Chapter Fifteen: An unfortunate incident

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 
  

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

   I did not intend to tell her about Elizabeth Newstead. 

Chapter Fourteen: The election

 (It is spring 1761, and Charles Huntingdon hopes to be elected to Parliament for Bereton) 

    I had hoped that the election at Bereton might be uncontested, with Sir James Wilbrahim and myself able to take the two seats without the expensive necessity of a vote, but a third candidate now put his name forward. This was a certain Mr Thomas Cave, a gentleman of whom I had not previously heard, who had recently purchased a large estate several miles to the north of the town.

   When I had first discussed my candidature with Sir James, he had shown no great support for the idea, but directly he learnt that Mr Cave was also a candidate, his attitude changed absolutely, for he had a strong personal aversion to the man. 

  “His family, sir, is utterly undistinguished, but he has come into great wealth through the discovery of coal beneath his estate in Cumberland. Now I, sir, farm my lands as my father did, and his father before him. The rents are sufficient to support me: why should I want more? I know all my tenants here; I stand as godfather to many of their children; they know me and trust me, and as long as they pay their rents, work honestly, follow my instructions and preserve my fox covets I shall always protect their interests and help them in sickness and old age. Why should I, or they, wish for any change?

   “No, sir, I stand firm for Old England, and always will. I detest all this modern craze for coalmines, and enclosure, and turnpikes, and canals, and all other fooleries!”

   He now readily agreed that we should combine our forces against this unwarranted intruder.

  

   I met Cave himself soon afterwards. He was a tall, heavy man, simply dressed in old-fashioned clothes that were drab in colour. He kept very still as he talked, and his features betrayed no emotion, nor did his unblinking eyes, which were dull and the colour of pewter; but his manner was full of quiet menace. He was obviously accustomed to intimidating his opponents by his mere presence, but I resolved to remain calm and unimpressed, no matter what he said.

    Was I aware, he asked me, that the ownership of lands in Cumberland that I had inherited from my aunt had been in dispute for many years? And that the best legal opinion was that they rightly belonged to him? He warned me that any dispute could prove wearisome and expensive, and suggested that he would not pursue it, and would indeed undertake to buy the land from me for a generous price, provided I withdrew from the election. I refrained from committing myself on the matter, and took the first opportunity to bring the interview to an end, pleading an urgent prior engagement. He must have guessed I was lying, and said nothing, but I could see that he was not pleased. I counted this as a small victory.

  I wrote to Mr Braithwaite to discover his opinion of Mr Cave, thinking that he might have had dealings with the man through his own estates in the north-west. He soon replied, saying that his own experience had been that Cave was an implacable opponent of anyone who stood in the way of his ambitions. He always strove to intimidate with threats of expensive lawsuits, to which many had succumbed and done his bidding; indeed, much of his wealth had been accrued by these methods. He assured me that, in his opinion, Cave believed coal might lie beneath my land, that his claim of ownership was probably without a shred of legal validity, and I should ignore his threats. Acting on this advice I resolved to stand firm against attempts at either intimidation or bribes, and for the rest of the campaign I avoided meeting with Cave.

 

   If Sir James’s support was determined solely by his detestation of Mr Cave, that of his daughter was whole-hearted. When I next visited Stanegate I found Miss Louisa bubbling with excitement at the thought of a contest, though she feared her father would not permit her to visit the town and watch the campaign. She was disgusted by what she had heard about Mr Cave.

   “He is a very wicked man! My father hates him, and so do I! He has been mining for coal up in Cumberland, and some of the seams run out under the sea: can you believe that? And his miners are kept in servitude! They have to work for him till they die, and they do not even get paid in proper money: they have to live in his cottages and get their food from his shops! And their children have to go underground when they are only five years old! The people up there call him Wicked Tommy!

   “And his wife! She is the daughter of a rich merchant from Liverpool. She is so rude and ill-mannered; and do you know what her money comes from? It’s slaves! Her father’s ships take hundreds of them across the sea to work in the sugar plantations, packed together in the hold as if they were sacks of produce! It makes me want to cry to think of them!

   “No, Mr Huntingdon, you must work with my father that such a terrible man must never be our representative in the Parliament!”

   I thought it best not to mention that my patron, Lord Teesdale, had sugar plantations in Jamaica that were worked by slaves.

 

   The Rector, Mr Bunbridge, opened the campaign on Sunday by preaching a sermon in which he ingeniously interpreted numerous texts of scripture as demonstrating that it was the clear duty of all to vote for Sir James Wilbrahim. I received a brief, and, I thought, rather grudging mention, but at least there was no support for Mr Cave.

   The campaign was now well under way, and I began the rounds of meeting all the voters to attract their support. An investigation of the poll books that there were, as Jarrett had estimated about fifty men who could vote in the town, though some had been lost from sight and no-one knew how many of these might have died since the books were last complied. All would have two votes, and our strategy would be based upon persuading Sir James Wilbrahim’s supporters to give their second votes to me.

   The voters might have been few in number, but the whole town, including the women and children, joined in the excitement, expecting to be entertained by parades and music as well as plentifully supplied with food and drink. Sir James Wilbrahim knew his supporters would always remain true to him, and he duly fulfilled their expectations with lavish provisions, but delivered no public speeches.

 

    The best tavern in Bereton was the Queen’s Head, which had a substantial assembly hall panelled in old oak. Sir James always conducted his election campaigns from this tavern, and at his invitation I also used it as my headquarters, to emphasise that we were working together in alliance against the intruder Cave. Every man who came to the Queen’s Head and promised to vote for me would be served a drink. No doubt many of them were treated in a similar fashion elsewhere by Mr Cave.

    I had a narrow escape from disaster when I found hanging in pride of place an old painting of a person whom I supposed to be Queen Anne; the work of some local artist, and commented on its extreme badness to Clifford. He replied with alarm that I should on no account say this in public, since it had been paid for by Sir James’s grandfather! 

   A day or so into the campaign I was approached by a sharp-faced, soberly-dressed man. He introduced himself as Howard Bagley, Sir James Wilbrahim’s agent and man of business, and indicated that he was ready and willing to act in the same capacity for me, should I wish for his services. I replied that Mr Clifford had handled all my aunt’s affairs: he had a thorough understanding of the estate, and that therefore I was happy for him to continue in the role.

   “Ah yes, Clifford!” he replied in a sneering tone, indicating a degree of contempt. He then consulted a large and costly-looking watch and left me without further comment. I decided I did not like the man. Clifford confirmed this, saying Bagley had a bed reputation in the town. More usefully, Alderman Stout introduced me to a fellow by the name of Cartwright, who agreed, for a consideration, to organise groups of people to shout for me and jeer at my opponent. I could not fault his achievements in this task.

   My most successful canvasser, however, was without doubt Mrs Timmis. My formidable housekeeper knew everyone in Bereton, and she now visited all the tradesmen and shopkeepers who had votes. To the victuallers she spoke of how, if I was elected, I would hold a magnificent feast for the town, for which, immense quantities of food and drink would be purchased; to shoemakers she suggested that after the election I would be ordering new shoes for my entire household, and so forth. At her suggestion I toured all the shops and was always careful to praise the quality of the goods on sale. If I saw that a lady customer particularly liked a particular item I would shyly offer, as a mark of respect, to purchase it for her as a gift. Such a proposal was seldom rejected.

   Mrs Timmis informed me that Mr Cave’s wife had not made a good impression in the town, for she had barely concealed her contempt for what she considered the coarseness of the citizens and the inferior quality of the goods in the shops. “And I can promise that this will tell against her husband,” Mrs Timmis assured me, “I shall make sure of it!”

   I bought presents at the shops for Ned Timmis’s wife and daughter; but for Mrs Timmis herself I had something from London.

   “Lor, sir, I don’t know when I’ll have occasion to use these!” she protested as I presented her with a silk scarf and an elegant pair of gloves; but nonetheless I saw her wearing them with pride next Sunday.

  

   Sir James, knowing his position secure, did not have to deliver any public speeches, but I was obliged to be more active. In my campaign I said that I was a supporter of Mr Pitt and his victorious war, but I found that national issues played but little part in this election. Instead, Alderman Jabez Stout and the other city fathers spoke to me of work urgently needing to be done in the town, in the forwarding of which the unlamented Mr Bailey had proved so sadly deficient. The list seemed endless: paving the streets, digging new drains, repairing the bridge over the little river below the town, and so forth: every alderman appearing to have his own pet scheme. It was the unspoken expectation that I should pay for much of this work out of my own pocket. Many wanted a new town hall to be built: I was not expected to meet the entire cost of this, but, I gathered, it would be incumbent on me to sponsor a private Act of Parliament to enable the necessary funds to be raised. There was even talk of digging a canal. The list seemed endless, and when Stout introduced me to the other aldermen, each had his own pet schemes. I was certain that they expected to profit personally from these works, but what could I do but give them my word of honour that I would do as requested? They appeared satisfied, at least for the moment.

  To supporters of Sir James, I constantly praised him; to those who held positions in the customs or excise or other offices, or hoped for such preferment in the future, I mentioned my letter of support from the Duke of Newcastle; but to others I proclaimed my independence. To the Dissenters I spoke of my admiration for my aunt, but I also made sure I was seen at the church on Sundays, where I was once again invited to share the Wilbrahim family pew. I discovered afterwards that Louisa had insisted to her father that I should always be given this privilege. 

 

   Mr Cave knew he was unlikely to win over many Wilbrahimites, so he concentrated his attacks on my person. He tried to portray me as a mere puppet of the Earl of Teesdale and his son, whom he called, “Degenerate Staines”; and to this end, produced a crudely-drawn placard depicting me as a puppet, dangling from strings manipulated by a sinister figure in a coronet, at which passers-by were encouraged to throw mud and filth. He announced that he was the candidate for “Church and King”, whereas I, he said, was the nephew of “notorious freethinkers and atheists” this being his description of my late uncle and aunt. He doubted whether I would have sufficient money to benefit the town, though I would have to concede that this last point had a degree of truth.

   One day a number of handbills appeared, making the most disgusting allegations concerning my friendship with Lord Staines. Clifford advised me to ignore them, and pointed out to me a fellow by the name of Smalling, who, he said, was the probable author. “He calls himself a scrivener.” I was told, “He scrapes a living composing lies and libels for anyone who pays him. But if he offers to write for you, do not give him any money, for he is not to be trusted.”

   Instead, I encouraged Cartwright to publish our own denunciations of Cave in pictures and songs. He forthwith produced a splendid banner portraying “Wicked Tommy” with a devil’s horns and cloven hoofs, which was paraded around the town by a mob hooting insults.

 

   The climax of Sir James’s campaign was a lavish event eagerly anticipated by all. A huge tent was erected in a meadow, where he hosted an election dinner for the whole town. An ox was roasted, and also a hog, but these were overshadowed by the immense quantities of drink on offer. Vast tubs of punch were provided, as well as beer and wine. Musicians were hired, and there was singing, but all was soon drowned in general riotous noise. The feast was not only for the men, but respectable ladies did not attend, and their absence left nothing to restrain behaviour. The scenes of gentlemen and tradesmen all alike in coarse manners and unrestrained gluttony might have revolted some of my more refined London friends, but Sir James enjoyed the proceedings immensely. He seemed to know everyone by name, and greeted them all, whatever their rank, in a spirit of jollity and friendship.

    And so the campaign continued: torchlight processions with banners, bonfires, speeches, dinners, blatant demands for “presents” from the voters and more free drink provided for the citizens of Bereton by all the candidates. There was occasional trouble at night and a few windows broken, but nothing that could be dignified with the name of a riot. At one point a group of Cave’s supporters, far gone in drink, attempted to march to the Priory and break all the windows, but Ned Timmis, forewarned, assembled a party of his farm lads and drove them off in disorder. This victory was duly celebrated with more feasting and drinking at my expense.

   Alderman Stout said it was all very tame stuff compared with the election of 1747.

  “It wasn’t more than two years since the rebels had passed through, and no-one dared oppose the Tory candidates, but there was a deal of rioting, and fights with the soldiers who were still billeted in the town, and the windows of any Whigs were smashed, and there was foul insulting of poor Mrs Andrew, who had lost her husband not long before, and a sad loss he was to the town!”

   My enjoyment was marred by realisation of the vast demands this electioneering was having on my purse. I realised I could be obliged to make a hard decision: to sell or mortgage some of my property, or to seek help from Lord Teesdale. My hopes of being fully independent in my political conduct were being steadily eroded. I approached Oswald Jarrett requesting a loan. But what choice did I have?

  

    At last on a fine spring morning the polling began.  Alderman Stout was the returning officer, despite an attempt by Mr Cave to have him replaced. The hustings were erected on the square outside the town hall, under a canvas to shield against rain, which happily was not needed. The voters had to climb wooden steps up to a platform, where their names were checked against a list of those eligible, and if they could prove their identity they could then swear an oath upon a Bible and cast their ballots, either for their two favoured candidates or, if they so chose, a “plumper” for just one. Clifford kept a close eye on the proceedings on my behalf to prevent any cheating, and Bagley acted on the same way for Sir James. Mr Cave’s interests were represented by a man I did not know, by the name of Francis, whom I was told was an attorney from Mulchester.

   I had never before witnessed anything resembling these events. The noise, the chaos and the confusion lasted all day, despite the voters being so few in number, for it seemed that everyone from many miles around had gathered to witness the event and join in the general revelry that an election brought. The ale and wine consumed would have been sufficient to float a ship. Presents of money were liberally distributed, and I saw one ingenious man accept gifts from the agents of all three candidates. Mr Cave provided free drinks for everyone, regardless, he said, of whether or not they intended to vote for him. Some men, however, held aloof from all offers. I assumed they were public-spirited citizens who rejected all bribes, but Clifford said that he knew most of them, and they were merely holding back their votes for the present, in the hope that, if the result appeared to be close, they could raise the price of their support.

   Sir James Wilbrahim arrived in great style, accompanied by a trumpeter who delivered a fanfare as he voted, amidst the cheers and applause of his supporters, for himself and for me. Mr Bunbridge (who, as Rector, was also an ex officio freeman of the borough) chose to cast a plumper for Sir James, and ignored me entirely. I took this as a personal snub.

   Some of the voters I had never seen before. I was much struck by one elderly gentleman in an ancient military coat, who had lost his right leg but walked vigorously with the aid of a crutch. He told me that he was a veteran officer of Marlborough’s army, and bade me make sure that our victories in our present war should not be frittered away as had happened on that earlier occasion. By contrast one poor unfortunate, wrapped in a woollen gown and with a bandage round his head, was carried up the steps and seated on a chair. He appeared to be at death’s door: his eyes were vacant and his mouth drooped open. How he could cast a valid vote was beyond my understanding; but Clifford whispered to me not to worry, for he was one of ours! Jabez Stout disqualified five voters for drunkenness, one for imbecility and four on the grounds that they were impersonating men who had died since the poll-books were compiled. This caused much fierce argument, since all of them were supporters of Mr Cave, but Stout was true to his name and refused to be swayed in his decisions.

   On the second day of polling strangers were brought in by carriage. I was told that they were normally resident some distance away, but retained their status as freemen. Their purpose on visiting the town on this occasion was purely and simply to vote. The majority of them had been brought in by Mr Cave, in order to swell his support, but a few voted for me, and it transpired that I owed these men’s presence to the work of Oswald Jarrett.

 

   After two days’ polling, the votes cast so far were:

Wilbrahim 36

Huntingdon 22

Cave 10

  We were expecting a renewal of voting the following morning, should any remaining freemen come to cast their votes. Mr Cave, however, now decided that despite all his efforts he had very little chance of success, despite his vast expenditure of money. He withdrew from the contest, but with a very ill grace. He did not deign to speak to me but had his man Francis inform me that that the conduct of the election had been dishonest throughout, and that there would shortly be a petitioning of Parliament to have the result overturned on the grounds of gross corruption. But I did not allow such threats to diminish my triumph. I had been elected!

   As soon as Alderman Stout announced that Sir James and I had won, a crowd of Bereton people of both sexes, very drunk, proceeded to demolished the hustings and bear off the wood and canvas for their own use, maintaining that to do so was their ancient traditional privilege and right. There then followed a ceremony known as “chairing the members”: Sir James and I were hoisted high on chairs attached to long poles, by which means we were hoisted aloft by brawny supporters and carried triumphantly through the town in a torch-lit procession, with much roaring and cheering. Sir James’s chair led the way. He constantly turned left and right, waving his hat to the crowd and clearly enjoying the proceedings immensely. Everywhere he was treated with respect, but when I followed, some remaining partisans of Mr Cave attempted to disrupt the procession. There was cursing and brawling, filth and a few stones were thrown, and one hulking brute, maddened by drink, assaulted my supporters with a threshing-flail. I feared that I might be overturned, but I continued to smile and salute the people, and eventually my supporters were able to drive off our opponents. Our success at the polls was followed by yet more banqueting, and our health was drunk, again at our expense, by all and sundry. The citizens who were most disappointed were those who had withheld their votes in the expectation of being able to charge a higher price on a later day of polling, for now they had gained nothing!

     I wrote to the Duke of Newcastle notifying him of my victory and pledging my zealous support in Parliament, but notifying him of the possibility of an attempt to have the result overturned. I received a prompt reply congratulating me and assuring me that I need not fear any petition to overturn the result, for he and his friends would ensure that any such appeal would be rejected. Mr Cave evidently came to the same conclusion, for he soon retreated to his northern coalmines, grumbling and licking his wounds and hoping for revenge. In the end he had to content himself with publishing a pamphlet claiming my victory had been achieved by bribery and voter impersonation. He also cited a report in the “Mulchester Courant”, a newspaper that had recently begun publication, alleging that my agents in that town had threatened violence to anyone intending to come to Bereton to vote for him. Clifford thought this libel was a product of Smalling’s fertile pen, and I did not bother to respond. Mr Cave’s finances might have been much reduced in the contest, and so had mine; but the moment I did not think to count the cost. I was now a gentleman of importance!

   Meanwhile, after more immense sums of money had been expended, Sir Anthony Pardington and Mr Braithwaite were returned unopposed as Members of Parliament for the County, just as had been the case at the previous election. One might call himself a Whig, and the other a Tory, but they both knew well the advantage of combining their forces to exclude any competitors.

    Following my victory and desiring some peaceful reflection, I made my long-postponed walk up Brackenridge hill. The day was fine,trees were in leaf, birds were singing and there were carpets of bluebells under the trees I climbed for more than an hour before I reached the summit, but I scarcely noticed the passing time or the signs of spring, for I had much to think about: visions of the deeds I would accomplish now that I was a man of importance. The stones, which had awakened the interest of my aunt and Mrs Waring, I found a disappointment. Most were buried beneath a mass of brambles, and I did not investigate them further. There was one single upright stone; an uncut boulder taller than me, leaning at a precarious angle. It occurred to me that the summit of Brackenridge would make a splendid site for a monument to the great Mr William Pitt, and I wondered whether Alderman Stout and his friends would support having the place cleared. 

 

 

   A few days later I visited Stanegate to discuss local business with Sir James, and found Louisa walking in the garden in the spring sunshine. She led me down the gravel paths, showing me the flowers that she had planted, and describing where others were soon to be placed. Her maid, who was called Becky, walked a few paces behind us. We found a man and a couple of boys clipping a yew hedge, and she greeted them by name and praised their work. She told me how delighted she was by my success, now I would be her father’s companion in Parliament, and that she had found the campaign thrilling. I asked her how much she could have witnessed, since I understood that her father had kept her at home throughout, no doubt believing that such an experience would have been unsuitable for a young lady. She chuckled, and gave me a mischievous glance.

    “You didn’t see me, but we saw you, Becky and I!” she said, “We watched you making speeches and talking to the tradesmen! I thought you spoke very well!”

   “No, I didn’t see you, and I’m sure your father didn’t see you either, for he would have been most displeased. But how did you contrive it?”

   She laughed. “That’s my secret! But promise you won’t ever tell anyone I was there? My father would be so angry, I don’t know what he might do! I can trust you, can’t I?”

   In the most formal courtly behaviour that I had learnt under Elizabeth Newstead’s tuition, I bowed low: with one hand I swept off my hat and with the other I took her hand and kissed it. “Miss Wilbrahim, I am forever your most devoted slave! Your slightest wish is eternally my command!” I announced. The whole procedure was intended as play-acting, and when we looked at each other’s eyes, with her hand at my lips, both of us laughed.

   We walked side by side to the house. She chattered merrily but my head was full of whirling emotions. She was so pretty, and so charming! But so young and so innocent: shielded by her father from all contact with the world! What would become of her?

 

Chapter Thirteen: Maybury

 (It is spring 1761; and Charles Huntingdon is visiting the Earl of Teesdale to discuss his prospects of being elected to Parliament)

   It was a fine and sunny spring day as I approached the Earl of Teesdale’s house at Maybury. My first sight was of two immensely tall wrought iron gates with elaborate traceries of tendrils, flowers and leaves. At either side large stone eagles on pedestals did duty as sentries. The gates were shut, but no sooner had my carriage drawn up than two servants dressed in green emerged from an adjacent lodge cottage, threw open the gates and saluted us smartly when I gave them my name. I then passed along a neatly-gravelled drive that curved through trees until I beheld a splendid mansion of red brick, crowned with a low balustrade of white stone. Robert jumped off the carriage and was assisted by a giant footman and a boy in unloading my boxes and bags.

                                    (The gates at Chirk castle, Wales)

   I was conducted into the entrance hall, which had a remarkable floor squares of white marble alternating with black slate. There were tall cabinets containing fine porcelain. From there an immense staircase, also of marble with a delicate wrought iron balustrade, swept upwards. Here the Earl welcomed me warmly and, after introducing me to other guests, said the Countess would be delighted to see me again, and suggested I should walk out onto the terrace to meet her.

  I passed through the house, and found Lady Teesdale seated under a parasol with a book of poetry in her hand. Beside her was a lady of about my age, who also had a book, though hers lay open and face down on the ground beside her, while she gave her full attention to a small dog on her lap. I hastened to pay my compliments to the Countess and enquire about her health. In return she said she was very pleased to see me again, hoped my journey had been free of trouble, and introduced me to the younger woman, who was Lady Graham, her daughter. That personage, without bothering to raise her eyes, spared a hand from stroking her lapdog and languidly presented it for me to kiss. The dog uttered a feeble little snarl at this unwonted interruption to its mistress’s attention.

    I said that the terrace garden was most beautiful, as indeed it was. Flagstones surrounded a central pool, with a statue of Neptune at its centre, played upon by fountains. There were geometrically shaped flowerbeds with yew bushes trimmed into cones or cubes, and large urns mounted on plinths. At the far side was a low balustrade. The Countess rose and took my arm to show me the view. Her daughter remained seated.

   Beyond the terrace the land fell away into a valley with fields and woodland. Over to the right was a small village with a stream and a little old church. A slight mist, through which distant hills could be perceived indistinctly, would have made the scene charming, but for the fact that as far as the eye could see the fields swarmed with armies of labourers. They were toiling away but they were not cultivating the soil. Some were digging a vast pit, long and serpentine in shape, from which others carted the soil away to pile it some distance off, and yet more workmen led teams of horses or oxen dragging trees to be planted in their new homes. Great scars ran across the land showed where hedges had been grubbed up and buildings demolished, and there were huge piles of stone and brick from demolished buildings. In the midst of this chaos I noticed a group of men unrolling and consulting plans.

   “I must own, Mr Huntingdon”, said Lady Teesdale as she stood at my side viewing the scene, “that I was happy with the gardens as they were. But my lord was insistent on change, so he called in the famous Mr Brown. He surveyed our lands and told us that he saw “capabilities of improvement”. I suspect he says that to everyone, in order to get employment. Those are Brown’s men down below us, all working like so many ants. Where they are digging will be a lake, into which our stream will be diverted. The soil dug out will be formed into a mound, on which will stand a temple in the Corinthian style, surrounded by clumps of trees. The village will have to go, of course, and where it now stands there will be an orangerie in the form of a Roman arcade. The church will remain, but will be allowed to decay into a romantic ruin. A new village and church will be built, well out of sight.”

   I wondered whether I should consult Mr Brown with a view to the improvement of my garden, but reflected that he might dismiss so small a project as beneath his attention.

   Lady Teesdale then sighed deeply, then said, “I wish my daughter took more interest in the work. It is, after all, only her children who will be able to judge the true results Mr Brown’s labours, and the expenditure of her father’s money in bringing them about. All I can see now is mud, and an outlook resembling a battlefield, and am likely to see but little else before my death”.

   I was shocked by the sad tone in which she spoke these last words, but could only mutter a feeble hope that she still had many years still ahead of her. She did not respond as we walked back to her chair, where we discovered that her daughter had apparently not moved.

   “Maria!” Lady Teesdale commanded with sudden asperity, “Get up and show our guest the house!”

   With evident reluctance the young lady so addressed rose to her feet. She deposited her lapdog on the chair she had occupied, instructed Poppy (for such was the creature’s name) on no account to move, and honoured me with no more than a single hostile glance before she turned to lead the way. Without a word she brought me to a room that was evidently the library, where we found an elderly gentleman in clerical garb.

   “Lunford!” she hailed him, in a voice that was meant to be commanding, but which merely sounded whining and peevish, “My mother requires you to conduct Mr Huntingdon here round our house!” This of course was not truthful, but the young lady clearly considered that she had done everything that duty required, and without bothering to introduce me in a proper fashion she retired back to her chair on the terrace and to Poppy. I recalled that Lord Teesdale had dismissed his daughter and her husband as “fools”. I had already formed my opinion of the daughter, and wondered what I would make of her husband.

   Lunford, by contrast, seemed pleased to meet me when I introduced myself, and said he would be delighted to have the opportunity to show me the principal rooms. So I was taken to the chapel, which had been painted with murals by Thornhill some forty years earlier, and the dining room that was the work of James Gibbs.  The room I most admired was light and airy, furnished with delicate chairs and small tables in the Chinese style, with a patterned wallpaper of pale green and gold. The family portraits were in the dining room with a three-quarter-length portrait of the Earl himself, by Allan Ramsay and a matching one of the Countess. Mr Lunford also drew my attention to great swags of lime-wood, carved into fruit and flowers by what he hailed as “the chisel of the immortal Grinling Gibbons”. I sensed that he took an immense pride in the mansion in which he was employed, almost as great as if it had been his own.

  I looked for paintings of the couple’s children, but none were to be seen, other than a family group with three infants, all dressed, for some reason, in the clothes of the previous century. Instead my attention was directed to a portrait of a man wearing red robes and a full-bottomed wig:  the Earl’s grandfather, a lawyer and Member of Parliament who had become a distinguished judge, founded the family fortunes and was raised to the peerage as a Baron.

   We passed next to a painting by Sir Godfrey Kneller of a man in military uniform with his hand resting on his sword hilt, with behind him a scene of battle, with red-coated soldiers advancing.

   “This is the judge’s son, and the father of the present Earl. He fought in the Duke of Marlborough’s wars, and rose to the rank of colonel. He was gravely wounded at the battle of Ramillies. He then entered Parliament and married an heiress; through her coming into possession of this house. She was descended from an earlier Earl of Teesdale, and the title was revived for him in consequence of his staunch support of Sir Robert Walpole and the Whig party.”

   He continued to talk at some length on the beauties of the house. I began to suspect that Lunford was a tedious fellow; the male equivalent of Mrs Waring, if such a grotesque notion was possible. My attention wandered as I imagined a contest between Lunford and my librarian Mrs Warner as to who could speak longest without stopping. Eventually I contrived to turn the talk on other subjects. I found that he, like me, was a Cambridge man, the son of a vicar in Wiltshire: he had first been employed as a tutor to the Earl’s sons, teaching them the rudiments of Latin and Greek before they were sent away to school, and worked for Lord Teesdale as librarian, keeper of muniments and occasional secretary. He praised the good nature and kindness of the Countess, but was more guarded on the subject of the Earl, and absolutely refused to be drawn when asked about their offspring, beyond saying that Lord Staines seldom visited Maybury. He was most interested when I mentioned my aunt, for he had read her pieces in the “Gentleman’s Magazine”, and had not been aware that they were written by a woman. This led him to lament the current lack of educated females when compared with earlier times. And so we parted on good terms, though I was glad of a period of silence afterwards.

 

   The dinners at Maybury were lavish. The table was of mahogany, and long enough to seat all the prominent gentlemen of the county and their ladies. There was plentiful venison and wildfowl, along with hams and pies of all kinds, and Lord Teesdale, like Sir James Wilbrahim, proudly told me how much of the food had been produced on his own estates. I doubted, however, whether Sir James would have approved of preparation of the food, for Lord Teesdale had brought his French chef from London to supervise the kitchen.

  Other guests continued to arrive over the next few days. I was introduced to the two Members of Parliament for the county, together with their ladies. Sir Anthony Pardington and Richard Braithwaite were of opposite parties: the one was a Whig, the other a Tory. Indeed, they were different from each other in every way. Sir Anthony was in his forties, and had his estates in the south of the county, whereas Mr Braithwaite was much older, and his lands extended into Lancashire, and even into Cumberland and Westmorland, though he lived part of the year in Surrey. Again, Sir Anthony was short and energetic and spoke freely on all subjects, never failing to amuse and entertain his listeners: Mr Braithwaite was tall, dark and generally silent, but when he did speak his experience and wisdom were always respected. The ladies resembled their husbands, for Lady Pardington was small and lively, dressed very smartly in blue and gold and perpetually bubbling with amusing chatter, but Mrs Braithwaite maintained an atmosphere of immense dignity, ate sparingly and seldom if ever spoke.

   Both these gentlemen valued their independence from any Party obligations. It was known that Sir Anthony had twice rejected the offer of ministerial office. Despite their political differences they had an arrangement to co-operate with each other in elections: in consequence of which they had together been returned unopposed at the last contest, and looked to do the same again.

   Both spoke to me with great politeness. They were optimistic about my prospects in Bereton in the forthcoming election and promised me that any influence they might have in the borough would be used on my behalf. When in return I assured each of them of any support I could give them in their campaigns, I felt myself a person of importance!

  Sir Anthony pressed me to visit his favourite summer residence, which he said could be reached in an easy day’s ride from Bearsclough. He was a great sportsman, with a particular love of prize-fighting and shooting, and I was forced to admit I was wholly without knowledge of either of these. Mr Braithwaite’s passion was for cricket. He maintained a team at his Surrey home, and promised that if I ever wanted a game, he would include me for one of his matches against other gentlemen’s teams.

   Among the younger guests was Lord Teesdale’s son-in-law: Sir Headley Graham, a Baronet: the heir to vast estates in the north-east on either side of the Scottish border, though he spent most of his time at his house in Berkshire. I had already perceived the justice of the Earl’s opinion of his daughter, and I now quickly came to a similar verdict on the son-in-law. His talk was mostly of horse-racing, to which conversation I could contribute nothing. On one occasion our discourse turned to art, but once he established that not only had I not visited Florence or Venice, but had never even set foot out of England, he treated me in the most supercilious manner, as if my opinions on this or any other subject could not possibly be of any value. When I mentioned that I hoped to be elected to Parliament, he replied that he would shortly be elected too, but he feared that it would be “a deuced bore”. After being obliged to listen to his conversation I decided that I much preferred the company of the two Members of Parliament.

   When the gentlemen sat together after dinner, the talk continued long into the night: of country affairs and the problems of their estates, but also of politics. Our host was the only person present who had met and talked with the new young King, though all of us had heard different rumours and we were all eager to learn the truth.

    Graham’s contribution was to say at this point, “I’ve heard it said that he is remarkably stupid!” I thought that this was a most ludicrous comment coming from him, and I found that his father-in-law was in agreement with me, for Lord Teesdale turned on him.

   “That, sir, is entirely untrue!” he replied with some asperity, “I have had the honour of speaking with His Majesty, and I can assure you he knows far more than certain other young men of his age. Where he is deficient, if I may say so, is in political understanding, and for that I must blame his grandfather’s neglect. Since boyhood, the Prince was surrounded by men from the Opposition, and in consequence he has been led to believe that our whole system of government is entirely corrupt …”

   “Which of course it is”, Mr Braithwaite commented. Lord Teesdale ignored this intervention, and continued, 

   “… and he desires to bring about a total reformation. The consequences of such a prejudice cannot yet be foreseen, but the election now about to take place will be organised by the Duke of Newcastle, as every election has been for the past thirty years or more, and I am sure he will be satisfied with the results.” 

   I told the company of the letter I had received from the Duke, and how surprised I was that he should think my campaign at Bereton a matter of importance to him. Mr Braithwaite answered me, with contempt in his voice that he made no attempt to conceal, that the Duke had always been a fool, but that now he was an old fool. He held forth on the Duke’s ineptitude in office, saying, “He was for thirty years a Secretary of State without the least trace of intelligence. Future generations, I am sure, will be astonished that such a person should have remained in power for so long. It was wholly due to his foolishness that we fell into the present war in such a disastrous condition.”

   Most of those present nodded their heads in agreement, and an elderly gentleman, whose name I forget, intervened to inform us, “Lord Wilmington once said that the Duke of Newcastle always loses half an hour in the morning, which he is running after the rest of the day without being able to overtake it”.

   Everyone laughed, after which Mr Braithwaite resumed his Philippic. “In 1756, after the disastrous start to the war, the Duke retired to his house at Claremont, where for about a fortnight, at the age of past sixty, he played at being a country gentleman and a sportsman! But, getting wet in his feet, he hurried back to London in a fright, and the country was once again blessed with his assistance.”

   Sir Anthony interposed. “None would dispute Mr Pitt’s genius in his conduct of the war”, he said, “But Pitt was to a large extent imposed on the King by the clamour of the people, and Pitt did not command the numbers in Parliament; nor did he have any grasp of the finances. So it was arranged that he and the Duke would work together to save the country. Pitt would provide the magnificent war strategies, and leave the Duke to find the equally magnificent means required to carry them out. And this grand coalition has served the country well; for we are victorious on all fronts, and for the past four years there has been no formed opposition in Parliament.”   

   The Earl then summed up the discussion most judiciously, saying that, as things stood, he thought it best that the existing ministers should continue in office, with some place being found for the Earl of Bute, as the particular friend of our new King; and that, speaking for himself he did not expect to see any resignations or dismissals as long as Pitt and the Duke were able to work together.

    The Earl was a strong supporter of the ministry’s policy of concentrating its war strategy across the Atlantic. He told us:   “Thanks to the energy of Mr Pitt, and the heroism of our sailors, the position in the Americas should now be secure. Sugar from the West Indies and tobacco from Georgia and Virginia: that is where money is to be made. I have plantations in Jamaica, with ships coming from there into Bristol and Liverpool, to the great benefit of the country. Yet I am greeted with abuse! 

   “The last time I was in London I was visited in my home by two pestiferous Quakers, a man and a woman, who prated at length, and in the most wearisome fashion, about the evils of slavery. Having listened to them patiently, I told them that my slaves, so long as they worked honestly and did not rise in revolt, would receive food and fair treatment, for I had instructed my overseers accordingly, and indeed, what more could the poor heathen savages expect? They asked whether I had ever ventured there to find whether my orders were being obeyed? I told them, of course not; but my information was that deaths on my plantations were considerably lower than on neighbouring ones. After that they departed, and I instructed my butler that on no account should such persons in future be admitted.”

   I wondered whether I myself had any investments in the West Indies or in the sugar trade: I could not recall whether Clifford had told me anything on the subject, and I vowed to research among my aunt’s papers to see if I could discover more.

   I asked about the prospects for a peace. I was told that envoys had been sent to Paris to explore whether a treaty could be negotiated soon, but Lord Teesdale doubted whether it would meet with any success.

  “For”, he said, “Pitt wishes to destroy the French empire so completely and utterly that it will never threaten this again. He will never make any concessions over the West Indies, or anywhere else. Then there is the question of Frederick of Prussia, whose situation is most perilous. Pitt will never abandon him. Therefore I do not expect any peace agreement this year”.

    Mr Braithwaite shook his head sadly, and asked whether the war would then continue until our nation was wholly bankrupt? He did not receive an answer.

   Afterwards I asked Sir Anthony Pardington why Mr Braithwaite had been invited to Maybury, since it appeared that on all questions he differed absolutely from Lord Teesdale. He laughed and replied that Lord Teesdale always wished to have friends in all parties in case there should be changes in the ministry. Mr Braithwaite, he assured me, was an honest old Tory but certainly never a Jacobite.

 

    The Countess presided at the dinner table with her husband, but said very little; and in the afternoons the ladies formed their own society, where they sipped tea from delicate Meissen bowls. On more than one occasion she graciously invited me to attend their gatherings, where I was the only man present. I did my best to follow Elizabeth’s advice on how to conduct myself. I mentioned my hope of being elected to Parliament, but quickly sensed that none of these ladies were greatly interested in political matters. Instead they discussed the works of various novelists and poets; few of whom I had read, though thanks to Elizabeth’s guidance I had at least heard of them and knew something of their work and reputations.

   Lady Pardington chattered merrily away whatever the subject, but it was Mrs Braithwaite who was treated as the ultimate oracular authority on all matters of taste. Maria attended only once, presumably at the command of her mother, and without Poppy. She plainly considered the discussions a great bore: she contributed nothing and yawned quite openly. Finally the Countess relented and permitted her to withdraw. The errant daughter then left hastily and with ill grace but greatly to the relief of the company.  

    The ladies asked me many questions about my history and my new home. I recounted a few tales of the small doings of Bearsclough and Bereton, and of my meetings with Miss Louisa Wilbrahim. They requested more information about her, and from my description unanimously proclaimed that she must be without doubt a most charming girl, and that they would be delighted to meet her. Lady Teesdale was of the opinion that she would make someone an excellent wife, but added, sentimentally, that it was a pity that she could not remain at her present innocent age for ever. No-one ever made any reference to the Countess’s son who had died, and I was careful not to broach the subject myself.

 

   I had an important discussion on the political situation in Bereton with Oswald Jarrett, Lord Teesdale’s attorney, man of business, election agent and general factotum. Mr Lunford assisted him by producing relevant documents, and together they sought to provide me with full details of my prospects of success in the election. Lunford began the instruction by recounting what he announced would be a very brief history of the borough, since Henry VIII first granted it the right to elect two Members to the House of Commons. This would no doubt have been greatly interesting to an historian, though “brief” was perhaps not the adjective I would have chosen for his discourse.

  Jarrett then gave a survey of the voters of Bereton, who would shortly be determining my future. They were the freemen of the borough; landowners, officeholders, the better-off tradesmen and others, each man having two votes. By his reckoning there were about fifty of them, though several resided a distance away, and might recently have died. He enquired whether I had been sworn in as a freeman, and on hearing I had not, advised me to do this immediately.

   I was then provided with a survey of many of those freemen: this man would always follow the lead of Sir James Wilbrahim, that man was my tenant and would vote according to my instructions; a third man held a post in the Excise and so would vote for any candidate supported by the ministry; a certain man was rich and independent, whereas another was utterly venal and would sell his vote to whoever paid highest; and so on and so forth until my mind was quite bewildered. I hoped that Clifford would already be familiar with much of this information.

   Above all, Jarrett advised, I must stay close to Sir James Wilbrahim, who carried much weight in the borough.  I mentioned the letter from the Duke of Newcastle, but was told that it would be best, at this stage, to mention the letter only to those who might support the present ministry. For myself, I should write to the Duke with fulsome promises of support, and hint that some money forthcoming from him would be much appreciated. Otherwise it was up to me to spend my money freely but wisely. If all went well, Jarrett thought, I might be returned without the trouble and expense of a poll.

   A broad hint was given that, should I find the cost of the campaign to be beyond my means, Lord Teesdale would be happy to lend me the necessary funds, provided I would promise to vote according to his wishes when requested. I returned a suitably conciliatory answer, hoping that the necessity would not arise.

 

    When the time came for me to quit Maybury, I found a positive Praetorian guard of servants lining the hall, but instead of protecting my presence their intention was to threaten my purse, for all extended a hand with the expectation of receiving payment. This included many on whom I had not set eyes during my stay. Having little choice in the matter, I paid with reluctance.

    The Earl’s parting words to me were, “Should you be successful in your attempt to enter Parliament, l would hope that you follow my guidance in any question that directly affects my interests; but otherwise you may pursue your own course as you see fit. And let me give you a word to remember: canals! They are the future! If you have money, invest it there! I expect to see Bills on the building of canals debated in the new Parliament. If you are indeed elected, vote for them! You will assuredly not regret it!”

   Well then: I would vote for any Enclosure Bill or Canal Bill that emanated from his lordship, but otherwise I would pilot my own course.

 

  Robert the valet had not exchanged a word with me, beyond those required when helping me dress, during our stay at Maybury, and he remained silent during our return journey. Eventually I broke this silence by thanking him for his flawless service and producing half a guinea from my purse and holding it just above his hand as I encouraged him to speak freely on what he had learned at Lord Teesdale’s home. There was a pause while Robert wrestled with his conscience, but the struggle did not last long. Soon he took the proffered gold and spoke.

   “His lordship keeps a very fine establishment”, he began, cautiously, “And her ladyship the Countess is deeply loved by all: they worship the ground she walks on, they do. They all say as how they couldn’t wish for a kinder mistress. Many a story they’ve told me of her generosity and help to those in distress. And she likes you, sir. George, he’s one of the footmen, heard her say she wished you was her son!”

   “And Lord Staines? What of him?”

  “Ah: the young master comes to the house but seldom, and when he does, then it’s bad times. There’s always angry disputes between him and his father, and he takes it out on the servants. Everyone is greatly relieved when he returns to London”. 

   “And what about the Earl himself? What did you learn about him?”

  Robert was reluctant to speak any further, but after a while he continued.

   “Well, sir, I didn’t hear nothing against his lordship himself. He leaves much of the business of the estate in the hands of his agent, that Mr Jarrett, and he’s not well liked. He’s a hard taskmaster, they all say, and not regular with giving the servants their wages. They may go months or even years without pay, but none don’t dare complain for fear of dismissal, because his lordship always takes Mr Jarrett’s advice on such things. It’s a rich household, sir, but not a happy one; that it’s not”.

   This made me glad that I had paid all the servants their vails (as these were named) when I left, since perhaps they were dependent on these for their livelihood, with their wages so much in arrears. At least it might assure me good service should I return. But then Robert, after furtively glancing around as if he feared someone might be listening, whispered, “Some of them do say that Mr Jarrett is pocketing his lordship’s money for himself. But I don’t know nothing about that!”

   I was careful to show no reaction to all this of information, but I filed it away in my mind. Silence then resumed for the rest of our journey, for I was thinking of my campaign for election; turning over and over in my mind an address I would deliver:

   “To the free and independent voters of Bereton – or should that be “citizens”? – To the free etc etc of the ancient and loyal borough of Bereton – or would this resurrect the Jacobite question?” and so on endlessly.

   I would soon discover whether my words had the desired effect.

Chapter Twelve: Preparations

(It is spring 1762. There will shortly be a General Election, and Charles Huntingdon is preparing to stand for election at his new home of Bereton)

I found Martin Clifford still at work on a pile of papers, and when I told him of my intention of standing for election to Parliament, he showed so little reaction that I suspected he treated it as a mere youthful enthusiasm which he hoped would soon to be abandoned. When, however, I repeated the information he pushed his papers aside and turned to face me with a sad expression. He enquired whether I was aware of the vast sums of money likely to be required, amounting, he feared to several thousand pounds in the event of a contested poll? Where would I find such large amounts without incurring up ruinous debts? I had already spent vast sums on a new coach for my visit to Maybury. Where would it all end?

   I told him to have no fears on this account, for Lord Teesdale had promised to assist me, and so had an extremely wealthy East India merchant: this last, of course, being a reference to Elizabeth Newstead’s husband, who in strict truth knew nothing of my intentions. I assured Clifford that I had the support of Sir James Wilbrahim, so there was unlikely to be any contest, and added that Lord Teesdale’s man Oswald Jarrett would be advising me on the voters of Bereton.

   This last information did not appear to please Clifford: perhaps he already knew Jarrett, or at least was familiar with his reputation. I then attempted to mollify his pride by begging him to act as my agent and legal advisor for the election, which after some thought he agreed to do. But despite this grudging acquiescence he must have begun the work speedily, for very soon he had produced me a list of certain men of influence in the town, headed by Alderman Jabez Stout, whose support I needed to obtain.      

   When I told Mrs Timmis of my plans, she made no comment of any kind but merely nodded her head and returned to her work. It was almost as if the news had come as no surprise: I presumed one of the servants must have overheard my conversation with Clifford. But I soon discovered from Ned that she embarked on a campaign of her own on my behalf the next time she was in town.

   “She’s been doing rounds of all the shopkeepers and tradesmen, and if she can’t get to them, she’s spoke to their wives. There’s some as owes her favours, and there’s others as she knows their darkest secrets; and she’s told them as has votes to cast them for you, and them as don’t have votes to come out and halloo for you anyway, and I don’t doubt as how most of ‘em ‘ll do as she bids them. My sister generally gets her way!”

   I did not ask what the “favours” and “darkest secrets” might have been: my worthy housekeeper’s spider’s-web of contacts throughout the district were best left undisturbed.

   Mrs Waring’s contribution was to offer to search through my aunt’s papers for any information about past elections. She undertook the task with glee, and the library tables were soon covered in fresh heaps of books and documents.

   Alderman Stout approved of my plans, but dropped broad hints concerning considerable sums of money that I should be expected to spend for the town’s benefit should I prove successful; drawing attention to how neglectful Mr Bailey had been in this duty. I made a passing reference to my walk by the old quarry, but he ignored it. I reflected that if I did become a Member of Parliament, I would probably be obliged to suppress any smuggling, but until then it would be best to ignore the issue.

   

  Word of my intentions must have circulated rapidly, because it was not long before I received a letter from no less a personage than the Duke of Newcastle himself, asking whether, in the event of my being elected, I should be counted among his “friends” in the coming Parliament. I was surprised and flattered that this great man should find the time from his work in finding the finance for the war to be interested in my case. I replied reassuring him as to my intentions, and decided to raise this matter with Lord Teesdale when I next met him. 

 

    I now attempted to return Sir James Wilbrahim’s hospitality by hosting him to dinner, along with Clifford and Jabez Stout, in order that we could discuss the coming election in the town. My curate Mr Chamberlain was present to say grace, which duty he performed in Latin, and at some length. But, although I provided the best wine I could obtain, and Mrs Timmis and her cooks worked their hardest and provided a meal that was certainly superior in quality to what I had been served at Stanegate, the dinner was not a success. Sir James, though consuming vast quantities of both food and wine, plainly considered that his fellow guests existed at an unbridgeable gulf beneath him, and that he was personally insulted by their presence at the table. He refused to exchange a single word with them throughout the meal. Instead he grumbled throughout, his talk gradually degenerating to a monologue of denunciation of the ministry, the bankers of the City and even the bishops. He merely harrumphed when I attempted to discuss the coming election, and when I suggested we should campaign side by side, he promised no more than that his supporters might be willing to vote for me in preference to some stranger coming from outside the town, and only if I agreed that this damned war, as he termed it, should be brought to a close before the country was irretrievably ruined. He left early, much to everyone’s relief, giving me only the coldest and most formal thanks for the meal, and did not set foot in the Priory again for some time.

    Mrs Timmis was understandably upset by Sir James’s rudeness. I attempted to console her by praising her work and that of her kitchen workers, and promised to reward them all. I said that the fault was mine, for rashly attempting to heal the long feud between the Priory and Stanegate.

 

     One afternoon I rode over to Stanegate in the hope of recovering the ground I had lost at the unfortunate dinner, only to be told by William that Sir James was away attending to business at one of his outlying farms. I was about to return home, only to be summoned back. Louisa was alone in the house with a few servants, but having heard my voice she had me shown in. She was very much the mistress of her home in her father’s absence as she ordered tea to be served.

   It was brought by a maid of about Louisa’s own age, whom she treated more like a friend than a servant. The fat housekeeper, whom Mrs Timmis had referred to as “that dreadful Mrs Piddock”, regarded me with ill-concealed suspicion before she was ordered back to the kitchen, and I was sure that William was lurking somewhere, out of sight but prepared to spring (albeit arthritically) to the defence of his young mistress, should that be necessary.

   I had brought from London a dozen silk handkerchiefs, together with a novel and two books of poetry which I had intended to give to Sir James to pass on to Louisa; but which I was now able to present to her in person. She was so delighted that she kissed me on the cheek: an innocent enough gesture, though I doubted whether her father would have approved.

    Louisa was much more open in the absence of her father and the Rector, and chatted away merrily. She was thrilled to hear that I was campaigning to be elected to Parliament. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll win!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands with excitement, “My father will vote for you, and so will all his friends! I’ll tell them to! And then when you and my father are in Parliament together, perhaps you can persuade him to take me to London! I would dearly love to see London, but my father seldom goes there, and even when he does he never takes me. And the King! We can meet the King! Have you met him yet?”

    She was disappointed when I admitted that I had not yet even set eyes on our new monarch, and she wanted to know: when would he choose his Queen? I said that I was sure that even now Europe was being scoured for a suitable bride; and meanwhile there were rumours that he was deeply in love with someone of noble family who was no older than Louisa herself, or even that he had been secretly married to a beautiful Quaker girl, though I did not believe a word of that. Louisa thought it was all most romantic.

    She demanded to know everything about London: the famous buildings, the marvellous shops, the theatres and concerts and art exhibitions. I described these as well as I could, and told her of my experiences in the town, though of course omitting any mention of Elizabeth Newstead or of the wilder adventures of Lord Staines and his friends. She was enthralled, and kept asking me to tell more.  

   “You see, I have hardly ever strayed from home, or met anyone except your aunt, Mrs Andrew.  The Rector taught me my letters and the Catechism. Sometimes, years ago, when my father was away for days at a time, Mrs Andrew heard I was alone here with just the servants for company, and arranged for me to be brought over to the Priory. She was always very kind to me. She told me all about the theatres and concerts she went to when she was younger. She read books with me and taught me some French and Latin too. Her instruction was far kinder than Mr Bunbridge, who was a very severe teacher. And the books we have here are all so very dull! And when I was at the Priory I could run around the village and climb trees, and play games with the village children, who taught me to fish in the mere. I loved it! But then all that was stopped, for Mr Bunbridge had told my father that none of this was fitting for a young lady in my situation; and if I needed any further instruction, he would undertake it. My father approved of me learning French, but Mr Bunbridge didn’t teach it like Mrs Andrew did. And my father said I should be doing needlework instead of reading books. I hate needlework! And now I can’t even go into the town on my own; Mrs Piddock has to accompany me, and even then I’m hardly ever permitted to speak to anyone! If it wasn’t for Becky, my maid here, I would never know what’s happening!”

   I said that I hoped she wasn’t too unhappy with her life.

   “Oh, I’m never unhappy for long!” she said. “I can always sing. Becky teaches me the country airs. And I found a fife, that one of the soldiers must have dropped, and I taught myself to play it, but only when my father isn’t here. But I would love to have a proper music teacher.”

  I replied that unfortunately my own incapacity for music prevented me from helping her.

   As we drank more tea, Louisa told me how my aunt had been greatly interested in the history of Stanegate, and had begged leave to inspect the older parts of the house; but Sir James had never invited her. I said I would be delighted to look round, if she would be kind enough to guide me.

   “I’ll show you something!” she said, and took me by the hand to lead me through the library into the oldest part of the house and up a stone spiral staircase. Mrs Piddock followed us uninvited, muttering complaints about her painful feet.   

   Louisa threw open a door. “There!” she said, “What do you think of that?”

   We were in a large, cold room, with a bare wooden floor and without furniture except for a few old chairs and a table. The oak panels on the walls stopped a few inches short of the plain ceiling. A large stone fireplace of grey stone jutted into the room, but it was clear that no fire had been lit there for many years. There were with shelves of ancient books, but what Louisa had brought me there to show me was above the fireplace. I beheld a most grotesquely carved structure, with every inch was covered in strange, staring faces, ridiculous caryatids and festoons of foliage. I had never seen anything like it, and I gazed at it with awe, though not with admiration, for it must have been the work of a wood-carver of genius, but one sadly devoid of learning or taste.

   “I told Mrs Andrew about it, and she said it must have been carved long ago”, Louisa explained. “When I was small it used to frighten me. I still don’t like to come here on my own. It’s mostly just a room for the servants. But I think Mr Bunbridge is interested in it. I know he comes up here sometimes to look at the old books.”

   After a while, with Sir James still not having returned home, I felt it was time for me to depart, and so I rode home after a most pleasant time with the young mistress of Stanegate. I promised to provide her with more books, and to come to see her whenever I could. I was perhaps in danger of becoming Miss Louisa’s schoolmaster, but reflected that there were many less pleasant ways of passing my time.

 

                                          (Stokesay Castle, Shropshire)

  Mrs Waring was greatly interested in my description of the curiously carved overmantel.

   “Mrs Andrew often requested to be allowed to inspect it, and all the other old rooms of Stanegate, but she was never allowed entry to the house, on account of her Whiggish politics. Such ridiculous conduct, and so impolite to a lady! She thought it must be from the reign of Elizabeth or James the First, by some local tradesman ignorant of true artistic principles, so she said. But she also said that she would not have been surprised if there wasn’t a priest’s hole somewhere, or a secret cupboard for holding the superstitious Papist vestments and chalice, for it was said that the family were all Papists in those days.”

   I mentioned that the Rector, Mr Bunbridge, sometimes consulted the old books in the room, and she answered with a snort.

  “Mrs Andrew thought Bunbridge was no true scholar, and all his so-called learning was a mere lumber-room! And he said openly that no woman could ever aspire to scholarship, so she despised him! And so did I, for he spread rumours that I was a Dissenter and a republican, which I am not and never was!”

  I called upon her to guide me in choosing suitable works to lend to Miss Louisa Wilbrahim. She was extremely reluctant to let any more of her precious volumes out of her sight, and I also discovered that she had the very strictest standards as to what might be suitable for a young maiden to read. Eventually I was able to remove from her shelves a few books of poetry to which Sir James could not possibly object and arranged for them to be delivered to Stanegate, along with a note to say that Miss Wilbrahim could keep them as long as she fancied.

 

   I now prepared to make my journey to Maybury, the home of my new mentor and guide through the treacherous thickets of politics, the Earl of Teesdale. My new carriage was freshly painted, the brasswork polished and the axles greased, and the horses impeccably groomed. My best clothes, which had not been worn since I came down from London, were brushed and carefully packed. Henry the silent coachman was provided with a new coat for the occasion.

   Mrs Timmis asked, “Should I find you a manservant, sir? Or do you already have someone in mind?”

  “Ellen acts as my valet. She’s become very careful and reliable. She even shaves me in the mornings, and she’s never once cut me!”

   “But lor, sir, you can’t take her!” she exclaimed, “I hope you’ll forgive me speaking plain, sir, but really you can’t! Everyone’ll think she’s your mistress! And her ladyship the Countess will be shocked, and the gentlemen will chaff you about it, and talk behind your back about what they’d like to do with Ellie! And can you imagine what the servants at Maybury will say to the poor girl? No, sir: you can’t take Ellie; I’m not having it, that I’m not!”

   She stood there with her hands on her wide hips, looking positively fierce, as if she was dealing with a dishonest tradesman or an idle servant. I wondered how Lord Staines would have dealt with the situation. For my part I had no wish to argue with my formidable housekeeper.

   “Very well then; what do you suggest?” I replied.

   “Well, sir; if you’d permit me to make a suggestion, you might take Robert Barton as your valet. He’s a waiter at the Queen’s Head. He’s sober and he’s trustworthy. He overhears all the gossip and stores it away in his head; he knows how to keep his mouth shut, but if he trusts you, then he might tell you what he’s learnt. Should I have a word with the landlord, sir? He owes me a favour, and I’m sure he can be persuaded to release Robert for a few days. And if you’d give me permission, sir, I might tell Robert that you’d be interested in what the folks as Maybury are saying”.

   I nodded agreement. I was relieved that she did not think that little Ellie actually was my mistress, and that I had not made any attempt to bring about this consummation: nothing in the household could have remained concealed from Mrs Timmis, and probably nothing in Bereton either.