Chapter Seventeen: Lord Staines fights a duel

 (Charles Huntingdon is in London, where the political situation is in the balance) 

   The winter of 1761-2 was a very cold one. The Thames was frozen solid for many days, and people skated on it, or even set up stalls on the ice. But I spent most of my days, and many nights too, with Elizabeth, who could seldom be prevailed upon to venture out of doors in such weather. She continued to be a most insatiable lover; often so exhausting me that I afterwards fell asleep, whether it was night or day. But sometimes I would be smitten with a sudden desire for an independent life, and would use the excuse of pressing Parliamentary business to retreat back to my old lodgings for a few days of peace.

  There I would find waiting for me piteous letters from Clifford, telling me of the deaths of sheep and cattle, the dearness of provisions and the shortage of firewood, and the consequent sufferings of my tenants. I replied authorising him to spend any money that might be available to relieve distress. There was little else I could do at the time, for few coaches were running and letters arrived seldom.

  Meanwhile, the war continued. Pitt’s predictions concerning Spain soon proved correct, for early in the new year and, following the safe arrival of her annual treasure fleet from the Isthmus, Spain declared war on Britain. Fortunately, although the great man was no longer in office, we soon discovered he had already drawn up plans for this eventuality, and during the course of the year Havana in Cuba and Manila in the Philippine Islands fell to British arms.

   In Europe we did not have to wait more than a few weeks before there was more amazing news from Russia. One of the first actions of the new young Tsar Peter III was to withdraw Russian troops from the war and instead seek an alliance with Frederick of Prussia, his country’s enemy! And then, as all the world now knows, the unfortunate Peter only reigned a few months before he was deposed and murdered; and his wife, despite the fact that she had not a single drop of Russian blood in her veins, was hailed as the Empress Catherine II, and rules in St. Petersburg to this day!

   The unexpected salvation of our Prussian ally led to great relief in Britain, but at the same time caused people to wonder whether the war should not now be brought to a speedy close. Tensions between the partisans of Lord Bute and those of the Duke of Newcastle grew ever higher; opinion on the streets continued strong in support of Pitt, and the attacks on Lord Bute in the public prints reached new depths in libellous obscenity. He was shown conspiring with the French, or leading the blindfolded King by the nose, and to indicate his Scottishness he was always shown dressed in tartan. Some of the more disgraceful of these attacks took up the story that the King’s mother, the Princess Augusta was Bute’s lover. Did ever a royal lady have to endure such outrageous libels without any means of response?

 Lord Teesdale was cautious in expressing his opinion, and appeared to be waiting on further developments but his son Lord Staines was now a passionate advocate of an immediate peace, and did not hesitate to disparage Pitt and his friends in the most violent language.

 

    One day that spring I was seated at a table in Brown’s club when Staines entered in a state of great agitation. He brandished a paper at me, and asked me whether I had read it. He was in such a fury I had never seen in him before, so that his hands shook as I took it from him.

   I found that it contained a scandalous attack on him, or rather on a certain L**d S*****s, who was further described as “the catamite of L**d G****e S*******e”, “the coward of Minden”. Although the names were disguised in this manner, anyone who was acquainted with public affairs could have no doubt as to whom was meant. I remembered what Lord Staines had told me, at our very first meeting, about the unfortunate events at Minden, in consequence of which Lord George Sackville had been publicly disgraced and Staines had resigned his commission. So much had befallen me since that it all seemed a very long time ago.

    I asked if he knew who had written it. He told me that it was anonymous, but he was certain that the author was Mr John Wilkes, whose name he pronounced with great anger. “He libels anyone who dares attack Pitt, and he knows I am for a swift conclusion to the war. Scoundrel!” he added.

  I knew Wilkes as the silent Member of Parliament for Aylesbury, though everyone had heard rumours that he frequented a notorious assembly known as the Hellfire Club.

   I told Lord Staines that such low degraded stuff was beneath his attention, and best ignored; and that I was sure that his father would have given the same advice. But he told me that he had approached Wilkes, demanding an apology for this insult to his honour; and, not having received a satisfactory reply, he had issued a challenge to a duel. Staines requested me to be his second. I was reluctant to accede to this, but nothing I could say deterred him.

   Accordingly, soon after sunrise a few days later we took a coach out to Putney Heath. It was a bright morning, but cold. Dew lay heavy on the grass, and glittered on cobwebs on the bushes. There was no-one in sight except our opponent and his second, and another man I did not know. I was told his name was Doctor Blake, who was there in the event of any serious injury.

   It was my first sight of Mr Wilkes, who was shortly to become a most celebrated person; loved by some but hated by others. He was well dressed and slender of build, but his face was disfigured by the most violent squint, which caused his eyes to point in clean different directions. I wondered how, with this handicap, he could ever aim a pistol with any accuracy. He talked merrily, and appeared entirely unperturbed by the peril of his situation. His second was a large, burly fellow; and I was astonished to discover that under his cloak he wore a clergyman’s gown. I was informed that this was the Reverend Charles Churchill, the popular poet. Hogarth once depicted him as a bear, clutching a foaming pot of beer and an immense club, which I thought very apt.

   Doctor Blake then asked whether the two gentlemen were determined to proceed with the duel. Lord Staines replied, with no little heat, that his honour had been most grossly traduced, and that nothing but the most profuse and abject apology would satisfy him. He kept muttering violent epithets under his breath, whereas Mr Wilkes appeared to make light of the whole matter. He said that Lord Staines had produced no evidence that he, Wilkes, was the author of the offending article, but having read it, his opinion was that it contained more than a grain of truth; and, furthermore, since Lord Staines had seen fit publicly to dub him a liar and a scoundrel, he was the one entitled to an apology. These words angered Lord Staines even more, which was undoubtedly Wilkes’s intention.  

   A case was produced and opened, containing a brace of very fine silver-mounted pistols. Churchill and I checked that they were properly loaded. I attempted to hold my hands steady: it was the first time I had ever witnessed a duel and I was alarmed; for if someone was killed, might I be held to be an accessory to murder?  

   Lord Staines and Mr Wilkes walked twelve paces apart, then turned and presented their pistols. Lord Staines fired first, and grazed his opponent’s coat, but did no further harm. Mr Wilkes then raised his pistol and aimed it steadily at Staines’s breast, for what seemed like an age. Staines looked pale in the face, but did not flinch. Suddenly Wilkes laughed, lowered his pistol and deliberately fired at the ground, so that his bullet skipped across the earth some distance from Lord Staines’s feet. He then advanced towards his opponent with his hand extended.

   “Sir,” he said, “You have shown yourself to be a gentleman of courage, as befits an officer of the crown. I regret that you might feel I have offended you, and would be honoured if I might now be considered your friend.” 

   Staines, however, was by no means reconciled. He said this was no kind of apology, refused to take Wilkes’s proffered hand and ordered the pistols to be reloaded for a second firing. Mr Churchill now announced that, in his decided opinion, sufficient satisfaction had been given and that the business had been ended with perfect honour to both parties. I agreed with this, and so did Doctor Blake; but Lord Staines, ignoring Wilkes, departed forthwith, without giving me a glance. While I admired my friend’s courage, I could only be disappointed by his surly conduct afterwards.

   Doctor Blake did not stay long, but I remained at the tavern with Wilkes and Churchill for the remainder of the morning. Wilkes, aware of how alarmed I had been, told me that it was rare for duels these days to lead to any bloodshed. I asked him how the challenge to the duel had come about. He told me:

   “Lord Staines burst into my room in an agony of passion, brandishing the paper and demanding to know whether or not I was the author. I said that I was a free and independent English gentleman and that I refused to be catechised in this fashion. He then produced a brace of pistols and demanded immediate satisfaction. Finally, he calmed to the extent of agreeing to postpone the duel until three days later, with the result that you know.”

   He recounted how he had recently fought a duel with Lord Talbot, who, like Staines, had felt that he had been insulted.

   “We met at Bagshot. We both fired, but happily there was no shedding of blood, for neither took effect. I walked up immediately to Lord Talbot and said that I regretted that I had offended him. His lordship paid me the highest compliments on my courage, said he would declare everywhere that I was a noble fellow, and desired that we should now be good friends and retire to the inn to drink a bottle of claret together, which we did with great good humour. That is how duels should end. It is a pity that your young friend could not show the same magnanimous spirit.”

  I found Mr Wilkes the most engaging of companions. For his part, on discovering that I was new to political life, he suggested that I might enjoy reading a certain weekly paper known as the “North Briton”. I promised to look for it, and we shook hands and parted.

 

                                           (John Wilkes, by Hogarth)

   Rumours of the duel soon spread around the town. Henry Darnwell sought me out and demanded a full account. “But have you heard the other news?” he asked, “Our old friend John Robertson is contracted to be married! The bride is the daughter of a London merchant. The bad part of it is that her family is of the Methodist persuasion, and Robertson is now obliged to be a reformed character and excessively moral in his behaviour, but the vast wealth he will come by will no doubt console him amply for having to abandon his old rakish friends. On Friday we are holding a dinner at the Beefsteak Club to congratulate and console him. You must join us!”

    The dinner was a splendid occasion. Most of my friends from my early days in London were there, but Staines himself was absent. I gathered that he had been summoned to an important meeting with his father at Maybury.

   “The old man must be negotiating to find him a wife,” Darnwell said, “After all, he’s never going to find one for himself, is he?”

   Many toasts were drunk to Robertson’s future with his bride, together with ribald remarks that Robertson ignored, but somehow the tone was a little muted, as if we realised it might be the last time we were to meet together. In the absence of Lord Staines, I was pressed to give a full and accurate account of his duel; which I did, though avoiding mention of his ungentlemanlike conduct at the close. All praised Staines’s courage, though George Davies commented that he considered the formality of a duel unnecessary. Had he been in Staines’s position he would have invaded Wilkes’s premises and knocked him down, and Churchill too had it been necessary.

   Mention of John Wilkes brought forth stories concerning the Hell-fire Club, which was said to meet at West Wycombe in Buckinghamshire, the home of Sir Francis Dashwood. All had heard tales about it, which they now recounted in the most lurid detail: of mysterious grottoes with obscene Latin puns above the entrance, of statues of naked goddesses and nymphs in erotic positions, with guests dressed as monks and young girls in nuns’ habits. How much of this was true and how much the product of over-lively imagination I had no means of telling, for it transpired that none of those present at our dinner had actually visited the house. I was urged to pursue my friendship with Wilkes in the hope that I might receive an invitation to join the society, and then bring my companions with me. John Robertson, however, took me aside to warn me against any further association with Wilkes. The Hell-fire Club, he understood, indulged in the most lewd and blasphemous rituals, and Wilkes himself would infallibly find himself in prison, or worse, ere long, as a result of his libellous writings. But despite this advice, I resolved to see more of Wilkes should the opportunity arise.

 

                                                  (West Wycombe Park today)

     At the very same time there came another great change in the ministry. The great Duke of Newcastle had resigned! Lord Teesdale explained that the Duke had found the Cabinet unwilling to continue the Prussian subsidy now that Frederick was so providentially saved, and he resigned his office, thus bringing to an end an almost unbroken period of forty years in government. Lord Bute took his place at the Treasury and was now undeniably the Prime Minister, with none other than Sir Francis Dashwood, the supposed host of the Hellfire Club, as a most unexpected choice as Chancellor of the Exchequer! An embassy was now sent to Paris to negotiate a peace treaty, and Lord Teesdale expected an end to the war in a matter of weeks.

    It was at Westminster around this time that I first beheld our new minister. A whisper came down the hall that Lord Bute was approaching, and for the first time I beheld the great Scots lord himself. I half expected him to be wearing the tartan plaid in which he was invariably depicted in the public prints, but which in reality of course he never wore. He was followed by a crowd of sycophants and petitioners. I bowed and remained silent. He looked at me as if he wished to speak, but not knowing my name, after a brief pause turned and walked away. This was to be my only meeting with the man who was now our sole minister and dictator. Many, then and since, portrayed him as endangering our venerable constitution; but, looking back on the scene I now consider him a shy, uncertain man, torn between ambition and timidity. Mr Walpole thought him merely pompous and ridiculous.  

 

  Throughout this time, I had yet to open my mouth in the House of Commons, but I was now called upon to make my maiden speech! Parliament was to debate a Bill of the Duke of Bridgewater, enabling him to build a canal into Manchester from the docks he was constructing at Runcorn on the River Mersey. This was a subject concerning which I knew nothing; but Lord Teesdale, who had an interest in the project, requested that I should support the Bill and supplied me with information on what to say. I patiently studied this until I knew it by heart and hoped I could recite it as fluently and convincingly as Garrick on stage. 

   I was intensely nervous when the Speaker called me, and trembled as I rose to my feet, with a wild fear that I could not remember a single word of what I had intended to say; but once I had stumbled through my opening lines I grew increasingly confident. I not only praised the Duke’s plans, but, as Lord Teesdale had suggested, looked forward to a time when more and more similar schemes would be enacted, to the great advantage of all. My fellow-members were kind enough to listen to me patiently, and without interrupting.

  Following this, I was nominated to the committee considering the Bill in detail. There a mechanic by the name of Brindley, unlettered but a most ingenious fellow, appeared as a witness and drew chalk diagrams on the floor to explain the working of lock gates on the canal. The Bill was duly made law. Lord Teesdale thanked me for my support, and hinted that he would not be pressing for repayment of the debts I owed him from the election. He furthermore advised me to support any future canal projects. I found I was gaining the reputation of being a man knowledgeable in such matters. This might in truth have been wholly undeserved, but it enabled me to consider myself becoming a person of some importance.

 

  The “North Briton”, which Wilkes had recommended, now began to be published every Saturday, and was being read and discussed with great delight at Brown’s club. Everyone believed that Wilkes was the author, with help from Churchill and others. We all laughed at its satirical attacks on Lord Bute and his fellow-Scots, portraying them as Jacobites, agents of the French and supporters of arbitrary government. All this was much more to my taste than crude and obscene prints.

  The fame of the paper spread to all parts of the kingdom. I heard how back in Bereton Martin Clifford eagerly awaited each new issue, and even Ned Timmis knew of it, and pronounced its author “a true spokesman for English liberty”.  This astonished me, since I had presumed that, despite his many admirable qualities, Ned Timmis never read anything at all.

 

  I had not visited Bereton since the autumn, and even when the cold weather at last eased I remained in London. Sir James Wilbrahim never came to Parliament, and my exchanges of letters with Louisa became less frequent. I felt there was little I could tell her: I never mentioned Elizabeth Newstead, I felt an account of Lord Staines’s duel would alarm her, ministerial changes would scarcely be of interest, and her father would be unlikely to approve of my work on the Canal Bill. Louisa wrote of how she wished her father would have allowed her to help in relieving the distress caused by the cold weather.

   Then, in the spring, I received a letter from Mrs Timmis, the only one she had ever sent me, containing some unexpected information.

   “We had a gentleman visiting us here.” she wrote in a painstakingly neat and careful hand, “He said his name was Lord Staines and a friend of yours. I told him you were not expected here at any time. I showed him the house and offered him tea, but he declined this, saying he had pressing business nearby. Did I do right, sir?”

  I mentioned this letter to Elizabeth, jesting that I formed the impression that my good housekeeper did not approve of Lord Staines as a suitable friend for me, and how at times she was far too motherly in her protection of my interests. Elizabeth’s reaction was unexpected.

   “Your Mrs Timmis is a woman of good sense,” she said. “Why do you remain friends with Staines? His private life is scandalous and he has no loyalty to anyone: you may be sure that he mocks you behind your back.”

   I replied that I would forever be grateful to Staines, since without his help I would never have risen to my present position.

  “That may be true,” she replied, “but now you are a gentleman of some eminence you must choose your friends with care!” 

  

     Why Lord Staines should visit the Priory, out in the countryside that he had so openly despised in the past, and what his “pressing business” there might be, were mysteries yet to be resolved. Despite Elizabeth’s warnings, I would ask him next time we met.

Chapter Sixteen: The coronation of King George III

(Charles Huntingon has returned to London in August 1761 following his election as Member of Parliament for Bereton)

 None of the best families would usually have been found in London at the height of summer, but this year was different and the whole town was a-buzz with excitement. The coronation was to take place in September, and what was more, our young King had announced his intention to marry!

   My friends could talk of little else. I learned that our future Queen was named Charlotte, that she came from a small principality in north Germany and was only seventeen years old. According to Lady Teesdale, this announcement had caught the Privy Council as much by surprise as anyone else, for the marriage had been negotiated solely by Lord Bute’s agents. It showed, her husband said, how much reliance King George placed on his particular friend. 

   However, my thoughts at that time were not on these high events. Instead, on my very first day back in London I despatched a note to Elizabeth Newstead requesting permission to call on her. I donned my best clothes for the occasion, and finding her alone, described how I had triumphed in my election to Parliament and had now returned to claim immediately my right to her favours. To this demand she put up only the most token resistance.

  In contrast to her earlier coyness, I found her passionate beyond all expectation as a lover. Many were the hours we now spent together and many too were the tricks she taught me, terminating only when I was utterly exhausted. I took to passing night after night, and many days too, at her home. Her servants must surely have been aware of everything that passed: at first I wondered what stories they might tell of us around the town, but eventually came to the conclusion that either they were unalterably loyal to her, or that she and they no longer cared.

  I mentioned none of this when I found the time to write to Louisa Wilbrahim: instead, I told her the romantic story of the German princess, no older than Louisa herself, summoned to our shores to become the Queen of England, and of our new King eagerly awaiting the arrival of his future bride. She wrote in reply that she had begged her father to take her to London for the coronation, but he had refused.

   “He grumbled that it would be vastly expensive, the city would be full of crowds, who would be a magnet for every pickpocket and cut-throat in England, and that we would be lucky to catch as much as a glimpse of the new King and Queen driving through the streets. I said I would be happy if we did catch just a glimpse, but he was not to be moved!”

   I wondered whether Sir James’s reluctance to attend was because he did not recognise George III as the rightful King of England. I was sure that I could have procured suitable lodgings in London for them, but knew that it was no use battling against Sir James’s obstinacy. I promised to send Louisa a full and detailed description of everything I saw and heard.

 

      Sir James was undeniably correct about London being hopelessly overcrowded for the coronation. Places in the Abbey for the ceremony were impossible to obtain, but Elizabeth and I were able watch the procession from a high window in Palace Yard, courtesy of one of her friends. She was very fortunate to have such friends, for I heard that other houses along the route were hired out for up to a thousand guineas!

  There we encountered a most extraordinary couple. The man, who wore a lavender-coloured suit with lace cuffs, was slight of build and walked with affected delicacy, as if he was treading with caution on a dangerously wet floor. He escorted a lady who was much advanced in years but elegant in appearance. Elizabeth, who knew everyone in town, introduced them as Mr Horace Walpole, the son of the former Prime Minister, and the dowager Countess of Suffolk. Mr Walpole’s appearance might have been effeminate, but his eyes, set in a very pale face, were bright, and his voice, though not strong, was most pleasant. His talk was lively and interesting, and he had a waspish wit. He resembled his august father not at all, for Sir Robert was by all accounts a large, heavy man.

   He had little confidence in our new King, and was suspicious of the intentions of his particular friend Lord Bute; but I soon discovered that he was just as contemptuous of the old Duke of Newcastle as some of Lord Teesdale’s friends had been. Lady Suffolk had been Mistress of the Robes to the late Queen Caroline, and, by common repute, mistress in a different manner to King George II. She also talked with spirit and wit, though because she was extremely deaf, conversation was difficult. I learnt that they were both great letter-writers, and that the Countess included Lady Teesdale among her friends. I asked her if she ever dined at Teesdale House, but she said that her increasing infirmity meant that these days she seldom left her home in the evenings.

   I mentioned to Mr Walpole that my aunt, Mrs Isobel Andrews, had been one of his correspondents. He replied by praising her learning and her literary skills, and said that he had always opened a letter from her with eager anticipation. Whether he actually remembered her at all it was impossible to tell.

   After a long wait, the growing sound of cheering and shouting told us that the royal couple were approaching. They were brought separately in sedan chairs from St James’s palace to Westminster Hall, and from there were escorted to the Abbey on foot, under a canopy.

(George III in cornation robes)

     

   Elizabeth thought the King looked very fine, and admired the dress of Queen Charlotte, but Lady Suffolk, speaking loudly because of her deafness, exclaimed, “But the poor girl is very plain indeed! Why, even the most flattering portrait painter could scarcely make her pretty! Could not some princess who was more handsome have been found for our new King?”

   Mr Walpole, who prided himself on knowing all the court gossip, told us the following story. His Majesty, he said, was a passionate young man, and desperately in love with the daughter of the Duke of Richmond. He confessed this to the man he trusted above all: his old tutor Lord Bute; and sought his advice. That nobleman told him that it was wholly improper for the King to marry one of his subjects, and so instead he was commanded to scour Europe in search of a suitable princess to marry. However, the supply of Protestant princesses whose families were untainted by insanity or by alliances with the French was very limited: in fact, only Charlotte of the tiny and blameless north German principality of Mecklenburg-Strelitz was found to fit the bill; and so the girl was summoned forthwith to become Queen of England. It was said that George blenched when he first set eyes on her. “But what does any of this matter?” Mr Walpole continued. “Her task is to produce an heir to the throne, and as for the rest, the King can take mistresses, as his predecessors have done." This might have been intended as a hit at Lady Suffolk, which however her deafness did not allow her to hear.

   Elizabeth countered this by saying she had heard that they were already deeply in love, and that Charlotte was a fine girl and would make an excellent Queen. Lady Suffolk told us that, as one of the few remaining ladies who could remember the coronation of George II back in 1727, she had been consulted about the etiquette proper for the occasion, especially what diamonds the new Queen should wear. And so we parted. I was not to see Lady Suffolk again, for she died not long afterwards; but Mr Walpole remained a friend.

 

   Lord Teesdale later gave me an account of the coronation. He said the poor young Queen must have been utterly exhausted, for the procession had set out at eleven o’clock in the morning, they were not crowned until half past three, and then the banquet continued until near ten o’clock that night. He described the memorable occasion to me; contriving to make it sound very confused.

   “When the Archbishop of Canterbury placed the crown on the King’s head, there was a tremendous cheer from the boys of Westminster School. At the King’s request, Zadok the Priest, by Handel, was sung as the anthem, and sung very well too. But then, when the Archbishop came to deliver his sermon, the congregation felt it was a good occasion to eat the cold pies and drink the wine that were brought by their servants, and there was a tremendous clatter of cutlery and plates!

   “The banquet at Westminster Hall was presided over by the Lord Steward, the Lord High Constable and the Deputy Earl Marshal, all mounted on horseback; and as a grand dramatic gesture the King’s Champion rode in, dressed in full armour, and cast down a gauntlet as a challenge to anyone who presumed to dispute the King’s right to the throne. I suppose it was to see if any Jacobites might be present; but if there were, none dared make a move.

   “When the feasting began, the spectators up in the galleries let down baskets to their more fortunate friends down below, who filled them with meat and bottles of wine, and so a fine time was had by all!       

   “At least we were to be spared the disgraceful scenes that attended the end of the coronation banquet of George II. My father told me that when the great doors of the Abbey were opened and the crowd allowed to enter, not only were the remains of the banquet seized forthwith, but so were the table linen and the plates and dishes, and in less than half an hour everything had been pillaged, even down to the tables and chairs!”

 

   As soon as Louisa Wilbrahim heard of the coronation she wrote to me, demanding full details about our new King and Queen. What did they look like? What did they wear? And when would I be presented to them? I wrote a long letter in reply recounting what I had seen and heard, though I did not mention Queen Charlotte’s plainness. I explained that I was not likely to experience the honour of being presented to Their Majesties in the near future, but should it so happen, I would not fail to tell her.

 

   I told Elizabeth about Louisa and her father Sir James. She expressed great sympathy for the poor child, trapped in a remote country with no friends and a “brute”, as she termed him, for her only parent.

   “Do you suppose,” she asked me, “that he is in any way exerting himself to find her a husband?”

   I replied that I had no reason to believe that this was the case.

   “And she is already, you think, fifteen, and an heiress? Then he is failing most lamentably in his duty! How will she ever come to meet a suitable gentleman in the present situation? Except you, of course!”

   “Perhaps her father is waiting for someone from the East India Company!” I countered, referring to her own absent husband.

   She ignored this, and instead her voice took on a more serious note.

   “I must confess”, she said, “what you have told me makes me most uneasy. You say that the child is eager to break free of her cage, yet knows nothing of the world? Then there is great danger that some plausible fortune-hunter, knowing that she is an heiress, will seek her out and woo her without her father’s knowledge, and she will fall for his blandishments and allow herself to be abducted, and all will be lost. You must be on your guard to preserve the poor girl from this fate!”

   “But what could I do?”

   “When you are in the country, keep watch, even if your attention makes her father suspicious! And keep me informed of what passes!”

    Elizabeth advised me never to hint at this when writing to Louisa, but to keep my letters entirely innocuous, since her father would assuredly read them. Elizabeth’s warnings worried me, but for the moment I did nothing.

 

 

      (The old Palace of Westminster: a recreation by Peter Jackson) 

Mr Walpole offered to conduct me round the Palace of Westminster and show me its antiquities. This kind proposal was most welcome, since I had never before set foot inside that hallowed building, and I greatly wished to know my way around before being sworn in as a Member of Parliament.

   We halted in Old Palace Yard, where the Gunpowder traitors and many others had met their deaths in the past. Mr Walpole pointed out how the setting was dominated by the west towers of the Abbey, and how low the other ancient buildings were. We then entered Westminster Hall.

  It was said to be for many centuries the grandest space in Europe, which I could well believe. Mr Walpole drew my attention upwards to the roof supported on a curious wooden structure called hammer-beams, erected by King Richard II, and which he greatly admired. The glories of the work of these ancient craftsmen, he said, were insufficiently appreciated nowadays. We walked past several statues of old Kings of England, set in niches lining the wall, their robes painted red and green and their crowns gilded.

    But we could not contemplate the great hall in peace, for it contained a great turmoil of lawyers and other folks scurrying about their business, and the noise was considerable. Mr Walpole indicated where the Court of King’s Bench would sit, and where the other courts, and where the most unfortunate King Charles the First was sentenced to death. Several different trials, he informed me, might take place at the same time in different parts of the hall, though there was none in session during my visit. Because the hall was so much used, the floor was very dirty and the statues covered with the grease and soot from centuries of candles.

   From the hall we entered a most confusing rabbit-warren of ancient rooms, where without my guide I could easily have become lost. Mr Walpole led me to the chamber where the House of Commons sat.

                                            (Sir Robert Walpole in the House of Commons)

   I beheld a room that had once been St Stephen’s chapel. There were three tall windows at the far end, and before them raised on a dais was the Speaker’s chair where the altar had once stood. It resembled a throne, with a marble pediment supported by columns in the Corinthian style. The room was panelled in oak and immense brass chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The benches for the Members rose in tiers on either side, amongst which were slender columns supporting the Strangers’ Galleries above. My guide indicated the front bench to the Speaker’s right where his father, the great Sir Robert Walpole, had sat for the duration of his minstry. I felt a great amazement that I, who a year ago had been a man of no significance, was now entitled to sit in the assembly and listen to the words of Pitt and other leading men.

   My guide sensed my awe at viewing the hallowed scene, and hastened to disabuse me. “When studied in the light of reason, the chamber is most unsuitable for an assembly of the representatives of the British nation; for it is far too small, and consequently overcrowded and uncomfortable. It is as memorable for its inconvenience as for its noble oratory. The great Sir Christopher Wren performed some work here, but not even his genius could greatly improve it. See how dark it is, made worse with the panelling and the galleries above! For my part, I only rarely take my place here, and never open my mouth in debates; but if you wish to be a great man, it is here that you must make your name. Now let us proceed to the Painted Chamber, where the Lords meet, and which is, if possible, even worse-suited to its purpose.”

  I had heard that the Painted Chamber was the room where the death warrant of King Charles had been signed, but Mr Walpole pointed out that the ceiling that gave the room its name could hardly be seen for the smoke of candles, and that there and in the Upper Chamber above, the old tapestries were so tarnished that scarcely anything could be distinguished. He deeply deplored the centuries of neglect that had led to this: the beauties created by our ancestors, he said, had for too long been ignored.

 

   Parliament would not open until the autumn. But already plans were being laid, and soon I received a letter from the Duke of Newcastle, requesting to know of my political intentions. I was to meet the great man before long, but before then momentous events were to take place.

   Sir James Wilbrahim was not present at my swearing-in as a member of the House of Commons. Instead, Sir Anthony Pardington and Mr Braithwaite acted as my sponsors as I swore fealty to our new monarch and abjured the church of Rome. Lord Staines and his brother-in-law Sir Headley Graham were also sworn in, the latter having been returned for a Scotch borough which he largely owned. The public prints placed the three of us together and dubbed us “Teesdale’s tea-boys”, or some such trivial name.

 

      In October of 1761 the world was astonished to learn that the great William Pitt had resigned as Secretary of State. Lord Teesdale, who had many contacts within the Cabinet, explained to me how this had come about. Pitt had demanded an attack on Spain, which was preparing to enter the war on the side of France while that country was still unprepared. But he found the majority of the Cabinet was opposed to such a step. The Duke of Newcastle was alarmed a the ever-rising costs of the war, disappointed that peace talks had broken down through Pitt’s intransigence, and resentful Pitt’s taking the sole direction of the war himself, and Lord Bute was wavering in his views (as he always did when under pressure, Lord Teesdale said), but in the end sided with Newcastle, apparently with the King’s approval. Finding himself outvoted, Pitt therefore resigned his office. The ministry was now balanced between the Duke of Newcastle at the Treasury and the Earl of Bute as Secretary of State, but, as Lord Teesdale said, there could be little doubt as to which way the wind was blowing.

   Mr Walpole’s opinion was that it was difficult to know who exulted most on this occasion, France, Spain or Lord Bute, for Mr Pitt was the common enemy of all three. The Duke of Newcastle, he told me, was not displeased to see Pitt depart, but he would have counselled the Duke not to die for joy on the Monday, or for fear on the Tuesday, for everyone knew it was Lord Bute who held the King’s trust.

   The news of Pitt’s departure was received with stunned amazement. The opinion of the nation was strong for Pitt, and addresses in his favour flooded in from all over England. London especially was alarmed and indignant. Soon after the resignation, the King and all the royal family dined at the Guildhall in the City with the Lord Mayor, and I myself witnessed how Pitt, in his way there in a chariot, was acclaimed. Lord Bute, by contrast, would certainly have suffered injury from the mob had he not prudently hired a large company of bodyguards for the occasion. That night Londoners erected a gallows, from which they hanged a jackboot, to indicate the royal favourite, and a petticoat, to indicate the supposed influence of the Princess Augusta, the King’s mother.

   My hopes of meeting Pitt were to be frustrated for the moment, for the great man now withdrew to his home in Kent, being greatly afflicted by the gout. Lord Staines declared that Pitt was incurably mad, and passed on stories that the great man could not bear to leave his room or to receive any visitors, and that even his servants were ordered never to come within his sight, but to leave meals outside his room without entering.

    Although I did not meet Mr Pitt, I did succeed in meeting another of our great men. I was in the Palace of Westminster in company with Mr Walpole, when I beheld a gentleman with a party of acolytes in attendance hastening towards me. He wore a full-bottomed wig of a pattern no longer in fashion with younger men, a dark blue coat and a finely embroidered waistcoat. I wondered if this personage could be none other than Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle; formerly Secretary of State and now First Lord of the Treasury: a man of whom I had heard much reported, most of it contemptuous or critical, yet who had contrived to remain a pillar of the British state since before I was born! Mr Walpole must have read my thoughts, since he confirmed, in a voice loud enough for the approaching party to hear, that this was indeed the case.

   I stood in silence as the Duke approached. He acknowledged Mr Walpole with a minimal stiff formal bow, to which the latter responded with one of such extreme obsequiousness that it bordered on parody, no doubt deliberately so; and accompanied it by expressions of how delightful it was to encounter His Grace. The Duke did not respond: he was surely well aware of how much Mr Walpole despised him.

   I was introduced as the newly-elected Member for Bereton.

   “Ah yes, Mr Huntingdon!” said the Duke, “I was most gratified by your success at Bereton, sir: most gratified. I have received notification that your defeated opponent, Mr Cave, intends to petition to have the result overturned on the grounds of corruption, but I can assure you, sir, that his petition stands not the slightest chance of being accepted, not the slightest; we shall make sure of that. Your position is secure and assured. I trust that you will be our friend in the new Parliament? That is my expectation, sir”.

   I replied that I was zealously attached to the cause of bringing the war to a victorious conclusion, but that I hoped to remain independent of all political connexions.

   “Quite so, quite so”, he replied. He appeared a trifle disappointed at my protestation. It occurred to me that throughout his long life in politics he must have heard numberless declarations of loyalty from men who subsequently betrayed him.

   Just then someone approached to hand him a letter. The Duke appeared to recognise the handwriting, and as he held a whispered conversation with the messenger, an expression of acute alarm crossed his face. With only the briefest of apologies, he turned his back on us and hurried away. Thus ended my first-ever conversation with a cabinet minister.

       “Now he will have to make out a new entry on his lists”, Mr Walpole said, while the Duke and his entourage were still within earshot, “All the Members of Parliament feature on his lists, as friends, enemies or ‘doubtful’. He will now be in a great quandary as to whether or not to write your name down as a probable friend. Thus does our great First Lord of the Treasury employ his time!”  

   I was then asked what impression I had formed of the great man. After some consideration, I replied that the Duke had a certain presence, but I thought it improper for a nobleman of his age and experience to appear to be in such an undignified hurry, as if he was soliciting favours, whereas I should be the one to be soliciting favours from him. This observation was received with a smile.

                                              (Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle)

   “The Duke’s person is not naturally despicable, but his incapacity, his mean soul, the general low opinion of him, and, as you have observed, the constant hurry in his walk, make him ridiculous. Jealousy and a childish and an absurd all-pervasive fear are predominant in him. I fancy he would hazard the future of the kingdom rather than dare to open a letter that might disclose a plot against him.

   “As a young man he inherited some thirty thousand pound a year and influence in half a dozen counties, and to this alone he owed his every other way unjustified elevation. For forty years now the country has been blessed with his assistance, but to what purpose? It is to no purpose that I can discern. His speeches in Parliament are always flowing and copious of words, but empty and unmeaning. He is always bustling about doing business, but never does it. He is generally found clutching a bundle of papers as large as his head, and as devoid of content.”

      Mr Walpole spoke in this vein for several minutes. I had heard it said that he spent many hours writing long letters concerning politics to his many friends both at home and abroad, and I wondered whether he was rehearsing some choice phrases prior to setting them down on paper.

   “But now”, he continued, “He has every reason to be fearful. He knows the King neither likes nor trusts him. The country is with Pitt, but he betrayed Pitt over the matter of the Spanish war, and Pitt will not forgive him for that. Together the two of them could have easily repelled the ambitions of Lord Bute, but what now? We may anticipate more changes of ministry ere long!”

 

    It was in the New Year of 1762, and I was in Brown’s club, drinking coffee with friends, when John Robertson entered in a state of great excitement that was most unusual for him.

   “Have you heard the news?” he gasped.

   “News? What news? Sit down, sir, and get your breath back, and then tell us!” came the response from several throats.

   “Why, the news from Russia! The Empress Elizabeth is dead!”

   This sudden information caused a heated discussion on the likely future of the war. Although British arms had been triumphant in many far-flung parts of the world, and in Western Germany the French were held at bay, further east the position was perilous. Our gallant ally, Frederick of Prussia, despite the millions he received in subsidies from Britain, was being overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. Russian armies had driven him from Berlin and roving bands of Cossack horsemen spread terror throughout his lands. It was rumoured that he contemplated suicide. What would happen now?

   One gentleman, by name Broderick, who had undertaken much trading with Russia and had visited St. Petersburg, treated us to his opinions.

   “Elizabeth was the granddaughter of Peter the Great. She seized the crown from her cousin by violence. She was consumed with hatred of Frederick of Prussia, and for that reason alone rejected offers of a British alliance.”

    “And did you meet Elizabeth herself?” he was asked.

   “I did not, sir, and I do not regret it! Her court was a disgrace! She was a voluptuary: her love of handsome young officers was as notorious as her love of drinking!” (My mind wandered at this point, for I knew another lady of the same name whom this man might have condemned. I tried to banish this uncharitable thought. And I had never seen my Elizabeth drink to excess)

  “And I expect no better in the future!", Mr Broderick continued, “The Empress had no children, and some years ago she summoned her sister's son back from Germany to Russia and raised him to be her heir. His name is Peter, and he is now the Tsar. But he is half German by blood and wholly German in sympathy, and by all reports he is also depraved, vicious, and entirely lacking intelligence or judgement. The Empress, being aware of this, chose him a bride who possessed these qualities. She also is German. Her name was Sophia, but it was changed to Catherine when she was received into the Russian church. It is said that she and Peter now hate each other!"

   “Have they any children?”

   “Catherine has had a son, sir, but who can say whom the father might be? As was the case with Elizabeth, she is very fond of handsome officers!”

   “What will happen now?”

   “The Devil alone knows, sir!”

                                                   (Elizabeth, Empress of Russia)

 

Chapter Fifteen: An unfortunate incident

 (Charles Huntingdon has just been elected Memeber of Parliament for Bereton, alongside his neighbour Sir James Wilbrahim)

  I remained at the Priory for several weeks after the election, during which time I was able to observe Sir James at work as Justice of the Peace. He advised me to attend the Petty Sessions, saying that I would undoubtedly be appointed a magistrate myself ere long. I discovered there was a vast amount of work to do; supervising the work of the parish constables, the surveyors of highways and the overseers of the poor, who were not infrequently negligent in their duties, listening to complaints of nuisance caused by the effluvia from various noxious trades like the tanners of the town, and sitting in judgement on various lesser criminals. I soon came to realise that Sir James knew everyone in the town and the surrounding villages, and his judgements were generally supported by local opinion. For the offenders, he generally inclined on the side of leniency, except for poachers. My respect for him increased.

 

   By contrast, my own self-esteem suffered a severe blow at the Bereton Lammastide Fair.  This was an ancient tradition which attracted visitors from all over the county. Every year Sir James Wilbrahim would be there, talking to everyone as equals, praising the entertainments and spending considerable sums of money at the stalls; but this year an attack of gout confined him to his house, and I undertook the role as best I could. At first all went well: I bought a number of small objects I did not need, paying without complaint what I presumed to be grossly inflated prices; I laughed at the clowns and applauded the dancers, agreeing that they were every bit as good as anything I had seen in London, and provided drinks for a large number of people who proclaimed their support for me at the election. A train of urchins followed me around, hoping for pennies for sweetmeats, with which I duly rewarded them.

   My attention was suddenly attracted by the sound of voices raised in anger and a woman wailing. Pushing my way to the front I found a large tent selling beer, outside which sat or stood half-a-dozen soldiers, resplendent in their uniforms. One of them had his hand on the shoulder of a farm lad, while Ned Timmis was arguing with the sergeant. A girl was kneeling on the ground, weeping. Most of the bystanders appeared hostile. I came forward to discover what was happening.

   I did not know the girl, but she must have recognised me, for she grabbed me by the hem of my coat. “Oh, sir!” she sobbed, “They’re taking my Jimmy away, and I’ll never see him no more!” She would not release her grasp, and continued to wail that her lover “had better gone to the gallows!” Thus encumbered, I attempted to intervene in the dispute.

    “It’s these here redcoats!” exclaimed Timmis, who was very red in the face himself. “They say young Jimmy Thatcher here has taken the King’s shilling and volunteered for the army! And I say they lured him in and got him drunk, so he didna know what he’s doing; and I’m not having it! Him one of my best farm workers, with haymaking just coming on and all! And him soon to be married to poor Nan here! Tell ‘em to let him go, sir!”

   I turned to the sergeant: a hard-faced man with a dark jaw and a scar down his left cheek, and asked whether young Jimmy Thatcher could have his volunteering cancelled, since he had acted hastily and probably under the influence of drink. The sergeant, perceiving that I was a gentleman, answered me with formal politeness, though without any excess of deference; a delicate balance that was a skill I suspected he had long practised. He explained that in normal circumstances the payment of a guinea would suffice; but as I reached in my purse to extract one, he added that since the recruit in question had kissed a Bible and sworn the oath, this remedy could not now be effected. I wondered whether this was an attempt to extort more money from me. It seemed that some in the crowd thought the same way, for there were more angry mutterings.

    A young captain now appeared, strutting like a peacock in his flawless costume, and the sergeant briefly outlined the situation to him. He then turned to me and in an arrogant manner enquired who I might be.

   Attempting to conceal my annoyance, I introduced myself as the newly elected Member of Parliament for the borough of Bereton.

   “Oh, a politician?” he answered, uttering the word with heavy contempt in his voice. “And I am Captain Darnwell, at your service”, he continued, his tone making it clear that he did not regard himself as being at my service at all. Perhaps he did not believe my claim, or, if he did, then he affected to despise all politicians. I accordingly changed tack and asked him if he was by any chance related to Henry Darnwell, a gentleman who was an old friend of mine.

   “Yes, sir; he is my cousin. A wastrel, is he not?” he replied.

  The conversation was not going well. But at this point, young Thatcher, who had been in conversation with Timmis, suddenly intervened to announce that it was entirely his wish to join the army.

   “I’ve had enough of this here place! I want to go and see the world!” said he, swaying slightly on his feet. “Fare thee well, Bereton, and fare thee well, Nan!” he proclaimed, with an expansive gesture worthy of a rustic David Garrick.

   “That’s a brave boy!” exclaimed Captain Darnwell, “Together we’ll overthrow the King’s enemies and then drink the King’s health with the King’s silver! And every town we march through, you’ll find a new sweetheart! Tell me, my lad: can you ride? Can you manage horses?”

    “That I can, sir!” replied Thatcher proudly.

    “Then you’ll make a fine soldier indeed! Come: let’s away!”

    There seemed little more could be done. The crowd began to disperse, many of them still muttering. Poor Nan had let go of my coat and was now sobbing in the arms of an older woman, presumably her mother. The guinea I had taken from my purse I now quietly put into the sergeant’s hand, saying that I hoped he would drink my health and also watch over young Thatcher and treat him well.

    Not surprisingly, he became suddenly much more respectful and saluted me smartly. “I shall do that, sir!” he replied. No doubt my first request would be complied with, but as for the second I could no more than trust his honesty.

     Timmis was still fuming with anger after the soldiers had marched off. “There’s been times when the soldiers wouldn’t have dared show their faces here!” he grumbled, “When they was billeted here after the rebellion, any redcoat caught out on the streets at night on his own would be asking for trouble. Why; over in Mulchester a bunch of lads caught one coming out of a tavern the worse for drink and beat him near to death, and they was brought before Quarter Sessions where they was acquitted, and all the town cheered the verdict and drank the justices’ health! But now, after the war with the French, they redcoats is all heroes! I canna understand it!”

  But then he returned to more particular matters. “What am I gonna do with my haymaking now? I’m a man short, thanks to them cursed redcoats!” 

  The episode made me aware that my supposed new authority might serve me well enough in Bereton, but might be but of limited value on the national stage.

 
  

I decided to return to London. To my friends in Bereton I pleaded that I had new duties there that needed my attention, but in truth I was becoming weary of country life, with its endless small doings. Also, I wanted to see Elizabeth Newstead again to claim my promised rights as a victorious candidate. Louisa Wibrahim said she was very sorry to see me leave so soon, and as we parted, gave me her hand to be kissed. Once again I looked into her eyes, and for a moment I felt myself torn between town and country. I promised to write frequently, with full descriptions of the sights and pleasures of the capital.

   I did not intend to tell her about Elizabeth Newstead. 

Chapter Fourteen: The election

 (It is spring 1761, and Charles Huntingdon hopes to be elected to Parliament for Bereton) 

    I had hoped that the election at Bereton might be uncontested, with Sir James Wilbrahim and myself able to take the two seats without the expensive necessity of a vote, but a third candidate now put his name forward. This was a certain Mr Thomas Cave, a gentleman of whom I had not previously heard, who had recently purchased a large estate several miles to the north of the town.

   When I had first discussed my candidature with Sir James, he had shown no great support for the idea, but directly he learnt that Mr Cave was also a candidate, his attitude changed absolutely, for he had a strong personal aversion to the man. 

  “His family, sir, is utterly undistinguished, but he has come into great wealth through the discovery of coal beneath his estate in Cumberland. Now I, sir, farm my lands as my father did, and his father before him. The rents are sufficient to support me: why should I want more? I know all my tenants here; I stand as godfather to many of their children; they know me and trust me, and as long as they pay their rents, work honestly, follow my instructions and preserve my fox covets I shall always protect their interests and help them in sickness and old age. Why should I, or they, wish for any change?

   “No, sir, I stand firm for Old England, and always will. I detest all this modern craze for coalmines, and enclosure, and turnpikes, and canals, and all other fooleries!”

   He now readily agreed that we should combine our forces against this unwarranted intruder.

  

   I met Cave himself soon afterwards. He was a tall, heavy man, simply dressed in old-fashioned clothes that were drab in colour. He kept very still as he talked, and his features betrayed no emotion, nor did his unblinking eyes, which were dull and the colour of pewter; but his manner was full of quiet menace. He was obviously accustomed to intimidating his opponents by his mere presence, but I resolved to remain calm and unimpressed, no matter what he said.

    Was I aware, he asked me, that the ownership of lands in Cumberland that I had inherited from my aunt had been in dispute for many years? And that the best legal opinion was that they rightly belonged to him? He warned me that any dispute could prove wearisome and expensive, and suggested that he would not pursue it, and would indeed undertake to buy the land from me for a generous price, provided I withdrew from the election. I refrained from committing myself on the matter, and took the first opportunity to bring the interview to an end, pleading an urgent prior engagement. He must have guessed I was lying, and said nothing, but I could see that he was not pleased. I counted this as a small victory.

  I wrote to Mr Braithwaite to discover his opinion of Mr Cave, thinking that he might have had dealings with the man through his own estates in the north-west. He soon replied, saying that his own experience had been that Cave was an implacable opponent of anyone who stood in the way of his ambitions. He always strove to intimidate with threats of expensive lawsuits, to which many had succumbed and done his bidding; indeed, much of his wealth had been accrued by these methods. He assured me that, in his opinion, Cave believed coal might lie beneath my land, that his claim of ownership was probably without a shred of legal validity, and I should ignore his threats. Acting on this advice I resolved to stand firm against attempts at either intimidation or bribes, and for the rest of the campaign I avoided meeting with Cave.

 

   If Sir James’s support was determined solely by his detestation of Mr Cave, that of his daughter was whole-hearted. When I next visited Stanegate I found Miss Louisa bubbling with excitement at the thought of a contest, though she feared her father would not permit her to visit the town and watch the campaign. She was disgusted by what she had heard about Mr Cave.

   “He is a very wicked man! My father hates him, and so do I! He has been mining for coal up in Cumberland, and some of the seams run out under the sea: can you believe that? And his miners are kept in servitude! They have to work for him till they die, and they do not even get paid in proper money: they have to live in his cottages and get their food from his shops! And their children have to go underground when they are only five years old! The people up there call him Wicked Tommy!

   “And his wife! She is the daughter of a rich merchant from Liverpool. She is so rude and ill-mannered; and do you know what her money comes from? It’s slaves! Her father’s ships take hundreds of them across the sea to work in the sugar plantations, packed together in the hold as if they were sacks of produce! It makes me want to cry to think of them!

   “No, Mr Huntingdon, you must work with my father that such a terrible man must never be our representative in the Parliament!”

   I thought it best not to mention that my patron, Lord Teesdale, had sugar plantations in Jamaica that were worked by slaves.

 

   The Rector, Mr Bunbridge, opened the campaign on Sunday by preaching a sermon in which he ingeniously interpreted numerous texts of scripture as demonstrating that it was the clear duty of all to vote for Sir James Wilbrahim. I received a brief, and, I thought, rather grudging mention, but at least there was no support for Mr Cave.

   The campaign was now well under way, and I began the rounds of meeting all the voters to attract their support. An investigation of the poll books that there were, as Jarrett had estimated about fifty men who could vote in the town, though some had been lost from sight and no-one knew how many of these might have died since the books were last complied. All would have two votes, and our strategy would be based upon persuading Sir James Wilbrahim’s supporters to give their second votes to me.

   The voters might have been few in number, but the whole town, including the women and children, joined in the excitement, expecting to be entertained by parades and music as well as plentifully supplied with food and drink. Sir James Wilbrahim knew his supporters would always remain true to him, and he duly fulfilled their expectations with lavish provisions, but delivered no public speeches.

 

    The best tavern in Bereton was the Queen’s Head, which had a substantial assembly hall panelled in old oak. Sir James always conducted his election campaigns from this tavern, and at his invitation I also used it as my headquarters, to emphasise that we were working together in alliance against the intruder Cave. Every man who came to the Queen’s Head and promised to vote for me would be served a drink. No doubt many of them were treated in a similar fashion elsewhere by Mr Cave.

    I had a narrow escape from disaster when I found hanging in pride of place an old painting of a person whom I supposed to be Queen Anne; the work of some local artist, and commented on its extreme badness to Clifford. He replied with alarm that I should on no account say this in public, since it had been paid for by Sir James’s grandfather! 

   A day or so into the campaign I was approached by a sharp-faced, soberly-dressed man. He introduced himself as Howard Bagley, Sir James Wilbrahim’s agent and man of business, and indicated that he was ready and willing to act in the same capacity for me, should I wish for his services. I replied that Mr Clifford had handled all my aunt’s affairs: he had a thorough understanding of the estate, and that therefore I was happy for him to continue in the role.

   “Ah yes, Clifford!” he replied in a sneering tone, indicating a degree of contempt. He then consulted a large and costly-looking watch and left me without further comment. I decided I did not like the man. Clifford confirmed this, saying Bagley had a bed reputation in the town. More usefully, Alderman Stout introduced me to a fellow by the name of Cartwright, who agreed, for a consideration, to organise groups of people to shout for me and jeer at my opponent. I could not fault his achievements in this task.

   My most successful canvasser, however, was without doubt Mrs Timmis. My formidable housekeeper knew everyone in Bereton, and she now visited all the tradesmen and shopkeepers who had votes. To the victuallers she spoke of how, if I was elected, I would hold a magnificent feast for the town, for which, immense quantities of food and drink would be purchased; to shoemakers she suggested that after the election I would be ordering new shoes for my entire household, and so forth. At her suggestion I toured all the shops and was always careful to praise the quality of the goods on sale. If I saw that a lady customer particularly liked a particular item I would shyly offer, as a mark of respect, to purchase it for her as a gift. Such a proposal was seldom rejected.

   Mrs Timmis informed me that Mr Cave’s wife had not made a good impression in the town, for she had barely concealed her contempt for what she considered the coarseness of the citizens and the inferior quality of the goods in the shops. “And I can promise that this will tell against her husband,” Mrs Timmis assured me, “I shall make sure of it!”

   I bought presents at the shops for Ned Timmis’s wife and daughter; but for Mrs Timmis herself I had something from London.

   “Lor, sir, I don’t know when I’ll have occasion to use these!” she protested as I presented her with a silk scarf and an elegant pair of gloves; but nonetheless I saw her wearing them with pride next Sunday.

  

   Sir James, knowing his position secure, did not have to deliver any public speeches, but I was obliged to be more active. In my campaign I said that I was a supporter of Mr Pitt and his victorious war, but I found that national issues played but little part in this election. Instead, Alderman Jabez Stout and the other city fathers spoke to me of work urgently needing to be done in the town, in the forwarding of which the unlamented Mr Bailey had proved so sadly deficient. The list seemed endless: paving the streets, digging new drains, repairing the bridge over the little river below the town, and so forth: every alderman appearing to have his own pet scheme. It was the unspoken expectation that I should pay for much of this work out of my own pocket. Many wanted a new town hall to be built: I was not expected to meet the entire cost of this, but, I gathered, it would be incumbent on me to sponsor a private Act of Parliament to enable the necessary funds to be raised. There was even talk of digging a canal. The list seemed endless, and when Stout introduced me to the other aldermen, each had his own pet schemes. I was certain that they expected to profit personally from these works, but what could I do but give them my word of honour that I would do as requested? They appeared satisfied, at least for the moment.

  To supporters of Sir James, I constantly praised him; to those who held positions in the customs or excise or other offices, or hoped for such preferment in the future, I mentioned my letter of support from the Duke of Newcastle; but to others I proclaimed my independence. To the Dissenters I spoke of my admiration for my aunt, but I also made sure I was seen at the church on Sundays, where I was once again invited to share the Wilbrahim family pew. I discovered afterwards that Louisa had insisted to her father that I should always be given this privilege. 

 

   Mr Cave knew he was unlikely to win over many Wilbrahimites, so he concentrated his attacks on my person. He tried to portray me as a mere puppet of the Earl of Teesdale and his son, whom he called, “Degenerate Staines”; and to this end, produced a crudely-drawn placard depicting me as a puppet, dangling from strings manipulated by a sinister figure in a coronet, at which passers-by were encouraged to throw mud and filth. He announced that he was the candidate for “Church and King”, whereas I, he said, was the nephew of “notorious freethinkers and atheists” this being his description of my late uncle and aunt. He doubted whether I would have sufficient money to benefit the town, though I would have to concede that this last point had a degree of truth.

   One day a number of handbills appeared, making the most disgusting allegations concerning my friendship with Lord Staines. Clifford advised me to ignore them, and pointed out to me a fellow by the name of Smalling, who, he said, was the probable author. “He calls himself a scrivener.” I was told, “He scrapes a living composing lies and libels for anyone who pays him. But if he offers to write for you, do not give him any money, for he is not to be trusted.”

   Instead, I encouraged Cartwright to publish our own denunciations of Cave in pictures and songs. He forthwith produced a splendid banner portraying “Wicked Tommy” with a devil’s horns and cloven hoofs, which was paraded around the town by a mob hooting insults.

 

   The climax of Sir James’s campaign was a lavish event eagerly anticipated by all. A huge tent was erected in a meadow, where he hosted an election dinner for the whole town. An ox was roasted, and also a hog, but these were overshadowed by the immense quantities of drink on offer. Vast tubs of punch were provided, as well as beer and wine. Musicians were hired, and there was singing, but all was soon drowned in general riotous noise. The feast was not only for the men, but respectable ladies did not attend, and their absence left nothing to restrain behaviour. The scenes of gentlemen and tradesmen all alike in coarse manners and unrestrained gluttony might have revolted some of my more refined London friends, but Sir James enjoyed the proceedings immensely. He seemed to know everyone by name, and greeted them all, whatever their rank, in a spirit of jollity and friendship.

    And so the campaign continued: torchlight processions with banners, bonfires, speeches, dinners, blatant demands for “presents” from the voters and more free drink provided for the citizens of Bereton by all the candidates. There was occasional trouble at night and a few windows broken, but nothing that could be dignified with the name of a riot. At one point a group of Cave’s supporters, far gone in drink, attempted to march to the Priory and break all the windows, but Ned Timmis, forewarned, assembled a party of his farm lads and drove them off in disorder. This victory was duly celebrated with more feasting and drinking at my expense.

   Alderman Stout said it was all very tame stuff compared with the election of 1747.

  “It wasn’t more than two years since the rebels had passed through, and no-one dared oppose the Tory candidates, but there was a deal of rioting, and fights with the soldiers who were still billeted in the town, and the windows of any Whigs were smashed, and there was foul insulting of poor Mrs Andrew, who had lost her husband not long before, and a sad loss he was to the town!”

   My enjoyment was marred by realisation of the vast demands this electioneering was having on my purse. I realised I could be obliged to make a hard decision: to sell or mortgage some of my property, or to seek help from Lord Teesdale. My hopes of being fully independent in my political conduct were being steadily eroded. I approached Oswald Jarrett requesting a loan. But what choice did I have?

  

    At last on a fine spring morning the polling began.  Alderman Stout was the returning officer, despite an attempt by Mr Cave to have him replaced. The hustings were erected on the square outside the town hall, under a canvas to shield against rain, which happily was not needed. The voters had to climb wooden steps up to a platform, where their names were checked against a list of those eligible, and if they could prove their identity they could then swear an oath upon a Bible and cast their ballots, either for their two favoured candidates or, if they so chose, a “plumper” for just one. Clifford kept a close eye on the proceedings on my behalf to prevent any cheating, and Bagley acted on the same way for Sir James. Mr Cave’s interests were represented by a man I did not know, by the name of Francis, whom I was told was an attorney from Mulchester.

   I had never before witnessed anything resembling these events. The noise, the chaos and the confusion lasted all day, despite the voters being so few in number, for it seemed that everyone from many miles around had gathered to witness the event and join in the general revelry that an election brought. The ale and wine consumed would have been sufficient to float a ship. Presents of money were liberally distributed, and I saw one ingenious man accept gifts from the agents of all three candidates. Mr Cave provided free drinks for everyone, regardless, he said, of whether or not they intended to vote for him. Some men, however, held aloof from all offers. I assumed they were public-spirited citizens who rejected all bribes, but Clifford said that he knew most of them, and they were merely holding back their votes for the present, in the hope that, if the result appeared to be close, they could raise the price of their support.

   Sir James Wilbrahim arrived in great style, accompanied by a trumpeter who delivered a fanfare as he voted, amidst the cheers and applause of his supporters, for himself and for me. Mr Bunbridge (who, as Rector, was also an ex officio freeman of the borough) chose to cast a plumper for Sir James, and ignored me entirely. I took this as a personal snub.

   Some of the voters I had never seen before. I was much struck by one elderly gentleman in an ancient military coat, who had lost his right leg but walked vigorously with the aid of a crutch. He told me that he was a veteran officer of Marlborough’s army, and bade me make sure that our victories in our present war should not be frittered away as had happened on that earlier occasion. By contrast one poor unfortunate, wrapped in a woollen gown and with a bandage round his head, was carried up the steps and seated on a chair. He appeared to be at death’s door: his eyes were vacant and his mouth drooped open. How he could cast a valid vote was beyond my understanding; but Clifford whispered to me not to worry, for he was one of ours! Jabez Stout disqualified five voters for drunkenness, one for imbecility and four on the grounds that they were impersonating men who had died since the poll-books were compiled. This caused much fierce argument, since all of them were supporters of Mr Cave, but Stout was true to his name and refused to be swayed in his decisions.

   On the second day of polling strangers were brought in by carriage. I was told that they were normally resident some distance away, but retained their status as freemen. Their purpose on visiting the town on this occasion was purely and simply to vote. The majority of them had been brought in by Mr Cave, in order to swell his support, but a few voted for me, and it transpired that I owed these men’s presence to the work of Oswald Jarrett.

 

   After two days’ polling, the votes cast so far were:

Wilbrahim 36

Huntingdon 22

Cave 10

  We were expecting a renewal of voting the following morning, should any remaining freemen come to cast their votes. Mr Cave, however, now decided that despite all his efforts he had very little chance of success, despite his vast expenditure of money. He withdrew from the contest, but with a very ill grace. He did not deign to speak to me but had his man Francis inform me that that the conduct of the election had been dishonest throughout, and that there would shortly be a petitioning of Parliament to have the result overturned on the grounds of gross corruption. But I did not allow such threats to diminish my triumph. I had been elected!

   As soon as Alderman Stout announced that Sir James and I had won, a crowd of Bereton people of both sexes, very drunk, proceeded to demolished the hustings and bear off the wood and canvas for their own use, maintaining that to do so was their ancient traditional privilege and right. There then followed a ceremony known as “chairing the members”: Sir James and I were hoisted high on chairs attached to long poles, by which means we were hoisted aloft by brawny supporters and carried triumphantly through the town in a torch-lit procession, with much roaring and cheering. Sir James’s chair led the way. He constantly turned left and right, waving his hat to the crowd and clearly enjoying the proceedings immensely. Everywhere he was treated with respect, but when I followed, some remaining partisans of Mr Cave attempted to disrupt the procession. There was cursing and brawling, filth and a few stones were thrown, and one hulking brute, maddened by drink, assaulted my supporters with a threshing-flail. I feared that I might be overturned, but I continued to smile and salute the people, and eventually my supporters were able to drive off our opponents. Our success at the polls was followed by yet more banqueting, and our health was drunk, again at our expense, by all and sundry. The citizens who were most disappointed were those who had withheld their votes in the expectation of being able to charge a higher price on a later day of polling, for now they had gained nothing!

     I wrote to the Duke of Newcastle notifying him of my victory and pledging my zealous support in Parliament, but notifying him of the possibility of an attempt to have the result overturned. I received a prompt reply congratulating me and assuring me that I need not fear any petition to overturn the result, for he and his friends would ensure that any such appeal would be rejected. Mr Cave evidently came to the same conclusion, for he soon retreated to his northern coalmines, grumbling and licking his wounds and hoping for revenge. In the end he had to content himself with publishing a pamphlet claiming my victory had been achieved by bribery and voter impersonation. He also cited a report in the “Mulchester Courant”, a newspaper that had recently begun publication, alleging that my agents in that town had threatened violence to anyone intending to come to Bereton to vote for him. Clifford thought this libel was a product of Smalling’s fertile pen, and I did not bother to respond. Mr Cave’s finances might have been much reduced in the contest, and so had mine; but the moment I did not think to count the cost. I was now a gentleman of importance!

   Meanwhile, after more immense sums of money had been expended, Sir Anthony Pardington and Mr Braithwaite were returned unopposed as Members of Parliament for the County, just as had been the case at the previous election. One might call himself a Whig, and the other a Tory, but they both knew well the advantage of combining their forces to exclude any competitors.

    Following my victory and desiring some peaceful reflection, I made my long-postponed walk up Brackenridge hill. The day was fine,trees were in leaf, birds were singing and there were carpets of bluebells under the trees I climbed for more than an hour before I reached the summit, but I scarcely noticed the passing time or the signs of spring, for I had much to think about: visions of the deeds I would accomplish now that I was a man of importance. The stones, which had awakened the interest of my aunt and Mrs Waring, I found a disappointment. Most were buried beneath a mass of brambles, and I did not investigate them further. There was one single upright stone; an uncut boulder taller than me, leaning at a precarious angle. It occurred to me that the summit of Brackenridge would make a splendid site for a monument to the great Mr William Pitt, and I wondered whether Alderman Stout and his friends would support having the place cleared. 

 

 

   A few days later I visited Stanegate to discuss local business with Sir James, and found Louisa walking in the garden in the spring sunshine. She led me down the gravel paths, showing me the flowers that she had planted, and describing where others were soon to be placed. Her maid, who was called Becky, walked a few paces behind us. We found a man and a couple of boys clipping a yew hedge, and she greeted them by name and praised their work. She told me how delighted she was by my success, now I would be her father’s companion in Parliament, and that she had found the campaign thrilling. I asked her how much she could have witnessed, since I understood that her father had kept her at home throughout, no doubt believing that such an experience would have been unsuitable for a young lady. She chuckled, and gave me a mischievous glance.

    “You didn’t see me, but we saw you, Becky and I!” she said, “We watched you making speeches and talking to the tradesmen! I thought you spoke very well!”

   “No, I didn’t see you, and I’m sure your father didn’t see you either, for he would have been most displeased. But how did you contrive it?”

   She laughed. “That’s my secret! But promise you won’t ever tell anyone I was there? My father would be so angry, I don’t know what he might do! I can trust you, can’t I?”

   In the most formal courtly behaviour that I had learnt under Elizabeth Newstead’s tuition, I bowed low: with one hand I swept off my hat and with the other I took her hand and kissed it. “Miss Wilbrahim, I am forever your most devoted slave! Your slightest wish is eternally my command!” I announced. The whole procedure was intended as play-acting, and when we looked at each other’s eyes, with her hand at my lips, both of us laughed.

   We walked side by side to the house. She chattered merrily but my head was full of whirling emotions. She was so pretty, and so charming! But so young and so innocent: shielded by her father from all contact with the world! What would become of her?