Chapter Twelve: Preparations

(It is spring 1762. There will shortly be a General Election, and Charles Huntingdon is preparing to stand for election at his new home of Bereton)

I found Martin Clifford still at work on a pile of papers, and when I told him of my intention of standing for election to Parliament, he showed so little reaction that I suspected he treated it as a mere youthful enthusiasm which he hoped would soon to be abandoned. When, however, I repeated the information he pushed his papers aside and turned to face me with a sad expression. He enquired whether I was aware of the vast sums of money likely to be required, amounting, he feared to several thousand pounds in the event of a contested poll? Where would I find such large amounts without incurring up ruinous debts? I had already spent vast sums on a new coach for my visit to Maybury. Where would it all end?

   I told him to have no fears on this account, for Lord Teesdale had promised to assist me, and so had an extremely wealthy East India merchant: this last, of course, being a reference to Elizabeth Newstead’s husband, who in strict truth knew nothing of my intentions. I assured Clifford that I had the support of Sir James Wilbrahim, so there was unlikely to be any contest, and added that Lord Teesdale’s man Oswald Jarrett would be advising me on the voters of Bereton.

   This last information did not appear to please Clifford: perhaps he already knew Jarrett, or at least was familiar with his reputation. I then attempted to mollify his pride by begging him to act as my agent and legal advisor for the election, which after some thought he agreed to do. But despite this grudging acquiescence he must have begun the work speedily, for very soon he had produced me a list of certain men of influence in the town, headed by Alderman Jabez Stout, whose support I needed to obtain.      

   When I told Mrs Timmis of my plans, she made no comment of any kind but merely nodded her head and returned to her work. It was almost as if the news had come as no surprise: I presumed one of the servants must have overheard my conversation with Clifford. But I soon discovered from Ned that she embarked on a campaign of her own on my behalf the next time she was in town.

   “She’s been doing rounds of all the shopkeepers and tradesmen, and if she can’t get to them, she’s spoke to their wives. There’s some as owes her favours, and there’s others as she knows their darkest secrets; and she’s told them as has votes to cast them for you, and them as don’t have votes to come out and halloo for you anyway, and I don’t doubt as how most of ‘em ‘ll do as she bids them. My sister generally gets her way!”

   I did not ask what the “favours” and “darkest secrets” might have been: my worthy housekeeper’s spider’s-web of contacts throughout the district were best left undisturbed.

   Mrs Waring’s contribution was to offer to search through my aunt’s papers for any information about past elections. She undertook the task with glee, and the library tables were soon covered in fresh heaps of books and documents.

   Alderman Stout approved of my plans, but dropped broad hints concerning considerable sums of money that I should be expected to spend for the town’s benefit should I prove successful; drawing attention to how neglectful Mr Bailey had been in this duty. I made a passing reference to my walk by the old quarry, but he ignored it. I reflected that if I did become a Member of Parliament, I would probably be obliged to suppress any smuggling, but until then it would be best to ignore the issue.

   

  Word of my intentions must have circulated rapidly, because it was not long before I received a letter from no less a personage than the Duke of Newcastle himself, asking whether, in the event of my being elected, I should be counted among his “friends” in the coming Parliament. I was surprised and flattered that this great man should find the time from his work in finding the finance for the war to be interested in my case. I replied reassuring him as to my intentions, and decided to raise this matter with Lord Teesdale when I next met him. 

 

    I now attempted to return Sir James Wilbrahim’s hospitality by hosting him to dinner, along with Clifford and Jabez Stout, in order that we could discuss the coming election in the town. My curate Mr Chamberlain was present to say grace, which duty he performed in Latin, and at some length. But, although I provided the best wine I could obtain, and Mrs Timmis and her cooks worked their hardest and provided a meal that was certainly superior in quality to what I had been served at Stanegate, the dinner was not a success. Sir James, though consuming vast quantities of both food and wine, plainly considered that his fellow guests existed at an unbridgeable gulf beneath him, and that he was personally insulted by their presence at the table. He refused to exchange a single word with them throughout the meal. Instead he grumbled throughout, his talk gradually degenerating to a monologue of denunciation of the ministry, the bankers of the City and even the bishops. He merely harrumphed when I attempted to discuss the coming election, and when I suggested we should campaign side by side, he promised no more than that his supporters might be willing to vote for me in preference to some stranger coming from outside the town, and only if I agreed that this damned war, as he termed it, should be brought to a close before the country was irretrievably ruined. He left early, much to everyone’s relief, giving me only the coldest and most formal thanks for the meal, and did not set foot in the Priory again for some time.

    Mrs Timmis was understandably upset by Sir James’s rudeness. I attempted to console her by praising her work and that of her kitchen workers, and promised to reward them all. I said that the fault was mine, for rashly attempting to heal the long feud between the Priory and Stanegate.

 

     One afternoon I rode over to Stanegate in the hope of recovering the ground I had lost at the unfortunate dinner, only to be told by William that Sir James was away attending to business at one of his outlying farms. I was about to return home, only to be summoned back. Louisa was alone in the house with a few servants, but having heard my voice she had me shown in. She was very much the mistress of her home in her father’s absence as she ordered tea to be served.

   It was brought by a maid of about Louisa’s own age, whom she treated more like a friend than a servant. The fat housekeeper, whom Mrs Timmis had referred to as “that dreadful Mrs Piddock”, regarded me with ill-concealed suspicion before she was ordered back to the kitchen, and I was sure that William was lurking somewhere, out of sight but prepared to spring (albeit arthritically) to the defence of his young mistress, should that be necessary.

   I had brought from London a dozen silk handkerchiefs, together with a novel and two books of poetry which I had intended to give to Sir James to pass on to Louisa; but which I was now able to present to her in person. She was so delighted that she kissed me on the cheek: an innocent enough gesture, though I doubted whether her father would have approved.

    Louisa was much more open in the absence of her father and the Rector, and chatted away merrily. She was thrilled to hear that I was campaigning to be elected to Parliament. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll win!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands with excitement, “My father will vote for you, and so will all his friends! I’ll tell them to! And then when you and my father are in Parliament together, perhaps you can persuade him to take me to London! I would dearly love to see London, but my father seldom goes there, and even when he does he never takes me. And the King! We can meet the King! Have you met him yet?”

    She was disappointed when I admitted that I had not yet even set eyes on our new monarch, and she wanted to know: when would he choose his Queen? I said that I was sure that even now Europe was being scoured for a suitable bride; and meanwhile there were rumours that he was deeply in love with someone of noble family who was no older than Louisa herself, or even that he had been secretly married to a beautiful Quaker girl, though I did not believe a word of that. Louisa thought it was all most romantic.

    She demanded to know everything about London: the famous buildings, the marvellous shops, the theatres and concerts and art exhibitions. I described these as well as I could, and told her of my experiences in the town, though of course omitting any mention of Elizabeth Newstead or of the wilder adventures of Lord Staines and his friends. She was enthralled, and kept asking me to tell more.  

   “You see, I have hardly ever strayed from home, or met anyone except your aunt, Mrs Andrew.  The Rector taught me my letters and the Catechism. Sometimes, years ago, when my father was away for days at a time, Mrs Andrew heard I was alone here with just the servants for company, and arranged for me to be brought over to the Priory. She was always very kind to me. She told me all about the theatres and concerts she went to when she was younger. She read books with me and taught me some French and Latin too. Her instruction was far kinder than Mr Bunbridge, who was a very severe teacher. And the books we have here are all so very dull! And when I was at the Priory I could run around the village and climb trees, and play games with the village children, who taught me to fish in the mere. I loved it! But then all that was stopped, for Mr Bunbridge had told my father that none of this was fitting for a young lady in my situation; and if I needed any further instruction, he would undertake it. My father approved of me learning French, but Mr Bunbridge didn’t teach it like Mrs Andrew did. And my father said I should be doing needlework instead of reading books. I hate needlework! And now I can’t even go into the town on my own; Mrs Piddock has to accompany me, and even then I’m hardly ever permitted to speak to anyone! If it wasn’t for Becky, my maid here, I would never know what’s happening!”

   I said that I hoped she wasn’t too unhappy with her life.

   “Oh, I’m never unhappy for long!” she said. “I can always sing. Becky teaches me the country airs. And I found a fife, that one of the soldiers must have dropped, and I taught myself to play it, but only when my father isn’t here. But I would love to have a proper music teacher.”

  I replied that unfortunately my own incapacity for music prevented me from helping her.

   As we drank more tea, Louisa told me how my aunt had been greatly interested in the history of Stanegate, and had begged leave to inspect the older parts of the house; but Sir James had never invited her. I said I would be delighted to look round, if she would be kind enough to guide me.

   “I’ll show you something!” she said, and took me by the hand to lead me through the library into the oldest part of the house and up a stone spiral staircase. Mrs Piddock followed us uninvited, muttering complaints about her painful feet.   

   Louisa threw open a door. “There!” she said, “What do you think of that?”

   We were in a large, cold room, with a bare wooden floor and without furniture except for a few old chairs and a table. The oak panels on the walls stopped a few inches short of the plain ceiling. A large stone fireplace of grey stone jutted into the room, but it was clear that no fire had been lit there for many years. There were with shelves of ancient books, but what Louisa had brought me there to show me was above the fireplace. I beheld a most grotesquely carved structure, with every inch was covered in strange, staring faces, ridiculous caryatids and festoons of foliage. I had never seen anything like it, and I gazed at it with awe, though not with admiration, for it must have been the work of a wood-carver of genius, but one sadly devoid of learning or taste.

   “I told Mrs Andrew about it, and she said it must have been carved long ago”, Louisa explained. “When I was small it used to frighten me. I still don’t like to come here on my own. It’s mostly just a room for the servants. But I think Mr Bunbridge is interested in it. I know he comes up here sometimes to look at the old books.”

   After a while, with Sir James still not having returned home, I felt it was time for me to depart, and so I rode home after a most pleasant time with the young mistress of Stanegate. I promised to provide her with more books, and to come to see her whenever I could. I was perhaps in danger of becoming Miss Louisa’s schoolmaster, but reflected that there were many less pleasant ways of passing my time.

 

                                          (Stokesay Castle, Shropshire)

  Mrs Waring was greatly interested in my description of the curiously carved overmantel.

   “Mrs Andrew often requested to be allowed to inspect it, and all the other old rooms of Stanegate, but she was never allowed entry to the house, on account of her Whiggish politics. Such ridiculous conduct, and so impolite to a lady! She thought it must be from the reign of Elizabeth or James the First, by some local tradesman ignorant of true artistic principles, so she said. But she also said that she would not have been surprised if there wasn’t a priest’s hole somewhere, or a secret cupboard for holding the superstitious Papist vestments and chalice, for it was said that the family were all Papists in those days.”

   I mentioned that the Rector, Mr Bunbridge, sometimes consulted the old books in the room, and she answered with a snort.

  “Mrs Andrew thought Bunbridge was no true scholar, and all his so-called learning was a mere lumber-room! And he said openly that no woman could ever aspire to scholarship, so she despised him! And so did I, for he spread rumours that I was a Dissenter and a republican, which I am not and never was!”

  I called upon her to guide me in choosing suitable works to lend to Miss Louisa Wilbrahim. She was extremely reluctant to let any more of her precious volumes out of her sight, and I also discovered that she had the very strictest standards as to what might be suitable for a young maiden to read. Eventually I was able to remove from her shelves a few books of poetry to which Sir James could not possibly object and arranged for them to be delivered to Stanegate, along with a note to say that Miss Wilbrahim could keep them as long as she fancied.

 

   I now prepared to make my journey to Maybury, the home of my new mentor and guide through the treacherous thickets of politics, the Earl of Teesdale. My new carriage was freshly painted, the brasswork polished and the axles greased, and the horses impeccably groomed. My best clothes, which had not been worn since I came down from London, were brushed and carefully packed. Henry the silent coachman was provided with a new coat for the occasion.

   Mrs Timmis asked, “Should I find you a manservant, sir? Or do you already have someone in mind?”

  “Ellen acts as my valet. She’s become very careful and reliable. She even shaves me in the mornings, and she’s never once cut me!”

   “But lor, sir, you can’t take her!” she exclaimed, “I hope you’ll forgive me speaking plain, sir, but really you can’t! Everyone’ll think she’s your mistress! And her ladyship the Countess will be shocked, and the gentlemen will chaff you about it, and talk behind your back about what they’d like to do with Ellie! And can you imagine what the servants at Maybury will say to the poor girl? No, sir: you can’t take Ellie; I’m not having it, that I’m not!”

   She stood there with her hands on her wide hips, looking positively fierce, as if she was dealing with a dishonest tradesman or an idle servant. I wondered how Lord Staines would have dealt with the situation. For my part I had no wish to argue with my formidable housekeeper.

   “Very well then; what do you suggest?” I replied.

   “Well, sir; if you’d permit me to make a suggestion, you might take Robert Barton as your valet. He’s a waiter at the Queen’s Head. He’s sober and he’s trustworthy. He overhears all the gossip and stores it away in his head; he knows how to keep his mouth shut, but if he trusts you, then he might tell you what he’s learnt. Should I have a word with the landlord, sir? He owes me a favour, and I’m sure he can be persuaded to release Robert for a few days. And if you’d give me permission, sir, I might tell Robert that you’d be interested in what the folks as Maybury are saying”.

   I nodded agreement. I was relieved that she did not think that little Ellie actually was my mistress, and that I had not made any attempt to bring about this consummation: nothing in the household could have remained concealed from Mrs Timmis, and probably nothing in Bereton either.

Chapter Eleven: The Shadow of the Past

(It is spring 1761, and Charles Huntingdon has returned to Bereton with the intention of standing for election to Parliament at the coming General Election. He also hopes to discover the truth of what passed in the town during the great Jacobite rebellion of 1745)    

On my first morning back at the Priory I was awakened by a rousing dawn chorus by a cockerel in the henhouse, and when I opened the shutters the room was flooded with golden light as the sun rose behind Brackenridge hill. A glorious day was in prospect. I reflected that my friends in London would only recently have gone to bed, but I felt very happy.

  I found spring well advanced and my farms all at work. The fields were green with young crops, and in the meadows lambs and calves were at play. In my orchard the cherry trees were full of blossom white as snow. The apple trees were looking well, as were the pears up against the south-facing wall. Ned Timmis and his family and numerous labourers had been hard at work for the past few weeks, ploughing and harrowing and sowing; cleaning ditches and repairing hedges. Inside the house, Mrs Timmis was directing a vigorous spring cleaning.  

  Martin Clifford brought me a vast quantity of papers containing the quarterly returns from my lands in various counties, all of which appeared to require my inspection. I did not intend to inform him of my intention to stand for election to Parliament until I had first prepared the ground by talking to Sir James Wilbrahim; instead, remembering what Lord Teesdale had told me of the advance of the Scotch rebels through Bereton in 1745, I interrupted our work by asking Clifford whether he had witnessed these events.

  “I did not," he told me, “for I was away in Berkshire, working for Mr Andrew in a dispute concerning certain property he had there. Mrs Timmis was here, and you must ask her. She told me how some of the rebel leaders stayed at the Priory and others at Stanegate, Sir James Wilbrahim being away in London. No resistance was offered to the rebels, and to be fair, no outrages were committed by them, and so the next day they continued on their way.

   “When I returned, I found troops had been billeted both in Bereton and in Mulchester, and remained for a long time. The soldiers were not liked, and their presence led to riots and other disturbances. Jacobite sentiment and hatred of the government remained in the district for many years afterwards: at the county races next year, some of the gentry dressed a fox in the red coat of a soldier and decked the hounds in tartan to hunt it; and there was violence offered to any Whig who dared show his face!”

 

   I was intrigued by this, and later interrupted Mrs Timmis’s spring cleaning to ask whether she had seen the rebels in1745.

   “Lord, yes, sir, I remember it well!” she replied, immediately warming to the topic, “It was the start of December, and there was snow on the ground, and these wild highland men came, a fierce-looking bunch of ruffians they were, with their strange clothes and strange talk! Some in the town might have welcomed them, but not in this household, for we were all loyal to our King George, and always would be. We were that fearful of what might befall; but their leader; Murray, that was his name, Lord George Murray; for all his outlandish dress he behaved in a most gentleman-like manner! He asked at the house for food and shelter for his men, and Mr Andrew, he was very sick, poor man, and had no more than a year to live; he did not wish to feed traitors and rebels, but resistance was useless and Lord George said he would pay for everything, and so he did! And so the highland men slept in the stables, but Lord George and his friend, who called himself the Duke of Perth; a weak-looking man but most polite in his bearing; they slept in the house; to protect us against any robbery, they said; and they were as good as their word; though we hardly slept a wink that night; and then they departed the next day with no injuries done, but with the greatest of thanks and compliments! And I thought, they may all be wicked rebels against the King, but I’ve met far worse people in my time, that I have!”

   “But the young man who called himself the Prince of Wales: did you see him?”

   “No more than a glimpse, sir; for he did not come here, but spent the night at Stanegate Hall; and Sir James was not at home, but in London, and so his poor wife was left there all undefended! But no harm was done; though there was some gossip afterwards…. But lord, sir, the young girls in the town; their talk was all of how handsome Prince Charlie was, and how gallantly he conducted himself! And when we were told that he had escaped back to France, we were glad for his sake, for all that he was a rebel against the King!”

      I would have asked further questions, but Mrs Timmis now plainly indicated that she had wasted enough time in idle chatter when she had important work to do. I let her depart, reflecting that although I might in strict point of law be lord of the manor of Bearsclough, there could be no doubt that Mrs Timmis was mistress of the household. 

                                         (Lord George Murray)

    I found Mrs Waring still fussing in the library, as though nothing had changed since my earlier visit, and asked her what she knew of the great events of 1745.

   “Oh, it was before I came here, of course, she replied. “But I heard the talk about Sir James and Lady Wilbrahim, and I thought Sir James’s behaviour was contemptible, leaving his wife all alone to face the rebels. But Mrs Andrew said that Sir James didn’t just run away and leave Lady Wilbrahim behind: oh, no! Mrs Andrew believed Lady Wilbrahim refused to leave her home! She was determined to receive the Prince at Stanegate, no matter what the cost; and so she did! She was always a stronger Jacobite than her husband, and braver too. Mrs Andrew respected her for that, however much she herself despised the Jacobite cause.

   “And the rebels passed through, and then they retreated back into Scotland and were all defeated at Culloden, thank goodness. And next year Miss Louisa was born and poor Lady Wilbrahim never recovered and died soon afterwards, and Sir James never married again. Mrs Andrew thought he must always have felt ashamed of his behaviour in 1745, and deservedly so too!”

   Having said her piece with unusual vehemence, my librarian then returned to the interminable task of rearranging books and papers.

 

   The picture of my home in 1745 was becoming more and more complex, and I resolved to continue my questioning. Soon afterwards, Ned Timmis came to consult me concerning the hiring of extra labour on my farms. I told him to take on as many men as might be needed, and then invited him to sit down for a pot of ale. While he was consuming this, and following it with a second pint and then a third, I asked him if he remembered the coming of the Highlanders.

  “Aye, sir, I remember it right well, but with no great pleasure,” he replied, “For I was in the county militia then, and a poor showing we made of it! When we heard of the rebels’ approach, we formed up; but what with Squire Wilbrahim being in London and Squire Andrew in bad health, there was no-one to lead us, and all was confusion. In short, the rebels marched on and we marched away, back to our homes, and not a shot was fired against them! A poor showing indeed!

   “And so the rebels passed the night with us, some here, some in Bereton and others in the villages around, and when they passed on the next day, a few of the lads from round about joined them. Some of them was friends of mine. And what became of those lads I know not, for we never heard owt of them again. I hope they escaped, or was killed in battle, rather than live to be hanged as traitors.

    “And not more than a week after, we heard that the rebels had retreated back to Scotland, but we did not see them, for they took a different road. And when Squire Wilbrahim returned, which was a good time after, no-one thought well of his conduct, and some of the older folks still hold it against him. Everyone in these parts knew that Squire Wilbrahim said King George wasn’t no true king. When he hunted a fox he would halloo his friends to hunt George of Hanover, for such he would name the fox; yet no sooner had he heard that the rebels was passing south down through Lancashire and headed this way, than he set out for London rather than stay to either greet or fight them! And he left his poor lady here! That caused much talk, and none to his credit.

   “Your sister mentioned that there was some gossip….”

   “Women always gossip, sir. A year later, they was all whispering how strange it was, what with the squire and his wife having been wed those ten years past, but without children; and then the young Pretender comes, and he so handsome and having such a way with women, they say, and she being there all unprotected, and then next autumn the babe being born; well! what do you make of it? That’s how the women talked; but to my way of thinking it’s all nonsense, and anyhow it’s all long past now.”

  “I was told that there were troops stationed here after the rebellion,” I said.

    “Yes, sir: for many years afterwards there was soldiers quartered in the town, in the taverns for the most part, and we hated them, that we did! They got drunk and wouldn’t pay their bills, and there was fighting, and windows broke, and one night a soldier was beaten near to death, but no-one wouldn’t give evidence and so no-one got convicted. Afterwards I heard one of the officers say that this was a damned rebel town and the townsfolk treated them very ill, but they would be revenged on them. Them was his very words. But in the end the soldiers was taken away, and good riddance too.”

 

   I thought it wise as well as polite that I should inform Sir James Wilbrahim personally of my intention of my election plans, and hope that he would support my candidature, or at least not actively oppose it. Accordingly, the day after my return, I wrote a letter to Sir James, requesting that I might pay him a visit. But how best to approach the subject? It might be best not to tell him that I would shortly be visiting Maybury, since I knew he detested Lord Teesdale and everything he stood for, but since he was certain to discover it eventually, might it be best to inform him openly and honestly? Then again, should I reveal that I knew about his conduct in the late rebellion? And what purpose would this serve? In the end, I merely informed him that I had important news from London to impart.

   To clear my mind and rehearse what I might say to Sir James, I decided to take a walk in the direction of Bereton. It was a glorious day of sunshine, the air was full of birdsong and the trees were starting to bud. I climbed from the main track to a higher path through the woods, and before long found myself at the old quarry which had been the scene of my near-fatal accident. This time, however, I found to my surprise that the entanglement of brambles blocking the gap between a huge boulder and the rock-face had been thrust aside and the wet earth showed the tracks of men’s boots of men passing in that way. Moved by curiosity, I decided to investigate.

  I found myself in a kind of narrow passage. The light was too dim to see how far it ran, and I had only gone a few steps when I dislodged a stone that rattled loudly. Suddenly, ahead of me, a man’s voice exclaimed, “There’s someone out there!”

   “I’ll go and take a look then!” replied another voice, that of an older and more educated man.

   I retreated as quickly and quietly as I was able, for if these men were robbers or smugglers, they would certainly have a short way with intruders. I crouched down behind a huge block of stone and did not dare raise my head to look. I heard footsteps, and then to my vast relief heard the second man say, “No-one about! You’re always imagining things, Harry! Must be one of those cursed badgers or foxes. They’re forever making a mess here!”

   “Brocks about in broad daylight! Don’t be daft! You don’t know nowt, you don’t!” his companion grumbled. This brought an angry response and to my great good fortune they fell to quarrelling, neglecting to investigate further. Eventually they retreated back into the passage, still muttering to each other. Even then I dared not move for a long time.

   When at last I felt safe I crept away as silently as I could; abandoning my plan to walk to Bereton but instead returning homeward. I did not relax until I had left the woods behind me. Back at the Priory I found a letter inviting me to Stanegate.

 

   I was encouraged to find Sir James Wilbrahim in a cheerful and relaxed mood. Old William served me a large glass of claret wine and then left us. After some trivial initial exchanges concerning the state of our farms, I embarked on a carefully prepared discourse concerning the coming election. I began by telling Sir James the news from London that Mr Bailey had decided to retire from Parliament. I did not reveal that I had heard this from Lord Teesdale; and, as I suspected, Mr Bailey had not troubled to inform his constituents of his intention. I knew the information would please Sir James, as indeed it did.

   I left unsaid the obvious fact that one of the Bereton seats was now vacant, and instead, flattering the old squire outrageously, I discoursed on how much I had learnt from listening to the conversation at his dinner table, and how impressed I had been by the desire to be represented by a gentleman resident in the town, and therefore, I humbly suggested that, with his support and that of his friends, I might dare to put my own name forwards? I promised always to follow his wise guidance on the matter, etcetera, etcetera. I continued to speak in this vein for some time before finally lapsing into silence.

   Sir James too remained silent for a while, cradling his wineglass and gazing into the fireplace. Eventually he turned to face me.

   “Well, Mr Huntingdon, you will appreciate that all this is very sudden. I am glad to see the back of Bailey, certainly, but ….” He then paused again before resuming, “Well, and why not? You are young, and have much to learn, but at least I do not think you are another of those damned Whigs. So, if no other gentleman should put his name forward, I do not see why I should not have you as a colleague. Proceed with your plans, and I shall not oppose you.”

   I thanked him profusely, and after some more conversation on other matters, in which I was careful to agree with everything he said, I shook him warmly by the hand, and before departing invited himto dinner, expressing the pious hope that this could mark a reconciliation between Stanegate and the Priory.

    I had scarcely been give the most ringing of endorsements, but at least I could now be sure that Sir James would not oppose me; and much to my relief, Lord Teesdale's name had never been mentioned. My campaign could now begin!    

                                (An old English squire, by Gainsborough)

  On the way home I encountered Ned Timmis, riding back from business in town. I did not tell him of my meeting with Sir James, but instead mentioned my discovery at the old quarry, and asked if he, as a man likely to know everything that went on in the district, thought that smuggled goods might be concealed there. He gave me a strange look before venturing a reply.

   “Why, sir, I don’t doubt that you might be right; and there might be persons round about that know the truth of it, but others wouldn’t think as how there was any cause to interfere in such matters. All I would say is that Squire Wilbrahim is always generous in supplying the town with beer and wine and tobacco and suchlike goods at Christmas and other times, and it’s not for the likes of us to enquire where he gets them, sir.”

  The hint was plain: I would be ill-advised to ask questions that might risk antagonising people in the town. If I did succeed in being elected to Parliament, I might feel obliged to take some action, but for now I would let the matter rest. I had more important things on my mind! 

Chapter Ten: I receive an astonishing proposal

 ( It is spring 1761. Charles Huntingdon has had surprising experiences of his friend Lord Staines and the latter's father the Earl of Teesdale)

    The more I was acquainted with Elizabeth Newstead, the more attractive I found her. She might have been several years older than me, but her skin was clear, her hair was pale gold, her white teeth were all her own, and her eyes, when she looked me full in the face, were teasing. My desire for this elegant lady increased day by day. However, the next time I visited her she immediately sensed that I was impatient to ask her questions of some kind, so she smiled and invited me to proceed without delay.

  I told her of Lord Teesdale’s outburst of hostility towards his son, and the strange incident of the picture of the boy with the cricket bat. She said, did I not know that there had been another son? That would have been the boy in the picture: the darling of his parents; a delightful child with infinitely more talents than his brother, but who had had died of a fever while at Eton. Lord Teesdale, and more particularly his Countess, had never fully recovered from the tragedy.

   “And as for Staines, I am only surprised that you had not become aware earlier of his character. Why, the whole town knows of it, and how his father despairs of him, and I verily believe might disinherit him, but for the fact that he is the only son. His sister is a fool and married to a fool. His worst depravities have so far been concealed from the Countess: she still hopes that if they can find a good wife for him it might effect his reformation; but as for myself, I have my doubts!”

   She asked whether I had ever visited the house that his father permitted him to keep. I replied that I had been invited, but had never ventured there.

   “You were wise!” she replied. “for I have heard that he keeps a set of very disreputable servants; rascals of the most degraded morals; and the scenes that take place there are best not described!”

    I then recounted how Staines had greatly surprised me by kissing me after our encounter with the ruffians when returning from the Drury Lane theatre. Instead of being shocked, the tale caused her to laugh.

  “With the greatest respect, Mr Huntingdon, why else do you think he would have first befriended you; a penniless young man with no prospects? Because you are so handsome, that is why! But I believe you are not of Staines’s persuasion, are you?”

   She turned to me with a mischievous smile on her face. Acting on a sudden impulse, I seized her in my arms and kissed her full on the lips; and in that position we remained for some time, for she made no attempt to break free. Finally, she gently pushed me away.

   “Well, I discover I was right!” she chuckled, “But now to other matters. The Countess of Teesdale wishes to meet you again.

  “I have the honour to be accounted as one of her friends. She seldom appears in public and speaks freely only with an intimate circle. She is no fool: her judgement is sound, she knows much of poetry and painting, and for all her silence she has much influence over her his lordship. She has heard the Earl speak of you as a young man of good sense. I have told her that you wish to wait upon her. You should do so. It is high time, Mr Huntingdon, that you ceased to waste your days with Lord Staines and his disreputable friends, and instead begin to cultivate the best society!”

  Elizabeth now took me in hand to make me acceptable to the finest ladies. She instructed me in the complex and precise etiquette required when meeting ladies for the first time, or when attending a lady’s salon There appeared to be an endless number of small details: how I should enter the room, how to bow, how to hold my hat, and so forth. I treated all this as no more than the foolish rules of a ridiculous game, but Elizabeth sternly told me that I must treat such matters with great seriousness.

   “Of course, only a fool thinks they are of real importance; but none but a fool treats them as being of no importance. When your position in the world is firmly established, why; then you may ignore all these rules if you so choose. But not before then!”

  Elizabeth also lent me the latest novels and books of poetry to read, or at least glance at, in order to make polite conversation about them. She produced folios of engravings of pictures by the great artists, and taught me how to distinguish a Carravaggio or a Titian. Of our British artists she particularly admired Allan Ramsay. She acknowledged Holbein as a man of genius, but thought most of his works too brutal for those of refined taste. Architecture too was studied, so that I might never confuse a Doric column with an Ionic or Corinthian one.

  I was nervous when she first accompanied me to Teesdale House, where the Countess was holding a salon of friends after the French fashion. Fortunately, all went well. We were served tea in exquisitely decorated little porcelain cups from Saxony, and our talk was of painting and poetry, not of politics. I endeavoured to contribute to the best of my ability, with wit but with modesty, and not to talk too much. I hoped I had made a good impression. I was invited to attend again next week, when I was honoured to be introduced to the famous Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, the traveller and poetess. I was too awed to say much to her, and hoped to meet her again on some future occasion; but alas! the poor lady was soon very ill and died not long afterwards. Also in the company with a young Scotchman, by name Boswell, who flattered the Countess outrageously and never stopped talking. I was to meet him again later.

 

      It was after this last event that I was summoned to another discussion with Lord Teesdale. I had not spoken to him since the episode with the painting, which, thanks to Elizabeth Newstead, I now understood. Neither of us referred to the incident: instead, we talked of politics and the coming election.

  He began by saying that, while Sir James Wilbrahim’s hold on one of the two Bereton seats was absolute and unchallengeable, the other could be considered more open, and he asked me for my opinion on this. I replied that Sir James and his friends strongly disliked Mr Bailey, the other Member, and had been angry with my aunt for supporting him. They would all prefer some local gentleman to replace him, should any be available.

   Lord Teesdale smiled. “Mrs Andrew was a very independent-minded lady. She and her late husband had, of course, maintained an endless feud with Sir James Wilbrahim, and, I might add, she did not greatly approve of me either; but since no Whig candidate was put forward, she acquiesced in Mr Bailey’s candidature, though without enthusiasm.

    “But now, a general election is imminent, and Mr Bailey has reported that his health is such that he no longer wishes to endure the burden of another campaign, so the second seat at Bereton may be considered vacant. I believe this is a fine opportunity for a young gentleman to come forward as a candidate. You are quite right that there would be support for a local man. Why not yourself? You now reside there, your aunt was a highly respected figure and her friends are certain to vote for you, and I am confident that, with my support too, your efforts will meet with success.”

   He wanted me to become a Member of Parliament!

   I could do no more than nod in assent to the proposal; my head already full of dreams. Eventually I protested weakly that I knew little of politics, but he brushed this aside, saying that I had shown myself to be better informed than most young gentlemen of my age. He repeated that my chances of success were strong, and added that I should not be concerned about the expense involved in an election: he would be glad to advance any money that might be needed. He added that his Countess spoke very highly of me. “And”, he added, with a smile, “If you have the ladies on your side, then you have a considerable advantage already!

   “But time is short, for the poll will be held in May. If you wish to enter Parliament, you must return to Bereton without delay to prepare for the contest. My man Jarrett will come: he knows all the details of every voter in the borough, and through him you may obtain any funds you might need. Then, as soon as you are able, come down to see me at Maybury. I will introduce you to certain gentlemen of importance.

   “Should you prove successful in this endeavour,” he added, “all I shall demand of you is that you would never directly oppose my interests. In all other matters, you will be free to act as you see fit”.

  I considered this this a very fair bargain, and agreed to his terms.

 

  Elizabeth entirely approved of my desire to become a Member of Parliament, and that she would certainly be happy to lend me any money that might be needed for the project, for she was sure that her husband and all his friends from India would also approve. As for Mr Bailey’s withdrawal from the election, she said this might have been foreseen.

   “For many months he has been immured in his house at Hampstead with his new mistress, and all that untoward exertion with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter must have taken its toll on his body, no less than on his wallet!”

  She also advised me of the importance of maintaining my independence, especially from Lord Teesdale.

    “Perhaps he sees you as a kind of son, whose character he hopes to mould”, she mused, “But otherwise his actions are always guided by his own self-interest, and he may expect you to be no more than his tool or follower in Bereton and in Parliament, to act always in accordance with his wishes. You must be sure not to let this happen!”

   I felt confident that I would be capable of resisting an attempt by Teesdale or anyone else to reduce me to a puppet; so I answered that the Earl had assured me a proper measure of freedom in my conduct, but that I would bear her warning in mind.  She patted me on the cheek, and then we kissed. She laughingly repulsed my attempts to take our intimacy further.

 

   What time I now had to spare from discussing politics with Lord Teesdale, or dealing with the many and detailed papers of financial accounts that Clifford sent me from the Priory, I now spent with Elizabeth, or with Lady Teesdale and her circle, and I no longer joined the night-time expeditions of Lord Staines and his friends. Some of them commented with pretended sadness that my absence from drunken cavorting on the streets made it only too obvious that a woman had got me in her clutches. John Robertson, however, approved.

   “For a young man who, if you will pardon me for so saying, has little knowledge of the world”, he told me in his most sonorous tones, “could there ever be a better tutor than a lady who has moved in the best society? And, as the famous Lord Chesterfield instructed his son: a man who wins the good opinion of the ladies may indeed consider that he has the world at his feet. Many savants have written of the advantage of having as a mistress a lady of mature years. Should you indeed be fortunate enough to find such a lady to help you in your endeavours, stay with her!”

   I wondered if he knew about Elizabeth. I protested that I had no mistress, which was true enough at this time, though not for want of trying on my part. As my passion for her increased, my desire and frustration did battle at every meeting, which was no doubt her intention.

   

   Now I was ready to return to my country home to prepare for the election. On parting from Elizabeth, I took her in my arms and kissed her with great passion. In view of her comments on her husband, I hoped we might proceed yet further, but when I made the attempt, she laughingly repulsed me, with the excuse that she feared I would endanger her favourite dress (which was indeed a very fine one, of blue Spitalfields silk with a pattern of orange flowers). She also resisted suggestions that we should take ourselves to the bedroom and allow me to undress her, giggling coquettishly. Far from being offended, my ardour appeared to amuse her. I retorted that when I returned to London as a Member of Parliament, should my hopes be fulfilled, I would then claim my rights as a conqueror. To this she laughed, but made no objection.

 

  I met Staines at Brown’s club soon after this. I did not reveal that I knew of his father’s disgust, but told him how I intended to stand for election to Parliament. He congratulated me heartily and said he looked forward to sitting beside me on the famous benches.

   “I shall be there too, for I shall be returned for a borough somewhere in Wiltshire which, as far as I can tell, is in the happy situation of containing no voters at all. And I shall not sit mute like some booby squire: I intend to cut a figure in Parliament! I shall speak frequently, hinting to ministers that my support could be obtained for a suitable price. That is the route to a lucrative office! And in the meantime: did you know that a Member of Parliament cannot be arrested for debt? We shall be able to defer paying our tradesmen for as long as we wish!”

   

   I wrote to Mrs Timmis, telling her to expect me soon, but only to stay for a few days, for I intended to stay in the Priory for no more than a week before passing on to Maybury; and I instructed Clifford to obtain for me a carriage and horses suitable to take me on my coming journey thither. I did not tell either of them of my intention to stand for election to Parliament; I thought it best to tell Sir James Wilbrahim personally, rather than that he should learn of  my plans from gossip around the town. 

  Guided by Elizabeth, I purchased new garments that were fitting for visiting a great lord on his estate, where no doubt I would meet other gentlemen of refinement and importance. I did not forget to buy presents for Louisa Wilbrahim. I also had a shoemaker fashion for me several pairs of stout boots, suitable for country wear. I would explore the lands around more fully, and I might even attempt some foxhunting! And on this visit I would diligently search out the true story of the Jacobite occupation of the town.

   The day before my departure, I walked through the streets to look upon the palace of Westminster. I could now I regard the scene in a new perspective, hoping that I would shortly be a denizen of that celebrated building as of right. I was beginning to view myself not only as a country gentleman but a person of significance in a wider world.

(Westminster before the great fire of 1834)

Chapter Nine: Lord Teesdale and Elizabeth Newstead

 (It is early spring 1761. Charles Huntingdon has returned to London after a few weeks at his new home near Bereton)

   On my return to London I resumed my former lodgings, and reflected that I now had two places that I considered home. I could have lodged more fashionably now, but I had grown accustomed to the comfortable old place. My landlady made me most welcome, whilst at the same time hinting that, in view of my new opulence, an increase in the rent I paid would not come amiss. I was happy to oblige her.

   Next, I made my way to Brown’s club in the hope of meeting Lord Staines there. I found myself in the midst of an animated discussion about the continuing war, and noted that a number of the gentlemen were now in agreement with Sir James Wilbrahim that a swift end should now be sought to the conflict, for the French fleets would surely not dare to put to sea again and our new conquests in India and the Americas were secure. Opponents of this opinion argued that the conflict in Germany was unresolved, where our ally, Frederick of Prussia, despite receiving millions of British money, was hard pressed by advancing Russian forces, and it would be dishonourable for Britain to desert him in his hour of need.

   Most of the gentlemen were troubled by the immense cost of the war, and others predicted a breakup of the present ministry, where those old enemies Mr Pitt and the Duke of Newcastle had been obliged to work together only by the desperate need to save the country. One of the gathering, who was clearly a curmudgeon by nature, dismissed Pitt as mad and the Duke as a ridiculous old fool. He predicted that, unless the war was brought speedily to a close, the country would infallibly sink into a bottomless morass of debt, “And all, sir, for the sake of the stockjobbers and sugar merchants of the City, and for the saving of that horrid Electorate of Hanover, that hath for so long preyed on the very vitals of our poor country!” Sir James Wilbrahim and his friends in Bereton would surely, I thought, have echoed these sentiments! All, however, entertained great hopes of our new young King, George III, though little appeared to be known about him personally.

   Lord Staines now entered. He welcomed me back to the delights of London and described the adventures of our friends while I had been away, to which I replied with a satirical account of Sir James Wilbrahim’s dinner party. He then invited me to accompany him to the theatre next week to see a new comedy that was about to open. He did not remain at the club long, pleading a pressing engagement elsewhere.

 

   A few days later I was invited to a meeting with Lord Teesdale. He questioned me, in a detailed but friendly manner, concerning my time in Bereton, what I thought of the town and my new neighbours, the condition of my estate, my finances and so forth. He pointed out that I, as a landowner of importance in the borough, would have much influence there in the coming general election. I was flattered that he took so great an interest in me, but confessed that my knowledge of the town and its people was so far only slight.

  I described my meeting with Sir James Wilbrahim and his friends at Stanegate Hall, and asked if their commitment to the Jacobite cause might be a danger to the country. He replied that all this was well known to the ministers:

   “I tell you, sir, in February of 1744, with a French fleet all prepared to invade these islands, a spy revealed that for every shire there were lists of nobles and gentry who would rise to fight for the Pretender. The name of Sir James Wilbrahim was among them. But happily Providence was on side of this fortunate country, for the French fleet was scattered by storms and the invasion did not take place. Mr Pelham, who was then Prime Minister, thought it best to take no action against the traitors, but they knew their names had been pricked out, and that is why neither Wilbrahim nor any other of the crew came out to fight for the Scotch rebels the next year.

  He then asked, was I aware of what had passed in Bereton in the great rebellion of 1745? I said that I had been advised not to ask questions on such matters.

   “Wise advice, perhaps,” he conceded, “And no doubt that there are many there that would wish it was all forgotten. But now you are a gentleman of importance, there are matters you need to know. For the rebels reached Bereton at the end of November, on their march south, and were allowed to lodge there overnight. Not a soul raised a finger against them! Mr Andrew cannot be blamed, for he was confined to bed with a sickness from which he never recovered. But as for Wilbrahim: why; he departed for London as the Scotch army approached! Some said that he fled in fear of having to make a choice of whether or not to join them. He left his unfortunate lady at home, all unprotected!

  “His enemies called this the behaviour of a poltroon. But Wilbrahim was not alone in such behaviour: as I have said, not a single English nobleman or Member of Parliament came to the support of the rebels. By any consideration, sir; there were but very few whose love of the Pretender was such that they would lie out under a hedge in winter for his sake. No, sir: they do little now but drink his toast whilst deep in their cups, to ‘the king over the water’ or some such foolishness, and we have nothing to fear from them”.

  I mentioned the Rector, who had seemed so passionate for the Jacobite cause.

   “Ah yes, Mr Bunbridge, is it not?” he replied, “As for him, it was widely believed that he marched on with the rebels as their chaplain, but when they halted at Derby and turned back, he deserted the cause in disgust. But nothing was ever proved, and Mr Pelham, as I have said, thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie rather than waste time and stir up animosity by pursuing so insignificant an offender. And no doubt he was correct. 

    “What use you choose to make of this history is your concern. You may consider, as many do, that these unfortunate events are now all safely in the past, for we have new King now who is, like you, too young to remember them, and from what I hear whispered, many things may now change. You may consider Sir James Wilbrahim old and foolish, and irreconcilable in his Jacobitism, but he still wields much influence in and around Bereton, and furthermore that he has a daughter who will inherit considerable estates; and so he is well worth cultivating”.

  I wondered whether he was suggesting I should pay court to Miss Louisa Wilbrahim, and only discovered much later how wrong I was.

    He enquired what I had learnt concerning prospects for the election in Bereton. I replied that Mr Bailey, the other Member for the town, was not liked by Sir James and his friends, and that they would prefer that some local gentleman should be found instead. Lord Teesdale replied that this scarcely came as a surprise to him. He described to me how, at the last election in 1754, he had persuaded Mrs Andrew and Sir James to act together despite their political differences and deter any other candidate from attempting to stand, thereby avoiding the vast expense of a contest. Sir James had, with some reluctance, acknowledged the good sense of this, and he and Mr Bailey had in consequence been returned unopposed. I promised to follow my aunt’s example and give my support to Mr Bailey, as my aunt had done.

   I was then asked my opinion on the present situation of the country. I said that I greatly admired Mr Pitt, and how he had ensured our glorious victories in the continuing war. He said this was very true, but the war must soon be brought to an end by some means or other, and that Pitt and the old Duke of Newcastle were not much liked by His Majesty, and a prudent man should attach himself to Lord Bute, who was greatly favoured. I remembered hearing his name mentioned at Lord Teesdale’s dinner party, and asked whether many gentlemen might not be happy about power being in the hands of a Scotchman, especially one who, as I understood it, had the misfortune to bear the name of Stuart, the name of the exiled Jacobite princes. Might it not recall to their minds the 1745 rebellion that we had just been discussing? Lord Teesdale replied this was perhaps true, but that His Majesty, like me, was too young to have any memory of these events, and hoped they could be now buried and forgotten. I then left, expecting to be invited for further discussions.

 

   Now that spring had arrived, ladies and gentlemen would often visit the Vauxhall gardens in the afternoon, to stroll through avenues of trees and under triumphal arches, listening to hidden orchestras playing and watching the world go by. 

   I was walking there with George Davies and John Robertson when the latter suddenly exclaimed, “Hello! What’s happening here?”

   I followed his gaze and observed some distance away a group of ladies uttering cries of distress. The reason for this became clear when I saw that one on them had lost her hat, which had blown off in the wind and caught in the branches of a tree out of reach. It was bright blue in colour with a splendid ostrich plume: well worth saving, though hardly suitable for wearing on a windy day. A few bystanders of coarse appearance were laughing at them.

   “I shall fetch a ladder and some workmen,” Robertson announced, and departed on this mission. It did not take long for Davies to lose patience.

   “Oh, we can settle this ourselves!” he cried, and turned to me. “Now, Charles: I fancy if you climbed on me, you could dislodge the hat with your stick. What do you think?” I could scarcely refuse to make the attempt. I have previously mentioned that he was a veritable Hercules: quite the tallest and strongest man I have ever met. Now we both removed our coats and he braced himself, hands on knees, while I clambered up his back. I sat on his shoulders while he straightened up without any great effort. He handed me my stick, but despite stretching as far as I could, I was unable to reach the hat.

   “Then you must stand on my shoulders,” he told me, “I won’t let you fall!”

   I did not contemplate the suggestion with any pleasure, but it was too late to retreat. I placed my right hand, still holding the stick, on Davies’s head for balance, and my left foot on his shoulder, where he grasped my ankle firmly. I then paused before straightening the leg and attempting to grab some twigs, now green with the fresh leaves of spring, which I could see above me, and which I prayed would bear my weight. I heard the ladies squeak with alarm and beg me not to endanger myself. A crowd of men had by now gathered to watch the sport: none offered to help, and instead I heard bets being offered on whether I might fall. I observed that the odds on a serious injury were not encouraging.

   With a sudden lunge I planted my right foot on Davies’s shoulder and sprang upright to gasp some twigs, which fortunately held firm. I followed with my left foot and he grasped my ankles. If my movements caused Davies some discomfort, he did not show it: I never knew him admit to suffering any pain. I was now able to reach the hat, and dislodged it with my stick. It swung in the wind as it fell, and its lady owner sadly failed to catch it. The spectators all cheered and applauded.

   I dropped my stick, but how was I to get down? George Davies had no doubt. “Jump!” he instructed, “It’s soft grass below! You won’t hurt yourself!” To encourage me, he let go of my ankles and gave my legs a push. I fortunately landed on my feet and a lady who was more alert and braver than the others caught me as I stumbled forwards.

   It was at this point that John Robertson returned, bringing two gardeners carrying a long ladder. “You’re too late! You’ve missed all the fun!” Davies jeered. “To the heroes, the spoils of victory!” he added, grasping two ladies round their waists with his huge arms. They uttered little shrieks of alarm, but offered no resistance. Meanwhile the lady whose hat had been rescued most ungratefully refused to wear it, saying that it been irretrievably ruined by the dirt.

   I attempted to give proper thanks to the lady who had saved me from falling, and discovered to my astonishment that she was none other than Mrs Elizabeth Newstead, whom I had met at Lord Teesdale’s dinner!

   I introduced myself and she affected to remember me; whether truthfully or not I could not say. She complimented me very prettily on my courage. I said it was nothing, and acting the young gallant, I told her how much I had enjoyed her company at the dinner, and that I would greatly desire a closer acquaintance. She smiled at this and replied that I was welcome to visit her as often as I pleased, suggesting next Tuesday afternoon for a meeting.

 

   On Tuesday I accordingly dressed in my best and waited on her at her home in Pall Mall: not as grand as Teesdale House, but a very elegant dwelling. She was simply dressed in white silk with a blue stripe, and a little white cap on her head. A maid served us tea in fine porcelain cups. Elizabeth explained that she lived there alone because her husband, Mr David Newstead, a wealthy India merchant, much older than her, was out in Madras with the great Robert Clive and was not expected to return for many months. Indeed, she had no means of determining if he was still alive.

   The room where we sat was dominated by a fireplace of mottled marble, carved with swags of fruit and leaves, and a coat of arms on a shield above.

   “Your arms?” I asked.

   “Oh no! We lease this house from an Irish nobleman: Lord Ballybrittas, or some such barbarous name”.

I confessed that I had never heard of this Lord Ballybrittas.

   “Oh, I might have got the name wrong. Really, I can’t remember! He impoverished himself gambling on the races, and fled back to his native soil. I never met him. My husband arranged the lease: at a good price, no doubt. Anyway, those are the Ballybrittas arms. The construction is not in the best of taste, is it? When my husband returns I shall ask him to have it removed. Now, if my husband is ever honoured with a peerage – and I can tell you, he is willing to expend infinite quantities of Indian gold and silver to that end – I hope he will not permit himself to be fobbed off with so absurd a title. I would consider it money wasted!”

  The largest painting on display was of a family group in a garden: Elizabeth seated on a bench, an older man, evidently Mr Newstead, her husband, leaning over her, looking proud and self-satisfied, and two small boys playing with a large dog. A female servant in Indian dress knelt at the side.

   “Devis painted it a few years ago”, Elizabeth told me, “It is very like us. But we shall have Reynolds paint portraits of us now that the boys are older”.

   I commented on how handsome her sons were, which pleased her greatly.

   “Oh yes!” she said, “But now they are away at school, and I miss them so much!”

   She then showed me some of the curious items her husband had sent her: much silver, richly embroidered fabrics, elephants and tigers carved from ivory and curious pagan idols with gemstones for eyes. Some had several arms, and one had the trunk of an elephant. In one corner of the room there stood a vast object of silver and brass, elaborately decorated, with a long tube attached.

  “That is my husband’s hookah,” she told me, “He smokes it constantly. Sometimes I think he would sooner be parted from me than parted from his hookah.”

   She next drew my attention to a sort of little pipe; unlike any pipe I had ever seen before.

   "And this is for my husband’s opium,” she explained. “Sometimes he smokes the drug, and sometimes he eats it. I do not like the habit. But he suffers from afflictions which convulse him great pains that he says only opium can relieve. 

   “Such are the perils of the East. He told me that he was one of half a dozen adventurous young souls, scarcely more than boys, who embarked to India together to seek their fortunes, but within a few years all but him were dead or entirely broken in health. I would not wish my sons ever to set foot there!” 

        She complained that with her husband away in India and her sons at school, she was alone, save when she was invited out by her friends. I said that I would always be delighted to visit her, if she would wish for my company, and would take great pleasure in escorting her to places where it was not considered proper for ladies visit on their own. I expressed my surprise that she had attended Lord Teesdale’s house withot an escort. She replied that this was because she had long been a friend of the Countess, who had particularly asked her to come, and that happily I was there to take her in to dinner. I did wonder whether I had been invited solely for that purpose, but did not say so: instead I gallantly replied that in that case it was a great good fortune for me.

  Elizabeth quizzed me about my family and my childhood, but I told her there was little to be said. My father had been a vicar in a remote country parish, and I had no brothers or sisters. Both my parents had died when I was young, leaving me barely enough to pay a woman in the village to house me. That I was able to proceed to school and then to Cambridge was due to the benevolence of Mrs Andrew, to whom alone I owed my present prosperity. Elizabeth laughed and said, “Then you are truly a man without a past! I know some who would envy you that!

“As for myself”, she added, with a sigh, “I have too much of a past!” 

   I might have asked her to explain this comment, but instead I told Elizabeth how Lord Teesdale had described for me the great peril of the Jacobite revolt, and asked Elizabeth whether she had been in London at that time.

   “Indeed I was, and I remember it well!” she replied, “I was newly married, and my husband was hard at work in the offices of the East India Company. He took me out to see the soldiers marching to their camp at Finchley, and I thought they made a very poor show. I was most fearful for our future, for the whole city was in turmoil, what with stories of a huge number of the Scotch bearing down on us, and a French landing expected daily and all our best troops away fighting in Flanders. But then a few days later, we heard that the rebels had turned back at Derby and were retreating to Scotland, and the French never invaded, so all was well again."

   (Hogarth: March of the Guards from Finchley; a detail)

   “Mind you,” she added, “Lord Teesdale’s conduct at that time could never be called heroic. Indeed, he sat tight, pleading illness, until it became clear which side was winning, and finding that it was not the Pretender, he proclaimed King George with all his might, and raised a militia to fight against the Scotch – who by that time were back in Glasgow, of course!” She chuckled at the memory.

   “I did not go to watch Lord Lovat beheaded as a traitor on Tower Hill in 1747, for my husband feared that the experience would be injurious to my health. But I was never as weak as that! Events, though, proved him to be right, for an immense stand that had been erected to hold the spectators suddenly collapsed, and many were injured. It was no more than they deserved!" She chuckled again, this time scornfully.

   At the conclusion of my visit, I kissed her hand and promised to return on Friday.

   On Friday the weather fortunately was warm and Elizabeth was eager to venture forth. I was proud and delighted to be seen in her company, though because of her fine dresses and delicate shoes, and an enormous hat bedecked with a mass of white feathers, she absolutely refused to walk any distance on the dirty streets, but insisted on being conveyed in a sedan chair, while I walked beside her making conversation. It was not surprising that she hated living in the country.

  Our path was eastwards to the city. As we walked, Elizabeth described how greatly the capital had changed since she first came to live there. London bridge had been lined with shops, now demolished; the bridge between Westminster and was new, and now another was being planned at Blackfriars. The streets were becoming cleaner, with more regulations on paving and drains and sewers, and no longer were great herds of cattle driven across Oxford Street to be slaughtered at Smithfield. “All of this to the great benefit of our shoes!” she laughed.

   Eventually we reached Cock Lane, in the City, which Elizabeth, I found, had long wished to visit. It was said that the ghost of a woman, thought to have been murdered, communicated with a young servant girl by means of scratches on a wall, which were then interpreted for the enlightenment of the public. We found a vast concourse of persons of all ranks there, with the child lying on a bed in a wretched chamber lit only by a dim rushlight. Two Methodist clergymen attended her, and explained the phenomenon to visitors. Their pompous and unpleasant manner irritated us. I replied politely to them, which proved to be a mistake, for they marked me down as a likely convert and insisted on giving me their pamphlets. Elizabeth and I later read these, which she dismissed as scribblings, and said she had not the least desire to listen to long ranting sermons about the dire state of her soul. Thereby she found herself in agreement with Rector Bunbridge, though I suspected Mr Chamberlain might have felt differently.

   Elizabeth was convinced of the truth of the ghost (as, I was told, was the great Doctor Johnson), but I remained sceptical, suspecting a gross fraud was being practised upon the public. In the end I was to be proved right, and the poet Mr Charles Churchill, whom I was to meet later, wrote a most amusing satire about the Ghost.

   We then returned home  by way of Covent Garden and the Strand, where we passed what seemed like an eternity inspecting the shops. I considered buying a present for Louisa Wilbrahim, but found myself devoid of inspiration, and instead purchased a few pretty trinkets for Elizabeth, thereby increasing my debts. But my patience was rewarded when we eventually took tea, and, greatly to my surprise, she began to confide in me.

   She told me more about her husband. David Newstead, I learnt, was born in Norfolk, where through the assistance of his parish vicar and the squire he had been able to obtain a post as a writer in the East India Company, at just £5 a year, and had departed for Madras. Many years later he returned, very rich and with pockets full of gemstones, and he then courted and married Elizabeth. Her parents were Yorkshire gentry, by name Armitage; of ancient lineage but much reduced in wealth. They considered Newstead’s background plebeian and manners coarse and unrefined, but they could not deny his gold.

   “Why he chose me for a wife, I really have no idea. I was pretty, certainly, and I brought with me some property. There was on our land the ruins of an abbey, dissolved by Henry the Eighth, which provided a delightful prospect, but I doubt if it was this that won his love. He would have been more interested by the belief that seams of coal lay beneath it, though so far none had been found. His courtship of me, when he was not counting the gold in his purse, was to talk endlessly about India; about the heat and the strange trees and the great pagan temples and the opportunities for gaining wealth through trading. I was a very young girl and knew little of life, so I found it fascinating; though when I came to find that he had no other conversation I found it unutterably tedious. But I cannot complain overmuch, for now I am rich, and he is seldom here, and so I am free to enjoy my own life!”

   I asked her whether her husband had been on the famous raid to Arcot in 1751, which had first established Mr Clive’s reputation as a great commander. She replied, with a light laugh, that she did not know where Arcot was, and that she had no intention of finding out. And now her husband was back in India once more, where Mr Clive was leading British forces to victory in Bengal and no doubt lavishly enriching himself and his followers.

   “If my husband lives," she said, “He will doubtless return with more gold and jewels than ever!"

   I was not a little shocked that she appeared to take her husband’s survival so lightly, and this must have shown in my face, for she now embarked on a most astonishing discourse.

   “Oh, I doubt if he ever cared much for me at all. I think he cares for our sons, though he seldom sees them, but for me …. I am certain he keeps a mistress in London when he returns here, and out in India, who can tell? There could well be a score or more of coffee-coloured brats who would claim him as their father! He had always kept me well supplied with money, for it would shame him if I was left in poverty, and he sends me costly presents from time to time, but …. Let me show you this!”

  She unlocked a drawer to show me a necklace of silver and pearls, from which was suspended an immense blood-red stone the size of a quail’s egg. I was amazed.

   “He gave me this when our first son was born," 

   “Why did you not wear it at Teesdale House?” I asked.

   “Help me put it on and I will show you why not!”

   At her direction I fastened the tiny clasp behind her neck and stood back as she turned to face me. The great ruby hung down over her bosom.

   “You see? The colour does nor suit me at all. If he knew me at all, he would have known that I never wear red! I only wear it when I am with him, because he would expect it.”

  I said that I was no judge of colours, but agreed that it did look strange, when contrasted with the blue of her eyes.

   “If he knew me, he would had given me sapphires!” she sighed, as I removed the necklace and she returned it to its drawer.

    I once more kissed her hand, and hoped to kiss more of her in the future.

 

    

   The new comedy that Lord Staines and I attended proved to be a poor affair: the audience greeted it with jeers and abuse throughout and it closed after a few performances. I would not have remembered the evening at all but for an incident after we had left the theatre. The district around Drury Lane includes a tangle of foul alleyways and courts which no wise man would enter even during the day, and as we passed the entry to one of these a party of ragged men issued forth against us, intent on robbery or murder. I feared the worst, but Staines pulled me with our backs to a wall, drew his sword and signalled to me to do the same. His face was set firm and there was a cold, fearless look to his eye, as befitted an officer who had witnessed death on the battlefields of Germany. I did my best to hold a steady blade, whilst reflecting that our swords were really little better than toys, which could easily be beaten down or broken, and that I had no idea of how to use mine, never having had a fencing lesson in my life. Fortunately our defiance caused our assailants to halt and content themselves with uttering oaths and threats, and when, after what seemed like an age, another party of theatre-goers appeared, they retreated back to their evil warren.

   Lord Staines congratulated me on my steadfastness and then, greatly to my astonishment now embraced me warmly and kissed me. I wondered whether he had in reality been more frightened than he had appeared. He next invited me, should I feel exhausted after our adventure, to come to his home to rest and refreshment; but being caught by surprise, I declined the invitation, and made my own way alone to my lodgings, where I quickly fell asleep.

 

   The next time I called on Teesdale House I found the Earl in a corner of the library contemplating a picture I had not previously noticed. There was a boy standing in a meadow, with in the background some buildings. The boy wore a red coat and white breeches, and carried a long, curved cricket bat over his shoulder. Examining his face, I thought I could detect a family resemblance, so I asked, “That is Lord Staines, I presume?”

                                             (A young cricketer)

   I was most surprised at the reaction this remark produced. “No, sir, that is not Staines!” Lord Teesdale announced, in a most strange voice that suggested a conflict between rage and despair. He did not turn to face me, but kept his eyes fixed on the painting. Caught unawares by this response, I began to recount Lord Staines’s courageous behaviour outside the theatre, but was interrupted by Lord Teesdale smacking his hand down on a pile of papers on the table and exclaiming, “More debts! And he expects me to pay them! Disgraceful! I can only pray that his mother never learns of his conduct!”

   I replied, rather weakly, that I had never known Staines do anything that was grossly wrong, but his father swept that aside.

   “If you mean that he does not run after whores like the rest of you young men, then no doubt that is true; though there are times when I almost wish he would!” He then waved me to go away, and I retreated in confusion.

   What should I learn from this astonishing outburst, so very different from my previous experiences of Lord Teesdale’s character? I would have to ask Elizabeth Newstead for an explanation next time I saw her!