Chapters 14-21

   

Chapter 14: The election

    I had hoped that the election at Bereton might be uncontested, with Sir James Wilbrahim and myself able to take the two seats without the expensive necessity of a vote, but a third candidate now put his name forward. This was a certain Mr Thomas Cave, a gentleman of whom I had not previously heard, who had recently purchased a large estate several miles to the north of the town.

   When I had first discussed my candidature with Sir James, he had shown no great support for the idea, but directly he learnt that Mr Cave was also a candidate, his attitude changed absolutely, for he had a strong personal aversion to the man. 

  “His family, sir, is utterly undistinguished, but he has come into great wealth through the discovery of coal beneath his estates in Cumberland. Now I, sir, farm my lands as my father did, and his father before him. The rents are sufficient to support me: why should I want more? I know all my tenants here; I stand as godfather to many of their children; they know me and trust me, and as long as they pay their rents, work honestly, follow my instructions and preserve my fox covets I shall always protect their interests and help them in sickness and old age. Why should I, or they, wish for any change?

   “No, sir, I stand firm for Old England, and always will. I detest all this modern craze for coalmines, and enclosure, and turnpikes, and canals, and all other fooleries!”

   He now readily agreed that we should combine our forces against this unwarranted intruder.

  

   I met Cave himself soon afterwards. He was a tall, heavy man, simply dressed in old-fashioned clothes that were drab in colour. He kept very still as he talked, and his features betrayed no emotion, nor did his unblinking eyes, which were dull and the colour of pewter; but his manner was full of quiet menace. He was obviously accustomed to intimidating his opponents by his mere presence, but I resolved to remain calm and unimpressed, no matter what he said.

    Was I aware, he asked me, that the ownership of lands in Cumberland that I had inherited from my aunt had been in dispute for many years? And that the best legal opinion was that they rightly belonged to him? He warned me that any dispute could prove wearisome and expensive, and suggested that he would not pursue it, and would indeed undertake to buy the land from me at a generous price, provided I withdrew from the election. I refrained from committing myself on the matter, and took the first opportunity to bring the interview to an end, pleading an urgent prior engagement. He must have guessed I was lying, and said nothing, but I could see that he was not pleased. I counted this as a small victory.

  I wrote to Mr Braithwaite to discover his opinion of Mr Cave, thinking that he might have had dealings with the man through his own estates in the north-west. He soon replied, saying that his own experience had been that Cave was an implacable opponent of anyone who stood in the way of his ambitions. He always strove to intimidate with threats of expensive lawsuits, to which many had succumbed and done his bidding; indeed, much of his wealth had been accrued by these methods. He assured me that, in his opinion, Cave believed coal might lie beneath my land, that his claim of ownership was probably without a shred of legal validity, and I should ignore his threats. Acting on this advice I resolved to stand firm against attempts at either intimidation or bribes, and for the rest of the campaign I avoided meeting with Cave.

 

   If Sir James’s support was determined solely by his detestation of Mr Cave, that of his daughter was whole-hearted. When I next visited Stanegate I found Miss Louisa bubbling with excitement at the thought of a contest, though she feared her father would not permit her to visit the town and watch the campaign. She was disgusted by what she had heard about Mr Cave.

   “He is a very wicked man! My father hates him, and so do I! He has been mining for coal up in Cumberland, and some of the seams run out under the sea: can you believe that? And his miners are kept in servitude! They have to work for him till they die, and they do not even get paid in proper money: they have to live in his cottages and get their food from his shops! And their children have to go underground when they are only five years old! The people up there call him Wicked Tommy!

   “And his wife! She is the daughter of a rich merchant from Liverpool. She is so rude and ill-mannered; and do you know what her money comes from? It’s slaves! Her father’s ships take hundreds of them across the sea to work in the sugar plantations, packed together in the hold as if they were sacks of produce! It makes me want to cry to think of them!

   “No, Mr Huntingdon, you must work with my father that such a terrible man must never be our representative in the Parliament!”

   I thought it best not to mention that my patron, Lord Teesdale, had sugar plantations in Jamaica that were worked by slaves.

 

   The Rector, Mr Bunbridge, opened the campaign on Sunday by preaching a sermon in which he ingeniously interpreted numerous texts of scripture as demonstrating that it was the clear duty of all to vote for Sir James Wilbrahim. I received a brief, and, I thought, rather grudging mention, but at least there was no support for Mr Cave.

   The campaign was now well under way, and I began the rounds of meeting all the voters to attract their support. An investigation of the poll books that there were, as Jarrett had estimated about fifty men who could vote in the town, though some had been lost from sight and no-one knew how many of these might have died since the books were last complied. All would have two votes, and our strategy would be based upon persuading Sir James Wilbrahim’s supporters to give their second votes to me.

   The voters might have been few in number, but the whole town, including the women and children, joined in the excitement, expecting to be entertained by parades and music as well as plentifully supplied with food and drink. Sir James Wilbrahim knew his supporters would always remain true to him, and he duly fulfilled their expectations with lavish provisions, but delivered no public speeches.

 

    The best tavern in Bereton was the Queen’s Head, which had a substantial assembly hall panelled in old oak. Sir James always conducted his election campaigns from this tavern, and at his invitation I also used it as my headquarters, to emphasise that we were working together in alliance against the intruder Cave. Every man who came to the Queen’s Head and promised to vote for me would be served a drink. No doubt many of them were treated in a similar fashion elsewhere by Mr Cave.

    I had a narrow escape from disaster when I found hanging in pride of place an old painting of a person whom I supposed to be Queen Anne; the work of some local artist, and commented on its extreme badness to Clifford. He replied with alarm that I should on no account say this in public, since it had been paid for by Sir James’s grandfather! 

   A day or so into the campaign I was approached by a sharp-faced, soberly-dressed man. He introduced himself as Howard Bagley, Sir James Wilbrahim’s agent and man of business, and indicated that he was ready and willing to act in the same capacity for me, should I wish for his services. I replied that Mr Clifford had handled all my aunt’s affairs: he had a thorough understanding of the estate, and that therefore I was happy for him to continue in the role.

   “Ah yes, Clifford!” he replied in a sneering tone, indicating a degree of contempt. He then consulted a large and costly-looking watch and left me without further comment. I decided I did not like the man. Clifford confirmed this, saying Bagley had a bed reputation in the town. More usefully, Alderman Stout introduced me to a fellow by the name of Cartwright, who agreed, for a consideration, to organise groups of people to shout for me and jeer at my opponent. I could not fault his achievements in this task.

   My most successful canvasser, however, was without doubt Mrs Timmis. My formidable housekeeper knew everyone in Bereton, and she now visited all the tradesmen and shopkeepers who had votes. To the victuallers she spoke of how, if I was elected, I would hold a magnificent feast for the town, for which, immense quantities of food and drink would be purchased; to shoemakers she suggested that after the election I would be ordering new shoes for my entire household, and so forth. At her suggestion I toured all the shops and was always careful to praise the quality of the goods on sale. If I saw that a lady customer particularly liked a particular item I would shyly offer, as a mark of respect, to purchase it for her as a gift. Such a proposal was seldom rejected.

   Mrs Timmis informed me that Mr Cave’s wife had not made a good impression in the town, for she had barely concealed her contempt for what she considered the coarseness of the citizens and the inferior quality of the goods in the shops. “And I can promise that this will tell against her husband,” Mrs Timmis assured me, “I shall make sure of it!”

   I bought presents at the shops for Ned Timmis’s wife and daughter; but for Mrs Timmis herself I had something from London.

   “Lor, sir, I don’t know when I’ll have occasion to use these!” she protested as I presented her with a silk scarf and an elegant pair of gloves; but nonetheless I saw her wearing them with pride next Sunday.

  

   Sir James, knowing his position secure, did not have to deliver any public speeches, but I was obliged to be more active. In my campaign I said that I was a supporter of Mr Pitt and his victorious war, but I found that national issues played but little part in this election. Instead, Alderman Jabez Stout and the other city fathers spoke to me of work urgently needing to be done in the town, in the forwarding of which the unlamented Mr Bailey had proved so sadly deficient. The list seemed endless: paving the streets, digging new drains, repairing the bridge over the little river below the town, and so forth. It was the unspoken expectation that I should pay for much of this work out of my own pocket. Many wanted a new town hall to be built: I was not expected to meet the entire cost of this, but, I gathered, it would be incumbent on me to sponsor a private Act of Parliament to enable the necessary funds to be raised. There was even talk of digging a canal. The list seemed endless, and when Stout introduced me to the other aldermen, each had his own pet schemes. I was certain that they expected to profit personally from these works, but what could I do but give them my word of honour that I would do as requested? They appeared satisfied, at least for the moment.

  To supporters of Sir James, I constantly praised him; to those who held positions in the customs or excise or other offices, or hoped for such preferment in the future, I mentioned my letter of support from the Duke of Newcastle; but to others I proclaimed my independence. To the Dissenters I spoke of my admiration for my aunt, but I also made sure I was seen at the church on Sundays, where I was once again invited to share the Wilbrahim family pew. I discovered afterwards that Louisa had insisted to her father that I should always be given this privilege. 

 

   Mr Cave knew he was unlikely to win over many Wilbrahimites, so he concentrated his attacks on my person. He tried to portray me as a mere puppet of the Earl of Teesdale and his son, whom he called, “Degenerate Staines”; and to this end, produced a crudely-drawn placard depicting me as a puppet, dangling from strings manipulated by a sinister figure in a coronet, at which passers-by were encouraged to throw mud and filth. He announced that he was the candidate for “Church and King”, whereas I, he said, was the nephew of “notorious freethinkers and atheists” this being his description of my late uncle and aunt. He doubted whether I would have sufficient money to benefit the town, though I would have to concede that this last point had a degree of truth.

   One day a number of handbills appeared, making the most disgusting allegations concerning my friendship with Lord Staines. Clifford advised me to ignore them, and pointed out to me a fellow by the name of Smalling, who, he said, was the probable author. “He calls himself a scrivener.” I was told, “He scrapes a living composing lies and libels for anyone who pays him. But if he offers to write for you, do not give him any money, for he is not to be trusted.”

   Instead, I encouraged Cartwright to publish our own denunciations of Cave in pictures and songs. He forthwith produced a splendid banner portraying “Wicked Tommy” with a devil’s horns and cloven hoofs, which was paraded around the town by a mob hooting insults.

 

   The climax of Sir James’s campaign was a lavish event eagerly anticipated by all. A huge tent was erected in a meadow, where he hosted an election dinner for the whole town. An ox was roasted, and also a hog, but these were overshadowed by the immense quantities of drink on offer. Vast tubs of punch were provided, as well as beer and wine. Musicians were hired, and there was singing, but all was soon drowned in general riotous noise. The feast was not only for the men, but respectable ladies did not attend, and their absence left nothing to restrain behaviour. The scenes of gentlemen and tradesmen all alike in coarse manners and unrestrained gluttony might have revolted some of my more refined London friends, but Sir James enjoyed the proceedings immensely. He seemed to know everyone by name, and greeted them all, whatever their rank, in a spirit of jollity and friendship.

    And so the campaign continued: torchlight processions with banners, bonfires, speeches, dinners, blatant demands for “presents” from the voters and more free drink provided for the citizens of Bereton by all the candidates. There was occasional trouble at night and a few windows broken, but nothing that could be dignified with the name of a riot. At one point a group of Cave’s supporters, far gone in drink, attempted to march to the Priory and break all the windows, but Ned Timmis, forewarned, assembled a party of his farm lads and drove them off in disorder. This victory was duly celebrated with more feasting and drinking at my expense.

   Alderman Stout said it was all very tame stuff compared with the election of 1747.

  “It wasn’t more than two years since the rebels had passed through, and no-one dared oppose the Tory candidates, but there was a deal of rioting, and fights with the soldiers who were still billeted in the town, and the windows of any Whigs were smashed, and there was foul insulting of poor Mrs Andrew, who had lost her husband not long before, and a sad loss he was to the town!”

   My enjoyment was marred by realisation of the vast demands this electioneering was having on my purse. I realised I could be obliged to make a hard decision: to sell or mortgage some of my property, or to seek help from Lord Teesdale. My hopes of being fully independent in my political conduct were being steadily eroded. I approached Oswald Jarrett requesting a loan. But what choice did I have?

  

    At last on a fine spring morning the polling began.  Alderman Stout was the returning officer, despite an attempt by Mr Cave to have him replaced. The hustings were erected on the square outside the town hall, under a canvas to shield against rain, which happily was not needed. The voters had to climb wooden steps up to a platform, where their names were checked against a list of those eligible, and if they could prove their identity they could then swear an oath upon a Bible and cast their ballots, either for their two favoured candidates or, if they so chose, a “plumper” for just one. Clifford kept a close eye on the proceedings on my behalf to prevent any cheating, and Bagley acted on the same way for Sir James. Mr Cave’s interests were represented by a man I did not know, by the name of Francis, whom I was told was an attorney from Mulchester.

   I had never before witnessed anything resembling these events. The noise, the chaos and the confusion lasted all day, despite the voters being so few in number, for it seemed that everyone from many miles around had gathered to witness the event and join in the general revelry that an election brought. The ale and wine consumed would have been sufficient to float a ship. Presents of money were liberally distributed, and I saw one ingenious man accept gifts from the agents of all three candidates. Mr Cave provided free drinks for everyone, regardless, he said, of whether or not they intended to vote for him. Some men, however, held aloof from all offers. I assumed they were public-spirited citizens who rejected all bribes, but Clifford said that he knew most of them, and they were merely holding back their votes for the present, in the hope that, if the result appeared to be close, they could raise the price of their support.

   Sir James Wilbrahim arrived in great style, accompanied by a trumpeter who delivered a fanfare as he voted, amidst the cheers and applause of his supporters, for himself and for me. Mr Bunbridge (who, as Rector, was also an ex officio freeman of the borough) chose to cast a plumper for Sir James, and ignored me entirely. I took this as a personal snub.

   Some of the voters I had never seen before. I was much struck by one elderly gentleman in an ancient military coat, who had lost his right leg but walked vigorously with the aid of a crutch. He told me that he was a veteran officer of Marlborough’s army, and bade me make sure that our victories in our present war should not be frittered away as had happened on that earlier occasion. By contrast one poor unfortunate, wrapped in a woollen gown and with a bandage round his head, was carried up the steps and seated on a chair. He appeared to be at death’s door: his eyes were vacant and his mouth drooped open. How he could cast a valid vote was beyond my understanding; but Clifford whispered to me not to worry, for he was one of ours! Jabez Stout disqualified five voters for drunkenness, one for imbecility and four on the grounds that they were impersonating men who had died since the poll-books were compiled. This caused much fierce argument, since all of them were supporters of Mr Cave, but Stout was true to his name and refused to be swayed in his decisions.

   On the second day of polling strangers were brought in by carriage. I was told that they were normally resident some distance away, but retained their status as freemen. Their purpose on visiting the town on this occasion was purely and simply to vote. The majority of them had been brought in by Mr Cave, in order to swell his support, but a few voted for me, and it transpired that I owed these men’s presence to the work of Oswald Jarrett.

 

   After two days’ polling, the votes cast so far were:

Wilbrahim 36

Huntingdon 22

Cave 10

  We were expecting a renewal of voting the following morning, should any remaining freemen come to cast their votes. Mr Cave, however, now decided that despite all his efforts he had very little chance of success, despite his vast expenditure of money. He withdrew from the contest, but with a very ill grace. He did not deign to speak to me but had his man Francis inform me that that the conduct of the election had been dishonest throughout, and that there would shortly be a petitioning of Parliament to have the result overturned on the grounds of gross corruption. But I did not allow such threats to diminish my triumph. I had been elected!

   As soon as Alderman Stout announced that Sir James and I had won, a crowd of Bereton people of both sexes, very drunk, proceeded to demolished the hustings and bear off the wood and canvas for their own use, maintaining that to do so was their ancient traditional privilege and right. There then followed a ceremony known as “chairing the members”: Sir James and I were hoisted high on chairs attached to long poles, by which means we were hoisted aloft by brawny supporters and carried triumphantly through the town in a torch-lit procession, with much roaring and cheering. Sir James’s chair led the way. He constantly turned left and right, waving his hat to the crowd and clearly enjoying the proceedings immensely. Everywhere he was treated with respect, but when I followed, some remaining partisans of Mr Cave attempted to disrupt the procession. There was cursing and brawling, filth and a few stones were thrown, and one hulking brute, maddened by drink, assaulted my supporters with a threshing-flail. I feared that I might be overturned, but I continued to smile and salute the people, and eventually my supporters were able to drive off our opponents. Our success at the polls was followed by yet more banqueting, and our health was drunk, again at our expense, by all and sundry. The citizens who were most disappointed were those who had withheld their votes in the expectation of being able to charge a higher price on a later day of polling, for now they had gained nothing!

     I wrote to the Duke of Newcastle notifying him of my victory and pledging my zealous support in Parliament, but notifying him of the possibility of an attempt to have the result overturned. I received a prompt reply congratulating me and assuring me that I need not fear any petition to overturn the result, for he and his friends would ensure that any such appeal would be rejected. Mr Cave evidently came to the same conclusion, for he soon retreated to his northern coalmines, grumbling and licking his wounds and hoping for revenge. In the end he had to content himself with publishing a pamphlet claiming my victory had been achieved by bribery and voter impersonation. He also cited a report in the “Mulchester Courant”, a newspaper that had recently begun publication, alleging that my agents in that town had threatened violence to anyone intending to come to Bereton to vote for him. Clifford thought this libel was a product of Smalling’s fertile pen, and I did not bother to respond. Mr Cave’s finances might have been much reduced in the contest, and so had mine; but the moment I did not think to count the cost. I was now a gentleman of importance!

   Meanwhile, after more immense sums of money had been expended, Sir Anthony Pardington and Mr Braithwaite were returned unopposed as Members of Parliament for the County, just as had been the case at the previous election. One might call himself a Whig, and the other a Tory, but they both knew well the advantage of combining their forces to exclude any competitors.

    Following my victory and desiring some peaceful reflection, I made my long-postponed walk up Brackenridge hill. The day was fine,trees were in leaf, birds were singing and there were carpets of bluebells under the trees I climbed for more than an hour before I reached the summit, but I scarcely noticed the passing time or the signs of spring, for I had much to think about: visions of the deeds I would accomplish now that I was a man of importance. The stones, which had awakened the interest of my aunt and Mrs Waring, I found a disappointment. Most were buried beneath a mass of brambles, and I did not investigate them further. There was one single upright stone; an uncut boulder taller than me, leaning at a precarious angle. It occurred to me that the summit of Brackenridge would make a splendid site for a monument to the great Mr William Pitt, and I wondered whether Alderman Stout and his friends would support having the place cleared. 

 

 

   A few days later I visited Stanegate to discuss local business with Sir James, and found Louisa walking in the garden in the spring sunshine. She led me down the gravel paths, showing me the flowers that she had planted, and describing where others were soon to be placed. Her maid, who was called Becky, walked a few paces behind us. We found a man and a couple of boys clipping a yew hedge, and she greeted them by name and praised their work. She told me how delighted she was by my success, now I would be her father’s companion in Parliament, and that she had found the campaign thrilling. I asked her how much she could have witnessed, since I understood that her father had kept her at home throughout, no doubt believing that such an experience would have been unsuitable for a young lady. She chuckled, and gave me a mischievous glance.

    “You didn’t see me, but we saw you, Becky and I!” she said, “We watched you making speeches and talking to the tradesmen! I thought you spoke very well!”

   “No, I didn’t see you, and I’m sure your father didn’t see you either, for he would have been most displeased. But how did you contrive it?”

   She laughed. “That’s my secret! But promise you won’t ever tell anyone I was there? My father would be so angry, I don’t know what he might do! I can trust you, can’t I?”

   In the most formal courtly behaviour that I had learnt under Elizabeth Newstead’s tuition, I bowed low: with one hand I swept off my hat and with the other I took her hand and kissed it. “Miss Wilbrahim, I am forever your most devoted slave! Your slightest wish is eternally my command!” I announced. The whole procedure was intended as play-acting, and when we looked at each other’s eyes, with her hand at my lips, both of us laughed.

   We walked side by side to the house. She chattered merrily but my head was full of whirling emotions. She was so pretty, and so charming! But so young and so innocent: shielded by her father from all contact with the world! What would become of her?

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Chapter 15: An unfortunate incident

  I remained at the Priory for several weeks after the election, during which time I was able to observe Sir James at work as Justice of the Peace. He advised me to attend the Petty Sessions, saying that I would undoubtedly be appointed a magistrate myself ere long. I discovered there was a vast amount of work to do; supervising the work of the parish constables, the surveyors of highways and the overseers of the poor, who were not infrequently negligent in their duties, listening to complaints of nuisance caused by the effluvia from various noxious trades like the tanners of the town, and sitting in judgement on various lesser criminals. I soon came to realise that Sir James knew everyone in the town and the surrounding villages, and his judgements were generally supported by local opinion. For the offenders, he generally inclined on the side of leniency, except for poachers. My respect for him increased.

 

   By contrast, my own self-esteem suffered a severe blow at the Bereton Lammastide Fair.  This was an ancient tradition which attracted visitors from all over the county. Every year Sir James Wilbrahim would be there, talking to everyone as equals, praising the entertainments and spending considerable sums of money at the stalls; but this year an attack of gout confined him to his house, and I undertook the role as best I could. At first all went well: I bought a number of small objects I did not need, paying without complaint what I presumed to be grossly inflated prices; I laughed at the clowns and applauded the dancers, agreeing that they were every bit as good as anything I had seen in London, and provided drinks for a large number of people who proclaimed their support for me at the election. A train of urchins followed me around, hoping for pennies for sweetmeats, with which I duly rewarded them.

   My attention was suddenly attracted by the sound of voices raised in anger and a woman wailing. Pushing my way to the front I found a large tent selling beer, outside which sat or stood half-a-dozen soldiers, resplendent in their uniforms. One of them had his hand on the shoulder of a farm lad, while Ned Timmis was arguing with the sergeant. A girl was kneeling on the ground, weeping. Most of the bystanders appeared hostile. I came forward to discover what was happening.

   I did not know the girl, but she must have recognised me, for she grabbed me by the hem of my coat. “Oh, sir!” she sobbed, “They’re taking my Jimmy away, and I’ll never see him no more!” She would not release her grasp, and continued to wail that her lover “had better gone to the gallows!” Thus encumbered, I attempted to intervene in the dispute.

    “It’s these here redcoats!” exclaimed Timmis, who was very red in the face himself. “They say young Jimmy Thatcher here has taken the King’s shilling and volunteered for the army! And I say they lured him in and got him drunk, so he didna know what he’s doing; and I’m not having it! Him one of my best farm workers, with haymaking just coming on and all! And him soon to be married to poor Nan here! Tell ‘em to let him go, sir!”

   I turned to the sergeant: a hard-faced man with a dark jaw and a scar down his left cheek, and asked whether young Jimmy Thatcher could have his volunteering cancelled, since he had acted hastily and probably under the influence of drink. The sergeant, perceiving that I was a gentleman, answered me with formal politeness, though without any excess of deference; a delicate balance that was a skill I suspected he had long practised. He explained that in normal circumstances the payment of a guinea would suffice; but as I reached in my purse to extract one, he added that since the recruit in question had kissed a Bible and sworn the oath, this remedy could not now be effected. I wondered whether this was an attempt to extort more money from me. It seemed that some in the crowd thought the same way, for there were more angry mutterings.

    A young captain now appeared, strutting like a peacock in his flawless costume, and the sergeant briefly outlined the situation to him. He then turned to me and in an arrogant manner enquired who I might be.

   Attempting to conceal my annoyance, I introduced myself as the newly elected Member of Parliament for the borough of Bereton.

   “Oh, a politician?” he answered, uttering the word with heavy contempt in his voice. “And I am Captain Darnwell, at your service”, he continued, his tone making it clear that he did not regard himself as being at my service at all. Perhaps he did not believe my claim, or, if he did, then he affected to despise all politicians. I accordingly changed tack and asked him if he was by any chance related to Henry Darnwell, a gentleman who was an old friend of mine.

   “Yes, sir; he is my cousin. A wastrel, is he not?” he replied.

  The conversation was not going well. But at this point, young Thatcher, who had been in conversation with Timmis, suddenly intervened to announce that it was entirely his wish to join the army.

   “I’ve had enough of this here place! I want to go and see the world!” said he, swaying slightly on his feet. “Fare thee well, Bereton, and fare thee well, Nan!” he proclaimed, with an expansive gesture worthy of a rustic David Garrick.

   “That’s a brave boy!” exclaimed Captain Darnwell, “Together we’ll overthrow the King’s enemies and then drink the King’s health with the King’s silver! And every town we march through, you’ll find a new sweetheart! Tell me, my lad: can you ride? Can you manage horses?”

    “That I can, sir!” replied Thatcher proudly.

    “Then you’ll make a fine soldier indeed! Come: let’s away!”

    There seemed little more could be done. The crowd began to disperse, many of them still muttering. Poor Nan had let go of my coat and was now sobbing in the arms of an older woman, presumably her mother. The guinea I had taken from my purse I now quietly put into the sergeant’s hand, saying that I hoped he would drink my health and also watch over young Thatcher and treat him well.

    Not surprisingly, he became suddenly much more respectful and saluted me smartly. “I shall do that, sir!” he replied. No doubt my first request would be complied with, but as for the second I could no more than trust his honesty.

     Timmis was still fuming with anger after the soldiers had marched off. “There’s been times when the soldiers wouldn’t have dared show their faces here!” he grumbled, “When they was billeted here after the rebellion, any redcoat caught out on the streets at night on his own would be asking for trouble. Why; over in Mulchester a bunch of lads caught one coming out of a tavern the worse for drink and beat him near to death, and they was brought before Quarter Sessions where they was acquitted, and all the town cheered the verdict and drank the justices’ health! But now, after the war with the French, they redcoats is all heroes! I canna understand it!”

  But then he returned to more particular matters. “What am I gonna do with my haymaking now? I’m a man short, thanks to them cursed redcoats!” 

  The episode made me aware that my supposed new authority might serve me well enough in Bereton, but might be but of limited value on the national stage.

 
  

I decided to return to London. To my friends in Bereton I pleaded that I had new duties there that needed my attention, but in truth I was becoming weary of country life, with its endless small doings. Also, I wanted to see Elizabeth Newstead again to claim my promised rights as a victorious candidate. Louisa Wibrahim said she was very sorry to see me leave so soon, and as we parted, gave me her hand to be kissed. Once again I looked into her eyes, and for a moment I felt myself torn between town and country. I promised to write frequently, with full descriptions of the sights and pleasures of the capital.

   I did not intend to tell her about Elizabeth Newstead. 

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 Chapter 16: The coronation of King George III

   None of the best families would usually have been found in London at the height of summer, but this year was different and the whole town was a-buzz with excitement. The coronation was to take place in September, and what was more, our young King had announced his intention to marry!

   My friends could talk of little else. I learned that our future Queen was named Charlotte, that she came from a small principality in north Germany and was only seventeen years old. According to Lady Teesdale, this announcement had caught the Privy Council as much by surprise as anyone else, for the marriage had been negotiated solely by Lord Bute’s agents. It showed, her husband said, how much reliance King George placed on his particular friend. 

   However, my thoughts at that time were not on these high events. Instead, on my very first day back in London I despatched a note to Elizabeth Newstead requesting permission to call on her. I donned my best clothes for the occasion, and finding her alone, described how I had triumphed in my election to Parliament and had now returned to claim immediately my right to her favours. To this demand she put up only the most token resistance.

  In contrast to her earlier coyness, I found her passionate beyond all expectation as a lover. Many were the hours we now spent together and many too were the tricks she taught me, terminating only when I was utterly exhausted. I took to passing night after night, and many days too, at her home. Her servants must surely have been aware of everything that passed: at first I wondered what stories they might tell of us around the town, but eventually came to the conclusion that either they were unalterably loyal to her, or that she and they no longer cared.

  I mentioned none of this when I found the time to write to Louisa Wilbrahim: instead, I told her the romantic story of the German princess, no older than Louisa herself, summoned to our shores to become the Queen of England, and of our new King eagerly awaiting the arrival of his future bride. She wrote in reply that she had begged her father to take her to London for the coronation, but he had refused.

   “He grumbled that it would be vastly expensive, the city would be full of crowds, who would be a magnet for every pickpocket and cut-throat in England, and that we would be lucky to catch as much as a glimpse of the new King and Queen driving through the streets. I said I would be happy if we did catch just a glimpse, but he was not to be moved!”

   I wondered whether Sir James’s reluctance to attend was because he did not recognise George III as the rightful King of England. I was sure that I could have procured suitable lodgings in London for them, but knew that it was no use battling against Sir James’s obstinacy. I promised to send Louisa a full and detailed description of everything I saw and heard.

 

      Sir James was undeniably correct about London being hopelessly overcrowded for the coronation. Places in the Abbey for the ceremony were impossible to obtain, but Elizabeth and I were able watch the procession from a high window in Palace Yard, courtesy of one of her friends. She was very fortunate to have such friends, for I heard that other houses along the route were hired out for up to a thousand guineas!

  There we encountered a most extraordinary couple. The man, who wore a lavender-coloured suit with lace cuffs, was slight of build and walked with affected delicacy, as if he was treading with caution on a dangerously wet floor. He escorted a lady who was much advanced in years but elegant in appearance. Elizabeth, who knew everyone in town, introduced them as Mr Horace Walpole, the son of the former Prime Minister, and the dowager Countess of Suffolk. Mr Walpole’s appearance might have been effeminate, but his eyes, set in a very pale face, were bright, and his voice, though not strong, was most pleasant. His talk was lively and interesting, and he had a waspish wit. He resembled his august father not at all, for Sir Robert was by all accounts a large, heavy man.

   He had little confidence in our new King, and was suspicious of the intentions of his particular friend Lord Bute; but I soon discovered that he was just as contemptuous of the old Duke of Newcastle as some of Lord Teesdale’s friends had been. Lady Suffolk had been Mistress of the Robes to the late Queen Caroline, and, by common repute, mistress in a different manner to King George II. She also talked with spirit and wit, though because she was extremely deaf, conversation was difficult. I learnt that they were both great letter-writers, and that the Countess included Lady Teesdale among her friends. I asked her if she ever dined at Teesdale House, but she said that her increasing infirmity meant that these days she seldom left her home in the evenings.

   I mentioned to Mr Walpole that my aunt, Mrs Isobel Andrews, had been one of his correspondents. He replied by praising her learning and her literary skills, and said that he had always opened a letter from her with eager anticipation. Whether he actually remembered her at all it was impossible to tell.

   After a long wait, the growing sound of cheering and shouting told us that the royal couple were approaching. They were brought separately in sedan chairs from St James’s palace to Westminster Hall, and from there were escorted to the Abbey on foot, under a canopy.

(George III in cornation robes)

     

   Elizabeth thought the King looked very fine, and admired the dress of Queen Charlotte, but Lady Suffolk, speaking loudly because of her deafness, exclaimed, “But the poor girl is very plain indeed! Why, even the most flattering portrait painter could scarcely make her pretty! Could not some princess who was more handsome have been found for our new King?”

   Mr Walpole, who prided himself on knowing all the court gossip, told us the following story. His Majesty, he said, was a passionate young man, and desperately in love with the daughter of the Duke of Richmond. He confessed this to the man he trusted above all: his old tutor Lord Bute; and sought his advice. That nobleman told him that it was wholly improper for the King to marry one of his subjects, and so instead he was commanded to scour Europe in search of a suitable princess to marry. However, the supply of Protestant princesses whose families were untainted by insanity or by alliances with the French was very limited: in fact, only Charlotte of the tiny and blameless north German principality of Mecklenburg-Strelitz was found to fit the bill; and so the girl was summoned forthwith to become Queen of England. It was said that George blenched when he first set eyes on her. “But what does any of this matter?” Mr Walpole continued. “Her task is to produce an heir to the throne, and as for the rest, the King can take mistresses, as his predecessors have done." This might have been intended as a hit at Lady Suffolk, which however her deafness did not allow her to hear.

   Elizabeth countered this by saying she had heard that they were already deeply in love, and that Charlotte was a fine girl and would make an excellent Queen. Lady Suffolk told us that, as one of the few remaining ladies who could remember the coronation of George II back in 1727, she had been consulted about the etiquette proper for the occasion, especially what diamonds the new Queen should wear. And so we parted. I was not to see Lady Suffolk again, for she died not long afterwards; but Mr Walpole remained a friend.

 

   Lord Teesdale later gave me an account of the coronation. He said the poor young Queen must have been utterly exhausted, for the procession had set out at eleven o’clock in the morning, they were not crowned until half past three, and then the banquet continued until near ten o’clock that night. He described the memorable occasion to me; contriving to make it sound very confused.

   “When the Archbishop of Canterbury placed the crown on the King’s head, there was a tremendous cheer from the boys of Westminster School. At the King’s request, Zadok the Priest, by Handel, was sung as the anthem, and sung very well too. But then, when the Archbishop came to deliver his sermon, the congregation felt it was a good occasion to eat the cold pies and drink the wine that were brought by their servants, and there was a tremendous clatter of cutlery and plates!

   “The banquet at Westminster Hall was presided over by the Lord Steward, the Lord High Constable and the Deputy Earl Marshal, all mounted on horseback; and as a grand dramatic gesture the King’s Champion rode in, dressed in full armour, and cast down a gauntlet as a challenge to anyone who presumed to dispute the King’s right to the throne. I suppose it was to see if any Jacobites might be present; but if there were, none dared make a move.

   “When the feasting began, the spectators up in the galleries let down baskets to their more fortunate friends down below, who filled them with meat and bottles of wine, and so a fine time was had by all!       

   “At least we were to be spared the disgraceful scenes that attended the end of the coronation banquet of George II. My father told me that when the great doors of the Abbey were opened and the crowd allowed to enter, not only were the remains of the banquet seized forthwith, but so were the table linen and the plates and dishes, and in less than half an hour everything had been pillaged, even down to the tables and chairs!”

 

   As soon as Louisa Wilbrahim heard of the coronation she wrote to me, demanding full details about our new King and Queen. What did they look like? What did they wear? And when would I be presented to them? I wrote a long letter in reply recounting what I had seen and heard, though I did not mention Queen Charlotte’s plainness. I explained that I was not likely to experience the honour of being presented to Their Majesties in the near future, but should it so happen, I would not fail to tell her.

 

   I told Elizabeth about Louisa and her father Sir James. She expressed great sympathy for the poor child, trapped in a remote country with no friends and a “brute”, as she termed him, for her only parent.

   “Do you suppose,” she asked me, “that he is in any way exerting himself to find her a husband?”

   I replied that I had no reason to believe that this was the case.

   “And she is already, you think, fifteen, and an heiress? Then he is failing most lamentably in his duty! How will she ever come to meet a suitable gentleman in the present situation? Except you, of course!”

   “Perhaps her father is waiting for someone from the East India Company!” I countered, referring to her own absent husband.

   She ignored this, and instead her voice took on a more serious note.

   “I must confess”, she said, “what you have told me makes me most uneasy. You say that the child is eager to break free of her cage, yet knows nothing of the world? Then there is great danger that some plausible fortune-hunter, knowing that she is an heiress, will seek her out and woo her without her father’s knowledge, and she will fall for his blandishments and allow herself to be abducted, and all will be lost. You must be on your guard to preserve the poor girl from this fate!”

   “But what could I do?”

   “When you are in the country, keep watch, even if your attention makes her father suspicious! And keep me informed of what passes!”

    Elizabeth advised me never to hint at this when writing to Louisa, but to keep my letters entirely innocuous, since her father would assuredly read them. Elizabeth’s warnings worried me, but for the moment I did nothing.

 

 

      (The old Palace of Westminster: a recreation by Peter Jackson) 

Mr Walpole offered to conduct me round the Palace of Westminster and show me its antiquities. This kind proposal was most welcome, since I had never before set foot inside that hallowed building, and I greatly wished to know my way around before being sworn in as a Member of Parliament.

   We halted in Old Palace Yard, where the Gunpowder traitors and many others had met their deaths in the past. Mr Walpole pointed out how the setting was dominated by the west towers of the Abbey, and how low the other ancient buildings were. We then entered Westminster Hall.

  It was said to be for many centuries the grandest space in Europe, which I could well believe. Mr Walpole drew my attention upwards to the roof supported on a curious wooden structure called hammer-beams, erected by King Richard II, and which he greatly admired. The glories of the work of these ancient craftsmen, he said, were insufficiently appreciated nowadays. We walked past several statues of old Kings of England, set in niches lining the wall, their robes painted red and green and their crowns gilded.

    But we could not contemplate the great hall in peace, for it contained a great turmoil of lawyers and other folks scurrying about their business, and the noise was considerable. Mr Walpole indicated where the Court of King’s Bench would sit, and where the other courts, and where the most unfortunate King Charles the First was sentenced to death. Several different trials, he informed me, might take place at the same time in different parts of the hall, though there was none in session during my visit. Because the hall was so much used, the floor was very dirty and the statues covered with the grease and soot from centuries of candles.

   From the hall we entered a most confusing rabbit-warren of ancient rooms, where without my guide I could easily have become lost. Mr Walpole led me to the chamber where the House of Commons sat.

                                            (Sir Robert Walpole in the House of Commons)

   I beheld a room that had once been St Stephen’s chapel. There were three tall windows at the far end, and before them raised on a dais was the Speaker’s chair where the altar had once stood. It resembled a throne, with a marble pediment supported by columns in the Corinthian style. The room was panelled in oak and immense brass chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The benches for the Members rose in tiers on either side, amongst which were slender columns supporting the Strangers’ Galleries above. My guide indicated the front bench to the Speaker’s right where his father, the great Sir Robert Walpole, had sat for the duration of his minstry. I felt a great amazement that I, who a year ago had been a man of no significance, was now entitled to sit in the assembly and listen to the words of Pitt and other leading men.

   My guide sensed my awe at viewing the hallowed scene, and hastened to disabuse me. “When studied in the light of reason, the chamber is most unsuitable for an assembly of the representatives of the British nation; for it is far too small, and consequently overcrowded and uncomfortable. It is as memorable for its inconvenience as for its noble oratory. The great Sir Christopher Wren performed some work here, but not even his genius could greatly improve it. See how dark it is, made worse with the panelling and the galleries above! For my part, I only rarely take my place here, and never open my mouth in debates; but if you wish to be a great man, it is here that you must make your name. Now let us proceed to the Painted Chamber, where the Lords meet, and which is, if possible, even worse-suited to its purpose.”

  I had heard that the Painted Chamber was the room where the death warrant of King Charles had been signed, but Mr Walpole pointed out that the ceiling that gave the room its name could hardly be seen for the smoke of candles, and that there and in the Upper Chamber above, the old tapestries were so tarnished that scarcely anything could be distinguished. He deeply deplored the centuries of neglect that had led to this: the beauties created by our ancestors, he said, had for too long been ignored.

 

   Parliament would not open until the autumn. But already plans were being laid, and soon I received a letter from the Duke of Newcastle, requesting to know of my political intentions. I was to meet the great man before long, but before then momentous events were to take place.

   Sir James Wilbrahim was not present at my swearing-in as a member of the House of Commons. Instead, Sir Anthony Pardington and Mr Braithwaite acted as my sponsors as I swore fealty to our new monarch and abjured the church of Rome. Lord Staines and his brother-in-law Sir Headley Graham were also sworn in, the latter having been returned for a Scotch borough which he largely owned. The public prints placed the three of us together and dubbed us “Teesdale’s tea-boys”, or some such trivial name.

 

      In October of 1761 the world was astonished to learn that the great William Pitt had resigned as Secretary of State. Lord Teesdale, who had many contacts within the Cabinet, explained to me how this had come about. Pitt had demanded an attack on Spain, which was preparing to enter the war on the side of France while that country was still unprepared. But he found the majority of the Cabinet was opposed to such a step. The Duke of Newcastle was alarmed a the ever-rising costs of the war, disappointed that peace talks had broken down through Pitt’s intransigence, and resentful Pitt’s taking the sole direction of the war himself, and Lord Bute was wavering in his views (as he always did when under pressure, Lord Teesdale said), but in the end sided with Newcastle, apparently with the King’s approval. Finding himself outvoted, Pitt therefore resigned his office. The ministry was now balanced between the Duke of Newcastle at the Treasury and the Earl of Bute as Secretary of State, but, as Lord Teesdale said, there could be little doubt as to which way the wind was blowing.

   Mr Walpole’s opinion was that it was difficult to know who exulted most on this occasion, France, Spain or Lord Bute, for Mr Pitt was the common enemy of all three. The Duke of Newcastle, he told me, was not displeased to see Pitt depart, but he would have counselled the Duke not to die for joy on the Monday, or for fear on the Tuesday, for everyone knew it was Lord Bute who held the King’s trust.

   The news of Pitt’s departure was received with stunned amazement. The opinion of the nation was strong for Pitt, and addresses in his favour flooded in from all over England. London especially was alarmed and indignant. Soon after the resignation, the King and all the royal family dined at the Guildhall in the City with the Lord Mayor, and I myself witnessed how Pitt, in his way there in a chariot, was acclaimed. Lord Bute, by contrast, would certainly have suffered injury from the mob had he not prudently hired a large company of bodyguards for the occasion. That night Londoners erected a gallows, from which they hanged a jackboot, to indicate the royal favourite, and a petticoat, to indicate the supposed influence of the Princess Augusta, the King’s mother.

   My hopes of meeting Pitt were to be frustrated for the moment, for the great man now withdrew to his home in Kent, being greatly afflicted by the gout. Lord Staines declared that Pitt was incurably mad, and passed on stories that the great man could not bear to leave his room or to receive any visitors, and that even his servants were ordered never to come within his sight, but to leave meals outside his room without entering.

    Although I did not meet Mr Pitt, I did succeed in meeting another of our great men. I was in the Palace of Westminster in company with Mr Walpole, when I beheld a gentleman with a party of acolytes in attendance hastening towards me. He wore a full-bottomed wig of a pattern no longer in fashion with younger men, a dark blue coat and a finely embroidered waistcoat. I wondered if this personage could be none other than Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle; formerly Secretary of State and now First Lord of the Treasury: a man of whom I had heard much reported, most of it contemptuous or critical, yet who had contrived to remain a pillar of the British state since before I was born! Mr Walpole must have read my thoughts, since he confirmed, in a voice loud enough for the approaching party to hear, that this was indeed the case.

   I stood in silence as the Duke approached. He acknowledged Mr Walpole with a minimal stiff formal bow, to which the latter responded with one of such extreme obsequiousness that it bordered on parody, no doubt deliberately so; and accompanied it by expressions of how delightful it was to encounter His Grace. The Duke did not respond: he was surely well aware of how much Mr Walpole despised him.

   I was introduced as the newly-elected Member for Bereton.

   “Ah yes, Mr Huntingdon!” said the Duke, “I was most gratified by your success at Bereton, sir: most gratified. I have received notification that your defeated opponent, Mr Cave, intends to petition to have the result overturned on the grounds of corruption, but I can assure you, sir, that his petition stands not the slightest chance of being accepted, not the slightest; we shall make sure of that. Your position is secure and assured. I trust that you will be our friend in the new Parliament? That is my expectation, sir”.

   I replied that I was zealously attached to the cause of bringing the war to a victorious conclusion, but that I hoped to remain independent of all political connexions.

   “Quite so, quite so”, he replied. He appeared a trifle disappointed at my protestation. It occurred to me that throughout his long life in politics he must have heard numberless declarations of loyalty from men who subsequently betrayed him.

   Just then someone approached to hand him a letter. The Duke appeared to recognise the handwriting, and as he held a whispered conversation with the messenger, an expression of acute alarm crossed his face. With only the briefest of apologies, he turned his back on us and hurried away. Thus ended my first-ever conversation with a cabinet minister.

       “Now he will have to make out a new entry on his lists”, Mr Walpole said, while the Duke and his entourage were still within earshot, “All the Members of Parliament feature on his lists, as friends, enemies or ‘doubtful’. He will now be in a great quandary as to whether or not to write your name down as a probable friend. Thus does our great First Lord of the Treasury employ his time!”  

   I was then asked what impression I had formed of the great man. After some consideration, I replied that the Duke had a certain presence, but I thought it improper for a nobleman of his age and experience to appear to be in such an undignified hurry, as if he was soliciting favours, whereas I should be the one to be soliciting favours from him. This observation was received with a smile.

                                              (Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle)

   “The Duke’s person is not naturally despicable, but his incapacity, his mean soul, the general low opinion of him, and, as you have observed, the constant hurry in his walk, make him ridiculous. Jealousy and a childish and an absurd all-pervasive fear are predominant in him. I fancy he would hazard the future of the kingdom rather than dare to open a letter that might disclose a plot against him.

   “As a young man he inherited some thirty thousand pound a year and influence in half a dozen counties, and to this alone he owed his every other way unjustified elevation. For forty years now the country has been blessed with his assistance, but to what purpose? It is to no purpose that I can discern. His speeches in Parliament are always flowing and copious of words, but empty and unmeaning. He is always bustling about doing business, but never does it. He is generally found clutching a bundle of papers as large as his head, and as devoid of content.”

      Mr Walpole spoke in this vein for several minutes. I had heard it said that he spent many hours writing long letters concerning politics to his many friends both at home and abroad, and I wondered whether he was rehearsing some choice phrases prior to setting them down on paper.

   “But now”, he continued, “He has every reason to be fearful. He knows the King neither likes nor trusts him. The country is with Pitt, but he betrayed Pitt over the matter of the Spanish war, and Pitt will not forgive him for that. Together the two of them could have easily repelled the ambitions of Lord Bute, but what now? We may anticipate more changes of ministry ere long!”

 

    It was in the New Year of 1762, and I was in Brown’s club, drinking coffee with friends, when John Robertson entered in a state of great excitement that was most unusual for him.

   “Have you heard the news?” he gasped.

   “News? What news? Sit down, sir, and get your breath back, and then tell us!” came the response from several throats.

   “Why, the news from Russia! The Empress Elizabeth is dead!”

   This sudden information caused a heated discussion on the likely future of the war. Although British arms had been triumphant in many far-flung parts of the world, and in Western Germany the French were held at bay, further east the position was perilous. Our gallant ally, Frederick of Prussia, despite the millions he received in subsidies from Britain, was being overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. Russian armies had driven him from Berlin and roving bands of Cossack horsemen spread terror throughout his lands. It was rumoured that he contemplated suicide. What would happen now?

   One gentleman, by name Broderick, who had undertaken much trading with Russia and had visited St. Petersburg, treated us to his opinions.

   “Elizabeth was the granddaughter of Peter the Great. She seized the crown from her cousin by violence. She was consumed with hatred of Frederick of Prussia, and for that reason alone rejected offers of a British alliance.”

    “And did you meet Elizabeth herself?” he was asked.

   “I did not, sir, and I do not regret it! Her court was a disgrace! She was a voluptuary: her love of handsome young officers was as notorious as her love of drinking!” (My mind wandered at this point, for I knew another lady of the same name whom this man might have condemned. I tried to banish this uncharitable thought. And I had never seen my Elizabeth drink to excess)

  “And I expect no better in the future!", Mr Broderick continued, “The Empress had no children, and some years ago she summoned her sister's son back from Germany to Russia and raised him to be her heir. His name is Peter, and he is now the Tsar. But he is half German by blood and wholly German in sympathy, and by all reports he is also depraved, vicious, and entirely lacking intelligence or judgement. The Empress, being aware of this, chose him a bride who possessed these qualities. She also is German. Her name was Sophia, but it was changed to Catherine when she was received into the Russian church. It is said that she and Peter now hate each other!"

   “Have they any children?”

   “Catherine has a son, sir, but who can say whom the father might be? As was the case with Elizabeth, she is very fond of handsome officers!”

   “What will happen now?”

   “The Devil alone knows, sir!”

                                                   (Elizabeth, Empress of Russia)

.

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   Chapter 17: Lord Staines fights a duel

The winter of 1761-2 was a very cold one. The Thames was frozen solid for many days, and people skated on it, or even set up stalls on the ice. But I spent most of my days, and many nights too, with Elizabeth, who could seldom be prevailed upon to venture out of doors in such weather. She continued to be a most insatiable lover; often so exhausting me that I afterwards fell asleep, whether it was night or day. But sometimes I would be smitten with a sudden desire for an independent life, and would use the excuse of pressing Parliamentary business to retreat back to my old lodgings for a few days of peace.

  There I would find waiting for me piteous letters from Clifford, telling me of the deaths of sheep and cattle, the dearness of provisions and the shortage of firewood, and the consequent sufferings of my tenants. I replied authorising him to spend any money that might be available to relieve distress. There was little else I could do at the time, for few coaches were running and letters arrived seldom.

  Meanwhile, the war continued. Pitt’s predictions concerning Spain soon proved correct, for early in the new year and, following the safe arrival of her annual treasure fleet from the Isthmus, Spain declared war on Britain. Fortunately, although the great man was no longer in office, we soon discovered he had already drawn up plans for this eventuality, and during the course of the year Havana in Cuba and Manila in the Philippine Islands fell to British arms.

   In Europe we did not have to wait more than a few weeks before there was more amazing news from Russia. One of the first actions of the new young Tsar Peter III was to withdraw Russian troops from the war and instead seek an alliance with Frederick of Prussia, his country’s enemy! And then, as all the world now knows, the unfortunate Peter only reigned a few months before he was deposed and murdered; and his wife, despite the fact that she had not a single drop of Russian blood in her veins, was hailed as the Empress Catherine II, and rules in St. Petersburg to this day!

   The unexpected salvation of our Prussian ally led to great relief in Britain, but at the same time caused people to wonder whether the war should not now be brought to a speedy close. Tensions between the partisans of Lord Bute and those of the Duke of Newcastle grew ever higher; opinion on the streets continued strong in support of Pitt, and the attacks on Lord Bute in the public prints reached new depths in libellous obscenity. He was shown conspiring with the French, or leading the blindfolded King by the nose, and to indicate his Scottishness he was always shown dressed in tartan. Some of the more disgraceful of these attacks took up the story that the King’s mother, the Princess Augusta was Bute’s lover. Did ever a royal lady have to endure such outrageous libels without any means of response?

 Lord Teesdale was cautious in expressing his opinion, and appeared to be waiting on further developments but his son Lord Staines was now a passionate advocate of an immediate peace, and did not hesitate to disparage Pitt and his friends in the most violent language.

 

    One day that spring I was seated at a table in Brown’s club when Staines entered in a state of great agitation. He brandished a paper at me, and asked me whether I had read it. He was in such a fury I had never seen in him before, so that his hands shook as I took it from him.

   I found that it contained a scandalous attack on him, or rather on a certain L**d S*****s, who was further described as “the catamite of L**d G****e S*******e”, “the coward of Minden”. Although the names were disguised in this manner, anyone who was acquainted with public affairs could have no doubt as to whom was meant. I remembered what Lord Staines had told me, at our very first meeting, about the unfortunate events at Minden, in consequence of which Lord George Sackville had been publicly disgraced and Staines had resigned his commission. So much had befallen me since that it all seemed a very long time ago.

    I asked if he knew who had written it. He told me that it was anonymous, but he was certain that the author was Mr John Wilkes, whose name he pronounced with great anger. “He libels anyone who dares attack Pitt, and he knows I am for a swift conclusion to the war. Scoundrel!” he added.

  I knew Wilkes as the silent Member of Parliament for Aylesbury, though everyone had heard rumours that he frequented a notorious assembly known as the Hellfire Club.

   I told Lord Staines that such low degraded stuff was beneath his attention, and best ignored; and that I was sure that his father would have given the same advice. But he told me that he had approached Wilkes, demanding an apology for this insult to his honour; and, not having received a satisfactory reply, he had issued a challenge to a duel. Staines requested me to be his second. I was reluctant to accede to this, but nothing I could say deterred him.

   Accordingly, soon after sunrise a few days later we took a coach out to Putney Heath. It was a bright morning, but cold. Dew lay heavy on the grass, and glittered on cobwebs on the bushes. There was no-one in sight except our opponent and his second, and another man I did not know. I was told his name was Doctor Blake, who was there in the event of any serious injury.

   It was my first sight of Mr Wilkes, who was shortly to become a most celebrated person; loved by some but hated by others. He was well dressed and slender of build, but his face was disfigured by the most violent squint, which caused his eyes to point in clean different directions. I wondered how, with this handicap, he could ever aim a pistol with any accuracy. He talked merrily, and appeared entirely unperturbed by the peril of his situation. His second was a large, burly fellow; and I was astonished to discover that under his cloak he wore a clergyman’s gown. I was informed that this was the Reverend Charles Churchill, the popular poet. Hogarth once depicted him as a bear, clutching a foaming pot of beer and an immense club, which I thought very apt.

   Doctor Blake then asked whether the two gentlemen were determined to proceed with the duel. Lord Staines replied, with no little heat, that his honour had been most grossly traduced, and that nothing but the most profuse and abject apology would satisfy him. He kept muttering violent epithets under his breath, whereas Mr Wilkes appeared to make light of the whole matter. He said that Lord Staines had produced no evidence that he, Wilkes, was the author of the offending article, but having read it, his opinion was that it contained more than a grain of truth; and, furthermore, since Lord Staines had seen fit publicly to dub him a liar and a scoundrel, he was the one entitled to an apology. These words angered Lord Staines even more, which was undoubtedly Wilkes’s intention.  

   A case was produced and opened, containing a brace of very fine silver-mounted pistols. Churchill and I checked that they were properly loaded. I attempted to hold my hands steady: it was the first time I had ever witnessed a duel and I was alarmed; for if someone was killed, might I be held to be an accessory to murder?  

   Lord Staines and Mr Wilkes walked twelve paces apart, then turned and presented their pistols. Lord Staines fired first, and grazed his opponent’s coat, but did no further harm. Mr Wilkes then raised his pistol and aimed it steadily at Staines’s breast, for what seemed like an age. Staines looked pale in the face, but did not flinch. Suddenly Wilkes laughed, lowered his pistol and deliberately fired at the ground, so that his bullet skipped across the earth some distance from Lord Staines’s feet. He then advanced towards his opponent with his hand extended.

   “Sir,” he said, “You have shown yourself to be a gentleman of courage, as befits an officer of the crown. I regret that you might feel I have offended you, and would be honoured if I might now be considered your friend.” 

   Staines, however, was by no means reconciled. He said this was no kind of apology, refused to take Wilkes’s proffered hand and ordered the pistols to be reloaded for a second firing. Mr Churchill now announced that, in his decided opinion, sufficient satisfaction had been given and that the business had been ended with perfect honour to both parties. I agreed with this, and so did Doctor Blake; but Lord Staines, ignoring Wilkes, departed forthwith, without giving me a glance. While I admired my friend’s courage, I could only be disappointed by his surly conduct afterwards.

   Doctor Blake did not stay long, but I remained at the tavern with Wilkes and Churchill for the remainder of the morning. Wilkes, aware of how alarmed I had been, told me that it was rare for duels these days to lead to any bloodshed. I asked him how the challenge to the duel had come about. He told me:

   “Lord Staines burst into my room in an agony of passion, brandishing the paper and demanding to know whether or not I was the author. I said that I was a free and independent English gentleman and that I refused to be catechised in this fashion. He then produced a brace of pistols and demanded immediate satisfaction. Finally, he calmed to the extent of agreeing to postpone the duel until three days later, with the result that you know.”

   He recounted how he had recently fought a duel with Lord Talbot, who, like Staines, had felt that he had been insulted.

   “We met at Bagshot. We both fired, but happily there was no shedding of blood, for neither took effect. I walked up immediately to Lord Talbot and said that I regretted that I had offended him. His lordship paid me the highest compliments on my courage, said he would declare everywhere that I was a noble fellow, and desired that we should now be good friends and retire to the inn to drink a bottle of claret together, which we did with great good humour. That is how duels should end. It is a pity that your young friend could not show the same magnanimous spirit.”

  I found Mr Wilkes the most engaging of companions. For his part, on discovering that I was new to political life, he suggested that I might enjoy reading a certain weekly paper known as the “North Briton”. I promised to look for it, and we shook hands and parted.

 

                                           (John Wilkes, by Hogarth)

   Rumours of the duel soon spread around the town. Henry Darnwell sought me out and demanded a full account. “But have you heard the other news?” he asked, “Our old friend John Robertson is contracted to be married! The bride is the daughter of a London merchant. The bad part of it is that her family is of the Methodist persuasion, and Robertson is now obliged to be a reformed character and excessively moral in his behaviour, but the vast wealth he will come by will no doubt console him amply for having to abandon his old rakish friends. On Friday we are holding a dinner at the Beefsteak Club to congratulate and console him. You must join us!”

    The dinner was a splendid occasion. Most of my friends from my early days in London were there, but Staines himself was absent. I gathered that he had been summoned to an important meeting with his father at Maybury.

   “The old man must be negotiating to find him a wife,” Darnwell said, “After all, he’s never going to find one for himself, is he?”

   Many toasts were drunk to Robertson’s future with his bride, together with ribald remarks that Robertson ignored, but somehow the tone was a little muted, as if we realised it might be the last time we were to meet together. In the absence of Lord Staines, I was pressed to give a full and accurate account of his duel; which I did, though avoiding mention of his ungentlemanlike conduct at the close. All praised Staines’s courage, though George Davies commented that he considered the formality of a duel unnecessary. Had he been in Staines’s position he would have invaded Wilkes’s premises and knocked him down, and Churchill too had it been necessary.

   Mention of John Wilkes brought forth stories concerning the Hell-fire Club, which was said to meet at West Wycombe in Buckinghamshire, the home of Sir Francis Dashwood. All had heard tales about it, which they now recounted in the most lurid detail: of mysterious grottoes with obscene Latin puns above the entrance, of statues of naked goddesses and nymphs in erotic positions, with guests dressed as monks and young girls in nuns’ habits. How much of this was true and how much the product of over-lively imagination I had no means of telling, for it transpired that none of those present at our dinner had actually visited the house. I was urged to pursue my friendship with Wilkes in the hope that I might receive an invitation to join the society, and then bring my companions with me. John Robertson, however, took me aside to warn me against any further association with Wilkes. The Hell-fire Club, he understood, indulged in the most lewd and blasphemous rituals, and Wilkes himself would infallibly find himself in prison, or worse, ere long, as a result of his libellous writings. But despite this advice, I resolved to see more of Wilkes should the opportunity arise.

 

                                                  (West Wycombe Park today)

     At the very same time there came another great change in the ministry. The great Duke of Newcastle had resigned! Lord Teesdale explained that the Duke had found the Cabinet unwilling to continue the Prussian subsidy now that Frederick was so providentially saved, and he resigned his office, thus bringing to an end an almost unbroken period of forty years in government. Lord Bute took his place at the Treasury and was now undeniably the Prime Minister, with none other than Sir Francis Dashwood, the supposed host of the Hellfire Club, as a most unexpected choice as Chancellor of the Exchequer! An embassy was now sent to Paris to negotiate a peace treaty, and Lord Teesdale expected an end to the war in a matter of weeks.

    It was at Westminster around this time that I first beheld our new minister. A whisper came down the hall that Lord Bute was approaching, and for the first time I beheld the great Scots lord himself. I half expected him to be wearing the tartan plaid in which he was invariably depicted in the public prints, but which in reality of course he never wore. He was followed by a crowd of sycophants and petitioners. I bowed and remained silent. He looked at me as if he wished to speak, but not knowing my name, after a brief pause turned and walked away. This was to be my only meeting with the man who was now our sole minister and dictator. Many, then and since, portrayed him as endangering our venerable constitution; but, looking back on the scene I now consider him a shy, uncertain man, torn between ambition and timidity. Mr Walpole thought him merely pompous and ridiculous.  

 

  Throughout this time, I had yet to open my mouth in the House of Commons, but I was now called upon to make my maiden speech! Parliament was to debate a Bill of the Duke of Bridgewater, enabling him to build a canal into Manchester from the docks he was constructing at Runcorn on the River Mersey. This was a subject concerning which I knew nothing; but Lord Teesdale, who had an interest in the project, requested that I should support the Bill and supplied me with information on what to say. I patiently studied this until I knew it by heart and hoped I could recite it as fluently and convincingly as Garrick on stage. 

   I was intensely nervous when the Speaker called me, and trembled as I rose to my feet, with a wild fear that I could not remember a single word of what I had intended to say; but once I had stumbled through my opening lines I grew increasingly confident. I not only praised the Duke’s plans, but, as Lord Teesdale had suggested, looked forward to a time when more and more similar schemes would be enacted, to the great advantage of all. My fellow-members were kind enough to listen to me patiently, and without interrupting.

  Following this, I was nominated to the committee considering the Bill in detail. There a mechanic by the name of Brindley, unlettered but a most ingenious fellow, appeared as a witness and drew chalk diagrams on the floor to explain the working of lock gates on the canal. The Bill was duly made law. Lord Teesdale thanked me for my support, and hinted that he would not be pressing for repayment of the debts I owed him from the election. He furthermore advised me to support any future canal projects. I found I was gaining the reputation of being a man knowledgeable in such matters. This might in truth have been wholly undeserved, but it enabled me to consider myself becoming a person of some importance.

 

  The “North Briton”, which Wilkes had recommended, now began to be published every Saturday, and was being read and discussed with great delight at Brown’s club. Everyone believed that Wilkes was the author, with help from Churchill and others. We all laughed at its satirical attacks on Lord Bute and his fellow-Scots, portraying them as Jacobites, agents of the French and supporters of arbitrary government. All this was much more to my taste than crude and obscene prints.

  The fame of the paper spread to all parts of the kingdom. I heard how back in Bereton Martin Clifford eagerly awaited each new issue, and even Ned Timmis knew of it, and pronounced its author “a true spokesman for English liberty”.  This astonished me, since I had presumed that, despite his many admirable qualities, Ned Timmis never read anything at all.

 

  I had not visited Bereton since the autumn, and even when the cold weather at last eased I remained in London. Sir James Wilbrahim never came to Parliament, and my exchanges of letters with Louisa became less frequent. I felt there was little I could tell her: I never mentioned Elizabeth Newstead, I felt an account of Lord Staines’s duel would alarm her, ministerial changes would scarcely be of interest, and her father would be unlikely to approve of my work on the Canal Bill. Louisa wrote of how she wished her father would have allowed her to help in relieving the distress caused by the cold weather.

   Then, in the spring, I received a letter from Mrs Timmis, the only one she had ever sent me, containing some unexpected information.

   “We had a gentleman visiting us here.” she wrote in a painstakingly neat and careful hand, “He said his name was Lord Staines and a friend of yours. I told him you were not expected here at any time. I showed him the house and offered him tea, but he declined this, saying he had pressing business nearby. Did I do right, sir?”

  I mentioned this letter to Elizabeth, jesting that I formed the impression that my good housekeeper did not approve of Lord Staines as a suitable friend for me, and how at times she was far too motherly in her protection of my interests. Elizabeth’s reaction was unexpected.

   “Your Mrs Timmis is a woman of good sense,” she said. “Why do you remain friends with Staines? His private life is scandalous and he has no loyalty to anyone: you may be sure that he mocks you behind your back.”

   I replied that I would forever be grateful to Staines, since without his help I would never have risen to my present position.

  “That may be true,” she replied, “but now you are a gentleman of some eminence you must choose your friends with care!” 

  

     Why Lord Staines should visit the Priory, out in the countryside that he had so openly despised in the past, and what his “pressing business” there might be, were mysteries yet to be resolved. Despite Elizabeth’s warnings, I would ask him next time we met.

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Chapter 18: Lord Staines in search of a wife 

   I resolved to ask Staines about the purpose of his visit to the Priory when next I saw him, but it was not until a week had passed that I found him seated in his usual place at Brown’s club. The story of his duel was now known throughout the town, and I had been careful not to mention his ungracious conduct afterwards. His courage was consequently praised on all sides, much to his gratification, and he was in good spirits.

    I remarked that it was unusual for him to have been out of London for so long, and that I had been most surprised to have learnt that he had recently visited my humble abode at Bearsclough.

   “And when I needed your company the most, you were not there!” he complained in mock annoyance. “I called at the Priory unannounced, but with every expectation of finding you at home, and I was seriously disappointed! There was no-one to receive me except your housekeeper, the large woman.”

   “Mrs Timmis.”

   “Ah, yes. She conducted me round the house.”

   I asked Staines what he thought of my home.

   “It is in a pleasant enough location,” he conceded, “but the house is old and most of the rooms are too small. It would be good enough, perhaps, for mere parish gentry, but not if you wish to play host to persons of quality. Now that you are a man of some importance, you must be better housed. I would pull it down and build a new home in the best Palladian style. The gardens too must be entirely swept away and replaced."

   I said I would consider this.

   He continued. “But since you were not at home, I continued on my way to meet Sir James Wilbrahim at Stanegate, where I ate the worst meal in the worst company that it has ever been my misfortune to encounter. Staines at Stanegate: what a jest that is!”

   Surprise prevented me from making any remark.

   “I found Wilbrahim, as I expected, to be a country bumpkin, quite beyond parody, and as for that Rector ….! That man is a lecher, if ever I saw one! His lust was open and unrestrained! He leered at Miss Wibrahim behind her back, and at the serving-wench to her face! How can old Wilbrahim have failed to notice? And the slatternly housekeeper is as ugly as a fat toad. Would you believe that, when she discovered I was the son of an Earl, I would swear that the ridiculous woman started to ogle me! As if I could bear to look at her for more than a second without vomiting, especially after the disgusting food! How even such a booby as Wilbrahim tolerates her I cannot imagine. Do you suppose that she might be his mistress? That would be too grotesque even for one of Wycherley’s comedies, would it not?” 

   “But whatever were you doing there, Staines?” I asked, interrupting the flow. Amusing though Staines might be, I felt a slight unease.

   “Ah, there you have it. The excuse for my visit was that my father is intending to purchase some of Sir James’s land.”

   “But surely Jarrett could have dealt with that?”

   “Of course.”

     I could see that Lord Staines was reluctant to reveal more, so I assured him that he could absolutely rely on me, as a gentleman and a friend, not to betray a confidence.

   “Well then. Not that it matters; I imagine that nothing remains secret for long in those rustic villages. My father has determined that I should be married, and the bride he has selected for that privilege is the daughter of Sir James Wilbrahim”.

   Again, I was too astonished to make any comment.

   “I need not tell you that I would regard any marriage with the deepest repugnance,” he continued, “But you are well acquainted with my father, and you must surely also be aware of the footing on which I stand as regards to him. I have large debts. And he has now told me, in the plainest terms, that I must accede to his commands on the issue of this marriage, or he will immediately cut off all funds and evict me from my dwelling! He added some vile comments concerning my choice of servants. What would my friends think of me, to be treated like an errant schoolboy trembling before the head master’s birch! But I am scarcely in a position to defy my father’s wishes, even on a matter that goes so much against my inclinations as to be forced to marry this child!”

  My most immediate thought was that many men would be delighted to take Miss Louisa Wilbrahim as a bride. “She is still very young,” I ventured, trying to conceal my confusion, “but she is pretty, she sings well, and her character is friendly and agreeable.”

   “Yes; she is the pattern of all feminine virtues, or so I am told. That is what my mother has learned from you, it would appear. Maybe my dear mother believes she could reform my conduct.” He broke off to give a sarcastic laugh. “But whatever praises you and my mother may heap on her, she is only an insipid country girl who has never left her home village and knows nothing of London, nothing of polite society. She has never attended a theatre, the only songs she knows are old country airs, and her clothes are such as her grandmother might have worn. How could I live with her, even for a single day? How could I introduce her to my friends?  But to my father she is an heiress to wide lands adjacent to ours, and he thinks mostly of that; though of course he also considers it my duty to beget a son and heir, in order that the family title and wealth should remain in the male line. You have met my stupid sister and her equally stupid husband, of course? They are well suited to each other. How my father ever consented to that absurd marriage I shall never know! I can at least comprehend why he does not wish them to inherit Maybury!”

   He gave another short ironical laugh, then suddenly he grabbed my arm and exclaimed, “My father compels me to chain myself into this ridiculous connexion with the Wilbrahims, and all for the sake of a few acres of land! He only considers his own interest! He never considers mine! He has never loved me! When my brother died, I knew he wished that it could have been me who died instead!” There was anguish in his voice, and he gazed into my eyes with an expression of great pain and distress.

   This was so unlike his normal behaviour that I was greatly startled. He continued to hold my arm tightly and look at me unblinking. To conceal my confusion, I asked him what would happen now. It was not long before he recovered.

   “We did not, of course, discuss the marriage in the girl’s presence. She herself scarcely opened her mouth at the dinner table, and appeared in awe of me. I contrived to speak a few polite and respectful words with her in the library afterwards. Now my father will be writing to Wilbrahim on my behalf, requesting his daughter’s hand in marriage to me. No doubt he will expect a substantial dowry. I too will write to Wilbrahim, and will also write privately to Miss Wilbrahim, expressing my undying love for her – or rather, my mother will compose a letter suitable for a young maiden to receive, and I shall copy it out.

  “All may yet turn out well. Perhaps my father will change his mind and find another bride for me. Or if I am obliged to marry the girl, when I have fulfilled my duty of begetting a son and heir I can leave wife and child in the care of my mother and once again live my own life. But in the meantime I must request your help.”

   “My help?”

   “Yes. I sensed that the girl was somewhat in awe of me, and her father was suspicious. You know the family well. You can speak to old Wilbrahim and to his daughter, praising my virtues. Between us, we can at least convince my father that I am exerting myself to carry out his wishes, and he will then extend my credit a little further. Besides, I hold you partially responsible for my troubles, since you praised Miss Wilbrahim fulsomely to my dear mother! So you will do this for me?”

 

   When I reflected on this conversation, I realised that, however fond I was of Louisa, I had not seriously thought of her as being anyone’s wife. But what should I do now? I remembered Elizabeth Newstead’s warning that Sir James must soon find a husband for his daughter, lest she fall prey to the guiles of some plausible fortune-hunter. I had found Staines’s manner disgusting, though I had had not told him so; and I doubted whether he was capable of loving any woman, with the possible exception of his mother the Countess; but I thought he would be unlikely to ill-treat Louisa in any way beyond simply ignoring her. He should have no fears of introducing Louisa to his friends, for those whom I knew best; Robertson, Darnwell, even George Davies; would quickly be won over by her sweetness and charm. Louisa herself would be thrilled by the prospect of the marriage, for she could then fulfil her dream of attending  theatres and concerts in London; and in time she would herself become a Countess, the very pinnacle of society, received at court by His Majesty himself! And who knows: perhaps the Countess could be right, and Louisa might in the end effect a reformation of her husband’s character!

   But what of Sir James Wilbrahim? How would he respond to a marriage proposal for his daughter? He surely hated and despised Lord Teesdale and his family! 

   I was so perplexed that in the end I took no action of any kind whilst we awaited Sir James’s response. I would have to make up my mind before I next visited Bereton, but until then there was no-one I could turn to for advice, for I had promised not to reveal Staines’s secret to anyone.

 

   It was a relief from my dilemma to meet John Wilkes again. I told him how much I had enjoyed reading his paper, the “North Briton”; at which, however, he shook his head and denied all knowledge of the authorship. I could not resist then turning the conversation to the Hell-fire Club and its meetings at Sir Francis Dashwood’s home at West Wycombe. I had heard said that guests dressed up as monks and held blasphemous rituals.

                                                    (An attack on Sir Francis Dashwood)

   Wilkes laughed, and replied that the report was true only in part. “Friends did gather there, for West Wycombe is a fine house with the most charming grounds. Sir Francis is a whimsical man, and it amuses him to adopt the habit of a Franciscan friar, and to dress his friends in similar garb, with vising maidens playing the part of nuns. But I can assure you that the gods worshipped by the brethren are Venus and Bacchus rather than Beelzebub. And indeed Athene is worshipped too, for many of the brethren are true cognoscenti: they have visited Italy (a privilege sadly denied to you and me) and returned laden with paintings by the old masters and broken carvings from antiquity – or so they were assured by those offering such items for sale. Sir Francis himself once ventured as far as Russia, where by his own account he essayed to impersonate the King of Sweden in order to seduce the Tsarina; though not, I understand, with any success.

    “A young man of your happy and open nature would greatly enjoy a visit there. I understand you have had the honour to replace the esteemed Mr Elijah Bailey as representative for Bereton?”

   I replied that that this was correct, though I had never met Mr Bailey.

   “Ah, that is a pity, because Bailey, despite age, his Puritan ancestry and his extreme corpulence, did visit West Wycombe, and I am sure he would have been most pleased to introduce you to the fraternity. I well recall one delightful occasion when he attempted to participate in the revelries but found that his ardour was dimmed in body if not in spirit. Having an assignation with a certain young lady but finding his fires had burnt low, he endeavoured to avoid the conjuncture by exclaiming, ‘Oh, if I had you alone in a wood!’ to which the fair maid replied, ‘Why, what would you do there that you can’t do here? Rob me?’ I fear his attempts to become a figure of importance in the House of Commons were no more successful. But many gentlemen who are now prominent in the ministry were also visitors, including our great Scotch dictator himself.”

   Wilkes smiled as he contemplated his memories, but then continued, in a more serious mood,

   “I would still wish to count Sir Francis a friend, but he has committed himself to the party of Lord Bute and arbitrary government, and has been rewarded with the post of Chancellor of the Exchequer! He, a man who was wholly unacquainted with any finance above the settling of a tavern bill! He told us on his appointment that he would be the worst Chancellor in our history, and he has been as good as his word.

   “But this is no matter for a jest. No, sir: I sincerely believe that under the present ministry our laws and our liberties are threatened, and for Sir Francis to acquiesce in this I see as a sad betrayal, not just of us, his friends, but of our entire country. I am deeply disappointed with his conduct.

   “Furthermore,” he added, “If he, or Bute, or any others of that crew dare to attack me, I shall not hesitate to publish stories in detail of their misdeeds at the Hell-fire Club, and the public, I am certain, will fully believe everything I have to tell!”  

   That, as the world was to find out later, was to prove no idle threat. Within a few years the whole kingdom was laughing at accounts of the supposed conduct at the home of Sir Francis Dashwood of the lords and gentlemen now prominent in public life. Even worse things, it was hinted, took place in the caves under the nearby hill. Lord Sandwich, an ally of Bute, was described celebrating a Satanic parody of the popish Mass. As Wilkes had predicted, these tales were believed by all, and greatly enjoyed.

   

   Although I never saw West Wycombe, not long afterwards I was able to visit another of Sir Francis Dashwood’s properties at Medmenham Abbey; a delightful situation on the bank of the Thames near the town of Marlowe. Mr Wilkes was not present, and I was taken there by none other than Sir Headley Graham, Lord Staines’s despised brother-in-law, following a conversation in the lobby at Westminster. He had treated me with disdain when we first met at Maybury, but I did not remind him of that. Perhaps he had genuinely forgotten it.

  The proceedings there were, as Wilkes had said, whimsical; for we all dressed in the habits of monks and took appropriate names. I was transformed into a Black-friar, and was styled “Brother Dominic”. The convention was that we should pretend we did not recognise any of the other brothers, even when they were well-known nobles and gentlemen. Sir Francis himself wore a Grey-friar’s garb. Fine wine and viands were in profusion, and there was much discussion of art and other matters: the merits of Claude and Poussin were compared, and also the newly-discovered Roman copies of the work of the great Athenian sculptors, Phidias, Praxiteles and Lysippus. Graham was loud in his opinions, but I quickly came to the conclusion that the others regarded him as a buffoon.

   Girls appeared, all dressed as nuns, and it was clear that they had not been brought for the discussion of fine art. Graham was very ardent in his pursuit of them, grabbing one and taking her into the bushes and then very soon afterwards returning to find another. Some of them affected to flee from him, laughing, but did not run very fast. I dallied with a pretty little wench who called herself Sister Antonia, who wore a white Augustinian habit with, I soon discovered, absolutely nothing underneath it. Her voice indicated that she was from London, and she was utterly wanton in her behaviour.

   The nearest approach to blasphemy I observed was the spectacle of our host reverencing a small picture of Aphrodite with great and ostentatious piety as if it was a holy relic, and then quaffing a draught from an antique bejewelled chalice as a parody of Romish practices. In the chapel, instead of an altar, there was a splendid statue of the Three Graces in all their naked beauty; a copy, I supposed, of a Greek or Roman original. In front of this an older brother in the garb of an abbot, who might have been Lord Sandwich, solemnly forgave us our sins before we departed.

  Sister Antonia and I had been guilty only of sins of the flesh. After this delightful day in her company, I never saw her again. I hope her later life was a happy one. I guessed she was probably an apprentice milliner or mantua-maker, and had come to Medmenham, surely not for the first time, to escape briefly from her ill-paid servitude; and who could blame her? Although stern moralists might be inclined to denounce her conduct, I would not do so. I had rewarded her generously, and my only regret was that I had not given her more. As we returned to London in Graham’s coach, I reflected that the way of life Antonia had chosen was surely in every way preferable to the prospects of the ragged little brat I had confronted when I was robbed at Danielle’s lodgings. If that child were to find herself selected for a visit to Medmenham, she should consider herself fortunate, for otherwise her only prospects would have been either starvation or the coach to the Tyburn gallows. Later, my views on such matters were to change entirely, as will be seen.  

                                                       (Medmenham Abbey today)

   While the peace talks were being held in Paris, at home there was much discussion of what effect the new victories over Spain should have on the negotiations. Should we raise our demands, or indeed wait until our foes came begging to us? I found my friends were divided: Lord Staines continued to be open in his hostility to Pitt, and Robertson favoured making concessions in order to bring an end to the war, whilst Darnwell was strongly for the nation upping its demands. Mr Braithwaite wanted an immediate peace, and I was certain that Sir James Wilbrahim would have agreed. Sir Anthony Pardington was waiting for the Duke of Newcastle to provide a lead for his followers, but sadly observed that none was as yet forthcoming.

   Mr Walpole affected to despise all the main players in the drama, with the possible exception of Pitt. He naturally approached the question from his own satirical nature. Meeting me one afternoon, he asked, “Have you heard the delightful story of how the old Duke asked the King how the negotiations were progressing? Our respected young monarch replied that they were progressing very well, especially in the Americas, for the French had agreed to dismantle all their forts on the Mississippi – or, as the Duke later explained to his friends, “I believe the Mississippi was meant: His Majesty was pleased to say the Ganges, but I think he mistook the Ganges for the other river.”

    “Such is the quality of the men who control our destinies!” Walpole concluded, shaking his head in mock sorrow.

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Chapter 19: Of fireworks and and a cricket match.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  

                                            (18th century fireworks)

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “But what now, Staines?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

********************************************************************

  Chapter 20: Matters of state are interrupted by a puzzling mystery

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  

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

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

                                   (Christ Church Spitalfields: a Hawksmoor church) 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   “What? Impossible!”

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

   He leaned across the table to me. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

************************************************************

  Chapter 21: A chapter of misfortunes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                         (John Stuart, Earl of Bute)

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

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

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

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

  

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

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

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

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

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

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

   I held my breath. How much did he know?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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