Conclusion

Chapter 34: A daring plan 

If I had informed Clifford of my plan, he would have considered it “a hanging matter”, and he would, of course, have been correct. As it was, I dared not even explain its full details to Ned Timmis, though I needed his assistance. I asked him whether he still had the pistol that we took from Black George when he had rescued me from the highwayman.

  “That I do, sir”, he replied, “and a very fine pistol it is! I keeps it safely locked away, sir, for it wouldn’t be right for the likes of me to be caught with such a weapon.” While he departed to collect it from his cottage, I wrote a letter which I had been contemplating for much of the previous night.

  Ned soon returned with the gun carefully concealed under his coat. It was indeed a beautiful and valuable weapon, made of the finest wood and steel and chased in silver. Black George, I thought, must have stolen it from some nobleman. I placed the letter with it, wrapped them in cloth and securely tied the package with string. I now asked Ned if he would accompany me on my mission. I did not explain my plan in detail: I warned him that it was probably illegal and possibly dangerous, but he only laughed. Then we made our way on horseback past Mulchester to the Hollybush inn.

  We parted out of sight of the inn, since we did not wish to be seen in each other’s company. I left my horse in the yard and withdrew. Ned Timmis then spent some time there, chatting to the boys there about the price of hay and other matters while I waited. Eventually he was allowed to inspect the stables, where he congratulated them on their work and rejoined me.

   “I’ve seen his horse, sir!” he informed me in a whisper, “And he’s inside: the boys didn’t admit to knowing who he was, and I didn’t press them. What do we do now, sir?”

   I instructed Ned to enter the inn first. He ordered for beer and food and took a seat in a corner, to await my call if needed. After a brief interval I too entered, carrying my package. Ignoring my companion, I approached the surly-looking innkeeper and ordered a pot of his ale. I took no more than a sip, for the quality had not improved. I hoped I was not recognised from by previous visit. After some casual conversation with old Joseph, I said that I wished to talk to a man known by the name of George.

  “I do not know his surname,” I said, “but I believe he is sometimes known as Black George, and by some as King George. I was led to believe that he is sometimes to be found here.”

   “Never heard of him!” he replied firmly. He turned to the skeletal waiter and asked, “Don’t know anyone of that name, do we?” The servant shook his head in confirmation.

   Only one other guest was present, seated under a window. His back was to the light, and his broad hat pulled down to his eyebrows left his face in shadow. He had been listening to our conversation, and when I glanced in his direction he summoned me over with a slight inclination of his head. I went to sit opposite him. I was anxious to see his left hand, looking for the broken finger, but he kept it under the table.

 “I have heard of this man George”, he said in a low voice, “Though I have never met him. You must talk with great care about such matters: walls may have ears. But tell me, why have you come here seeking this George, whoever he might be?”

   I said, “I have this package which I was asked to deliver to Mr George. I believe it contains some token of goodwill, and also a letter. I understood that he was sometimes to be found here, but perhaps I was wrong. I shall leave it with old Joseph, in the hope that Mr George might at some time visit the inn. If he does not appear, it would seem that my mission was without purpose, and in that case you may keep it for yourself.”

   I then placed the package, together with a few coins, on a nearby table that a servant was engaged in wiping with a dirty rag. I bowed to the company, collected Alexander from the yard and rode away.

   When Black George opened the package, he would discover that it contained the pistol I had struck from his hand at our previous encounter. The letter, which was in disguised handwriting and unsigned, read: “There will be passing this way on the Thursday coach from Mulchester a cleric. He is the Rector of Bereton, a very stout man, and he will be carrying a leather satchel containing certain papers. There are people who will pay in gold if these papers can be removed and left with the innkeeper here.”

 

   Later, Timmis finished his meal and joined me on the road outside. “I won’t be eating there again in a hurry!” he complained, “They gets better food in our Bridewell! That bacon: I reckon the pig must have died of old age, and not recently, neither!” He reported that Joseph had taken away my package, and that soon afterwards the gentleman I had talked with had followed into the back room.

   “And I seen his hand!” he added, “Finger all broke, just like you said! That’s the man all right!”

   So far, our mission had succeeded, but what if Black George suspected a trap, and did nothing? What if he did take the satchel but then, thinking it might be worth more if offered to someone else, refused to hand it over? He might even enquire how much the Rector might pay to have it returned!

 

   I could now only wait and hope. I was in Mulchester while the coach was preparing to depart: Mr Bunbridge was there, cursing the servants’ clumsiness as they loaded his box, and I could not fail to observe that he carried the leather satchel on board himself and would not allow anyone to touch it. Curiosity then overcame my better judgement, for I mounted Alexander and rode ahead to the Hollybush, where I hid in the thickets on the far side of the road, and watched while the coach stopped to water the horses. Bunbridge alighted briefly, still clutching his satchel. I then returned home and waited impatiently for news.   

  

   A few days later all Bereton was excitedly telling the story of how the London coach had been met by highwaymen in the forest south of Mulchester and the passengers robbed. The Rector had resisted surrendering his satchel, and in consequence was pulled from the coach and rolled in the mud, though he suffered no injury except to his dignity. He had then demanded that the coach should return him to Mulchester, but the coachman had refused, and the other passengers, anxious to escape from such a dangerous place, had echoed this. Mr Bunbridge was obliged to find a farmer’s cart to carry him home. It was reported that his appearance, covered with mud, attracted a following of urchins all jeering at him, and that, far from enduring his misfortune with Christian patience, he was blaspheming fit to raise the devil.

   Opinion in Bereton was divided. The Dissenters especially were most amused by the Rector’s sufferings, and some even regarded it as an example of Divine justice. Others were shocked by this insult to a man of the cloth, whatever they might have thought of Mr Bunbridge as a person. I did not intend to enlighten anyone as to my part in the episode.

   So we could presume that the satchel and its contents would now be at the inn, and that we might travel there to collect them and pay as promised. I called my friends together to explain how to proceed. It was only at this stage that I revealed to Mr Clifford what had passed, and he was deeply shocked.

   “I must beg you, sir, not to go anywhere near the inn”, he pleaded. “Your actions were not only illegal, but most dangerous. What if this highwayman betrays you? What if he takes your money and gives you nothing in return? Or robs you before you get there? And why take all these risks? As Mr Jarrett told you, the will means nothing. And as for these other papers; you have told us nothing about them, and why you consider them so important”.

   I saw that I would have to explain to them that they included letters from Sir James that would indict him of treasonable correspondence with the Jacobites. I did not mention his doubts about Louisa’s parentage

   Clifford continued in his resolution not to be involved, and begged me to do the same, saying that neither the King nor his ministers cared about Jacobitism nowadays. But Ned Timmis, contemptuously brushing aside such counsels of cowardice, volunteered himself to collect the goods from old Joseph at the Hollybush. “I reckon I’m in it up to my neck already, sir. If we swing, we’ll swing. I’ll take some of my lads, and we’ll go armed. I’d like to see any highwayman try to rob us!” he seemed to relish the prospect of such an adventure.

  To my great surprise, Mr Chamberlain, the young curate of Bearsclough who was now my household chaplain, said, “If you permit, I will go in your place, sir; for I am not known there, and my clergyman’s bands may serve to lull any suspicions. And I shall examine the documents carefully before any money is paid, for, with all due respect to Timmis here, I am more likely than he to discern whether what we are given are the ones you want.” To this, Timmis readily agreed.

  The party gathered at the Priory early the next morning. Ned Timmis had assembled half a dozen or so of what he called his “lads”, though they appeared to range in age from about sixteen to twenty-five. All carried stout sticks and looked ready and eager for the fray, especially if ale should be involved. Mr Chamberlain, by contrast, had taken pains to dress in his best clothes, which caused Mrs Timmis to fuss about him giving his coat an extra brush. I gave him a purse of gold and silver and wished them well. They then all piled into my carriage, whilst we attempted to suppress our impatience until they should return.

            

   It was late in the evening when Ned Timmis’s party returned, gleefully recounting their adventure in a babble of voices. Mr Chamberlain produced a bundle of papers from under his coat and gave it to me, and they sat down to a lavish supper with copious supplies of beer. I begged them to eat and drink their fill first, and only then give me a full account of what had occurred. At length, when the young men were fully sated and ready to return to their cottages, I rewarded them with silver, but Ned Timmis addressed them sternly.

   “Now then,” he said, “you’ve done well today, but you mustn’t never tell no-one about it. Not your mothers nor your sweethearts; understand? If I find you’ve been talking, you’ll have me to reckon with. But you keep quiet and the master here’ll be your friend for life.  Right? Off you go then.” Singing lustily, they departed into the night.

    It was only then that we were told the full story of the day’s adventures, with Ned Timmis and Mr Chamberlain constantly adding to each other’s accounts. Near Mulchester they had borrowed a covered cart from farmer Brownlow, in the hope of reaching the Hollybush unrecognised.

   “So one of the lads drove, and the rest of us hid under cover behind,” said Chamberlain, “And then near the inn we were stopped by a party of surly-looking men, who were perhaps the ambush party that Mr Clifford had feared, but we drove them off.”

   “We threw off the covers,” Ned Timmis took up the story, “And they saw us all armed and ready for them! They weren’t half surprised! Made them think twice, it did!”

  “I wish you could have seen Ned then!” Mr Chamberlain intervened, “He seized one of the ruffians by the collar, and he said: I know you, Sam Telward: a low sneak-thief who skulks around Mulchester marketplace hoping to snatch purses. You be off be off sharpish now, if you don’t want to feel my old blackthorn on your head!”

   “And be off he did, and so did the rest of the varmints!” said Timmis with immense satisfaction.

   “And then we reached the inn, and of Black George, as you described him, there was no sign; though doubtless he was observing the scene from somewhere”, Chamberlain continued the story. “I approached the innkeeper and announced that I understood that he had a satchel and papers that I wished to purchase. At first he denied all knowledge of the subject, though he could not take his eyes off a half guinea which I placed on the table before him. I told him that this and more was his if he produced the satchel, and there would be no need to tell Black George about it; and that it was his choice, for if he did not instantly produce the satchel, then we would search the inn ourselves until we found it. Then there was a clatter behind me…”

   “That was my lads overturning a few chairs and tables, to make our point clear”, Timmis interjected.

   “… and then, with great reluctance and sundry muttered oaths, the waiter was sent shuffling away into a back room and returned with the satchel. I gave the papers a brief examination: there was indeed a will, and other documents that appeared to be letters written by Sir James Wilbrahim. So I gave the landlord the purse, which he emptied on the table. You could see his lips slavering with greed as he counted through the gold!”

    “And well he might”, Timmis added, “for a fair sum it was to give to those two villains, Old Joseph and Black George, and to my mind they both deserves hanging, they do, but no doubt you knows best, sir."

   “And so we drove back to Mulchester, meeting no more trouble, and here we are!”

   “I notice that, while you have the papers, you do not have the satchel”, I observed.

   “No,” Mr Chamberlain replied, “It occurred to me that if Mr Bunbridge chose to pursue the matter, he could have identified it as property stolen from him. So I told the landlord he could keep it. Nothing can now be traced to us”.

   I heard Clifford breathe a sigh of relief at this news.

   “What should you now do with the papers?” he asked.

   What indeed? was the question I now asked myself. I said I would decide on that in the morning. And so we parted, for all of us were by now very tired.

 

  The night brought no solution to a problem that was troubling me, and the morning found me picking irresolutely at my breakfast whilst shuffling the papers that we had recovered. No doubt my face wore a troubled frown and I must have occasionally muttered to myself or uttered a sigh. Mrs Timmis stood by watching me, and was eventually moved to ask respectfully if anything was wrong.

   “Yes, Mrs Timmis”, I replied, “I’m greatly perplexed!”

   “I can tell that, sir. It’s them papers, ain't it? You’ve got them back, but you don’t know what to do with them.”

   I looked up in astonishment. How did she know anything about what had passed? But then it occurred to me that, although she had not been invited to our meeting, she had constantly bustled in and out, bringing food and drink and clearing away plates, and must have acquired a fair knowledge of our discussions. I suddenly decided that any further concealment would be pointless, and that it would greatly unburden me to reveal my problems to someone.

   “Mrs Timmis”, I said, “May I presume that I can trust you absolutely?”

   She nodded.

   “Well then. The papers are of three kinds. The first is the will, which appoints Mr Bunbridge as Miss Wilbrahim’s guardian for many years ahead. I am sure you will agree that this is a most undesirable outcome? All that needs to be done there is to write out a new will, though it might be more difficult to persuade Sir James to sign it. Secondly, there are letters, written in Sir James’s own hand, indicating treasonable correspondence with the Jacobites, and I am assured that the King and his ministers would hold these in no account now. It is the third class of documents that is the most problematic to me.

   “You may recall that when I first came here, a few years ago, you mentioned that there had been local gossip concerning the fact that Sir James was not in residence when the Highland rebels marched through in December 1745, and the Prince stopped at Stanegate for the night, and that Miss Louisa, Sir James’s only child, was born the following September? Well, Sir James reveals in his papers that he himself had doubts about his daughter’s parentage, and drafted letters to the Prince concerning this matter, though I do not think any were actually sent.

   “So, Mrs Timmis, what am I to do with them? Should I simply burn the whole lot, and do my best to forget about it? But then, what if Sir James should recover his health and wish to see his private papers again? Or suppose Miss Wilbrahim comes to learn of how we obtained the papers: what should I tell her?

   “Oh, and I must tell you that not long ago a certain lady (I shall not tell you her name, or how I met her) testified to me that  it was impossible that the Prince could have been Miss Louisa’s father, and I have no reason to doubt her word. So tell me, Mrs Timmis, what am I to do?”

   She considered for a moment, and then, instead of answering, asked, “Well, sir, I know as how you’d asked Miss Wilbrahim for her hand in marriage, and she accepted you, though you never told me in so many words. Now Becky tells me that her mistress truly loves you, but that she won’t commit herself to anything at present, what with her father being so sick. That’s all true, ain’t it, sir?”

   “It is true, Mrs Timmis: but what now? Should I confess to Sir James Wilbrahim that I know his secrets? Or tell Miss Wilbrahim what I have discovered about her father? I fear that would cause her great distress. But, on the other hand, how could I bear to deceive her? I ask again: what should I do?”

   Mrs Timmis considered before replying.

   “I fancy, sir, that you will discover Miss Louisa to be stronger and braver than you imagine. With all that she’s been through, she’s a child no longer. If you wish, sir, I’ll speak to her myself. I could tell Becky that I have an important message for her mistress, so she can take me into Stanegate, and to Miss Louisa”.

   “And what would you propose to tell her?”

   “The truth, sir. The entire truth. She trusts me and knows I mean her nothing but good. And I’ll ask her what she wants done with them letters and things: you to bring them for her to read, or burn them, or hide them away again.”

   I sat back in my chair and breathed heavily. “Well, Mrs Timmis”, I said eventually, “This would appear to be the only plan we have, so you may proceed. I can only hope and pray that you are right”.

   “Oh, I am, sir.”

    But before this plan could be put in operation, there was a most unforeseen development. Mr Bunbridge the Rector sent me a message demanding an interview!

 

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Chapter 35: Confrontation

   It was Martin Clifford who brought the message that Mr Bunbridge wished to have a private talk with me.

   “He suggests,” I was told, “that you should meet him, alone, in the church in Bereton, at three o’clock tomorrow. He says there are matters of great importance he wishes to discuss with you.”

   Never before had the Rector sought an interview! When I had recovered from my surprise, I asked, “Do you suppose that he suspects me of having asked the highwayman to rob him? Might this be an attempt to somehow entrap me?”

   “As you know, I was entirely opposed to the whole plan to obtain those papers by robbery. But if I may offer you advice, you should admit nothing. I do not think you should mention Sir James, or Miss Wilbrahim, unless he does so first. If you wish, I can be near the church and assist you in any way I can.”  I nodded, rehearsing in my mind what I might say to the Rector.

  

   The clock we just striking three as I entered St. Luke’s. The nave was empty apart from the heavy figure of the Rector, who was examining a faded old coat of arms on a memorial. I greeted him with an attempt at friendly civility. “I was informed that you wished to speak with me.”

   He looked at with an expression of hostility, and beckoned me to sit with him in the Wilbrahim private pew, which I considered a gross impertinence.

  “I have no desire for your company at any time, sir, but nonetheless we have important matters to discuss. Here we can talk privately,” he told me.

    “So here we are, sir,” I said, once we were seated out of sight to anyone in the nave “And now that we are here, I would like to tell you how much I regret the disgraceful insults done to your person by the highwayman.” I spoke a few words of commiseration, but he was scarcely listening, and he soon interrupted me.

   “And maybe you know what was stolen from me?” he growled.

   “Yes. I have heard a satchel of papers were taken.” I was talking softly, as befitted the delicate nature of our conversation, but was surprised when my companion barked, “Speak up, damn you!” I was not aware that he was deaf, but I repeated my admission in a louder voice.    

   “So were you responsible for the robbery? Yes, I see the guilt in your eyes! I thought as much! I saw you hiding in the bushes when the coach stopped at the Hollybush, and wondered why you were skulking about there, but I soon found out! Why else should the highwayman insist on taking my satchel, when there was nothing but papers in it? I shall see you hanged for this, sir, whether or not you may call yourself a member of this corrupt and illegitimate Parliament! And hanged you surely will be, unless you instantly return those papers!”

  I answered coldly, trying to retrain my anger and repeating words that I had pondered beforehand, “I think not, sir. Yes, I discovered the papers at the inn, but I have clear evidence that you yourself stole the papers from Stanegate, whereas you have no evidence to link me with the robbery. I have never even touched your satchel. And under no circumstances will I return any papers to you. The letters of Sir James Wilbrahim concerning his dealing with the Pretender will be burnt, as should have been done long ago. I cannot allow the possibility that they may be published, and expose him to ridicule or worse: I dare not think of the disastrous results that might follow, given his present state of health. You, I believe, had long known of these papers, but allowed them to be preserved. Was it so that you retained your hold over him?”

   “Wilbrahim!” he replied scornfully, “that old fool! But for his cowardice, and the cowardice of those like him, and the barbarian Scotchmen being filled with terror at marching any further from their mountains, we would have taken London and restored the true King to the throne! And then his vapourings on whether Miss Wilbrahim was really the offspring of the Prince! An absurd notion!

   “I tell you, sir, Lady Wilbrahim was far more of a man than her pusillanimous husband. All her family were strong for the restoration of the Stuart line. When Sir James prepared to flee as the Scotch forces approached, under the weak excuse that he had urgent business in the south that required his attention, she proudly refused to leave her home. She proclaimed that if the Prince did come to Stanegate, she would receive him with all due honour; and this she did. But the notion that she would betray her husband with anyone, even a Prince, is nonsense! I attended her in the little time left to her after her daughter was born: she was aware that her husband mistrusted her, and she swore to me on her deathbed that she had always been true to him.”

   At least, I thought, this does not directly contradict what Danielle had told me. But I saw no reason to mention her testimony: instead, I changed the subject and replied, “Since you have mentioned Miss Wilbrahim, I must tell you that under no circumstances will I allow you to become her guardian. If necessary, I shall persuade Sir James to rewrite his will and transfer the guardianship to Mr Braithwaite; though I promise that the legacy assigned to you will not be altered.”

   “So, you hope to marry the chit, do you? I guessed as much!” He gave a coarse laugh.

   “Is that why you have always hated me? Because you had designs on Miss Wilbrahim for yourself?”

   “No sir; there you are wrong! Until recently I regarded you as being of no significance whatsoever, except as a symptom of the degeneracy of our age. But the robbery is a different matter, sir. I have a witness who has been writing down your confession that you planned and assisted in the robbery, and should prove sufficient to bring about your arrest as a felon!”

   “I have confessed to nothing, sir, and you know it!”

   “You will find that is not what my witness will say! Your Parliamentary privilege avails you nothing in facing this charge, sir! Even if the case proves not strong enough to have you hanged, your character will be so blackened that you will never dare to show your face in Bereton again! All that I shall offer you, sir, is this. If you return the papers to me and then leave this town for ever, then I may – I say may – be prepared to overlook the matter. So much for your hopes of marriage, sir!”

   He could not resist adding, “As for the Wilbrahim child; you are entirely wrong to imagine I have any designs on her for myself. I have tried her, and she is nothing! No, sir: as her guardian, I shall marry her to young Matthew, my sister’s son. He is a fool, so they are well suited to each other. They will live at his home in Leicestershire and lease Stanegate to me!”

   “Do you not think that Miss Wilbrahim might well object to that arrangement?”

    “What? that milk-and-water weakling? She would not dare! Besides, sir, the law will be on my side: when they marry, all the Wilbrahim property will belong solely to the husband, to dispose of as he chooses. And Stanegate will be mine, including that maid! She will stay here with me! A lusty wench indeed; and I shall have her!”

   I was determined to remain cool and show neither fear nor anger. “I seem to remember that you once attempted an assault on Becky’s virtue, and she repulsed you!” I retorted.

  “Virtue? Pah!” he snorted, “Wail till I get her where we can’t be disturbed! Then we’ll see!”

  Mr Bunbridge licked his lips as if in anticipation, but he was unable to utter a further word, for at this point, and to my astonishment, who should emerge from the chantry chapel but Mrs Waring, leading Louisa Wilbrahim by the hand!

   “Come away, child!” my librarian ordered the girl, “You mustn’t be listening to talk of this kind!” Fixing Mr Bunbridge with the gaze of an exasperated schoolmistress to an errant pupil, she announced with the utmost scorn, “You are a disgrace to your cloth, sir! It is outrageous that you should pollute this sacred building with such profanity! I shall write to the Bishop to tell him of your behaviour!”  

  I had never before seen this dry-as-dust lady display such anger, and indeed had thought her incapable of any strong emotion. But Louisa regarded the Rector coldly, and was silent for a while.

   “I can forgive your rudeness to me,” she finally announced, in a quiet voice, “but not what you have said about my poor father, who was always so generous to you. You shall never set foot in Stanegate again.”

   She then turned her back and accompanied Mrs Waring out of the church.

 

   Mr Bunbridge, I think, was more disturbed by Louisa’s hostility than by Mrs Waring’s threats. He now resembled a balloon that had recently been so filled with air that it was likely to burst, and was now suddenly deflated. For a while he could not utter a single word, before exclaiming in bafflement, “Where is Smalling?”

   “No doubt you summoned him to write his report of Mr Huntingdon’s confession,” came the reply from Martin Clifford, who now appeared on the scene, “or more likely to write what appeared to be a confession, and then swear it was true. But, alas, Smalling is not here. He was led to believe that the meeting would not take place. In his absence, I myself have written down what I overheard you say. I would advise you to let the matter drop.”

   I wondered for a moment whether the Rector was about to strike him, but in the end he contented himself with muttering impotent curses as we left.

 

   Once we were alone, I asked Clifford, “Was this all your planning? For if so, it succeeded most brilliantly!”

  “I cannot claim the credit, for it was all chance,” he replied, “The gods were definitely with us, in the unlikely form of Mrs Waring. She, learning that I was about to visit Bereton church, requested to be allowed to accompany me, since she had long wished to inspect the old tomb that lies in the chantry chapel to the north of the altar. She alleged that you had promised to take her, but had neglected to do so. Requested, did I say? Demanded! She can be most persistent. And it occurred to me that it might be useful to have another witness, should anything untoward occur between you and Mr Bunbridge. So I took the liberty of using your little trap, and we set out.

  “We arrived at the church well before three o’clock, and outside we encountered the man Smalling, well laden with paper and pens and inkpots. Have you met him? Oh, yes. Well, as you know, he describes himself as a scrivener, but his sole talent is for writing false reports, if sufficiently bribed, and then perjuring himself by swearing to their truth. When he revealed that Mr Bunbridge had asked him to be there, I instantly smelt a rat. I dismissed him by telling a straight lie, saying that the meeting with you had been postponed. So he went away disappointed. We entered the church, and to our amazement found Miss Wilbrahim, all on her own, deep in private prayer! But Mrs Waring roused her from her knees by asking that Miss Wilbrahim should take her to the tomb and tell her the history of her family, which the young lady did out of politeness, though as I recall, most of the talking was done by your librarian.

     “And when first the Rector, and then you, entered, we remained silently in the chantry chapel, listening to your conversation, of which the Rector doubtless assumed the man Smalling would be recording a deliberately inaccurate version, until finally Mrs Waring could not bear to endure it any longer, with results that you know.

   “So Bunbridge has gone away discomforted, but I must advise you that you have had the narrowest of escapes. Were it not for blind chance, he might have had sufficient evidence to hang you, or at least to blacken your character for ever. Please do not take such risks again!”

 

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Chapter 36: An end and a beginning

    The next day a message arrived from Stanegate that Miss Louisa Wilbrahim wished to speak to me concerning matters that she had heard Mr Bunbridge mention. I set off immediately on Alexander, taking with me the papers we had obtained.

   I found Louisa alone in the library. Her face suggested she had not slept much that night. Was it true, she asked me, that Sir James doubted that she was truly his daughter? I replied that this was indeed the case, though I had made discoveries of my own that proved his doubts to be mistaken. I then placed the bundle of papers on the table and asked whether she wished that we should read through them together, but she shook her head: she would study them alone.

  I accordingly left her. I found Sir James asleep, so I sat with Becky in the kitchen and recounted to her what had passed in the church. It felt as though many hours passed before Louisa joined us. Her face showed signs of tears. Becky ran to her and hugged her.

   “I have read my father’s letters”, she informed us, “It was right that I should know everything. Having read them all, I burnt them on the fire, and stirred the ashes till nothing remained. No-one else saw them, and now I shall do my best to forget they ever existed.  

   I took her hand and looked her in the eye. She might have been crying, but her gaze was now steady.

   “Oh, my poor father!” she said, “How he must have suffered!”

   She paused in silence for a while before continuing, “But now we must go to see him and explain what we have done, and we shall write a new will for him to sign.”

  Louisa and I entered the room together. Sir James was in a fitful sleep, in which he occasionally muttered to himself, and we remained silent at the bedside until he suddenly awoke. He exhibited no surprise at finding me there and began to speak. He appeared to be addressing the world in general. His voice was feeble, but his brain was clear enough. He talked for a while of his life and lamented that his line was now at an end.

   “But that is not so, sir”, I interrupted him, “For you have a daughter, who will be a fine lady, and a credit to your family in years to come”.

   “A daughter! A daughter of mine?” he replied, with a querulous note, and sighed.

   I knew what was passing through his mind. I glanced at Louisa, who guessed I intended to speak plainly, and nodded in agreement. I had had time to prepare my words, and I now launched into a speech that in my memory seems more to resemble an oration I might have delivered in Parliament. Louisa meanwhile knelt at the bedside and took her father’s hand.

   “Sir”, I said, “I know you have always doubted her parentage, but I can tell you plainly that there is no shadow of doubt but that you are her true father. I know you have suspected that she might be of royal blood, begotten by the Prince when he passed through here in December of 1745. But sir, I have it on certain authority, from one who was here with the Scotch forces, that this is by no means the case. The Prince, she assured me, treated your wife with the greatest respect. Indeed, how could anyone conceive that so noble a Prince would ever behave so disgracefully as to dishonour the lady of a host?” I continued, though I knew from Danielle and other sources that the Prince’s conduct was far from spotless on such occasions.

  I concluded my peroration by saying, “But those days are long past and best forgotten; your daughter and I have read all the letters relating to the matter, and she has burnt them. No, sir: Miss Louisa is your daughter and no-one else’s: and I request your permission, sir, to ask for her hand in marriage”.

   He was now fully awake. He turned his head to look me in the eye. “You are sure of this?” he asked.  

   “I am certain, for a certain lady who was present there told me so of her own free will, and she had no cause to lie.” I gave him an account of the tale I had heard from Danielle d’Autun, without telling him of the circumstances under which I had heard it.

   He did not enquire who this lady might be, or how I came to read the account of his doubts and fears about Louisa’s parentage: instead, he laid his head back on the pillows and breathed a long sigh. We waited, and after a while, he roused himself again to ask, “Louisa, do you return Mr Huntingdon’s affection?”

   “I do, father.”

   “And, sir, if fate should favour us with a son, he shall bear the name of Wilbrahim in your memory, and so your line will continue.” I added.  

   “Then it is well.”

    I joined Louisa on our knees beside his bed while he placed his hands on our heads to give us his blessing. I would have liked to record that he did so with joy, with a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eye, but I fear there was nothing but profound weariness in his voice. I believe that he had lost interest in prolonging his life any further: perhaps he was relieved that the problems and doubts which had sorely vexed him ever since Louisa's birth had been solved at last;or perhaps the thought that had sustained him through all his disappointments was the belief that, even if she had not been his true daughter, then he at least had the consolation of devoting his life to guarding a child who bore the blood of England's true sovereign in her veins. He would have wanted, no doubt, to have married her to some great nobleman who had remained true to the Jacobite cause; but this hope had died after Lord Teesdale’s cruel letter. And now this belief had proved deluded and his life’s work had seemed in vain. The realisation that his lady had been faithful to him would maybe have been but scant consolation after so many years of widowhood.

   Then Louisa said, “Father, I am afraid that your will was also destroyed. We shall bring you a new one”. He nodded, and soon he was asleep again.

 

   A few days later Clifford brought forward the new will that he had drafted, which followed the old one as far as we could remember it. As I had promised Mr Bunbridge, his legacy was retained in full, the principal change being that the post of Louisa’s guardian was now transferred to Richard Kerrington Braithwaite, Esquire, Member of Parliament.

   Clifford insisted that the whole document be read out loud to Sir James, though how much of it he truly heard and understood I could not say: part of the time he appeared as if his only desire was to finish with the formalities so that he could sleep. A pen, already inked, was placed in his hand, and he scrawled what passed for a signature where he was directed. I had taken the precaution of inviting Mr Chamberlain and Alderman Stout to be witnesses.

   When it was done, Sir James spoke a few mumbled words to Louisa, raised his hand as if to give her his blessing, and then fell back. It was as if he had decided that all was resolved, and he had no further interest in life.

   He never regained full consciousness, and two days later he was visibly on his deathbed. His breath was a low rattle and he was unable to take food beyond small quantities of soup. Louisa could scarcely ever be persuaded to leave his bedside. I replaced her during the brief periods of her absence, and the ever-faithful William appeared to have no need for sleep as he watched over his master as if waiting for some final command.

   The end came abruptly. He suddenly sat upright with staring eyes, though I doubt he was seeing any of the persons at his bedside. “I betrayed my King!” he cried, “The King over the water!” Then he fell back on the pillows and said no more. Louisa fell forward onto the bed in a flood of tears, for despite everything she had loved her father dearly.

 

   He was given a suitably magnificent funeral at St Luke’s church. The whole town was in mourning, for Sir James had been universally respected. His old friends sighed and agreed that an era had now ended. Mr Bunbridge, I would have to concede, delivered a splendid eulogy on his late patron, though he contrived to mention Louisa as little as he could, and me not at all.

  We arranged for a memorial cenotaph for Sir James, with his portrait above a Latin inscription extolling his virtues, to be carved by the best craftsmen and erected prominently in the church. His benevolence to the poor of the parish in his will was recorded on a separate tablet.  I myself would acknowledge that, despite our political disagreements, and for all his attempts to keep me from Louisa, I too would miss him greatly. He was the last of the old English squires. Now that his private papers had been burnt, no-one but us would ever know of his Jacobite treason, or his painful doubts about her true parentage.

  After a decent period of mourning, Louisa and I were married at the same church. The bride was given away by Mr Braithwaite, and the service, at my request, was conducted by Mr Chamberlain. Mrs Timmis wept copiously throughout the service, but explained that it was from happiness. The wedding party then returned to Bearsclough. The villagers all lined up to escort us home to the Priory, where they were given a feast that had been prepared. We held another feast for the people of Bereton and a more intimate banquet for our particular friends. I had wondered how we could avoid scandal if we did not invite Mr Bunbridge, but he had departed to live with his sister’s family in Leicestershire. He was seen no more in Bereton, though he continued to draw his emoluments as Rector.

   And so our new life began. 

                                    

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Chapter 37: Envoi

Ten years have now passed since these memorable events. Last winter my journal, which I began to write soon after I first came to London and which I had thought to be lost, was discovered in a box of old clothes. It had grown to fill several notebooks, though of these some were missing entirely, others had lost pages or were badly torn, and one had become unaccountably so damaged by water that I could scarcely read my own writing. But despite all this, the discovery has encouraged me to set out anew my account of those years, which transformed not only my life but also the life of our country; and of the part I and my friends played in those memorable times. It only remains for me now to tell what has become of us and our friends since our marriage.

 

  My beloved Louisa and I continue to live in great happiness. We now have a son and a daughter. We live at the Priory, but often in the winter season we go to London, where to her great joy Louisa has at last been able to attend operas and concerts, and to have singing lessons from the great masters. I have introduced her to my London friends, and she has charmed all of them. She has not been idle in other matters, for she has joined a campaign to abolish the slave trade and has recruited several other ladies to the cause.

   Louisa did not wish to reside in the house where her father had died, so we leased out Stanegate to Martin Clifford, who is now a freeman of the borough and a man of influence. Becky joined him there as his housekeeper. It is said that they have married secretly, but Clifford never talks about his private life. Mrs Waring also spends much of her time at Stanegate, happily compiling a catalogue of the old books and firing off long letters about the strange mantelpiece to various learned men.

 

   Clifford and I have invested in the building of a canal at Mulchester, which will link with Lord Teesdale’s projected canal. Mulchester is growing fast, and we have been able to reopen some of the old quarries on our hill to supply stone for the new buildings.

    Mrs Timmis and her brother Ned remain unaltered, as if both were immune to the passage of the years. I have transferred much of Sir James’s land to Ned as a freehold, in gratitude for everything he had done for me. He is cultivating it well, and I have little doubt that the next generation of his line will be considered gentlemen; though I trust they will inherit their progenitor’s straightforwardness and honesty. I also offered him a larger cottage, but he insisted that they were perfectly happy where they were, though his wife, as usual, did not feel that it was her place to utter any opinion on the subject. I was, however, able to install a cast-iron cooking range from Coalbrookdale around the kitchen fire, which presumably met with her silent approval.

   Mrs Timmis persisted in refusing any reward from me. She finally consented to accompany us on a visit to London, where we showed her round all the sights of the metropolis. She was thrilled when we saw the royal carriage pass and she caught a glimpse of Queen Charlotte through the window. We also took her to the theatre, and I asked her afterwards how she had enjoyed it. It had only been a trivial comedy, but I discovered that she had taken it very seriously, and asked me all sorts of questions about it: Why had Lady Tongue believed what Lord Lovelightly had told her? Surely it must have been plain that he was a scoundrel? and so forth. I realised that because she had never seen a play before, she had been disturbed by what she had seen on stage and took it for real life. Although she said she had greatly enjoyed London, I felt she was relieved when she returned to her native hearth.

      Mr Bunbridge is no more. A year after he withdrew to Leicestershire, it was reported that he had died of an apoplexy, and I was able to use my influence to have Mr Chamberlain appointed as the new Rector. He is much influenced by Mr Wesley and Mr Whitefield in his sermons, and these, coupled with his energy in founding Sunday Schools, are proving to have a good influence upon the parish. The best news has been that directly after his appointment he married Sarah, Ned Timmis’s daughter! I discovered that he had loved her for years, but that poverty had hitherto prevented his proposing marriage. She is a kind and sensible girl and has made him a good wife.

   Another of my acquaintances could not escape the hand of fate was Black George the highwayman, who was captured when attempting to rob a coach near Oxford, and after a speedy trial was  hanged at Tyburn. Louisa and I were visiting estates I had inherited in Wales then and did not hear the news until we returned. Had I known in time, I should have made some attempt to spare his life, in view of the important part he had played in our story. He met his end with an appearance of great nonchalance, bowing and waving his hat to the crowds that lined the route and toasting their health in the wine he was given at St Giles, to the accompaniment of cheers. He thus remained a consummate actor to the end, or perhaps he was too drunk to show fear. Now more turnpikes are being constructed and the roads around Mulchester are much safer.

   Joseph Byrne had escaped the justice of the law in the matter of the stolen ruby, but about a year afterwards he was discovered with his throat cut and a bloodstained knife of Oriental pattern left beside his body. No-one was ever charged with the crime, but I do not imagine that this failure to prosecute greatly disturbed the authorities.

   The career of Mother Rawton suffered a setback when she was brought before the magistrates, charged with keeping a disorderly house. Sir John Fielding pronounced an unusually harsh sentence on her: to be fined £20, to be imprisoned in the Bridewell for six months and to stand in the pillory. Had the mob known of her treatment of Louisa, they might well have stoned her to death, but as it was she was only pelted only with filth and survived the ordeal; dirty but defiant. She is now believed to be back in business, as incorrigible as ever. And with regard to this, I regret to say that my attempts to protect young girls arriving unescorted in London from falling into the clutches of Mother Rawton and her like have met with nothing but indifference, both from my fellow Members of Parliament and the Corporation of London. Far too many, I fear, enjoy or profit from this maiden tribute.

      Lord Teesdale increases in wealth with every year that passes, and his Countess is kind enough to write from time to time to enquire about Louisa’s wellbeing. Lord Staines did eventually get married, to an heiress by the name of Miss Francis, who was selected by his father. She was the sort of young lady whom Staines would normally have damned as “insipid”, but, just as he told me he would, he overcame his natural proclivities to the extent of fathering a child. This duty having been performed, he promptly abandoned his wife, resigned from Parliament and departed for Italy, where he remains, leaving his son in the care of the Countess. I cannot imagine that Staines’s wife was too unhappy about this outcome, but the Grahams were outraged at finding themselves deprived of their expected inheritance. They are thought to be the source of certain libels suggesting that Staines was not the father of the child, but that some surrogate man was hired to perform the role, with or without the knowledge of the wife. These vile stories have reached the ears of the King and Queen, who are said to be disgusted that anyone should publish such trash, though the rabble have been greatly entertained.

     Of my other friends, John Robertson has entered Parliament, where he has become noted for the gravity of his manner. George Davies is serving with his regiment in Massachusetts: I have heard that there is trouble there, and I hope that his foolhardy courage will not lead him into danger. Henry Darnwell is the only one to continue in his old rakish ways, and until he finds himself a suitable wife, I do not expect he will change. He is now assisting the campaign of John Wilkes, who, as the world knows, has returned from exile and is once again a thorn in the side of the ministry. Mr Churchill the poet died at Boulogne soon after our adventure with Mother Rawton, but Mr Boswell returned from his travels to resume his shameless pursuit of great men and low women. He is now frequently to be found in the company of Doctor Johnson.

 

   Following the death of Sir James Wilbrahim I expected that Lord Teesdale would put forward his own candidate at the by-election, and was prepared to fulfil my promised to support whomever that might be. Instead, who should appear to contest the vacant seat but Elizabeth’s husband, whom I now met for the first time! Mr David Newstead had returned from India with “whole lakhs of rupees” as a jealous acquaintance put it, and much of this enormous wealth he expended to enter Parliament. I wondered whether his appearance at Bereton might be some scheme of Elizabeth’s to bring us together; but when I spoke with him, the name of Elizabeth was never mentioned, and she certainly never set foot among us. I was much relieved that he appeared to know nothing of my brief but passionate liaison with his wife, and that there was no mention of rubies! Instead, he made a most transparent attempt to bribe me to support him. I declined his offer, but Louisa accepted a gift of some fine brocades and curious carvings in ivory. I declared my complete neutrality, recommended my friends to vote according to their consciences and departed forthwith for London, not returning until the election was over. Mr Newstead even gained the support of Lord Teesdale, no doubt as a result of a large present, and he was in consequence returned unopposed.

   But Newstead’s time in Parliament was turbulent, for he came under savage attacks regarding the sources of his wealth. His no doubt rapacious treatment of the unfortunate inhabitants of Madras was not the principal issue; instead, it was suggested that he had embezzled enormous sums belonging by rights to the East India Company. There was even a threat of impeachment, though in the end this came to nothing. He did not defend himself with any fluency and could not have enjoyed the experience.

 

   As had been predicted, the King was soon resolved that he could bear Mr Grenville’s wearisome lectures no longer, so he was dismissed and replaced by a Whig ministry under Lord Rockingham, and then a year later Mr Pitt returned to office, under his new title of Earl of Chatham. I gave both these ministries my full support, and in consequence was rewarded with a post in the Exchequer for life, worth £1,000 a year. My finances were now at last secure: I paid back any remaining loans from Lord Teesdale, and was also able to rebuild part of the Priory and greatly extend the gardens. Now Lord North is Prime Minister: a gentleman scarcely older than myself.

   I had intended to resign my seat at the next election, in accordance with my promise that some friend of Lord Teesdale would succeed me, and in future would regard all politics from a distance. But as it happened, the other seat at Bereton became vacant again. The East India Company summoned Mr Newstead back to Madras in 1768, shortly before the poll was called, and he has not been heard of since. It is possible that he is dead: he had long been plagued by gout and other afflictions, the torments of which he attempted to alleviate by eating or smoking opium; and I fear that his troubles in Parliament only led to him increasing this perilous consumption.

   With Mr Newstead being absent, Oswald Jarrett was nominated for the vacancy at Bereton, while, at Louisa’s urging, I continued to stand for the other seat. There was some muttering in the town against a man deemed to be no more than a puppet of Lord Teesdale, but I supported Jarrett’s candidature. Louisa took great delight in throwing herself into the campaign, canvassing support among the wives of the citizens; and as the daughter of Sir James Wilbrahim her opinion carried much weight in the town. We were both duly returned unopposed. Jarrett has proved himself an active and efficient legislator, always zealous for his patron’s interests, and has attracted the favourable attention of the ministry. No doubt he will eventually be offered some office in the government.

    Whether her husband was alive or dead, Elizabeth Newstead considered herself free to continue her life of pleasure. I have met her once or twice in London, when we took care to greet each other politely but distantly, as if we had never been better acquainted. Although the years had aged her somewhat, she is still a picture of elegance, and is invariably accompanied by some fashionably-dressed young gentleman, to the scandal and amusement of the gossips of the town. I do not attach any blame to her, having myself been her escort not long before, but I wonder what her sons, who are now rising young gentlemen themselves, think of her conduct.

    Another General Election is now imminent, and I shall retire from Parliament this time. I have little doubt that my successor will be another friend of Lord Teesdale, for the days of the independent gentleman in Parliament are passing away. Henceforth I shall be content to remain at home with my family, tending my garden. 

  

   I will write no more. I shall place this manuscript in Sir James Wibrahim’s old box, now repaired, and take it to my college in Cambridge, to be lodged there for safekeeping, with strict instructions that it shall under no circumstances be opened until after Louisa and I are both dead. I shall add to this an endowment to fund the education of poor scholars. In due course our children, and grandchildren if we are fortunate enough to have any, and the world at large if the fancy takes them, can learn the true story of our lives.

                                  Finis.

                           Charles Huntingdon, gent.

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