Life and Death of the Wicked Lady Skelton

by Rowland Hughes

  He ended on a groan.

  Barbara had listened to him with lowered eyelids, her face white but perfectly composed, except for a slight twitching of her nostrils. But when he had finished she opened her green eyes wide, and almost hissed at him: ‘You must have been very busy, Hogarth, you must have been hard put to it, to combine your duties as house steward with your self-imposed duties as a spy. Ah, forgive me! – You call it having things revealed to you by God, don’t you? And now that you have acquired this knowledge, what do you intend to do with it?’

  Hogarth said sternly, ‘My lady, I have wrestled night after night with my conscience, asking myself that self-same question. Is it my duty to hand you over to justice, without regard for your rank and my esteem for my kind master and the Skelton family? Sometimes I have believed so, and then the thought of the filthy dust that the public knowledge of this thing would raise, the shame and wretchedness that it would bring on Sir Ralph and all his family, has made me doubt the rightness of my resolution. Or may I, under Heaven’s providence, be the means of calling you to repentance, giving you the chance of renouncing these irregular and soul-destroying courses and saving your sinsick soul from the eternal fire? Whether you are guilty of the murder of young Ned Cotterell, I know not. My soul vomits at the thought of it. You shake your head. I must believe you. It is unthinkable that a delicately nurtured lady, and one who knew the poor lad from boyhood, could have committed such a foul crime. This means, then, that you are guilty of adultery and robbery. Terrible enough in all conscience, but Scripture teaches us that even adulteresses and robbers may find mercy through repentance.’

  Lady Skelton sat upright in her chair; the white satin needlework had slipped unheeded off her lap. Her hands clutched the arms of her chair so hard that her knuckles shone through the flesh. But when he paused she gave a wild little laugh and said:

  ‘You should have been a clergyman, Hogarth. A post as Ordinary at Newgate Prison would have suited you admirably. You would have been in your element riding in the cart with condemned criminals and exhorting them to repentance. So you think that Sir Ralph would believe your word against mine?’

  ‘He would have no choice but to do so. I have abundant proof of your crimes.’

  ‘You think that he would even listen to you? That he would allow his steward – his servant – to raise such a barbarous scandal on me?’

  Hogarth said proudly, ‘I have been Sir Ralph’s house steward for fifteen years. He knows me as well as one man may know another. He knows that whatever my faults I have never told him a lie, nor defrauded him of as much as a tallow dip, nor borne false witness against any one of my fellow servants. And so I know that – however great his horror and amazement – he would let me say my say.’

  Barbara lowered her head. She said very bitterly and spitefully, ‘Yes. He is that kind of man.’

  There was a long silence. Then she said, ‘I see that I am at your mercy. You make me your scorn. You can do with me what you will.’

  She sprang to her feet suddenly, her fists clenched and shrieked, ‘You canting devil! What do you mean to do?’

  He gave her a look that was pitying and yet unflinching, and motioned her to seat herself again, which she did, leaning back in her chair in an attitude of utter exhaustion and despair.

  He said, ‘For my good master’s sake, for the honour of the family I serve, yea, for your own sake – for though your sin is abhorrent to me, as a Christian I must care for your soul – I wish to save you from this hideous way of life. If you renounce it absolutely, promising, as you hope for salvation, never to ride out again secretly at night, neither to meet nor to communicate with your lover Jackson, and to lead a new and blameless life, then I, for my part, swear that no living soul but James Hogarth shall know of your shameful secret. It shall die with me on my death bed. What is more, I shall never allude to it again, treating you with all the respect due to an honoured mistress. But,’ he added grimly, ‘do not think to deceive me. I am not a fool, and if you take this oath I shall see that you keep your word.’

  Barbara rose and paced to and fro, her fingers twisting together. Her thoughts thrashed about furiously like trapped animals. Could she hoodwink this man, assuring him that her sport on the highway was harmless enough? Neither she nor Jackson had had any part in Ned Cotterell’s death – no doubt he had been set upon by a skulking footpad.… He had wronged her by listening to the slanderous talk of scullions.… She had never had any unseemly dealings with Jackson or any other man.… True, she and Jackson took money from certain unworthy persons, gamblers, usurers, wealthy bawds and the like, but gave it all away to the deserving poor… No! Hogarth was not a fool. Such talk would not deceive him for an instant.

  Should she try to bribe him? Offer him money, jewels.… She gritted her teeth as she acknowledged to herself his unassailable integrity.

  What could she do, then? Gain time. Lull his suspicions. Woo him with soft and penitent words.

  She turned to him, and said gently, ‘I have said harsh things to you Hogarth, but I know in my heart that you are a good and just man. I am not so far gone in my soul-sickness that I cannot recognise goodness when I see it.’ She fell on her knees and burying her head in the chair sobbed, ‘Oh Hogarth, help me! Save me! I am not as lost to shame as you think. I was drawn into it by a foolish prank. You guessed, I daresay, that it was I who robbed Lady Kingsclere? And since then I have suffered the pangs of hell – but that evil, vicious man will not let me go. He swears that if I break away from him he will never be at rest till he has washed his hands in my blood, and so my errors and indiscretions will follow me to my ignominious end. My memory will stink in the nostrils of my good husband and my family and to all eternity.’

  She broke into terrible, gulping sobs. And indeed she felt very sorry for herself.

  Hogarth raised her to her feet, and though his words were stern, his hands were gentle.

  ‘I heartily wish you better in conduct and more wholesome in your soul, my lady, before death seizes you, and if you truly wish to renounce your wicked life, you may count on me to help you. I will see to it that the man Jackson never troubles you again.’

  Barbara raised her wet green eyes to him imploringly.

  ‘And if I am good and truly penitent, you promise that my ugly secret will die with you?’

  He promised solemnly, ‘Yes, it will die with me.’

  Lady Skelton told Hogarth, with a piteous meekness that was very touching to hear from so proud and captious a lady, ‘I desire to be ruled by you in all things.’ She had however one suggestion of her own to make. She was in great terror, she said, lest Jackson, either through desire for her company or fear of her betraying him, should try to seek her out. She therefore asked Hogarth to allow her to have one more interview with the highwayman, during which, she said, it was her intention to tell him that she was in very poor health and had been warned by the physicians that if she did not lead a quiet and easy life she might fall into a decline. She believed that she could persuade Jackson of the truth of this, especially if she promised to rejoin him as soon as her health was mended. In this way (for he would soon forget her) she would sever the connection between them without fear of some violent action on his part, and would be free to attend to her soul without the haunting fear of her past sins finding her out.

  Hogarth did not altogether like the plan. He would have preferred her to have broken at once with her accomplice without ever seeing him again. He did not care for the falsehood that it entailed (though, as Lady Skelton pointed out to him, her soul was indeed sick almost unto death). But he had to admit that it would be a safe and convenient way of freeing Lady Skelton from this evil and dangerous connection. So at last he agreed to it, accompanying her to within a quarter of a mile of the ‘Leaping Stag’ inn, and there let her ride on alone, after exhorting her with many powerful texts and prayers to stand firm and not to slide back into perdition.

  ‘Have no fear,’ she assured him. ‘My heart f
eels a kind of horror at the thought of my past misdeeds. Wait here, good Hogarth, and I will soon be with you again.’

  And indeed her interview with Jerry Jackson was tolerably short, not lasting above three-quarters of an hour. But a great deal may be done and said in three-quarters of an hour. That whatever passed between them was satisfactory to both parties might have been guessed by Barbara’s sleek smile as she kissed her lover good-bye, and by his chuckle as he held her in his arms and said:

  ‘You’re a subtle baggage, Barbara – a cunning, tricking baggage. Farewell then, my pretty, till the next merry meeting!’

  6

  AT THE SIGN OF THE GOLDEN GLOVE

  ‘For her house inclineth unto death.’1

  MISTRESS NAN MUNCE was a comely and comfortable-looking widow who owned a prosperous mercer and haberdasher’s shop in the town of Buckingham. Her goods were justly renowned for miles around among the county ladies, who declared that, for stylishness and good quality, Mrs Munce’s fringes, laces, ribbons, cambric sleeves, gloves, mouchoirs and the like could not be surpassed by those of any mercer of New Exchange or Paternoster Row.

  In fact it was considered rather remarkable that the good lady did not ply her trade in the metropolis itself, but when questioned about this, Mrs Munce would smile and say, ‘Oh mercy me, my lady! I couldn’t live for three days in the foul air and stinks of London.’

  ‘Well, Mistress Nan, I’m sure it’s a blessing for us poor country folk that you are content to stay here,’ her client would say condescendingly as she fingered Mrs Munce’s new collection of lace caps. Mrs Munce’s remark was more accurate than her customers might suppose. It was true that London would be a most unwholesome place for Nan Munce, though not for reasons of health.

  Mrs Munce’s career had been as varied as the names that she had borne during it. She had started life as Catherine Getting, daughter of a poor and honest labourer in Essex, had run away from home at the age of fifteen and bound herself as apprentice to a seamstress in the Strand. But this was too much like drudgery for pretty Kitty’s taste, and before she had been in London six months she had run away from her mistress, taking £10 in gold and three yards of white sarcenet2 with her, and had set up house with a notorious highwayman called Nick Barton, who had maintained her in comfort and jollity till his sudden death at a rope’s end.

  Kitty Getting, or Barton, as she now called herself, being left a hempen widow, supported herself by picking pockets by day and by even less reputable means by night. But she was a girl of considerable resources, and before long she was earning a good living at the Question Lay.3 Dressed up as a milliner’s girl from the Exchange, and carrying a band-box, she would call at the house of some lady of quality and tell the maid that she had brought the gloves, fans, or what not, that her mistress had bespoken the day before. While the maid went upstairs to see if her lady was awake, Kitty would fill her band-box with the silver plate on the sideboard, or any other valuables within reach, and hurry away.

  Growing more ambitious she took lodgings in Great Russell Street, hired a female vagabond to play the part of her woman, and sent her to a jeweller in Cheapside to order jewellery for her mistress, whom she represented as an heiress, lately come to town. When the jeweller arrived with his goods, Kitty sent a message to say that she was too indisposed to come down herself but would make her choice if the jewels were brought up to her by her maid. The jeweller, impressed by the luxurious appearance of the house, fell into the trap, allowed the maid to take the casket up to her ailing mistress, and that was the last he saw of his jewels, the two women having slipped out by a back door of the house.

  Kitty Bellingham, as she now called herself, carried out a series of successful cheats and robberies of this kind, till at last she was apprehended, sent to Bridewell, flogged, and transported to Jamaica.

  Here her good looks and sauciness attracted the attention of a well-to-do merchant named Rumbold. He procured her freedom, brought her back with him to London and, as the result of much cozenage on her part, actually married her. But he was too portly and middle-aged to please the lively Kitty and, after robbing him of all she could lay hands upon, she deserted him for a handsome young ensign. The young man married her, but his parents, learning something of her history, had her arrested for bigamy. The evidence against her being insufficient (her discomfited husband having retired to Jamaica) she was acquitted, and later took a third husband, a worthy and prosperous stay-maker. She lived with him very quietly for a year, after which time Mr Price, who had been ailing for some time, was seized by violent pains in his stomach and died in a few hours. This greatly distressed his widow, especially as she had with her own hands prepared the broth which was his last earthly meal.

  The substantial sum of money which she inherited from him was, however, some consolation to her, both as a proof of his esteem and as a means of enabling her to leave London, where her neighbours and in-laws were spreading the most malicious rumours about her.

  She was next heard of in Portsmouth, where she set up as the landlady of an inn. What she did in Portsmouth besides innkeeping would be best left to the imagination. Sufficient to say that, after a particularly barbarous highway robbery and murder on the Portsmouth road, she packed up and disappeared from the neighbourhood.

  Her next recorded appearance was in Buckingham, and here Mrs Nan Munce, alias Kitty Price, alias Aubrey, alias Rumbold, alias Bellingham, alias Barton, alias Getting, settled down to her mercer’s trade and to a life of, apparently, impeccable respectability. She was no longer young and had lost her pretty figure. She had certainly had an adventurous and risky career. It was little short of a miracle that she had escaped wearing a Tyburn tippet. It might easily be believed that she was content to deal in such innocuous wares as point d’Espagne4 and scented gloves for the rest of her life.

  True, her more favoured clients were aware that she also supplied on request rare perfumes and unguents for the complexion and the hands; moreover it was whispered that sometimes, after much persuasion, and in consideration of a handsome present, she would provide love-potions or aphrodisiacs for ladies who were plagued with a backward husband or lover, as well as other drugs for ladies who were expecting an unwelcome addition to their families.

  Young Lady Skelton knew all this and, thanks to her association with Captain Jackson, who had been a crony of Mrs Munce’s, she knew more besides.

  And so one gusty day towards the middle of July, Lady Skelton drove over to Buckingham in her chariot, attended by her waiting gentlewoman, a page and two footmen. Her ostensible reason for this visit to the county town was to replenish her wardrobe, and though Hogarth might secretly grieve that his mistress – over whose newborn soul he watched with the anxious care of a nurse – should still be concerned for the adornment of her perishable body, he was sensible enough to realise that she could only be weaned to a better way of life by gradual stages. Better by far that she should be choosing fripperies at Mrs Munce’s shop than committing robbery-under-arms on the King’s highway.

  Lady Skelton’s yellow and black chariot clattered noisily over the cobblestones of the town, crossed the Market Place and entered a narrow street where the eaves of the houses nearly met overhead, and drew up before the small bow windows of Mrs Munce’s shop. An elegant gilded sign over the door, depicting a Golden Glove, indicated her wares.

  Lady Skelton gave her waiting gentlewoman an ivory tablet on which was written a list of groceries which she was to purchase for her – raisins, blue currants, cloves, prunes, mace, almonds, lemons (she was not to pay more than three shillings a dozen for them), candy sugar and nutmegs – ordered her coachman to wait for her at the inn, and went unattended into the shop.

  Mrs Nan Munce, who was embroidering a white satin waistcoat with silk honeysuckle and carnations, rose and curtseyed respectfully at the sight of her distinguished client. She considered Lady Skelton to be one of the most elegant-looking ladies in the county, nay, in Mrs Munce’s opinion, she would cu
t a very modish figure even at Whitehall.

  Mrs Munce was stylishly but soberly dressed in black taffety with very fine lace at her bosom and elbows. She wore a black lace cap on her head, and jet earrings and bracelets. She was a small woman; her figure had spread, but her prettily turned arms and ankles testified to the seductive daintiness that had once made her so dangerously attractive. Her blonde hair was tarnished, but her skin still had the softness of a faded roseleaf. Her eyes were grey. She had a small mouth. At first sight she looked rather a sweet little woman.

  ‘Good day, milady. It is a long time since I had the honour of your ladyship’s custom.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Munce. I have been busy.’ Lady Skelton seated herself, loosened her hood and placed her satin and beribboned muff on the counter.