A Marriage of Convenience (41 page)

Although well warned what to expect when the trial started, Clinton was depressed to discover on his arrival in Ireland, that the local press had already given the case considerable attention. The eminence of the counsel involved, and the fact that the Lord Chief Justice of Ireland would preside, had been clear enough indication to newspaper editors that something more than the recovery of eighty-nine pounds was at stake. How they had discovered what this something was, seemed plain to Clinton. The interviews conducted by Major Simmonds’s solicitor with possible witnesses, in and around Rathnagar, would have alerted the more quick-witted inhabitants to the kind of sums to be obtained by selling
information
to Dublin journalists.

But not even the anticipatory build-up, and the malicious interest aroused by all cases involving erring aristocrats, had prepared Clinton for the enormous crowds around the Four Courts on the morning of the first day of the trial. These stretched in both directions along Inns Quay from the classical portico, and blocked Richmond and Whitworth bridges to all traffic crossing the Liffey at this point. Most matrimonial actions were popular, but no case for over a decade, with the exception of political trials, had started in this fashion. The prospect of seeing a titled army officer, who had recently fought the Fenians, do battle with an actress over a disputed marriage, would have been involving enough in itself, but when to this was added a widespread rumour that the trial would witness the first airing of the notorious Irish Marriage Act for almost twenty years, fiercer emotions were engaged.

High above the brown waters of the Liffey and the thronged bridges, an orange winter sun touched the great copper dome of the Four Courts and palely lit the grimy figures of Justice and Mercy perched on the pediment. From the time Clinton and his solicitor left their carriage, it took them the best part of quarter-of-an-hour to force their way through the crowd into the building. What struck Clinton most was the surprisingly high proportion of well-dressed people hoping to gain admittance. Looking at the sea of faces, he
was stunned by the thought that they were there on his account. As yet he was unrecognised, and for all the notice taken of him might have been a casual spectator. But when he took his seat in court beside his solicitor, all that would change. Next to the journalists on the press bench were artists, commissioned to sketch the litigants for the papers.

The Court of Common Pleas was filled to capacity by the time he entered, and the usher was already swearing in the jury. He felt nervous and yet part of his mind remained curiously detached as he glanced about him. At the far end of the room was the judge’s daïs under a canopy of faded red moreen, surmounted by the royal arms. Immediately in front of the daïs was the clerk of the court’s table, piled with books and papers. To the left of this table and facing across the court was the jury box, which slightly reminded Clinton of a Smithfield sheep-pen. On the opposite side, directly facing the jury, was the witness box, looking to Clinton not unlike a Punch and Judy stall. There was something inexpressibly dreary about the place; an air of forlorn neglect compounded by many details: the tarnished gilding of the lion and unicorn supporters of the royal arms, the ink-stained desks, the juror’s nondescript hats and coats hanging on pegs behind them, the greyness of the walls.

Set back slightly, so not to obstruct the jury’s view of the witness, were the rows of benches for counsel and solicitors. These extended across the floor of the court and faced the judge’s bench and the clerk’s table. Split down the centre, the right side of these benches was for the plaintiff’s lawyers, the left for the defendant’s; the front row was reserved for leading counsel, the second for junior counsel and the third for solicitors and their clients. Behind these were the public benches, and high up at the back of the court, the public gallery.

Serjeant Alderson was conferring with Mr Fernley, the other Q.C. acting for Clinton, and with Mr Owen, the junior on their side, when his solicitor, Yeatman, came up to introduce Clinton to the two barristers he had not yet met. Out of the corner of his eye, Clinton saw the people in the gallery craning forward to try to see his face. Alderson smiled and remarked wryly that he hoped they would be able to live up to such high expectations. In his wig and gown, everything that Clinton had found ludicrous in his
appearance
had disappeared. He seemed almost inhumanly composed. Bending close to Clinton, he murmured:

‘If Mrs Barr pretends to be overcome when she sees you, I don’t want you walking out. If counsel tries to get the judge to ask you to withdraw, I’ll contest it.’

A moment later, the usher intoned solemnly:

‘Be upstanding in court.’

The Lord Chief Justice entered in scarlet robes. As soon as the Right Honourable Sir James Monahan had taken his seat on the bench, the clerk of the court called out:

‘Simmonds against Ardmore.’

Suddenly Clinton found everything like a dream—the breathless silence after the babble of talk, the stolid faced jurymen picking up pencils to make notes, the large number of ladies in court, and above all the extraordinary atmosphere that was so like the tense stillness in a theatre just after the curtain rises. Clinton’s heart was beating fast and yet for some reason he wanted to laugh. One of the jurors blushed as he caught his eye. A few yards away the artists were already at work.

‘May it please your Lordship, gentlemen of the jury,’ began Serjeant Mason, leading counsel for the other side, ‘I appear in this case for the plaintiff, Major Arthur Simmonds. The defendant is the Viscount Ardmore. The plaintiff’s claim against the defendant is for eighty-nine pounds advanced by him to the defendant’s wife. The defendant denies that the recipient of this sum is his wife. This is the only issue raised by the pleadings.’ Serjeant Mason paused and adjusted his pince-nez, a gesture which Clinton was soon to realise had nothing to do with a defect in their design, but was used by the barrister as a device for punctuating his remarks and presenting them to the jury in easily digestible morsels. Mason was a tall emaciated looking man with a surprisingly deep voice. ‘This action,’ he continued, ‘rests on the well settled principle of law that if a husband turns his wife out of doors without cause, he sends her into the world as his accredited agent, and is responsible for her reasonable support. The plaintiff in short seeks to make Lord Ardmore responsible for this duty. An ordinary action of this kind is quickly disposed of since the relationship of husband and wife is invariably acknowledged, but this case, gentlemen of the jury, is not an ordinary one.’ The Serjeant’s expression grew sombre and he drew himself up very straight. ‘The defendant brazenly denies any legal relationship with the plaintiff’s daughter. I am prepared to prove first that Theresa Barr became his lordship’s wife, and that he then treacherously abandoned her and drove her penniless into the world. If these facts are proved, my client will be entitled not only to the unreserved respect due to any parent who champions an
ill-used
daughter, but to this court’s verdict. Gentlemen of the jury, I am confident that when you have heard this case you will rejoice to find for my client, and thus assert the cause of virtue against deceit and immorality.’ Having delivered these words in a stern
commanding
voice, the serjeant’s face softened as he tugged reflectively at the
sleeves of his silk gown. ‘Gentlemen of the jury, it is absolutely necessary for me to confide to you some details of Theresa Ardmore’s unhappy history …’

For the next ten minutes Clinton listened to a highly coloured account of Major Simmonds’s financial difficulties and his daughter’s loyalty. A moving sketch of her marriage and early widowhood followed; and Mason lost no opportunity to stress the courage Theresa had displayed in continuing her career, rather than allow herself or her child to become a burden to her father. For eight years—and Mason made this period sound like eight centuries—she had struggled to win professional recognition, only to be denied fame by failing health and exhaustion. Threatened with destitution, what was she to do?

Clinton had wondered how counsel would lead up to Theresa’s time with Esmond in order to make her relationship seem less discreditable. It had never occurred to him that she would be prepared to lie on oath about being his mistress, but soon he felt less confident. Yeatman had interviewed a number of Esmond’s servants who to a man had denied the existence of any impropriety. Esmond would have paid a great deal to stop them giving accurate
testimony
. When Esmond’s offer of marriage was used by counsel to suggest that Theresa’s virtue was irreproachable, since gentlemen did not propose to immoral women, Clinton’s misgivings began to grow.

‘Gentlemen of the jury,’ asked Serjeant Mason emotionally, ‘how many women in the lady’s plight, would have hesitated for a moment to accept such an offer from a financier of Mr Danvers’s standing? From a man who was honourable and loved her as sincerely as ever man has loved woman? But Theresa Barr did more than hesitate. She asked for several months in which to consider whether she could give herself with the love and devotion she believed to be a wife’s sacred due to her husband. For her the respect and admiration she felt for Mr Danvers were not enough. She would suffer hardship rather than marry for material
advantage
…’

While the serjeant once more paused to adjust his pince-nez, the Lord Chief Justice intervened:

‘Serjeant Mason, I think it would be of more assistance to the jury if you dealt with the facts you intend to prove rather than with the lady’s character. I would have thought your closing address a more appropriate place for a tribute of this sort.’

‘If your Lordship pleases,’ said Mason, ‘but in view of the publicity attached to this case and the wholly unjustifiable moral prejudice voiced by some papers against female members of a
hard-working and exacting profession, I thought it desirable to say these few words at the outset.’

‘Very well,’ replied the judge, ‘you have said them. Perhaps you will now confine yourself to the facts you have undertaken to prove.’

Mason passed on to Clinton’s first two meetings with Theresa, which he said little about. He then looked sorrowfully at the jurors.

‘In October 1866 Lord Ardmore stayed with his mother at Kilkreen Castle, County Mayo, at a time when his brother and Theresa Barr were also house guests. Gentlemen of the jury, counsel for the defendant may suggest that Mrs Barr had by this time refused Mr Danvers. If he does, I trust you will ask yourselves whether it is conceivable that Lady Ardmore would have received her as a guest in those circumstances? The idea is ludicrous. Gentlemen, you may find this hard to credit, but I must ask you to … In his mother’s house, and knowing his brother’s feelings, Lord Ardmore professed himself passionately in love with Mrs Barr.’ A loud murmur of hostility came from the gallery. The serjeant shook his head grimly. ‘This avowal was so distressing to the lady that she left the house several days before she had planned to go. Horrified to have been the innocent cause of such ill-feeling between the two brothers, she took a theatrical engagement in the city of York. At this time she intimated to Mr Danvers her final and painful decision not to marry him. In December Lord Ardmore made enquiries about her whereabouts and followed her to York, where he renewed his attentions. If the defendant claims that he took carnal possession of her there, he will do so to persuade you that he had no need to marry since he had already gained his objective. Do not listen to such falsehood. In his secret thoughts he had already resolved to make the lady his wife. Is it possible that any nobleman would seduce and degrade his future wife before bringing her to the altar? Why then should he wish to assert it?’ The serjeant stared hard at the jury. ‘Because, gentlemen, only by swearing that his intentions were dishonourable from the beginning will he be able to give a shred of credence to his miserable claim that a solemn and binding marriage was a deliberate act of imposture.’ Serjeant Mason folded his arms and rocked back on his heels. ‘No matter, I will show him a better man than that. I will prove that from the day he left York, he
intended
nothing except marriage. I will do so by putting in the witness box a man who I believe will swear that two days after leaving York, Lord Ardmore confessed that marriage was his one and only intention. This witness will also tell you that he saw Theresa Ardmore before she went to Dublin and repeated to her
what he had heard Lord Ardmore say about his intention to make her his wife. When you have heard this, you will know what to think of any claim by defending counsel that the lady went to Ireland knowing that Lord Ardmore’s intentions were dishonourable. The truth is the exact opposite.’

When the barrister went on to relate how Theresa went to Dublin in early January, Clinton was no longer listening. Obviously the unnamed witness was Esmond. There was no other possibility. But the profound shock Clinton felt, owed nothing to thoughts of whether Esmond would try to damage him with his evidence. What made Clinton’s stomach turn was fear of what Esmond had told Theresa in York. Of course he would have warned her to expect a proposal of marriage and would have advanced every possible argument against acceptance. It was the next logical step that horrified Clinton. Wanting above all else to stop Theresa marrying in haste, wouldn’t Esmond have been sure to warn her against an Irish marriage? Esmond had not forgotten their mother’s anecdote about mixed marriages two years after he had first heard it, so it would certainly have been even clearer in his mind when he saw Theresa in York. Clinton’s suspicion hardened. When Theresa went to the altar at Rathnagar, she
could
have known as much as he did about the possible defects of the ceremony. Esmond would have had every reason to tell her.

The mass of misrepresentations in Mason’s speech had hurt Clinton far more than he had anticipated, making him wonder how he had ever been naïve enough to suppose that the facts would somehow mitigate what he had done. But now, with all his attention focussed on what Esmond might have told her, he began to take the insults more calmly. The trial at last had a purpose for him.