Someone mentioned the death of the little Duke of Gloucester, the son of the Princess Anne, sister of the late Queen Mary and sister-in-law of the King. The little Duke had lived only eleven years.
“Poor woman,” said Arabella. “What she has gone through! Seventeen children and not one of them to live. I hear she is heartbroken. All her hopes were centred on that child.”
“It’s a matter of concern to the country also,” said my grandfather. “If William is not to last long, the only alternative is Anne, and if she does not produce a child what then?”
“There’ll be many eyes turned towards the throne during the next year or so, I’ll swear,” said Leigh.
“You mean from across the water,” added Thomas Willerby.
“Aye, I do,” agreed Leigh.
“Anne has many years left to her. She is thirty-five or thereabouts, I believe,” said Priscilla.
“And,” said my grandfather, “she has shown she cannot bear healthy children.”
“Poor little Duke,” said my mother. “I saw him when we were in London once exercising his Dutch Guards in the park. He was a real little soldier.”
“A sad creature,” said Harriet. “His head was too big for his body. It was clear for a long time that he couldn’t last long.”
“Eleven years old and to die! The King was fond of him, I think.”
“William has never had much affection to spare for anyone,” said Leigh.
“No,” agreed my grandfather, “but a King’s duty is not to spare affection but to rule his country and that is something William has done with commendable skill.”
“But what now, Carleton?” asked Thomas Willerby. “What now?”
“After William … Anne,” said my grandfather. “Nothing for it. We can hope that she produces another son … this time, a healthy one.”
“If not,” said Benjie, “there may be trouble.”
“Oh enough of all this talk of strife,” cried Harriet. “Wars never brought any good to anyone. Is this Christmas talk? Let us have a little more of the season of peace and goodwill and less of what will happen if … If is a word I never did greatly like.”
“Talking of wars,” said my grandfather with a malicious glance at Harriet. “There is going to be trouble over Spain. What do you think”—he glanced towards Leigh and Benjie—“of the grandson of the French King taking the crown of Spain?”
“Dangerous,” said Leigh.
“Not good,” agreed Benjie.
“Now what has Spain to do with us?” said my grandmother.
“We can’t have France in command of half of Europe,” cried my grandfather. “Surely you see that.”
“No, I don’t,” said Arabella. “I do believe you like trouble.”
“When it’s there, we’re not so stupid as to turn our faces from it.”
Harriet waved her hands to the gallery and the minstrels started to play.
My grandfather looked at her steadily. “Have you ever heard of an Emperor who took his fiddle and played while Rome was burning?”
“I’ve heard of him,” said Harriet, “and I have always thought he must have been devoted to the fiddle.”
“You don’t believe me, do you?” said my grandfather. “Let me tell you this, that in the life of our country things happen which at the time seem of small importance to those who are too blind to see their real significance, or who are so bemused by their desire for peace that they look the other way. And what affects our country affects us. A little boy has died. Prince William, Duke of Gloucester. That little boy would have been King in due course. Now he’s dead. You may think it is unimportant. Wait and see.”
“Carleton, they should have called you Jeremiah,” said Harriet mockingly.
“You get too excited about things which may never happen,” put in my grandmother. “Who is going to lead the dance?”
My grandfather rose and took her by the hand. I was not the least bit interested in this talk of conflict about the throne. I didn’t see how it could affect me.
How wrong I was, I was soon to discover.
It was the following day. We were all seated at table again when we had a visitor.
Ned Netherby had ridden over from Netherby Hall and he was clearly distraught.
He came into the hall where we were gathered.
“You’re just in time for dinner,” my mother began.
Then we were all staring at him, for he had obviously ridden over in great haste.
“Have you heard?” he began. “No … evidently not …”
“What’s wrong, Ned?” said my grandfather.
“It’s General Langdon.”
“That man,” said my grandfather. “He’s a Papist, I truly believe.”
“He obviously is. They’ve caught him. He’s a prisoner in the Tower.”
“What?” cried my grandfather.
“He was betrayed. He tried to drag me in,” said Ned. “Thank God he didn’t.”
My mother had turned pale. She was avoiding looking at Leigh. I could sense the terrible fear which had come to her.
No, I thought, not Leigh. He won’t get caught in any plots.
“That’s why he was here a little while ago,” went on Ned Netherby. “He was trying to recruit … an army, I suppose. He’s been discovered, caught. It’ll be his head, you’ll see.”
“What was his plan, do you think?” said Carl.
“To bring James back and set him up on the throne, obviously.”
“The rogue!” cried my grandfather.
“Well, it’s come to nothing,” said Ned. “Thank God I kept out of it.”
“I should hope you would, Ned,” said my grandfather. “Papists in England! No. We’ve had enough of their like.”
“I thought I’d come …” Ned was looking at Leigh.
“Thanks,” said Leigh. “I am not involved either. It was good of you, Ned.”
“Thank God for that. I knew he had been here. Do you think we shall be suspected?”
My mother put her hand to her heart, and Leigh immediately laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Of course not,” he said. “Everyone knows our leanings. We’re staunchly behind William and we shall be with Anne.”
“And after her the Hanoverians if she has no issue!” roared my grandfather.
“The same with us,” said Ned. “But I thought I’d let you know.”
“So he is in the Tower. It’s where he belongs.” My grandfather beat his fist on the table, a habit of his when he wished to show authority or vehemence. “What do you think he was going to do, eh, Ned?”
“He hinted when he came here,” said Leigh. “He’s sounding people out to find out how many would rally to James’s banner if he came back. I don’t think he found many. We’ve all had enough of war. As for civil war, there’s not a man in the country who wants that. James will be wise to stay where he is.”
“Well then,” said Harriet, “the plot is over. I wonder what will happen to our General?”
“It’ll be his head,” growled my grandfather. “We cannot afford to have his like prowling around. It’s a sorry state of affairs when generals in the King’s army are ready to play the traitor.”
“The trouble is,” said Harriet, “he would think it was you who were playing traitor to James, who was after all the King.”
My grandfather ignored her and my mother said, “Ned, do sit down and join us.”
She was very grateful to him but I knew she was going to be uneasy for some time to come. Ever since my grandfather had been taken during the Monmouth Rebellion she was terrified of our men becoming involved in some intrigue.
She was at her most fierce when she spoke of their folly in this respect.
That evening had lost its festive air. I was melancholy thinking of the gallant General in a comfortless cell in the Tower of London and contemplating how easily ill fortune could come along.
We heard more of the affair as the days passed. It was not being gen
erally regarded with any great surprise. There had been so many who wanted James back and the Jacobite Movement was known to flourish throughout England. The only difference was that this might be considered to be of more importance than most of the plots because it was being organized by one of the generals of William’s army.
However, no one we knew was implicated. We heard that the General had not yet been tried but soon would be, and as the days passed I, at least, forgot about it.
I had other matters with which to occupy myself, for during those Christmas holidays Benjie again asked me to marry him.
I still declined to give him a definite answer but he was a great deal in my mind.
He said: “You don’t still think of Beaumont Granville, do you?”
I hesitated.
“Oh, but he’s gone, Carlotta. He’ll never come back now. If he had intended to he would have done so long ago.”
“I think I must be the faithful kind, Benjie.”
“My dearest Carlotta, do you know what Harriet said to me the other day? She said: ‘Carlotta cherishes a dream. It’s about a man who never existed.’ ”
“Beau existed, Benjie.”
“Not as you see him. What Harriet means is you built up a picture about him and it was a false one.”
“I knew him very well. He never pretended to me that he was other than he was.”
“He’s gone, Carlotta. He could be dead.”
“Sometimes,” I said, “I think he must be. Oh, Benjie, if only I could find out the truth and if he is dead how he died … I think I could begin to start again.”
“I’m going to find out,” said Benjie. “He’s abroad somewhere, and Harriet said that he would be in some fashionable city. He would never bury himself in the country. I’m going to marry you, Carlotta. Remember that.”
“You’re good to me, Benjie,” I said. “Go on loving me … please.”
Perhaps that was an admission. Perhaps I knew that I would one day marry Benjie.
At the end of January Harriet, Gregory and Benjie went back to Eyot Abbass. Harriet had now firmly decided that the sooner I married Benjie the better. She asked me to go and stay with them soon.
“When the spring comes,” she said, “I shall expect you.”
It was May when I set out to visit Harriet.
My mother was in a happy state of mind. It was clear now that there would be no reverberations about General Langdon and I was sure she believed that when I returned I would announce my betrothal to Benjie. It was what she wanted. It would bind us all more closely together.
Leigh was always busy about his land. He was cultivating more and more. They were all very pleased that there had actually been a new Act of Settlement which declared that Princess Anne was next in the line of succession to William, and that if she died without heirs the throne should go to the descendants of Sophia of Hanover, providing they were Protestants.
Leigh said: “It’s sensible. It shows clearly that we’ll never have James back. And it means that England will never consider any but a Protestant King.”
I felt impatient with all this talk about religion. “What difference does it make?” I cried. “Who cares whether we have a Protestant or Catholic King?”
“It makes a difference when men start quarrelling about it and insist that others think as they do,” explained Leigh.
“Which is just what they are doing with this Act of Settlement,” I pointed out.
I didn’t really care. I just wanted to be argumentative. Perhaps I did feel a little resentment at the treatment of the Catholics, as my father had died because he was one and dear old Robert Frinton, who had left me his fortune, had been a staunch adherent of the Catholic Church. And now General Langdon was going to come to a tragic end. I knew these men courted danger—all of them—but I was impatient with their intolerance towards each other.
However, the fact that the King was obviously ailing, although there was an attempt to prevent this becoming public knowledge, did not matter as much because there was the Princess Anne to step onto the throne if he should die; and although she was without heirs, she was only in her thirties and there was always the Electress Sophia with her brood in the background.
So I prepared to leave for Eyot Abbass.
Damaris was sent by my mother to help me sort out my clothes. My mother was always trying to bring us together and created a fantasy in her mind that we were devoted to each other. That Damaris had a blind adoration of me I knew. She loved to brush my hair for me. She liked to put my clothes away; and when I was dressed ready for dinner when we had guests or was going riding, she would stand before me, that little round rosebud mouth of hers quite eloquent in her admiration.
“You are the most beautiful girl in the world,” she once said to me.
“How do you know?” I asked. “I suppose you’re a connoisseur of the beauties of all countries, are you?”
“Well,” she replied, “you must be.”
“Why, because I’m your sister and you think everything connected with our family is better than everything else?”
“No,” she answered. “Because you are so beautiful nobody could be more so.”
I should have been pleased by this simple adoration but it irritated me. She was all that I was not. Born in wedlock of a happy marriage. A good child, truly enjoying going with my mother to visit the poor and taking baskets of food to them. She really cared when somebody’s roof leaked and she would even beard our grandfather in his private chamber and beg him to do something about it, although he terrified her. She was not the sort of child he was interested in and characteristically he made no effort to pretend he was. He did everything he could to intensify her fear of him. Grandmother Arabella scolded him for it and was particularly sweet to Damaris because of it. My grandfather preferred a rebel like me. He had not really wanted to stop my marriage to Beau, although he had ridden out after us when we eloped. He thought it would be good for me to learn my own lessons. There was a great deal of him in me and he knew it, and as he thought what he was was the right thing to be, he had an affection for me which he never would have for Damaris.
She folded my gowns, stroking them as she did so.
“I love this blue one, Carlotta,” she said. “It’s the colour of peacocks’ feathers. The colour of your eyes.”
“Indeed it is not,” I said. “My eyes are several shades lighter.”
“But they look this colour when you wear this gown.”
“Damaris, how old are you?”
“Nearly twelve,” she said.
“Then it is time you started thinking about what brings out the blue in your own eyes.”
“But mine are not blue,” she said. “They’re no colour at all. They’re like water. Sometimes they look grey, sometimes green, and only a little blue if I wear something of a very deep blue. And I haven’t those lovely black lashes; mine are light brown and they don’t show very much.”
“Damaris, I can see what you look like very well and I don’t want a detailed description. What shoes have you packed?”
She started to enumerate them, smiling in her usual good-tempered way. It was impossible to ruffle Damaris.
Twelve years old, I mused. I was just past twelve when I first met Beau. I was very different from Damaris. Aware even then of those glances that came my way. Damaris never saw anything but sick animals and tenants who were in need of repairs to their dwellings. She would make a very good wife for someone as stolid and virtuous as herself.
“Oh, get along, Damaris,” I said. “I can do this better myself.”
Crestfallen, she went. I was unkind to her. I should have tried to deserve a little of that admiration which she gave me so unstintingly. Poor pudgy little Damaris, I thought. She would always be the one to serve others and forget herself. She would live pleasantly … for others and never really have a life of her own.
If I wasn’t so impatient with her I could find time to be sorry for her.
I was
to leave the next day; and there was quite a ceremonial supper at Eversleigh, for my grandmother always insisted on our going over on occasions like this.
My uncle Carl, my mother’s brother, was home on leave. He had followed the family tradition and gone into the army. He was very like his father and Carleton was rather proud of him.
My grandmother gave me lots of messages for Harriet and had prepared some herbs and lotions which she thought might interest her. They would go with my baggage on one of the pack horses. It was a three-day journey taken in easy stages, and they were discussing the route by which I should go. As I had done it many times before this seemed unnecessary.
I protested that they were making it seem like the feast of the Passover.
Grandfather laughed and said: “Oh, our lady Carlotta is a seasoned traveller.”
“Enough of one to feel that all this discussion is unwarranted,” I said.
“I heard that the Black Boar is a most reliable inn,” put in Arabella.
“I can verify that,” said Carl. “I spent a night there on the way here.”
“Then you must go to the Black Boar,” said my mother.
“I wonder why they call it the Black Boar,” asked Damaris.
“They keep one there to set on the travellers they don’t like,” said my grandfather.
Damaris looked alarmed and my mother said: “Your grandfather is teasing, Damaris.”
Then the political talk started and once that had begun my grandfather would not let it stop. My grandmother suggested that we leave the men to fight their imaginary battles while we gave ourselves to more serious matters.
So the females sat in the cosy winter parlour and talked about my journey and what I must take, and that I must not allow Harriet to keep me too long. I was delighted when we left for the Dower House.
The next morning I was up at dawn. My mother and Damaris were in the stables and my mother assured herself that everything I should need was on the two packhorses. Three grooms were accompanying me and one of them was to look after the packhorses. My mother wore her anxious look.
“I shall expect a messenger to be sent back to me as soon as you arrive.”
Song of the Siren Page 5