Chapter 6: A new home and new friends
When I awoke, there was a single shaft of light between the shutters, which had not been fully closed. For a moment I wondered where I was, before recalling that this was now my home. Noises from downstairs indicated that the household was already up and about. I rang the bell beside the bed, and soon a young servant girl entered with a candle. Despite the early hour she was neatly dressed in brown with a white cap, and I was gratified to see that Mrs Timmis had kept her charges in such good order.
She curtsied and appeared very shy, but I smiled at her and requested that she should light candles and then bring me hot water for washing. My watch told me that it was a quarter to eight, and I reflected that people in the country rose much earlier than those in town, where some of my friends had been known to lie abed until noon. While I waited for her to return, I opened the shutters and looked out on my new lands. The window was an old-fashioned casement with small diamond-shaped panes of glass. Outside, it looked clear and cold: the wet weather had departed and with a single star glimmered faintly in the sky. The few small clouds showed a pale pink underneath.
My window must have faced south-east, for as I watched the sky turned orange as the sun peeped above the horizon. I saw a bright sparkle reflected from the snow atop Brackenridge hill. I had never seen such a sight before, and stood there gazing at it. The serving girl must have been surprised on her return to find me at the window in nothing but my nightshirt. When I asked, she told me her name was Ellen. Although little more than a child, she scarcely appeared intimidated by my presence.
Having no-one to assist me in dressing, I asked her to undertake the task. It quickly became obvious that she knew nothing of men’s clothing, and in consequence there was much fumbling on her part. When she buttoned my shirt wrongly for the second time I pretended to be annoyed, and gave her a playful slap on the rump, which made her giggle, and I could not help smiling myself. Indeed, when the task was completed and I dismissed her, saying that she would soon learn the correct method of dressing me, she dutifully curtsied, but the look she gave me on withdrawing could only be described as saucy.
It occurred to me that she would undoubtedly be recounting her experience to her fellow-servants, who would all be eager for early reports on me. What would they think, and what would Mrs Timmis make of it when she heard of it, as she undoubtedly would? But I did not care: here I was in my own home, the first I had ever owned, and I felt immensely proud and happy. The happiness increased when I passed downstairs and found the ample breakfast of freshly baked bread, butter, bacon and tea that had been prepared for me. In the midst of her bustling about, Mrs Timmis enquired whether everything had met with my approval, and I replied truthfully that I was entirely satisfied.
Afterwards I reflected that I had entirely ignored Lord Staines’s advice on how to treat my new servants, and I wondered what he would have done in my position. I doubted whether he would have struck the chambermaid: more likely he would have found some fault with her costume, or accused her of lateness or of yawning in his face, however unjustified this might be, and coldly criticised her at length for her incompetence with the buttons. He would have complained to Mrs Timmis about her, and demanded better service in future, and turned up his nose at the breakfast as unbefitting someone of his rank. And as for any concern about what Mrs Timmis might think: I could imagine him telling me, with biting sarcasm in his voice, that it was strange I should be concerned about what my housekeeper thought. I imagined him shaking his head in a mixture of sorrow and disgust at my feeble behaviour and predicting that it would not be long before my servants, not I, would be running the household and doing whatever their fancy suggested. But on reflection I decided that, if it was indeed Mrs Timmis, not I, who was the sole director of my household, then so be it: I was comfortable with such an arrangement.
Over the next few days Mrs Timmis began treating me more like a son than a master: a son she had never had, since by and by I discovered that she had never married but was universally known as “Mrs Timmis” out of respect. Before long she felt bold enough to recount her memories of my childhood visit, which had been back in 1744, when I was brought to the Priory by my mother to meet her relatives.
“I remember that!" she exclaimed, "It was the year before the rebels came through. You were so polite and well-mannered!" she told me, "The mistress loved you straight away!”
I replied that I had very few memories of that visit, but I did recall that Mr Andrew was in bed when I was introduced to him, and that when he eventually rose for dinner, he walked with great difficulty, supported by two crutches.
Mrs Timmis nodded, and looked very sad. “Yes, poor man; the master’s health was bad for many years, and when he died his friends thought it came as a relief after all his sufferings. And so the mistress was left a widow, without children, and she never remarried. But she held your mother in great affection, that she did, and she had always resolved that you should be her heir."
I asked her to tell me more about my aunt, and she replied that Mrs Andrew was always reading old books and writing letters, but was also a lady of the greatest kindness, respected throughout the neighbourhood. I could imagine how angry Lord Staines would have been at such familiarity from a servant.
The next few days were spent mostly in the library: a long room in the older part of the house, with curious plasterwork on the ceiling. The shelves were full of books and there were piles of papers everywhere. Clifford pointed out portraits of Mr and Mrs Andrew, painted by some unknown country artist. Mr Andrew wore a wig of the fashion of forty years ago, and his wife a bonnet. They both looked stern and unmoving, but I was assured that in reality this was by no means the case. I wished I could have known them, my benefactors. Clifford was loud in their praise:
“I was born in this village, and it was only through the great benevolence of Mr and Mrs Andrew that I was first taught my letters, and then apprenticed to an attorney. I am eternally grateful to them, and I hope I shall now work for you.”
This made me wonder whether Mrs Andrew had paid for my education as well. I was sure that must have been the case, though my parents had never told me anything about it. I had no opportunity to enquire further, for I was now near overwhelmed in a turmoil of activity, as I attempted to understand the full nature of my inheritance. Clifford brought me great bundles of documents showing me the extent of my new wealth. The ancestors of Mr Andrew, I gathered, had for several generations built up the family property by a policy of prudent marriages, careful purchase of land, investment in government funds and East India stock and I know not what else, and had in consequence become a family of substance. His wife, Isobel, my aunt, had also been an heiress, through whom came slate quarries in Wales and coalmines on the Cumbrian coast. The total income of my inheritance amounted to the handsome sum of almost four thousand pounds a year. Clifford trusted that I would find everything in order. For the moment I felt I could do little but have confidence his honesty, and I put my signature to a number of documents that he said required immediate attention.
The household expenses amounted to very little. For the last few years my aunt had spent hardly any money except on food and books, and I had the feeling that Clifford derived a vicarious pleasure from this miserliness. He took on a gloomy tone when he suggested that I would probably wish to diminish my inheritance with expenditure on clothes, on horses and carriages, on extra servants, on sporting pursuits, on gaming ….. I cut him short at this point, assuring him that on the last two items at least he had nothing to fear. I concluded the discussion by asking a few trifling questions about details of the estate, just to show that I was giving due attention to what he placed before me; though in reality there was too much for my immediate comprehension.
As a variation from this tiring and dull but very necessary activity, I began to explore my new home thoroughly, and, weather permitting, to venture out and explore the surroundings. I knew very little about architecture, but looked to me as if few alterations had been made to the house in the past half century or more, and some parts looked far older. All Clifford was able to tell me was that there had once been a monastic house on the site. He thought I might find out more from my aunt’s papers.
Outside, I was shown a kitchen garden surrounded by a wall, where only some frostbitten cabbages stood above the frostbitten soil, and the apple trees in the orchard were bare and stark. I was told most were too old to bear much good fruit, but Mrs Andrew could not bear to have them cut down. A long greenhouse stood against a south-facing wall, but as far as I could see there was little inside it. To the south-west of the house I found a formal garden of gravel paths, low evergreen hedges and rose bushes. Mrs Andrew, I was told, took great delight in her garden and loved to stroll here whenever the weather permitted, and the roses were a fine sight on a summer’s day. Now it all looked untended. Then there was a dairy, a baker’s oven and a brew-house. I was taken to the stables, but found there no horse suitable for me to ride, and no vehicle except the trap in which I had been brought; for my aunt in her final years had scarcely ventured out at all. I concluded I would need a horse to ride if I was to know the district. On the eastern side of the house were fields with scattered trees and clumps of bushes, leading towards the western end of Brackenridge hill. Apart from a few miserable-looking sheep, no animals were to be seen. I imagined it might be a fine prospect in the spring, but in winter weather it was a sad, gloomy sight.
Bearsclough was a hamlet of a score of cottages owned by the Priory and occupied by villagers who worked on the farms, and a small church dedicated to St. Martin. It was to this that he now led me: a curious old affair built of oak with lath and plaster between the timbers, with stone only for the foundations. The roof had with several slates broken or missing from the south-east corner. I was told that the Rector of Bereton, Mr Bunbridge, seldom set foot in our church, instead leaving the duties to a curate on a stipend of a mere £5 per quarter. I was introduced to this ill-used cleric; Samuel Chamberlain by name, a young man who was tall, thin and cadaverous in his appearance, with a look in his eye that could have indicated either determination or hunger, or possibly both.
Inside the church it was dark, with heavy oak beams crossing the nave and only a few benches for the worshippers. The font looked very ancient, and the oaken pulpit was, I guessed, the work of some village carpenter. On the southern wall near the entrance door there was a board that told, in faded paint, how a gentleman a century earlier had left money to pay poor families of the parish a shilling each at Christmas.
There was a memorial to Mr Andrew on the north wall, consisting of a few lines in Latin enclosed in a Doric frame. Mrs Andrew, I was told, had desired nothing more for herself than a single line in addition to this. I promised to have this done. I was shown where Mr Andrew was buried in the churchyard, and where his wife had now been laid to rest beside him.
Reflecting that, but for good fortune, this curate’s fate could have been my own, I promised to myself to do what I could for the poor fellow. An opportunity for this came when he told me that Mrs Andrew had once determined that all the children in the village should learn to read, but that the project had come to nothing on account of her age and final illness. I suggested that he should himself undertake the task, which he appeared very pleased to accept, and not, I thought, merely for the addition to his stipend that I offered him. I asked why the church roof was in such plain need of repair, and was told that Mrs Andrew had indeed left money for this purpose in her will, but that as yet none had been forthcoming. I promised to remedy the matter.
I was informed that much of the land around was leased to Mrs Timmis’s brother Ned, whom I now met. He came stomping into the rear entrance of the Priory, removing his massive boots before entering the kitchen.
He stood nervously twisting his hat in his hands, occasionally giving me a wary glance but mostly looking at the ground. He much resembled his sister, being stout and strong, with blue eyes. His hands were large and rough from his work, and his face was completely round, with cheeks red as apples. I thought he had the look of an honest man, but honest or not, my complete ignorance of agriculture would oblige me to depend on him for the foreseeable future.
Braving the cold weather, I requested that he should take me round the village. My London clothes were hardly suitable for such a venture, but Mrs Timmis found me a coat belonging to one of the gardeners, and thus equipped, I set forth.
At first Ned Timmis addressed me as “Sir” almost every time he drew breath, but as he grew accustomed to me this gradually diminished, until in the end he hardly uttered the word at all. I was sure that Lord Staines would have pulled him up very sharply on this, but I did not bother. I asked him about his sister, saying that she appeared a very capable woman, and he was loud in her praise.
“There’s none around here can beat her in bargaining! And she knows everyone in Bereton, and everyone’s business; that she does. If you want to find out what’s going on, you ask her!” He told me, with some pride, that there had been Timmises in Bearsclough for time out of mind, for “the mistress” (by whom he meant Mrs Andrew) was a “scholard“, who “had read it in some old books”.
I learnt that his sister, who was a few years older than him, had been taken on at the Priory while still a child, and had remained there ever since. For the past couple of years, she, Mr Clifford and he himself had had complete management of the house and estate, because the mistress hardly ventured out of doors “on account of her feet”. I felt I would have to continue this arrangement of business, at least for the moment. He had the look of an honest man, but honest or not, my complete ignorance of agriculture would oblige me to depend on him for the foreseeable future.
The road through the village of Bearsclough looked much more suitable for riding a horse than for driving any kind of vehicle, and would have been very muddy but for the fact that the surface was currently frozen. The cottages were in a far better condition than the ones I had seen in the woods on my journey, and most had small gardens attached, though at that season only a few frostbitten stumps were to be seen. Several children came out from their homes as we walked, and followed us at a safe distance. When I called them over, a few ran away, but others approached me nervously. They all knew Ned Timmis and treated him with respect. Some were well-clad and well-shod; others less so, but at least none was barefoot. I smiled at them, told them who I was and handed out pennies; at which most touched their forelocks and scampered back indoors. This deference was a new experience for me!
I inspected our sheep and cattle, and endeavoured to ask intelligent questions. A shepherd told me that the season for lambing was approaching, and they were all praying there would be no more snow. I saw barns of hay, of wheat and barley and turnips. I learned that Mrs Andrew had read about new methods of husbandry and had ordered them to carried out. Timmis admitted that the villagers, including he himself (who, I found out later, could read well enough, but preferred not to write anything beyond the signing of his name unless absolutely necessary) had initially been mistrustful of all this “book-learning”, but he had followed Mrs Andrew’s instructions, and he now conceded that many had proved successful. For several years now they had grown turnips to feed the cattle and sheep over winter. By way of contrast, he told me that Sir James Wilbrahim was invincibly hostile to any innovations in the cultivation of his lands.
I then asked Timmis if I might see his home, which was leased from the estate. He was reluctant to allow this, pleading that it was but a poor place, but when I persuaded him to admit me, I thought it a most comfortable dwelling. It was clean and in good repair. There was a large kitchen, with rag rugs on the stone floor and a good-sized fireplace, with a spinning wheel in the corner. An old oak dresser held an array of pewter plates and vessels, all spotless. His wife, Ann, a short woman with dark hair and eyes, rose and curtsied to me, but uttered not a word. Their two children, I was told, were both out at work. I asked whether I could make any improvements to the building, but Timmis hastened to assure me that none were needed.
We resumed our walk, crossing enormous fields divided into long strips, which Timmis designated as “This one for wheat …. This one for barley …. This one for hay” and so forth. Eventually we came to the edge of a mere, two or three acres in extent, where we halted. The water was frozen, and a few geese and ducks were slithering around on it or pecking disconsolately at the frost-withered reeds and grass. There was an old rotten-looking punt drawn up out of the water in a ramshackle boathouse. Brackenridge hill loomed above the far bank.
I felt it a sad scene, but Timmis told me, with a degree of pride, “Once all this here was marshland, but Squire Andrew’s father, he spiled the banks and drained the land. It’s good earth here now. Mrs Andrew, she once said”, he added, in an unexpectedly poetic note, “that the soil was like chocolate!” I had to take Timmis’s word for it, since for the moment I could see only frost and snow.
“The village boys go swimming here in the summer”, he continued, “and such as have skates use it in winter. Squire Andrew, he used to shoot the wildfowl, and he loved fishing too, catching pike and tench, but since he died there’s been nowt but poachers come here”.
We continued onwards. Further to the north, much of the land was waste: too poor to be farmed. On the drier patches there were a few miserable hovels belonging to squatters, who were tolerated because their labour might be needed at haymaking or harvest. It occurred to me how much the villagers wholly depended upon my benevolence for their mere survival.
On the next Sunday I attended our little church. Timmis and his wife were there, and presented to me their two children, Jack and Sarah. The girl looked about eighteen and the boy two or three years younger, and both as strong and honest as their father. If Samuel Chamberlain was nervous at my presence, he did not show it, but preached a strong sermon on the Resurrection. The church was full, perhaps because the local people wished to inspect me, and the benches were insufficient for everyone, so many folk were obliged to stand throughout the service. Another of my duties would be to supply more benches. More expenses!
One day I drove with Clifford to see the town of Bereton. We first visited the church, dedicated to Saint Luke; an old building in the Gothic style, with a square tower. Near the elaborate pulpit was a large oaken private pew with high sides, belonging to the Wilbrahim family. The floor of the nave was covered with old tiles and ancient tombstones whose inscriptions were worn illegible by the passage of feet. There were ornate memorials on the wall of the nave to Sir James Wilbrahim’s father and grandfather. On the south side of the chancel was a small side-chapel, somewhat out of repair, containing a large chest tomb on which reposed an effigy of a knight in full armour. His feet rested on a small lion of comical aspect, its head turned to snarl at whoever dared approach. His lady lay at his side. Both had been much defaced over the centuries; noses and fingers had been broken off and initials cut into the soft stone. Who were they? Clifford was only able to tell me that he believed the knight’s name was Curtis, or something like that, and that they were said to be ancestors of the Wilbrahims. He thought Mrs Andrew might have written something on the subject. I reflected on the nature of mortality: this man and his lady, surviving only as pieces of stone to be defaced by idle hands, with Clifford not even certain of their names.
At the centre of the town was the market place, in which stood the town hall; a curious old building with pointed arches around an open area supporting a rectangular superstructure. Clifford led me up a staircase in the corner to introduce me to the Mayor: a prosperous innkeeper and churchwarden by the name of Jabez Stout, whose bulk reflected his name. When I praised the picturesque appearance of the building, he said that was all very well, but Bereton had long wanted a more commodious town hall, and hinted that a substantial contribution from me would not go amiss. I promised to do what I could. I said that the church would also benefit from restoration, to which he agreed.
The main street of the town ran east-west, following the line of the ridge above the town. Some of the buildings on the main street were of local stone, others of wood and plaster, but few looked younger than a century in age. There were to be found the principal inns and shops: victuallers, shoemakers, drapers, purveyors of earthenware and others. There were not very many in total, and the goods on offer were meagre, but when Clifford introduced me, I made myself agreeable by purchasing a few small items I did not really need. I commissioned from a carpenter some benches for my church. There were a few beggars seated or sprawled by the roadside, displaying placards signifying they were blind or crippled, and I distributed a few coppers.
In one side street I noticed a small place of worship, and asked Clifford about it.
“It is a Dissenters’ chapel,” he said, “It was torn down by rioters in the troubles of 1715, and Sir Charles Wilbrahim, Sir James’s father, who was the magistrate, refused to prosecute those responsible for the outrage. Then the new King, George I, and his Whig ministers dismissed Sir Charles from his magistery and ordered it rebuilt at the public expense. Inside you will find the royal arms of King George displayed on the wall in gratitude. Sir James and the Rector, Mr Bunbridge, both hate it, and would love to see it closed; and this was the cause of another dispute with Mr and Mrs Andrew, who supported the Dissenters.”
Some side alleys were very mean; the crowded and tumbledown residences of landless labourers, quarrymen and suchlike poor folk. The largest butcher’s premises was most ill-situated on a slope so that in times of heavy rain all the offal and filth would be washed down into the main street. I asked Clifford why no drain had been constructed, and he replied that both the will and the cash were lacking. I suspected that I would be expected to make a contribution to both these, and probably to repairs to the church as well. Becoming a citizen of prominence would clearly not be without its costs!
On one day of cold and rain, I decided to make a full investigation of the library. I discovered there a lady I had not seen before; as thin as a lath and grey in every way: grey dress, grey hair and grey face. Her attention was wholly given to a mass of old papers that covered a table, to such an extent that she did not observe my entry, and I was obliged to ask her to introduce herself and explain why she was there. Only then did she look up, and addressed me politely but without any obsequiousness.
Her name, she informed me, was Mrs Waring; she had been for many years a friend and companion to Mrs Andrew, and on hearing that I had taken possession of the house she had taken the liberty of returning to the library to put Mrs Andrew’s papers in order. She apologised for not having first sought my permission, for she had been ill during my earlier visit. I replied that I was not in the least offended, and begged her to show me the library and its contents.
Mrs Waring undertook the task with alacrity. She hurried from shelf to shelf on eager feet and pulled out book after book for me to inspect. It was a very extensive library and she was proud to be its custodian. I was shown that all the great works of antiquity were present, both in the original tongues and in translation; there were books in French and Italian, the works of the English poets and playwrights, histories of many countries, books on the improvement of farming and folios with engravings of birds and plants, but no novels. “Mrs Andrew considered reading novels a waste of time”, I was told.
I asked her how she came to know my aunt. She said had been rescued from servitude as a children’s governess ten years ago and brought to the Priory to assist Mrs Andrew in the library. Mrs Andrew, she said, was a most learned lady, fluent in French and Latin and able to read Italian. She had always been a friend of my mother and had followed my education closely; and, being pleased with the reports she had received, had instructed Mr Clifford to draw up a will leaving her entire property to me.
Mention of Clifford reminded me of the effigy of the knight I had seen in the church at Bereton, whom Clifford thought might be called Curtis, and whom my aunt might have known about. Mrs Waring was scornful at Clifford’s ignorance. “Curtis, indeed!” she exclaimed, “No, his name was Sir Everard de Courtoise, and his wife was the Lady Alice. They lived in the fourteenth century. Their descendants lived at Stanegate and bought the Priory here when Henry VIII dissolved all the monasteries in England. But the family died out in the direct male line long ago, the lands were divided between cousins as heiresses, and the Wilbrahim family obtained most of the land in this county”.
She turned to scrabble through the shelves again, muttering to herself as she searched, and eventually located a volume of the “Gentleman’s Magazine” from ten years ago. “Here you are!” she exclaimed triumphantly, showing me an essay describing the ancient family of Courtoise, tracing their origins back to the time of Edward the First. It was signed “I.A.”
“Mrs Andrew always signed this way. She thought it best not to mention that she was a lady. Of course, I helped her with her work.”
I formed the distinct impression that she expected me to read the piece there and then. To avoid this, I imprudently asked, “And did Mrs Andrew write anything else?”
“Indeed she did!” exclaimed Mrs Waring, and gleefully produced another volume for my inspection. “Here”, she explained, “is a description of an ancient Druidic stone circle to be found on the summit of Brackenridge hill. We walked up there together one summer’s day. These are engravings of the pictures I drew of the stones. We think it must also have been used by the Romans as a lookout station.”
I felt I had little option but to examine these, and next she opened an old wooden chest. “Mrs Andrew intended to have these displayed in a proper cabinet.” she told me, in a meaningful tone. There was a bundle of old parchment manuscripts in a script that I could not read, and below them a jumble of rusted bits of metal, shells embedded in rock, ancient coins and other rubbish. All of these I was told, had been collected on or near Brackenridge hill.
“Mrs Andrew would ask the village children to bring her anything odd they found. She never failed to give pennies to children who brought in scraps of old broken pottery or whatever”.
“Much of this must date from before Noah’s flood”, I commented, in an attempt to show an intelligent interest.
“Mrs Andrew had doubts about the dating of the flood!” Mrs Waring replied in a shocked whisper, as if not wanting this blasphemy to be more widely known.
We then passed to the papers, which were spread out over the table, with other piles on shelves. My guide excused the muddle by explaining that the maids had swept them up hugger-mugger into heaps in the cupboards for ease of dusting, and she had yet to sort them out fully. I was shown notes on the antiquities of Bereton and a plan of the Priory in the days of the monks. I was impressed to find letters from Mr Horace Walpole, the son of the late Prime Minister, and other eminent persons. Mr Andrew remained a shadowy figure, but my estimation of my aunt continued to increase.
Finally my attention was drawn to the ceiling of the library, which was plastered in a riot of peculiar shapes. Mrs Waring informed me that it dated from the age of Queen Elizabeth, and pointed out how dirty it was; which, being a man, I had not noticed. “Mrs Andrew was very short-sighted towards the end of her life, and could not see the cobwebs”, she complained, “I tell the maids to dust it, but they never take any notice of what I say”.
“Then you should tell Mrs Timmis”, I suggested. But the only answer to this was a snort.
What should I do with this peculiar specimen of femininity? I felt certain that her title of “Mrs” must have been self-awarded, since I could not imagine her as being anything other than purely virginal. I would have been justified in ordering her out of my house forthwith, before she caused me to expire with tedium. Or should I just make an excuse and flee her presence? But I did neither of these things: instead I told her that I greatly desired that she should continue her work of putting my aunt’s papers in order. Would she now accept a payment of £20 a year (a figure that I snatched from the air, remembering what the curate had been paid), plus all meals, to act as my librarian?
Looking back on this scene, I cannot precisely account for why I made her the offer. Did I feel pity for the absurd woman? Or was I secretly hoping that she might reject the sum as an insult and flounce out in disgust? If the latter was the case, I was to be disappointed. Mrs Waring at pains to tell me that she had never been a servant: she had been a companion to Mrs Andrew and had assisted her in her researches, but had neither asked for nor accepted any payment: certainly not! Mrs Andrew had left her a small legacy, she added, placing an emphasis on the word “small”. Then, having unburdened herself after this fashion, she put up only the most taken resistance before accepting my offer. I then departed with feelings of relief, leaving her to continue her sorting of the papers. Occasionally, when the weather was bad, I would visit the library and asked Mrs Waring to find me some particular book, but was always careful to stress that I could only spare a very few minutes there.
I interrupted Mrs Timmis’s spring cleaning to inform her of these new arrangements. She accepted it without demur or comment, but I gained the impression that she did not greatly care for Mrs Waring. Quite likely, I reflected, Mrs Timmis viewed the librarian as useless for anything but endless talk, and Mrs Waring in her turn looked down on the housekeeper as uneducated, and hence inferior. But I had made my choice, and I would now have to try to maintain the peace in my household.
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Chapter 7: Sir James Wilbrahim
I realised that when living in the country I would need a horse. Never having owned one before, and having ridden but seldom, I sought the advice of Ned Timmis, and before many days had passed he announced that he had found one suitable for me: a handsome but quiet chestnut gelding, fifteen hands high, named Alexander. The price, he informed me, would be twenty guineas, which he considered very fair for a horse of this quality. Since I knew nothing of what a good horse should cost, I had to accept his judgement. I loved Alexander from the first, and began to ride every day that the weather permitted, inspecting all the country within a day’s reach. I wondered whether I would in time be brave enough to go hunting, like a true country gentleman.
At Clifford’s suggestion I had written a polite note to Sir James Wilbrahim, telling him of my arrival at the Priory to take up my inheritance and expressing a desire to meet him. I now received an invitation to dine at Stanegate Hall with other gentlemen of the neighbourhood. The next night of the full moon was suggested, weather permitting, to allow me to ride home afterwards.
I asked Clifford to tell me about Sir James. I learned that he had been a Member of Parliament for Bereton for many years, and so was his father before him. The family were staunch Tories and hostile to all governments since 1714, whereas Mr and Mrs Andrew had been lifelong Whigs and Hanoverians, and rivalry between the two households had been fierce. Sir James would no doubt be wanting to sound out my political opinions, and to know what course I was likely to take at the forthcoming general election.
I next asked Mrs Timmis what I might expect to discover at Stanegate.
“I really couldn’t say, sir”, she replied, with evident caution. “I’ve never so much as set eyes on the house for that many years. The master and mistress didn’t visit Sir James, nor did he ever come here. Everyone knew that he didn’t consider King George to be our rightful King, and there was plenty of others around as thought the same, though us here was of the contrary opinion. And Sir James’s poor wife, Lady Catherine was her name, she died soon after her daughter was born, that was the year after the rebels came through here, and Sir James, he’s never married again, and ever since they’ve kept themselves to themselves over at Stanegate. I’ve heard say that there’s no-one much there now, ‘cept him and his daughter, that’s called Miss Louisa, and some old servants, and only a few friends to visit, such as the Rector, that’s called Mr Bunbridge.
“If I might be so bold as to give advice, sir; be careful what you say there, and don’t tell too much about yourself.” I thanked her and said I would bear it in mind.
When I next met her brother Ned, I asked him if Sir James was regarded as a good landlord.
“Well, sir, there’s plenty round here that’s a sight worse”, he replied, after much thought. “If he’s strict with his tenants, that’s blamed on his agent, Bagley: a hard man. Squire Wilbrahim now; he keeps the cottages in good repair, and he’s very understanding if someone falls sick, and sends them food or money if they’re in need. But he’ll allow no-one to interfere with his fox coverts, for he lives for his hunting. And the one thing he’ll never forgive is poaching.
“Oh aye: it were four or five years back”, he continued, warming to his theme, “he had poor George Norton, committed to the Bridewell for taking just one rabbit what had been a-eating of his cabbages; and he one of my best workmen, and harvest time coming on! But I ups and tells the mistress, and she gets Mr Clifford on the case to ask a power of questions of everyone, and a fair quantity of money got put around, and before you could tell it, George Norton was freed!”
“Did Mrs Andrew believe Norton was innocent then?” I asked.
Timmis shook his head and gave a sly throaty chuckle. “If tha asks me, sir, I reckon she done it just to annoy Squire Wilbrahim. And he wasn’t half angry too! We all had a good laugh at that!”
Armed with this information, I rode Alexander to see Sir James in the afternoon of the day suggested. Everyone assured me that the house was easy to find: all I had to do was take the road eastwards out of Bereton and I would soon catch sight of it.
The first sign was two gateposts bearing much worn limestone figures of eagles, which I presumed must be the Wilbrahim crest. The gates were open, and the little lodge-cottage beside them appeared to be deserted, so I rode up the gravel path to the house itself.
Stanegate Hall was a curious construction. It was built on a slope facing south, and at its centre was an old square tower with narrow lancet windows; dating no doubt from more troubled times. The entrance door had been cut into this, not centrally and clearly at a much later date, with pilasters on either side and a curved pediment above. To the right, on the southern side, a more modern building had been added, with three stories of high broad windows. Everything was constructed of pale grey stone, doubtless quarried from Brackenridge hill.
Being uncertain of the distance, I had set off in good time and in consequence arrived somewhat early, when other guests had not yet appeared. I was met by an aged servant, whom I later discovered was known simply as William, who ushered me into the library and abandoned me there, pleading that his master was engaged in important business with the Rector, but would be with me very shortly.
I examined the room. It was panelled in dark oak, which made it feel gloomy and oppressive. The shelves were ponderously stacked with old books, mostly of sermons and religious devotion by obscure divines. When I pulled one book from the shelf, its binding was thick with dust. Above the fireplace was a portrait at full length of a man with a beard and padded breeches. It was not well painted. The background was plain black, relieved only by one corner where was depicted a coat of arms of many quarterings. I guessed it was an ancestor of Sir James, from the time of Elizabeth or James the First. While I was studying the picture, I heard a voice singing. The door at the far end opened, and I saw a young girl.
She was, I thought, about fourteen years old; not tall, slender, with fair skin and hair, dressed simply. She was singing some old country air quietly to herself in a very fine voice. She blushed when she saw me. I apologised for intruding upon her, and introduced myself, saying that I was her new neighbour, having but recently inherited the Priory over at Bearsclough. “And you must be Miss Louisa Wilbrahim?” I asked. She nodded and curtsied, and smiled at me.
“So you are Mrs Andrew’s nephew? I was sorry to learn that she died, for she was very kind to me. Sometimes when my father was away, William would take me to the Priory to visit her. But I haven’t been there since I was small.”
She asked me about my life in London. Most of my doings were hardly fit for her ears, so I recounted my memory of Garrick’s theatrical performances, which interested her greatly. “I would love go to town and see a play!” she said wistfully. I thought her a sweet child, and that it was a pity that she should be buried away in such a remote, decaying place.
A fat and remarkably plain woman, who appeared to be the housekeeper, entered and looked at me with grave suspicion, but then Sir James appeared and greeted me. He was accompanied by a gentleman in clerical garb who was introduced to me as Mr Bunbridge, the Rector of Bereton. “Ah, so you have met Miss Wilbrahim! She sings very prettily, does she not?” the latter said, adding, “I have had the privilege of being her teacher, though I fear my musical skills are negligible.” Louisa curtsied again, and left the room without a word. I thought the look he gave her departing form was unpleasant.
The two gentlemen made a noted contrast. Sir James was tall, but walked with a slight stoop. He resembled his daughter not at all, and his dark eyebrows, black eyes and sharp protruding nose made me think of a badger. He was dressed all in brown, with a large wig of a kind that had long since ceased to be fashionable in the capital, and he smelt strongly of snuff. The Rector was fat and florid in complexion, with a snub nose and prominent lips.
Sir James noticed my interest in the old portrait. “That, sir is my ancestor, Sir Thomas Wilbrahim, who was created a baronet by King James”, he told me. “His son fought for King Charles in the rebellion, though he lost greatly by it; and ever since then, the eldest son has always been named James or Charles. And we remained loyal to the family of Stuart, representing this borough in Parliament from the usurpation of 1689 and through the unhappy events of fifteen years ago down to the present day. But now all that is over, for I have no son, nor even a nephew! Our line is at an end”.
“But you have a daughter”, I replied, “And she is very pretty, and like to become a fine and beautiful lady, if I may be permitted to say so”.
“Yes”, he said, “a daughter!” and he sighed deeply before adding, in a firm tone, “She is a pure unspoilt country maiden, and I intend that she should remain so, for she is of the very noblest descent.” I took this to be a warning against taking too close an interest in the fair Louisa.
We were led into the newer part of the house. I complimented my host, saying that I thought these rooms very tasteful in design. “Yes, sir,” he answered, “My grandfather, another Sir James, had them built during the reign of Queen Anne, our last true and legitimate sovereign. My father vowed to alter nothing until the true and legitimate line is restored to the throne.” Here was a Jacobite indeed, I thought, but ventured no comment.
The dining room contained several pictures, with pride of place given to a representation of King Charles the First, with an expression of great sadness on his face as if anticipating his own martyrdom, and wearing a vast black hat. The table was of dark oak, and was set with old earthenware plates rather than fine china. Many of the wineglasses had “Redeat”: “He shall return”; engraved on them. Our host’s glass was engraved with the portrait of a man: I could not see it clearly, but I supposed it must represent either James Stuart, the Pretender, or his son Charles, who in December 1745 had led the rebel forces down from Scotland before retreating and suffering defeat at Culloden. Lord Staines had told me that Sir James Wilbrahim was a lifelong Jacobite, but I assumed it was merely a harmless family tradition.
(Jacobite wineglasses)
I was introduced to the company as their new neighbour. Beside our host and the Rector, four other gentlemen were present. They made little impression upon me and I soon forgot their names. They all wore the wigs and clothes of an earlier generation, and their faces were as weather-beaten as Timmis’s, I presumed by lifetimes dedicated to foxhunting. I thought how much Lord Staines and our London friends would have mocked them for their old-fashioned rustic ways. Others, I supposed, might have said that such country squires as these were the backbone of England, but I could not help but ask myself whether, after the interesting times I had enjoyed in London, I would really wish to spend my life in the company of men such as these.
The meal now began, served by a party of aged footmen in ancient uniforms, organised by William. It was all plain fare, mostly from Sir James’s estates, and in immense quantities: a great saddle of mutton, a huge pie, a haunch of venison, various birds, and several side dishes and puddings. Sir James asked me whether I did not prefer these to what I had eaten in London; spoiled, as he put it, by “those damned French sauces”. I hastened to praise how well the meal had been cooked. The bottles of claret we consumed were numerous, with brandy to follow.
There was in the early stages of the meal little conversation beyond grunts of pleasure as the assembled gentlemen concentrated on guzzling their food. Mr Bunbridge, when he deigned to look up from his plate, regarded me coldly with his steely-grey eyes, suggesting suspicion or even hostility.
Louisa was the only female at the table. She sat silent and ate but little. Since she was not seated near me, I could do no more than smile at her. After a while Sir James nodded to her, as a sign that she should withdraw. I thought she gave me a wistful glance as she rose to her feet. At no stage had he addressed her directly, which I thought strange. It came to my mind, on this and on later occasions, that he treated her as if she was a prized piece of delicate glass or porcelain rather than his daughter.
Conversation now increased. I was asked about myself, and how I came to be living at the Priory. I explained that I was as surprised as anyone to find myself Mrs Andrew’s heir, since I had not seen her since I was a child. I said that I knew nothing whatsoever of the town of Bereton, though I understood that Lord Teesdale was a landowner in the district.
Mention of this name brought some muttering. As Clifford had warned me, the Earl was clearly not well liked. I hastened to add that I was in no way beholden to him and would at all times be entirely independent in my conduct. This appeared to satisfy the diners for the moment, and they once more fell to their meats with gusto.
Next Sir James, to general agreement, damned the ministry, and all “Hanover rats” as he styled them, and the war, and the high level of taxation, in the most violent language. All those present agreed with these sentiments. My mention of Lord Teesdale then led him to a discourse on the subject of that nobleman.
“Teesdale and some others are projecting to build a canal from Mulchester, to link with the Severn, or the Mersey, and I know not where else besides. Fools! I will none of it! They thought of driving this canal across some lands of mine, and informed me it would bring much business here. And I informed them, sir, that this land my grandfather owned, and his grandfather before him, and that never would I countenance such despoliation! What is more, this canal would certainly destroy my best fox coverts! Also, I have refused permission to prospect for coal here. What should I want with coal? We have wood aplenty on our hill!”
To this the Rector vehemently agreed. One of the gentlemen told how, in a neighbouring county, a great rabble of coalminers had descended upon the rabbit warrens and stripped them bare, with the magistrates and constables outnumbered and unable to stop the outrage. Another warned me that there had been far too much unpunished poaching on my land in recent years, and hoped that I would now suppress it with a firm hand. I nodded, but thought it best to say nothing.
Sir James then turned to me. “Though I am glad, sir, to welcome you to our town, I shall not conceal from you that I was no friend to Mrs Andrew and her husband. They were a pair of damned Whigs! I hope that you know better?”
Assuming the role of a very ignorant young man, I asked him what the old party labels might mean nowadays, since they always appeared to refer to questions long past. The Rector answered for him, saying, “The Tory Party, sir, believes in a free monarchy and the apostolic succession of the Church of England. The Whigs are a pestilent faction that has corruptly held our country in subjection under a German usurper for nigh on fifty years! Why sir; if England had ever been honestly polled, the King would have been packed off back to Hanover and the ministers hanged from the lamp-posts!” All the party laughed heartily at this.
I replied, mildly enough, that I thought times were changing and that under our new monarch I hoped the old labels would no longer matter, but that all parties should now unite for the good of the country. All present agreed that they entertained hopes for our new King, George III, since he was at least born and raised in England and spoke English; and they trusted he would no longer subject England to the interests of “that horrid German Electorate” (for such they styled Hanover). Sir James explained that he had supported the present war at the start, for the honour of the nation had been at stake, but now considered that it was being continued solely for the benefit of the London bankers and stock-jobbers, with the cost inevitably to fall on country gentry like him and his friends. They all nodded in agreement to this sentiment.
Talking to the Rector, I praised my curate, Mr Chamberlain, but this proved to be a mistake. “I did not wish him to be appointed, sir; but the Bishop is another of these damned Whigs, and so is the Archdeacon, and they listened to Mrs Andrew rather than to me!” he grumbled. “The fellow models himself on Wesley and Whitefield! No gentleman, sir, wishes to sit through interminable lectures on the state of his soul!” I did not attempt to pursue the topic further.
The coming election was mentioned, and I was asked whom I would be supporting as candidates for the borough. I said that I understood that at the last election Sir James and Mr Bailey had been returned unopposed, without the need for a poll, and suggested that it might be best that the situation should continue, thus saving the vast expense of a contest.
Sir James shook his head. Mr Ephraim Bailey, he explained, was an extremely rich merchant and a friend of Lord Teesdale, and had succeeded in the election by distributing immense sums of money as gifts or loans to the voters. He himself, Sir James said, had indignantly refused any such bribes, and he trusted his friends had done the same (I noticed that one or two of his guests looked the other way at this). He furthermore informed me that not only was Bailey “another damned Hanoverian,” but since his election, “he has not lifted a finger to help the town, sir! Not a single penny of his own money has he spent here since the election!”
One of the others intervened to say, “Bailey promised us the earth; nay, the entire universe, sir! And what came of these promises? Why: nothing at all!”
There were nods and grunts of agreement. It was generally agreed that Bailey was nothing more than a puppet of Lord Teesdale. I was glad that I had not mentioned my connexion with the family, and remembered how Lord Staines had told me that Mr Bailey now seldom left Hampstead.
The Rector said that if a local gentleman could be found to replace Bailey, “the whole town would be most grateful!” There was general agreement. I wondered what part I should play in the coming election, now that I had become a man of influence in Bereton; and the Rector attempted to draw me out on this.
“Mrs Andrew, I regret to say, followed Teesdale’s lead in the elections and supported Bailey. I trust you will be better advised, sir?” I took refuge in replying, truthfully enough, that as yet I had but little knowledge of politics and elections.
The discussion then turned to local matters: the prices they received for the corn and beasts from their estates (low, through the iniquity of the merchants), their tenants (for the most part idle and dishonest), and, with much animation, the prospects for good foxhunting next season. The gentlemen compared the merits of their horses and their hounds, all of which they knew by name, recounted tales of triumph and disasters on the hunting field, and spoke of the prospects for future hunts. They praised the valour and intelligence of their hounds, who bore names such as Dido, Traveller, Cleopatra or Ringwood, with as much tender affection as if they had been speaking of their wives or mistresses. I had nothing to contribute to this discussion, and I was beginning to think they had forgotten my presence. The Rector, however, brought me into the discussion by confiding to me the names of his hounds and bitches. He reeled off a string of these; Dorceus, Theron, Harpyia and others, which meant nothing to me at all. He then sat back while waiting for a response. I sensed that I was being given a challenge, and that the names must reflect some episode in ancient Greek or Roman literature, which he was waiting to see if I could identify. But my mind remained a blank, and when I could do no more than mutter something devoid of meaning, I noticed a sneer of triumph cross his face. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and muttered “Cambridge!” in a tone of contempt, as he dismissed me as a man of little learning. This episode did nothing to increase my liking for the reverend gentleman.
When eventually the talk ceased, we rose to our feet and Sir James proposed a loyal toast to the King, which was drunk with great fervour, much to my surprise. The Rector then proposed a toast to the Pretender, which we also drank, “And who is to say which is the King and which the Pretender?” he asked me, with a chuckle made sinister by a steady gaze from his steel-grey eyes, and I suddenly recalled Mrs Timmis’s mysterious reference, some days before, to the “rebels coming through”. I had, of course, long ago been told how the Young Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart and his Scots followers had in December 1745 marched down through Lancashire before turning back at Derby, but it had never occurred to me that they had passed through Bereton. If they had, then what part had my host and his friends played in the rebellion? For an instant I was minded to ask them, but remembered Clifford’s advice and held my silence. Instead, I complimented Sir James on the fine quality of his wine.
“Yes indeed!” he replied, “It is the best; and I have a man who supplies it me, well away from the noses of those rascals of the Customs and Excise. Yes, and the brandy and tobacco too!” At this all the other gentlemen chuckled and raised their glasses in a mock toast, and I guessed that he meant that the goods were smuggled. One gentleman turned to me and said, “No doubt you’ll be wanting good wine and brandy. I can tell you where to find them!” He accompanied this invitation with a heavy wink. Another gentleman loudly damned “That horrid tax, the Excise; collected by salaried wretches,” which brought general approval from round the table.
Soon after this I rose to depart, pleading the need to return to the Priory while there was still sufficient moonlight. I thanked Sir James for his hospitality, at which he took me warmly by the hand and said, “Sir, I hope we can be good neighbours. Your family were interlopers, but that is not your fault.” I did not understand what he meant by this, but made no comment. I left the company and, thanks to my steady horse that knew the way, reached home without mishap, despite all the drink I had consumed. As I rode slowly along the rough path, with the stars blazing bright in a cold and cloudless sky and the trees black and sinister in the moonlight, I reflected how strange life was. How could events of many years ago, which to young men like me were merely history, still command men’s allegiance? But then I thought: we are still at war with France; what if the French provide ships and soldiers to support a new Jacobite rebellion? Could the loyalty of Sir James and his friends be trusted? Rather than ask questions locally, I resolved to discuss the threat with Lord Teesdale the next time I met him.
The next day I described my meeting with Sir James to Mrs Waring, and asked her why he had described my aunt and uncle as “interlopers”. When I saw her pale eyes suddenly become animated at this request for more historical knowledge, I feared I would be treated to an endless lecture; and I pleaded that I could only afford a few minutes of time before attending to an urgent matter of business. No doubt disappointed by this, she contented herself with explaining that in the great rebellion of a hundred years before which overthrew King Charles the First, Sir James Wilbrahim’s great-grandfather had fought for that unfortunate monarch, and in consequence had had much of his property seized. The Priory, which had formerly been his, was then sold to the grandfather of Mr Andrew, a rich merchant from Bristol, and there had been enmity between the families ever since. I commented that I hoped that these ancient feuds could now be ended.
I mentioned that the Rector appeared to be a man of learning, but this caused Mrs Waring to exclaim, “Mr Bunbridge a scholar?” in a voice of the utmost scorn.
I described to Mrs Timmis how I had met Miss Louisa Wilbrahim, and how she had mentioned to me how my aunt had been kind to her. This brought a gushing response.
“Ah, she was such a sweet little poppet! The mistress, not having any children of her own, loved her like she was her own child! Now at home, what with her mother being dead and she not having a proper nurse to look after her, only that dreadful Mrs Piddock the housekeeper, sometimes when Sir James was away the mistress had her brought over here, and read books of poems with her, and promised to teach her French and I don’t know what else! Or when the mistress was busy, our Ned would take her for walks round the farms. But her father got to hear as how she’d been playing with the village children, and he said it wasn’t proper for a young lady in her station, and he put a stop to it, and she didn’t come here no more. We haven’t set eyes on her since. We all felt sorry for her, all alone in that old house with Mrs Piddock the only female company, though she’s got her own maid now, a girl from the town that’s called Becky, so that’s better than nothing. I’m sure she would have been that pleased to make your acquaintance, sir!”
When I said that I had not much liked Mr Bunbridge, Mrs Timmis was emboldened to vent her own opinions on the subject of that gentleman.
“Well, sir, I know it’s not my place to criticise my betters, I’m sure, but that Rector, he’s got a bad name around here. He’s never once come to this parish, and if it hadn’t been for the mistress our church would have tumbled down, and little he’d have cared! He’s got an ugly wife and a brood of children, and for all he might play the tyrant abroad, at home she rules him with a rod of iron, that she does!”
On the following Sunday I attended Bereton church, where Sir James with great courtesy invited me to his family pew: a sturdy pen of oak, where we could sit invisible to the rest of the congregation. Mr Bunbridge conducted the service with authority and preached his sermon with a strong voice, though his method of delivery was less dramatic than that of Mr Chamberlain. I was surprised that he chose for his subject the rebellion of David against King Saul, for the implication appeared almost to encourage treason. Sir James, however, nodded in agreement; though how far he was really listening I could not ascertain.
(Private pew at St. John the Baptist church, Stokesay)
Lord Staines replied that nothing in my description of Sir James’s dinner party had surprised him in the least. “I truly pity those who are obliged to live in the country, for I can scarcely bear to stay there for a week. I anticipate that you too will soon find the call of the joys of London impossible to resist!” I was beginning to think he was right: I must indeed return to the capital before long.
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Chapter 8: I have a narrow escape from death
One afternoon of a fine and frosty day with clear skies and little wind I set out on foot to explore “the hill”, as all the locals called the ridge above them. Walking alone, I decided to ascend by a rocky track up the western edge, where the slope was less steep. Narrow paths led in all directions through untended woodland, the thinness of the soil atop the rock leaving the trees stunted in size and useless as timber. I could not identify most of them for certain, because they were still stark and leafless, though the brambles underneath were already showing some green.
I climbed upwards until the trees gave out and were replaced by rough grass and heather. There were scattered gorse bushes, some of which were in flower despite the wintry weather. Progress was slow, and I quickly discovered that my shoes were not suitable for such a walk. But I pressed onwards, for I believed I could see the summit ahead.
But it was not! I found I was only at the western edge of a long ridge, and I would have a considerable walk still if I was to reach the old stones that had so interested my aunt. I paused and looked around. The view was magnificent. Southwards I could see over Bereton and onwards past scattered villages and woodland towards Mulchester, beyond which the land vanished in haze. To the north lay flat plains with more hills in the distance. Smoke rose from chimneys into the windless air. It was an excellent prospect, and the light of the sun, now low on the horizon to the south west, turned the sky a delicate shade worthy of the brush of a great artist such as Claude. I reflected with pride that much of this land was now mine! I decided to leave the summit to some future occasion when the days would be longer and less cold: for the moment I would explore further below this level before turning for home. I set off down the southward slope.
I walked incautiously. Frost had made the grass slippery, and suddenly I lost my footing, fell on my back and found myself sliding uncontrollably downwards. Twisting my body so that I could see, I was horrified to find myself heading towards – nothing! Immediately below me the slope ended in fresh air! I reached out with my left hand and grabbed at an ancient gorse bush. Prickles drove through my gloves and into my hand, but I held tight and to my immense relief my slide was halted. I found myself lying on the frozen grass with my feet hanging over a void. I had almost fallen over the lip of a quarry!
For a while I just lay there, breathing heavily and with my heart pounding. Even today my nearness with death still makes me shudder when I think of it. There was nothing but air beneath my shoes, but my calves still rested on terra firma. With extreme caution I rolled over onto my hands and knees. Looking around, I noticed a narrow rocky path leading downwards on the far side of the quarry which had so nearly been my doom. Rather than risk the grass again, I crawled across to it and descended with great care. It was very steep, and I turned round as though I was climbing down a ladder, holding onto protruding rocks with my hands. But I had made the right choice, for I now found myself on a wide track running along the slope. I sat down on a fallen tree to rest, breathing slowly.
The quarry must have been abandoned many years before, for trees were growing alongside blocks of stone as high as my waist that had never been removed. Although I had never before set foot in that place, I was not completely lost. I reasoned that, since I was on the southern side of Brackenridge hill, the leftwards path must lead in the direction of Bereton, and if I turned right, I would be heading west and would eventually come to Bearsclough and home. The gloomy site spoke of desolation, and I was eager to leave it.
As I rose and looked around, I noticed something strange. The quarry was not wholly deserted, for there were marks in the frozen mud: prints of boots and of horse-shoes, both entering the quarry and leaving it. Out of idle curiosity I followed the trail to a narrow gap between the rock face and the remains of a wall of massive stones, where the prints vanished underneath a great mass of brambles.
I wondered what this signified: since the quarry had been abandoned long ago, why were there these signs of recent movement? and had the brambles been placed there in the hope of keeping away a passing traveller? But I decided to leave the mystery to another time: I had undertaken quite enough explorations for the day; I was tired and much shaken by my narrow escape from death, my clothes were filthy and my feet wet and almost without feeling. Furthermore, clouds were moving in from the west, the light was failing, and I did not want to be out on the hillside in darkness. Accordingly, I followed the path leading westwards, vowing to explore further at some future date. I noted as I walked that there were no footprints here: the mysterious visitors to the old quarry must have come from Bereton and then returned there.
I strode out with increasing confidence as the path descended through the trees to join the main route to Bearclough that I now knew well. I reached the Priory just as night was falling, where Mrs Timmis threw up her hands in horror at my sorry state and was most reluctant to accept my assurances that I was unhurt. She demanded, rather than requested, that I immediately hand over my dirty clothes for washing, and insisted on having some water heated so that I could bathe in a large copper boiler. I was too tired to put up any resistance to this mothering.
Despite my bath, and despite the fire in my bedroom grate, I felt very cold that night. A storm of hail had arisen from nowhere to beat like a fusillade of musket balls against my window, and it was long before I fell asleep. Staines was right, I thought: it was high time I left the country and returned to London and the pleasures of the city.
As it happened, the very next day I received a letter from Lord Teesdale himself, suggesting that I should meet him to discuss the prospects for Bereton at the coming general election. This, I thought, gave me an indisputable excuse; and so, despite the pleas of Clifford that affairs of my Bearsclough estates still needed my attention, I announced my intention of departing for London without delay, promising to return in the spring.
Before travelling I was called to another meeting with Sir James. He had discarded his wig and wore a turban, beneath which his short-cut hair was iron grey, so that he now resembled a badger more than ever. Our talk involved only some small matters of business, and was approached cautiously on both sides, for he had clearly not yet made up his mind on whether I should be accounted a friend, and I had no desire to antagonise an influential neighbour. I came away with the feeling that there was an underlying note of sadness in his life, though I did not yet know him well enough to guess the reason.
I was about to leave Stanegate when Miss Louisa Wilbrahim sought me out and took me by the hand.
“You must return here very soon!” she commanded, “And while you are away, you must write to me every week – every day! – and tell me all the news from London! Tell me about the concerts and the theatres and what the ladies are wearing! I shall expect full reports!” I was about to laugh at her imperious tone, but the look in her eyes as she gazed up at me was so strange, a mixture of pleading, wistfulness and sorrow, that the laugh died on my lips. I assured her that of course I would write frequently, and asked whether I should also send her some books. Oh yes please! she exclaimed; poetry and plays; as many books as you can!
As I rode Alexander away from Stanegate I turned and saw her standing in the doorway. We both waved.
Back at the Priory I selected volumes of Shakespeare’s comedies, works by Addison, Dryden and others and translations from the French and Latin, and ordered them to be wrapped in a parcel for despatch to Stanegate. Mrs Waring was visibly horrified at the blasphemy of creating gaps on her shelves, and then fussed around tying up each precious book with ribbon. Mrs Timmis oversaw the packing of my boxes, and when all was ready Henry the silent stableman drove me to Mulchester to meet the stagecoach for my journey to London. I had only been living in the country a few weeks, but already it seemed an age. I looked forward to meeting once again my friends in the capital and recounting to them my new fund of stories; and I would tell Lord Teesdale about the stubborn Jacobites of Stanegate, and ask whether the ministers should be informed of potential treasonable activity. As the coach rolled on southwards, I reflected that, despite everything I had seen and heard, I as yet knew very little about my new home. I determined to remedy this next time I was at the Priory: I would start by pressing Mrs Timmis for information, for she would surely have many more stories to tell.
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Chapter 9: Lord Teesdale and Mrs Elizabeth Newstead
On my return to London I resumed my former lodgings, and reflected that I now had two places that I considered home. I could have lodged more fashionably now, but I had grown accustomed to the comfortable old place. My landlady made me most welcome, whilst at the same time hinting that, in view of my new opulence, an increase in the rent I paid would not come amiss. I was happy to oblige her.
Next, I made my way to Brown’s club in the hope of meeting Lord Staines there. I found myself in the midst of an animated discussion about the continuing war, and noted that a number of the gentlemen were now in agreement with Sir James Wilbrahim that a swift end should now be sought to the conflict, for the French fleets would surely not dare to put to sea again and our new conquests in India and the Americas were secure. Opponents of this opinion argued that the conflict in Germany was unresolved, where our ally, Frederick of Prussia, despite receiving millions of British money, was hard pressed by advancing Russian forces, and it would be dishonourable for Britain to desert him in his hour of need.
Most of the gentlemen were troubled by the immense cost of the war, and others predicted a breakup of the present ministry, where those old enemies Mr Pitt and the Duke of Newcastle had been obliged to work together only by the desperate need to save the country. One of the gathering, who was clearly a curmudgeon by nature, dismissed Pitt as mad and the Duke as a ridiculous old fool. He predicted that, unless the war was brought speedily to a close, the country would infallibly sink into a bottomless morass of debt, “And all, sir, for the sake of the stockjobbers and sugar merchants of the City, and for the saving of that horrid Electorate of Hanover, that hath for so long preyed on the very vitals of our poor country!” Sir James Wilbrahim and his friends in Bereton would surely, I thought, have echoed these sentiments! All, however, entertained great hopes of our new young King, George III, though little appeared to be known about him personally.
Lord Staines now entered. He welcomed me back to the delights of London and described the adventures of our friends while I had been away, to which I replied with a satirical account of Sir James Wilbrahim’s dinner party. He then invited me to accompany him to the theatre next week to see a new comedy that was about to open. He did not remain at the club long, pleading a pressing engagement elsewhere.
A few days later I was invited to a meeting with Lord Teesdale. He questioned me, in a detailed but friendly manner, concerning my time in Bereton, what I thought of the town and my new neighbours, the condition of my estate, my finances and so forth. He pointed out that I, as a landowner of importance in the borough, would have much influence there in the coming general election. I was flattered that he took so great an interest in me, but confessed that my knowledge of the town and its people was so far only slight.
I described my meeting with Sir James Wilbrahim and his friends at Stanegate Hall, and asked if their commitment to the Jacobite cause might be a danger to the country. He replied that all this was well known to the ministers:
“I tell you, sir, in February of 1744, with a French fleet all prepared to invade these islands, a spy revealed that for every shire there were lists of nobles and gentry who would rise to fight for the Pretender. The name of Sir James Wilbrahim was among them. But happily Providence was on side of this fortunate country, for the French fleet was scattered by storms and the invasion did not take place. Mr Pelham, who was then Prime Minister, thought it best to take no action against the traitors, but they knew their names had been pricked out, and that is why neither Wilbrahim nor any other of the crew came out to fight for the Scotch rebels the next year.
He then asked, was I aware of what had passed in Bereton in the great rebellion of 1745? I said that I had been advised not to ask questions on such matters.
“Wise advice, perhaps,” he conceded, “And no doubt that there are many there that would wish it was all forgotten. But now you are a gentleman of importance, there are matters you need to know. For the rebels reached Bereton at the end of November, on their march south, and were allowed to lodge there overnight. Not a soul raised a finger against them! Mr Andrew cannot be blamed, for he was confined to bed with a sickness from which he never recovered. But as for Wilbrahim: why; he departed for London as the Scotch army approached! Some said that he fled in fear of having to make a choice of whether or not to join them. He left his unfortunate lady at home, all unprotected!
“His enemies called this the behaviour of a poltroon. But Wilbrahim was not alone in such behaviour: as I have said, not a single English nobleman or Member of Parliament came to the support of the rebels. By any consideration, sir; there were but very few whose love of the Pretender was such that they would lie out under a hedge in winter for his sake. No, sir: they do little now but drink his toast whilst deep in their cups, to ‘the king over the water’ or some such foolishness, and we have nothing to fear from them”.
I mentioned the Rector, who had seemed so passionate for the Jacobite cause.
“Ah yes, Mr Bunbridge, is it not?” he replied, “As for him, it was widely believed that he marched on with the rebels as their chaplain, but when they halted at Derby and turned back, he deserted the cause in disgust. But nothing was ever proved, and Mr Pelham, as I have said, thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie rather than waste time and stir up animosity by pursuing so insignificant an offender. And no doubt he was correct.
“What use you choose to make of this history is your concern. You may consider, as many do, that these unfortunate events are now all safely in the past, for we have new King now who is, like you, too young to remember them, and from what I hear whispered, many things may now change. You may consider Sir James Wilbrahim old and foolish, and irreconcilable in his Jacobitism, but he still wields much influence in and around Bereton, and furthermore that he has a daughter who will inherit considerable estates; and so he is well worth cultivating”.
I wondered whether he was suggesting I should pay court to Miss Louisa Wilbrahim, and only discovered much later how wrong I was.
He enquired what I had learnt concerning prospects for the election in Bereton. I replied that Mr Bailey, the other Member for the town, was not liked by Sir James and his friends, and that they would prefer that some local gentleman should be found instead. Lord Teesdale replied that this scarcely came as a surprise to him. He described to me how, at the last election in 1754, he had persuaded Mrs Andrew and Sir James to act together despite their political differences and deter any other candidate from attempting to stand, thereby avoiding the vast expense of a contest. Sir James had, with some reluctance, acknowledged the good sense of this, and he and Mr Bailey had in consequence been returned unopposed. I promised to follow my aunt’s example and give my support to Mr Bailey, as my aunt had done.
I was then asked my opinion on the present situation of the country. I said that I greatly admired Mr Pitt, and how he had ensured our glorious victories in the continuing war. He said this was very true, but the war must soon be brought to an end by some means or other, and that Pitt and the old Duke of Newcastle were not much liked by His Majesty, and a prudent man should attach himself to Lord Bute, who was greatly favoured. I remembered hearing his name mentioned at Lord Teesdale’s dinner party, and asked whether many gentlemen might not be happy about power being in the hands of a Scotchman, especially one who, as I understood it, had the misfortune to bear the name of Stuart, the name of the exiled Jacobite princes. Might it not recall to their minds the 1745 rebellion that we had just been discussing? Lord Teesdale replied this was perhaps true, but that His Majesty, like me, was too young to have any memory of these events, and hoped they could be now buried and forgotten. I then left, expecting to be invited for further discussions.
Now that spring had arrived, ladies and gentlemen would often visit the Vauxhall gardens in the afternoon, to stroll through avenues of trees and under triumphal arches, listening to hidden orchestras playing and watching the world go by.
I was walking there with George Davies and John Robertson when the latter suddenly exclaimed, “Hello! What’s happening here?”
I followed his gaze and observed some distance away a group of ladies uttering cries of distress. The reason for this became clear when I saw that one on them had lost her hat, which had blown off in the wind and caught in the branches of a tree out of reach. It was bright blue in colour with a splendid ostrich plume: well worth saving, though hardly suitable for wearing on a windy day. A few bystanders of coarse appearance were laughing at them.
“I shall fetch a ladder and some workmen,” Robertson announced, and departed on this mission. It did not take long for Davies to lose patience.
“Oh, we can settle this ourselves!” he cried, and turned to me. “Now, Charles: I fancy if you climbed on me, you could dislodge the hat with your stick. What do you think?” I could scarcely refuse to make the attempt. I have previously mentioned that he was a veritable Hercules: quite the tallest and strongest man I have ever met. Now we both removed our coats and he braced himself, hands on knees, while I clambered up his back. I sat on his shoulders while he straightened up without any great effort. He handed me my stick, but despite stretching as far as I could, I was unable to reach the hat.
“Then you must stand on my shoulders,” he told me, “I won’t let you fall!”
I did not contemplate the suggestion with any pleasure, but it was too late to retreat. I placed my right hand, still holding the stick, on Davies’s head for balance, and my left foot on his shoulder, where he grasped my ankle firmly. I then paused before straightening the leg and attempting to grab some twigs, now green with the fresh leaves of spring, which I could see above me, and which I prayed would bear my weight. I heard the ladies squeak with alarm and beg me not to endanger myself. A crowd of men had by now gathered to watch the sport: none offered to help, and instead I heard bets being offered on whether I might fall. I observed that the odds on a serious injury were not encouraging.
With a sudden lunge I planted my right foot on Davies’s shoulder and sprang upright to gasp some twigs, which fortunately held firm. I followed with my left foot and he grasped my ankles. If my movements caused Davies some discomfort, he did not show it: I never knew him admit to suffering any pain. I was now able to reach the hat, and dislodged it with my stick. It swung in the wind as it fell, and its lady owner sadly failed to catch it. The spectators all cheered and applauded.
I dropped my stick, but how was I to get down? George Davies had no doubt. “Jump!” he instructed, “It’s soft grass below! You won’t hurt yourself!” To encourage me, he let go of my ankles and gave my legs a push. I fortunately landed on my feet and a lady who was more alert and braver than the others caught me as I stumbled forwards.
It was at this point that John Robertson returned, bringing two gardeners carrying a long ladder. “You’re too late! You’ve missed all the fun!” Davies jeered. “To the heroes, the spoils of victory!” he added, grasping two ladies round their waists with his huge arms. They uttered little shrieks of alarm, but offered no resistance. Meanwhile the lady whose hat had been rescued most ungratefully refused to wear it, saying that it been irretrievably ruined by the dirt.
I attempted to give proper thanks to the lady who had saved me from falling, and discovered to my astonishment that she was none other than Mrs Elizabeth Newstead, whom I had met at Lord Teesdale’s dinner!
I introduced myself and she affected to remember me; whether truthfully or not I could not say. She complimented me very prettily on my courage. I said it was nothing, and acting the young gallant, I told her how much I had enjoyed her company at the dinner, and that I would greatly desire a closer acquaintance. She smiled at this and replied that I was welcome to visit her as often as I pleased, suggesting next Tuesday afternoon for a meeting.
On Tuesday I accordingly dressed in my best and waited on her at her home in Pall Mall: not as grand as Teesdale House, but a very elegant dwelling. She was simply dressed in white silk with a blue stripe, and a little white cap on her head. A maid served us tea in fine porcelain cups. Elizabeth explained that she lived there alone because her husband, Mr David Newstead, a wealthy India merchant, much older than her, was out in Madras with the great Robert Clive and was not expected to return for many months. Indeed, she had no means of determining if he was still alive.
The room where we sat was dominated by a fireplace of mottled marble, carved with swags of fruit and leaves, and a coat of arms on a shield above.
“Your arms?” I asked.
“Oh no! We lease this house from an Irish nobleman: Lord Ballybrittas, or some such barbarous name”.
I confessed that I had never heard of this Lord Ballybrittas.
“Oh, I might have got the name wrong. Really, I can’t remember! He impoverished himself gambling on the races, and fled back to his native soil. I never met him. My husband arranged the lease: at a good price, no doubt. Anyway, those are the Ballybrittas arms. The construction is not in the best of taste, is it? When my husband returns I shall ask him to have it removed. Now, if my husband is ever honoured with a peerage – and I can tell you, he is willing to expend infinite quantities of Indian gold and silver to that end – I hope he will not permit himself to be fobbed off with so absurd a title. I would consider it money wasted!”
The largest painting on display was of a family group in a garden: Elizabeth seated on a bench, an older man, evidently Mr Newstead, her husband, leaning over her, looking proud and self-satisfied, and two small boys playing with a large dog. A female servant in Indian dress knelt at the side.
“Devis painted it a few years ago”, Elizabeth told me, “It is very like us. But we shall have Reynolds paint portraits of us now that the boys are older”.
I commented on how handsome her sons were, which pleased her greatly.
“Oh yes!” she said, “But now they are away at school, and I miss them so much!”
She then showed me some of the curious items her husband had sent her: much silver, richly embroidered fabrics, elephants and tigers carved from ivory and curious pagan idols with gemstones for eyes. Some had several arms, and one had the trunk of an elephant. In one corner of the room there stood a vast object of silver and brass, elaborately decorated, with a long tube attached.
“That is my husband’s hookah,” she told me, “He smokes it constantly. Sometimes I think he would sooner be parted from me than parted from his hookah.”
She next drew my attention to a sort of little pipe; unlike any pipe I had ever seen before.
"And this is for my husband’s opium,” she explained. “Sometimes he smokes the drug, and sometimes he eats it. I do not like the habit. But he suffers from afflictions which convulse him great pains that he says only opium can relieve.
“Such are the perils of the East. He told me that he was one of half a dozen adventurous young souls, scarcely more than boys, who embarked to India together to seek their fortunes, but within a few years all but him were dead or entirely broken in health. I would not wish my sons ever to set foot there!”
She complained that with her husband away in India and her sons at school, she was alone, save when she was invited out by her friends. I said that I would always be delighted to visit her, if she would wish for my company, and would take great pleasure in escorting her to places where it was not considered proper for ladies visit on their own. I expressed my surprise that she had attended Lord Teesdale’s house without an escort. She replied that this was because she had long been a friend of the Countess, who had particularly asked her to come, and that happily I was there to take her in to dinner. I did wonder whether I had been invited solely for that purpose, but did not say so: instead I gallantly replied that in that case it was a great good fortune for me.
Elizabeth quizzed me about my family and my childhood, but I told her there was little to be said. My father had been a vicar in a remote country parish, and I had no brothers or sisters. Both my parents had died when I was young, leaving me barely enough to pay a woman in the village to house me. That I was able to proceed to school and then to Cambridge was due to the benevolence of Mrs Andrew, to whom alone I owed my present prosperity. Elizabeth laughed and said, “Then you are truly a man without a past! I know some who would envy you that!
“As for myself”, she added, with a sigh, “I have too much of a past!”
I might have asked her to explain this comment, but instead I told Elizabeth how Lord Teesdale had described for me the great peril of the Jacobite revolt, and asked Elizabeth whether she had been in London at that time.
“Indeed I was, and I remember it well!” she replied, “I was newly married, and my husband was hard at work in the offices of the East India Company. He took me out to see the soldiers marching to their camp at Finchley, and I thought they made a very poor show. I was most fearful for our future, for the whole city was in turmoil, what with stories of a huge number of the Scotch bearing down on us, and a French landing expected daily and all our best troops away fighting in Flanders. But then a few days later, we heard that the rebels had turned back at Derby and were retreating to Scotland, and the French never invaded, so all was well again."
“Mind you,” she added, “Lord Teesdale’s conduct at that time could never be called heroic. Indeed, he sat tight, pleading illness, until it became clear which side was winning, and finding that it was not the Pretender, he proclaimed King George with all his might, and raised a militia to fight against the Scotch – who by that time were back in Glasgow, of course!” She chuckled at the memory.
“I did not go to watch Lord Lovat beheaded as a traitor on Tower Hill in 1747, for my husband feared that the experience would be injurious to my health. But I was never as weak as that! Events, though, proved him to be right, for an immense stand that had been erected to hold the spectators suddenly collapsed, and many were injured. It was no more than they deserved!" She chuckled again, this time scornfully.
At the conclusion of my visit, I kissed her hand and promised to return on Friday.
On Friday the weather fortunately was warm and Elizabeth was eager to venture forth. I was proud and delighted to be seen in her company, though because of her fine dresses and delicate shoes, and an enormous hat bedecked with a mass of white feathers, she absolutely refused to walk any distance on the dirty streets, but insisted on being conveyed in a sedan chair, while I walked beside her making conversation. It was not surprising that she hated living in the country.
Our path was eastwards to the city. As we progressed, Elizabeth described how greatly the capital had changed since she first came to live there. London bridge had been lined with shops, now demolished; the bridge between Westminster and was new, and now another was being planned at Blackfriars. The streets were becoming cleaner, with more regulations on paving and drains and sewers, and no longer were great herds of cattle driven across Oxford Street to be slaughtered at Smithfield. “All of this to the great benefit of our shoes!” she laughed.
Eventually we reached Cock Lane, in the City, which Elizabeth, I found, had long wished to visit. It was said that the ghost of a woman, thought to have been murdered, communicated with a young servant girl by means of scratches on a wall, which were then interpreted for the enlightenment of the public. We found a vast concourse of persons of all ranks there, with the child lying on a bed in a wretched chamber lit only by a dim rushlight. Two Methodist clergymen attended her, and explained the phenomenon to visitors. Their pompous and unpleasant manner irritated us. I replied politely to them, which proved to be a mistake, for they marked me down as a likely convert and insisted on giving me their pamphlets. Elizabeth and I later read these, which she dismissed as scribblings, and said she had not the least desire to listen to long ranting sermons about the dire state of her soul. Thereby she found herself in agreement with Rector Bunbridge, though I suspected Mr Chamberlain might have felt differently.
Elizabeth was convinced of the truth of the ghost (as, I was told, was the great Doctor Johnson), but I remained sceptical, suspecting a gross fraud was being practised upon the public. In the end I was to be proved right, and the poet Mr Charles Churchill, whom I was to meet later, wrote a most amusing satire about the Ghost.
We then returned home by way of Covent Garden and the Strand, where we passed what seemed like an eternity inspecting the shops. I considered buying a present for Louisa Wilbrahim, but found myself devoid of inspiration, and instead purchased a few pretty trinkets for Elizabeth, thereby increasing my debts. But my patience was rewarded when we eventually took tea, and, greatly to my surprise, she began to confide in me.
She told me more about her husband. David Newstead, I learnt, was born in Norfolk, where through the assistance of his parish vicar and the squire he had been able to obtain a post as a writer in the East India Company, at just £5 a year, and had departed for Madras. Many years later he returned, very rich and with pockets full of gemstones, and he then courted and married Elizabeth. Her parents were Yorkshire gentry, by name Armitage; of ancient lineage but much reduced in wealth. They considered Newstead’s background plebeian and manners coarse and unrefined, but they could not deny his gold.
“Why he chose me for a wife, I really have no idea. I was pretty, certainly, and I brought with me some property. There was on our land the ruins of an abbey, dissolved by Henry the Eighth, which provided a delightful prospect, but I doubt if it was this that won his love. He would have been more interested by the belief that seams of coal lay beneath it, though so far none has been found. His courtship of me, when he was not counting the gold in his purse, was to talk endlessly about India; about the heat and the strange trees and the great pagan temples and the opportunities for gaining wealth through trading. I was a very young girl and knew little of life, so I found it fascinating; though when I came to find that he had no other conversation I found it unutterably tedious. But I cannot complain overmuch, for now I am rich, and he is seldom here, and so I am free to enjoy my own life!”
I asked her whether her husband had been on the famous raid to Arcot in 1751, which had first established Mr Clive’s reputation as a great commander. She replied, with a light laugh, that she did not know where Arcot was, and that she had no intention of finding out. And now her husband was back in India once more, where Mr Clive was leading British forces to victory in Bengal and no doubt lavishly enriching himself and his followers.
“If my husband lives," she said, “He will doubtless return with more gold and jewels than ever!"
I was not a little shocked that she appeared to take her husband’s survival so lightly, and this must have shown in my face, for she now embarked on a most astonishing discourse.
“Oh, I doubt if he ever cared much for me at all. I think he cares for our sons, though he seldom sees them, but for me …. I am certain he keeps a mistress in London when he returns here, and out in India, who can tell? There could well be a score or more of coffee-coloured brats who would claim him as their father! He had always kept me well supplied with money, for it would shame him if I was left in poverty, and he sends me costly presents from time to time, but …. Let me show you this!”
She unlocked a drawer to show me a necklace of silver and pearls, from which was suspended an immense blood-red stone the size of a quail’s egg. I was amazed.
“He gave me this when our first son was born,"
“Why did you not wear it at Teesdale House?” I asked.
“Help me put it on and I will show you why not!”
At her direction I fastened the tiny clasp behind her neck and stood back as she turned to face me. The great ruby hung down over her bosom.
“You see? The colour does nor suit me at all. If he truly knew me, he would have known that I never wear red! I only wear this jewel when I am with him, because he would expect it.”
I said that I was no judge of colours, but agreed that it did look strange, when contrasted with the blue of her eyes.
“If he knew me, he would had given me sapphires!” she sighed, as I removed the necklace and she returned it to its drawer.
I once more kissed her hand, and hoped to kiss more of her in the future.
The new comedy that Lord Staines and I attended proved to be a poor affair: the audience greeted it with jeers and abuse throughout and it closed after a few performances. I would not have remembered the evening at all but for an incident after we had left the theatre. The district around Drury Lane includes a tangle of foul alleyways and courts which no wise man would enter even during the day, and as we passed the entry to one of these a party of ragged men issued forth against us, intent on robbery or murder. I feared the worst, but Staines pulled me with our backs to a wall, drew his sword and signalled to me to do the same. His face was set firm and there was a cold, fearless look to his eye, as befitted an officer who had witnessed death on the battlefields of Germany. I did my best to hold a steady blade, whilst reflecting that our swords were really little better than toys, which could easily be beaten down or broken, and that I had no idea of how to use mine, never having had a fencing lesson in my life. Fortunately our defiance caused our assailants to halt and content themselves with uttering oaths and threats, and when, after what seemed like an age, another party of theatre-goers appeared, they retreated back to their evil warren.
Lord Staines congratulated me on my steadfastness and then, greatly to my astonishment now embraced me warmly and kissed me. I wondered whether he had in reality been more frightened than he had appeared. He next invited me, should I feel exhausted after our adventure, to come to his home to rest and refreshment; but being caught by surprise, I declined the invitation, and made my own way alone to my lodgings, where I quickly fell asleep.
The next time I called on Teesdale House I found the Earl in a corner of the library contemplating a picture I had not previously noticed. There was a boy standing in a meadow, with in the background some buildings. The boy wore a red coat and white breeches, and carried a long, curved cricket bat over his shoulder. Examining his face, I thought I could detect a family resemblance, so I asked, “That is Lord Staines, I presume?”
I was most surprised at the reaction this remark produced. “No, sir, that is not Staines!” Lord Teesdale announced, in a most strange voice that suggested a conflict between rage and despair. He did not turn to face me, but kept his eyes fixed on the painting. Caught unawares by this response, I began to recount Lord Staines’s courageous behaviour outside the theatre, but was interrupted by Lord Teesdale smacking his hand down on a pile of papers on the table and exclaiming, “More debts! And he expects me to pay them! Disgraceful! I can only pray that his mother never learns of his conduct!"
I replied, rather weakly, that I had never known Staines do anything that was grossly wrong, but his father swept that aside.
“If you mean that he does not run after whores like the rest of you young men, then no doubt that is true; though there are times when I almost wish he would!” He then waved me to go away, and I retreated in confusion.
What should I learn from this astonishing outburst, so very different from my previous experiences of Lord Teesdale’s character? I would have to ask Elizabeth Newstead for an explanation next time I saw her!
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