(It is early in the year 1761. Charles Huntingdon is staying at his new country home, The Priory, and has met his neighbour Sir James Wilbrahim and his daughter Louisa)
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.
