Baronet’s noble title more curse than blessing

It would have been back about 1872 that Sir Philip Houghton Clarke purchased several hundred fertile acres on Lulu Island for the bargain price of a dollar an acre.

Despite the fact that the lower Fraser was un-diked and untamed, he invested the whole of his fortune in erecting a house, outbuildings, purchasing equipment and stocking a large herd.

Predictably, the river flooded during seasonal high water, and the baronet found that “with the limited means [left] at his command, combined with his ignorance of farming, there was nothing in the life for him”.

Forced to sell his farm at a substantial loss, he and his “amiable lady” moved to Victoria with what little remained of their fortune. They became very popular although Clarke was unable to find a position and their finances steadily deteriorated.

For two or three years the couple made energetic efforts to turn the tide of misfortune which seemed to have engulfed them. Finally, reduced almost to poverty, they returned to England where Lady Clarke died shortly afterwards.

Alone and by now penniless, Clarke exhausted the charity of old friends. After he’d pawned the last of his family heirlooms, he found himself broke, friendless and hounded by creditors. The final blow came when his eyesight failed and he was plunged into darkness.

It was while bewailing his fate to an acquaintance one evening that hope was rekindled for the first time in years.

Misfortune had dogged his footsteps from London to the Fraser River and back to London, he moaned to his drinking companion: “The fact is, my title has been a hindrance rather than a benefit to me. In my young days I was courted and feted because I had a title and a fair amount of money. When I became poor and asked for work, no one wanted to employ a man with a title in a subordinate position, so I was passed over for men who were not cursed with a baronetcy.”

Somewhat to his surprise, his companion argued that his title held the key to his future. Why, there were many women of means but without pedigree who, he said, would be eager to marry him for his title. Then, upon completion of the marriage vows, each would go their own way as before–Sir Philip Houghton Clarke with a handsome settlement, his “wife” with her new status symbol.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Clarke, pumping the man’s hand. “I wouldn’t object to such an arrangement if it can be made. What good is a title to a poor man, anyhow? But how do I know you are genuine–that you can bring such an arrangement about?”

His new-found friend then introduced himself as, of all things, a marriage broker. He explained: “I have brought scores of people together on just such a basis, and I can get you a wife who will marry you for your title and settle a fixed sum per annum upon you for the balance of your days… I have the right sort of woman in my eye at this moment.”

With that, the obliging broker ordered a bottle and as they discussed the idea in greater detail, the beleaguered baronet’s enthusiasm grew with each sip. By the time they’d finished the bottle, Clarke had agreed to let the broker arrange his marriage to the lady-in-waiting.

Days later, the broker introduced the intended bride, describing Miss Bailey to the unseeing baronet as young, beautiful and accomplished. In reality, Miss Bailey was none of these.

To quote an observer who was blessed with 20-20 vision, she was “a very ordinary looking person indeed… coarse, rude, unaccomplished and dissipated”. To continue in this cynical vein, her most endearing virtue was her money.

Plain, common and unaccomplished she may have been–but she was rich!

The conniving broker tried hard to convince Clarke that Miss Bailey was the perfect woman. However, blind though he may have been, the baronet wasn’t deaf, and he wasn’t without pride. Desperate as he was for money, he couldn’t bring himself to bestow his title upon just anyone, no matter the size of the fortune. He argued that the future Lady Clarke should qualify in one department other than her bank book–in the world of music. As a patron of the arts (in happier days), he must insist that the lady he married be musically inclined. Did Miss Bailey play the piano?

For one horrifying moment the broker saw his scheme and his commission evaporate. Need it be said that Miss Bailey was as much a stranger to the piano as she was to most other finer things of life?

Then the broker had a brainwave. He glibly informed Clarke that Miss Bailey could play the piano not only well but “divinely;” he’d even arrange a private audition.

When the time came for “Miss Bailey” to seat herself before a piano and perform for her audience of one, the scheming broker had a talented stand-in do the honours. The unsuspecting Clarke was overjoyed and asked if she spoke French. Fortunately (or perhaps the broker had seen it coming), the imposter spoke fluent French and it was agreed that the sacred ceremony would be performed immediately upon conclusion of the financial details.

Several days later, Sir Philip Clarke formally and legally accepted Miss Bailey’s hand in marriage at St. George’s Church, Hanover Square, London.

The ceremony became a farce when the blind, befuddled (and likely besotted) baronet was led down the aisle, leaning on the broker’s shoulder and nervously navigating around imaginary obstacles in his path–much to the delight of those in attendance, who giggled, then laughed aloud at the pathetic spectacle.

Clarke, intent upon completing the ceremony and receiving his settlement, seemed to be oblivious to his audience. When the blushing bride, resplendent in an expensive gown and white flowers made her appearance, one wag suggested that the latter were a tribute to purity past.

In short order, the solemn Church of England service was completed and Clarke was asked to place the ring upon the bride’s hand. This task had to be performed by the ever-ready broker as Clarke, in his excitement, failed to find her finger. Then, guiding her husband’s uncertain footsteps, the bride led him out of the church and through a crowd of grinning street Arabs and curiosity seekers to a waiting carriage.

The reception, if not the wedding, was a complete success, the former Miss Bailey showing herself to be an excellent hostess, and the champagne flowed freely. Hours later, the exuberant couple and the broker bade farewell to the celebrants and proceeded to Clarke’s modest lodgings, where he was deposited without fanfare.

“Lady Clarke” and the broker then went their own ways.

Days passed without the promised settlement being paid. Clarke, alarmed, accosted the broker. When that scoundrel bluntly informed him that no money was forthcoming, Clarke realized that he’d been taken. He’d sold his last real asset, his family title, for an empty promise. Heartbroken, he retired to his cell-like apartment.

Shortly after, a curious advertisement appeared in a London society paper, the advertiser identifying himself as an aged baronet, in necessitous circumstances, who respectfully solicited assistance from the public: “If this appeal should fail he [had] no recourse save the workhouse.” Cash donations could be left at the paper’s office.

That Clarke’s embarrassing appeal failed to draw much response was evidenced by his again seeking out the swindling marriage broker, only to learn that he’d left for the continent–as had, coincidentally, no doubt, Lady Clarke.

But for his creditors, Clarke was again on his own.

On those rare occasions when desperation forced him to venture forth, he stumbled through the streets of London unaided, clutching at the buildings as he inched his way alone, terrified of having to cross streets for fear of being run down.

He told his landlady that he wished he were dead.

Having dishonoured his family title, he prayed for death but couldn’t find the courage to hasten his departure from his hell-on-earth. He became feebler, more withdrawn. Restricted to his room, he survived on the meagre fare offered by sympathetic neighbours. Then he took to his bed.

“One morning in the fall of 1898,” our source tells us, “his landlady, while about to enter his room, slipped on a sticky substance near the door and almost fell”. It was blood and, hastening inside, she found Clarke in his bed, dead by his own hand.

Having left no heirs, he was the 11^th and last of his family, the 184-year-old title dying with him. As for the second ‘Lady Clarke,’ her ill-gotten title was not transferable and passed with her.

Ironically, even appropriately, she had an equally unhappy ending.

Several years after Clarke’s suicide, she made the news when she was sued by a young man for breach of contract, she apparently having left him standing at the altar. The suit was dropped but Lady Clarke succumbed shortly after of “a general breakdown, brought on by strenuous endeavours to keep up the dignity of her title in a round of unhallowed pleasures”.

The baronetcy that had been Sir Philip Houghton Clarke’s curse had also been that of the unscrupulous former Miss Bailey.