Devil Water

by Anya Seton

  “Don’t ye go badgering me into saying what I shouldn’t, as ye did in Whitton Dene,” he said violently, averting his gaze. “Let me go, Jenny! I’m making my own way at last, and soon I’ll get me a proper wife -- a cozy little body wi’ a nice jointure, and a Dad in trade who’ll understand my trade.”

  “Do you want to hurt me, Rob?” she whispered. “Why must we always quarrel?”

  “Why must ye keep questioning when ye know the answers?”

  “Turn to me, Rob!” She put her hand on his cheek.

  At her touch, he shivered. His head jerked around, he looked her full in the face. “Verra weel, lass --” he said through his teeth.

  His arms shot out and lifted her from the bench onto his lap. He bent his head and kissed her with a furious hunger that cut her breath. She trembled and went limp, tears brimmed her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. His violence passed as he felt the tears. His bruising grip on her relaxed, he cradled her against his chest and began to kiss the wet cheeks. “So ye’re greeting now,” he whispered, resting his own cheek against her hair. “Hinny love, diwen’t greet.”

  “ ‘Tis for joy,” she said. She raised her face and offered him her lips.

  He kissed her this time, deep yet gently. “Feel joy then, my lass, if you can. I canna. ‘Tis fear I feel. Foreboding. There’s trouble coming nigh us, hinny, I knaw it -- I tried to play me pipes yestere’en -- they wilna work. The chanter’s cracked.”

  “Robbie, Robbie,” she whispered. “That’s naught, it can be mended. ‘Tis not like you to talk thus. And there can’t be trouble and fear when there is love.”

  “Ah, there can be! Ye wouldn’t knaw. Ye’re but a bairnie yet.”

  “I’m not!” she cried. “Kiss me, and I’ll show you if I am.” She twined her arms around his neck.

  They did not hear St. George’s clock strike seven, they did not hear a call from the house. They did not hear the crunch of hurrying footsteps along the gravel path; for an instant more they did not notice Lady Betty, who stood transfixed, staring at them.

  “Merciful heaven!” cried Betty in a voice shaking with anger. “I’d never have believed this! Jenny, you little slut!”

  Rob rose with the girl still in his arms. He put her down carefully, then stood away from her. “Jenny’s no slut, my lady,” he said in a heavy flat tone. “ Tis all my doing, and all I can say in defense is I didna mean to.”

  “We love each other, my lady,” said Jenny pushing back her disordered hair.

  “Nonsense!” Betty turned her angry eyes from one to the other. “A chit of a girl like you knows nothing of love. And though I see you’ve hot blood, I should think your pride would control that when it comes to lolligagging in the shrubbery like a serving-wench.”

  “Harsh words, my lady,” said Rob. “Jenny doesn’t deserve them.”

  “As for you!” cried Betty, still too much outraged to listen. “You, Robert Wilson, since I can’t control your behavior, I shall have to keep Jenny under constant watch, so as to prevent this disgusting sort of thing!”

  “No need of that,” said Rob quietly. “I give you my solemn word I’ll never try to see Jenny again. I know she’s not for me, and I ask you to believe me, my lady.”

  Betty swallowed. She encountered his direct level gaze, and did believe him. “Very well,” she said in a more temperate tone.

  “But what about me?” Jenny cried. “I love Rob, I always have.”

  “Ye’ll get over it, hinny,” said Rob with a wan smile.

  “But I’ve tried and I didn’t!”

  Betty recognized the note of hysteria and spoke gently. “Be reasonable, my dear. I don’t know what you have in mind. You couldn’t possibly marry this man, and indeed he obviously recognizes this himself. Many things seem tragic at fifteen, I know, but Rob is right -- and with determination you will get over it.”

  For an instant as Betty spoke, she had a qualm. There had been another young girl, once, who had fallen in love and been told to “get over it.” Yet there was no resemblance at all. That love affair had been eminently suitable.

  “I’ll be going, my lady,” said Rob, “and I’ll never trouble you again. Farewell, Jenny.” He took her hand and kissed it quietly. “God be with you.”

  He heard Jenny give one agonized sob, as he walked past the stable mews to the alley which led back to George Street. Rob felt Jenny’s sob constricting his own chest. He walked aimlessly, dragging his feet, until he found himself in front of St. George’s Church. He wandered inside, for no particular reason except that it was quiet and cool. He sat down in a pew and bowed his head.

  A spineless fool he’d been once again. Why had he gone to the Lees’ today? Why had he allowed his desire for the girl to get out of hand in the garden? “The woman tempted me,” he thought wryly. Adam’s ready excuse. But Adam was a weak man, and I am not. This hankering for what could never be his -- a hankering far worse now since their kisses in the garden -- this shameful weakness should be extirpated now, once and for all. I’ll wed Peggy Miller, wed her as soon as they’ve called the banns, he thought. No, sooner -- we can have a Fleet marriage -- any parson’ll do it there. He turned his mind resolutely to Peggy, her father was a well-to-do surveyor, Peggy was comely, even-tempered and well educated, she’d make a good wife for a rising young master-builder. She’d not disgrace him even when he got his own house and land as he meant soon to do. Wi’ Peg in my bed I shall forget Jenny, he thought. Still, he was not comforted. Underneath ran the formless foreboding, and the anxious wonder as to why he had found his chanter broken when he went to play the pipes. The pipes had been made by Jem Bailey, the Faw. It was not so easy to make another chanter, the proper wood for it did not grow near London. He rose abruptly, cursing himself for sickly fancies. Action was needed and the first thing to do was go seek Peggy Miller.

  Rob quitted the church, and had taken three steps on the sidewalk, when a man brushed past him, walking up George Street. There was something both furtive and familiar about the man. Rob turned and watched him for a moment. “Wuns!” he said to himself. “ ‘Tis that foreign rapscallion o’ the Duke’s.”

  Rob turned and followed the mincing, meager figure. It was after eight, yet still light. Rob stayed well behind, though Serpini doubtless wouldn’t recognize him after all these years. I’m mad, Rob thought -- I’m going daft as ould Snawdon. The slinking creature was on some harmless business for the Duke which would take him to Hanover Square, or even beyond. It was, however, no surprise to Rob when Serpini crossed the street and after another furtive look around stood staring across at the Lee mansion. Rob stopped too, while passersby jostled him, sedan chairs whisked past him, a coach and two great drays rumbled along beside him on the cobbles. The Italian disappeared down the alley for a bit, then he came back, and continued to lounge across the street from the Lees. He curled himself over the areaway fence of the house opposite, pulled out a pipe, lit it, and began to smoke. Rob watched frowning. Why didn’t the fellow knock at the Lee door, if he bore a message from the Duke? What was he waiting for?

  Rob’s uneasiness grew. The Italian showed no sign of moving. Could it be he was waiting for darkness? But why?

  A sickening suspicion gripped Rob. He turned and strode a block down George Street until he reached Conduit. He looked to the right and saw the Duke of Wharton’s unmistakable coach drawn up before a small dingy brick house which Rob well remembered. It was in this house’s upper story that Wharton diverted himself with meetings of his Hell-Fire Club. The meetings had been the subject of much ribald comment in the Duke’s servant hall while Rob was in service there.

  The favorite footman -- a pretty boy -- had been taken along to the “club” by the Duke. The footman later reported a farrago of childish obscene nonsense, to which Rob had scarcely listened. There had been something about a dark room fixed up like a Catholic chapel, but with the crucifix hanging upside down -- and a naked woman painted on the altar. There had been several cowled figures like monks,
swathed in red. The Duke was dressed as a priest. The red monks used a skull full of brandy as a Communion cup. They had gabbled the Lord’s Prayer backward, the footman said, and a shocking din it made. There had been more to it than that -- something the footman hinted at with lewd winks and sniggers -- a fair young virgin -- a mock marriage to the priest -- a couch brought on -- the maiden tied to it -- “Christ!” said Rob aloud, standing there on Conduit Street. “He wouldn’t dare, filthy as he is -- even he wouldn’t dare --”

  Rob walked slowly along past the Duke’s coach. The coachman and footmen sat impassively, the horses stamped a little, the coach was empty.

  “Is his grace in the house?” said Rob to the postillion, whom he had never seen before.

  “Aye,” said the lad. “Wot’s it to yer?” As he spoke two chairmen ran up and rested their chair before the brown brick house. A man got out whom Rob recognized at once -- Francis Charteris, the vilest rogue in England, and the Duke’s chief crony at the Hell-Fire orgies.

  Rob walked back to the corner of George Street, and standing there tried to think. Should he warn Jenny? Yet he had sworn never to try to see her again, and he didn’t wish to frighten her either. Lady Betty then? Even if she let him in she’d never believe a fantastic tale such as this; she would think him demented, or, that he was inventing pretexts for breaking his word. Moreover, he did not really believe himself in the monstrous thing which half of him feared.

  He glanced up George Street and saw that Serpini had disappeared. I am going daft, Rob thought. It’s all a mare’s nest. Nevertheless, he suddenly hailed a hackney, and instead of giving Peggy Miller’s address as he had meant to, he gave the address of his former lodgings in the City. In the old chest he’d left there were bits of the Duke’s livery -- the coat and badges, the wand he’d used as running footman. He was still undecided, unwilling to make a fool of himself; yet suddenly he urged the coachman to hurry, hurry towards the City. And he made a lightning plan. If his suspicions were unfounded there’d be no harm done.

  At eleven o’clock that night, Jenny was deep in exhausted sleep, intensified by a draught Lady Betty had given her. Jenny slept alone in a tiny room off the nursery and back stairs. Stupefied by emotion and the drug, she had forgotten to lock her door, and Briggs walked in when she didn’t rouse to his discreet knocks. He shook her hard by the shoulders.

  “What is it?” she cried jumping, and gaping at the manservant’s stupid face.

  “Ye’re wanted below, miss,” said Briggs. “Sh-h-h- ‘tis a secret.”

  “Who wants me?” she cried, still dazed. “Oh, is it Rob?”

  “I wouldn’t know, miss,” said Briggs, who had been well bribed. “But ‘ere’s a note.” He put it in her hand. It said, “Come quickly to the stable mews, for just a moment. One who loves you.”

  It must be Rob’s writing, she thought. She had seen so little of it, she wasn’t sure. It was strange of him to break his promise to Lady Betty --and yet --if he had been suffering as she had, what difference did a promise make? Her muddled thoughts went no further. She made Briggs wait outside, while she put on her pink dimity dressing gown and slippers. She went downstairs through the sleeping house, and out the garden door which Briggs opened for her. She walked along the path which she and Rob had trodden today and turned at the end towards the stables. Someone ran towards her from the dark musty stable entrance. Someone wound a woolen scarf tight around her face, someone else pinioned her arms, and bound her legs. Suffocating and struggling, she was carried through the mews and dumped in a sedan chair. The chairmen ran expertly through the darkness towards Conduit Street.

  At half-past midnight, Lady Betty lay sleepless, mulling over the day’s events and worrying about the best way to help Jenny recover from her foolish infatuation. Suddenly she was petrified by a high wailing scream, which seemed to come from outside and below her bedroom windows. She jumped up and ran to the window. The street below was deserted; she leaned farther out, and thought she saw a peculiar shapeless light mass at the bottom of the area, ten feet below the ground floor. There was no further sound.

  Betty got up and summoned Briggs, who came staggering after her in his nightshirt, holding a candle. They clambered down to the area and found Jenny lying on the pacing stones near the coal-chute. There was blood running from the girl’s nose, her right leg was twisted under her. She was unconscious though breathing.

  “Gawd,” whispered Briggs in horror. “Wot ‘appened? I didn’t think nothing like this’d ‘appen!”

  Betty subconsciously noted what he said, and she also noted that Jenny must have fallen from the entrance steps above, for a strip of torn dimity was caught on the rail. She proceeded with tight-lipped calm. She summoned the neighbors for help, their footmen came, they found a table top, and lifting the girl carefully on it, they got her upstairs and onto Betty’s bed. Betty sent Briggs running for Sir Hans Sloane. Until the physician arrived, Betty sat by the bed bathing the girl’s temples with vinegar, and praying in little formless sounds.

  Sir Hans came, and looked very grave. Jenny’s right tibia was fractured. He set the leg and splinted it with deft, tender hands. “I fear, Lady Betty,” said the physician, “we have a skull fracture too to deal with. I’ll bleed her, otherwise she must be kept absolutely quiet, and for weeks probably.”

  “But she will recover --” Betty whispered.

  “I don’t know, my lady. I’ve no way of telling the extent of the damage. She has youth on her side. I’ll stay the night with you and watch. Whatever happened to the poor child?”

  Betty shook her heard. “She must have pitched over into the area while running on the steps. I heard her scream as she fell.”

  “What was she doing out there at such an hour? Or was she walking in her sleep? Somnambulists are frequently injured despite the popular belief to the contrary.”

  “That was perhaps it,” said Betty, resting her head on her hand. And she tried to think so, though in her heart she did not. She knew that something more sinister than sleepwalking had happened to Jenny.

  “I won’t let Jenny die,” said Betty in a low dragging voice. “God wouldn’t let her die like this -- when she has not yet begun to live.”

  The physician looked at Lady Betty very kindly. He knew all that she’d had to bear with Colonel Lee’s illness, and he suspected a great many other heartaches too. “Well,” he said briskly. “I’ll help all I can -- and see, her color’s a trifle better, that’s a good sign. I really believe she may pull through.

  It was the end of June before Jenny regained full consciousness. By that time, Betty -- being assured by Sir Hans that the girl was well out of danger -- dreaded the moment when returning health should bring memory and worse than that -- questions. Up till now during these anxious weeks of nursing, Jenny had roused at times from her coma, once and again she had been quite lucid, but she never referred to any moment later than the arrival of Rob at the afternoon gathering, and she said in a small triumphant voice Betty found infinitely pathetic, “He astonished you, didn’t he, my lady? You didn’t think he’d look and talk so fine, did you?”

  Betty always agreed, though she had to turn away to hide her face. Jenny seemed to think vaguely that she had hurt her head and leg that afternoon at the party, all memory after that had receded into some limbo, from which -- said Sir Hans -- it might or might not emerge. It was often thus with a head injury, he said, particularly one which had followed on such shattering emotional experiences as Jenny had suffered. Sir Hans now knew what these were. Betty knew, her brother Lord Lichfield knew, and the Earl of Peterborough. Evelyn Byrd, who had come nearly every day and helped with the nursing, knew a good deal. But the London world in general had no suspicion of the truth. Among Betty’s small circle of friends, it was thought that Jenny had hurt herself while sleepwalking. As for the rest of the incredible, dreadful, tragic tale -- the news-sheets never got wind of it. Influence saw to that. Influence and money. These two powerful factors had also saved Rob’s
life -- just.

  Yet Betty was not sure that he thought it worth saving, under the conditions imposed upon him.

  On the balmy morning of June 30, Lord Peterborough came to inquire after Jenny, as he had frequently. Betty received him in the study from which she could keep an eye on her children, who were playing in the garden. One of the maids sat with Jenny, who had awakened without a headache at last, and had actually eaten three eggs for breakfast. Betty reported this, and the Earl’s withered little cricket face brightened with a momentary smile, then he shook his head.

  “Well, Wilson’s gone, poor wretch. The ship sailed last night. I saw him loaded on, chained to the other convicts. I spoke to the Master. He’ll be treated specially well. They’ll unfetter him after they clear Gravesend, and I understand he’ll get a good owner in Virginia -- a man called Harrison, probably.”

  “Oh, dear -- oh dear --” whispered Betty brokenly. She took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes.

  The Earl patted her knee. “Don’t fret any more, Lady Betty. Suppose he’d been hanged at Tyburn, as he would’ve been if it hadn’t been for you and Lichfield.”

  “And you!” she cried. “You’ve been so good!”

  “Bah!” said Peterborough. “Simple justice! The whole shocking business makes me sick. No words can express what I think of Wharton -- except that he’s mad, and the Pretender’s welcome to him. Has got him too, by now, I suppose. Our fine Duke scuttled away fast enough at the hint of trouble.”

  “I wish Rob Wilson had killed him as he meant to, instead of Serpini,” said Betty violently.

  “I know,” said Peterborough, “but if he had we’d never’ve got him off with just transportation, poor devil.”

  Betty was silent, unable to stop her painful thoughts. Probably nobody would ever know just what had happened in the disgusting Hell-Fire Chapel. She herself had not been able to see Rob because until his trial at the Old Bailey he had lain in the Condemned Hold at Newgate. But her brother had seen him before the trial. Lord Lichfield had come up at once from Ditchley, at Betty’s frantic summons. Betty had not taken long to find out through the terrified Briggs that it was Serpini who had brought the note which summoned Jenny on the fateful night. This led her at once to Wharton, whom she confronted herself.