Chapter Six: A new home and new friends

(Charles Huntingdon has journeyed from London and arrived at his new home, The Priory, inherited from his aunt)  

When I awoke, there was a single shaft of light between the shutters, which had not been fully closed. For a moment I wondered where I was, before recalling that this was now my home. Noises from downstairs indicated that the household was already up and about. I rang the bell beside the bed, and soon a young servant girl entered with a candle. Despite the early hour she was neatly dressed in brown with a white cap, and I was gratified to see that Mrs Timmis had kept her charges in such good order.

   She curtsied and appeared very shy, but I smiled at her and requested that she should light candles and then bring me hot water for washing. My watch told me that it was a quarter to eight, and I reflected that people in the country rose much earlier than those in town, where some of my friends had been known to lie abed until noon. While I waited for her to return, I opened the shutters and looked out on my new lands. The window was an old-fashioned casement with small diamond-shaped panes of glass. Outside, it looked clear and cold: the wet weather had departed and with a single star glimmered faintly in the sky. The few small clouds showed a pale pink underneath.

   My window must have faced south-east, for as I watched the sky turned orange as the sun peeped above the horizon. I saw a bright sparkle reflected from the snow atop Brackenridge hill. I had never seen such a sight before, and stood there gazing at it. The serving girl must have been surprised on her return to find me at the window in nothing but my nightshirt. When I asked, she told me her name was Ellen. Although little more than a child, she scarcely appeared intimidated by my presence.

   Having no-one to assist me in dressing, I asked her to undertake the task. It quickly became obvious that she knew nothing of men’s clothing, and in consequence there was much fumbling on her part. When she buttoned my shirt wrongly for the second time I pretended to be annoyed, and gave her a playful slap on the rump, which made her giggle, and I could not help smiling myself. Indeed, when the task was completed and I dismissed her, saying that she would soon learn the correct method of dressing me, she dutifully curtsied, but the look she gave me on withdrawing could only be described as saucy.

   It occurred to me that she would undoubtedly be recounting her experience to her fellow-servants, who would all be eager for early reports on me. What would they think, and what would Mrs Timmis make of it when she heard of it, as she undoubtedly would? But I did not care: here I was in my own home, the first I had ever owned, and I felt immensely proud and happy. The happiness increased when I passed downstairs and found the ample breakfast of freshly baked bread, butter, bacon and tea that had been prepared for me. In the midst of her bustling about, Mrs Timmis enquired whether everything had met with my approval, and I replied truthfully that I was entirely satisfied.

   Afterwards I reflected that I had entirely ignored Lord Staines’s advice on how to treat my new servants, and I wondered what he would have done in my position. I doubted whether he would have struck the chambermaid: more likely he would have found some fault with her costume, or accused her of lateness or of yawning in his face, however unjustified this might be, and coldly criticised her at length for her incompetence with the buttons. He would have complained to Mrs Timmis about her, and demanded better service in future, and turned up his nose at the breakfast as unbefitting someone of his rank. And as for any concern about what Mrs Timmis might think: I could imagine him telling me, with biting sarcasm in his voice, that it was strange I should be concerned about what my housekeeper thought. I imagined him shaking his head in a mixture of sorrow and disgust at my feeble behaviour and predicting that it would not be long before my servants, not I, would be running the household and doing whatever their fancy suggested. But on reflection I decided that, if it was indeed Mrs Timmis, not I, who was the sole director of my household, then so be it: I was comfortable with such an arrangement.

                                             (A cartoon of a chaotic 18th century kitchen!)

   Over the next few days Mrs Timmis began treating me more like a son than a master: a son she had never had, since by and by I discovered that she had never married but was universally known as “Mrs Timmis” out of respect. Before long she felt bold enough to recount her memories of my childhood visit, which had been back in 1744, when I was brought to the Priory by my mother to meet her relatives.

“I remember that!" she exclaimed, "It was the year before the rebels came through. You were so polite and well-mannered!" she told me, "The mistress loved you straight away!”

  I replied that I had very few memories of that visit, but I did recall that Mr Andrew was in bed when I was introduced to him, and that when he eventually rose for dinner, he walked with great difficulty, supported by two crutches.

   Mrs Timmis nodded, and looked very sad. “Yes, poor man; the master’s health was bad for many years, and when he died his friends thought it came as a relief after all his sufferings. And so the mistress was left a widow, without children, and she never remarried. But she held your mother in great affection, that she did, and she had always resolved that you should be her heir."

  I asked her to tell me more about my aunt, and she replied that Mrs Andrew was always reading old books and writing letters, but was also a lady of the greatest kindness, respected throughout the neighbourhood. I could imagine how angry Lord Staines would have been at such familiarity from a servant.

 

   The next few days were spent mostly in the library: a long room in the older part of the house, with curious plasterwork on the ceiling. The shelves were full of books and there were piles of papers everywhere. Clifford pointed out portraits of Mr and Mrs Andrew, painted by some unknown country artist. Mr Andrew wore a wig of the fashion of forty years ago, and his wife a bonnet. They both looked stern and unmoving, but I was assured that in reality this was by no means the case. I wished I could have known them, my benefactors. Clifford was loud in their praise:

   “I was born in this village, and it was only through the great benevolence of Mr and Mrs Andrew that I was first taught my letters, and then apprenticed to an attorney. I am eternally grateful to them, and I hope I shall now work for you.”

   This made me wonder whether Mrs Andrew had paid for my education as well. I was sure that must have been the case, though my parents had never told me anything about it. I had no opportunity to enquire further, for I was now near overwhelmed in a turmoil of activity, as I attempted to understand the full nature of my inheritance. Clifford brought me great bundles of documents showing me the extent of my new ealth. The ancestors of Mr Andrew, I gathered, had for several generations built up the family property by a policy of prudent marriages, careful purchase of land, investment in government funds and East India stock and I know not what else, and had in consequence become a family of substance. His wife, Isobel, my aunt, had also been an heiress, through whom came slate quarries in Wales and coalmines on the Cumbrian coast. The total income of my inheritance amounted to the handsome sum of almost four thousand pounds a year. Clifford trusted that I would find everything in order. For the moment I felt I could do little but have confidence his honesty, and I put my signature to a number of documents that he said required immediate attention.

   The household expenses amounted to very little. For the last few years my aunt had spent hardly any money except on food and books, and I had the feeling that Clifford derived a vicarious pleasure from this miserliness. He took on a gloomy tone when he suggested that I would probably wish to diminish my inheritance with expenditure on clothes, on horses and carriages, on extra servants, on sporting pursuits, on gaming ….. I cut him short at this point, assuring him that on the last two items at least he had nothing to fear. I concluded the discussion by asking a few trifling questions about details of the estate, just to show that I was giving due attention to what he placed before me; though in reality there was too much for my immediate comprehension.

   As a variation from this tiring and dull but very necessary activity, I began to explore my new home thoroughly, and, weather permitting, to venture out and explore the surroundings. I knew very little about architecture, but looked to me as if few alterations had been made to the house in the past half century or more, and some parts looked far older. All Clifford was able to tell me was that there had once been a monastic house on the site. He thought I might find out more from my aunt’s papers.

   Outside, I was shown a kitchen garden surrounded by a wall, where only some frostbitten cabbages stood above the frostbitten soil, and the apple trees in the orchard were bare and stark. I was told most were too old to bear much good fruit, but Mrs Andrew could not bear to have them cut down. A long greenhouse stood against a south-facing wall, but as far as I could see there was little inside it. To the south-west of the house I found a formal garden of gravel paths, low evergreen hedges and rose bushes. Mrs Andrew, I was told, took great delight in her garden and loved to stroll here whenever the weather permitted, and the roses were a fine sight on a summer’s day. Now it all looked untended. Then there was a dairy, a baker’s oven and a brew-house. I was taken to the stables, but found there no horse suitable for me to ride, and no vehicle except the trap in which I had been brought; for my aunt in her final years had scarcely ventured out at all. I concluded I would need a horse to ride if I was to know the district.   On the eastern side of the house were fields with scattered trees and clumps of bushes, leading towards the western end of Brackenridge hill. Apart from a few miserable-looking sheep, no animals were to be seen. I imagined it might be a fine prospect in the spring, but in winter weather it was a sad, gloomy sight.

    Bearsclough was a hamlet of a score of cottages owned by the Priory and occupied by villagers who worked on the farms, and a small church dedicated to St. Martin. It was to this that he now led me: a curious old affair built of oak with lath and plaster between the timbers, with stone only for the foundations. The roof had with several slates broken or missing from the south-east corner. I was told that the Rector of Bereton, Mr Bunbridge, seldom set foot in our church, instead leaving the duties to a curate on a stipend of a mere £5 per quarter. I was introduced to this ill-used cleric; Samuel Chamberlain by name, a young man who was tall, thin and cadaverous in his appearance, with a look in his eye that could have indicated either determination or hunger, or possibly both.

  Inside the church it was dark, with heavy oak beams crossing the nave and only a few benches for the worshippers. The font looked very ancient, and the oaken pulpit was, I guessed, the work of some village carpenter. On the southern wall near the entrance door there was a board that told, in faded paint, how a gentleman a century earlier had left money to pay poor families of the parish a shilling each at Christmas.

   There was a memorial to Mr Andrew on the north wall, consisting of a few lines in Latin enclosed in a Doric frame.  Mrs Andrew, I was told, had desired nothing more for herself than a single line in addition to this. I promised to have this done. I was shown where Mr Andrew was buried in the churchyard, and where his wife had now been laid to rest beside him.

    Reflecting that, but for good fortune, this curate’s fate could have been my own, I promised to myself to do what I could for the poor fellow. An opportunity for this came when he told me that Mrs Andrew had once determined that all the children in the village should learn to read, but that the project had come to nothing on account of her age and final illness. I suggested that he should himself undertake the task, which he appeared very pleased to accept, and not, I thought, merely for the addition to his stipend that I offered him. I asked why the church roof was in such plain need of repair, and was told that Mrs Andrew had indeed left money for this purpose in her will, but that as yet none had been forthcoming. I promised to remedy the matter.

  

   I was informed that much of the land around was leased to Mrs Timmis’s brother Ned, whom I now met. He came stomping into the rear entrance of the Priory, removing his massive boots before entering the kitchen.

   He stood nervously twisting his hat in his hands, occasionally giving me a wary glance but mostly looking at the ground. He much resembled his sister, being stout and strong, with blue eyes. His hands were large and rough from his work, and his face was completely round, with cheeks red as apples. He was the first countryman I had ever encountered, and I thought he had the look of an honest man.

   Braving the cold weather, I requested that he should take me round the village. My London clothes were hardly suitable for such a venture, but Mrs Timmis found me a coat belonging to one of the gardeners, and thus equipped, I set forth.

   At first Ned Timmis addressed me as “Sir” almost every time he drew breath, but as he grew accustomed to me this gradually diminished, until in the end he hardly uttered the word at all. I was sure that Lord Staines would have pulled him up very sharply on this, but I did not bother. I asked him about his sister, saying that she appeared a very capable woman, and he was loud in her praise.

 “There’s none around here can beat her in bargaining! And she knows everyone in Bereton, and everyone’s business; that she does. If you want to find out what’s going on, you ask her!” He told me, with some pride, that there had been Timmises in Bearsclough for time out of mind, for “the mistress” (by whom he meant Mrs Andrew) was a “scholard“, who “had read it in some old books”.

  I learnt that his sister, who was a few years older than him, had been taken on at the Priory while still a child, and had remained there ever since. For the past couple of years, she, Mr Clifford and he himself had had complete management of the house and estate, because the mistress hardly ventured out of doors “on account of her feet”. I felt I would have to continue this arrangement of business, at least for the moment, for, be he honest or not, my complete ignorance of agriculture would oblige me to depend on him for the foreseeable future.

   The road through the village of Bearsclough looked much more suitable for riding a horse than for driving any kind of vehicle, and would have been very muddy but for the fact that the surface was currently frozen. The cottages were in a far better condition than the ones I had seen in the woods on my journey, and most had small gardens attached, though at that season only a few frostbitten stumps were to be seen. Several children came out from their homes as we walked, and followed us at a safe distance. When I called them over, a few ran away, but others approached me nervously. They all knew Ned Timmis and treated him with respect. Some were well-clad and well-shod; others less so, but at least none was barefoot. I smiled at them, told them who I was and handed out pennies; at which most touched their forelocks and scampered back indoors. This deference was a new experience for me!

   I inspected our sheep and cattle, and endeavoured to ask intelligent questions. A shepherd told me that the season for lambing was approaching, and they were all praying there would be no more snow.  I saw barns of hay, of wheat and barley and turnips. I learned that Mrs Andrew had read about new methods of husbandry and had ordered them to carried out. Timmis admitted that the villagers, including he himself (who, I found out later, could read well enough, but preferred not to write anything beyond the signing of his name unless absolutely necessary) had initially been mistrustful of all this “book-learning”, but he had followed Mrs Andrew’s instructions, and he now conceded that many had proved successful. For several years now they had grown turnips to feed the cattle and sheep over winter. By way of contrast, he told me that Sir James Wilbrahim was invincibly hostile to any innovations in the cultivation of his lands.  

   I then asked Timmis if I might see his home, which was leased from the estate. He was reluctant to allow this, pleading that it was but a poor place, but when I persuaded him to admit me, I thought it a most comfortable dwelling. It was clean and in good repair. There was a large kitchen, with rag rugs on the stone floor and a good-sized fireplace, with a spinning wheel in the corner. An old oak dresser held an array of pewter plates and vessels, all spotless. His wife, Ann, a short woman with dark hair and eyes, rose and curtsied to me, but uttered not a word. Their two children, I was told, were both out at work. I asked whether I could make any improvements to the building, but Timmis hastened to assure me that none were needed.

   We resumed our walk, crossing enormous fields divided into long strips, which Timmis designated as “This one for wheat …. This one for barley …. This one for hay” and so forth. Eventually we came to the edge of a mere, two or three acres in extent, where we halted. The water was frozen, and a few geese and ducks were slithering around on it or pecking disconsolately at the frost-withered reeds and grass. There was an old rotten-looking punt drawn up out of the water in a ramshackle boathouse. Brackenridge hill loomed above the far bank.

   I felt it a sad scene, but Timmis told me, with a degree of pride, “Once all this here was marshland, but Squire Andrew’s father, he spiled the banks and drained the land. It’s good earth here now. Mrs Andrew, she once said”, he added, in an unexpectedly poetic note, “that the soil was like chocolate!” I had to take Timmis’s word for it, since for the moment I could see only frost and snow.

   “The village boys go swimming here in the summer”, he continued, “and such as have skates use it in winter. Squire Andrew, he used to shoot the wildfowl, and he loved fishing too, catching pike and tench, but since he died there’s been nowt but poachers come here”.

   We continued onwards. Further to the north, much of the land was waste: too poor to be farmed. On the drier patches there were a few miserable hovels belonging to squatters, who were tolerated because their labour might be needed at haymaking or harvest. It occurred to me how much the villagers wholly depended upon my benevolence for their mere survival.     

     On the next Sunday I attended our little church. Timmis and his wife were there, and presented to me their two children, Jack and Sarah. The girl looked about eighteen and the boy two or three years younger, and both as strong and honest-looking as their father. If Samuel Chamberlain was nervous at my presence, he did not show it, but preached a strong sermon on the Resurrection. The church was full, perhaps because the local people wished to inspect me, and the benches were insufficient for everyone, so many folk were obliged to stand throughout the service. Another of my duties would be to supply more benches. More expenses!

   One day I drove with Clifford to see the town of Bereton. We first visited the church, dedicated to Saint Luke; an old building in the Gothic style, with a square tower. Near the elaborate pulpit was a large oaken private pew with high sides, belonging to the Wilbrahim family. The floor of the nave was covered with old tiles and ancient tombstones whose inscriptions were worn illegible by the passage of feet. There were ornate memorials on the wall of the nave to Sir James Wilbrahim’s father and grandfather. On the south side of the chancel was a small side-chapel, somewhat out of repair, containing a large chest tomb on which reposed an effigy of a knight in full armour. His feet rested on a small lion of comical aspect, its head turned to snarl at whoever dared approach. His lady lay at his side. Both had been much defaced over the centuries; noses and fingers had been broken off and initials cut into the soft stone. Who were they? Clifford was only able to tell me that he believed the knight’s name was Curtis, or something like that, and that they were said to be ancestors of the Wilbrahims. He thought Mrs Andrew might have written something on the subject. I reflected on the nature of mortality: this man and his lady, surviving only as pieces of stone to be defaced by idle hands, with Clifford not even certain of their names.

      At the centre of the town was the market place, in which stood the town hall; a curious old building with pointed arches around an open area supporting a rectangular superstructure. Clifford led me up a staircase in the corner to introduce me to the Mayor: a prosperous innkeeper and churchwarden by the name of Jabez Stout, whose bulk reflected his name. When I praised the picturesque appearance of the building, he said that was all very well, but Bereton had long wanted a more commodious town hall, and hinted that a substantial contribution from me would not go amiss. I promised to do what I could. I said that the church would also benefit from restoration, to which he agreed.

   The main street of the town ran east-west, following the line of the ridge above the town. Some of the buildings on the main street were of local stone, others of wood and plaster, but few looked younger than a century in age. There were to be found the principal inns and shops: victuallers, shoemakers, drapers, purveyors of earthenware and others. There were not very many in total, and the goods on offer were meagre, but when Clifford introduced me, I made myself agreeable by purchasing a few small items I did not really need. I commissioned from a carpenter some benches for my church. There were a few beggars seated or sprawled by the roadside, displaying placards signifying they were blind or crippled, and I distributed a few coppers.

  In one side street I noticed a small place of worship, and asked Clifford about it.   

   “It is a Dissenters’ chapel,” he said, “It was torn down by rioters in the troubles of 1715, and Sir Charles Wilbrahim, Sir James’s father, who was the magistrate, refused to prosecute those responsible for the outrage. Then the new King, George I, and his Whig ministers dismissed Sir Charles from his magistery and ordered it rebuilt at the public expense. Inside you will find the royal arms of King George displayed on the wall in gratitude. Sir James and the Rector, Mr Bunbridge, both hate it, and would love to see it closed; and this was the cause of another dispute with Mr and Mrs Andrew, who supported the Dissenters.”

   Some side alleys were very mean; the crowded and tumbledown residences of landless labourers, quarrymen and suchlike poor folk. The largest butcher’s premises was most ill-situated on a slope so that in times of heavy rain all the offal and filth would be washed down into the main street. I asked Clifford why no drain had been constructed, and he replied that both the will and the cash were lacking. I suspected that I would be expected to make a contribution to both these, and probably to repairs to the church as well. Becoming a citizen of prominence would clearly not be without its costs!

  

      On one day of cold and rain, I decided to make a full investigation of the library. I discovered there a lady I had not seen before; as thin as a lath and grey in every way: grey dress, grey hair and grey face. Her attention was wholly given to a mass of old papers that covered a table, to such an extent that she did not observe my entry, and I was obliged to ask her to introduce herself and explain why she was there. Only then did she look up, and addressed me politely but without any obsequiousness.

   Her name, she informed me, was Mrs Waring; she had been for many years a friend and companion to Mrs Andrew, and on hearing that I had taken possession of the house she had taken the liberty of returning to the library to put Mrs Andrew’s papers in order. She apologised for not having first sought my permission, for she had been ill during my earlier visit. I replied that I was not in the least offended, and begged her to show me the library and its contents.

   Mrs Waring undertook the task with alacrity. She hurried from shelf to shelf on eager feet and pulled out book after book for me to inspect. It was a very extensive library and she was proud to be its custodian. I was shown that all the great works of antiquity were present, both in the original tongues and in translation; there were books in French and Italian, the works of the English poets and playwrights, histories of many countries, books on the improvement of farming and folios with engravings of birds and plants, but no novels. “Mrs Andrew considered reading novels a waste of time”, I was told.

   I asked her how she came to know my aunt. She said had been rescued from servitude as a children’s governess ten years ago and brought to the Priory to assist Mrs Andrew in the library. Mrs Andrew, she said, was a most learned lady, fluent in French and Latin and able to read Italian. She had always been a friend of my mother and had followed my education closely; and, being pleased with the reports she had received, had instructed Mr Clifford to draw up a will leaving her entire property to me.

   Mention of Clifford reminded me of the effigy of the knight I had seen in the church at Bereton, whom Clifford thought might be called Curtis, and whom my aunt might have known about. Mrs Waring was scornful at Clifford’s ignorance. “Curtis, indeed!” she exclaimed, “No, his name was Sir Everard de Courtoise, and his wife was the Lady Alice. They lived in the fourteenth century. Their descendants lived at Stanegate and bought the Priory here when Henry VIII dissolved all the monasteries in England. But the family died out in the direct male line long ago, the lands were divided between cousins as heiresses, and the Wilbrahim family obtained most of the land in this county”.

      She turned to scrabble through the shelves again, muttering to herself as she searched, and eventually located a volume of the “Gentleman’s Magazine” from ten years ago. “Here you are!” she exclaimed triumphantly, showing me an essay describing the ancient family of Courtoise, tracing their origins back to the time of Edward the First. It was signed “I.A.”

   “Mrs Andrew always signed this way. She thought it best not to mention that she was a lady. Of course, I helped her with her work.”

   I formed the distinct impression that she expected me to read the piece there and then. To avoid this, I imprudently asked, “And did Mrs Andrew write anything else?”

   “Indeed she did!” exclaimed Mrs Waring, and gleefully produced   another volume for my inspection. “Here”, she explained, “is a description of an ancient Druidic stone circle to be found on the summit of Brackenridge hill. We walked up there together one summer’s day. These are engravings of the pictures I drew of the stones. We think it must also have been used by the Romans as a lookout station.”

   I felt I had little option but to examine these, and next she opened an old wooden chest. “Mrs Andrew intended to have these displayed in a proper cabinet.” she told me, in a meaningful tone. There was a bundle of old parchment manuscripts in a script that I could not read, and below them a jumble of rusted bits of metal, shells embedded in rock, ancient coins and other rubbish. All of these I was told, had been collected on or near Brackenridge hill.

   “Mrs Andrew would ask the village children to bring her anything odd they found. She never failed to give pennies to children who brought in scraps of old broken pottery or whatever”.

  “Much of this must date from before Noah’s flood”, I commented, in an attempt to show an intelligent interest.

   “Mrs Andrew had doubts about the dating of the flood!” Mrs Waring replied in a shocked whisper, as if not wanting this blasphemy to be more widely known. 

   We then passed to the papers, which were spread out over the table, with other piles on shelves. My guide excused the muddle by explaining that the maids had swept them up hugger-mugger into heaps in the cupboards for ease of dusting, and she had yet to sort them out fully. I was shown notes on the antiquities of Bereton and a plan of the Priory in the days of the monks. I was impressed to find letters from Mr Horace Walpole, the son of the late Prime Minister, and other eminent persons. Mr Andrew remained a shadowy figure, but my estimation of my aunt continued to increase.

   Finally my attention was drawn to the ceiling of the library, which was plastered in a riot of peculiar shapes. Mrs Waring informed me that it dated from the age of Queen Elizabeth, and pointed out how dirty it was; which, being a man, I had not noticed. “Mrs Andrew was very short-sighted towards the end of her life, and could not see the cobwebs”, she complained, “I tell the maids to dust it, but they never take any notice of what I say”.

   “Then you should tell Mrs Timmis”, I suggested. But the only answer to this was a snort.

   What should I do with this peculiar specimen of femininity? I felt certain that her title of “Mrs” must have been self-awarded, since I could not imagine her as being anything other than purely virginal. I would have been justified in ordering her out of my house forthwith, before she caused me to expire with tedium. Or should I just make an excuse and flee her presence? But I did neither of these things: instead I told her that I greatly desired that she should continue her work of putting my aunt’s papers in order. Would she now accept a payment of £20 a year (a figure that I snatched from the air, remembering what the curate had been paid), plus all meals, to act as my librarian?

   Looking back on this scene, I cannot precisely account for why I made her the offer. Did I feel pity for the absurd woman? Or was I secretly hoping that she might reject the sum as an insult and flounce out in disgust? If the latter was the case, I was to be disappointed. Mrs Waring at pains to tell me that she had never been a servant: she had been a companion to Mrs Andrew and had assisted her in her researches, but had neither asked for nor accepted any payment: certainly not! Mrs Andrew had left her a small legacy, she added, placing an emphasis on the word “small”. Then, having unburdened herself after this fashion, she put up only the most taken resistance before accepting my offer. I then departed with feelings of relief, leaving her to continue her sorting of the papers. Occasionally, when the weather was bad, I would visit the library and asked Mrs Waring to find me some particular book, but was always careful to stress that I could only spare a very few minutes there. 

   I interrupted Mrs Timmis’s spring cleaning to inform her of these new arrangements. She accepted it without demur or comment, but I gained the impression that she did not greatly care for Mrs Waring. Quite likely, I reflected, Mrs Timmis viewed the librarian as useless for anything but endless talk, and Mrs Waring in her turn looked down on the housekeeper as uneducated, and hence inferior. But I had made my choice, and I would now have to try to maintain the peace in my household.

 

Chapter Five: I travel north

(It is early in the year 1761. Charles Huntingdon has inherited a country property from his aunt, and has decided to visit it) 

   I was given many dire warnings concerning the perils of travelling in winter: stories of stagecoaches overturned with passengers’ arms and legs broken, men and horses drowned in crossing swollen rivers, coachmen frozen to death on their boxes; and, even if these disasters were avoided, of journeys such as mine being prolonged to a week or more. The only hopeful aspect, I was given to understand, was that at least the bad weather might cause the numerous highwaymen who haunted the route might prefer to stay indoors.  But I was not deterred, for I was eager to inspect my new property without delay, and I also wished to escape the tiresome importunities of the duns. I had my landlady pack me some boxes of clothes and instructed her to keep my rooms vacant for when I next came to London. I discovered that the stage coaches could take me as far as Mulchester, a few miles south of Bereton, so I wrote to the Priory, my aunt’s house that was now mine, informing them of my proposed arrival there.

   The first two days of the journey northwards followed good turnpike roads and passed without incident, though could scarcely be called pleasant. The weather was cold and miserable, and the company no more cheerful. Because of the season, the only other travellers on the coach by the end of the second day were an elderly-looking man and two ladies, whom I guessed were his wife and daughter. He never introduced them, nor did I ever find out the purpose of their journey. A casual opening remark by me concerning the weather produced only a forbidding silence. I felt that the daughter at least would have enjoyed a talk, but was deterred by severe glances of her father. The man did nothing but grumble about the weather, the supposed insolence of the coachman and the quality of the inns where we halted. I soon found his company unendurable, and I was much relieved whenever we did halt at an inn and I was able to escape from his presence for a while.

   On the third day my fellow-travellers became increasingly nervous as we entered wild wooded country south of Mulchester, where the turnpike ended and the road became much rougher. This district, they told me, was the haunt of a notorious highwayman known as Black George.

   “He robbed friends of ours last year,” said the mother, “He is said to be a gentleman who would never harm a lady, but who can trust anyone in these fallen times?” Her husband said nothing, but their daughter proudly announced, “I at least have come prepared!” and produced a tiny pistol, scarcely more than a toy, which she was concealing in her muff. Her parents were as astonished as I was.

 “It’s loaded, primed and ready for use against anyone who might make an attempt on my virtue!” she declared as she waved the little weapon about, much to everyone’s alarm. I decided to abandon this grotesque family, and, the day now being cold but clear and bright, left the carriage to take a seat on the box alongside the coachman, whom I thought might prove better company.

                                                     (A small pistol for ladies)

   This proved a bad decision. There was no sign of Black George, but a few miles further on the coach almost overturned! Suddenly the front left wheel ran into what appeared to be an ice-covered puddle but proved to be a deep hole, and stuck there! Fearing the coach would overturn I leapt clear and landed on my feet in a slough of freezing mud. I escaped injury, but my shoes were full of water, my stockings soaked and my breeches splashed all over with dirt. I lost my hat and wig, and had to run to catch them before they blew away. The coach did not overturn, but remained leaning at a precarious angle, and the passengers clambered out with some difficulty. We removed the heavy luggage and the coachman contrived to quieten the horses, but setting the vehicle upright again proved beyond our joint strength, though even the old gentleman lending a reluctant hand before abandoning the attempt and retreating to redouble his grumbling. What were we to do? This would, of course, have been the golden opportunity for Black George to rob us. The older lady was understandably alarmed at the prospect, and her daughter flourished her toy firearm in all directions with great bravado, but happily there was no sign of any such person.

   I volunteered to seek help. Looking around, I fancied I could see smoke away on the left through the leafless trees and I ventured down a path in that direction, icy water squelching in my shoes at every step. Before long I discovered a tiny settlement of ruinous cottages in a clearing.

   There was nobody in sight except a small child, half-naked despite the cold, who on seeing me squawked with fear and fled inside one of the huts. From this a man appeared, holding a stout stick and with hostility written plain on his dirty and unshaven face. He challenged me in a snarling voice, but I could barely understand a word he said. He was now joined by other cottagers, men and women with their brats peering from behind them. They regarded me with suspicion as I endeavoured to explain the disaster that had befallen our coach, and the need for assistance in righting it. I promised money if they would come to our assistance, at which they held a brief consultation together. I wondered whether they were deciding whether it might be less arduous to knock me down and rob me of everything I possessed, but maybe my scarecrow-like appearance suggested that such a course was not worth the effort for the meagre rewards it might bring. As it was, a few of the men agreed to come to our aid.

  Righting the coach proved no easy task, though the hole proved to be less than knee deep, but by much labour, accompanied by not a few rustic oaths, we achieved our task, and the coach happily proved to be undamaged. Our helpers were then thanked and rewarded as promised, mostly from my purse; for the old gentleman harrumphed at what he regarded as excessive generosity and showed a great reluctance in parting with a few small coins for our rescuers. Any moralist, I thought, would have been gratified to discover that these cottagers, although sunk in poverty, had nonetheless behaved so helpfully towards strangers.

   I clambered back inside the coach and was now shivering violently, but the ladies made a great fuss of me, hailing me as a hero and insisting on draping me with their cloaks lest I should catch my death of cold. The daughter mopped out my shoes with her shawl, but her proposal to rub my frozen feet back to warmth was vetoed by her parents. Mother and daughter demanded that we stopped at the next inn we encountered, a squalid place where with some difficulty I was able to obtain hot water to wash and to change into fresh clothes from my boxes. All this took time, during which interval my gentleman fellow-traveller complained loudly about the very poor quality of the wine he was sold; though in that matter I would concede that he had justification.

  At least the delay enabled us to recover our spirits, which had been much shaken by our near-disaster, and we reached Mulchester late that afternoon without further incident.

(The coach overturns, by Thomas Rowlandson)

   This proved to be a large and bustling sort of town. I was obliged to alight here, for the coach would now proceed eastwards, whereas Bereton lay a few miles to the north. I accordingly had my boxes unloaded at the sign of the Duke of Buckingham and took a seat inside, ordering beer and victuals to revive me after my journey.    

   I now met with a severe disappointment, for I was informed by a waiter that coach services to Bereton were very irregular; none would be running this day or the next. I said that in that case I would need a room for the night; at which he shook his head sadly and said that all were likely to be already taken.

  I approached the landlord. My untidy appearance following my recent misadventures doubtless told against me, and his initial response was haughty and unhelpful. However, when I informed him that I was the heir to the Andrew property and had come to inspect my inheritance, he suddenly became vastly obliging: bowing and rubbing his hands together in an ingratiating manner, he told me that he had lived in the town for his entire life and that he had known Mrs Andrew well. He was loud in her praise, laying particular emphasis on her generosity to the Mulchester tradesmen. I wondered how much of this was true: his implication that I ought to be equally free in spending my money being quite transparent. More usefully, he told me that my new home, the Priory, was well known in the district; lying less than half an hour’s ride to the west of Bereton, and he insisted on despatching a man forthwith to bear a message that I had arrived and was anxious to view my new home.

   When I indicated that I wished to spend the night at the inn while I awaited a reply, he swept aside the discouraging information given me by the waiter, and after much rousting around of his servants a room was duly found: “The very best room!” he proclaimed proudly. He volunteered to show me up there himself, expressing the hope that he could count upon my patronage in the years to come. I considered the price I was charged excessive, but saw no point in arguing about it. Afterwards I wondered if some unfortunate traveller of less importance had been summarily evicted to make space for the new arrival, or whether I had simply not appeared rich enough to merit a favourable response.

  I did not sleep well that night, though the bedsheets and blankets were at least clean, the floor must have been swept fairly recently and there were not too many cobwebs in the corners. A fire had been lit in the small grate and the windows shut tight against the cold, so the room was in consequence not cold but instead was stuffy and airless, and a strange smell pervaded the place. I wondered, was this really the best room? Or was the landlord not convinced that I was who I claimed to be, and had accordingly placed me in one of the lesser rooms? I did not unpack my boxes, but lay in the shirt and breeches in which I had travelled after my accident. My mind rolled round endlessly in anticipation of seeing the Priory, which was now so close. What would I find there? How should I behave towards my new servants and neighbours? But at some point I must have dozed off, and was awakened by the noise of carts moving in the yard outside.

 

   Towards noon that day a waiter conducted to me a small, neat man, quick in his movements, who politely asked me if I was Mr Huntingdon. On my confirming that this was indeed the case, he introduced himself as Martin Clifford, my late aunt’s attorney. He was eager to make a good impression, but was nervous, and in consequence talked much too rapidly at the start. I let him rattle on, until after a while he was happy to accept my assurance that I would trust him and treat him as an advisor and friend. The landlord now appeared bringing a bottle of wine and a pie, and then hovered in the background trying to hear what we were saying. I found this annoying, but Clifford, who must have known him well, ignored him.

  Clifford hoped I had had a comfortable journey. The tale of our adventures in the stagecoach caused him to shake his head sadly at the perils of winter travel. Black George, I learnt, was a very real threat to travellers on the route we had travelled. At the same time, he assured me, the staff at the Priory, and indeed all the people of Bereton, would be proud and delighted that I had gone to all this trouble to visit them. Since my aunt’s death, he said, the house had been left in the care of her housekeeper, Mrs Timmis, whose brother Ned was a prosperous tenant farmer on the estate. They, together with Clifford himself, had looked after Mrs Andrew’s affairs during the illness of her final years and after her death. He would be happy to discuss with me the state of the finances whenever I should wish, and he trusted I would find everything in order.

  I asked him about the history of the family, but he said that I would find all the detail I needed from my aunt’s papers, for she was a great antiquary. Her late husband, Mr Paul Andrew, had been the last of his line, and my mother and her husband were the only members of Mrs Andrew’s family who had produced offspring, thus leaving me as the heir.  

  “Mr Andrew died a dozen years ago, having been sick for some time before that. In his will he left everything to his widow, and then to go to whomsoever she should choose. She watched over your education and always intended that you should inherit the Priory. A number of hopeful gentlemen sought to marry her, for she was rich and had no children of her own, but she wouldn’t have any of them! She was a very independent lady.”

   He now asked me what I might wish to know concerning the town of Bereton and its people. I laughingly replied that I was already confused by the pronunciation of its name, for I had noticed that some said “Beerton” while others said “Berraton”: which was more correct? Clifford, who by now felt more at ease in my presence, replied with great mock solemnity that this was a matter of the utmost controversy, causing divisions as deep and hostile as those in the past between Jacobites and Hanoverians, but that he personally preferred the latter pronunciation. I might even have discovered, he added in shocked tones, that the town was sometimes named as “Beht’n”, but this deplorable usage was limited to the common people here in Mulchester. 

  Mention of Jacobites led me to recount how I had been told that one of Bereton’s Members of Parliament, Sir James Wilbrahim, was a notorious Jacobite. Clifford replied cautiously. Sir James, he said, was the most prominent gentleman in these parts, and well-respected; a Member of Parliament like his father and grandfather before him, but was now something of a recluse: a widower for many years past, living with his daughter and a few old servants at his home of Stanegate Hall to the east of the town and seldom travelling to London. He suggested that I should write to Sir James informing him that I had come to claim my inheritance, and I might then be invited to visit Stanegate, where I could judge things for myself.

  “For my part,” he said, “I have avoided asking too many questions concerning certain unfortunate past events, since feelings still run strongly around here, and, if I may say so, I would advise you to do the same, at least until you are better acquainted with the district and its people.” I nodded, and promised to follow this advice. I then said that after the noise and endless turmoil of London I was looking forward to living a life of bucolic peace and quiet, in a village where the events of the outer world never intruded, to which he replied that this was true at the moment, but it was impossible to predict the future.

 

  Outside the inn we mounted a trap drawn by a pair of horses, where there was just sufficient room for the two of us and my boxes. Clifford said that this equipage had belonged to my aunt, and hoped that I would pardon him for having used it after her death and without my permission. A silent man named Henry drove us.

  We set off northwards. After a while a long low hill loomed up ahead of us in the dim winter light. Its summit was invisible through the heavy cloud and its steep lower slopes were covered in a tangle of trees and undergrowth, leafless and gloomy. Clifford explained this was named Brackenridge on the maps, but locals called it simply “the hill”. The town of Bereton was situated below its southern flank. Brackenridge had for uncounted ages been quarried for its stone, and once there had been copper mines running deep into the lower slopes, in consequence of which Bereton had in former times been a town of importance. But the mines had long been abandoned, and many of the quarries too, so the town as a result had decayed, whereas Mulchester had grown.

   We did not follow the road into Bereton, but turned left on a drovers’ track which led to the village of Bearsclough, just beyond the western end of the ridge, where I would find my new home. We drove beneath the southern face of the hill. The track was narrow: at some points sheer rock faces loomed above us on the right, and at others we appeared to be on the floor of a narrow valley, where the rocks and earth on either side were held in place by the roots of ancient trees. I could see hardly anything from the single lantern we carried, but our horses and driver must have known the way even in the dark.  It was very cold and a steady sleet began to fall. The canvas serving as a roof to the carriage was flimsy, and I was shaken by the rough track. This was hardly the best introduction to country life at my new home!

                                                  (The path to Bearsclough in summer)

At last we left the ridge behind us and came to open fields. It was less dark once out from under the trees, and soon we passed a cluster of cottages which was the village of Bearsclough. Then we drove through a gateway and along a gravel drive to a large stone building. I had reached the Priory, and I was its new owner! Someone had heard our approach, for a door was flung open and two servants rushed out to unload my luggage.

   I was welcomed at the door by a large woman, broad rather than tall, with a formidably ample bosom. Her eyes were bright and shrewd, her skin was clear, and her hair, which was mostly contained under a white mob-cap, was brown. I judged her to be about forty or fifty years old. Clifford introduced her as Mrs Timmis, the housekeeper. She must have been nervous at meeting her new master for the first time, for she was constantly rubbing her hands on her apron, which despite this treatment remained a virginal spotless white. But her voice was steady as she welcomed me to my new home, and hoped that my journey had gone well and that I would find everything in order. I attempted to set her at her ease by saying that I was greatly looking forward to residing at the Priory. 

   Clifford now bade me goodbye, declining my invitation to stay longer and saying that his own home was not far away and he wished to reach it without delay since the weather was getting worse. He told Henry to fetch his own horse and he then departed, promising to return in a day or so to acquaint me with the accounts of the estate.

 

  My coat was taken and I was conducted into the parlour, where a fire blazed in a vast hearth of grey stone. I sat in a chair before it and asked for a bowl of hot water to wash my face and hands, and then for tea. These were swiftly brought, following which the servants were lined up to be presented to me. There were half a dozen indoor servants, mostly women and girls, as well as two gardeners, the silent Henry as stableman, and various boys who helped them. They all appeared neat and clean, and bowed or curtsied in a most respectful manner. They were all here to serve me! I briefly addressed them all, but it was Mrs Timmis who then gave them their orders, which they scurried away to fulfil. The cook and her assistants returned to the kitchen to prepare a dinner for me, and two maids were despatched to unpack my boxes.

   “I expect you’ll be wanting to take on servants of your own”, said Mrs Timmis cautiously.

  I assured her that I was perfectly satisfied with what I had seen. indeed, I felt immediately at home, and was enjoying my first experience of being the master of a household. A little later she approached me in an apologetic manner.

   “You don’t seem to have brought no dressing gown, sir”, she ventured, “and I’m afraid this is the only one in the house. It belonged to the old master, sir”.

  She produced a long garment of heavy quilted cotton, embroidered with Indian designs. I said it would do very well, and after my coat and waistcoat were taken away to be brushed, I allowed her to help me put it on. Standing in front of a mirror, wearing Mr Andrew’s old gown, I turned from side to side admiring myself in the glass and felt very much the new master of the house. It was in this manner that I was approached by a maid to tell me that dinner was ready.

  I found a long oak table set with English blue and white earthenware, which seemed more suitable for the occasion than Lord Teesdale’s delicate foreign porcelain. I was served a collar of brawn with bottled mushrooms and vegetables, followed by an apple pie and cheese, together with good ale from a barrel. Mrs Timmis proudly informed me that all this produce came from my own farms, supervised since the death of Mrs Andrew by her brother Ned, whilst at the same time apologising that the fare should be far inferior to what I was accustomed to in London. I said, quite truthfully, it was very good. I desired that she should sit at the table and talk with me; which however she politely but firmly declined to do, preferring to remain standing. She was never still; always talking or bustling about, and usually both together.

  I resolved to use Mrs Timmis as a source for all future knowledge of the town of Bereton and the country around; but for the present I found I could barely keep my eyes open, and despite the fact that it was still early evening, directly I had finished the meal I asked to be shown to my bedroom.

  Mrs Timmis took a candle and herself conducted me up the stairs to a room above where I had dined, still talking. “I hope you won’t object, sir”, she said, “but I’ve taken the liberty of making up the bed that the mistress died in; for it’s the best bed in the house. I can have a bed made up elsewhere if you prefer”. I assured her that there was no need to go to such trouble. She lit me a candle from the one she carried, asked me whether I needed a servant to help me undress, and on being assured that this would not be necessary, pointed out a bell I could ring to call a servant at any time, and finally departed.

  I scarcely examined the bed before collapsing into it. My first night as a country gentleman in my own house! The bed, though old, was a good one; soft and comfortable, with a mahogany frame supporting heavy blue damask curtains. I was tired, but very happy. The privations of the journey had been a price well worth paying to achieve this satisfaction. I soon drifted into sleep.

 

Chapter Four: I encounter a French lady

 (Charles Huntingdon is in London to claim his inheritance, and has met the Earl of Teesdale, the father of his friend Lord Staines)

  The next time I met Lord Staines he told me that his father had liked me very much, and that I might expect future invitations from him. Lord Teesdale, he said, was deeply interested in the General Election that would be held in the spring, and now that I was a man of property, he would be seeking to know how I would intend to use my influence in the borough of Bereton. This prophecy proved to be correct, and I was invited to Teesdale House twice more in the coming weeks, when his lordship was pleased to discuss with me my new prospects, the political situation, the chance of a peace treaty in the coming year and other matters.

                                 (An English nobleman; mid-18th century) 

    Being thus forewarned, and conscious of my ignorance of these great matters of state, I read as much as I could concerning them, and every day discussed the newspapers with the gentlemen at the club; and in consequence, I hoped I was then able to converse with Lord Teesdale in an intelligent fashion. I was careful to ask his advice on all points, and to defend my own opinions whilst at the same time being respectful of his. He appeared satisfied with my approach, and encouraged me in any political ambitions I might hold. When I reported that settling my aunt’s estate was taking a prodigious amount of time, and that there appeared little chance of it being effected before the election, and cautiously mentioned that his son had suggested that I might seek the aid of his lawyers, he smiled and rang a bell and gave instructions to the footman who immediately appeared. Before long a sharp-faced man dressed in black like a cleric was shown into the room.

   “This is Oswald Jarrett”, Lord Teesdale told me. “He has worked for me for many years. He has the entire direction of my affairs, and I have the utmost confidence that he will infallibly unravel any problems you may have with your inheritance.” Jarrett bowed slightly without ever taking his eyes off my face. I outlined my situation briefly, he asked one or two questions and then departed.

   “There!” said Lord Teesdale, “Now there will be no doubt but that the property will shortly be in your hands. I do not always enquire how Jarrett achieves his results, but achieve them he does, and quickly too!”

    I said that we had not discussed any fees, but he brushed this aside, and soon afterwards I departed, feeling more confident.

 

   One of these discussions with Lord Teesdale continued until very late in the evening. He was kind enough to serve me his best wine, which I consumed with pleasure; the result being that I eventually left, I felt exhilarated and happy rather than tired. I declined offers of a link-boy with a lantern to guide me home, and instead decided to take a night-time walk.

   I had not proceeded very far when I was approached by a woman. My adventures with Lord Staines and his friends had accustomed me to such incidents, which we would usually ignore or dismiss with some jesting remark, but this woman was different. She was well-dressed and well-spoken, and her accent showed that she was French. I entered into conversation with her, and being in a happy mood, put my arm around her, which she did not resist.

  She suggested I should accompany her to a nearby tavern. It was a clean and respectable-looking place, and the gin we drank was good.  She said she had noticed me leaving Teesdale House and asked me whether I was a frequent guest there; and she appeared very interested when I described how I had been discussing the current political situation with the Earl. I felt greatly flattered as she sought more information, and could not resist making myself appear a person of importance by recounting how I had met the great Mr Fox at a dinner there. While we talked she pressed herself closely to me and hinted that she was entirely at my service for the night.

   I wondered what to do next, and where to go. I thought I could hardly bring her back to my lodgings under the eye of my ever-vigilant landlady, and instead allowed her to conduct me to a nearby house.

    This was to be my initiation into the higher mysteries of love. She was older than me, and vastly more experienced. Probably she found my efforts clumsy, but she contrived to sound thoroughly aroused, moaning and gasping both in French and English and constantly urging me onwards, until I was exhausted by our exertions and fell asleep.

 

…………………………………………………………………

 

   When I awoke I was alone. Only one candle remained lit, and it was a mere stump, guttering on its side. I guessed an hour or more must have passed. I hastened to light more candles from it and looked around the room. Not only had my companion in love disappeared, but so had my snuffbox, watch and purse!

   I resolved to leave directly, lest worse befall. I found my cane lying in a corner: It was not much of a weapon in an emergency, but I had no other, for I had come without my sword. I dressed as silently as I could, and felt my way on tiptoe down the stairs in the darkness. I was greatly relieved, though surprised, to find the main door unbarred and the key left in the lock. I could not account for this most fortunate laxity other than by the probability that the French lady had departed in haste with my stolen property.

   I attempted to open the door silently, but it made a creaking noise that sounded alarmingly loud to my nervous ears. I paused, and it was well I did so, for I then heard a pitter-patter of footsteps approaching. I withdrew to a dark corner, grasped my cane firmly and prayed I would not have to battle my way to freedom.

   A little kitchen-maid entered; barefoot and raggedly-dressed, and looking no more than ten years old. She was no danger in herself, but what if she screamed and wakened the entire house? I grabbed her from behind, lifted her up and clamped my hat over her face to muffle any cries she might make.

   “Now, my dear”, I whispered, “I mean you no ill, and if you keep silent, you will come to no harm. I am no housebreaker or burglar: indeed, I have myself been robbed and I am trying to escape. Keep silent and let me leave, and you shall have sixpence. Do you understand?” She did not cry out, but kicked back with her heels and succeeded in catching me a blow in a private area, so it was only with great difficulty that I avoided crying out with pain.

   It was no easy job to open the door while keeping hold of my cane and the child with the hat covering her face, but I contrived to force it with my foot until there was a gap wide enough for us to pass through. Outside it was dark and very cold; rain had been falling and the filthy stones underfoot were slippery. I walked round a corner out of sight of the house, then removed my hat from the little maid’s face. She was very angry but not tearful; indeed, she now turned her head to spit at me.

   “Don’t do that, my dear!” I said gently. “I fear I cannot give you the promised sixpence, for the French lady has stolen my purse. Never mind: instead you may keep my hat, which I can assure you is worth far more than sixpence. Why don’t you now run off to take it to the place where my stolen property has gone? I’m sure you know where it is! Oh, and one more thing you can do for me. Please be good enough to indicate the way to the region of this city where the richer people live."

   She took hold of the hat and looked at me. For a moment she gave me the ghost of a smile and waved a direction with her right arm. Then she turned and ran, not back into the house but away barefoot across the cobbles and disappeared round a corner, no doubt bound for where the receiver of stolen goods plied his trade. I never saw her again. It occurred to me that if she was given a good wash and had her hair combed, she would be as pretty as many a girl I had seen in the better parts of our capital. I was suddenly filled with pity for her, condemned to a wretched life without love or guidance and with only curses and beatings to look forward to. I hope that the poor child escaped being hanged for her thieving. I resolved that, when I was able to afford servants of my own, I would treat them humanely.

 

                                 (Old houses in 18th century London)

   I had no notion of where I was in the town, and I wandered for what seemed like many hours through the cold and wet, keeping always to the wider streets with only a feeble moon to light my way, until at last the sky began to brighten in the east and I found myself in a district I knew. I must have looked a sad sight to the tradesmen who were now stirring. When I finally regained my lodgings my landlady was already up and admitted me without comment, though my appearance, dishevelled, soaked with rain and bareheaded (for I had somehow lost my wig during my adventure) must have confirmed any views she might have held concerning the dissolute habits of young gentlemen. But I cared nothing for that at the time as I collapsed on my bed fully clothed, and slept for a long time.

 

   For some time afterwards, I feared the onset of the pox, though happily nothing ensued: I deemed that I had enjoyed a fortunate escape, and had learned a lesson well worth the cost of my stolen property. I could not help feeling sorry for my paramour: it was sad that a person of such evident qualities (for she spoke English fluently, and with much refinement) should have sunk so low.

   I had thought it best not to mention of my adventure to anyone, but found I could not resist telling Henry Darnwell, whom I thought would be most likely to understand, that I had passed a night with a certain French lady.

   “Oh, la belle Danielle, was it?” he laughed. “Well, you could have done worse! You are now entitled to join the by-no-means-exclusive society of her admirers. As for the membership fee you will have paid: I think you may avoid the pox with her, though you may have found that it cost you your purse, or other small personal items, for the adventure!” I admitted ruefully that this was indeed the case. He laughed again, and then added, “We tried to persuade Staines to take her on, but he refused. I believe the experience could have been greatly to his benefit.” 

     My adventure determined me to resume my life of continence; at least for the moment. As for the fair Danielle, I was to meet her again, years later, and in very different surroundings.

 

     Despite my avoidance of gaming, I now found myself in perplexing financial difficulties. Duns were appearing at my door almost daily, demanding with increasing insolence payment for debts, many of which I had no memory of incurring; while at the same time the bankers refused to increase my allowance until my aunt’s estate was finally settled. I was obliged to replace the items I had had stolen, which resulted in yet more debt. My friends laughed at my plight, explaining that, although honour demanded the prompt settlement of gaming debts, no gentleman ever paid his tailor until many months, or even years, had passed. Lord Staines said that he always ignored the duns: he was resolved to pay all his debts, but not yet. He hoped shortly to be returned as a Member of Parliament, which would render him immune to arrest for debt, and he advised me to seek the same course.

   Lacking this means of escaping my creditors I sought to stave off the tide for a while by selling certain items of clothing and other fripperies to cover some of the bills. I prayed that my new friends did not learn of this! I was glad that Staines had not persuaded me to change my lodgings for somewhere more fashionable and expensive, and as a further measure of economy, I reduced the frequency of my nocturnal wanderings.

 

   It was not until more weeks had passed that the lawyers, presumably hastened in their labours by Jarrett, finally assured me that all legal matters had been settled and that I was at last the proud owner of a house known as the Priory in the manor of Bearsclough close by the ancient borough of Bereton. My new life was about to begin! I resolved to waste no more time in London, but set out immediately. I said farewell to my friends, promising to return as soon as I was sure that my affairs in the country were in order. Staines congratulated me, and gave me the benefit of his advice on how to proceed when I entered my future home.

    “You have never been the master of a large number of servants, have you?Well, they will all be watching you, and assessing you. You must impose yourself upon them from the very first day. Describe precisely how you wish things to be done, and be sure to find some fault, no matter how small it might seem. Let them know from the start that you will not tolerate any disobedience or slackness in the performance of their duties. Set strict rules, and do not hesitate to dismiss instantly the first who breaks them. By this means you will ensure yourself a manageable household. Otherwise you will awake one morning and discover they have become insolent in their manner, or are even stealing from you.”

   I said I would bear this in mind. 

 .

Chapter Three: A grand dinner

 

(It is early in the year 1761. Charles Hutchinson, in London to establish his inheritance of his aunt's property, has become the friend of Lord Staines, the son of the Earl of Teesdale)

  As Lord Staines had indicated, it was not long before I received an invitation to dine with the Earl of Teesdale, at the great house he had recently built on Piccadilly. I donned my best clothes and around four o’clock walked the short distance there from my lodgings. I found a numerous party assembling, and was glad that I was in the company of other guests, for I was feeling extremely nervous as I crossed the broad courtyard.

                                      (Burlington House, London) 

   It was much the grandest mansion I had ever entered. The door was guarded by two giant footmen, immaculately dressed and exactly matched in size as well as livery; even the colour of their eyes being a similar brown. My hat and stick were taken by a hall porter in a red coat, after which a page-boy conducted me across the hall and up a splendid marble staircase where the walls were hung with paintings of immense size, to the saloon, where the guests were greeted by Lord and Lady Teesdale.

   Lord Staines introduced me to his father. The Earl was taller and heavier in build than his son, and his suit was plain and sober in colour, as befitting a gentleman of his age and dignity. He examined me closely with his deep-set dark eyes, and asked me about my inheritance of Mrs Andrew’s property in Bereton, of which he appeared well-informed. By his side, the Countess, a tiny, birdlike lady said scarcely a word. I thought she looked melancholy, though she returned my bow and nervous thanks for the invitation with a smile. Lord Staines, I reflected, resembled his mother more than he did his father, and their eyes were identical.

   They then turned to welcome another guest, and I followed Staines across the saloon. The walls were a deep red, the better to show off the gold gesso frames of the numerous paintings, which were being inspected and admired by the guests. Staines pointed to his father’s portrait by Reynolds, and then to a Raphael Madonna, telling an amusing story about how his father had obtained it in Florence. One lady said it was so lovely that it could convert even the firmest Protestant to Popery and idolatry. Further on we stopped to admire a painting, which I was told was by Canaletto, of a view across the Thames towards Saint Paul’s. Feeling that I should make a contribution to the discussion, I rashly intervened to say that we were all familiar with that view, and that the artist had by no means portrayed it accurately. Staines forthwith crushed me by saying that Canaletto was striving to portray an epitome or ideal rather than an accurate representation such as an inferior artist might have produced, and implied that my criticism was childish in the extreme.

  I felt ashamed to have opened my mouth, but when the party had moved on an elderly gentleman who had observed my distress took me aside and advised me not to take the matter to heart.

   “I have known the family all my life”, he said, “And I can tell you that Lord Staines has always behaved like that; desiring ever to be the centre of attention, even at the expense of someone else.”

   I said that I could not understand why Staines had procured my invitation to the dinner only to humiliate me, at which the gentleman replied that I was quite wrong in assuming that the invitation had come from Lord Staines: it would have come from the Earl himself.

   “Lord Teesdale would have heard that you were a friend of his son, and wished to examine you closely, and the fact that, as I have heard, you have inherited property near some of his lands would be of added interest. This is especially the case since a General Election will be held in the spring, and his lordship would wish for someone well-disposed towards him to be elected for Bereton. I trust that you have passed the initial tests: if so, expect to be questioned further!”

  Returning to the question of the paintings, he then whispered that in his opinion the Madonna was no Raphael, but merely an imitation; but that under no circumstances would he reveal this to Lord Staines. I asked him then whether Lord Teesdale, whom I assumed to be a man of great natural astuteness, had allowed himself to be cozened by a dishonest Italian dealer.

   “Such things are possible”, he told me, “But, when all is said and done, who cares whether Raphael painted it? It is a most delicate and beautiful picture, whether or not it came from the brush of the master. Perhaps the Earl thought the same?”

   I was much cheered up by this, and then drifted to join the fringes of another group, whose members all many years older than me, where I said nothing and was ignored as they discussed the landscape paintings. Lady Teesdale, I found, loved such pictures; and I listened to the talk of how to distinguish a Poussin from a Claud Lorrain, and both from a Salvador Rosa. So the time passed instructively until the hour for dinner.

 

                                       (Claude Lorrain: Pastoral landscape)    

    As dinner-time approached I feared that my lack of experience might betray me into doing something foolish; but good fortune came to my rescue. We were to be seated in what my parents would have considered a promiscuous fashion, with men and women placed alternately; and I was asked to escort a lady named Mrs Newstead who had come unaccompanied, her husband being at present abroad. I was apprehensive, for she was undoubtedly several years older than me and her cheeks had been well supplied with paint and powder; but anything that might have been artificial in her appearance was quickly atoned for by her smile and her alluring dark blue eyes, which suggested mischief. She was tall and slender, with her height accentuated by her hair, powdered a delicate pale grey, being stacked high on her head and crowned with a single ostrich plume.  

   Her manner was charming. She spoke to me in the most friendly manner, telling me that her name was Elizabeth, and that her husband was out in Madras. I asked whether he was an army officer, and she replied no: he had been for several years high in the East India Company and had acquired considerable wealth.

  She sensed my unease at the table and politely enquired whether I had ever dined with such a gathering. When I admitted that I was indeed a novice, and she discovered that I did not even know the correct way to hold a wineglass, let alone how to order wine or how to approach the different dishes, she did not mock me but at once took me in charge. I followed her instructions gratefully; for after my experience with the pictures I had no desire to expose myself to further ridicule.

   I was asked how I came to be at the dinner. I explained that I had only recently come to London when by chance I had encountered Lord Staines; that I had known him slightly at our college in Cambridge and was surprised that he remembered me.

   "Ah, but Staines always likes handsome young men!" she replied, with a smile.

   What can I say about the food? We were served several courses, each having an enormous number of dishes with elaborate sauces, for the Earl employed a French cook. There was lamb and beef and venison, a fine turbot done in such a fashion that it was scarce recognisable as a fish, a dish of sweetbreads, a side of veal, a goose pie, many ragouts of vegetables and so on in vast profusion. I was much struck by a creation in the shape of a hedgehog, manufactured of eggs and cream and stuck with quills of almonds. As we ate, Elizabeth amused me with gossip a concerning the other guests, all of whom she seemed to know well. I learnt that some men were of substance; some were amusing but otherwise not to be relied upon, particularly where money was concerned; others were rich but otherwise of little significance. Throughout the meal, the gentleman seated the other side of my companion, and whose name I have forgotten, held forth with the appearance of great wit on books, and the theatre, and politics and everything else under the sun. I could not compete with his genius, and contributed little to the conversation. Elizabeth approved of my taciturnity, whispering that this man was considered a figure of fun whose understanding was far less than he thought.

   “It is much better”, she said, to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool and to open it and prove that you are!” Bearing in mind my blunder with the paintings, I thought this sound advice.

  “There are many others who are far worthier of your attention,” she told me. “If you are serious about making your way in the world, as I think you are, I can point out certain people whom you must meet. Do you see the gentleman over there with the heavy eyebrows? He is Henry Fox: a man of importance in the present ministry. He handles the money that pay for the war, and it is said that much of it contrives to stick to his fingers. But he is learned, charming, and loyal to his friends. You would be wise to cultivate him.”

                                                 (Henry Fox) 

   She told me the story of how, years ago, Fox caused a great scandal when he had eloped with Lady Caroline Lennox, the daughter of the Duke of Richmond, who was only half his age.

   “And is she here?” I asked.

   “Yes: there she sits. It is said to be the happiest of marriages. She is descended from one of King Charles the Second’s many bastards, so their sons have royal blood in their veins”.

  I did not mention that I had already heard of Mr Fox’s reputation, but said I had encountered his sons, Stephen and Charles, and now noticed how much the younger boy resembled his father.

   “No doubt they would have been in some gaming-house!” she laughed. "They lose vast sums, and their father pays it all!”

   I asked whether Mr William Pitt was ever present at these dinners, since I greatly admired him and would dearly love to meet him, but Elizabeth said he but rarely came to such functions.

   “He works prodigiously hard planning the war, the whole burden of which rests upon his shoulders, and must in the end prove injurious to his wellbeing. All the world knows that in the past his health has often been poor. When he is not at his desk he prefers to be at home with his family. His wife presented him with another son just last year, and he is said to dote on the child.

   “And, indeed," she continued, “Should you meet Pitt on such an occasion as this, you might find his manner disgusting, for he is always cold and stiff in company, and it is only with his intimate friends that he is relaxed and natural. It is best that you should wait until you hear him speak in the Parliament, for then you will recognise his greatness."

(William Pitt the elder: later Earl of Chatham)

   “And what of my host, the Earl of Teesdale?” I asked. “Should I cultivate him?”

   “Yes, of course. And not only him, but also the Countess, who is a most delightful lady and a particular friend of mine. But I would advise you not to stress too much your friendship with his son. There is a certain coolness there.”

   She would say no more on this subject, but I observed Lord Teesdale carefully. He appeared a person of great natural authority, to whom many others would look for leadership. He presided over the dinner with dignity, making judicious interventions in the conversation, and all his guests were most respectful towards him.  I do not recall that his Countess ever opened her mouth.

 

   After some two hours of eating, the ladies left us, snuff was passed around, pipes were lit and conversation around the table grew more animated, often salacious, fuelled by immense quantities of wine, brandy and port.

   Mr Fox addressed himself to the company and praised our new young King, George III, who, he said, was proud of having been born and raised in England, unlike his father and grandfather, and was zealous for the good of his country. He, Fox, expected the new reign to be an age of peace both at home and abroad. One gentleman asked whether a Scotch nobleman, the Earl of Bute, who was said to be the King’s particular friend, should now be brought into the ministry. Mr Fox replied that it was natural that His Majesty should wish to have his friends close to him, but that he was certain that the present ministers would continue in office, and that reports of disputes between Lord Bute and Mr Pitt were without foundation.                                        Mr Fox was without doubt a consummate politician, talking genially whilst revealing nothing of importance; but another face of him was seen when he gentleman who had been speaking so volubly near me intervened with, “People say that Lord Bute and the King’s mother, the Princess Augusta ….” Mr Fox turned on him and silenced him with no more than a raising of his dark eyebrows.

   “The rabble say a great many wild and foolish things, sir!” he pronounced severely, “A man of sense ignores them.”

   Many gentlemen exclaimed “Hear, hear!” and the other shrank back in his seat, muttering to himself. Lord Teesdale eased the awkward moment by jesting that it should now be the prime duty of all the ministers to find our young King a wife. Mr Fox replied with a smile that this vital matter was indeed in hand, and that without doubt we would soon see a Protestant princess who was worthy of our new monarch and our great country. The company all rose to drink a toast to that.

   The Earl was kind enough to introduce me to Mr Fox, who spoke to me in a most obliging manner; enquiring as to my prospects and my hopes for the future. Lord Teesdale commended the manner in which my aunt had used her influence in Bereton at the last election in 1754, as a result of which his friend Mr Bailey, a firm supporter of the ministry, had been returned as one of the two Members of Parliament for the borough. Mr Fox trusted that I would maintain the same course at the General Election that would shortly be called. I made some modest reply and silently hoped that I made a good impression on the great man: there were questions I would have liked to ask him, but remembering Elizabeth’s advice, thought it best to hold my peace. The discovery that I might now be a person of political influence was a circumstance that had not previously occurred to me.

  Eventually we retired to another room, where we joined the ladies. I was reunited with Elizabeth, who chided me teasingly for keeping her waiting so long. This room had painted Chinese wallpaper and was furnished with delicate chairs and small tables in the Chinese style. A quartet of musicians played softly at the end of the room. Tea and coffee were served and cards played, the game being called Ombre. I was obliged to confess that I did not know how to play, for unlike Faro, which was an extremely simple game, this appeared absurdly complicated. Elizabeth, adopting a mockingly censorious tone, said she was shocked that I was not familiar with the description of the game in Pope’s celebrated poem “The Rape of the Lock”, and that she could see that my education had been sadly neglected. I protested that I had read the poem, but had never imagined that I would be called upon to play the game in such exalted company. She laughed and said I would soon learn.

   She led me to a table where a gentleman in a suit of grey silk was at play. “His name is Geoffrey Fortran,” she told me, “And you must watch what he does, for he is a most excellent player, and has won considerable sums at cards. But do not play with him under any other circumstances, for he is also a most notorious cheat! But even he would not dare practice his deceptions under Lord Teesdale’s roof.”

   “I fancy I might have seen him before,” I said, “For I am sure he was one of the men who, that night at the club where I saw the Fox boys, begged me to play cards with him; a request that I declined.” Elizabeth laughed again and said that was very wise of me.

   So we sat behind Mr Fortran’s chair, with Elizabeth leaning very close to me and laying her hand on my sleeve as she commented on which cards he played. “Now he will lead Pam!” she whispered in my ear, meaning the knave of clubs, which was indeed the case. After a while she considered I was able to cope with the demands of the game, and led me to another table where there was a vacant seat. It did not take me long to discover that my fellow-guests there either knew little more about the game than I did or were notably careless in their play, so in the end I won a small quantity of money.

   We left the card tables to drink coffee and eat little cakes, and Elizabeth and I talked some more. She asked me how I liked London. I replied that at first I had found it strange and overwhelming and there was much that I still found shocking: the noise, the smells, the vast crowds and the poverty I saw on all sides, but with the help of Lord Staines and his friends I was becoming more accustomed to town life. She said that she had once felt the same herself, for she had been born a country girl, but now she could not imagine herself living anywhere other than in London.

  It was well after midnight that the party broke up. Carriages and sedan chairs came to the door, and I prepared to leave. Elizabeth professed to be deeply shocked when I told her I had walked from my lodgings, and now I proposed to walk back there.

   “No person of quality ever walks at night!” she chided me. “You must take a carriage or a chair! You would be fortunate if the mob did not find you, and throw filth over your best clothes, or worse!” If I was determined to walk, then at the very least, she said, I must tell a servant to find a boy with a torch to light me home. Wishing to appear brave, I thanked her but said it would not be necessary. I kissed her hand most gallantly, saying that I greatly hoped to see more of her in the future, at which she smiled and said it would be delightful. I then strode out into the night, thinking that, apart from the playing of cards, there was much she could teach me that was likely to prove vastly more entertaining.

   It was no great distance to my lodgings, but I quickly understood the value of a carriage or chair, for it was raining hard. I was soon very cold, and my best hat and coat had sustained considerable damage, but at least the bad weather kept the footpads away.

   It was only after I had safely negotiated the dark streets and was resting in bed for what remained of the night, that I realised that I had neglected to obtain Elizabeth’s address.

   The next time I met Lord Staines, he did not apologise for his unkind remarks about the pictures; indeed, it is possible that he had entirely forgotten them. I reflected that the consoling comments of the old gentleman were probably correct, but for the first time a shadow was cast over my friendship with Staines.