Tuppenny Times

by Beryl Kingston

It was astonishing news. ‘Whatever for?’ Nan said, leading the way into the dining-room.

  ‘Sedition, my dear, if you ever heard of anything so foolish.’

  ‘A mistake, surely. Mr Blake is a deal too wise to speak treason, no matter what he might think.’

  ‘Oh no, my dear, ’tis no mistake. He is to stand trial, poor man. Apparently he turned a drunken soldier out of his garden and the fellow has sworn a deposition that Mr Blake uttered seditious words. There’s a warrant taken out against him.’

  ‘He’ll never come to trial,’ Nan said hotly.

  ‘I fear he will,’ Sophie said, ‘and sedition is a hanging matter. I shall go to the trial and support him, as Heinrich dithers.’

  ‘He will go with you, surely?’

  ‘I doubt it, my dear. That is why I shall attend.’

  ‘And travel alone?’

  ‘Would you come with me, Nan?’ Sophie asked. ‘I would take it as the greatest kindness. We should not leave poor Mr Blake to face distress alone.’

  That was very true, Nan thought. In times of trouble friends should support one another. Friendship was most valuable then, as she was beginning to appreciate as troubles pressed down upon her. ‘Yes,’ she said, making up her mind at once. ‘I will travel with you, Sophie. You have my word on it. But they couldn’t hang an artist, surely. The law would not allow it.’

  ‘We live in dangerous times,’ Sophie said. ‘Even the law is no protection these days.’

  It had better protect me, Nan thought, and she wondered what effect Cosmo’s latest epistle was having on her cantankerous nephew.

  ‘Calverley Leigh,’ Sir Osmond Easter said, leaning back in his fine red chair in his fine red drawing-room at Ippark. ‘You are sure of the name?’

  ‘Oh indeed, Sir Osmond,’ the gentleman in the dark blue coat replied. ‘I was most particular to be told the exact name. Mr Calverley Leigh, a lieutenant in the Duke of Clarence’s Light Dragoons, and expecting to buy Captain Mauleverer’s commission, so it was rumoured.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Sir Osmond said, hooking his silver snuff box out of the pocket in the hem of his long coat. ‘Well now that is interestin’, and no mistake. You’ve done well, cousin Jermyn. Will you take snuff, sir?’

  ‘Happy to have been of service,’ cousin Jermyn said, dipping the tips of his right thumb and forefinger into the snuffbox and then sprinkling the brown powder thoughtfully onto the forefinger of his left hand. ‘Would you wish me to continue, sir?’

  ‘Not for the moment,’ Sir Osmond said happily, snorting his pinch of snuff first up one nostril and then the other, blowing like a horse. ‘Deuced good stuff this. Best thing I know for clearin’ the head, damme. A lieutenant, eh? And after a captaincy. Well well! I shall have to see about that.’

  ‘You dine with General Mauleverer a’ Thursday.’ Sniff sniff.

  ‘Aye, so I do.’ Snort. ‘There are more ways of killin’ the cat, eh Jermyn?’ A hint dropped here, a word spoken there. Oh ’twould be infinitely preferable to yet another letter from that dammed tricksy lawyer feller of hers. Damme, the feller was worse than a snake, always twistin’. You never knew what he’d be writin’ about next. More than seven letters had passed between Sir Osmond Easter and Mr Teshmaker, and even though that wretched servant gel was plainly doing badly and losing trade, she was no nearer accepting his position as head of the family than she’d been at the beginning. Downright aggravation, so it was. No this manoeuvre had much more hope of a satisfactory outcome. If he couldn’t thwart the servant, why then he’d spike the guns of the cavalry man, dammit.

  He sneezed extravagantly, his slippered feet lifting from the carpet. ‘Business meetin’s, my eye!’ he said.

  It was a surprise to the entire regiment when Mr Leigh was passed over.

  The winter storms had finally brought seas so rough that Napoleon’s fleet would have to stay in Boulogne until the spring, and the regiment was exhausted with tension and inactivity.

  ‘Can’t understand it, damme,’ Captain Fortescue said, trying to commiserate. ‘At a time like this too. It don’t make sense, Leigh, indeed it don’t.’

  It was a terrible blow to Calverley’s pride. He’d been so sure of this commission and so had his friends and his troop. And now this. Judged wanting, not up to scratch. Perhaps, and this was the most painful thought of all, perhaps considered past his best.

  I am twenty-seven years old, he thought, as he brooded on lonely sentry-go in the look-out post on Hollingbury Hill. I should be a captain at the very least, like Hanley-Brown and Fortescue. Or married to an heiress. That was a failure too, despite the rewards of his long affair with Nan Easter, for really he should have found a possible wife by this time. And to make matters worse, he wasn’t even the acknowledged Romeo of the regiment any more. A confounded ensign had arrived that summer, among the rush of new recruits brought in to resume the war, and he had rapidly become a considerable rival. A fresh-faced, empty-headed youth with a shock of fair hair and no sense, a stripling, no more, with a boy’s slender neck and a girl’s tender skin. But he turned giddy heads, there was no denying it, and soon the cat-call went round the camp that ‘Old Leigh’s nose was out of joint!’ Old Leigh! At twenty-seven! It was downright demoralizing.

  Unfortunately for his self-esteem, there had been far too many lonely and wakeful hours spent in look-outs and on solitary vigils during that panicky summer. And to his frustrated disappointment, he’d had very little leave and Nan had had to stay in London for most of the season, for it really was too dangerous on the south coast. She wrote to him, warmly, if rather more occasionally than usual, but it was a bad time, and now his lack of success made it worse.

  ‘I’ve a mind to leave the army and find some other employ,’ he said to Hanley-Brown.

  ‘You’d be a fool,’ the new captain said, ‘for you’ve a deal more reason to stay than to leave.’

  But in the event, it was Jericho, Calverley’s much loved chestnut gelding, who precipitated his master’s departure from the Dragoons. Or to be more accurate a combination of Jericho, the new ensign, Captain Fortescue, too little success and too much port and pride. Matters had come to a head at a regimental dinner, when bellies were uncomfortably full and tongues dangerously loose and Captain Fortescue had reached that stage of manic drunkenness when any remark, however trite, is a reason for hilarity.

  Down at Calverley’s end of the table the junior officers were bragging about their horses.

  ‘Time you turned that old nag o’ yours over to the knackers,’ the ensign said, grinning stupidly at Calverley. ‘He ain’t the beast he was and that’s a fac’.’

  ‘Over to the knackers!’ Captain Fortescue giggled. ‘Oh my eye!’

  ‘He could outrun your carthorse any day of the week,’ Calverley said, stung.

  ‘Carthorsh!’ Fortescue giggled again, looking to see whether the port was being passed his way again. ‘Oh my eye! Oh tha’s rich! Carthorsh!’

  ‘Stow it, Fortie!’ Calverley warned, beginning to be irritated by his friend’s stupidity.

  ‘Ain’t the way to shpeak t’shperior officher,’ Fortiscue warned and he tried to point to the superior pips on his shoulder. And failed and found that very funny too.

  ‘Tell you what,’ the ensign went on, pressing his advantage, ‘that nag o’ yours is a danger to the troop. Too slow, damme. Could have had me down in the second turn.’

  ‘A pity he didn’t,’ Calverley said.

  ‘You’d ha’ lost him if he had, damme. Face facts man, that crittur’s past his prime. Too long in the tooth.’

  ‘Like his owner!’ Fortescue said. ‘Oldesh lieutenant in the regiment, damme if he ain’t. Oldesh lieutenant in the army!’ And he fell into a paroxysm of giggles at his own wit.

  It was suddenly all too much for Calverley, because it was true and it was being said publicly, even if they were all drunk. ‘You impugn my honour,’ he said rising stiffly to his feet, ‘and the honour of my horse. You have my challenge, sir.’
r />   ‘Who does, dammit?’ Fortescue said, trying to focus his eyes. ‘Who you a-challengin’?’

  The table had grown ominously quiet, as heads turned and peered to see if the word challenge actually had been spoken. A duel, eh! What sport!

  In the chill of the next misty morning, when Calverley and Captain Fortescue took loaded pistols and set out for the privacy of the Downs to keep their appointment, it didn’t look like sport at all. It looked foolhardy and rather despicable, considering what a mortal long time the two of them had been comrades-in-arms. But they had to go through with it. It was a matter of honour now. And even though by great good fortune or the unsettling effects of formidable hangovers they both contrived to miss each other, the damage was done. For duelling was illegal and there were unavoidable consequences.

  Captain Fortescue took his reprimand with a sore head but in good heart, apologized handsomely and was told that was the end of the affair. But Lieutenant Leigh was intransigent with hurt pride. He could not agree that apologies were in order, he maintained that he had been mortally offended and that any man worth his salt would have done the same, and finally, pushed to make a choice between apology and leaving the regiment, he offered his resignation which was instantly accepted, there being a buyer apparently waiting for it. He was a private citizen before he’d absorbed the two demoralizing facts that he’d fought a duel with his old friend and made a complete and public fool of himself.

  ‘Downright sorry to see ’ee go, Leigh,’ the General said. ‘Give ’ee a word of advice, me boy. Mind the ladies. Been the downfall of many a good man, so they have. Ladies and gossip, don’t ye know. Well, well. I wish ’ee good fortune.’

  What a peculiar thing to say, Calverley thought as he saluted, for he’d never heard of an officer being refused a commission because of an affair. Quite the reverse in fact. And in any case, there were very few ladies in his life just at the moment. In fact he’d been more or less faithful to Nan ever since their row, and she was hardly the sort of woman to cause gossip.

  But once he’d left the general’s room, he put the puzzle from his mind, for there was another and greater problem for him to face. Now whether he would or no, he would have to find some new way to earn his living. He spent a hungover morning considering possibilities and had to admit that there weren’t very many. He certainly couldn’t work for Nan. That was quite out of the question. In truth, there were very few people he could work for, since the only two things he knew anything about were horses and military manoeuvres. Finally and in desperation he decided that the best thing he could do would be to write to his famous relation, the renowned Colonel Leigh, racing manager to the Prince of Wales, who was in Brighton at present supervising the local Derby.

  It took a lot of thought and inordinate quantities of brandy. So much in fact that after it was written and dispatched he couldn’t remember a word of it. But it must have been in order, for Colonel Leigh wrote back.

  ‘I wld have liked to have met my relation,’ he wrote, ‘howsomever present commitments do not allow such a luxury. Shd Mr Leigh care to write to Mr Chaplin, who runs stagecoaches and may be contacted at the Cross-Keys in Wood St London, he might well find that the said Mr Chaplin wld have a use for him. I wish my relation well and have the honour to be,

  Yr obednt servt J. Leigh (Colonel)’

  It was at least a hope. So another brandy-enriched letter was composed and dispatched, and after an agonizing seven days, the answer came. If Mr Leigh would care to present himself at the Cross-Keys at seven of the clock on a Thursday morning, Mr Chaplin would be happy to meet him.

  The next day was Wednesday. He packed a carpet-bag, said goodbye to his old companions, and caught the overnight coach so that he would have a day and a night with Nan before his appointment. ‘At least my Nan will be glad of this,’ he said to Fortie. ‘For ain’t she been urgin’ me to come to London?’

  ‘That’s it,’ Fortescue said. ‘Look on the bright side.’

  It was a very cold journey. He was as stiff as a corpse when he arrived at the Cross-Keys, and the early morning sun, which had risen as an apologetic white disc as they crossed the North Downs, was now completely obscured by dark blue storm-clouds which gloomed and lowered above the rooftops ominously full of rain. And as if to emphasize that he was in new territory now, and Nan Easter’s territory at that, propped in a prominent position in the corner of the courtyard was a dapper green handcart with the legend ‘A. Easter – Newsagent’ painted in gold in its side. It was attended by a cheerful urchin whose green beaver hat was similarly labelled and who offered him a ‘mornin’ piper, Sir!’ in the confident expectation that he would buy one. Which he did.

  Then he took a flyer to Cheyne Row. By this time thunder was growling somewhere to the south of the river and the clouds overhead were as black as grapes. The air was oppressive and the streets awash with mud. He was quite glad when the flyer squelched to a halt beside Nan’s door.

  Bessie was very pleased to see him and ushered him in and took his carpet-bag and his wet cloak and hat and told him the missus was in the drawing-room.

  He ran up the stairs two at a time in his eagerness to see her. She was sitting at her desk doing her accounts, wearing a wine-red day dress which looked exceedingly businesslike and with her hair drawn up into a tight knot on the top of her head, a no-nonsense knot.

  ‘My heart alive, Calverley!’ she said. ‘What’s brought you here today of all days? I’m just off to Chichester in four mintues. Thank ’ee, Bessie. Pray tell Thiss I’m nearly ready to leave.’

  It wasn’t very welcoming. ‘Say you ain’t pleased to see me!’ he tried to tease her.

  ‘Uncommon pleased,’ she said, but she was busy with her accounts and didn’t look at him.

  He was cast down and showed it. ‘Must you travel today?’ he said. ‘Delay until tomorrow. Or the day after. Business will wait, surely?’

  ‘Today as ever is,’ she insisted, and this time rather fiercely. ‘I have promised to travel with Sophie Fuseli. A dear friend of ours stands trial for his life. ’Ten’t a matter may be delayed.’ Why, oh why did he have to turn up today of all days? What miserable bad timing!

  ‘When do you return?’

  ‘’Twill depend upon the judge,’ she said, cleaning her pen. ‘Two days or three. Who can tell?’

  He sighed heavily and the expression on his face was that of a discontented child. ‘I’ve such news to tell ’ee,’ he said, ‘yet you mean to leave me the moment I arrive.’

  ‘What is your news, you foolish crittur?’ she said, putting down her pen. ‘Tell me quickly.’

  ‘I have left the army,’ he said. ‘I have come to London to seek employment with Mr Chaplin the coach-maker. There now, what think ’ee? We may live together as we please, with no more partings, just as you planned.’

  He’d felt so sure the news would please her but she didn’t even smile. She closed her account book, and went through the connecting door into her bedroom to collect her coat and bonnet and her carpet-bag without saying a word.

  ‘How now, Nan,’ he said trailing after her. ‘I thought you would be glad of it.’

  ‘My job wasn’t good enough for ’ee, I notice’ she said, putting on her coat. ‘When I offered you said you would stay in the army for ever. How you change!’

  ‘I have an appointment with Mr Chaplin tomorrow morning,’ he said, trying to bluff it out. ‘How if we went to the theatre tonight? There is a capital play at Drury Lane. This trial can wait, surely.’

  She stood before the looking-glass to arrange her bonnet over that serious top-knot. ‘I told you,’ she said. ‘I promised to go to Chichester with Sophie, and I’m late enough as it is. Now I must be off or I shall miss the stage. Shall I take you back to town or will you stay here ’til I return?’

  The thought of being entertained in her house without her was suddenly demoralizing. ‘I shall return to the Cross-Keys,’ he said, still trying to make light of this, ‘since you spurn me.’ />
  They were back at the Cross-Keys so quickly he’d hardly had a chance to say more than four words to her. The storm was immediately overhead and a strong cold rain was buffetting into the chaise.

  ‘You will have a bad journey,’ he predicted, and although it shamed him to admit it, he was pleased to be able to say so.

  ‘I do not doubt it,’ she said, wincing as the rain stung her cheeks. She didn’t want to go to this trial at all. There were far too many others things that needed her attention. She had sold her interest in the cocoa trade but cash was still parlously short and Mr Teshmaker had sent her a rather alarming note that very afternoon saying he ‘felt they should meet as soon as possible to discuss a matter of some urgency, concerning your shares in the merchantman Esmeralda.’ She hadn’t even got time to attend to that and it sounded ominous. But she had given her word to Sophie, and she couldn’t go back on her word, no matter what she might be feeling. Oh, if only he hadn’t chosen this day to arrive! And he was right. It would be a bad journey.

  It was actually worse than either of them could possibly have imagined.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Sophie Fuseli was waiting in the coffee room of the Swan with Two Necks. ‘Oh my dear,’ she said as Nan arrived late and breathless. ‘I am so glad to see you. I could not have borne to travel alone. What kept you?’

  ‘Calverley Leigh,’ Nan said, as they walked from the coffee room into the courtyard. ‘Took it into his head to leave the regiment, so he has, and come up to London, all on the gad, to beg Mr Chaplin to employ him. After all that ol’ squit about staying a soldier for ever and ever, and turning down my good offer. What do ’ee think of that?’

  ‘’Tis a fickle creature,’ Sophie said, as they took their seats inside the Chichester stage, ‘like all his sex. Ain’t I always said so?’

  ‘To turn up now,’ Nan grumbled, ‘at such a moment.’ She was still aggrieved at his bad timing.

  The storm had increased its fury, with sheet lightning suddenly holding the sky transfixed in impossible brightness and thunder so menacing it hurt their eardrums and made the coach windows rattle. Their team of horses stood disconsolately between the shafts, while rain water dripped into their eyes and streamed from their sodden shanks. The coachman was declaring loudly that he was ‘of two minds whether to take ’em out or no,’ and the two outside passengers hadn’t emerged from the inn.