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.