Devil Water (6 page)

There were a few ladies among the group; the handsomest of them came up to Charles and, smiling, took his hand. “For shame, sir,” she said to Mr. Errington. “The boy’s all mazed with so many to greet.” She turned to Charles. “I’m Mary Swinburne. This is my husband, Sir William.” She indicated a middle-aged man with auburn hair and a pleasant face. “We live at Capheaton Hall, where we hope very soon to welcome you and your brothers. Though indeed,” she made a charming little curtsey towards the Chief, “nobody can hope to equal the hospitality of Beaufront!”

“So say we all, my lady!” called young George Collingwood, a handsome man who was clinking mugs with one of the Widdrington youths.

Lady Swinburne smiled again and said, “Mr. Radcliffe, will you tell his lordship, I pray you, how eagerly we all await his coming, and that though we do not know him yet, our hearts already do him great honor.”

Charles stammered an assent. He thought the lady agreeable, but he was embarrassed that she still held his hand. “We are kin to his lordship,” continued Lady Swinburne, “at least Sir William is. I was but a poor spinster from Berkshire before my heart’s delight here--” she waved towards her husband, “carried me off to the splendors of the North.”

“Hoot, Mary,” interposed her husband laughing. “Enough of your Southern compliments and graces, or young Radcliffe’ll take you for a mincing courtier! As a matter o’ fact, there are several of his lordship’s cousins here today.”

“Aye,” said the youth, Peregrine Widdrington, putting down his ale flagon. “His lordship is kin to
me
”

“And to me,” boomed a fat young man with piggy eyes and snuff stains on his splayed fingers. “Tom Forster of Etherstone, at your service, sir,” he said, winking at Charles. “Tell his lordship m’fair sister Dorothy’ll be here to greet him when he comes, fairest flower o’ Northumberland
she
is! He’ll like that I’ll warrant!” Forster gave a lewd, slightly drunken chuckle, and inhaling a huge pinch of snuff sneezed luxuriously.

It occurred to Charles that if all these folk were kin to James they were also kin to him, though nobody mentioned it, and he felt the old twinge of being forever neglected and passed over in favor of the magnificent James.

Lady Swinburne was watching him covertly and read some of his thoughts, for she was a discerning gentlehearted woman. She loosed his hand, which had grown very sweaty, and said to the Chief, “But we forget that Mr. Radcliffe has not himself seen his brother in many a year, and must be eager to start. Where is your nephew, sir?”

“Up to his ears in paper and ink, no doubt,” said the old man, shrugging, “ever trying to turn our few shillings into pounds, which can’t be done.” He raised his voice and bellowed, “Thomas! Thomas! Where the devil are ye!”

A stooped, frowning man walked into the hall, saluted the company briefly, and said to his uncle with reproof, “I was putting your bills in order, sir. I
pray
you, endeavor while I’m gone not to lose the rents again, and to pay our most importunate creditors or we’ll have the bailiff here.”

“Ha!” said the Chief, wagging his head. “Don’t fret, m’ boy. I’ll keep out of a muddle if ‘tis only to spite Will Cotesworth and his long-nosed canting Whiggish chums!”

“Aye so,” said Tom Forster, sitting up. “Damn the Whigs, damn the Dissenters, and damn poverty! I’ve had m’belly full of it!” He tilted his hat over his eyes, slumped back, and quite suddenly began to snore.

After that the leave-taking was brief. Charles found himself hustled efficiently out of the hall by his traveling companion. They both mounted, and set out for Newcastle, where they picked up the post from Edinburgh at the Queen’s Head.

During the four days which it took them to reach London, Charles’s determination to enjoy himself had no help from Thomas Errington. Thomas was twenty-five and looked older. He had done some soldiering in France, but that profession did not attract him. He was pale and earnest, his main topics were the scandalous prices charged at the coaching inns, and the doubtful success of his mission to London. Of this mission Thomas talked frequently and Charles perforce listened either in the coach -- while sleet froze on the windowpanes, or in gloomy inn parlors -- while Thomas pecked at his food and Charles longed to be out exploring the town -- of York, or Newark, or Huntingdon, wherever they happened to be.

It seemed that there was a rich merchant from the North now living in London. His name was Henry Liddell, and he came from Ravensworth in Durham. It seemed also that this wealthy man was an intimate friend of Black Will Cotesworth’s. At this Charles pricked his ears, thinking of the day when he had met the keelsmen and Meg. He said, “Oh,
that
scoundrel! What do you want with a friend of
his?”

“Scoundrels they may all be,” said Thomas gloomily, “but that lot control Tyneside collieries and shipping. They’ve got a monopoly, and we have to do as they say.”

“Not your uncle!” said Charles. “The Chief of Beaufront doesn’t have to toady, and he hasn’t any collieries!”

“No. But he has a ship, the
Hexham,
an old coasting schooner, he won long ago on a wager. The Chief can’t afford to fit her, and we hope Liddell will buy her, he’s bought in a score of ships.”

“Why don’t you offer her to Cotesworth, instead of going all the way to London?” asked Charles.

Thomas flushed. “Cotesworth wouldn’t touch her. He’d never help out a Papist, besides -- well, the
Hexham’s
a poor risk.”

Oh, Charles thought. This Liddell was obviously as sharp a businessman as his friend was, and Charles thought the whole project a forlorn one. He was faintly sorry for Thomas and tried to treat him to extra ales or a slice of capon from the skimpy funds Sir Marmaduke had allotted for the journey. Thomas would not accept; he was as proud as he was penny-pinching. Charles was very glad when they changed horses for the last time and presently at five o’clock of a cold December evening saw on the gray horizon the smoking chimneys and myriad church spires of London.

The coach was bound for the City, but it paused to let Charles out near Bloomsbury Square, where he said goodbye to Thomas. Charles stood blankly on the pavement, holding his small cowhide trunk in his arms and staring at the big new stone houses which lined the square. One of these houses belonged to Dr. Radcliffe, and inside it would be James. Candles in house lanterns shed a flickering light on the cobblestones. From several of the great houses there came bursts of singing, the plinking of a harpsichord, though the tall windows were all darkened by shutters.

A sedan chair whisked by as Charles stood there. The chairmen, shouting “Have a care!” pushed Charles roughly off the pavement when he didn’t move. He stumbled on the slimy cobbles, then righted himself. A coach and four came thundering by and drew up before one of the mansions. A bevy of young ladies tumbled from the coach when a footman opened the door. Charles saw the jewels in their hair, heard the rustling of silks, and gay high voices sharpened by careless laughter. They swept through a door into a brilliant hall. The door closed, and still Charles stood on the curb.

Then, angered by his own timidity, he plunged up the nearest steps and pounded the knocker. A red- and silver-liveried footman opened, and seeing a youth of no apparent consequence, snapped, “Whatjerwant?”

Charles said he wanted Dr. Radcliffe’s house and the footman said, “ ‘Tis here. Go to the back door. We’ve company. His Lordship of Derwentwater’s visiting us.”

“I know,” said Charles. “And I am his brother from the North.”

He walked into the hall.

The footman stared uncertainly at the old trunk, at the shabby travel-stained young man. “Wait here then.” He did not quite dare shove Charles outside, and he disappeared down the passage to consult higher authority.

Charles put down his trunk and stood on the gleaming parquet. His heart was pounding. He had done no wrong but he felt guilt. It changed to fear as he heard the wailing of a man’s voice, which seemed to come from somewhere upstairs. It was a muffled, tormented sound. Charles could at first not make out the words, though they seemed to be of anguished protest; then the voice rose to a scream. “He’s here! ‘Tis the fiend! He’s come for me! Help me! Help!”

Charles started instinctively for the stairs, then stopped as a door to the right flew open and a girl came running out so fast she didn’t see Charles and bumped into him. “Oh la! I’m sorry,” she cried, laughing. She examined Charles by the wavering fight of the candle sconces. “Why, I know who you are! You’re Charles Radcliffe, aren’t you? They’ve been waiting for you.”

“Who makes that sound?” said Charles, pointing upstairs, and scarcely aware of the girl. The voice had now dropped to a confused sobbing and muttering.

“Why ‘tis poor old Colonel Radcliffe -- your uncle, I suppose he’d be. He had a fever in the Netherlands and has been a little mad ever since. But why do you hang about here like a stray dog, sir? Ah, to be sure -- you don’t
know
any of them, do you! I’d forgot. Lud, what a romp!” She clapped her hands, laughing again.

Charles stared at her. She was very young and not pretty. Both her snub-nosed face and her body -- clothed in yellow brocade -- looked round as dumplings. Moreover she had a large mouth, and freckles imperfectly concealed by a drift of powder. But there was a zest about her, a sparkle in the pile of reddish curls, and her bright sherry-brown eyes were full of mischief. “Have a peep at them, before they see
you!”
she cried. “ ‘Tis ever good sport to glimpse others in secret -- like a masquerade.”

“I don’t know --” began Charles, bewildered.

“Shall I announce the gentleman, your ladyship?” barked the footman, who had returned and was standing frozen-faced behind them.

“No,” said the girl. “Go away!” The footman bowed and vanished.

She clutched Charles’s sleeve and pushed him down the hall, towards a great door which she drew carefully ajar to disclose a slit of brilliance. This was the Doctor’s drawing room, wainscoted in white and lit by fifty wax tapers. Charles had a good view of the dozen or so people within. “There,” whispered the girl. “Your brother Francis in the alcove at the gaming table. The one who squints.”

There were four men sitting intently around an inlaid table where the cards were laid out for basset. But Charles had no trouble recognizing his brother; despite the squint which gave an oblique unfocused look to the heavy-lidded eyes, despite an elaborate brown periwig, and hollow cheeks pitted by smallpox, and an air of elegant languor, Charles saw that Francis was, physically at least, an older version of himself. Nor was this recognition pleasant. In that first glimpse Charles felt something secret and unhealthy in Francis.

“Yonder by the fire,” whispered his guide pressing Charles’s arm. “See the little maids prattling to Dr. Radcliffe?”

Charles saw two dark-haired children of eleven or twelve standing at the knees of a fat old gentleman in black silk who had a white peruke, and a nose purple and bulbous as a plum.

Charles grunted assent.

“The shortest one in the blue gown is your sister Mary -- the other is a friend of hers, Anna Webb. They’re both at the convent school in Hammersmith.”

“Indeed,” said Charles, who had almost forgotten that he had a sister, and was becoming more nervous, and impatient of this game. “But where is my brother James -- the Earl?”

“Ah --” said the girl, drawing him back from the door. “Not in there. He often leaves the company. Listen.” She moved with Charles towards another closed door farther down the hall. They both heard the plaintive chords of a guitar and a tenor voice singing softly in French.

James? thought Charles, embarrassed and astounded. James must be singing French love songs to someone, and yet the tune was sad.

“Don’t!” Charles said to stop his impetuous guide, but she had already opened the door to the music room.

There was nobody inside except the Earl, who stood by the window looking out into the garden, a guitar slung around his neck. His head with the full-bottomed wig of cascading flaxen curls was turned from them.

But this is a woman! Charles thought for a horrified second. So small was the figure in the rose-embroidered satin suit, so small the gilt leather shoe which was raised on a chair rung to support the guitar.

The Earl turned and stared at the two intruders. “Lady Betty,” he said with a blend of courtesy and coldness, “you and your gallant wish to join in making music?”

Charles gave a long sigh. It was a completely male voice which spoke, a rich pleasant voice with a slightly foreign intonation.

The girl flushed, seeing that, as so often, her pranks had bordered on rudeness. “Forgive me, my lord,” she said curtseying. “But I bring you your brother Charles.”

“My brother?” said the Earl. He put down the guitar, and walked slowly over to Charles.
“Mon dieu,”
he said peering up at the tall gangling lad in the shabby suit, “and I had thought of you as my
little
brother!” His pale grave face broke into a singularly sweet smile. “Embrace me,
petit Charles,”
he said. “I’m glad to see you.”

The boy bent awkwardly, and James kissed him on either cheek. “I’m glad to see
you,
m-my lord,” Charles stammered, trying to rearrange his ideas.

“You’ve already met Lady Elizabeth Lee, I observe,” said the Earl.

“Not precisely, my lord,” said Betty giggling. “I bumped into him in the hall when I was running away from our uncle of Richmond, who is ever trying to pinch me when Mama’s not looking. He reeks of cognac too,” she added tossing her head.

James ceased smiling. The Duke of Richmond was the relative through King Charles whom he liked the least, a libertine, adventurer, and turncoat, whose politics were as variable as were the morals of his mother, who had once been the beautiful Louise de Keroualle, sent to England by France for the express purpose of seducing King Charles. Far worse in James’s opinion was Richmond’s religious behavior. He had been born a Roman Catholic, but had long since decided that in England Protestantism was more comfortable. Which it undoubtedly was.