Chapter Twenty-seven: Danielle's story

(It is spring 1763. Charles Huntingdon and his friends have discovered that Danielle d'Autun, a French lady whom they know, and who may know some important information, has been sentenced to death for theft. They decide to visit her in prison)

    A few days later, the pair joined me again, Wandescote having discovered that Danielle was held in a prison known as the Coldharbour.

   “It is greatly feared by Londoners,” he reported with a certain relish, “The gaoler is a certain Hugh Bennet, but is known as ‘the Cracker’. He is a far greater villain than those unlucky enough to be entrusted to his tender care. These wretches, or their relatives, have to pay for everything: for food, for bedding, for candles. Those who refuse may find themselves chained in some noisome dungeon until they see reason. Happily, the man is infinitely corruptible. I know the place: would you wish me to introduce you to the famous Mr Cracker?”

   Darnwell intervened to say, “I had the honour to be the guest of this man not so long ago, following a regrettable incident in the street, and my father left me in his care for a few days, in order to teach me a lesson, I suppose, before bailing me. But others I met there did not have such good fortune. During my brief spell under his roof, I met unfortunates who had served their sentences, or had even been acquitted at their trial, but whom he refused to release unless they paid him for the privilege! I tell you: should I ever be elected to Parliament, I would demand a full enquiry into the state of the nation’s prisons!” 

   We decided to pay the Coldharbour a visit that very day.

  

 The first thing I noticed as we approached the notorious establishment, which sat like a grim fortress from an earlier age, was not the gates, strong and oppressive though they were, but the number of little bags and baskets dangling on strings from the upper windows. My companions explained that the unhappy inmates were not provided with sufficient to sustain life, but a lucky few were permitted to employ this means to beg from any benevolent persons who might pass by, and could then purchase food or bedding from the gaoler. By these means the great Hugh Bennet was believed to have accumulated no little wealth.

  I distributed a few small coins among the hanging receptacles, which were immediately hauled up, to the accompaniment of blessings and cries of gratitude from the windows above. Then we rang a bell at the gate, doing this several times before we managed to rouse the porter. He was a surly fellow, who deeply resented our disturbing his repose. He carried a club, and a timorous person might well have turned and fled, for he looked indeed as if he might attack at the least provocation, but he hesitated when he saw that we were all gentlemen.

   Wandescote was undaunted.  “Greetings, Grumbling Jack!” he said cheerfully. “Just be a good-natured fellow and let us in without delay, will you? We desire to speak to your lord and master. Here’s silver for your troubles!”   The porter pocketed the proffered money, but continued with his muttered comments as he locked the door behind us and led us down a corridor and into a courtyard which was crowded with both men and women. Some were seated carousing on the dirty cobbles, with bottles being passed around, and many were obviously drunk. My friends whispered that it was very easy to obtain gin from the gaolers, provided the necessary money was forthcoming. Some shouted from a safe distance obscene insults at our guide, who kicked out of his path those who were prostrate and insensible. Then we were taken to the mighty tyrant of this kingdom: the famous Hugh Bennet, the Cracker.

 

  The face of the tyrant who ruled this fortress would have struck immediate fear into his unwilling subjects. An old wound on his left cheek caused his upper lip to curl into a permanent sneer. He wore no wig, and his hair was cut so short that he appeared almost bald. His chin was unshaven and dark, and his blue eyes malevolent and cunning. He was short and squat, but with powerful-looking forearms and shoulders. His clothes were of the cheapest, and none too clean. Ignoring the porter entirely, he demanded of us what we wanted. He recognised Wandescote as a frequent and no doubt well-paying visitor, and listened while he explained our request to interview Danielle d’Autun. Darnwell added that I was a Member of Parliament and thus a person of influence.

   Bennet did not bother to ask why, but instead named his terms, which were not for silver, but for a golden guinea! When I gave him one, the rogue weighed it in his hand, examined it closely and even bit it, as if he suspected that I might have passed him a forgery! But no doubt he had dealt with many forged coins in his time.

   He did not deign to accompany us to the cell himself, but instead clapped his hands to summon one of his menials. This fellow, in contrast with his master, was as thin as a lath and walked with a long, loping step; his mouth bore but a single tooth, long and yellow like a fang, and his eyes had an evil glint to them. I instinctively felt pity for any defenceless wretch who came under his care. He was given a few brief instructions, too low for us to overhear, and then he lit a lantern and led us on our way into the nether depths of the celebrated Bastille.

   We approached a heavy door, which the disgusting turnkey, having selected a key from an immense, jangling ring that he carried, proceeded with evident reluctance to unlock. The door emitted an ominous groan as he pushed it open.

    At first I could see nothing, for inside it was almost lightless. I drew breath, and almost choked, for the air was putrid and foul. I heard voices and the movement of bodies, and discovered that the cell, though small, contained many prisoners. Some of these now came crawling on their knees towards us. But the turnkey ignored them, except when they got in his way or clawed at his breeches, begging for succour, when he pushed them aside with a curse. He led us to a corner where we found Danielle lying on filthy straw, with a chain on her leg. She sat up with a start, and the lantern caused her to shade her eyes from the sudden glow.

   “You want to be alone with her?” the turnkey asked, giving us a lascivious wink.

   “This place will do for the present”, I answered, “But first, be good enough to unchain her, and bring us sufficient food and wine, and candles too, and a chair to sit on”.

   He demurred at this, and I was obliged to part with yet more coin before he would agree to my requests.

“And I shall go too”, said Darnwell, “and guard the door, lest this rogue should dare to lock us in, and then demand money to release us. And if I find that he fails to bring us sufficient victuals on his return, then he shall answer to my boot!”

   After the turnkey had departed, still cursing, I regarded the unfortunate woman before me. Wandescote stood watching and said nothing. The light was very dim, and had I not known it was Danielle, I doubt if I would ever have recognised her, for the passing years, added to her present miserable situation, sat hard upon her features. Ever since our night together I had often, when I was alone, remembered what we had done together and lusted after her in my imagination; but seeing her now haggard, dirty and half-starved I could feel only pity mingled with disgust. I doubted whether she would remember me at all, for she had no doubt had many lovers after our encounter. She had the expression of a frightened hunted animal as she looked at me: who was this stranger, and was he here to inflict yet more sufferings?  

   “Pray do not be alarmed”, I said, “We shall help you if we can”.

   “I am innocent!” she wailed, “It was an unjust accusation, by my wicked landlord!”

   “That does not concern me now”, I replied, “I merely wish you to answer some questions about another matter. My name is Charles Huntingdon. I met you once, a few years ago. I am a friend of Sir James Wilbrahim, and I am a Member of Parliament, but I have no connexion with the present ministry, and anything you say I shall treat in strictest confidence. Let us wait until the gaoler returns to free you from your chains and bring you food, after which we can talk. And if it is my power to save your life, I shall do so”.

   We waited, the silence broken only by a few sobs from her. At last the turnkey appeared with a younger assistant, bearing a broken-backed chair together with a basket and a bottle. With much muttered grumbling he lit two candles and then unlocked the chain from her ankle, which she proceeded to rub vigorously, and then seated herself on the chair. When the man had left I opened the bag, which contained a loaf, a mutton pie and a black bottle of cheap wine. Nothing was clean; but neither this nor the dubious smell of the wine prevented Danielle from gobbling at great speed. She was ravenous with hunger, though she shared some of the food with a miserable-looking old lady who lay near her.

   When they had finished every crumb and every drop, I requested that she recount to me everything she knew concerning Sir James Wilbrahim and the Jacobites. I soon discovered she was understandably suspicious of me, and would not tell me anything of interest. After much fruitless questioning I decided I had had more than enough of the noisome dungeon, so I rose from my chair and prepared to leave.

   I hoped that, given time, Danielle might be willing to reveal more, so I told her, “I am leaving now, but I shall return. Until then, please reflect. If you tell me truthfully what you know, I shall do my utmost to help you, and save you from the gallows if I can.” She had a wild look in her eyes, but said nothing.

  We found Darnwell waiting for us outside. “Well?” he asked me, “What did she tell you concerning old Wilbrahim?”

  “Nothing”, I told him, “I suspect she thought I might be a government spy. But I’ll try to get her moved to a better cell, where she can live on her own, and eventually she may come to trust me”.

  “As your legal advisor, I would have to caution you against believing a single word she said!” he laughed.

   As I prepared to depart that dreadful building, I told Bennet, “I shall return soon, by which time I shall expect to find her in a decent room with proper bedding. If you do this, and allow me to speak to her again, you will be paid. If not, I promise to make life exceedingly difficult for you.” He made no reply, though I heard him spit on the ground once my back was turned.

  I wondered whether I could trust Bennet at all. Wandescote advised me that I could, provided I paid him enough to satisfy his cupidity, and, more importantly, let him expect even larger payment in the future. This proved correct at least for the moment, for next day I was informed that Danielle was now being held in his best room, part of his own quarters in the prison, and fed from his own table, and all at a rent, payable by me, not significantly less than what I paid for my own London lodgings.

 

   I was eventually able to have many conversations with Danielle. At the start she revealed nothing, and I believe that she never fully trusted me. I did not raise the question of my night with her which ended with the theft of my belongings, but eventually she must have remembered the incident herself, for without any prompting she told me, “I am sorry that I abandoned you that night. I had another urgent task to fulfil before morning. But I never stole from you. That villain Yarrow, whose house it was, must have crept into the room when you were asleep. Later he learnt my secret and vowed he would expose me unless I followed his orders, and when I would not satisfy his filthy lusts, he informed on me to a magistrate. What could I do?”

   I told her that this incident was no longer of any importance to me, and that I had entirely forgiven her for the part she had played there. Instead I wanted to know about her links with the English Jacobites, and especially what she knew of events in Brereton when the Scots Jacobite rebels had passed through there in 1745.

  She told me many stories about her adventurous life, whether truthful or not I could not say. She denied ever having met Sir James Wilbrahim, of which fact I was already certain, and I stressed that he was a friend; that I meant neither him nor any other inhabitants of the town any harm, but that I was asking out of curiosity only, as concerning the place where I now lived.

 

    I did not attempt to write anything down in Danielle’s presence, lest she become suspicious, but instead attempted to piece her accounts together back at my lodgings. But I was not always able to do this until the day after, or even later, for I had other claims. Here, therefore, is my attempt to reduce everything she told me to a continuousnarrative, whilst correcting the occasional mistakes and strange phrases in her English. Even if only partially true, what a novel of adventure and romance it would make!

 

             ………………………… ………………… 

                                   Danielle’s story

 

   “My father was French, but my mother was a Scot, from an ancient family driven into exile for their support for the Stuart cause, and she taught me to speak English. They both died when I was young, and I was left under the care of my uncle, who was a friend of the Comte de Maurepas, the Minister of Marine. When war was looming with England after 1742, he sent me to England to contact Jacobites there and prepare for a rising and a French invasion. I was little more than twenty years old, and eager for adventure.

   “I was sent to the English Midlands, taking letters  from your friend Sir James Wilbrahim and many Jacobite gentlemen in Staffordshire and Shropshire and other counties, and passed them on to our chief agent: Butler was his name. When the Prince advanced through Lancashire, I travelled to meet him, and we became lovers. Oh, he was so handsome, and so charming in his manner!

   “When we reached Stanegate in December, Wibrahim was not there, but we were received by his wife. She was a proud lady and a lifelong supporter our cause. She knelt on the icy ground before the Prince and kissed his hand, welcoming him to her house as the representative of her true sovereign; and he most gallantly raised to her feet and thanked her with all his heart. Then the next morning we marched onwards.

   “I was present at the meeting in Derby a few days later, when all the Scottish chieftains told him he must retreat, since he had received no letters from France and not a single English lord or gentleman had joined them. And that was true, for many, like Wilbrahim, had run away to London, Sir Watkin Williams Wynn in Wales made not a move, and in Staffordshire Lord Gower committed the greatest betrayal, for he changed sides and joined the government!

   “The Prince was very angry, but could do nothing. If we had continued to London, who knows what would have befallen? I joined him in the retreat. His mood changed: he became morose, with bursts of anger. I do not think he ever again spoke to Lord Murray, who was his best commander.

   “When a garrison was left at Carlisle to cover the return into Scotland, I felt sure they would all be caught and hanged, so I fled. I knew of nowhere safe to go, and I almost starved in the snow as I walked, but near Penrith a kind farmer found me and took me in. Ralph Patterson was his name, a Catholic, and I lived in his home for a while, paying for my living by teaching his children. Eventually I was able to make my way back to France.

   “Years later, I was in Rome, and there I met the Prince again. But oh, how he had changed! He looked an old man now, he was often drunk, and then he would beat his wife and his mistresses. When I mentioned Scotland to him, he burst into tears. I felt sad for him.

   “Of my life in those years I shall say nothing. But then, a few years ago, with the war against your country going badly for us, monsieur le Duc de Choiseul, our chief minister, thought he should try for a new Jacobite revolt and invasion, so I was sent to England again, with the promise of money, to see what could be done. For this purpose I would approach the noblemen and gentlemen, like yourself, to see what I could discover concerning their thoughts about the war and the restoration of the true king. But I soon found that my mission was futile, and M. de Choiseul knew it too, and the money I was promised never came, and I was left in London, penniless and friendless! And now I am in the prison, with nothing to look forward to but the gallows!”

                     ............................................................. 

   I begged her to have confidence; that my friends and I would do our utmost to gain her a reprieve. Henry Darnwell had drawn up his petition, in what he said was proper legal form, respectfully begging His Majesty to exercise his Royal prerogative of mercy. I persuaded Sir Anthony Pardington to head the list of signatories. Those of my friends who were currently in London signed, and so did Mr Boswell and Charles Churchill. Lord Staines signed, but warned me on no account to approach his father for a signature. Finally, with some caution, I sought Mr Braithwaite. He read the petition and sighed.

  “Do you not know”, he said, “that His Majesty is resolved to suppress vice and immorality? His very first proclamation from the throne was to that effect. A woman with this kind of reputation is exactly the sort of person he wishes to eradicate from his capital. Even his tender-hearted Queen might draw the line here. And the fact that the woman is French does nothing to help her cause.

  “Why should you and your friends be exerting yourselves on her behalf?”

I told him that I had spoken to Danielle, and that I believed she held important information on the late Jacobite revolt in my part of the country, that I wished to discover.

    “And what would be the purpose of such an enquiry, pray?” he asked. “Such regrettable episodes should not be raked over: it does no good. We live in a new reign now, and may, I hope, look forward to happier times. As far as His Majesty is concerned, the Jacobite troubles are buried in the past and best forgotten; and I must say that I am in full agreement with him there.

  “May I suspect that your reasons are more personal?” he continued, “You surely do not believe she is a lady of spotless virtue, do you? Has she in fact performed certain services for you, which you prefer not to describe?”

   I did not reply. Mr Braithwaite’s voice had faded away to nothing, his eyes bore a faraway look and there was the ghost of a smile on his usually austere face. It was as if his mind was recalling the adventures of his youth, thirty or forty years ago. He was silent for a while and then sighed before speaking.

   “Well, I shall sign your petition. Proceed with your attempt if you wish, but do not live in any great hope of its success. I have some influence with the new ministers: I shall see if I can contrive to obtain for this woman of yours at least a stay of execution for the moment; or I can recommend her for transportation to the American colonies. But do not expect any more than that!”

    He added his signature, and it appeared I could only hope that he was wrong in his predictions. There were further questions I wished to ask Danielle, but I found these must wait, for I now received news of a most alarming nature from back home.

Chapter Twenty-six: Riots in London, and some amazing news

(It is May 1763, and Charles Huntingdon is having to divide his attention between events in London and at home) 

The next few weeks were full of confusion, as I was obliged to travel from Bereton to London and then home again on many occasions, so that even now, a decade later, I find it hard to make sense of it all. I shall therefore attempt to describe events in the capital first.

  I reached London to find the capital engulfed in a political storm. People were talking about nothing but politics, about the sudden fall of Lord Bute and the arrest of my friend John Wilkes by order of the Secretaries of State. Everyone appeared to hold different views of these great matters, and debate was fierce.   

   Since I knew nothing about these matters, I called first at Teesdale House, hoping to receive the benefit of the Earl’s advice and to assure his Countess that, thanks to her kindness, Louisa Wilbrahim was now safe. But it appeared that I was not welcome, for at the mansion’s door the servants fobbed me off with the most transparent falsehood that neither master nor mistress was at home. I now recalled, with surprise, that Lord Teesdale, my erstwhile patron and guide, had not bothered to write to me recently, despite all the work I had performed in forwarding his Enclosure and Canal bills. Why should this be?

    Sir Anthony Pardington was more forthcoming. He had recently returned from Bath, and described how the West Country had been up in revolt, with riots where bonfires were lit on which effigies of Sir Francis Dashwood, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, were burnt; this being in consequence of his proposed excise on cider, which was denounced as a tyrannous imposition. He wondered whether it was this violence that had caused Lord Bute to retreat from high office.  

  Sir Anthony then described the famous case of John Wilkes. Just two weeks after Lord Bute’s resignation, the now-famous Number 45 of the “North Briton” was published, which accused the King’s speech to Parliament of including a direct lie concerning the treaty with France. Although it was clearly stated that everyone knew that the speech was written by the ministers, not by the King personally, this was thought to be a criminal libel of the Crown. Wilkes had never acknowledged that he was the author of the “North Briton”, but ministers felt it was imperative to take some action, and accordingly Wilkes was arrested at his home in Great George Street under a General Warrant, which did not name the persons to be arrested. He was confined in the Tower, where his friends were not permitted to visit him. Sir Anthony feared riots and disorder on the streets of London, since Wilkes had many supporters.

   Mr Horace Walpole, whom I saw next, had been observing events with much amusement. 

   “Lord Bute is a timid soul, and sensitive to insults,” was his verdict, “The cartoons and the libels of Wilkes, pouring abuse on him and on the Princess Dowager, distressed him. A man in public life should be able to rise above the ravings of the mob. Why, I believe he is as fearful as the old Duke of Newcastle!” He shook his head sadly. “What a pair to have the running of our poor country! what a pair!

   “My father knew these starveling scribblers well enough. All these men have their price: offer them sufficient and they will turn their coats soon enough and direct their vituperation wherever you may direct them. Wilkes himself is in the pay of Lord Temple. But the ministers can buy the pens of any number of hacks by paying them pensions out of the Secret Service fund. That is the way to proceed.”

   He laughed and continued, “I am told that a few weeks ago, Lord Bute approached your friend Lord Teesdale, begging for his support, without which, he said, he was doomed. That patriotic senator dutifully promised support, provided there was in return a position on the Treasury board for his man Jarrett and the Garter for himself! But the King would not allow the latter. I do not think His Majesty likes the noble lord. Perhaps you should consider seeking a new patron?”

   “Have we seen the last of Lord Bute?” I asked.

    "I very much doubt it! I am certain that he intends to remain as the ‘minister behind the curtain’, advising the King in private. That was his position before his wholly unjustified elevation to high office, and he hopes to return to ruling by secret influence. Did you see the cartoon showing the Princess Augusta leading a blindfolded King by the nose, with a Scotchman in Highland dress lurking behind a tree? That would be Lord Bute’s preferred position – without the tartan plaid, of course, which we know he never wears”.

   “So we now have Mr. Grenville as Prime Minister.” 

   “ Grenville is indeed now First Lord of the Treasury, but even that transition was mishandled. I have been told that the position was offered first to Mr Fox, but he, knowing how universally he is hated, very wisely refused the poisoned chalice and has instead retreated to Essex, there to enjoy the unaccounted millions he has stolen from the country - unless, that is, his sons have already lost the money at the faro tables.

   “As for Grenville ….. you have seen him, you have heard him speak? Well, then, you know that he could out-talk the entire diplomatic corps, and the King will very soon weary of having to listen to him. Grenville is a man of absolutely no imagination, and I cannot see him lasting long. I foresee more turmoil, perhaps continuing for years.”

   The prospect did not seem to alarm him.

   At the Court of Common Pleas Wilkes delivered a strong speech, portraying himself the victim of persecution by a tyrannical ministry, denouncing General Warrants as illegal, proclaiming the freedom of the press, and “The liberty of all peers and gentlemen, and, what touches me more sensibly, that of the middling and inferior class of people who stand most in need of protection.” Lord Chief Justice Pratt ruled Wilkes’s arrest a breach of Parliamentary privilege and released him. I wondered what Sir James Wilbrahim, had he been present, would have made of this.

  Sir Anthony’s fears of riots then quickly came true. I was seated in a tavern one evening soon afterwards, and when I heard the shouts of “Wilkes and Liberty” in the street outside I ventured forth and was soon swept up in a mob of several hundred angry Londoners.

   Many of the poorer sort were assembled: grimy coal-heavers from Wapping, Spitalfields silk-weavers brandishing their shuttles, and butchers making a fearsome noise clashing their cleavers and steels together. This was a time of hardship and fierce disputes in many of the trades of London, and all these people now took Wilkes as their hero and champion. There were women too, shouting as loudly as their menfolk. Everywhere sticks and other weapons were brandished, and I feared murder might be done, but I saw no violence against any persons beyond some pushing and jostling. Prominent among the rioters was a youth whose head was adorned with hair the colour of flame: I was certain I had seen him before, but where?

   As the mob marched through the streets, a gentleman appeared on a balcony and harangued them, urging the marchers to strike a blow for English liberty. I was astonished to recognise my old friend Henry Darnwell, and wondered whether he was inspired less by sympathy with Mr Wilkes’s cause than by an irresistible love of causing mischief.

    That night the mob demanded that all householders must illuminate their homes to show support for Wilkes, and those that neglected to do so had their windows smashed. Disturbances continued for some hours before eventually the authorities restored some kind of order. I witnessed several arrests being made. Suddenly I heard my name being shouted, and turned to behold the flame-haired young man being taken into custody.

   “There!” he called, “That’s my master, Mr Huntingdon! He’s a Member of Parliament! He’ll vouch for me!” I now remembered him as the appropriately-named Redman, servant to Mr Braithwaite, who I had encountered at the great cricket match last summer. The disbelieving officer marched the culprit in my direction, where I confirmed my identity and committed perjury by vouching that that Redman was indeed my servant. As was customary, the gift of a silver coin assisted matters: the officer released Redman into my charge and departed, muttering some comments about gentlemen who could not keep their servants under better control.

   Redman thanked me for extracting him from a dangerous situation, and then impudently promised to return the favour some time. I was tempted to give him a stern talk on the recklessness of his behaviour, but decided it would have but little effect, and instead I merely advised him to stay close to his real master in future. 

   When I later reported the incident to Mr Braithwaite, he told me that he had been obliged to dismiss Redman from his service, for he had got a neighbour’s serving-maid with child! He shook his head sadly at Redman’s part in the riot, saying that it came to him as no surprise, and he only hoped that Redman could escape eventual hanging.

   Later, Wilkes was awarded substantial damages against the agents who had arrested him, and had the satisfaction of General Warrants declared to be illegal, but this was to be the end of his triumphs. A raid on his premises unearthed a copy of an obscene poem entitled “An Essay on Woman”, which was now widely circulated by agents of the ministry. I glanced at it myself and found it disgusting, though perhaps too crude to have come from Wilkes’s pen.

   I must jump ahead in my narrative to a debate in November, when even Pitt denounced Wilkes as “A blasphemer of his God and a libeller of his King”, and the House of Commons voted that Number 45 of the “North Briton” was “A false, scandalous and seditious libel”. Lord Staines delivered a most intemperate denunciation of Wilkes: he had not forgiven the offending remarks written about him, or what he regarded as the unsatisfactory outcome of the subsequent duel. Remembering the great debt I owed to Wilkes, I considered using the occasion to make a speech explaining that although I deplored the “Essay on Woman” as much as anyone, that I owed Mr Wilkes such a great personal debt that I felt an obligation to support him: but in the end I thought it best to maintain my silence as I voted with the minority.

   Wilkes himself was not present, for he had fought one duel too many and had been severely wounded. He fled to France; and when he did not appear at his trial for criminal libel, he was declared an outlaw.

   It was ordered that the “North Briton” and the “Essay on Woman” should be burnt by the common hangman at the Royal Exchange, and an attempt was made to carry this out in early December. But again a great mob assembled: they pelted the sheriffs, destroyed the windows of their coach and rescued the “North Briton” from the bonfire. The House of Commons later voted thanks to the sheriffs for attempting to do their duty, but the Common Council of London pointedly refused to do so.

   John Wilkes was not to return to England for several years, but now he is back in London again and the cry of “Wilkes and liberty” is once more heard on the streets of the city, where he is more popular with the mob than ever.

   The afternoon after the riot I sought out Henry Darnwell at a coffee-house he was known to frequent. I found him exhilarated by the night’s events: when I told him how surprised I had been to see him encouraging the Wilkite mob, he replied that he sincerely believed that English liberty was under the gravest of threats from the present ministers. I then reminded him of how he had recently written mentioning information he had discovered that would be of great importance to me. He admitted that this had quite slipped his mind, and said I must await the arrival of Bartley Wandescote, who would in all probability appear soon, and would tell me the whole story.

   “What? The man who takes delight in attending executions and visiting the poor souls in Bedlam? I have no desire to meet him again.”

   “Oh, but you must, for he has the most extraordinary tale to tell, which might be of great importance to you! While we wait, I shall explain the circumstances.  

      “I am reading for the Bar, and to this end I have attended a series of trials in Westminster Hall. They were mostly for theft, and since none of the defendants had counsel to assist them, the hearings lasted no more than a few minutes, and were inclined to be monotonous and repetitive. But on this particular day I found our friend Bartley there already. I fancy he enjoys studying the faces of the defendants when they are sentenced to death.”

   “No doubt he does. We all know his tastes, and I for one find his talk of such matters disgusting. Pray tell me why I should be forced to listen to him now?”

   “That is because of what he had seen before I arrived. One of the defendants ... But I shall let him tell the story himself: here he comes!”

    Bartley Wandescote had grown much fatter since I last met him. He was dressed with great opulence, but the powder on his rotund face failed to conceal the strange greenish colour of his skin. He greeted me warmly, while I forced myself to smile as I shook his soft damp hand. In response to Henry Darnwell’s request he began his account, but in a peculiarly circuitous way that was all his own.

   “There were several accused that day, mostly drawn from the poorest and most degraded parts of our great city. The judge was Armstrong, an old fool who enjoys making sententious longwinded speeches about wickedness when sentencing wretches to death for low crimes, and today he excelled himself. He even quoted Cicero at them, but so inaccurately and with so many false quantities that I concluded his teachers could not have flogged him sufficiently when he was at school. Of course, most of his victims could not understand a word he said, but I was torn between shuddering and bursting out laughing …”

   “But what did you want to tell us?” I interrupted him, with no little impatience.

   “Oh, yes. Now, one of his victims, a woman condemned for theft on the evidence of her landlord – a thorough villain if ever I saw one, who richly deserves to swing himself – felt obliged to answer him back. Possibly she was so disgusted by the display of crass and inept moralising that she could not abide listening to him a moment longer without interrupting. I felt much the same way myself. And who do you think she was?”  

  I could make no suggestion. Wandescote halted his discourse for a moment to let the excitement build up before continuing.

   “Why, it was none other than the fair Danielle, with whom we have had such interesting and instructive conversations! Her full name, it appears, is Danielle d’Autun – that is, of course presuming that she is telling the truth, which can by no means be guaranteed.”

   I had not thought of Danielle since she had initiated me into the mysteries of love one night on my first time in London. It all seemed many years ago.

   “What happened to her? Was she convicted?”

   “Naturally. All the defendants were convicted, and with great speed. Knowing her as we used to do, we can surely have little doubt that she was surely guilty of something! But her accuser, as I said, was the most arrant knave you could conceive. He swore she had stolen from him, though to my mind it was quite apparent that he kept a common house of assignation, and took tribute from her. If there was any justice, it should have been he who stood in the dock. I anticipate seeing him on the cart to Tyburn ere long.”

   “But tell Charles here what she said to the judge,” Darnwell intervened, “For I think it concerns him greatly.”

   “Have patience! She told the judge that if she was pardoned, she would supply details of Jacobite treason committed by certain prominent persons. She mentioned several names, one of which was that of Wilmington, or Wilburton, or something like that, who resided at Bereton.”

  “Sir James Wilbrahim!” I said in hushed tones.

   “Ah yes, that was it. I did not catch the name properly. But I remembered that you had inherited property in Bereton, and so did Henry here, when I recounted my simple story to him.”

   “What happened to her?”

   “Oh, she was sentenced to be hanged, of course. The ridiculous Armstrong swept her allegations aside and instead uttered yet more pompous pronouncements on vice and depravity, this time with special reference to females.”

   “And is she still alive? Where is she now?”

   “No doubt she is confined in a squalid dungeon somewhere, awaiting execution. I can find out, if you wish. But why? Do you want to talk to her?”

   “Yes, I do,” I replied. It occurred to me that she might be able to cast light on certain matters concerning Jacobitism in Bereton that had been worrying me.

   Henry Darnwell agreed. “I suppose we are honour bound to try to save her life,” he said, “for we have affectionate memories of Mam’selle Danielle, do we not? She gave much truly interesting tuition to us all – though not to Staines, of course - for all that we paid for it unknowingly with some of our possessions! So pray find out where she is held, and how we may visit her. In the meantime, I shall draw up a petition to the King, in proper legal form, humbly begging His Majesty to exercise his prerogative of mercy and grant a reprieve; and we can get all our friends to sign it.”

  “Very well, I shall make enquiries,” said Wandescote, “Though for my part I must say that she absolutely refused to perform what I requested of her, even though I offered to pay her a considerable sum of money.”

  “I am not surprised. I think only the lowest of whores could abide you!”

   “There, sir, you are wrong!” Wandescote replied, vastly amused. “You would be amazed at the tricks that the wives of some of our most respectable citizens are willing to attempt, merely to alleviate the tedium of their lives!” He chuckled. I had no idea whether he was reliving a memory or laughing at our reaction.

Chapter Twenty-five: More troubles in Bereton

 (Louisa Wilbrahim has been rescued from Mother Rawton and taken back to Charles Huntingdon's home, where she has told of her flight and captivity)

    Lord Teesdale’s coach was now prepared to take Louisa to her home. She was given a final hug by Mrs Timmis, who told her, “Now, Miss Louisa, if I’m permitted to give you a word of advice: don’t tell a thing to a soul about what happened to you! Say that you were taken ill in London, and that you don’t recall anything about it. Say that her ladyship chanced to find you, and in the kindness of her heart had you brought home. As for the rest, what you’ve told us here, try to forget all about it, if you can. Think of it like it was a bad dream, but it’s all passed and you’re awake now. Goodbye, and remember we’re all your friends and we’ll stand by you whatever happens.”

  After Louisa was taken back to Stanegate Hall, we remained in silence for a while, and then I said, “What are we to say if Sir James becomes suspicious about his daughter’s adventures in London, and starts to ask questions?”

   “If you’ll pardon me for speaking out”, said Mrs Timmis, “What I would suggest is this. Word will spread all around about his lordship’s coach coming up here, with the coronet and all; so we stick with what I’ve told Miss Wilbrahim: that she was lost and ill and took refuge in his lordship’s house, which she happened on by chance, and the Countess took care of her, the Earl himself being away, and she entrusted Miss Wilbrahim to your care for the journey home, knowing you were a neighbour of Sir James, and we praise her ladyship for all we’re worth, as a generous, kind-hearted soul.”

   Clifford interposed at this point. “If anyone should ask why the coach drove here first, rather than directly to Stanegate, we can say that the horses needed watering, or that one of them cast a shoe, and what with the lateness of the hour they thought it best to stay.”

 “And you, sir, you didn’t tell her ladyship anything about that dreadful Rawton woman, now did you?” Mrs Timmis enquired.

  I shook my head.

   “Well then that ought to suffice. No need to go into any nasty details!”

   We agreed this appeared to be a sound strategy.

      “What’s more,” Clifford continued, “I think it would be best if you, sir, didn’t show your face at Stanegate for the moment, just in case Sir James does get suspicious. Wait to be invited.”

   I agreed reluctantly, but said, “I would dearly love to be certain that Louisa is happy and well. How can we know? Are there any of the servants we can trust?”

   “Yes: I’m certain we can trust Becky,” said Mrs Timmis, “she’s a good girl, and very loyal to her mistress. Miss Wilbrahim’s safe enough now, for her father won’t let her out of his sight for many a day. Mr Clifford’s right, sir, that you shouldn’t go near Stanegate. Becky will let us know if there’s any more trouble.”

   “Surely Sir James would have asked Mrs Piddock where Louisa had gone?” I said, “Wouldn’t she have told him that she’d gone with the Rector? And how will Mr Bunbridge explain his part in Louisa’s flight?”

   “Oh, that Mrs Piddock’s nowt but a slattern that’ll make up some lies to excuse herself! She and the Rector are in league together, you mark my words; but sooner or later their wickedness will be found out! And as for the Rector, he’s got some explaining to do, to be sure, and not only to the squire; for his misses, she rules him with a rod of iron, and what she’ll do to him when she finds out he’s been driving the girl to Mulchester, I really don’t know! But he’ll find some way of putting the blame on someone else; for he always does!”

   Mr Clifford, speaking in the voice of a lawyer, chose to bring a cautious note to our discussion. “We must not assume that Mr Bunbridge seriously intended an assault on Miss Wilbrahim’s virtue on this occasion. I do not believe that he is man of such utter recklessness. Perhaps he really did intend just to take her to somewhere safe from the fever. At least, I am certain that this is what he will tell her father. But I agree that all concerned must be carefully watched”.

 

   After Sir James’s contemptuous rejection of Lord Staines as a son-in-law, I wondered how he had reacted when a grand coach bearing the Teesdale coronet delivered his daughter home. He would surely write Lord Teesdale a letter of thanks; and the people of Bereton would have been excited by sight of the coach passing through their town and would ask their own questions. But what private conversations Sir James might have had with his daughter, no-one knew. I came to suspect that neither Sir James or the Rector knew the full story of Louisa’s capture by Mrs Rawton and her subsequent rescue, and I prayed that, as long as we at the Priory held our peace, this happy state of ignorance might continue.

   I asked Mrs Timmis what was being said in the town.

  “Lor, sir, what a stir it did make: his lordship’s coach coming!” she told me, “The talk in Bereton and all the country round was of nowt else! And somehow everybody knew that it had brought Miss Wilbrahim home from London, after the Rector had taken her to Mulchester. But how they knew that, I really can’t tell for certain; I can promise you that no-one in this household hasn’t said aught!”

   “And what did Mrs Piddock and the Rector have to say about it, do you know?”

   “Well, what our Becky tells me is that Mrs Piddock excused herself by pleading that she had been sick in bed, at death’s door, and didn’t even know that Miss Louisa had left the house. Mr Bunbridge went up to Stanegate to explain himself, and he told Sir James was that all he had wanted to do was to take Miss Wilbrahim to the Merchants’ House in Mulchester, a most respectable establishment, to be safe from the fever. He went inside to speak with the people there, and when he came back, she was gone! And he apologised if his actions were misunderstood, and out of the kindness of his heart he forgave Miss Wilbrahim, for he blamed her behaviour on reading sentimental novels and poetry, which had filled her brain with silly ideas. He thought that it would be best if a decent veil was drawn over her flight to London, so that the whole sorry story could be forgotten; but a much closer watch should be kept on her in future; especially on what she should be allowed to read. But all’s quiet there now, and I’m told that Mr Bunbridge hasn’t spoken to Miss Wilbrahim in private; not at all.”

    I reflected that there must have been a great deal of listening at doors on the part of the Stanegate servants. I now asked, “And does anyone believe a word of what the Rector says?”

   “Some do, out of loyalty and respect”.  “And the rest?”

   Mrs Timmis hesitated before replying, “It’s not my place to say so, sir; but since you’ve asked me …. No; many of the Bereton people know him only too well!”

 

   But suddenly there were other matters to reduce Bereton to a town in turmoil, like a wasps’ nest that had been stirred with a stick, and full of wild and contradictory rumours. I returned home after a day riding round my estates to discover Mrs Timmis, her brother Ned, Mr Clifford and Mrs Highsmith in animated conversation, and asked the cause.

   Ned Timmis spoke first. “Old Robbie Keslow, that sells needles and things round the farms, came to our door and tells me, “Here’s news, Ned! I was passing by the Rectory early this morning, and I saw old Ephraim the butler there with his hands and coat sleeves all dirty. “Why, Ephraim”, I says to him, “whatever have you been doing at this hour of the day to get that mucky?” “Well, our Robbie”, he tells me, “the master, ‘e told me to go out while it was still dark and dig a big hole at the bottom of the garden and bury all his wine and brandy in it.” And when I asked him why that should be, he told me, “Haven’t you heard, our Robbie, that Harry Clewton was took by the excisemen yesterday? Now I’m not saying that he was a smuggler, our Robbie, or that my master or anyone else bought brandy and tobacco from him; that I’m not; but who knows what he might say to save his skin? So the master thinks it best to hide his things away until we see how the land lies. And I’ve heard say that old William over at Stanegate is busy hiding Squire Wilbrahim’s brandy away, and if I was you, I’d spread the word around sharpish to any friends of yours, that I would!” 

   This caused general merriment. “So that’s where the old rogue got his brandy, was it?” Clifford laughed. “And him preaching all those sermons about obedience! And no doubt Sir James got his share as well! So now William will be obliged to be busy with a spade, and at his age too! How undignified for him!”

   He explained to me that the excisemen would be holding Clewton in the hope that he would give them the names of the local gentry whom he had supplied.

   “And does this include us?” I asked.

   “Indeed it does not, sir!” replied Mrs Timmis indignantly. “The master, he didn’t hold with such goings-on, and the mistress scarcely drank at all. Not that we didn’t hear rumours”, she added, darkly. “Isn’t that so, Ned?” she appealed to her brother.

   I turned to him. “So what do you know about Harry Clewton and the smuggling business?” I asked.

   He looked awkward. “Well, sir; all I can say for sure is that Harry Clewton was well known around the town. He was nowt in particular: a leather-worker and a leather-worker’s son, and not the best at his trade he wasn’t, but somehow he always had plentiful money, and spent it freely, and was generous to his friends. Where he got it from’s not for me to say. This Harry Clewton, he knows everyone, from the squire and the Rector and Alderman Stout downwards, and it’s said around the town that he’s had dealings with that Mr Jarrett, Lord Teesdale’s man, as well. But for this smuggling business, I don’t know nowt about that.”

   “But did he include anyone in our household in his dealings?”

   “That I can’t say, sir”.

     His sister intervened at this juncture by saying, “Now, Ned, didn’t you tell me just last month that Harry had some good gin for sale? And didn’t I tell you that I wouldn’t touch no smuggled goods, not for love nor money? The mistress wouldn’t never have allowed it in her time.”

  Her brother’s face turned even redder than usual, and he treated her to a savage glance. “And where d’you think the mistress got her tea from?” he demanded. “Mrs Highsmith here knows! She bought it from Clewton, and still does, I shouldn’t wonder: best quality goods and no excise to pay!” He turned to Mrs Highsmith. “That’s true, ain’t it?”

   A furious row ensued between the two women, which led to Mrs Highsmith flouncing out in a rage. I attempted to calm the situation by asking whether we could guarantee that there was no contraband in our house at present. Brother and sister nodded assent, following which Mrs Timmis, having ascertained that there was nothing I needed from her for the moment, returned to her duties in the kitchen, and her brother to his farm. Both were in a very bad temper.

 

                                  (An illustration for a satirical poem: "Excisemen Outwitted")

   Soon afterwards, a surprising story from Stanegate then reached us. Thomas Bagley, Sir James Wilbrahim’s man of business, had vanished, and so had Mrs Piddock, the housekeeper! There were rumours that the estate’s accounts had been discovered to be in great confusion, and that Sir James was very angry that his trust had been betrayed.

   This news caused Clifford no surprise. “A rascal!” he snorted, “I always said so! I warrant he’s been putting Sir James’s money in his own pocket for years, and now, fearing discovery, he has fled with his ill-gotten gains!  Well, I doubt if we shall ever set eyes on him again. He’ll be on his way to London, or Bristol, or some such city where no-one knows him”. He shook his head sadly at the slackness in Sir James’s household. 

  Harry Clewton revealed nothing to the investigators. The whole town was hostile to the excisemen, and Sir James Wilbrahim had always hated the tax; so now a number of prominent local citizens, among them Alderman Stout, were prepared to testify as to Clewton’s good character. With the evidence against him being no more than circumstantial, he was eventually released. But Bagley and Mrs Piddock were never seen again, and their disappearance was unlamented. 

   I took no part in these matters, for at this precise time I received a series of letters from London, from Mr Walpole and Sir Anthony Pardington telling of great events taking place there. First, the world was astonished to learn that Lord Bute, who in only a couple of years had risen from obscurity to bestride the state as a mighty colossus, had resigned as Prime Minister! His successor was Mr George Grenville, Pitt’s brother-in-law but now alienated from his great mentor. Next, John Wilkes had been arrested for criminal libel of the King and confined to the Tower, but then immediately released and announcing his intention of prosecuting the officers who had arrested him! London was said to be in turmoil; seething with discontent. And on top of this, Henry Darnwell wrote to say that he had discovered a matter of great importance to me and to Sir James Wilbrahim, which ought to receive my immediate attention!

   Since it appeared that Louisa Wilbrahim was safely back at home and in no immediate danger, I decided to set out again on my travels. Martin Clifford and Mrs Timmis promised to keep me informed of any news from Stanegate, and two days later I was seated on the coach to London. The next few weeks were to be very busy indeed.

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?