“The children had to have someone.” Hawth defended himself.
“You come home and see what it’s like,” said George Warren. “I saw your Susan in Glinde the other day. It’s true, what Miss Warrender said. She doesn’t look well. And so much older. I was, well, surprised. They need a mother, those children of yours, Hawth.”
“Thanks!” said Lord Hawth. But the remark went on echoing strangely in his mind.
Chapter Eleven
The two men drove down to Glinde together a couple of weeks later, George Warren having passed his time contentedly enough between Lawrence’s studio, the House of Commons to hear an unsatisfactory debate on the Orders in Council on a motion moved by Mr. Brougham, and Covent Garden where the ageing Mrs. Siddons was making too many last appearances.
“Her voice is going, I’m afraid,” Warren told Lord Hawth as they set forward across Westminster Bridge on a fine morning of mid-March. And then, “It’s a fine prospect!” He was looking downriver to the distant view of St. Paul’s as he quoted:
“Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
I don’t quite know what made Mr. Wordsworth call it smokeless,” he went on, observing morning smoke from dozens of urban chimneys.
“Wordsworth wrote that? No wonder the Edinburgh Review don’t care for his poems. But as to the smoke, I expect he came to London in summer. It’s better then.”
“But the river stinks.”
Hawth laughed. “You’re not a true romantic either.”
“How can one be, in the world as it is? London always saddens me. So much luxury, and so much wretchedness.”
“Don’t say you’re coming out as a revolutionary now.” Hawth, who had slowed his horses to let his friend admire the view, whipped them up and took his curricle rattling down the other side of the bridge. “That’s all’ I need!”
“Liberty, equality and fraternity? Not on the French style anyway. But as an American, I suppose I’m revolutionary by definition. Your people seem to think so down at Tidemills.”
“Then for God’s sake be careful what you say.”
“There’s trouble, isn’t there?” George Warren had seen little of his friend in the last two weeks but knew that he had spent a great deal of time at the Home Office.
“There may be. We’re afraid of it.” As once before, he did not identify the “we.” “There are alarming reports from all over the country. Not just Nottingham, though it’s more open there. But secret meetings, twistings in, conspiracy. Oh—” he anticipated George Warren’s objection. “I know they’ve a right to be discontented, what with the war, and your non-importation act. Prices rising, wages falling. And it’s true, too, what you say, the rich do go on seeming rich, though God knows there are bankruptcies enough.”
“But those are among the middle classes,” said George Warren.
“True again! We aristocrats seem to have the gift of survival. That’s what makes us so unpopular. If trouble comes, be sure it will be to us that it comes.”
“I hope you’re not including me among the aristocrats,” said George Warren.
“Oh, you’re an enigma. But you’re a landowner, too. You may find the revolutionaries think you tarred with the same brush as the rest of us.”
“Revolutionaries! But you can’t seriously think—”
“My dear man, the country’s like tinder. One spark and it could be aflame from end to end. And there are so many irritants. You weren’t in town when the House debated the move to give the four Princesses £30,000 a year between them. Nor for Mr. Bankes’ bill against sinecures. There was some hot talk then, I can tell you, and every word of it reported in the public prints.”
“Yes, I read of it. And some pretty strong words about your friend the Prince Regent and that expensive secretary of his, Colonel McMahon. What was it Mr. Lyttleton said? Something about the Prince’s system of unprincipled favouritism—” George Warren stopped, obviously embarrassed.
He got a harsh laugh from Hawth. “‘Hemmed in with minions,’” he quoted. “‘Among whom, if there is a man of note or talent, there certainly is not one of any character.’ You were afraid I might have taken that to myself? Well, so I might, six months ago. Not now. I’m no friend of the Prince Regent’s now, nor he of mine. He’s shown his Tory colours too clearly. When I think of the hopes we Whigs nourished a year ago when the Regency bill was passed! We expected to be in office by spring! All exploded now. Prinney tried to get Lord Grey and Lord Grenville to join the Tory government the other day, but they saw through his tricks. At least, thank God, we’re a united opposition.”
“You don’t think,” suggested Warren diffidently, “that you may do more harm than good by your attack on the government? I mean, you talk of a spark igniting the country. Some of the things your people say, both in the House and out of it, are quite inflammatory. I had no idea you spoke so freely in your Parliament.”
“Thought you Americans had a monopoly in mud-slinging, did you? But it’s true enough, one sees it all the time on the Bench. The strong words of a Burdett or a Brougham, meant for emphasis in the House, may delude some poor ignorant wretch of an illegal trade unionist into thinking they will back him in his violence.”
“And they won’t?”
“Of course not! We Whigs want a change of government, not anarchy.”
“You’re really serious about the danger?”
“I’m serious all right,” said Hawth grimly. “And the worst of it is that there’s evidence suggesting the focal point of the trouble is somewhere down in the county of Glinde.”
“In Glinde! But I thought the worst outbreaks were up North.”
“Yes, so far. But we fear a giant conspiracy for a national uprising. Think of the number of troops we have had to send up north to keep the peace. If trouble were to break out down south—or, worse still, all over—we’d be hard put to it to find the men to fight it. And the militia not over reliable. And as for special constables—well, you know what they are like.”
“I wouldn’t want to count on them for the defence of Warren House against the mob.”
“Precisely.”
“But what makes you think the centre of this conspiracy you speak of lies in Glinde?”
“A very curious thing. You remember the riot down at Tidemills last autumn?”
“I do indeed. The one young Warrender quelled for you.”
“Yes. Naturally, in my capacity as magistrate, I sent a report on that to the Home Office. They sent for me posthaste when the trouble started up north.”
“Oh?”
Lord Hawth steadied his horses for a sharp turn in the road, “Yes. Because I had reported that the stranger who acted as ringleader down at Tidemills had called himself Ned Ludd. Well, you know what they are calling the northern rioters now?”
“Luddites. For that mysterious General Ludd. I see. Ned Ludd. You think it began down in Glinde?”
“Seems so. And then quieted down as suddenly as it had started. As if, perhaps, someone had decided not to call attention to themselves. I could not understand, at the time, why, after so violent a beginning, things settled down so easily at Tidemills. And then there was that odd business of Ludd’s intervening to save the children. I was just grateful, I suppose, at the time. Now, I’m not sure. We begin to wonder if Ludd might not have had his own reasons for wanting things quiet at Glinde. I’m coming back on the Home Secretary’s direct orders. We must know what is being planned, and he thinks the best hope for that is down at Glinde.”
George Warren laughed. “And I thought you were coming because I told you I was anxious about your Sue.”
“You said more than that. You said you thought something was going on at the hall.”
“Yes, I did. But I’m not dead sure what I meant. It was just a feeling I had. Absurd, really, to have made so much of it.”
“We’re a
t a point where we must take note of such things. These are bad times.”
“It’s hard to believe.” They were out in open country by now, driving past spring-green fields and between hedgerows laced with primroses and with blue-and-white violets. It was indeed hard to believe that violence lurked in this placid countryside.
“I was in France in ’89,” said Hawth. “Starting on my grand tour. It was about this time of year, a little later perhaps. I remember the corn was green in the fields as we drove across Normandy. A rich, beautiful country. Oh, there were gibbets, I remember, men hanging in chains. I’d never been to Tyburn …. It shocked me, but I never imagined what was coming, that dark tide of blood that began with the fall of the Bastille that summer. I was in Paris then. I remember the sky red with its burning. I’ve never forgotten it, never will. Nor what came later. We must not let it happen here.”
“What do you think of Kit Warrender?” They had driven in silence for a while and George Warren had been following his own line of thought. “He always seems to be about when there is trouble!”
“And damned elusive the rest of the time,” agreed Hawth. “I intend to have a word with that young man.”
He dropped George Warren at his own house and arrived, unannounced, at the park gates just as dusk was falling. He had done this on purpose. If George Warren was right in his suspicion that something was, as he said, “going on” at the hall, a surprise arrival might achieve some revelation. Now, on an impulse, he drew up his horses, jumped down from the curricle and told his groom to walk them slowly up to the hall. “I’ve given them a hard run of it. I’ll take the cut across the park. Don’t hurry them, mind.”
Too well trained to show his surprise, the man obediently climbed up into the driver’s seat while Hawth set off at a brisk pace along the path that led through the woods near the Dower House and then past the stables to the hall. Reaching the turnoff for the Dower House, he hesitated for a moment, curiously tempted to go there first. But it was at the hall that Warren had suspected trouble. Besides, he was hot and sweating from the long day’s drive, in no case for paying calls. He took the right fork and walked briskly on through the woods towards the stables, whence he could already hear the sounds of evening routine. Buckets clanked, a horse neighed. It all sounded peaceful, rural. George Warren had undoubtedly been imagining things, but just the same he was glad to be home.
Now he heard something else, nearer, this side of the stable wall. An exclamation. A scream? A woman’s voice. The sounds of a struggle. He was running. Kidnappers? Again? The children? He came silently out of the woods with the light of the setting sun in his eyes and stopped at sight of Kate Warrender struggling furiously in the arms of his bailiff. Knowles.
“Vixen!” said Knowles as she bit the hand that was trying to force her face upwards for his kiss. “I said marriage, didn’t I?”
“Marry you?” His grip had slackened and she pulled furiously away, her colour high, her shoulder-length curls dishevelled, handsomer than Hawth had ever seen her. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth.”
“No?” Knowles’ voice was ugly with anger. “I’ll make you sorry you said that, Miss Vixen. And grateful for marriage. On your knees you’ll beg me.” A pistol gleamed in his hand. “We are going for a little walk, you and I, Miss Warrender. Down to the woods in the dark. When we come back, you will be a thought tamer.”
“I shall scream.” She took a step away from him.
“You won’t, you know.” The pistol moved a little, threatening. “Such a sad accident it would be. Poor Mrs. Warrender.” He moved a slow, confident step towards Kate, and Hawth, who had been struck rigid by sight of the pistol, moved silently out of the shadows and caught his wrist in a grip of iron. “Good evening, Miss Warrender.” He locked his left arm around Knowles’ neck. “Mr. Knowles is about to apologise to you. He is out of work, and in no position to offer marriage to anyone.”
“My lord!” Knowles had stopped struggling when he recognised the implacable voice of his employer.
“Just so.” Hawth took the pistol from his lifeless hand and let him go. “You will make up your books tonight, hand them in and leave tomorrow. But first, you will apologise to Miss Warrender.”
“She led me on,” said Knowles. “She should be grateful. A mere governess to a pack of bastards….”
“That will do,” said Hawth. “You may go. Miss Warrender will accept your apology in writing.”
“You’ll regret this!”
“I doubt it.” He turned his back on the bailiff, dropped the pistol in his greatcoat pocket and offered his arm to Kate Warrender. “Let me escort you home, Miss Warrender.”
“Thank you.” She was trembling. “For everything. I’m ashamed.” The hot blush had faded slowly, leaving her whitefaced, her dark eyes sparkling with rage and unshed tears.
“It’s I who should be ashamed,” he told her. “That this should happen to you on my land, my servant. My apologies, Miss Warrender.”
“Thank you.” She was recovering herself. “You really mean to dismiss him?”
“Of course.”
“I’m sorry.” She hesitated. “And… he’ll talk.”
“I’d thought of that. You must marry me, Miss Warrender.”
“I beg your pardon?” She withdrew her arm and turned to face him.
“I said, you must marry me. Oh—” impatiently—“I didn’t mean to do it like this. But I came home to ask you, just the same.” And when, exactly, had he made up his mind to that? “It’s obvious we can’t go on as we are. You and your mother ostracised at the Dower House. My Cousin Lintott making life intolerable at the hall. Young Sue in trouble of some kind, Warren thinks.”
“In short.” She was white as ivory now. “Your times are out of joint, my lord, and I must marry you to set them right?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I suppose I should have spoken of love, of flaming passion. If I had had time to con a speech, I might have done so. But you must see, Miss Warrender, that you need protection.”
“The protection of your name? Very like those poor children of yours! A name, a position, without love. I thank you, but, no, my lord.”
“Absurd!” He was angry now. “I offer you everything you need, for yourself and your mother: safety, a household, a title—if you care for such things—and all you can do is talk like a young miss about love. I thought you had more sense! Oh, I know you have a previous attachment. Your young cousin told me that before we so much as met. I don’t ask love from you, why should you expect it of me? Your own lover don’t do much for you, by all I can see. If he had come forward like a man, last year, it would be something else again.” A sudden thought struck him. “Good God. I’d never thought. Is it that ramshackle cousin of yours?”
“That, my lord, is entirely my own affair. Now, if you please, I would like to go home.”
“Of course.” He took her reluctant arm again and felt it trembling still. “I shall speak to your mother,” he said.
“No!”
“Yes. I should have in the first place. We’ll talk again of this. When I have her consent.”
“No!”
“I shall speak to her tonight.”
She turned her head to look him up and down. “You are in no state to call on a lady.”
He burst into one of his fits of harsh laughter. “Well, now I have heard everything! I was, I take it, fit to rescue you from your would-be ravisher.”
“My lord, please.” She turned to him, suddenly pleading. “Think no more of this. I am grateful for what you did—for your offer—flattered. Believe me when I say so. And believe me, too, when I say it cannot be. Please, please, my lord, don’t speak to my mother.”
“I shall speak to her tomorrow,” said Lord Hawth. “What you say to her is your own affair, but tomorrow I shall ask her permission to pay my addresses to you in form.”
“If you insist on doing so, I can only refuse them, in form, But I do beg you to think again of
this. We would not suit, my lord, you and I. Pray—pray think of it overnight. I am sure by morning you will agree with me.”
“Oh, I’ll think of it,” he said.
At the hall, things seemed quiet enough. Inevitably, the scene with Knowles and Kate Warrender had delayed Hawth so that his curricle had arrived first and he was expected. Parsons showed him into the morning room that Miss Lintott had made her own and she greeted him wanly from the sofa where she was reclining.
“Dear Mark, so impulsive! I collect you forgot to send a message announcing your arrival? You find us all at sixes and sevens here, and no time to send for Mrs. Warrender from the Dower House. You’ll have to take pot luck for tonight, I am afraid.”
“Send for Mrs. Warrender! I trust you would do no such thing.” Why did the suggestion make him so angry?
“Well, she’s the housekeeper, isn’t she? Her job to cater for unexpected guests.”
“I am hardly a guest, cousin. And if I know anything about it, Mrs. Warrender has this household running so smoothly that my arrival will disturb no one but you. How are the children?”
“Well enough, I think. To tell truth, I scarcely see them. And not through my fault either,” she surprised him by anticipating his comment. “I’m afraid they find a poor invalid like me a dead bore, and do their possible to keep away from me. I suggested only the other day that Susan might care to take dinner with me, but, oh, no, she prefers nursery supper, thank you, and long hours reading in your study. She said she had your permission.”
“And so she had. A child who wishes to read should be encouraged.”
“But your books, cousin! I found her reading Roderick Random the other day!”
“She won’t come to much harm with Smollet. I’d rather she was reading him than sentimental trash like Richardson or Mackenzie.”
Miss Lintott sniffed. “She reads them, too.”
“What time is nursery supper?”
Red Sky at Night, Lovers' Delight Page 16