Chapter 10: An astonishing proposal
The more I was acquainted with Elizabeth Newstead, the more attractive I found her. She might have been several years older than me, but her skin was clear, her hair was pale gold, her white teeth were all her own, and her eyes, when she looked me full in the face, were teasing. My desire for this elegant lady increased day by day. However, the next time I visited her she immediately sensed that I was impatient to ask her questions of some kind, so she smiled and invited me to proceed without delay.
I told her of Lord Teesdale’s outburst of hostility towards his son, and the strange incident of the picture of the boy with the cricket bat. She said, did I not know that there had been another son? That would have been the boy in the picture: the darling of his parents; a delightful child with infinitely more talents than his brother, but who had had died of a fever while at Eton. Lord Teesdale, and more particularly his Countess, had never fully recovered from the tragedy.
“And as for Staines, I am only surprised that you had not become aware earlier of his character. Why, the whole town knows of it, and how his father despairs of him, and I verily believe might disinherit him, but for the fact that he is the only son. His sister is a fool and married to a fool. His worst depravities have so far been concealed from the Countess: she still hopes that if they can find a good wife for him it might effect his reformation; but as for myself, I have my doubts!”
She asked whether I had ever visited the house that his father permitted him to keep. I replied that I had been invited, but had never ventured there.
“You were wise!” she replied. “for I have heard that he keeps a set of very disreputable servants; rascals of the most degraded morals; and the scenes that take place there are best not described!”
I then recounted how Staines had greatly surprised me by kissing me after our encounter with the ruffians when returning from the Drury Lane theatre. Instead of being shocked, the tale caused her to laugh.
“With the greatest respect, Mr Huntingdon, why else do you think he would have first befriended you; a penniless young man with no prospects? Because you are so handsome, that is why! But I believe you are not of Staines’s persuasion, are you?”
She turned to me with a mischievous smile on her face. Acting on a sudden impulse, I seized her in my arms and kissed her full on the lips; and in that position we remained for some time, for she made no attempt to break free. Finally, she gently pushed me away.
“Well, I discover I was right!” she chuckled, “But now to other matters. The Countess of Teesdale wishes to meet you again.
“I have the honour to be accounted one of her friends. She seldom appears in public and speaks freely only with an intimate circle. She is no fool: her judgement is sound, she knows much of poetry and painting, and for all her silence she has much influence over her his lordship. She has heard the Earl speak of you as a young man of good sense. I have told her that you wish to wait upon her. You should do so. It is high time, Mr Huntingdon, that you ceased to waste your days with Lord Staines and his disreputable friends, and instead begin to cultivate the best society!”
Elizabeth now took me in hand to make me acceptable to the finest ladies. She instructed me in the complex and precise etiquette required when meeting ladies for the first time, or when attending a lady’s salon There appeared to be an endless number of small details: how I should enter the room, how to bow, how to hold my hat, and so forth. I treated all this as no more than the foolish rules of a ridiculous game, but Elizabeth sternly told me that I must treat such matters with great seriousness.
“Of course, only a fool thinks they are of real importance; but none but a fool treats them as being of no importance. When your position in the world is firmly established, why; then you may ignore all these rules if you so choose. But not before then!”
Elizabeth also lent me the latest novels and books of poetry to read, or at least glance at, in order to make polite conversation about them. She produced folios of engravings of pictures by the great artists, and taught me how to distinguish a Carravaggio or a Titian. Of our British artists she particularly admired Allan Ramsay. She acknowledged Holbein as a man of genius, but thought most of his works too brutal for those of refined taste. Architecture too was studied, so that I might never confuse a Doric column with an Ionic or Corinthian one.
I was nervous when she first accompanied me to Teesdale House, where the Countess was holding a salon of friends after the French fashion. Fortunately, all went well. We were served tea in exquisitely decorated little porcelain cups from Saxony, and our talk was of painting and poetry, not of politics. I endeavoured to contribute to the best of my ability, with wit but with modesty, and not to talk too much. I hoped I had made a good impression. I was invited to attend again next week, when I was honoured to be introduced to the famous Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, the traveller and poetess. I was too awed to say much to her, and hoped to meet her again on some future occasion; but alas! the poor lady was soon very ill and died not long afterwards. Also in the company with a young Scotchman, by name Boswell, who flattered the Countess outrageously and never stopped talking. I was to meet him again later.
It was after this last event that I was summoned to another discussion with Lord Teesdale. I had not spoken to him since the episode with the painting, which, thanks to Elizabeth Newstead, I now understood. Neither of us referred to the incident: instead, we talked of politics and the coming election.
He began by saying that, while Sir James Wilbrahim’s hold on one of the two Bereton seats was absolute and unchallengeable, the other could be considered more open, and he asked me for my opinion on this. I replied that Sir James and his friends strongly disliked Mr Bailey, the other Member, and had been angry with my aunt for supporting him. They would all prefer some local gentleman to replace him, should any be available.
Lord Teesdale smiled. “Mrs Andrew was a very independent-minded lady. She and her late husband had, of course, maintained an endless feud with Sir James Wilbrahim, and, I might add, she did not greatly approve of me either; but since no Whig candidate was put forward, she acquiesced in Mr Bailey’s candidature, though without enthusiasm.
“But now, a general election is imminent, and Mr Bailey has reported that his health is such that he no longer wishes to endure the burden of another campaign, so the second seat at Bereton may be considered vacant. I believe this is a fine opportunity for a young gentleman to come forward as a candidate. You are quite right that there would be support for a local man. Why not yourself? You now reside there, your aunt was a highly respected lady and her friends are certain to vote for you, and I am confident that, with my support too, your efforts will meet with success.”
He wanted me to become a Member of Parliament!
I could do no more than nod in assent to the proposal; my head already full of dreams. Eventually I protested weakly that I knew little of politics, but he brushed this aside, saying that I had shown myself to be better informed than most young gentlemen of my age. He repeated that my chances of success were strong, and added that I should not be concerned about the expense involved in an election: he would be glad to advance any money that might be needed. He added that his Countess spoke very highly of me. “And”, he added, with a smile, “If you have the ladies on your side, then you have a considerable advantage already!
“But time is short, for the poll will be held in May. If you wish to enter Parliament, you must return to Bereton without delay to prepare for the contest. My man Jarrett will come: he knows all the details of every voter in the borough, and through him you may obtain any funds you might need. Then, as soon as you are able, come down to see me at Maybury. I will introduce you to certain gentlemen of importance.
“Should you prove successful in this endeavour,” he added, “all I shall demand of you is that you would never directly oppose my interests. In all other matters, you will be free to act as you see fit”.
I considered this this a very fair bargain, and agreed to his terms.
Elizabeth entirely approved of my desire to become a Member of Parliament, and that she would certainly be happy to lend me any money that might be needed for the project, for she was sure that her husband and all his friends from India would also approve. As for Mr Bailey’s withdrawal from the election, she said this might have been foreseen.
“For many months he has been immured in his house at Hampstead with his new mistress, and all that untoward exertion with a girl young enough to be his granddaughter must have taken its toll on his body, no less than on his wallet!”
She also advised me of the importance of maintaining my independence, especially from Lord Teesdale.
“Perhaps he sees you as a kind of son, whose character he hopes to mould”, she mused, “But otherwise his actions are always guided by his own self-interest, and he may expect you to be no more than his tool or follower in Bereton and in Parliament, to act always in accordance with his wishes. You must be sure not to let this happen!”
I felt confident that I would be capable of resisting an attempt by Teesdale or anyone else to reduce me to a puppet; so I answered that the Earl had assured me a proper measure of freedom in my conduct, but that I would bear her warning in mind. She patted me on the cheek, and then we kissed. She laughingly repulsed my attempts to take our intimacy further.
What time I now had to spare from discussing politics with Lord Teesdale, or dealing with the many and detailed papers of financial accounts that Clifford sent me from the Priory, I now spent with Elizabeth, or with Lady Teesdale and her circle, and I no longer joined the night-time expeditions of Lord Staines and his friends. Some of them commented with pretended sadness that my absence from drunken cavorting on the streets made it only too obvious that a woman had got me in her clutches. John Robertson, however, approved.
“For a young man who, if you will pardon me for so saying, has little knowledge of the world”, he told me in his most sonorous tones, “could there ever be a better tutor than a lady who has moved in the best society? And, as the famous Lord Chesterfield instructed his son: a man who wins the good opinion of the ladies may indeed consider that he has the world at his feet. Many savants have written of the advantage of having as a mistress a lady of mature years. Should you indeed be fortunate enough to find such a lady to help you in your endeavours, stay with her!”
I wondered if he knew about Elizabeth. I protested that I had no mistress, which was true enough at this time, though not for want of trying on my part. As my passion for her increased, my desire and frustration did battle at every meeting, which was no doubt her intention.
Now I was ready to return to my country home to prepare for the election. On parting from Elizabeth, I took her in my arms and kissed her with great passion. In view of her comments on her husband, I hoped we might proceed yet further, but when I made the attempt, she again repulsed me, with the excuse that she feared I would endanger her favourite dress (which was indeed a very fine one, of blue Spitalfields silk with a pattern of orange flowers). She also resisted suggestions, giggling coquettishly, that we should take ourselves to the bedroom and allow me to undress her. Far from being offended, my ardour appeared to amuse her. I retorted that when I returned to London as a Member of Parliament, should my hopes be fulfilled, I would then claim my rights as a conqueror. To this she laughed, but made no objection.
I met Staines at Brown’s club soon after this. I did not reveal that I knew of his father’s disgust, but told him how I intended to stand for election to Parliament. He congratulated me heartily and said he looked forward to sitting beside me on the famous benches.
“I shall be there too, for I shall be returned for a borough somewhere in Wiltshire which, as far as I can tell, is in the happy situation of containing no voters at all. And I shall not sit mute like some booby squire: I intend to cut a figure in Parliament! I shall speak frequently, hinting to ministers that my support could be obtained for a suitable price. That is the route to a lucrative office! And in the meantime: did you know that a Member of Parliament cannot be arrested for debt? We shall be able to defer paying our tradesmen for as long as we wish!”
I wrote to Mrs Timmis, telling her to expect me soon, but only to stay for a few days, for I intended to stay in the Priory for no more than a week before passing on to Maybury; and I instructed Clifford to obtain for me a carriage and horses suitable to take me on my coming journey thither. I did not tell either of them of my intention to stand for election to Parliament; I thought it best to tell Sir James Wilbrahim personally, rather than that he should learn of my plans from gossip around the town.
Guided by Elizabeth, I purchased new garments that were fitting for visiting a great lord on his estate, where no doubt I would meet other gentlemen of refinement and importance. I did not forget to buy presents for Louisa Wilbrahim. I also had a shoemaker fashion for me several pairs of stout boots, suitable for country wear. I would explore the lands around more fully, and I might even attempt some foxhunting! And on this visit I would diligently search out the true story of the Jacobite occupation of the town.
The day before my departure, I walked through the streets to look upon the palace of Westminster. I could now I regard the scene in a new perspective, hoping that I would shortly be a denizen of that celebrated building as of right. I was beginning to view myself not only as a country gentleman but a person of significance in a wider world.
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Chapter 11: The shadow of the past
On my first morning back at the Priory I was awakened by a rousing dawn chorus by a cockerel in the henhouse, and when I opened the shutters the room was flooded with golden light as the sun rose behind Brackenridge hill. A glorious day was in prospect. I reflected that my friends in London would only recently have gone to bed, but I felt very happy.
I found spring well advanced and my farms all at work. The fields were green with young crops, and in the meadows lambs and calves were at play. In my orchard the cherry trees were full of blossom white as snow. The apple trees were looking well, as were the pears up against the south-facing wall. Ned Timmis and his family and numerous labourers had been hard at work for the past few weeks, ploughing and harrowing and sowing; cleaning ditches and repairing hedges. Inside the house, Mrs Timmis was directing a vigorous spring cleaning.
Martin Clifford brought me a vast quantity of papers containing the quarterly returns from my lands in various counties, all of which appeared to require my inspection. I did not intend to inform him of my intention to stand for election to Parliament until I had first prepared the ground by talking to Sir James Wilbrahim; instead, remembering what Lord Teesdale had told me of the advance of the Scotch rebels through Bereton in 1745, I interrupted our work by asking Clifford whether he had witnessed these events.
“I did not," he told me, “for I was away in Berkshire, working for Mr Andrew in a dispute concerning certain property he had there. Mrs Timmis was here, and you must ask her. She told me how some of the rebel leaders stayed at the Priory and others at Stanegate, Sir James Wilbrahim being away in London. No resistance was offered to the rebels, and to be fair, no outrages were committed by them, and so the next day they continued on their way.
“When I returned, I found troops had been billeted both in Bereton and in Mulchester, and remained for a long time. The soldiers were not liked, and their presence led to riots and other disturbances. Jacobite sentiment and hatred of the government remained in the district for many years afterwards: at the county races next year, some of the gentry dressed a fox in the red coat of a soldier and decked the hounds in tartan to hunt it; and there was violence offered to any Whig who dared show his face!”
I was intrigued by this, and later interrupted Mrs Timmis’s spring cleaning to ask whether she had seen the rebels in1745.
“Lord, yes, sir, I remember it well!” she replied, immediately warming to the topic, “It was the start of December, and there was snow on the ground, and these wild highland men came, a fierce-looking bunch of ruffians they were, with their strange clothes and strange talk! Some in the town might have welcomed them, but not in this household, for we were all of us loyal to King George, and always will be. We were fearful of what might befall; but their leader; Murray, that was his name, Lord George Murray; for all his outlandish dress he behaved in a most gentleman-like manner! He asked at the house for food and shelter for his men, and Mr Andrew, he was very sick, poor man, and had no more than a year to live; he did not wish to feed traitors and rebels, but resistance was useless and Lord George said he would pay for everything, and so he did! And so the highland men slept in the stables, but Lord George and his friend, who called himself the Duke of Perth; a weak-looking man but most polite in his bearing; they slept in the house; to protect us against any robbery, they said; and they were as good as their word; though we hardly slept a wink that night; and then they departed the next day with no injuries done, but with the greatest of thanks and compliments! And I thought, they may all be wicked rebels against the King, but I’ve met far worse people in my time, that I have!”
“But the young man who called himself the Prince of Wales: did you see him?”
“No more than a glimpse, sir; for he did not come here, but spent the night at Stanegate Hall; and Sir James was not at home, but in London, and so his poor wife was left there all undefended! But no harm was done; though there was some gossip afterwards…. But lord, sir, the young girls in the town; their talk was all of how handsome Prince Charlie was, and how gallantly he conducted himself! And when we were told that he had escaped back to France, we were glad for his sake, for all that he was a rebel against the King!”
I would have asked further questions, but Mrs Timmis now plainly indicated that she had wasted enough time in idle chatter when she had important work to do. I let her depart, reflecting that although I might in strict point of law be lord of the manor of Bearsclough, there could be no doubt that Mrs Timmis was mistress of the household.
I found Mrs Waring still fussing in the library, as though nothing had changed since my earlier visit, and asked her what she knew of the great events of 1745.
“Oh, it was before I came here, of course, she replied. “But I heard the talk about Sir James and Lady Wilbrahim, and I thought Sir James’s behaviour was contemptible, leaving his wife all alone to face the rebels. But Mrs Andrew said that Sir James didn’t just run away and leave Lady Wilbrahim behind: oh, no! Mrs Andrew believed Lady Wilbrahim refused to leave her home! She was determined to receive the Prince at Stanegate, no matter what the cost; and so she did! She was always a stronger Jacobite than her husband, and braver too. Mrs Andrew respected her for that, however much she herself despised the Jacobite cause.
“And the rebels passed through, and then they retreated back into Scotland and were all defeated at Culloden, thank goodness. And next year Miss Louisa was born and poor Lady Wilbrahim never recovered and died soon afterwards, and Sir James never married again. Mrs Andrew thought he must always have felt ashamed of his behaviour in 1745, and deservedly so too!”
Having said her piece with unusual vehemence, my librarian then returned to the interminable task of rearranging books and papers.
The picture of my home in 1745 was becoming more and more complex, and I resolved to continue my questioning. Soon afterwards, Ned Timmis came to consult me concerning the hiring of extra labour on my farms. I told him to take on as many men as might be needed, and then invited him to sit down for a pot of ale. While he was consuming this, and following it with a second pint and then a third, I asked him if he remembered the coming of the Highlanders.
“Aye, sir, I remember it right well, but with no great pleasure,” he replied, “For I was in the county militia then, and a poor showing we made of it! When we heard of the rebels’ approach, we formed up; but what with Squire Wilbrahim being in London and Squire Andrew in bad health, there was no-one to lead us, and all was confusion. In short, the rebels marched on and we marched away, back to our homes, and not a shot was fired against them! A poor showing indeed!
“And so the rebels passed the night with us, some here, some in Bereton and others in the villages around, and when they passed on the next day, a few of the lads from round about joined them. Some of them was friends of mine. And what became of those lads I know not, for we never heard owt of them again. I hope they escaped, or was killed in battle, rather than live to be hanged as traitors.
“And not more than a week after, we heard that the rebels had retreated back to Scotland, but we did not see them, for they took a different road. And when Squire Wilbrahim returned, which was a good time after, no-one thought well of his conduct, and some of the older folks still hold it against him. Everyone in these parts knew that Squire Wilbrahim said King George wasn’t no true king. When he hunted a fox he would halloo his friends to hunt George of Hanover, for such he would name the fox; yet no sooner had he heard that the rebels was passing south down through Lancashire and headed this way, than he set out for London rather than stay to either greet or fight them! And he left his poor lady here! That caused much talk, and none to his credit.
“Your sister mentioned that there was some gossip….”
“Women always gossip, sir. A year later, they was all whispering how strange it was, what with the squire and his wife having been wed those ten years past, but without children; and then the young Pretender comes, and he so handsome and having such a way with women, they say, and she being there all unprotected, and then next autumn the babe being born; well! what do you make of it? That’s how the women talked; but to my way of thinking it’s all nonsense, and anyhow it’s all long past now.”
“I was told that there were troops stationed here after the rebellion,” I said.
“Yes, sir: for many years afterwards there was soldiers quartered in the town, in the taverns for the most part, and we hated them, that we did! They got drunk and wouldn’t pay their bills, and there was fighting, and windows broke, and one night a soldier was beaten near to death, but no-one wouldn’t give evidence and so no-one got convicted. Afterwards I heard one of the officers say that this was a damned rebel town and the townsfolk treated them very ill, but they would be revenged on them. Them was his very words. But in the end the soldiers was taken away, and good riddance too.”
I thought it wise as well as polite that I should inform Sir James Wilbrahim personally of my intention of my election plans, and hope that he would support my candidature, or at least not actively oppose it. Accordingly, the day after my return, I wrote a letter to Sir James, requesting that I might pay him a visit. But how best to approach the subject? It might be best not to tell him that I would shortly be visiting Maybury, since I knew he detested Lord Teesdale and everything he stood for, but since he was certain to discover it eventually, might it be best to inform him openly and honestly? Then again, should I reveal that I knew about his conduct in the late rebellion? And what purpose would this serve? In the end, I merely informed him that I had important news from London to impart.
To clear my mind and rehearse what I might say to Sir James, I decided to take a walk in the direction of Bereton. It was a glorious day of sunshine, the air was full of birdsong and the trees were starting to bud. I climbed from the main track to a higher path through the woods, and before long found myself at the old quarry which had been the scene of my near-fatal accident. This time, however, I found to my surprise that the entanglement of brambles blocking the gap between a huge boulder and the rock-face had been thrust aside and the wet earth showed the tracks of men’s boots of men passing in that way. Moved by curiosity, I decided to investigate.
I found myself in a kind of narrow passage. The light was too dim to see how far it ran, and I had only gone a few steps when I dislodged a stone that rattled loudly. Suddenly, ahead of me, a man’s voice exclaimed, “There’s someone out there!”
“I’ll go and take a look then!” replied another voice, that of an older and more educated man.
I retreated as quickly and quietly as I was able, for if these men were robbers or smugglers, they would certainly have a short way with intruders. I crouched down behind a huge block of stone and did not dare raise my head to look. I heard footsteps, and then to my vast relief heard the second man say, “No-one about! You’re always imagining things, Harry! Must be one of those cursed badgers or foxes. They’re forever making a mess here!”
“Brocks about in broad daylight! Don’t be daft! You don’t know nowt, you don’t!” his companion grumbled. This brought an angry response and to my great good fortune they fell to quarrelling, neglecting to investigate further. Eventually they retreated back into the passage, still muttering to each other. Even then I dared not move for a long time.
When at last I felt safe I crept away as silently as I could; abandoning my plan to walk to Bereton but instead returning homeward. I did not relax until I had left the woods behind me. Back at the Priory I found a letter inviting me to Stanegate.
I was encouraged to find Sir James Wilbrahim in a cheerful and relaxed mood. Old William served me a large glass of claret wine and then left us. After some trivial initial exchanges concerning the state of our farms, I embarked on a carefully prepared discourse concerning the coming election. I began by telling Sir James the news from London that Mr Bailey had decided to retire from Parliament. I did not reveal that I had heard this from Lord Teesdale; and, as I suspected, Mr Bailey had not troubled to inform his constituents of his intention. I knew the information would please Sir James, as indeed it did.
I left unsaid the obvious fact that one of the Bereton seats was now vacant, and instead, flattering the old squire outrageously, I discoursed on how much I had learnt from listening to the conversation at his dinner table, and how impressed I had been by the desire to be represented by a gentleman resident in the town, and therefore, I humbly suggested that, with his support and that of his friends, I might dare to put my own name forwards? I promised always to follow his wise guidance on the matter, etcetera, etcetera. I continued to speak in this vein for some time before finally lapsing into silence.
Sir James too remained silent for a while, cradling his wineglass and gazing into the fireplace. Eventually he turned to face me.
“Well, Mr Huntingdon, you will appreciate that all this is very sudden. I am glad to see the back of Bailey, certainly, but ….” He then paused again before resuming, “Well, and why not? You are young, and have much to learn, but at least I do not think you are another of those damned Whigs. So, if no other gentleman should put his name forward, I do not see why I should not have you as a colleague. Proceed with your plans, and I shall not oppose you.”
I thanked him profusely, and after some more conversation on other matters, in which I was careful to agree with everything he said, I shook him warmly by the hand, and before departing invited himto dinner, expressing the pious hope that this could mark a reconciliation between Stanegate and the Priory.
I had scarcely been give the most ringing of endorsements, but at least I could now be sure that Sir James would not oppose me; and much to my relief, Lord Teesdale's name had never been mentioned. My campaign could now begin!
On the way home I encountered Ned Timmis, riding back from business in town. I did not tell him of my meeting with Sir James, but instead mentioned my discovery at the old quarry, and asked if he, as a man likely to know everything that went on in the district, thought that smuggled goods might be concealed there. He gave me a strange look before venturing a reply.
“Why, sir, I don’t doubt that you might be right; and there might be persons round about that know the truth of it, but others wouldn’t think as how there was any cause to interfere in such matters. All I would say is that Squire Wilbrahim is always generous in supplying the town with beer and wine and tobacco and suchlike goods at Christmas and other times, and it’s not for the likes of us to enquire where he gets them, sir.”
The hint was plain: I would be ill-advised to ask questions that might risk antagonising people in the town. If I did succeed in being elected to Parliament, I might feel obliged to take some action, but for now I would let the matter rest. I had more important things on my mind!
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Chapter 12: Preparations
I found Martin Clifford still at work on a pile of papers, and when I told him of my intention of standing for election to Parliament, he showed so little reaction that I suspected he treated it as a mere youthful enthusiasm which he hoped would soon to be abandoned. When, however, I repeated the information he pushed his papers aside and turned to face me with a sad expression. He enquired whether I was aware of the vast sums of money likely to be required, amounting, he feared to several thousand pounds in the event of a contested poll? Where would I find such large amounts without incurring up ruinous debts? I had already spent vast sums on a new coach for my visit to Maybury. Where would it all end?
I told him to have no fears on this account, for Lord Teesdale had promised to assist me, and so had an extremely wealthy East India merchant: this last, of course, being a reference to Elizabeth Newstead’s husband, who in strict truth knew nothing of my intentions. I assured Clifford that I had the support of Sir James Wilbrahim, so there was unlikely to be any contest, and added that Lord Teesdale’s man Oswald Jarrett would be advising me on the voters of Bereton.
This last information did not appear to please Clifford: perhaps he already knew Jarrett, or at least was familiar with his reputation. I then attempted to mollify his pride by begging him to act as my agent and legal advisor for the election, which after some thought he agreed to do. But despite this grudging acquiescence he must have begun the work speedily, for very soon he had produced me a list of certain men of influence in the town, headed by Alderman Jabez Stout, whose support I needed to obtain.
When I told Mrs Timmis of my plans, she made no comment of any kind but merely nodded her head and returned to her work. It was almost as if the news had come as no surprise: I presumed one of the servants must have overheard my conversation with Clifford. But I soon discovered from Ned that she embarked on a campaign of her own on my behalf the next time she was in town.
“She’s been doing rounds of all the shopkeepers and tradesmen, and if she can’t get to them, she’s spoke to their wives. There’s some as owes her favours, and there’s others as she knows their darkest secrets; and she’s told them as has votes to cast them for you, and them as don’t have votes to come out and halloo for you anyway, and I don’t doubt as how most of ‘em ‘ll do as she bids them. My sister generally gets her way!”
I did not ask what the “favours” and “darkest secrets” might have been: my worthy housekeeper’s spider’s-web of contacts throughout the district were best left undisturbed.
Mrs Waring’s contribution was to offer to search through my aunt’s papers for any information about past elections. She undertook the task with glee, and the library tables were soon covered in fresh heaps of books and documents.
Alderman Stout approved of my plans, but dropped broad hints concerning considerable sums of money that I should be expected to spend for the town’s benefit should I prove successful; drawing attention to how neglectful Mr Bailey had been in this duty. I made a passing reference to my walk by the old quarry, but he ignored it. I reflected that if I did become a Member of Parliament, I would probably be obliged to suppress any smuggling, but until then it would be best to ignore the issue.
Word of my intentions must have circulated rapidly, because it was not long before I received a letter from no less a personage than the Duke of Newcastle himself, asking whether, in the event of my being elected, I should be counted among his “friends” in the coming Parliament. I was surprised and flattered that this great man should find the time from his work in finding the finance for the war to be interested in my case. I replied reassuring him as to my intentions, and decided to raise this matter with Lord Teesdale when I next met him.
I now attempted to return Sir James Wilbrahim’s hospitality by hosting him to dinner, along with Clifford and Jabez Stout, in order that we could discuss the coming election in the town. My curate Mr Chamberlain was present to say grace, which duty he performed in Latin, and at some length. But, although I provided the best wine I could obtain, and Mrs Timmis and her cooks worked their hardest and provided a meal that was certainly superior in quality to what I had been served at Stanegate, the dinner was not a success. Sir James, though consuming vast quantities of both food and wine, plainly considered that his fellow guests existed at an unbridgeable gulf beneath him, and that he was personally insulted by their presence at the table. He refused to exchange a single word with them throughout the meal. Instead he grumbled throughout, his talk gradually degenerating to a monologue of denunciation of the ministry, the bankers of the City and even the bishops. He merely harrumphed when I attempted to discuss the coming election, and when I suggested we should campaign side by side, he promised no more than that his supporters might be willing to vote for me in preference to some stranger coming from outside the town, and only if I agreed that this damned war, as he termed it, should be brought to a close before the country was irretrievably ruined. He left early, much to everyone’s relief, giving me only the coldest and most formal thanks for the meal, and did not set foot in the Priory again for some time.
Mrs Timmis was understandably upset by Sir James’s rudeness. I attempted to console her by praising her work and that of her kitchen workers, and promised to reward them all. I said that the fault was mine, for rashly attempting to heal the long feud between the Priory and Stanegate.
One afternoon I rode over to Stanegate in the hope of recovering the ground I had lost at the unfortunate dinner, only to be told by William that Sir James was away attending to business at one of his outlying farms. I was about to return home, only to be summoned back. Louisa was alone in the house with a few servants, but having heard my voice she had me shown in. She was very much the mistress of her home in her father’s absence as she ordered tea to be served.
It was brought by a maid of about Louisa’s own age, whom she treated more like a friend than a servant. The fat housekeeper, whom Mrs Timmis had referred to as “that dreadful Mrs Piddock”, regarded me with ill-concealed suspicion before she was ordered back to the kitchen, and I was sure that William was lurking somewhere, out of sight but prepared to spring (albeit arthritically) to the defence of his young mistress, should that be necessary.
I had brought from London a dozen silk handkerchiefs, together with a novel and two books of poetry which I had intended to give to Sir James to pass on to Louisa; but which I was now able to present to her in person. She was so delighted that she kissed me on the cheek: an innocent enough gesture, though I doubted whether her father would have approved.
Louisa was much more open in the absence of her father and the Rector, and chatted away merrily. She was thrilled to hear that I was campaigning to be elected to Parliament. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll win!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands with excitement, “My father will vote for you, and so will all his friends! I’ll tell them to! And then when you and my father are in Parliament together, perhaps you can persuade him to take me to London! I would dearly love to see London, but my father seldom goes there, and even when he does he never takes me. And the King! We can meet the King! Have you met him yet?”
She was disappointed when I admitted that I had not yet even set eyes on our new monarch, and she wanted to know: when would he choose his Queen? I said that I was sure that even now Europe was being scoured for a suitable bride; and meanwhile there were rumours that he was deeply in love with someone of noble family who was no older than Louisa herself, or even that he had been secretly married to a beautiful Quaker girl, though I did not believe a word of that. Louisa thought it was all most romantic.
She demanded to know everything about London: the famous buildings, the marvellous shops, the theatres and concerts and art exhibitions. I described these as well as I could, and told her of my experiences in the town, though of course omitting any mention of Elizabeth Newstead or of the wilder adventures of Lord Staines and his friends. She was enthralled, and kept asking me to tell more.
“You see, I have hardly ever strayed from home, or met anyone except your aunt, Mrs Andrew. The Rector taught me my letters and the Catechism. Sometimes, years ago, when my father was away for days at a time, Mrs Andrew heard I was alone here with just the servants for company, and arranged for me to be brought over to the Priory. She was always very kind to me. She told me all about the theatres and concerts she went to when she was younger. She read books with me and taught me some French and Latin too. Her instruction was far kinder than Mr Bunbridge, who was a very severe teacher. And the books we have here are all so very dull! And when I was at the Priory I could run around the village and climb trees, and play games with the village children, who taught me to fish in the mere. I loved it! But then all that was stopped, for Mr Bunbridge had told my father that none of this was fitting for a young lady in my situation; and if I needed any further instruction, he would undertake it. My father approved of me learning French, but Mr Bunbridge didn’t teach it like Mrs Andrew did. And my father said I should be doing needlework instead of reading books. I hate needlework! And now I can’t even go into the town on my own; Mrs Piddock has to accompany me, and even then I’m hardly ever permitted to speak to anyone! If it wasn’t for Becky, my maid here, I would never know what’s happening!”
I said that I hoped she wasn’t too unhappy with her life.
“Oh, I’m never unhappy for long!” she said. “I can always sing. Becky teaches me the country airs. And I found a fife, that one of the soldiers must have dropped, and I taught myself to play it, but only when my father isn’t here. But I would love to have a proper music teacher.”
I replied that unfortunately my own incapacity for music prevented me from helping her.
As we drank more tea, Louisa told me how my aunt had been greatly interested in the history of Stanegate, and had begged leave to inspect the older parts of the house; but Sir James had never invited her. I said I would be delighted to look round, if she would be kind enough to guide me.
“I’ll show you something!” she said, and took me by the hand to lead me through the library into the oldest part of the house and up a stone spiral staircase. Mrs Piddock followed us uninvited, muttering complaints about her painful feet.
Louisa threw open a door. “There!” she said, “What do you think of that?”
We were in a large, cold room, with a bare wooden floor and without furniture except for a few old chairs and a table. The oak panels on the walls stopped a few inches short of the plain ceiling. A large stone fireplace of grey stone jutted into the room, but it was clear that no fire had been lit there for many years. There were with shelves of ancient books, but what Louisa had brought me there to show me was above the fireplace. I beheld a most grotesquely carved structure, with every inch was covered in strange, staring faces, ridiculous caryatids and festoons of foliage. I had never seen anything like it, and I gazed at it with awe, though not with admiration, for it must have been the work of a wood-carver of genius, but one sadly devoid of learning or taste.
“I told Mrs Andrew about it, and she said it must have been carved long ago”, Louisa explained. “When I was small it used to frighten me. I still don’t like to come here on my own. It’s mostly just a room for the servants. But I think Mr Bunbridge is interested in it. I know he comes up here sometimes to look at the old books.”
After a while, with Sir James still not having returned home, I felt it was time for me to depart, and so I rode home after a most pleasant time with the young mistress of Stanegate. I promised to provide her with more books, and to come to see her whenever I could. I was perhaps in danger of becoming Miss Louisa’s schoolmaster, but reflected that there were many less pleasant ways of passing my time.
Mrs Waring was greatly interested in my description of the curiously carved overmantel.
“Mrs Andrew often requested to be allowed to inspect it, and all the other old rooms of Stanegate, but she was never allowed entry to the house, on account of her Whiggish politics. Such ridiculous conduct, and so impolite to a lady! She thought it must be from the reign of Elizabeth or James the First, by some local tradesman ignorant of true artistic principles, so she said. But she also said that she would not have been surprised if there wasn’t a priest’s hole somewhere, or a secret cupboard for holding the superstitious Papist vestments and chalice, for it was said that the family were all Papists in those days.”
I mentioned that the Rector, Mr Bunbridge, sometimes consulted the old books in the room, and she answered with a snort.
“Mrs Andrew thought Bunbridge was no true scholar, and all his so-called learning was a mere lumber-room! And he said openly that no woman could ever aspire to scholarship, so she despised him! And so did I, for he spread rumours that I was a Dissenter and a republican, which I am not and never was!”
I called upon her to guide me in choosing suitable works to lend to Miss Louisa Wilbrahim. She was extremely reluctant to let any more of her precious volumes out of her sight, and I also discovered that she had the very strictest standards as to what might be suitable for a young maiden to read. Eventually I was able to remove from her shelves a few books of poetry to which Sir James could not possibly object and arranged for them to be delivered to Stanegate, along with a note to say that Miss Wilbrahim could keep them as long as she fancied.
I now prepared to make my journey to Maybury, the home of my new mentor and guide through the treacherous thickets of politics, the Earl of Teesdale. My new carriage was freshly painted, the brasswork polished and the axles greased, and the horses impeccably groomed. My best clothes, which had not been worn since I came down from London, were brushed and carefully packed. Henry the silent coachman was provided with a new coat for the occasion.
Mrs Timmis asked, “Should I find you a manservant, sir? Or do you already have someone in mind?”
“Ellen acts as my valet. She’s become very careful and reliable. She even shaves me in the mornings, and she’s never once cut me!”
“But lor, sir, you can’t take her!” she exclaimed, “I hope you’ll forgive me speaking plain, sir, but really you can’t! Everyone’ll think she’s your mistress! And her ladyship the Countess will be shocked, and the gentlemen will chaff you about it, and talk behind your back about what they’d like to do with Ellie! And can you imagine what the servants at Maybury will say to the poor girl? No, sir: you can’t take Ellie; I’m not having it, that I’m not!”
She stood there with her hands on her wide hips, looking positively fierce, as if she was dealing with a dishonest tradesman or an idle servant. I wondered how Lord Staines would have dealt with the situation. For my part I had no wish to argue with my formidable housekeeper.
“Very well then; what do you suggest?” I replied.
“Well, sir; if you’d permit me to make a suggestion, you might take Robert Barton as your valet. He’s a waiter at the Queen’s Head. He’s sober and he’s trustworthy. He overhears all the gossip and stores it away in his head; he knows how to keep his mouth shut, but if he trusts you, then he might tell you what he’s learnt. Should I have a word with the landlord, sir? He owes me a favour, and I’m sure he can be persuaded to release Robert for a few days. And if you’d give me permission, sir, I might tell Robert that you’d be interested in what the folks as Maybury are saying”.
I nodded agreement. I was relieved that she did not think that little Ellie actually was my mistress, and that I had not made any attempt to bring about this consummation: nothing in the household could have remained concealed from Mrs Timmis, and probably nothing in Bereton either.
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Chapter 13: Maybury
It was a fine and sunny spring day as I approached the Earl of Teesdale’s house at Maybury. My first sight was of two immensely tall wrought iron gates with elaborate traceries of tendrils, flowers and leaves. At either side large stone eagles on pedestals did duty as sentries. The gates were shut, but no sooner had my carriage drawn up than two servants dressed in green emerged from an adjacent lodge cottage, threw open the gates and saluted us smartly when I gave them my name. I then passed along a neatly-gravelled drive that curved through trees until I beheld a splendid mansion of red brick, crowned with a low balustrade of white stone. Robert jumped off the carriage and was assisted by a giant footman and a boy in unloading my boxes and bags.
I was conducted into the entrance hall, which had a remarkable floor squares of white marble alternating with black slate. There were tall cabinets containing fine porcelain. From there an immense staircase, also of marble with a delicate wrought iron balustrade, swept upwards. Here the Earl welcomed me warmly and, after introducing me to other guests, said the Countess would be delighted to see me again, and suggested I should walk out onto the terrace to meet her.
I passed through the house, and found Lady Teesdale seated under a parasol with a book of poetry in her hand. Beside her was a lady of about my age, who also had a book, though hers lay open and face down on the ground beside her, while she gave her full attention to a small dog on her lap. I hastened to pay my compliments to the Countess and enquire about her health. In return she said she was very pleased to see me again, hoped my journey had been free of trouble, and introduced me to the younger woman, who was Lady Graham, her daughter. That personage, without bothering to raise her eyes, spared a hand from stroking her lapdog and languidly presented it for me to kiss. The dog uttered a feeble little snarl at this unwonted interruption to its mistress’s attention.
I said that the terrace garden was most beautiful, as indeed it was. Flagstones surrounded a central pool, with a statue of Neptune at its centre, played upon by fountains. There were geometrically shaped flowerbeds with yew bushes trimmed into cones or cubes, and large urns mounted on plinths. At the far side was a low balustrade. The Countess rose and took my arm to show me the view. Her daughter remained seated.
Beyond the terrace the land fell away into a valley with fields and woodland. Over to the right was a small village with a stream and a little old church. A slight mist, through which distant hills could be perceived indistinctly, would have made the scene charming, but for the fact that as far as the eye could see the fields swarmed with armies of labourers. They were toiling away but they were not cultivating the soil. Some were digging a vast pit, long and serpentine in shape, from which others carted the soil away to pile it some distance off, and yet more workmen led teams of horses or oxen dragging trees to be planted in their new homes. Great scars ran across the land showed where hedges had been grubbed up and buildings demolished, and there were huge piles of stone and brick from demolished buildings. In the midst of this chaos I noticed a group of men unrolling and consulting plans.
“I must own, Mr Huntingdon”, said Lady Teesdale as she stood at my side viewing the scene, “that I was happy with the gardens as they were. But my lord was insistent on change, so he called in the famous Mr Brown. He surveyed our lands and told us that he saw “capabilities of improvement”. I suspect he says that to everyone, in order to get employment. Those are Brown’s men down below us, all working like so many ants. Where they are digging will be a lake, into which our stream will be diverted. The soil dug out will be formed into a mound, on which will stand a temple in the Corinthian style, surrounded by clumps of trees. The village will have to go, of course, and where it now stands there will be an orangerie in the form of a Roman arcade. The church will remain, but will be allowed to decay into a romantic ruin. A new village and church will be built, well out of sight.”
I wondered whether I should consult Mr Brown with a view to the improvement of my garden, but reflected that he might dismiss so small a project as beneath his attention.
Lady Teesdale then sighed deeply, then said, “I wish my daughter took more interest in the work. It is, after all, only her children who will be able to judge the true results Mr Brown’s labours, and the expenditure of her father’s money in bringing them about. All I can see now is mud, and an outlook resembling a battlefield, and am likely to see but little else before my death”.
I was shocked by the sad tone in which she spoke these last words, but could only mutter a feeble hope that she still had many years still ahead of her. She did not respond as we walked back to her chair, where we discovered that her daughter had apparently not moved.
“Maria!” Lady Teesdale commanded with sudden asperity, “Get up and show our guest the house!”
With evident reluctance the young lady so addressed rose to her feet. She deposited her lapdog on the chair she had occupied, instructed Poppy (for such was the creature’s name) on no account to move, and honoured me with no more than a single hostile glance before she turned to lead the way. Without a word she brought me to a room that was evidently the library, where we found an elderly gentleman in clerical garb.
“Lunford!” she hailed him, in a voice that was meant to be commanding, but which merely sounded whining and peevish, “My mother requires you to conduct Mr Huntingdon here round our house!” This of course was not truthful, but the young lady clearly considered that she had done everything that duty required, and without bothering to introduce me in a proper fashion she retired back to her chair on the terrace and to Poppy. I recalled that Lord Teesdale had dismissed his daughter and her husband as “fools”. I had already formed my opinion of the daughter, and wondered what I would make of her husband.
Lunford, by contrast, seemed pleased to meet me when I introduced myself, and said he would be delighted to have the opportunity to show me the principal rooms. So I was taken to the chapel, which had been painted with murals by Thornhill some forty years earlier, and the dining room that was the work of James Gibbs. The room I most admired was light and airy, furnished with delicate chairs and small tables in the Chinese style, with a patterned wallpaper of pale green and gold. The family portraits were in the dining room with a three-quarter-length portrait of the Earl himself, by Allan Ramsay and a matching one of the Countess. Mr Lunford also drew my attention to great swags of lime-wood, carved into fruit and flowers by what he hailed as “the chisel of the immortal Grinling Gibbons”. I sensed that he took an immense pride in the mansion in which he was employed, almost as great as if it had been his own.
I looked for paintings of the couple’s children, but none were to be seen, other than a family group with three infants, all dressed, for some reason, in the clothes of the previous century. Instead my attention was directed to a portrait of a man wearing red robes and a full-bottomed wig: the Earl’s grandfather, a lawyer and Member of Parliament who had become a distinguished judge, founded the family fortunes and was raised to the peerage as a Baron.
We passed next to a painting by Sir Godfrey Kneller of a man in military uniform with his hand resting on his sword hilt, with behind him a scene of battle, with red-coated soldiers advancing.
“This is the judge’s son, and the father of the present Earl. He fought in the Duke of Marlborough’s wars, and rose to the rank of colonel. He was gravely wounded at the battle of Ramillies. He then entered Parliament and married an heiress, and through her he came into possession of this house. She was descended from an earlier Earl of Teesdale, and the title was revived for him in consequence of his staunch support of Sir Robert Walpole and the Whig party.”
He continued to talk at some length on the beauties of the house. I began to suspect that Lunford was a tedious fellow; the male equivalent of Mrs Waring, if such a grotesque notion was possible. My attention wandered as I imagined a contest between Lunford and my librarian as to who could speak longest without stopping. Eventually I contrived to turn the talk on other subjects. I found that he, like me, was a Cambridge man, the son of a vicar in Wiltshire: he had first been employed as a tutor to the Earl’s sons, teaching them the rudiments of Latin and Greek before they were sent away to school, and worked for Lord Teesdale as librarian, keeper of muniments and occasional secretary. He praised the good nature and kindness of the Countess, but was more guarded on the subject of the Earl, and absolutely refused to be drawn when asked about their offspring, beyond saying that Lord Staines seldom visited Maybury. He was most interested when I mentioned my aunt, for he had read her pieces in the “Gentleman’s Magazine”, and had not been aware that they were written by a woman. This led him to lament the current lack of educated females when compared with earlier times. And so we parted on good terms, though I was glad of a period of silence afterwards.
The dinners at Maybury were lavish. The table was of mahogany, and long enough to seat all the prominent gentlemen of the county and their ladies. There was plentiful venison and wildfowl, along with hams and pies of all kinds, and Lord Teesdale, like Sir James Wilbrahim, proudly told me how much of the food had been produced on his own estates. I doubted, however, whether Sir James would have approved of preparation of the food, for Lord Teesdale had brought his French chef from London to supervise the kitchen.
Other guests continued to arrive over the next few days. I was introduced to the two Members of Parliament for the county, together with their ladies. Sir Anthony Pardington and Richard Braithwaite were of opposite parties: the one was a Whig, the other a Tory. Indeed, they were different from each other in every way. Sir Anthony was in his forties, and had his estates in the south of the county, whereas Mr Braithwaite was much older, and his lands extended into Lancashire, and even into Cumberland and Westmorland, though he lived part of the year in Surrey. Again, Sir Anthony was short and energetic and spoke freely on all subjects, never failing to amuse and entertain his listeners: Mr Braithwaite was tall, dark and generally silent, but when he did speak his experience and wisdom were always respected. The ladies resembled their husbands, for Lady Pardington was small and lively, dressed very smartly in blue and gold and perpetually bubbling with amusing chatter, but Mrs Braithwaite maintained an atmosphere of immense dignity, ate sparingly and seldom if ever spoke.
Both these gentlemen valued their independence from any Party obligations. It was known that Sir Anthony had twice rejected the offer of ministerial office. Despite their political differences they had an arrangement to co-operate with each other in elections: in consequence of which they had together been returned unopposed at the last contest, and looked to do the same again.
Both spoke to me with great politeness. They were optimistic about my prospects in Bereton in the forthcoming election and promised me that any influence they might have in the borough would be used on my behalf. When in return I assured each of them of any support I could give them in their campaigns, I felt myself a person of importance!
Sir Anthony pressed me to visit his favourite summer residence, which he said could be reached in an easy day’s ride from Bearsclough. He was a great sportsman, with a particular love of prize-fighting and shooting, and I was forced to admit I was wholly without knowledge of either of these. Mr Braithwaite’s passion was for cricket. He maintained a team at his Surrey home, and promised that if I ever wanted a game, he would include me for one of his matches against other gentlemen’s teams.
Among the younger guests was Lord Teesdale’s son-in-law: Sir Headley Graham, a Baronet: the heir to vast estates in the north-east on either side of the Scottish border, though he spent most of his time at his house in Berkshire. I had already perceived the justice of the Earl’s opinion of his daughter, and I now quickly came to a similar verdict on the son-in-law. His talk was mostly of horse-racing, to which conversation I could contribute nothing. On one occasion our discourse turned to art, but once he established that not only had I not visited Florence or Venice, but had never even set foot out of England, he treated me in the most supercilious manner, as if my opinions on this or any other subject could not possibly be of any value. When I mentioned that I hoped to be elected to Parliament, he replied that he would shortly be elected too, but he feared that it would be “a deuced bore”. After being obliged to listen to his conversation I decided that I much preferred the company of the two Members of Parliament.
When the gentlemen sat together after dinner, the talk continued long into the night: of country affairs and the problems of their estates, but also of politics. Our host was the only person present who had met and talked with the new young King, though all of us had heard different rumours and we were all eager to learn the truth.
Graham’s contribution was to say at this point, “I’ve heard it said that he is remarkably stupid!” I thought that this was a most ludicrous comment coming from him, and I found that his father-in-law was in agreement with me, for Lord Teesdale turned on him.
“That, sir, is entirely untrue!” he replied with some asperity, “I have had the honour of speaking with His Majesty, and I can assure you he knows far more than certain other young men of his age. Where he is deficient, if I may say so, is in political understanding, and for that I must blame his grandfather’s neglect. Since boyhood, the Prince was surrounded by men from the Opposition, and in consequence he has been led to believe that our whole system of government is entirely corrupt …”
“Which of course it is”, Mr Braithwaite commented. Lord Teesdale ignored this intervention, and continued,
“… and he desires to bring about a total reformation. The consequences of such a prejudice cannot yet be foreseen, but the election now about to take place will be organised by the Duke of Newcastle, as every election has been for the past thirty years or more, and I am sure he will be satisfied with the results.”
I told the company of the letter I had received from the Duke, and how surprised I was that he should think my campaign at Bereton a matter of importance to him. Mr Braithwaite answered me, with contempt in his voice that he made no attempt to conceal, that the Duke had always been a fool, but that now he was an old fool. He held forth on the Duke’s ineptitude in office, saying, “He was for thirty years a Secretary of State without the least trace of intelligence. Future generations, I am sure, will be astonished that such a person should have remained in power for so long. It was wholly due to his foolishness that we fell into the present war in such a disastrous condition.”
Most of those present nodded their heads in agreement, and an elderly gentleman, whose name I forget, intervened to inform us, “Lord Wilmington once said that the Duke of Newcastle always loses half an hour in the morning, which he is running after the rest of the day without being able to overtake it”.
Everyone laughed, after which Mr Braithwaite resumed his Philippic. “In 1756, after the disastrous start to the war, the Duke retired to his house at Claremont, where for about a fortnight, at the age of past sixty, he played at being a country gentleman and a sportsman! But, getting wet in his feet, he hurried back to London in a fright, and the country was once again blessed with his assistance.”
Sir Anthony interposed. “None would dispute Mr Pitt’s genius in his conduct of the war”, he said, “But Pitt was to a large extent imposed on the King by the clamour of the people, and Pitt did not command the numbers in Parliament; nor did he have any grasp of the finances. So it was arranged that he and the Duke would work together to save the country. Pitt would provide the magnificent war strategies, and leave the Duke to find the equally magnificent means required to carry them out. And this grand coalition has served the country well; for we are victorious on all fronts, and for the past four years there has been no formed opposition in Parliament.”
The Earl then summed up the discussion most judiciously, saying that, as things stood, he thought it best that the existing ministers should continue in office, with some place being found for the Earl of Bute, as the particular friend of our new King; and that, speaking for himself he did not expect to see any resignations or dismissals as long as Pitt and the Duke were able to work together.
The Earl was a strong supporter of the ministry’s policy of concentrating its war strategy across the Atlantic. He told us: “Thanks to the energy of Mr Pitt, and the heroism of our sailors, the position in the Americas should now be secure. Sugar from the West Indies and tobacco from Georgia and Virginia: that is where money is to be made. I have plantations in Jamaica, with ships coming from there into Bristol and Liverpool, to the great benefit of the country. Yet I am greeted with abuse!
“The last time I was in London I was visited in my home by two pestiferous Quakers, a man and a woman, who prated at length, and in the most wearisome fashion, about the evils of slavery. Having listened to them patiently, I told them that my slaves, so long as they worked honestly and did not rise in revolt, would receive food and fair treatment, for I had instructed my overseers accordingly, and indeed, what more could the poor heathen savages expect? They asked whether I had ever ventured there to find whether my orders were being obeyed? I told them, of course not; but my information was that deaths on my plantations were considerably lower than on neighbouring ones. After that they departed, and I instructed my butler that on no account should such persons in future be admitted.”
I wondered whether I myself had any investments in the West Indies or in the sugar trade: I could not recall whether Clifford had told me anything on the subject, and I vowed to research among my aunt’s papers to see if I could discover more.
I asked about the prospects for a peace. I was told that envoys had been sent to Paris to explore whether a treaty could be negotiated soon, but Lord Teesdale doubted whether it would meet with any success.
“For”, he said, “Pitt wishes to destroy the French empire so completely and utterly that it will never threaten this again. He will never make any concessions over the West Indies, or anywhere else. Then there is the question of Frederick of Prussia, whose situation is most perilous. Pitt will never abandon him. Therefore I do not expect any peace agreement this year”.
Mr Braithwaite shook his head sadly, and asked whether the war would then continue until our nation was wholly bankrupt? He did not receive an answer.
Afterwards I asked Sir Anthony Pardington why Mr Braithwaite had been invited to Maybury, since it appeared that on all questions he differed absolutely from Lord Teesdale. He laughed and replied that Lord Teesdale always wished to have friends in all parties in case there should be changes in the ministry. Mr Braithwaite, he assured me, was an honest old Tory but certainly never a Jacobite.
The Countess presided at the dinner table with her husband, but said very little; and in the afternoons the ladies formed their own society, where they sipped tea from delicate Meissen bowls. On one occasion she graciously invited me to attend their gatherings, where I was the only man present. I did my best to follow Elizabeth’s advice on how to conduct myself. I mentioned my hope of being elected to Parliament, but quickly sensed that none of these ladies were greatly interested in political matters. Instead they discussed the works of various novelists and poets; few of whom I had read, though thanks to Elizabeth’s guidance I had at least heard of them and knew something of their work and reputations.
Lady Pardington chattered merrily away whatever the subject, but it was Mrs Braithwaite who was treated as the ultimate oracular authority on all matters of taste. Maria attended only once, presumably at the command of her mother, and without Poppy. She plainly considered the discussions a great bore: she contributed nothing and yawned quite openly. Finally the Countess relented and permitted her to withdraw. The errant daughter then left hastily and with ill grace but greatly to the relief of the company.
The ladies asked me many questions about my history and my new home. I recounted a few tales of the small doings of Bearsclough and Bereton, and of my meetings with Miss Louisa Wilbrahim. They requested more information about her, and from my description unanimously proclaimed that she must be without doubt a most charming girl, and that they would be delighted to meet her. Lady Teesdale was of the opinion that she would make someone an excellent wife, but added, sentimentally, that it was a pity that she could not remain at her present innocent age for ever. No-one ever made any reference to the Countess’s son who had died, and I was careful not to broach the subject myself.
I had an important discussion on the political situation in Bereton with Oswald Jarrett, Lord Teesdale’s attorney, man of business, election agent and general factotum. Mr Lunford assisted him by producing relevant documents, and together they sought to provide me with full details of my prospects of success in the election. Lunford began the instruction by recounting what he announced would be a very brief history of the borough, since Henry VIII first granted it the right to elect two Members to the House of Commons. This would no doubt have been greatly interesting to an historian, though “brief” was perhaps not the adjective I would have chosen for his discourse.
Jarrett then gave a survey of the voters of Bereton, who would shortly be determining my future. They were the freemen of the borough; landowners, officeholders, the better-off tradesmen and others, each man having two votes. By his reckoning there were about fifty of them, though several resided a distance away, and might recently have died. He enquired whether I had been sworn in as a freeman, and on hearing I had not, advised me to do this immediately.
I was then provided with a survey of many of those freemen: this man would always follow the lead of Sir James Wilbrahim, that man was my tenant and would vote according to my instructions; a third man held a post in the Excise and so would vote for any candidate supported by the ministry; a certain man was rich and independent, whereas another was utterly venal and would sell his vote to whoever paid highest; and so on and so forth until my mind was quite bewildered. I hoped that Clifford would already be familiar with much of this information.
Above all, Jarrett advised, I must stay close to Sir James Wilbrahim, who carried much weight in the borough. I mentioned the letter from the Duke of Newcastle, but was told that it would be best, at this stage, to mention the letter only to those who might support the present ministry. For myself, I should write to the Duke with fulsome promises of support, and hint that some money forthcoming from him would be much appreciated. Otherwise it was up to me to spend my money freely but wisely. If all went well, Jarrett thought, I might be returned without the trouble and expense of a poll.
A broad hint was given that, should I find the cost of the campaign to be beyond my means, Lord Teesdale would be happy to lend me the necessary funds, provided I would promise to vote according to his wishes when requested. I returned a suitably conciliatory answer, hoping that the necessity would not arise.
When the time came for me to quit Maybury, I found a positive Praetorian guard of servants lining the hall, but instead of protecting my presence their intention was to threaten my purse, for all extended a hand with the expectation of receiving payment. This included many on whom I had not set eyes during my stay. Having little choice in the matter, I paid with reluctance.
The Earl’s parting words to me were, “Should you be successful in your attempt to enter Parliament, l would hope that you follow my guidance in any question that directly affects my interests; but otherwise you may pursue your own course as you see fit. And let me give you a word to remember: canals! They are the future! If you have money, invest it there! I expect to see Bills on the building of canals debated in the new Parliament. If you are indeed elected, vote for them! You will assuredly not regret it!”
Well then: I would vote for any Enclosure Bill or Canal Bill that emanated from his lordship, but otherwise I would pilot my own course.
Robert the valet had not exchanged a word with me, beyond those required when helping me dress, during our stay at Maybury, and he remained silent during our return journey. Eventually I broke this silence by thanking him for his flawless service and producing half a guinea from my purse and holding it just above his hand as I encouraged him to speak freely on what he had learned at Lord Teesdale’s home. There was a pause while Robert wrestled with his conscience, but the struggle did not last long. Soon he took the proffered gold and spoke.
“His lordship keeps a very fine establishment”, he began, cautiously, “And her ladyship the Countess is deeply loved by all: they worship the ground she walks on, they do. They all say as how they couldn’t wish for a kinder mistress. Many a story they’ve told me of her generosity and help to those in distress. And she likes you, sir. George, he’s one of the footmen, heard her say she wished you was her son!”
“And Lord Staines? What of him?”
“Ah: the young master comes to the house but seldom, and when he does, then it’s bad times. There’s always angry disputes between him and his father, and he takes it out on the servants. Everyone is greatly relieved when he returns to London”.
“And what about the Earl himself? What did you learn about him?”
Robert was reluctant to speak any further, but after a while he continued.
“Well, sir, I didn’t hear nothing against his lordship himself. He leaves much of the business of the estate in the hands of his agent, that Mr Jarrett, and he’s not well liked. He’s a hard taskmaster, they all say, and not regular with giving the servants their wages. They may go months or even years without pay, but none don’t dare complain for fear of dismissal, because his lordship always takes Mr Jarrett’s advice on such things. It’s a rich household, sir, but not a happy one; that it’s not”.
This made me glad that I had paid all the servants their vails (as these were named) when I left, since perhaps they were dependent on these for their livelihood, with their wages so much in arrears. At least it might assure me good service should I return. But then Robert, after furtively glancing around as if he feared someone might be listening, whispered, “Some of them do say that Mr Jarrett is pocketing his lordship’s money for himself. But I don’t know nothing about that!”
I was careful to show no reaction to all this of information, but I filed it away in my mind. Silence then resumed for the rest of our journey, for I was thinking of my campaign for election; turning over and over in my mind an address I would deliver:
“To the free and independent voters of Bereton – or should that be “citizens”? – To the free etc etc of the ancient and loyal borough of Bereton – or would this resurrect the Jacobite question?” and so on endlessly.
I would soon discover whether my words had the desired effect.
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