Thursday, 5 October 2023

First chapters

  Foreword

   Charles Huntingdon was never a politician of the first rank, and even the great Sir Lewis Namier, in his famous surveys of Parliament in the 1760s, could find little to say about him. I knew scarcely more than just his name before the document I am publishing here came into my hands. 

   I was doing the rounds of the Cambridge colleges and the university library, conducting research into eighteenth century politics, when a young trainee assistant librarian, Ms. Whitmore, produced for me something she had found gathering the dust of centuries in the depths of what is euphemistically known as the “reserve collection”. It was a large wooden box, catalogued as having been deposited in 1775 by “Charles Huntingdon, M.P.”, with instructions that it should not be opened until after his death and that of his wife; but as far as Ms. Whitmore was able to ascertain, it had never in fact been opened since it came into the college’s possession. The box proved to contain the memoirs of the said Charles Huntingdon.

   Although Huntingdon was an obscure politician, he met many of the most important people of that period. He has left us descriptions of them, and he also casts a fresh light on the daily lives of the landed classes of his day. The most startling aspect of his memoirs, however, is that he reveals details of some extraordinary adventures in which he took part; and after reading these I can well understand why he did not want them to become widely known until much later.   

  It is for this reason that I am bringing his memoirs to the attention of the public for the first time. Some episodes, which appear to be unrelated to the main story, have been relegated to an appendix at the conclusion. With the aim of attracting a wider readership, I have modernised the spelling and punctuation and broken up the narrative into short chapters, for which the titles are entirely my own. The illustrations, which show various eighteenth century scenes, are also my choice.

  My thanks are due above all to Ms. Abigail Whitmore, without whose encouragement and advice my task would have been impossible. 

                                                       P.G.S.


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Chapter One: I find a friend in London


   My story begins in London in November of 1760. The city was full of excitement, for the war with France, which had begun so disastrously four years earlier, was bringing almost daily reports of victories on land and sea in all parts of the world. But now His Majesty King George II, who had reigned over us for so many years, had died, and his grandson was our new monarch: King George III, a man in his early twenties, no older than me. 

A new age was dawning, and I had my own reasons to be happy because, unexpectedly and through no merit of my own, I was about to become a man of wealth!

  It was a cold morning of heavy cloud, and I was walking in the Strand, when a carriage passed nearby and I heard a man’s voice halloo me. I turned as the carriage stopped, the window was opened and the same voice exclaimed, “It’s Charles Huntingdon, is it not?” I saw it was Lord Staines, the only son of the Earl of Teesdale. I recognised him from our college at Cambridge University; though I had then been merely a poor scholar hoping to find a living in the Church, and he had been far above me in station. We poor scholars had had to wait on the young noblemen in Hall, and neither expected nor received many thanks in return. I was surprised that he had remembered me at all.

                                      (The President's lodge at Queens' College, Cambridge)

   His manner was most friendly; in marked contrast to how he had often behaved at the college. He asked me what I was about, and I explained my recent great good fortune: that I had become the heir of an aunt, Mrs Andrew, a widowed lady without children who had resided near the town of Bereton, north of Mulchester, where she owned extensive properties; that I had not been long in London and knew little of the great metropolis, but was on my way to see the banker, Mr Coutts, and then the lawyers at Lincoln’s Inn, to discuss my inheritance.

  Staines congratulated me, and said, “I must go now, but meet me this afternoon at Brown’s club, and tell me more. It’s not far from here; between the Savoy and St Clement’s church." With that he instructed his coachman to drive on, and clattered away across the paving stones.

 

   Having concluded my business for the morning I made my way to Brown’s club. I had never previously heard of that establishment, but had no great difficulty in locating it. I found a substantial room with a wooden floor and a high ceiling. A fire was blazing in a wide grate, and a large kettle was hung above it. At one end was an enclosed area where coffee was being prepared. A dozen or so gentlemen sat around tables, drinking and smoking pipes while they talked together. Newspapers were laid out to be read and there were coloured engravings on the walls. Waiters trotted to and fro with coffee pots.

   A look around the company told me that Staines was not present. One or two of the gentlemen glanced in my direction and then returned to their own affairs. I stood irresolute in the doorway, uncertain as to what to do. After what seemed like an age, a waiter approached me and politely asked me my business. When I informed him that Lord Staines had asked me to meet him there, he ushered me to sit at a table in a corner while I awaited his lordship’s arrival.

                                 (An 18th century coffee-house)

     No-one took further notice of me, so I remained silent and listened snatches of the conversation of the other gentlemen as they discussed the latest news of the war. I had, of course, followed reports in the newspapers of the great battles, and I knew of Mr William Pitt, the Secretary of State who was planning the war against France, and hoped I might learn more. I was interested to hear that some of those present thought the war must end soon, lest the costs became ruinous. They also spoke of our new King, though none of them had ever met him. But soon talk then turned to their own affairs, and to the new plays, and scandalous gossip, and my attention wandered.

  I wondered about Lord Staines. I was surprised that he should care about me. At our college he had been an inhabitant of a different and higher world, but perhaps now that I was about to be the owner of a significant landed estate, he might consider me a friend. I had come to the city alone, and if I had now gained a friend who could advise and guide me, my life would become far more enjoyable.

   I assembled together the scattered recollections I had of him. He was slender in his build, and shorter than me. His eyes were blue. He had a charming smile, though he seldom revealed it; preferring to appear solemn even when he was joking. He was always the central figure in any gathering. I never heard him raise his voice in anger; nor did he ever appear hasty or flustered. Occasionally he was polite towards us humble servitors, but at other times he was rude and sneering. He could be scathing in his denunciations of other men, usually when they were absent, or when he wished to display his wit to his numerous acolytes. As was common with young noblemen at the university, he left without taking a degree, and I had heard that his father the Earl had then purchased him a commission in a cavalry regiment and he had joined our allied army in Germany. That being the case, I wondered why he was in London, and not in uniform, with the war still raging. I was still pondering this point when Staines himself entered.

    He appeared soon after three o’clock, came to sit beside me and immediately summoned a waiter. “Why have you not served my friend with coffee?” he demanded. “Well then: bring some immediately!” he continued, interrupting the servant’s stuttering apologies.

   We began our conversation by exchanging some trivial reminiscences of our times at the college. He dismissed the institution as useless, and was contemptuous of the scholarship of the dons. “I would rate my years there," he said, “As the most unprofitable period of my life, redeemed only by the pleasurable company of my companions. You should have joined us!” We had all heard of the drinking and debauchery supposed to have taken place in Lord Staines’s rooms in a part of the college known as “Holy Joe’s”, after an ancient statue of St. Joseph that stood there (“A fitting place for a sainted cuckold”, someone had said). I had never been invited to join the young noblemen in their pleasures, but did not point this out.

   He continued in this vein for a while, with witty dissections of the character and habits of our more eccentric dons. During this discourse, to which I contributed no more than an occasional word, I observed that gentlemen at an adjacent table had interrupted their talk to listen to him, and were laughing. Lord Staines had always enjoyed performing before an appreciative audience.

   Then we fell to talking of the future. He commiserated with me on the death of my aunt, Mrs Andrew; but I explained to him that she was in reality a more distant relation, a cousin of my late mother; I had not set eyes on her since I was a small child, and was as surprised as anyone to find myself named as her heir. He replied that Mrs Andrew was not unknown to his family, for his father also owned lands around Bereton. He had wondered who would inherit the Andrew estate, and he was glad it was me, rather than a stranger.

   “And now”, he added, “we must now be considered neighbours; for my father’s country seat, Maybury, is in the same county, and no great distance away. I shall make sure that my father invites you there, once you are established”.

      He asked me how I lived now. I said that since the death of both my parents I had no permanent residence, but that at present I lodged in Crown Street, Westminster, and that the bankers allowed me £30 a quarter in expectation of my eventual inheritance; but I was experiencing frustrating delays in the sorting through of my aunt’s investments in the Funds. Staines said that his father’s attorney and man of business was in town, and if necessary he would instruct him to help me.

   “His name is Jarrett”, he said, “He is a most ingenious fellow, and I would back him to navigate a way through the most tangled labyrinths of the law, even if blindfolded!”

    I thanked him for the offer of assistance, and said that as soon as everything was settled I proposed to travel up to Bereton to inspect my new property, and perhaps reside there for a while. At that he shook his head and laughed, saying that the country was no place for any young man of spirit, that I would quickly find it dull and tedious.

   I asked him what he knew of Bereton.

   “I have never set foot there”, he replied, “Nor do I propose to do so! I know only what my father has told me. It is an ancient, decayed town. I fear you will find no gentleman of taste or refinement there, for most of the so-called gentry in the county are in reality little better than farmers, working their own fields and never come to town. Believe me, my father knows them only too well! They have ridiculous names like “Sir Heatherbrain Fitzbooby”, and are as ignorant as their peasants. Clowns and boors, every one! All they seek in life is to eat and drink to excess and to hunt foxes!” I wondered whether the listening gentlemen would take offence at this, but they merely chuckled. They must have considered themselves to be of a superior breed to the country folk.

   “The town elects two members to the Parliament. One of these is Sir James Wilbrahim who is a typical specimen of the breed I have described. He is a stupid old Tory and a notorious Jacobite, and seldom comes to London.”

   “A Jacobite, you say?”

    “Oh yes! You may be amazed that there are still such benighted men in our nation, but I assure you that numbers still lurk in the depths of the country. Sir James Wilbrahim is one. You will doubtless meet him when you visit Bereton, and I wish you joy of him! The other Member, Mr Bailey, is a friend of my father. At the last election, Wilbrahim and Bailey were returned unopposed without a poll, which saved my father any further expenditure of money, though he had already spent vast sums. You will not meet Bailey there: he now rarely leaves his home in Hampstead.”

   A Jacobite, I thought: a supporter of the exiled Stuart who calls himself King James III, and of his son Charles, who had led a rebellion back in 1745, when I had been a child and too young to comprehend anything about it. It all seemed so long ago, and the cause so hopeless that I was surprised that its supporters still lived.

   Lord Staines continued. “As for your aunt’s house, which is now yours: I believe it is in a hamlet to the west of the town, but I know nothing about it. I cannot imagine that you will find it anything but old and ugly in its design and furnishing. No: once you have viewed your new properties and settled your affairs there, I warrant you will quickly return to London!”

   I said to Staines that I understood he had served in the army. At this his face grew dark, and lowering his voice so that he should not be overheard he asked me whether I knew anything of the recent battle of Minden, in Germany. I replied that I had heard the name, but that having only recently arrived in town, I knew no details.

   “Well then”, he told me with an unusual degree of bitterness in his voice, “I must tell you that Lord George Sackville, who commanded our cavalry and was my patron and friend, was accused of cowardice for failing to charge home with his men when ordered to do so. I was there, as his aide-de-camp, and I knew the accusation to be most villainously unjust, for the orders he had received made no sense at all. So when he was dismissed from the army at the express command of the King himself, was subjected to public humiliation and had his private life traduced in the vilest rumours, I resigned my commission forthwith and came home. I must beg you in all earnestness never to mention the subject again”.

                              (A cartoon of the battle of Minden)


   I thought it best to say nothing, but to wait for him to regain his composure. This he quickly did, remarking that the war would soon be over and that such matters could then be forgotten.  More cheerful now in his manner, he asked me how I liked our great capital. I replied that at first, having never lived in any town larger than Cambridge, I had been bemused by the immense bustling crowds, the constant noise, the dirt and all-pervading smells. He laughed and said that this was a common feeling among those newly arrived from the country, but that he would wager that ere long I, like him, would never wish to live anywhere else in England. He further told me that now I was about to become rich, I should live appropriately; and that he would instruct me in the fashionable life of the town that my newfound wealth had opened up to me.

 

   Realising that my life was about to change, I resolved to start a journal. Reading now through such scattered pages as have survived, I recall how the next few weeks were passed in endless activity, as Lord Staines endeavoured to reform my way of life. He conducted me first to his tailor, and commanded the man to make me two new suits of clothes, one red and one green, richly embroidered and with silver buttons. The tailor measured me and assured me that the garments would be ready without delay. I also paid six guineas for a very splendid waistcoat of golden silk, embroidered with tiny flowers and birds in vivid colours. To go with these I acquired a fine tricorn hat with lace, stockings of the best silk, shoes with silver buckles, and finally two bag wigs tied with a black ribbon in the latest fashion, which cost twelve guineas. The tradesmen treated me with a most gratifying respect that verged on servility. I also provided myself with a gold-topped cane, a watch for twenty guineas and a snuffbox of tortoiseshell and silver. The only one of these vanities that I still retain is a very handsome silver-mounted sword with an elaborate hilt of cut steel, which was purchased from the shop of Mr Jefferys, sword-cutter to His Majesty, and cost ten guineas. It was only a toy sword, worn just for show; and I did not know how to use it, never having had a fencing lession in my life, but I had never before owned a sword, and I contemplated it every day with a degree of pleasure. I would play with it in my rooms, to the alarm of my landlady. I felt myself now fully equipped to parade through the best parts of our capital city.  

                                              (A young gentleman)

   I was not required to pay any money at the time for these purchases. Some of the tradesmen were unwilling to grant me credit, since they did not know me, but Lord Staines said he and his father would personally vouch for me, and this was generally accepted. I thus piled up debt after debt in a very short time. I thought little of economy then, but I was later grateful that I did not follow Staines’s advice to change my lodgings to a fashionable place on Pall Mall. That would have cost me £200 a year, and I pleaded that I was living very comfortably for little more than a tenth of that, with a landlady who sewed the ruffles on my shirt without asking for payment, and had discovered a tavern nearby where I could dine off a good beefsteak for little more than a shilling. Staines shook his head at this, but did not press me.

   Eventually he announced that I looked a proper gentleman, fit to meet his friends and to wait on his father the Earl when he next gave a dinner party. I felt absurdly proud. My new life was beginning!



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 Chapter 2: Our nights in London


   Lord Staines had a wide circle of friends; young gentlemen of about the same age, not yet married, who were the sons of rich fathers. When I sallied forth in my new finery, and with my new friends to guide me, I discovered London to be a place of infinite variety. My days were never empty, and my nights full of entertainment. I began to think that perhaps Staines was right, and that no-one with sufficient funds could ever tire of London.

  I had long hoped to behold the great David Garrick on stage at Drury Lane. Now Lord Staines accompanied me there, together with two of his friends, John Robertson and Henry Darnwell.

   My first impressions were of the theatre itself, which caused me much surprise, for it was very crowded and very noisy. Many of the audience, both men and women, seemed more interested in eating and making conversation than giving any attention to the stage. Others felt free to comment loudly on any aspects of the performance that displeased them, and even the immortal Garrick himself was not immune from their criticism. Of my companions, Robertson was mostly silent, but Darnwell laughed immoderately, and Lord Staines uttered the occasional icy comment on the defects of the performance. I cannot now recall the name of the play, which was merely some trivial comedy, but to my mind Garrick’s performance was so affecting that he made it all seem very real. I was also much smitten by a charming young actress who played an innocent girl who narrowly escaped from attempts of seduction.

   I mentioned to Staines afterwards that I had hoped to see Garrick in some great Shakespearean tragedy, which I had heard could produce sensations of sheer terror in his audience. But he replied, with an affectation of weariness, that it might indeed be the case that silly women could interrupt a performance with cries and weeping, and bumpkins newly arrived from the country, who had perhaps never before seen a play might be alarmed; but, speaking for himself, he had seen Garrick in many different roles; he considered that the man was well past his peak and was unlikely now to bring anything fresh could now be brought into his performances.  As for the pretty young actress; he said that the girl in question was in real life far from being the innocent maiden that she depicted on stage; that if I wished, I could join the long line of admirers who trailed after her, but I should reconcile myself to a place at the rear of that train, for a certain great nobleman has his eye on her, and if she was a girl of sense, she would bestow her favours on that man rather than an unknown youth. For his part, he would not be joining any such procession, for he considered her acting weak and insipid, and predicted that her career as an actress would be short.

  Danrwell laughed at this, but Robertson explained to me the perils of the theatre. As we walked through Covent Garden he drew my attention to a lady hoping to collect a few coppers in a handkerchief at her feet as she sang. Her dress had once been fine but was now much stained, and her face was lined, but her voice was still magnificent. I wondered why she was not employed by a theatrical company rather than being forced to beg in the street.

   “Would you believe,” Robertson told me, “that less than ten years ago that lady was the toast of London and rumoured to be the mistress of a certain member of the royal family? But she threw it all away by her own foolishness, and now no theatrical manager will employ her, for no sooner has she earned some money than she spends it all on gin, and will not return to work until none is left. Let us hope that your young actress does not come to such an end.”

    I was moved by this to drop a shilling onto the singer’s handkerchief. Robertson shook his head sadly, but the lady halted in her Handel aria to smile at me. Some time later I bought an engraving of Garrick playing the role of Richard III in Shakespeare’s tragedy, depicting the scene where King Richard is haunted by visions of his victims on the eve of his defeat at Bosworth field. I still possess it.


  Robertson and Darnwell now became two of my particular friends. The former was tall and dark, more serious-minded than other young gentlemen of Lord Staines’s circle and somewhat detached from their more madcap ventures, giving the impression that he would shortly be leaving the activities of his youth behind. Henry Darnwell, by contrast, was always the first in some reckless scheme; attracting trouble wherever he went and seeming to revel in it. He was invariably cheerful, and well-liked by everyone who knew him. Unlike Robertson, who preferred to dress in sober colours, he spent large sums on colourful fashions derived from Italy or France. He never persisted in anything for long: he said he was studying the law and boasted of how he would inevitably become a famous advocate, but according to Robertson had never done the smallest amount of work.


    Once, when I mentioned to Robertson that Darnwell has invited me to join him at a certain club the next evening, he warned me against too close an association.  

  “Henry Darnwell is an excellent fellow in most ways, and would never betray a friend, but is sadly devoid of good sense in his conduct. His reckless behaviour is the despair of his father. Both for his sake and your own you should never lend him money for his wagers, or agree to cover his debts. It would be best to plead poverty, for he will assuredly gamble it away and then ask you for more, with a friendly smile on his face and without the least intention of doing you harm.

   “As for the club he mentions; go if you wish, but avoid all invitations to play at cards there, for it is a notorious haunt of dishonest players. You might consider it a worthy deed to rescue Darnwell from their clutches if you can, and conduct him home before he is plucked clean like a pigeon ripe for roasting.”

 

   The club was an opulent building near St James’s Square. I wore my best clothes for the occasion, and was bowed in by a most obliging footman. I did not immediately find Darnwell, and instead wandered into a room that was crowded and smoke-filled. Faro was being played: a game which, as far as I could tell, involved little or no degree of skill. Large sums were being staked on the turn of a card, with perhaps whole estates being forfeited as a result. One young fellow, a mere schoolboy, with blue powder on his wig and red heels on his shoes, was playing with complete abandon. He appeared not to care whether he won or lost, for either made him laugh uproariously and increase the stake on the next card. I asked a gentleman standing next to me, in a whisper, who this boy might be.

   “That”, he told me, is Charles James Fox, and standing by him is his brother Stephen. They are the sons of the Right Honourable Henry Fox.”

   “Oh yes: I know of him,” I said, wishing to appear a man of the world. I had heard of Mr Fox as a member of the ministry, but knew little else about him. “And does the father know of the debts his sons are accumulating? Young Charles there is losing very large sums and does not seem to care.”

   “His father indulges the boys most outrageously, sir! No matter what vast amounts they squander, the father pays. I am told that Charles Fox’s example is corrupting a whole generation of schoolboys at Eton. But why should we care at that? Mr Fox is Paymaster of the Army, and during the course of this war enormous quantities of the country’s money have found their way into his pocket. We, the taxpayers, have been robbed, and it is no more than just, sir, that the unaccounted millions stolen by the father should be wasted by the sons!”

   I watched a while as young Fox continued on his costly path with every sign of enjoyment. I did not wager anything myself, but walked to another room where there were several card tables. I was approached by an older man who invited me to join him and his friends in a game.

   I pleaded that I did not know how to play. He must have concluded from my attitude, and perhaps also from my voice, that I was an innocent recently arrived from the country, for he laughed and said that they would quickly teach me: playing only for the very smallest stakes until I was familiar with the game. Remembering Robertson’s advice, I took refuge in pleading that I had sworn to my father on his deathbed that I would never gamble with strangers. This entirely false excuse caused one of the cardplayers to turn his back and mutter that I was a feeble milksop. The older man, however, smiled sympathetically and said that we were all gentlemen together and that I was old enough to choose for myself. I was sorely tempted, and was about to take my seat at the table when Henry Darnwell appeared. He was evidently well-known to the card-players, and they greeted him warmly, but he acknowledged them with no more than a brief salutation of the hand before turning to me. His manner was flustered.

    “Mr Huntingdon – Charles,” he pleaded, “I’ve searched the whole building for you. Would you please be kind enough to lend me a few guineas? Or, better still, add your name to a bill of mine? Otherwise I shall be in the most deuced fix. Why, only last week at the Cockpit I was put in a basket and raised up to the ceiling as a defaulter, and now I dare not show my face there again! Who knows what might happen here! So please help me out, I beg you!”

   The card-players were unanimous that it was indeed my duty to open my wallet for my friend, for otherwise I would prove myself no sportsman. The scene was becoming unpleasant, but I was saved by the sudden arrival of John Robertson himself. He ignored the card-players and me, but instead addressed himself to Darnwell.  

   “I thought I might find you here!” he exclaimed, “May I remind you that we had promised to dine with Lord Staines tonight? We are late, but there is still time!”

   He bowed to the cardplayers, who were perhaps impressed by the mention of Lord Staines’s name. He then took Darnwell by the right arm and I copied this by taking the left, and so together we marched him from the building. On the street outside two elderly gentlemen, their wigs all awry, were engaged in fisticuffs, presumably over a gambling debt, but were too drunk to inflict much damage on each other. A crowd of ragged urchins stood jeering at the impotent violence, and doubtless hoping to rush in and grab any object that fell on the pavement. They parted to let us through, with the accompaniment of vulgar comments which we ignored.

                                         (Hogarth: The ruined gamester)

   The story about the dinner was, of course, false. When we were out of sight, we released our prisoner and Robertson apologised for the untruth; but Darnwell admitted we had rescued him from a dangerous situation, and, under pressure, promised not to enter that club again. Whether he kept the vow I never found out, but he remained a friend and bore no grudge at my refusal to lend him money. 

  

     Another friend of Lord Staines was George Davies, who was by far the tallest and strongest man I had ever met, and wholly fearless in his behaviour. He was entirely without malice, though his impulses frequently led him into actions that were wrong.

   I remember instances of this. At night Staines and his friends would explore an entirely different London; one that was poor, dirty and often dangerous. We would leave our swords and best clothes behind and venture into the mean streets of the city to the east of the Tower and around the Mint. Darnwell and Davies revelled in these expeditions, and so, to my surprise, did Staines himself. Even the boldest among us did not dare venture into the narrow and dark alleyways that lay behind: cesspits of desperate poverty that also served as refuges for low criminals, where pigs rooted in the noxious dunghills. We knew such places only by their evil repute: Rosemary Lane, inhabited by the Irish, and Poor Jewry Lane, the home of Israelites from Poland and Russia. Instead we walked eastwards from the Tower down the great Ratcliff Highway, lined with sailors’ taverns and brothels, where drunken seamen and coalheavers would fight, encouraged by the howls and imprecations of their ragged harpies. When we entered such a place, our disguises can have deceived nobody as to our true rank: sometimes we were welcomed for the money we would spend freely, and would chaff on easy terms with the other customers, but on other occasions these expeditions resulted in ourselves giving and receiving blows, and we would recount our adventures with glee the next day.

    One night in a low tavern somewhere near the Tower, Henry Darnwell suddenly seized a man by his collar and shouted, “You’ve picked my pocket!” The man so accused, a short, dirty, unshaven fellow, wriggled out of Darnwell’s grip and retreated, denying all knowledge of the crime.

   “My purse has gone! Give it back!” Darnwell shouted. Various of the accused man’s friends turned to face us. They looked ready for a fight, but Lord Staines was undaunted. “You had best return the purse immediately, or it will be worse for you”, he pronounced in a quiet but cold voice. At this, George Davies stepped forwards to Staines’s side, raising his fists in the manner of a pugilist and challenging the thief and any friends to come forward. One of them raised a bludgeon, but Davies was too quick for him and felled him with a single blow.

   Chaos now ensued. One fellow advanced on me, cursing loudly, and aimed a wild swing at me which I avoided and responded with a punch to his chest. It was not a strong blow, but by great good fortune he tripped over his own feet and tumbled backwards, striking his head against a bench and taking no further interest in the proceedings.

   We were heavily outnumbered and were obliged to make a strategic retreat. Our opponents appeared satisfied at having driven us out of their citadel, for they did not pursue us far; contenting themselves with hurling a few stones. Fortunately their aim was poor, probably as a result of the consumption of too much gin, and all missed the target. Davies had sustained a bloody nose, which he wiped casually with his sleeve, and appeared extremely cheerful. Whether Staines had any part in the battle I did not know, for he showed no sign. I felt blood tricking into my collar, and found I had been stuck on my right cheekbone, though I had no memory of receiving any blow. Davies lent me a silk handkerchief to stem the wound, and commended the way I had overthrown my opponent, saying that he had not previously considered me a fighting man. I did not disillusion him as to my pugilistic abilities.

   “Oh, and by the way,” he said to Darnwell, “Your purse wasn’t stolen. You dropped it on the floor, but you were too drunk to notice!”

   “Then why did you not say so?” Darwell replied indignantly.

   “What, and lose the opportunity for a good scrap?” retorted Davies, roaring with laughter.

   On more than one occasion we were pursued down the street by groups of drunken men and women who shouted the most disgusting abuse at us from a safe distance. This alarmed me, but it was as if my companions were unable to hear, and did not even turn round. John Robertson explained that in his opinion it was undignified to acknowledge such comments from ruffians, and he preferred to feign deafness and take no notice at all; at which George Davies added, “If they really anger you, knock them down! That’s what I always do!” I would not have felt confident acting in this manner, and wished I felt safer.  

  Some of Davies’s behaviour was less excusable. The city watchmen were frequently old, idle and useless, and we would provoke them with jokes and insults and then run away laughing, leaving them cursing impotently. One night we discovered one of these Charlies (as they were derisively nicknamed) asleep in his little sentry-box, wrapped up in his huge dirty coat and snoring; his mouth open to reveal just two decayed teeth. His lantern was unlit and his truncheon and rattle on the ground by his feet. Davies, on seeing this, seized the sentry-box and with no great effort tipped it over, laughing uproariously at the plight of the unfortunate man inside. Happily, the victim escaped uninjured, though he was furiously angry. His truncheon had bounced away across the cobbles, and Davies took it as a souvenir of his triumph: it was a handsome object, freshly painted with the arms of the city. 

      He commented, “These old Charlies are quite useless; for the most part they are too old and feeble to catch any robber, and spend most of the night skulking in their boxes lest they should get wet in the rain. So whenever I find one asleep, or too deaf to hear my approach, I make sure that he is awake and alert to his duties!” Although I laughed, I felt that it was a most sophistical argument if taken seriously; and when at this point Davies struck his head on a low-hanging inn sign that he had failed to see in the darkness, I felt it was no less than the hand of Divine justice in action. Happily, Davies was blessed with an extremely thick skull, and suffered no more damage than the loss of his hat and wig in the dirt, but his reaction to the accident astonished me, for, to the accompaniment of an oath, and with all the force he could muster, he deliberately struck the offending board again with his forehead! He would no doubt have done so many more times, until either the board cracked or he lost all consciousness, had no his friends seized him by the arms and, not without difficulty, dragged him away. They were roaring with laughter, and had no doubt witnessed such scenes before, and very soon he was laughing too.

   Roberson turned to me and tapped his own head. “Mad!” he proclaimed, “Quite mad!”


                                      (London in the 18th century)

    The best that could be said of our exploits is that we never attacked harmless law-abiding citizens, as some parties of young bravoes did. One such group, who styled themselves the Mohawks, after the North American tribe, would surround some unfortunate man and prick him with their swords, or assault respectable women. We never sank into this level of barbarism, though sometimes we could not resist enjoying the pusillanimous behaviour of those who thought that we might. One night we had a man grovelling on his knees in the mud, begging us to spare him, pleading that he was but a poor tailor with a wife and children dependent on him. Staines held him with an icy expression until, bored and disgusted by this spectacle of abject cowardice, he abruptly turned on his heel and strode away without a word. It is only now when I look back that I realise that humiliating the poor man in this way could be as wounding as violence. 

 

   It was through Henry Darnwell that I became acquainted with Bartley Wandescote. I never considered him a friend, and but for the fact that he was to have a very important part to play later in my story I would happily blot the man entirely from my memory, for he took a peculiar delight in one particular feature of London life.

   Several times a year, a grim procession of carts would set forth from Newgate and make their way westwards along Holborn and past the old church of St Giles, bearing a number of unfortunates, both men and women, to the gallows at Tyburn. The rabble of London would assemble in vast numbers to witness these processions, and the hangings would provide a climax to the entertainment, especially if some particularly noted criminal was to suffer; and there Wandescote would be among them. He told me with pride that he had never missed an execution since he was a boy!

   Once he persuaded me to accompany him. The people gathered in the streets around Tyburn looked to be a mob of the most degraded men and women, and I kept a hand close on my purse, but Wandescote appeared to find the scene exhilarating. There were roars of excitement as the procession came in sight.

   “This first man is a notorious pickpocket”, Wandescote explained, indicating a mere boy who appeared to be half-witted with fear, and who gawped open-mouthed as the poorly-dressed clergyman who was with him pointed at the heavens and urged him to repent. In the next cart was a woman, certainly younger than me, who stood upright and motionless. The crowd were sympathetic, and shouted encouragement, but she ignored them and her expressionless face looking neither to the right or the left.

   “She was condemned for stealing a roll of cloth”, Wandescote explained, “She said it was to feed her family. She is only eighteen years old, and as it was her first offence, it was expected that she would be reprieved, but she doomed herself by her insolence to the judge.” I contrived to slip away before the actual hangings, and had no desire to witness any more such events.

  I never heard Wandescote express any sympathy with the victims. He said that many were be drunk on the way their final destination, which was as well for them, since they might take as long as twenty minutes to die by strangulation. He further told me that if a particularly notorious criminal was to suffer, it was possible to hire an upper room to obtain a better view of the elevating scene of his despatch. I am glad to say that none of our friends accepted his invitation to accompany him to such an occasion. He had also, he said, once been allowed to view the bodies of the executed, but his ambition to attend their dissection at the Royal College of Surgeons, which was the ultimate fate of those deemed to be the very worst of criminals was as yet unfulfilled.

     Wandescote often visited the prisons, where, doubtless with the aid of extensive bribery, he was by his own account able to meet and talk with practically every famous criminal in London. He also regaled us with accounts of his visits to the Bethlehem lunatic asylum: the famous “Bedlam”. He described how he had talked to a man who was kept chained up in a cage, like a dog, on account of his occasional bouts of ungovernable violent rage; and how an unfortunate woman, all in rags, had grovelled before him and attempted to kiss his feet.

   “She must have taken me for Jesus Christ, no less”, he commented, in a voice that made it impossible to tell whether or not he was jesting.

   He sometimes said that he would write a book about his experiences, and at other times that he was torn between becoming an advocate or a physician; but we all knew, and perhaps he knew too, that he would do none of these things, but would contentedly wander idly through life, secure in the vast wealth he had inherited from his father. 

 

   Staines’s sarcastic comments deterred me from pursuing Garrick’s pretty young actress, though I did indeed find that in London I was surrounded by free-spirited women of all degrees, from the splendid madam at fifty guineas to the nymph who walks along the Strand or lurks in an alley-way, and who might resign herself to your pleasure for a shilling and a bottle of wine. Many of the latter class would join us on our nocturnal expeditions, but I behaved with great continence. To excuse myself with Staines’s friends I pleaded a dread of contracting the pox, with the added explanation that most of these women were often very old and excessively ugly; so much so that they could not possibly arouse any amorous instinct in me. I was commended in this by Robertson:

  “It may be considered a universal rule, that the darker the night, the uglier the whore; for surely a handsome young whore would wish for light, to reveal her charms? And to follow any whore into darkness is courting danger. A friend of mine, a young lawyer at Gray’s Inn, one night incautiously followed one of these ladies into a lightless entry, where he was immediately knocked down, and when he regained his faculties discovered himself to be lying prostrate upon a dunghill and robbed not only of his purse but also of all his clothes, leaving him quite Adam-naked, so he had to make his way home with his shame covered only by a filthy rag he found in the gutter, to the vast amusement of all who beheld him”.

   Henry Darnwell laughed at this, and told Robertson that he would have a future as a novelist.

    The truth, which I did not reveal for fear of their ridicule, was that at the time I had very little experience of women, and was afraid of making a fool of myself. Staines wondered at my abstinence, and enquired whether my proclivities might lie in another direction. I did not at the time comprehend what he might mean. Others of his friends spoke of a dose of the clap as virtually a badge of manhood, and another suggested that I should enjoy the ladies “wearing armour”, by which I understood he meant a certain instrument made from an animal’s gut. I was also advised that certain discreet “houses of assignation” were available for the use of young gentlemen who did not wish to disturb their parents or landladies. My sole lapse at that time I shall describe shortly, but it occurred only after the most important event of my early life in London.


Chapters 3-5

  

Chapter 3: A grand dinner


  As Lord Staines had indicated, it was not long before I received an invitation to dine with the Earl of Teesdale, at the great house he had recently built on Piccadilly. I donned my best clothes and around four o’clock walked the short distance there from my lodgings. I found a numerous party assembling, and was glad that I was in the company of other guests, for I was feeling extremely nervous as I crossed the broad courtyard.

                                      (Burlington House, London) 

   It was much the grandest mansion I had ever entered. The door was guarded by two giant footmen, immaculately dressed and exactly matched in size as well as livery; even the colour of their eyes being a similar brown. My hat and stick were taken by a hall porter in a red coat, after which a page-boy conducted me across the hall and up a splendid marble staircase where the walls were hung with paintings of immense size, to the saloon, where the guests were greeted by Lord and Lady Teesdale.

   Lord Staines introduced me to his father. The Earl was taller and heavier in build than his son, and his suit was plain and sober in colour, as befitting a gentleman of his age and dignity. He examined me closely with his deep-set dark eyes, and asked me about my inheritance of Mrs Andrew’s property in Bereton, of which he appeared well-informed. By his side, the Countess, a tiny, birdlike lady said scarcely a word. I thought she looked melancholy, though she returned my bow and nervous thanks for the invitation with a smile. Lord Staines, I reflected, resembled his mother more than he did his father, and their eyes were identical.

   They then turned to welcome another guest, and I followed Staines across the saloon. The walls were a deep red, the better to show off the gold gesso frames of the numerous paintings, which were being inspected and admired by the guests. Staines pointed to his father’s portrait by Reynolds, and then to a Raphael Madonna, telling an amusing story about how his father had obtained it in Florence. One lady said it was so lovely that it could convert even the firmest Protestant to Popery and idolatry. Further on we stopped to admire a painting, which I was told was by Canaletto, of a view across the Thames towards Saint Paul’s. Feeling that I should make a contribution to the discussion, I rashly intervened to say that we were all familiar with that view, and that the artist had by no means portrayed it accurately. Staines forthwith crushed me by saying that Canaletto was striving to portray an epitome or ideal rather than an accurate representation such as an inferior artist might have produced, and implied that my criticism was childish in the extreme.

  I felt ashamed to have opened my mouth, but when the party had moved on an elderly gentleman who had observed my distress took me aside and advised me not to take the matter to heart.

   “I have known the family all my life”, he said, “And I can tell you that Lord Staines has always behaved like that; desiring ever to be the centre of attention, even at the expense of someone else.”

   I said that I could not understand why Staines had procured my invitation to the dinner only to humiliate me, at which the gentleman replied that I was quite wrong in assuming that the invitation had come from Lord Staines: it would have come from the Earl himself.

   “Lord Teesdale would have heard that you were a friend of his son, and wished to examine you closely, and the fact that, as I have heard, you have inherited property near some of his lands would be of added interest. This is especially the case since a General Election will be held in the spring, and his lordship would wish for someone well-disposed towards him to be elected for Bereton. I trust that you have passed the initial tests: if so, expect to be questioned further!”

  Returning to the question of the paintings, he then whispered that in his opinion the Madonna was no Raphael, but merely an imitation; but that under no circumstances would he reveal this to Lord Staines. I asked him then whether Lord Teesdale, whom I assumed to be a man of great natural astuteness, had allowed himself to be cozened by a dishonest Italian dealer.

   “Such things are possible”, he told me, “But, when all is said and done, who cares whether Raphael painted it? It is a most delicate and beautiful picture, whether or not it came from the brush of the master. Perhaps the Earl thought the same?”

   I was much cheered up by this, and then drifted to join the fringes of another group, whose members all many years older than me, where I said nothing and was ignored as they discussed the landscape paintings. Lady Teesdale, I found, loved such pictures; and I listened to the talk of how to distinguish a Poussin from a Claud Lorrain, and both from a Salvador Rosa. So the time passed instructively until the hour for dinner.

 

                                       (Claude Lorrain: Pastoral landscape)    

    As dinner-time approached I feared that my lack of experience might betray me into doing something foolish; but good fortune came to my rescue. We were to be seated in what my parents would have considered a promiscuous fashion, with men and women placed alternately; and I was asked to escort a lady named Mrs Newstead who had come unaccompanied, her husband being at present abroad. I was apprehensive, for she was undoubtedly several years older than me and her cheeks had been well supplied with paint and powder; but anything that might have been artificial in her appearance was quickly atoned for by her smile and her alluring dark blue eyes, which suggested mischief. She was tall and slender, with her height accentuated by her hair, powdered a delicate pale grey, being stacked high on her head and crowned with a single ostrich plume.  

   Her manner was charming. She spoke to me in the most friendly manner, telling me that her name was Elizabeth, and that her husband was out in Madras. I asked whether he was an army officer, and she replied no: he had been for several years high in the East India Company and had acquired considerable wealth.

  She sensed my unease at the table and politely enquired whether I had ever dined with such a gathering. When I admitted that I was indeed a novice, and she discovered that I did not even know the correct way to hold a wineglass, let alone how to order wine or how to approach the different dishes, she did not mock me but at once took me in charge. I followed her instructions gratefully; for after my experience with the pictures I had no desire to expose myself to further ridicule.

   I was asked how I came to be at the dinner. I explained that I had only recently come to London when by chance I had encountered Lord Staines; that I had known him slightly at our college in Cambridge and was surprised that he remembered me.

   "Ah, but Staines always likes handsome young men!" she replied, with a smile.


   What can I say about the food? We were served several courses, each having an enormous number of dishes with elaborate sauces, for the Earl employed a French cook. There was lamb and beef and venison, a fine turbot done in such a fashion that it was scarce recognisable as a fish, a dish of sweetbreads, a side of veal, a goose pie, many ragouts of vegetables and so on in vast profusion. I was much struck by a creation in the shape of a hedgehog, manufactured of eggs and cream and stuck with quills of almonds. As we ate, Elizabeth amused me with gossip a concerning the other guests, all of whom she seemed to know well. I learnt that some men were of substance; some were amusing but otherwise not to be relied upon, particularly where money was concerned; others were rich but otherwise of little significance. Throughout the meal, the gentleman seated the other side of my companion, and whose name I have forgotten, held forth with the appearance of great wit on books, and the theatre, and politics and everything else under the sun. I could not compete with his genius, and contributed little to the conversation. Elizabeth approved of my taciturnity, whispering that this man was considered a figure of fun whose understanding was far less than he thought.

   “It is much better”, she said, to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool and to open it and prove that you are!” Bearing in mind my blunder with the paintings, I thought this sound advice.

  “There are many others who are far worthier of your attention,” she told me. “If you are serious about making your way in the world, as I think you are, I can point out certain people whom you must meet. Do you see the gentleman over there with the heavy eyebrows? He is Henry Fox: a man of importance in the present ministry. He handles the money that pay for the war, and it is said that much of it contrives to stick to his fingers. But he is learned, charming, and loyal to his friends. You would be wise to cultivate him.”

                                                 (Henry Fox) 

   She told me the story of how, years ago, Fox caused a great scandal when he had eloped with Lady Caroline Lennox, the daughter of the Duke of Richmond, who was only half his age.

   “And is she here?” I asked.

   “Yes: there she sits. It is said to be the happiest of marriages. She is descended from one of King Charles the Second’s many bastards, so their sons have royal blood in their veins”.

  I did not mention that I had already heard of Mr Fox’s reputation, but said I had encountered his sons, Stephen and Charles, and now noticed how much the younger boy resembled his father.

   “No doubt they would have been in some gaming-house!” she laughed. "They lose vast sums, and their father pays it all!”

   I asked whether Mr William Pitt was ever present at these dinners, since I greatly admired him and would dearly love to meet him, but Elizabeth said he but rarely came to such functions.

   “He works prodigiously hard planning the war, the whole burden of which rests upon his shoulders, and must in the end prove injurious to his wellbeing. All the world knows that in the past his health has often been poor. When he is not at his desk he prefers to be at home with his family. His wife presented him with another son just last year, and he is said to dote on the child.

   “And, indeed," she continued, “Should you meet Pitt on such an occasion as this, you might find his manner disgusting, for he is always cold and stiff in company, and it is only with his intimate friends that he is relaxed and natural. It is best that you should wait until you hear him speak in the Parliament, for then you will recognise his greatness."

(William Pitt the elder: later Earl of Chatham)


   “And what of my host, the Earl of Teesdale?” I asked. “Should I cultivate him?”

   “Yes, of course. And not only him, but also the Countess, who is a most delightful lady and a particular friend of mine. But I would advise you not to stress too much your friendship with his son. There is a certain coolness there.”

   She would say no more on this subject, but I observed Lord Teesdale carefully. He appeared a person of great natural authority, to whom many others would look for leadership. He presided over the dinner with dignity, making judicious interventions in the conversation, and all his guests were most respectful towards him.  I do not recall that his Countess ever opened her mouth.

 

   After some two hours of eating, the ladies left us, snuff was passed around, pipes were lit and conversation around the table grew more animated, often salacious, fuelled by immense quantities of wine, brandy and port.

   Mr Fox addressed himself to the company and praised our new young King, George III, who, he said, was proud of having been born and raised in England, unlike his father and grandfather, and was zealous for the good of his country. He, Fox, expected the new reign to be an age of peace both at home and abroad. One gentleman asked whether a Scotch nobleman, the Earl of Bute, who was said to be the King’s particular friend, should now be brought into the ministry. Mr Fox replied that it was natural that His Majesty should wish to have his friends close to him, but that he was certain that the present ministers would continue in office, and that reports of disputes between Lord Bute and Mr Pitt were without foundation.                                        Mr Fox was without doubt a consummate politician, talking genially whilst revealing nothing of importance; but another face of him was seen when the gentleman who had been speaking so volubly near me intervened with, “People say that Lord Bute and the King’s mother, the Princess Augusta ….” Mr Fox turned on him and silenced him with no more than a raising of his dark eyebrows.

   “The rabble say a great many wild and foolish things, sir!” he pronounced severely, “A man of sense ignores them.”

   Many gentlemen exclaimed “Hear, hear!” and the other shrank back in his seat, muttering to himself. Lord Teesdale eased the awkward moment by jesting that it should now be the prime duty of all the ministers to find our young King a wife. Mr Fox replied with a smile that this vital matter was indeed in hand, and that without doubt we would soon see a Protestant princess who was worthy of our new monarch and our great country. The company all rose to drink a toast to that.

   The Earl was kind enough to introduce me to Mr Fox, who spoke to me in a most obliging manner; enquiring as to my prospects and my hopes for the future. Lord Teesdale commended the manner in which my aunt had used her influence in Bereton at the last election in 1754, as a result of which his friend Mr Bailey, a firm supporter of the ministry, had been returned as one of the two Members of Parliament for the borough. Mr Fox trusted that I would maintain the same course at the General Election that would shortly be called. I made some modest reply and silently hoped that I made a good impression on the great man: there were questions I would have liked to ask him, but remembering Elizabeth’s advice, thought it best to hold my peace. The discovery that I might now be a person of political influence was a circumstance that had not previously occurred to me.

  Eventually we retired to another room, where we joined the ladies. I was reunited with Elizabeth, who chided me teasingly for keeping her waiting so long. This room had painted Chinese wallpaper and was furnished with delicate chairs and small tables in the Chinese style. A quartet of musicians played softly at the end of the room. Tea and coffee were served and cards played, the game being called Ombre. I was obliged to confess that I did not know how to play, for unlike Faro, which was an extremely simple game, this appeared absurdly complicated. Elizabeth, adopting a mockingly censorious tone, said she was shocked that I was not familiar with the description of the game in Pope’s celebrated poem “The Rape of the Lock”, and that she could see that my education had been sadly neglected. I protested that I had read the poem, but had never imagined that I would be called upon to play the game in such exalted company. She laughed and said I would soon learn.

   She led me to a table where a gentleman in a suit of grey silk was at play. “His name is Geoffrey Fortran,” she told me, “And you must watch what he does, for he is a most excellent player, and has won considerable sums at cards. But do not play with him under any other circumstances, for he is also a most notorious cheat! But even he would not dare practice his deceptions under Lord Teesdale’s roof.”

   “I fancy I might have seen him before,” I said, “For I am sure he was one of the men who, that night at the club where I saw the Fox boys, begged me to play cards with him; a request that I declined.” Elizabeth laughed again and said that was very wise of me.

   So we sat behind Mr Fortran’s chair, with Elizabeth leaning very close to me and laying her hand on my sleeve as she commented on which cards he played. “Now he will lead Pam!” she whispered in my ear, meaning the knave of clubs, which was indeed the case. After a while she considered I was able to cope with the demands of the game, and led me to another table where there was a vacant seat. It did not take me long to discover that my fellow-guests there either knew little more about the game than I did or were notably careless in their play, so in the end I won a small quantity of money.

   We left the card tables to drink coffee and eat little cakes, and Elizabeth and I talked some more. She asked me how I liked London. I replied that at first I had found it strange and overwhelming and there was much that I still found shocking: the noise, the smells, the vast crowds and the poverty I saw on all sides, but with the help of Lord Staines and his friends I was becoming more accustomed to town life. She said that she had once felt the same herself, for she had been born a country girl, but now she could not imagine herself living anywhere other than in London.

  It was well after midnight that the party broke up. Carriages and sedan chairs came to the door, and I prepared to leave. Elizabeth professed to be deeply shocked when I told her I had walked from my lodgings, and now I proposed to walk back there.

   “No person of quality ever walks at night!” she chided me. “You must take a carriage or a chair! You would be fortunate if the mob did not find you, and throw filth over your best clothes, or worse!” If I was determined to walk, then at the very least, she said, I must tell a servant to find a boy with a torch to light me home. Wishing to appear brave, I thanked her but said it would not be necessary. I kissed her hand most gallantly, saying that I greatly hoped to see more of her in the future, at which she smiled and said it would be delightful. I then strode out into the night, thinking that, apart from the playing of cards, there was much she could teach me that was likely to prove vastly more entertaining.

   It was no great distance to my lodgings, but I quickly understood the value of a carriage or chair, for it was raining hard. I was soon very cold, and my best hat and coat had sustained considerable damage, but at least the bad weather kept the footpads away.

   It was only after I had safely negotiated the dark streets and was resting in bed for what remained of the night, that I realised that I had neglected to obtain Elizabeth’s address.


   Lord Staines never apologised for his unkind remarks about the pictures; indeed, it is possible that he had entirely forgotten them. I reflected that the consoling comments of the old gentleman were probably correct, but for the first time a shadow was cast over my friendship with Staines.



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Chapter 4: I encounter a French lady


  The next time I met Lord Staines he told me that his father had liked me very much, and that I might expect future invitations from him. Lord Teesdale, he said, was deeply interested in the General Election that would be held in the spring, and now that I was a man of property, he would be seeking to know how I would intend to use my influence in the borough of Bereton. This prophecy proved to be correct, and I was invited to Teesdale House twice more in the coming weeks, when his lordship was pleased to discuss with me my new prospects, the political situation, the chance of a peace treaty in the coming year and other matters.

                                 (An English nobleman; mid-18th century) 

    Being thus forewarned, and conscious of my ignorance of these great matters of state, I read as much as I could concerning them, and every day discussed the newspapers with the gentlemen at the club; and in consequence, I hoped I was then able to converse with Lord Teesdale in an intelligent fashion. I was careful to ask his advice on all points, and to defend my own opinions whilst at the same time being respectful of his. He appeared satisfied with my approach, and encouraged me in any political ambitions I might hold. When I reported that settling my aunt’s estate was taking a prodigious amount of time, and that there appeared little chance of it being effected before the election, and cautiously mentioned that his son had suggested that I might seek the aid of his lawyers, he smiled and rang a bell and gave instructions to the footman who immediately appeared. Before long a sharp-faced man dressed in black like a cleric was shown into the room.

   “This is Oswald Jarrett”, Lord Teesdale told me. “He has worked for me for many years. He has the entire direction of my affairs, and I have the utmost confidence that he will infallibly unravel any problems you may have with your inheritance.” Jarrett bowed slightly without ever taking his eyes off my face. I outlined my situation briefly, he asked one or two questions and then departed.

   “There!” said Lord Teesdale, “Now there will be no doubt but that the property will shortly be in your hands. I do not always enquire how Jarrett achieves his results, but achieve them he does, and quickly too!”

    I said that we had not discussed any fees, but he brushed this aside, and soon afterwards I departed, feeling more confident.

 

   One of these discussions with Lord Teesdale continued until very late in the evening. He was kind enough to serve me his best wine, which I consumed with pleasure; the result being that I eventually left, I felt exhilarated and happy rather than tired. I declined offers of a link-boy with a lantern to guide me home, and instead decided to take a night-time walk.

   I had not proceeded very far when I was approached by a woman. My adventures with Lord Staines and his friends had accustomed me to such incidents, which we would usually ignore or dismiss with some jesting remark, but this woman was different. She was well-dressed and well-spoken, and her accent showed that she was French. I entered into conversation with her, and being in a happy mood, put my arm around her, which she did not resist.

  She suggested I should accompany her to a nearby tavern. It was a clean and respectable-looking place, and the gin we drank was good.  She said she had noticed me leaving Teesdale House and asked me whether I was a frequent guest there; and she appeared very interested when I described how I had been discussing the current political situation with the Earl. I felt greatly flattered as she sought more information, and could not resist making myself appear a person of importance by recounting how I had met the great Mr Fox at a dinner there. While we talked she pressed herself closely to me and hinted that she was entirely at my service for the night.

   I wondered what to do next, and where to go. I thought I could hardly bring her back to my lodgings under the eye of my ever-vigilant landlady, and instead allowed her to conduct me to a nearby house.

    This was to be my initiation into the higher mysteries of love. She was older than me, and vastly more experienced. Probably she found my efforts clumsy, but she contrived to sound thoroughly aroused, moaning and gasping both in French and English and constantly urging me onwards, until I was exhausted by our exertions and fell asleep.

  

   When I awoke I was alone. Only one candle remained lit, and it was a mere stump, guttering on its side. I guessed an hour or more must have passed. I hastened to light more candles from it and looked around the room. Not only had my companion in love disappeared, but so had my snuffbox, watch and purse!

   I resolved to leave directly, lest worse befall. I found my cane lying in a corner: It was not much of a weapon in an emergency, but I had no other, for I had come without my sword. I dressed as silently as I could, and felt my way on tiptoe down the stairs in the darkness. I was greatly relieved, though surprised, to find the main door unbarred and the key left in the lock. I could not account for this most fortunate laxity other than by the probability that the French lady had departed in haste with my stolen property.

   I attempted to open the door silently, but it made a creaking noise that sounded alarmingly loud to my nervous ears. I paused, and it was well I did so, for I then heard a pitter-patter of footsteps approaching. I withdrew to a dark corner, grasped my cane firmly and prayed I would not have to battle my way to freedom.

   A little kitchen-maid entered; barefoot and raggedly-dressed, and looking no more than ten years old. She was no danger in herself, but what if she screamed and wakened the entire house? I grabbed her from behind, lifted her up and clamped my hat over her face to muffle any cries she might make.

   “Now, my dear”, I whispered, “I mean you no ill, and if you keep silent, you will come to no harm. I am no housebreaker or burglar: indeed, I have myself been robbed and I am trying to escape. Keep silent and let me leave, and you shall have sixpence. Do you understand?” She did not cry out, but kicked back with her heels and succeeded in catching me a blow in a private area, so it was only with great difficulty that I avoided crying out with pain.

   It was no easy job to open the door while keeping hold of my cane and the child with the hat covering her face, but I contrived to force it with my foot until there was a gap wide enough for us to pass through. Outside it was dark and very cold; rain had been falling and the filthy stones underfoot were slippery. I walked round a corner out of sight of the house, then removed my hat from the little maid’s face. She was very angry but not tearful; indeed, she now turned her head to spit at me.

   “Don’t do that, my dear!” I said gently. “I fear I cannot give you the promised sixpence, for the French lady has stolen my purse. Never mind: instead you may keep my hat, which I can assure you is worth far more than sixpence. Why don’t you now run off to take it to the place where my stolen property has gone? I’m sure you know where it is! Oh, and one more thing you can do for me. Please be good enough to indicate the way to the region of this city where the richer people live."

   She took hold of the hat and looked at me. For a moment she gave me the ghost of a smile and waved a direction with her right arm. Then she turned and ran, not back into the house but away barefoot across the cobbles and disappeared round a corner, no doubt bound for where the receiver of stolen goods plied his trade. I never saw her again. It occurred to me that if she was given a good wash and had her hair combed, she would be as pretty as many a girl I had seen in the better parts of our capital. I was suddenly filled with pity for her, condemned to a wretched life without love or guidance and with only curses and beatings to look forward to. I hope that the poor child escaped being hanged for her thieving. I resolved that, when I was able to afford servants of my own, I would treat them humanely.

 

                                 (Old houses in 18th century London)

   I had no notion of where I was in the town, and I wandered for what seemed like many hours through the cold and wet, keeping always to the wider streets with only a feeble moon to light my way, until at last the sky began to brighten in the east and I found myself in a district I knew. I must have looked a sad sight to the tradesmen who were now stirring. When I finally regained my lodgings my landlady was already up and admitted me without comment, though my appearance, dishevelled, soaked with rain and bareheaded (for I had somehow lost my wig during my adventure) must have confirmed any views she might have held concerning the dissolute habits of young gentlemen. But I cared nothing for that at the time as I collapsed on my bed fully clothed, and slept for a long time.

 

   For some time afterwards, I feared the onset of the pox, though happily nothing ensued: I deemed that I had enjoyed a fortunate escape, and had learned a lesson well worth the cost of my stolen property. I could not help feeling sorry for my paramour: it was sad that a person of such evident qualities (for she spoke English fluently, and with much refinement) should have sunk so low.

   I had thought it best not to mention of my adventure to anyone, but found I could not resist telling Henry Darnwell, whom I thought would be most likely to understand, that I had passed a night with a certain French lady.

   “Oh, la belle Danielle, was it?” he laughed. “Well, you could have done worse! You are now entitled to join the by-no-means-exclusive society of her admirers. As for the membership fee you will have paid: I think you may avoid the pox with her, though you may have found that it cost you your purse, or other small personal items, for the adventure!” I admitted ruefully that this was indeed the case. He laughed again, and then added, “We tried to persuade Staines to take her on, but he refused. I believe the experience could have been greatly to his benefit.” 

     My adventure determined me to resume my life of continence; at least for the moment. As for the fair Danielle, I was to meet her again, years later, and in very different surroundings.

 

     Despite my avoidance of gaming, I now found myself in perplexing financial difficulties. Duns were appearing at my door almost daily, demanding with increasing insolence payment for debts, many of which I had no memory of incurring; while at the same time the bankers refused to increase my allowance until my aunt’s estate was finally settled. I was obliged to replace the items I had had stolen, which resulted in yet more debt. My friends laughed at my plight, explaining that, although honour demanded the prompt settlement of gaming debts, no gentleman ever paid his tailor until many months, or even years, had passed. Lord Staines said that he always ignored the duns: he was resolved to pay all his debts, but not yet. He hoped shortly to be returned as a Member of Parliament, which would render him immune to arrest for debt, and he advised me to seek the same course.

   Lacking this means of escaping my creditors I sought to stave off the tide for a while by selling certain items of clothing and other fripperies to cover some of the bills. I prayed that my new friends did not learn of this! I was glad that Staines had not persuaded me to change my lodgings for somewhere more fashionable and expensive, and as a further measure of economy, I reduced the frequency of my nocturnal wanderings.

 

   It was not until more weeks had passed that the lawyers, presumably hastened in their labours by Jarrett, finally assured me that all legal matters had been settled and that I was at last the proud owner of a house known as the Priory in the manor of Bearsclough close by the ancient borough of Bereton. My new life was about to begin! I resolved to waste no more time in London, but set out immediately. I said farewell to my friends, promising to return as soon as I was sure that my affairs in the country were in order. Staines congratulated me, and gave me the benefit of his advice on how to proceed when I entered my future home.

    “You have never been the master of a large number of servants, have you?Well, they will all be watching you, and assessing you. You must impose yourself upon them from the very first day. Describe precisely how you wish things to be done, and be sure to find some fault, no matter how small it might seem. Let them know from the start that you will not tolerate any disobedience or slackness in the performance of their duties. Set strict rules, and do not hesitate to dismiss instantly the first who breaks them. By this means you will ensure yourself a manageable household. Otherwise you will awake one morning and discover they have become insolent in their manner, or are even stealing from you.”

   I said I would bear this in mind.


************************************************************** 


  Chapter 5: I travel north 


I was given many dire warnings concerning the perils of travelling in winter: stories of stagecoaches overturned with passengers’ arms and legs broken, men and horses drowned in crossing swollen rivers, coachmen frozen to death on their boxes; and, even if these disasters were avoided, of journeys such as mine being prolonged to a week or more. The only hopeful aspect, I was given to understand, was that at least the bad weather might cause the numerous highwaymen who haunted the route might prefer to stay indoors.  But I was not deterred, for I was eager to inspect my new property without delay, and I also wished to escape the tiresome importunities of the duns. I had my landlady pack me some boxes of clothes and instructed her to keep my rooms vacant for when I next came to London. I discovered that the stage coaches could take me as far as Mulchester, a few miles south of Bereton, so I wrote to the Priory, my aunt’s house that was now mine, informing them of my proposed arrival there.

   The first two days of the journey northwards followed good turnpike roads and passed without incident, though could scarcely be called pleasant. The weather was cold and miserable, and the company no more cheerful. Because of the season, the only other travellers on the coach by the end of the second day were an elderly-looking man and two ladies, whom I guessed were his wife and daughter. He never introduced them, nor did I ever find out the purpose of their journey. A casual opening remark by me concerning the weather produced only a forbidding silence. I felt that the daughter at least would have enjoyed a talk, but was deterred by severe glances of her father. The man did nothing but grumble about the weather, the supposed insolence of the coachman and the quality of the inns where we halted. I soon found his company unendurable, and I was much relieved whenever we did halt at an inn and I was able to escape from his presence for a while.

   On the third day my fellow-travellers became increasingly nervous as we entered wild wooded country south of Mulchester, where the turnpike ended and the road became much rougher. This district, they told me, was the haunt of a notorious highwayman known as Black George.

   “He robbed friends of ours last year,” said the mother, “He is said to be a gentleman who would never harm a lady, but who can trust anyone in these fallen times?” Her husband said nothing, but their daughter proudly announced, “I at least have come prepared!” and produced a tiny pistol, scarcely more than a toy, which she was concealing in her muff. Her parents were as astonished as I was.

 “It’s loaded, primed and ready for use against anyone who might make an attempt on my virtue!” she declared as she waved the little weapon about, much to everyone’s alarm. I decided to abandon this grotesque family, and, the day now being cold but clear and bright, left the carriage to take a seat on the box alongside the coachman, whom I thought might prove better company.

                                                     (A small pistol for ladies)

   This proved a bad decision. There was no sign of Black George, but a few miles further on the coach almost overturned! Suddenly the front left wheel ran into what appeared to be an ice-covered puddle but proved to be a deep hole, and stuck there! Fearing the coach would overturn I leapt clear and landed on my feet in a slough of freezing mud. I escaped injury, but my shoes were full of water, my stockings soaked and my breeches splashed all over with dirt. I lost my hat and wig, and had to run to catch them before they blew away. The coach did not overturn, but remained leaning at a precarious angle, and the passengers clambered out with some difficulty. We removed the heavy luggage and the coachman contrived to quieten the horses, but setting the vehicle upright again proved beyond our joint strength, though even the old gentleman lending a reluctant hand before abandoning the attempt and retreating to redouble his grumbling. What were we to do? This would, of course, have been the golden opportunity for Black George to rob us. The older lady was understandably alarmed at the prospect, and her daughter flourished her toy firearm in all directions with great bravado, but happily there was no sign of any such person.

   I volunteered to seek help. Looking around, I fancied I could see smoke away on the left through the leafless trees and I ventured down a path in that direction, icy water squelching in my shoes at every step. Before long I discovered a tiny settlement of ruinous cottages in a clearing.

   There was nobody in sight except a small child, half-naked despite the cold, who on seeing me squawked with fear and fled inside one of the huts. From this a man appeared, holding a stout stick and with hostility written plain on his dirty and unshaven face. He challenged me in a snarling voice, but I could barely understand a word he said. He was now joined by other cottagers, men and women with their brats peering from behind them. They regarded me with suspicion as I endeavoured to explain the disaster that had befallen our coach, and the need for assistance in righting it. I promised money if they would come to our assistance, at which they held a brief consultation together. I wondered whether they were deciding whether it might be less arduous to knock me down and rob me of everything I possessed, but maybe my scarecrow-like appearance suggested that such a course was not worth the effort for the meagre rewards it might bring. As it was, a few of the men agreed to come to our aid.

  Righting the coach proved no easy task, though the hole proved to be less than knee deep, but by much labour, accompanied by not a few rustic oaths, we achieved our task, and the coach happily proved to be undamaged. Our helpers were then thanked and rewarded as promised, mostly from my purse; for the old gentleman harrumphed at what he regarded as excessive generosity and showed a great reluctance in parting with a few small coins for our rescuers. Any moralist, I thought, would have been gratified to discover that these cottagers, although sunk in poverty, had nonetheless behaved so helpfully towards strangers.

   I clambered back inside the coach and was now shivering violently, but the ladies made a great fuss of me, hailing me as a hero and insisting on draping me with their cloaks lest I should catch my death of cold. The daughter mopped out my shoes with her shawl, but her proposal to rub my frozen feet back to warmth was vetoed by her parents. Mother and daughter demanded that we stopped at the next inn we encountered, a squalid place where with some difficulty I was able to obtain hot water to wash and to change into fresh clothes from my boxes. All this took time, during which interval my gentleman fellow-traveller complained loudly about the very poor quality of the wine he was sold; though in that matter I would concede that he had justification.

  At least the delay enabled us to recover our spirits, which had been much shaken by our near-disaster, and we reached Mulchester late that afternoon without further incident.


(The coach overturns, by Thomas Rowlandson)

   This proved to be a large and bustling sort of town. I was obliged to alight here, for the coach would now proceed eastwards, whereas Bereton lay a few miles to the north. I accordingly had my boxes unloaded at the sign of the Duke of Buckingham and took a seat inside, ordering beer and victuals to revive me after my journey.    

   I now met with a severe disappointment, for I was informed by a waiter that coach services to Bereton were very irregular; none would be running this day or the next. I said that in that case I would need a room for the night; at which he shook his head sadly and said that all were likely to be already taken.

  I approached the landlord. My untidy appearance following my recent misadventures doubtless told against me, and his initial response was haughty and unhelpful. However, when I informed him that I was the heir to the Andrew property and had come to inspect my inheritance, he suddenly became vastly obliging: bowing and rubbing his hands together in an ingratiating manner, he told me that he had lived in the town for his entire life and that he had known Mrs Andrew well. He was loud in her praise, laying particular emphasis on her generosity to the Mulchester tradesmen. I wondered how much of this was true: his implication that I ought to be equally free in spending my money being quite transparent. More usefully, he told me that my new home, the Priory, was well known in the district; lying less than half an hour’s ride to the west of Bereton, and he insisted on despatching a man forthwith to bear a message that I had arrived and was anxious to view my new home.

   When I indicated that I wished to spend the night at the inn while I awaited a reply, he swept aside the discouraging information given me by the waiter, and after much rousting around of his servants a room was duly found: “The very best room!” he proclaimed proudly. He volunteered to show me up there himself, expressing the hope that he could count upon my patronage in the years to come. I considered the price I was charged excessive, but saw no point in arguing about it. Afterwards I wondered if some unfortunate traveller of less importance had been summarily evicted to make space for the new arrival, or whether I had simply not appeared rich enough to merit a favourable response.

  I did not sleep well that night, though the bedsheets and blankets were at least clean, the floor must have been swept fairly recently and there were not too many cobwebs in the corners. A fire had been lit in the small grate and the windows shut tight against the cold, so the room was in consequence not cold but instead was stuffy and airless, and a strange smell pervaded the place. I wondered, was this really the best room? Or was the landlord not convinced that I was who I claimed to be, and had accordingly placed me in one of the lesser rooms? I did not unpack my boxes, but lay in the shirt and breeches in which I had travelled after my accident. My mind rolled round endlessly in anticipation of seeing the Priory, which was now so close. What would I find there? How should I behave towards my new servants and neighbours? But at some point I must have dozed off, and was awakened by the noise of carts moving in the yard outside.

 

   Towards noon that day a waiter conducted to me a small, neat man, quick in his movements, who politely asked me if I was Mr Huntingdon. On my confirming that this was indeed the case, he introduced himself as Martin Clifford, my late aunt’s attorney. He was eager to make a good impression, but was nervous, and in consequence talked much too rapidly at the start. I let him rattle on, until after a while he was happy to accept my assurance that I would trust him and treat him as an advisor and friend. The landlord now appeared bringing a bottle of wine and a pie, and then hovered in the background trying to hear what we were saying. I found this annoying, but Clifford, who must have known him well, ignored him.

  Clifford hoped I had had a comfortable journey. The tale of our adventures in the stagecoach caused him to shake his head sadly at the perils of winter travel. Black George, I learnt, was a very real threat to travellers on the route we had travelled. At the same time, he assured me, the staff at the Priory, and indeed all the people of Bereton, would be proud and delighted that I had gone to all this trouble to visit them. Since my aunt’s death, he said, the house had been left in the care of her housekeeper, Mrs Timmis, whose brother Ned was a prosperous tenant farmer on the estate. They, together with Clifford himself, had looked after Mrs Andrew’s affairs during the illness of her final years and after her death. He would be happy to discuss with me the state of the finances whenever I should wish, and he trusted I would find everything in order.

  I asked him about the history of the family, but he said that I would find all the detail I needed from my aunt’s papers, for she was a great antiquary. Her late husband, Mr Paul Andrew, had been the last of his line, and my mother and her husband were the only members of Mrs Andrew’s family who had produced offspring, thus leaving me as the heir.  

  “Mr Andrew died a dozen years ago, having been sick for some time before that. In his will he left everything to his widow, and then to go to whomsoever she should choose. She watched over your education and always intended that you should inherit the Priory. A number of hopeful gentlemen sought to marry her, for she was rich and had no children of her own, but she wouldn’t have any of them! She was a very independent lady.”

   He now asked me what I might wish to know concerning the town of Bereton and its people. I laughingly replied that I was already confused by the pronunciation of its name, for I had noticed that some said “Beerton” while others said “Berraton”: which was more correct? Clifford, who by now felt more at ease in my presence, replied with great mock solemnity that this was a matter of the utmost controversy, causing divisions as deep and hostile as those in the past between Jacobites and Hanoverians, but that he personally preferred the latter pronunciation. I might even have discovered, he added in shocked tones, that the town was sometimes named as “Beht’n”, but this deplorable usage was limited to the common people here in Mulchester. 

  Mention of Jacobites led me to recount how I had been told that one of Bereton’s Members of Parliament, Sir James Wilbrahim, was a notorious Jacobite. Clifford replied cautiously. Sir James, he said, was the most prominent gentleman in these parts, and well-respected; a Member of Parliament like his father and grandfather before him, but was now something of a recluse: a widower for many years past, living with his daughter and a few old servants at his home of Stanegate Hall to the east of the town and seldom travelling to London. He suggested that I should write to Sir James informing him that I had come to claim my inheritance, and I might then be invited to visit Stanegate, where I could judge things for myself.

  “For my part,” he said, “I have avoided asking too many questions concerning certain unfortunate past events, since feelings still run strongly around here, and, if I may say so, I would advise you to do the same, at least until you are better acquainted with the district and its people.” I nodded, and promised to follow this advice. I then said that after the noise and endless turmoil of London I was looking forward to living a life of bucolic peace and quiet, in a village where the events of the outer world never intruded, to which he replied that this was true at the moment, but it was impossible to predict the future.

 

  Outside the inn we mounted a trap drawn by a pair of horses, where there was just sufficient room for the two of us and my boxes. Clifford said that this equipage had belonged to my aunt, and hoped that I would pardon him for having used it after her death and without my permission. A silent man named Henry drove us.

  We set off northwards. After a while a long low hill loomed up ahead of us in the dim winter light. Its summit was invisible through the heavy cloud and its steep lower slopes were covered in a tangle of trees and undergrowth, leafless and gloomy. Clifford explained this was named Brackenridge on the maps, but locals called it simply “the hill”. The town of Bereton was situated below its southern flank. Brackenridge had for uncounted ages been quarried for its stone, and once there had been copper mines running deep into the lower slopes, in consequence of which Bereton had in former times been a town of importance. But the mines had long been abandoned, and many of the quarries too, so the town as a result had decayed, whereas Mulchester had grown.

   We did not follow the road into Bereton, but turned left on a drovers’ track which led to the village of Bearsclough, just beyond the western end of the ridge, where I would find my new home. We drove beneath the southern face of the hill. The track was narrow: at some points sheer rock faces loomed above us on the right, and at others we appeared to be on the floor of a narrow valley, where the rocks and earth on either side were held in place by the roots of ancient trees. I could see hardly anything from the single lantern we carried, but our horses and driver must have known the way even in the dark.  It was very cold and a steady sleet began to fall. The canvas serving as a roof to the carriage was flimsy, and I was shaken by the rough track. This was hardly the best introduction to country life at my new home!


                                                  (The path to Bearsclough in summer)

At last we left the ridge behind us and came to open fields. It was less dark once out from under the trees, and soon we passed a cluster of cottages which was the village of Bearsclough. Then we drove through a gateway and along a gravel drive to a large stone building. I had reached the Priory, and I was its new owner! Someone had heard our approach, for a door was flung open and two servants rushed out to unload my luggage.

   I was welcomed at the door by a large woman, broad rather than tall, with a formidably ample bosom. Her eyes were bright and shrewd, her skin was clear, and her hair, which was mostly contained under a white mob-cap, was brown. I judged her to be about forty or fifty years old. Clifford introduced her as Mrs Timmis, the housekeeper. She must have been nervous at meeting her new master for the first time, for she was constantly rubbing her hands on her apron, which despite this treatment remained a virginal spotless white. But her voice was steady as she welcomed me to my new home, and hoped that my journey had gone well and that I would find everything in order. I attempted to set her at her ease by saying that I was greatly looking forward to residing at the Priory. 

   Clifford now bade me goodbye, declining my invitation to stay longer and saying that his own home was not far away and he wished to reach it without delay since the weather was getting worse. He told Henry to fetch his own horse and he then departed, promising to return in a day or so to acquaint me with the accounts of the estate.

 

  My coat was taken and I was conducted into the parlour, where a fire blazed in a vast hearth of grey stone. I sat in a chair before it and asked for a bowl of hot water to wash my face and hands, and then for tea. These were swiftly brought, following which the servants were lined up to be presented to me. There were half a dozen indoor servants, mostly women and girls, as well as two gardeners, the silent Henry as stableman, and various boys who helped them. They all appeared neat and clean, and bowed or curtsied in a most respectful manner. They were all here to serve me! I briefly addressed them all, but it was Mrs Timmis who then gave them their orders, which they scurried away to fulfil. The cook and her assistants returned to the kitchen to prepare a dinner for me, and two maids were despatched to unpack my boxes.

   “I expect you’ll be wanting to take on servants of your own”, said Mrs Timmis cautiously.

  I assured her that I was perfectly satisfied with what I had seen. indeed, I felt immediately at home, and was enjoying my first experience of being the master of a household. A little later she approached me in an apologetic manner.

   “You don’t seem to have brought no dressing gown, sir”, she ventured, “and I’m afraid this is the only one in the house. It belonged to the old master, sir”.

  She produced a long garment of heavy quilted cotton, embroidered with Indian designs. I said it would do very well, and after my coat and waistcoat were taken away to be brushed, I allowed her to help me put it on. Standing in front of a mirror, wearing Mr Andrew’s old gown, I turned from side to side admiring myself in the glass and felt very much the new master of the house. It was in this manner that I was approached by a maid to tell me that dinner was ready.

  I found a long oak table set with English blue and white earthenware, which seemed more suitable for the occasion than Lord Teesdale’s delicate foreign porcelain. I was served a collar of brawn with bottled mushrooms and vegetables, followed by an apple pie and cheese, together with good ale from a barrel. Mrs Timmis proudly informed me that all this produce came from my own farms, supervised since the death of Mrs Andrew by her brother Ned, whilst at the same time apologising that the fare should be far inferior to what I was accustomed to in London. I said, quite truthfully, it was very good. I desired that she should sit at the table and talk with me; which however she politely but firmly declined to do, preferring to remain standing. She was never still; always talking or bustling about, and usually both together.

  I resolved to use Mrs Timmis as a source for all future knowledge of the town of Bereton and the country around; but for the present I found I could barely keep my eyes open, and despite the fact that it was still early evening, directly I had finished the meal I asked to be shown to my bedroom.

  Mrs Timmis took a candle and herself conducted me up the stairs to a room above where I had dined, still talking. “I hope you won’t object, sir”, she said, “but I’ve taken the liberty of making up the bed that the mistress died in; for it’s the best bed in the house. I can have a bed made up elsewhere if you prefer”. I assured her that there was no need to go to such trouble. She lit me a candle from the one she carried, asked me whether I needed a servant to help me undress, and on being assured that this would not be necessary, pointed out a bell I could ring to call a servant at any time, and finally departed.

  I scarcely examined the bed before collapsing into it. My first night as a country gentleman in my own house! The bed, though old, was a good one; soft and comfortable, with a mahogany frame supporting heavy blue damask curtains. I was tired, but very happy. The privations of the journey had been a price well worth paying to achieve this satisfaction. I soon drifted into sleep.