Beginning in late September, 1854, Edward Pierce began to meet Miss Elizabeth Trent on riding excursions in Rotten Row. The first encounter was apparently accidental but later, by a sort of unstated agreement, they occurred with regularity.
Elizabeth Trent’s life began to form itself around these afternoon meetings: she spent all morning preparing for them, and all evening discussing them; her friends complained that she talked incessantly of Edward; her father complained of his daughter’s insatiable demand for new dresses. She seemed, he said, “to require as a necessity a new garment every day, and she would prefer two.”
The unattractive young woman apparently never thought it strange that Mr. Pierce should single her out from among the throng of stunning beauties on Rotten Row; she was completely captivated by his attentions. At the trial, Pierce summarized their conversations as “light and trivial,” and recounted only one in detail.
This occurred sometime in the month of October, 1854. It was a time of political upheaval and military scandal; the nation had suffered a severe blow to its self-esteem. The Crimean War was turning into a disaster. When it began, J. B. Priestley notes, “the upper classes welcomed the war as a glorified large-scale picnic in some remote and romantic place. It was almost as if the Black Sea had been opened to tourism. Wealthy officers like Lord Cardigan decided to take their yachts. Some commanders’ wives insisted upon going along, accompanied by their personal maids. Various civilians cancelled their holidays elsewhere to follow the army and see the sport.”
The sport quickly became a debacle. The British troops were badly trained, badly supplied, and ineptly led. Lord Raglan, the military commander, was sixty-five and “old for his age.” Raglan often seemed to think he was still fighting Waterloo, and referred to the enemy as “the French,” although the French were now his allies. On one occasion he was so confused that he took up an observation post behind the Russian enemy lines. The atmosphere of “aged chaos” deepened, and by the middle of the summer even the wives of officers were writing home to say that “nobody appears to have the least idea what they are about.”
By October, this ineptitude culminated in Lord Cardigan’s charge of the Light Brigade, a spectacular feat of heroism which decimated three-quarters of his forces in a successful effort to capture the wrong battery of enemy guns.
Clearly the picnic was over, and nearly all upper-class Englishmen were profoundly concerned. The names of Cardigan, Raglan, and Lucan were on everyone’s lips. But on that warm October afternoon in Hyde Park, Mr. Pierce gently guided Elizabeth Trent into a conversation about her father.
“He was most fearfully nervous this morning,” she said.
“Indeed?” Pierce said, trotting alongside her.
“He is nervous every morning when he must send the gold shipments to the Crimea. He is a different man from the very moment he arises. He is distant and preoccupied in the extreme.”
“I am certain he bears a heavy responsibility,” Pierce said.
“So heavy, I fear he may take to excessive drink,” Elizabeth said, and laughed a little.
“I pray you exaggerate, Madam.”
“Well, he acts strangely, and no mistake. You know he is entirely opposed to the consumption of any alcohol before nightfall.”
“I do, and most sensible, too.”
“Well,” Elizabeth Trent continued, “I suspect him of breaking his own regulation, for each morning of the shipments he goes alone to the wine cellar, with no servants to accompany him or to hold the gas lanterns. He is insistent upon going alone. Many times my stepmother has chided him that he may stumble or suffer some misfortune on the steps to the basement. But he will have none of her entreaties. And he spends some time in the cellar, and then emerges, and makes his journey to the bank.”
“I think,” Pierce said, “that he merely checks the cellar for some ordinary purpose. Is that not logical?”
“No, indeed,” Elizabeth said, “for at all times he relies upon my stepmother to deal in the stocking and care of the cellar, and the decanting of wines before dinners, and such matters.”
“Then his manner is most peculiar. I trust,” Pierce said gravely, “that his responsibilities are not placing an overgreat burden upon his nervous system.”