Chapter Twenty: Matters of state are interrupted by a most puzzling mystery

(It is autumn 1762 and a peace treaty with France is being negotiated)

     I attended the King’s speech in the House of Lords at the opening of the new Parliament. He addressed both Houses on the forthcoming Peace Treaty, and spoke with ease and dignity. His figure was not unpleasing, though Elizabeth might have considered that his eyes protruded too much. All but the most bitter opponents of the new ministry must surely have considered him a considerable improvement on his late grandfather.

   As the summer had progressed, reports came back from Paris that, as Sir Anthony had suspected, substantial concessions to the French were being made in order to achieve a speedy end to the war. There were divisions reported in the Cabinet, and in the House of Commons the government was palpably losing control. Outside of Parliament too feelings on the Peace were running high. At the staging of a comic opera at Covent Garden, to which I escorted Elizabeth Newstead, the performance was interrupted by some of the audience shouting, “No Scots! No Scots!” at a pair of officers in the uniform of a Highland regiment, and apples were thrown at them. At Brown’s club there was a heated discussion when Mr Boswell, a young Scotchman I had met at one of the Countess’s assemblies, argued with much clear reasoning that, now we had achieved our aims in America, the war should be brought to a swift conclusion. Others thought that more of our recent conquests should be retained, but supporters of the peace proposals retaliated by asking where the funding for any renewed conflict was to be found, and when our troops could be brought home from Germany.

  Lord Staines, in or out of the House of Commons, spoke with great violence against all who might oppose an immediate peace treaty. He denigrated Pitt’s achievements, and insinuated that he should be regarded as mad; and was equally vehement in mocking the Duke of Newcastle. If Mr Wilkes had been present to hear him, he would perhaps have regretted deliberately firing wide in their duel. I found Staines looking very pleased with himself after one of these attacks, and wondered, though I did not ask him, how far he was acting as a spokesman for his father, and if so, to what end? Was Lord Teesdale now a firm supporter of an immediate peace treaty?

   My only contribution to the nation’s business so far had been in my support for a Canal Bill favoured by Lord Teesdale, which was duly made law.  He advised me to invest in any future canal projects. In the discussions on the peace talks I said nothing, for I was waiting for a lead from Mr Pitt; but the great man remained at his home in Kent and did not come to Parliament.

 

    Then in October came more changes in the ministry, with Mr Henry Fox appointed to lead for the government in the House of Commons. I was now invited to discuss with him my intentions in any forthcoming vote on the Peace.

   Mr Fox was invariably portrayed with a fox’s face in cartoons, but his foes, who were numerous, likened him to a wolf. I recalled that Elizabeth had told me that all respected Fox’s abilities, but few trusted his honesty, and his rapacity was universally deplored.

   He was much as I remembered him: a heavy man, with a face that was not unfriendly, but his dark eyes and thick eyebrows, when coupled with his reputation, made him an intimidating prospect. He greeted me in a friendly manner; remarking, after a careful glance at my face, “Have I not met you before?”

    I replied that I had indeed seen him at a dinner at Teesdale House, though we had not spoken to each other. I was most impressed by such a feat of memory, for that event already seemed to belong to the distant past. I forbore from telling him that I had also witnessed his sons’ profligacy at the faro table.

   Getting promptly down to business, he asked me about my intentions in the forthcoming votes on the Peace. I told him that I had always supported Mr Pitt’s conduct of the war and that I rejoiced in our nation’s triumphs. Fox replied that his sentiments were the same, but that now it was a matter of securing a majority for a peace treaty that was close to being finalised. I said that I would examine the terms of the treaty with great care, but that for the present I would maintain my independence.

   Mr Fox then told me that my closeness to the Earl of Teesdale was well known, and he expected that it would soon be announced that his Majesty the King had graciously decided to appoint the Earl as Lord-Lieutenant of his county; the current holder of the office, a supporter of the Duke of Newcastle and the Whigs, being dismissed. He added that, although his Majesty had as yet not allowed my friend Lord Staines to resume his previous rank in the army, Staines had instead accepted the post of Commissioner of the Stamp Duties; and that father and son would henceforth support the government.

   He next hinted to me that there was soon to be a vacancy in the position of Keeper of Records in the Tower, to which I replied that, at present, I was resolved not to accept any salaried post. Following this, Mr Fox brought the interview to an end, advising me to reconsider my position. I still did not know what side I would support on the Peace, and Fox would undoubtedly be observing my behaviour closely. It was only later that I realised I should have requested that something be found for Martin Clifford, and Alderman Stout in Bereton, as a mark of my gratitude and an indication of my new influence.

   Soon afterwards, the ministry struck against its opponents. The Duke of Devonshire, who was the last of the great Whig lords to retain his post in government, was deeply critical of the peace terms. This was deemed to be so intolerable that, at the start of November, his Majesty with his own hand erased the Duke’s name from the list of Privy Councillors, and the Duke of Newcastle and the Marquess of Rockingham were dismissed from the Lord-Lieutenancies of their counties. There was now an open breach between the monarchy and the Whig lords who had governed the country for almost half a century. 

   I asked Sir Anthony Pardington what course we should pursue when the peace treaty was eventually placed before Parliament. He told me that it might be unwise to oppose it openly unless Pitt and Newcastle could work together to do so. I asked him if he knew of any plans for a concerted opposition: he said he knew of none at present, for he suspected that Pitt had never forgiven the Duke for what he regarded as a betrayal over the matter of war with Spain. Sir Anthony appeared much dispirited, and I concluded that the outlook for the opposition was not good.

 

   My attention to these great events was at this point distracted by an unexpected event which was to cause me much perplexity. It began in the following manner.

   One morning at the club I was handed a letter which I was told had been left for me. Opening it, I read that “a lady known to me” had had the misfortune to lose a certain valuable jewel, and that if she wished for help in recovering it, then I should meet a certain Joseph Byrne at the sign of the Red Cock, beyond Whitechapel. It was unsigned.

   I was most disconcerted by this. The lady referred to must certainly be Elizabeth Newstead, but I had seen her a few days before and she had said nothing about a stolen jewel. Nor were enquiries about the letter itself at all illuminating: I learnt that it had been delivered to the club by a boy who then ran off without providing any information. The name of Joseph Byrne was unknown to me. How did this man, whoever he might be, know of my friendship with Elizabeth, or where I could be contacted? Were these common knowledge throughout the town? I wondered if it might be a joke of some kind; the work of one of Lord Staines’s friends. But I resolved to treat the matter with all due seriousness, and hastened to call on Elizabeth.

   After some inconsequential talk, I showed her the letter, which caused her to start in alarm. She unlocked the drawer where her principal jewels were kept, only to collapse back in a chair. Her eyes were closed, her hands clasped together and her whole body shaking; and her voice unable to utter a word other than “Stolen! Stolen!” I looked in the drawer, and I saw that the necklace was there, but the little chain from which the ruby was suspended had been snapped, and the great jewel was gone!

   It took Elizabeth some time to recover her composure, but eventually she dried her eyes with a small lace handkerchief and told me, “It must have been my maid, Margaret, who took it! She disappeared two days ago, and has not returned. I never trusted her! Oh, how foolish I was to let her know where the keys were kept!”

   I asked her how many other people might have known about the ruby, but she merely began sobbing again and did not reply. I then requested her permission to investigate the theft myself, but she did nothing but wave her left hand with a gesture indicating that I should go away, while covering her face with her right. I therefore departed, telling a servant to tell her that her mistress was unwell.

  What should I do? I wondered what advice my friends would have given me. George Davies would surely have offered to lead party of a dozen strong, reliable lads, all well-armed, to the tavern and threaten those present with violent retribution unless the jewel was instantly returned; and in retrospect such a step might indeed have proved better than the one I chose.

  

    I made my way to the Whitechapel district and located the tavern called the Red Cock, which appeared a low, disreputable establishment. I did not enter immediately, for in the street outside I chanced to meet a young curate who, when I introduced myself as a Member of Parliament who wished to learn more about Joseph Byrne, responded by inviting me to visit his church nearby.

   Once inside, he looked around carefully to make certain that the building was empty, and only then did he begin to talk in a voice full of fear of how the entire parish was in the man’s grip. But he had barely started when suddenly his whole tone changed, and instead he began to discourse loudly of the beauties of the church and the genius of the great Nicholas Hawksmoor who had built it. I was greatly puzzled until I followed his nervous glances towards the west door, where I saw a stranger had entered. The curate plucked at my sleeve and led me towards the altar, trying to prevent me from looking back. Nevertheless, a few rapid glances showed me the stranger unlocking a wooden box near the door that was presumably intended for charitable contributions to aid the poor of the parish and removing the contents. While this was taking place, I pretended to listen to an entirely unnecessary lecture on the building of new churches under Queen Anne. I duly expressed admiration for his church, though in reality I thought the building dirty and in need of repair.

                                   (Christ Church Spitalfields: a Hawksmoor church) 

It was only after what seemed a long while that the stranger left the building that I attempted to return to the subject of Joseph Byrne. But the young curate refused to be drawn further, saying only, “If you meet Mr Byrne, I must earnestly request you not to mention my name!”

    I replied that this was impossible, since he had never told me his name, and added, “If Byrne is as unscrupulous as you say, I wonder you dare to speak to me at all!”

   “Every night I pray that I shall not to have to remain here under the thumb of Byrne and his henchmen, and seeing their wickedness! Do you know any gentleman who needs a tutor for his children? However meagre the pay, it would be a better life!” I felt that he might burst into tears at any moment.

  I assured him of my discretion, and then told him, “The reason I am here is that I hope to visit Mr Byrne on Friday. I shall leave a letter by the font addressed to him, and perhaps you might chance upon it and take it to him. There will be no need for you to become further involved." He appeared most grateful at this, and I departed.

 

   The more I considered the matter, the more puzzling it seemed. Had Margaret the maid really stolen the ruby, and if so, when? It must have been taken in sufficient time for it to reach Byrne, and for him to compose and send the letter to me. And was it Margaret who told him of my close attendance on Elizabeth?

   I decided to ask Sir Anthony Pardington what he knew concerning Joseph Byrne. He shook his head sadly and looked grave.

   “He is a most notorious robber, and has been so for the past ten years. I am afraid that the laws hardly apply in the outlying parts of London, for the authority of the Lord Mayor does not extend to the parishes outside the city boundaries, and within his bailiwick Byrne is the law! He is the justice of the peace, and his brother is the churchwarden and parish constable. They own the taverns, and it is said that the Poor Rate of the parish is mostly spent on feasting, or on less innocent activities.”

   “Cannot we, as Members of Parliament, do anything to stop his activities?”

   “Not as things stand: no; not unless he rashly ventures within the city limits, when he would be immediately arrested and hanged. But why do you wish to know? Is it to recover some stolen property, perhaps? For that is a profitable activity of his: there can be few thefts in our city where he does not know who the robbers are, and will speedily arrest the robbers unless they hand over their ill-gotten gains to him. But recovering stolen property for a reward, and without prosecution of the thieves, is a felony. Go carefully!”

   I could not reveal more to him without revealing Elizabeth’s name, so I said nothing. Seeing my hesitation, he did not enquire further, merely advising me to avoid any encounter with Byrne.

   I asked Elizabeth for permission to speak to Byrne, with a view to opening negotiations for the return of the ruby. I was surprised to discover that she did not appear to be greatly interested, which I interpreted to her still being in a condition of shock. But at least she did not positively forbid me from proceeding. On Friday I made my entry to the Red Cock.

 

   Joseph Byrne was seated at a table. He was dressed respectably, with his dark hair tied with a black ribbon behind his neck. His eyes were small and darting and his face calm, but his whole aspect was disfigured by a great scar that ran across his left jaw and down his neck. I could not help but keep turning my eyes to it, for his escape from death at this must have been narrow indeed. He was well aware of the way my gaze kept shifting. He must have been accustomed to this behaviour by visitors, and no doubt found the alarm it caused served his purpose well. Throughout our talk a great hulking fellow stood behind his chair, watching me unceasingly with an expression of deep hostility and suspicion, but saying not a word.

                        (Jonathon Wild was a notorious London gangster of the 1720s)

   I produced the letter about the stolen ruby. Byrne nodded.

  “I believe I can locate the missing jewel,” he informed me. His voice was quiet and calm; he tried to speak like a gentleman, but tried too hard, and the effect was in consequence forced, unnatural and unpleasing. I suspected he could be terrible if roused to anger.

   “Where is it?” I asked, but he only laughed.

   “You surely do not imagine, Mr Huntingdon, that I am such a fool as to admit that I have it in my possession? But I am hopeful that I could lay my hands on it. For my services I am requesting the sum of £100.”

   “Are you suggesting that you could return the stone to Mrs Newstead for £100?” I replied. “I understand that such a transaction would be a crime. And the sum you demand appears paltry for such a remarkable stone.”

   “But I doubt whether either you or your mistress will lay an information on me. For you see, Mr Huntingdon, this ruby is a fake”.

   “What? Impossible!”

   “Oh no, Mr Huntingdon, there is no doubt about it at all. I am told that it has been examined by one of the finest jewellers in Europe. A tradesman of the Hebrew race he is, who practised his craft in Amsterdam before he was obliged to take himself to London in consequence of a misunderstanding. This is a mere lump of red glass: pretty enough to fool the ignorant, but of no value”.

   He leaned across the table to me. 

  “Now you might wonder why I do not keep this knowledge to myself, and offer to attempt to find the ruby in return for a reward closer to its value if it had been a true stone, which would have indeed have been many thousands of pounds. That is because I think Mrs Newstead would refuse to pay, because she knows it to be a fake.

 “It’s a strange matter, is it not, Mr Huntingdon? Could it be that Mr Newstead, with all his wealth and his experience in the East, was taken in by some coloured glass? Or that he should have presented his wife with such a piece of trumpery? Or that the great lords and ladies with whom she dines should not recognise it for what it is?”

   “But she never wears it. She told me so”.

   As soon as I had uttered these words I knew that it was entirely the wrong thing to say. Byrne smiled in triumph. “So perhaps the true stone was replaced at some time. Perhaps it was secretly sold? More I cannot say. Well then, Mr Huntingdon ….” he said, pausing deliberately.

   I also remained silent for a while, and then asked, “How long ago was the ruby examined?”

   “It first came to my attention shortly before I wrote the letter. How long before then it was taken, I cannot say”.

   “And Margaret the maid, who ran away, and whom her mistress suspects of the theft?”

   Byrne laughed, though without humour in his tone. “No doubt she absconded to be with a lover somewhere. I doubt if she was responsible for the loss of the stone. But you cannot be too careful as to whom you employ as your servants, Mr Huntingdon; for how else do you imagine that I knew of your friendship with Mrs Newstead? But that is no concern of mine.

   “Now to business. I think that maybe your mistress does not want this worthless piece of glass to be returned to her. She would prefer that, when her husband returns, she could report that it had been stolen and not yet found. If that is the case, then I would request the sum of £100, paid quarterly, to reimburse my services for searching for the stolen property, until it is finally recovered. Such a task might take me quite a long time. I might still be searching when Mr Newstead returns from his time in India.

   “Or perhaps you might wish to tell her nothing, but to pay the money yourself, out of a chivalrous desire to assist a lady in distress ..... and to quell any suspicion that you might yourself have been the thief …..” Once again, he let the sentence hang in the air, then added, “I am happy to take your Note of Hand at any time, Mr Huntingdon."

   The interview was clearly at an end. Speaking to the hulking figure behind him, though without turning to face him, he said, “Jamie: make sure no harm comes to Mr Huntingdon, now or on any future visit.” This was reassuring in itself, though I did wonder what sort of harm I might have come to otherwise.

   I returned in silence to the less barbarous parts of London. What should I do now?  I began to think that George Davies’s suggestion of solving the problem by a simple act of violence was the only rational response. In the end, I told Elizabeth that the ruby had not yet been found, though the search was continuing, and I myself arranged for £50 (which at that moment I could ill afford) to be sent to Byrne as an interim payment. This did no more than postpone a decision; and I prayed that something might turn up before long; though I had no idea what!

   There the matter had to rest for the time being, but it brought the first signs of a coolness between Elizabeth and me. And Byrne’s remarks awoke in me the sinister thought that perhaps Elizabeth knew the true story of the ruby, and that her distress at its disappearance was no more than acting. 

Chapter Nineteen: Of fireworks and a great cricket match

 (Charles Huntingdon has discovered that his friend Lord Staines, much against his wishes, is destined to be married to Louisa Wilbrahim. Huntingdon does not consider Staines to be in any way a suitable husband for Louisa, but has been sworn to secrecy and is uncertain what action to take)

   Spring was changing to summer by the time I returned to my village of Bearsclough after an absence of several months. I found that under the direction of the ruling triumvirate at the Priory: Martin Clifford, Mrs Timmis and brother Ned, my estates had fully recovered from the ravages of the harsh winter. After spending a few days of inspection and discussing future projects I rode into Bereton to meet Alderman Stout and others, and thence on to Stanegate.

   I found Sir James Wilbrahim deep in discussion with Bagley, his agent, concerning his farms, but he rose to greet me. I wondered whether he would mention Lord Staines‘s proposed marriage to his daughter, but he did not: instead he asked for news about the peace negotiations, and indicated that he might even attend Parliament, after an absence of several years, to vote for an end to the war! 

   Louisa was in the garden. It was delightful to meet her again, after an absence of several months. She was now very much a young lady in appearance, and told me that her sixteenth birthday was coming in September, but was as unaffected as ever in her manner as she took me by the hand and walked me round the paths for a long conversation. She thanked me very prettily for the letters I had sent her, but demanded a full and complete account of everything I had seen and done in London. I described the new King and Queen as well as I could,the important people I had met and the debates in Parliament.

 I waited for her to mention Lord Staines, but since she did not, I asked her if anyone had visited Stanegate recently. She replied yes: a young nobleman had come to see her father on a matter of business, and had dined with them.

   “His name was Lord Staines. I think he must be a friend of yours?”

   I nodded and waited for Louisa to tell me what she thought of him. She paused for a while before answering.

   “He was very proud, and I was frightened of him at first, for he seemed full of anger: I don’t know why. I had never met a lord before. Are many of them like that?”

   She made no reference to a proposal of marriage, or of the love-letters that Lord Staines had informed me he would write. I did not imagine that she was deceiving me, for her manner was far to open: I wondered whether, if any such letters had indeed been written, they had been intercepted by her father. I had no intention of broaching the subject of the marriage, and was glad I had made no firm promise to help Staines in his marital quest, for I could not imagine him as a good husband for Louisa, about whom he had spoken so disparagingly. Instead, choosing my words with care, I limited myself to saying that Lord Staines was sometimes wild in his behaviour, but that I believed he was good at heart; that I would always be grateful to him, for he had been a good friend to me when I first came to London; and without his father’s help I would certainly never have become a Member of Parliament.

  From there I told the story of his duel with John Wilkes, though passing over the cause of it. Louisa was torn between admiration for Staines’s courage, horror at the danger, and relief that the outcome had been bloodless. She said she had heard her father refer to “that devil Wilkes” with his scandalous newspaper, and was horrified that Staines should risk his life by challenging such a man. I assured her that very few duels led to death or serious injury; that Wilkes had deliberately fired his pistol wide, and that he bore no resentment towards Staines. I did not mention the Hell-fire club.

  I turned the conversation to a more harmless subject saying that Lord Staines had recommended that my gardens at the Priory should be redesigned, and I described the massive workings I had witnessed Brown’s men carrying out for at for Lord Teesdale at Maybury. Louisa was surprised, for the gardens at Stanegate had scarcely been changed in her lifetime, and she could not imagine why anyone should want to live through disruption on such a vast scale. I laughed that I could not possibly afford such expense, but that perhaps something could be achieved without excessive trouble and cost; and I hoped she might come to watch the results. I reflected that when I next visited Elizabeth Newstead in London, I must ask her to help choose suitable birthday presents for Louisa; but I had still disovered nothing about Lord Staines's marriage plans.

    Mr Walpole sent me the latest political news from London, and I learned that the Cabinet was in open revolt over the peace negotiations with France. "I look upon Lord Bute's career as drawing rapidly to a close," he informed me. I then wrote to Sir Anthony Pardington to ask what action the Duke of Newcastle and the Whigs would take. His reply revealed how dispirited he was. 

   “I wish I could be more confident in the outcome. That silly little man the Duke of Bedford, whom we have sent as Plenipotentiary to Paris, seems intent on giving away all our conquests to gain a quick settlement. The French may appear to be crushed now, but in a decade they will be recovered and eager for revenge. But gentlemen in these parts have told me that they hope for a speedy end to the war and a reduction in taxes. I believe that a peace treaty might be popular in the country, and opposed only by financiers and merchants of the city of London. The Duke of Newcastle, I think, knows this too, and fears that the question of a sole Scotch minister would not be sufficient grounds on which to build a formed opposition. As a result, there is indecision, and no instructions have been given to his friends. I can only advise you to do as you think best. For myself, I fear the worst.”

  I soon discovered that Sir Anthony’s assessment of the feeling of the nation on a peace treaty might be correct, for when I discussed the matter with Alderman Stout and others of the burgesses of Bereton, I found that they neither knew nor cared where such places as Havana and Manila might be; and that their principal hope was indeed that when the war ended taxes could be reduced.

   That August all other matters were swept away, and all political hostilities suspended, in a great wave of rejoicing. Queen Charlotte had given birth to a son! We had an heir to the throne: the first Prince of Wales to be born in that century! Alderman Stout and I, together with other local dignitaries, formed a committee to discuss how this happy event should be celebrated in Bereton.

   Our committee at once divided into two hostile factions. Some wished for a great beacon should be lit on the summit of our hill. Others advocated a bonfire, with food and drink provided, on the town meadow; arguing the difficulty of taking the wood to a site so distant from the town, and which the vast majority of the citizens would be unable to enjoy. To this the first group countered that their beacon would be visible over half the county, thus demonstrating the patriotic spirit of Bereton. Tempers became heated. In the end, to bring hostilities to a close, I suggested that we undertake both projects, and in addition to have fireworks to be sent from London, be lit in on the town meadow. Doubts were expressed, but once I had promised to bear the entire cost the proposal was adopted with alacrity. I accordingly wrote post-haste to London, where the men responsible for all royal fireworks displays contracted to provide me with what was needed, together with an experienced man to light the devices. The price seemed extortionate, but having advocated the project I could do little but accept it.

   The whole town joined in the projects with enthusiasm. Trees were felled and farmers provided carts to transport the timber as far up the hill as could be managed, from where it was carried or dragged to the summit by eager hands. More wood was taken to the meadow. Even small children collected sticks for kindling. Meanwhile the women of the town set about organising the food, and it was inevitable that Mrs Timmis, working with unbounded zeal, would emerge as the main driving force. Musicians and singers were recruited. Only Stanegate Hall and its inhabitants held aloof.  

   I wondered how anybody could be found to light the beacon on the hill, since that would necessarily involve their missing the celebrations below them. But Alderman Stout arranged that various unfortunates from the town Bridewell would be selected, supplied with food and drink, and promised their liberty if they faithfully fulfilled the task. 

   I heard nothing more about the fireworks for a long time, and was beginning to feel worried, but three days before the great event a wagon arrived, driven by a small, active man who introduced himself as Bob Newark, a retired bombardier from the Royal Artillery, who was to be responsible for the display. I offered him beer, of which he quickly consumed an immense quantity. As he drank he described how he had been wounded at the battle of Dettingen many years ago, and after retiring from the army now earned his living at fireworks displays. The coronation and now the royal birth had been very good for business, he told me.

 

   After mounting impatience from all the children, and many of their parents too, the great day at last dawned. The weather was warm, the sky was clear with no rain predicted and the moon was close to full. The children crowded round as Newark set out the fireworks that afternoon. At first he was patient with them, but finally had to drive them off with some violent oaths, at which they retreated to a safe distance.

   In the early evening the light of the beacon on the hill was seen, which was the sign for our celebrations to start. The bonfire was lit, I proposed toasts to the King, the Queen and the new Prince of Wales, and then the fireworks began. Rockets soared, great flares of blue and red lit up the sky, thunderclaps exploded and fountains of sparks gushed upwards, to the accompaniment of gasps, cheers and applause from the crowd, few of whom had ever witnessed such a display before. After the last rocket the musicians struck up, there were songs and dancing, and the feasting began. A whole ox and several fat pigs had been roasted and were now dismembered by the town’s butchers, the bakers had supplied a multitude of loaves, and barrels of ale and wine which had been kept under unceasing guard were now rolled out.

   Virtually the whole town was there. Sir James had absented himself, but the Rector put in an appearance, together with his wife and their brood of children. I suspected that he would not refuse an occasion where there was free food and drink. As the beer and wine flowed freely, the scene became steadily livelier. I was widely congratulated on the display, as was Bombardier Newark, who gratefully received every glass or tankard he was offered, and was encouraged to treat his admirers to a selection of soldiers’ songs. These delighted the men, and though the ladies professed to find them most improper, I noticed that many of them were giggling together. In the end Newark’s admirers carried him insensible to the Queen’s Head and put him to bed.

  As the light failed, two young boys approached me. They wore old and ill-fitting clothes, above which, despite the warmth, they had cloaks with the hoods pulled over their heads. One of them asked me the time, which I thought a strange request from boys of their appearance. I squinted at my watch with some difficulty in the gloom, with only the moonlight and firelight to help me, but was able to announce that it was just after half past nine. This brought a cry of alarm from the other one. I thought I recognised the voice. It was Louisa!

   “Miss Wilbrahim! What on earth are you doing here?” I asked in astonishment.

   “Please don’t give me away!” she begged, “My father wouldn’t let me come, but I did so want to see the fireworks! So Becky, my maid here, fetched me some of her brother’s clothes and we left through the servants’ door and walked here. My father wouldn’t have known we’d gone: I told old William that I was tired and didn’t want to be disturbed”.

   I glanced at the other ‘boy’ and saw some dark eyes under the hood.

   A sudden understanding came over me. “Was that also how you contrived to watch the election?” I asked.

   Louisa nodded. “But what are we to do now?” she continued, “William goes round locking all the doors at ten o’clock. We didn’t know how late it was getting. We’ll never be able to walk back home before then. Oh please, Mr Huntingdon: you must help us! Will you take us home in your carriage? Please!”

   I explained that I would only have been too delighted to do so, only unfortunately I had not come in my carriage, but had ridden out on Alexander. What were we to do?

   “You can leave me here. I’ll be all right”, said Becky loyally. But Louisa shook her head firmly at the suggestion.

   Casting around for a solution, I was much relieved to see Martin Clifford about to mount his own horse for departure. I ran across and quickly explained the situation, which greatly amused him. I lifted Louisa to sit in front of me on Alexander’s crupper, and Clifford performed the same service with Becky. Despite their boys’ breeches they both preferred to sit side-saddle. They held on tight as we rode at a brisk trot from the meadow and down the main street of Bereton in the direction of Stanegate. We hoped that no-one would recognise us, since it was now almost completely dark. Fortunately, Alexander knew the way with little need for guidance from me, and Clifford followed.

   “It’s just as well for us that you’re my friend, Mr Huntingdon!” whispered Louisa as we trotted along. “Am I allowed to call you Charles?”

  “And may I call you Louisa?” I countered. “It hardly seems necessary to observe social formalities under these circumstances!”

  She giggled. “And how about Charlie?” she enquired cheekily.

  “You mean like the Pretender Prince of Wales, that some of the ladies call Bonnie Prince Charlie? I would prefer Charles.”

   She pondered this, and then said, “I’ve heard Mrs Piddock say he was very handsome. She saw him when he passed through here during the rebellion. It was before I was born, of course. But it’s strange about him, isn’t it? I know he stayed at our home with all his men, while my father was away, for Mrs Andrew once told me, and I know my father has always supported the Jacobite cause, yet he never talks about that day. Do you know why that should be?”

   I could indeed think of a reason, from what I had heard from Mrs Timmis concerning local gossip; but instead I changed the subject and asked her how she had enjoyed the evening.

  

                                            (18th century fireworks)

   As we approached Stanegate, we saw the light of candles still glimmering behind the curtains. We walked the horses in as close as we dared, then helped the girls dismount. Louisa whispered thanks and gave me a kiss on the cheek on parting, then waited for Becky, whom we observed embracing and kissing Clifford with some passion. Then the two girls fled across the grass towards the servants’ entrance, turning to give us a wave before they disappeared from sight. Then Clifford and I turned our horses and endeavoured to return as silently as we had come. I pondered the riddle of Louisa: sometimes she was an elegant young lady; at other times she was still just a little girl. If I had been fortunate enough to have had sisters, I might have been able to solve this puzzle.

   Only when we were well away from Stanegate did Clifford break the silence.

   “A smart young lass, that Becky!” he announced, as much to himself as to me. “She mustn’t stay as a lady’s maid for ever. She’d make someone a good wife”.

   “For you, perhaps? But you’re old enough to be her father!” I teased him. He did not respond. Clifford never talked about his private life, but I had learned from Mrs Timmis that he was a widower and a lonely man, since his son lived far away and met him but seldom.

   We trusted that our escapade had gone unobserved. It was only much later that I discovered that someone had seen Louisa return home, with unhappy consequences.  

 

   As for the bonfire atop the hill, a visit to the site the next day revealed that it had been lit, but that those given the responsibility of tending the flames had soon neglected their duties, preferring to consume the beer with which they had been provided. A few had absconded, but the remainder were found lying on the grass in a drunken stupor. They were most fortunate that the bonfire had soon gone out, rather than setting fire to the entire hillside and consuming them in a general conflagration. As it was, their clothes were only slightly scorched. They were returned to the Bridewell.

 

    I did not remain at home for long after the celebrations. I was obliged to return to London to attend to business there, and, that being settled, I received an invitation from Mr Braithwaite to take part in a great cricket match.

  The event was widely advertised: “At the Finsbury artillery ground: a great match for 1,000 guineas a side, between Lord Tankerville’s men and Mr Richard Braithwaite’s men”, followed by a list of the two teams of eleven men apiece. Braithwaite, who had been a fine batsman in his youth, was to captain his team himself, and had recruited Robertson and Staines, both keen cricketers, to play for him. I decided to attend, expecting only to watch; but on reaching the ground was informed that Braithwaite’s team was a man short, and I was requested to make up the numbers. My cautious pleading that I had not played since I was a boy was swept aside, and so I found myself press-ganged to join the combatants!

   A large crowd had gathered for the event, and since the thousand-guinea stake had shown it would be a seriously-fought match, there was a vast amount of betting taking place; not only on the result, but on individual performances: runs scored and wickets taken. Apart from the eleven players, each team had brought a scorer, who counted the runs scored by cutting notches in sticks, and kept a close eye on each other to prevent any cheating.

   Both teams, I found, were a mixture of gentlemen and a variety of others: innkeepers, farmers and servants of the aforesaid gentlemen. One of the latter on Lord Tankerville’s team was pointed out to me: a rather fat man, aged about thirty.

   “That’s Lumpy Stevens”, I was told, “The most feared bowler in England. You must be extremely careful if you come to face him! Or if you chance to be a betting man, you may safely stake your entire estate on him. He is a gardener by trade, or so it is said, but in reality he is employed to play cricket. And the same applies to many of the others, whether they may be called coachmen or butlers or innkeepers.”

    I commented that he looked no threat to anyone, and asked how he came by such a strange name.

   “His baptismal name is Edward, and his shape, which is undeniably lumpy, came about through his notorious greed. Why, on one occasion, after a match against the men of Hambledon, a large apple pie had been provided after the match, and Lumpy ate almost all of it himself, to the discomfiture of the other players. But no-one disputes his genius as a bowler”.

  We had to wait before we could witness this Ajax of the cricket field, for Lord Tankerville’s team batted first. The pitch that was chosen, I noticed, sloped slightly; the reason for this choice becoming apparent later. I was sent to field some distance away, where my first contribution was to drop an easy catch, to the accompaniment of jeers from the spectators. Not long afterwards another ball was hit hard and high in my direction. I heard cries of “Drop it!” from supporters of Lord Tankerville’s team as I ran backwards to take it, followed by roars of laughter as I tripped over a tussock of grass and tumbled flat on my back, fumbling the ball up in the air as I went down. But, by the most fortunate of chances, an alert fielder near me raced in and seized the ball before it fell to earth. He was a servant to Mr Braithwaite; a youth named Alf Redman, and well-named too, for his head bore a mass of flame-coloured hair. This fine piece of skill was much applauded by his team-mates, and also by those spectators who had wagered on them.

   There was one unfortunate incident when Mr Braithwaite was chasing a ball in the field and suddenly pulled up, clutching his thigh in some pain. He waved us away, maintaining it was nothing to cause alarm, but he was limping for the rest of the innings.

   Lord Tankerville’s team made a total of about 150 runs (I cannot remember the exact score), and Mr Braithwaite assured us that reaching this target would be achievable. We then batted. At my particular request, pleading inexperience, I was placed next to last in the batting order and hoped I would not have to save the team in a crisis. Braithwaite also held himself back until late, to rest his injured leg.

   Our batting was opened by John Robertson and a young gentleman I did not know. The latter did not last long, neither did the man who succeeded him; both falling victim to Lumpy Stevens. I watched his bowling carefully, wondering how I might find a means of resisting him. Sometimes the ball left his hand low at great speed and sometimes in a gentle curve through the air, without any apparent change in his action. When the ball struck the pitch, it sometimes turned one way, sometimes the other. The reason for playing on a slight downslope now became apparent, for it led to the ball occasionally shooting along the turf, to the confusion of the batsmen.

   Robertson played Stevens well and the score mounted steadily until another wicket fell and Lord Staines stalked to the wicket with an air of arrogant confidence. He sneered at Stevens when he came to face his bowling, and promptly stuck a delivery deep into the crowd of spectators. When not facing the bowling, he rested on his bat as if lost in self-admiration. Several more runs were scored before he attempted another tremendous hit against Stevens but missed the ball entirely. It passed between the stumps without disturbing the bail! Stevens threw his head back in frustration, but Staines laughed.

   “You won’t get me out, Stevens!” he jeered.

  I imagined I could hear the bowler grinding his teeth in anger. He got his revenge soon afterwards when Staines attempted another extravagant shot but misread the flight of the ball, hitting it straight up in the air and being easily caught. He departed muttering angrily to himself, while Stevens stood watching him, his hands on his ample hips, uttering not a word.

   Young Redman came in next, and smote the ball with great aplomb until the score reached around 120. More wickets then fell, and Mr Braithwaite entered at number nine. He appeared to be in some pain and batted with extreme care. The score crept upwards until only nine more were needed. I was beginning to relax, thinking that my services with the bat would not be needed, and then Stevens at long last penetrated Robertson’s defence. Eight wickets were now down and I walked to the wicket, doing my best to look calm and confident. Mr Braithwaite spoke quietly to me, saying that victory was well within our grasp. He advised me to block deliveries on the wicket and look to push the ball between the fielders for singles.

   I survived my first ball and missed the second, which struck me painfully on the shin, but soon afterwards I scored my first run and my confidence rose. Then, when just three more were needed, I tapped a ball to the off side and called Braithwaite for a run. But I had forgotten his injury! Half way down the pitch he pulled up, and was run out by a considerable distance.

  I hastened to apologise. He said not a word, but shook his head sadly and limped away, clearly in pain. I heard shouts from the crowd, as those who had placed their bets on Lord Tankerville’s team now felt secure in their winnings.

  The last man in was a plump, apple-cheeked yokel with a smile as broad as his body. He ambled to the wicket with his bat over his shoulder, looking the peak of confidence. Oldroyd was his name. He posed as Braithwaite’s stableman, but was in reality employed as a cricketer.

   “Dunna worry, sir! Just leave it ter me!” he exclaimed in a pronounced northern accent. I had seen his skill as a bowler earlier in the match, but his position as last man in suggested that he was not considered a batsman.

   His first ball was straight, and he blocked it. “Playin’ meself in!” he informed me. This was encouraging, but my impression of him as not being a batsman was confirmed when he made a wild swipe at his second ball, which by some miracle missed the off stump. The third one was met with another reckless swing of the bat. The ball found the edge and sailed high in the air on the off side, beyond the reach of the fielders. We ran two, and then Oldroyd called me for a third that would give us the victory. Heading for the wicket-keeper’s end, I was well out of my ground as the throw came in, but it was a poor one, and I was able to scramble home. We had won!

   “Told thee tha couldst leave it ter me!” said Oldroyd with immense satisfaction as we left the field in triumph.

 

   A large tent had been erected beside the pitch, where a noble repast was provided for the players, scorers and umpires. Lumpy Stevens lived up to his reputation by eating and drinking the most prodigious quantities. Lord Tankerton seemed not at all disconcerted at having lost so considerable a sum, and by such a very slender margin. Dusk was falling as Lord Tankerville provided carriages to take us all back to his house for the night. The next day I composed a letter to Louisa describing our great battle in mock-heroic style. Young Redman of the flame-coloured hair was to play a part in my life later, in very different surroundings.

 

  It had been a marvellous end to the summer, and I felt most happy and contented as Lord Staines and I travelled back to London in his coach, but he was unusually silent and appeared to have much on his mind. Eventually I asked him how his betrothal to Louisa Wilbrahim was proceeding.

   He enquired sharply whether I had mentioned the matter to anyone.

   “Certainly not!” I replied with some indignation, “I gave you my word, and I have remained silent! Nor did Miss Wilbrahim or her father tell me anything!”

 “You would doubtless have found out eventually, but I do not wish the matter to be known in London, so I must again insist on your silence if I tell you.”

   I assured him that he could rely on me as a friend.

   “Very well then. That old fool Wilbrahim has written to my father forbidding the match! He thinks I am unworthy of his precious daughter!”

   I commented that it must have come as a great relief to him. But instead he turned to me and spoke coldly.

  “You do not understand the temper of our family! My mother on learning that I had been dismissed was quite unnecessarily distressed on my behalf, and full of sympathy for the girl. She gave vent to some sentimental nonsense about the difficulties encountered by young lovers, but my father was very angry. He is not easily thwarted in his plans. And as for me: I know that Wilbrahim despises us for no better reason than because my father’s grandfather was a mere attorney, and my mother’s father a merchant, whereas his own ancestors were always gentry! As if any of them had ever amounted to anything! And Wilbrahim himself a lifelong Jacobite, with only his poltroonery in the late rebellion to save him from the axe awaiting a traitor! Why, the very tradesmen of Bereton laugh at him behind his back!”

   “But what now, Staines?”

   “I shall continue to court Miss Wilbrahim. This strikes you as curious, perhaps? But I take Wilbrahim’s conduct as an affront to me and all my family! And I’ll be avenged for that!”

   I had never before heard him speak in this fashion. “Revenged? But how?” I ventured to ask.

    “I shall win the heart of that daughter of his just to spite him! I’ll write to her playing the lovesick suitor! I’ll hold out the promise of dresses of the finest silk! I’ll describe to this silly country maiden the glories of the town and how delightful it would be if I could share them with her! In the end she’ll fall in love with me! That would be a delicate revenge, would it not?  Soon the child will be pining for London and for me, and then … well, we shall see!”

  I was not greatly alarmed by this, for I imagined Staines was jesting, and was sure that, in any case, Sir James would intercept any letters directed to his daughter.

   When I returned to London, I called upon Elizabeth Newstead to renew our love affair. I found my ardour for her had abated somewhat, and perhaps it was the same for her. She sensed I had other matters on my mind, which was true: I longed to seek Elizabeth’s advice on Lord Staines’s courtship of Louisa, but had promised to mention it to no-one. All I said was that I wished to buy a birthday present for the daughter of a neighbour, and hoped she might help me to choose one.

   Elizabeth chuckled. “Ah; now would that by any chance be the Miss Wilbrahim whose virtues I understand you praised so lavishly to the Countess and her friends? So tell me: has that old Jacobite squire her father found her a husband yet, or is he still failing in his parental duty?”

   I said only that I understood there had been negotiations for a marriage. We both then fell silent for a while before she shrugged and said, “Well, I perceive you have a secret that you do not wish to divulge. That is your affair: what does it matter to me? But if I were you, I should take great care, lest ill befall!”

   Nevertheless, she helped me choose several pairs of the best gloves and silk stockings, which she said any girl was bound to like.

 

   I returned to Bereton to deliver these gifts to Stanegate, together with a book of poetry chosen by me. William the manservant took them, but informed me that his young mistress was indisposed and not receiving any visitors. Over the next few days I waited for a letter of thanks, but none appeared. When I chanced to meet Sir James Wilbrahim in the town neither of us made any reference to my presents, or to Lord Staines. He soon broke off the conversation and it was apparent that he had no wish to speak with me.

  Some time later a friend of Ned Timmis brought a verbal message from Becky, Louisa’s maid, which was, “Tell Mister Huntingdon that we never told them nothing!” I found it all very puzzling. 

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.