The Petticoat Men (7 page)
Me and Billy ate our stew politely. And finally Billy made Ma laugh about something at the Parliament and finally she shook her head and looked at us in a sort of rueful way which was her way of apologising for ruffling up.
And then we played cards, like we always did on Sundays.
On that first Sunday, the
Reynolds Newspaper
had given salacious details. But it was the paragraphs in
The
Times
that had struck fear into the hearts of certain gentlemen of the Establishment.
The
Times
opined that the two men now held in the case were part of an association of ‘at least thirty’ similar-minded young men who roamed freely, loose-moraled, about London. (Some of those members of the Establishment reading
The
Times
in alarm were not young either.) In gentlemen’s clubs all over London, gentlemen huddled on leather chairs under royal portraits and spoke together in low voices.
Some persons thought it expedient to take an early holiday on the Continent. Mr Amos Gibbings was one who made this decision urgently, quietly farewelled that Sunday by Mr Porterbury of Porterbury’s Hotel by the Strand.
‘I was going anyway. I had already arranged to meet friends in Calais. Just for a few weeks.’ Mr Gibbings entered a carriage quickly. ‘Keep me informed of course.’
An evening meeting of another group of gentlemen was hastily convened that Sunday. The venue was perhaps an unlikely one for the subject under discussion: a church vestry across the River Thames from the Houses of Parliament. From that church, lamplight could be seen in the Victoria Tower, which rose at one end of the Palace of Westminster; odd lights flickered also in other parts of the seat of government. All of the gentlemen present at the church meeting wore clerical collars; some of them had been conducting evensong; many were members of the House of Lords. The organist was rehearsing Handel; chords wafted in and out of the locked vestry, notes echoing on the air.
That air inside the vestry was full of smoke and many of the gentlemen held glasses of amber liquid; the meeting had been proceeding for some time, the same ground covered more than once: there was an air of odd unease in the room.
‘The arrests have already caused outrageous attention in the cheap newspapers, and have not been ignored by
The Times
,
as they should have been.’
‘We can hardly order that the matter be banned from being reported, and close the Magistrates’ Court!’
‘Very well, but too much is at stake for Lord Arthur to appear.’
This statement (which perhaps contained various layers of meaning) was not contested.
‘His name has not been mentioned as yet.’
‘Where is he?’
‘We have not been able to ascertain.’
‘We may be being overcautious. The whole matter may be over in the next few days.’
‘Very well but I reiterate: there is too much at stake – for the country, I mean – for Lord Arthur Clinton’s name to be mentioned or for him to appear. He was briefly a Member of Parliament: the honour of the House etc…’
A more pragmatic member of the group put it more bluntly: ‘Lord Arthur is notoriously unreliable and impecunious. He cannot be relied upon to behave with the discretion that is expected from members of the nobility. Frankly, other names may come out if he is not prevented from appearing.’
Throats were cleared in the nervous, embarrassed silence that followed. Finally a very senior bishop spoke.
‘Gentlemen. Lord Arthur may be unreliable but he is the son of the late lamented fifth Duke of Newcastle who was once Colonial Secretary, and Secretary of War for our country under Sir Robert Peel, and later Secretary of State for the Colonies under Lord Palmerston!’
Handel rang out as if to underline the credentials.
‘Do not forget his notorious mother.’ But that comment was muttered rather than uttered.
‘It is of course possible that the young gentlemen already arrested – these – these “Petticoat Men”’ – the voice now speaking was filled with disgust – ‘may themselves mention – other names – if they fear the courts.’
The bishop who had blessed the large supper at the ball at Porterbury’s Hotel banged his whisky glass violently on a pile of hymn books. ‘Then they must
immediately
be stopped from doing anything so improper and immoral.’
‘But they are already held in custody at the Clerkenwell House of Detention, Julius! Who knows what pernicious untruths they may already be disseminating!’
‘Surely they are
gentlemen
and would not speak.’
(The slight titters that followed the unfortunate use of the word
gentlemen
in this context were quickly quashed.) Voices rose.
‘But it is
exactly this
that looks so bad, so unlikely: that they are not Post Office delivery boys or waiters or labourers –
that
is what arouses such disgusting and popular excitement and lascivity. This is an anathema to Church teaching. These two prisoners must somehow be spoken to.’
‘No, no! I tell you it will be the mention of Lord Arthur’s name and the – the avenues to which that event may lead, that will destroy us – ah – when I say us, I of course mean this country and its respectable upper classes!’
‘I think you are being overdramatic!’
When another cleric answered dryly, ‘We are part of an overdramatic profession,’ the convenor of the meeting, one of the senior bishops who sat in the House of Lords, said: ‘Gentlemen, we must now bring this meeting to a close. All contacts must be used to find out more—’
‘Tomorrow someone must speak to that magistrate, that Mr Flowers.’
‘Tomorrow someone must speak to – it would likely be more effective – the Prime Minister.’
‘—but we must now, as I said, bring this meeting to a close,’ reiterated the senior bishop firmly.
Slowly glasses were emptied, cigars extinguished.
‘I think we all agree on two important things. The Church’s view on this immoral and terrible subject must be preached, as always. And for the sake of the British Empire itself, Lord Arthur Clinton, a member of the English nobility, must not appear and we must hope that he has the sense to make himself disappear. We must fervently hope that the case will be dismissed this week as a silly prank. This is the defence case, I have been advised, and this outcome is devoutly to be wished for. Let us pray.’
…
lead us not into temptation, and deliver us from evil
, prayed the churchmen.
Across the river, in the Houses of Parliament, so dangerous was the subject, such mental turmoil were some of the Honourable Members undergoing, that they did not even dare – some of them – to hold a meeting that Sunday in a committee room, as they might, in other circumstances, have done. There are many back stairs and dark corridors in the inner labyrinths of the honourable building. It was there that unthinkable words were whispered along dark passages:
life imprisonment
and
ten years’ hard labour
and
penal servitude.
They were at a loss to know whom to approach among the more powerful political figures (who were indeed holding their own private meetings elsewhere). Everybody knew that any connection, of any kind, to the
Gentlemen in Female Attire
would be political ruin and social suicide.
An air of apprehension and unease – indeed, of fear – stalked the green-patterned carpets – and the red.
Meanwhile the Prince of Wales, still wounded by the recent ignominy that had attached to him with regard to the Mordaunt divorce case, was taking no chances this time. That same Sunday, having already been apprised of certain matters appearing in the newspapers,
he went quickly, in a hansom cab, to the Chapel-street house of his most long-standing mistress (although Sunday was not usually his day for visiting in hansom cabs).
Instead of getting down to business immediately, as they sometimes did when time was short, the Prince lit one of his large cigars. Lady Susan Vane-Tempest smiled and reached for tobacco also; she lit a long thin Turkish cigarette. They had known each other since they were children, and smoked together often too; she was two years older than he and had given him his first cigarette. When his elder sister, the Princess Victoria, aged seventeen, became a royal bride (her father had arranged a most suitable marriage with the heir to the Prussian throne), the eighteen-year-old Lady Susan had been a bridesmaid. Bertie (as the Prince was called by his family) and Susan had danced together that day, regally as they had been taught, and smiled demurely. And then later, together with Bertie’s younger sister, Alice, they had smoked cigarettes and drunk purloined champagne and giggled, in a hidden place.
‘My dear Susan,’ he said now.
She, surprised (but delighted) by this unexpected Sunday visit, was alerted at once by his tone of voice, became very still: she knew him so well.
‘My dear, to come, at once, to the point: you may not have read the newspapers today. You know it is absolutely impossible for me to be involved in another scandal. I regret to inform you that you and I cannot be alone together again under any circumstances, until and unless this Gentlemen in Female Attire business is quickly dismissed. My contacts tell me it is certain that your brother Arthur is involved.’
Her face paled. She had indeed read the newspapers and had at once understood better than he knew; she had hoped he would not hear so immediately of Arthur’s connection. Quickly she put the cigarette to her lips so that she would not speak without consideration. She could not lose him – she had always been part of his life; after his marriage other ladies always came and went or turned insane, but Lady Susan had not only known him since childhood, she had also been his mistress now for over three years; they loved each other, of course.
Who is to say which of them knew about love?
Who is to say which of them had had the most unhappy, privileged childhood? Small Bertie, the Prince of Wales, or little Susan, Lady Susan Clinton, only daughter of the fifth Duke of Newcastle? These unmothered children.
Bertie’s mother had admitted she could not love her eldest son and even as a young child he had been aware of this fact.