Devil Water (80 page)

And, also, James had Father Brown, Charles thought sighing. The Jesuit priest had died eleven years ago at Pontoise. Charles missed him more than he expected to.

“ ‘Er lydyship, the Countess,” Hobson continued, “she was a little bit o’ a dark lydy, sweet an’ gentle an’ brave, wi’ child too she was. I alius wondered wot ‘appened to the byby.”

Ah yes, Charles thought. That posthumous child was Anna Maria, now the widowed Lady Petre, who lived at Ingatestone in Essex. She would certainly come to him after the trial, when he was freed and it was safe.

“If I’m not making too bold, m’lord,” said Hobson, “that Jenny ‘oo was ‘ere, she puts me in mind o’ ‘er lydyship -- not in looks o’course, nor rank, but ‘er pretty manners, an’ the love she bears you, m’lord -- it put me in mind o’ ‘er lydyship.”

Charles shut his eyes a second, and slumped down on his chair. “I miss her,” he said fiercely. “I miss her terribly. Why’d that vicious devil have to shut her out!”

Hobson, though in agreement, was discreetly silent, and whenever he was on duty he did all he could to bolster Charles’s spirits.

On Friday, November 21, when Charles had been a year less one day in the Tower, Williamson received a habeas corpus for the prisoner, and forthwith set out gleefully with Charles for the King’s Bench in Westminster Hall. They rode together in the Tower coach, and the Governor had neglected no safety precautions. Two armed officers rode in the coach, four warders, two sergeants, two corporals, and thirty-two men walked beside the coach. Everyone was armed except Charles, who had been deprived of his sword but wore his scarlet and black French colonel’s uniform, a gold-laced waistcoat, a gray tie-wig, and a dashing broad-brimmed Spanish hat with a white plume.

Their procession through the City, and along the Fleet, Strand, and Whitehall, was perforce slow with such an escort. Williamson had ample time to taunt his victim, nor did he neglect to show him the row of fresh heads stuck up on Temple Bar. “There’s room though for one more,” said Williamson, with his dry cackle.

Charles bore it all in silence. His wits were clear, and he was trying to formulate the points that he would make at the King’s Bench. The crowds along the way merely stared at the procession, unsure as to which rebel lord was now being carried to trial in the Tower coach.

In Westminster Hall Charles stood with dignity before the King’s Bench and listened to a repetition of the conviction for High Treason, which he had heard here thirty years ago. He replied in a steady voice that he was not the Charles Radcliffe mentioned in the indictment, that he was the French Count of Derwent, subject to the King of France, and then he produced his commission as Lieutenant Colonel in the French army. He also said that he was astonished at English justice which had lately denied him all access to a lawyer. Here there was some consternation on the Bench, and looks of disapproval directed at Governor Williamson.

The Court at once assigned the counsel Charles had asked for, the firm of Ford and Jodrell, of which Mr. Garvan was a member. After some delay, Charles’s counsel requested time to consult with the prisoner and bring defense witnesses from abroad. The court ignored the latter request, but postponed trial until Monday.

Williamson did not return to the Tower in the coach with Charles, and he had to endure rebuke from Mr. Justice Foster on his treatment of the prisoner.

During the weekend Charles was accordingly permitted private interviews with his lawyers, Alec was summoned back by Hobson, the dietary restrictions were lifted, and Charles at last got a note through to Jenny at the King’s Head. It was an optimistic note, telling her of his trial on Monday, and that she must not worry, his lawyers were certain of success. “Only three more dayes, sweet-hart, then we’ll feast at King’s Head if you like, & you shall sing me a merrie tune but not as a serving-wench.”

Jenny was immeasurably relieved. These weeks of no communication had been a fearful strain. She and Alec had supported each other as best they could; she had worked diligently and for longer hours in the inn, to occupy herself.

On the Sunday after receiving her note, she decided to go to church. To St. Paul’s, which she had never visited. She started to dress in her best gown, the fine green wool in which she’d twice crossed the Atlantic, and which she had freshened by means of elbow ruffles, and ruchings. The gown was too tight across the bust and at the waist. She was getting fat, Jenny thought impatiently. Too much of the King’s Head’s excellent cooking. She left a hook or two undone, and covered deficiencies with her best green wool hooded cloak.

In St. Paul’s, that great dim Renaissance cathedral, Jenny was awed by the grandeur of marble and the painted dome. She found a seat midway down the nave, settled back, and listened dreamily to the pure high voices of the choir. When the others knelt or rose she did. She listened also to the Collect for the day, which was the Sunday before Advent, and the Epistle which had to do with a righteous king, when suddenly two words struck her into sharp awareness, “out of the
north country.”
Had that formless voice up in the shadows by the choir really said that? She had no prayerbook, yet so urgent was her need to find out that she borrowed from the woman beside her, and looked it up. Yes, it was there. “The Lord liveth, which brought up and which led the seed of the House of Israel out of the north country, and from all countries whither I had driven them; and they shall dwell in their own land.” What did it mean?

Why should those enigmatic words penetrate the barrier which she had so successfully erected, and make her think with an almost frightened compulsion of Rob? She had been praying for her father, praying in awkward desperate little petitions, unaccustomed to calling on the Deity, yet having felt the need for higher help. Now, as the service continued and the lovely music swelled out and floated through the vast cathedral, she became more and more uneasy.

She could no longer follow the service, she could no longer pray for her father. She felt giddy, there was a weakness in her legs. The thought of Rob overpowered her. Suddenly without volition she turned. Three pews back and to the left of her, she thought she saw him. At least she saw his intent eyes gazing sadly in her direction.

Jenny caught her breath and veered back towards the choir, her heart pounding. “You’re mad!” she said aloud. The woman who owned the prayerbook gave her a startled look. Jenny clutched the pew ahead until her knuckles whitened. At last she calmed a little, and turned again. That pew behind was empty. Nobody in it at all. I
am
mad, she thought. The minister had mounted the pulpit, and was eloquently launched into the sermon, of which Jenny heard not a word. She sat rigid, trying to marshal her common sense. Rob was more than three thousand miles away on a plantation in Virginia, and he had cut her from his life, as she had him from hers. But what if it
was
a vision, she thought with a stab of fear. Like Evelyn’s, and something had happened to him. Yet, in a moment, she rallied again. That glimpse had not seemed like either vision or dream. It had looked like Rob himself sitting there, even to the black hat with its thin silver edge, the maroon suit he had bought in Williamsburg -- or did she imagine these details? Surely at the time she had been aware only of the intent, sad gaze. Jenny looked back once again. The pew behind was still unoccupied.

She was far more disturbed when she left St. Paul’s than when she entered it, though some of her agitation wore off during the long walk back to Spitalfields under fitful November sunshine.

Mrs. Potts was in the kitchen supervising the cooking of the family dinner, which Jenny now shared with her employers. The other servants ate earlier, but Bella Potts had become fond of Jenny, and Potts himself grew indulgent, for she had increased his business. At the Friday musical club she not only sang but played the harpsichord acceptably, and new customers were coming from the City, and even the West End.

“Sit ye down,” said Mrs. Potts in greeting. “Tak’ a dish o’ tea, and a bite o’ jam tart I’ve been making.” She thought Jenny looked pale and strained.

“No thanks, ma’am,” said Jenny smiling in a distraught way. “I’ll go to my room a while, besides I eat too much, I’m getting fat.”

She went up the twisting back stairs to the tiny garret room she had been given. Bella Potts, the mother of eight grown children, stared after Jenny, an odd expression on her face. “It divven’t seem reasonable she wouldna
knaw
--” she remarked in the general direction of the kitchen cat and the old deaf cook. “Poor lass, in some ways she’s but a green girl yet.”

The next day, Monday November 24, the procession started out again from the Tower, as Charles was conveyed to his trial. Williamson rode in another coach, so Charles was spared unwelcome company. An unknown officer and two warders, including Hobson, rode with Charles, who was in high spirits. “Here we go again!” he remarked chuckling to Hobson. “And on the way back we’ll stop at the Mitre and have a bowl of their punch to celebrate! All of us.”

“Thankee, m’lord,” said Hobson solemnly. The others said nothing. Charles had had some wine with his breakfast, enough to increase his confidence and induce well-being. He was dashingly clothed as he had been Friday in his scarlet and black regimentals, and the broad Spanish hat garnished by a white plume. His cheeks were ruddy, his eyes bright, and he was further heartened by the cheering crowds which lined the streets. By now they knew who was riding in the coach. At least they knew that it was not one of the Scottish lords. An Englishman, some said it was, and had been kept a whole year at the Tower, which was no way to treat an Englishman, especially one who hadn’t actually been in the rebellion at all. Besides, they liked his looks, so they cheered and wished him luck. Charles bowed and smiled and waved his hand as the coach rolled by. To cap his elation, as they went along Ludgate he saw Jenny standing at the curb, watching anxiously.

“Put the window down!” said Charles to Hobson, who obeyed.

“Hullo there, darling!” Charles called. “I’ll see you later! I’ll send Alec!” He blew her a kiss, and she nodded and smiled.

Charles arrived again at Westminster Hall. He bowed familiarly to everyone, including the Lord Chief Justice on the Bench -- the formidable Earl of Hardwicke, who had tried the Scottish lords and executed them. Charles did not know it, but Lord Hardwicke was a self-made man, the son of a petty lawyer in Dover, and though he had himself achieved an earldom by ability and assiduous attention to King George the Second, he despised the aristocracy -- especially Stuarts, not to speak of Papists.

The trial began by Charles’s counsel asserting that there was no proof that this prisoner was the same Charles Radcliffe as the one mentioned in the Record. The Attorney-General replied that the Crown considered this the same man and was prepared to prove it. Defense Counsel again asked for adjournment, which was denied. They then began to empanel a jury. Charles’s exuberance gave way to astonishment and then outrage as he saw the type of talesmen they had called to form his jury. A butcher, a haberdasher, and even a scavenger. Charles jumped to his feet, crying that he had expected to be tried by a jury of his peers.

Lord Hardwicke replied in a silken voice that this was not a trial of any importance, merely one to establish identity, and averted his cold eyes from Charles as more jurors were sworn in.

Charles was dazed for a moment, then recognized the next talesman to appear. It was one of the guards who had manhandled and spat at him when he and his son had been hustled up from Deal to London. Charles made a peremptory challenge. Lord Hardwicke ruled at once that no challenges were permissible in a trial of this sort. The jury was rapidly empaneled.

Charles was directed to stand, and the prosecution brought on a string of witnesses. The first ones were most disappointing to the Crown. There was a barber who had once shaved Charles in Newgate. He hemmed and hawed, squinting at the prisoner, and finally said he wasn’t sure if this was the same man. He was told sharply to stand down, and the Crown produced the next witness, a shabby whining knave, who immediately swore that this was indeed Charles Radcliffe, since he’d seen him at the Earl of Derwentwater’s funeral.

At that Charles laughed immoderately, and said, “Is the Crown suggesting that the Earl of Derwentwater’s funeral was held in Newgate? For I understand that’s where Charles Radcliffe was at the time.”

There were snickers in the courtroom. Lord Hardwicke angrily rapped for order, the Attorney-General colored and dismissed the witness.

“If they can’t do better than
that!”
Charles whispered to Mr. Ford, his senior counsel.

“Hush,” whispered Ford, who was growing less sanguine. He didn’t like the look in Hardwicke’s eye.

And then to Charles’s dismay they brought on Northumbrian witnesses. He hadn’t thought they’d send North, he hadn’t really believed that the case would be handled quite so seriously. The first Northumbrian was Thomas Reed of Aydon, a playmate of long ago at Dilston. Mr. Reed testified that he had watched this prisoner as he walked the battlement at the Tower, and that he saw him now, but if it were the same Charles Radcliffe then the alteration was such that he didn’t care to commit himself.

Mr. Reed was ordered to stand down, and later suffered for his honesty, since the enraged Government refused to pay his expenses home again.

Sir William Middleton was next called, and flatly refused to testify.

“So far, so good,” Ford whispered with relief.

The Crown’s next Northern witness was a different matter. Charles was much dismayed to see Abraham Bunting, the Dilston weaver, who had never felt loyalty to Radcliffes, who had refused to follow James in the ‘15, and who had undoubtedly been responsible for summoning the informer Patten on the night the latter had broken into Dilston chapel bent on arresting Charles.

Bunting took the stand, said he came from Hexham now, though had formerly been employed at Dilston. “Where,” said Bunting pointing at Charles, “I seen
him
graw up, an’ seen him ride out i’ the ‘Fifteen, too. He’s Charles Radcliffe reet enough, an’ I’d swear it to Gawd himself!”