The Love Child (26 page)

He hates men like your father. He envies them their good looks, their breeding and their boldness. He will have no mercy. There is nothing he enjoys more than condemning a man to death.”

My mother’s grief was more than I could bear. I kept thinking of “wild plans to rescue my father. The thought of his being herded into prison with countless others was horrifying.

Thomas and Christabel came to see us as soon as they heard the news; they were genuinely grieved. Thomas had a grain of comfort to

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offer. “Jeffreys is a greedy man,” he said. “It is hinted that he will be lenient in return for some profit. They say he is hoping to make a small fortune out of these assizes, for there are some rich people involved.”

“Then there is a chance!” cried my mother.

“It would have to be done very tactfully and he would want a good deal, I daresay.”

“I would give everything I have,” she replied fervently.

Clearly the Willerbys had raised her spirits, for she came to my room that night.

She looked very frail and there were dark shadows under her eyes. She stood against the door and I longed to comfort her, for I knew that without him her life would not be worth living.

She said: “I have made up my mind. I shall leave for the West Country tomorrow.”

“Do you think it possible to bribe this judge?”

“It is obviously possible and I am going to do it.”

“I shall come with you,” I answered.

“Oh, my dearest child,” she cried, “I knew you would.”

“We will make our preparations early in the morning,” I said, “and leave just as soon as we are ready.”

What followed is like a nightmare to me-and still is.

We went by stagecoach, which seemed the easiest way. It was a sombre journey and at the inn where we rested there was constant talk of what was being called the Monmouth Rebellion. The name of Judge Jeffreys was spoken in low whispers. It was clear that everyone pitied his victims.

It was said that he not only passed the harshest sentences which he could, but he did so with relish and could, with his wicked tongue, turn innocence into guilt.

As we approached the west, the mist grew more intense. Monmouth’s army had been active only in Dorset and Somerset, and the prisoners were all judged in those counties.

Jeffreys, with his lieutenants, was in his element. He delighted in his grisly work.

There should be no delay once a man was sentenced. In twenty-four hours from his condemnation he was swinging on a gallows or suffering whatever the bloodthirsty judge had decreed for him.

“Oh, God,” prayed my mother, “let us get there in time.”

I think perhaps I pitied her more than I did my father. If he were sentenced, his death would come quickly. She would be haunted by the tragedy for the rest of her days. She was almost demented with

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grief. We would save him, I promised her. We must. It was not impossible and she must not allow herself to think so. We were going to get there in time. We were going to give everything we had if necessary to save my father’s life.

It was so irksome for her when we stayed in the inns on the way. She would have liked to drive through the night.

As we came nearer to our destination, so did the horror increase. The judge, whose name was on every lip, and was spoken of with disgust and repugnance, had ordered that it should be brought home to the people what happened to traitors. Often we passed limbs hanging on trees and corpses of hanged men. The smell of death permeated the air.

“What shall we do?” demanded my mother. “What can we do when we get there?”

At an inn one night they were talking about the case of Lady Lisle whose crime had been to give food to two of Monmouth’s followers who had escaped from the battlefield.

Jeffreys’ manner towards the poor woman had been so cruel even for him that the case was being discussed everywhere.

He had a way, this judge, of bullying his juries into giving the verdict he wanted.

If they seemed inclined to be lenient he would fix them with a glare from the most wicked eyes in the world so that they shivered in their seats and wondered what case would be brought against them if they did not do the judge’s bidding.

This poor lady was called a traitor; she should suffer the death of traitors. He sentenced her to be burned to death.

This was too much to be accepted. Moreover, it was being said that the harshness shown to Lady Lisle came at the instigation of a higher source, for she was the widow of John Lisle, who had been one of the judges at the trial of Charles the First.

This seemed like the King’s revenge on the murderers of his father, and friends of Lady Lisle were pointing out that the lady herself was guilty only of two things-giving food to men who happened to be flying from Sedgemoor and being the wife of a man who, with others, had condemned Charles the First.

James should consider. What would his brother Charles have done? He would never have allowed a woman to be treated so.

James was not inclined to enjoy being compared with his brother, but he did have enough sense to see that to submit a frail woman to one of the most barbaric deaths conceivable for no real crime would not redound to his credit. At the same time he wanted everyone to know that they would be ill advised to take up arms against 168

Lady Lisle was saved from the stake to lose her head on the block.

My mother had scarcely eaten since we left home. She was very pale and had lost weight.

I was fearful for her health.

There was more news. Monmouth had escaped to the New Forest even before the battle was over. He had hidden there for a few days but had been captured and taken to London.

There he had implored the King to save his life. “For my father’s sake,” he begged.

“You are my uncle. Remember that.”

But James only remembered that Monmouth had tried to take the crown from him. There was no point in delay, he said.

We had reached the town of Dorchester when news was brought to us of Monmouth’s death.

He had deserted his army; he had cringed before the King; but once he knew that death was inevitable, he had met it bravely, affirming on the scaffold his adherence to the Church of England. It must have been a gruesome scene because the executioner struck five times before he completely severed the head and brought about the end of the Duke of Monmouth, reckless, ambitious and lacking in principle.

At least he died a brave man.

This was small comfort to my mother.

We came to lodge in an inn in the ancient market town-a busy one, for through it passed the road to Devon and Cornwall. The earthworks, known as Maiden Castle, relic of four thousand years before when the land must have been little more than a forest, brought many people to look at it. But we had no thought of such matters.

My mother, frantic with anxiety, frustrated because she had no idea how to set about the task of freeing my father, was in a desperate state, and the very night we arrived at the inn was smitten with a fever and was delirious. I was really frightened and the next morning sent for a doctor. He came and said she must rest and nothing must be done to disturb her. He gave her a potion to make her sleep.

“You are here because you have a relative prisoner?” he asked.

I nodded.

The doctor shook his head sadly. “Let her sleep as long as you can. It is acute anxiety which has brought this on. I have seen much of this since our town was turned into a court and a shambles.”

I was grateful for his sympathy. I asked myself what I should do. How could I set about this delicate task? To whom did I offer my bribe? I must not run into trouble, for there was my mother to care for.

I was in a state of great anxiety.

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When the doctor had left I went down to the inn parlour. I wondered if I could speak to the innkeeper. There might be someone here … someone from the army, perhaps, who could help me. Edwin and Leigh were in the army. It was ironical to think that they might have been fighting against my father had they been hi England.

We had at least been saved that.

My grandfather, my mother’s father, now dead, had been General Tolworthy; the Eversleighs were connected with the army, too. Yes, I decided there must be some high-ranking soldier in this town who would be ready to help me.

I came into the inn parlour. A man was sitting there. He was in uniform, so he was a soldier and a high-ranking one. My heart beat fast. My prayers might be about to be answered.

I said, “Good day.”

He turned. I was looking into the face of Beaumont Granville.

A shiver of terror ran down my spine.

I muttered: “I’m sorry. I thought I knew you.”

Then I turned and ran quickly up the stairs.

I was trembling. I felt sick with fear. The nightmare was indeed growing worse.

I looked at my mother lying there sleeping. She was pale and very still. I knelt by the bed and hid my face in the bedclothes.

I felt very apprehensive.

After a few moments I arose. He wouldn’t have recognized me, I assured myself. He had said nothing. I should have to be watchful now. I must keep out of his way.

What evil fate had brought him here to Dorchester? I had not thought of his being a soldier-one of the King’s men. This town was full of soldiers.

I looked at myself in the mirror. I must have changed since those days hi Venice.

No, he would not have recognized me, for I had hurried from the room almost as soon as he had looked at me.

I sat down and thought of it all-those days in Venice, that night of the ball when he had come very near to kidnapping me, the birth of Carlotta; I thought of Harriet, lively, energetic, relishing a situation which was full of pitfalls.

What can I do? I asked myself.

I felt the situation was growing more and more desperate every minute.

There was a knock at my door. I started up, crying: “Who is there?”

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It was the innkeeper.

I opened the door and he stood there with a letter in his hand. “A gentleman asked me to give you this,” he said.

I took it and said: “What gentleman?”

“He is below, my lady. He awaits an answer.”

“Thank you.” I shut the door and listened to his footsteps as he went down the stairs.

For some moments I was afraid to open the letter. Then I took it to the window and read:

I know who you are and why you are here. I think I may be able to help. Will you come down to the inn parlour and discuss this?

Beaumont Granville

I stared at the paper. So he had recognized me. What did it mean? He could help me?

My impulse was to tear up the letter.

I stood for a moment hesitating and then I looked at my mother’s face.

I must at least not let the opportunity pass by. All my instincts called out to me not to trust this man. Yet what could I do? I did not know which way to turn. At Eversleigh it had seemed easy enough to say: “Offer a bribe. Others have done so with success. They say Jeffreys is becoming rich out of the Bloody Assizes.” Yet how did one offer a bribe? It was a delicate procedure. It was something which must not be mentioned in actual terms. There would have to be hints. Ways had to be found to give the bribe as though it were not being given at all.

I knew I would see this man. I must. There was no alternative.

I went down to the inn parlour.

He turned as I came in. He was smiling with what I can only call triumph. He rose and bowed low.

“So,” he said, “we meet again.”

“You had something to say to me?”

“Indeed I have. Won’t you sit down? I have told the innkeeper we must not be disturbed.”

I sat down. There was a table between us. I looked into his face. Beau Granville.

The name suited him. He had those excessive good looks which had no doubt led him to believe that the world was his for the taking. I guessed he took a great pride in his appearance. His linen was scented with the smell I remembered at once. It was a mingling of musk and sandalwood, perfumes I did not like.

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“I know why you are here. Your father is in prison in this town. His trial will be in two days’ time.”

“Two days,” I repeated.

He smiled. He had perfect teeth and clearly liked to show them.

“That gives us a little time,” he said.

“Yes,” I answered quietly.

“I could help you, you know.”

“How?”

He lifted his shoulders. “My country estate is on the edge of this town. I know the judge well. I have often entertained him here. I believe that a word from me would go a long way.”

“We will pay,” I said eagerly.

He put his hands to his lips. “Do not speak so,” he replied. “It could be dangerous.”

“I know these things are done. I have heard…”

“My dear young lady, you are reckless. If these things are done, then it is natural that they should be, but to speak of them, that is a crime.”

“Please be serious. This is very important to me … to us …”

“Of course. Of course.” He spoke soothingly. “Your father would meet the worst possible fate. He is just the sort my friend dislikes. Given a chance…”

“Please… we will do anything.”

“Will you?”

“We will do anything,” I repeated.

“It will rest with you.”

“What?” I said faintly.

I knew, of course. I saw those eyes, sly, lascivious, assessing me.

“I admired you from the moment I saw you,” he said. “It was a great regret to me that we did not become better acquainted in Venice. It is my urgent desire that we should repair that unfortunate state of affairs.”

“Will you please say clearly what you mean.”

“I should have thought it was clear.”

I stood up.

“Don’t be hasty,” he warned. “You will regret it all your life if you are. Think of your father. Think of your mother.”

I closed my eyes. I was thinking: I shall have to save him. I shall have to save them both. I must. And this man knows it. Oh, Leigh, where are you?

Yet what could Leigh do to save my father?

“Come,” he said, “be reasonable. Sit down. Listen.”