“Foolishness, my girl. Mr. Rupert’s gone out of town—even you know that.”
Jane said, “Are you sure you saw my brother, Betty?”
The girl was thrown into confusion, but Mrs. Merry said, “She’s a silly wench, like all these young girls. They will peep and chatter whenever they can.”
“I saw him very clear, and I’d know Mr. Rupert anywhere. He carries himself like a lord.” She sighed blissfully.
“You’ve no call to be thinking about lords or gentlemen, either. And it can’t have been Mr. Rupert, as he’s gone into the West Country.”
“Your family lives in Whitechapel, I think? Can you tell me more precisely where you saw him?”
“Oh, yes, mistress. In Thames Street. The tavern is on the corner, it’s—”
“Silly chit,” Mrs. Merry interrupted with deep disgust. “Thames Street’s Billingsgate, not Whitechapel. You can’t have been there if you was coming back here, or if you was, you shouldn’t’a been.”
“Let the girl explain, Mrs. Merry.”
“My sister lives near the fish market there, and I goes by to see her for a little after I sees my mam. That’s how I come to be there.”
“And you saw Mr. Rupert going into a public house that’s on a corner.” Betty could not read. Would she know the name of the other street? There must be a score of such places. “Was it before or after you left your sister?”
“After, Mistress Jane. At the Crown and Castle, that I always notices because it has such a pretty sign.”
“Did he see you?” Jane heard the cook give a little snort as she turned to measure out barley for barley water.
“No, mistress. But I was on the other side o’ the street, and gentlemen don’t notice servants anyway.”
“Unless they’re uncommon handsome,” Mrs. Merry muttered.
“I expect once they had accompanied Mrs. Pleasaunce and Mistress Claire to Plymouth and got them settled, Mr. Charles and Mr. Rupert were left to their own devices and went off on their own. Young gentlemen are very likely to do so,” Jane said. “I think you should not mention this to anyone else, Betty, and I know Mrs. Merry never gossips. My brother would very likely be embarrassed to have his comings and goings spoken of.”
“I’m sorry, Mistress Jane, I didn’t mean any harm by it. My lips are sealed.”
“I perfectly understand why you thought it remarkable. As long as it goes no further, there’s no harm done. But remember in the future that females are expected to ignore the odd things men do. I’m sure your own eventual marriage will be much happier if you do.”
“There’s no one wants me, mistress,” Betty said sadly.
“Some lad will, be sure. You’re not sixteen yet. There’s time.”
The scullery maid flashed a smile, Mrs. Merry made a derisive sound in her throat, and Jane said, “Remember Mrs. Stowe likes a good deal of sugar in her barley water. Please send it up to her maid when it’s ready, Mrs. Merry.”
Jane was not disposed to imagine her brother was merely out on some sordid male amusement. Gentlemen could perfectly well find those anywhere! Why come back to London, with all the inconvenience travel entailed, if it were not for a sound reason? It must take several days to travel to Plymouth. They could return more quickly on horseback, with no coach to escort, but it would still be days, changing horses often so they could travel fast all the way. It might be possible if Rupert had come straight back. If he, or they, went all the way to Plymouth. But why would he do it? And why would Rupert visit Billingsgate? She sat down at the desk in the housekeeper’s room—her own office by default—and wrote to Miss Eliza Fairford.
****
Alex lounged at a table, glancing idly at the newspaper. He liked the scented air in coffee and chocolate houses, and the lively conversations. The houses were all different, too, some having their own distinct clientele: writers, men of scientific interests, businessmen, and for all he knew, valets and footmen, while at some coffee houses, you might find a tradesman, a writer, and an earl at the same table. Lloyd’s Coffee House published a listing of ship arrivals and was the center for shippers, who went there to arrange insurance for their cargoes. The Cocoa Tree, in Pall Mall, attracted Tories and Jacobites, and being in such a fine neighborhood was elegantly furnished. This was his first visit.
Talk ebbed and flowed around him. He wished he could join in, as a spirited debate was always interesting, but he must not get involved until he found a likely group. He could not follow all the conversations at once, but men often lingered for hours. Eventually, he was bound to catch a few words to lead him to men who might be giving active support to the Young Pretender.
Many who came to the Cocoa Tree would be innocent of any such involvement. Egad, both Oxford and Cambridge were full of Tories, so he himself might see a friend here. But they’re unlikely to see me. His dark brown wig, his unfashionable old suit, and a few other minor changes to his appearance should be disguise enough, if by chance someone who knew him happened to be present. He used a carefully calculated Scots accent when ordering his chocolate.
The room was rather full, but Alex was the only occupant of his table. Presently, a gentleman entered, glanced around, and approached, to ask if he might share his table.
“Certainly, sir.”
The man seated himself, saying, “Ah, a Scot! May I inquire what brings you to London?”
“The same thing that brings all Scots to England,” Alex replied. “That is, the hope of mending my fortune.”
“Most men, of whatever country, would say the same, I am tolerably sure,” the Englishman said with a laugh. He made a sign to a waiter, who acknowledged it with a little bow and hurried off. He must be well known here.
“True enough. My country is well supplied with canny, hard-working men, but not as well supplied with opportunities. There is more scope in England for an ambitious man.”
“Scotland has seen more than its share of troubles,” the other remarked, “which always makes it difficult to prosper.”
“Oh, ay. Scots of a martial inclination take service abroad and have for centuries. The Auld Alliance with France was good for us. But more peaceful business is wanting.”
The waiter returned and served Alex’s companion. “The more recent alliance has not benefitted Scotland?”
Meaning, of course, the Treaty of Union with England. “How good it has been, you may judge by the numbers of Scotsmen in London.” That was ambiguous enough.
The exchange continued, less conversation than formal court dance. The other asked if Alex were not of the Lowland landed gentry “as I would guess by your manner of speech, being something of a student of accents.”
Alex sighed. “My family had lands once, but over the last hundred years…” He shrugged.
“The Bishops’ War, the Scottish Civil War, and all the other risings and unrest have been very hard on your country,” the Englishman said.
“You know something of our history,” Alex replied.
“I am a student of politics as well as of language. I visited the Borders once or twice, and I cannot but feel sorrow for all Scotland’s tribulations.”
“They have been many.” Alex recounted two or three of the tales he had heard from his grandfather Gordon, giving them a more Jacobitical color than Grandda would have done.
After they had sat sipping their chocolate for a time, the man said, “I think I have not seen you here before, sir. Are you recently come to Town?”
“Yes. I have not been more than a week or two in London.”
“Then you have perhaps not yet made many friends here. I am acquainted with some Scots and Englishmen who may be of use to you, including a few who are present. If you would like an introduction, let us join them.”
After making him known to a party at a table in the corner, the helpful Englishman melted away, pleading an appointment. It had been easier than Alex had anticipated. Almost too easy. The three Scots and an Englishman, whose name was Warrender, said noth
ing which could be called seditious. But in their discreetly worded comments and by certain subtle references, Alex deduced that they held opinions that would have appalled the rather broad-minded Anthony Lattimer. Warrender was a Catholic, embittered by the exclusion of Catholics from universities and government posts. One of the Scots was a Highlander, Alex guessed, though it would not have been apparent to anyone not familiar with Scotland. A son or brother of some clan chieftain, well educated, well dressed in a suit of golden-brown, and all but indistinguishable from a Lowlander. Alex wondered who his tailor was. He dared not ask: an impoverished gentleman—as his worn suit testified—would not be able to afford a fashionable tailor. There was something about the third man’s dry, precise, grave demeanor that marked him as an attorney. From Edinburgh almost certainly, where Alex had seen many of the species, his mother’s family connections having included two or three.
Unfortunately, there was no way to work the conversation around to the subjects in which he was most interested. However, Warrender invited him to supper the next day, and Alex accepted with alacrity. While taking an active role was a bit risky, he stood a good chance of learning more, and more quickly, than his original plan allowed.
****
They were eight at table. The talk was lively and confined to the theater, sport, and gambling. All very enjoyable, Alex thought, but none of it gave him any insight into Jacobite plots. Several of them were interrogating him very subtly, which seemed a hopeful sign. He trusted his apparent candor would allay their suspicions.
With the servants dismissed, the talk turned. Each place was provided with a goblet of water. When all had glasses of port as well, their host raised his over the goblet and offered the toast: “To the King!” All echoed it, including Alex.
The King over the water. James Francis Edward Stuart, Pretender to the thrones of England, Scotland, and Ireland, and father to Prince Charles, the Young Pretender, who was now in Scotland. No proof of actual treason there, his father would say. Talk did not mean action.
The next man raised his glass. “Damn Hanover!”
And so it went around the table, until Alex’s turn came. “Confusion to our enemies” seemed adequate. By then, they’d all drunk a good deal, on top of wine at dinner, and one or two had imbibed more heavily than the others. Alex walked a fine line between appearing abstemious and drinking enough to muddle him. Fortunately, he had a hard head for drink, inherited from his Grandfather Gordon.
A certain Mr. Dean, who was seated at Alex’s right, had either drunk much more or was very easily fuddled, to judge by his slurred speech.
“I’d ride north tomorrow”—Hic!—“if I could not do better for my king and”—Hic!—“my prinshe here.”
Alex saw several suppressed smiles and also at least one set of compressed lips (the Edinburgh attorney) at this announcement. He would have liked to ask what Mr. Dean was doing for the Cause, but curiosity might be suspect in this group. He settled for an encouraging expression.
“What bushinesh has a fellow like you to be leaving Shcotland at shuch a time as thish, Gordon?” Dean demanded of him suddenly.
Alex responded easily, “I’ve been nearly a year in England, sir, though I came recently to London. I stopped for a time in several towns and most recently in Bristol. It seemed a place where a man might find opportunities in trade.”
“Oh, trade!” someone—an upper class Englishman, of course!—exclaimed scornfully.
“There’s no harm in making money,” one of the Scots said. “A man must live, and there’s little enough for an ambitious man north o’ the border—as Gordon said earlier. If you prosper, you can better aid whatever cause is dear to you.”
“I’d thought to work my way up in a shipping firm,” Alex added. “An island must always need to import goods and export what it produces by sea.”
“Verra true, sir. Ye had no luck, I’m thinking.”
“No. I worked as a clerk for a shipping agent, and I might have courted the daughter of an importer, but then I heard of events in the North, and thought to come to London to see if I could get better news.”
“You must be concerned for family or friends you left in Scotland,” a short, intense fellow suggested.
“I have no family left. No, my interest is all for the fate of my country.”
“What country?” the heavy-set one—Armstrong?—asked, baldly.
“Scotland, of course,” Alex replied, raising his eyebrows. “I’m a Scot born and bred, wherever I may travel.”
“Not all of us can say the same,” remarked Warrender. “But at least we stand by the principle that a king is chosen by God, not by Parliament. It follows that a king’s nearest living heir must be his successor, whatever his religion. James II, son and heir of Charles II, is the true king of England—and Scotland, Ireland, and Wales—” he added with a grin.
“Both sound arguments for supporting his cause,” Alex asserted. He found it fatally easy to get into the spirit of the thing.
“We are pledged to support it. Do you stand with us?”
“I drank to the King over the water. I am a Scotsman, and my family took part in the ’15 (never mind on what side!) and have fought for Scotland since the time of Robert the Bruce, or before. How should I do otherwise than stand with my country now?”
“You’d besht go back to Shcotland and enlisht in the prinshe’s army,” Dean said morosely, tossing off another half glass.
“Oh, I think Mr. Gordon might be as useful to our king and prince here as there,” his host said. “We can always use the help of quick-witted men with energy. Let me think on it. And now…”
The conversation drifted off into other channels. Or not so much drifted as was steered by Warrender. Dean slumped in his chair and began to snore. One by one, the others departed, two of them taking Dean with them. Alex rose also.
“A moment, Gordon,” his host said so quietly the last to leave did not hear. “I have thought of a service you might do for us, if you would be so good. Come into my library.
“There is a letter I must send to Oxford. Some urgency attends it, and I have no servant to spare, or none that I would trust with it. It must arrive there either by tomorrow evening or, at worst, by noon the following day. If you would be so good as to take it, I should consider myself in your debt. I will of course be responsible for the hiring of a horse. I think you do not keep one in London?”
“I do not, alas, so I will accept your offer and take your letter.”
“Good! That much relieves my mind. It is only a few lines, which I will write now.” He took out a sheet, dipped his quill in the standish, and wrote. After sprinkling it with pounce, shaking it off, and folding it carefully, he applied a moistened wafer and pressed it with a wafer stamp.
“Deliver it to Mr. Josiah Brown, tobacconist, to be held until called for by Mr. Peter Arlington. I prefer not to write the direction. Can you remember it?”
“Certainly. I’m accounted to have a very good memory. Josiah Brown, tobacconist, for Mr. Peter Arlington.”
“Very good indeed. Here, this should cover hiring the horse and the other costs of the journey. I misdoubt you’ll want to ride back the same day.”
“Thank you. Barring some calamity, I’ll be back in London by midday, the day after tomorrow, and will call upon you.”
Chapter 11
He sat up for some time after returning to his lodging, staring at the letter. If its contents were treasonous, he should turn it over to his father, who would know to whom it should be passed on. He would have to confess that he had been carrying on his own, unauthorized inquiry. Another consideration occurred to him. He had encouraged those men to trust him; he had eaten at Warrender’s table. To betray them ran against the grain. He could hear his Scottish grandfather saying, Your fine English gentleman’s principles may make a traitor of you, laddie. Have ye no sense at all? His father would say the same, barring the part about gentleman’s principles. At last, with the candle beginning to gut
ter, he decided that the morning would determine his course of action. He could do nothing further tonight.
****
He rose early, ate a hurried breakfast, and sallied forth to do a little shopping and to hire a horse. On returning to the inn, he locked himself in his room, moved the rickety table over to the window, and set to work.
The green-tinted wafer came off with the careful application of a dampened handkerchief. Heart beating a little fast, he unfolded the sheet.
“The cargo arrives Friday morning, Gregson warehouse, Narrow Street, Limehouse. Two wagons required.”
It could be an innocent message. Certainly there was nothing overtly criminal, let alone treasonous, in it. The cargo could be printed fabric or smuggled spirits or chocolate. Only the most scrupulous, and of course the government, disapproved of smuggled luxury goods. Yet Warrender had made a point of needing a trustworthy man to deliver his message.
Knowing the contents did not clarify matters. He must now decide whether to pass the information on to his father. If the letter had been unambiguous, the decision would have been easy. Those 2500 muskets—
He grinned suddenly, feeling much lighter in spirits. Whatever Warrender’s cargo might be, the one thing it could not be was the muskets. While he did not know the weight of a French musket, estimating based on the Brown Bess, such a shipment should weigh…hmm! thirteen tons or thereabouts, not counting whatever they were shipped in. Could such a quantity be transported with two wagons? He recalled reading somewhere that a six-horse team could legally haul six tons. They might scrape by with two wagons at a minimum, assuming teams of six horses. If his calculations were correct, an assumption his old tutor would never have made.
Those considerations aside, bringing two wagonloads of goods of whatever sort into London, if they were actually bound for Scotland, would be foolish. Whatever the freight expected at Gregson’s warehouse, Alex thought he could let it go unhindered, in the hope of learning something of greater importance.
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