by Celia Rees
‘The watch I would like returning,’ he said, ‘but you may keep your ring. I have no use for it. That is what I came to tell you.’ He looked skyward as if recalling the words he had rehearsed. ‘It is all over between us, Sovay. We can no longer be affianced. Your father is little better than a Jacobin spy and will shortly be arrested. My family cannot continue an association with anyone who shows anything less than complete loyalty to His Majesty.’
Sovay stared at him, trying to make sense of the words coming out of his mouth.
‘’Tis true, Sovay!’ James exclaimed, unsettled by her continuing silence. ‘I’ve heard your father speak sedition on very many occasions. Speaking against the King and the Government. You cannot deny it.’
‘I certainly do!’ Sovay turned on him. ‘He has never spoken against the King! He’s for reform, of course, but that’s a very different thing.’
‘I heard it with my own ears at his very table! There is no point in defending him. As for your brother!’ James shook his head. ‘When he was last down from Oxford, I’d never heard such wild talk. It was enough to get a person arrested, if not convicted.’ He hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pocket, no longer the least bit disconcerted. ‘Your family is bound for disgrace. Scandal hangs about you like a bad smell. Well,’ he demanded. ‘Do you have nothing to say?’
Sovay shook her head. Tears of fury were welling up in her eyes and she could not trust her voice. She could hear his father, Sir Royston, behind the words that he had uttered. How could she ever have considered this, this puppy worthy of her?
‘In that case . . .’ He groped for the watch that was no longer in the pocket of his fine waistcoat. Sovay, who loathed sewing above anything, had punctured her fingers to pepper pots embroidering the primrose yellow and dove-grey silk with little pink knots of flowers. A labour of love. One of her few attempts to do the kind of thing other girls did and it had all been for nothing! She turned away, trying to control herself, lest he interpret her tears of rage for something else.
How had she ever felt anything for him? She had been flattered by his attention; that was the truth of it. He was much sought after, considered a great catch, and Sovay had enjoyed feeling superior to every other girl in the neighbourhood. She had persuaded herself that she truly loved him. It was obvious that she had built up an edifice out of nothing and now it was tumbling like a child’s pile of bricks. Her brother, Hugh, had always thought him a shallow, cowardly fellow, in thrall to his father; Papa was the one who had persuaded her into it. Although he disliked his pompous neighbour, he had thought that the marriage might be an influence for good. Once they were married, so his reasoning went, Sovay could educate James and Sir Royston into new, more enlightened ways of thinking. As if they would listen to her!
Sovay loved her papa, and respected him, but sometimes his ideals got the better of him. She had an uncomfortable feeling that she had been part of one of his schemes for improvement. He had treated the young man as if he was already his son-in-law and had spent many hours discussing ideas with him: new methods in farming and land management, as well as science, philosophy and the politics of the day. James had listened with every show of attention, encouraging him, drawing him on to make more and more radical statements. Her father had gone along with it, always so trusting, seeing the good in everyone. Sovay now saw that it had all been for one purpose: to get him to compromise himself. Who was the spy here? She turned back, ready to accuse him, but James was already walking away.
‘You may keep the money,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘If what I hear is correct,’ he added, his voice cold with ominous warning, ‘you may have need of it.’
He did not stoop to pick up his gold and she would not touch it. The coin was left where it settled. Someone would have a lucky find.
She watched him go, all the while seeing his arms thrown up, seeing his back arch, imagining him falling, the rich, red blood spreading to stain the oyster silk of his brocade jacket. If she’d had a gun with her, he would already be dead.
CHAPTER 2
Sovay walked back through the gardens towards the house. Some of her anger had dissipated, but not all. She was glad to be rid of him, better to discover now what a spineless coward he was, what a traitor, but she was annoyed at the way he had trounced her. How he had managed to recover so quickly from his initial embarrassment and still behave as though he were superior. If she were a man . . . but then if she were, the situation would hardly have arisen.
Her mind drifted back to the morning. How she’d enjoyed the feeling of being in her brother’s clothes. They were a little too big for her. She’d had to belt the breeches tightly into her waist and wear two pairs of socks to stop her feet sliding about in his boots, but she had been able to stride free of encumbering skirts and restricting corsets, to ride astride instead of sidesaddle. She liked the heaviness of the pistols by her side, the heft of them in her hand. And when the coach stopped, when she saw James’ face, when everyone did exactly what she said. She had been taken with an excitement, an exhilaration that she had never before experienced. Even the memory made her heart beat harder. She feared to admit how she had felt. Even to herself.
Her anger towards James returned with still greater force, although part of that was fury with herself for being such a gull, for being taken in so easily, but the insult against her was nothing compared to the things that he had said about her father. Was it malice? Her father and his were hardly the best of friends. They disagreed violently about most things. Sir Royston objected to her father’s new ways. He made no secret of his opinion that Sir John Middleton mollycoddled his workers, building them cottages and paying them more than others could afford. Her father would argue that he could do so because his farming methods were successful, but Sir Royston objected that it made it difficult for other landowners who preferred to stick to the old ways. It was true that her father was of a reforming frame of mind, interested in changing other things besides methods of farming, but did that make him a spy? And how did James know? The accusations had to come from his father. Sir Royston was an MP and had the borough in his pocket. He hardly ever attended Parliament but he made it his business to be close to those in power. There could be truth in what James had told her. Papa was from home at the moment. In London on business. Did he know what was being said against him? If not, she must find a way to get word to him. Sovay quickened her step towards the house.
‘Miss, Miss!’ Lydia came running towards her. ‘You’re wanted. There’s a visitor. What happened?’ She asked in an excited whisper as they walked back to the house.
Sovay showed her the ring. Lydia’s green eyes widened and she smiled like the cat she much resembled.
‘So who’s the visitor? Mr Trenton, the painter?’
‘No,’ Lydia shook her head, ‘he’s left already. A stranger. Steward Stanhope sent me to find you.’
In her father’s absence, William Stanhope was in charge of the running of the estate, but family duties fell to Sovay. Aunt Harriet, of course, was nominally in charge of the household but she’d be no help. A self-proclaimed invalid, she dosed herself with toddies laced with laudanum, which kept her almost permanently confined to her bed.
‘He’s waiting in the library.’
‘Thank you, Lydia.’
The young man was examining her father’s books when she entered the room. He was so absorbed that he failed to register her presence and Sovay stood in the doorway watching him. He was of medium height and solidly built with little affectation as to his dress. His curly fair hair was undressed, carelessly tied back with a black ribbon. His boots were muddy and his broad back strained the dark cloth of his coat. When he stretched up to reach down a volume, the material across his shoulders threatened to split and his hand showed square and tanned against the pale spines of the books. He browsed like a scholar and was dressed like a gentleman, but he reminded her of Gabriel Stanhope, the Steward’s son, who was more at home in fields and woods than in a drawing
room. She wondered if he had come to see her father on farming business. People often came to consult him about his methods, but in that case why had Steward Stanhope not dealt with him?
He turned, volume still in hand, as if aware of her scrutiny.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t realise I had company . . .’
He faltered, but not from confusion. He recognised her immediately, as she did him. He had been on the coach that very morning and had witnessed her excursion as a highwayman. Sovay momentarily found herself speechless. He rallied more quickly than she did.
‘I was just admiring your father’s library. I envy him this.’ He held up the volume that he had taken down from the shelves: Rousseau’s Social Contract, a 1762 first edition. ‘He has a marvellous collection.’
Sovay looked round the room, seeing it with a stranger’s eye. The shelves were stocked from floor to ceiling with books on every possible subject. The walls were studded with chronometers and barometers. Globes and astrolabes stood about on the floor. Cabinets held stuffed birds and animals, samples of rocks, minerals and fossils. Every surface was crowded with bits of machinery, brass-crafted devices for generating this or measuring that.
‘Yes, he is interested in many things,’ she said, just as several clocks chimed the hour in a jangle of sound from the musical to the sonorous while others wheezed and whirred to catch up. ‘Clocks being one of them,’ she added through the din.
He laughed. ‘Excuse me, I have not introduced myself.’ He came towards her, hand extended. ‘My name is Virgil Barrett. You must be Miss Sovay Middleton.’
He took her hand. She expected him to bow and kiss it, as James would have done. Instead he shook it, as if she were a man. His clasp was strong, his skin warm and dry. Sovay returned his grip and took her hand from his.
‘I am delighted to meet you, Mr Barrett. May I enquire as to your business?’
‘I have come to see your father, but I understand that he is from home at the moment.’
‘That is correct. He was called away quite suddenly. You have missed him, unfortunately.’
‘I was afraid of that.’
He began to pace the room, still clutching the book he had taken from the shelves. Could he trust her? The lives and freedom of many, even her own father, could depend on that decision. She was very young, and appeared to be demure, but had he not seen her, masquerading as a man? A highwayman at that? He was sure it had been her. He’d know those eyes anywhere, and there had been murder in them. He’d seen it in the eyes of others. He’d been just a boy, but he had served in the War of Independence. He’d seen it then. The life he led now took him into considerable peril. He had seen it since. Such dangerous behaviour suggested a wild, headstrong nature hiding beneath that modest exterior. She was a long way from ordinary; such an action took nerve and courage. He turned back, having decided. Such qualities fitted these extraordinary times.
‘Are you from the West Country?’ she asked, to fill the silence. She found his manner, his dress, even his accent hard to place.
‘No,’ he laughed again, a rich sound in the ticking room. ‘I’m a citizen of the United States of America.’ He smiled, his teeth white and even, and spoke the words with evident pride.
‘Oh I see. My father calls your nation a beacon of liberty in a dark world.’
‘And so it is! We do not have kings and lords ruling over us. We do not bow the knee. We make our own laws and live in freedom.’
‘Not all of you,’ she said. Abolition was one of her father’s many causes.
‘Not all, it is true,’ he replied, divining her meaning, ‘but I did not come here to debate slavery with you.’
‘Why did you come, Mr Barrett? I am curious to know.’
‘Do you know where your father has gone? Do you know what called him from home?’
‘Not exactly, but he has many interests, as I have said, and is in touch with a great many people all over the country. He often travels to visit one group or another. I believe he was going to London to meet with some men who have asked for his help.’
‘Well, I must tell you,’ his brow creased into a frown, ‘the men he was going to meet are subject to orders of arrest, if they haven’t been taken already. That is likely why they contacted him. He is also under suspicion and subject to such an order, as are many others.’ He looked around and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘I looked to warn him but I was delayed on the road. My horse went lame. I had to take the coach . . .’
She turned away so he could not see her blushing. Her actions seemed even more irresponsible and prankish in light of the trouble which faced her now.
‘I have to warn you of imminent danger. There is someone coming here, a Bow Street runner with a warrant and evidence against him.’
‘But my father is not here!’
‘That does not matter.’
‘And what are the charges?’
‘Probably the lesser charge of sedition. Speaking against the King and the Government. Once the warrant is in the hands of the magistrate, your father will be arrested as soon as he appears.’
And the magistrate was Sir Royston. He would be happy to oblige. His son, James, would supply the evidence. She had heard the very word on his lips not half an hour since!
‘What will happen?’
‘If he is found guilty? Imprisonment. Even transportation.’
Her father did not enjoy the best of health. A death sentence, either one. The guilty verdict was a foregone conclusion. Who would doubt a magistrate’s son?
‘The lesser charge, you said,’ Sovay looked up into his troubled blue-grey eyes. ‘What is the greater one?’
‘It is possible he might be charged with treason . . .’ Virgil lowered his voice, as if he feared that they might be overheard.
‘Treason!’ Sovay hugged herself, suddenly chilled, as if the shadow of great events had fallen across Compton, blotting out all light and warmth from the sunny library. ‘What would happen if he was convicted?’
‘The sentence for treason is to be hanged, drawn and quartered. The punishment has not changed.’ He paused. ‘And . . .’
‘And?’ Sovay shuddered and turned away, wishing to hide her agitation. Was that not bad enough?
‘If your father was convicted of treason, his lands and property would be forfeit.’
She turned back. And who would benefit from that? Sir Royston, no doubt. All her father’s work would come to nothing. His workers and cottagers would end up as miserable as the wretches who worked Sir Royston’s land, the Stanhopes turned out in favour of that weasel of a Steward the Gilmores employed. It was not to be borne.
She had been aware of dark clouds forming, but had no idea that the storm was so near. If only she had paid more attention to her father’s preoccupation. He had given up his beloved experiments. His day book and his nature journal had lain unopened for months, the surfaces in his workshop and laboratory had gathered dust while he had spent all his time in here, writing tracts and engaged in endless correspondence. He believed so completely in the rightness of his cause: Reason, Liberty, Equality. These truths had been dinned into her since she was a child, so much so that it seemed strange to her, and her brother, that others did not share them. The Revolution in France had been welcomed in their house with rejoicing. Her father had planted a liberty tree on Compton Dassett village green and the anniversary of the Bastille falling had been the occasion, last year, for a celebratory dinner which had been attended by like-minded friends from across the county, members of the Monday Society who met on the first Monday of every month to discuss science and philosophy. They had toasted ‘The Patriots of France’, ‘Tom Paine’ and ‘The Rights of Man’ but they had also toasted ‘King and Constitution’, she remembered distinctly. Her father believed absolutely but he was not disloyal. He spared little thought, however, for the danger that his ideas brought with them, and even then his concern would always be for other people, never for himself. Al
l this had been going on in front of her and she had hardly noticed, too preoccupied by that wretch Gilmore. Virgil Barrett must think her very shallow. She would find a way to make up for it now.
‘This man. This Bow Street runner. When will he come?’
‘I would say that I was a few days ahead of him, no more than that.’ He hesitated. ‘I would stay and help you if I could, but I ride north. He carries a sheaf of warrants and evidences with him and there are others I must warn. May I trouble you for a horse? I will not get far on the spavined nag I was offered at the inn. Also . . .’ He hesitated, not knowing how to put this. ‘I find myself without funds and,’ his fingers went to his empty waistcoat pocket, ‘in need of a timepiece.’
Sovay coloured. This was as near as he’d come to mentioning it, but all through their interview she’d been intensely aware of their previous meeting on the road. ‘Of course.’ She went to a drawer in the bureau. ‘Here’s gold for you and a watch and chain.’
He pocketed the money in a jingle of coin and examined the watch carefully.
‘This is very like my own watch,’ he said with a smile. ‘Very like indeed!’ He opened the back and examined the maker’s mark. ‘Made in Philadelphia. What a coincidence! Who would credit it?’
‘Who, indeed!’ Sovay laughed, despite her embarrassment, grateful to him for so deftly defusing the tension between them.
‘My father’s collection includes items great and small,’ she said. ‘Now let us find you a suitable horse.’
‘Thank you.’ He took her hand again and this time he kissed it. ‘I hope that our next meeting will be under happier circumstances.’
‘So do I.’
Sovay smiled. She found that she liked him and hoped that they would meet again. She went with him to see that he got his new mount and that he had all he needed for his onward journey.