Chapter Twenty-one: A chapter of misfortunes

(It is 1762, and Charles Huntingdon is Member of Parliament for Bereton)   

   In December there was held the great debate on the Peace. The House of Commons was crowded for the occasion, and the atmosphere tense and oppressive. I sat with Sir Anthony Pardington on the rear benches to the Speaker’s left. We heard Mr Fox speak, and Mr George Grenville, whom Fox had recently replaced as Secretary of State, and it was during  Grenville’s very prolix justification of the peace terms that Sir James Wilbrahim entered the chamber. He bowed to the Speaker but then hesitated, as if uncertain on which side of the House he should take his place. He acknowledged me with a slight inclination of the head, but then took a seat with Mr Braithwaite and other Tories. It was the first time I had seen Sir James attend Parliament, and Sir Anthony whispered that he had never been known to open his mouth in debate.

   I was observing my fellow Member for Bereton as Mr Charles Townshend spoke. That gentleman, who had the reputation of a brilliant orator, had been expected to oppose the treaty, but now supported it strongly. At this development Sir James nodded vigorously in approval, sensing that victory was now assured. I observed Lord Staines bobbing up and down in an attempt to catch the Speaker’s eye. He doubtless intended to make a violent attack on the persons and policies of the late ministry; but this ambition was thwarted, for an excited whisper ran round the chamber that William Pitt was approaching.

   The great man came hobbling in on crutches. It was the first time I had seen him, and his appearance was alarming. He appeared to be in great pain: his face was emaciated, the colour of old parchment, his gout-stricken feet and legs were swathed in flannel bandages, and his hands encased in thick gloves. I had so many times been told of Pitt’s greatness as an orator, and I waited to hear this new Demosthenes hold the House spellbound.

    Then the Speaker called his name and the moment came. Pitt’s voice was weak, so much so that at times he could barely be heard, and because of his gout he was granted the unprecedented privilege of addressing the House whilst seated, but despite these handicaps he spoke at length, and in great detail. He tore the peace treaty to shreds and denounced it point by point. The West Indian islands that we had recently captured should not have been returned to the French, he said, and neither should have the trading factories in India. Florida, which was now ours, and Minorca, which we had regained, were no substitute for Havanna, which we were returning to Spain. He feared that in a few years France would once again have recovered to be again a formidable foe, and the “base desertion” of Frederick of Prussia he denounced with great ferocity. I noticed Sir James Wilbrahim constantly shuffling on his seat and muttering to himself throughout this diatribe.

   Although Pitt was heard with close attention, those members who had witnessed his great flights of oratory, either as friend or foe, said afterwards that it was by no means one of his best performances: it was over-lengthy and tedious. Indeed, Lord Barrington commented that “Pitt never made so long or so bad a speech”. But what followed was astonishing; for, immediately Pitt concluded, he picked up his crutches and left the chamber! He neither heard the later speeches, nor stayed to cast his vote! Sir Anthony shook his head sadly, and muttered to me that it appeared from this behaviour that any concerted plan to oppose the Peace had been abandoned. We paid little attention to subsequent speeches as we wondered what could now be done.

   When finally the Speaker called for a division, Sir James promptly leapt to his feet and headed for the lobbies. Sir Anthony said it must have been the first time in all Sir James’s years in Parliament that he had voted for the government. But Pitt’s behaviour had left the opposition hopelessly confused, and the upshot was that Sir Anthony and I abstained, as did many friends of Pitt and Newcastle, though others voted against the treaty and a few even voted for it. In consequence, that evening more than three hundred voted with the ministers while fewer than seventy opposed the peace treaty. Against all expectations, Lord Bute, who had been quite unknown two years earlier, had triumphed, whereas the ministry of Pitt and Newcastle, which had then appeared impregnable, now lay in ruins!

  Sir Anthony’s verdict on the result was, “An ill-managed affair: the worst-managed I can recall”. I could not but agree with him.

                                                         (John Stuart, Earl of Bute)

    Afterwards I found James Wilbrahim overjoyed with the result and looking for all forces now to be withdrawn from Europe and taxes to be immediately reduced. More than that, he chortled, “The tyranny of the Whig dogs has been broken at last!”

   He asked me if I had been foolish enough to vote against the Peace Treaty, to which I replied, with perfect honesty, that I had not. Satisfied with this truthful but somewhat Jesuistical statement, he embraced me joyfully and invited me to the Cocoa Tree club, that celebrated haunt of irreconcilable Tories and Jacobites. Curiosity led me to accept the proposal.

   I found a scene of joyous carousing. Mr Braithwaite was there, and his behaviour was far removed from his usual austere manner. I do not think he recognised me as I remained silently in the background. I heard lifelong Tories rejoice as they anticipated removals of Whig supporters from all levels of government and lucrative places for themselves and their friends. After my earlier meeting with Mr Fox, this came as no surprise; but I was not expecting any preferment to come my way, and so was not to be disappointed.

   Sir James disappeared into the throng, but I later found him again, his face now flushed and evidently well-fortified by drink. He held my gaze for a moment with a look of slight puzzlement. I wondered whether he had intended to say something to me, but, after all the wine and brandy he had consumed, could not at that moment remember what it was. Eventually he told me to meet him tomorrow, and I invited him to come to Brown’s club in the afternoon, and gave him directions. He was still damning the Whig dogs with the rest of the company when I left, quietly and unobserved.

  

   The next day Sir John was so late in arriving that I wondered whether he had completely forgotten. While I waited, I passed the time in composing a long letter to Louisa, with a satirical account of the memorable scenes I had witnessed in Parliament and afterwards. I would not mention her father, except to say that he was very happy after the vote. But this letter was destined never to be written.

   Sir John did eventually appear, and the way he sniffed around told me that he did not like the place, which he no doubt considered to be full of stockjobbers and Whigs. He rejected my offer of coffee, but consented to be served some wine, and we retired to a quiet corner for a talk. His manner was stern.

  “I like you well enough, Mr Huntingdon, and I am happy to have you as my colleague, now that you are a Member of Parliament,” he began, “You appear to be a man of sense, and you’re not too much of a damned Whig. But as regards Miss Louisa, I shall speak frankly You may consider yourself a very fine gentleman, but I must tell you that she is so far above you as to be entirely beyond your expectations.”

   Caught by surprise, I protested that I harboured no dishonourable intentions towards his daughter.

   “That is no more than I would have expected of any gentleman, sir. But it is beside the point. Even if your intentions were a sincere desire for marriage, I would not permit it. You must not even dream of courting her; nor shall I permit any further intercourse with her.”

   He paused briefly before continuing, “Miss Louisa has become increasingly wilful and disobedient of late, and for that I hold you partially responsible. She has been too influenced by the foolish, worthless books you have lent her. Then there was the case of the fireworks in Bereton.”

   I held my breath. How much did he know?

   “I had specifically forbidden her to attend, yet she defied my wishes! Mrs Piddock caught her and the maid creeping back late that night like housebreakers, and dressed as boys! They did not attempt to deny they had been to the fireworks! A most disgraceful scandal, had it been generally known!”

  I breathed again. If he had known of my part in returning his daughter home, he would have been very angry indeed. The message from Becky that “we didn’t tell them nothing” now made sense, and I silently praised the girls’ courage on my behalf.

   Sir James resumed his diatribe. “Miss Louisa is now forbidden to leave the house, or to receive visitors, except in the presence of me or Mr Bunbridge. She will neither write nor receive letters without my permission. As for the maid, I should have dismissed her immediately, but I relented when Miss Louisa begged me, with tears in her eyes, to let her stay; so I instructed Mrs Piddock to whip her soundly and then set her to work in the kitchen rather than waste time in idle chit-chat with her mistress. I have been too soft, sir! And as for you, sir, no matter how honourable you may consider your intentions to be, your friendship with her has brought nothing but trouble!”

    I asked, “Have you perhaps pledged her hand elsewhere?” thinking that he might have some great lord in mind to be Louisa’s husband.

   He snorted. “No, sir, I have not! You may at least rest your mind on that score! I can tell you, sir, that insolent young puppy Lord Staines has asked for her hand in marriage, but I have repulsed him!

   “You are a friend of Staines, are you? Then that is no credit to you, sir! His family is of plebeian origin, of course, but I condemn him by more than that, sir; much more! I have made enquiries, sir! And what do I find? Why, I find that all London knows the sort of man he is; if indeed such a depraved and degenerate fellow may be called a man! He shall never enter my doors again! I have written to him to say so!”

   He continued, “And as for you, sir; I should never have permitted Miss Louisa to accept the fripperies and geegaws that you and Staines have sent her. I shall return the books you have lent her. You are not to lend her any more. Nor will I permit you ever again to write her letters. I have instructed my servants to bring to me any letters addressed to her. This matter is concluded.” He then turned his back on me and stalked out of the room, leaving me sorely perplexed.

   Sir James’s anger had precisely the opposite effect from what he intended. When I first met Louisa I had thought of her as no more than a delightful charming child, but now she was fast becoming a lady with every prospect of being a great beauty. Why should I not be her suitor? At the very least, I no longer had a serious rival in Staines, for his attempts to woo her had plainly been vetoed. But at the moment my chances appeared but few.

 

   Events took on a most unexpected twist not long afterwards. Another letter was left for me at Brown’s club; this time not from Byrne but from a wholly different correspondent: none other than Mr Bunbridge, the Rector of Bereton! How he discovered the address I do not know: I guessed Sir James must have told him of our meeting there. What he had to say was truly amazing.

 “If you wish to send letters to Miss Wilbrahim,” he wrote, “I suggest that you direct them to me, and I will pass them on; as I shall also do with any she might address to you. I assure you that all possible discretion will be observed. My only desire is for her happiness.”

   I greatly wondered at this. I had always considered Mr Bunbridge to be an enemy rather than a friend, and had believed that he was a great opponent of Louisa coming to know more of the world; but I was not going to reject the help of such an unexpected ally.  I accordingly wrote frequently to Louisa, describing my activities in Parliament and the plays and concerts I attended in London, but now enclosed my letters in packages addressed to the Rectory.

   Louisa was sometimes able to write in reply. She had little to say, and it was clear that she was lonely and unhappy. What could I do except continue to write? I was aware that we were directly disobeying her father’s commands, but I felt justified in these actions, which were wholly innocent of any wicked motives.

  It was only later that it occurred to me that in all probability Lord Staines had the same channel of communication with Louisa as I did. I eventually found out that this was indeed the case: Staines wrote constantly to Louisa via the Rector, declaring his undying love, describing the glories of London and wishing she could join him there. This paper flirtation was to have disastrous consequences.

    I spent Christmas and the rest of the winter in London, attending to my Parliamentary duties, escorting Elizabeth Newstead to theatres and concerts, visiting Lady Teesdale and dining with my friends, but found I did not enjoy these activities as I had done in the past. I sent a further fifty pounds to Byrne, and in return received the wholly expected news that he had not yet discovered the missing ruby but would continue his search.

   It has been truly stated that misfortunes never come singly, and the next one to afflict me now arose. The business of Parliament often held me till late. I was kept busy there, for Lord Teesdale was sponsoring a Bill to dig a new canal, which I had pledged to support, and also a Bill to enclose the fields at Maybury. Lord Staines and Sir Headley Graham should also have played their part in supporting Lord Teesdale’s projects, but it seemed they both preferred to spend their evenings in the pursuit of pleasure, leaving most of the work to me. On such occasions I often did not leave Parliament until a very late hour, and then returned to my lodgings, desiring only to sleep. Elizabeth became restless at my frequent absences, and no doubt the troubles of Stanegate also preying on my mind caused my performances as a lover to fall below her expectations.

   One morning, after passing the night at her house, and being obliged to leave early while she was still asleep, I ordered a servant-girl to bring me my clothes. To my astonishment she produced from a cupboard a set of gentleman’s garments that were not mine! When I laughingly chided her, saying that she had brought me Mr Newstead’s clothes by mistake, the girl, who was clearly very stupid, was covered with embarrassment and said that no, they must belong to “one of the other gentlemen!” I examined the garments and found that their owner was somewhat stouter than me, and his feet considerably larger. Their quality suggested him to be a man of some wealth.

   That Elizabeth was unfaithful to her absent husband I already knew, so the revelation that she might also be unfaithful to her lovers should not have surprised me, but I was filled with a sudden revulsion. When I compared Louisa with her, I saw the difference between a pure country girl and a faded relic who was little better than a strumpet. I left her house in disgust, vowing never to return.

   I dined that night with Henry Darnwell, who perceived my low spirits, though I did not explain the reason. Thinking me to be ill, he suggested I visit Bath and drink the waters to improve my health. I agreed, for lack of anything better, so I made my excuses to Lord Teesdale and departed.

 

   But I did not enjoy my visit. Lodgings, when they could be found, were extortionately costly, the famous waters of the Pump Room tasted as if Mrs Timmis had been boiling bad eggs in them, and the King’s Bath was both crowded and dirty. The park in Mr Allen’s villa, conceived in the grand manner and containing a splendid Palladian bridge, would have been a fine walk on a sunny day, but for the most part the weather was foul. 

   There were card-parties, where I learned to play whist, and where at least the most notorious cheats were kept at bay. There were dinners and dances, and at all these events there were mothers in search of suitable husbands for their daughters. Lady Danvers was the queen of all the matchmakers in the town: I do not know what enquiries she made about me, but within a day or so of our being introduced she desired that I should meet her friend Mrs Henderson and with her daughter Jemimah, who, she informed me, was a delightful girl. It was obvious what was being planned, for when I was introduced, Mrs Henderson made a flutter with her fan, then dropped a scarf for me to pick up and return to her, and smiled at me in such a manner that it was almost as if she herself was doing the flirting on her daughter’s behalf. The girl herself meanwhile stood by looking awkward. She was not unattractive, and danced well enough, but was painfully shy at first, and when she did at last begin to talk, it was solely about dresses and hats. She could not have been much older than Louisa Wilbrahim, but I could not help but think that Louisa would have shown herself to better effect. Afterwards Lady Danvers bombarded me with questions: did I not think that Jemimah was the most charming of young ladies? and added to this the information that she was the heiress to a considerable estate in Worcestershire. I replied politely, pretending I had failed to understand the hint.

   Whole battalions of young men haunted the town. After talking with them, I concluded that Sir Headley Graham, Lord Teesdale’s son-in-law, whom the Earl had dismissed as a fool, would have appeared a veritable Aristotle of intellect compared with some of the other fellows in this circle. They appeared to spend their days doing nothing except lounging on the fringes of public gatherings, chatting idly in the most affected tones of carriages and of horse-racing or exchanging disparaging remarks about the persons and the clothes of the rest of the company. Even the young ladies did not escape their censure, being compared unfavourably with the nymphs who plied their trade in Avon Street, which I understood to be a thoroughfare of ill repute. Presumably these young fops imagined themselves to be objects of general admiration. I did not attempt to disillusion them.

   Then there came a disastrous moment in the Pump Room when I suddenly saw Elizabeth herself approaching on the arm of an extravagantly dressed young man! I attempted to retreat into the crowd, but to my horror Lady Danvers cried, “Oh, Mr Huntingdon, here’s my old friend Mrs Newstead! I must introduce you!”

   There was no escape. I bowed clumsily to Elizabeth and kissed her hand, muttering meaningless compliments. She, exercising admirable self-control, did not betray a flicker of recognition, but smiled and said she was delighted to meet me. Lady Danvers gave the opinion that we were certain to become the best of friends, whilst meanwhile her escort, whom Sir James Wilbrahim would have rightly condemned as another insolent young puppy, stood by making little effort to conceal his boredom. I was greatly relieved when I was able to withdraw, and then fled the scene with indecent haste.

  That night I composed a letter to Elizabeth. I did not wish to see her again, but there remained the matter of the stolen ruby. After some thought I told her of the letters I had received from Joseph Byrne, together with an account of my dealings with him; I explained that I had already paid out money of my own, but that she would have to decide for herself whether to continue the payments, for I was resolved to have nothing more to do with it. I intended never again to speak to either of them, though as it happened both were to play a part later in my story.

    The next day I consigned my letter to the post and prepared to return to Bereton by the first transport that could be arranged.

 

Chapter Twenty: Matters of state are interrupted by a most puzzling mystery

(It is autumn 1762 and a peace treaty with France is being negotiated)

     I attended the King’s speech in the House of Lords at the opening of the new Parliament. He addressed both Houses on the forthcoming Peace Treaty, and spoke with ease and dignity. His figure was not unpleasing, though Elizabeth might have considered that his eyes protruded too much. All but the most bitter opponents of the new ministry must surely have considered him a considerable improvement on his late grandfather.

   As the summer had progressed, reports came back from Paris that, as Sir Anthony had suspected, substantial concessions to the French were being made in order to achieve a speedy end to the war. There were divisions reported in the Cabinet, and in the House of Commons the government was palpably losing control. Outside of Parliament too feelings on the Peace were running high. At the staging of a comic opera at Covent Garden, to which I escorted Elizabeth Newstead, the performance was interrupted by some of the audience shouting, “No Scots! No Scots!” at a pair of officers in the uniform of a Highland regiment, and apples were thrown at them. At Brown’s club there was a heated discussion when Mr Boswell, a young Scotchman I had met at one of the Countess’s assemblies, argued with much clear reasoning that, now we had achieved our aims in America, the war should be brought to a swift conclusion. Others thought that more of our recent conquests should be retained, but supporters of the peace proposals retaliated by asking where the funding for any renewed conflict was to be found, and when our troops could be brought home from Germany.

  Lord Staines, in or out of the House of Commons, spoke with great violence against all who might oppose an immediate peace treaty. He denigrated Pitt’s achievements, and insinuated that he should be regarded as mad; and was equally vehement in mocking the Duke of Newcastle. If Mr Wilkes had been present to hear him, he would perhaps have regretted deliberately firing wide in their duel. I found Staines looking very pleased with himself after one of these attacks, and wondered, though I did not ask him, how far he was acting as a spokesman for his father, and if so, to what end? Was Lord Teesdale now a firm supporter of an immediate peace treaty?

   My only contribution to the nation’s business so far had been in my support for a Canal Bill favoured by Lord Teesdale, which was duly made law.  He advised me to invest in any future canal projects. In the discussions on the peace talks I said nothing, for I was waiting for a lead from Mr Pitt; but the great man remained at his home in Kent and did not come to Parliament.

 

    Then in October came more changes in the ministry, with Mr Henry Fox appointed to lead for the government in the House of Commons. I was now invited to discuss with him my intentions in any forthcoming vote on the Peace.

   Mr Fox was invariably portrayed with a fox’s face in cartoons, but his foes, who were numerous, likened him to a wolf. I recalled that Elizabeth had told me that all respected Fox’s abilities, but few trusted his honesty, and his rapacity was universally deplored.

   He was much as I remembered him: a heavy man, with a face that was not unfriendly, but his dark eyes and thick eyebrows, when coupled with his reputation, made him an intimidating prospect. He greeted me in a friendly manner; remarking, after a careful glance at my face, “Have I not met you before?”

    I replied that I had indeed seen him at a dinner at Teesdale House, though we had not spoken to each other. I was most impressed by such a feat of memory, for that event already seemed to belong to the distant past. I forbore from telling him that I had also witnessed his sons’ profligacy at the faro table.

   Getting promptly down to business, he asked me about my intentions in the forthcoming votes on the Peace. I told him that I had always supported Mr Pitt’s conduct of the war and that I rejoiced in our nation’s triumphs. Fox replied that his sentiments were the same, but that now it was a matter of securing a majority for a peace treaty that was close to being finalised. I said that I would examine the terms of the treaty with great care, but that for the present I would maintain my independence.

   Mr Fox then told me that my closeness to the Earl of Teesdale was well known, and he expected that it would soon be announced that his Majesty the King had graciously decided to appoint the Earl as Lord-Lieutenant of his county; the current holder of the office, a supporter of the Duke of Newcastle and the Whigs, being dismissed. He added that, although his Majesty had as yet not allowed my friend Lord Staines to resume his previous rank in the army, Staines had instead accepted the post of Commissioner of the Stamp Duties; and that father and son would henceforth support the government.

   He next hinted to me that there was soon to be a vacancy in the position of Keeper of Records in the Tower, to which I replied that, at present, I was resolved not to accept any salaried post. Following this, Mr Fox brought the interview to an end, advising me to reconsider my position. I still did not know what side I would support on the Peace, and Fox would undoubtedly be observing my behaviour closely. It was only later that I realised I should have requested that something be found for Martin Clifford, and Alderman Stout in Bereton, as a mark of my gratitude and an indication of my new influence.

   Soon afterwards, the ministry struck against its opponents. The Duke of Devonshire, who was the last of the great Whig lords to retain his post in government, was deeply critical of the peace terms. This was deemed to be so intolerable that, at the start of November, his Majesty with his own hand erased the Duke’s name from the list of Privy Councillors, and the Duke of Newcastle and the Marquess of Rockingham were dismissed from the Lord-Lieutenancies of their counties. There was now an open breach between the monarchy and the Whig lords who had governed the country for almost half a century. 

   I asked Sir Anthony Pardington what course we should pursue when the peace treaty was eventually placed before Parliament. He told me that it might be unwise to oppose it openly unless Pitt and Newcastle could work together to do so. I asked him if he knew of any plans for a concerted opposition: he said he knew of none at present, for he suspected that Pitt had never forgiven the Duke for what he regarded as a betrayal over the matter of war with Spain. Sir Anthony appeared much dispirited, and I concluded that the outlook for the opposition was not good.

 

   My attention to these great events was at this point distracted by an unexpected event which was to cause me much perplexity. It began in the following manner.

   One morning at the club I was handed a letter which I was told had been left for me. Opening it, I read that “a lady known to me” had had the misfortune to lose a certain valuable jewel, and that if she wished for help in recovering it, then I should meet a certain Joseph Byrne at the sign of the Red Cock, beyond Whitechapel. It was unsigned.

   I was most disconcerted by this. The lady referred to must certainly be Elizabeth Newstead, but I had seen her a few days before and she had said nothing about a stolen jewel. Nor were enquiries about the letter itself at all illuminating: I learnt that it had been delivered to the club by a boy who then ran off without providing any information. The name of Joseph Byrne was unknown to me. How did this man, whoever he might be, know of my friendship with Elizabeth, or where I could be contacted? Were these common knowledge throughout the town? I wondered if it might be a joke of some kind; the work of one of Lord Staines’s friends. But I resolved to treat the matter with all due seriousness, and hastened to call on Elizabeth.

   After some inconsequential talk, I showed her the letter, which caused her to start in alarm. She unlocked the drawer where her principal jewels were kept, only to collapse back in a chair. Her eyes were closed, her hands clasped together and her whole body shaking; and her voice unable to utter a word other than “Stolen! Stolen!” I looked in the drawer, and I saw that the necklace was there, but the little chain from which the ruby was suspended had been snapped, and the great jewel was gone!

   It took Elizabeth some time to recover her composure, but eventually she dried her eyes with a small lace handkerchief and told me, “It must have been my maid, Margaret, who took it! She disappeared two days ago, and has not returned. I never trusted her! Oh, how foolish I was to let her know where the keys were kept!”

   I asked her how many other people might have known about the ruby, but she merely began sobbing again and did not reply. I then requested her permission to investigate the theft myself, but she did nothing but wave her left hand with a gesture indicating that I should go away, while covering her face with her right. I therefore departed, telling a servant to tell her that her mistress was unwell.

  What should I do? I wondered what advice my friends would have given me. George Davies would surely have offered to lead party of a dozen strong, reliable lads, all well-armed, to the tavern and threaten those present with violent retribution unless the jewel was instantly returned; and in retrospect such a step might indeed have proved better than the one I chose.

  

    I made my way to the Whitechapel district and located the tavern called the Red Cock, which appeared a low, disreputable establishment. I did not enter immediately, for in the street outside I chanced to meet a young curate who, when I introduced myself as a Member of Parliament who wished to learn more about Joseph Byrne, responded by inviting me to visit his church nearby.

   Once inside, he looked around carefully to make certain that the building was empty, and only then did he begin to talk in a voice full of fear of how the entire parish was in the man’s grip. But he had barely started when suddenly his whole tone changed, and instead he began to discourse loudly of the beauties of the church and the genius of the great Nicholas Hawksmoor who had built it. I was greatly puzzled until I followed his nervous glances towards the west door, where I saw a stranger had entered. The curate plucked at my sleeve and led me towards the altar, trying to prevent me from looking back. Nevertheless, a few rapid glances showed me the stranger unlocking a wooden box near the door that was presumably intended for charitable contributions to aid the poor of the parish and removing the contents. While this was taking place, I pretended to listen to an entirely unnecessary lecture on the building of new churches under Queen Anne. I duly expressed admiration for his church, though in reality I thought the building dirty and in need of repair.

                                   (Christ Church Spitalfields: a Hawksmoor church) 

It was only after what seemed a long while that the stranger left the building that I attempted to return to the subject of Joseph Byrne. But the young curate refused to be drawn further, saying only, “If you meet Mr Byrne, I must earnestly request you not to mention my name!”

    I replied that this was impossible, since he had never told me his name, and added, “If Byrne is as unscrupulous as you say, I wonder you dare to speak to me at all!”

   “Every night I pray that I shall not to have to remain here under the thumb of Byrne and his henchmen, and seeing their wickedness! Do you know any gentleman who needs a tutor for his children? However meagre the pay, it would be a better life!” I felt that he might burst into tears at any moment.

  I assured him of my discretion, and then told him, “The reason I am here is that I hope to visit Mr Byrne on Friday. I shall leave a letter by the font addressed to him, and perhaps you might chance upon it and take it to him. There will be no need for you to become further involved." He appeared most grateful at this, and I departed.

 

   The more I considered the matter, the more puzzling it seemed. Had Margaret the maid really stolen the ruby, and if so, when? It must have been taken in sufficient time for it to reach Byrne, and for him to compose and send the letter to me. And was it Margaret who told him of my close attendance on Elizabeth?

   I decided to ask Sir Anthony Pardington what he knew concerning Joseph Byrne. He shook his head sadly and looked grave.

   “He is a most notorious robber, and has been so for the past ten years. I am afraid that the laws hardly apply in the outlying parts of London, for the authority of the Lord Mayor does not extend to the parishes outside the city boundaries, and within his bailiwick Byrne is the law! He is the justice of the peace, and his brother is the churchwarden and parish constable. They own the taverns, and it is said that the Poor Rate of the parish is mostly spent on feasting, or on less innocent activities.”

   “Cannot we, as Members of Parliament, do anything to stop his activities?”

   “Not as things stand: no; not unless he rashly ventures within the city limits, when he would be immediately arrested and hanged. But why do you wish to know? Is it to recover some stolen property, perhaps? For that is a profitable activity of his: there can be few thefts in our city where he does not know who the robbers are, and will speedily arrest the robbers unless they hand over their ill-gotten gains to him. But recovering stolen property for a reward, and without prosecution of the thieves, is a felony. Go carefully!”

   I could not reveal more to him without revealing Elizabeth’s name, so I said nothing. Seeing my hesitation, he did not enquire further, merely advising me to avoid any encounter with Byrne.

   I asked Elizabeth for permission to speak to Byrne, with a view to opening negotiations for the return of the ruby. I was surprised to discover that she did not appear to be greatly interested, which I interpreted to her still being in a condition of shock. But at least she did not positively forbid me from proceeding. On Friday I made my entry to the Red Cock.

 

   Joseph Byrne was seated at a table. He was dressed respectably, with his dark hair tied with a black ribbon behind his neck. His eyes were small and darting and his face calm, but his whole aspect was disfigured by a great scar that ran across his left jaw and down his neck. I could not help but keep turning my eyes to it, for his escape from death at this must have been narrow indeed. He was well aware of the way my gaze kept shifting. He must have been accustomed to this behaviour by visitors, and no doubt found the alarm it caused served his purpose well. Throughout our talk a great hulking fellow stood behind his chair, watching me unceasingly with an expression of deep hostility and suspicion, but saying not a word.

                        (Jonathon Wild was a notorious London gangster of the 1720s)

   I produced the letter about the stolen ruby. Byrne nodded.

  “I believe I can locate the missing jewel,” he informed me. His voice was quiet and calm; he tried to speak like a gentleman, but tried too hard, and the effect was in consequence forced, unnatural and unpleasing. I suspected he could be terrible if roused to anger.

   “Where is it?” I asked, but he only laughed.

   “You surely do not imagine, Mr Huntingdon, that I am such a fool as to admit that I have it in my possession? But I am hopeful that I could lay my hands on it. For my services I am requesting the sum of £100.”

   “Are you suggesting that you could return the stone to Mrs Newstead for £100?” I replied. “I understand that such a transaction would be a crime. And the sum you demand appears paltry for such a remarkable stone.”

   “But I doubt whether either you or your mistress will lay an information on me. For you see, Mr Huntingdon, this ruby is a fake”.

   “What? Impossible!”

   “Oh no, Mr Huntingdon, there is no doubt about it at all. I am told that it has been examined by one of the finest jewellers in Europe. A tradesman of the Hebrew race he is, who practised his craft in Amsterdam before he was obliged to take himself to London in consequence of a misunderstanding. This is a mere lump of red glass: pretty enough to fool the ignorant, but of no value”.

   He leaned across the table to me. 

  “Now you might wonder why I do not keep this knowledge to myself, and offer to attempt to find the ruby in return for a reward closer to its value if it had been a true stone, which would have indeed have been many thousands of pounds. That is because I think Mrs Newstead would refuse to pay, because she knows it to be a fake.

 “It’s a strange matter, is it not, Mr Huntingdon? Could it be that Mr Newstead, with all his wealth and his experience in the East, was taken in by some coloured glass? Or that he should have presented his wife with such a piece of trumpery? Or that the great lords and ladies with whom she dines should not recognise it for what it is?”

   “But she never wears it. She told me so”.

   As soon as I had uttered these words I knew that it was entirely the wrong thing to say. Byrne smiled in triumph. “So perhaps the true stone was replaced at some time. Perhaps it was secretly sold? More I cannot say. Well then, Mr Huntingdon ….” he said, pausing deliberately.

   I also remained silent for a while, and then asked, “How long ago was the ruby examined?”

   “It first came to my attention shortly before I wrote the letter. How long before then it was taken, I cannot say”.

   “And Margaret the maid, who ran away, and whom her mistress suspects of the theft?”

   Byrne laughed, though without humour in his tone. “No doubt she absconded to be with a lover somewhere. I doubt if she was responsible for the loss of the stone. But you cannot be too careful as to whom you employ as your servants, Mr Huntingdon; for how else do you imagine that I knew of your friendship with Mrs Newstead? But that is no concern of mine.

   “Now to business. I think that maybe your mistress does not want this worthless piece of glass to be returned to her. She would prefer that, when her husband returns, she could report that it had been stolen and not yet found. If that is the case, then I would request the sum of £100, paid quarterly, to reimburse my services for searching for the stolen property, until it is finally recovered. Such a task might take me quite a long time. I might still be searching when Mr Newstead returns from his time in India.

   “Or perhaps you might wish to tell her nothing, but to pay the money yourself, out of a chivalrous desire to assist a lady in distress ..... and to quell any suspicion that you might yourself have been the thief …..” Once again, he let the sentence hang in the air, then added, “I am happy to take your Note of Hand at any time, Mr Huntingdon."

   The interview was clearly at an end. Speaking to the hulking figure behind him, though without turning to face him, he said, “Jamie: make sure no harm comes to Mr Huntingdon, now or on any future visit.” This was reassuring in itself, though I did wonder what sort of harm I might have come to otherwise.

   I returned in silence to the less barbarous parts of London. What should I do now?  I began to think that George Davies’s suggestion of solving the problem by a simple act of violence was the only rational response. In the end, I told Elizabeth that the ruby had not yet been found, though the search was continuing, and I myself arranged for £50 (which at that moment I could ill afford) to be sent to Byrne as an interim payment. This did no more than postpone a decision; and I prayed that something might turn up before long; though I had no idea what!

   There the matter had to rest for the time being, but it brought the first signs of a coolness between Elizabeth and me. And Byrne’s remarks awoke in me the sinister thought that perhaps Elizabeth knew the true story of the ruby, and that her distress at its disappearance was no more than acting. 

Chapter Nineteen: Of fireworks and a great cricket match

 (Charles Huntingdon has discovered that his friend Lord Staines, much against his wishes, is destined to be married to Louisa Wilbrahim. Huntingdon does not consider Staines to be in any way a suitable husband for Louisa, but has been sworn to secrecy and is uncertain what action to take)

   Spring was changing to summer by the time I returned to my village of Bearsclough after an absence of several months. I found that under the direction of the ruling triumvirate at the Priory: Martin Clifford, Mrs Timmis and brother Ned, my estates had fully recovered from the ravages of the harsh winter. After spending a few days of inspection and discussing future projects I rode into Bereton to meet Alderman Stout and others, and thence on to Stanegate.

   I found Sir James Wilbrahim deep in discussion with Bagley, his agent, concerning his farms, but he rose to greet me. I wondered whether he would mention Lord Staines‘s proposed marriage to his daughter, but he did not: instead he asked for news about the peace negotiations, and indicated that he might even attend Parliament, after an absence of several years, to vote for an end to the war! 

   Louisa was in the garden. It was delightful to meet her again, after an absence of several months. She was now very much a young lady in appearance, and told me that her sixteenth birthday was coming in September, but was as unaffected as ever in her manner as she took me by the hand and walked me round the paths for a long conversation. She thanked me very prettily for the letters I had sent her, but demanded a full and complete account of everything I had seen and done in London. I described the new King and Queen as well as I could,the important people I had met and the debates in Parliament.

 I waited for her to mention Lord Staines, but since she did not, I asked her if anyone had visited Stanegate recently. She replied yes: a young nobleman had come to see her father on a matter of business, and had dined with them.

   “His name was Lord Staines. I think he must be a friend of yours?”

   I nodded and waited for Louisa to tell me what she thought of him. She paused for a while before answering.

   “He was very proud, and I was frightened of him at first, for he seemed full of anger: I don’t know why. I had never met a lord before. Are many of them like that?”

   She made no reference to a proposal of marriage, or of the love-letters that Lord Staines had informed me he would write. I did not imagine that she was deceiving me, for her manner was far to open: I wondered whether, if any such letters had indeed been written, they had been intercepted by her father. I had no intention of broaching the subject of the marriage, and was glad I had made no firm promise to help Staines in his marital quest, for I could not imagine him as a good husband for Louisa, about whom he had spoken so disparagingly. Instead, choosing my words with care, I limited myself to saying that Lord Staines was sometimes wild in his behaviour, but that I believed he was good at heart; that I would always be grateful to him, for he had been a good friend to me when I first came to London; and without his father’s help I would certainly never have become a Member of Parliament.

  From there I told the story of his duel with John Wilkes, though passing over the cause of it. Louisa was torn between admiration for Staines’s courage, horror at the danger, and relief that the outcome had been bloodless. She said she had heard her father refer to “that devil Wilkes” with his scandalous newspaper, and was horrified that Staines should risk his life by challenging such a man. I assured her that very few duels led to death or serious injury; that Wilkes had deliberately fired his pistol wide, and that he bore no resentment towards Staines. I did not mention the Hell-fire club.

  I turned the conversation to a more harmless subject saying that Lord Staines had recommended that my gardens at the Priory should be redesigned, and I described the massive workings I had witnessed Brown’s men carrying out for at for Lord Teesdale at Maybury. Louisa was surprised, for the gardens at Stanegate had scarcely been changed in her lifetime, and she could not imagine why anyone should want to live through disruption on such a vast scale. I laughed that I could not possibly afford such expense, but that perhaps something could be achieved without excessive trouble and cost; and I hoped she might come to watch the results. I reflected that when I next visited Elizabeth Newstead in London, I must ask her to help choose suitable birthday presents for Louisa; but I had still disovered nothing about Lord Staines's marriage plans.

    Mr Walpole sent me the latest political news from London, and I learned that the Cabinet was in open revolt over the peace negotiations with France. "I look upon Lord Bute's career as drawing rapidly to a close," he informed me. I then wrote to Sir Anthony Pardington to ask what action the Duke of Newcastle and the Whigs would take. His reply revealed how dispirited he was. 

   “I wish I could be more confident in the outcome. That silly little man the Duke of Bedford, whom we have sent as Plenipotentiary to Paris, seems intent on giving away all our conquests to gain a quick settlement. The French may appear to be crushed now, but in a decade they will be recovered and eager for revenge. But gentlemen in these parts have told me that they hope for a speedy end to the war and a reduction in taxes. I believe that a peace treaty might be popular in the country, and opposed only by financiers and merchants of the city of London. The Duke of Newcastle, I think, knows this too, and fears that the question of a sole Scotch minister would not be sufficient grounds on which to build a formed opposition. As a result, there is indecision, and no instructions have been given to his friends. I can only advise you to do as you think best. For myself, I fear the worst.”

  I soon discovered that Sir Anthony’s assessment of the feeling of the nation on a peace treaty might be correct, for when I discussed the matter with Alderman Stout and others of the burgesses of Bereton, I found that they neither knew nor cared where such places as Havana and Manila might be; and that their principal hope was indeed that when the war ended taxes could be reduced.

   That August all other matters were swept away, and all political hostilities suspended, in a great wave of rejoicing. Queen Charlotte had given birth to a son! We had an heir to the throne: the first Prince of Wales to be born in that century! Alderman Stout and I, together with other local dignitaries, formed a committee to discuss how this happy event should be celebrated in Bereton.

   Our committee at once divided into two hostile factions. Some wished for a great beacon should be lit on the summit of our hill. Others advocated a bonfire, with food and drink provided, on the town meadow; arguing the difficulty of taking the wood to a site so distant from the town, and which the vast majority of the citizens would be unable to enjoy. To this the first group countered that their beacon would be visible over half the county, thus demonstrating the patriotic spirit of Bereton. Tempers became heated. In the end, to bring hostilities to a close, I suggested that we undertake both projects, and in addition to have fireworks to be sent from London, be lit in on the town meadow. Doubts were expressed, but once I had promised to bear the entire cost the proposal was adopted with alacrity. I accordingly wrote post-haste to London, where the men responsible for all royal fireworks displays contracted to provide me with what was needed, together with an experienced man to light the devices. The price seemed extortionate, but having advocated the project I could do little but accept it.

   The whole town joined in the projects with enthusiasm. Trees were felled and farmers provided carts to transport the timber as far up the hill as could be managed, from where it was carried or dragged to the summit by eager hands. More wood was taken to the meadow. Even small children collected sticks for kindling. Meanwhile the women of the town set about organising the food, and it was inevitable that Mrs Timmis, working with unbounded zeal, would emerge as the main driving force. Musicians and singers were recruited. Only Stanegate Hall and its inhabitants held aloof.  

   I wondered how anybody could be found to light the beacon on the hill, since that would necessarily involve their missing the celebrations below them. But Alderman Stout arranged that various unfortunates from the town Bridewell would be selected, supplied with food and drink, and promised their liberty if they faithfully fulfilled the task. 

   I heard nothing more about the fireworks for a long time, and was beginning to feel worried, but three days before the great event a wagon arrived, driven by a small, active man who introduced himself as Bob Newark, a retired bombardier from the Royal Artillery, who was to be responsible for the display. I offered him beer, of which he quickly consumed an immense quantity. As he drank he described how he had been wounded at the battle of Dettingen many years ago, and after retiring from the army now earned his living at fireworks displays. The coronation and now the royal birth had been very good for business, he told me.

 

   After mounting impatience from all the children, and many of their parents too, the great day at last dawned. The weather was warm, the sky was clear with no rain predicted and the moon was close to full. The children crowded round as Newark set out the fireworks that afternoon. At first he was patient with them, but finally had to drive them off with some violent oaths, at which they retreated to a safe distance.

   In the early evening the light of the beacon on the hill was seen, which was the sign for our celebrations to start. The bonfire was lit, I proposed toasts to the King, the Queen and the new Prince of Wales, and then the fireworks began. Rockets soared, great flares of blue and red lit up the sky, thunderclaps exploded and fountains of sparks gushed upwards, to the accompaniment of gasps, cheers and applause from the crowd, few of whom had ever witnessed such a display before. After the last rocket the musicians struck up, there were songs and dancing, and the feasting began. A whole ox and several fat pigs had been roasted and were now dismembered by the town’s butchers, the bakers had supplied a multitude of loaves, and barrels of ale and wine which had been kept under unceasing guard were now rolled out.

   Virtually the whole town was there. Sir James had absented himself, but the Rector put in an appearance, together with his wife and their brood of children. I suspected that he would not refuse an occasion where there was free food and drink. As the beer and wine flowed freely, the scene became steadily livelier. I was widely congratulated on the display, as was Bombardier Newark, who gratefully received every glass or tankard he was offered, and was encouraged to treat his admirers to a selection of soldiers’ songs. These delighted the men, and though the ladies professed to find them most improper, I noticed that many of them were giggling together. In the end Newark’s admirers carried him insensible to the Queen’s Head and put him to bed.

  As the light failed, two young boys approached me. They wore old and ill-fitting clothes, above which, despite the warmth, they had cloaks with the hoods pulled over their heads. One of them asked me the time, which I thought a strange request from boys of their appearance. I squinted at my watch with some difficulty in the gloom, with only the moonlight and firelight to help me, but was able to announce that it was just after half past nine. This brought a cry of alarm from the other one. I thought I recognised the voice. It was Louisa!

   “Miss Wilbrahim! What on earth are you doing here?” I asked in astonishment.

   “Please don’t give me away!” she begged, “My father wouldn’t let me come, but I did so want to see the fireworks! So Becky, my maid here, fetched me some of her brother’s clothes and we left through the servants’ door and walked here. My father wouldn’t have known we’d gone: I told old William that I was tired and didn’t want to be disturbed”.

   I glanced at the other ‘boy’ and saw some dark eyes under the hood.

   A sudden understanding came over me. “Was that also how you contrived to watch the election?” I asked.

   Louisa nodded. “But what are we to do now?” she continued, “William goes round locking all the doors at ten o’clock. We didn’t know how late it was getting. We’ll never be able to walk back home before then. Oh please, Mr Huntingdon: you must help us! Will you take us home in your carriage? Please!”

   I explained that I would only have been too delighted to do so, only unfortunately I had not come in my carriage, but had ridden out on Alexander. What were we to do?

   “You can leave me here. I’ll be all right”, said Becky loyally. But Louisa shook her head firmly at the suggestion.

   Casting around for a solution, I was much relieved to see Martin Clifford about to mount his own horse for departure. I ran across and quickly explained the situation, which greatly amused him. I lifted Louisa to sit in front of me on Alexander’s crupper, and Clifford performed the same service with Becky. Despite their boys’ breeches they both preferred to sit side-saddle. They held on tight as we rode at a brisk trot from the meadow and down the main street of Bereton in the direction of Stanegate. We hoped that no-one would recognise us, since it was now almost completely dark. Fortunately, Alexander knew the way with little need for guidance from me, and Clifford followed.

   “It’s just as well for us that you’re my friend, Mr Huntingdon!” whispered Louisa as we trotted along. “Am I allowed to call you Charles?”

  “And may I call you Louisa?” I countered. “It hardly seems necessary to observe social formalities under these circumstances!”

  She giggled. “And how about Charlie?” she enquired cheekily.

  “You mean like the Pretender Prince of Wales, that some of the ladies call Bonnie Prince Charlie? I would prefer Charles.”

   She pondered this, and then said, “I’ve heard Mrs Piddock say he was very handsome. She saw him when he passed through here during the rebellion. It was before I was born, of course. But it’s strange about him, isn’t it? I know he stayed at our home with all his men, while my father was away, for Mrs Andrew once told me, and I know my father has always supported the Jacobite cause, yet he never talks about that day. Do you know why that should be?”

   I could indeed think of a reason, from what I had heard from Mrs Timmis concerning local gossip; but instead I changed the subject and asked her how she had enjoyed the evening.

  

                                            (18th century fireworks)

   As we approached Stanegate, we saw the light of candles still glimmering behind the curtains. We walked the horses in as close as we dared, then helped the girls dismount. Louisa whispered thanks and gave me a kiss on the cheek on parting, then waited for Becky, whom we observed embracing and kissing Clifford with some passion. Then the two girls fled across the grass towards the servants’ entrance, turning to give us a wave before they disappeared from sight. Then Clifford and I turned our horses and endeavoured to return as silently as we had come. I pondered the riddle of Louisa: sometimes she was an elegant young lady; at other times she was still just a little girl. If I had been fortunate enough to have had sisters, I might have been able to solve this puzzle.

   Only when we were well away from Stanegate did Clifford break the silence.

   “A smart young lass, that Becky!” he announced, as much to himself as to me. “She mustn’t stay as a lady’s maid for ever. She’d make someone a good wife”.

   “For you, perhaps? But you’re old enough to be her father!” I teased him. He did not respond. Clifford never talked about his private life, but I had learned from Mrs Timmis that he was a widower and a lonely man, since his son lived far away and met him but seldom.

   We trusted that our escapade had gone unobserved. It was only much later that I discovered that someone had seen Louisa return home, with unhappy consequences.  

 

   As for the bonfire atop the hill, a visit to the site the next day revealed that it had been lit, but that those given the responsibility of tending the flames had soon neglected their duties, preferring to consume the beer with which they had been provided. A few had absconded, but the remainder were found lying on the grass in a drunken stupor. They were most fortunate that the bonfire had soon gone out, rather than setting fire to the entire hillside and consuming them in a general conflagration. As it was, their clothes were only slightly scorched. They were returned to the Bridewell.

 

    I did not remain at home for long after the celebrations. I was obliged to return to London to attend to business there, and, that being settled, I received an invitation from Mr Braithwaite to take part in a great cricket match.

  The event was widely advertised: “At the Finsbury artillery ground: a great match for 1,000 guineas a side, between Lord Tankerville’s men and Mr Richard Braithwaite’s men”, followed by a list of the two teams of eleven men apiece. Braithwaite, who had been a fine batsman in his youth, was to captain his team himself, and had recruited Robertson and Staines, both keen cricketers, to play for him. I decided to attend, expecting only to watch; but on reaching the ground was informed that Braithwaite’s team was a man short, and I was requested to make up the numbers. My cautious pleading that I had not played since I was a boy was swept aside, and so I found myself press-ganged to join the combatants!

   A large crowd had gathered for the event, and since the thousand-guinea stake had shown it would be a seriously-fought match, there was a vast amount of betting taking place; not only on the result, but on individual performances: runs scored and wickets taken. Apart from the eleven players, each team had brought a scorer, who counted the runs scored by cutting notches in sticks, and kept a close eye on each other to prevent any cheating.

   Both teams, I found, were a mixture of gentlemen and a variety of others: innkeepers, farmers and servants of the aforesaid gentlemen. One of the latter on Lord Tankerville’s team was pointed out to me: a rather fat man, aged about thirty.

   “That’s Lumpy Stevens”, I was told, “The most feared bowler in England. You must be extremely careful if you come to face him! Or if you chance to be a betting man, you may safely stake your entire estate on him. He is a gardener by trade, or so it is said, but in reality he is employed to play cricket. And the same applies to many of the others, whether they may be called coachmen or butlers or innkeepers.”

    I commented that he looked no threat to anyone, and asked how he came by such a strange name.

   “His baptismal name is Edward, and his shape, which is undeniably lumpy, came about through his notorious greed. Why, on one occasion, after a match against the men of Hambledon, a large apple pie had been provided after the match, and Lumpy ate almost all of it himself, to the discomfiture of the other players. But no-one disputes his genius as a bowler”.

  We had to wait before we could witness this Ajax of the cricket field, for Lord Tankerville’s team batted first. The pitch that was chosen, I noticed, sloped slightly; the reason for this choice becoming apparent later. I was sent to field some distance away, where my first contribution was to drop an easy catch, to the accompaniment of jeers from the spectators. Not long afterwards another ball was hit hard and high in my direction. I heard cries of “Drop it!” from supporters of Lord Tankerville’s team as I ran backwards to take it, followed by roars of laughter as I tripped over a tussock of grass and tumbled flat on my back, fumbling the ball up in the air as I went down. But, by the most fortunate of chances, an alert fielder near me raced in and seized the ball before it fell to earth. He was a servant to Mr Braithwaite; a youth named Alf Redman, and well-named too, for his head bore a mass of flame-coloured hair. This fine piece of skill was much applauded by his team-mates, and also by those spectators who had wagered on them.

   There was one unfortunate incident when Mr Braithwaite was chasing a ball in the field and suddenly pulled up, clutching his thigh in some pain. He waved us away, maintaining it was nothing to cause alarm, but he was limping for the rest of the innings.

   Lord Tankerville’s team made a total of about 150 runs (I cannot remember the exact score), and Mr Braithwaite assured us that reaching this target would be achievable. We then batted. At my particular request, pleading inexperience, I was placed next to last in the batting order and hoped I would not have to save the team in a crisis. Braithwaite also held himself back until late, to rest his injured leg.

   Our batting was opened by John Robertson and a young gentleman I did not know. The latter did not last long, neither did the man who succeeded him; both falling victim to Lumpy Stevens. I watched his bowling carefully, wondering how I might find a means of resisting him. Sometimes the ball left his hand low at great speed and sometimes in a gentle curve through the air, without any apparent change in his action. When the ball struck the pitch, it sometimes turned one way, sometimes the other. The reason for playing on a slight downslope now became apparent, for it led to the ball occasionally shooting along the turf, to the confusion of the batsmen.

   Robertson played Stevens well and the score mounted steadily until another wicket fell and Lord Staines stalked to the wicket with an air of arrogant confidence. He sneered at Stevens when he came to face his bowling, and promptly stuck a delivery deep into the crowd of spectators. When not facing the bowling, he rested on his bat as if lost in self-admiration. Several more runs were scored before he attempted another tremendous hit against Stevens but missed the ball entirely. It passed between the stumps without disturbing the bail! Stevens threw his head back in frustration, but Staines laughed.

   “You won’t get me out, Stevens!” he jeered.

  I imagined I could hear the bowler grinding his teeth in anger. He got his revenge soon afterwards when Staines attempted another extravagant shot but misread the flight of the ball, hitting it straight up in the air and being easily caught. He departed muttering angrily to himself, while Stevens stood watching him, his hands on his ample hips, uttering not a word.

   Young Redman came in next, and smote the ball with great aplomb until the score reached around 120. More wickets then fell, and Mr Braithwaite entered at number nine. He appeared to be in some pain and batted with extreme care. The score crept upwards until only nine more were needed. I was beginning to relax, thinking that my services with the bat would not be needed, and then Stevens at long last penetrated Robertson’s defence. Eight wickets were now down and I walked to the wicket, doing my best to look calm and confident. Mr Braithwaite spoke quietly to me, saying that victory was well within our grasp. He advised me to block deliveries on the wicket and look to push the ball between the fielders for singles.

   I survived my first ball and missed the second, which struck me painfully on the shin, but soon afterwards I scored my first run and my confidence rose. Then, when just three more were needed, I tapped a ball to the off side and called Braithwaite for a run. But I had forgotten his injury! Half way down the pitch he pulled up, and was run out by a considerable distance.

  I hastened to apologise. He said not a word, but shook his head sadly and limped away, clearly in pain. I heard shouts from the crowd, as those who had placed their bets on Lord Tankerville’s team now felt secure in their winnings.

  The last man in was a plump, apple-cheeked yokel with a smile as broad as his body. He ambled to the wicket with his bat over his shoulder, looking the peak of confidence. Oldroyd was his name. He posed as Braithwaite’s stableman, but was in reality employed as a cricketer.

   “Dunna worry, sir! Just leave it ter me!” he exclaimed in a pronounced northern accent. I had seen his skill as a bowler earlier in the match, but his position as last man in suggested that he was not considered a batsman.

   His first ball was straight, and he blocked it. “Playin’ meself in!” he informed me. This was encouraging, but my impression of him as not being a batsman was confirmed when he made a wild swipe at his second ball, which by some miracle missed the off stump. The third one was met with another reckless swing of the bat. The ball found the edge and sailed high in the air on the off side, beyond the reach of the fielders. We ran two, and then Oldroyd called me for a third that would give us the victory. Heading for the wicket-keeper’s end, I was well out of my ground as the throw came in, but it was a poor one, and I was able to scramble home. We had won!

   “Told thee tha couldst leave it ter me!” said Oldroyd with immense satisfaction as we left the field in triumph.

 

   A large tent had been erected beside the pitch, where a noble repast was provided for the players, scorers and umpires. Lumpy Stevens lived up to his reputation by eating and drinking the most prodigious quantities. Lord Tankerton seemed not at all disconcerted at having lost so considerable a sum, and by such a very slender margin. Dusk was falling as Lord Tankerville provided carriages to take us all back to his house for the night. The next day I composed a letter to Louisa describing our great battle in mock-heroic style. Young Redman of the flame-coloured hair was to play a part in my life later, in very different surroundings.

 

  It had been a marvellous end to the summer, and I felt most happy and contented as Lord Staines and I travelled back to London in his coach, but he was unusually silent and appeared to have much on his mind. Eventually I asked him how his betrothal to Louisa Wilbrahim was proceeding.

   He enquired sharply whether I had mentioned the matter to anyone.

   “Certainly not!” I replied with some indignation, “I gave you my word, and I have remained silent! Nor did Miss Wilbrahim or her father tell me anything!”

 “You would doubtless have found out eventually, but I do not wish the matter to be known in London, so I must again insist on your silence if I tell you.”

   I assured him that he could rely on me as a friend.

   “Very well then. That old fool Wilbrahim has written to my father forbidding the match! He thinks I am unworthy of his precious daughter!”

   I commented that it must have come as a great relief to him. But instead he turned to me and spoke coldly.

  “You do not understand the temper of our family! My mother on learning that I had been dismissed was quite unnecessarily distressed on my behalf, and full of sympathy for the girl. She gave vent to some sentimental nonsense about the difficulties encountered by young lovers, but my father was very angry. He is not easily thwarted in his plans. And as for me: I know that Wilbrahim despises us for no better reason than because my father’s grandfather was a mere attorney, and my mother’s father a merchant, whereas his own ancestors were always gentry! As if any of them had ever amounted to anything! And Wilbrahim himself a lifelong Jacobite, with only his poltroonery in the late rebellion to save him from the axe awaiting a traitor! Why, the very tradesmen of Bereton laugh at him behind his back!”

   “But what now, Staines?”

   “I shall continue to court Miss Wilbrahim. This strikes you as curious, perhaps? But I take Wilbrahim’s conduct as an affront to me and all my family! And I’ll be avenged for that!”

   I had never before heard him speak in this fashion. “Revenged? But how?” I ventured to ask.

    “I shall win the heart of that daughter of his just to spite him! I’ll write to her playing the lovesick suitor! I’ll hold out the promise of dresses of the finest silk! I’ll describe to this silly country maiden the glories of the town and how delightful it would be if I could share them with her! In the end she’ll fall in love with me! That would be a delicate revenge, would it not?  Soon the child will be pining for London and for me, and then … well, we shall see!”

  I was not greatly alarmed by this, for I imagined Staines was jesting, and was sure that, in any case, Sir James would intercept any letters directed to his daughter.

   When I returned to London, I called upon Elizabeth Newstead to renew our love affair. I found my ardour for her had abated somewhat, and perhaps it was the same for her. She sensed I had other matters on my mind, which was true: I longed to seek Elizabeth’s advice on Lord Staines’s courtship of Louisa, but had promised to mention it to no-one. All I said was that I wished to buy a birthday present for the daughter of a neighbour, and hoped she might help me to choose one.

   Elizabeth chuckled. “Ah; now would that by any chance be the Miss Wilbrahim whose virtues I understand you praised so lavishly to the Countess and her friends? So tell me: has that old Jacobite squire her father found her a husband yet, or is he still failing in his parental duty?”

   I said only that I understood there had been negotiations for a marriage. We both then fell silent for a while before she shrugged and said, “Well, I perceive you have a secret that you do not wish to divulge. That is your affair: what does it matter to me? But if I were you, I should take great care, lest ill befall!”

   Nevertheless, she helped me choose several pairs of the best gloves and silk stockings, which she said any girl was bound to like.

 

   I returned to Bereton to deliver these gifts to Stanegate, together with a book of poetry chosen by me. William the manservant took them, but informed me that his young mistress was indisposed and not receiving any visitors. Over the next few days I waited for a letter of thanks, but none appeared. When I chanced to meet Sir James Wilbrahim in the town neither of us made any reference to my presents, or to Lord Staines. He soon broke off the conversation and it was apparent that he had no wish to speak with me.

  Some time later a friend of Ned Timmis brought a verbal message from Becky, Louisa’s maid, which was, “Tell Mister Huntingdon that we never told them nothing!” I found it all very puzzling.