Chapter Twenty-four: The return

(Charles Huntingdon and his friends, Wilkes, Churchill and Boswell, have rescued Louisa Wilbrahim from the clutches of Mother Rawton, the notorious bawd)

 

I awoke from a nightmare in which I, rather than Louisa, had been held captive and was facing death at the hands of the gigantic form of Mother Rawton. As I dressed in haste and swallowed a morsel of food, there came to my mind a picture of the pretty little girl with whom I had dallied so enjoyably at Medmenham, who had called herself Sister Antonia. For the first time I wondered if she had been a country girl who had come to London on a thoughtless venture in search of work, and had been entrapped by Mother Rawton? She was surely no older than Louisa, and might even have been younger; and unlike Louisa, she did not have the good fortune of friends to rescue her. I shuddered to think of Louisa forced into such a situation. The more I considered it, the worse it seemed. I resolved to have nothing to do with any such gatherings in the future: if I should receive an invitation to a meeting of the Hell-fire club, either at West Wycombe or at Medmenham, I would not attend. Furthermore, I would employ what powers I might have as a Member of Parliament in exposing and outlawing this traffic in young girls.

   As regards Mr Wilkes, much as I might now be disgusted by his part in encouraging and supporting this traffic, I was nonetheless permanently indebted to him and his friends for their rescue of Louisa from such a fate. I sped round to Great George Street, desperately hoping for good news. I panted for breath, several times almost fell on the slippery cobbles, and attracted the amazement and laughter of passers-by.

    Polly Wilkes was already up, looking very tired. She reported, with no small degree of alarm, that Louisa had fallen into some kind of trance. She had lain awake most of the night, tossing and turning in her bed, and having been persuaded to rise, had faced breakfast without appetite or interest, had spoken not at all, and would not suffer anyone to touch her. In consequence Polly and her maid had also suffered a sleepless night.

   It was obvious that Louisa must be returned home without delay, before her condition worsened yet further, but how could this be achieved? I had no carriage in London, and she was in no fit position to use the public coach. Who could I turn to for help? Polly Wilkes would be returning to France very soon, and none of my London friends would have been any use. Elizabeth Newstead would have been sympathetic, I was sure, and might have provided Louisa with temporary sanctuary, but I could not now call upon her for help. With no other solution suggesting itself, it was in a spirit approaching desperation that I presented myself at the door of Teesdale House, in the hope that something might be achieved there.

   I had taken the time to regain my composure and to dress in my best for the appeal, and the porter fortunately recognised me from past occasions and was prepared to admit me. I gave him a shilling and silently gave thanks for the advice I had received from Elizabeth: always be polite and generous with other people’s servants, for a coin of the realm will often prove to be a silver key that will unlock doors that would otherwise remain closed.

   The porter ushered me into the presence of the immensely dignified personage who was the Earl’s steward and major-domo. I had encountered this august personage before, standing silently behind his master’s chair or gliding silently in and out of the room during the Countess’s gatherings, but had never had cause to speak to him. He deigned to recognise me and politely enquired as to my business, but then informed me, with an expression of great sorrow on my behalf, that his honour was away in the country, and her ladyship, though at home, but not receiving visitors. This was indeed a blow, but I asked him whether he would be good enough to bring me pen and paper, in order that I might write the Countess a brief letter concerning a matter of great and urgent importance that he might take to her. I felt that the offer of silver would be insulting to such a grand person: nothing less than gold would suffice. Accordingly, I placed a guinea on a nearby table in front of him, and then turned away, on pretence of examining a picture. When I looked around again the guinea had disappeared.

   He conducted me to the library and provided me with the wherewithal to write to the Countess. I apologised for disturbing her, but pleaded to urgency of the occasion; I outlined Louisa’s plight, lost in London, friendless and ill, without, of course, telling of the exact circumstances, and begged her ladyship’s help.

   He then departed with my letter. He was not gone for long, but during that time I must have looked at my watch at least half a dozen times as I paced the room with impatience and fear of rejection. I pulled books from the shelves, glanced at them without interest and replaced them. No doubt I muttered out loud as well, for I noticed a young maid looking alarmed and trying to hide in a corner. But after what seemed an aeon the steward returned, and to my enormous relief informed me that he was to take me to Lady Teesdale.

 

   I had forgotten quite how small she was. She was reclining on a couch, and looked weary, but her eyes were bright. She greeted me warmly, regretting that she had not seen me for a while but pleading that ill health had meant that she had been unable to host any of her gatherings. She then asked me whether the girl in peril was indeed the daughter of Sir James Wilbrahim of Stanegate Hall?

   I dreaded that she might make reference to Louisa as a prospective bride for Lord Staines, and wondered what I might say in that eventuality; but she never mentioned it. Perhaps she thought I was ignorant of it? Instead, she remembered how at Maybury I had spoken of the girl’s beauty and charm. I confirmed this and reiterated the urgency of Louisa’s case: I pleaded how greatly I feared for her health unless she could be taken home to Stanegate without delay, and of the disastrous effect this would surely have on her father. On a sudden impulse I added, with great boldness, “For, my lady, it is a dreadful thing to lose a beloved child.”

   Tears started in her eyes. I wondered if I had performed a wicked deed, reminding her of the death of her own son, Lord Staines’s brother. But she was stronger than I had feared. After a brief pause, she sat up and rang a little bell, at which the steward, who had no doubt been listening outside the door, immediately returned.

   “James,” she said, “Call Richard the coachman and Michael from the stables, and bring them both here. Mr Huntingon, I will do anything that is in my power to help the poor child and her father. Return here in two hours and you will find all has been prepared.”

   I bowed and thanked her sincerely with all my heart. As I left the room I saw her fall back again as if exhausted. I did not know what she was intending, but I was filled with a sudden hope. James the steward escorted me off the premises without a word: his deep disapproval being evident. Nevertheless, I left another golden guinea on a side table.     

   For the next two hours I once again had to struggle to control my impatience. I retrieved Alexander from the stables and was pleased to find him looking well-fed, and I then sent a message to Wilkes at Great George Street to prepare for further developments. With still time to spare, I acted on impulse and galloped round to Lord Staines’s residence. He had still not returned from Kent. I imparted to his strangely-dressed servant the good news that the lost maiden had been found unharmed and the emergency at an end, though without mentioning Louisa’s name or the part that the Countess was now playing in the drama. Eventually the time came for me to once again rouse the porter at Teesdale House.

   James the lordly steward was there. He invited – nay, commanded – me to accompany him to the stables at the back. There I found prepared for our use a coach-and-four, complete with coachman, a postilion and an experienced nursemaid to accompany Louisa!  I distributed more money to all and sundry and then mounted Alexander to lead the way.  You may imagine how passers-by stared when the magnificent equipage, drawn by matching horses and with the Earl’s coronet and coat of arms painted on the doors, drew outside Wilkes’s lodgings! Soon a crowd had gathered, and there were loud cheers as Polly led Louisa, leaning on her arm and looking barely awake, from the house and helped her to board the vehicle.

   In this fashion we embarked on a journey of three days and two nights. I thought it best to travel riding on Alexander beside the coach or seated up beside the coachman, leaving Louisa inside with the nursemaid. Louisa appeared in a trance for the first day: she uttered not a word in my hearing and could only with difficulty be persuaded by the servant, who seemed a sensible, motherly woman, to take a morsel of food and a sip of wine when we stopped at an inn. We spent the nights at houses belonging to Lord Teesdale or his friends, for which the Countess had provided me with letters of introduction. I prayed that we did not encounter any highwaymen: I kept a loaded pistol in my pocket, and I observed that the coachman and the postilion each had a blunderbuss to hand. But our journey passed without incident.

   By the third day it seemed that Louisa had recovered more of her natural spirits, but I was still uncertain what course to pursue at the end of our journey: should we drive directly to Stanegate, where her father would be unprepared? Or would it be better to find out first precisely what had happened to her? The latter course, which was in accordance with my own natural curiosity, decided me to drive to my own home first.

   We accordingly halted at an inn on the outskirts of Mulchester, and while the horses were being watered, I scribbled two brief letters: one to the Priory, warning my household to prepare for our arrival, and the other to Stanegate, telling Sir James that his daughter would come the next day, safe and sound. I paid two young servants at the inn to go galloping on ponies to deliver them. Meanwhile the sight of our splendid carriage had attracted a crowd of children, and some of their parents too. The haughty stare of the postilion kept them at a distance, but I could tell that we would be the talk of the town for many a day.

  The coachman was not at all happy at having to drive his master’s best vehicle along the narrow track to Bearsclough with its overhanging branches of trees and dusk fast approaching. I assured him that there were no natural hazards, and when I told him that there was no other way, he reluctantly agreed to go forward, but insisted that I rode ahead with a lantern to light the way. In this fashion we were proceeding at a slow walking pace, when I was alarmed to hear the clip-clop ofanother horse’s hooves approaching round the corner. Was this, I wondered, Black George lying in wait for us? If his confederates now took up station behind us, we would be trapped and helpless. Would my hopes of saving Louisa Wilbrahim be dashed so close to home?

  I sat motionless on Alexander and kept my hand on the pistol in my pocket. The coach a few yards behind me stopped too. Out of the gloom a horseman emerged; no more than a black shadow in the darkness. Both of us halted.

   “Who are you, and what do you want?” I enquired, doing my best to sound unconcerned.

   “Mr Huntingdon! I hoped it would be you!” a familiar voice replied. It was Clifford, who on receiving my letter had immediately set out to meet us! I introduced him to the coachman, explained that all was well, and we reached the Priory without further incident

 

   No sooner had Mrs Timmis set eyes on Louisa than she enfolded the child in her ample bosom, saying in gentle tones, “Oh, you poor little poppet! But you’re safe now!” and then she took Louisa away, dismissing me and the rest of the company with an inclination of the head. With Louisa’s wellbeing now out of my hands, I gave instructions for her ladyship’s horses to be stabled and her servants fed and lodged. I discovered that I was hungry and very thirsty.

   Clifford remained with us, and late that night we were summoned to the kitchen; Mrs Timmis’s domain. “She's taken some food and now she’s asleep”, I was informed. “She’s told me some of what happened. I don’t think anything terrible was done to her, but she’s been very frightened.  Wasn’t she silly, running away like that? But the poor little thing never had a mother; that’s what she’s been lacking all her life. Fathers are all very well, but a girl needs a mother too. The mistress here, she could have played the part, for she loved the child and was always treated her like she was one of her own, but then Miss Wilbrahim was forbidden to come to see her any more. Nor she didn’t have friends of her own rank; not until you came along, sir. So she didn’t have nobody to give her advice”.

   I asked what should be done.

  “Nothing for now”, was the decree, “Let her sleep. Ellie and I will take it in turns to sit by the bed in case we’re needed. In the morning she might want to tell me more, and tell you too, but we mustn’t press her.”

   Clifford the left us, promising to return the next day, and I retired to bed for the most peaceful sleep than I had enjoyed for many a night.

 

   Louisa and Mrs Timmis remained closeted together all the following morning. Clifford came early and we sat together in the library making a half-hearted attempt to deal with the business of my estate while we waited for news. After a while we abandoned the pretence and I recounted my story to him, and in return he gave me what news there was from Bereton. The fever, I learnt, had somewhat abated in the town; Sir James Wilbrahim had not been well and had been bled by his physician, Doctor Stump, but since then he had not been seen.

  It was only after a midday meal that my housekeeper appeared, to inform us that Louisa would be down shortly and felt strong enough to tell us her story.

   “But I promised that we’d never let her father find out,” she warned us, “for she’s afraid the shock might kill him. But I think the three of us here can keep a secret, can’t we?”

   “What I cannot understand,” said Clifford, “is why she ran away to London on a momentary impulse. It makes no sense!” 

   Mrs Timmis mused in silence for a while. “I know I shouldn’t speak so plainly concerning my betters, sir”, she finally began, “But I always guessed that that wicked Rector was at the bottom of it. Now, may I ask, sir, did he not tell you that if you sent letters for Miss Louisa to him, he would pass them on to her?”

   I confirmed that this was indeed the case. “Yes, and what’s more, I think he might have said exactly the same to Lord Staines. What then was the problem? Did he not deliver them, or did he inform her father?”

   “Oh, he delivered them all right! Or rather, he sold them to her”.

   “What, for money?”

   “Oh no, sir! Far worse, the wicked evil man! He would say to Miss Louisa, ‘I have a letter for you, but if you want it, you must give me a kiss!’ And at the start it was just a little kiss on the cheek, so the poor innocent child saw no harm in it; but then he began to demand a full embrace, or even more; and she demurred at that.”

   “What atrocious villainy! And him a man of the cloth too!”

   “Indeed sir! And Sir James was in ignorance of the knavery taking place within his walls!”

 “Why didn’t she tell him?”

   “Well, she knew she had disobeyed him over the letters, and she felt ashamed of what she’d allowed to happen so far; and anyway he soon stopped demanding any more kisses. But then the sickness struck when Sir James was away up north, and William with him, and Becky was given leave to go to Bereton to tend for her mother who was ill, and then Mrs Piddock was took sick and confined to bed, and then the Rector came and said he must take her away from this house of sickness, but she should pack a box and come to stay with him. And so she did, and he lifted it onto his little trap, and off they set.”

   “I find it hard to believe that Louisa agreed to go with him, knowing his past conduct.”

   “Well, she didn’t see no harm in it, for she thought they were only going to the Rectory, and Mrs Bunbridge would there. But she soon found that they weren’t going there at all, but along the road to Mulchester, and she asked why. And he said he was going to take her to the inn in Mulchester, for nowhere in Bereton was safe from the sickness. And you know it takes more than an hour to drive there, and as the time went by she became more and more worried and she demanded to be taken home, but he told her that he knew how it was you, sir, as had taken her and Becky home after the fireworks for the Prince of Wales. And Miss Wilbrahim knew it would make her father very angry with her, for not telling him at the time, and angry with you too, sir, and as for Becky, there was no knowing what might be done to her. So by the time they reached Mulchester she was frightened and didn’t know what to do. She feared what the Rector might be trying after all those kisses; and how could she tell her father afterwards?

   “And then she saw the London coach about to depart, and it brought to her mind all the wonders of the city that you and Lord Staines had told her about, and perhaps Lord Staines might marry her, like what happens in the romances. Then she recognised our Ned, called on him to help, and so she fled.

  “But when the poor child reached London, she didn’t know how to find your house nor any other, but thought everyone would know where to find Lord Staines’s home and she could take refuge there. What a silly girl she’d been! And how fortunate to escape! For, having talked to her, I’m certain that her virtue and honour are intact; thank the Lord for that mercy!”

   Mrs Timmis shook her head sadly. “She wasn’t thinking straight at all. But it’s all over now, I told her, and maybe it’s taught her a lesson. But her father mustn’t find out what happened with that dreadful Rawton woman; for Miss Wibrahim’s right that the shame of it’d fair be enough to kill the old man.”

   I reflected how right Elizabeth had been in warning me of the perils facing Louisa Wilbrahim.

 

   Soon afterwards Louisa came down and felt able to tell us the story of her adventure. It was not, of course, a continuous narrative, for at some points she was overcome with emotion and had to pause; and then we would encourage her to drink some tea and resume when she was ready, and sometimes she would back-track to add a detail she had forgotten. With her permission I took some notes as she talked, and at the advice of Clifford I wrote it all down, and Clifford signed it, in case it should ever be required as evidence in a court of justice; but otherwise we faithfully promised to keep it secret.

   This is what I wrote:-

………………………………………………………

              Miss Louisa Wilbrahim’s account.

 

   “Throughout my journey to London I felt more and more uneasy about the risks I was taking on my adventure, but it was only when I alighted from the coach at the sign of the White Horse that I became fully aware of how extremely foolish I had been, to travel without clear purpose, and with no-one to receive me, to a city of which I knew nothing. Such a hustle and bustle as I never saw, with goods and produce piled up everywhere, and people of all degrees hurrying to and fro about their business! One rough fellow rudely pushed me aside, without so much as a by-your-leave. Puddles of dirty water caused me to step warily, and the sky overhead was dark with a pall of smoke. I had thought to ask the way to Lord Staines’s home, but now, alone and friendless, I found myself too timid to ask directions from a stranger. On the steps of the inn, an elderly man in an old wig and coat ogled me and laughed, but although his clothes showed him to be a gentleman, he made no attempt to assist me in my plight.

   “Only one person marked me and approached as I stood there afraid and unprotected. This was a woman dressed in a vast skirt, red in colour and none too clean, with a dark shawl over a white mob-cap. I could not tell her age, for the paint lay heavy on her cheeks. I felt an immediate dislike of her; but she smiled and her manner was most obliging.

   “Hello, dearie!” she said, “Are you lost? May I assist you?”

   “Thank you!” I replied, “Pray can you direct me to Lord Staines’s home? I have travelled to London to see him”.

  “Lord, my dear: his honour’s house is but a short step from where I live! Let me conduct you there. You have a travelling box? My boy Jacky will carry it. Now; what’s your name and where have you come from?”

   “I am the daughter of Sir James Wilbrahim of Stanegate, near Bereton. My name is Louisa.”

   “Oh, Louisa: such a pretty name, and face as pretty as a picture too!” She smiled, presenting me with an alarming sight of very bad teeth. “And from Bereton?” she continued, “Why, my dear, I know that town well! My uncle used to live there! He was bailiff and churchwarden, Robin Clewlow was his name, did you hear of him? No? Ah well, it was years ago, before you were born! Anyway, it’s almost as if we were related!  My name’s Margaret, but everyone calls me Meg. Now I shall with pleasure conduct you to his lordship, but first you must permit this poor old woman to provide you with some sustenance, for you must be most hungry and tired after such a long journey!” She prattled on, scarce pausing for breath, and without putting up resistance I allowed her to take my arm. The elderly gentleman made a very coarse remark as she led me from the inn-yard and out into the street, but both of us ignored him.

   “We walked on through many twists and turnings until I was wholly lost. We passed old buildings crowded together, and noisome alleys between, where the sun did not penetrate and dirty children played amongst piles of rubbish. The streets were crowded, and passers-by jostled us. In this confusion I was glad that my rescuer had my arm, for otherwise I would have been swept clean away in the throng. Eventually we reached her house, which I thought a rather mean establishment. The front room had no rug on the bare boards of the floor. Three or four women sat around on benches, and there were pictures on the walls, but before I could do more than glance around I was ushered through to a back parlour.

   “Now, my dear, let us have a dish of tea,” said my hostess, and clapped her hands, at which a slatternly maid appeared and was given her orders. Jacky, the boy who carried my bag, was despatched to run to Lord Staines’s house to announce my arrival. Whilst we drank our tea and ate some cake she questioned me closely. Was I indeed Sir James Wilbrahim’s daughter? Yes, I replied; his only child. Did I know Lord Staines well, and did he know I was coming to London to see him? Not well as yet, I said: I believed our respective parents were thinking of a marriage, though his lordship had not yet made a proposal. His lordship had told me I would greatly enjoy the sights of London, but he did not know I was coming. And amidst all this, she kept complimenting me on my complexion and my figure.

   At this point, young Jacky returned, to announce that Lord Staines was not at home, nor any of his family, and nobody would be received that day. 

   “Well, my dear, here’s a to-do!” said my hostess (who, as I now recall, had never told me her surname), “Do you know anyone else in London?” I replied that I knew Mr Huntingdon, who was a Member of Parliament and a friend of my father, but I did not know where his lodgings might be.

  She answered with a smile, displaying a few decayed teeth. “Ah well, don’t worry: I’m sure we’ll find him for you. But it’s getting late, and I can see you’re tired. You’d best spend the night with me. Then tomorrow we’ll ask around for your Mr Huntingdon.”

   She led me up the stairs to a small room. I was now so tired that I scarcely noticed that the room was dirty, with the corners thickly cobwebbed and the bed poorly furnished. I laid down on it and was quickly asleep. It was only when I awoke that I discovered the door was locked. And there I was to remain; I do not remember for how many days, with nothing to divert me and no-one to help me; for the small window that looked out on a squalid yard would not open; and though I might bang on the door and call out, no-one came except the maidservant, who brought me food but refused to speak to me. I was very frightened and I came to lose all hope of rescue. But then someone whispered that help was on its way, and you, Mr Huntingdon, and your friends freed me.”

 

……………………………………………………………

 

   Louisa must have experienced considerable pain recounting her story, but having completed it, she appeared relieved. A monstrous great weight, we felt, had been lifted from her shoulders. But what should we do now?

Chapter Twenty-three: Mother Rawton

 (It is early spring 1763. Sir James Wilbrahim's daughter has apparently run away to London, and Charles Huntingdon has followed to look for her)

   I woke to a morning of gloom and rain, reflecting my mood. After first visiting the stables to ensure that my long-suffering horse Alexander was receiving proper attention, I proceeded to the White Horse tavern where the Mulchester coach ended its journey, there to begin my search for Louisa.

   But I did not learn anything. I described Louisa to the landlord of the inn; not tall, with blue eyes, a clear skin and fair hair; but he shook his head, informing me that so many single young girls came to London seeking employment that he and his servants had no memories of any of them in particular. He appeared reluctant to answer my questions any further.

   I then walked to Lord Staines’s house. I had never foot there, but I knew where it lay: there was a slight chance that Louisa might have found her way there, or at least I could explain her peril to Staines and enlist his help.

   The door was opened, not by some dignified major-domo, but by a strange young personage with a painted face, dressed in what appeared to be Turkish costume. He regarded me with deep suspicion in his dark eyes, but became quite affable when I informed him that I was a friend of Lord Staines, and addressed me more in the manner of an equal than that of a servant. He regretfully informed me, however, that his lordship was not in town, nor was he expected to return for several days, for he was visiting a friend in Kent. My question as to whether a young lady had called at the house recently caused him not only to deny any such event but to raise his plucked eyebrows at its sheer improbability of any such event. His lordship, he gave me to understand, was not accustomed to receiving visits from young ladies at any time. He appeared positively shocked at the very idea. I did not mention Louisa by name. He then smiled at me and invited me into the house for refreshment.  Since there was nothing more to be learned there I declined the offer brusquely, turned on my heel and departed, which seemed to disappoint him.  I remembered Lord Teesdale’s denunciations of his son’s companions, and was inclined to sympathise with his lordship.

    I had made no progress in my searches, and I was close to despair. What if Louisa was no longer alive? I had appalling visions that she had been murdered by some footpad and her body, stripped of its valuable clothing, flung into the river. It would surely be the death of Sir James when he heard such dreadful news. There seemed to be no-one I could turn to: my closest friends were all out of town and Elizabeth Newstead, even if I had still been on speaking terms with her, could not have helped beyond expressions of sympathy. It was in desperation that I at last resolved to seek out John Wilkes as a last forlorn hope.

  I hastened round to his house in Great George Street, where I found him hard at work, no doubt producing what would be the next issue of the “North Briton”. He continued to work while I described my fears, explaining how the daughter of my neighbour had run away to London and disappeared. In response to my desperate entreaties for help, he pointed to Charles Churchill, who was seated nearby cradling an immense pot of ale and said, “That idle fellow has not contributed a word all this week, and now he is merely drinking my beer, under the pretence that he is composing a ballad; so he might as well stir himself and go forth to do something useful!”  Accordingly it was Churchill who set out to make enquiries, beginning at the White Horse coaching inn. “Good beer there!” added Wilkes as an encouragement, “But don’t pass all your time drinking it!” I was, with great reluctance, persuaded to remain behind, since Churchill was well-known throughout the town, and could ask questions without rousing too many suspicions.

   I became more and more agitated while I awaited his return. My mind was full of the darkest of fears of what fate might have befallen Louisa, and I ran through the horrid details endlessly. Each minute that passed seemed an hour, each hour a year. I began to pace backwards and forwards, muttering to myself. Wilkes, irritated by my constant activity and busy with his writing, first gave me some gin and water in an attempt to calm me down, and then suggested I should take the air outside for a change. Neither of these remedies having cured my anxiety, he finally abandoned the struggle and suggested I sit down and recount to him the full story of what had occurred.   I found it a useful distraction to describe my meeting with Black George, where Wilkes approved of my conduct. He was vastly amused by my encounter with Lord Staines’s servant, and by the thought that Staines should act so contrary to his nature as to write passionate letters to any girl. At length Churchill returned and made his report. 

   “At the White Horse I found an old decayed wretch called Richard Wainwright who frequents the place”, he told us, “After I supplied him with a quantity of spirits, he was persuaded to inform me that a young girl, clean and neatly dressed, and answering to the description of Miss Wilbrahim, had indeed arrived by coach a few days ago, and was met and conducted away by Mother Rawton”.

   The name meant nothing to me, but Wilkes drew in his breath in a hiss and shook his head sadly. Churchill continued, “He then pointed out to me a little imp of mischief lurking nearby, whom he said was employed by that personage. I collared this piece of Newgate-fodder, and by means of the promise of a shilling, combined with threat of a beating, I induced him to tell me the truth. He confirmed that the girl had said her name was Louisa, and that he had carried her box to Rawton’s residence off Drury Lane. He had then been despatched on the pretence of calling on Lord Staines, but was told to report that his lordship was not at home; and that this task he had carried out. Where the girl might be now he did not know, for he was never allowed up the stairs. I paid the imp his shilling, but instructed him, with more threats and inducements, never to breathe a word of this conversation to anyone”.

   There was an ominous silence. “Who is Mother Rawton?” I asked, “And why could the landlord of the White Horse not have told me this?”

   “She is the worst bawd in London!” Wilkes informed me, “She befriends young girls coming up from the country in search of work and attempts to gain their confidence. She then takes them into her brothel, or sells them on to gentlemen who are her friends and patrons. I fear this may have been the fate intended for your Louisa. And as for the landlord: he would have known about her activities for many years past, but doubtless he is well paid for holding his tongue.”

   I was smitten with horror.

                                    (A scene from the "Harlot's Progress" series by Hogarth)

   “But, please, let us rescue her if we can!” I cried, as soon as I was able to speak, “Or at least find out where she is now. Perhaps this Rawton woman is still holding her. We must search there immediately!” A law-abiding man would have taken the case before the magistrates, but this could hardly be done without revealing Louisa’s story: I was most anxious to avoid this, and my companions agreed that privacy was essential.

    Wilkes pondered. “Let us ask Mr Boswell”, he said at last, “That young Scotch rogue knows every whore and every brothel in the town! He lodges in Pall Mall. Well, it appears I must drop everything to help you. Let us seek him forthwith. There is not a day, not an hour, to be lost!”

   An enquiry to Mr Boswell’s landlady led us to finding him strolling in the Horse Guards Parade. He readily accepted our request to join us at a tavern. In answer to our queries, he told us:

 “I know a girl at the Rawton place. Her name is Sally: she is a pretty girl, and clean, though utterly wanton and abandoned in her conduct.”

   “She won’t be clean for long, if she lies with you!” Churchill exclaimed. He turned to me and confided, “Did you know that he once had a whore on Westminster Bridge? And he not only admits it, he boasts of it!” Boswell ignored him.

   Wilkes now suggested a plan of campaign, and instructed Boswell as to what part he should play. He suggested that my identity should remain concealed, and that I should go under the name of Mr Hartshorne. I was filled with apprehension as to what we might discover, but my companions appeared to relish the prospect of the adventure on which we were about to embark.

 

   It was only after night had fallen that the four of us knocked at the door of the celebrated bagnio. It was opened by a ruffian who recognised Boswell, but regarded the rest of us with suspicion and demanded that we surrender our swords. Wilkes and I complied: Churchill, being a cleric, was not wearing one. Once inside, Mother Rawton was more welcoming.

   “Mr Boswell! Back again so soon? How you must value our hospitality! And your friends? Mr Wilkes; Mr Churchill; or should I say the Reverend Charles Churchill; your names are well known to me, and this house is honoured by your presence. And Mr Hartshorne? A most handsome young man, I do declare! You too will always be welcome!”

   “Is my little Sally here?” Boswell asked, slipping a coin into the old bawd’s discoloured hand.

   “Indeed she is, and ever eager for your services, of which she speaks so highly!” A servant, her face disfigured by sores, was despatched to bring the girl, who soon appeared. I could understand why Boswell liked her, for she had sparkling eyes and a most mischievous smile. The two of them departed upstairs.

   “Now, you other gentlemen; what would be your preference? For we cater for all tastes here!” Mother Rawton enquired with a leer on her face, hoping for some lucrative custom, but we said that for the moment we would remain below, awaiting the return of our friend. We eyed the whores present and chaffed with them. I noticed birches and other strange implements hanging on the wall, together with pictures that were coloured engravings of very indecent scenes. My inspection of these caused the whores to giggle and nudge each other.

   It was long before Boswell returned. He collapsed on a chair as if exhausted and drew us together to whisper, “Sally told me that there was a room where a strange girl was being held and was heard sobbing, but the others were forbidden to speak to her. Such behaviour, she told me, was common with Mother Rawton’s new recruits, so she had thought little of it. I then persuaded Sally, by means of some silver coins, to conduct me to the room where the sobbing was heard, and in accordance with your plan I knocked discreetly on the door and enquired of the girl inside whether she was indeed Miss Wilbrahim of Stanegate. Her sobbing lessened when I told her to fear no longer, for her rescuers were on their way. Do we now free her?”

Mother Rawton could not overhear our whisperings, but she became very suspicious. Wilkes confronted her.

   “Madam”, he said, “We have certain knowledge that you have an innocent young girl imprisoned in this house. We demand that you do immediately set her free.”

   Mother Rawton responded by clapping her hands and crying “Help! Murder!” The ruffian who had admitted us now ran in, brandishing a cudgel; but Churchill, who had positioned himself behind the door, drew a bludgeon of his own from under his cloak and struck the villain a tremendous blow on the skull, which laid him out on the floor. Churchill now seized his body, cast it out into the street and locked the door from the inside. The whores fled upstairs with cries of alarm.

   “Now, madam”, Wilkes continued, “You must know that I am a Member of Parliament and that I have many friends in this city. Would you desire that we bring your case before Sir John Fielding at Bow Street? I doubt you should wish to find yourself in the Bridewell or the pillory as a common bawd. The girl we seek is of the Quality, and if a hair of her head is harmed, I promise to find you a seat on the next cart to the Tyburn gallows. Or then again, what if the mob learn how you have treated this poor girl, and take it into their heads to assemble here and tear down your house? Such outrages have been known to occur. I think, madam, you had best do as we say.”

   Boswell and Churchill remained below to guard the entrance while Wilkes and I drove the unwilling procuress shuffling and grumbling up the stairs to unlock the door. The room was very dark, but by the light of a candle in Wilkes’s hand I perceived the form of a girl, dirty and dishevelled, lying on a bed of rags. She gave a start of alarm.

   “Louisa!” I called, “It is I, Charles Huntingdon. I have come to take you home!” She rose and fell weeping into my arms.

   I carried her down the stairs and joined the others; but before we could leave the house Mother Rawton sidled up to us.

   “And who’s to pay me for the food and lodging I provided for her, these past few days?” the shameless hussy asked. To my astonishment, Wilkes burst into laughter.

   “Oh Mother Rawton, you are irresistible!” he chuckled, and gave her some coins, which she immediately pocketed.

   “Well, thank you kindly, sir!” she replied, “You and your friends will always be welcome in my humble establishment!” and she dropped a grotesque little curtsey.

   As we left the house, I heard Boswell say, “I wonder why she left the girl untouched and then let her go so readily?”

   “Tush!” said Churchill, “At the start, she intended to use her as a whore, or sell her to some nobleman since she is so young and virginal; but when she discovered that the child really was the daughter of a man of influence and had noble friends, perhaps she next thought she could hold her for ransom. No, sir; in the end she knew she had bitten off more than she could chew, and so she spat out the child rather than bring about her own destruction!”

  
  (Charles Churchill as "The Bruiser": a cartoon by Hogarth)

    Louisa continued to sob as we took her away, leaning on my shoulder and not uttering a word. She stumbled along like one in a dream, and Wilkes had to support her on the other side. This strange little procession attracted ribald comments from passing idlers, but threats from Churchill and Boswell drove them away.

   What were we to do with her? I knew she could not be brought to my lodgings, for my landlady was the worst of gossips. Wilkes therefore suggested the use of his own home, where his daughter Polly was home from France. We were all weary and exhausted by the time we reached the door, and I could not imagine what was passing through Louisa’s mind. Polly, greatly to her credit, asked no questions but, assisted by a maidservant, put Louisa to bed and promised to watch over her.

   We four men then sank into chairs in relief. Wilkes called for bottles of wine, to celebrate the success of our venture, and soon after, for more bottles. I thanked my friends for the trouble they had taken to help me.

   “It was nothing, sir!” said Wilkes, “Why: rescuing an innocent damosel from captivity; it is worthy of an old romance! Churchill can write a comic ballad to celebrate our heroic deeds, and have the whole town laughing!” Churchill nodded and smiled.

   “Would Lord Staines ever have discovered where she was held captive?” I wondered.

   “Never!” replied Churchill, “For that fellow only frequents molly-shops!”

   Boswell sighed, “I suppose I shall never see my dear Sally again after this, and I hope the old baggage does not mistreat her in consequence; but heigh-ho: I am leaving for France next week, and doubtless I shall find many fine new birds in the bushes there!”

   He and Churchill then departed, and when I was left alone with Wilkes I asked, “Can all this be kept secret, to preserve Louisa’s honour? I fear the shame of it might kill her father.”

   “For London, I think it cannot be kept secret for long”, said Wilkes, “For even if we four hold our tongues, the whores are certain to spread the tale. But since her father so seldom comes to town, it may perhaps be kept from his ears”.

   My greatest apprehension, of course, was that Louisa had been debauched by some ruffian, and I whispered my fears to Wilkes.

   “Only she can tell us that”, he replied, “But do not press her on so vile a subject: let her tell you the truth in her own good time, should she so wish. For the moment, there is nothing more we can do”.

   It was approaching dawn when I returned to my lodgings and collapsed into bed. I had a disturbed sleep.

Chapter Twenty-two: Louisa vanishes

(It is early in the spring of 1763, and Charles Huntingdon has returned to his country home after an unsuccessful visit to Bath)

    I found little joy at the Priory when I returned home, for fever was raging in Bereton: many people were lying sick and a some had died. Our village of Bearsclough had so far been spared the disease, but we lived in fear and kept ourselves to ourselves as best we could. From Stanegate there was no news. While we waited for better times there was work to be done on the farms, spring was almost upon us.

   One day I was seated in my library, studying my account-books and sketching plans for a hothouse which I contemplated building in the kitchen garden, when I heard shouting outside. To my astonishment Sir James Wilbrahim forced his way in, brushing aside the restraining hands of a servant. It was the first time he had set foot in the Priory since the disastrous dinner-party. He was in a paroxysm of rage.

   “Where is she, you villain? Where have you hidden her?” he bellowed. Mrs Highsmith, who had been sorting through some papers, uttered a shriek of fear and fled from the room. I rose to my feet and enquired, with as much calmness as I could muster, what the devil he was talking about.

   “I’m talking about Louisa! Louisa!” he shouted; his face within an inch or two of mine. “I come back home from a week away, and I find she’s gone! All the servants are sick in bed and no-one can tell me anything! I know you’ve been writing to her, and so has that fool Staines, for I’ve found the letters; but she’s always preferred you to him, though you are both equal scoundrels, trying to steal her affection! And she worth more than both of you put together! So produce her this instant, before I kill you as you deserve!” 

  All attempts to calm him, and to assure him that his daughter was not in the house, served only to increase his rage yet further. He raised his stick and I verily believe he would have attacked me then and there, had not Mrs Timmis, who had entered the room during this outburst, come to my rescue.

   “Begging your pardon, sir,” she began, politely but fearlessly, “I can see your honour’s upset, as any father would be, but I’ll not have anyone come to the master’s home and accuse him of abducting Miss Wilbrahim, for she’s not here, nor has she ever been. I can tell you where she is: for she’s gone off to London, sir, the day before yesterday!”

   “What! Run away to London, you say? Nonsense! Lies! Impossible!”

   “No, with respect, your honour, it’s not lies; for my brother Ned, he saw her board the coach, sir. He thought you must know.”

   A servant was promptly despatched to find Ned Timmis for confirmation of this alarming news. An age then seemed to pass, during which Sir James paced to and fro, scarlet-faced, growling and muttering to himself until I feared he might explode. He scornfully rejected Mrs Timmis’s offer of tea, but eventually agreed to accept a large glass of brandy, which seemed to mollify him somewhat, and he sat down to continue his muttering. He might not have believed anything I said, but no-one ever doubted the word of my redoubtable housekeeper.

   Sir James became increasingly impatient while we waited. Having swallowed his brandy he demanded another rose to his feet once more, denouncing to the world at large the iniquity of the times.

   “I gave orders that while I was away, Miss Louisa was on no account to leave the house except in the company of Mr Bunbridge. But now, I go away for just a few days, and when I return she’s vanished! Disappeared! None of the servants can account for it, and Bunbridge isn’t at home! Where is she?”

    It was at this stage that Ned Timmis appeared, with the mud of the fields still on his boots, and was instructed by his sister to give his account.

   “Well, your honour, sir,” he began uncertainly, for he could tell something had gone seriously wrong. His face was very red and he twisted his hat in his massive hands as he spoke, as he always did when unsure of himself, “This was the manner of it. It was Tuesday and I was in Mulchester for the market, seeing farmer Brayford concerning the purchase of some swine, three breeding sows and a young boar it was, and that being done we fancied supping an ale or two at the White Rose tavern, so we made our way to the square, and there was the London coach about to depart, and on the other side what should I see but Mr Bunbridge’s trap; the Rector himself, he wasn’t there, but I recognised his horse, for it’s one that I did find for him some years back, and a hard bargain he struck for it. And there in the trap sat Miss Wilbrahim, all on her own! I hadn’t spoke to her, she being above my station, since the days long past when she did visit the Priory here and I showed her the farms, and I was surprised that she did remember me, but she calls out. ‘Now then Ned Timmis! There’s not a moment to be lost! Pray take up my box and follow me to the London coach before it leaves! I must be on it!’  ‘Why, Miss Wilbrahim, what be you off to London for?’ I asks her. ‘I’m off to see someone’, she tells me, ‘But I haven’t the time to tell you now: be quick, or I’ll miss it!’ And so I did as she told me, and I picked up the box and carried it, not that it felt like there was too much in it, and helped her board the coach and straightway it departed with her on it. And then Mr Bunbridge returned and found that she’d gone; and he wasn’t half surprised! And I’d thought he must have known about her plans, or she wouldn’t have been in his trap, but it seemed he didn’t know nothing about it! And he didn’t ask me what I’d seen and done, for it was like he never noticed I was there, so I didn’t say nowt.

   “And then Mr Bunbridge, he found no-one wouldn’t answer his questions as to where she’d gone. Now, your honour likely knows how it is in Mulchester, sir: the folks there is all Dissenters, and they started to laugh at Mr Bunbridge in his parson’s gown getting all angry and shouting, and of course they didn’t know as how it was Miss Wilbrahim as had disappeared, sir, and he didn’t tell them, and one of them says they all knows about him and the young lassies and that now one of ‘em had escaped him and run off to find a younger man – I’m sorry to be having to tell your honour such stories, sir; but I’m only repeating what they was saying – and that naturally made Mr Bunbridge even angrier, and people laughed at him even more, and while all this was going on I left to go about my own business, and that’s how things stand. Did I do wrong, sir?”

  Sir James had become increasingly impatient with this roundabout way of telling a simple story, and eventually spluttered, “And why do you imagine she wanted to travel to London unaccompanied?”  

   “Well now, sir, I did think it was strange that she should be off to London on her own, but I thought it must have been with your honour’s permission; and I didn’t feel it was my place to question her, so I didn’t.”

   Sir James, in impotent rage, cursed him roundly for his stupidity. The recipient of this abuse, after standing around in awkward silence for a brief while, bowed hastily and retreated with relief back to his husbandry. Sir James continued to growl, but now appeared at a loss as to what to do, merely exclaiming to all and sundry that even if I was not directly responsible for his daughter’s flight, it was nonetheless all the fault of “Those damned books you’ve been sending her, putting ridiculous ideas into her silly head!” Then, suddenly, my worst fears were confirmed as he clutched at his chest and collapsed into a chair, wheezing and gasping for breath. His face, but lately red, was now a ghastly white and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. Mrs Timmis, thinking this must be the onset of the fever, or worse, rushed to his assistance, serving him more brandy and mopping his forehead with cold water. This seemed to bring some relief, but all he was able to do was to keep muttering weakly, “What’s to be done? What’s to be done?”

  I felt a sudden pity for the poor old man, and decided that with Sir James plainly unfit to travel, the responsibility of finding his daughter devolved upon me. If Louisa had indeed departed for London, it was now my duty to set out immediately and find her. I ordered my riding-habit to be brought and Alexander to be saddled up and made ready without delay, whilst I snatched some food and collected whatever money was to hand. Mrs Timmis did her best to dissuade me from such a precipitate action, but I overruled her and told her to arrange for my carriage to drive Sir James home to Stanegate. While these preparations were under way, I could not help but be amused by how slyly Ned Timmis had contrived to cast slurs on the character of Mr Bunbridge.

   When all was ready, I took Sir James’s hand. “Do not worry, sir!” I told him, “I shall bring your daughter back safe and sound, I promise you!” He smiled weakly at me, and his grip on my hand was without its normal strength. Mrs Timmis continued to look disapproving, but contented herself with fussing around Sir James; and in a little more than an hour I departed on my journey. As I travelled, I pondered what could have caused Louisa to resolve so precipitately to fly to London. Was her father correct in blaming it on the books or the letters she had received? Although she was young and without knowledge of the world, she was surely not silly enough to confuse romantic stories with reality. Did she hope to meet Lord Staines, who had been writing to her? Or was it to meet me? If so, I bore a great responsibility to return her safely home!

   

   I rode past Bereton and through Mulchester on the old road. Despite the urgency of my mission, I forced myself not to travel too fast, for I dared not exhaust Alexander too early if I intended to reach London the next day. A few miles beyond Mulchester I came to an inn called the Hollybush, and recollected with surprise that this was the very establishment where we had been obliged to break our journey after the accident with the stage-coach on my first journey to my new home. How long ago that now seemed! I remembered it as a low and dirty place, but my horse was by now in need of rest and water, and I too was tired and hungry, so I halted there.

   The landlord was a rascally-looking man. He had no teeth, his nose was broken and his forehead bore many old scars, which made me wonder if he had once been a prize-fighter. His waiter, by contrast, was as thin as a lath. There were a few idle fellows lounging about, who regarded me with sullen suspicion. I ordered that my horse be watered, and bread and bacon for myself. The beer was sour and the victuals poor, and took far longer to serve than I would have expected for such fare. While I was eating the loungers continued to stare at me. I ignored them, and rode onwards directly I was able.

   I was now travelling through wooded countryside where few people lived. Suddenly round a corner a masked man on a chestnut horse appeared. Coming close on my left side, he raised a pistol at my head, while at the same moment a confederate on foot appeared on either side of my horse and seized the reins.

   My assailant was dressed in a dark brown coat and high boots. I could see little of his face, for a black tricorn hat pulled low over his forehead and below this he wore a mask. I recalled the fears expressed by the ladies on my first journey northwards of the notorious highwayman known as Black George. There could be little doubt that this was him.

   He demanded that I instantly surrender my valuables. This was the most perilous moment of my life. My heart was beating like a drum, yet time seemed to stand still. What was I to do? A wrong move, and in an instant I might be dead, and my body stripped and left in a ditch. I thought of our soldiers and sailors who looked death in the eyes in all corners of the world, and of Lord Staines’s imperturbable coolness as he faced the pistol of John Wilkes. But here it was not only my life, but perhaps Louisa’s too, that hung by the slenderest thread, should I fail in my mission to find her.

   Somehow, I found a slight encouragement in the highwayman’s voice, for it had a note of merriment in it, as if he regarded thieving as a jest. I did not think he intended to kill me. He had the voice of a gentleman, and his horse, I noticed, was no mere farmer’s beast but a magnificent stallion, impeccably groomed. Black George was clearly no common robber. 

   Trembling inwardly but steeling myself not to show fear, I produced my purse, but held it just out of his reach. “I think you could at least tell me your name, sir”, I said, trying to keep my voice nonchalant and unconcerned, though I was scarcely aware of what I was saying. “Am I to assume that I am addressing the famous Black George?”

   He laughed, for he knew that in my heart I was frightened. “My name? People indeed sometimes call me Black George, but others might perhaps honour me with the title of King George; for although George of Hanover may sit enthroned in London, I am sovereign in the forests south of Mulchester! My authority is acknowledged by all the villagers around here, and I reward their loyalty with a share in the customs duties that I levy on the travellers who pass through my realm. Coachmen, if they are wise, pay me a regular sum in advance, and thereby hope to be left to complete their journeys undisturbed, though sometimes I stop them anyway, just to remind them to be prompt in their payments. Now, I think, is the time for you to make your contribution to my kingdom’s revenue!”

   He reached out his left hand for the purse. I saw that the hand bore a long scar on the back, running down through the wrist, and that the middle finger had been broken and stuck out in a peculiar fashion. I resolved, as far as I could, to treat the occasion with amusement. Also, I thought, the longer I could contrive to keep him talking, the better, especially if I could interest or entertain him.

   “Well, Black George, or King George if you prefer: since I perceive you are a gentleman, I make this appeal to you”, I replied, “Although I am not one of your subjects by residence, I am at least a neighbour, for my name is Charles Huntingdon, of the Priory, over at Bearsclough. As such, I freely acknowledge your sovereignty over these woods, and I am prepared to give you my money, and my watch too. ‘Who steals my purse, steals trash’, as the poet says. But I must beg you to leave me a few guineas, and also my horse to enable me to complete my journey, for I am on an errand to rescue a young lady, a mere child, whom I fear might be in great danger. Surely you, as a man of honour, will not hinder me in this task?” I was speaking much slower and keeping my voice low, for I now knew who I was: I was the great David Garrick on stage, playing the part of a carefree young gentleman; and I was trying to submerge myself entirely in the role, though I would have hoped that Garrick would have provided himself with a better play-script. Looking back, I can see how false I must have sounded, and am amazed that he did not shoot me on the spot. But his reply was just as artificial, and suggested he was acting a part too, and one in which he was amused that I saw fit to cast him as a highway robber who was nonetheless a gentleman. Garrick might have rated Black George’s acting better than mine.

   “Indeed? A fine story! And pray, who might this young maiden in distress be?” he enquired, obviously not believing a word of it.

   “Her name is Miss Louisa Wilbrahim, sir, and she is the daughter of Sir James Wilbrahim of Stanegate Hall, near Bereton. She has run away to London, and I must find her before she comes to harm”.

   “Has she, by gad!” he exclaimed, and laughed again. “Then the girl has more spirit than I would have thought! I esteemed her a feeble little thing!”

   “Do you know Sir James then?” I asked, my actor’s mask briefly slipping in my astonishment.

   His foot-soldiers protested, “Take his stuff and his horse and let’s get going! Someone might come by at any moment!”

   “Be quiet, Tom!” Black George ordered, and then said to me, “What, old Wilbrahim? I know all about him! Particularly I know who supplies his wine and brandy, and where it’s stored! And an excellent customer he is too! I might add that the smugglers also are expected to pay their tolls when they pass through my lands. Now hand over your purse and watch immediately!”

   Still withholding my purse, I asked, “I suppose the innkeeper sent you a message that I was on the road?”

   “Old Jacob at the Hollybush? Why, he is the most honest man you could ever hope to meet! Him in league with me?” Once more he laughed, enjoying this banter.

   Tom continued to grumble at the delay, and was right to do so; for at that instant there was a loud halloo from behind me, and there was Ned Timmis spurring his horse at a gallop along the road towards us, closely followed by two others!  Black George appeared uncertain which way to turn, and in that moment I was able to strike his right hand a blow with my riding-whip. The pistol discharged harmlessly into the ground. I struck again with all my force and smote the weapon from his grasp, at which he cursed, spurred his horse and fled the scene. Tom, no doubt directing his own curses at his master, disappeared into the bushes beside the road, and I was left with my rescuers, all of us panting; them from exertion, me from relief. I told them how I would be eternally grateful to them for my rescue, but asked how it came to be that that they had appeared at that moment.

   “Well sir, it’s like this”, Ned replied, a little short of breath after his gallop, “After my talk with Squire Wilbrahim, I was out in the fields, for I knew some of our sheep wasn’t in good health…”

   I anticipated a discourse on diseases of sheep, but on this occasion Timmis was able quickly to return to the point of his narrative.

   “… but a boy comes running with a message that my sister wants to see me straight away. And there I finds her in a right tizzy, and she says, now listen here, our Ned; the master’s gone charging off to London to find Miss Wilbrahim; so you saddle the best horse and go after him sharpish and make sure he don’t get into no trouble: you know it’s bad country out beyond Mulchester. Oh, and take a couple of good strong lads with you in case there’s any roughness. And so I called up Harry and Arthur here, and so it turned out, and so here I am!”

   I told him of my suspicions that the landlord at the Hollybush might have passed the word to the highwayman that I was on the road. Timmis shook his head, but not in disagreement.

   “Oh, you don’t want to have nowt to do with him, sir; everyone in these parts knows he’s a bad ‘un. Black George, he robs the travellers, and old Jacob there, he sells the goods on. How the two of ‘em have ‘scaped hanging; that’s a mystery!”

   He then turned to look down the road where the highwayman had disappeared.

   “That’s a fine horse he had there,” he commented. “A proper gentleman’s horse. Chestnut, with four white socks. Wonder where he got him. Stolen, I don’t doubt, but not from around here, or the rightful owner and his friends would recognise him.”   

   I interrupted his musings to ask, “And now will you now come with me to London?”

   “No, that I will not, sir; for I have much work to do on the farm; and to speak truth, sir, I have never seen a town larger than Mulchester, nor do I desire ever to do so. This country I know well, and it supplies me with all my needs and wants. No sir, I shall ride with you to the next town, then I shall return home. I’ll keep a lookout for that horse, though; I’d know it anywhere!”  

   He would not be swayed in this determination, though one of the lads looked a trifle disappointed. The other one had dismounted and retrieved the highwayman’s pistol, which he now presented to me. It was a fine-looking weapon, chased with silver, but rather heavy.

   “You had better take this, Ned,” I said, “for I shall have no use for it in London.”

   “’Tis a fine weapon to be sure,” he replied, “But it’s not for the likes of me, for I should be in sore trouble should I be found with it: perhaps it might be thought that I was the robber! But I’ll take it and hide it safe till your honour returns; which God willing you will, and bringing Miss Wilbrahim home with you!”

   And so we parted, with the most profuse thanks on my part, together with some money to buy food and drink for his lads, and the promise of more when I returned.

  When I later recounted the story of my adventure to my London friends, they were greatly entertained, but looking back on it, I tremble to reflect how close I must have been to losing my life.

 

   The rest of my journey passed free of incident, but also fruitlessly. The weather was often cold and my anxiety remained constant. At every major staging inn I passed, I asked the question; did the London stage stop there? Was there among the passengers a young lady, unaccompanied, fitting the description I gave? Some could tell me nothing, others appeared uncertain. I had to assume that Louisa had reached London. But what might have become of her there? I rode on. I passed a night on the road, but was unable to sleep much.

   When I eventually came to my lodgings it was late in the evening. I had cherished a last hope had been that I might find Louisa there, if she had remembered the address from my letters, but this was now dashed: she had not been seen. Alexander was exhausted, but my landlord very kindly offered to deliver him to the care of a cousin, who was employed ata livery stable not far away. I could do no more that day, and collapsed into bed. I would have to resume my search tomorrow.

Chapter Twenty-one: A chapter of misfortunes

(It is 1762, and Charles Huntingdon is Member of Parliament for Bereton)   

   In December there was held the great debate on the Peace. The House of Commons was crowded for the occasion, and the atmosphere tense and oppressive. I sat with Sir Anthony Pardington on the rear benches to the Speaker’s left. We heard Mr Fox speak, and Mr George Grenville, whom Fox had recently replaced as Secretary of State, and it was during  Grenville’s very prolix justification of the peace terms that Sir James Wilbrahim entered the chamber. He bowed to the Speaker but then hesitated, as if uncertain on which side of the House he should take his place. He acknowledged me with a slight inclination of the head, but then took a seat with Mr Braithwaite and other Tories. It was the first time I had seen Sir James attend Parliament, and Sir Anthony whispered that he had never been known to open his mouth in debate.

   I was observing my fellow Member for Bereton as Mr Charles Townshend spoke. That gentleman, who had the reputation of a brilliant orator, had been expected to oppose the treaty, but now supported it strongly. At this development Sir James nodded vigorously in approval, sensing that victory was now assured. I observed Lord Staines bobbing up and down in an attempt to catch the Speaker’s eye. He doubtless intended to make a violent attack on the persons and policies of the late ministry; but this ambition was thwarted, for an excited whisper ran round the chamber that William Pitt was approaching.

   The great man came hobbling in on crutches. It was the first time I had seen him, and his appearance was alarming. He appeared to be in great pain: his face was emaciated, the colour of old parchment, his gout-stricken feet and legs were swathed in flannel bandages, and his hands encased in thick gloves. I had so many times been told of Pitt’s greatness as an orator, and I waited to hear this new Demosthenes hold the House spellbound.

    Then the Speaker called his name and the moment came. Pitt’s voice was weak, so much so that at times he could barely be heard, and because of his gout he was granted the unprecedented privilege of addressing the House whilst seated, but despite these handicaps he spoke at length, and in great detail. He tore the peace treaty to shreds and denounced it point by point. The West Indian islands that we had recently captured should not have been returned to the French, he said, and neither should have the trading factories in India. Florida, which was now ours, and Minorca, which we had regained, were no substitute for Havanna, which we were returning to Spain. He feared that in a few years France would once again have recovered to be again a formidable foe, and the “base desertion” of Frederick of Prussia he denounced with great ferocity. I noticed Sir James Wilbrahim constantly shuffling on his seat and muttering to himself throughout this diatribe.

   Although Pitt was heard with close attention, those members who had witnessed his great flights of oratory, either as friend or foe, said afterwards that it was by no means one of his best performances: it was over-lengthy and tedious. Indeed, Lord Barrington commented that “Pitt never made so long or so bad a speech”. But what followed was astonishing; for, immediately Pitt concluded, he picked up his crutches and left the chamber! He neither heard the later speeches, nor stayed to cast his vote! Sir Anthony shook his head sadly, and muttered to me that it appeared from this behaviour that any concerted plan to oppose the Peace had been abandoned. We paid little attention to subsequent speeches as we wondered what could now be done.

   When finally the Speaker called for a division, Sir James promptly leapt to his feet and headed for the lobbies. Sir Anthony said it must have been the first time in all Sir James’s years in Parliament that he had voted for the government. But Pitt’s behaviour had left the opposition hopelessly confused, and the upshot was that Sir Anthony and I abstained, as did many friends of Pitt and Newcastle, though others voted against the treaty and a few even voted for it. In consequence, that evening more than three hundred voted with the ministers while fewer than seventy opposed the peace treaty. Against all expectations, Lord Bute, who had been quite unknown two years earlier, had triumphed, whereas the ministry of Pitt and Newcastle, which had then appeared impregnable, now lay in ruins!

  Sir Anthony’s verdict on the result was, “An ill-managed affair: the worst-managed I can recall”. I could not but agree with him.

                                                         (John Stuart, Earl of Bute)

    Afterwards I found James Wilbrahim overjoyed with the result and looking for all forces now to be withdrawn from Europe and taxes to be immediately reduced. More than that, he chortled, “The tyranny of the Whig dogs has been broken at last!”

   He asked me if I had been foolish enough to vote against the Peace Treaty, to which I replied, with perfect honesty, that I had not. Satisfied with this truthful but somewhat Jesuistical statement, he embraced me joyfully and invited me to the Cocoa Tree club, that celebrated haunt of irreconcilable Tories and Jacobites. Curiosity led me to accept the proposal.

   I found a scene of joyous carousing. Mr Braithwaite was there, and his behaviour was far removed from his usual austere manner. I do not think he recognised me as I remained silently in the background. I heard lifelong Tories rejoice as they anticipated removals of Whig supporters from all levels of government and lucrative places for themselves and their friends. After my earlier meeting with Mr Fox, this came as no surprise; but I was not expecting any preferment to come my way, and so was not to be disappointed.

   Sir James disappeared into the throng, but I later found him again, his face now flushed and evidently well-fortified by drink. He held my gaze for a moment with a look of slight puzzlement. I wondered whether he had intended to say something to me, but, after all the wine and brandy he had consumed, could not at that moment remember what it was. Eventually he told me to meet him tomorrow, and I invited him to come to Brown’s club in the afternoon, and gave him directions. He was still damning the Whig dogs with the rest of the company when I left, quietly and unobserved.

  

   The next day Sir John was so late in arriving that I wondered whether he had completely forgotten. While I waited, I passed the time in composing a long letter to Louisa, with a satirical account of the memorable scenes I had witnessed in Parliament and afterwards. I would not mention her father, except to say that he was very happy after the vote. But this letter was destined never to be written.

   Sir John did eventually appear, and the way he sniffed around told me that he did not like the place, which he no doubt considered to be full of stockjobbers and Whigs. He rejected my offer of coffee, but consented to be served some wine, and we retired to a quiet corner for a talk. His manner was stern.

  “I like you well enough, Mr Huntingdon, and I am happy to have you as my colleague, now that you are a Member of Parliament,” he began, “You appear to be a man of sense, and you’re not too much of a damned Whig. But as regards Miss Louisa, I shall speak frankly You may consider yourself a very fine gentleman, but I must tell you that she is so far above you as to be entirely beyond your expectations.”

   Caught by surprise, I protested that I harboured no dishonourable intentions towards his daughter.

   “That is no more than I would have expected of any gentleman, sir. But it is beside the point. Even if your intentions were a sincere desire for marriage, I would not permit it. You must not even dream of courting her; nor shall I permit any further intercourse with her.”

   He paused briefly before continuing, “Miss Louisa has become increasingly wilful and disobedient of late, and for that I hold you partially responsible. She has been too influenced by the foolish, worthless books you have lent her. Then there was the case of the fireworks in Bereton.”

   I held my breath. How much did he know?

   “I had specifically forbidden her to attend, yet she defied my wishes! Mrs Piddock caught her and the maid creeping back late that night like housebreakers, and dressed as boys! They did not attempt to deny they had been to the fireworks! A most disgraceful scandal, had it been generally known!”

  I breathed again. If he had known of my part in returning his daughter home, he would have been very angry indeed. The message from Becky that “we didn’t tell them nothing” now made sense, and I silently praised the girls’ courage on my behalf.

   Sir James resumed his diatribe. “Miss Louisa is now forbidden to leave the house, or to receive visitors, except in the presence of me or Mr Bunbridge. She will neither write nor receive letters without my permission. As for the maid, I should have dismissed her immediately, but I relented when Miss Louisa begged me, with tears in her eyes, to let her stay; so I instructed Mrs Piddock to whip her soundly and then set her to work in the kitchen rather than waste time in idle chit-chat with her mistress. I have been too soft, sir! And as for you, sir, no matter how honourable you may consider your intentions to be, your friendship with her has brought nothing but trouble!”

    I asked, “Have you perhaps pledged her hand elsewhere?” thinking that he might have some great lord in mind to be Louisa’s husband.

   He snorted. “No, sir, I have not! You may at least rest your mind on that score! I can tell you, sir, that insolent young puppy Lord Staines has asked for her hand in marriage, but I have repulsed him!

   “You are a friend of Staines, are you? Then that is no credit to you, sir! His family is of plebeian origin, of course, but I condemn him by more than that, sir; much more! I have made enquiries, sir! And what do I find? Why, I find that all London knows the sort of man he is; if indeed such a depraved and degenerate fellow may be called a man! He shall never enter my doors again! I have written to him to say so!”

   He continued, “And as for you, sir; I should never have permitted Miss Louisa to accept the fripperies and geegaws that you and Staines have sent her. I shall return the books you have lent her. You are not to lend her any more. Nor will I permit you ever again to write her letters. I have instructed my servants to bring to me any letters addressed to her. This matter is concluded.” He then turned his back on me and stalked out of the room, leaving me sorely perplexed.

   Sir James’s anger had precisely the opposite effect from what he intended. When I first met Louisa I had thought of her as no more than a delightful charming child, but now she was fast becoming a lady with every prospect of being a great beauty. Why should I not be her suitor? At the very least, I no longer had a serious rival in Staines, for his attempts to woo her had plainly been vetoed. But at the moment my chances appeared but few.

 

   Events took on a most unexpected twist not long afterwards. Another letter was left for me at Brown’s club; this time not from Byrne but from a wholly different correspondent: none other than Mr Bunbridge, the Rector of Bereton! How he discovered the address I do not know: I guessed Sir James must have told him of our meeting there. What he had to say was truly amazing.

 “If you wish to send letters to Miss Wilbrahim,” he wrote, “I suggest that you direct them to me, and I will pass them on; as I shall also do with any she might address to you. I assure you that all possible discretion will be observed. My only desire is for her happiness.”

   I greatly wondered at this. I had always considered Mr Bunbridge to be an enemy rather than a friend, and had believed that he was a great opponent of Louisa coming to know more of the world; but I was not going to reject the help of such an unexpected ally.  I accordingly wrote frequently to Louisa, describing my activities in Parliament and the plays and concerts I attended in London, but now enclosed my letters in packages addressed to the Rectory.

   Louisa was sometimes able to write in reply. She had little to say, and it was clear that she was lonely and unhappy. What could I do except continue to write? I was aware that we were directly disobeying her father’s commands, but I felt justified in these actions, which were wholly innocent of any wicked motives.

  It was only later that it occurred to me that in all probability Lord Staines had the same channel of communication with Louisa as I did. I eventually found out that this was indeed the case: Staines wrote constantly to Louisa via the Rector, declaring his undying love, describing the glories of London and wishing she could join him there. This paper flirtation was to have disastrous consequences.

    I spent Christmas and the rest of the winter in London, attending to my Parliamentary duties, escorting Elizabeth Newstead to theatres and concerts, visiting Lady Teesdale and dining with my friends, but found I did not enjoy these activities as I had done in the past. I sent a further fifty pounds to Byrne, and in return received the wholly expected news that he had not yet discovered the missing ruby but would continue his search.

   It has been truly stated that misfortunes never come singly, and the next one to afflict me now arose. The business of Parliament often held me till late. I was kept busy there, for Lord Teesdale was sponsoring a Bill to dig a new canal, which I had pledged to support, and also a Bill to enclose the fields at Maybury. Lord Staines and Sir Headley Graham should also have played their part in supporting Lord Teesdale’s projects, but it seemed they both preferred to spend their evenings in the pursuit of pleasure, leaving most of the work to me. On such occasions I often did not leave Parliament until a very late hour, and then returned to my lodgings, desiring only to sleep. Elizabeth became restless at my frequent absences, and no doubt the troubles of Stanegate also preying on my mind caused my performances as a lover to fall below her expectations.

   One morning, after passing the night at her house, and being obliged to leave early while she was still asleep, I ordered a servant-girl to bring me my clothes. To my astonishment she produced from a cupboard a set of gentleman’s garments that were not mine! When I laughingly chided her, saying that she had brought me Mr Newstead’s clothes by mistake, the girl, who was clearly very stupid, was covered with embarrassment and said that no, they must belong to “one of the other gentlemen!” I examined the garments and found that their owner was somewhat stouter than me, and his feet considerably larger. Their quality suggested him to be a man of some wealth.

   That Elizabeth was unfaithful to her absent husband I already knew, so the revelation that she might also be unfaithful to her lovers should not have surprised me, but I was filled with a sudden revulsion. When I compared Louisa with her, I saw the difference between a pure country girl and a faded relic who was little better than a strumpet. I left her house in disgust, vowing never to return.

   I dined that night with Henry Darnwell, who perceived my low spirits, though I did not explain the reason. Thinking me to be ill, he suggested I visit Bath and drink the waters to improve my health. I agreed, for lack of anything better, so I made my excuses to Lord Teesdale and departed.

 

   But I did not enjoy my visit. Lodgings, when they could be found, were extortionately costly, the famous waters of the Pump Room tasted as if Mrs Timmis had been boiling bad eggs in them, and the King’s Bath was both crowded and dirty. The park in Mr Allen’s villa, conceived in the grand manner and containing a splendid Palladian bridge, would have been a fine walk on a sunny day, but for the most part the weather was foul. 

   There were card-parties, where I learned to play whist, and where at least the most notorious cheats were kept at bay. There were dinners and dances, and at all these events there were mothers in search of suitable husbands for their daughters. Lady Danvers was the queen of all the matchmakers in the town: I do not know what enquiries she made about me, but within a day or so of our being introduced she desired that I should meet her friend Mrs Henderson and with her daughter Jemimah, who, she informed me, was a delightful girl. It was obvious what was being planned, for when I was introduced, Mrs Henderson made a flutter with her fan, then dropped a scarf for me to pick up and return to her, and smiled at me in such a manner that it was almost as if she herself was doing the flirting on her daughter’s behalf. The girl herself meanwhile stood by looking awkward. She was not unattractive, and danced well enough, but was painfully shy at first, and when she did at last begin to talk, it was solely about dresses and hats. She could not have been much older than Louisa Wilbrahim, but I could not help but think that Louisa would have shown herself to better effect. Afterwards Lady Danvers bombarded me with questions: did I not think that Jemimah was the most charming of young ladies? and added to this the information that she was the heiress to a considerable estate in Worcestershire. I replied politely, pretending I had failed to understand the hint.

   Whole battalions of young men haunted the town. After talking with them, I concluded that Sir Headley Graham, Lord Teesdale’s son-in-law, whom the Earl had dismissed as a fool, would have appeared a veritable Aristotle of intellect compared with some of the other fellows in this circle. They appeared to spend their days doing nothing except lounging on the fringes of public gatherings, chatting idly in the most affected tones of carriages and of horse-racing or exchanging disparaging remarks about the persons and the clothes of the rest of the company. Even the young ladies did not escape their censure, being compared unfavourably with the nymphs who plied their trade in Avon Street, which I understood to be a thoroughfare of ill repute. Presumably these young fops imagined themselves to be objects of general admiration. I did not attempt to disillusion them.

   Then there came a disastrous moment in the Pump Room when I suddenly saw Elizabeth herself approaching on the arm of an extravagantly dressed young man! I attempted to retreat into the crowd, but to my horror Lady Danvers cried, “Oh, Mr Huntingdon, here’s my old friend Mrs Newstead! I must introduce you!”

   There was no escape. I bowed clumsily to Elizabeth and kissed her hand, muttering meaningless compliments. She, exercising admirable self-control, did not betray a flicker of recognition, but smiled and said she was delighted to meet me. Lady Danvers gave the opinion that we were certain to become the best of friends, whilst meanwhile her escort, whom Sir James Wilbrahim would have rightly condemned as another insolent young puppy, stood by making little effort to conceal his boredom. I was greatly relieved when I was able to withdraw, and then fled the scene with indecent haste.

  That night I composed a letter to Elizabeth. I did not wish to see her again, but there remained the matter of the stolen ruby. After some thought I told her of the letters I had received from Joseph Byrne, together with an account of my dealings with him; I explained that I had already paid out money of my own, but that she would have to decide for herself whether to continue the payments, for I was resolved to have nothing more to do with it. I intended never again to speak to either of them, though as it happened both were to play a part later in my story.

    The next day I consigned my letter to the post and prepared to return to Bereton by the first transport that could be arranged.