by Deryn Lake
‘Enough, Master Joseph,’ he said, ‘and enough from you, sir, who dares quarrel with the greatest man in London. It is Melior Mary who rides out in the darkness. It is she who must be sought.’
He bumped them painfully onto their feet.
‘You, get into the carriage.’ He jerked his head towards Hyacinth. ‘Let your horse free.’
He fixed them all with a great dark look.
‘If there is one word from any of you — and that includes you Miss — then you walk back to Sutton Place, for I go to search for the heiress and will not return without her.’
At Sutton Place John Weston strode up and down and when — in the cold, dead hours of the morning — the four miscreants returned, as wet and bedraggled as a band of gipsy rovers, he took his belt to the three young people and would not listen to one word of excuse. Joseph was requested, in the curtest tones, to leave upon the morrow and not return until the eve of the wedding.
A mood of depression fell over them all.
*
In February, with her baby six months grown in her womb, Elizabeth stumbled and fell in the garden. Not badly but enough to jerk her into precipitate labour, as the life-giving bag of water in which her child dwelled was ruptured untimely and he was forced to make his entrance into the world without the strength to withstand it.
She laboured for many hours, for she was thirty-eight years old and lacked the strength of a younger woman and at the end of three days her tiny little boy was born. He lived for a few minutes and then gave up without the help that his pathetic attempts at breathing required. He was labelled John Joseph Weston and was given a full Christian burial. And, as the minute box that excused itself as a coffin was lowered into the earth, John Weston wept and thought of the curse that lay upon those that owned Sutton and how his wild and beautiful daughter was the heir once more to everything of which he stood possessed.
Spring saw the snow finally go, for it had been a long and savage winter, and it also saw the birthday of Sibella — born under the mystic sign of Pisces, that which had been marked in the sand by the followers of Christ in order to identify themselves.
The proverb of March ‘in like a lion and out like a lamb’ came true almost at once. The weather grew suddenly warm, into full flower came the famous lawn of daffodils where Francis Weston had once walked with Rose; his child, Henry, in his arms. And Melior Mary took to rising at daybreak and going to where the River Wey ran safely and sweetly, that she might teach herself to swim.
But for all the earliness of the hour her disappearance did not go unnoticed, for Hyacinth, down in the stables as soon as he was dressed, would find Fiddle gone. But yet when, some while later, he would breakfast with the family the heiress would be sitting with them demurely, as neatly dressed as if she had been at her toilette since sun up. After a week of observing this new whim, he decided to follow her.
The morning was like a flower. Everywhere the birds were in full throat and the scents and sounds of spring murmured. But, as the sun tipped its golden orb up, apparently out of the river, the murmur changed. Every creature on earth, from small spring-legged lambs to the great three-tonned bull that grazed alone in his pasture kingdom, lifted their heads to sing. Or that was how it seemed to Hyacinth. Every mortal thing gave voice to a hymn to their god — to Pan who piped for them his fierce, sweet notes at dawn — and gave them a new day, a new life and the miracle of a new season.
And she — Melior Mary — was all part of it. She rode before him on her great black horse wearing a simple shift — and she was shoeless; her bare feet thrust into the stirrup and round her shoulders her hair clouding like that of a goddess.
She reached the River Wey and he stared as she waded on horseback into the flowing stream. It was like a legend — the stark black animal, the white-clad maiden, the crystal river. They could have been making their way to Camelot! He saw her dismount on a tiny swan island where the wild flowers grew in profusion, watched as she threaded together the sweet violets to crown her head.
His heart thumped so wildly that he must have made a sudden move for she looked up and saw him. She said nothing, merely smiling as he rode into the gurgling water. He reached the island and he, too, dismounted, scooping up handfuls of flowers to throw into her lap and entwine around her in fantastic garlands.
Then she did something that made him draw breath. In one sweeping movement she threw off her shift and stood before him naked in the dawning. She transcended human beauty — she was perfection. She had been born that men might die of joy.
And after that the spilling of her virgin’s blood into the dark earth, the pain of her first embrace, were all part of spring’s rite. She was the maiden for sacrifice, Matthew the devouring god, as he drew her nakedness beneath his and together they became one in that bounteous and teeming dawn light.
9
The air of Will’s Coffee House, which stood within the bounds of Covent Garden on the corner of Bow Street, was redolent with the pungent mixture of a hundred different smells; smells interesting, smells offensive, smells pleasant, wafted one upon the other to become a distinctive and unmistakable whole — the aroma of a fashionable London meeting place.
To John Weston, entering the long room which was partitioned off into rows and rows of boxes obtainable from a central aisle — and throwing his cloak upon a heap of others that steamed wetly before a blazing fire — the smell meant more than just a coffee house. It meant to him the town, the capital, the metropolis — the place from which he would, at the earliest opportunity, make his escape that he might return to the air he could breathe.
For not for him the common meeting ground of every wit and litterateur, every politician and financier. He would as soon be standing in one of his fields, inhaling fresh air and listening to the triumphant throating of birds, than be here sniffing the various stinks of mankind odoriferously combining with tobacco, coffee and burning wax. And furthermore his ears assaulted by conversation, coughs, the farts of the fat, the shrieks of the beaux. In fact he was on the point of turning and going out again when a clutch at his arm prevented him.
A pert ugly girl with protruberant eyes and no figure to speak of stood before him. Her mob cap and apron identified her as a serving girl but, despite this, she gave him a look that stripped him naked before she bobbed a curtsey and said, ‘Squire Weston, sir? Captain Wogan told me to look out for you. He said that you would be a well-set-up country gentleman. Tall and broad like.’
Despite her unappetizing appearance John could not help but pinch her cheek as he said, ‘Really? I would not have described myself quite in those terms. Where may I find the Captain?’
‘At the fourth table on the left, sir. You can’t miss him — he’s a big, lively fellow, like yourself. It’s a change in these times to see a man of decent proportions, I can tell you. Zlife, I sometimes think I’m surrounded by midgets.’
She rolled her frog’s eyes meaningfully and John cleared his throat.
‘You call out to me the moment you want serving, sir. I’ll be there in a trice. I’m known as Dolly — Dolly dainty foot.’
A bellow of laughter came from a hidden source and a voice said, ‘And she’ll serve you more than coffee if you’ve half a mind, Mr Weston,’ and John turned to see the figure of the Captain rising from the high-backed settle that formed one side of their ‘box’.
‘She’s mad for tall men,’ he added in a lower tone, ‘I think she believes it indicates vast proportions in all things.’
The stranger cracked with laughter and John was left a few seconds for contemplation of the man whose family had, since the time of the Civil War, fought to the death and bare-banded for the King that they considered God’s anointed.
Charles Wogan had indeed a fine lofty carriage and the thick black hair and twinkling blue eyes which gave him the look of an Irishman. John understood the Captain’s ancestors had indeed come from that island, but certainly they had been firm-rooted in English soil when an earlier C
aptain Wogan had distinguished himself in the Royalist army against that of Cromwell and the Commonwealth. And now his descendant emulated him. In the Jacobite Uprising of 1715 — three years ago — Wogan’s life had hung in the balance after James Stuart’s rabble mob had savagely attacked the armies of King George I. He was without doubt one of the bravest and most loyal men in the Jacobite movement and yet to see the creature before him slapping his thigh and wiping his eyes on his sleeve, John could scarcely credit it.
Rather pompously he said, ‘Do I have the honour of addressing Captain Wogan?’
The figure opposite him immediately straightened and hissed, ‘Not so loud, for God’s sake. There is a price on my head to this day.’
Somewhat chastened John sat down saying, ‘Forgive me, I had forgotten.’ But as Dolly set coffee before them and went off to do Wogan’s bidding as he called for a pipe, John added, ‘But what of her? She knew you for who you are.’
Wogan smiled.
‘There’s no harm in Dolly for all her love of things large.’ The corners of his eyes started to crinkle again. ‘She’d as soon betray her mother as betray me. There’s an — affinity — between us.’
He gave a grin and John laughed aloud.
‘A man of valour in all spheres of battle it would seem.’
Charles nodded.
‘So I’ve been told, sir. And proud of it.’
‘But what of the business of today? You summoned me from Sutton Place.’
Wogan lowered his voice and glanced about him before he answered.
‘It is he who dwells in Rome, sir. But you had guessed that.’
‘Yes.’ John’s voice was equally low. ‘Is all not well?’
For reply the Captain grinned once more.
‘On the contrary! He is to go a-courting. He has set his mind on marriage before another year is out.’
‘High time! He’s played the field long enough. Who is the lady?’
‘There are several in view I believe. But wherever his choice finally lands be assured that it will be one of the highest and fairest in Europe. Remember that she will one day wear that English crown.’
Just for a moment the blue eyes held the blazing fire of the fanatic and John knew that however hard he might champion the Jacobite cause he could never, even in his most zealous moments, be subjected to the emotion that the Head of the House of Stuart roused in the gallant Captain.
‘And what part does he who dwells across the water want me to play?’
Wogan looked wry.
‘The usual one, I am afraid. In order to win a Princess the exchequers must be full. He is calling upon his supporters to provide funds.’
‘I’ll give you my bill of hand immediately for a hundred guineas. That should pay his tailor for a new waistcoat.’
They both smiled indulgently. The thin elegant figure in Rome was their hope for the future and if he should wish to take a wife and sire a Prince so that the Stuart line might continue, they both thoroughly approved. And that their King should look his best as he kissed and courted the Princesses of Europe seemed perfectly natural to them. If he had not been asked for his contribution to the royal household John would have been astonished.
With no more to say on the matter they fell silently to enjoying their pipes and letting their thoughts wander with the smoke, and the meeting would have passed off quite happily if John had not suddenly heard a shrill voice saying from the next booth, ‘He’s mad, of course. I tell you Joseph Gage runs stark, staring mad.’ This was followed by a high-pitched girl-like laugh and the rumbled reply of the speaker’s companions.
‘His latest exploit,’ the voice went on, ‘is beyond the pale. My dears, it is utterly outrageous.’
John’s body stiffened as he pressed his ear to the settle back which concealed him, and Charles Wogan looked up enquiringly. Scribbling, ‘He speaks of my wife’s brother’ on the bill of fare John motioned him to be quiet.
In answer to an inaudible question the speaker continued ‘He has found a child bride, you know. He, who has been to more whore houses than I have to mass, is to wed a girl of some sixteen years. And, they say, he is crazed for love of her.’
Somebody obviously asked the identity of the girl for the prating voice went on, ‘The ward of some country gentleman of means, I believe. Not that her dower will matter a whit or a jot to our Master Joseph for he has acquired such enormous wealth through his dealings in Mississippi shares that he could buy out a King — and this, my dears, is precisely what he has tried to do.’
‘What?’ said somebody.
‘Yes, yes.’ The voice was high with excitement. ‘It’s the talk of the Court and will be all over London in a trice.’
‘He has tried to buy out the King?’
‘No, no. Not our King.’ The speaker was a trifle impatient. ‘No, he has been to Poland — where they haven’t two miserable kopeks to rub together so weak and inept is the sovereign — and made him an offer for the royal crown.’
There was a stunned pause and then a roared guffaw.
Charles Wogan raised his eyebrows and wrote on the bill of fare ‘Is this true?’ John shook his head and shrugged his shoulders extending his hands outwards.
‘Furthermore,’ the speaker went on in triumph, ‘he has also been to Spain and offered to buy Sardinia from them — for thoroughly bored and depressed the Spanish are with the wretched place and like to give it away at any known second. Our friend Gage’s reason being — you will not credit this — that he wants the island for a market garden.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ somebody said incredulously. ‘The whole of Sardinia to be used for growing vegetables?’
‘That’s Master Joseph for you. All wedding presents for this little girl I’ll warrant a guinea.’
John was on his feet and into the next door box before Wogan could draw breath, his tall frame looming suddenly large over the group that sat there. Without saying a word his hand shot out towards the speaker — an effeminate young man with scarlet ribbons in his wig and shoes and a mouth fully pursed and pouting.
‘Eh?’ said the exquisite, thoroughly startled.
‘You can say what you will of Joseph Gage for he is a law unto himself and answerable to no man for his actions — though it is my contention that half London envies him his wealth and his strange ways — but you are impugning the good name of my ward, sir, and that I will not have. I demand an apology, sir.’
‘Then you’ve got one,’ said the young man hastily.
‘Hmm,’ said John. He paused not quite sure what he should do next and finally said, bringing his finger once more to within an inch of the beribboned man’s nose, ‘But let there be no more talk of her. She and Joseph are to be married within two weeks and I’ll have no blight on their wedding.’
He turned back to Charles Wogan but to his infinite surprise where the Captain had been sitting was now an empty place. He crossed to the table and saw a note tucked beneath the candlestick.
‘Dear friend,’ he read, ‘though my true heart lies in a good brawl I am in no position to attract undue attention to myself. Send your bill of hand to the address below in Essex Street. There are friends there and your gift will be forwarded to he who will appreciate your generosity. I remain your loyal and obedient servant, C. W.’
It struck John very forcibly just how dangerous a life it was for James III’s agent in an England ruled by Hanover George. And the thought brought with it a thrill of excitement. John determined to see if anything further could be done to aid the King’s marriage plans.
*
On the eve of Sibella’s marriage to Joseph Gage there was a quiet over Sutton Place and Hyacinth, who had felt strangely unwell since he had risen that morning, found himself more ill-at-ease than he could ever remember.
The pain in his head grew worse throughout the day and he set himself the task of cleaning the brasses and leather that would adorn the horses on the morrow — Sibella’s wedding day — in the faint hope t
hat working with his hands might do something to ease the tension.
And then it happened. There was a roar in his ears as if his head would burst and he saw dimly that something was reflecting in the brass blinker he held in his hand. He peered at it and to his horror the mist cleared — and even with his poor sight he was able to see that a picture had formed, a picture that moved. He saw Joseph and Sibella walk down the aisle together — she fair and delicate, he exquisite in white satin coat and breeches. Behind them walked Melior Mary like a winter rose. The picture faded as an overwhelming sense of disaster gripped Hyacinth as tightly as a hand at his throat.
The reflector slipped from fingers that could no longer hold it and, as Hyacinth’s knees buckled, he sat down quickly on a bale of straw. A slight sound behind him made him jerk his head round and in an almost sinister fashion — for had he not just seen her in that extraordinary miniaturized scene? — Sibella was standing in the doorway watching him closely.
‘Have you got clear sight?’ she said, so quietly that Hyacinth could hardly credit that those were the words she had actually used.
‘What?’
The voice was louder.
‘Do you see visions, Matthew?’
‘I...I don’t know. I saw an odd reflection, that’s all.’ She turned so that her back was towards him.
‘I have it you know, and always have had. It frightened me at first. Yet the gift has run in my family for centuries.’
‘Who are your family?’
He had never asked her before though he couldn’t think why he had not.
‘The FitzHowards. We are descended from a Romany who had a child by the Duke of Norfolk. They say she was burned at the stake. She had ancient power and her son, who read the stars, knew many great things. Yet his daughter would have been the mightiest of the three had she not been struck dumb.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She shut herself away from the world and became a bride of Christ — a nun. It is from her brother Jasper that we are all descended.’