Mason said:

  ‘You told us your love was honourable. Now, sir, by virtue of your oath, did you take her into God’s house intending to deceive her?’

  ‘I did.’

  Relief and savage disillusion warred within her; their impact softened by succeeding waves of shock. She was trembling.

  The barrister leant forward.

  ‘Were your vows at the altar nothing but mockery?’

  ‘I meant to sustain and protect her for the rest of my days. I believed that the ceremony was not good in law, but I felt bound in conscience.’

  ‘In conscience bound as her husband?’

  Counsel’s excitement communicated itself to every corner of the court.

  ‘I believed that until we married in England, we would not be man and wife.’

  ‘So you intended to marry her?’ cried Mason triumphantly.

  ‘By another ceremony. I was afraid to let her leave Ireland without thinking herself bound to me … I was afraid I would lose her if I did. That was the construction I put on her letter, when she said marriage was impossible. The priest warned me the ceremony would have no effect. I believed him, but decided to go through with it.’

  ‘What prevented you going through a second ceremony?’

  ‘My debts. The certainty of imprisonment … I should have been truthful with her about the ceremony far sooner. But I thought it’d be easier for her after a few months. Then she became pregnant … later she was ill. And all the time I delayed, my position grew worse.’

  His only emotion, as he spoke, seemed one of flat regret, as though he were recounting something inevitable and final that freed him from all need to speak with grief or defiance. Facts were facts regardless. Theresa looked at him in astonishment. In the space of seconds he had overturned the seemingly impregnable castle his counsel had built for him and left it a mound of useless rubble. But for all the concern he showed, he might have said nothing of any importance. Even Serjeant Mason was speechless. At last, he recovered and began to question Clinton about his church attendance. How many times had he been to church parade? Had he been to any other Protestant places of worship? Was it true that he had been to Mass with Mrs Barr after the marriage ceremony? Had he ever attended the Anglican church at Browsholme when living at Hathenshaw? At this last question, Theresa was surprised to see Clinton smile, as if this inconsequence suited the trial better than solemnity or indignation. After several more questions, Serjeant Mason said:

  ‘So the year before the ceremony, you attended military church parade five times and never once took the sacrament?’

  ‘True, sir.’

  Mason looked at him almost with pity.

  ‘Lord Ardmore, how can that make you a professing Protestant?’

  ‘I was listed as a Protestant in the regiment’s quarterly returns.’

  ‘And that is proof of religious belief?’

  ‘In the army it is.’

  ‘Your duty obliged you to march your men to church once every two months and that made you a Protestant?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have been required to do it if I’d been a Catholic’

  ‘Isn’t church parade referred to in the army as prayer-drill?’

  ‘In the cavalry any sort of drill is taken seriously.’

  ‘Come, Lord Ardmore, didn’t most of your men sleep or play cards under the pews? Isn’t that the level of devotion displayed on those occasions?’

  ‘It never was in my regiment.’

  ‘Because you put them on charges if they did?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘They behaved themselves under threat of loss of pay or being confined to barracks?’

  ‘Some of them. Others may have been afraid of hell. I never acted as their confessor, so I can’t vouch for them.’

  ‘Then vouch for yourself. What solemn act of religious observance can you claim to have performed beyond the bare performance of a routine military duty?’

  ‘I once read the prayers when the chaplain was ill. I believe that was a profession of Protestantism.’

  ‘You mean you spoke the words of certain prayers?’

  ‘Spoke them aloud in front of five hundred witnesses in a Protestant church.’

  ‘Lord Ardmore, as regimental adjutant wouldn’t such a duty inevitably have fallen to you in the chaplain’s absence?’

  ‘The colonel or second-in-command might just as well have discharged it.’

  ‘Perhaps they were ill too. I have no other questions, sir.’

  Throughout his evidence, Theresa had never once seen Clinton look at her. But just before he left the box, he gazed at her steadily for several seconds. Long afterwards she could still see his face with piercing clarity—calm at first, almost amused, as though willing her to share an ironic joke, then clouding opaquely like a dead eye. So that although she never looked away, she felt later that her answering gaze had made no more impression than a pebble skittering across thick ice. Her throat felt tight and weary as if with weeping.

  Through tears she saw the blurred courtroom: unknown faces against dirty walls, the judge’s canopy, black legal gowns. Beyond the tall windows was the city they had walked through in hope: the castle, the barracks, their hotel; and every detail clear to her. She thought: nothing dies completely until forgotten. An hour ago their whole past had seemed soiled and outraged beyond recognition. But suddenly she knew it was not so. At last she thought she saw why Clinton had not tried to save himself with lies. Had it not been to salvage something of their past and what they had been to each other? And does he think I betrayed him? She looked round fearfully, hoping to learn something from his face, but he had not returned to his usual place.

  When it ends, she told herself, I shall explain everything to him. And though she did not know how, or even whether he would agree to see her, the thought soothed her. For a moment it seemed to her that sanity and forgiveness had stolen unnoticed into the hushed and hostile room.

  43

  Theresa did not go to the Four Courts on the third day of the trial to hear the closing speeches of opposing counsel. Like the courtroom itself, the whole city had become for her a stifling closed-in world; a place she had to escape from, if only for a few hours. She engaged an inside-car and told the driver to take her westward in the direction of Lucan. Passing the Phoenix Park she heard through the windows the music of a band and saw a thin crowd pressing against the park railings. The sky was a muddy sepia and swathes of mist lay under the dripping trees. The music grew louder; a gay confident march. Through gaps in the mist she saw ghostly formations of footsoldiers and cavalry moving in front of the Viceregal Lodge; the brightness of uniforms and the gleam of metal, soft and muted in the morning light. Her driver slowed down and told her that they were rehearsing for the Lord Lieutenant’s birthday review. He seemed surprised that she did not ask him to stop. There was a pause in the music and she heard words of command and a bugle call.

  In memory she was crossing a barrack square with Clinton, absorbed by his pride in everything he showed her. A lost world now, a thousand times less substantial than the dimly moving figures in the mist. She felt anger as well as sadness. Pride in position, pride in esteem, even pride in love; pride that could not admit the fault, which if admitted in time, could have saved them.

  The band again; its music fainter now, but still as sprightly and full of purpose. She could not bear to hear it.

  *

  The judge began his summing-up at the start of the fourth day; thanking the jury for their attention with polite formality, and then outlining the form and substance of the action.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he continued, ‘the plaintiff, Major Simmonds, rests his case on establishing that the ceremony which took place on January 6th 1867 in the chapel at Rathnagar was a lawful marriage. In law, marriage is a contract which can be proved like any other by a clear intent expressed by the parties. Counsel for the defendant wished us to believe that there had been no such intent and that Mrs Barr had known beforehand that the ceremony would be a blessing rather than a marriage. Now if the defendant himself had supported his own counsel’s arguments, your task would be a very hard one. However Lord Ardmore did something else entirely. He said that his intent was to marry, and he only considered he had not done so because a certain law made the ceremony void. Gentlemen, I will return to that law later, but now let me tell you plainly that if a man plights his troth before a minister, his unspoken reservations make no difference to the validity of his spoken vows. It is laid down in numerous judgments that all acts done by a person competent to contract are presumed to intend what they appear to, unless there is overwhelming evidence of fraud. Lord Ardmore’s testimony shows that there is no such evidence in this case. There is no conflict of testimony about the words spoken at the altar, and regardless of any omissions in ceremonial, I have no hesitation in telling you that what occurred on that occasion amounts to a marriage in fact.’

  The Lord Chief Justice paused a moment to allow the murmuring in the gallery to subside. He then went on to explain that the marriage could only be lawful if it complied with the Irish Marriage Act, and went on to quote the relevant words. If the defendant had been a professing Protestant at the time of the ceremony, or during the twelve preceding months, the marriage could not be legally binding. The judge then repeated the evidence advanced to prove the defendant’s religious allegiance.

  ‘Gentlemen, it is my duty to tell you the law as clearly as I can, and then it will be yours to form your own opinion on the merits of the evidence placed before you. Profession of a particular faith is proved where an individual can establish that he has regularly performed religious acts which no member of any other church would have done. You must decide whether reading the prayers at church parade is such an act. Whether you think so may depend upon the weight you give to Lord Ardmore’s presence at Mass at Rathnagar and the absence of all other religious acts unconnected with military duty. I must however remind you of Lord Campbell’s recent ruling—unless a man clearly breaks with the religion he was brought-up to profess, and does so by positive acts and not simply by omission, then it should be assumed that his original religion remains. Well, Lord Ardmore’s upbringing was Protestant. So did he sever that childhood allegiance by positive acts? The Reverend Mr Maguire swore that Lord Ardmore claimed to have no religion. If you discount the reverend gentlemen’s testimony, you should ask yourself whether Lord Ardmore’s presence at Mass after his marriage in a Catholic church can be deemed an act sufficient to nullify the presumption of Protestantism arising from his upbringing.’

  When the Lord Chief Justice went on to cite more cases, Theresa’s mind became blurred. What could these trials of years ago have to do with what she and Clinton had done so recently? That his reluctant decision to attend Mass should be elevated to an act of awesome solemnity, dumbfounded her. Everything she was hearing seemed to have the absurd logic of a nightmare; absurd but unchallengeable. The names of judges and litigants of the past echoed in her head with no more meaning than nursery doggerel. When she saw the jurors taking notes she wanted to shout at them to stop being such fools. With an effort she listened to what the judge was saying.

  ‘I do not think it improper to assist you with this final observation: where a marriage has been solemnized, the law strongly presumes in favour of its validity. Therefore the onus of proof that he had professed himself a Protestant is squarely on the defendant. The plaintiff is under no equivalent obligation in this respect to disprove what the defendant avers. Gentlemen, your decision on this matter will determine for you whether the marriage complies with the laws of this country. If you conclude that it does, then you will find for the plaintiff. Otherwise the defendant is entitled to your verdict. It is now for you to consider these questions and in due course to inform me of your conclusion.’

  When the jury had retired, fear swept away Theresa’s incredulity. What would be done if they decided she was Clinton’s wife? She looked around but could not see him anywhere in court. Twenty minutes passed before the jury returned and the Lord Chief Justice once more took his seat on the bench. Silence fell spontaneously without the usher’s intervention.

  ‘How say you, gentlemen?’ asked the judge. ‘Was there a lawful marriage?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ replied the foreman.

  ‘Then you find the defendant was not a professing Protestant in the twelve months preceding his marriage?’

  ‘We believe he was not, my Lord.’

  Before the foreman had finished speaking, a ragged cheer rose from the back of the gallery where the less well-to-do had congregated—a sound not so much of moral satisfaction, as of sporting delight that an actress had got the better of a nobleman and won herself a coronet. The proud had been humbled, and the meek exalted, which was rare enough in life. Whether her ladyship deserved her good fortune was beside the point; like the winner of a lottery, her luck itself was worth applauding. The Catholics had beaten the Protestants and that was something else to celebrate. A lot more money had been staked on the woman than the man. Only the respectable preserved an enigmatic silence. Aristocratic scandals were undeniably entertaining, but they tended to make ordinary people insolent.

  That evening Corporal Harris brought a note from his master to Theresa’s hotel. In it, Clinton told her that he intended to go to Kilkreen for a few days and suggested that she came there to discuss their future before their lawyers met to decide a settlement. Harris had personally placed the letter in Theresa’s hand, and waited outside the room while she read it. After several minutes he knocked.

  ‘Is there any answer, my lady?’

  The man spoke softly but his eyes were cold and hostile.

  ‘Tell him I’ll come.’ As the servant was walking away, she called after him: ‘And Harris, never call me “my lady” again.’

  44

  A week after the trial ended, Theresa was at Kilkreen. Finding on her arrival that Clinton was out with the land agent, she decided to go in search of him rather than wait for his return. Her anxiety to get their first confrontation behind her, and the memories which the house evoked, combined to make any course preferable to passive idleness. She sent a maid to the stables to summon the coachman, but the girl returned with the news that the old man had refused to get out the barouche for anyone except his mistress, and had claimed to have no idea where his lordship might be. The maid suggested that Lord Ardmore’s valet might be more helpful. Not wanting to call on Harris for assistance, the sight of the circling rooks through the leaded windows, and her constant fear of hearing the dowager’s cane on the stairs, persuaded Theresa to accept the man’s services.

  Half-an-hour later she was seated beside him in the same trap that Clinton had driven on the day that had changed their lives. Around her the same brown hills and sparse fields, the same small reedy tarns and limestone rocks. A woman in a blue petticoat, who had been digging in a patch of bog near a cabin, threw down her spade and ran inside as soon as she caught sight of the trap. Then a man came out and blew several sharp blasts on a horn. Without moving his eyes from the road ahead, Harris explained to her that because Clinton had given notice of eviction to over a dozen families near Clonmore, the tenants for miles around were nervous about the sudden appearance of bailiffs, and had taken precautions to warn each other.

  ‘Says he should have done it years back.’ Harris grinned to himself. ‘He’s clearing two hundred acres of best arable land. Can’t leave it just for grazing with such arrears owed on it.’

  Theresa nodded abstractedly while Harris talked about plans to drain other areas and to resettle the graziers on hill farms. She found it incredible that Clinton could be concerning himself with such things so soon after the trial. Some snipe rose above a lake away to their right and Harris raised an imaginary gun. He was dressed in the strange combination of civilian and military clothes she remembered from Hathenshaw.

  They did not find Clinton in the village, and returned in the direction of Kilkreen along the coast road. The tide was out, and on the sands local people were gathering the reddish coloured seaweed in cartloads. On a promontory, near a makeshift jetty, were some fishing boats, and back from the shore, a few stone houses. Just past this hamlet, Harris raised his cap and shouted. A hundred yards away across the sand, two mounted men were talking to some more weed gatherers. Another shout, and Clinton turned his horse and trotted towards them, followed by his agent. As his master dismounted, Harris got down from the trap and took his horse. When the valet and agent had gone on ahead, Clinton clambered up next to Theresa. After a long silence only broken by the wind and waves, Theresa turned to him.

  ‘Why didn’t you try to help yourself?’

  He smiled and looked down at the reins.

  ‘Nothing dies harder than the desire to think well of oneself.’

  One of the laden carts was leaving the beach, men pushing from behind to help the donkey drag it across the soft sand.

  ‘Manure for the spring sowing,’ he explained with deliberate bathos. He lifted the reins and clicked his tongue. A little later he said: ‘The damage was done when we went to court. Losing made no odds at all.’

  ‘No odds when it made me your wife?’

  ‘You won’t find it hard to get an annulment.’

  His tone was calmly factual, and not bitter. But its remoteness still cut her to the heart. Every sentimental illusion she had brought with her, every hope that something might be retrieved, was fading now. He pulled at the nearside rein to avoid a mound of shingle thrown up from the beach, and said quite gently:

  ‘I could only have won by calling you a liar.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ she whispered.

  ‘I believed Esmond’s evidence. Don’t look so grateful. I’d have lied like the devil if I’d thought you’d pushed your father into it. But when I saw his exhibition in court, I had to change my mind.’ He looked out to sea and sighed. ‘After that I said what I had to—my own opinion mattering more to me than the court’s.’