JAMES GULLY SAT in his parlour at Orwell Lodge watching the rain. Having treated patients suffering from melancholia for decades, he was well aware of the effects of foul weather on the human mind; oppressive, dreary, dull, an anchor on the soul. And yet, he considered, it was far more than the cold, steady rain beading the windows that induced his gloom and ennui. He lowered his eyes to the simple handwritten announcement that had arrived in the morning mail. Miss Cecilia Henderson, he read, will be married to Charles Spencer Cranbrook, Esq. at 11.00 a.m. on Saturday, 7 December, 1871, All Saints Church, Borough of Kensington, London. No more, not even the briefest note of regret. Glancing at the handwriting, clearly not Cecilia’s, he picked up the envelope and studied the return address on the flap: Mrs Jane Clark, The Priory, Balham. What a damnably thoughtless way to inform him that he was losing the only woman he had truly loved. ‘Humbug,’ he muttered, tossing the note on the carpet. Rising from his chair, he walked to the window, gazed out at a passing carriage on the rain-slick street, and then moved to his writing-desk. Taking a sheet of paper from the drawer, he dipped his pen in the inkwell and wrote:
15 October 1871
Orwell Lodge, Balham
My dear Mrs Clark
I am in receipt of your note concerning the marriage of Miss Henderson. Please advise your employer that while I appreciate having been notified, I cannot congratulate her on what I regard as an ill-conceived and potentially ruinous union. She may rest assured, however, that I have no intention of attending the nuptials.
Furthermore, it is my considered judgement that you have greatly influenced, I daresay manipulated, Miss Henderson in this matter for reasons as to which I may only speculate, though I am cognizant of the relationship that has existed between you and the family of the groom. I believe you have acted at least in part out of a desire to cause me pain, and it may give you some satisfaction to know that in this you have succeeded admirably. As I fear there are certain persons, perhaps including yourself, who are motivated in this matter by avarice and Miss Henderson’s fortune, rest assured that I, as her one time guardian, will do all in my power to ensure she is protected. I remain
Yr obedient servant
J. M. Gully
With a smile of grim satisfaction, Gully lifted the page, blew softly on the drying ink and then carefully folded it in an envelope. After addressing it and affixing a stamp, he donned his top hat and ulster, slipped the letter in his pocket and headed out in the rain to post it.
Cecilia stood by the casement window in the drawing-room, gazing out on the lawn, littered with fallen leaves, and the green fields and woods of Tooting Bec Common in bright sunshine. Wearing a long-sleeved white batiste blouse, buttoned up to her neck, with a forest green wool skirt, she turned toward Mrs Clark, who was seated in an armchair with a thick ledger open in her lap. ‘Where were we?’ said Cecilia, fingering the brooch on a gold pin at her bosom.
‘Your expenditure,’ said Mrs Clark, ‘over the past month, of which, as you know, I maintain careful accounts—’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Exceeded your income. You must cut back.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Cecilia with a short laugh. ‘My income is merely the amount I instruct my banker to deposit in the account, dear Mrs Clark. I shall simply instruct them to increase the allowance. An extra fifty pounds should suffice, don’t you think?’
‘You must learn to practise thrift,’ said Mrs Clark with a frown, as she closed the ledger and put it aside. ‘Your profligate spending will one day get you in trouble.’
‘In trouble? With whom?’
‘With your husband.’ Mrs Clark rose from her chair and approached Cecilia. ‘Mr Cranbrook,’ she said, ‘strikes me as a man who’ll take a hard line when it comes to the household budget.’
‘Well, it’s my money,’ said Cecilia with a flippant air, ‘and I shall spend it as I please.’
‘Not after you’re married,’ countered Mrs Clark. ‘Then it shall be his money.’
A concerned look clouded Cecilia’s face. ‘His money?’ she repeated. ‘Charles will control my income, what I can spend?’
‘Under the law,’ said Mrs Clark, ‘a married woman is a slave to her husband.’
‘I shall see about that,’ said Cecilia. ‘I’m certain Mr Jenkins at Coutts can refer me to someone in the City for advice on such matters. Before the wedding.’
Seated in a second-storey outer office overlooking the Strand, Cecilia studied the stacks of documents crammed into the shelves of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. How, she wondered, as she waited for her appointment with the solicitor, could anyone keep track of his cases, if that was the proper term, amid such hopeless clutter? After the lapse of another five minutes, the oak door beneath the transom opened with a creak, and the lawyer’s wizened secretary appeared. ‘You may come in, miss,’ he said, holding open the door and beckoning with a crooked finger. With a pretty smile at the white-haired gentleman, who stood no taller than she, Cecilia entered a dim, narrow passageway that led to the solicitor’s office. Edmund Thistlewaythe, an attorney highly recommended by the bankers at Coutts, was a portly, apple-cheeked gentleman of the old school, whose attire – black frockcoat, embroidered crimson waistcoat, and old-fashioned knickerbockers with stockings that reached his knees – was unchanged since his days at Cambridge in the 1820s. ‘Come in, come in, my dear Miss Henderson,’ he said with a smile, gesturing to a red leather armchair before his mahogany desk, which, in contrast to the outer office, was free of papers except for a writing tablet and pen. Cecilia sat, gazing beyond the desk at the arched windows with their view of the Georgian buildings lining the busy thoroughfare.
‘Very well,’ said Thistlewaythe once he was seated at his desk, ‘I understand from Mr Jenkins that you’re engaged to be married.’
‘That’s right,’ said Cecilia, ‘to Mr Charles Cranbrook, a barrister at Gray’s Inn.’
‘Why, congratulations, Miss Henderson. How may I be of assistance?’
Thinking that Thistlewaythe’s genial manner was as different as could be imagined from the severe Throckmorton, she said, ‘At the death of my first husband, I inherited a large fortune—’
‘So I was advised by Mr Jenkins.’
‘And, as I am soon to remarry, I desire to understand my legal rights in respect of my property.’
‘I see.’ Folding his hands on the desk, Thistlewaythe said, ‘Has not your father advised you regarding this matter?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then, as a general rule, under the common law a married woman’s rights are governed by the doctrine of coverture. Whereas a single woman is a feme sole, a married woman is a feme covert.’
‘And the difference…?’
‘In marriage,’ said Thistlewaythe, ‘in the eyes of the law, husband and wife become one.’ Reaching for a thick volume from a nearby shelf, he leafed through its pages and said, ‘As Blackstone put it: “By marriage, the husband and wife are one person in law: that is, the very being or legal existence of the woman is incorporated or consolidated into that of the husband, under whose wing, protection, and cover she performs every thing”.’ Closing the volume and returning it to the shelf, Thistlewaythe explained, ‘All property theretofore owned by his wife is his, all income belongs to him, all rights to enter into contracts, etc may be exercised exclusively by him.’
‘I see,’ said Cecilia with a frown.
‘Under the law of coverture,’ the solicitor continued, ‘even if a married woman should be employed, her salary or wages would belong to her husband.’ Cecilia shook her head with a dismayed expression. ‘However,’ said Thistlewaythe, interlocking his chubby fingers, ‘conceding the patent unfairness of this doctrine, as applied to women of property, and under considerable pressure from the fathers of wealthy daughters, including certain lords, Parliament in its wisdom recently enacted a statute: The Married Women’s Property Act of 1870.’
‘Ah,’ said Cecilia, brightening, loosening her grip on the edge of her pocket.
‘Among other things,’ continued Thistlewaythe, ‘the Act permits married women, under certain limited circumstances, to retain ownership of property inherited from next of kin prior to marriage.’
‘And these circumstances?’ said Cecilia, leaning forward in her chair.
‘Require an agreement between husband and wife, a so-called prenuptial agreement, which must be ratified by the court before the marriage is entered into.’
‘Well, then,’ said Cecilia. ‘I must have such an agreement. I presume you will prepare it?’
‘I would naturally be pleased to do so. You remarked, Miss Henderson, that your fiancé is a barrister?’ She nodded. ‘I should caution you,’ he continued, ‘that he may strongly object to this arrangement and insist on his rights under common law. The statute, you see, is only recently enacted and not well accepted, especially by men such as your future husband, trained in the law.’
‘That may be, Mr Thistlewaythe,’ said Cecilia, rising from her chair with a great rustle of taffeta, ‘but I shall insist on it.’
Having heard the sounds of the door-knocker and muffled men’s voices in the entrance hall, Cecilia was aware that Charles had arrived, but preferred to make him wait. With a glance out of the bedroom window into the cold, dark evening, where a sharp wind was shaking the trees, she drew the heavy curtains and walked to her boudoir. Seated on a cushion, she picked up her silver-handled mirror and studied her face, the smooth skin of her rouged cheeks, her glossy red lips and her eyes, pale blue with long lashes. Awareness of her sensuous beauty buoyed her confidence, she reflected with a smile, and tonight she would need as much confidence as she could muster. Putting the mirror aside, she opened a vial of French perfume and applied a droplet to her wrists and the nape of her neck. Satisfied, she rose and walked to the stairs.
Charles Cranbrook was warming himself before the fire blazing in the drawing-room, wearing as usual a black wool cutaway and stiff Piccadilly collar but with polished black boots that nearly reached his knees. Turning toward Cecilia when she appeared at the foot of the staircase, he smiled faintly and remained where he was standing with his hands clasped behind his back. As she walked up, he reached for her hands and bent down to kiss her. ‘Mmm,’ he said, ‘what a charming fragrance.’
‘Do you like it?’ she asked. ‘It’s from Paris.’ Cranbrook nodded, thinking that all of her fine things – the expensive gown and very elaborate matching shoes just visible below the hem, white satin encrusted with gems – were from Paris. ‘Do you have a drink?’ she asked.
‘No, but I would like one. Wretched night out.’
With a good English butler’s exquisite sense of timing, Sawyers shimmered into the room and said, ‘Sir?’
‘Whisky and soda,’ said Cranbrook, rubbing his hands together.
‘Champagne,’ said Cecilia. After they were seated before the fire with their drinks and the usual, ice-breaking small talk about the weather and Charles’s pedestrian affairs, Cecilia put her glass aside and said, ‘Only three more weeks till we’re married. I can scarcely believe it.’
‘Yes, darling,’ he said, placing a hand on her knee. ‘You shall be mine, and no more tiptoeing about after dark.’
Placing her hand on his, she said, ‘Charles … when I was married before, to the captain, I had no property.’ Cranbrook’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘And my husband, as it happened, was very well-to-do. And so when he passed away, I inherited, well, a large fortune.’ Cranbrook looked at her keenly, as he might a witness he was about to cross-examine. ‘Which, of course,’ she continued, ‘is my property. And as we are shortly to be married—’
‘Once we are married,’ Cranbrook interrupted, ‘your property shall be my property. Your income shall be my income. That is the law.’
Undeterred, Cecilia gave him a coquettish smile and said, ‘That is the common law. According to my solicitor.’
‘What!’ said Cranbrook, quickly taking his hand from her knee as though he’d touched a hot stove. ‘You’ve retained a solicitor?’
‘Yes,’ said Cecilia calmly. ‘On the advice of my bankers. A certain Mr Thistlewaythe, very highly respected. Who advises me that under a recent Act of Parliament, intended to protect the property rights of married women, I am entitled to retain my inheritance.’
His dark eyes flashing with anger, Cranbrook rose from the settee and began pacing before the fire. ‘Solicitor,’ he muttered. ‘Act of Parliament.’ Suddenly halting, he shook his fist and said, ‘I’ll not stand for this impudence. The woman I marry shall respect the rights of her husband, under English common law! Do you suppose,’ he asked sneeringly, ‘that I would live in a house which is not mine, with furnishings which are not mine, or dine on china which is not mine? We shall be married, Cecilia, in the old-fashioned way, and I shall be lord and master of the household!’
Having anticipated such an outburst, Cecilia, clutching the fabric at her throat, said, ‘Very well. But I insist you discuss the matter with Mr Thistlewaythe. He has prepared an agreement for our signature. Which must be approved by the court.’
Cranbrook glared at her, having utterly underestimated her intelligence and cunning. ‘The matter will be moot,’ he said after a moment, ‘if I break off the engagement.’
‘That is your prerogative,’ said Cecilia, holding him in her steady gaze. ‘But I would prefer that you meet my solicitor.’
‘Very well,’ said Cranbrook. He reached for his glass and downed his drink. ‘I haven’t much appetite for dinner,’ he concluded, ‘and shall be on my way.’
As the nuptials loomed, Cranbrook wasted little time arranging an appointment with the distinguished solicitor, who was regarded at the Inns of Court in very high esteem. Cursing himself for failing to consider the advice Cecilia was likely to receive from the shrewd bankers at Coutts, who preferred, above all other clients, a wealthy widow, he lowered his head and clutched his top hat as he made his way along the crowded pavement in the sharp November wind. With a glance at the handsome brick edifice in the heart of the Temple Bar, he entered the marble lobby, consulted the clerk, and made his way up the stairs to the second-storey law office. Opening the frosted glass door, with ‘G. Edmund Thistlewaythe, Esq.’ stencilled in gold, he was received by the elderly secretary who invited him to wait in the cluttered anteroom, assuring him that the lawyer would see him shortly. Shown into the spacious office with its view of the Strand, Cranbrook strode toward Thistlewaythe, who rose from his chair with a smile and extended his hand.
‘I congratulate you, sir,’ said the solicitor, shaking Cranbrook’s hand, ‘on your forthcoming marriage.’
‘Damn your congratulations,’ said Cranbrook, releasing the older gentleman’s hand. ‘I’ve come to see about the money.’
‘Very well,’ said the solicitor equably, lowering himself in his leather chair. ‘I would suggest we begin with this.’ He handed a blue-backed legal document across the desk.
Cranbrook clenched and unclenched his teeth with lips tightly closed as he perused the prenuptial agreement, which provided that all property heretofore inherited by the party of the first part, and all income derived therefrom, shall remain the property of said party of the first part following, and notwithstanding, her marriage to the party of the second part, with only the stipulation that Cecilia provide for the nurture and support of any children who may issue from the aforesaid marriage.
‘Rubbish,’ said Cranbrook, tossing the document on the desk with a glare. ‘I’d never consent to such an arrangement.’
‘The recently enacted marriage statute,’ said Thistlewaythe, folding his hands on his smooth desk, ‘was intended for just such a situation as this. In fact, it fits Miss Henderson like a glove: a widow who has inherited a vast fortune from her late husband and who requires the protection of the law from a possibly unscrupulous suitor.’
‘I shall be going,’ said Cranbrook, beginning to rise.
‘Of course it’s possible,’ said Thistlewaythe, ‘I am mistaken about your interest in Miss Henderson’s property.’ Cranbrook returned to his chair, eying the solicitor coldly. ‘Your stepfather, as I understand it, is a very wealthy man who may possibly have provided you with substantial property and income.’ Cranbrook responded with a thin smile. ‘Or possibly not.’
‘My affairs are none of your business.’
‘As I thought.’ Thistlewaythe removed another document from his desk drawer and slipped on his reading glasses. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is Miss Henderson’s latest statement of account from Coutts. It may interest you to know, Mr Cranbrook,’ he continued, holding up the document for closer inspection, ‘that Miss Henderson’s portfolio comes to some seven hundred and seventy thousand pounds, invested in the highest quality railway and industrial shares and bonds.’
‘Oh,’ said Cranbrook, aware that Cecilia had property but never imagining a fortune of such magnitude.
‘As I see it, my good man,’ said Thistlewaythe in an avuncular tone, ‘you have a choice: walk away from this marriage, or consent to some arrangement with respect to the ownership and disposition of Miss Henderson’s property. Of course, my client would prefer the marriage, which has its obvious advantages.’ With a smile, he returned the document to the desk drawer.
‘Well,’ said Cranbrook, thoughtfully rubbing his chin, ‘I suppose I might consider a compromise.’
After an hour of at times heated negotiations, Thistlewaythe rose and reached across the desk to shake Cranbrook’s hand. ‘I shall provide you with drafts of the documents to effectuate our understanding, hopefully by the morrow, Miss Henderson’s retention of her inheritance but with a lease in your favour of The Priory and its contents at a nominal consideration and a codicil to Miss Henderson’s will, naming you as her sole heir.’
‘Very well.’ Cranbrook turned to go.
‘And Mr Cranbrook,’ said Thistlewaythe.
‘Yes?’
‘Miss Henderson strikes me as a vain and headstrong woman. You would do well not to attempt to rein in her extravagant tastes.’
And you would do well, considered Cranbrook, to mind your own business. ‘Good day, sir,’ he said and walked to the door.
Jane Clark was exhausted by the assorted tasks that fell upon her with the approach of the wedding, as Cecilia had no one else to see to them – trips into the city to meet the vicar, the florist, the endless dressmaker visits, the musicians, the photographer, and, most tiresome of all, Sir Richard Henderson at his imposing house in Belgravia, where she succeeded in securing an understanding that the mother and father of the bride would, after all, attend the ceremony and the reception afterward, to be held at The Priory. Resting her chin on her fist, she studied her notes in the light of the lamp on her small desk beneath the stairs.
‘Excuse me, ma’am,’ interrupted the maid.
‘What is it,’ said Mrs Clark testily.
‘Mr Cranbrook desires a word with you.’
‘Where is Miss Henderson?’
‘Resting in her room, ma’am.’
‘Very well,’ said Mrs Clark, pushing back her chair. ‘Do not disturb her.’ She walked to the small, seldom used library at the back of the house, where she found Charles Cranbrook examining the leather-bound volumes in the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, selected by Cecilia strictly for their decorative value. ‘You wished to see me?’ she said.
‘Yes,’ said Cranbrook, looking at her in his usual accusatory way. ‘I’m bloody well fed up with these anonymous letters.’
‘You’ve received another?’
Cranbrook nodded and said, ‘Where’s Cecilia?’
‘In her room.’
He reached into his breast pocket for an envelope, which he handed to Mrs Clark. ‘Read it,’ he said.
Briefly examining the envelope, she extracted a single sheet and quickly scanned the brief note. ‘It is obvious,’ she read aloud, ‘that you are marrying Miss Henderson purely for her money—’
‘A vile slander,’ said Cranbrook.
‘I’m certain Gully sent it,’ said Mrs Clark. ‘The old wretch.’ She folded the letter in the envelope and handed it to Cranbrook. ‘And I’d advise you to burn it, lest poor Cissie should discover it.’
‘If that old fool ever comes round,’ said Cranbrook, stuffing the envelope in his pocket, ‘I’ll … well, he’ll rue the day.’
The day of the wedding dawned clear and cold, with a cobalt sky and heavy frost on The Priory lawn and adjoining common. In preparation for the reception, the household staff were scurrying about, and the entrance hall and drawing-room overflowed with hothouse flowers, the perfume of which filled every room save the kitchen, where the aroma of baking bread commingled with roasting goose and savoury pie. The proprietor of the mansion, however, was not at home, having taken rooms for herself and Mrs Clark at the Duke of Wellington Hotel in Kensington. As the bride was a widow, the wedding party was small by the standards of London high society, consisting principally of extended family, the more influential friends of both Sir Harry and Sir Richard, and a number of Charles’s associates from the Bar and his days at Magdalen College. The bishop presided, however, as the wealthy fathers of bride and groom had generously tithed over the years, and Cecilia, wearing an exquisite white satin gown with a stunning diamond tiara in her auburn curls, elicited gasps from many of the women. At the end of the service, bride and groom were ushered, amid a shower of rose petals, into a waiting black landau drawn by white horses for the trip to Balham and the inauguration of their new life together, as the other guests were content to make the brief journey by rail.
Standing by the front parlour window at Orwell Lodge, Dr James Gully consulted his pocket watch and noted the time: half past noon. By now, he bitterly conceded, Cecilia was married; married to a man she did not love, who was interested only in her money and who, he suspected, would subject her to cruel mistreatment. Through his many years of professional observation, Gully was all too familiar with the type, a young man of middle-class origins and modest resources, the stepson of a wealthy but uncharitable upper-class man, who is driven by a ruthless determination to acquire property and respectability in all its trappings. Gully suspected Charles Cranbrook had learned of the circumstances of Cecilia’s shame and had used it to secure a bargain: marriage and the restoration of her reputation in return for control of Cecilia’s large fortune. And the entire affair orchestrated by the dastardly Mrs Clark.
‘A dirty business,’ muttered Gully, ‘and likely to lead to ruin.’
Hearing hoofbeats on the cobblestones, he peered out the window as an impressive carriage drawn by a matched pair of white horses with ribbons on their manes and jingling bells strung around their necks passed along Bedford Hill Road. Through the carriage’s glass window, Gully could clearly make out Charles Cranbrook, wearing the expression of a proud and ruthless man who at last possessed the resources to match his ambitions.