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.