clinton said nothing. ‘Look, man, if she’d turned down your proposal in Ireland, she’d have had to admit she didn’t trust you. And then you would have resented that and maybe got cold feet later. That was the last thing she cared to risk.’

  ‘I don’t know what I think any more. When you read that letter … You told me I ought to have settled out of court. I wish to hell I had.’

  ‘I’m thankful you didn’t. I think we’ll win.’

  ‘Did she really lie, Serjeant? I know what you said … but I saw the way she gave evidence.’ Clinton looked imploringly at his advocate.

  ‘My lord, I haven’t the least doubt of it. It always hurts to find one’s been made a fool of; but that’s no reason to pretend it didn’t happen.’ He paused slightly. ‘Least of all in a place like this.’

  The next witness called by Mason was not Esmond, but Father Maguire. While the priest was being sworn and asked the necessary formal questions, Clinton remembered the man’s sparsely furnished room and the scaffolding around the church. If only he had refused me, thought Clinton. But there would have been another priest needing money just as badly; and in the end he would have found him. Maguire, who had seemed so stolid to Clinton, now looked distraught and painfully nervous. Serjeant Mason treated him severely from the beginning.

  As soon as the priest had said who he was, he turned to the Lord Chief Justice.

  ‘I beg leave, your worship, before I give evidence in this case …’

  ‘I won’t allow this, my Lord,’ said Mason. ‘The reverend gentleman is trying to make a speech.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to.’

  The judge gazed at him reproachfully.

  ‘You are sworn now as a witness, and your duty is to answer such questions as you may be asked. Later, if you think you should, you may give explanations. In here you must address me as my Lord.’

  Mason leant forward.

  ‘Did Lord Ardmore and Theresa Barr, as she then was, enter your church together on Sunday January 6th 1867?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And were you at the altar when they came in?’

  ‘I was inside the altar rails … My Lord,’ asked the priest in desperation, ‘may I be allowed to …’

  ‘Not yet, sir. Did they kneel down before you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you ask the man whether he would take the woman to be his wife, and did you ask the woman would she take the man to be her husband?’

  ‘Yes, but I must …’

  ‘Answer this, sir. Was a ring produced?’

  ‘I have no knowledge of seeing a ring; except when I gave a short exhortation after the ceremony, he had his hand on her hand.’

  ‘Putting the ring on her finger—come now?’

  ‘Holding the ring.’

  ‘What did he do with it?’

  ‘I saw him turning it.’

  ‘Did you ever see a wedding ring put on a finger before?’

  ‘I did often enough. I don’t think he put it on.’

  ‘Perhaps it was too small?’ asked Mason with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘Possibly, sir.’

  ‘Did Lord Ardmore say these words, repeating them after you: “I take thee Theresa Barr, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward?”’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘And did he continue right through the form of words after you?’

  ‘They both gave their verbal consent in that way, but the marriage ceremony was not complete.’

  ‘That isn’t for you to decide.’

  ‘I did not end with the normal form of benediction.’

  ‘That was out of turn, sir.’

  Maguire blurted out:

  ‘The words of the service when the parties plight their troth, include the expression “if holy church permit”. In my opinion …’

  ‘You must behave yourself,’ put in the judge, ‘and only answer learned counsel’s questions; otherwise I will send you to prison for contempt of court. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘Now, sir, did both parties pledge themselves distinctly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And she kneeling by his side at the altar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you married them?’

  ‘I renewed a consent which I understood …’

  ‘I object to that answer. I object to anyone, be he the Pope or the Archbishop of Canterbury, telling us what marriage is. If he went through the form, it is for your Lordship to decide what it is.’

  ‘Did you go through the form?’ asked the judge.

  ‘Yes, but without the customary form of benediction.’

  ‘How can that change the fact of their consent?’ demanded Serjeant Mason.

  ‘I will rule on that later,’ replied the Lord Chief Justice.

  ‘When the defendant came to see you alone, before he came with the lady, did he say he was a Catholic? Surely you would have had nothing to do with him otherwise?’

  ‘He said he was of no religion.’

  He attended Mass after his marriage. Do you swear he said he had no religion?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was your fee?’

  ‘For attending at the ceremony?’

  ‘I call it marriage. But tell me your fee?’

  ‘Twenty pounds.’

  ‘What is the usual fee for a marriage?’

  ‘Two pounds.’

  ‘The defendant could have been ten times married for his fee, could he not?’

  ‘He wasn’t though, sir.’

  Serjeant Mason asked for the marriage certificate to be shown to the witness.

  ‘You sent that certificate now produced?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You wrote it?’

  ‘My curate did.’

  ‘By your authority?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And with your knowledge and assent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have no further questions.’

  Serjeant Alderson in the opening questions of his cross-examination got Father Maguire to admit that if he had thought he was marrying the couple, he would have made more diligent enquiries about Lord Ardmore’s religion. He had not done so, he said, because he had never intended to do more than renew a consent given at an earlier marriage. Thus at the outset Alderson managed to inform the jury that Maguire had probably been mistaken about Clinton’s lack of religion. To Clinton this seemed very little to set against Serjeant Mason’s efforts.