The Price of Murder (38 page)

Her eyes narrowed as she gave thought to what I had just said. “Hmmm,” said she, perhaps in imitation of Sir John, “interesting.”

And indeed I thought her interest quite interesting—specially when, a week or two later, she rose to her feet and addressed the three of us who remained at the dinner table.

“I have an announcement to make,” said she, as all eyes turned toward her. “I am pregnant.”

No three words could have caused a greater stir among the three who heard it. After a moment’s stunned silence, in which we did naught but gawk in amaze, we let forth a confused babble of comment, complaint, and questions.

“Oh, Clarissa,” said Lady Fielding, “it cannot be! Tell us it is not so.”

“What are you saying?” I wailed.

“My dear girl,” said Sir John, “surely there’s some mistake!”

But, tight-lipped and erect, she gave no hint that any mistake had been made.

“Who is the father of your child?” Sir John demanded, turning in my direction. “I must have it from you!”

“Well, it’s certainly not my son, Tom! She’s not near big enough for that. How far along are you, Clarissa?” Then Lady F., too, turned to me.

(It seemed, reader, that I stood accused without so much as an opportunity to defend myself. Surely you understand that I would not skip over such an event with no mention whatever. In short, reader, I knew I could not be the father of Clarissa’s coming event for the obvious reason. Though we had come close on a couple of occasions, one or the other of us two had shied at the last moment. Would she—could she—have found a lover bolder than I? Then what a wanton she was!)

Thrusting out her jaw, Lady Fielding stared at me in a manner most severe. “Jeremy,” said she, “I am shocked. In truth, I had thought better of you.”

“But,” said I, “but . . . but—”

“You’ve disappointed me, lad,” said Sir John in a deep and sorrowful tone. “Alas, I have little more to say to you than that.”

Clasping her hands, Lady Fielding raised her eyes most dramatically, as if to the heavens above.

“I admit,” said she, “that I had thought that perhaps someday in the distant future, you, Jeremy, and you, Clarissa, might marry. I had even hoped as much, for after all, you have so much in common. But this . . . now . . . why, you are both children. There is so much that you lack.”

At that, my pride prompted me to rebel. I would not allow her to dismiss me, nor for that matter, dismiss Clarissa, as a proper candidate for marriage. I knew well that children of the gentry and the nobility married even younger when money or land was concerned. And whatever had passed between Clarissa and her secret lover was something that would be settled between her and me. So I, too, rose and, standing cross the table from my intended, responded to Lady Fielding.

“You say that there is much that we lack,” said I to her. “What is it that you mean by that? What do we lack?”

“What indeed! You lack all. You have no experience of life.”

“I daresay that, between us, Clarissa and I have greater experience of life than any others our age who are not locked away in Newgate, or not actively engaged in lives of crime or—” gesturing across the table—“harlotry.”

“Be careful, young man, you had best not suggest such things with regard to her. Show a little respect.”

“
Respect?
I have naught but respect for her. She can at this moment cook near as well as Annie. You remarked but minutes ago on the excellent quality of the meal just eaten. She is intelligent, clever, able to do sums with the best. From the very beginning she proved invaluable to you as your secretary. You have often said you could not do without her there at the Magdalene Home. And she—”

“Enough!” said Lady Fielding, interrupting with a wave of her hand. “Let us talk plain, Jeremy. And the plain truth is that you simply have not money enough to keep her—much less her
and
a child.”

I was ready for that and expecting it. Yet as I opened my mouth to respond, Clarissa leaped in, so to speak, and spoke in my defense.

“Ah, Lady Fielding,” said she, “so he would have said himself—and did, less than a month ago. He reasoned with me. When I brought marriage up to him, he argued just as you have and said he would not have money enough to marry until he had years of practice as a barrister behind him.”

“Exactly!” shouted Lady Fielding.

“But since he spoke thus, two things have happened,” Clarissa continued. “First, a fortunate wager made by him at Newmarket brought him one hundred fifty-one pounds and thirteen shillings. Do I have the amount correct, Jeremy?”

“To the shilling,” said I.

“A hundred and . . . Jack, what do you know of this?” said she to Sir John.

A sigh. “It seems to be true.”

“In addition,” Clarissa went on, “we discovered after Mr. Marsden had died that he left behind a will. In it, he left a sum of twenty pounds to Jeremy and the likelihood that five more will be coming to him when Mr. Marsden’s possessions are sold. Not near so impressive as his winnings at Newmarket but it brings the total close to two hundred pounds, you see. Many marry with far less.”

Lady Fielding turned once again to Sir John. “Jack?”

“True, Kate.”

It was her turn to sigh. “Clarissa, you know that I want only good for you, but, truly, two hundred pounds may seem a great deal, but it isn’t. We must marry you off, however. That much is certain.”

“Ah,” said Clarissa, “but I have a plan, and it should cost no more to execute than what is presently spent.” She explained that she and I would marry and occupy the large bedroom at the end of the hall, which she had shared first with Annie and then with Molly. Clarissa would continue to cook and, in exchange, would be given board and room for herself and for me. (This was essentially the present arrangement.) But I would assume all responsibilities that had previously been Mr. Marsden’s, and for that would be paid his salary.

“But what about the baby?” Lady Fielding wailed.

“Ah yes, the baby. When he or she arrives, we shall have prepared Jeremy’s old room atop all the rest for him. Now, how does that sound?”

“Rather complicated,” said Lady F. “Will you be working no more at the Magdalene Home?”

“I’ll work there as needed.”

“Well . . . what do you think, Jack?”

“It does seem fair, don’t you think, Kate? After all, Jeremy does deserve something if he is to do old Marsden’s job.”

“But he’s only a boy. To pay him the same seems wrong. Mr. Marsden worked for years as your clerk.”

“Still, he does the job better than Mr. Marsden ever did.”

“Oh.” She said nothing more for a time. “Well,” said she at last, “let the banns be published then. We may as well do this right. Clarissa, when do you think the baby . . . ?”

“Not for quite some time.”

“That’s good. There’s something rather vulgar about those weddings where the bride is in her eighth or ninth month. If you’ll excuse me now, I’ll go upstairs. I’ve a lot to plan for.”

We sat down and watched her go, saying not a word one to the other. Sir John listened carefully to his wife’s footsteps ascending the stairs and waited till he heard the door to their bedroom close. Then did he lean forward.

“It went perfectly,” he whispered to us. “And by the bye, if you need more ammunition, just ask her when
she
was first married.” He paused for emphasis. “Just past her sixteenth birthday, as I understand it.” Then did he wave his good evening and himself start for the stairs.

I was much confused by his behavior. He had at first seemed darkly disapproving of me. But now his manner was secretive, even (one might say) conspiratorial. I was equally confused by Clarissa. She grasped both my hands in hers of a sudden and squeezed them for all she was worth.

“Oh, Jeremy,” said she, “you were quite wonderful. You stood up to her so beautifully. How was it you put it? ‘Respect? I have naught but respect for her’—and then setting out to name my achievements. I fear I blushed as never before, but none seemed to notice.”

“That is all well and good, Clarissa,” said I. “But you must now account to me for your condition. I mean how did you . . . that is to say, we never . . . tell me then, who is the father?”

She then gave me a puzzled look that ended in laughter.

“You goose,” she whispered, “there is no father. My ‘condition,’ as you put it, is what it has always been.”

“Then you’re
not
pregnant?”

“Shh, no, of course not.”

“Oh, I’m so glad.” And truly, reader, I was glad. I felt as if a great weight had been lifted from me.

Clarissa said naught for a short space of time. And then: “Jeremy, you’ve no idea how proud I am of you and your praise of me when you did not even know that I was lying.”

“Well, I was not completely convinced—just, well, alarmed. But I thought that whatever happened, we would work it out between us. We always will, you know.”

“Oh, Jeremy, I’ll make a good wife for you. You may be sure of it. Sir John says so himself. He was in on this right from the start. It was his idea to keep you in the dark.”

“It was? But why?”

“He thought that you would react more emphatically— and you certainly did react in just such a way. It was all done, you see, to deal with Lady Fielding.”

“I don’t quite understand,” said I.

“Well, you said yourself that Mr. Ogden had asked Elizabeth a question of that sort to plant in the minds of the jurymen that indeed she might be pregnant. I wished to plant in the mind of Lady F that though I may not now be pregnant, I might soon be so, if we two remained living under the same roof and within easy kissing distance.”

Whereupon, having spoken thus, she jumped up, ran round the table, and kissed me soundly upon the lips.

“And when will you tell Lady Fielding of your mistake?” I asked.

“Oh, eventually,” said she, “eventually.”

 
Now, having all but ended this tale, I offer but two post scripts. The first, relating in a manner to what I have just written, concerns Elizabeth Hooker.

Seven months or a bit less after denying to Mr. Ogden that she was pregnant, she delivered a healthy eight-pound baby boy. Though efforts were made to keep the birth secret, it was not long before the matter was made known to the public by word of mouth. It also became known to the law, and Elizabeth was brought to trial on the charge of perjury. It was all handled very quickly. She might claim—and indeed she did—that she had simply been mistaken in most of what she had said from the witness box—but to be two months pregnant and nevertheless be ignorant of it was more than this jury chose to believe. She was sentenced to five years transportation to the colony of Connecticut, where she was taken into the home of a Methodist minister and worked her time as a servant. Her child was adopted into the Turbott family. Her former employer thus had the son he had long hoped for.

Finally, my second post script is little but a rumor. I heard from Mr. Patley that far up in Yorkshire someone very like Mr. Deuteronomy by description had founded a stud farm. He was happy up there in the north. Pegasus, it was said, was even happier.