Forty-Nine

A Desperate Dilemma

Ranelagh Pleasure Gardens, Chelsea

Lady Messingham was awe-inspired upon entering the Rotunda, the jewel of Ranelagh Pleasure Gardens. Hundreds of crystal chandeliers blazed with thousands of lights amidst the melodic echoes of a full orchestra, the brilliance and charm of which brought to mind an enchanted castle. So nearly overwhelmed by its magnificence was she that she didn’t at first remark the gentleman’s approach.

“It has the same effect upon me whenever I come here,” said Mr. Pitt, offering his arm.

“It takes one’s breath away.”

“You should see it in the evening, my lady. I’d love nothing more than to show you its splendor.”

“This is quite a public venue for our meeting,” she remarked to his chuckle.

“You fear tongues will wag? I confess I am guilty for designing it so. I will resort to almost any means to sway you in my favor, even gossip.”

“A shameless confession, Mr. Pitt! But it is after all only tea.”

A liveried footman escorted them to one of the private boxes far above the orchestra. She gazed down into the pit and closed her eyes to the melodious strains of strings, harpsichord, and oboe in a Handel concerto. “Heavenly.” She sighed and opened her eyes to find Pitt gazing at her. Discomfited, she looked away.

“You have something to tell me, sir?”

“Not so much to tell as to give to you, my dear lady.”

He was briefly interrupted by the arrival of the footman with an enormously laden tea tray. A miniature of the Rotunda evoked in sugar provided the backdrop for the sumptuous selection of fresh and sugared fruits, trifle, lemon-cheese tarts, sponge cake, walnut cake, chocolate roll, pound cake, tea cakes, jams, jellies, creams, and various cheeses. It was an array of gastronomic delicacies to tempt even the most fickle palate.

After pouring their tea and taking a delicate bite of sponge cake, she dabbed her mouth with the fine linen and prompted, “You said you wanted to give me something?”

“Ah, my heart,” he cried in mock dismay. “I confess to the selfish hope that I might have extended the fleeting pleasure of your company before tending to our business, but I would not prolong your unease to save my life.” He reached into the deep pockets of his coat and retrieved two scrolled documents.

“The first of these is a writ signed and sealed by the Lord High Chancellor. As you may guess, some manner of compromise was required. Without tiring you with tedious details, the Chancery has restored all rights and privileges according to his station.”

“Then the court decided in his favor?”

“Not quite, my lady. As I said, compromise was required. The courtesy title Viscount Uxeter is to be bestowed upon Philip Drake, thus restoring his privilege. The true title and entail, however, is to be conferred upon the minor child, Anna Sophia Drake, sole surviving issue of Edmund Drake. The child will become Countess of Hastings in her own right upon her twenty-first year. In the interim, she will be under her uncle’s guardianship, who will also maintain control of her estate.” He handed her the document.

She gaped at it in astonishment. “You said his privilege is restored. You mean he is free?”

“He should be released by the morrow.”

“And the other document? What is that?”

“A judgment from the Court of Common Law that may be used to pursue a petition of divorce with the Ecclesiastical Court. As to the Act of Parliament, if the church grants the divorce mensa et thoro and you still wish to marry, I pledge my full support of the divorce vinculo matromonii.”

“I can’t believe you have done this for him.”

His earnest gaze arrested her. “No, my lady. I have done this for you.” He took her hand. “Are you certain this is the path you desire?”

“You refer to our prior conversation?”

“I do.”

“But you know I don’t love you. I’ve given my heart to another.”

“Love, my dear, is irrelevant in a political marriage. I seek an equal partner. Affection would grow in time.”

“And I need time to consider. But pray know this, Mr. Pitt—whatever my decision, I’ll ever hold you in the very highest esteem.”

***

Lady Messingham entered the nave of Westminster Abbey with a deep curtsey before kissing the Bishop’s ring. “My Lord Bishop, thank you for granting my audience.”

“’Tis a welcome distraction, my child,” he replied. “But we have met before, have we not?”

“It has been more than twenty years. I am astounded by your memory, your Excellency. My father, The Very Reverend Thomas Barnage, was the rural Dean of Wiltshire.”

“I knew him well, an excellent man and a credit to the cloth.”

“He always felt his calling was to shepherd his beloved Wiltshire flock.”

“Just as mine has been to restore this sacred House of God,” the bishop said.

Refusing promotion to the second-highest ecclesiastical position in the land, Bishop Wilcocks had instead followed his passion to restore the dilapidated Westminster Abbey. With over two decades spent on his labor of love, the western face of the thirteenth-century church was finally complete, its new towers and windows remarked upon as objects of consummate beauty.

“Are you familiar with our abbey?” he asked.

“No, Your Excellency,” she replied. “Although I have long admired its beauty, I confess I have never been inside its walls.”

“Then pray walk with me, child, and I will show her to you.”

“Her?”

“Of course. The word of God calls the church the bride of Christ, and if she is this bride, I have spent twenty years of my life on the bridal clothes!” He chuckled.

The frail octogenarian gallantly offered his arm, proudly describing the history and architecture of the breathtaking structure and singling out various objets d’art along their stroll within the church walls.

“It has consumed me, the restoration of this place. It has been my heart’s desire to see it completed before my death, but it now appears a never-ending travail.”

“I thought you were finished when the west towers were completed last year.”

“So thought I, but now several rafters in the cloister are in such a state of decay as to threaten a portion of the roof. Moreover, our funds are depleted. There is no more money without an appeal to Parliament, which could take months. But enough of my troubles.” The bishop sighed. “What moves you to seek out such an old clergyman?”

“I am in need of counsel,” she said.

“Go on,” he encouraged.

“I must beg your leave to speak plainly.”

He gave a paternal nod.

She lowered her gaze. “I am with child and the father belongs to another.”

“Adultery is a sin, my child.” He spoke without judgment, stating the cold fact.

“While I do not deny my sin, Your Excellency, it is not quite as you think. The man of whom I speak was never truly wed. That is, the marriage was performed in a highly irregular fashion. The bride was coerced by her guardian, and no license was procured.”

“But was it sanctioned by the church?”

“It was a Fleet wedding.”

“I see.” The bishop frowned. “Although the church does not sanction such unions, the Common Law does recognize them.”

“But there is more. The wife has now deserted her husband.”

“Mayhap I should ask if you understand the lengthy process, and the only way by which by this man would ever be free to marry you.”

“I do. A petition for divorce must be preceded by a civil suit for criminal conversation and a judgment awarded before any petition can be made to the Ecclesiastical Courts.”

“But these requests are seldom granted,” he said. The church is rightfully reluctant to sever what God hath joined, and even when granted it is little more than a legal separation. A private Act of Parliament is required to completely sever the marital bonds. Should you persist on this road, there is no guarantee of the outcome you wish. Have you sought God’s guidance in the matter, child?”

“I have, and my time runs short.”

They had arrived at the brass gates opening to Henry VII’s Lady Chapel at the far eastern end of the abbey. When they entered the chapel, Sukey was struck by the colorful banners and heraldic arms displayed along all of the walls.

“This chapel was built to honor the Virgin Mary, and the ceiling is a work of art in itself,” the bishop said with pride. “It is one of the loveliest known examples of a pendant fan vault ceiling. Do you love this man, the true father of your child?” he asked.

“Against my better judgment, I have loved him since the moment we met.”

“Love is not often the basis of marriage, although it is unquestionably the strongest,” he said. “I wed only once in my life, and it was indeed for love, but I lost my dear Jane twenty-six years ago. I could never think of loving another as I loved her, thus I gave the remainder of my heart to the abbey.”

“You did love her deeply,” she said in sympathy. A long moment of quiet ensued. “He has hurt me… deeply,” she said, “but I also could never pledge my heart to another.”

“Then, my dear, you must let that still, small voice be your guide.”

“If I am to go with my heart, Your Excellency, I must beg your support. I have need of your influence, and you have a roof in need of repair. Perhaps there we might help one another?”

“Sadly, my dear, that would require a great deal of money.”

She wondered which that he referred to—the influence or the roof. Nevertheless, she opened her cloak to finger the diamonds glittering about her throat. “What if I had in mind to make a gift to the abbey, a charitable donation, enough to fully replace the rafters?”

He regarded her for a long thoughtful moment before breaking into a conspiratorial smile. “Then, my dear,” he patted her hand, “if it is truly as you say, that the union was never solemnized by the church nor consummated in the marriage bed, mayhap this process in the Ecclesiastical Court could be expedited after all.”