Devil Water

by Anya Seton

  She found him at his home, half drunk, a trifle ashamed yet full of a glossy bravado. He referred to Rob’s shooting of Serpini as “a tipsy brawl between my servants.” This also, fortunately, was the line he had taken with the bailiffs when they had arrested Rob.

  The arrest had taken place downstairs in the Conduit Street house, no one had known anything about the Hell-Fire Club. What knowledge Betty had of that had come through Rob’s private talk with Lord Lichfield before his trial. From this Betty knew that Rob, in the Duke’s livery, had gained access to the rites in time to save Jenny. That he had held the red monks and the Duke at bay while he told Jenny to run -- run for home only two blocks away. She had obeyed, and in her confused panic had pitched off the steps into the areaway.

  Then Rob had somehow shot Serpini instead of the Duke.

  No word about Jenny had come out at the trial, Rob would not permit it. The two earls thought his chivalry natural. Betty felt immense gratitude.

  Fortunately Wharton had not bothered to prosecute. He said he had been bored by Serpini anyway. Then the Duke almost at once left London. May he burn in the hellfire he mocks, Betty thought.

  “Stop brooding, my dear,” said Peterborough. “What’s done is done, and the girl’s going to be well.”

  “It’s Jenny I’m thinking of!” Betty cried. “How am I going to tell her about Rob Wilson. He saved her from -- from --”

  “Never mind!” said the Earl. “And why tell the girl? She may never remember any of it.”

  “She is beginning to already. She knows Rob rescued her from something terrible, she wants to see him. And oh, Peterborough -- when I think of that poor young man, so proud, so ambitious -- he’d found his independence, he was doing well. You know yourself, you were impressed by him, and again through no fault of his own, he’s ruined -- worse than ruined -- a transported convict.”

  “Yes,” said the Earl, “that’s all very true, my dear. But at least he’s not dancing on a length of rope ‘neath Tyburn Tree. His sentence is not long, considering it was murder, only fourteen years. He’ll be quite a young man yet. As for Jenny, she’ll forget him in time.”

  “No,” said Betty. “I thought that only a month ago. I don’t now. Jenny was born loyal. She won’t forget him. Nor do I think she should.”

  FOURTEEN

  On a cold drizzly morning in December of 1725 six months after Jenny’s injury, she first set foot on French soil, or rather she climbed down the ship’s ladder and stood upon a chilly wharf at Calais.

  Lady Newburgh had preceded Jenny down the ladder, so had Lady Newburgh’s French maid, Marie, and her equerry, Mr. Clement McDermott--a bleak taciturn Scot. Jenny in the three days of their association had never seen McDermott smile. Nor for that matter had she seen Lady Newburgh smile, not really -- nothing but mechanical response to the demand of courtesy. Marie did not count. She had been either coach-sick on the way to Dover, or seasick on the twelve-hour Channel crossing.

  “We might as well prepare ourselves for tedium,” said Lady Newburgh on the wharf as she pulled her fur-lined traveling cloak tighter around her. “McDermott -- where’s the hamper? Miss Radcliffe and I will eat, while you and Marie dicker with the customs men.”

  McDermott fetched a large hamper stocked with boiled fowl, jugged hare, mince tarts, orange brandy, and cinnamon water. Lady Newburgh was fond of food. The equerry installed his lady on a bench in the customs house. Jenny waited until her stepmother said, “Sit down, Jane, cut the chicken.”

  Jenny obeyed, thinking it a very odd thing that Jenny Lee had now become Jane Radcliffe, and an even odder thing that she should be in France with the clatter of sabots, and the jabber of a strange language all around her. It was impossible not to be a bit excited by this, and by the prospect of seeing her father in a couple of days -- whenever they could reach Vincennes. Yet there were a great many other circumstances which dampened excitement. The readiest to hand was Lady Newburgh. Jenny took a morsel of chicken, and while the Countess ate in single-minded concentration, Jenny thought about the events of the last days.

  Lady Newburgh had spent the autumn with Sir John and Lady Webb at their town house in Poland Street, though she had not bothered to make this known to Lady Betty or Jenny until last week. Then she had come to visit them.

  Charlotte Newburgh was a tall heavy woman in her thirties. She was dressed in maroon velvet, and wore several diamond rings; her face was swarthy, her hair shiny black. She was not entirely unhandsome, nor precisely discourteous, yet she was completely lacking in humor and both her speech and carriage showed awareness of her position -- a countess, born so in her own right.

  Jenny’s strongest impression of the interview was that Lady Newburgh was reluctant to hold it at all. “I am in London,” she said, after the first civilities, “primarily to look after my estate, and arrange certain family matters for Mr. Radcliffe. I’ve also investigated the possibilities of a pardon.”

  “Oh?” said Betty in astonishment. “Do you mean that Charles hopes to be pardoned? Has he then relinquished Jacobite sympathies?”

  “Certainly not!” said the Countess sharply. “I’ll not go into details with you, Lady Elizabeth, except to say that I’ve been unsuccessful. I’m returning to France on Saturday. Mr. Radcliffe desires that Miss Radcliffe shall accompany me.”

  “Miss Radcliffe?” Lady Betty repeated, her jaw dropping. “Oh, you mean Jenny! She’s known always as Miss Lee here.”

  “I’m aware of that,” said the Countess. She threw Jenny the sort of long-suffering glance one gives a clamorous puppy, though the girl had not spoken. “But I see no reason to maintain fictions where they aren’t necessary. I also think nicknames foolish. Mr. Radcliffe has been anxious to see his daughter, quite --” added the lady thinly, “insistent, in fact. Especially after you wrote him of her accident.”

  “Jenny was in great danger for a while,” said Betty. “I didn’t tell him until she was recovering, since he could do nothing.”

  “ ‘Tis a pity you disturbed him at all,” said the Countess. “I’ll set off by coach for Dover, Saturday morning at eight. Jane and her boxes must be ready, I’ll have her picked up here. I trust she hasn’t much luggage?”

  “She hasn’t,” said Betty in the voice which Jenny knew meant she was trying to keep her temper. “Am I to understand that Jenny will make her home with you? And in that case perhaps her own wishes should be consulted.”

  “I can’t see why,” said Lady Newburgh. “A minor child obeys its father’s commands. And I believe that you are selling this house? And have -- er -- well, various embarrassments, and will be relieved to get rid of one of them.”

  Betty flushed. “It is true,” she said slowly “that through His Majesty’s kindness we are going to move to a ‘Grace and Favor’ lodging in Somerset House, and lucky to get it. Wherever we go there’ll always be room for Jenny.”

  “Most kind of you,” said the Countess. “Mr. Radcliffe has frequently expressed his gratitude towards you, but he has quite decided on this procedure, and I’ve given my consent. There can be no argument about the matter. Jane will be treated as well as my Clifford daughters and my niece-at-law, little Anne Maria Radcliffe. Fortunately I have a large establishment at Vincennes.”

  That had been the tenor of the interview, during which Jenny had said nothing. Indeed she spoke little nowadays. All strong emotions seemed to have drained from her, after she had finally recovered enough to be told about Rob. Her leg healed, and her head healed; yet so often there seemed to be a veil between her and the world, a veil she was too listless to penetrate. She knew that this worried Lady Betty, and tried to rouse herself, though the dullness persisted. She had acquiesced later after the Countess left when Lady Betty with one of her impulsive changes of heart, had cried, “Perhaps this is the best thing for you, dear. New scenes often raise low spirits, and I can do so little for you any more. I can’t say I fancy your stepmother -- but you love your father.”

  “I did,” said Jen
ny. “I suppose I do. Dear Lady Betty, forgive me, I don’t much care where I am.”

  The trancelike state had lifted twice before she left London. At the end when she kissed Lady Betty goodbye, and they both wept. Also the time when she saw Evelyn.

  Jenny shifted suddenly on the bench in the draughty Calais customs house. She didn’t want to think about her farewell interview with Evelyn, pain had come too close, the protective veil had almost shredded because Evelyn mentioned Rob. Nobody else ever did. Evelyn had spoken of him tentatively and with sympathy, while watching Jenny’s face and then she had stopped short, crying, “Jenny, don’t look like that! He’s all right, wherever he is. Virginia’s not the African jungle, you know!”

  Lady Newburgh, having finished half the chicken and two mince tarts, wiped her mouth on her handkerchief and said, “You’ve a bad habit of fidgeting, Jane. I trust you’re not a nervous girl.”

  “I’m sorry, my lady,” said Jenny, who had been twisting her fingers in and out around a fold of her mantle.

  “And,” continued the Countess, “I am surprised that Lady Elizabeth permitted you to wear beauty patches, you’re far too young for such vanity.”

  “I -- I don’t, my lady,” said Jenny in astonishment. She touched the little black mole on her left cheekbone. “This grew on me, I can’t help it.”

  “Oh,” said the Countess, slightly discomfited. She was extremely myopic, and between the general annoyance of travel and the annoyance of adding an unwanted member to the party, she had scarcely examined Jenny at all. She now perceived that the girl had a showy sort of looks, and also that there was a discreet ring of porters, vendors, and urchins all staring at Jenny and making complimentary remarks. “Quelle est belle, la petite anglaise -- eh la jolie blonde! Donne-moi un petit sourire --eh cherie?”

  Lady Newburgh frowned. “Pull your hood over your hair,” she said, “and keep your head modestly bowed.”

  Lady Newburgh’s exasperation grew during the night at a Calais inn, and during the three days of travel together in the post chaise the Countess had hired. Jenny caused attention everywhere; at every posting stop there would be a barrage of bold Gallic stares, lip-smackings, and occasional whistles. On their last night, at Beauvais, an infatuated French youth actually fell to his knees on the inn courtyard, and made a declaration of love before anybody could stop him.

  Lady Newburgh was forced to admit that the girl never exactly did anything to incur these advances. In general she hardly seemed to notice them, but her appearance was provocative -- the long brilliant eyes and the way she used them, the fullness of her red mouth above the cleft chin, the narrow waist and round high breasts, the startling abundance of her curly yellow hair.

  And by now the Countess had discovered Jenny’s close resemblance to Charles, which also displeased her. She loved her husband in her own forceful way, and had hoped that their baby -- James Bartholomew, born last August -- would resemble him. Instead it was a very plump and black-haired infant. It might not have been Charles’s child at all -- except for the unfortunate little defect, the Stuart fingers. The proof of Stuart blood. One had accepted this defect with Christian resignation, and one must accept the company of this girl with Christian resignation too, thought the Countess determinedly, though by the time they reached Vincennes her misgivings were frequent.

  The Countess had rented an old chateau a mile outside the Paris walls on the edge of the Bois de Vincennes. The park had clipped formal gardens, now bare and covered with hoarfrost. The chateau was square, gray, and turreted; the surrounding leafless trees were carefully placed to form radiating avenues. It all looked very cold, and very neat to Jenny -- not like a place to live in.

  The great front doors swung open as the post chaise approached, rows of liveried flunkies in powdered wigs were disclosed drawn up inside a huge stone hall. There were children too, three small girls curtseying, a pale undersized boy of thirteen. Jenny saw them vaguely, then she saw her father coming towards them down the marble steps. He peered into the chaise and greeted her with a joyful flicker of the eyes, though he confined his exclusive attentions to Lady Newburgh, as he handed her out of the chaise, crying, “Welcome home, ma bien-aimee!” and kissed her ceremoniously on each cheek. Not until the Countess was inside the hall with her two daughters, and Anna Maria Radcliffe, and the little Earl of Derwentwater, did Charles reach his hand into the coach and extract Jenny. “Thank God you’ve come, darling,” he said and kissed her full and long on the mouth.

  She gave a gasp which was largely dismay. Nobody had kissed her lips since Rob had, in the garden. She had forgotten the feel of that, as she had forgotten so much afterwards. But her body had not forgotten the feel. It came back with an agony of longing as her father kissed her.

  “My sweetheart,” said Charles below his breath. “How lovely you are!”

  “Radcliffe!” the Countess called sharply from the entrance. “Bring Jane inside. The open door is chilling us.”

  There was more of chill than the wintry air for Jenny in that chateau, she soon discovered. Lady Newburgh’s influence pervaded it, as her money had provided it. There was much ceremonious grandeur and little comfort. The sparse furnishings were dark and medieval, the wood fires warmed only a section of the great rooms. There were dozens of servants, all of whom treated Jenny with subtle contempt, knowing well their mistress’s inner attitude. The exception was Alec, who welcomed her enthusiastically. Yet he had changed. His hair was pomaded, his clothes were of satin like his master’s. His sole duties were the valeting of Charles, between times he flirted with the maids and lorded it in the servants’ hall.

  The three little girls, Frances and Anne Clifford and Anna Maria Radcliffe, were quite indifferent to Jenny. She was too old to be one of them, not old enough to have authority. John, the Earl of Derwentwater, tried to be kind. He asked her questions about England, which he longed to see, he asked her about Dilston, which he referred to pathetically as “my own true home”; but he was a sickly, feeble boy, he coughed a great deal, and spent most of the time in his suite with his French tutor.

  There was warmth near Charles -- when they were allowed to be alone together. Then they both recaptured something of the intimacy they had enjoyed on the trip to Northumberland. These moments were few because Lady Newburgh always seemed to be there, and Charles treated his wife with a rather anxious deference. This hurt Jenny, who had never seen him deferential. It diminished him. There were other slight changes in him too. He was heavier, there were faint pouches under his eyes, he drank a lot of eau de vie, and did not ride out daily as he used to. Lady Newburgh did not care for riding, and, besides, in France gentlemen did not live on horseback as they did in England. A grand seigneur always used his coach.

  Shortly after his arrival Charles took Jenny to the nursery to see his heir, while Lady Newburgh was engaged in giving orders to her maître d’hôtel.

  The wet nurse stood up and curtsied as Charles and Jenny came in. “N’est-ce-pas qu’il devient grand et fort, monsieur?” she said proudly of her charge, who lay in a canopied cradle waving his arms and cooing.

  “Behold your brother, Jenny,” said Charles laughing. “Viscount Kinnaird!”

  Jenny smiled and leaned over the cradle. “He seems rather young to be a lord,” she said. “May I call him Jemmie?” Then before she could stop herself, she added, “Oh, what is it with his hand?”

  She gazed horrified at the baby’s left hand where the two middle fingers were fused into one, which was curled inward like a tiny hook.

  “Oh,” said Charles with a rueful shrug. “His title he derives from his mother, but the webbed fingers came through me. Our little Prince has them too. ‘Tis the mark of a Stuart.”

  “Of all of them?” cried Jenny, staring. “But you haven’t. . .”

  “No, child. Not all of them, of course. It crops up from time to time. Ever since James the First, I believe. His Majesty was most interested when I wrote him about this baby’s fingers. The King is Ja
mes Bartholomew’s godfather.”

  “And his godmother?” asked Jenny looking at the dark wriggling baby and trying to realize that this was actually her half brother.

  “Lady Middleton,” said Charles frowning. “Not Queen Clementina as we’d hoped, because she’s been acting very strange since the birth of Prince Henry, and has retired to a convent. This greatly distresses His Majesty.”

  “Oh, I didn’t think he would care!” said Jenny impulsively.

  Charles glanced at her. He leaned over and patted his son, then he said, “Jenny, I want to talk to you. We’ll go to the Salon de Tapisserie.”

  The Tapestry Room had a small fire burning, but it did little to mitigate the drafts which blew the dark old tapestries in ripples against the stone walls, yet the room was secluded and Charles wanted no interruption for the lecture he was about to give Jenny.

  The lecture was delivered at Charlotte’s request. After she and Charles had retired last night, she had made clear her stand in regard to Jenny.

  “The girl has many stubborn Whiggish fancies. And I shall not criticize Lady Elizabeth, but I really can’t see that Jane has had any religious education to speak of, even Protestant. Perhaps that’s just as well. However, she has now entered a Catholic family, whose members are all dedicated to the restitution of England’s rightful king. I’ve tried talking to her, and she simply doesn’t attend. I sometimes wonder if she has quite all her faculties, Charles? After all, her mother was an ignorant peasant -- or possibly that peculiar blow Jane somehow received on the head -- pray don’t scowl at me like that! I’ve already discovered that you dislike any comment on the girl. I make this one for her own good. She’ll be very unhappy with us if she doesn’t alter her wicked little prejudices. I beg you to talk to her -- and I think --” she had added in a weaker voice, “that you might do that much for me since I’ve done what you wanted, Charles --”