Devil Water

by Anya Seton

  Jenny gave him her enchanting wistful smile, and tendered two guineas. “I pray you,” she said, “to arrange an interview. I can see you are the sort of man in whom his lordship would have confidence. If you succeed in having me admitted, I shall prove my gratitude again when I leave.”

  Portman bowed, and went in some trepidation through the stately halls and drawing rooms to his master’s French morning room. Once inside, he waited some time before Lord Chesterfield noticed him. “What is it, Portman?”

  “A young ladyship, m’lord, to see you. She’s very urgent.”

  Chesterfield frowned. His small froglike body was clothed in a brocaded dressing gown, a red silk turban was perched on his big shaven head. At a Louis Quatorze porphyry table he was writing his daily letter of precept and guidance to his illegitimate, though beloved son, and his orderly mind disliked surprises.

  “Did you not tell the lady, that I never receive at this hour? She can come back some other time, if she must!” Chesterfield picked up his pen, and returned to his letter.

  “My lord,” said Portman, hanging on to his courage. “I believe this lady’s really in distress, and she’s -- uh -- beautiful, m’lord, and her face so proud and yet so pleading, if she could see you but a moment, m’lord!”

  The Earl put down his pen; from his dark, slightly malicious eyes he gave his steward a look of amused exasperation.

  “This mysterious female certainly must have a generous purse. I’ve never knew you to be lyrical, Portman! What’s her name?”

  “Lady Jane Wilson, m’lord.”

  “Never heard of her,” said the Earl. “For that matter I never heard of a Wilson in the peerage. Must be an impostor.”

  “I -- I don’t think so, m’lord -- she has quality,” said Portman nervously.

  The Earl snorted. “Merciful heaven! One way or another she’s bewitched you. You end by intriguing me. Let her in, and if she isn’t the paragon you say, you’ll suffer for it.”

  After depositing her mantle and gloves with the footman, Jenny was ushered into the morning room, where a huge fire sparkled off brass, gilt, and the many objets d’art which the Earl collected. He rose and gave her a courtly graceful bow despite his dumpiness and the dressing gown and turban.

  Jenny executed a slow, stylized curtsey in return. “This is very good of you, my Lord Chesterfield,” she said, low and quiet, in the unmistakable accent of breeding.

  Chesterfield noted this at once and sent her a smile which had charm even though some of his teeth were brown or missing. “Pray sit down, Lady Jane,” he said indicating a gilt armchair upholstered in rose velvet. “You will forgive my deshabille. I am not accustomed to entertaining pretty ladies at this hour, and I confess to slight curiosity as to why you were so -- shall we say, importunate?”

  She sat down. He continued to stand, his back to the fire, watching her narrowly. He had a vast experience of women, and had enjoyed many amours, though never among the lower classes. The Earl was fastidious and would brook no vulgarity. He was accustomed to place-seekers, which he assumed this lady to be, yet he was puzzled. Her clothes, bearing and voice were excellent; nor had Portman exaggerated her beauty; but he did not fail to note the quivering of a pulse in her long white throat, the desperation, not quite hidden, in the gray eyes she finally turned up to him. It was one of his maxims that when people sought favors, one should let them speak first and declare themselves. So he waited, and amused himself with interior speculation.

  She wanted a Court position for her lover? The lack of wedding ring precluded husband. Or one of the political blocs now out of favor had sent her to wheedle a promise of influence? No, neither would explain her tension. She was in trouble herself, more likely. A gaming loss? Or even pilfering, at which she’d been caught? Women often committed follies when their silly heads were turned by finery and jewels.

  “I don’t know how to begin, my lord,” said Jenny abruptly. “I find that I’m very afraid.”

  “My dear lady,” said the Earl kindly. “You needn’t be. I’m no ogre, and I assure you nothing shocks me. You’ve come here to ask a favor, and I suggest that you do so promptly.”

  “A favor!” she repeated with such sad bitterness that the Earl was startled. “Aye -- ” she said. “I suppose it is by favor that a man might be saved from torture and infamous death!”

  The Earl was too skilled a diplomat and courtier to show surprise, and reluctantly discarded his former theories.

  “What man do you refer to?” he asked.

  Jenny breathed hard, she twisted her fingers tight together and said, “Charles Radcliffe, the titular Earl of Derwentwater.”

  “Ah . . .” said Chesterfield. So that was it. An unsavory case from every angle, and one which he had been very glad had not concerned him. “Why do you trouble yourself about this traitor?” he asked sternly.

  “Because he is my father, and I love him.”

  Chesterfield raised his eyebrows. He was almost certain that Charles Radcliffe had no mature daughter by Lady Newburgh. “Forgive plain speaking, my dear. But are you legitimate?”

  “Yes. ‘Twas long ago when my father was sixteen, a forced marriage in Northumberland to a Border lass, a farmer’s daughter.”

  “I see,” said the Earl. A mesalliance, naturally concealed. He thought of his own son, and wished that he, who also was the product of a mismating, might achieve the elegance and charm that this lady had. “You were not reared by your own mother, I judge?”

  “No, my lord,” said Jenny. “By Lady Betty Lee, my father’s cousin.” And what difference did it make? she thought, biting her lips against agonized impatience.

  “Ah yes,” said the Earl. “To be sure. I remember her. A delightful woman. You are well connected on one side, but my dear madam, you must be aware that you have no legal right to a courtesy title?”

  “Oh, I am, my lord,” said Jenny. “It was only to get in here.”

  The Earl surveyed her with approval. Such candor was refreshing, and he was diverted at the way she had got past his usually impregnable servants. By fees, of course, and they must have been large, yet there was more than that, a winsomeness, a naiveté, mixed with poise, a curious mixture of the voluptuous, and yet the childish. Beauty too -- fine bones. If I hadn’t been ill so recently, he thought, if I were a trifle younger --

  “My Lord Chesterfield,” said Jenny in desperation. “I came here to beg of you to help my father!”

  The Earl’s heavy eyelids hooded his brilliant dark eyes. “Why should I do aught for Charles Radcliffe?” he said judicially. “I detest the Jacobites, I detest traitors, and here is a man who had twice been justly condemned. What reason can you bring forth?” He sat down in the chair opposite, and waited with an air of quizzical patience.

  Jenny immediately stood up. She threw her head back. Strength flowed into her, and, gazing directly at her questioner, she spoke in a controlled voice. “The first reason is that you, my lord, are now minister for the Northern counties, and Charles Radcliffe comes from them.”

  “That is scarcely pertinent,” said the Earl, waving his hand in dismissal.

  “And the second is that common Christianity demands -- ” She stopped as the Earl shook his head sharply.

  “That line won’t do, madam,” he said. “I think that I’m tolerant enough. People may believe any folderol they like for all of me, but it’s no use your sentimentalizing about Christianity, nor any form of mawkish piety -- leave that to the preachers.”

  “Then there is this!” She went on swiftly, having accepted his rebuttal. “Charles Radcliffe’s father and brother were English earls. The latter the Hanoverians murdered. It is not forgotten, either. You may think the counties of Northumberland and Durham unimportant to your own administration; I think they are not, and they have made a hero out of Derwentwater.”

  “Indeed,” said the Earl with a slight smile. “Go on.” She was now showing a subtlety which amused him.

  “Charles Radcliffe is of
noble blood,” said Jenny vehemently. “He is of royal blood. The people know it. He is by birth a member of your aristocracy, and his wife, Lady Newburgh, is a countess in her own right. Are you then not degrading all your class, and weakening it, if you allow one of your body to be -- ” She paused and swallowed, went on steadily, “To be hanged, drawn, and quartered?”

  “Now, you argue shrewdly!” said the Earl. He lifted a jeweled snuffbox from the marble table next to him, took a pinch, and inhaled thoughtfully. There was truth in what she said. There had been rumblings lately, criticism in many quarters at the harshness of the sentence. Criticisms also of Hardwicke’s handling of the trial. There had not been sufficient legal proof of identity, even though there was no doubt of the fact. The Duke of Richmond had protested to Newcastle, and been met by the usual waverings and timidity. Newcastle was afraid of Hardwicke, afraid of the King. But I am not, thought the Earl, and I can manage the King.

  “Oh -- ” cried Jenny, her voice breaking. “This is an Englishman, your countryman, and you persecute him worse than you ever did the Scottish lords. They were not given such a sentence, they are not tormented in the Tower the way he is!”

  “What do you mean?” said the Earl sharply. He had scant use for the Scots, and it displeased him to think that they might have been favored.

  “The two Scottish lords already executed were not kept in solitary confinement as my father is,” she cried. “They saw their friends, relatives, and servants. My father’s faithful valet is not even permitted to tend him.”

  “He isn’t?” cried the Earl deeply shocked. “That is outrageous! Surely not Newcastle’s orders,” he added frowning.

  “His grace doesn’t seem to concern himself about the Tower Governor’s restrictions,” said Jenny.

  “Then I will!” cried the Earl, rising. “My dear madam, you have brought to my attention a state of affairs which I confess I would willingly have ignored. Yet I am not inhuman, and you are quite correct in saying that a man of noble birth -- whatever his crime -- should not be treated like a commoner. That has ever been our English precedent. No,” he said as he saw her face transfigured, and the flare of hope in her eyes. “He will not be pardoned. You must not expect that. But his few remaining days in the Tower will be somewhat eased, and I believe that I may promise you that he will be beheaded like a peer -- not hanged.”

  “Oh, my lord --” She sank to her knees and took his hand. She kissed it and held it against her cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I had not really dared hope for pardon, but I prayed for this -- that he should die with dignity, and that I might see him again.”

  He felt her tears on his hand, and his cynical heart was touched. “When you see him, madam,” he said, “tell him that, miserable as he is, he is fortunate in that he has for advocate so devoted and so persuasive a daughter.”

  Governor Williamson did not receive the Duke’s orders concerning the lifting of restrictions on Charles Radcliffe until Monday. These orders said that the prisoner was to be permitted the daily attendance of his valet, he might receive relatives alone, he might even have a priest. It was understood that the Lieutenant-Governor had moved the prisoner to the Byward tower dungeon for greater security, and this move was approved. It was requested, however, that all the comforts possible should be provided in that dungeon, and the prisoner, in general, should be treated like a peer.

  Williamson was infuriated, he cursed the ever-wavering Duke of Newcastle, but he did not dare disobey. There was no accompanying hint that the death sentence might be commuted, and there was no precedent whatsoever for treating a man like a lord when he was to be killed as a commoner. One more week, Williamson thought angrily, and I’ll be rid of this nuisance -- a more troublesome prisoner I never had! He stamped off to rescind some of his commands in regard to Radcliffe, but no more of them than he could help.

  Thus Jenny was still forbidden to see her father, though she was the only person Charles asked for. She was not a relative, said Williamson. Charles said that she was, she was his daughter. The Governor snorted and said, “A likely story! Mr. Radcliffe, your inventiveness continues to amaze me!”

  Until Saturday, Jenny had again to rely on Alec for news of Charles, though she walked every day to the Tower, and stood across the moat and waved to the grated slit of window in the Byward tower, sometimes waiting a long while before a white handkerchief waved there in response.

  Charles’s new cell was a horrible place, even with the improvements Williamson had reluctantly ordered -- a cot, a chair, and table, a fire, candles, and rushes on the dank stone pavement. The cell was so small that three people could hardly squeeze in at once, and the slit in the window wasn’t big enough to get one’s hand through. There was stench from the moat beneath, and a peculiarly noxious odor which seemed to come from the ancient stones, doubtless from the excrement of all the condemned prisoners who had been confined here since the fourteenth century.

  During the week in this dungeon, in cold and virtual darkness, Charles had spent much of the time lying on a straw pallet in stupor, not from drink -- he was allowed only water -- but from a willful drugging of the mind to blot out the fate in store for him. Sometimes in this stupor he whimpered like a child, sometimes cried out as nightmares seized him. The warders came and went, though now they usually stood outside the door; there was no possibility of escape from this cell. They forced him to eat; Governor Williamson wanted his prisoner kept alive. Charles was scarcely aware of them -- even Hobson.

  Then on the Monday when his conditions improved and he saw Alec again, he roused himself a little, he drank some wine and ate of the fowl Alec brought him. Yet his apathy continued. Even when Alec told him of Jenny’s visit to Lord Chesterfield and the promise that the Earl had made.

  “Promises from statesmen,” Charles muttered. “Would you have me count on them?”

  “To be sure, my lord,” said Alec heartily. “See how much better you’re treated now!”

  Charles glanced indifferently around the gloomy cell. “The order’s not come to commute my sentence. I’m still off to Tyburn on Monday.”

  Alec was silent, and grew each day more apprehensive, since no further word came from the authorities. And he had trouble rousing Charles even to wave to Jenny through the window. “I am sure ‘tis better she forgets me,” Charles said. “She must never let anyone know it is her father who dies so shamefully.”

  On Thursday afternoon Charles at last had visitors. The head warder ushered them into Charles’s cell, and remained outside with Hobson. Charles gazed blankly at a small dark lady in mourning and a chubby man also dressed in black.

  “Oh, my poor uncle,” cried the lady, staring around the cell and at Charles in horror. “Don’t you know me? Anna Maria Petre! Your brother James’s daughter.”

  “Why yes, niece -- ” said Charles after a silence. “ ‘Tis kind of you to visit me. I see you are affrighted. ‘Tis too bad you are affrighted.” He gave her a dim vague smile, returned to contemplation of a flea which was hopping zigzag up the damp stone wall.

  Lady Petre shook her head dolefully. She had rushed to London when she heard of the sentence. Since then she had been staying in Essex Street with Viscountess Primrose, who was an open and influential Jacobite. The two ladies had brought to bear all the pressure that they could on Charles’s behalf. Lady Petre had even gone to the Duke of Newcastle. The Duke hemmed and hawed, he was excessively polite, he apologized, he regretted, his hands were tied, he understood the pain the prisoner’s family must suffer, but the King was adamant. The subject could not be reopened. Lady Petre knew that she had failed, and from bitter experience she knew that her religion, and Charles’s, contributed to the failure. As it had also been a factor in her father’s execution, here from this very Tower.

  It had cost Anna Maria a great deal of misery to come and say farewell to her uncle, and now that she saw him -- hopeless, dreary, not quite clear in his wits -- she wanted to get away as fast as possible. But first she
must discharge her duty. “I’ve brought you my chaplain, Uncle Charles,” she said. “He’ll lodge nearby, and has permission to visit you. At this dreadful time you must turn for comfort to the only Source of comfort. Go to your Saviour, Uncle, ask Him to forgive your sins. Think on the agonies that He endured for our sakes. Shut your heart up in His, and pronounce with Him the great words, ‘Father, Thy Will be done!’ “

  Charles looked around at her earnest frightened face, her solemn brown eyes like her mother’s. “The Saviour,” he said, “did not suffer such a dreadful death as I will. They left His body in one piece, so that there was something to rise at the Resurrection.”

  Anna Maria recoiled. She looked helplessly towards the priest, waiting for him to rebuke this blasphemy. He was a well-fed portly little Frenchman whom she had brought along when she returned to England and married Lord Petre. To the few Catholics at the Petre seat in Essex he was known as Mr. Dupont, not his own name, but one they could pronounce. He had always led a comfortable chaplain’s life in great houses. Nothing had prepared him for the ordeal he saw here awaiting him. He cleared his throat and said, “Ecoutez, mon fils, there must be penitence, there must be humility. We shall pray together that the Blessed Virgin may bring you by Her grace to a better state of mind.”

  “You pray, Father, if it amuses you,” said Charles. “Leave me alone!” He returned to the contemplation of the flea, which had got stuck in a tiny crevice and was struggling.

  Anna Maria and the priest exchanged despairing looks. She stooped and kissed her uncle on the cheek. He did not move. They went out, Anna Maria weeping, the priest’s cherubic face very grave.

  The next day, Friday, December 5, the priest came again and found Alec in the cell, about to leave. Charles was sitting as before, staring at the wall.

  “Any news?” Father Dupont whispered to Alec, who shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

  The little priest sighed. He went to Charles and gripped his shoulder, shaking it slightly. “Mon fils,” he said with all the sternness that his squeaky voice could muster, “bestir yourself. You were born and raised a Catholic. You know that you are steeped in sin, for which you must repent, and ask forgiveness before it is too late.”