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.