by Peter McAra
‘Let the witness speak forthwith. This court has no time to waste.’
Now Louisa stepped towards the judge.
‘If it please Your Honour, I can prove beyond all doubt that the prisoner is Eliza Downing.’
‘How, pray?’
‘Because I know she has a scar — here.’ Louisa pointed to her right shoulder.’ The judge looked down at her, evidently puzzled. ‘I saw the…accident which gave her the scar. In the schoolroom at the Great House, when she was but a wicked child. With ideas above her station.’
Eliza remembered the moment. Anger at some revelation of her ignorance in Mr Harcourt’s schoolroom, and the implicit conclusion that Eliza was far brighter than she, had fired Louisa’s rage. She had grabbed a cup and thrown it at Eliza with all her strength. The cup had smashed, cutting Eliza’s skin. Mrs Hawkins, the kindly housekeeper, had bandaged the cut, tut-tutting at Miss Louisa’s naughtiness as she fed the injured Eliza a modest spoonful of sympathy.
‘The prisoner will show her right shoulder to the court.’ The judge sighed. Eliza reached for the top button of her dress. She remembered that Judge Fortescue was an impatient man. It would not help her case, doomed as it was, if she delayed her response. She peeled back her collar. The scar glowed red, jagged, on her white skin. A murmur spread across the courtroom.
‘I take it you are indeed Eliza Downing, prisoner at the bar.’ Strangely, the judge now smiled down at her.
‘Indeed that was my name, sir. But I have married since then. My new name is — ’
‘It is well for you that your former name is now before the court, ma’am.’ His smile widened.
Eliza recoiled. What could the judge mean? By revealing the scar, she had revealed her past; a past which must surely damn her to the horrors of transportation, or worse. Puzzlement wafted across the crowded gallery. Why had the usually stern judge smiled at the prisoner who had, by her admission, virtually clapped herself in irons?
‘You will doubtless recall my judgement from the last time you stood before me, Mrs Bentleigh,’ the judge said, his voice loud, judge-like. Eliza nodded, again astonished at his sudden courtesies. The tone of his words suggested he might be a guest at a dinner party, making conversation with the lady seated beside him. ‘And you may well remember the spirited defence of your actions which you delivered to the court. With reference to the men from Tolpuddle, if you recall. That infamous strike as they worked on their employers’ farms.’ He paused, evidently to give her time to recall the moment.
‘I must admit to being impressed with your words, ma’am,’ he continued. ‘You spoke to the effect that Englishmen are not slaves, and could not therefore be punished for choosing not to work if they decide that the wages offered them are insufficient reward for their efforts.’ He smiled at the gallery, rubbed his hands.
‘Wise words indeed, Mrs Bentleigh. Indeed, you — and most Englishmen — may not know this, but the law under which the men of Tolpuddle were sentenced, the Unlawful Oaths Act, has lately been repealed since it was found to be contrary to British justice.’ Noisy discussion exploded across the gallery. He smiled down at her yet again, and whispered. ‘Exactly as you argued last time you stood in this spot, Mrs Bentleigh.’ Was it a smile of approval, she wondered? The judge cleared his throat, pounded his gavel for silence.
‘So I now report that the Tolpuddle Martyrs, as they have been quaintly described, have lately been released.’ Now his smile positively glowed as he looked down at Eliza.
‘And so, therefore, are you, Mrs Bentleigh.’
The murmuring from the gallery, which had become subdued as the judge made his oration, now exploded. The audience stood, some happy with the judge’s revelation, others puzzled, and a faction, led by an angry Louisa De Havilland, evidently enraged.
‘But she has broken the law,’ Louisa bellowed. ‘Escaped from lawful custody.’
‘That custody was not lawful, ma’am,’ the judge smiled. ‘Mrs Bentleigh is hereby free to walk wherever she will upon God’s earth. And the law duly apologises for her hurt.’ The bedlam continued.
‘My dear Mrs Bentleigh.’ Again, the judge leaned towards her from his bench and whispered, his voice almost drowned in the chaos filling the room. ‘May I suggest that you remain here, close to my bench, until the crowd disperses? Then later, I can arrange for you to leave safely.’ An hour later, escorted by the judge, Eliza left the forbidding grey building, she hoped forever.
That night, after treating herself to a hearty dinner of beef and Yorkshire pudding, Eliza retired to her room to plan her next move. First, she must hasten to New South Wales. Was there the faintest chance she could find Harry there, as he searched in vain for her? Whatever, she must take ship as soon as she could. Next morning she took a coach to Southampton. When she arrived three days later, she walked along the wharf, enquiring from anyone she met.
‘I hear clippers are the fastest ships nowadays. I seek a quick passage to New South Wales.’
‘Nay, ma’am. No clipper has ever made a voyage so far. They be all taken up with the trade to America.’
‘Steamships. Does any steamship venture as far as New South Wales?’
‘No, my lady. No steamship could carry enough coal to travel so far. But speak to Captain Holsworth, master of the Lady Constance. He be taking a load of woven cloth to Sydney Town, so I hears. Along with a handful of passengers as wants to make their fortunes down there.’
‘We sail at dawn tomorrow on the tide, ma’am,’ the good captain told her. ‘We have but one cabin left — the owner’s cabin. Expensive.’
‘I’ll take it.’
‘Fifty guineas, ma’am.’
‘Done.’ She counted the heavy coins into the surprised captain’s hand, and boarded the elegant Lady Constance that evening, her bags loaded with fashionable new clothes, sweetmeats, and books. She had learned that the only other ship to have set sail for Botany Bay, the Lady Caroline, had left perhaps a month ago. As the Lady Constance sailed south, she would spend many an hour leaning over the rail, wishing for more favourable winds, and a swift passage through the doldrums. When at last the Lady Constance reached Sydney Town, it was distinctly possible that she might have missed Harry by mere days. Since his ship had left a month earlier, depending on its ports of call, it might arrive a month before the Lady Constance. And Harry might then have spent a month, or more, or less, searching for her.
She pictured his meeting with Sydney Town’s harbour master; his learning that the Swan had been wrecked on the South Coast with the loss of all hands, a year and more since. He would conclude that Eliza was dead. She must not speculate on his emotions if and when that happened, but he would likely return to England to continue his life as a landed gentleman.
‘I say.’ As Eliza leaned on the rail watching the wharf labourers load the ship, she turned to see a tall, slender dandy of a man approaching her along the deck.
‘A woman. So it was you who stole the cabin reserved for me.’ His accent fitted his outfit — pretentious.
‘I beg your pardon.’ She was quite able to look down her nose at someone who seemed all airs and graces.
‘I told the captain but one week ago that I wished to make the voyage to Botany Bay,’ the dandy continued. ‘Now he tells me I must squeeze into a modest cabin below decks because a princess has lately paid for my stateroom.’
‘Perhaps you should have paid for it a week ago.’ The more Eliza behaved as a wealthy gentlewoman, more she enjoyed it. ‘Like most of us, the captain would have preferred a bird in the hand…’ She took hold of her skirt, flicked it so that it hung straight.
‘But I waited to read the latest despatch from Charles Darwin,’ the man snarled. ‘To learn of his progress. Not that you would understand such issues of science.’
‘You mean the voyage of the Beagle?’ Since her first years in the schoolroom with Harry and Louisa, Eliza had continued to nourish her always-alive appetite for science. ‘I understand that Mr Darwin, though a geo
logist by education, is something of a pioneer in natural history.’ She paused to enjoy the astonished look flash across the man’s face. ‘I must admit to having read some of his latest papers — revolutionary, but logically sound. I look forward to — ’
‘You? You, a follower of Darwin?’
‘Indeed. You should understand that I live in New South Wales. I learned that the Beagle is due to visit there on its voyage round the world. I must hope that Mr Darwin makes the acquaintance of the platypus. It will challenge his — ’
‘You know of the platypus?’
‘I have seen one in my garden.’
The man’s whole persona changed. His confronting pose melted into admiration.
‘May I introduce myself? James Brandon, Knight. Humbly at your service.’ Eliza smiled.
‘Mrs Eliza Bentleigh, widow.’ She could revert to her real Christian name after two years of hiding it. ‘And I must confess to a delight that you reveal a passion for natural history. As I do.’
‘Indeed, Mrs Bentleigh. I wonder if I might expect the pleasure of discussions with you, perhaps in the evenings after dinner?’
‘I look forward to the prospect,’ she smiled. The monster had melted into a lamb. ‘We shall have several months to discuss things. And indeed, we shall see nature in the raw as we sail. The islands, the sea in all its moods, and eventually, the stars of the Southern Hemisphere.’
At dawn, the ship cast off and made its way south. Over following days, Eliza learned that the passengers, a mere dozen or two, were a clique of wealthy science buffs who had determined to follow Darwin, physically and intellectually. Their wives were cut from different cloth — most of them motherly middle-aged ladies who spent most of their days at their embroidery. James Brandon, she soon learned, was a bachelor. An eligible bachelor, in the words of her married women friends, with a large estate in rural Devon.
In the privacy of her luxurious cabin, Eliza sighed. Yet again, she had found herself with the prospect of spending much time close to an interesting man; a man who would likely come to wish to progress their friendship into love, or matrimony. No matter, she loved, could only ever love, one man. And with every breath of wind, she was being carried closer to him. Blow, fair winds, blow.
CHAPTER 35
Ever since Harry’s and Eliza’s departures, Maynard Hailsham had moped about Brierley Hall, lost in a slough of despond. His elder sister Lucinda had noticed that nothing, but nothing, for all her efforts, could restore his youthful joie de vivre.
‘What ails you, Brother?’ she asked him over tea one afternoon as he sat listless, eyes downcast. ‘Tell me the truth; the whole truth.’
‘I cannot fathom it,’ he said, and let forth a long sigh. ‘But since Alice Bentleigh left, I have no spirit to live.’
‘You mean you wish to die?’
‘No — and yes. What is the point to living if one is forever sad?’
‘Why are you sad? You have so much to live for.’ She waved an arm towards the fountain that played nearby. ‘You live in a beautiful house, set in one of England’s finest gardens. Your every whim is fulfilled by loyal, good-hearted servants. You have at hand as many diversions as a man could wish for: wealth, a fine stable of horses, a bevy of highborn young women longing for you to pay court to them.’
‘I wish to pay court to only one woman. And she is forever beyond my reach.’
‘Hah!’ Lucinda smiled, spread her hands. ‘How obvious! I should have known. That cloud of darkness now surrounding you — it swept over you the moment she left.’ She put her teacup carefully onto its saucer. ‘Pray tell me, why is Alice forever beyond your reach?’
‘T’is of no matter.’
‘T’is of great matter. You think I can suffer my brother’s pain gladly? I warn you here and now, Maynard. I will take you in hand forthwith. I will help you to find Alice as soon as possible. Then you can pay court to her. She is a widow, is she not?’
‘Yes, but, but…’ He recalled her kindly but utterly clear rejections of his kisses, his confessions of love.
‘There is no earthly reason why you cannot go to Marley to begin your search. That was the village she had lately visited, was it not? Indeed, it was where you met her. Where she searched for Harry De Havilland.’
‘Yes, but — ’
‘No more buts, Brother. You are sunk in the depths of melancholy. Everything is too hard when you are sunk so low. I know. I too have inhabited the slough of despond once or twice. The only cure is to be up and about betimes.’ She stood. ‘Go to your chambers. Have your servants pack your bags for a holiday of two weeks or more. You will begin your search at Morton-Somersby, home of your friend Harry. You will recall that you met Mrs Bentleigh there. I will speak to the groom, the coachman. Tell them you wish to leave for Marley bright and early on the morrow. Now go, Brother.’
‘But — ’
‘No more buts, I said.’
‘But Alice. She doesn’t love me. I…kissed her and she rejected me.’
‘Nonsense! You must kiss her again, more ardently. Choose a romantic moment. Give her flowers. Write her love notes. Remember, Maynard. Faint heart never won fair lady.’
Four days later, in the prime of the morning, Maynard Hailsham’s coach drove through the gates of Somersby-Morton and stopped at the sweeping staircase of The Great House. A maid scurried down the stairs.
‘Viscount apparent Maynard Hailsham of Brierley Hall,’ he volunteered. ‘Come to visit my old comrade Mr Harry De Havilland.’ The maid looked down, confused. ‘We were at Oxford together, until he — ’
‘Oh, sir. You’re not from these parts?’
‘Indeed no. But I come to visit a very dear friend. I have missed his company for far too long.’ The maid wrung her hands in her apron.
‘Then you have not heard the news, sir?’
‘No.’
‘Well sir, I hardly knows where to begin.’ She drew a long, shaky breath. ‘Sir John, Mr Harry’s father, has lately died. And the estate — the bankers are set to take possession.’ She wrung her hands even more desperately. ‘Sir John was near to bankrupt. The bankers will — ’
‘But what of Mr Harry?’
‘He lately left for Southampton. To take ship to Botany Bay.’
‘Ah, yes. He spoke of that. But Botany Bay? But why on earth…?’
‘He left in haste, sir. Didn’t tell no one. But he were not himself, sir. He were…down. He’d lost his father, then his estate, all at once. We think he aimed to escape. Go beyond the seas. Make a new life there, away from all this.’ She gestured helplessly.
‘But I understand he may have come into an inheritance. Last time I visited Marley, I encountered a lady who sought him to discuss the matter. I should like to find that lady. Ask her about her connections with Mr Harry.’ The maid looked up at him, puzzled.
‘The lady, recently widowed. Name of Mrs Alice Bentleigh. Do you know of her?’
‘Why sir, I don’t. Perhaps you should ask at the neighbour’s house.’ She pointed. ‘Thurber Hall. A fine mansion. Mr Thurber be a rich man. I believe Mr Harry might have begun to court his daughter, Miss Agatha.’
‘Enough.’ Maynard turned towards his coach. ‘My thanks for your information. I must be off. Tell me, is there not some inn nearby where I could stay?’
‘Indeed, sir. The Lively Goat, not two miles from here.’ She pointed again.
Agatha Thurber sat in the summerhouse, head down, her folded hands steepled under her chin, an untouched cup of tea beside her. She looked up as she heard the click of her mother’s elegant shoes on the paved path.
‘There, there, my child.’ Mrs Thurber took a seat, sipped at the cup poured by the maid in anticipation. ‘I said before, and I say it again. That bumped-up rake Harry De Havilland was simply not worthy of you. And now he’s proved it beyond doubt. Botany Bay, for goodness sake. Why on earth would your fiancé — well almost — go to the ends of the earth?’
‘He didn’t like me, Mother. Ever. I
always suspected he was in love with Eliza Downing. Perhaps for years. And she a common peasant girl.’
‘Mmm.’ Mrs Thurber took a long sip of her tea. ‘One wonders how she ever came by that intellect. By all accounts, she was extremely intelligent. Harry’s father had employed her as a pacing horse for his children, as I recall.’
‘The more reason Harry might have — ’
‘My dear child. Do you not attend to village gossip? The peasant wench was sent to gaol; perhaps even to Botany Bay. Some nonsense about her inciting De Havilland’s workmen to revolt against their master. She is long gone from Mr Harry’s life, my dear. Never to return, I’ll warrant.’ She drained her teacup, rang the small silver bell beside the tray. A maid appeared and took the teapot away refill it.
‘You know, my dear. This whole sorry situation has set me thinking. Perhaps you gave too good an account of yourself during your courting. You always seemed very…forthright with Harry De Havilland.’ The maid arrived with a fresh teapot and filled her mistress’s cup. Mrs Thurber took a sip. ‘I might suggest that next time you meet a young gentleman, you conduct yourself a little more demurely. Already I can picture you in London for next year’s Season. I — ’ She stopped as the maid returned, looking flustered, clutching a visiting card.
‘Excuse me madam, miss. But a gentleman has just drawn up outside. He gave me his card. Said he was an old friend of Mr Harry’s.’ Mrs Thurber’s brow twitched. She took the card and read it aloud.
‘Viscount apparent Maynard Hailsham of Brierley Hall, Avesleigh. Perhaps a day’s ride from these parts, is it not?’ She directed the question to the still morose Agatha, who barely looked up as her mother spoke. ‘Show him in, Pawley. And fetch another cup and saucer, if you please.’
As soon as her eyes met Maynard’s, Mrs Thurber smiled inwardly; an entirely different expression from her formal response to the newly arrived gentleman’s low bow. The young man was pleasant — his head of wavy blond hair, his honest smile, his smart waistcoat, leggings and boots all conspired to foment rare positive feelings in Mrs Thurber’s breast.