Chapters 22-29

  Chapter 22: Louisa vanishes

I found little joy at the Priory when I returned home, for fever was raging in Bereton: many people were lying sick and a some had died. Our village of Bearsclough had so far been spared the disease, but we lived in fear and kept ourselves to ourselves as best we could. From Stanegate there was no news. While we waited for better times there was work to be done on the farms, spring was almost upon us.

   One day I was seated in my library, studying my account-books and sketching plans for a hothouse which I contemplated building in the kitchen garden, when I heard shouting outside. To my astonishment Sir James Wilbrahim forced his way in, brushing aside the restraining hands of a servant. It was the first time he had set foot in the Priory since the disastrous dinner-party. He was in a paroxysm of rage.

   “Where is she, you villain? Where have you hidden her?” he bellowed. Mrs Highsmith, who had been sorting through some papers, uttered a shriek of fear and fled from the room. I rose to my feet and enquired, with as much calmness as I could muster, what the devil he was talking about.

   “I’m talking about Louisa! Louisa!” he shouted; his face within an inch or two of mine. “I come back home from a week away, and I find she’s gone! All the servants are sick in bed and no-one can tell me anything! I know you’ve been writing to her, and so has that fool Staines, for I’ve found the letters; but she’s always preferred you to him, though you are both equal scoundrels, trying to steal her affection! And she worth more than both of you put together! So produce her this instant, before I kill you as you deserve!” 

  All attempts to calm him, and to assure him that his daughter was not in the house, served only to increase his rage yet further. He raised his stick and I verily believe he would have attacked me then and there, had not Mrs Timmis, who had entered the room during this outburst, come to my rescue.

   “Begging your pardon, sir,” she began, politely but fearlessly, “I can see your honour’s upset, as any father would be, but I’ll not have anyone come to the master’s home and accuse him of abducting Miss Wilbrahim, for she’s not here, nor has she ever been. I can tell you where she is: for she’s gone off to London, sir, the day before yesterday!”

   “What! Run away to London, you say? Nonsense! Lies! Impossible!”

   “No, with respect, your honour, it’s not lies; for my brother Ned, he saw her board the coach, sir. He thought you must know.”

   A servant was promptly despatched to find Ned Timmis for confirmation of this alarming news. An age then seemed to pass, during which Sir James paced to and fro, scarlet-faced, growling and muttering to himself until I feared he might explode. He scornfully rejected Mrs Timmis’s offer of tea, but eventually agreed to accept a large glass of brandy, which seemed to mollify him somewhat, and he sat down to continue his muttering. He might not have believed anything I said, but no-one ever doubted the word of my redoubtable housekeeper.

   Sir James became increasingly impatient while we waited. Having swallowed his brandy he demanded another rose to his feet once more, denouncing to the world at large the iniquity of the times.

   “I gave orders that while I was away, Miss Louisa was on no account to leave the house except in the company of Mr Bunbridge. But now, I go away for just a few days, and when I return she’s vanished! Disappeared! None of the servants can account for it, and Bunbridge isn’t at home! Where is she?”

    It was at this stage that Ned Timmis appeared, with the mud of the fields still on his boots, and was instructed by his sister to give his account.

   “Well, your honour, sir,” he began uncertainly, for he could tell something had gone seriously wrong. His face was very red and he twisted his hat in his massive hands as he spoke, as he always did when unsure of himself, “This was the manner of it. It was Tuesday and I was in Mulchester for the market, seeing farmer Brayford concerning the purchase of some swine, three breeding sows and a young boar it was, and that being done we fancied supping an ale or two at the White Rose tavern, so we made our way to the square, and there was the London coach about to depart, and on the other side what should I see but Mr Bunbridge’s trap; the Rector himself, he wasn’t there, but I recognised his horse, for it’s one that I did find for him some years back, and a hard bargain he struck for it. And there in the trap sat Miss Wilbrahim, all on her own! I hadn’t spoke to her, she being above my station, since the days long past when she did visit the Priory here and I showed her the farms, and I was surprised that she did remember me, but she calls out. ‘Now then Ned Timmis! There’s not a moment to be lost! Pray take up my box and follow me to the London coach before it leaves! I must be on it!’  ‘Why, Miss Wilbrahim, what be you off to London for?’ I asks her. ‘I’m off to see someone’, she tells me, ‘But I haven’t the time to tell you now: be quick, or I’ll miss it!’ And so I did as she told me, and I picked up the box and carried it, not that it felt like there was too much in it, and helped her board the coach and straightway it departed with her on it. And then Mr Bunbridge returned and found that she’d gone; and he wasn’t half surprised! And I’d thought he must have known about her plans, or she wouldn’t have been in his trap, but it seemed he didn’t know nothing about it! And he didn’t ask me what I’d seen and done, for it was like he never noticed I was there, so I didn’t say nowt.

   “And then Mr Bunbridge, he found no-one wouldn’t answer his questions as to where she’d gone. Now, your honour likely knows how it is in Mulchester, sir: the folks there is all Dissenters, and they started to laugh at Mr Bunbridge in his parson’s gown getting all angry and shouting, and of course they didn’t know as how it was Miss Wilbrahim as had disappeared, sir, and he didn’t tell them, and one of them says they all knows about him and the young lassies and that now one of ‘em had escaped him and run off to find a younger man – I’m sorry to be having to tell your honour such stories, sir; but I’m only repeating what they was saying – and that naturally made Mr Bunbridge even angrier, and people laughed at him even more, and while all this was going on I left to go about my own business, and that’s how things stand. Did I do wrong, sir?”

  Sir James had become increasingly impatient with this roundabout way of telling a simple story, and eventually spluttered, “And why do you imagine she wanted to travel to London unaccompanied?”  

   “Well now, sir, I did think it was strange that she should be off to London on her own, but I thought it must have been with your honour’s permission; and I didn’t feel it was my place to question her, so I didn’t.”

   Sir James, in impotent rage, cursed him roundly for his stupidity. The recipient of this abuse, after standing around in awkward silence for a brief while, bowed hastily and retreated with relief back to his husbandry. Sir James continued to growl, but now appeared at a loss as to what to do, merely exclaiming to all and sundry that even if I was not directly responsible for his daughter’s flight, it was nonetheless all the fault of “Those damned books you’ve been sending her, putting ridiculous ideas into her silly head!” Then, suddenly, my worst fears were confirmed as he clutched at his chest and collapsed into a chair, wheezing and gasping for breath. His face, but lately red, was now a ghastly white and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. Mrs Timmis, thinking this must be the onset of the fever, or worse, rushed to his assistance, serving him more brandy and mopping his forehead with cold water. This seemed to bring some relief, but all he was able to do was to keep muttering weakly, “What’s to be done? What’s to be done?”

  I felt a sudden pity for the poor old man, and decided that with Sir James plainly unfit to travel, the responsibility of finding his daughter devolved upon me. If Louisa had indeed departed for London, it was now my duty to set out immediately and find her. I ordered my riding-habit to be brought and Alexander to be saddled up and made ready without delay, whilst I snatched some food and collected whatever money was to hand. Mrs Timmis did her best to dissuade me from such a precipitate action, but I overruled her and told her to arrange for my carriage to drive Sir James home to Stanegate. While these preparations were under way, I could not help but be amused by how slyly Ned Timmis had contrived to cast slurs on the character of Mr Bunbridge.

   When all was ready, I took Sir James’s hand. “Do not worry, sir!” I told him, “I shall bring your daughter back safe and sound, I promise you!” He smiled weakly at me, and his grip on my hand was without its normal strength. Mrs Timmis continued to look disapproving, but contented herself with fussing around Sir James; and in a little more than an hour I departed on my journey. As I travelled, I pondered what could have caused Louisa to resolve so precipitately to fly to London. Was her father correct in blaming it on the books or the letters she had received? Although she was young and without knowledge of the world, she was surely not silly enough to confuse romantic stories with reality. Did she hope to meet Lord Staines, who had been writing to her? Or was it to meet me? If so, I bore a great responsibility to return her safely home!

   

   I rode past Bereton and through Mulchester on the old road. Despite the urgency of my mission, I forced myself not to travel too fast, for I dared not exhaust Alexander too early if I intended to reach London the next day. A few miles beyond Mulchester I came to an inn called the Hollybush, and recollected with surprise that this was the very establishment where we had been obliged to break our journey after the accident with the stage-coach on my first journey to my new home. How long ago that now seemed! I remembered it as a low and dirty place, but my horse was by now in need of rest and water, and I too was tired and hungry, so I halted there.

   The landlord was a rascally-looking man. He had no teeth, his nose was broken and his forehead bore many old scars, which made me wonder if he had once been a prize-fighter. His waiter, by contrast, was as thin as a lath. There were a few idle fellows lounging about, who regarded me with sullen suspicion. I ordered that my horse be watered, and bread and bacon for myself. The beer was sour and the victuals poor, and took far longer to serve than I would have expected for such fare. While I was eating the loungers continued to stare at me. I ignored them, and rode onwards directly I was able.

   I was now travelling through wooded countryside where few people lived. Suddenly round a corner a masked man on a chestnut horse appeared. Coming close on my left side, he raised a pistol at my head, while at the same moment a confederate on foot appeared on either side of my horse and seized the reins.

   My assailant was dressed in a dark brown coat and high boots. I could see little of his face, for a black tricorn hat pulled low over his forehead and below this he wore a mask. I recalled the fears expressed by the ladies on my first journey northwards of the notorious highwayman known as Black George. There could be little doubt that this was him.

   He demanded that I instantly surrender my valuables. This was the most perilous moment of my life. My heart was beating like a drum, yet time seemed to stand still. What was I to do? A wrong move, and in an instant I might be dead, and my body stripped and left in a ditch. I thought of our soldiers and sailors who looked death in the eyes in all corners of the world, and of Lord Staines’s imperturbable coolness as he faced the pistol of John Wilkes. But here it was not only my life, but perhaps Louisa’s too, that hung by the slenderest thread, should I fail in my mission to find her.

   Somehow, I found a slight encouragement in the highwayman’s voice, for it had a note of merriment in it, as if he regarded thieving as a jest. I did not think he intended to kill me. He had the voice of a gentleman, and his horse, I noticed, was no mere farmer’s beast but a magnificent stallion, impeccably groomed. Black George was clearly no common robber. 

   Trembling inwardly but steeling myself not to show fear, I produced my purse, but held it just out of his reach. “I think you could at least tell me your name, sir”, I said, trying to keep my voice nonchalant and unconcerned, though I was scarcely aware of what I was saying. “Am I to assume that I am addressing the famous Black George?”

   He laughed, for he knew that in my heart I was frightened. “My name? People indeed sometimes call me Black George, but others might perhaps honour me with the title of King George; for although George of Hanover may sit enthroned in London, I am sovereign in the forests south of Mulchester! My authority is acknowledged by all the villagers around here, and I reward their loyalty with a share in the customs duties that I levy on the travellers who pass through my realm. Coachmen, if they are wise, pay me a regular sum in advance, and thereby hope to be left to complete their journeys undisturbed, though sometimes I stop them anyway, just to remind them to be prompt in their payments. Now, I think, is the time for you to make your contribution to my kingdom’s revenue!”

   He reached out his left hand for the purse. I saw that the hand bore a long scar on the back, running down through the wrist, and that the middle finger had been broken and stuck out in a peculiar fashion. I resolved, as far as I could, to treat the occasion with amusement. Also, I thought, the longer I could contrive to keep him talking, the better, especially if I could interest or entertain him.

   “Well, Black George, or King George if you prefer: since I perceive you are a gentleman, I make this appeal to you”, I replied, “Although I am not one of your subjects by residence, I am at least a neighbour, for my name is Charles Huntingdon, of the Priory, over at Bearsclough. As such, I freely acknowledge your sovereignty over these woods, and I am prepared to give you my money, and my watch too. ‘Who steals my purse, steals trash’, as the poet says. But I must beg you to leave me a few guineas, and also my horse to enable me to complete my journey, for I am on an errand to rescue a young lady, a mere child, whom I fear might be in great danger. Surely you, as a man of honour, will not hinder me in this task?” I was speaking much slower and keeping my voice low, for I now knew who I was: I was the great David Garrick on stage, playing the part of a carefree young gentleman; and I was trying to submerge myself entirely in the role, though I would have hoped that Garrick would have provided himself with a better play-script. Looking back, I can see how false I must have sounded, and am amazed that he did not shoot me on the spot. But his reply was just as artificial, and suggested he was acting a part too, and one in which he was amused that I saw fit to cast him as a highway robber who was nonetheless a gentleman. Garrick might have rated Black George’s acting better than mine.

   “Indeed? A fine story! And pray, who might this young maiden in distress be?” he enquired, obviously not believing a word of it.

   “Her name is Miss Louisa Wilbrahim, sir, and she is the daughter of Sir James Wilbrahim of Stanegate Hall, near Bereton. She has run away to London, and I must find her before she comes to harm”.

   “Has she, by gad!” he exclaimed, and laughed again. “Then the girl has more spirit than I would have thought! I esteemed her a feeble little thing!”

   “Do you know Sir James then?” I asked, my actor’s mask briefly slipping in my astonishment.

   His foot-soldiers protested, “Take his stuff and his horse and let’s get going! Someone might come by at any moment!”

   “Be quiet, Tom!” Black George ordered, and then said to me, “What, old Wilbrahim? I know all about him! Particularly I know who supplies his wine and brandy, and where it’s stored! And an excellent customer he is too! I might add that the smugglers also are expected to pay their tolls when they pass through my lands. Now hand over your purse and watch immediately!”

   Still withholding my purse, I asked, “I suppose the innkeeper sent you a message that I was on the road?”

   “Old Jacob at the Hollybush? Why, he is the most honest man you could ever hope to meet! Him in league with me?” Once more he laughed, enjoying this banter.

   Tom continued to grumble at the delay, and was right to do so; for at that instant there was a loud halloo from behind me, and there was Ned Timmis spurring his horse at a gallop along the road towards us, closely followed by two others!  Black George appeared uncertain which way to turn, and in that moment I was able to strike his right hand a blow with my riding-whip. The pistol discharged harmlessly into the ground. I struck again with all my force and smote the weapon from his grasp, at which he cursed, spurred his horse and fled the scene. Tom, no doubt directing his own curses at his master, disappeared into the bushes beside the road, and I was left with my rescuers, all of us panting; them from exertion, me from relief. I told them how I would be eternally grateful to them for my rescue, but asked how it came to be that that they had appeared at that moment.

   “Well sir, it’s like this”, Ned replied, a little short of breath after his gallop, “After my talk with Squire Wilbrahim, I was out in the fields, for I knew some of our sheep wasn’t in good health…”

   I anticipated a discourse on diseases of sheep, but on this occasion Timmis was able quickly to return to the point of his narrative.

   “… but a boy comes running with a message that my sister wants to see me straight away. And there I finds her in a right tizzy, and she says, now listen here, our Ned; the master’s gone charging off to London to find Miss Wilbrahim; so you saddle the best horse and go after him sharpish and make sure he don’t get into no trouble: you know it’s bad country out beyond Mulchester. Oh, and take a couple of good strong lads with you in case there’s any roughness. And so I called up Harry and Arthur here, and so it turned out, and so here I am!”

   I told him of my suspicions that the landlord at the Hollybush might have passed the word to the highwayman that I was on the road. Timmis shook his head, but not in disagreement.

   “Oh, you don’t want to have nowt to do with him, sir; everyone in these parts knows he’s a bad ‘un. Black George, he robs the travellers, and old Jacob there, he sells the goods on. How the two of ‘em have ‘scaped hanging; that’s a mystery!”

   He then turned to look down the road where the highwayman had disappeared.

   “That’s a fine horse he had there,” he commented. “A proper gentleman’s horse. Chestnut, with four white socks. Wonder where he got him. Stolen, I don’t doubt, but not from around here, or the rightful owner and his friends would recognise him.”   

   I interrupted his musings to ask, “And now will you now come with me to London?”

   “No, that I will not, sir; for I have much work to do on the farm; and to speak truth, sir, I have never seen a town larger than Mulchester, nor do I desire ever to do so. This country I know well, and it supplies me with all my needs and wants. No sir, I shall ride with you to the next town, then I shall return home. I’ll keep a lookout for that horse, though; I’d know it anywhere!”  

   He would not be swayed in this determination, though one of the lads looked a trifle disappointed. The other one had dismounted and retrieved the highwayman’s pistol, which he now presented to me. It was a fine-looking weapon, chased with silver, but rather heavy.

   “You had better take this, Ned,” I said, “for I shall have no use for it in London.”

   “’Tis a fine weapon to be sure,” he replied, “But it’s not for the likes of me, for I should be in sore trouble should I be found with it: perhaps it might be thought that I was the robber! But I’ll take it and hide it safe till your honour returns; which God willing you will, and bringing Miss Wilbrahim home with you!”

   And so we parted, with the most profuse thanks on my part, together with some money to buy food and drink for his lads, and the promise of more when I returned.

  When I later recounted the story of my adventure to my London friends, they were greatly entertained, but looking back on it, I tremble to reflect how close I must have been to losing my life.

 

   The rest of my journey passed free of incident, but also fruitlessly. The weather was often cold and my anxiety remained constant. At every major staging inn I passed, I asked the question; did the London stage stop there? Was there among the passengers a young lady, unaccompanied, fitting the description I gave? Some could tell me nothing, others appeared uncertain. I had to assume that Louisa had reached London. But what might have become of her there? I rode on. I passed a night on the road, but was unable to sleep much.

   When I eventually came to my lodgings it was late in the evening. I had cherished a last hope had been that I might find Louisa there, if she had remembered the address from my letters, but this was now dashed: she had not been seen. Alexander was exhausted, but my landlord very kindly offered to deliver him to the care of a cousin, who was employed ata livery stable not far away. I could do no more that day, and collapsed into bed. I would have to resume my search tomorrow.

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  Chapter 23: Mother Rawton

   It was a morning of gloom and rain, reflecting my mood. After first visiting the stables to ensure that my long-suffering horse Alexander was receiving proper attention, I proceeded to the White Horse tavern where the Mulchester coach ended its journey, there to begin my search for Louisa.

   But I did not learn anything. I described Louisa to the landlord of the inn; not tall, with blue eyes, a clear skin and fair hair; but he shook his head, informing me that so many single young girls came to London seeking employment that he and his servants had no memories of any of them in particular. He appeared reluctant to answer my questions any further.

   I then walked to Lord Staines’s house. I had never foot there, but I knew where it lay: there was a slight chance that Louisa might have found her way there, or at least I could explain her peril to Staines and enlist his help.

   The door was opened, not by some dignified major-domo, but by a strange young personage with a painted face, dressed in what appeared to be Turkish costume. He regarded me with deep suspicion in his dark eyes, but became quite affable when I informed him that I was a friend of Lord Staines, and addressed me more in the manner of an equal than that of a servant. He regretfully informed me, however, that his lordship was not in town, nor was he expected to return for several days, for he was visiting a friend in Kent. My question as to whether a young lady had called at the house recently caused him not only to deny any such event but to raise his plucked eyebrows at its sheer improbability of any such event. His lordship, he gave me to understand, was not accustomed to receiving visits from young ladies at any time. He appeared positively shocked at the very idea. I did not mention Louisa by name. He then smiled at me and invited me into the house for refreshment.  Since there was nothing more to be learned there I declined the offer brusquely, turned on my heel and departed, which seemed to disappoint him.  I remembered Lord Teesdale’s denunciations of his son’s companions, and was inclined to sympathise with his lordship.

    I had made no progress in my searches, and I was close to despair. What if Louisa was no longer alive? I had appalling visions that she had been murdered by some footpad and her body, stripped of its valuable clothing, flung into the river. It would surely be the death of Sir James when he heard such dreadful news. There seemed to be no-one I could turn to: my closest friends were all out of town and Elizabeth Newstead, even if I had still been on speaking terms with her, could not have helped beyond expressions of sympathy. It was in desperation that I at last resolved to seek out John Wilkes as a last forlorn hope.

  I hastened round to his house in Great George Street, where I found him hard at work, no doubt producing what would be the next issue of the “North Briton”. He continued to work while I described my fears, explaining how the daughter of my neighbour had run away to London and disappeared. In response to my desperate entreaties for help, he pointed to Charles Churchill, who was seated nearby cradling an immense pot of ale and said, “That idle fellow has not contributed a word all this week, and now he is merely drinking my beer, under the pretence that he is composing a ballad; so he might as well stir himself and go forth to do something useful!”  Accordingly it was Churchill who set out to make enquiries, beginning at the White Horse coaching inn. “Good beer there!” added Wilkes as an encouragement, “But don’t pass all your time drinking it!” I was, with great reluctance, persuaded to remain behind, since Churchill was well-known throughout the town, and could ask questions without rousing too many suspicions.

   I became more and more agitated while I awaited his return. My mind was full of the darkest of fears of what fate might have befallen Louisa, and I ran through the horrid details endlessly. Each minute that passed seemed an hour, each hour a year. I began to pace backwards and forwards, muttering to myself. Wilkes, irritated by my constant activity and busy with his writing, first gave me some gin and water in an attempt to calm me down, and then suggested I should take the air outside for a change. Neither of these remedies having cured my anxiety, he finally abandoned the struggle and suggested I sit down and recount to him the full story of what had occurred.   I found it a useful distraction to describe my meeting with Black George, where Wilkes approved of my conduct. He was vastly amused by my encounter with Lord Staines’s servant, and by the thought that Staines should act so contrary to his nature as to write passionate letters to any girl. At length Churchill returned and made his report. 

   “At the White Horse I found an old decayed wretch called Richard Wainwright who frequents the place”, he told us, “After I supplied him with a quantity of spirits, he was persuaded to inform me that a young girl, clean and neatly dressed, and answering to the description of Miss Wilbrahim, had indeed arrived by coach a few days ago, and was met and conducted away by Mother Rawton”.

   The name meant nothing to me, but Wilkes drew in his breath in a hiss and shook his head sadly. Churchill continued, “He then pointed out to me a little imp of mischief lurking nearby, whom he said was employed by that personage. I collared this piece of Newgate-fodder, and by means of the promise of a shilling, combined with threat of a beating, I induced him to tell me the truth. He confirmed that the girl had said her name was Louisa, and that he had carried her box to Rawton’s residence off Drury Lane. He had then been despatched on the pretence of calling on Lord Staines, but was told to report that his lordship was not at home; and that this task he had carried out. Where the girl might be now he did not know, for he was never allowed up the stairs. I paid the imp his shilling, but instructed him, with more threats and inducements, never to breathe a word of this conversation to anyone”.

   There was an ominous silence. “Who is Mother Rawton?” I asked, “And why could the landlord of the White Horse not have told me this?”

   “She is the worst bawd in London!” Wilkes informed me, “She befriends young girls coming up from the country in search of work and attempts to gain their confidence. She then takes them into her brothel, or sells them on to gentlemen who are her friends and patrons. I fear this may have been the fate intended for your Louisa. And as for the landlord: he would have known about her activities for many years past, but doubtless he is well paid for holding his tongue.”

   I was smitten with horror.

                                    (A scene from the "Harlot's Progress" series by Hogarth)

   “But, please, let us rescue her if we can!” I cried, as soon as I was able to speak, “Or at least find out where she is now. Perhaps this Rawton woman is still holding her. We must search there immediately!” A law-abiding man would have taken the case before the magistrates, but this could hardly be done without revealing Louisa’s story: I was most anxious to avoid this, and my companions agreed that privacy was essential.

    Wilkes pondered. “Let us ask Mr Boswell”, he said at last, “That young Scotch rogue knows every whore and every brothel in the town! He lodges in Pall Mall. Well, it appears I must drop everything to help you. Let us seek him forthwith. There is not a day, not an hour, to be lost!”

   An enquiry to Mr Boswell’s landlady led us to finding him strolling in the Horse Guards Parade. He readily accepted our request to join us at a tavern. In answer to our queries, he told us:

 “I know a girl at the Rawton place. Her name is Sally: she is a pretty girl, and clean, though utterly wanton and abandoned in her conduct.”

   “She won’t be clean for long, if she lies with you!” Churchill exclaimed. He turned to me and confided, “Did you know that he once had a whore on Westminster Bridge? And he not only admits it, he boasts of it!” Boswell ignored him.

   Wilkes now suggested a plan of campaign, and instructed Boswell as to what part he should play. He suggested that my identity should remain concealed, and that I should go under the name of Mr Hartshorne. I was filled with apprehension as to what we might discover, but my companions appeared to relish the prospect of the adventure on which we were about to embark.

 

   It was only after night had fallen that the four of us knocked at the door of the celebrated bagnio. It was opened by a ruffian who recognised Boswell, but regarded the rest of us with suspicion and demanded that we surrender our swords. Wilkes and I complied: Churchill, being a cleric, was not wearing one. Once inside, Mother Rawton was more welcoming.

   “Mr Boswell! Back again so soon? How you must value our hospitality! And your friends? Mr Wilkes; Mr Churchill; or should I say the Reverend Charles Churchill; your names are well known to me, and this house is honoured by your presence. And Mr Hartshorne? A most handsome young man, I do declare! You too will always be welcome!”

   “Is my little Sally here?” Boswell asked, slipping a coin into the old bawd’s discoloured hand.

   “Indeed she is, and ever eager for your services, of which she speaks so highly!” A servant, her face disfigured by sores, was despatched to bring the girl, who soon appeared. I could understand why Boswell liked her, for she had sparkling eyes and a most mischievous smile. The two of them departed upstairs.

   “Now, you other gentlemen; what would be your preference? For we cater for all tastes here!” Mother Rawton enquired with a leer on her face, hoping for some lucrative custom, but we said that for the moment we would remain below, awaiting the return of our friend. We eyed the whores present and chaffed with them. I noticed birches and other strange implements hanging on the wall, together with pictures that were coloured engravings of very indecent scenes. My inspection of these caused the whores to giggle and nudge each other.

   It was long before Boswell returned. He collapsed on a chair as if exhausted and drew us together to whisper, “Sally told me that there was a room where a strange girl was being held and was heard sobbing, but the others were forbidden to speak to her. Such behaviour, she told me, was common with Mother Rawton’s new recruits, so she had thought little of it. I then persuaded Sally, by means of some silver coins, to conduct me to the room where the sobbing was heard, and in accordance with your plan I knocked discreetly on the door and enquired of the girl inside whether she was indeed Miss Wilbrahim of Stanegate. Her sobbing lessened when I told her to fear no longer, for her rescuers were on their way. Do we now free her?”

Mother Rawton could not overhear our whisperings, but she became very suspicious. Wilkes confronted her.

   “Madam”, he said, “We have certain knowledge that you have an innocent young girl imprisoned in this house. We demand that you do immediately set her free.”

   Mother Rawton responded by clapping her hands and crying “Help! Murder!” The ruffian who had admitted us now ran in, brandishing a cudgel; but Churchill, who had positioned himself behind the door, drew a bludgeon of his own from under his cloak and struck the villain a tremendous blow on the skull, which laid him out on the floor. Churchill now seized his body, cast it out into the street and locked the door from the inside. The whores fled upstairs with cries of alarm.

   “Now, madam”, Wilkes continued, “You must know that I am a Member of Parliament and that I have many friends in this city. Would you desire that we bring your case before Sir John Fielding at Bow Street? I doubt you should wish to find yourself in the Bridewell or the pillory as a common bawd. The girl we seek is of the Quality, and if a hair of her head is harmed, I promise to find you a seat on the next cart to the Tyburn gallows. Or then again, what if the mob learn how you have treated this poor girl, and take it into their heads to assemble here and tear down your house? Such outrages have been known to occur. I think, madam, you had best do as we say.”

   Boswell and Churchill remained below to guard the entrance while Wilkes and I drove the unwilling procuress shuffling and grumbling up the stairs to unlock the door. The room was very dark, but by the light of a candle in Wilkes’s hand I perceived the form of a girl, dirty and dishevelled, lying on a bed of rags. She gave a start of alarm.

   “Louisa!” I called, “It is I, Charles Huntingdon. You’re safe now, my darling!” She rose and fell weeping into my arms.

   I carried her down the stairs and joined the others; but before we could leave the house Mother Rawton sidled up to us.

   “And who’s to pay me for the food and lodging I provided for her, these past few days?” the shameless hussy asked. To my astonishment, Wilkes burst into laughter.

   “Oh Mother Rawton, you are irresistible!” he chuckled, and gave her some coins, which she immediately pocketed.

   “Well, thank you kindly, sir!” she replied, “You and your friends will always be welcome in my humble establishment!” and she dropped a grotesque little curtsey.

   As we left the house, I heard Boswell say, “I wonder why she left the girl untouched and then let her go so readily?”

   “Tush!” said Churchill, “At the start, she intended to use her as a whore, or sell her to some nobleman since she is so young and virginal; but when she discovered that the child really was the daughter of a man of influence and had noble friends, perhaps she next thought she could hold her for ransom. No, sir; in the end she knew she had bitten off more than she could chew, and so she spat out the child rather than bring about her own destruction!”

  
  (Charles Churchill as "The Bruiser": a cartoon by Hogarth)

    Louisa continued to sob as we took her away, leaning on my shoulder and not uttering a word. She stumbled along like one in a dream, and Wilkes had to support her on the other side. This strange little procession attracted ribald comments from passing idlers, but threats from Churchill and Boswell drove them away.

   What were we to do with her? I knew she could not be brought to my lodgings, for my landlady was the worst of gossips. Wilkes therefore suggested the use of his own home, where his daughter Polly was home from France. We were all weary and exhausted by the time we reached the door, and I could not imagine what was passing through Louisa’s mind. Polly, greatly to her credit, asked no questions but, assisted by a maidservant, put Louisa to bed and promised to watch over her.

   We four men then sank into chairs in relief. Wilkes called for bottles of wine, to celebrate the success of our venture, and soon after, for more bottles. I thanked my friends for the trouble they had taken to help me.

   “It was nothing, sir!” said Wilkes, “Why: rescuing an innocent damosel from captivity; it is worthy of an old romance! Churchill can write a comic ballad to celebrate our heroic deeds, and have the whole town laughing!” Churchill nodded and smiled.

   “Would Lord Staines ever have discovered where she was held captive?” I wondered.

   “Never!” replied Churchill, “For that fellow only frequents molly-shops!”

   Boswell sighed, “I suppose I shall never see my dear Sally again after this, and I hope the old baggage does not mistreat her in consequence; but heigh-ho: I am leaving for France next week, and doubtless I shall find many fine new birds in the bushes there!”

   He and Churchill then departed, and when I was left alone with Wilkes I asked, “Can all this be kept secret, to preserve Louisa’s honour? I fear the shame of it might kill her father.”

   “For London, I think it cannot be kept secret for long”, said Wilkes, “For even if we four hold our tongues, the whores are certain to spread the tale. But since her father so seldom comes to town, it may perhaps be kept from his ears”.

   My greatest apprehension, of course, was that Louisa had been debauched by some ruffian, and I whispered my fears to Wilkes.

   “Only she can tell us that”, he replied, “But do not press her on so vile a subject: let her tell you the truth in her own good time, should she so wish. For the moment, there is nothing more we can do”.

   It was approaching dawn when I returned to my lodgings and collapsed into bed. I had a disturbed sleep.

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

 

Chapter 24: The return

   I awoke from a nightmare in which I, rather than Louisa, had been held captive and was facing death at the hands of the gigantic form of Mother Rawton. As I dressed in haste and swallowed a morsel of food, there came to my mind a picture of the pretty little girl with whom I had dallied so enjoyably at Medmenham, who had called herself Sister Antonia. For the first time I wondered if she had been a country girl who had come to London on a thoughtless venture in search of work, and had been entrapped by Mother Rawton? She was surely no older than Louisa, and might even have been younger; and unlike Louisa, she did not have the good fortune of friends to rescue her. I shuddered to think of Louisa forced into such a situation. The more I considered it, the worse it seemed. I resolved to have nothing to do with any such gatherings in the future: if I should receive an invitation to a meeting of the Hell-fire club, either at West Wycombe or at Medmenham, I would not attend. Furthermore, I would employ what powers I might have as a Member of Parliament in exposing and outlawing this traffic in young girls.

   As regards Mr Wilkes, much as I might now be disgusted by his part in encouraging and supporting this traffic, I was nonetheless permanently indebted to him and his friends for their rescue of Louisa from such a fate. I sped round to Great George Street, desperately hoping for good news. I panted for breath, several times almost fell on the slippery cobbles, and attracted the amazement and laughter of passers-by.

    Polly Wilkes was already up, looking very tired. She reported, with no small degree of alarm, that Louisa had fallen into some kind of trance. She had lain awake most of the night, tossing and turning in her bed, and having been persuaded to rise, had faced breakfast without appetite or interest, had spoken not at all, and would not suffer anyone to touch her. In consequence Polly and her maid had also suffered a sleepless night.

   It was obvious that Louisa must be returned home without delay, before her condition worsened yet further, but how could this be achieved? I had no carriage in London, and she was in no fit position to use the public coach. Who could I turn to for help? Polly Wilkes would be returning to France very soon, and none of my London friends would have been any use. Elizabeth Newstead would have been sympathetic, I was sure, and might have provided Louisa with temporary sanctuary, but I could not now call upon her for help. With no other solution suggesting itself, it was in a spirit approaching desperation that I presented myself at the door of Teesdale House, in the hope that something might be achieved there.

   I had taken the time to regain my composure and to dress in my best for the appeal, and the porter fortunately recognised me from past occasions and was prepared to admit me. I gave him a shilling and silently gave thanks for the advice I had received from Elizabeth: always be polite and generous with other people’s servants, for a coin of the realm will often prove to be a silver key that will unlock doors that would otherwise remain closed.

   The porter ushered me into the presence of the immensely dignified personage who was the Earl’s steward and major-domo. I had encountered this august personage before, standing silently behind his master’s chair or gliding silently in and out of the room during the Countess’s gatherings, but had never had cause to speak to him. He deigned to recognise me and politely enquired as to my business, but then informed me, with an expression of great sorrow on my behalf, that his honour was away in the country, and her ladyship, though at home, but not receiving visitors. This was indeed a blow, but I asked him whether he would be good enough to bring me pen and paper, in order that I might write the Countess a brief letter concerning a matter of great and urgent importance that he might take to her. I felt that the offer of silver would be insulting to such a grand person: nothing less than gold would suffice. Accordingly, I placed a guinea on a nearby table in front of him, and then turned away, on pretence of examining a picture. When I looked around again the guinea had disappeared.

   He conducted me to the library and provided me with the wherewithal to write to the Countess. I apologised for disturbing her, but pleaded to urgency of the occasion; I outlined Louisa’s plight, lost in London, friendless and ill, without, of course, telling of the exact circumstances, and begged her ladyship’s help.

   He then departed with my letter. He was not gone for long, but during that time I must have looked at my watch at least half a dozen times as I paced the room with impatience and fear of rejection. I pulled books from the shelves, glanced at them without interest and replaced them. No doubt I muttered out loud as well, for I noticed a young maid looking alarmed and trying to hide in a corner. But after what seemed an aeon the steward returned, and to my enormous relief informed me that he was to take me to Lady Teesdale.

 

   I had forgotten quite how small she was. She was reclining on a couch, and looked weary, but her eyes were bright. She greeted me warmly, regretting that she had not seen me for a while but pleading that ill health had meant that she had been unable to host any of her gatherings. She then asked me whether the girl in peril was indeed the daughter of Sir James Wilbrahim of Stanegate Hall?

   I dreaded that she might make reference to Louisa as a prospective bride for Lord Staines, and wondered what I might say in that eventuality; but she never mentioned it. Perhaps she thought I was ignorant of it? Instead, she remembered how at Maybury I had spoken of the girl’s beauty and charm. I confirmed this and reiterated the urgency of Louisa’s case: I pleaded how greatly I feared for her health unless she could be taken home to Stanegate without delay, and of the disastrous effect this would surely have on her father. On a sudden impulse I added, with great boldness, “For, my lady, it is a dreadful thing to lose a beloved child.”

   Tears started in her eyes. I wondered if I had performed a wicked deed, reminding her of the death of her own son, Lord Staines’s brother. But she was stronger than I had feared. After a brief pause, she sat up and rang a little bell, at which the steward, who had no doubt been listening outside the door, immediately returned.

   “James,” she said, “Call Richard the coachman and Michael from the stables, and bring them both here. Mr Huntingon, I will do anything that is in my power to help the poor child and her father. Return here in two hours and you will find all has been prepared.”

   I bowed and thanked her sincerely with all my heart. As I left the room I saw her fall back again as if exhausted. I did not know what she was intending, but I was filled with a sudden hope. James the steward escorted me off the premises without a word: his deep disapproval being evident. Nevertheless, I left another golden guinea on a side table.     

   For the next two hours I once again had to struggle to control my impatience. I retrieved Alexander from the stables and was pleased to find him looking well-fed, and I then sent a message to Wilkes at Great George Street to prepare for further developments. With still time to spare, I acted on impulse and galloped round to Lord Staines’s residence. He had still not returned from Kent. I imparted to his strangely-dressed servant the good news that the lost maiden had been found unharmed and the emergency at an end, though without mentioning Louisa’s name or the part that the Countess was now playing in the drama. Eventually the time came for me to once again rouse the porter at Teesdale House.

   James the lordly steward was there. He invited – nay, commanded – me to accompany him to the stables at the back. There I found prepared for our use a coach-and-four, complete with coachman, a postilion and an experienced nursemaid to accompany Louisa!  I distributed more money to all and sundry and then mounted Alexander to lead the way.  You may imagine how passers-by stared when the magnificent equipage, drawn by matching horses and with the Earl’s coronet and coat of arms painted on the doors, drew outside Wilkes’s lodgings! Soon a crowd had gathered, and there were loud cheers as Polly led Louisa, leaning on her arm and looking barely awake, from the house and helped her to board the vehicle.

   In this fashion we embarked on a journey of three days and two nights. I thought it best to travel riding on Alexander beside the coach or seated up beside the coachman, leaving Louisa inside with the nursemaid. Louisa appeared in a trance for the first day: she uttered not a word in my hearing and could only with difficulty be persuaded by the servant, who seemed a sensible, motherly woman, to take a morsel of food and a sip of wine when we stopped at an inn. We spent the nights at houses belonging to Lord Teesdale or his friends, for which the Countess had provided me with letters of introduction. I prayed that we did not encounter any highwaymen: I kept a loaded pistol in my pocket, and I observed that the coachman and the postilion each had a blunderbuss to hand. But our journey passed without incident.

   By the third day it seemed that Louisa had recovered more of her natural spirits, but I was still uncertain what course to pursue at the end of our journey: should we drive directly to Stanegate, where her father would be unprepared? Or would it be better to find out first precisely what had happened to her? The latter course, which was in accordance with my own natural curiosity, decided me to drive to my own home first.

   We accordingly halted at an inn on the outskirts of Mulchester, and while the horses were being watered, I scribbled two brief letters: one to the Priory, warning my household to prepare for our arrival, and the other to Stanegate, telling Sir James that his daughter would come the next day, safe and sound. I paid two young servants at the inn to go galloping on ponies to deliver them. Meanwhile the sight of our splendid carriage had attracted a crowd of children, and some of their parents too. The haughty stare of the postilion kept them at a distance, but I could tell that we would be the talk of the town for many a day.

  The coachman was not at all happy at having to drive his master’s best vehicle along the narrow track to Bearsclough with its overhanging branches of trees and dusk fast approaching. I assured him that there were no natural hazards, and when I told him that there was no other way, he reluctantly agreed to go forward, but insisted that I rode ahead with a lantern to light the way. In this fashion we were proceeding at a slow walking pace, when I was alarmed to hear the clip-clop ofanother horse’s hooves approaching round the corner. Was this, I wondered, Black George lying in wait for us? If his confederates now took up station behind us, we would be trapped and helpless. Would my hopes of saving Louisa Wilbrahim be dashed so close to home?

  I sat motionless on Alexander and kept my hand on the pistol in my pocket. The coach a few yards behind me stopped too. Out of the gloom a horseman emerged; no more than a black shadow in the darkness. Both of us halted.

   “Who are you, and what do you want?” I enquired, doing my best to sound unconcerned.

   “Mr Huntingdon! I hoped it would be you!” a familiar voice replied. It was Clifford, who on receiving my letter had immediately set out to meet us! I introduced him to the coachman, explained that all was well, and we reached the Priory without further incident

 

   No sooner had Mrs Timmis set eyes on Louisa than she enfolded the child in her ample bosom, saying in gentle tones, “Oh, you poor little poppet! But you’re safe now!” and then she took Louisa away, dismissing me and the rest of the company with an inclination of the head. With Louisa’s wellbeing now out of my hands, I gave instructions for her ladyship’s horses to be stabled and her servants fed and lodged. I discovered that I was hungry and very thirsty.

   Clifford remained with us, and late that night we were summoned to the kitchen; Mrs Timmis’s domain. “She's taken some food and now she’s asleep”, I was informed. “She’s told me some of what happened. I don’t think anything terrible was done to her, but she’s been very frightened.  Wasn’t she silly, running away like that? But the poor little thing never had a mother; that’s what she’s been lacking all her life. Fathers are all very well, but a girl needs a mother too. The mistress here, she could have played the part, for she loved the child and was always treated her like she was one of her own, but then Miss Wilbrahim was forbidden to come to see her any more. Nor she didn’t have friends of her own rank; not until you came along, sir. So she didn’t have nobody to give her advice”.

   I asked what should be done.

  “Nothing for now”, was the decree, “Let her sleep. Ellie and I will take it in turns to sit by the bed in case we’re needed. In the morning she might want to tell me more, and tell you too, but we mustn’t press her.”

   Clifford the left us, promising to return the next day, and I retired to bed for the most peaceful sleep than I had enjoyed for many a night.

 

   Louisa and Mrs Timmis remained closeted together all the following morning. Clifford came early and we sat together in the library making a half-hearted attempt to deal with the business of my estate while we waited for news. After a while we abandoned the pretence and I recounted my story to him, and in return he gave me what news there was from Bereton. The fever, I learnt, had somewhat abated in the town; Sir James Wilbrahim had not been well and had been bled by his physician, Doctor Stump, but since then he had not been seen.

  It was only after a midday meal that my housekeeper appeared, to inform us that Louisa would be down shortly and felt strong enough to tell us her story.

   “But I promised that we’d never let her father find out,” she warned us, “for she’s afraid the shock might kill him. But I think the three of us here can keep a secret, can’t we?”

   “What I cannot understand,” said Clifford, “is why she ran away to London on a momentary impulse. It makes no sense!” 

   Mrs Timmis mused in silence for a while. “I know I shouldn’t speak so plainly concerning my betters, sir”, she finally began, “But I always guessed that that wicked Rector was at the bottom of it. Now, may I ask, sir, did he not tell you that if you sent letters for Miss Louisa to him, he would pass them on to her?”

   I confirmed that this was indeed the case. “Yes, and what’s more, I think he might have said exactly the same to Lord Staines. What then was the problem? Did he not deliver them, or did he inform her father?”

   “Oh, he delivered them all right! Or rather, he sold them to her”.

   “What, for money?”

   “Oh no, sir! Far worse, the wicked evil man! He would say to Miss Louisa, ‘I have a letter for you, but if you want it, you must give me a kiss!’ And at the start it was just a little kiss on the cheek, so the poor innocent child saw no harm in it; but then he began to demand a full embrace, or even more; and she demurred at that.”

   “What atrocious villainy! And him a man of the cloth too!”

   “Indeed sir! And Sir James was in ignorance of the knavery taking place within his walls!”

 “Why didn’t she tell him?”

   “Well, she knew she had disobeyed him over the letters, and she felt ashamed of what she’d allowed to happen so far; and anyway he soon stopped demanding any more kisses. But then the sickness struck when Sir James was away up north, and William with him, and Becky was given leave to go to Bereton to tend for her mother who was ill, and then Mrs Piddock was took sick and confined to bed, and then the Rector came and said he must take her away from this house of sickness, but she should pack a box and come to stay with him. And so she did, and he lifted it onto his little trap, and off they set.”

   “I find it hard to believe that Louisa agreed to go with him, knowing his past conduct.”

   “Well, she didn’t see no harm in it, for she thought they were only going to the Rectory, and Mrs Bunbridge would there. But she soon found that they weren’t going there at all, but along the road to Mulchester, and she asked why. And he said he was going to take her to the inn in Mulchester, for nowhere in Bereton was safe from the sickness. And you know it takes more than an hour to drive there, and as the time went by she became more and more worried and she demanded to be taken home, but he told her that he knew how it was you, sir, as had taken her and Becky home after the fireworks for the Prince of Wales. And Miss Wilbrahim knew it would make her father very angry with her, for not telling him at the time, and angry with you too, sir, and as for Becky, there was no knowing what might be done to her. So by the time they reached Mulchester she was frightened and didn’t know what to do. She feared what the Rector might be trying after all those kisses; and how could she tell her father afterwards?

   “And then she saw the London coach about to depart, and it brought to her mind all the wonders of the city that you and Lord Staines had told her about, and perhaps Lord Staines might marry her, like what happens in the romances. Then she recognised our Ned, called on him to help, and so she fled.

  “But when the poor child reached London, she didn’t know how to find your house nor any other, but thought everyone would know where to find Lord Staines’s home and she could take refuge there. What a silly girl she’d been! And how fortunate to escape! For, having talked to her, I’m certain that her virtue and honour are intact; thank the Lord for that mercy!”

   Mrs Timmis shook her head sadly. “She wasn’t thinking straight at all. But it’s all over now, I told her, and maybe it’s taught her a lesson. But her father mustn’t find out what happened with that dreadful Rawton woman; for Miss Wibrahim’s right that the shame of it’d fair be enough to kill the old man.”

   I reflected how right Elizabeth had been in warning me of the perils facing Louisa Wilbrahim.

 

   Soon afterwards Louisa came down and felt able to tell us the story of her adventure. It was not, of course, a continuous narrative, for at some points she was overcome with emotion and had to pause; and then we would encourage her to drink some tea and resume when she was ready, and sometimes she would back-track to add a detail she had forgotten. With her permission I took some notes as she talked, and at the advice of Clifford I wrote it all down, and Clifford signed it, in case it should ever be required as evidence in a court of justice; but otherwise we faithfully promised to keep it secret.

   This is what I wrote:-

………………………………………………………

              Miss Louisa Wilbrahim’s account.

 

   “Throughout my journey to London I felt more and more uneasy about the risks I was taking on my adventure, but it was only when I alighted from the coach at the sign of the White Horse that I became fully aware of how extremely foolish I had been, to travel without clear purpose, and with no-one to receive me, to a city of which I knew nothing. Such a hustle and bustle as I never saw, with goods and produce piled up everywhere, and people of all degrees hurrying to and fro about their business! One rough fellow rudely pushed me aside, without so much as a by-your-leave. Puddles of dirty water caused me to step warily, and the sky overhead was dark with a pall of smoke. I had thought to ask the way to Lord Staines’s home, but now, alone and friendless, I found myself too timid to ask directions from a stranger. On the steps of the inn, an elderly man in an old wig and coat ogled me and laughed, but although his clothes showed him to be a gentleman, he made no attempt to assist me in my plight.

   “Only one person marked me and approached as I stood there afraid and unprotected. This was a woman dressed in a vast skirt, red in colour and none too clean, with a dark shawl over a white mob-cap. I could not tell her age, for the paint lay heavy on her cheeks. I felt an immediate dislike of her; but she smiled and her manner was most obliging.

   “Hello, dearie!” she said, “Are you lost? May I assist you?”

   “Thank you!” I replied, “Pray can you direct me to Lord Staines’s home? I have travelled to London to see him”.

  “Lord, my dear: his honour’s house is but a short step from where I live! Let me conduct you there. You have a travelling box? My boy Jacky will carry it. Now; what’s your name and where have you come from?”

   “I am the daughter of Sir James Wilbrahim of Stanegate, near Bereton. My name is Louisa.”

   “Oh, Louisa: such a pretty name, and face as pretty as a picture too!” She smiled, presenting me with an alarming sight of very bad teeth. “And from Bereton?” she continued, “Why, my dear, I know that town well! My uncle used to live there! He was bailiff and churchwarden, Robin Clewlow was his name, did you hear of him? No? Ah well, it was years ago, before you were born! Anyway, it’s almost as if we were related!  My name’s Margaret, but everyone calls me Meg. Now I shall with pleasure conduct you to his lordship, but first you must permit this poor old woman to provide you with some sustenance, for you must be most hungry and tired after such a long journey!” She prattled on, scarce pausing for breath, and without putting up resistance I allowed her to take my arm. The elderly gentleman made a very coarse remark as she led me from the inn-yard and out into the street, but both of us ignored him.

   “We walked on through many twists and turnings until I was wholly lost. We passed old buildings crowded together, and noisome alleys between, where the sun did not penetrate and dirty children played amongst piles of rubbish. The streets were crowded, and passers-by jostled us. In this confusion I was glad that my rescuer had my arm, for otherwise I would have been swept clean away in the throng. Eventually we reached her house, which I thought a rather mean establishment. The front room had no rug on the bare boards of the floor. Three or four women sat around on benches, and there were pictures on the walls, but before I could do more than glance around I was ushered through to a back parlour.

   “Now, my dear, let us have a dish of tea,” said my hostess, and clapped her hands, at which a slatternly maid appeared and was given her orders. Jacky, the boy who carried my bag, was despatched to run to Lord Staines’s house to announce my arrival. Whilst we drank our tea and ate some cake she questioned me closely. Was I indeed Sir James Wilbrahim’s daughter? Yes, I replied; his only child. Did I know Lord Staines well, and did he know I was coming to London to see him? Not well as yet, I said: I believed our respective parents were thinking of a marriage, though his lordship had not yet made a proposal. His lordship had told me I would greatly enjoy the sights of London, but he did not know I was coming. And amidst all this, she kept complimenting me on my complexion and my figure.

   At this point, young Jacky returned, to announce that Lord Staines was not at home, nor any of his family, and nobody would be received that day. 

   “Well, my dear, here’s a to-do!” said my hostess (who, as I now recall, had never told me her surname), “Do you know anyone else in London?” I replied that I knew Mr Huntingdon, who was a Member of Parliament and a friend of my father, but I did not know where his lodgings might be.

  She answered with a smile, displaying a few decayed teeth. “Ah well, don’t worry: I’m sure we’ll find him for you. But it’s getting late, and I can see you’re tired. You’d best spend the night with me. Then tomorrow we’ll ask around for your Mr Huntingdon.”

   She led me up the stairs to a small room. I was now so tired that I scarcely noticed that the room was dirty, with the corners thickly cobwebbed and the bed poorly furnished. I laid down on it and was quickly asleep. It was only when I awoke that I discovered the door was locked. And there I was to remain; I do not remember for how many days, with nothing to divert me and no-one to help me; for the small window that looked out on a squalid yard would not open; and though I might bang on the door and call out, no-one came except the maidservant, who brought me food but refused to speak to me. I was very frightened and I came to lose all hope of rescue. But then someone whispered that help was on its way, and you, Mr Huntingdon, and your friends freed me.”

 ……………………………………………………………

   Louisa must have experienced considerable pain recounting her story, but having completed it, she appeared relieved. A monstrous great weight, we felt, had been lifted from her shoulders. But what should we do now?

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 Chapter 25: More troubles in Bereton

   Lord Teesdale’s coach was now prepared to take Louisa to her home. She was given a final hug by Mrs Timmis, who told her, “Now, Miss Louisa, if I’m permitted to give you a word of advice: don’t tell a thing to a soul about what happened to you! Say that you were taken ill in London, and that you don’t recall anything about it. Say that her ladyship chanced to find you, and in the kindness of her heart had you brought home. As for the rest, what you’ve told us here, try to forget all about it, if you can. Think of it like it was a bad dream, but it’s all passed and you’re awake now. Goodbye, and remember we’re all your friends and we’ll stand by you whatever happens.”

  After Louisa was taken back to Stanegate Hall, we remained in silence for a while, and then I said, “What are we to say if Sir James becomes suspicious about his daughter’s adventures in London, and starts to ask questions?”

   “If you’ll pardon me for speaking out”, said Mrs Timmis, “What I would suggest is this. Word will spread all around about his lordship’s coach coming up here, with the coronet and all; so we stick with what I’ve told Miss Wilbrahim: that she was lost and ill and took refuge in his lordship’s house, which she happened on by chance, and the Countess took care of her, the Earl himself being away, and she entrusted Miss Wilbrahim to your care for the journey home, knowing you were a neighbour of Sir James, and we praise her ladyship for all we’re worth, as a generous, kind-hearted soul.”

   Clifford interposed at this point. “If anyone should ask why the coach drove here first, rather than directly to Stanegate, we can say that the horses needed watering, or that one of them cast a shoe, and what with the lateness of the hour they thought it best to stay.”

 “And you, sir, you didn’t tell her ladyship anything about that dreadful Rawton woman, now did you?” Mrs Timmis enquired.

  I shook my head.

   “Well then that ought to suffice. No need to go into any nasty details!”

   We agreed this appeared to be a sound strategy.

      “What’s more,” Clifford continued, “I think it would be best if you, sir, didn’t show your face at Stanegate for the moment, just in case Sir James does get suspicious. Wait to be invited.”

   I agreed reluctantly, but said, “I would dearly love to be certain that Louisa is happy and well. How can we know? Are there any of the servants we can trust?”

   “Yes: I’m certain we can trust Becky,” said Mrs Timmis, “she’s a good girl, and very loyal to her mistress. Miss Wilbrahim’s safe enough now, for her father won’t let her out of his sight for many a day. Mr Clifford’s right, sir, that you shouldn’t go near Stanegate. Becky will let us know if there’s any more trouble.”

   “Surely Sir James would have asked Mrs Piddock where Louisa had gone?” I said, “Wouldn’t she have told him that she’d gone with the Rector? And how will Mr Bunbridge explain his part in Louisa’s flight?”

   “Oh, that Mrs Piddock’s nowt but a slattern that’ll make up some lies to excuse herself! She and the Rector are in league together, you mark my words; but sooner or later their wickedness will be found out! And as for the Rector, he’s got some explaining to do, to be sure, and not only to the squire; for his misses, she rules him with a rod of iron, and what she’ll do to him when she finds out he’s been driving the girl to Mulchester, I really don’t know! But he’ll find some way of putting the blame on someone else; for he always does!”

   Mr Clifford, speaking in the voice of a lawyer, chose to bring a cautious note to our discussion. “We must not assume that Mr Bunbridge seriously intended an assault on Miss Wilbrahim’s virtue on this occasion. I do not believe that he is man of such utter recklessness. Perhaps he really did intend just to take her to somewhere safe from the fever. At least, I am certain that this is what he will tell her father. But I agree that all concerned must be carefully watched”.

 

   After Sir James’s contemptuous rejection of Lord Staines as a son-in-law, I wondered how he had reacted when a grand coach bearing the Teesdale coronet delivered his daughter home. He would surely write Lord Teesdale a letter of thanks; and the people of Bereton would have been excited by sight of the coach passing through their town and would ask their own questions. But what private conversations Sir James might have had with his daughter, no-one knew. I came to suspect that neither Sir James or the Rector knew the full story of Louisa’s capture by Mrs Rawton and her subsequent rescue, and I prayed that, as long as we at the Priory held our peace, this happy state of ignorance might continue.

   I asked Mrs Timmis what was being said in the town.

  “Lor, sir, what a stir it did make: his lordship’s coach coming!” she told me, “The talk in Bereton and all the country round was of nowt else! And somehow everybody knew that it had brought Miss Wilbrahim home from London, after the Rector had taken her to Mulchester. But how they knew that, I really can’t tell for certain; I can promise you that no-one in this household hasn’t said aught!”

   “And what did Mrs Piddock and the Rector have to say about it, do you know?”

   “Well, what our Becky tells me is that Mrs Piddock excused herself by pleading that she had been sick in bed, at death’s door, and didn’t even know that Miss Louisa had left the house. Mr Bunbridge went up to Stanegate to explain himself, and he told Sir James was that all he had wanted to do was to take Miss Wilbrahim to the Merchants’ House in Mulchester, a most respectable establishment, to be safe from the fever. He went inside to speak with the people there, and when he came back, she was gone! And he apologised if his actions were misunderstood, and out of the kindness of his heart he forgave Miss Wilbrahim, for he blamed her behaviour on reading sentimental novels and poetry, which had filled her brain with silly ideas. He thought that it would be best if a decent veil was drawn over her flight to London, so that the whole sorry story could be forgotten; but a much closer watch should be kept on her in future; especially on what she should be allowed to read. But all’s quiet there now, and I’m told that Mr Bunbridge hasn’t spoken to Miss Wilbrahim in private; not at all.”

    I reflected that there must have been a great deal of listening at doors on the part of the Stanegate servants. I now asked, “And does anyone believe a word of what the Rector says?”

   “Some do, out of loyalty and respect”.  “And the rest?”

   Mrs Timmis hesitated before replying, “It’s not my place to say so, sir; but since you’ve asked me …. No; many of the Bereton people know him only too well!”

 

   But suddenly there were other matters to reduce Bereton to a town in turmoil, like a wasps’ nest that had been stirred with a stick, and full of wild and contradictory rumours. I returned home after a day riding round my estates to discover Mrs Timmis, her brother Ned, Mr Clifford and Mrs Highsmith in animated conversation, and asked the cause.

   Ned Timmis spoke first. “Old Robbie Keslow, that sells needles and things round the farms, came to our door and tells me, “Here’s news, Ned! I was passing by the Rectory early this morning, and I saw old Ephraim the butler there with his hands and coat sleeves all dirty. “Why, Ephraim”, I says to him, “whatever have you been doing at this hour of the day to get that mucky?” “Well, our Robbie”, he tells me, “the master, ‘e told me to go out while it was still dark and dig a big hole at the bottom of the garden and bury all his wine and brandy in it.” And when I asked him why that should be, he told me, “Haven’t you heard, our Robbie, that Harry Clewton was took by the excisemen yesterday? Now I’m not saying that he was a smuggler, our Robbie, or that my master or anyone else bought brandy and tobacco from him; that I’m not; but who knows what he might say to save his skin? So the master thinks it best to hide his things away until we see how the land lies. And I’ve heard say that old William over at Stanegate is busy hiding Squire Wilbrahim’s brandy away, and if I was you, I’d spread the word around sharpish to any friends of yours, that I would!” 

   This caused general merriment. “So that’s where the old rogue got his brandy, was it?” Clifford laughed. “And him preaching all those sermons about obedience! And no doubt Sir James got his share as well! So now William will be obliged to be busy with a spade, and at his age too! How undignified for him!”

   He explained to me that the excisemen would be holding Clewton in the hope that he would give them the names of the local gentry whom he had supplied.

   “And does this include us?” I asked.

   “Indeed it does not, sir!” replied Mrs Timmis indignantly. “The master, he didn’t hold with such goings-on, and the mistress scarcely drank at all. Not that we didn’t hear rumours”, she added, darkly. “Isn’t that so, Ned?” she appealed to her brother.

   I turned to him. “So what do you know about Harry Clewton and the smuggling business?” I asked.

   He looked awkward. “Well, sir; all I can say for sure is that Harry Clewton was well known around the town. He was nowt in particular: a leather-worker and a leather-worker’s son, and not the best at his trade he wasn’t, but somehow he always had plentiful money, and spent it freely, and was generous to his friends. Where he got it from’s not for me to say. This Harry Clewton, he knows everyone, from the squire and the Rector and Alderman Stout downwards, and it’s said around the town that he’s had dealings with that Mr Jarrett, Lord Teesdale’s man, as well. But for this smuggling business, I don’t know nowt about that.”

   “But did he include anyone in our household in his dealings?”

   “That I can’t say, sir”.

     His sister intervened at this juncture by saying, “Now, Ned, didn’t you tell me just last month that Harry had some good gin for sale? And didn’t I tell you that I wouldn’t touch no smuggled goods, not for love nor money? The mistress wouldn’t never have allowed it in her time.”

  Her brother’s face turned even redder than usual, and he treated her to a savage glance. “And where d’you think the mistress got her tea from?” he demanded. “Mrs Highsmith here knows! She bought it from Clewton, and still does, I shouldn’t wonder: best quality goods and no excise to pay!” He turned to Mrs Highsmith. “That’s true, ain’t it?”

   A furious row ensued between the two women, which led to Mrs Highsmith flouncing out in a rage. I attempted to calm the situation by asking whether we could guarantee that there was no contraband in our house at present. Brother and sister nodded assent, following which Mrs Timmis, having ascertained that there was nothing I needed from her for the moment, returned to her duties in the kitchen, and her brother to his farm. Both were in a very bad temper.

 

                                  (An illustration for a satirical poem: "Excisemen Outwitted")

   Soon afterwards, a surprising story from Stanegate then reached us. Thomas Bagley, Sir James Wilbrahim’s man of business, had vanished, and so had Mrs Piddock, the housekeeper! There were rumours that the estate’s accounts had been discovered to be in great confusion, and that Sir James was very angry that his trust had been betrayed.

   This news caused Clifford no surprise. “A rascal!” he snorted, “I always said so! I warrant he’s been putting Sir James’s money in his own pocket for years, and now, fearing discovery, he has fled with his ill-gotten gains!  Well, I doubt if we shall ever set eyes on him again. He’ll be on his way to London, or Bristol, or some such city where no-one knows him”. He shook his head sadly at the slackness in Sir James’s household. 

  Harry Clewton revealed nothing to the investigators. The whole town was hostile to the excisemen, and Sir James Wilbrahim had always hated the tax; so now a number of prominent local citizens, among them Alderman Stout, were prepared to testify as to Clewton’s good character. With the evidence against him being no more than circumstantial, he was eventually released. But Bagley and Mrs Piddock were never seen again, and their disappearance was unlamented. 

   I took no part in these matters, for at this precise time I received a series of letters from London, from Mr Walpole and Sir Anthony Pardington telling of great events taking place there. First, the world was astonished to learn that Lord Bute, who in only a couple of years had risen from obscurity to bestride the state as a mighty colossus, had resigned as Prime Minister! His successor was Mr George Grenville, Pitt’s brother-in-law but now alienated from his great mentor. Next, John Wilkes had been arrested for criminal libel of the King and confined to the Tower, but then immediately released and announcing his intention of prosecuting the officers who had arrested him! London was said to be in turmoil; seething with discontent. And on top of this, Henry Darnwell wrote to say that he had discovered a matter of great importance to me and to Sir James Wilbrahim, which ought to receive my immediate attention!

   Since it appeared that Louisa Wilbrahim was safely back at home and in no immediate danger, I decided to set out again on my travels. Martin Clifford and Mrs Timmis promised to keep me informed of any news from Stanegate, and two days later I was seated on the coach to London. The next few weeks were to be very busy indeed.

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Chapter 26: Riots in London and some amazing news

The next few weeks were full of confusion, as I was obliged to travel from Bereton to London and then home again on many occasions, so that even now, a decade later, I find it hard to make sense of it all. I shall therefore attempt to describe events in the capital first.

  I reached London to find the capital engulfed in a political storm. People were talking about nothing but politics, about the sudden fall of Lord Bute and the arrest of my friend John Wilkes by order of the Secretaries of State. Everyone appeared to hold different views of these great matters, and debate was fierce.   

   Since I knew nothing about these matters, I called first at Teesdale House, hoping to receive the benefit of the Earl’s advice and to assure his Countess that, thanks to her kindness, Louisa Wilbrahim was now safe. But it appeared that I was not welcome, for at the mansion’s door the servants fobbed me off with the most transparent falsehood that neither master nor mistress was at home. I now recalled, with surprise, that Lord Teesdale, my erstwhile patron and guide, had not bothered to write to me recently, despite all the work I had performed in forwarding his Enclosure and Canal bills. Why should this be?

    Sir Anthony Pardington was more forthcoming. He had recently returned from Bath, and described how the West Country had been up in revolt, with riots where bonfires were lit on which effigies of Sir Francis Dashwood, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, were burnt; this being in consequence of his proposed excise on cider, which was denounced as a tyrannous imposition. He wondered whether it was this violence that had caused Lord Bute to retreat from high office.  

  Sir Anthony then described the famous case of John Wilkes. Just two weeks after Lord Bute’s resignation, the now-famous Number 45 of the “North Briton” was published, which accused the King’s speech to Parliament of including a direct lie concerning the treaty with France. Although it was clearly stated that everyone knew that the speech was written by the ministers, not by the King personally, this was thought to be a criminal libel of the Crown. Wilkes had never acknowledged that he was the author of the “North Briton”, but ministers felt it was imperative to take some action, and accordingly Wilkes was arrested at his home in Great George Street under a General Warrant, which did not name the persons to be arrested. He was confined in the Tower, where his friends were not permitted to visit him. Sir Anthony feared riots and disorder on the streets of London, since Wilkes had many supporters.

   Mr Horace Walpole, whom I saw next, had been observing events with much amusement. 

   “Lord Bute is a timid soul, and sensitive to insults,” was his verdict, “The cartoons and the libels of Wilkes, pouring abuse on him and on the Princess Dowager, distressed him. A man in public life should be able to rise above the ravings of the mob. Why, I believe he is as fearful as the old Duke of Newcastle!” He shook his head sadly. “What a pair to have the running of our poor country! what a pair!

   “My father knew these starveling scribblers well enough. All these men have their price: offer them sufficient and they will turn their coats soon enough and direct their vituperation wherever you may direct them. Wilkes himself is in the pay of Lord Temple. But the ministers can buy the pens of any number of hacks by paying them pensions out of the Secret Service fund. That is the way to proceed.”

   He laughed and continued, “I am told that a few weeks ago, Lord Bute approached your friend Lord Teesdale, begging for his support, without which, he said, he was doomed. That patriotic senator dutifully promised support, provided there was in return a position on the Treasury board for his man Jarrett and the Garter for himself! But the King would not allow the latter. I do not think His Majesty likes the noble lord. Perhaps you should consider seeking a new patron?”

   “Have we seen the last of Lord Bute?” I asked.

    "I very much doubt it! I am certain that he intends to remain as the ‘minister behind the curtain’, advising the King in private. That was his position before his wholly unjustified elevation to high office, and he hopes to return to ruling by secret influence. Did you see the cartoon showing the Princess Augusta leading a blindfolded King by the nose, with a Scotchman in Highland dress lurking behind a tree? That would be Lord Bute’s preferred position – without the tartan plaid, of course, which we know he never wears”.

   “So we now have Mr. Grenville as Prime Minister.” 

   “ Grenville is indeed now First Lord of the Treasury, but even that transition was mishandled. I have been told that the position was offered first to Mr Fox, but he, knowing how universally he is hated, very wisely refused the poisoned chalice and has instead retreated to Essex, there to enjoy the unaccounted millions he has stolen from the country - unless, that is, his sons have already lost the money at the faro tables.

   “As for Grenville ….. you have seen him, you have heard him speak? Well, then, you know that he could out-talk the entire diplomatic corps, and the King will very soon weary of having to listen to him. Grenville is a man of absolutely no imagination, and I cannot see him lasting long. I foresee more turmoil, perhaps continuing for years.”

   The prospect did not seem to alarm him.

   At the Court of Common Pleas Wilkes delivered a strong speech, portraying himself the victim of persecution by a tyrannical ministry, denouncing General Warrants as illegal, proclaiming the freedom of the press, and “The liberty of all peers and gentlemen, and, what touches me more sensibly, that of the middling and inferior class of people who stand most in need of protection.” Lord Chief Justice Pratt ruled Wilkes’s arrest a breach of Parliamentary privilege and released him. I wondered what Sir James Wilbrahim, had he been present, would have made of this.

  Sir Anthony’s fears of riots then quickly came true. I was seated in a tavern one evening soon afterwards, and when I heard the shouts of “Wilkes and Liberty” in the street outside I ventured forth and was soon swept up in a mob of several hundred angry Londoners.

   Many of the poorer sort were assembled: grimy coal-heavers from Wapping, Spitalfields silk-weavers brandishing their shuttles, and butchers making a fearsome noise clashing their cleavers and steels together. This was a time of hardship and fierce disputes in many of the trades of London, and all these people now took Wilkes as their hero and champion. There were women too, shouting as loudly as their menfolk. Everywhere sticks and other weapons were brandished, and I feared murder might be done, but I saw no violence against any persons beyond some pushing and jostling. Prominent among the rioters was a youth whose head was adorned with hair the colour of flame: I was certain I had seen him before, but where?

   As the mob marched through the streets, a gentleman appeared on a balcony and harangued them, urging the marchers to strike a blow for English liberty. I was astonished to recognise my old friend Henry Darnwell, and wondered whether he was inspired less by sympathy with Mr Wilkes’s cause than by an irresistible love of causing mischief.

    That night the mob demanded that all householders must illuminate their homes to show support for Wilkes, and those that neglected to do so had their windows smashed. Disturbances continued for some hours before eventually the authorities restored some kind of order. I witnessed several arrests being made. Suddenly I heard my name being shouted, and turned to behold the flame-haired young man being taken into custody.

   “There!” he called, “That’s my master, Mr Huntingdon! He’s a Member of Parliament! He’ll vouch for me!” I now remembered him as the appropriately-named Redman, servant to Mr Braithwaite, who I had encountered at the great cricket match last summer. The disbelieving officer marched the culprit in my direction, where I confirmed my identity and committed perjury by vouching that that Redman was indeed my servant. As was customary, the gift of a silver coin assisted matters: the officer released Redman into my charge and departed, muttering some comments about gentlemen who could not keep their servants under better control.

   Redman thanked me for extracting him from a dangerous situation, and then impudently promised to return the favour some time. I was tempted to give him a stern talk on the recklessness of his behaviour, but decided it would have but little effect, and instead I merely advised him to stay close to his real master in future. 

   When I later reported the incident to Mr Braithwaite, he told me that he had been obliged to dismiss Redman from his service, for he had got a neighbour’s serving-maid with child! He shook his head sadly at Redman’s part in the riot, saying that it came to him as no surprise, and he only hoped that Redman could escape eventual hanging.

   Later, Wilkes was awarded substantial damages against the agents who had arrested him, and had the satisfaction of General Warrants declared to be illegal, but this was to be the end of his triumphs. A raid on his premises unearthed a copy of an obscene poem entitled “An Essay on Woman”, which was now widely circulated by agents of the ministry. I glanced at it myself and found it disgusting, though perhaps too crude to have come from Wilkes’s pen.

   I must jump ahead in my narrative to a debate in November, when even Pitt denounced Wilkes as “A blasphemer of his God and a libeller of his King”, and the House of Commons voted that Number 45 of the “North Briton” was “A false, scandalous and seditious libel”. Lord Staines delivered a most intemperate denunciation of Wilkes: he had not forgiven the offending remarks written about him, or what he regarded as the unsatisfactory outcome of the subsequent duel. Remembering the great debt I owed to Wilkes, I considered using the occasion to make a speech explaining that although I deplored the “Essay on Woman” as much as anyone, that I owed Mr Wilkes such a great personal debt that I felt an obligation to support him: but in the end I thought it best to maintain my silence as I voted with the minority.

   Wilkes himself was not present, for he had fought one duel too many and had been severely wounded. He fled to France; and when he did not appear at his trial for criminal libel, he was declared an outlaw.

   It was ordered that the “North Briton” and the “Essay on Woman” should be burnt by the common hangman at the Royal Exchange, and an attempt was made to carry this out in early December. But again a great mob assembled: they pelted the sheriffs, destroyed the windows of their coach and rescued the “North Briton” from the bonfire. The House of Commons later voted thanks to the sheriffs for attempting to do their duty, but the Common Council of London pointedly refused to do so.

   John Wilkes was not to return to England for several years, but now he is back in London again and the cry of “Wilkes and liberty” is once more heard on the streets of the city, where he is more popular with the mob than ever.

   The afternoon after the riot I sought out Henry Darnwell at a coffee-house he was known to frequent. I found him exhilarated by the night’s events: when I told him how surprised I had been to see him encouraging the Wilkite mob, he replied that he sincerely believed that English liberty was under the gravest of threats from the present ministers. I then reminded him of how he had recently written mentioning information he had discovered that would be of great importance to me. He admitted that this had quite slipped his mind, and said I must await the arrival of Bartley Wandescote, who would in all probability appear soon, and would tell me the whole story.

   “What? The man who takes delight in attending executions and visiting the poor souls in Bedlam? I have no desire to meet him again.”

   “Oh, but you must, for he has the most extraordinary tale to tell, which might be of great importance to you! While we wait, I shall explain the circumstances.  

      “I am reading for the Bar, and to this end I have attended a series of trials in Westminster Hall. They were mostly for theft, and since none of the defendants had counsel to assist them, the hearings lasted no more than a few minutes, and were inclined to be monotonous and repetitive. But on this particular day I found our friend Bartley there already. I fancy he enjoys studying the faces of the defendants when they are sentenced to death.”

   “No doubt he does. We all know his tastes, and I for one find his talk of such matters disgusting. Pray tell me why I should be forced to listen to him now?”

   “That is because of what he had seen before I arrived. One of the defendants ... But I shall let him tell the story himself: here he comes!”

    Bartley Wandescote had grown much fatter since I last met him. He was dressed with great opulence, but the powder on his rotund face failed to conceal the strange greenish colour of his skin. He greeted me warmly, while I forced myself to smile as I shook his soft damp hand. In response to Henry Darnwell’s request he began his account, but in a peculiarly circuitous way that was all his own.

   “There were several accused that day, mostly drawn from the poorest and most degraded parts of our great city. The judge was Armstrong, an old fool who enjoys making sententious longwinded speeches about wickedness when sentencing wretches to death for low crimes, and today he excelled himself. He even quoted Cicero at them, but so inaccurately and with so many false quantities that I concluded his teachers could not have flogged him sufficiently when he was at school. Of course, most of his victims could not understand a word he said, but I was torn between shuddering and bursting out laughing …”

   “But what did you want to tell us?” I interrupted him, with no little impatience.

   “Oh, yes. Now, one of his victims, a woman condemned for theft on the evidence of her landlord – a thorough villain if ever I saw one, who richly deserves to swing himself – felt obliged to answer him back. Possibly she was so disgusted by the display of crass and inept moralising that she could not abide listening to him a moment longer without interrupting. I felt much the same way myself. And who do you think she was?”  

  I could make no suggestion. Wandescote halted his discourse for a moment to let the excitement build up before continuing.

   “Why, it was none other than the fair Danielle, with whom we have had such interesting and instructive conversations! Her full name, it appears, is Danielle d’Autun – that is, of course presuming that she is telling the truth, which can by no means be guaranteed.”

   I had not thought of Danielle since she had initiated me into the mysteries of love one night on my first time in London. It all seemed many years ago.

   “What happened to her? Was she convicted?”

   “Naturally. All the defendants were convicted, and with great speed. Knowing her as we used to do, we can surely have little doubt that she was surely guilty of something! But her accuser, as I said, was the most arrant knave you could conceive. He swore she had stolen from him, though to my mind it was quite apparent that he kept a common house of assignation, and took tribute from her. If there was any justice, it should have been he who stood in the dock. I anticipate seeing him on the cart to Tyburn ere long.”

   “But tell Charles here what she said to the judge,” Darnwell intervened, “For I think it concerns him greatly.”

   “Have patience! She told the judge that if she was pardoned, she would supply details of Jacobite treason committed by certain prominent persons. She mentioned several names, one of which was that of Wilmington, or Wilburton, or something like that, who resided at Bereton.”

  “Sir James Wilbrahim!” I said in hushed tones.

   “Ah yes, that was it. I did not catch the name properly. But I remembered that you had inherited property in Bereton, and so did Henry here, when I recounted my simple story to him.”

   “What happened to her?”

   “Oh, she was sentenced to be hanged, of course. The ridiculous Armstrong swept her allegations aside and instead uttered yet more pompous pronouncements on vice and depravity, this time with special reference to females.”

   “And is she still alive? Where is she now?”

   “No doubt she is confined in a squalid dungeon somewhere, awaiting execution. I can find out, if you wish. But why? Do you want to talk to her?”

   “Yes, I do,” I replied. It occurred to me that she might be able to cast light on certain matters concerning Jacobitism in Bereton that had been worrying me.

   Henry Darnwell agreed. “I suppose we are honour bound to try to save her life,” he said, “for we have affectionate memories of Mam’selle Danielle, do we not? She gave much truly interesting tuition to us all – though not to Staines, of course - for all that we paid for it unknowingly with some of our possessions! So pray find out where she is held, and how we may visit her. In the meantime, I shall draw up a petition to the King, in proper legal form, humbly begging His Majesty to exercise his prerogative of mercy and grant a reprieve; and we can get all our friends to sign it.”

  “Very well, I shall make enquiries,” said Wandescote, “Though for my part I must say that she absolutely refused to perform what I requested of her, even though I offered to pay her a considerable sum of money.”

  “I am not surprised. I think only the lowest of whores could abide you!”

   “There, sir, you are wrong!” Wandescote replied, vastly amused. “You would be amazed at the tricks that the wives of some of our most respectable citizens are willing to attempt, merely to alleviate the tedium of their lives!” He chuckled. I had no idea whether he was reliving a memory or laughing at our reaction.

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Chapter 27: Danielle's story

 A few days later, my two friends joined me again; Wandescote having discovered that Danielle was held in a prison known as the Coldharbour.

   “It is greatly feared by Londoners,” he reported with a certain relish, “The gaoler is a certain Hugh Bennet, but is known as ‘the Cracker’. He is a far greater villain than those unlucky enough to be entrusted to his tender care. These wretches, or their relatives, have to pay for everything: for food, for bedding, for candles. Those who refuse may find themselves chained in some noisome dungeon until they see reason. Happily, the man is infinitely corruptible. I know the place: would you wish me to introduce you to the famous Mr Cracker?”

   Henry Darnwell intervened to say, “I had the honour to be the guest of this man not so long ago, following a regrettable incident in the street, and my father left me in his care for a few days, in order to teach me a lesson, I suppose, before bailing me. But others I met there did not have such good fortune. During my brief spell under his roof, I met unfortunates who had served their sentences, or had even been acquitted at their trial, but whom he refused to release unless they paid him for the privilege! I tell you: should I ever be elected to Parliament, I would demand a full enquiry into the state of the nation’s prisons!” 

   We decided to pay the Coldharbour a visit that very day.

  

 The first thing I noticed as we approached the notorious establishment, which sat like a grim fortress from an earlier age, was not the gates, strong and oppressive though they were, but the number of little bags and baskets dangling on strings from the upper windows. My companions explained that the unhappy inmates were not provided with sufficient to sustain life, but a lucky few were permitted to employ this means to beg from any benevolent persons who might pass by, and could then purchase food or bedding from the gaoler. By these means the great Hugh Bennet was believed to have accumulated no little wealth.

  I distributed a few small coins among the hanging receptacles, which were immediately hauled up, to the accompaniment of blessings and cries of gratitude from the windows above. Then we rang a bell at the gate, doing this several times before we managed to rouse the porter. He was a surly fellow, who deeply resented our disturbing his repose. He carried a club, and a timorous person might well have turned and fled, for he looked indeed as if he might attack at the least provocation, but he hesitated when he saw that we were all gentlemen.

   Wandescote was undaunted.  “Greetings, Grumbling Jack!” he said cheerfully. “Just be a good-natured fellow and let us in without delay, will you? We desire to speak to your lord and master. Here’s silver for your troubles!”   The porter pocketed the proffered money, but continued with his muttered comments as he locked the door behind us and led us down a corridor and into a courtyard which was crowded with both men and women. Some were seated carousing on the dirty cobbles, with bottles being passed around, and many were obviously drunk. My friends whispered that it was very easy to obtain gin from the gaolers, provided the necessary money was forthcoming. Some shouted from a safe distance obscene insults at our guide, who kicked out of his path those who were prostrate and insensible. Then we were taken to the mighty tyrant of this kingdom: the famous Hugh Bennet, the Cracker.

 

  The face of the tyrant who ruled this fortress would have struck immediate fear into his unwilling subjects. An old wound on his left cheek caused his upper lip to curl into a permanent sneer. He wore no wig, and his hair was cut so short that he appeared almost bald. His chin was unshaven and dark, and his blue eyes malevolent and cunning. He was short and squat, but with powerful-looking forearms and shoulders. His clothes were of the cheapest, and none too clean. Ignoring the porter entirely, he demanded of us what we wanted. He recognised Wandescote as a frequent and no doubt well-paying visitor, and listened while he explained our request to interview Danielle d’Autun. Darnwell added that I was a Member of Parliament and thus a person of influence.

   Bennet did not bother to ask why, but instead named his terms, which were not for silver, but for a golden guinea! When I gave him one, the rogue weighed it in his hand, examined it closely and even bit it, as if he suspected that I might have passed him a forgery! But no doubt he had dealt with many forged coins in his time.

   He did not deign to accompany us to the cell himself, but instead clapped his hands to summon one of his menials. This fellow, in contrast with his master, was as thin as a lath and walked with a long, loping step; his mouth bore but a single tooth, long and yellow like a fang, and his eyes had an evil glint to them. I instinctively felt pity for any defenceless wretch who came under his care. He was given a few brief instructions, too low for us to overhear, and then he lit a lantern and led us on our way into the nether depths of the celebrated Bastille.

   We approached a heavy door, which the disgusting turnkey, having selected a key from an immense, jangling ring that he carried, proceeded with evident reluctance to unlock. The door emitted an ominous groan as he pushed it open.

    At first I could see nothing, for inside it was almost lightless. I drew breath, and almost choked, for the air was putrid and foul. I heard voices and the movement of bodies, and discovered that the cell, though small, contained many prisoners. Some of these now came crawling on their knees towards us. But the turnkey ignored them, except when they got in his way or clawed at his breeches, begging for succour, when he pushed them aside with a curse. He led us to a corner where we found Danielle lying on filthy straw, with a chain on her leg. She sat up with a start, and the lantern caused her to shade her eyes from the sudden glow.

   “You want to be alone with her?” the turnkey asked, giving us a lascivious wink.

   “This place will do for the present”, I answered, “But first, be good enough to unchain her, and bring us sufficient food and wine, and candles too, and a chair to sit on”.

   He demurred at this, and I was obliged to part with yet more coin before he would agree to my requests.

“And I shall go too”, said Darnwell, “and guard the door, lest this rogue should dare to lock us in, and then demand money to release us. And if I find that he fails to bring us sufficient victuals on his return, then he shall answer to my boot!”

   After the turnkey had departed, still cursing, I regarded the unfortunate woman before me. Wandescote stood watching and said nothing. The light was very dim, and had I not known it was Danielle, I doubt if I would ever have recognised her, for the passing years, added to her present miserable situation, sat hard upon her features. Ever since our night together I had often, when I was alone, remembered what we had done together and lusted after her in my imagination; but seeing her now haggard, dirty and half-starved I could feel only pity mingled with disgust. I doubted whether she would remember me at all, for she had no doubt had many lovers after our encounter. She had the expression of a frightened hunted animal as she looked at me: who was this stranger, and was he here to inflict yet more sufferings?  

   “Pray do not be alarmed”, I said, “We shall help you if we can”.

   “I am innocent!” she wailed, “It was an unjust accusation, by my wicked landlord!”

   “That does not concern me now”, I replied, “I merely wish you to answer some questions about another matter. My name is Charles Huntingdon. I met you once, a few years ago. I am a friend of Sir James Wilbrahim, and I am a Member of Parliament, but I have no connexion with the present ministry, and anything you say I shall treat in strictest confidence. Let us wait until the gaoler returns to free you from your chains and bring you food, after which we can talk. And if it is my power to save your life, I shall do so”.

   We waited, the silence broken only by a few sobs from her. At last the turnkey appeared with a younger assistant, bearing a broken-backed chair together with a basket and a bottle. With much muttered grumblig he lit two candles and then unlocked the chain from her ankle, which she proceeded to rub vigorously, and then seated herself on the chair. When the man had left I opened the bag, which contained a loaf, a mutton pie and a black bottle of cheap wine. Nothing was clean; but neither this nor the dubious smell of the wine prevented Danielle from gobbling at great speed. She was ravenous with hunger, though she shared some of the food with a miserable-looking old lady who lay near her.

   When they had finished every crumb and every drop, I requested that she recount to me everything she knew concerning Sir James Wilbrahim and the Jacobites. I soon discovered she was understandably suspicious of me, and would not tell me anything of interest. After much fruitless questioning I decided I had had more than enough of the noisome dungeon, so I rose from my chair and prepared to leave.

   I hoped that, given time, Danielle might be willing to reveal more, so I told her, “I am leaving now, but I shall return. Until then, please reflect. If you tell me truthfully what you know, I shall do my utmost to help you, and save you from the gallows if I can.” She had a wild look in her eyes, but said nothing.

  We found Darnwell waiting for us outside. “Well?” he asked me, “What did she tell you concerning old Wilbrahim?”

  “Nothing”, I told him, “I suspect she thought I might be a government spy. But I’ll try to get her moved to a better cell, where she can live on her own, and eventually she may come to trust me”.

  “As your legal advisor, I would have to caution you against believing a single word she said!” he laughed.

   As I prepared to depart that dreadful building, I told Bennet, “I shall return soon, by which time I shall expect to find her in a decent room with proper bedding. If you do this, and allow me to speak to her again, you will be paid. If not, I promise to make life exceedingly difficult for you.” He made no reply, though I heard him spit on the ground once my back was turned.

  I wondered whether I could trust Bennet at all. Wandescote advised me that I could, provided I paid him enough to satisfy his cupidity, and, more importantly, let him expect even larger payment in the future. This proved correct at least for the moment, for next day I was informed that Danielle was now being held in his best room, part of his own quarters in the prison, and fed from his own table, and all at a rent, payable by me, being somewhat more than what I paid for my own London lodgings.

 

   I was eventually able to have many conversations with Danielle. At the start she revealed nothing, and I believe that she never fully trusted me. I did not raise the question of my night with her which ended with the theft of my belongings, but eventually she must have remembered the incident herself, for without any prompting she told me, “I am sorry that I abandoned you that night. I had another urgent task to fulfil before morning. But I never stole from you. That villain Yarrow, whose house it was, must have crept into the room when you were asleep. Later he learnt my secret and vowed he would expose me unless I followed his orders, and when I would not satisfy his filthy lusts, he informed on me to a magistrate. What could I do?”

   I told her that this incident was no longer of any importance to me, and that I had entirely forgiven her for the part she had played there. Instead I wanted to know about her links with the English Jacobites, and especially what she knew of events in Brereton when the Scots Jacobite rebels had passed through there in 1745.

  She told me many stories about her adventurous life, whether truthful or not I could not say. She denied ever having met Sir James Wilbrahim, of which fact I was already certain, and I stressed that he was a friend; that I meant neither him nor any other inhabitants of the town any harm, but that I was asking out of curiosity only, as concerning the place where I now lived.

 

    I did not attempt to write anything down in Danielle’s presence, lest she become suspicious, but instead attempted to piece her accounts together back at my lodgings. But I was not always able to do this until the day after, or even later, for I had other claims. Here, therefore, is my attempt to reduce everything she told me to a continuousnarrative, whilst correcting the occasional mistakes and strange phrases in her English. Even if only partially true, what a novel of adventure and romance it would make!

 

             ………………………… ………………… 

                                   Danielle’s story

 

   “My father was French, but my mother was a Scot, from an ancient family driven into exile for their support for the Stuart cause, and she taught me to speak English. They both died when I was young, and I was left under the care of my uncle, who was a friend of the Comte de Maurepas, the Minister of Marine. When war was looming with England after 1742, he sent me to England to contact Jacobites there and prepare for a rising and a French invasion. I was little more than twenty years old, and eager for adventure.

   “I was sent to the English Midlands, taking letters  from your friend Sir James Wilbrahim and many Jacobite gentlemen in Staffordshire and Shropshire and other counties, and passed them on to our chief agent: Butler was his name. When the Prince advanced through Lancashire, I travelled to meet him, and we became lovers. Oh, he was so handsome, and so charming in his manner!

   “When we reached Stanegate in December, Wibrahim was not there, but we were received by his wife. She was a proud lady and a lifelong supporter our cause. She knelt on the icy ground before the Prince and kissed his hand, welcoming him to her house as the representative of her true sovereign; and he most gallantly raised to her feet and thanked her with all his heart. Then the next morning we marched onwards.

   “I was present at the meeting in Derby a few days later, when all the Scottish chieftains told him he must retreat, since he had received no letters from France and not a single English lord or gentleman had joined them. And that was true, for many, like Wilbrahim, had run away to London, Sir Watkin Williams Wynn in Wales made not a move, and in Staffordshire Lord Gower committed the greatest betrayal, for he changed sides and joined the government!

   “The Prince was very angry, but could do nothing. If we had continued to London, who knows what would have befallen? I joined him in the retreat. His mood changed: he became morose, with bursts of anger. I do not think he ever spoke to Lord Murray, who was his best commander.

   “When a garrison was left at Carlisle to cover the return into Scotland, I felt sure they would all be caught and hanged, so I fled. I knew of nowhere safe to go, and I almost starved in the snow as I walked, but near Penrith a kind farmer found me and took me in. Ralph Patterson was his name, a Jacobite, and I lived in his home for a while, paying for my living by teaching his children. Eventually I was able to make my way back to France.

   “Years later, I was in Rome, and there I met the Prince again. But oh, how he had changed! He looked an old man now, he was often drunk, and then he would beat his wife and his mistresses. When I mentioned Scotland to him, he burst into tears. I felt sad for him.

   “Of my life in those years I shall say nothing. But then, a few years ago, with the war against your country going badly for us, monsieur le Duc de Choiseul, our chief minister, thought he should try for a new Jacobite revolt and invasion, so I was sent to England again, with the promise of money, to see what could be done. For this purpose I would approach the noblemen and gentlemen, like yourself, to see what I could discover concerning their thoughts about the war and the restoration of the true king. But I soon found that my mission was futile, and M. de Choiseul knew it too, and the money I was promised never came, and I was left in London, penniless and friendless! And now I am in the prison, with nothing to look forward to but the gallows!”

                     ............................................................. 

   I begged her to have confidence; that my friends and I would do our utmost to gain her a reprieve. Henry Darnwell had drawn up his petition, in what he said was proper legal form, respectfully begging His Majesty to exercise his Royal prerogative of mercy. I persuaded Sir Anthony Pardington to head the list of signatories. Those of my friends who were currently in London signed, and so did Mr Boswell and Charles Churchill. Lord Staines signed, but warned me on no account to approach his father for a signature. Finally, with some caution, I sought Mr Braithwaite. He read the petition and sighed.

  “Do you not know”, he said, “that His Majesty is resolved to suppress vice and immorality? His very first proclamation from the throne was to that effect. A woman with this kind of reputation is exactly the sort of person he wishes to eradicate from his capital. Even his tender-hearted Queen might draw the line here. And the fact that the woman is French does nothing to help her cause.

  “Why should you and your friends be exerting yourselves on her behalf?”

I told him that I had spoken to Danielle, and that I believed she held important information on the late Jacobite revolt in my part of the country, that I wished to discover.

    “And what would be the purpose of such an enquiry, pray?” he asked. “Such regrettable episodes should not be raked over: it does no good. We live in a new reign now, and may, I hope, look forward to happier times. As far as His Majesty is concerned, the Jacobite troubles are buried in the past and best forgotten; and I must say that I am in full agreement with him there.

  “May I suspect that your reasons are more personal?” he continued, “You surely do not believe she is a lady of spotless virtue, do you? Has she in fact performed certain services for you, which you prefer not to describe?”

   I did not reply. Mr Braithwaite’s voice had faded away to nothing, his eyes bore a faraway look and there was the ghost of a smile on his usually austere face. It was as if his mind was recalling the adventures of his youth, thirty or forty years ago. He was silent for a while and then sighed before speaking.

   “Well, I shall sign your petition. Proceed with your attempt if you wish, but do not live in any great hope of its success. I have some influence with the new ministers. I shall see if I can contrive to obtain for this woman of yours at least a stay of execution for the moment; or I can recommend her for transportation to the American colonies. But do not expect any more than that!”

    He added his signature, and it appeared I could only hope that he was wrong in his predictions. There were further questions I wished to ask Danielle, but I found these must wait, for I now received news of a most alarming nature from back home.

    

 

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  Chapter 28: Sir James Wilbrahim's life in danger while doctors differ

   I was seated reading at my lodgings one spring morning of rain when a messenger arrived with a most urgent letter from Martin Clifford. Sir James Wilbrahim, he wrote, had suffered an apoplectic seizure, his life was in danger, and I must return home without delay. I set out immediately and was there in less than two days, though the weather continued bad and the roads were foul.

 

   When I arrived at the Priory, Clifford and Mrs Timmis between them told me what they had learned from the talk in the town:

    A messenger had arrived with a letter and old William the manservant had taken it to the library and delivered it to Sir James. He had then left the room, and some time later heard a great cry and a crash, and found Sir James lying on the floor, barely breathing. Miss Louisa, Tom the gardener and others had carried him to the parlour where they made up a bed. Doctor Stump was summoned and had bled Sir James, and the Rector had also come. That was all that was known for sure. Everyone naturally suspected that the letter might have caused Sir James’s collapse, but it had not been amongst them.

  The weather being somewhat improved, I rode Alexander to Stanegate and was met at the door by William, only to be told, politely but firmly, that I was not to be admitted. I enquired about the mysterious letter which was perhaps the cause of Sir James’s collapse: no, he did not know who the letter was from, but he presumed it was from some great lord, for the wax seal on the back bore a crest. His honour, he said, had not opened the letter immediately, but had directed him to leave it on the table. After his honour had been carried away, there were papers scattered over the library floor, but the letter had not been among them.

   His honour, he continued, had now recovered the power of speech, and his first action had been to call for his daughter to see him in private. They had had a brief conversation, following which Miss Louisa, weeping bitterly, had retired to her room. Her father had not spoken to her since. I next asked him if I might write to Louisa to express my sympathy and offer any help I could provide, but was told that this was impossible, for his honour’s instructions, conveyed by the Rector, were that she was not to receive either letters or visitors. William had tears in his own eyes as he spoke, which he vainly attempted to conceal. There seemed little I could do beyond requesting William to keep me informed of whatever might pass, and so I left, puzzled and apprehensive.

 

    Wishing to learn more, I next proceeded into Bereton to search out Doctor Stump. I had never consulted him myself, having had so far the great good fortune to suffer neither illness nor injury while living at the Priory, but I knew him by sight: a man of strange appearance that scarcely inspired confidence, for he was short and crouching in posture, his eyes were never still and his face bore a dark pustule above his right eyebrow. He had but two teeth in his mouth, and they were very yellow and very long, giving him a carnivorous appearance when he spoke. He smelt constantly of snuff, which stained his coat. 

  He worked, I discovered, from a small, dingy shop in a side street, situated, perhaps appropriately, next to a butcher. A sign proudly announced him as Theodore Stump: physician and apothecary. The window displayed bottles of coloured liquids, but their faded labels could barely be read through the dirty glass.

   An ancient female conducted me through to a back parlour, where I found Doctor Stump in conversation with another man who was the exact opposite in appearance, being tall and cadaverous, with a motionless face that was as white as chalk. He was dressed entirely in black, like a cleric. Had he been lying prostrate, I could have taken him for a corpse.

   Doctor Stump welcomed me to his home and hastened to introduce me to the other man, who it transpired was a most eminent physician from Mulchester, by name Doctor Lawton. Stump was unusually effusive in his manner, as if boastfully proud that a Member of Parliament should be paying him a visit.

  I explained that I was concerned about Sir James Wilbrahim’s state of health, and wished to know what could be done to cure him.

   “And you were quite right to come, sir,” said the visiting doctor, speaking in a voice so soft that I could barely hear him, “for we were indeed discussing his case as you entered. I shall allow my esteemed colleague here to state his opinion first.”

   Doctor Stump, evidently eager to impress both me and his visitor, now embarked on a lengthy discourse on the four humours. He attributed Sir James’s collapse to an excess of Black Bile in his blood, leading to an imbalance which needed to be remedied by bleeding; and should the symptoms persist, the treatment should be repeated until the correct balance had been restored. If he, the doctor, was unable to be present, then a number of leeches might suffice. In that eventuality, he said, a treatment favoured by some authorities was to counter the Black Bile with a Red Cure, which could include replacing the green bed-hangings with scarlet ones and feeding the patient only red food and drink. He also recommended a certain elixir that he could supply, involving snails and millipedes plus other secret ingredients, bruised to a paste and mixed with claret wine, which was certain to produce what he described as “a plentiful evacuation”.

   Doctor Lawson shook his skull-like head firmly, with a frown on his face. “Your diagnosis is incorrect,” he pronounced in condemnation, his voice now rising to take on a harsh tone. “Even if your patient’s affliction had indeed resulted from an imbalance of the humours, then in my opinion he suffered from an excess of Red Choler, in which case your Red Cure would only make his affliction worse. And your elixir too contains red wine! Make it Moselle, sir: Moselle! Otherwise you will infallibly kill your unfortunate patient! No, sir: the unhappy gentleman has plainly suffered an attack of the flying gout.”

   When I asked him for the meaning of this strange term, he explained, in a most superior and patronising tone, that whereas the proper focus of gout was, of course, the feet, but in the case of Sir James the affliction appeared to have suddenly transferred to his brain; and for this he proposed a treatment of the application of hot mustard-plasters to the feet, in order to attract the gout back to its proper home.

  The expression on Doctor Stump’s face suggested that he strongly disagreed, but did not dare contradict his more eminent colleague. I said that for my part I agreed with Doctor Stump’s treatment, for good quantities of claret would at least put Sir James in good heart, whereas I believed that he did not like Moselle wine. I then asked whether, in furtherance of the Red Cure the room should perhaps be lined with red roses and poppies, gathered when Mars, the red planet, was in the ascendant?

   I had intended this comment to be light-hearted, but the learned Doctor Lawton took it with the utmost seriousness. He shook his head impatiently, dismissed the use of flowers as a mere superstition of the uneducated, and informed me, in the lofty tone of a schoolmaster addressing a recalcitrant pupil, that I, as a mere layman, was lamentably ignorant of the astrological sciences. His investigations, he said, had revealed that Sir James was under the influence of Saturn, and could not expect a full recovery until that planet appeared in the constellation of Virgo.

   “Mars has nothing to do with the matter, sir! Nothing at all!” He pronounced with contempt. His voice was like iron scraped over gravel. I felt I had nothing more to contribute to the discussion, and so we parted.  I was still without any ideas as to how I could help the good people of Stanegate, for it appeared unlikely that I would be admitted to the house.

 

                                      (The quack doctor, by Hogarth)

  

   However, two days later I was at work in the library on another cold and wet morning when Ellie the little servant girl appeared with surprising news.

  “Sir, there’s a strange girl arrived! She says her name’s Becky and that she’s Miss Wilbrahim’s maid; she’s in the kitchen. She must have walked here from town, and in this weather too: she’s all soaked! Mrs Timmis is out in the village, so I’ve sat her down in front of the fire, but she says she needs to speak to you urgent-like, in private.”

   I found it was indeed Becky, but she was far from being the pert lass I had encountered before: she was spattered all over with mud and was plainly exhausted and much distressed. I ordered Ellie to produce some mulled ale to warm her.

   “Oh, sir!” she cried, directly Ellie had left the room, “You’ve got to help us! I’ve run all the way here to show you this!”

   “What; all the way from Stanegate? And in the rain? But that’s more than five miles!”

   She nodded and searched in her clothing to find a sheet of paper, much crumpled and torn and now wet from the rain. She explained that she had found it in the coat that Sir James had been wearing when he collapsed, and knew from the wax seal that it must be from someone important.

   Ellie now returned with a mug of ale that she had warmed. As Becky sipped it, I carefully straightened out the paper. Enough of the seal remained to show it was a letter from Lord Teesdale.   

   “Have you read it?” I asked.

   “There were some words there I didn’t know.” I realised that Becky could scarcely read at all.

  “I haven’t shown it to no-one else; not even the mistress. I brought it straight to you. Oh sir, you must come! The mistress, she cries all the time, and she don’t hardly touch her food! And all of us in the house, we’re that frightened!”

   I read the letter. Some parts were now illegible, but I was able to guess these. It had probably been written by Lord Teesdale’s secretary, and the wording was very harsh.

 

   “The Rt. Hon. the Earl of Teesdale presents his compliments to Sir James Wilbrahim, Bart.

   “It has been reported to his lordship that, while she was in London, Sir James Wilbrahim’s daughter Miss Louisa Wilbrahim resided for several days at a house owned by a notorious bawd. His lordship is prepared to believe that the child was merely foolish rather than vicious, but wishes to state that it is surely obvious that, even if she is innocent of any wrongdoing, it is impossible that there could ever now be a match between Sir James Wilbrahim’s daughter and Lord Staines. All discussion of this matter is therefore at an end.”

   So it was by this means that Sir James had discovered the truth about his daughter’s adventure in London! No wonder he was struck down with apoplexy! I wondered how word of it had come to Lord Teesdale’s ears. He made no reference to his Countess’s part in Louisa’s rescue, but he would have been informed of it, and would surely have made some further enquiries. Who then might have revealed details about Mother Rawton?  Could it have come from Churchill, in an unguarded moment? Or Boswell, who loved gossip? Or perhaps Mother Rawton herself, out of sheer mischief and desire for revenge?

   “And did your mistress tell you the full story?” I asked Becky.

   “Not until yesterday, she didn’t, sir. But when the master told her as how he knew the truth, and sent her to her room, and she was left crying her eyes out; then she told me. And now the Rector’s there all the time, spreading his poison in the master’s ears! He makes out that it was your fault, and it was you what lured her down to London, and that he’ll watch over her now that the master’s ill. Please come up there now, sir! You’ll find a way of speaking to the master, and telling him as how Miss Louisa isn’t in no way to blame: that you will, sir! And tell him not to take no notice of what that wicked Rector says! Otherwise I don’t know what might happen! We trust you, sir: all of us do!”  The poor girl began to cry herself.

   “But you must know that I have been refused admission to the house!”

   “Just come with me, sir; please! We’ll find a way of getting you in, that we will; and then you’ll tell the master the truth!”

   How could I resist such an appeal? I raised Becky to her feet and assured her that of course I would come with her. Then I called Henry and ordered the trap to be ready for immediate use, with him to drive us. While we waited she told me what had occurred at Stanegate.

   “I was sweeping the hall, and the door to the master’s room, it wasn’t fully closed so I couldn’t help but hear what was going on in there. I hope you don’t think I was snooping, sir; that’s not my way; but I l do love the young mistress, we all of us do. The master’s voice is very quiet since his illness, but the Rector, he’s got a loud voice. He was talking to the master about the young mistress, and I didn’t like what he was saying at all, that I didn’t. He said she'd become a most wilful girl  since she first met you, for you'd encouraged her to be disobedient, and that in Mulchester she had run away for no reason, and it wasn’t the first time she’d behaved like that, for he'd found out how it was you and Mr Clifford that brought us home from the fireworks last year, and so he blamed all the nonsense she’d learnt from the young men (meaning you and Lord Staines, begging your pardon, sir) for making her want to run away to London, and that it was you as invited her to go there!”

   “But that’s not true!” I interposed, “She ran away to London to meet Lord Staines, though I doubt if he actually invited her. He didn’t love her at all, you know!”

   Becky continued with her narrative. “And then the master says that he feared that what she had done would be the talk of London by now, and she had brought disgrace on the family; and Mr Bunbridge says that the best that can be done is that she’s kept under close guard and never let out until it’s all been forgotten; and that he promised to look after her while the master was ill.”

   Becky then described how Bunbridge had demanded kisses in return for passing on letters. I said that I knew of it too, but that I understood that he had soon desisted.

   “That’s true, sir, but that’s because he took to kissing me instead! He said he’d beat me if I told anyone! He tries it on with all the young girls. You should hear the stories they tell about him in the town!”

 

     The rain slackened and eventually ceased. When we reached Stanegate we did not drive up to the main entrance, but instead left the trap some distance away, instructing Henry to wait till my return; and then walked round to a narrow gate leading to the servants’ entrance. Becky went inside to check that no-one was about and returned to summon me in. We tiptoed up some narrow backstairs to Louisa’s apartment.

    I had not met Louisa since our return from London, and she was much changed: her sorrows had rendered her face thinner and her cheeks were stained with tears. She took my hand and said how glad she was that I had come. I asked about her father, but this led to more tears.

 “It is all my fault!” she sobbed, “I would rather have remained forever unknown at Mother Rawton’s place, than cause him such pain! What if he should die?” She then wept uncontrollably while Becky hugged her. I explained that I intended to go to Sir James and tell him the truth. Louisa was reluctant to agree, fearing that any more shocks might be fatal to his health, but after much whispering, Becky persuaded her and, having established that the coast was still clear, led me quietly down to where I would find Sir James in the parlour, for he was not yet strong enough to reach his bedroom even with assistance. But what should I say to him? And what if I found the Rector there?

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Chapter 29: The most important day of my life

We approached the parlour where Sir James lay. Becky put her ear to the keyhole, and indicated to me that there were no voices within, so he was probably alone. As she knocked on the door, my courage failed me to the extent that with half of my mind I hoped that he would be asleep and my mission would be abandoned; but instead a feeble voice from within bade her enter.

   I heard her say, “If you please, sir, there’s a gentleman here wishes to speak with you.” I pictured her giving a little curtsey as she did so.

   “Indeed?” Sir James replied, “And why do you, not William, show him in?”

   “If you please, sir, I met the gentleman as I was coming back from town, and William must have been round at the stables, so I let him in. He didn’t give no name, sir, but he said it was very important that he spoke to you.”

   “Oh, very well then.” His voice sounded resigned.

    Sir James was lying on a couch with his head propped up on cushions. He wore a long buff-coloured gown, with slippers on his feet and a cotton turban on his head. His face was thin and heavily lined, making him appear ten years older than when I last saw him. There was no-one else in the room.

   “Mr Huntingdon!” he exclaimed in a weary voice, “I did not expect to see you, sir, coming here uninvited in this fashion. What is more, I do not wish to see you. Before you go, I shall take the opportunity to say that your conduct has been disgraceful! You have filled Miss Louisa's head with foolish ideas and encouraged her in disobedience. I have been informed that you secretly brought her back from the fireworks display, which I had specifically forbidden her to attend. This was not the behaviour of a gentleman! Now we have witnessed the disastrous consequences of your influence.  Good day to you, sir!”

   He turned his face away from me, but I was not deterred, and spoke the words I had been rehearsing in my head.

   “I have come here, sir, to speak to you," I said. “As for myself, I apologise most sincerely if I have offended you, for that was never my intention: I have always held you in the deepest respect. I shall not attempt to defend myself except by saying that at the time I believed I was acting for the best. But I earnestly request that you hear what I have to say concerning the allegations against your daughter, who has been grossly misjudged. She is entirely innocent, and is now greatly distressed and desires only to be reconciled with you.”

   “I would have you ejected from my house, sir,” he replied angrily, “but I am weak with illness, and it seems my servants have deserted me. Where is Mr Bunbridge? He was here but a minute past!”

   “The Rector is not here, sir, and I shall speak!”

   I told him how Louisa, arriving in London but not knowing where to find Lord Staines, had been entrapped and imprisoned by Mother Rawton, from whose premises we rescued her.

   “And how did you find her there? Are you in the habit of frequenting brothels?” he asked in a scornful tone.

   “No, sir: friends of mine were able, at my request, to discover her whereabouts, and then we acted to free her.”

   I described the rescue, omitting the names of Mr Wilkes and the others, who were unlikely to have met with his approval. I then began to recount my appeal to the Countess for help, intending to stress that her great kindness would not have been forthcoming had she not entirely believed in Louisa’s innocence; but at this point I was interrupted by the door opening to admit Mr Bunbridge. He regarded my presence with such astonishment that he was briefly silent.

   “How dare you invade this house and weary Sir James with this chatter!” he eventually burst forth. “You, and no-one else, are solely responsible for the disaster that has overtaken us! Leave immediately, and never return!”

   “No, sir, I shall not leave! I am here to tell Sir James the truth of his daughter’s misfortune, and to counter the lies that you, sir, have been spreading!”

   Sir James looked on in stupefaction as we conversed angrily in this fashion. Mr Bunbridge’s face was purple with rage, and I believe that he might even have assaulted me, but at that moment Becky reappeared, through the door that the Rector had left open. She curtsied first to her master and then to Mr Bunbridge, and it was him whom she now addressed.

   “If you please, sir, the young mistress would like to speak with you. She asks could you come up immediate, sir.” 

(The costume of an 18th century maid)

    My astonishment at this invitation could scarcely have been less that of the reverend gentleman, to judge by the expression on his face. What the deuce could she intend to say to him? But Bunbridge did not hesitate, and after delivering a somewhat perfunctory apology to his host he followed Becky out of the room.

   Sir James was no less baffled. “Why has he gone? Why has he gone?” he kept repeating.  

    “I cannot tell you, sir, but it seems that he is otherwise engaged; so before he returns, I shall continue my story.”

   Very soon, however, loud cries, first from one female voice and then from another, echoed through the house; doors slammed and heavy footsteps were heard running down the stairs. Moments later, Louisa and her maid rushed into the parlour. Both were out of breath: Becky’s dress and hair were much disordered and Louisa’s her eyes now blazed with anger. She ran to father’s side and knelt down, taking her father’s hand in both of hers while Becky stood by.

      “What’s this? What’s this?” he exclaimed.

   When she had recovered her breath, Louisa described how she had been in her apartment when she heard Becky scream. She ran out to find the Rector in a nearby room with Becky on his knee, fondling her, while she was shouting at him to desist and beating him on the chest with her fists. On seeing Louisa, he had thrown Becky to the floor and fled. Sir James, greatly to my surprise, appeared suddenly revitalised on hearing this.

   “The old rogue!” he chuckled, “And at his age too!”

   After Louisa had finished speaking, he said, “Well, I wonder if the maid is as much to blame as him, with her flirtatious ways. But even so ….  No, I do not approve of him misbehaving with my servants under my roof, and he must write me an apology before I admit him here again.”

   Louisa now told her father of the kisses the Rector had demanded for the delivery of letters, which Becky confirmed. Sir James closed his eyes and showed no reaction. We wondered whether he had fallen asleep, but then suddenly he spoke again, not to his daughter but to me.

   “What you have told me has come as a shock, and I must have time to think on it. I cannot help but think that you may have misunderstood Mr Bunbridge’s conduct towards you. I am an old man and in poor health, and it is too late for me to change my friends now. I have known Mr Bunbridge for many years: he has his faults, as we all do, but I believe these are more than matched by his virtues. He was a great scholar at Oxford, and has never concealed his devotion to the House of Stuart, in consequence of which he has suffered persecution and been denied the preferment that his talents deserve. The advice he has given me has always been good. For these reasons, I have named his as executor in my will, and, if God should soon call me away from this life, he will be guardian of Louisa until she comes of age. These I shall not change. I believe he has her best interests at heart, and after what has passed, I consider her more than ever in need of a strong guardian.”

   All this time, Louisa had remained kneeling beside Sir James, with his left hand in both of hers. She now kissed that hand, told him in the sweetest tones of her love for him and begged his forgiveness for all the distress which her disobedience had caused him. He hesitated for a while, then with a sigh disengaged the hand and placed it on her head, announcing that he did indeed forgive her. Louisa flung herself across to embrace him and kissed him on both cheeks. It was a reconciliation that answered all our prayers.

   Sir James smiled, then he lay back and closed his eyes and was silent for a while. We thought he wished to end the conversation, and were about to leave quietly when he suddenly spoke again.

   “Mr Huntingdon, it would seem I cannot keep you out of my house. Even my servants thwart my wishes. Very well, now you are here, you can help me. I am informed that my accounts are in confusion, and I am too weary to inspect them myself. Your man Clifford is said to be honest, and you may send him here for the task until Bagley is found." 

   I noted that he had not invited me, though neither had he absolutely forbidden me to come. 

   There was a long pause before he continued, though now he spoke as if he was musing out loud to himself rather than addressing us,

  “As for Miss Louisa: even if her conduct has been, as I have been told, entirely innocent, I fear that the world will condemn her. No doubt the upstart nobleman who wrote me that disgraceful letter has jested of it to his friends. Her reputation is ruined. I shall never have a son-in-law: our line has come to an end. That fellow Staines is no loss, for he is a ridiculous and degenerate young puppy. But who would marry her now?”

   Acting on sudden impulse, I took Louisa’s hand in mine. “I will marry her, sir!” I answered boldly.

   “You, sir?” he gasped, “You!” Again he closed his eyes and lay still. Louisa said nothing, but gripped my hand tightly. After a while he began to snore.

   We left the parlour and entered the library, where we found ourselves alone. I turned her to face me and took her by both hands, and looking her in the eyes I declared my undying love for her, my desire to marry her and promised always to support and protect her whatever might befall. I cannot now recall my exact words, which were no doubt as hackneyed as in a scene on stage in a comedy, and spoken much too fast, but which were perfectly sincere for all that. She blushed, and waited a while before venturing a reply, as if choosing her words with extreme care.

   “Sir”, she replied, “I shall ever be in your debt for the manner in which you and your friends rescued me, and I do not doubt that you are speaking from the heart. But all this is very …” she paused to search for a suitable word, “… sudden”, she concluded. She kept hold of my hands.

  “But at least you are not utterly rejecting me?” I protested.

  “Oh no, sir, by no means!” she exclaimed softly.

   I took her in my arms and kissed her full on the lips. For what seemed a blissful eternity I held her close. Then she drew back her face to speak, though she did not disengage herself.

   “My dear Mr Huntingdon – Charles – I am yours and you are mine forever. But for the moment we can do nothing, and I must beg you to keep what has passed between us a secret. After all the distress I have caused my poor father, my plain duty is to stay here and watch over him. I shall remain at his bedside, and I think it would be best if you did not talk to him for a while. I must beg you to tell no-one of what has passed between us. We must be patient, until he recovers, or until …..” She turned her head aside in an attempt to hide the tears in her eyes. I kissed her again.

  “But now you must go”, she said. She rang a little bell that stood on the table, and Becky immediately appeared to show me out. I suspected she had been listening from behind the door, and had heard every word.

 

   When we had left the house, I paused and asked the young maid, who was now smiling happily, “Tell me what really happened to cause that scream.”

   Becky recounted the story. “I told Mr Bunbridge that my mistress wished to talk to him, but when we were near her door I stopped, and took him by the sleeve, and brought my face close to his and whispered, “’It’s me that wants to see you, sir!’ And I led him into a room nearby, and he was in such a hurry that he didn’t lock the door but sat me on his knee and started to kiss me, and he stuck his hand inside my dress. Then I screamed as loudly as I could, which brought the mistress out, and when she saw what was happening she screamed too, and he ran away as fast as he could. You should have seen the look on his face! So then we came down here to tell the master.”

   She told me all this without the least trace of shame. She really was a most pert servant girl!

   “I see. But I have more questions: did you plan all this in advance? Perhaps you summoned me here today with this in mind? And if so, did your mistress know?”

   Becky's only response was to grin and drop a most demure curtsey before retiring into the house. I could well understand why the Rector lusted after her, and in different circumstances I would have felt the same way myself. But my affections had now been given elsewhere: I vowed to myself that henceforth I would foreswear all other women: no-one but Louisa should be in my heart or my mind! This thought made me feel deliriously happy.