(Charles Huntingdon is now living in the house he has inherited near the town of Bereton)
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.
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.
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.
