The Jacobite Murders

by G. M. Best

  There was a deep intake of breath from Sophia at this unexpected revelation. Fielding was well known to her because of his long-standing friendship with the Woodforde family. She and her father had met him on a significant number of occasions. She had come to like him for his warm-hearted, generous, and good-humoured nature. She admired the fact that he was always sympathetic to the problems of others because of what he had suffered in his own life. She had particularly appreciated his interest in Tom and the way he had championed his cause when he had unwittingly offended the squire. Knowing how lonely and dispirited Fielding had been over the death of his beloved wife, she was confident that the writer did not know that he had a son in Tom. If she revealed what Jenny Jones had told her, what impact would that have not only on Fielding but also on Tom? And how would the information of Tom’s true parentage affect Thomas Woodforde and her father? Would the squire be repelled by his sister’s sinful behaviour and deception, or would he rejoice in discovering that Tom was his nephew? Would her father’s attitude to Tom change if he knew that he was a Woodforde, or would he still insist on her marrying John Burnett?

  ‘I tell you this so that you may inform Mr Fielding,’ continued Jenny Jones. ‘There is no need for others to be told, not even Tom. He has lived all these years without knowing who his father was.’

  Such was the turmoil in Sophia’s mind that later she could not recall what she said to Jenny Jones before the woman returned to her nursing duties. Such was her dazed state that Charles Wesley took pity on her when he rejoined her. He sat alongside her and gently took her hand in his. ‘Listen to me, Miss Westbrook, why don’t you and Mrs Newton stay here till you decide what next to do? You are a stranger in this city and London is not a safe place for two unprotected women. We have a spare room and I can arrange for your belongings to be brought here from the inn where you stayed last night. I can assure you that you will be most welcome.’

  ‘I thank you, sir,’ replied Sophia, desperately trying to pull herself together. ‘You are most kind and I would like to take up your offer. If truth be told, I have not felt safe since we left Bath and I am uncertain what next to do. I now know the truth about a man’s parentage but not whether I should reveal what I know to him and those whom it affects most. Before I came here it all seemed straightforward. I thought if I could find out who was Tom’s father it might help reconcile my father to him. Now I am less certain because of the impact the knowledge may have on others. Jenny Jones has made it quite clear that I should only inform Tom’s father of the truth.’

  ‘Why don’t you sleep on the matter before taking any decision. Another day will not matter to a secret that has lasted over twenty years.’

  ‘Has Jenny Jones told you what she told me?’

  ‘Yes, she has. Not because I asked, but because she felt she wanted me to absolve her from what she did all those years ago.’

  ‘And have you?’

  ‘It is not for me to absolve anyone. That rests with God. But I believe He has long forgiven her and I have told her that. What she did she did out of love, even if it was mistaken.’

  ‘And what would you advise me to do?’

  ‘To pray to God for his guidance.’

  ‘But you must have an opinion that you can share with me before I do so.’

  Charles Wesley smiled at her persistence. ‘Very well. I think that truth is more important than falsehood and that a man has a right to know who is his father. Equally a father has a right to know that he has a son. Jenny has kept the secret too long to know what now is right. If I were in your position, I would inform Mr Jones, Mr Fielding and Squire Woodforde what you know. Let them determine how they should respond to the information. Whether you should tell your father is far more questionable. From what you have told me, he may not be so polite in keeping the matter to himself. I would suggest it is up to the three men most intimately affected to decide whether anyone else should be told. There is no reason for anyone else to know if they would prefer the world to be kept in ignorance.’

  His words resonated in her heart and gave her a sense of direction that she found most comforting. ‘I cannot thank you enough, Mr Wesley.’

  ‘Give your thanks to God, not me. I believe it is He who has protected you on your journey and it is He who has directed you here. Now, if you will forgive me, I have other matters to which I must attend. I will tell Mrs Newton what is happening and direct her to return to you. One of the women here will direct you to where you will be staying.’

  She held on to his arm to prevent his immediate departure. ‘Please can you do one thing more for me?’ He nodded. ‘Can you persuade Mrs Newton not to spend her time trying to get me to tell her what I now know?’

  He laughed. ‘There are certain things even a minister of God might not be able to achieve! But I will do what I can.’

  12

  THE TRAITOR REVEALED

  Lady Overbury looked out of the window at the grey, rain-soaked sky and the weather matched her sombre mood. She had only recently arrived back in London and the ten long days since the terrible events of 12 November had been among the worst of her life. She had tried to divert herself by participating in some of the pleasures offered by Bath, but this had done little to help. To her mounting consternation Beau Nash and Henry Fielding had been unable to uncover a single clue that might point to who had killed Joseph Graves, even though they had discovered how his body had been carried onto the aisle roof. His murderers had hired an upstairs room in one of the houses that backed onto the abbey and from there had clambered onto its roof and thence onto the aisle roof. Unfortunately none could be found who could describe the person who had hired the rooms because payment had been made to the landlord’s daughter, the blind girl whom Jones had encountered. Fielding and Nash had drawn an equal blank when it came to finding what had happened to either Sarah Darr or Sophia Westbrook. It was as if both women had simply disappeared from the face of the earth.

  Throughout her remaining time in Bath, Lady Overbury had taken up residence in a large house in the Orange Grove run by a Mrs Hodkinson because Fielding had finally persuaded her that it was unsafe to remain in Queen Square. Her new residence was known for its finely proportioned rooms, comfortable down beds and excellent food, but entering it had seemed an acknowledgement of defeat. Moreover, she had found it far noisier than the house in Queen Square because a seemingly endless murmur of voices had percolated through to her rooms, interrupted only by the occasional sound of the creaking and crashing of trunks and the trampling of porters, or by bursts of music played on instruments that were not always in tune, or by the more harmonious peal of the abbey bells. This had not provided her with the silence and repose for which she longed. Nor had it helped her frame of mind that the house’s other residents had been obsessed with speculating about the danger posed by the advancing Jacobite army, especially when reports came through that Carlisle had fallen to the rebels on 15 November without a shot having been fired against them.

  At first, whenever the weather had permitted, she had taken to getting away from the unhelpful gossip by going out for a walk unattended, a practice that was regarded as socially acceptable in Bath though very unusual elsewhere. Experience had soon taught her to avoid the busier areas of the city, especially Stall Street. It bustled too much with people arriving and departing and there was nothing but noise and tumult. The grinding and rumbling of carts and carriages, the yelling of porters and servants, the squealing and squawking of pedlars, and the sound of snarling dogs and weary horses had merely served to give her a headache. She had much preferred strolling along the elm-lined gravel walks of the Orange Grove. The elevated platform on its western side provided good views across the neighbouring countryside, although the river looked dirty and the surrounding fields and hills carried the unattractive features of the onset of winter. The rather bleak vista matched her mood far more than looking at the delights of the many shops that surrounded the Orange Grove, though they were undeniably full of t
he most varied and elegant of goods. Somehow purchasing the latest perfumes or fashionable clothes had seemed inappropriate against the backdrop of events she had faced. What did fan or feather matter if tragedy could strike so unexpectedly and frequently? Even all the famous culinary delights of Mr Gill’s pastry shop could not tempt her to indulge herself.

  Lady Overbury had sought solace in music and fortunately there had been plenty of that available in Bath. She had taken to attending the concert breakfasts and on a couple of afternoons she had sat entranced in Bath Abbey listening to the playing of its talented organist, Thomas Chilcott. She had also gone to two of the concerts that he had organized in Wiltshire’s Consort Room and particularly enjoyed a programme of Handel’s music. One aria from Theodora called ‘Angels ever bright and fair’ had moved her to tears. Knowing her love of theatre, Fielding had tried to encourage her to also attend performances of Shakespeare’s Othello and Romeo and Juliet by a company who described themselves as ‘the best actors in the world’, but she had declined, saying she had seen enough real tragedy without watching imaginary ones.

  Instead, for a time, she had tried to extend her walks and take some pleasure in exploring the area around the city. She had hired a carriage to take her to the village of Kelston and followed the lower road towards Bristol, enjoying the changing vistas provided by the wind-swept hills and valleys all around her. She had no doubt that the ride would have been more beautiful in the summer months with all the flowers and foliage at their height, but even in November the scenery had a stark attraction that made her for a time forget what had happened in Queen Square. The highlight of her travels had been a trip on a rare bright sunny day to Lansdown. The ascent was a difficult one, but, once the height had been reached, she had enjoyed the bracing air and open views. In one direction she had been able to see the city of Bristol and, beyond that, the Bristol Channel and the mountains of Wales. In the other direction she had looked over the rolling countryside of Gloucestershire and Wiltshire and beyond.

  It had taken all Beau Nash’s skills to persuade her one Tuesday evening to attend a ball at Mr Harrison’s Assembly Rooms, but her acceptance had proved a mistake. It had begun after six o’clock and followed the formula that Nash had devised many years before. He selected the most important gentleman and lady present to dance a minuet and, once this was completed, he led the woman back to her seat and brought back another to dance with the man. For the next two hours each gentleman present in turn danced with two ladies. Nash had jokingly made it a Bath rule that no gentleman or lady should take it ill that another danced before him or her, but Lady Overbury was amazed at the impassivity of countenance of those who danced. There was no sign of any cheerful face or of any enjoyment in the music. The gentlemen in their tricornes and silks and the ladies in ostrich plumes and hoop skirts seemed more concerned to display their finery than to dance and both sexes appeared petrified of making a misstep.

  Sitting at the side of the room throughout the succession of dances, Lady Overbury had become increasingly bored by the whole process. She knew it simply pandered to the social snobbery of so many of her class, and all around her she had been conscious of a constant stream of salacious gossip and matchmaking. Nash had told her that he thought scandal was the mark of a foolish head and a malicious heart and he had made it a Bath rule that those who spread scandal should be shunned. The evening convinced her it was a rule honoured more by the breach than the observance. When the minuets finally ended, country dances began, but they were scarcely less formal. The only difference was that the order was determined entirely by the rank of the ladies. It was not until the clock struck eleven that Nash ordered the music to stop by lifting his finger.

  Lady Overbury had vowed never to repeat the experience and she had refused to try the Friday balls at Thayer’s Assembly Rooms. Instead, some of her time in the evenings had been spent with Henry Fielding’s sister, who had also taken temporary lodgings in the city. The two women had talked a little about Sarah Fielding’s upbringing in Salisbury under the care of her maternal grandmother, Lady Sarah Gould, and the time she had spent in London and Bath with her brother during his wife’s illness. Miss Fielding was unusually well educated and knowledgable on the subject of classical poetry, which she seemed to be able to quote effortlessly. She had described how she had been permitted to assist her brother in his literary endeavours and how in return he had helped her write her own novel, The Adventures of David Simple, which had been published the previous May. Lady Overbury had tried to divert herself by reading it, but its theme of a naïve hero dealing with the double-dealing duplicity of a malign world was unappealing. Moreover, she found the novel lacked character development and a plot of any note, even though it shared much of the wit and irony found in Henry Fielding’s novels.

  Lady Overbury had hoped that returning to London might help her to forget all that happened but so far that had proved a mistake. Now, looking at the clock on the mantelpiece in her parlour, she saw that it was almost time for the Reverend Charles Wesley to arrive and curiosity began to dispel some of her gloom. The London broadsheets were daily full of vitriolic attacks against the Methodists and, when he had requested to see her, she would have refused to see him had not one of her friends, the Countess of Huntingdon, urged her to do so. She had presented a far more positive picture of Charles and of his brother John Wesley than the one given in the popular broadsheets. According to her, the brothers had spent the early years of their lives in rural Lincolnshire where their father was a rector. John had won a scholarship to Charterhouse and Charles, who was four years younger, to Westminster. Both men had then gone to university in Oxford, been ordained, and become missionaries in the newly created American colony of Georgia. On their return they had determined to create a religious revival in the Church of England with some of their former Oxford friends who had also become clergymen, including George Whitefield and Benjamin Ingham. The countess felt strongly that all the anti-Methodist hysteria stemmed from misunderstanding and mischief.

  Although she had agreed to meet Charles Wesley, Lady Overbury remained unsure about whether that was a wise choice. Having been denied access to the pulpits of his fellow clergy, Charles Wesley was choosing to preach in the open air. This was hardly what any respectable clergyman would do and some of the broadsheets were certain that his meetings were acting as a cover for Jacobite traitors to meet together. Her greeting was therefore a cautious one when he entered the room. ‘I have heard much about you, sir,’ she said, ‘but sadly most of it has not been very flattering.’

  ‘I am aware that the common press say all manner of things about me that are not true, your ladyship,’ he replied with a quiet dignity, politely inclining his head towards her. ‘However, the only opinion that matters in judging what we say and do is that of God and so my conscience is clear. You will forgive me if I prefer to obey His commands rather than seek the favour of men.’

  ‘But is not this preaching in the open air a vile thing to do?’

  ‘I think you will find that Jesus set us a precedent in this matter. Did he not preach most of the time in the open air?’

  Lady Overbury had the intelligence to acknowledge this argument had validity and, as someone who frequently resented the strictures imposed on her by what society deemed appropriate or inappropriate, began to warm to the man. ‘I had not thought of the matter in that light, sir.’

  ‘I will be honest with you, Lady Overbury. Neither my brother nor I like preaching outside but we do so for two simple reasons.’

  ‘And what are they?’

  ‘The first and most important is that we are convinced it is what God wants us to do. He is using our preaching to reach the hearts of many who otherwise would know nothing of the gospel message. We are able to speak to thousands who would never set foot across the threshold of a church. The second is that my fellow clergy have left us no alternative by denying us access to their pulpits. They are more concerned about protecting their authority wit
hin their parishes than communicating the faith.’

  Lady Overbury felt her initial suspicion dissipate. The Countess of Huntingdon had told her that Charles’s friends referred to him as a man made for friendship and she could now see why that was. He had an affable manner and she had no doubt that he was highly intelligent, warmly empathetic, and naturally good-humoured. She was astute enough to see why his intensely religious approach would have led some to label him a dangerous enthusiast. The open way in which he expressed the depth of his faith would make those who preferred their Christian commitment to be nominal uncomfortable – and she knew quite a few clergy who were in that category. ‘It has won you nothing but condemnation from the Church,’ she said but in a tone that was far more considerate.

  ‘I hope that the Church will reconsider its position when it sees the fruit of our work,’ he observed. ‘Until that happens, your ladyship, I invite you to come and see the holy lives lived by many of those who have been awakened by our preaching and to judge for yourself whether the current condemnation is justified.’

  Lady Overbury was surprised to hear herself say, ‘I would like very much to see your work at first hand.’ What even more astonished her was that she knew she meant it. There was no doubt that this preacher had both authority and charm.

  ‘I commend your openness, Lady Overbury, and we can arrange a visit at a future date, but for the moment I have more pressing business with you.’