The Sealed Letter (23 page)

"Mercy." That's what she's saying, mumbling it over and over.

"Oi! My fare," roars the driver, from the cab roof.

Harry turns back, hot-faced with confusion, rooting in his pocket.

"Ask anything of me," demands Helen, grabbing his arm.

"Well, I like that trick," broadcasts the driver. "Scarpering into his club, with his lady-friend!"

"Anything I can do, anything I can say—" she sobs.

He knows there's a third shilling somewhere in the handful of coins, but his eyes can't pick it out, and his fingers are trembling. His wife hangs on his elbow like a terrier; he tries to shake her off.

"Don't let on you don't have it," calls the driver, rolling his eyes for the benefit of the gathering audience.

Harry grabs the first gold coin he can find—a half-sovereign—and hurls it in the man's direction. But it hits the shiny paintwork of the cab and bounces into the gutter.

"All I beg of you is, let me see my babies!"

"Hold your tongue for one moment," he barks in her face. He stoops, claws the half-sovereign out of the mud and holds it up for the driver. She's still clinging to his other arm.

The driver beams at him. "Well, now, that's what I call handsome..."

Harry turns away, towards the club's entrance, then—changing his mind—in the opposite direction. He walks a few steps, Helen a leaden shackle on his arm. What must they look like—a military lecher and his cast-off? "What can you possibly hope to gain by this, this
exhibition?"
he asks her, very low.

"They wouldn't let me into your club. They say you won't receive my letters. I'm at the brink of utter distraction!"

Something in her tone rings false to Harry. Is it just that he can no longer believe a word she says, since so much of what she's said to him over fifteen years of marriage has turned out to be claptrap?

"I'll take back everything my solicitor's said of you, all the, what are they called, countercharges," she promises with a gulp so violent it sounds as if she's retching up a stone. "I'll bow to your will in everything, Harry—if only you and the girls will come home."

He stares at her.

"What's done is done, but let's put it behind us, and try to be content in the years that remain to us. Come home, my love!" And she stretches up, on tiptoe, and twines her arms around his neck, and moves to kiss him. On Pall Mall, at ten past noon.

Harry's about to hurl her from him. He can feel it in his hands already, the satisfaction it will give him to rip Helen's arms (like coils of strangling ivy) away from his neck, to shove her away and see her drop into the gutter, revealed for all to see as the broken whore she is.

But something freezes his hands. The not-quite-convincing delivery of her lines? Something guarded, even calculating, in the back of her wide blue eyes? Whatever the hint is, it's enough to make him stand very still
—hold hard, old boy, hold hard
—while Helen hangs around his neck, planting desperate, muffled kisses on his beard.
Everything my solicitor's said of you:
he repeats her words to himself.
All the, what are they called, countercharges.
(As if she wouldn't recall the term!) Cruelty, yes. Husbandly brutality. That must be what she's hoping to provoke with her coarse effusions, with her humid lips: one public act of violence from Harry that just may be enough to sway a jury.

So he stands very still, instead, and takes a long breath. It doesn't matter who's gawking at this strange pair, on Pall Mall; what is vital is for Harry to stay out of this woman's trap. With the infinite delicacy of a policeman dismantling a bomb, he reaches behind his neck to unknot Helen's hands. "I know your game," he whispers in her ear, "and I'm not playing."

She looks back at him, eyes burning, unblinking.

It takes him considerable effort to undo her plump pink fingers, but he does it so carefully, with such apparent tenderness, that it strikes him that passersby must take them for lovers oblivious to the world.

Subpoena

(Latin, "under penalty":

a writ commanding the presence of

a witness in court to give testimony)

The "old maid" of 1861 is an exceedingly cheery personage, running about untrammelled by husband or children; now visiting her relatives' country houses, now taking her month in town, now off to a favourite pension on Lake Geneva, now scaling Vesuvius or the Pyramids...

Frances Power Cobbe,
"What Shall We Do with Our Old Maids?" (1862)

More men than women in the first few issues, until our audience is established," suggests Emily Davies, biting on the end of her pen.

"Quite," says Fido. Her mind is not on business, as she sits in her office at the press, but she hopes she's hiding it. Fido can't breathe properly; ever since Helen slammed the door of Taviton Street behind her, there's been a rigidity in all the passages of her lungs, like old India rubber gone brittle. At the office she keeps all the windows closed, to shut out the black smuts of the London autumn. At home she does the same, and smokes her Sweet Threes for hours, but they don't bring her any relief; nor does the kettle in her bedroom that sends out its ribbon of mentholated steam all night.

"I've already sent out requests to Arnold, a couple of fine young essayists..." Emily Davies puts her small head on one side. "I thought a travel series on the Far East, perhaps."

"So you believe the
Victoria Magazine
can burst onto the scene in November?" asks Fido with forced enthusiasm.

"I don't see why not, if your typos can set it that fast," says Emily Davies.

"Some of them are careless and slow enough to make anybody swear," Fido admits. (Unless, as she's sometimes suspected lately, one or two of the clickers—Kettle? Dunstable?—are cooking the figures, boosting their wages by exaggerating the percentage of the girls' work the men end up having to do over. She won't worry about that now; her head's already crammed to bursting.) "But I can answer for the press meeting this deadline."

"Capital."

"Well, how splendid! I dare say we'll have to break the news to the rest of the Reform Firm now..."

"Oh, I've already submitted my resignation as editor of the
Journal.
" Emily Davies sighs. "Its demise, whether immediate or protracted, will be a blow to Miss Parkes, at first, but ultimately I hope a relief."

"Some people cling to their burdens."

"How true. There's a peculiar streak of self-glorifying sacrifice in many of the women drawn to our Cause," comments Emily Davies, flicking through her notes.

Fido's been fretting over whether to discuss what happened at their last meeting. "By the by—you must have wondered at the extraordinary behaviour of my visitor last Tuesday."

"No need for an apology."

She could leave it at that, but she finds she needs to press on. "You'll have gathered the whole story from the papers since then, or at least one version of it. I must beg you not to credit everything—"

Her colleague interrupts wryly. "As one vicar's daughter to another, I must tell you, I'm not as easily shocked as you imagine. At the age of twelve I was going round the slums of Gateshead, where I saw deformed babies born to girls molested by their fathers."

Fido is speechless.

"I am sorry for your friend. The law is a blunt instrument."

"She was staying at my house, just at first," says Fido miserably, "but I felt I had to ask her to leave."

A nod. "Shall we get on with our plans?"

"Of course," says Fido, and launches into an analysis of the
Victoria Magazine
's budget.

It's the kind of day that seems to last a week: one obstacle after another to surmount or demolish. After lunch Fido has the particularly distasteful duty of calling Flora Parsons into her office.

"You were seen last night, on the Strand," she says, wheezing a little.

Flora Parsons wears a faint air of amusement.

"You don't deny it, then?"

"No use, is there?" answers the girl. Then, "Who was it saw me, may I ask?"

Fido hesitates. "One of the clickers."

"Head?"

A good guess; Fido blinks.

"What was he doing there at that time of the evening, is what I'd like to know," says Flora Parsons pleasantly.

"Waiting for his omnibus," she snaps. From the day she hired her, she should have recognized a certain set to the girl's lips. Fido leans over her desk; she means to seem impressive but the pose strikes her as desperate. "Miss Parsons, haven't you been happy in your position at the Victoria Press?"

"I dare say."

"Don't I pay you fairly?"

"That's what the job pays."

The impudence makes Fido's teeth ache. "Isn't it enough for your needs?"

A twist of the mouth. "Not for extras."

"You're one of my most talented hands," Fido tells her. "You have a natural quickness of mind."

"Thank you, Miss Faithfull."

The slut, she takes it as homage! "Which makes it all the more inexplicable that you'd jeopardize your position by stooping to the very lowest trade your sex can make."

Our
sex, the girl's eyes seem to correct her. "Oh, you've got it roundabouts," says Flora Parsons. "I didn't take it up to make more cash just now; I've been at it since I was fifteen."

Fido flinches.

"I'm just a mot who does some typographing on the side, see?"

"Quite." She tries to gather her thoughts. "What about your engagement—what about Mr. Dunstable?" she asks, with a stern nod towards the workroom.

"That's all off," says the girl with a toss of the head.

"You don't care that I am obliged to turn you off without a reference?"

"It's not like I'll starve." The girl gives her a lingering smile, before turning towards the door.

Fido knows she ought to give this creature the most impassioned of lectures, but she can't summon her energies.
No use, is there?—as
the girl said. Flora Parsons has chosen her path, it's just a shame that Fido failed to see it years ago, and wasted the training.

Alone in her office, she leans back in her chair, entirely limp. Like some stain spreading across the buttoned leather. She's been trying to lose herself in work, in the three days since she turned Helen out of the house, but it's impossible: she can't sleep, she can barely eat. She doesn't know herself. How could she have done that to the woman she—despite everything—loves? And yet how could Helen have dragged her into this stinking quagmire?

People are never what they seem,not even to themselves. Harry Codrington tried to rape her, after all, she reminds herself—and all these years she's managed to deny it. How murky the human mind can be. What other terrible things has Fido managed to forget? What else lies occluded in the back of her thoughts? Her mind's a graveyard where the ground has started buckling; bones heave out of the grass.

The boy puts his head round the door. "Madam? Miss Parkes."

Oh dear God, today of all days.
Fido jumps up, a wide-eyed jack-in-the-box, to offer her visitor a chair.

Bessie Parkes is looking particularly smart this afternoon, for all her plain blue costume; there's a healthy colour to her cheeks. "I must begin by congratulating you."

Fido is winded. And then she understands. "Oh, the
Victoria Magazine,
yes, thank you."

"I've already offered Miss Davies my felicitations on the new enterprise," says Bessie Parkes, "since it was she who had the courtesy to tell me about it."

Fido shrinks at that.

"And now that she's resigning the editorship of the
English Woman's Journal,
I mean to take the helm again myself, as in the early days."

"Marvellous," says Fido feebly.

"As it happens," remarks Bessie Parkes, "I've recently come into a legacy which will allow me to become the principal shareholder, and bear the
Journal
's entire management on my shoulders."

"How fortunate," says Fido, startled. Not that she'll miss those interminable committee meetings—but she can't help feeling there's been a
coup d'etat.

"I want to transform it into a more practical vehicle, to uplift working women. The
Alexandra Magazine and English Woman's Journal,
I was thinking of renaming it," says Bessie Parkes.

Fido represses a smile. To borrow the princess's name is such an obvious echo of the
Victoria.
"How exciting!"

"I'm afraid I'll be obliged to end our printing contract with your press. I'll need lower rates, you see, and a more reliable schedule."

She nods, reckoning the financial loss. "We'll be fighting the good fight on two fronts, then. As sister publications," she adds.

Bessie Parkes's smile is distinctly sour. "Miss Faithfull—are you being wilfully naive?"

"I don't believe I understand you," says Fido.

"The Codrington case—"

"Yes," she gabbles, "I'm really uncommonly sorry that I didn't tell all of you about it beforehand, but you see, there was a misunderstanding."

One tapered eyebrow goes up.

"The solicitor—he gave me the fallacious impression that my name was to be quite kept out of it."

"Miss Faithfull," says Bessie Parkes as if to a child, "you're all over the papers as the woman's chief intimate, and worse."

Her cheeks are on fire. "Much of what they say is pure libel. And I've already taken steps to dissociate myself from Mrs. Codrington somewhat—" She finds herself listening out for a cock crow.

Bessie Parkes brushes that away. "We of the Cause must keep quite clear of anyone who has publicly violated the cardinal rules of morality. It's a thing understood; at least I thought so. One can't touch pitch and not be defiled."

"My friend hasn't been found guilty of anything yet," says Fido, too loudly. Something occurs to her. "And what of Miss Evans? Ten years ago, you and Madame Bodichon made a point of standing by her when she eloped with a married man."

Bessie Parkes's mouth purses. "Marian's circumstances were highly particular; Lewes was only prevented by a legal technicality from getting a divorce so he could marry her. And she's famous not only for her novels but for acting on the highest principle, which is why she's been accepted in society again since. Your Helen Codrington, on the other hand—"

It's the sneering tone that forces Fido to interrupt. "I still owe her something. What of loyalty? What of sisterhood, if you will?"

"Oh, but I won't. Were you thinking of us, of your comrades in the Reform Firm, when you got yourself entangled in this notorious case? Where was your precious
loyalty
and
sisterhood
then?"

Fido clings to the edge of her desk and strains to take a breath. "I deeply regret the publicity. But it should die away soon, as I've no intention of going into the witness box."

Bessie Parkes tilts her small head. "Haven't you been served with a subpoena yet?"

Fido shakes her head.

"Did you or did you not approve that affidavit?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then you'll be obliged to appear, on pain of fine or imprisonment."

Fido sucks her lips in panic. "I mean to write to Mrs. Codrington's solicitor again. There's still time; the case won't come up for several weeks, I understand—"

"Monday, according to my father," says Bessie Parkes crisply.

She's been forgetting that Joseph Parkes is a lawyer. "Monday?" She can hardly form the word. This is Thursday.

"An unexpected reconciliation between the parties in another case has created a sudden opening in the court's schedule."

Fido blanches, gets to her feet. "I—I'm not well."

"Oh, you're hoping a doctor's note will let you off? I doubt that very much, Miss Faithfull." Bessie flips open her watch.

"The Cause means everything to me," sobs Fido, "and I won't be forced into anything that will do it the slightest harm."

"I wonder, have you the slightest grasp of what harm you've done already?" And she sweeps out of the office.

***

F
IDO JUST NEEDS TO GET HOME AND LIE DOWN.
A little steam, a few cigarettes, and surely her lungs will loosen a little.
Monday, Monday.
She won't think that far; she can't spare the breath. Four days to live through, and then whatever comes after. She'll have to take these appalling hours one at a time. The fearlessness of the reformer, the world-changer, has dropped away; she's plain Miss Faithfull of the rectory again, wheezing with fright.

"A clerk was here, from a Mr. Few's chambers," Johnson tells her as soon as she steps through the front door.

Fido stares at her maid. "Did he—did he say what it concerns?"

Johnson shakes her head, neutral as ever. "He has something to put into your own hands, that's all he said. He'll call again this afternoon."

Her pulse stops for a second.
The subpoena.

She can't; she simply can't. It's not just the mortification of standing up in court, in four days' time; Fido believes she could muster the strength for that, if conscience required it. No, it's the choice that lies before her: to damn a man by swearing on oath to what she really can't remember, for all her efforts—or to admit that she can't remember, and has perjured herself, and so destroy her friend's whole case.

Impossible.

She's been putting off answering a note from her favourite sister. She scribbles a reply now, standing at her desk, afraid to sit down in case she loses momentum.

October 4

My dear Esther,

I can't express how ashamed I am that our parents have learned from the newspapers of my reluctant association with this Codrington case. Please assurethem that I hoped to spare them and all the family this distress by keeping my name clear of the business—but in vain.

How sweet of you, Esther, to offer to accompany me to the Matrimonial Causes Court. But I must tell you that I will not be appearing as a witness. I go abroad today and will stay away until the trial's conclusion. If you please, if you hear what's said of me, don't believe any real evil of