Chapter Eighteen: Lord Staines in search of a wife

(Charles Huntingdon has been surprised to hear that his country residence has been visited by his friend Lord Staines)

   I resolved to ask Staines about the purpose of his visit to the Priory when next I saw him, but it was not until a week had passed that I found him seated in his usual place at Brown’s club. The story of his duel was now known throughout the town, and I had been careful not to mention his ungracious conduct afterwards. His courage was consequently praised on all sides, much to his gratification, and he was in good spirits.

    I remarked that it was unusual for him to have been out of London for so long, and that I had been most surprised to have learnt that he had recently visited my humble abode at Bearsclough.

   “And when I needed your company the most, you were not there!” he complained in mock annoyance. “I called at the Priory unannounced, but with every expectation of finding you at home, and I was seriously disappointed! There was no-one to receive me except your housekeeper, the large woman.”

   “Mrs Timmis.”

   “Ah, yes. She conducted me round the house.”

   I asked Staines what he thought of my home.

   “It is in a pleasant enough location,” he conceded, “but the house is old and most of the rooms are too small. It would be good enough, perhaps, for mere parish gentry, but not if you wish to play host to persons of quality. Now that you are a man of some importance, you must be better housed. I would pull it down and build a new home in the best Palladian style. The gardens too must be entirely swept away and replaced."

   I said I would consider this.

   He continued. “But since you were not at home, I continued on my way to meet Sir James Wilbrahim at Stanegate, where I ate the worst meal in the worst company that it has ever been my misfortune to encounter. Staines at Stanegate: what a jest that is!”

   Surprise prevented me from making any remark.

   “I found Wilbrahim, as I expected, to be a country bumpkin, quite beyond parody, and as for that Rector ….! That man is a lecher, if ever I saw one! His lust was open and unrestrained! He leered at Miss Wibrahim behind her back, and at the serving-wench to her face! How can old Wilbrahim have failed to notice? And the slatternly housekeeper is as ugly as a fat toad. Would you believe that, when she discovered I was the son of an Earl, I would swear that the ridiculous woman started to ogle me! As if I could bear to look at her for more than a second without vomiting, especially after the disgusting food! How even such a booby as Wilbrahim tolerates her I cannot imagine. Do you suppose that she might be his mistress? That would be too grotesque even for one of Wycherley’s comedies, would it not?” 

   “But whatever were you doing there, Staines?” I asked, interrupting the flow. Amusing though Staines might be, I felt a slight unease.

   “Ah, there you have it. The excuse for my visit was that my father is intending to purchase some of Sir James’s land.”

   “But surely Jarrett could have dealt with that?”

   “Of course.”

     I could see that Lord Staines was reluctant to reveal more, so I assured him that he could absolutely rely on me, as a gentleman and a friend, not to betray a confidence.

   “Well then. Not that it matters; I imagine that nothing remains secret for long in those rustic villages. My father has determined that I should be married, and the bride he has selected for that privilege is the daughter of Sir James Wilbrahim”.

   Again, I was too astonished to make any comment.

   “I need not tell you that I would regard any marriage with the deepest repugnance,” he continued, “But you are well acquainted with my father, and you must surely also be aware of the footing on which I stand as regards to him. I have large debts. And he has now told me, in the plainest terms, that I must accede to his commands on the issue of this marriage, or he will immediately cut off all funds and evict me from my dwelling! He added some vile comments concerning my choice of servants. What would my friends think of me, to be treated like an errant schoolboy trembling before the head master’s birch! But I am scarcely in a position to defy my father’s wishes, even on a matter that goes so much against my inclinations as to be forced to marry this child!”

  My most immediate thought was that many men would be delighted to take Miss Louisa Wilbrahim as a bride. “She is still very young,” I ventured, trying to conceal my confusion, “but she is pretty, she sings well, and her character is friendly and agreeable.”

   “Yes; she is the pattern of all feminine virtues, or so I am told. That is what my mother has learned from you, it would appear. Maybe my dear mother believes she could reform my conduct.” He broke off to give a sarcastic laugh. “But whatever praises you and my mother may heap on her, she is only an insipid country girl who has never left her home village and knows nothing of London, nothing of polite society. She has never attended a theatre, the only songs she knows are old country airs, and her clothes are such as her grandmother might have worn. How could I live with her, even for a single day? How could I introduce her to my friends?  But to my father she is an heiress to wide lands adjacent to ours, and he thinks mostly of that; though of course he also considers it my duty to beget a son and heir, in order that the family title and wealth should remain in the male line. You have met my stupid sister and her equally stupid husband, of course? They are well suited to each other. How my father ever consented to that absurd marriage I shall never know! I can at least comprehend why he does not wish them to inherit Maybury!”

   He gave another short ironical laugh, then suddenly he grabbed my arm and exclaimed, “My father compels me to chain myself into this ridiculous connexion with the Wilbrahims, and all for the sake of a few acres of land! He only considers his own interest! He never considers mine! He has never loved me! When my brother died, I knew he wished that it could have been me who died instead!” There was anguish in his voice, and he gazed into my eyes with an expression of great pain and distress.

   This was so unlike his normal behaviour that I was greatly startled. He continued to hold my arm tightly and look at me unblinking. To conceal my confusion, I asked him what would happen now. It was not long before he recovered.

   “We did not, of course, discuss the marriage in the girl’s presence. She herself scarcely opened her mouth at the dinner table, and appeared in awe of me. I contrived to speak a few polite and respectful words with her in the library afterwards. Now my father will be writing to Wilbrahim on my behalf, requesting his daughter’s hand in marriage to me. No doubt he will expect a substantial dowry. I too will write to Wilbrahim, and will also write privately to Miss Wilbrahim, expressing my undying love for her – or rather, my mother will compose a letter suitable for a young maiden to receive, and I shall copy it out.

  “All may yet turn out well. Perhaps my father will change his mind and find another bride for me. Or if I am obliged to marry the girl, when I have fulfilled my duty of begetting a son and heir I can leave wife and child in the care of my mother and once again live my own life. But in the meantime I must request your help.”

   “My help?”

   “Yes. I sensed that the girl was somewhat in awe of me, and her father was suspicious. You know the family well. You can speak to old Wilbrahim and to his daughter, praising my virtues. Between us, we can at least convince my father that I am exerting myself to carry out his wishes, and he will then extend my credit a little further. Besides, I hold you partially responsible for my troubles, since you praised Miss Wilbrahim fulsomely to my dear mother! So you will do this for me?”

 

   When I reflected on this conversation, I realised that, however fond I was of Louisa, I had not seriously thought of her as being anyone’s wife. But what should I do now? I remembered Elizabeth Newstead’s warning that Sir James must soon find a husband for his daughter, lest she fall prey to the guiles of some plausible fortune-hunter. I had found Staines’s manner disgusting, though I had had not told him so; and I doubted whether he was capable of loving any woman, with the possible exception of his mother the Countess; but I thought he would be unlikely to ill-treat Louisa in any way beyond simply ignoring her. He should have no fears of introducing Louisa to his friends, for those whom I knew best; Robertson, Darnwell, even George Davies; would quickly be won over by her sweetness and charm. Louisa herself would be thrilled by the prospect of the marriage, for she could then fulfil her dream of attending  theatres and concerts in London; and in time she would herself become a Countess, the very pinnacle of society, received at court by His Majesty himself! And who knows: perhaps the Countess could be right, and Louisa might in the end effect a reformation of her husband’s character!

   But what of Sir James Wilbrahim? How would he respond to a marriage proposal for his daughter? He surely hated and despised Lord Teesdale and his family! 

   I was so perplexed that in the end I took no action of any kind whilst we awaited Sir James’s response. I would have to make up my mind before I next visited Bereton, but until then there was no-one I could turn to for advice, for I had promised not to reveal Staines’s secret to anyone.

 

   It was a relief from my dilemma to meet John Wilkes again. I told him how much I had enjoyed reading his paper, the “North Briton”; at which, however, he shook his head and denied all knowledge of the authorship. I could not resist then turning the conversation to the Hell-fire Club and its meetings at Sir Francis Dashwood’s home at West Wycombe. I had heard said that guests dressed up as monks and held blasphemous rituals.

                                                    (An attack on Sir Francis Dashwood)

   Wilkes laughed, and replied that the report was true only in part. “Friends did gather there, for West Wycombe is a fine house with the most charming grounds. Sir Francis is a whimsical man, and it amuses him to adopt the habit of a Franciscan friar, and to dress his friends in similar garb, with vising maidens playing the part of nuns. But I can assure you that the gods worshipped by the brethren are Venus and Bacchus rather than Beelzebub. And indeed Athene is worshipped too, for many of the brethren are true cognoscenti: they have visited Italy (a privilege sadly denied to you and me) and returned laden with paintings by the old masters and broken carvings from antiquity – or so they were assured by those offering such items for sale. Sir Francis himself once ventured as far as Russia, where by his own account he essayed to impersonate the King of Sweden in order to seduce the Tsarina; though not, I understand, with any success.

    “A young man of your happy and open nature would greatly enjoy a visit there. I understand you have had the honour to replace the esteemed Mr Elijah Bailey as representative for Bereton?”

   I replied that that this was correct, though I had never met Mr Bailey.

   “Ah, that is a pity, because Bailey, despite age, his Puritan ancestry and his extreme corpulence, did visit West Wycombe, and I am sure he would have been most pleased to introduce you to the fraternity. I well recall one delightful occasion when he attempted to participate in the revelries but found that his ardour was dimmed in body if not in spirit. Having an assignation with a certain young lady but finding his fires had burnt low, he endeavoured to avoid the conjuncture by exclaiming, ‘Oh, if I had you alone in a wood!’ to which the fair maid replied, ‘Why, what would you do there that you can’t do here? Rob me?’ I fear his attempts to become a figure of importance in the House of Commons were no more successful. But many gentlemen who are now prominent in the ministry were also visitors, including our great Scotch dictator himself.”

   Wilkes smiled as he contemplated his memories, but then continued, in a more serious mood,

   “I would still wish to count Sir Francis a friend, but he has committed himself to the party of Lord Bute and arbitrary government, and has been rewarded with the post of Chancellor of the Exchequer! He, a man who was wholly unacquainted with any finance above the settling of a tavern bill! He told us on his appointment that he would be the worst Chancellor in our history, and he has been as good as his word.

   “But this is no matter for a jest. No, sir: I sincerely believe that under the present ministry our laws and our liberties are threatened, and for Sir Francis to acquiesce in this I see as a sad betrayal, not just of us, his friends, but of our entire country. I am deeply disappointed with his conduct.

   “Furthermore,” he added, “If he, or Bute, or any others of that crew dare to attack me, I shall not hesitate to publish stories in detail of their misdeeds at the Hell-fire Club, and the public, I am certain, will fully believe everything I have to tell!”  

   That, as the world was to find out later, was to prove no idle threat. Within a few years the whole kingdom was laughing at accounts of the supposed conduct at the home of Sir Francis Dashwood of the lords and gentlemen now prominent in public life. Even worse things, it was hinted, took place in the caves under the nearby hill. Lord Sandwich, an ally of Bute, was described celebrating a Satanic parody of the popish Mass. As Wilkes had predicted, all these tales were believed by all, and greatly enjoyed.

   

   Although I never saw West Wycombe, not long afterwards I was able to visit another of Sir Francis Dashwood’s properties at Medmenham Abbey; a delightful situation on the bank of the Thames near the town of Marlowe. Mr Wilkes was not present, and I was taken there by none other than Sir Headley Graham, Lord Staines’s despised brother-in-law, following a conversation in the lobby at Westminster. He had treated me with disdain when we first met at Maybury, but I did not remind him of that. Perhaps he had genuinely forgotten it.

  The proceedings there were, as Wilkes had said, whimsical; for we all dressed in the habits of monks and took appropriate names. I was transformed into a Black-friar, and was styled “Brother Dominic”. The convention was that we should pretend we did not recognise any of the other brothers, even when they were well-known nobles and gentlemen. Sir Francis himself wore a Grey-friar’s garb. Fine wine and viands were in profusion, and there was much discussion of art and other matters: the merits of Claude and Poussin were compared, and also the newly-discovered Roman copies of the work of the great Athenian sculptors; Phidias, Praxiteles and Lysippus. Graham was loud in his opinions, but I quickly came to the conclusion that the others regarded him as a buffoon.

   Girls appeared, all dressed as nuns, and it was clear that they had not been brought for the discussion of fine art. Graham was very ardent in his pursuit of them, grabbing one and taking her into the bushes and then very soon afterwards returning to find another. Some of them affected to flee from him, laughing, but did not run very fast. I dallied with a pretty little wench who called herself Sister Antonia, who wore a white Augustinian habit with, I soon discovered, absolutely nothing underneath it. Her voice indicated that she was from London, and she was utterly wanton in her behaviour.

   The nearest approach to blasphemy I observed was the spectacle of our host reverencing a small picture of Aphrodite with great and ostentatious piety as if it was a holy relic, and then quaffing a draught from an antique bejewelled chalice as a parody of Romish practices. In the chapel, instead of an altar, there was a splendid statue of the Three Graces in all their naked beauty; a copy, I supposed, of a Greek or Roman original. In front of this an older brother in the garb of an abbot, who might have been Lord Sandwich, solemnly forgave us our sins before we departed.

  Sister Antonia and I had been guilty only of sins of the flesh. After this delightful day in her company, I never saw her again. I hope her later life was a happy one. I guessed she was probably an apprentice milliner or mantua-maker, and had come to Medmenham, surely not for the first time, to escape briefly from her ill-paid servitude; and who could blame her? Although stern moralists might be inclined to denounce her conduct, I would not do so. I had rewarded her generously, and my only regret was that I had not given her more. As we returned to London in Graham’s coach, I reflected that the way of life Antonia had chosen was surely in every way preferable to the prospects of the ragged little brat I had confronted when I was robbed at Danielle’s lodgings. If that child were to find herself selected for a visit to Medmenham, she should consider herself fortunate, for otherwise her only prospects would have been either starvation or the coach to the Tyburn gallows. Later, my views on such matters were to change entirely, as will be seen.  

                                                       (Medmenham Abbey today)

   While the peace talks were being held in Paris, at home there was much discussion of what effect the new victories over Spain should have on the negotiations. Should we raise our demands, or indeed wait until our foes came begging to us? I found my friends were divided: Lord Staines continued to be open in his hostility to Pitt, and Robertson favoured making concessions in order to bring an end to the war, whilst Darnwell was strongly for the nation upping its demands. Mr Braithwaite wanted an immediate peace, and I was certain that Sir James Wilbrahim would have agreed. Sir Anthony Pardington was waiting for the Duke of Newcastle to provide a lead for his followers, but sadly observed that none was as yet forthcoming.

   Mr Walpole affected to despise all the main players in the drama, with the possible exception of Pitt. He naturally approached the question from his own satirical nature. Meeting me one afternoon, he asked, “Have you heard the delightful story of how the old Duke asked the King how the negotiations were progressing? Our respected young monarch replied that they were progressing very well, especially in the Americas, for the French had agreed to dismantle all their forts on the Mississippi – or, as the Duke later explained to his friends, “I believe the Mississippi was meant: His Majesty was pleased to say the Ganges, but I think he mistook the Ganges for the other river.”

    “Such is the quality of the men who control our destinies!” Walpole concluded, shaking his head in mock sorrow.

Chapter Seventeen: Lord Staines fights a duel

 (Charles Huntingdon is in London, where the political situation is in the balance) 

   The winter of 1761-2 was a very cold one. The Thames was frozen solid for many days, and people skated on it, or even set up stalls on the ice. But I spent most of my days, and many nights too, with Elizabeth, who could seldom be prevailed upon to venture out of doors in such weather. She continued to be a most insatiable lover; often so exhausting me that I afterwards fell asleep, whether it was night or day. But sometimes I would be smitten with a sudden desire for an independent life, and would use the excuse of pressing Parliamentary business to retreat back to my old lodgings for a few days of peace.

  There I would find waiting for me piteous letters from Clifford, telling me of the deaths of sheep and cattle, the dearness of provisions and the shortage of firewood, and the consequent sufferings of my tenants. I replied authorising him to spend any money that might be available to relieve distress. There was little else I could do at the time, for few coaches were running and letters arrived seldom.

  Meanwhile, the war continued. Pitt’s predictions concerning Spain soon proved correct, for early in the new year and, following the safe arrival of her annual treasure fleet from the Isthmus, Spain declared war on Britain. Fortunately, although the great man was no longer in office, we soon discovered he had already drawn up plans for this eventuality, and during the course of the year Havana in Cuba and Manila in the Philippine Islands fell to British arms.

   In Europe we did not have to wait more than a few weeks before there was more amazing news from Russia. One of the first actions of the new young Tsar Peter III was to withdraw Russian troops from the war and instead seek an alliance with Frederick of Prussia, his country’s enemy! And then, as all the world now knows, the unfortunate Peter only reigned a few months before he was deposed and murdered; and his wife, despite the fact that she had not a single drop of Russian blood in her veins, was hailed as the Empress Catherine II, and rules in St. Petersburg to this day!

   The unexpected salvation of our Prussian ally led to great relief in Britain, but at the same time caused people to wonder whether the war should not now be brought to a speedy close. Tensions between the partisans of Lord Bute and those of the Duke of Newcastle grew ever higher; opinion on the streets continued strong in support of Pitt, and the attacks on Lord Bute in the public prints reached new depths in libellous obscenity. He was shown conspiring with the French, or leading the blindfolded King by the nose, and to indicate his Scottishness he was always shown dressed in tartan. Some of the more disgraceful of these attacks took up the story that the King’s mother, the Princess Augusta was Bute’s lover. Did ever a royal lady have to endure such outrageous libels without any means of response?

 Lord Teesdale was cautious in expressing his opinion, and appeared to be waiting on further developments but his son Lord Staines was now a passionate advocate of an immediate peace, and did not hesitate to disparage Pitt and his friends in the most violent language.

 

    One day that spring I was seated at a table in Brown’s club when Staines entered in a state of great agitation. He brandished a paper at me, and asked me whether I had read it. He was in such a fury I had never seen in him before, so that his hands shook as I took it from him.

   I found that it contained a scandalous attack on him, or rather on a certain L**d S*****s, who was further described as “the catamite of L**d G****e S*******e”, “the coward of Minden”. Although the names were disguised in this manner, anyone who was acquainted with public affairs could have no doubt as to whom was meant. I remembered what Lord Staines had told me, at our very first meeting, about the unfortunate events at Minden, in consequence of which Lord George Sackville had been publicly disgraced and Staines had resigned his commission. So much had befallen me since that it all seemed a very long time ago.

    I asked if he knew who had written it. He told me that it was anonymous, but he was certain that the author was Mr John Wilkes, whose name he pronounced with great anger. “He libels anyone who dares attack Pitt, and he knows I am for a swift conclusion to the war. Scoundrel!” he added.

  I knew Wilkes as the silent Member of Parliament for Aylesbury, though everyone had heard rumours that he frequented a notorious assembly known as the Hellfire Club.

   I told Lord Staines that such low degraded stuff was beneath his attention, and best ignored; and that I was sure that his father would have given the same advice. But he told me that he had approached Wilkes, demanding an apology for this insult to his honour; and, not having received a satisfactory reply, he had issued a challenge to a duel. Staines requested me to be his second. I was reluctant to accede to this, but nothing I could say deterred him.

   Accordingly, soon after sunrise a few days later we took a coach out to Putney Heath. It was a bright morning, but cold. Dew lay heavy on the grass, and glittered on cobwebs on the bushes. There was no-one in sight except our opponent and his second, and another man I did not know. I was told his name was Doctor Blake, who was there in the event of any serious injury.

   It was my first sight of Mr Wilkes, who was shortly to become a most celebrated person; loved by some but hated by others. He was well dressed and slender of build, but his face was disfigured by the most violent squint, which caused his eyes to point in clean different directions. I wondered how, with this handicap, he could ever aim a pistol with any accuracy. He talked merrily, and appeared entirely unperturbed by the peril of his situation. His second was a large, burly fellow; and I was astonished to discover that under his cloak he wore a clergyman’s gown. I was informed that this was the Reverend Charles Churchill, the popular poet. Hogarth once depicted him as a bear, clutching a foaming pot of beer and an immense club, which I thought very apt.

   Doctor Blake then asked whether the two gentlemen were determined to proceed with the duel. Lord Staines replied, with no little heat, that his honour had been most grossly traduced, and that nothing but the most profuse and abject apology would satisfy him. He kept muttering violent epithets under his breath, whereas Mr Wilkes appeared to make light of the whole matter. He said that Lord Staines had produced no evidence that he, Wilkes, was the author of the offending article, but having read it, his opinion was that it contained more than a grain of truth; and, furthermore, since Lord Staines had seen fit publicly to dub him a liar and a scoundrel, he was the one entitled to an apology. These words angered Lord Staines even more, which was undoubtedly Wilkes’s intention.  

   A case was produced and opened, containing a brace of very fine silver-mounted pistols. Churchill and I checked that they were properly loaded. I attempted to hold my hands steady: it was the first time I had ever witnessed a duel and I was alarmed; for if someone was killed, might I be held to be an accessory to murder?  

   Lord Staines and Mr Wilkes walked twelve paces apart, then turned and presented their pistols. Lord Staines fired first, and grazed his opponent’s coat, but did no further harm. Mr Wilkes then raised his pistol and aimed it steadily at Staines’s breast, for what seemed like an age. Staines looked pale in the face, but did not flinch. Suddenly Wilkes laughed, lowered his pistol and deliberately fired at the ground, so that his bullet skipped across the earth some distance from Lord Staines’s feet. He then advanced towards his opponent with his hand extended.

   “Sir,” he said, “You have shown yourself to be a gentleman of courage, as befits an officer of the crown. I regret that you might feel I have offended you, and would be honoured if I might now be considered your friend.” 

   Staines, however, was by no means reconciled. He said this was no kind of apology, refused to take Wilkes’s proffered hand and ordered the pistols to be reloaded for a second firing. Mr Churchill now announced that, in his decided opinion, sufficient satisfaction had been given and that the business had been ended with perfect honour to both parties. I agreed with this, and so did Doctor Blake; but Lord Staines, ignoring Wilkes, departed forthwith, without giving me a glance. While I admired my friend’s courage, I could only be disappointed by his surly conduct afterwards.

   Doctor Blake did not stay long, but I remained at the tavern with Wilkes and Churchill for the remainder of the morning. Wilkes, aware of how alarmed I had been, told me that it was rare for duels these days to lead to any bloodshed. I asked him how the challenge to the duel had come about. He told me:

   “Lord Staines burst into my room in an agony of passion, brandishing the paper and demanding to know whether or not I was the author. I said that I was a free and independent English gentleman and that I refused to be catechised in this fashion. He then produced a brace of pistols and demanded immediate satisfaction. Finally, he calmed to the extent of agreeing to postpone the duel until three days later, with the result that you know.”

   He recounted how he had recently fought a duel with Lord Talbot, who, like Staines, had felt that he had been insulted.

   “We met at Bagshot. We both fired, but happily there was no shedding of blood, for neither took effect. I walked up immediately to Lord Talbot and said that I regretted that I had offended him. His lordship paid me the highest compliments on my courage, said he would declare everywhere that I was a noble fellow, and desired that we should now be good friends and retire to the inn to drink a bottle of claret together, which we did with great good humour. That is how duels should end. It is a pity that your young friend could not show the same magnanimous spirit.”

  I found Mr Wilkes the most engaging of companions. For his part, on discovering that I was new to political life, he suggested that I might enjoy reading a certain weekly paper known as the “North Briton”. I promised to look for it, and we shook hands and parted.

 

                                           (John Wilkes, by Hogarth)

   Rumours of the duel soon spread around the town. Henry Darnwell sought me out and demanded a full account. “But have you heard the other news?” he asked, “Our old friend John Robertson is contracted to be married! The bride is the daughter of a London merchant. The bad part of it is that her family is of the Methodist persuasion, and Robertson is now obliged to be a reformed character and excessively moral in his behaviour, but the vast wealth he will come by will no doubt console him amply for having to abandon his old rakish friends. On Friday we are holding a dinner at the Beefsteak Club to congratulate and console him. You must join us!”

    The dinner was a splendid occasion. Most of my friends from my early days in London were there, but Staines himself was absent. I gathered that he had been summoned to an important meeting with his father at Maybury.

   “The old man must be negotiating to find him a wife,” Darnwell said, “After all, he’s never going to find one for himself, is he?”

   Many toasts were drunk to Robertson’s future with his bride, together with ribald remarks that Robertson ignored, but somehow the tone was a little muted, as if we realised it might be the last time we were to meet together. In the absence of Lord Staines, I was pressed to give a full and accurate account of his duel; which I did, though avoiding mention of his ungentlemanlike conduct at the close. All praised Staines’s courage, though George Davies commented that he considered the formality of a duel unnecessary. Had he been in Staines’s position he would have invaded Wilkes’s premises and knocked him down, and Churchill too had it been necessary.

   Mention of John Wilkes brought forth stories concerning the Hell-fire Club, which was said to meet at West Wycombe in Buckinghamshire, the home of Sir Francis Dashwood. All had heard tales about it, which they now recounted in the most lurid detail: of mysterious grottoes with obscene Latin puns above the entrance, of statues of naked goddesses and nymphs in erotic positions, with guests dressed as monks and young girls in nuns’ habits. How much of this was true and how much the product of over-lively imagination I had no means of telling, for it transpired that none of those present at our dinner had actually visited the house. I was urged to pursue my friendship with Wilkes in the hope that I might receive an invitation to join the society, and then bring my companions with me. John Robertson, however, took me aside to warn me against any further association with Wilkes. The Hell-fire Club, he understood, indulged in the most lewd and blasphemous rituals, and Wilkes himself would infallibly find himself in prison, or worse, ere long, as a result of his libellous writings. But despite this advice, I resolved to see more of Wilkes should the opportunity arise.

 

                                                  (West Wycombe Park today)

     At the very same time there came another great change in the ministry. The great Duke of Newcastle had resigned! Lord Teesdale explained that the Duke had found the Cabinet unwilling to continue the Prussian subsidy now that Frederick was so providentially saved, and he resigned his office, thus bringing to an end an almost unbroken period of forty years in government. Lord Bute took his place at the Treasury and was now undeniably the Prime Minister, with none other than Sir Francis Dashwood, the supposed host of the Hellfire Club, as a most unexpected choice as Chancellor of the Exchequer! An embassy was now sent to Paris to negotiate a peace treaty, and Lord Teesdale expected an end to the war in a matter of weeks.

    It was at Westminster around this time that I first beheld our new minister. A whisper came down the hall that Lord Bute was approaching, and for the first time I beheld the great Scots lord himself. I half expected him to be wearing the tartan plaid in which he was invariably depicted in the public prints, but which in reality of course he never wore. He was followed by a crowd of sycophants and petitioners. I bowed and remained silent. He looked at me as if he wished to speak, but not knowing my name, after a brief pause turned and walked away. This was to be my only meeting with the man who was now our sole minister and dictator. Many, then and since, portrayed him as endangering our venerable constitution; but, looking back on the scene I now consider him a shy, uncertain man, torn between ambition and timidity. Mr Walpole thought him merely pompous and ridiculous.  

 

  Throughout this time, I had yet to open my mouth in the House of Commons, but I was now called upon to make my maiden speech! Parliament was to debate a Bill of the Duke of Bridgewater, enabling him to build a canal into Manchester from the docks he was constructing at Runcorn on the River Mersey. This was a subject concerning which I knew nothing; but Lord Teesdale, who had an interest in the project, requested that I should support the Bill and supplied me with information on what to say. I patiently studied this until I knew it by heart and hoped I could recite it as fluently and convincingly as Garrick on stage. 

   I was intensely nervous when the Speaker called me, and trembled as I rose to my feet, with a wild fear that I could not remember a single word of what I had intended to say; but once I had stumbled through my opening lines I grew increasingly confident. I not only praised the Duke’s plans, but, as Lord Teesdale had suggested, looked forward to a time when more and more similar schemes would be enacted, to the great advantage of all. My fellow-members were kind enough to listen to me patiently, and without interrupting.

  Following this, I was nominated to the committee considering the Bill in detail. There a mechanic by the name of Brindley, unlettered but a most ingenious fellow, appeared as a witness and drew chalk diagrams on the floor to explain the working of lock gates on the canal. The Bill was duly made law. Lord Teesdale thanked me for my support, and hinted that he would not be pressing for repayment of the debts I owed him from the election. He furthermore advised me to support any future canal projects. I found I was gaining the reputation of being a man knowledgeable in such matters. This might in truth have been wholly undeserved, but it enabled me to consider myself becoming a person of some importance.

 

  The “North Briton”, which Wilkes had recommended, now began to be published every Saturday, and was being read and discussed with great delight at Brown’s club. Everyone believed that Wilkes was the author, with help from Churchill and others. We all laughed at its satirical attacks on Lord Bute and his fellow-Scots, portraying them as Jacobites, agents of the French and supporters of arbitrary government. All this was much more to my taste than crude and obscene prints.

  The fame of the paper spread to all parts of the kingdom. I heard how back in Bereton Martin Clifford eagerly awaited each new issue, and even Ned Timmis knew of it, and pronounced its author “a true spokesman for English liberty”.  This astonished me, since I had presumed that, despite his many admirable qualities, Ned Timmis never read anything at all.

 

  I had not visited Bereton since the autumn, and even when the cold weather at last eased I remained in London. Sir James Wilbrahim never came to Parliament, and my exchanges of letters with Louisa became less frequent. I felt there was little I could tell her: I never mentioned Elizabeth Newstead, I felt an account of Lord Staines’s duel would alarm her, ministerial changes would scarcely be of interest, and her father would be unlikely to approve of my work on the Canal Bill. Louisa wrote of how she wished her father would have allowed her to help in relieving the distress caused by the cold weather.

   Then, in the spring, I received a letter from Mrs Timmis, the only one she had ever sent me, containing some unexpected information.

   “We had a gentleman visiting us here.” she wrote in a painstakingly neat and careful hand, “He said his name was Lord Staines and a friend of yours. I told him you were not expected here at any time. I showed him the house and offered him tea, but he declined this, saying he had pressing business nearby. Did I do right, sir?”

  I mentioned this letter to Elizabeth, jesting that I formed the impression that my good housekeeper did not approve of Lord Staines as a suitable friend for me, and how at times she was far too motherly in her protection of my interests. Elizabeth’s reaction was unexpected.

   “Your Mrs Timmis is a woman of good sense,” she said. “Why do you remain friends with Staines? His private life is scandalous and he has no loyalty to anyone: you may be sure that he mocks you behind your back.”

   I replied that I would forever be grateful to Staines, since without his help I would never have risen to my present position.

  “That may be true,” she replied, “but now you are a gentleman of some eminence you must choose your friends with care!” 

  

     Why Lord Staines should visit the Priory, out in the countryside that he had so openly despised in the past, and what his “pressing business” there might be, were mysteries yet to be resolved. Despite Elizabeth’s warnings, I would ask him next time we met.

Chapter Sixteen: The coronation of King George III

(Charles Huntingon has returned to London in August 1761 following his election as Member of Parliament for Bereton)

 None of the best families would usually have been found in London at the height of summer, but this year was different and the whole town was a-buzz with excitement. The coronation was to take place in September, and what was more, our young King had announced his intention to marry!

   My friends could talk of little else. I learned that our future Queen was named Charlotte, that she came from a small principality in north Germany and was only seventeen years old. According to Lady Teesdale, this announcement had caught the Privy Council as much by surprise as anyone else, for the marriage had been negotiated solely by Lord Bute’s agents. It showed, her husband said, how much reliance King George placed on his particular friend. 

   However, my thoughts at that time were not on these high events. Instead, on my very first day back in London I despatched a note to Elizabeth Newstead requesting permission to call on her. I donned my best clothes for the occasion, and finding her alone, described how I had triumphed in my election to Parliament and had now returned to claim immediately my right to her favours. To this demand she put up only the most token resistance.

  In contrast to her earlier coyness, I found her passionate beyond all expectation as a lover. Many were the hours we now spent together and many too were the tricks she taught me, terminating only when I was utterly exhausted. I took to passing night after night, and many days too, at her home. Her servants must surely have been aware of everything that passed: at first I wondered what stories they might tell of us around the town, but eventually came to the conclusion that either they were unalterably loyal to her, or that she and they no longer cared.

  I mentioned none of this when I found the time to write to Louisa Wilbrahim: instead, I told her the romantic story of the German princess, no older than Louisa herself, summoned to our shores to become the Queen of England, and of our new King eagerly awaiting the arrival of his future bride. She wrote in reply that she had begged her father to take her to London for the coronation, but he had refused.

   “He grumbled that it would be vastly expensive, the city would be full of crowds, who would be a magnet for every pickpocket and cut-throat in England, and that we would be lucky to catch as much as a glimpse of the new King and Queen driving through the streets. I said I would be happy if we did catch just a glimpse, but he was not to be moved!”

   I wondered whether Sir James’s reluctance to attend was because he did not recognise George III as the rightful King of England. I was sure that I could have procured suitable lodgings in London for them, but knew that it was no use battling against Sir James’s obstinacy. I promised to send Louisa a full and detailed description of everything I saw and heard.

 

      Sir James was undeniably correct about London being hopelessly overcrowded for the coronation. Places in the Abbey for the ceremony were impossible to obtain, but Elizabeth and I were able watch the procession from a high window in Palace Yard, courtesy of one of her friends. She was very fortunate to have such friends, for I heard that other houses along the route were hired out for up to a thousand guineas!

  There we encountered a most extraordinary couple. The man, who wore a lavender-coloured suit with lace cuffs, was slight of build and walked with affected delicacy, as if he was treading with caution on a dangerously wet floor. He escorted a lady who was much advanced in years but elegant in appearance. Elizabeth, who knew everyone in town, introduced them as Mr Horace Walpole, the son of the former Prime Minister, and the dowager Countess of Suffolk. Mr Walpole’s appearance might have been effeminate, but his eyes, set in a very pale face, were bright, and his voice, though not strong, was most pleasant. His talk was lively and interesting, and he had a waspish wit. He resembled his august father not at all, for Sir Robert was by all accounts a large, heavy man.

   He had little confidence in our new King, and was suspicious of the intentions of his particular friend Lord Bute; but I soon discovered that he was just as contemptuous of the old Duke of Newcastle as some of Lord Teesdale’s friends had been. Lady Suffolk had been Mistress of the Robes to the late Queen Caroline, and, by common repute, mistress in a different manner to King George II. She also talked with spirit and wit, though because she was extremely deaf, conversation was difficult. I learnt that they were both great letter-writers, and that the Countess included Lady Teesdale among her friends. I asked her if she ever dined at Teesdale House, but she said that her increasing infirmity meant that these days she seldom left her home in the evenings.

   I mentioned to Mr Walpole that my aunt, Mrs Isobel Andrews, had been one of his correspondents. He replied by praising her learning and her literary skills, and said that he had always opened a letter from her with eager anticipation. Whether he actually remembered her at all it was impossible to tell.

   After a long wait, the growing sound of cheering and shouting told us that the royal couple were approaching. They were brought separately in sedan chairs from St James’s palace to Westminster Hall, and from there were escorted to the Abbey on foot, under a canopy.

(George III in cornation robes)

     

   Elizabeth thought the King looked very fine, and admired the dress of Queen Charlotte, but Lady Suffolk, speaking loudly because of her deafness, exclaimed, “But the poor girl is very plain indeed! Why, even the most flattering portrait painter could scarcely make her pretty! Could not some princess who was more handsome have been found for our new King?”

   Mr Walpole, who prided himself on knowing all the court gossip, told us the following story. His Majesty, he said, was a passionate young man, and desperately in love with the daughter of the Duke of Richmond. He confessed this to the man he trusted above all: his old tutor Lord Bute; and sought his advice. That nobleman told him that it was wholly improper for the King to marry one of his subjects, and so instead he was commanded to scour Europe in search of a suitable princess to marry. However, the supply of Protestant princesses whose families were untainted by insanity or by alliances with the French was very limited: in fact, only Charlotte of the tiny and blameless north German principality of Mecklenburg-Strelitz was found to fit the bill; and so the girl was summoned forthwith to become Queen of England. It was said that George blenched when he first set eyes on her. “But what does any of this matter?” Mr Walpole continued. “Her task is to produce an heir to the throne, and as for the rest, the King can take mistresses, as his predecessors have done." This might have been intended as a hit at Lady Suffolk, which however her deafness did not allow her to hear.

   Elizabeth countered this by saying she had heard that they were already deeply in love, and that Charlotte was a fine girl and would make an excellent Queen. Lady Suffolk told us that, as one of the few remaining ladies who could remember the coronation of George II back in 1727, she had been consulted about the etiquette proper for the occasion, especially what diamonds the new Queen should wear. And so we parted. I was not to see Lady Suffolk again, for she died not long afterwards; but Mr Walpole remained a friend.

 

   Lord Teesdale later gave me an account of the coronation. He said the poor young Queen must have been utterly exhausted, for the procession had set out at eleven o’clock in the morning, they were not crowned until half past three, and then the banquet continued until near ten o’clock that night. He described the memorable occasion to me; contriving to make it sound very confused.

   “When the Archbishop of Canterbury placed the crown on the King’s head, there was a tremendous cheer from the boys of Westminster School. At the King’s request, Zadok the Priest, by Handel, was sung as the anthem, and sung very well too. But then, when the Archbishop came to deliver his sermon, the congregation felt it was a good occasion to eat the cold pies and drink the wine that were brought by their servants, and there was a tremendous clatter of cutlery and plates!

   “The banquet at Westminster Hall was presided over by the Lord Steward, the Lord High Constable and the Deputy Earl Marshal, all mounted on horseback; and as a grand dramatic gesture the King’s Champion rode in, dressed in full armour, and cast down a gauntlet as a challenge to anyone who presumed to dispute the King’s right to the throne. I suppose it was to see if any Jacobites might be present; but if there were, none dared make a move.

   “When the feasting began, the spectators up in the galleries let down baskets to their more fortunate friends down below, who filled them with meat and bottles of wine, and so a fine time was had by all!       

   “At least we were to be spared the disgraceful scenes that attended the end of the coronation banquet of George II. My father told me that when the great doors of the Abbey were opened and the crowd allowed to enter, not only were the remains of the banquet seized forthwith, but so were the table linen and the plates and dishes, and in less than half an hour everything had been pillaged, even down to the tables and chairs!”

 

   As soon as Louisa Wilbrahim heard of the coronation she wrote to me, demanding full details about our new King and Queen. What did they look like? What did they wear? And when would I be presented to them? I wrote a long letter in reply recounting what I had seen and heard, though I did not mention Queen Charlotte’s plainness. I explained that I was not likely to experience the honour of being presented to Their Majesties in the near future, but should it so happen, I would not fail to tell her.

 

   I told Elizabeth about Louisa and her father Sir James. She expressed great sympathy for the poor child, trapped in a remote country with no friends and a “brute”, as she termed him, for her only parent.

   “Do you suppose,” she asked me, “that he is in any way exerting himself to find her a husband?”

   I replied that I had no reason to believe that this was the case.

   “And she is already, you think, fifteen, and an heiress? Then he is failing most lamentably in his duty! How will she ever come to meet a suitable gentleman in the present situation? Except you, of course!”

   “Perhaps her father is waiting for someone from the East India Company!” I countered, referring to her own absent husband.

   She ignored this, and instead her voice took on a more serious note.

   “I must confess”, she said, “what you have told me makes me most uneasy. You say that the child is eager to break free of her cage, yet knows nothing of the world? Then there is great danger that some plausible fortune-hunter, knowing that she is an heiress, will seek her out and woo her without her father’s knowledge, and she will fall for his blandishments and allow herself to be abducted, and all will be lost. You must be on your guard to preserve the poor girl from this fate!”

   “But what could I do?”

   “When you are in the country, keep watch, even if your attention makes her father suspicious! And keep me informed of what passes!”

    Elizabeth advised me never to hint at this when writing to Louisa, but to keep my letters entirely innocuous, since her father would assuredly read them. Elizabeth’s warnings worried me, but for the moment I did nothing.

 

 

      (The old Palace of Westminster: a recreation by Peter Jackson) 

Mr Walpole offered to conduct me round the Palace of Westminster and show me its antiquities. This kind proposal was most welcome, since I had never before set foot inside that hallowed building, and I greatly wished to know my way around before being sworn in as a Member of Parliament.

   We halted in Old Palace Yard, where the Gunpowder traitors and many others had met their deaths in the past. Mr Walpole pointed out how the setting was dominated by the west towers of the Abbey, and how low the other ancient buildings were. We then entered Westminster Hall.

  It was said to be for many centuries the grandest space in Europe, which I could well believe. Mr Walpole drew my attention upwards to the roof supported on a curious wooden structure called hammer-beams, erected by King Richard II, and which he greatly admired. The glories of the work of these ancient craftsmen, he said, were insufficiently appreciated nowadays. We walked past several statues of old Kings of England, set in niches lining the wall, their robes painted red and green and their crowns gilded.

    But we could not contemplate the great hall in peace, for it contained a great turmoil of lawyers and other folks scurrying about their business, and the noise was considerable. Mr Walpole indicated where the Court of King’s Bench would sit, and where the other courts, and where the most unfortunate King Charles the First was sentenced to death. Several different trials, he informed me, might take place at the same time in different parts of the hall, though there was none in session during my visit. Because the hall was so much used, the floor was very dirty and the statues covered with the grease and soot from centuries of candles.

   From the hall we entered a most confusing rabbit-warren of ancient rooms, where without my guide I could easily have become lost. Mr Walpole led me to the chamber where the House of Commons sat.

                                            (Sir Robert Walpole in the House of Commons)

   I beheld a room that had once been St Stephen’s chapel. There were three tall windows at the far end, and before them raised on a dais was the Speaker’s chair where the altar had once stood. It resembled a throne, with a marble pediment supported by columns in the Corinthian style. The room was panelled in oak and immense brass chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The benches for the Members rose in tiers on either side, amongst which were slender columns supporting the Strangers’ Galleries above. My guide indicated the front bench to the Speaker’s right where his father, the great Sir Robert Walpole, had sat for the duration of his minstry. I felt a great amazement that I, who a year ago had been a man of no significance, was now entitled to sit in the assembly and listen to the words of Pitt and other leading men.

   My guide sensed my awe at viewing the hallowed scene, and hastened to disabuse me. “When studied in the light of reason, the chamber is most unsuitable for an assembly of the representatives of the British nation; for it is far too small, and consequently overcrowded and uncomfortable. It is as memorable for its inconvenience as for its noble oratory. The great Sir Christopher Wren performed some work here, but not even his genius could greatly improve it. See how dark it is, made worse with the panelling and the galleries above! For my part, I only rarely take my place here, and never open my mouth in debates; but if you wish to be a great man, it is here that you must make your name. Now let us proceed to the Painted Chamber, where the Lords meet, and which is, if possible, even worse-suited to its purpose.”

  I had heard that the Painted Chamber was the room where the death warrant of King Charles had been signed, but Mr Walpole pointed out that the ceiling that gave the room its name could hardly be seen for the smoke of candles, and that there and in the Upper Chamber above, the old tapestries were so tarnished that scarcely anything could be distinguished. He deeply deplored the centuries of neglect that had led to this: the beauties created by our ancestors, he said, had for too long been ignored.

 

   Parliament would not open until the autumn. But already plans were being laid, and soon I received a letter from the Duke of Newcastle, requesting to know of my political intentions. I was to meet the great man before long, but before then momentous events were to take place.

   Sir James Wilbrahim was not present at my swearing-in as a member of the House of Commons. Instead, Sir Anthony Pardington and Mr Braithwaite acted as my sponsors as I swore fealty to our new monarch and abjured the church of Rome. Lord Staines and his brother-in-law Sir Headley Graham were also sworn in, the latter having been returned for a Scotch borough which he largely owned. The public prints placed the three of us together and dubbed us “Teesdale’s tea-boys”, or some such trivial name.

 

      In October of 1761 the world was astonished to learn that the great William Pitt had resigned as Secretary of State. Lord Teesdale, who had many contacts within the Cabinet, explained to me how this had come about. Pitt had demanded an attack on Spain, which was preparing to enter the war on the side of France while that country was still unprepared. But he found the majority of the Cabinet was opposed to such a step. The Duke of Newcastle was alarmed a the ever-rising costs of the war, disappointed that peace talks had broken down through Pitt’s intransigence, and resentful Pitt’s taking the sole direction of the war himself, and Lord Bute was wavering in his views (as he always did when under pressure, Lord Teesdale said), but in the end sided with Newcastle, apparently with the King’s approval. Finding himself outvoted, Pitt therefore resigned his office. The ministry was now balanced between the Duke of Newcastle at the Treasury and the Earl of Bute as Secretary of State, but, as Lord Teesdale said, there could be little doubt as to which way the wind was blowing.

   Mr Walpole’s opinion was that it was difficult to know who exulted most on this occasion, France, Spain or Lord Bute, for Mr Pitt was the common enemy of all three. The Duke of Newcastle, he told me, was not displeased to see Pitt depart, but he would have counselled the Duke not to die for joy on the Monday, or for fear on the Tuesday, for everyone knew it was Lord Bute who held the King’s trust.

   The news of Pitt’s departure was received with stunned amazement. The opinion of the nation was strong for Pitt, and addresses in his favour flooded in from all over England. London especially was alarmed and indignant. Soon after the resignation, the King and all the royal family dined at the Guildhall in the City with the Lord Mayor, and I myself witnessed how Pitt, in his way there in a chariot, was acclaimed. Lord Bute, by contrast, would certainly have suffered injury from the mob had he not prudently hired a large company of bodyguards for the occasion. That night Londoners erected a gallows, from which they hanged a jackboot, to indicate the royal favourite, and a petticoat, to indicate the supposed influence of the Princess Augusta, the King’s mother.

   My hopes of meeting Pitt were to be frustrated for the moment, for the great man now withdrew to his home in Kent, being greatly afflicted by the gout. Lord Staines declared that Pitt was incurably mad, and passed on stories that the great man could not bear to leave his room or to receive any visitors, and that even his servants were ordered never to come within his sight, but to leave meals outside his room without entering.

    Although I did not meet Mr Pitt, I did succeed in meeting another of our great men. I was in the Palace of Westminster in company with Mr Walpole, when I beheld a gentleman with a party of acolytes in attendance hastening towards me. He wore a full-bottomed wig of a pattern no longer in fashion with younger men, a dark blue coat and a finely embroidered waistcoat. I wondered if this personage could be none other than Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle; formerly Secretary of State and now First Lord of the Treasury: a man of whom I had heard much reported, most of it contemptuous or critical, yet who had contrived to remain a pillar of the British state since before I was born! Mr Walpole must have read my thoughts, since he confirmed, in a voice loud enough for the approaching party to hear, that this was indeed the case.

   I stood in silence as the Duke approached. He acknowledged Mr Walpole with a minimal stiff formal bow, to which the latter responded with one of such extreme obsequiousness that it bordered on parody, no doubt deliberately so; and accompanied it by expressions of how delightful it was to encounter His Grace. The Duke did not respond: he was surely well aware of how much Mr Walpole despised him.

   I was introduced as the newly-elected Member for Bereton.

   “Ah yes, Mr Huntingdon!” said the Duke, “I was most gratified by your success at Bereton, sir: most gratified. I have received notification that your defeated opponent, Mr Cave, intends to petition to have the result overturned on the grounds of corruption, but I can assure you, sir, that his petition stands not the slightest chance of being accepted, not the slightest; we shall make sure of that. Your position is secure and assured. I trust that you will be our friend in the new Parliament? That is my expectation, sir”.

   I replied that I was zealously attached to the cause of bringing the war to a victorious conclusion, but that I hoped to remain independent of all political connexions.

   “Quite so, quite so”, he replied. He appeared a trifle disappointed at my protestation. It occurred to me that throughout his long life in politics he must have heard numberless declarations of loyalty from men who subsequently betrayed him.

   Just then someone approached to hand him a letter. The Duke appeared to recognise the handwriting, and as he held a whispered conversation with the messenger, an expression of acute alarm crossed his face. With only the briefest of apologies, he turned his back on us and hurried away. Thus ended my first-ever conversation with a cabinet minister.

       “Now he will have to make out a new entry on his lists”, Mr Walpole said, while the Duke and his entourage were still within earshot, “All the Members of Parliament feature on his lists, as friends, enemies or ‘doubtful’. He will now be in a great quandary as to whether or not to write your name down as a probable friend. Thus does our great First Lord of the Treasury employ his time!”  

   I was then asked what impression I had formed of the great man. After some consideration, I replied that the Duke had a certain presence, but I thought it improper for a nobleman of his age and experience to appear to be in such an undignified hurry, as if he was soliciting favours, whereas I should be the one to be soliciting favours from him. This observation was received with a smile.

                                              (Thomas Pelham-Holles, Duke of Newcastle)

   “The Duke’s person is not naturally despicable, but his incapacity, his mean soul, the general low opinion of him, and, as you have observed, the constant hurry in his walk, make him ridiculous. Jealousy and a childish and an absurd all-pervasive fear are predominant in him. I fancy he would hazard the future of the kingdom rather than dare to open a letter that might disclose a plot against him.

   “As a young man he inherited some thirty thousand pound a year and influence in half a dozen counties, and to this alone he owed his every other way unjustified elevation. For forty years now the country has been blessed with his assistance, but to what purpose? It is to no purpose that I can discern. His speeches in Parliament are always flowing and copious of words, but empty and unmeaning. He is always bustling about doing business, but never does it. He is generally found clutching a bundle of papers as large as his head, and as devoid of content.”

      Mr Walpole spoke in this vein for several minutes. I had heard it said that he spent many hours writing long letters concerning politics to his many friends both at home and abroad, and I wondered whether he was rehearsing some choice phrases prior to setting them down on paper.

   “But now”, he continued, “He has every reason to be fearful. He knows the King neither likes nor trusts him. The country is with Pitt, but he betrayed Pitt over the matter of the Spanish war, and Pitt will not forgive him for that. Together the two of them could have easily repelled the ambitions of Lord Bute, but what now? We may anticipate more changes of ministry ere long!”

 

    It was in the New Year of 1762, and I was in Brown’s club, drinking coffee with friends, when John Robertson entered in a state of great excitement that was most unusual for him.

   “Have you heard the news?” he gasped.

   “News? What news? Sit down, sir, and get your breath back, and then tell us!” came the response from several throats.

   “Why, the news from Russia! The Empress Elizabeth is dead!”

   This sudden information caused a heated discussion on the likely future of the war. Although British arms had been triumphant in many far-flung parts of the world, and in Western Germany the French were held at bay, further east the position was perilous. Our gallant ally, Frederick of Prussia, despite the millions he received in subsidies from Britain, was being overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. Russian armies had driven him from Berlin and roving bands of Cossack horsemen spread terror throughout his lands. It was rumoured that he contemplated suicide. What would happen now?

   One gentleman, by name Broderick, who had undertaken much trading with Russia and had visited St. Petersburg, treated us to his opinions.

   “Elizabeth was the granddaughter of Peter the Great. She seized the crown from her cousin by violence. She was consumed with hatred of Frederick of Prussia, and for that reason alone rejected offers of a British alliance.”

    “And did you meet Elizabeth herself?” he was asked.

   “I did not, sir, and I do not regret it! Her court was a disgrace! She was a voluptuary: her love of handsome young officers was as notorious as her love of drinking!” (My mind wandered at this point, for I knew another lady of the same name whom this man might have condemned. I tried to banish this uncharitable thought. And I had never seen my Elizabeth drink to excess)

  “And I expect no better in the future!", Mr Broderick continued, “The Empress had no children, and some years ago she summoned her sister's son back from Germany to Russia and raised him to be her heir. His name is Peter, and he is now the Tsar. But he is half German by blood and wholly German in sympathy, and by all reports he is also depraved, vicious, and entirely lacking intelligence or judgement. The Empress, being aware of this, chose him a bride who possessed these qualities. She also is German. Her name was Sophia, but it was changed to Catherine when she was received into the Russian church. It is said that she and Peter now hate each other!"

   “Have they any children?”

   “Catherine has had a son, sir, but who can say whom the father might be? As was the case with Elizabeth, she is very fond of handsome officers!”

   “What will happen now?”

   “The Devil alone knows, sir!”

                                                   (Elizabeth, Empress of Russia)

 

Chapter Fifteen: An unfortunate incident

 (Charles Huntingdon has just been elected Memeber of Parliament for Bereton, alongside his neighbour Sir James Wilbrahim)

  I remained at the Priory for several weeks after the election, during which time I was able to observe Sir James at work as Justice of the Peace. He advised me to attend the Petty Sessions, saying that I would undoubtedly be appointed a magistrate myself ere long. I discovered there was a vast amount of work to do; supervising the work of the parish constables, the surveyors of highways and the overseers of the poor, who were not infrequently negligent in their duties, listening to complaints of nuisance caused by the effluvia from various noxious trades like the tanners of the town, and sitting in judgement on various lesser criminals. I soon came to realise that Sir James knew everyone in the town and the surrounding villages, and his judgements were generally supported by local opinion. For the offenders, he generally inclined on the side of leniency, except for poachers. My respect for him increased.

 

   By contrast, my own self-esteem suffered a severe blow at the Bereton Lammastide Fair.  This was an ancient tradition which attracted visitors from all over the county. Every year Sir James Wilbrahim would be there, talking to everyone as equals, praising the entertainments and spending considerable sums of money at the stalls; but this year an attack of gout confined him to his house, and I undertook the role as best I could. At first all went well: I bought a number of small objects I did not need, paying without complaint what I presumed to be grossly inflated prices; I laughed at the clowns and applauded the dancers, agreeing that they were every bit as good as anything I had seen in London, and provided drinks for a large number of people who proclaimed their support for me at the election. A train of urchins followed me around, hoping for pennies for sweetmeats, with which I duly rewarded them.

   My attention was suddenly attracted by the sound of voices raised in anger and a woman wailing. Pushing my way to the front I found a large tent selling beer, outside which sat or stood half-a-dozen soldiers, resplendent in their uniforms. One of them had his hand on the shoulder of a farm lad, while Ned Timmis was arguing with the sergeant. A girl was kneeling on the ground, weeping. Most of the bystanders appeared hostile. I came forward to discover what was happening.

   I did not know the girl, but she must have recognised me, for she grabbed me by the hem of my coat. “Oh, sir!” she sobbed, “They’re taking my Jimmy away, and I’ll never see him no more!” She would not release her grasp, and continued to wail that her lover “had better gone to the gallows!” Thus encumbered, I attempted to intervene in the dispute.

    “It’s these here redcoats!” exclaimed Timmis, who was very red in the face himself. “They say young Jimmy Thatcher here has taken the King’s shilling and volunteered for the army! And I say they lured him in and got him drunk, so he didna know what he’s doing; and I’m not having it! Him one of my best farm workers, with haymaking just coming on and all! And him soon to be married to poor Nan here! Tell ‘em to let him go, sir!”

   I turned to the sergeant: a hard-faced man with a dark jaw and a scar down his left cheek, and asked whether young Jimmy Thatcher could have his volunteering cancelled, since he had acted hastily and probably under the influence of drink. The sergeant, perceiving that I was a gentleman, answered me with formal politeness, though without any excess of deference; a delicate balance that was a skill I suspected he had long practised. He explained that in normal circumstances the payment of a guinea would suffice; but as I reached in my purse to extract one, he added that since the recruit in question had kissed a Bible and sworn the oath, this remedy could not now be effected. I wondered whether this was an attempt to extort more money from me. It seemed that some in the crowd thought the same way, for there were more angry mutterings.

    A young captain now appeared, strutting like a peacock in his flawless costume, and the sergeant briefly outlined the situation to him. He then turned to me and in an arrogant manner enquired who I might be.

   Attempting to conceal my annoyance, I introduced myself as the newly elected Member of Parliament for the borough of Bereton.

   “Oh, a politician?” he answered, uttering the word with heavy contempt in his voice. “And I am Captain Darnwell, at your service”, he continued, his tone making it clear that he did not regard himself as being at my service at all. Perhaps he did not believe my claim, or, if he did, then he affected to despise all politicians. I accordingly changed tack and asked him if he was by any chance related to Henry Darnwell, a gentleman who was an old friend of mine.

   “Yes, sir; he is my cousin. A wastrel, is he not?” he replied.

  The conversation was not going well. But at this point, young Thatcher, who had been in conversation with Timmis, suddenly intervened to announce that it was entirely his wish to join the army.

   “I’ve had enough of this here place! I want to go and see the world!” said he, swaying slightly on his feet. “Fare thee well, Bereton, and fare thee well, Nan!” he proclaimed, with an expansive gesture worthy of a rustic David Garrick.

   “That’s a brave boy!” exclaimed Captain Darnwell, “Together we’ll overthrow the King’s enemies and then drink the King’s health with the King’s silver! And every town we march through, you’ll find a new sweetheart! Tell me, my lad: can you ride? Can you manage horses?”

    “That I can, sir!” replied Thatcher proudly.

    “Then you’ll make a fine soldier indeed! Come: let’s away!”

    There seemed little more could be done. The crowd began to disperse, many of them still muttering. Poor Nan had let go of my coat and was now sobbing in the arms of an older woman, presumably her mother. The guinea I had taken from my purse I now quietly put into the sergeant’s hand, saying that I hoped he would drink my health and also watch over young Thatcher and treat him well.

    Not surprisingly, he became suddenly much more respectful and saluted me smartly. “I shall do that, sir!” he replied. No doubt my first request would be complied with, but as for the second I could no more than trust his honesty.

     Timmis was still fuming with anger after the soldiers had marched off. “There’s been times when the soldiers wouldn’t have dared show their faces here!” he grumbled, “When they was billeted here after the rebellion, any redcoat caught out on the streets at night on his own would be asking for trouble. Why; over in Mulchester a bunch of lads caught one coming out of a tavern the worse for drink and beat him near to death, and they was brought before Quarter Sessions where they was acquitted, and all the town cheered the verdict and drank the justices’ health! But now, after the war with the French, they redcoats is all heroes! I canna understand it!”

  But then he returned to more particular matters. “What am I gonna do with my haymaking now? I’m a man short, thanks to them cursed redcoats!” 

  The episode made me aware that my supposed new authority might serve me well enough in Bereton, but might be but of limited value on the national stage.

 
  

I decided to return to London. To my friends in Bereton I pleaded that I had new duties there that needed my attention, but in truth I was becoming weary of country life, with its endless small doings. Also, I wanted to see Elizabeth Newstead again to claim my promised rights as a victorious candidate. Louisa Wibrahim said she was very sorry to see me leave so soon, and as we parted, gave me her hand to be kissed. Once again I looked into her eyes, and for a moment I felt myself torn between town and country. I promised to write frequently, with full descriptions of the sights and pleasures of the capital.

   I did not intend to tell her about Elizabeth Newstead.