(Charles Huntingdon and his friends, Wilkes, Churchill and Boswell, have rescued Louisa Wilbrahim from the clutches of Mother Rawton, the notorious bawd)
I awoke from a nightmare in which I, rather than Louisa, had been held captive and was facing death at the hands of the gigantic form of Mother Rawton. As I dressed in haste and swallowed a morsel of food, there came to my mind a picture of the pretty little girl with whom I had dallied so enjoyably at Medmenham, who had called herself Sister Antonia. For the first time I wondered if she had been a country girl who had come to London on a thoughtless venture in search of work, and had been entrapped by Mother Rawton? She was surely no older than Louisa, and might even have been younger; and unlike Louisa, she did not have the good fortune of friends to rescue her. I shuddered to think of Louisa forced into such a situation. The more I considered it, the worse it seemed. I resolved to have nothing to do with any such gatherings in the future: if I should receive an invitation to a meeting of the Hell-fire club, either at West Wycombe or at Medmenham, I would not attend. Furthermore, I would employ what powers I might have as a Member of Parliament in exposing and outlawing this traffic in young girls.
As regards Mr Wilkes, much as I might now be
disgusted by his part in encouraging and supporting this traffic, I was
nonetheless permanently indebted to him and his friends for their rescue of
Louisa from such a fate. I sped round to Great George Street, desperately
hoping for good news. I panted for breath, several times almost fell on the
slippery cobbles, and attracted the amazement and laughter of passers-by.
Polly
Wilkes was already up, looking very tired. She reported, with no small degree
of alarm, that Louisa had fallen into some kind of trance. She had lain awake
most of the night, tossing and turning in her bed, and having been persuaded to
rise, had faced breakfast without appetite or interest, had spoken not at all,
and would not suffer anyone to touch her. In consequence Polly and her maid had
also suffered a sleepless night.
It was obvious that Louisa must be returned
home without delay, before her condition worsened yet further, but how could
this be achieved? I had no carriage in London, and she was in no fit position
to use the public coach. Who could I turn to for help? Polly Wilkes would be
returning to France very soon, and none of my London friends would have been
any use. Elizabeth Newstead would have been sympathetic, I was sure, and might
have provided Louisa with temporary sanctuary, but I could not now call upon
her for help. With no other solution suggesting itself, it was in a spirit approaching
desperation that I presented myself at the door of Teesdale House, in the hope
that something might be achieved there.
I had taken the time to regain my composure
and to dress in my best for the appeal, and the porter fortunately recognised
me from past occasions and was prepared to admit me. I gave him a shilling and
silently gave thanks for the advice I had received from Elizabeth: always be
polite and generous with other people’s servants, for a coin of the realm will
often prove to be a silver key that will unlock doors that would otherwise
remain closed.
The porter ushered me into the presence of the
immensely dignified personage who was the Earl’s steward and major-domo. I had
encountered this august personage before, standing silently behind his master’s
chair or gliding silently in and out of the room during the Countess’s
gatherings, but had never had cause to speak to him. He deigned to recognise me
and politely enquired as to my business, but then informed me, with an
expression of great sorrow on my behalf, that his honour was away in the
country, and her ladyship, though at home, but not receiving visitors. This was
indeed a blow, but I asked him whether he would be good enough to bring me pen
and paper, in order that I might write the Countess a brief letter concerning a
matter of great and urgent importance that he might take to her. I felt that
the offer of silver would be insulting to such a grand person: nothing less
than gold would suffice. Accordingly, I placed a guinea on a nearby table in
front of him, and then turned away, on pretence of examining a picture. When I
looked around again the guinea had disappeared.
He conducted me to the library and provided me with the wherewithal to write to the Countess. I apologised for disturbing her,
but pleaded to urgency of the occasion; I outlined Louisa’s plight, lost in
London, friendless and ill, without, of course, telling of the exact circumstances,
and begged her ladyship’s help.
He then departed with my letter. He was not gone for long, but during that time I must have looked at my watch at least
half a dozen times as I paced the room with impatience and fear of rejection. I
pulled books from the shelves, glanced at them without interest and replaced
them. No doubt I muttered out loud as well, for I noticed a young maid looking
alarmed and trying to hide in a corner. But after what seemed an aeon the
steward returned, and to my enormous relief informed me that he was to take me to Lady Teesdale.
I had forgotten quite how small she was. She
was reclining on a couch, and looked weary, but her eyes were bright. She
greeted me warmly, regretting that she had not seen me for a while but pleading
that ill health had meant that she had been unable to host any of her
gatherings. She then asked me whether the girl in peril was indeed the daughter
of Sir James Wilbrahim of Stanegate Hall?
I dreaded that she might make reference to
Louisa as a prospective bride for Lord Staines, and wondered what I might say
in that eventuality; but she never mentioned it. Perhaps she thought I was ignorant
of it? Instead, she remembered how at Maybury I had spoken of the girl’s beauty
and charm. I confirmed this and reiterated the urgency of Louisa’s case: I
pleaded how greatly I feared for her health unless she could be taken home to
Stanegate without delay, and of the disastrous effect this would surely have on
her father. On a sudden impulse I added, with great boldness, “For, my lady, it
is a dreadful thing to lose a beloved child.”
Tears started in her eyes. I wondered if I
had performed a wicked deed, reminding her of the death of her own son, Lord
Staines’s brother. But she was stronger than I had feared. After a brief pause,
she sat up and rang a little bell, at which the steward, who had no doubt been
listening outside the door, immediately returned.
“James,” she said, “Call Richard the
coachman and Michael from the stables, and bring them both here. Mr Huntingon,
I will do anything that is in my power to help the poor child and her father.
Return here in two hours and you will find all has been prepared.”
I bowed and thanked her sincerely with all
my heart. As I left the room I saw her fall back again as if exhausted. I did
not know what she was intending, but I was filled with a sudden hope. James the
steward escorted me off the premises without a word: his deep disapproval being
evident. Nevertheless, I left another golden guinea on a side table.
For
the next two hours I once again had to struggle to control my impatience. I
retrieved Alexander from the stables and was pleased to find him looking
well-fed, and I then sent a message to Wilkes at Great George Street to prepare
for further developments. With still time to spare, I acted on impulse and
galloped round to Lord Staines’s residence. He had still not returned from
Kent. I imparted to his strangely-dressed servant the good news that the lost
maiden had been found unharmed and the emergency at an end, though without
mentioning Louisa’s name or the part that the Countess was now playing in the
drama. Eventually the time came for me to once again rouse the porter at
Teesdale House.
James the lordly steward was there. He
invited – nay, commanded – me to accompany him to the stables at the back.
There I found prepared for our use a coach-and-four, complete with coachman, a
postilion and an experienced nursemaid to accompany Louisa! I distributed more money to all and sundry
and then mounted Alexander to lead the way.
You may imagine how passers-by stared when the magnificent equipage,
drawn by matching horses and with the Earl’s coronet and coat of arms painted
on the doors, drew outside Wilkes’s lodgings! Soon a crowd had gathered, and there
were loud cheers as Polly led Louisa, leaning on her arm and looking barely
awake, from the house and helped her to board the vehicle.
In this fashion we embarked on a journey of three days and two nights. I thought it best to travel riding on Alexander beside the coach or seated up beside the coachman, leaving Louisa inside with the nursemaid. Louisa appeared in a trance for the first day: she uttered not a word in my hearing and could only with difficulty be persuaded by the servant, who seemed a sensible, motherly woman, to take a morsel of food and a sip of wine when we stopped at an inn. We spent the nights at houses belonging to Lord Teesdale or his friends, for which the Countess had provided me with letters of introduction. I prayed that we did not encounter any highwaymen: I kept a loaded pistol in my pocket, and I observed that the coachman and the postilion each had a blunderbuss to hand. But our journey passed without incident.
By the
third day it seemed that Louisa had recovered more of her natural spirits, but I
was still uncertain what course to pursue at the end of our journey: should we
drive directly to Stanegate, where her father would be unprepared? Or would it
be better to find out first precisely what had happened to her? The latter
course, which was in accordance with my own natural curiosity, decided me to
drive to my own home first.
We accordingly halted at an inn on the
outskirts of Mulchester, and while the horses were being watered, I scribbled two
brief letters: one to the Priory, warning my household to prepare for our
arrival, and the other to Stanegate, telling Sir James that his daughter would
come the next day, safe and sound. I paid two young servants at the inn to go
galloping on ponies to deliver them. Meanwhile the sight of our splendid
carriage had attracted a crowd of children, and some of their parents too. The
haughty stare of the postilion kept them at a distance, but I could tell that
we would be the talk of the town for many a day.
The coachman was not at all happy at having
to drive his master’s best vehicle along the narrow track to Bearsclough with
its overhanging branches of trees and dusk fast approaching. I assured him that
there were no natural hazards, and when I told him that there was no other way,
he reluctantly agreed to go forward, but insisted that I rode ahead with a
lantern to light the way. In this fashion we were proceeding at a slow walking
pace, when I was alarmed to hear the clip-clop ofanother horse’s hooves
approaching round the corner. Was this, I wondered, Black George lying in wait
for us? If his confederates now took up station behind us, we would be trapped
and helpless. Would my hopes of saving Louisa Wilbrahim be dashed so close to
home?
I sat
motionless on Alexander and kept my hand on the pistol in my pocket. The coach
a few yards behind me stopped too. Out of the gloom a horseman emerged; no more
than a black shadow in the darkness. Both of us halted.
“Who are you, and what do you want?” I
enquired, doing my best to sound unconcerned.
“Mr Huntingdon! I hoped it would be you!” a
familiar voice replied. It was Clifford, who on receiving my letter had immediately
set out to meet us! I introduced him to the coachman, explained that all was
well, and we reached the Priory without further incident
No sooner had Mrs Timmis set eyes on Louisa
than she enfolded the child in her ample bosom, saying in gentle tones, “Oh,
you poor little poppet! But you’re safe now!” and then she took Louisa away, dismissing
me and the rest of the company with an inclination of the head. With Louisa’s
wellbeing now out of my hands, I gave instructions for her ladyship’s horses to
be stabled and her servants fed and lodged. I discovered that I was hungry and
very thirsty.
I asked what should be done.
“Nothing for now”, was the decree, “Let her
sleep. Ellie and I will take it in turns to sit by the bed in case we’re
needed. In the morning she might want to tell me more, and tell you too, but we mustn’t press her.”
Clifford the left us, promising to return
the next day, and I retired to bed for the most peaceful sleep than I had
enjoyed for many a night.
Louisa and Mrs Timmis remained closeted together
all the following morning. Clifford came early and we sat together in the
library making a half-hearted attempt to deal with the business of my estate
while we waited for news. After a while we abandoned the pretence and I
recounted my story to him, and in return he gave me what news there was from
Bereton. The fever, I learnt, had somewhat abated in the town; Sir James
Wilbrahim had not been well and had been bled by his physician, Doctor Stump,
but since then he had not been seen.
It was
only after a midday meal that my housekeeper appeared, to inform us that Louisa
would be down shortly and felt strong enough to tell us her story.
“But I promised that we’d never let her
father find out,” she warned us, “for she’s afraid the shock might kill him.
But I think the three of us here can keep a secret, can’t we?”
“What I cannot understand,” said Clifford,
“is why she ran away to London on a momentary impulse. It makes no sense!”
Mrs Timmis mused in silence for a while. “I
know I shouldn’t speak so plainly concerning my betters, sir”, she finally began,
“But I always guessed that that wicked Rector was at the bottom of it. Now, may
I ask, sir, did he not tell you that if you sent letters for Miss Louisa to
him, he would pass them on to her?”
I confirmed that this was indeed the case.
“Yes, and what’s more, I think he might have said exactly the same to Lord
Staines. What then was the problem? Did he not deliver them, or did he inform
her father?”
“Oh, he delivered them all right! Or rather,
he sold them to her”.
“What, for money?”
“Oh no, sir! Far worse, the wicked evil man!
He would say to Miss Louisa, ‘I have a letter for you, but if you want it, you
must give me a kiss!’ And at the start it was just a little kiss on the cheek, so the poor innocent child saw no harm in it; but then he began to
demand a full embrace, or even more; and she demurred at that.”
“What atrocious villainy! And him a man of
the cloth too!”
“Indeed sir! And Sir James was in
ignorance of the knavery taking place within his walls!”
“Why didn’t she tell him?”
“Well, she knew she had disobeyed him over
the letters, and she felt ashamed of what she’d allowed to happen so far; and
anyway he soon stopped demanding any more kisses. But then the sickness struck
when Sir James was away up north, and William with him, and Becky was given
leave to go to Bereton to tend for her mother who was ill, and then Mrs Piddock
was took sick and confined to bed, and then the Rector came and said he must
take her away from this house of sickness, but she should pack a box and come
to stay with him. And so she did, and he lifted it onto his little trap, and
off they set.”
“I find it hard to believe that Louisa
agreed to go with him, knowing his past conduct.”
“Well, she didn’t see no harm in it, for she
thought they were only going to the Rectory, and Mrs Bunbridge would there. But
she soon found that they weren’t going there at all, but along the road to
Mulchester, and she asked why. And he said he was going to take her to the inn
in Mulchester, for nowhere in Bereton was safe from the sickness. And you know
it takes more than an hour to drive there, and as the time went by she became
more and more worried and she demanded to be taken home, but he told her that he
knew how it was you, sir, as had taken her and Becky home after the fireworks
for the Prince of Wales. And Miss Wilbrahim knew it would make her father very
angry with her, for not telling him at the time, and angry with you too, sir, and
as for Becky, there was no knowing what might be done to her. So by the time
they reached Mulchester she was frightened and didn’t know what to do. She
feared what the Rector might be trying after all those kisses; and how could
she tell her father afterwards?
“And then she saw the London coach about to
depart, and it brought to her mind all the wonders of the city that you and
Lord Staines had told her about, and perhaps Lord Staines might marry her, like
what happens in the romances. Then she recognised our Ned, called on him to
help, and so she fled.
“But when the poor child reached London, she
didn’t know how to find your house nor any other, but thought everyone would
know where to find Lord Staines’s home and she could take refuge there. What a silly
girl she’d been! And how fortunate to escape! For, having talked to her, I’m
certain that her virtue and honour are intact; thank the Lord for that mercy!”
Mrs Timmis shook her head sadly. “She wasn’t
thinking straight at all. But it’s all over now, I told her, and maybe it’s
taught her a lesson. But her father mustn’t find out what happened with that
dreadful Rawton woman; for Miss Wibrahim’s right that the shame of it’d fair be
enough to kill the old man.”
I
reflected how right Elizabeth had been in warning me of the perils facing
Louisa Wilbrahim.
Soon afterwards Louisa came down and felt
able to tell us the story of her adventure. It was not, of course, a continuous
narrative, for at some points she was overcome with emotion and had to pause;
and then we would encourage her to drink some tea and resume when she was
ready, and sometimes she would back-track to add a detail she had forgotten. With
her permission I took some notes as she talked, and at the advice of Clifford I
wrote it all down, and Clifford signed it, in case it should ever be required
as evidence in a court of justice; but otherwise we faithfully promised to keep
it secret.
This is what I wrote:-
………………………………………………………
Miss Louisa Wilbrahim’s account.
“Throughout my journey to London I felt more
and more uneasy about the risks I was taking on my adventure, but it was only
when I alighted from the coach at the sign of the White Horse that I became
fully aware of how extremely foolish I had been, to travel without clear
purpose, and with no-one to receive me, to a city of which I knew nothing. Such
a hustle and bustle as I never saw, with goods and produce piled up everywhere,
and people of all degrees hurrying to and fro about their business! One rough fellow
rudely pushed me aside, without so much as a by-your-leave. Puddles of dirty
water caused me to step warily, and the sky overhead was dark with a pall of
smoke. I had thought to ask the way to Lord Staines’s home, but now, alone and
friendless, I found myself too timid to ask directions from a stranger. On the
steps of the inn, an elderly man in an old wig and coat ogled me and laughed,
but although his clothes showed him to be a gentleman, he made no attempt to
assist me in my plight.
“Only one person marked me and approached as
I stood there afraid and unprotected. This was a woman dressed in a vast skirt,
red in colour and none too clean, with a dark shawl over a white mob-cap. I
could not tell her age, for the paint lay heavy on her cheeks. I felt an
immediate dislike of her; but she smiled and her manner was most obliging.
“Hello, dearie!” she said, “Are you lost?
May I assist you?”
“Thank you!” I replied, “Pray can you direct
me to Lord Staines’s home? I have travelled to London to see him”.
“Lord, my dear: his honour’s house is but a
short step from where I live! Let me conduct you there. You have a travelling
box? My boy Jacky will carry it. Now; what’s your name and where have you come
from?”
“I am the daughter of Sir James Wilbrahim of
Stanegate, near Bereton. My name is Louisa.”
“Oh, Louisa: such a pretty name, and face as
pretty as a picture too!” She smiled, presenting me with an alarming sight of
very bad teeth. “And from Bereton?” she continued, “Why, my dear, I know that
town well! My uncle used to live there! He was bailiff and churchwarden, Robin
Clewlow was his name, did you hear of him? No? Ah well, it was years ago,
before you were born! Anyway, it’s almost as if we were related! My name’s Margaret, but everyone calls me
Meg. Now I shall with pleasure conduct you to his lordship, but first you must
permit this poor old woman to provide you with some sustenance, for you must be
most hungry and tired after such a long journey!” She prattled on, scarce pausing
for breath, and without putting up resistance I allowed her to take my arm. The
elderly gentleman made a very coarse remark as she led me from the inn-yard and
out into the street, but both of us ignored him.
“We walked on through many twists and turnings
until I was wholly lost. We passed old buildings crowded together, and noisome
alleys between, where the sun did not penetrate and dirty children played
amongst piles of rubbish. The streets were crowded, and passers-by jostled us.
In this confusion I was glad that my rescuer had my arm, for otherwise I would
have been swept clean away in the throng. Eventually we reached her house,
which I thought a rather mean establishment. The front room had no rug on the
bare boards of the floor. Three or four women sat around on benches, and there
were pictures on the walls, but before I could do more than glance around I was
ushered through to a back parlour.
“Now, my dear, let us have a dish of tea,”
said my hostess, and clapped her hands, at which a slatternly maid appeared and
was given her orders. Jacky, the boy who carried my bag, was despatched to run
to Lord Staines’s house to announce my arrival. Whilst we drank our tea and ate
some cake she questioned me closely. Was I indeed Sir James Wilbrahim’s
daughter? Yes, I replied; his only child. Did I know Lord Staines well, and did
he know I was coming to London to see him? Not well as yet, I said: I believed
our respective parents were thinking of a marriage, though his lordship had not
yet made a proposal. His lordship had told me I would greatly enjoy the sights
of London, but he did not know I was coming. And amidst all this, she kept
complimenting me on my complexion and my figure.
At this point, young Jacky returned, to
announce that Lord Staines was not at home, nor any of his family, and nobody
would be received that day.
“Well, my dear, here’s a to-do!” said my
hostess (who, as I now recall, had never told me her surname), “Do you know
anyone else in London?” I replied that I knew Mr Huntingdon, who was a Member
of Parliament and a friend of my father, but I did not know where his lodgings
might be.
She answered with a smile, displaying a few
decayed teeth. “Ah well, don’t worry: I’m sure we’ll find him for you. But it’s
getting late, and I can see you’re tired. You’d best spend the night with me.
Then tomorrow we’ll ask around for your Mr Huntingdon.”
She led me up the stairs to a small room. I
was now so tired that I scarcely noticed that the room was dirty, with the
corners thickly cobwebbed and the bed poorly furnished. I laid down on it and
was quickly asleep. It was only when I awoke that I discovered the door was
locked. And there I was to remain; I do not remember for how many days, with
nothing to divert me and no-one to help me; for the small window that looked
out on a squalid yard would not open; and though I might bang on the door and
call out, no-one came except the maidservant, who brought me food but refused
to speak to me. I was very frightened and I came to lose all hope of rescue.
But then someone whispered that help was on its way, and you, Mr Huntingdon,
and your friends freed me.”
……………………………………………………………
Louisa must have experienced considerable pain
recounting her story, but having completed it, she appeared relieved. A
monstrous great weight, we felt, had been lifted from her shoulders. But what
should we do now?
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