Fourpenny Flyer (46 page)

The evening ended on a burst of spontaneous cheering, and for once in her life she dared to join in, shouting hurrah with the best. Oh, what they were doing was right and honourable! What a blessing to be part of it!

And then the meeting was breaking up and men were struggling to their feet and beginning to amble out of the door into the hall. She could see Mr Richards striding across the room towards the two Abbotts and greeting them as though they were old friends, which was odd. But then Annie grabbed her by the hand and leapt through the mass of bodies, dragging her along behind.

‘Come along my dear,' she said, ‘We must ask James to introduce us to the speaker.'

‘Annie, I …' Harriet tried to explain, but the crush was still too great for Annie to hear her, and in any case they were already beside the fireplace and the introductions were being made.

‘Mrs Easter was at Peterloo, too,' Annie said proudly.

‘We met,' Harriet said, smiling at him and feeling suddenly quite shy to be meeting him again like this. He was such a wonderful man, giving all his time and energy to help his neighbours, and she admired him so much. But to her disappointment his face remained politely blank and he did not respond to her at all.

He does not recognize me, she thought, and she realized that it distressed her to have been forgotten.

But he hadn't forgotten her. It was just that her appearance was so unexpected. The woman he remembered was a creature from a legend, wild as a gypsy, in rags and tatters, her petticoat torn for bandages and her beautiful stockings stripped from her feet, an angel of mercy with a dirty face and pale flowing hair and
bloodstained hands. The person who stood before him now was a lady of society, beautifully dressed in the latest fashion, in a blue and green striped gown with elaborate sleeves and fine frills at the hem, with her pale hair hidden under a fine lace cap, and pearls at her throat. He could find no words with which to address her.

But they were rescued by their common concern. ‘Is Mary recovered?' she asked. ‘And her brother, Joe? I think of them often.'

‘He was in t' infirmary six weeks,' he told her, ‘and no better now he's out, I fear.'

‘Is he able to work?'

‘No, ma'am. He still has trouble breathing, d'ye see.'

‘You must deliver part of the Bury subscription to him and his family,' Harriet said at once. ‘Do you return soon?'

‘Not till I've spoke at Thetford,' he told her. ‘I've a deal to do afore I see Manchester again.'

‘If you will tell me your address,' she said, ‘I will see that the money is dispatched straight to you.'

‘You're uncommon kind,' he said, smiling at her.

‘We have a little supper laid on for 'ee in the dining room,' Annie said. ‘If you care to walk through….'

And so the four of them walked into the dining room where the cloth was set with tankards of ale and half a dozen meat pies and two dishes of Annie's famous lemon pickle, and where their two maids were waiting to serve them. And now that the first awkwardness was gone they all made an excellent meal together, although Harriet noticed that her Mr Rawson was ill at ease when it came to eating the pie and handled his knife and fork awkwardly, and that made her feel more sympathetic towards him than ever, for a little weakness in a man so strong was rather touching.

But the talk about the table was as uplifting as the meeting had been, and ranged over so many subjects, not just parliamentary reform and universal suffrage, but the proper care of the sick, the rights of man, the necessity and rewards of doing God's will. It absorbed them all so thoroughly that they were still talking when the grandfather clock struck midnight in the hall behind them.

‘We are keeping you from your rest, Mr Rawson,' Annie
said, making a little grimace of apology. ‘If you are to be up and ready for Mr Abbott by six of the clock tomorrow morning….'

And so the evening had to end. And although Harriet was so excited she hardly slept at all that night, she was up early in the morning ready to wave goodbye to her hero. She and Annie and James took lanterns and walked down to the gate with him when the farm cart arrived.

He shook them all warmly by the hand, holding Harriet's just a little longer than the others, then he took a paper out of his pocket and gave it to her before he climbed into the cart. ‘The address you wanted,' he said.

‘Why, yes indeed,' she said. ‘Thank 'ee kindly. I will see that funds are sent as soon as may be.'

‘Happen when we next meet, t' government will have made some decisions,' he said, smiling at them all in the flickering light.

‘Let us pray so,' James replied, as the cart went joggling down the lane. ‘Let us pray so.'

‘They must have some plans, must they not?' Harriet asked as she and Annie walked back into the house.

‘Who?' Annie asked vaguely, her thoughts already directed towards her children's breakfast.

‘Why the government, Annie dear, the government. When they return to London in the autumn they will have to bring in a reform bill, will they not?'

But when Lord Sidmouth and his cabinet returned to the House of Commons, they had no intention of bringing in a reform bill. The mob had risen and the mob were to be put down, or the English aristocracy would suffer the same fate as the French had suffered thirty years ago. To that end they had two simple purposes: one was to prevent any further demonstrations of any kind, the other was to make it impossible for anyone to voice any criticism of the government.

Their plans were put into operation in December, and highly repressive they were. They took the form of six Acts, couched in vague terms designed to be as helpful as possible to the magistrates, and making it perfectly clear
that despite the dead and injured of Peterloo, the reformers' petitions were to be totally ignored.

The first Act prohibited drilling, military training and marches; the second gave magistrates the right to enter and search any house, without a warrant ‘on suspicion of there being arms therein'; the third prohibited any meetings of more than fifty people without authorization from the magistrates; the fourth, as Nan had suspected, increased the stamp duty on newspapers and periodicals, raising their cost to sixpence or more; and the fifth and sixth gave increased powers to the authorities to deal with sedition and libel.

‘We are gagged and forbidden,' Caleb told Harriet, when he wrote to thank her for the third donation she'd had sent to his weavers.

‘We may not march or meet together or speak or write, and moreover our homes may be entered and searched whenever it takes a magistrate's fancy so to do. When you consider who the magistrates are, and whose rights and properties they protect, you will see there is little hope for any of us to escape persecution. Many here are in despair. These are miserable times and for the moment it is hard to see how they may be opposed.

‘Mary is still unwell, suffering dizzy turns and loss of memory which she finds uncommon distressing. Howsomever Joe says he means to return to the mill come what may. They send their particular thanks for the monies you sent and wish you to know 'twas all spent upon food for the little ones.

‘Kindest regards from your despondent friend,

‘Caleb Rawson.'

Harriet was rather thrilled to be receiving these letters, for the more she knew about him, the more Mr Rawson was becoming her hero. It was an honour to be written to by such a man and it made her feel important to know that she was part of the great struggle for reform.

‘I cannot imagine what may be done now,' she wrote back, answering by return of post as she always did.

‘In the light of such legislation, how may any of us even make our wishes known? It is a desperate situation, I agree. Mrs Easter is very angry that the stamp duty has been increased again. She is of the opinion that if the price of newspapers is forced any higher by this wretched tax, nobody will buy them. And then how will anybody know what is going on? It is all very distressing.

‘I am glad to hear that Joe is better. Pray give my kind regards to Mary.

‘Kindest regards to yourself.

‘Your friend, who only wishes she knew what could be done at this unhappy time,

‘Harriet Easter.'

But Mr Richards, of the affable smile and the ginger whiskers, who was still lodging most comfortably with the two Miss Callbecks, Mr Richards knew exactly what should be done. There was a plan to outwit ‘these monstrous men of government', he said, and at the very moment that Harriet was signing her letter to Caleb Rawson, he was sitting in the snug of the White Hart at Scole pouring that plan into the willing ears of Henry and Jack Abbott.

‘There are men gathering in London now,' he said, ‘who mean to fight these intemperate laws. I can tell you two gentlemen the secret of their whereabouts, where I wouldn't tell another living soul, you understand, because I know you would never give them away. That is so, is it not?'

‘Indeed, 'tis, sir,' Jack Abbott said rather drunkenly, for Mr Richards had bought them a great deal of ale. ‘You may depend on us sir. Tha's a fac'.'

‘I have two tickets here in my pocket,' Mr Richards confided, producing them, ‘for the night mail to London from this very inn, this very evening, as ever is; two tickets that would take you to the very meeting house of these brave men, and here is the address, d'ye see, and a letter to their leader, and a map to guide 'ee to the very spot. Two tickets, one letter, one address, one map –' setting them on the table before him like a winning hand at cards. ‘I would be happy to give 'em to 'ee, so I should, were you
prepared to take 'em and use 'em. Are you game? Now don't say you ain't, because I won't believe a word of it.'

It was late in the evening and they were out of work and full of beer and bravado, and besides Mr Richards was uncommon persuasive.

‘With my Nell gone and the boys 'prenticed,' Jack Abbott said, ‘I've nought to lose.'

‘And a deal to gain,' Mr Richards urged.

So they were persuaded, and took the tickets and the address, and caught the night mail, which by great good fortune, so Mr Richards said, just happened to be ready for the off in the yard outside.

‘Harriet and John grow uncommon dull these days,' Matilda said. ‘'Tis all work with John and all politics with Harriet. I declare they ain't fit for polite society, neither the one of 'em.'

She and her friends were at a party at the Ottenshaws' London house in Henrietta Street. They had retired from the ballroom temporarily and were drinking wine in a vain attempt to cool themselves after a particularly energetic mazurka.

‘Oh come now, Tilda,' Billy said, ‘that's a bit hard. She does uncommon good work for the poor.'

‘And where's the fun in that?' Matilda said, pouting at him prettily. She was pregnant again and blooming. ‘Lectures and meetings night after night. It wouldn't do for me, I can tell you. 'Tis enough to turn the stomach. Oh no, Billy my love, she should have come here tonight, so she should. 'Twould have done her some good. It ain't every day of the week we get a new king, now is it?'

‘He ain't exactly a new king though, is he Tilda?' Jerry Ottenshaw said reasonably. 'Tis only the Prince Regent with a new name.' The poor old mad king, George III, had finally slipped away from his painful, puzzled existence and the Regent was proclaimed George IV. Nobody could pretend the news was surprising, but it was a good excuse for parties.

‘La, I'm dry,' Maria said, flirting her eyes at Mr Ottenshaw. ‘Is there any fruit cup, Jerry?'

‘Time we were dancing, my charmer,' Billy said, as the first notes of the waltz drifted out into the alcove. And he seized Matilda about the waist and walked off with her,
moving in time to the music and with such a marked rhythm that her skirt swung like a bell.

‘She'll be the only woman sitting at home tonight,' Matilda said, as she skipped along beside him, ‘in the whole of London.'

‘Who will, my beauty?' Billy said, grinning sideways at her.

‘Fie on you, Billy Easter,' she said, pretending to scold. ‘You don't listen to a word I say. I shall refuse my favours, so I shall, if you don't pay me more attention.' Her face was bright with affection, encouraging him.

So he kissed her.

Nan and Frederick were at a party too that night, and a very grand one. They were the guests of the Earl of Harrowby and among the many others there were more than half the members of the Cabinet. It was such prestigious company that she and Frederick found themselves sitting well below the salt at dinner, right at the far end of the table, in fact, and with the Barnesworthys for company. They were presided over by Lady Harrowby, it was true, but they were well out of the way of the excitement at the centre of the table.

Something was going on, Nan thought, that was plain, for the atmosphere in the room was extremely tense, and Lady Harrowby was brittle with nervousness which was most unlike her, and servants arrived every five minutes with messages for Lord Sidmouth or their host or both of them together. And the butler had obviously been detailed to keep a watch for somebody or something, because he went to the far window as soon as one messenger departed and watched there until the next arrived. It vexed Nan Easter not to know what it was all about. If she'd been a little nearer the centre she could have listened to what Lord Sidmouth and Lord Harrowby were saying, but at her present distance it was impossible.

And to make matters worse, Sir Joshua was more than half drunk and horribly irascible, holding forth about everything and anything. Now he was blundering on about Sidmouth's spy system.

‘Spies,' he declared, as the fish course was cleared, ‘are a damned fine thing. Where would we be without 'em? I'll tell you, where we'd be, my friends? In the dark. That's where we'd be.'